Amelia's POV
Amelia and Bernard ascended the grand staircase of the manor in heavy silence, their footsteps echoing faintly against the polished marble beneath them. The oppressive atmosphere of the estate seemed even heavier that evening, pressing down upon the siblings as they made their way toward their father's office. Neither of them wished to knock on the door. Neither wished to face the man waiting beyond it. Yet Bernard, being the elder sibling, reluctantly raised his hand and rapped his knuckles against the dark oak door.
"Come in!" their father's voice thundered from within.
The two exchanged a brief glance before pushing the door open. Inside, their father stood beside a towering bookshelf, reaching for one of the many leather-bound tomes that lined its shelves. His fingers grasped the book carefully before he walked toward his desk with measured steps. He placed the tome upon the polished wood, then slowly turned his attention toward his children.
"Do either of you know what will be taking place in the coming days?" he asked calmly.
Amelia and Bernard glanced at one another once more before silently shaking their heads.
"The Winter Masquerade Ball will soon be held," he said, his tone growing firmer, "and House Green requires a representative."
The siblings stiffened almost immediately. Neither of them desired to attend. The masquerade ball was more than a celebration—it was a battlefield disguised behind silk masks and elegant smiles. Nobles gathered there not merely to dance, but to scheme, manipulate, and forge alliances hidden beneath polished etiquette.
Their father noticed the reluctance written clearly across both their faces. His expression hardened slightly.
"I had hoped the two of you would settle this matter yourselves like adults," he said, disappointment laced within his voice. "However, it appears that is far too much to expect."
He shifted his gaze toward Amelia.
"Amelia, you will attend the ball as the representative of House Green."
Bernard's lips curled upward almost instinctively, relief washing over him the moment the burden was placed upon his sister instead. Yet his satisfaction was short-lived.
"Bernard," their father continued, "you will accompany me as my escort to an important meeting."
The smile vanished from Bernard's face immediately, replaced by visible despair. Amelia, meanwhile, failed to suppress the faint chuckle that escaped her lips as she watched her brother suffer the same fate in a different form.
"Father," Amelia said after composing herself, "when do I leave?"
Her father answered without hesitation.
"Immediately."
Tristan's POV
Tristan sat alone in the room Godfrey had provided for him, surrounded by suffocating silence. The dim light within the chamber barely illuminated the corners, leaving much of the room swallowed by shadow. Exhaustion clawed at him relentlessly. His eyelids slowly drifted shut—
—and he immediately forced them back open.
He could not sleep.
He refused to sleep.
Because sleep meant nightmares.
He rose from the bed and walked toward the bathroom, his movements sluggish and heavy. Turning on the faucet, he splashed cold water against his face repeatedly before gripping the edges of the sink and staring into the mirror before him.
The reflection staring back looked almost unfamiliar.
His crimson hair was disheveled and neglected, falling messily over weary eyes burdened by dark circles. His face carried the exhaustion of someone who had not truly rested in days. Perhaps longer.
He narrowed his eyes slightly—and in that fleeting moment, he saw it again.
A glimpse.
A fragment of the nightmare.
His breathing immediately became uneven. Panic gripped his chest like a vice as he clenched strands of his hair tightly between trembling fingers.
As he stepped back into the room, he noticed Claire standing outside his door.
"What do you want?" Tristan asked coldly as he reached for the doorknob.
Claire gently grabbed hold of his arm before he could enter.
"You're restless," she said softly, concern evident in her voice. "You need sleep."
Tristan immediately yanked his arm free from her grasp with sudden aggression.
"Who are you to me?" he snapped. "You are nothing more than my teacher. You are not my mother. You are not my friend. You are no one to me. So please… leave me alone."
Claire could not see the expression on his face, but she heard the anger within his voice clearly enough. The words struck her harder than Tristan realized. Hurt flickered across her features before she quietly turned away and walked down the corridor.
Tristan watched her leave.
And regret settled into him almost immediately.
He was not truly angry at Claire.
He was angry at himself.
At his weakness.
At the memories that refused to leave him.
