After a day's rest, the children were escorted back to the mainland. Garfield and Tristan, whose injuries appeared far worse than the others', were granted an additional day to recover, while the nobles were sent ahead to the mainland. The representatives accompanied the children back as well, all except one, of course. Blake Foster remained behind to oversee the two remaining students and the doctors who had stayed to continue treating the injured boys.
Tristan, with the aid of crutches, made his way toward Amelia, who would be departing shortly. She had wished to remain with her two friends, but Tristan merely shook his head and said, "No."
She was a noble, and remaining behind was never truly an option. Her eyes fell to the ground, her emotions conveyed with painful clarity. Sadness, anger, and worry—all were written plainly across her face.
She lifted her gaze and said, "I promise to visit once you return."
Tristan smiled faintly and replied, "And I will welcome you with a smile on my face."
The two shared a lingering embrace, and then Amelia was on her way, yet as she departed, Tristan's eyes shifted restlessly from one direction to another—left, then right, and finally behind him. There were people missing.
"Clara and the Headmaster? Did they leave before everyone else?" he asked himself.
"That must be it," he muttered quickly, answering his own question.
Amelia, the other nobles, the doctors, and the representatives departed, leaving only Tristan, Garfield, Blake, and a few remaining physicians.
Tristan inhaled deeply, the air carrying that distinct scent that lingers after rainfall—fresh, earthen, almost intoxicating. It was pleasant to his senses at least; he could not speak for anyone else. He walked back toward the tent with the assistance of his crutches, carefully avoiding the shallow puddles that obstructed his path. Upon arriving, he pushed aside the tent flap with his shoulder and stepped inside. As he entered, he was greeted by the sight of Blake Foster seated upon his bed, his fingers coiled together as he stared intently at the ground.
Worry was etched deeply into his face. Most would have asked questions such as, "What's wrong?" or "How can I help?" but Tristan was not that sort of person; he could scarcely concern himself with the burdens of others. Yet he could not simply walk past in silence, for he still owed Blake Foster—especially after the man had saved both his friends and Tristan himself.
So Tristan approached, his crutches assisting each careful step until he stood before the scarred man.
"Is something troubling you?"
Blake's head shot up immediately as he realized Tristan had arrived. He had been so lost in thought that he had not heard Tristan's approach. Blake quickly stood, making space for Tristan to sit.
"I wish to speak with you, but you must tell no one until this information becomes public."
Tristan lowered himself slowly onto his bed, his pain-stricken muscles protesting with every movement. Blake sat upon the bed only a few steps away from him.
Regret was evident in Blake's expression—regret for what, Tristan could not yet discern. At first, the silence between them was merely awkward, but it gradually transformed into something far more oppressive and uneasy. Tristan began to worry.
"Sir, please tell me what the problem is."
Blake snapped from his daze and looked directly into the crimson-haired boy's eyes.
"The girl who came with the Headmaster—you know her, don't you?" Blake asked.
Tristan replied, "Yes. She's a friend of mine. What is the problem? I noticed she and the Headmaster were nowhere to be seen."
Blake inhaled deeply before speaking again, each word striking with the sharpness of a blade driven into flesh.
"That girl has been identified as a possible suspect who was in league with the terrorists that attacked the academy, and in the coming days, she will stand trial."
Tristan's eyes unfocused as questions began forming chaotically within his mind. He knew Clara was not one of them; he had watched her closely and had seen nothing that would justify such suspicion. Tristan knew the truth—he was one of only five individuals aware of what had truly transpired with the terrorists who had fixed their strange gaze upon the academy for reasons yet unknown.
Frustration surged through him as he gripped the white cloth spread across his bed, twisting it tightly within his fists. He looked up at Blake, anger, indignation, and every dark emotion within him laid bare as he demanded, "Why tell me this?"
Blake paused, looking down before lifting his gaze to meet Tristan's. He placed a gentle hand upon Tristan's shoulder and said, "Because it seemed like the right thing to do."
Blake then stood and walked away, leaving Tristan alone with his thoughts—thoughts that reduced his mind to a storm of relentless questions. How had they come to see Clara as a suspect? Who had provided them with such damning information? And why had she been chosen as a scapegoat? All were questions that demanded answers.
Tristan lifted his legs carefully and lowered himself fully onto the bed. With his back pressed against the mattress and his eyes fixed upon the roof of the dark green tent, he continued to dwell on Clara and the grim fate awaiting her.
Another thought intruded upon his mind: even if he were to reveal the information he possessed, would they believe him? He was of lesser standing, a boy of low birth, and his words would never be regarded as absolute truth. If that came to pass, Tristan would not know what path remained for him.
He shut his eyes, his thoughts waging ceaseless wars within the confines of his skull.
"What am I to do?"
Tristan raised his hand and pressed his fingers against his temples before sliding it down to cover his eyes.
"Why can nothing ever be simple? Why must life always be so merciless? Both this life and the last have given me nothing but suffering. I am tired… I just—I only want to live," Tristan whispered into the suffocating quiet.