As Tristan made his way to his seat, he sat down with a composed calm, unaffected by the many eyes fixed upon him. Their stares didn't faze him in the slightest—he paid them no mind and took his seat without hesitation.
Garfield leaned toward him, his voice a soft whisper meant only for Tristan's ears.
"What happened? Where were you?"
Tristan looked straight ahead, his gaze fixed on the front of the class as his finger began to tap rhythmically against the wooden desk. Embarrassment crept in—he had no desire to confess that he'd gotten lost—and so, he chose silence.
"Why don't you want to answer? Don't tell me you got lost?" Garfield asked, a knowing smirk playing on his lips.
Without needing a single word, he read Tristan like an open book.
"No. Do I look like someone who could get lost?" Tristan replied, awkwardness flickering across his expression as he turned his head toward the window on his left.
"You did get lost," Garfield said, laughing quietly.
"Let's not pretend you wouldn't get lost too. You know how confusing those stairs are," Tristan responded, annoyance flashing across his face.
Garfield continued chuckling softly, careful not to draw the attention of the other students. A few moments later, Miss Eleanor exited the classroom, and with her departure, Mr. Moore's previously bright demeanor seemed to vanish as well.
He reached into the pocket of his tailored suit and retrieved a comb, dragging it back over his scalp, revealing a receding hairline beneath the effort. Once satisfied, he tucked the comb away and approached his desk, gently placing the book he had been holding down before speaking.
"I suppose I'll have to start over thanks to our late arrival," he said dryly, turning to the board behind him and writing his name in bold strokes. "My name is Charles Moore, and I will be your Survival Practice instructor."
'Yeah... I think we figured that much out already.'
"Let me pose a question—what is Survival Practice?" he asked, his tone sharp and inquisitive.
Without a moment's hesitation, Amelia raised her hand.
"Miss Green, would you please enlighten us?" Mr. Moore asked, his tone shifting into one of respectful interest.
Amelia rose gracefully from her seat.
"Of course, sir. Survival Practice is a class designed to prepare us for assignments beyond the walls of Constella Academy."
"Correct," Charles confirmed with a nod. "As many of you already know, at the border of our great nation lies a region known only as The In Between. A place shrouded in mystery, where the very climate refuses consistency. Beyond that, we know little. It is believed that secrets lie buried deep within its ever-changing landscape—but who can say? Only our great Lords have ventured into its depths and survived."
'The In Between?' Tristan thought. 'That old woman mentioned it once, but never in detail. A realm of chaos... How did the Great Lords survive such a place?'
Charles began to pace slowly, his voice echoing with authority as he continued.
"You will, in time, be tasked with missions—expeditions—into the In Between. And you must be prepared. That is my duty: to train you. To equip you. We will cover a variety of scenarios that you may face in that realm. So let us begin."
He stepped behind his desk and pulled a hidden lever.
Suddenly, the entire classroom began to shift. The floor rumbled beneath them like an enormous elevator, descending into darkness. The students were engulfed in blackness as the room moved sideways, then finally rose again. A hatch opened above, allowing a piercing light to spill in. When their eyes adjusted, they found themselves surrounded by an arctic landscape—glittering icebergs, frozen waters, and snow-blanketed terrain stretched before them.
"This is one of the conditions you may face in the In Between," Charles said, stepping out into the snow. "It's cold now... but don't be deceived. The real thing will be far, far worse."
The biting chill wasn't merely the cold of a winter's morning—it was more like the merciless frost of Antarctica... and then some.
'It's already freezing. How much worse could it possibly get?' Tristan wondered, hugging his arms tightly around himself as he shivered.
Charles continued, his expression now grim and somber.
"Let me be perfectly honest with you: there is little to no chance of survival in conditions like these—especially if you're unprepared."
His words struck a chord in many of the students. Some faces turned serious. Yet one voice rose in defiance, slicing through the quiet like a blade.
"Hah! Mr. Moore, perhaps survival would be difficult for most... but not for those who carry the blood of Vermillion."
A boy stepped forward—his hair a striking red, eerily similar to Tristan's own. Confidence oozed from him as he stood tall with arrogant poise. Tristan turned toward him, irritation flashing in his eyes. The boy's voice, his face, his demeanor—they were all familiar. Unpleasantly so.
"And with the way you're speaking," Tristan said coolly, "am I to assume that House Vermillion possesses some exceptional trait the rest of us lack?"
The boy scoffed.
"When it comes to me and you, there is no comparison. I am unique. I hail from greatness. And you? You're just a wannabe."
Tristan's patience frayed. Slowly, the realization settled in—his tone, his behavior, even the way he moved—it all mirrored the man he detested more than anyone.
'Decker Vermillion.'