Speaking To Eric

Tristan stepped into a meticulously maintained room that scarcely needed cleaning. Towering shelves lined nearly the entire left wall, stacked with books arranged with almost obsessive precision. Though the structure was similar to his own dorm, this space had been touched by the cold, calculated presence of Eric Thindel—every inch of it bearing his influence.

'His room doesn't even need cleaning,' Tristan thought to himself as his eyes scanned the neat surroundings.

"Is there something wrong?" Eric asked, shutting the door behind him.

"No," Tristan replied curtly.

Eric crossed the room to his bed, where an open book awaited him. He picked it up and resumed reading, his eyes barely flickering toward Tristan.

"As you can see, my room is already in order. Ask what you came to ask and leave," he said flatly.

'Cold to others, dismissive of conversation, and visibly irritated by human interaction… he reminds me of someone. But who?' Tristan thought.

"Well, speak," Eric snapped, his tone laced with impatience. "I don't have all day."

Though Tristan had devised the plan with precision, executing it was a different matter. Holding casual conversations—especially ones with ulterior motives—was something he found deeply irksome.

"Uh… I wanted to ask… What's it like being in the Disciplinary Committee?" he said, awkwardly piecing the words together.

"It's not too eventful. We stop those who do wrong from doing wrong and protect those being wronged from those who wrong them," Eric answered dismissively, eyes still fixed on his book.

'What? He just reworded the same sentence three times,' Tristan noted inwardly.

There was a moment of silence before Eric unexpectedly closed his book and set it beside him.

"Actually, I wanted to speak to you as well," he said. "I heard you performed admirably during the entrance exam—second place in a competition filled with nobles. Impressive. But I also heard something else…"

Tristan raised an eyebrow, intrigued. "What else?"

Eric's gaze shifted to him, sharp with disdain. "I heard that you and your friend made quite the spectacle during the event. That tells me you're troublemakers."

Tristan fought back his urge to defend himself. His tongue, sharp and venomous, was eager to strike, but he restrained it.

"I won't lie," he said instead. "I don't know what came over us. Though, truthfully… it was Garfield's fault. He gave a speech so rousing, even the most cowardly soldier would charge into battle."

"I heard about that," Eric said, his tone softening only slightly. "It raised morale, but he must learn—there's a time and a place for everything. That was neither."

Tristan swallowed his disdain, keeping his expression neutral.

"You may be right. Can I ask another question?"

"You may," Eric replied, now sounding oddly formal.

"How exactly does the Disciplinary Committee operate?"

"We function much like a police force. We take shifts patrolling designated areas of the Academy, ensuring students abide by the rules. However, I typically patrol alone."

'Now we're getting somewhere…'

"Why do you patrol alone?" he asked, his tone tinged with curiosity.

"The Committee is composed almost entirely of nobles. They have no desire to associate with someone of lesser blood. So, while they patrol in groups of three, I am assigned to cover ground on my own."

Tristan wasn't surprised. The divide between High and Lower Districts was nothing new. But it left him wondering—if these nobles who patrolled in groups, were truly doing their duty, or using their patrols for something else entirely? Maybe as a way to commit their crimes.

"So, where exactly do you patrol?" he asked.

"Everywhere we're permitted," Eric answered. "There are sections of the school that are off-limits—even to us. We rotate shifts to avoid missing classes, but if an urgent matter arises, we leave class to resolve it."

As they spoke, the sun rose higher, bathing the room in golden light. Eric stepped to his window, opening it wide. A gust of fresh air swept through the room as he took in a long, deliberate breath.

'I can't get much more out of him. Ostracized as he is, he's probably not aware of what the others might be doing…'

Tristan rubbed his temple, silently calculating his next move.

"I'll be taking my leave now," he said politely.

As he turned to go, Eric's voice halted him.

"One more thing."

Tristan turned. Eric stood, still staring out the window.

"You must understand—the Committee are the guardians of this Academy. We stand between the students and those who seek to harm them. Protect those who need protecting."

There was an almost reverent wisdom in his words.

"I understand," Tristan said, giving a nod before leaving the room, broom and bucket in hand—both untouched.

As he closed the door behind him, his mind worked furiously, replaying every detail of the conversation.

'If I can uncover their patrol routes and match them with the last sightings of the missing students, I might be able to link the disappearances to the Committee...'

Later, Tristan and Garfield collapsed onto the sitting room couch, exhaustion painted across their faces. Harrison entered, surveying the spotless space.

"Well done! You two really went above and beyond—the entire house is immaculate. You can rest. The day after tomorrow will be a big one: your first official day at the Academy," he said, beaming, before leaving them to their well-earned rest.

That night, long after the dorm had quieted and its residents had drifted to sleep, Tristan and Garfield reunited in secret to discuss what Tristan had learned.

"We'll need to meet the other Committee members face-to-face," Garfield said, rocking on Tristan's chair once again. "Even if they don't speak, their body language and behavior might tell us something."

"I agree," Tristan said. "We also need to determine if their patrol routes match where the victims were last seen."

Garfield tapped his fingers anxiously against the wooden desk, piecing together fragments of what they knew. A dreadful thought took root.

"Brother… Do you think the missing students could've been killed?" he asked, his voice low and grim.

Tristan's expression was unreadable—cold, calm, detached.

"It's not unlikely."

Garfield's heart sank. "That's just despicable… I hope they're okay."

"We won't know anything until we uncover the truth," Tristan replied. "Which means… we need to speak with the Headmaster as soon as possible."