At the guilt that clung to him no matter how desperately he tried to escape it.
He sighed heavily before entering his room and shutting the door behind him. Walking toward the bed, he sat down slowly and inhaled deeply.
Then he closed his eyes to enter his Celestial Forge.
The moment he entered his Celestial Forge, he realized something was wrong.
The world was dark.
Darker than usual.
The stars that normally illuminated the endless expanse above had vanished completely, leaving only an abyss of endless blackness. Tristan looked around cautiously, confusion slowly giving way to unease.
Then he heard it.
Thud.
Something struck the ground nearby.
He turned toward the sound.
Something rolled toward him through the darkness.
At first, he could not make out what it was. But as it drew closer, his eyes widened in horror.
A severed head rolled to a stop against his foot.
Clara's head.
Blood still poured from the torn flesh of her neck, crimson staining the ground beneath her. Tristan staggered backward violently, sweat instantly forming across his brow as terror seized him.
Then the head spoke.
"Tristan… you let me die."
His breathing hitched.
"No…" he whispered.
"Tristan… you let me die."
Her voice repeated the words again and again, each repetition growing more distorted than the last. The sound slowly transformed into something grotesque, something inhuman—like rusted metal scraping violently against bone.
"Tristan… you… let… me…"
Bones suddenly erupted from the exposed flesh beneath her severed neck.
A spine extended outward.
Then skeletal arms.
Then legs.
The horrific creature slowly assembled itself before him, Clara's lifeless face still attached to the monstrous body now forming beneath it. Its elongated skeletal fingers stretched toward him.
"Die."
Tristan shut his eyes tightly and turned away in horror.
When he opened them again, the creature was gone.
Standing before him instead was his legion of summoned warriors, silent and motionless beneath the starless void. At their forefront stood Killington.
"My lord," Killington asked carefully, "are you alright?"
Tristan's chest still rose and fell rapidly from panic. His entire body trembled.
"No," he answered honestly.
Desperate to escape the nightmare clawing at his mind, Tristan began sparring against Killington within the depths of his Celestial Forge. Blade clashed against blade repeatedly as he honed the techniques he had spent months mastering.
But no matter how fiercely he fought—
the nightmare remained.
Clara's severed head.
Those accusing words.
The guilt.
It never left him.
This was not the first night it had happened. Ever since thar tragic day, the nightmares had become relentless.
Clara's death repeated endlessly within his dreams.
And every time, the same words followed.
It was all your fault.
Though Tristan had never witnessed Albert Kenway's final moments personally, his imagination tormented him with visions nonetheless—visions of Albert screaming as flames consumed him alive.
Tristan roared in frustration and slashed violently across Killington's chest before stumbling backward. His blade slipped from his grasp and disappeared into the endless cosmic expanse beneath him.
Then—
he broke.
He collapsed to his knees.
And cried.
"It was my fault…" Tristan whispered brokenly. "Everything… everything was my fault…"
Slowly, he opened his eyes and returned to reality once more.
Though he had technically rested, the minuscule amount of sleep he managed to gain had done almost nothing for him. Exhaustion still clung to his body like chains.
He stepped out of his room and walked down the hallway, only to suddenly witness two women leaving Victor's room laughing softly amongst themselves. Moments later, Victor emerged behind them with a towel wrapped loosely around his waist.
The women hurried downstairs while Victor turned toward Tristan with an amused grin spread across his face.
"Didn't have a good night?" Victor asked smugly. "Well, I certainly did. Probably one of the best nights I've had since coming here."
Tristan stared at him silently for a moment.
Normally, he might have commented on Victor's recklessness or arrogance.
But he simply did not care enough.
He was too exhausted.
Without replying, Tristan walked past him toward the bathroom. He splashed water onto his face once more before stepping into the shower.
Hot water poured over him endlessly as steam filled the room around him. Tristan stood there motionless beneath the stream, his thoughts once again drifting toward the nightmares that haunted him.
Toward Clara.
Toward Albert.
Hidden beneath the sound of cascading water, Tristan quietly began to cry.
"I'm sorry."