After spending a few hours at Darren's pub, Tristan decided it was time to return to the boutique. He wished to share his triumph with the man who had nourished and supported him in his darkest hour. Stepping outside, he whistled sharply—a signal used to summon a coachman, as that was the only reliable way to attract one's attention at this hour.
A carriage pulled up beside him moments later, and he climbed in without delay. Once seated, he informed the driver of his destination. The coachman cracked his whip, and the horses surged forward, carrying Tristan through the lamplit streets toward the boutique.
As the carriage rocked gently with each turn of the wheel, Tristan's mind began to wander. Darren had revealed that the Amelia he had met was an imposter—someone masquerading as Amelia.
But why would this person do such a thing, and who was the person masquerading as Amelia?
"So who was that?" Tristan muttered to himself, his brow furrowing with unease.
His musings were abruptly interrupted by the coachman's voice, drifting back from the driver's perch.
"You're Tristan Merigold, aren't you?" he asked, without turning.
"Yes," Tristan replied, slightly guarded.
The coachman's face lit up with a broad, heartfelt smile. He was practically beaming with excitement.
"You really made us proud during the exam," he said, admiration dripping from his words. "It's just a shame you won't be participating in tomorrow's stage."
"Thank you," Tristan said, sliding open the carriage window to let the cool night air wash over him. "But I'm not particularly bothered about missing it."
"I hope you do change your mind," the coachman continued, his voice brimming with hope. "It's been too long since someone from the Middle District placed first in the ranking stage."
Tristan fell silent for a moment, and his mind wandered again—this time to a certain annoyingly enthusiastic boy.
"Garfield is still competing," he said at last. "He might win."
"Maybe."
The rest of the ride passed in silence, the quiet broken only by the rhythmic clatter of hooves against cobblestone. Soon, the carriage came to a halt before the boutique. Tristan stepped out, reaching into his pocket for the money Darren had given him.
Truth be told, he had no idea what the currency in this world was truly worth. Darren had simply estimated an amount that would cover the entire ride. As Tristan reached for the coins, the coachman stopped him with a raised hand.
"You don't need to pay," he said warmly. "Consider it a gift—from me. A thank you for giving the Middle District hope. For proving that we, too, can be strong."
Tristan felt a rare warmth bloom in his chest. The thought of saving a few coins was nice—but this gesture meant something.
"Thank you," he said earnestly.
"The pleasure's been mine," the coachman replied before flicking the reins and disappearing into the night.
Tristan turned to the boutique's front door, wondering briefly whether it was locked. He gave it a gentle push—and to his surprise, it creaked open. Stepping inside, he shut the door behind him and secured the lock.
Climbing the stairs to the apartment on the second floor, Tristan found Mr. Kenway seated at his sewing machine. A single candle flickered on the table, casting soft, wavering shadows across the room.
Kenway was carefully stitching a piece of cloth, his concentration absolute—until the sound of footsteps caught his attention.
"You're back," Kenway said, his eyes never leaving his work. "I heard you did well. The neighbors can't stop talking about you."
"Yeah, I passed," Tristan responded. "But I won't be able to participate in the third stage… not with these injuries."
Kenway stood, removing his tinted glasses and setting them on the table.
"You've done enough," he said, voice steady. "You've made me proud—and I'd wager you've made your mother proud, too. Now, get some rest."
He reached over and powered down the sewing machine, the gentle hum fading into silence.
Tristan was touched by the words. But even as they comforted him, his mind returned to the grim truth—his mission. Entering the academy wasn't just about advancement or prestige. He had to uncover the truth. He had to find Mary's killer. He had to avenge her.
He considered, briefly, confiding in Mr. Kenway about his encounter with Mary in her Celestial Forge. Trust didn't come easily anymore… but perhaps, it was starting to return. Still, to admit that his goal was revenge—to speak aloud his desire to take a life—felt… wrong.
Kenway retreated to his room. Tristan took a short bath, changed into his nightwear, and collapsed onto the couch. His exhaustion consumed him, and the moment his body met the soft cushions, sleep overtook him like a wave crashing over a weary shore.
Morning came swiftly. Tristan's body still throbbed with pain—his ribs ached with every movement. But despite the lingering soreness, he was determined to witness the final stage. He bathed, dressed in the suit laid out for him, and prepared to descend the stairs.
Before he could, Mr. Kenway rushed up to block his path.
"Is something wrong?" Tristan asked, brows raised.
Kenway glanced down the staircase, then turned back with a wary expression.
"You don't want to go down there," he said gravely. "Half the neighborhood's stormed the boutique looking for you. They want to meet the 'Pride of the Middle District,' or so they claim."
Tristan sighed. "So what now? Someone's waiting for me."
Kenway paused, then gestured toward a nearby window.
"There," he said, pointing. "There's a ladder just outside. Use it—and make sure you aren't seen."
Tristan moved quickly, finding the ladder exactly where Kenway said it would be. He climbed down quietly, then crept through the back alleys, avoiding the growing crowds. He weaved through the streets, ducking behind trash bins and slipping into shadows whenever someone spotted him. The journey was exhausting, a maze of near-discoveries and narrow escapes.
When he finally arrived at Darren's pub, he was nearly breathless.
"Why do you look like you've just run a marathon?" Darren asked, raising an eyebrow.
Tristan leaned against the doorway, panting. Once he regained his breath, he replied, "People have been all over me since dawn."
Darren laughed heartily at Tristan's misfortune and, still grinning, called for a carriage.
"That's the price of fame," he said as they climbed in. "You've become a symbol. The people admire your rise, especially because you're one of them—a son of the Middle District."
The carriage soon reached the Colosseum. Before they exited, Darren handed Tristan a weathered brown cloak.
"Here," he said. "It's not much, but it'll keep the crowds off you."
The cloak was ragged, but it concealed Tristan's face well enough. Together, they made their way into the stands and found seats that offered a clear view—close enough to witness the action, far enough to remain unnoticed.
And then, with the arrival of a radiant beam of light, the second stage was about to begin.