Tristan regarded the boy before him—one who seemed near his own age—with a quiet, measured suspicion. Trust had never come easily to him, and Victor, with his inscrutable composure and veiled power, inspired none at all. Power that could not be understood was power that could not be controlled—and that, to Tristan, was a threat in its purest form.
They were on route to the Third Sector by steam engine, a newly constructed locomotive completed within the past nine months. Though modern innovation had swept across much of Constella, this train was an intentional relic of an earlier era—its design reminiscent of twentieth-century locomotives. Fueled by coal and engineered with precision, each passenger car accommodated ten individuals, and with five such cars in total, the train bore fifty souls across the land.
The interior was furnished with understated elegance. Each seat was adorned with plush red cushions, their fabric rich and immaculate, while a crimson carpet stretched along the aisle, binding both sides in a quiet symmetry of luxury.
Tristan and Claire sat side by side, while Victor occupied the seat across from them. As the train rumbled forward, Tristan turned his gaze to the window, watching as they passed over a vast valley. Despite Constella's rapid modernization—its lands reshaped by industry and ambition—there remained untouched expanses of green, wild and unclaimed, resisting the encroachment of civilization.
After a moment, Tristan's attention shifted back to Victor. Curiosity, laced with suspicion, pressed against his thoughts. Why him? Why was Victor chosen for this mission?
Victor noticed the stare almost immediately. His sharp eyes flicked toward Tristan, and with a faint, knowing tilt of his head, he spoke.
"Is there a problem?"
Tristan did not hesitate.
"Why were you chosen? Out of everyone in our organization… why you?" he asked, his tone blunt, unfiltered.
Victor leaned back slightly, as though the question amused him.
"Unul believed we would have the best chemistry," he replied. "After all, I was once Claire's apprentice."
The answer caught Tristan off guard. He leaned forward, his brows knitting together.
"You were Claire's apprentice? She never mentioned you."
Victor turned his gaze toward Claire, a faint smile ghosting across his lips.
"I wonder why she wouldn't," he said, his tone light, almost curious.
Claire's expression hardened instantly. Her composure cracked, irritation flaring into something sharper.
"You know exactly why," she snapped, her voice rising with restrained anger.
Tristan leaned back into his seat, startled. In all his time training under Claire, he had never seen her like this—never seen her anger spill so openly. It was rare. Unsettling.
The sudden tension drew the attention of nearby passengers, their eyes drifting toward the trio.
"Claire… you should calm down," Tristan interjected, attempting to steady the moment.
After a few breaths, Claire forced herself to regain control. The tension in her shoulders eased, though the anger lingered beneath the surface.
"What happened?" Tristan asked quietly.
The surrounding passengers, sensing the moment had passed, gradually returned to their own affairs.
Claire exhaled slowly before speaking.
"We were on a mission," she began. "It was supposed to be simple. Routine. But everything went wrong—and it went wrong because of him."
Her gaze flicked toward Victor.
"His ability… it contaminates the air around him. During that mission, he activated it. But it didn't just affect the beasts we were fighting—it spread. It killed most of the people in the area." Her voice tightened. "It nearly killed me."
Tristan glanced at Victor.
Throughout Claire's account, Victor had been smiling.
Then, almost as if remembering his role, Victor's expression shifted. His features softened, his voice dipped into something remorseful.
"I'm sorry," he said. "I only wanted to impress you."
It was convincing—almost.
But Tristan had seen the smile.
He's a skilled manipulator, Tristan thought, his eyes narrowing slightly.
He let out a quiet sigh.
"We can't change what happened between you," Tristan said, his tone even. "Right now, we should focus on the mission."
What he did not say was just as important.
He would be watching Victor closely.
He hadn't trusted him before. Now, he had even less reason to.
...
Amelia's POV
The room was drenched in blood.
At its center lay the beheaded body of a Chancellor, his lifeless form collapsed amidst the carnage. The metallic scent of blood hung thick in the air, suffocating, inescapable.
Amelia stood at the threshold, her gaze sweeping across the grisly scene. Questions surged through her mind, each more urgent than the last—who could have done this? Why?
But her thoughts were shattered by the sound of grief.
A mother's cries. A child's sobs.
A family, broken in an instant.
Amelia stepped away from the room and approached a young boy seated just outside. He couldn't have been older than ten. His small frame trembled beneath the weight of what he had witnessed.
She placed a gentle hand on his shoulder.
"What's your name?" she asked softly.
"Arthur," he replied, his voice breaking as tears streamed down his face.
The sight twisted something deep within her.
But she could not falter—not here, not now. She was a representative. A knight of a Pillar.
She had a role to uphold.
"Arthur," she said gently, lowering herself to his level, "then you must be strong—like King Arthur of legend. Brave. Noble." She offered him a faint, reassuring smile. "Your mother needs you to be strong."
The boy glanced toward his grieving mother, then wiped his tears with trembling hands. His resolve was fragile, but it was there.
Amelia rose and returned to the room, where Bernard stood waiting.
"Nothing was taken," Bernard reported. "Money, jewelry, clothing—all accounted for. This wasn't a burglary."
He turned toward her, his expression grave.
Their eyes met.
They were thinking the same thing.
"It could be him," Bernard said quietly.
Amelia's mind resisted the conclusion. She searched desperately for alternatives—anything to deny the implication forming in her chest.
"It could have been Jack the Ripper," she offered, though her voice lacked conviction.
Bernard sighed and gently guided her aside, lowering his voice.
"We both know who this is," he said. "There's only one person with motive—and no alibi."
Amelia's gaze faltered.
Before she could respond, Garfield stepped inside.
He wore a golden cloak bearing the insignia of House Redgrave—a dragon's head pierced by twin blades. His movements were careful, deliberate, ensuring he did not step into the blood that stained the floor.
He approached them, his expression uncharacteristically serious.
"It's him, isn't it?" he asked, his eyes locking onto Amelia's.
Amelia turned away sharply, irritation flaring.
She knew why he cared.
Not out of concern.
But out of conviction.
"Why should I tell you?" she snapped. "So you can go after him? Kill him?"
Garfield glanced briefly at Bernard, who averted his gaze.
Then he spoke—without hesitation.
"Tristan is a criminal. A terrorist. All I want is to bring him to justice."
The words struck harder than any blade.
Amelia's chest tightened.
"How can you say that?" she demanded, her voice trembling. "He was your friend—your brother."
Garfield did not waver.
"Things change," he said. "You should know that better than anyone."
Amelia stepped forward, pressing a finger against his shoulder, her expression filled with hurt and disbelief.
"You're disgusting," she said, her voice breaking as tears threatened to fall. "He trusted you. He called you family… and now you'd betray him for what? Recognition?" She shook her head. "I thought you were better than this."
Garfield brushed her hand aside.
"Maybe you never knew me at all," he replied coldly.
He turned and walked away, his cloak trailing behind him like a fading echo.
Amelia stood there, watching him leave.
Her vision blurred.
"Maybe I didn't," she whispered.