Tristan knew that Bertal was a part of this order, yet he could scarcely believe that the man spearheading such a movement was none other than Bertal Wenkay. From the diary entries he had read, he had imagined Bertal as a frail, timid boy—weak, malleable, easily broken. Yet the man before him shattered that image entirely. His physique alone stood in defiance of Tristan's assumptions. Though, in fairness, more than thirty years had passed since those words were written—time enough to reshape even the feeblest of souls into something unrecognizable.
"Tell me," Tristan began, his voice cold and edged with restrained fury, "why should I follow the man who killed my mother?"
Before Bertal could respond, another man interjected. He carried himself with pride—no, with reverence—and it was clear that his loyalty to Bertal bordered on fanaticism.
"Watch your tongue, boy. This is the man who saved your life."
Tristan raised a brow, turning slowly toward the man, his expression laced with irritation and biting cynicism.
"And when exactly was that?" he asked. "Before or after he got my mother killed?"
A ripple of frustration passed through those gathered around the table. They all seemed to hold Bertal in the highest regard, their silence heavy with disapproval. All but one.
There was a woman—her eyes concealed behind a black cloth tied neatly around her eyes. Her skin, a rich brown, caught Tristan's attention, as did the intricate braids that framed her face, enhancing an already striking beauty. She was most likely blind, yet there was something unsettling in the way she seemed to perceive him perfectly. She smiled, faintly, as though she could see far more than anyone else in that room.
"Please," Bertal said calmly, raising a hand to quell the tension, "I wish for this to remain a civilized conversation. And if your hatred for me runs so deep… then I am willing to let you kill me."
He sat back in his chair—more a throne than mere furniture—his composure unshaken.
Tristan clasped his hands together and began to rub them slowly, a faint, humorless smile forming on his lips.
"That might be the best idea I've heard all day."
"I am fine with you killing me," Bertal continued, his tone unwavering, "after I have made you into a man capable of liberating the people."
Tristan chuckled, tilting his head back to glance at the towering ceiling of the grand cathedral. After a moment, his gaze returned to Bertal, and he gave a slow, contemplative nod. He wanted Bertal dead—there was no denying that. But at this moment, vengeance was not his priority. His true objective lay elsewhere: the death of the Lord Chancellor, and the eradication of the corrupt nobility that infested Constella. If setting aside his vendetta—even temporarily—brought him closer to that goal, then so be it.
"Fine," Tristan said at last. "How will you make me into your false messiah?"
"He is not a false messiah," Bertal replied, raising a single finger and pointing toward the looming figure behind him. "To me, he is clearer than any portrait."
Tristan followed his gaze. The statue Bertal worshipped appeared to be his interpretation of Noura Zori. Whether it was accurate or not, Tristan had no way of knowing. He had never seen such visions himself—who was he to judge their validity? And yet, one thing was certain: the divine figure they revered bore no resemblance to him.
"Noura Zori is real," Bertal continued, his voice almost reverent. "He came to me in my dreams and guided my path. Every decision I have made—every step I have taken—was because of him."
Tristan raised a brow, skepticism still etched across his features.
"So you're saying… I'm the one who came to you in your dreams?"
"In my dreams," Bertal said, lifting his gaze skyward as if addressing the heavens themselves, "you appear as a being of light. You speak of a prophecy destined to unfold." He raised both arms, exalting the unseen presence. "And you have already fulfilled part of it… you have returned from the dead."
There was something about Bertal's voice—calm, measured, almost hypnotic. It was easy to see why others followed him so blindly. In fact, for a fleeting moment, Tristan felt the pull of that conviction himself. It was subtle, insidious… persuasive.
Then realization struck him like a blade.
"You're the one who killed me."
Bertal steepled his fingers and rested them just beneath his nose, his expression unchanged.
"Yes," he admitted.
"Why?" Tristan pressed, his tone sharpening. "Why kill me… after you killed my mother?"
"I cannot answer that just yet," Bertal replied evenly. "But in time… you will understand."
Tristan studied him for a moment, suspicion lingering—but he did not press further.
"So what happens now?" he asked.
Bertal's gaze shifted to the blindfolded woman seated beside him.
"She will take over from here."
…
Garfield's POV.
Garfield stood perched upon his windowsill, staring out into the vast expanse of the night sky. The silence pressed in around him, heavy with unease. His thoughts circled endlessly, returning again and again to the same questions—questions that gnawed at his conscience.
"Why didn't I step in?" he murmured to himself.
But deep down, he already knew the answer.
His ambitions—his obligations—would not allow him to aid someone branded a criminal. And yet… Tristan was not a criminal in his eyes. There had to be a reason. There had to be something more behind what had happened to Eric.
Frustration mounted within him. His fingers dug into the wooden edge of the windowsill, scratching at it absentmindedly until a small dent began to form beneath his fingers.
Then—
A knock.
Sharp. Sudden.
It shattered his thoughts, dragging him back to reality.
With reluctance, Garfield stepped away from the window and made his way to the door. He opened it—and froze.
Standing in the doorway was his father.
"Fa—… Lord Redgrave?" Garfield corrected himself quickly. "What brings you here?"
Lord Redgrave's expression was, as always, devoid of warmth. He stepped inside without invitation, his gaze sweeping across the dimly lit apartment.
"Why are the lights off?" he asked flatly.
Garfield closed the door behind him and flicked the switch. The overhead light flickered uncertainly before stabilizing.
"I didn't want them on," Garfield replied, taking a seat on the couch.
Lord Redgrave exhaled quietly as he inspected the room—the ceiling, the worn wooden floorboards, every detail noted with detached scrutiny.
"I've heard about your friend," he said at last. "He was meant to be executed… yet somehow, he escaped."
A small smile began to form on Garfield's lips—brief, involuntary—but it vanished the moment he caught the disapproving look on his father's face.
"He is a criminal now," Lord Redgrave continued. "Wanted for murder. And you… are—or were—his friend."
Garfield's confusion slowly gave way to understanding. A cold realization settled in.
"What are you saying?" he asked, his voice unsteady.
"It is quite simple," his father replied. "If you were to capture this fugitive—your former friend—it would demonstrate where your loyalties lie. The nobility would welcome you without hesitation."
Garfield ran a hand through his hair, his fingers tightening as they caught in the strands.
"So you want me to arrest my friend… so he can be executed?"
"Or," Lord Redgrave said coolly, "you could kill him yourself."
Garfield's eyes widened, horror flashing across his face. Sweat beaded along his forehead as his mind raced, searching desperately for a response.
Before he could speak, Lord Redgrave stepped behind him and placed a firm hand on his shoulder.
"You know," he said softly, "Veronica has been asking about you lately."
Garfield stiffened.
His expression hardened, his hand curling into a tight fist.
"…I will do it," he said at last, the words forced from him, heavy with reluctance.