Sending scornful glances and speaking not a word for the majority of the time, Amelia stood beside Tristan and Garfield—those were the kinds of looks she received.
Feeling the unbearable awkwardness saturating the room, Tristan continuously checked the clock on the wall, desperately hoping for time to pass. Yet, every glance made the minutes feel longer, more excruciatingly drawn out. By the fourth time he looked up, he was glaring at the clock with open contempt.
Finally, the class had ended. Though it had only been fifteen minutes, it felt like an eternity. Amelia stormed out first, angrily pushing the door wide open as she exited. Garfield followed immediately after, and then Tristan, but not before casting a cold glance toward the corner of the room where the most venomous stares had come from.
As they descended the labyrinthine staircase, their silence broke.
"Who does she think she is?" Amelia asked, her voice laced with fury.
Garfield smiled gently as he quickened his steps to match the silver-haired girl and walk at her side.
"Lady Amelia, we appreciate what you're doing... we truly do, but won't you get into trouble for this?"
Tristan, who was walking a fair distance behind the two, finally spoke—his tone emotionless, yet tinged with concern.
"He's right, you know. I wouldn't want you to get into trouble."
'And I really don't want Ruben to be on my case.'
Amelia interjected, her usually composed demeanor fading, her voice heavy with raw emotion.
"But what she did was wrong! You two earned the right to be in this academy. So who does she think she is—to sideline both of you just because you're from the Lower Districts!"
She turned sharply to face Tristan.
"Why aren't you angry?"
Tristan had asked himself that very question during class, especially when Alice had begun berating them, yet no answer had surfaced. He closed his eyes, then tilted his head.
"To be honest, I don't know."
Amelia snapped back instantly.
"What do you mean you don't know? An hour ago you were about to pick a fight with someone because—!"
"Because he spoke about my mother. That's the only reason I retaliated," Tristan interrupted, his voice calm but firm.
Amelia and Garfield turned to the crimson-haired boy with expressions of surprise. There had been times when it seemed Tristan cared for no one but himself. But reflecting on his actions during the entrance exam—and then during the altercation with Benjamin—there was a single thread that tied those moments together: he never involved himself when the insults were directed at him. He only acted when the attacks were aimed at those somewhat close to him.
The two smiled, leaving Tristan visibly confused.
"Why are the two of you smiling at me?"
They began to giggle softly, and Tristan smirked at the sight of their happiness.
As they continued descending the winding staircase, Tristan considered reporting to the Headmaster before heading home for the day. And so, the three climbed another flight, eventually reaching the Headmaster's office.
Tristan knocked three times, and at the third knock, the Headmaster's voice called out for them to enter.
Realizing it was Tristan, Garfield, and Amelia, Sylvia motioned for them to close the door behind them as they stepped inside. They each took a seat on couches arranged parallel to one another. Sylvia, who had been engrossed in paperwork, set it aside the moment they entered.
She interlocked her fingers and rested them beneath her chin.
"Did you boys find anything?"
"We didn't really learn a lot, since we didn't meet the other members, but I did spend a significant amount of time with Eric," Tristan said.
"Okay, have you identified him as a suspect?" Amelia asked, her expression curious.
Tristan paused for a moment, then spoke, carefully choosing his words.
"I don't believe he's a suspect—more of a tool being used."
They all turned to face him.
"A tool? What do you mean?" Garfield asked, visibly puzzled.
"The one thing I've learned from being around Eric is his absolute loyalty to the nobility. If a noble told him to jump, he'd do it without a second thought. I don't think he has anything to do with casting the plague upon the students, but I do believe he may be involved in getting rid of them," Tristan said, his gaze lifting to the ceiling of the Headmaster's office.
They all fell silent, each mulling over the implications of Tristan's words.
Sylvia considered it too. If there was anyone unlikely to betray the secrets of the higher ranks, it would be Eric. Still, even with that understanding, she found it difficult to accuse him outright.
Garfield didn't know Eric well—barely had a real conversation with him—but from the few encounters they'd had, he knew one thing for certain: Eric's devotion to nobility ran deep, and he would despise disobeying them. In Garfield's mind, it was entirely plausible that Eric was merely a pawn in this scheme.
"If you wouldn't mind... could you get more proof?" the Headmaster asked, her voice trembling as she looked down at her desk.
Tristan nodded.
"Fine. But if you don't mind, I think I'll need more information."
Sylvia raised her head, locking eyes with the crimson-haired boy.
"More information? I did some further digging into the ill students. I was told they all exhibited the same symptoms."
Tristan's eyebrow arched, his gaze sharpening as it landed on the Headmaster seated at her wooden desk. She reached into a drawer, retrieving a stack of parchment, and rose from her seat to hand the documents to Tristan.
"These pages list the symptoms each and every ill student has experienced."
Tristan began reading through the notes—and almost immediately, the repetition struck him.
"It says they had a jolt of energy... they grew stronger... then they became sick... and now their skin is starting to deform."
He lingered on those words. Over and over, he whispered them under his breath: grew stronger... then became sick... and finally, deformed skin. Repetition etched a thought into his mind—but he wasn't the first to realize it.
As he turned toward Garfield, his expression darkened. Garfield had come to the same conclusion: these symptoms were frighteningly familiar.
"Headmaster... we've heard of these symptoms before," Garfield said, his voice trembling.
"From where?" she asked, leaning forward.
"There was a diary we found... and it described these exact symptoms. And we might know the next stage of the illness."