After an extra day of rest, Garfield and Tristan were taken back to the mainland. Garfield seemed far more spry; his injuries, though still present, did not trouble him nearly as much. His time with the nurses appeared to have given him great pleasure. Tristan leaned against the side of the boat that he, Garfield, and Blake sailed upon. He stared out at the vast blue sea, and the winds it carried rushed into his face, making his crimson hair flow wildly with the breeze.
He took a long breath—not a relieved breath, but one heavy with the burden of his lingering thoughts. Clara was in trouble, and Tristan's only possible way of helping her was by revealing whatever they had found that pertained to the terrorist, yet even that might not be enough.
"Is there something wrong, brother?" Garfield asked, noticing that Tristan's mood had soured.
Garfield did not know about Clara's situation, and Tristan could not tell him before the news was released to the public. Tristan glanced to the right, looking toward Blake. Blake subtly shook his head, silently warning Tristan not to reveal anything to Garfield. Tristan nodded slightly, then forced a false smile onto his face in an attempt to deceive his companion.
"It's nothing. I was just thinking about how beautiful the sea is," he said.
Garfield turned his gaze toward the open sea. Its deep blue mirrored the clear sky above them. As the wind swept across the water, the sea followed suit, its surface shifting and rolling almost like something alive.
"Yes, it is beautiful. It was my first time being at sea, and hopefully we get to see it again together. Me, you, Amelia, and Clara."
Hearing Clara's name caused Tristan's heart to sink like a stone. Garfield's words were sincere and honest, but Tristan could not tell him the truth. As much as it pained him to lie—or worse, to remain silent—he could say nothing. Tristan lowered his eyes to the ground, and the remainder of the voyage continued with him uttering not a single word.
The three eventually made their way through the canal and finally arrived at the mainland. Waiting for them was Amelia, her arms crossed tightly and her expression far from pleased. Her face carried a restless tension rather than sadness or anger. Her foot tapped aggressively against the cobblestone ground as she waited for the two boys.
"Amelia! Hey!" Garfield shouted.
His voice seemed to snap her from her distant thoughts. The boat soon docked, and the moment Tristan stepped off, Amelia rushed toward him. Her restlessness was unmistakable now. Sweat streaked down her forehead, her hands would not stay still, and her words seemed trapped in her throat.
Tristan placed both of his hands on her shoulders and asked, "What's wrong?"
She looked into Tristan's eyes and said, "It's Clara. Sh-she's been sentenced to death."
The news struck Tristan like a freight train. For a moment, he could barely comprehend what he had just heard.
"B-but what about the trial?" Tristan asked, his voice trembling.
"There was one," Amelia replied, "but Clara wasn't even given the chance to defend herself. The Lord Chancellor passed his verdict and labeled her a criminal."
Tristan fell silent. He knew that even if he managed to gather every piece of evidence required, it would already be too late. Clara's execution had already been set in motion, and any possibility of stopping it seemed impossible. Tristan looked Amelia directly in the eyes, and asked, "Can't you ask your father to halt the execution?"
Amelia slowly shook her head and, in a regretful tone, said, "I tried. He refused to involve himself."
Tristan's hands slipped from her shoulders. His eyes dropped toward the ground, and with them, his hope fell as well.
Garfield listened in stunned silence, his face filled with disbelief. Attempting to console his friend, he placed a hand on Tristan's shoulder, but the moment his hand touched him, Tristan shoved it away.
"Her execution is being held not too far from here. If we run, we might still make it," Amelia said urgently.
Without another word, Tristan rushed up the stairs leading to the surface. The others followed, and together they sprinted through the twisting streets of the city. Even though Tristan's body was still recovering, he moved as though he barely felt any pain. Yet the expression on his face betrayed the torment raging inside him.
Soon, they reached the open square where the execution was being carried out. Droves of people surrounded the area—nobles, of course. They all wore devilish smiles as they watched the spectacle before them.
At the center of it all stood a tall wooden platform. Clara's head was locked into a guillotine, positioned high so the nobles could witness every moment clearly. To them, it was not merely an execution—it was entertainment.
The smiles on their faces, the cruel chuckles that slipped from their disgusting mouths, and their eyes… their eyes spoke words. Words Tristan knew all too well from his short time among the nobles.
Lesser. Bastard. Devil's spawn.
These were the words the nobles had whispered and spat at him whenever he walked their streets.
Tears filled Clara's eyes as she screamed desperately, "I didn't do it! I swear it on the Three Gods—I didn't do it!"
A man responded quickly. He was most likely the Lord Chancellor—a man in his mid-forties with proud brown hair streaked with gray, the signs of age creeping across his scalp.
"Blasphemy!" he shouted to the audience. "This liar… this blasphemer dares to use our Lords' name in an attempt to defend herself!"
The crowd roared with fury.
"Kill the blasphemer!"
Clara's voice grew weaker with every passing moment, her neck still bound tightly within the guillotine.
"But I speak the truth! I was not involved in the terrorist attack!"
The Lord Chancellor walked over to her and struck her across the face.
Tristan's anger exploded. He wanted nothing more than to rush the platform. His teeth clenched so tightly that his jaw trembled, and his eyes burned red with rage. Garfield grabbed him before he could move any farther.
"I have heard enough," the Lord Chancellor declared coldly. "Kill the terrorist."
And with that, the blade fell.
The cold steel sliced cleanly through Clara's neck, separating her head from her body. As her head struck the wooden platform and blood poured across it, the only sound that filled the air was the cheering of the nobles—those who had longed to see the execution of someone they deemed lesser.
Tristan closed his eyes and lowered his head.
"This is what happens when you involve yourself in matters that do not concern you," a familiar voice said.
Tristan's eyes snapped open.
He turned to his right.
Eric stood there, emotionless, his arms folded behind his back. He glanced at Tristan but said nothing more.
"You did this… didn't you?" Tristan shouted, fury tearing through his voice.
Eric did not respond.
Tristan asked again, his anger growing with every word.
"Answer me!"
Eric chuckled softly.
"Yes," he said. "I did."
Tristan stared at him with death in his eyes.
A moment later, Eric's head separated from his body.
Tristan had not moved an inch, yet it was clear who had severed it. Eric's body collapsed to the ground in front of Tristan, while his head rolled across the cobblestones until it stopped at the feet of a noblewoman.
She screamed in horror.
The crowd turned toward Tristan.
And in their eyes, they saw a murderer.
Typical for his kind.
After all, he was a lesser.