The two had discovered their first tangible lead, one that pointed directly toward Jason Wilson. Whether his involvement with the afflicted students was fact or mere speculation remained uncertain, but if one truth was evident it was that the place where he lingered most often could very well serve as a clandestine laboratory. This also provided the perfect opportunity to incriminate the lanky second year. The only other individual who seemed to frequent the place was Eric, and if they were to uncover the secret laboratory there, it would become a decisive step in condemning Eric as well.
Tristan and Garfield made their way toward the outhouse. Tristan entered first, searching for the concealed mechanism that would open the hidden entrance to the Tamer's sanctuary. His fingers traced the section of the wall Eric had pressed when they had ventured there before. He slid his hand across the timber until he felt the subtle depression that yielded beneath pressure. With a firm push upon the hidden button, the floor gave way, unveiling the circular stairwell that spiraled downward into the depths of the sanctuary.
As they descended the winding staircase, Garfield's curiosity overcame his silence, compelling him to ask Tristan about the sanctuary.
"It is a secret haven where the academy houses its controlled beasts."
"Controlled beasts? I've heard whispers that the school employs creatures as guard dogs, but I never believed it to be true," Garfield muttered as he descended, the staircase illuminated faintly by dim lights embedded along the walls.
"How did you even come across this place?"
"During our first patrol Eric guided me here. His adopted brother belongs to that bloodline I asked you to investigate," Tristan replied.
Their descent finally delivered them to the ground floor. Though the sanctuary appeared like a vast forest, the reality was that it encompassed far less space than its appearance suggested. Tristan raised a finger to his lips, commanding Garfield to remain silent lest they draw the attention of the creatures roaming within.
They moved cautiously, using trees and dense shrubbery for cover as they evaded the beasts prowling the sanctuary. Eventually, they came upon Jason's dwelling: a nearly derelict shed, its walls buckling with age and rot, yet still serving as a makeshift home. Inside lay a bed, a worn rug for comfort, and a battered desk flanked by three drawers on either side.
The two searched, finding nothing of significance and no hint of a laboratory.
"I don't think there's anything here," Garfield muttered, rubbing his dirty golden hair as his eyes swept the room.
Tristan remained unconvinced by the room's deceptively simple aesthetic. He rushed toward the desk, suspicion gnawing at him.
In his previous life, the lazy man had been an avid reader of murder mysteries, and one common theme persisted: the killer always concealed a secret chamber, a hidden lair where victims met their gruesome ends. He did not know whether Bertal Wenkay was a murderer by definition, but his fractured psyche and unsettling demeanor placed him firmly within the same deranged spectrum.
Garfield shifted to the bed, methodically examining the sheets, the mattress, and finally the frame itself. Nothing. Absolutely nothing.
"There's nothing here." Garfield said, turning toward Tristan, who continued his relentless inspection of the desk.
Tristan rummaged through the drawers, uncovering scattered files, faded artwork, and an almost completely burned photograph. The unscathed portion revealed Eric and Jason standing before what resembled a house, though the image was difficult to discern. The charred remains hinted at two adults beside them, their identities forever obscured.
"Could this be Eric's parents?" Tristan muttered under his breath.
He returned the photograph to its drawer and slid it shut. After exhausting the drawers, Tristan scrutinized the desk's exterior—its surface, its sides, and finally its legs. That was when he noticed the faint scratches etched across the floorboards—marks made by furniture dragged repeatedly across the wood.
He braced himself and attempted to shove the desk. Though it shifted slightly, it refused to yield fully, its mechanisms stiff with age.
"Garfield, could you lend me a hand?" Tristan asked, pressing against the desk once more.
Together they pushed, their combined strength forcing the desk aside, the floorboards scraping loudly as they revealed a gaping hole descending underground.
"What now?" Garfield asked, staring uneasily into the abyss.
Tristan retrieved a gas lamp resting in the corner and struck a match to light it.
"You will inform the Headmaster while I descend to investigate what lies below."
"I don't think that's wise," Garfield objected.
Tristan sighed, his tone resolute.
"It would be best for me to go while you alert the Headmaster. This way, I can begin uncovering evidence before Eric realizes what we've found. And remember—we cannot risk Jason returning. If he is involved, then time is our enemy."
Garfield, though reluctant, agreed and departed swiftly toward the Headmaster's office.
Tristan, gas lamp in hand, descended into the yawning hole. The descent led him into a tunnel—narrow, circular, and suffocatingly dark, its atmosphere chilling to the bone. He pressed on, each step echoing with eerie finality. At last, he reached an iron door ajar at the tunnel's end. With cautious strength, he pushed it open, only to find himself within another hidden forest eerily reminiscent of the sanctuary above.
He pressed forward, parting tangled weeds and branches that clawed at his clothes as his lamplight pierced the gloom.
"I wonder what this place is," he murmured.
Killington's voice resonated through their link.
"My Lord, I sense something... I strongly advise we turn back," he warned, his tone taut with unease.
Tristan chuckled lightly.
"Killington, are you afraid? Don't worry. After your second hunt, my power has grown. I can summon you longer without collapsing from exhaustion."
"Very well, my Lord—but stay vigilant," Killington urged.
"I'll be fine. Watching you fight has allowed me to shape my own combat style. I've been training with it."
Indeed, during the uneventful week, Tristan had devoted himself to combat training, refining his evasive movements and sharp counterattacks modeled after Killington's fluid technique. He sparred with Garfield and Amelia tirelessly, perfecting his footwork and honing his strikes until his body mirrored Killington's relentless precision.
Eventually, the forest parted, revealing a decrepit structure eerily similar to Jason's shed. Tristan entered, greeted by the stench of decay. Papers littered the floor, shattered instruments lay abandoned, and cages stood along the wall—two closed, one pried violently open. The cages were sized only for small creatures.
Perhaps a mole, a bat, or even—
"A rat," he whispered grimly.
Approaching the open cage, he raised the gas lamp close, scrutinizing the twisted metal.
Then, without warning, the sound of papers shifting echoed through the shed. Tristan's head snapped up, his eyes narrowing as his lamplight cut through the shadows. Nothing. Yet the silence pressed in around him.
He turned back warily, unease gnawing at him. And then it came—a voice, jagged and ghastly, echoing from nowhere and everywhere, its tone a blend of despair and devotion, searing ice into Tristan's veins.
"Fatherrr... at last... you've returned to me..."