They descended the winding, disorienting stairs and exited the building. As Sylvia and the others made their way down the curved stone steps, her voice broke the silence—serious, yet tinged with gentleness—as she turned to Amelia.
"My dear, I must ask you to keep this confidential. We cannot risk others finding out."
"Of course. I would never betray such a vital secret," Amelia responded without hesitation.
Before long, they reached Amelia's waiting carriage. Its elegant frame gleamed under the midday light.
"I suppose I'll be seeing the two of you once the academic year begins," Amelia said as she ascended into the vehicle.
"See you soon," Tristan replied, offering a lazy wave.
Synthia entered the carriage, shutting the door behind her with a firm click. A simple gesture to the coachman sent the horses into motion.
Sylvia observed Tristan silently, her gaze lingering on his profile as he watched the carriage disappear into the distance. Then, with a faint chuckle, she closed her eyes and exhaled softly.
"What is it?" Tristan asked, narrowing his eyes at her amusement.
"It's nothing," she said, turning away. "Come now, let's be on our way."
She led them along a path that strayed from the main thoroughfare—an old stone trail veined with moss and history. They walked for several quiet minutes, the sounds of rustling leaves accompanying them. Towering trees, expertly pruned and flourishing in full health, lined either side of the path like guardians of the academy's secrets.
Eventually, they arrived at a modest house, somewhat removed from the Academy's central structure. Sylvia stepped forward first, brushing the soles of her shoes on the welcome mat before approaching the door. She knocked gently.
Knock. Knock.
Though soft, the sound was clear enough to be heard within. No response. The silence was suspicious—either no one was home, or someone was intentionally ignoring the door.
She knocked again, this time with far more force.
KNOCK! KNOCK! KNOCK!
At once, the house came alive. Metal clanged in the distance. Footsteps thundered down stairs. Voices murmured in anxious tones.
"Who… who is it?" came a voice—shaky, hesitant.
"Mr. Desmond, open this door at once!" Sylvia called, her tone laced with frustration.
The voice responded again, now slightly more composed though still laced with unease. "Oh, Headmaster—it's you. Forgive me, I thought a ghost had come to haunt me. You can never be too careful."
The door creaked open slowly, revealing a boy with brown skin and silky black hair peeking nervously through the gap. Just as he began to step forward, a sudden realization overtook him, and his eyes widened in horror.
"Wait... what if you are a ghost—mimicking the Headmaster's voice?! I've doomed us all by opening the door to an evil spirit!"
Without warning, Sylvia kicked the door open, slamming it directly into his face.
SLAM.
The door swung fully ajar, revealing the boy now sprawled on the ground, clutching his forehead with a groan.
"Headmaster—it really is you," he said with a pained smile. "I'm so glad you're not a ghost."
"Boys, this is Gareth Desmond, a second-year," Sylvia announced with casual irritation. "Mr. Desmond, these are our new students. See to it that you treat them well."
Gareth staggered to his feet, dusting off his pants. He forced a grin and extended his hand in greeting.
"It's nice to meet you both," he said warmly.
Garfield, ever eager and polite, shook his hand enthusiastically. "Nice to meet you!"
Gareth then approached Tristan. Unlike Garfield, Tristan remained stiff, eyeing the boy with suspicion. There was something off about Gareth—his words, his gaze, his paranoia. He seemed unhinged, and Tristan wasn't fond of shaking hands with unstable strangers.
Garfield discreetly gestured toward Gareth, urging Tristan to comply. With an annoyed sigh and a grimace that betrayed his disdain, Tristan reluctantly extended his hand.
"You're not ghosts, so it's fine you can enter," Gareth said brightly.
Tristan raised an eyebrow. "You shook our hands… to confirm we weren't ghosts?"
Retracting his hand, Gareth nodded solemnly. "You can never be too careful with ghosts."
Tristan gave him a look that said it all.
'Yeah, this guy's insane.'
"Where are the others?" Sylvia asked, stepping further into the house.
Gareth suddenly leapt to block her path. Panic flickered in his eyes as he refused to meet her gaze, his pupils darting in every direction—up, down, side to side—everywhere but at the Headmaster.
"What are you hiding, Mr. Desmond?" she asked coolly.
"N-Nothing, Headmaster. I swear. It's absolutely nothing," he stammered, throwing a quick glance over his shoulder.
Sylvia narrowed her eyes, then abruptly reached out and gripped his face, turning it toward her.
"Look me in the eyes when you speak," she commanded.
Gareth began to sweat profusely, his eyes quivering under the weight of her gaze. Just as he was about to break, a voice called out behind them.
"Headmaster, it's a pleasure to see you again," came a calm, confident tone.
A well-built boy with dark brown eyes and tousled brown hair emerged from the sitting room, his arms folded across his chest.
Sylvia released Gareth and turned her attention to the new arrival.
"Mr. Haier, explain yourself. What's going on here?"
The boy raised an eyebrow. "What's going on where?"
"Here. In this building. In this house," she said, her voice rising with irritation. "What's happening?"
Mr. Haier glanced over his shoulder into the room beyond, then met her eyes again. "Nothing is happening here."
Sylvia's patience snapped.
She summoned her spear—an ethereal weapon of shimmering light—into existence with a crackling hiss and leveled it at Gareth.
"Move, Gareth. Now. Or I will reduce you to ashes."
Terrified, Gareth scrambled out of her way.
Sylvia stormed into the sitting room—and stopped in her tracks.
The space was in utter disarray. The couch was shredded. A glass table lay shattered on the floor. Litter was strewn everywhere, even ground into the once-pristine carpet.
"What happened here?" she demanded.
The boy by the doorway idly stroked the beginnings of a goatee, tilting his head to the ceiling with exaggerated nonchalance.
"I wonder," he mused aloud. "What could have happened here?"
Sylvia's eyes blazed. She raised her spear and aimed it at him.
"Relax, Headmaster! There's no need to go that far!" he cried, throwing his hands into the air as if held at gunpoint.
Light surged at the tip of the spear—but just then, a soft meow cut through the tension.
Sylvia froze. She turned.
Perched on the window sill, as if wholly uninvolved in the chaos, was a sleek black cat, tail flicking lazily behind it.