Bartholomew's fingers trembled where they rested on the page.

When he finally looked up, it wasn't with his usual hesitation. The round lenses of his glasses caught the light, reflecting eyes that shone a deep, molten gold. There was no stutter in his breath, no uncertainty pulling his posture inward. What surfaced instead was something rare—contained excitement, held back for far too long.

"I found it," he said. His voice was steady, almost reverent. "Trafalgar… I finally found it."

Trafalgar straightened instinctively. Confusion flickered first, followed closely by a quiet surge of anticipation. He didn't know what he had expected—an answer, a clue, maybe nothing at all—but the look on Bartholomew's face told him this wasn't trivial. Whatever had just fallen into place mattered.

Bartholomew didn't wait for permission to continue.

"The notebooks," he said, words starting to tumble over one another, "they were never meant to stand alone. Yours was the first segment. This one—" he tapped the page in front of him "—is the continuation. Two halves of a larger structure." He paused only to draw a quick breath, then went on. "They work like a layered puzzle. Symbols that repeat with slight deviations, patterns that only align when read out of order, sequences hidden in spacing rather than text. I had to cross-reference margins, reverse sections, overlay diagrams—"

Trafalgar watched him speak, understanding none of it and all of it at the same time.

He followed the way Bartholomew's hands moved, the certainty in his gestures, the ease with which the explanation flowed now that the pieces had locked together. It was like watching someone finally speak in their native language after years of translating everything twice.

"I see," Trafalgar said after a moment, nodding slowly. "That's… incredible."

It wasn't a lie. He didn't grasp the method, but he recognized mastery when he saw it. And whatever Bartholomew had uncovered, it had been waiting patiently for someone exactly like him to do so.

Bartholomew hesitated for the first time since speaking, then slowly turned the notebook so Trafalgar could see the final page.

"There's more," he said, unable to fully suppress the excitement creeping into his voice. "After everything aligned—after the last sequence resolved—something appeared. A message."

He tapped the margin, careful, almost reverent.

"It's short," he continued. "Written small. Deliberately easy to miss." He swallowed, then read it aloud. "I hope you've found the gift we left you, Cursed Heir."

The room seemed to still.

Bartholomew looked up immediately, questions already spilling over one another. "That name—Cursed Heir—what is it? A title? A designation? Is it symbolic, or literal? Does it imply a curse placed on someone, or—" He stopped only because he ran out of breath, then started again. "Or someone who shouldn't exist? I've never seen anything like this. Not in any historical record. Not in ruins, not in fragmented texts, nowhere. It doesn't fit any known framework."

He pushed his glasses up with a finger, eyes shining. "Whoever wrote this knew exactly who they were addressing. And I swear to you—I won't tell anyone. Not a word. We agreed on that."

Trafalgar nodded, expression steady.

"Thank you," he said simply.

Outwardly, his voice didn't waver. Inwardly, his stomach twisted hard enough to make him feel faint.

'Of course,' he thought. 'Of course it was for me.'

The title. The wording. The gift. It wasn't vague. It wasn't coincidence. Just like the shard. Just like everything else that seemed to fall into his hands without asking permission first.

'Cursed Heir.'

A title, yes. His title.

A curse? Also yes.

Someone who shouldn't exist.

The words Bartholomew had thrown out in excitement settled one by one into place, clicking together with a clarity that made him feel nauseous. This wasn't a discovery. Whoever had left those notebooks had known. Known what he was. Known that he would find them.

And known that he would understand.

Trafalgar drew a slow breath and looked back at Bartholomew.

"Is that all?" he asked. "The message."

Bartholomew shook his head at once, already reaching for the notebook again. "No. That's the thing. It's not really a message. Not in the usual sense." He hesitated, searching for the right words. "It's… a place."

He turned a few pages back, pointing at overlapping symbols and half-faded markings. "The two notebooks only make sense together. They form a structure. Paths, references, repetitions. When you line them up correctly, what you get isn't instructions or a spell. It's a location." He frowned slightly. "Incomplete, maybe. But real."

Trafalgar felt something tighten in his chest.

'A place,' he thought.

Unbidden, an image surfaced in his mind. A veiled figure. The woman who had appeared at the edge of his fate and vanished just as quickly.

'The Veiled Woman,' he thought. 'Is this where you are?'

He didn't say it aloud. It was only a hypothesis, nothing more. But the timing felt too precise to ignore.

Bartholomew looked up from the notebook, excitement giving way to something more tentative. "If you're going there," he said, then paused. "I want to come with you."

Trafalgar didn't answer immediately.

It was dangerous. Whatever that place was, it wasn't meant to be found easily. And Bartholomew already knew too much. But refusing him outright would raise questions he couldn't afford. Worse, it would fracture the trust between them, and Bartholomew wasn't just a scholar—he was someone rare. Someone irreplaceable. A legendary character that can learn all the skills in the world.

Trafalgar exhaled slowly.

"All right," he said at last. "You can come."

Bartholomew's relief was instant, but Trafalgar raised a hand before he could speak. "On one condition."

Bartholomew straightened. "Anything."

"You don't tell your sister," Trafalgar said. His tone was calm, but there was no room for negotiation. "Not a word. About the notebooks. About the place. About any of this."

Bartholomew nodded without hesitation. "I won't. I promise."

"Good," Trafalgar said. "We won't go right away. I have things I need to settle first."

Bartholomew gathered the notebooks carefully, as if they might shatter if mishandled. "Understood," he said. "Just… let me know when."

Trafalgar watched him go a moment later, the door closing softly behind him.

Alone again, he stared at the spot where the notebooks had been.

'A place,' he thought once more. 'And answers.'

Bartholomew's footsteps faded down the corridor, the quiet that followed settling heavily over the room. Trafalgar remained where he was for a moment, eyes fixed on the closed door, as if expecting it to open again. When it didn't, he finally exhaled and lifted a hand to his face, rubbing at his eyes slowly.

"…What a mess," he muttered under his breath.

Not frustration.

Just the plain acknowledgment of how quickly his life had tangled itself into something far larger than it used to be. War. Politics. Secrets left behind by people who shouldn't have known he existed. A place waiting for him somewhere beyond reach. And now, meetings between families that would decide futures as if they were clauses in a contract.

He straightened, letting his hand fall. The calm returned, thin but steady. Chaos or not, this was his path now.

The next day came quietly.

Saturday.

The scene shifted from the academy to Euclid, to the Morgain mansion where stone walls had witnessed generations of decisions made in low voices behind closed doors. Trafalgar stood there now, no longer alone. At his side was Valttair du Morgain, magnificent as ever. Across from them stood Aubrelle au Rosenthal, Pipin perched lightly on her shoulder, and beside her, Lord Thaleon au Rosenthal.

Four figures. Two families.

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