Constantine (Daughter of War #1)

Chapter 17: Searching for Answers (Part 1)

Fortunately, this time I know what to expect. As soon as my eyes adjust to the darkness, I climb onto my feet while surveying my surroundings, seeing if that unknown figure has already appeared.

There it is. The mists slowly mould into its default humanoid shape. It walks towards me from a distance, its ever-shifting contours making it hard for me to concentrate on the figure. I avert my eyes to focus on the background, facing it but not quite looking at it.

"You didn't complete your task," are its first words.

I flush angrily. "You can hardly expect me to master my visions when you've just told me about it roughly—what, four days ago?"

It ripples with fury. "There's no time."

"Why?"

"The turning-point for the fate of the world is approaching. Only you have the ability to make it veer into one direction, whether it be for better or for worse."

With an impatient huff, I say, "Pardon me, but I don't understand a single thing you have been saying to me about the 'fate of the world'. So can we please keep the conversation for another day when I have a better understanding of my own problems?"

"The fate of the world is your problem! Do you fail to see that?"

"Yes!" I cry, venting my frustration out at the figure. "Why should I help the world when all they've done is to load me with burdens? Why should I care for any of them when they don't care for me?" My voice is a near-scream now, the flood of emotions too powerful to be contained. "Why should I continue to serve the Pietists when they allow me to live?"

The figure remains spookily silent after my torrent of words. I feel cold shame wash over me. "I – I'm sorry. I'm just...tired," I continue quietly, "of all of...this."

"No need to apologise, my child. Now though, we have more pressing matters at hand."

I nod my head reluctantly. In attempt to lighten the situation, I ask, "What is your name? You can hardly expect me to address you without any proper title."

It ponders on this suggestion for a while. Finally, slowly, it replies, "Abner. You may call me Abner."

Abner. The name of the very first Champion of Pst. Bronicus. How fitting. I endeavour to conjure a friendly smile. "So what are the pressing matters for now, Abner?"

He—for the figure's mannerisms are decidedly masculine—heaves a sigh of relief. The wisps that form Abner's 'body' pace about restlessly, forming ridges in the air, like rings of smoke from a candle or a pipe. The currents beneath my feet react to his change in composure, gaining speed and changing directions with every passing second. I just wait patiently for him to put his thoughts together while I try to maintain balance.

"Your visions...The last one, you saw a hooded man, didn't you?" he asks.

"Yes." I cock my head curiously to one side. I know that Abner probably has something to do with my Marking. However, I don't expect him to show so much anxiety because of it.

The wisps inhale deeply; the supply of air in the area seems to plummet. I slow my breathing, feeling the cool dampness kissing my cheeks. "That vision wasn't conjured by Pst. Bronicus."

I merely raise my eyebrows. "The rumours of the Marking being a 'test' by the patrons are true?"

"Yes," Abner says irritably, irked that I am not the least bit concerned by the real implication of his words. "But that's not the point."

"Then what is the point?"

"Patience," he growls.

I wait for his interrupted statement.