Trafalgar visited Selara in her laboratory, seeking her analysis of a mysterious yellowish sample from the Sylvanel-Thal’zar war that enabled a void creature to speak. Intrigued and alarmed by the vial and accompanying notes, Selara agreed to investigate discreetly, promising results by the next morning in exchange for his utmost secrecy. With the sample entrusted to her, Trafalgar departed for the Academy dormitories to meet Bartholomew.
Trafalgar had already departed the main structure and was heading towards the Academy's dormitories.
He had a specific destination in mind, but an annoying detail persisted: he had never previously had a reason to enter any room other than his own. This meant he would have to inquire about Bartholomew’s location, which felt somewhat absurd given how the entire Academy seemed to expect Trafalgar to move freely, with doors magically opening for him.
The campus was unusually quiet, a stark contrast to the constant bustle of months prior. While not deserted, the usual throng of students had thinned to isolated figures crossing courtyards or moving between buildings with their belongings. Many had already departed with their families. Others were likely well on their way home, eager to relish the freedom that followed the academic year's conclusion.
'That sounds rather pleasant,' Trafalgar mused, walking beneath the late afternoon sun. 'How lucky for them. Meanwhile, I'm burdened with old notes concerning warfare, void creatures, and some mad alchemist, and I still need to track down Barth because he's the only person I know who will willingly help me decipher illegible script without experiencing excessive delight first.'
By the time he arrived at the dormitory building, he had already resolved not to spend time wandering three floors aimlessly. Instead of proceeding directly to the central circular platform, he made his way to reception.
Three receptionists were occupied behind the expansive counter. The instant Trafalgar approached, one of them, an elf with pale hair neatly tied back, visibly straightened in surprise. It appeared Trafalgar du Morgain was less of an abstract concept when encountered in person.
"Good morning," she said promptly. "Trafalgar du Morgain. How may I assist you?"
"Trafalgar is sufficient," he responded. "I am seeking a friend. Could you direct me to his room?"
"Certainly." She reached for a small pile of records, her fingers moving with increased speed, now having a task to occupy her. "What is his name?"
"Bartholomew. First year. Well, he will be a second year when the next term commences."
She scanned the documents, located the relevant entry, and nodded with understated satisfaction. "Room one hundred twenty-one. Second floor."
Trafalgar gave a slight nod. "Thank you for the information. Farewell."
That straightforward reply appeared to disconcert her even more than his presence had, but he was already departing.
He proceeded to the circular platform.
Other students were waiting there, some with luggage, others empty-handed, all exhibiting a level of relaxation they scarcely deserved. Trafalgar stepped onto the platform with them, and it began its ascent with the gentle hum of mana resonating beneath the polished stone. A few students disembarked on the first floor. More than one student cast a glance at him as they exited. He understood their reaction. Typically, when Trafalgar was seen on this platform, he was either descending from the uppermost floor or returning to his own quarters. Observing him ascend only to exit on the second floor was an uncommon sight, naturally sparking curiosity.
When the platform halted at the designated level, Trafalgar stepped off and proceeded down the corridor.
This was his inaugural visit to this particular floor, and it was evident.
He walked at a leisurely pace, meticulously checking the room numbers as he passed each door.
'One hundred eighteen. One hundred nineteen. One hundred twenty... so one hundred twenty-one should be right here—'
He paused.
There was no adjacent door.
Only the corner.
Trafalgar turned his head, fixing his gaze on the wall for a moment, then checked the numbering on the opposing side. One hundred forty. One hundred thirty-nine.
A faint vein throbbed at his temple.
'You cannot be serious.'
Naturally, it was situated at the commencement of the other wing. Of course, the Academy had opted for the most vexing corridor layout possible. Trafalgar turned back, traversed the entire length of the corridor, and only at the far end did he finally discover room one hundred twenty-one.
He stopped before the door and knocked.
No response was forthcoming.
'Did Barth go out?'
Trafalgar's brow furrowed slightly, but before he could knock again, the door creaked inward a fraction under the pressure. It had been left unlocked.
He stared at it, dumbfounded.
'This imbecile. What if someone pilfers all his possessions? He'd likely offer an apology for the trouble and assist them in carrying everything away.'
A slightly mischievous idea formed in his mind.
He pushed the door open, stepped inside, and closed it behind him with deliberate quietness. A lesson, he decided. Just enough to make Bartholomew reconsider the prudence of leaving his room accessible to all and sundry.
Trafalgar settled himself on the edge of the bed to await.
Compared to his own quarters, this place was meager in every aspect. A smaller bed, a smaller desk, a single chair, one shelf. A compact bathroom. Not a single thing was ornate or excessive; everything had been chosen solely for its practical utility. This suited Bartholomew well enough. The entire room exuded the careful tidiness of someone occupying a space with deliberation, as if consciously trying not to intrude on more space than necessary.
Trafalgar allowed his shoulders to relax slightly and closed his eyes.
A door creaked open.
He snapped his eyes open at once, anticipating Bartholomew's return through the main entryway.
However, the sound had originated from the bathroom.
A woman's voice drifted from within.
"Ay, be careful, Barth!"
Trafalgar went utterly still.
The bathroom door swung open wider.
Cynthia emerged, enveloped in a white towel, her damp hair cascading over her shoulders. She was still adjusting the cloth with one hand as she walked. She spoke as she stepped out, clearly expecting her brother to be somewhere before her.
"You really need to stop barging arou—"
The words caught in her throat.
Because the person seated on the bed was not her brother, Bartholomew.
It was Trafalgar.
For a single, disbelieving moment, neither of them moved.
Cynthia’s expression vacated so rapidly it was almost remarkable. Her face shifted from mild annoyance to sheer astonishment, and the color flooded into it with startling intensity. Trafalgar partially rose from the bed, equally dumbfounded, his mind struggling to comprehend why Cynthia was in Bartholomew’s room, fresh from a bath, while Bartholomew himself was nowhere to be seen.
The towel slipped.
The world seemed to conspire to worsen.
Cynthia froze, rigid.
Trafalgar lost all command of every language he had ever known.
The silence stretched for less than a breath before mana erupted through the room.
A bow materialized in Cynthia’s hands with explosive speed, its form snapping into existence as if the weapon had been patiently awaiting this very opportunity. An arrow followed instantaneously, black energy snaking along its shaft in stark veins.
[Piercing Shade Arrow]
The projectile whistled through the air.
Trafalgar reacted on pure instinct. He flung himself sideways just as the arrow sliced past him, blasted through the open window, and vanished outside in a searing trail of dark force.
"Relax!" he commanded, already lifting one hand while bracing the other against the floor. "Cover yourself first. This is a misunderstanding."
His words did nothing to improve her disposition.
Cynthia snatched the fallen towel with a fierce motion, rewrapped it around herself, and leveled the bow at him once more, her hand quivering from sheer rage rather than any lingering embarrassment.
"You're dead," she declared.
Trafalgar pushed himself fully upright and ran a hand over his face. "Yes. At this precise moment, I would gladly accept that."
