Zafira left shortly after the conversation ended, without drama and without forcing a sense of closure where none truly existed. There were no promises, no final words meant to seal the moment, only an unspoken understanding of what could and could not be done right now.

She knew that, for the moment, it was impossible. Not because feelings were lacking, and not because something between them had broken, but because of the houses they belonged to and the position they stood in. Even so, it didn't feel like an ending. The door between her and Trafalgar was not closed, simply out of reach.

She returned to her room on the same floor reserved for the heirs of the Eight Great Families, the physical closeness standing in quiet contrast to the distance imposed by politics. Only a few doors apart, separated by little more than stone and silence.

Inside her room, Zafira paused for a moment, not in regret or weakness, but in acceptance. This was not a loss. It was waiting.

And she was prepared to do just that.

The next day arrived without ceremony.

Trafalgar prepared in silence, movements measured and familiar, his thoughts already a step ahead of what lay before him. Today, he would go with Bartholomew to the place described in the notebooks. A location given without explanation, without context, as if its meaning was meant to reveal itself only to someone willing to stand there in person.

The place existed for a reason.

That much, he was certain of. The notebooks had never felt symbolic, never like metaphors or half-truths meant to mislead. They were records. Instructions. Someone had wanted him to find that place, and the fact that its name alone had been enough to endure across time made it all the more deliberate.

A single thought returned to him again and again as he prepared.

'Maybe this is where she speaks.'

The Veiled Woman surfaced in his mind, not as a distant figure anymore, but as a presence tied directly to his path. He was no longer the weak boy she had first watched. He had grown. He had survived things that should have broken him. Whatever waited at the end of those coordinates, he felt ready to face it.

There was no nervousness in him, no restless energy. Only a steady sense of anticipation, held tightly in check.

If answers were waiting, he would reach them.

Trafalgar sat on one of the benches at the academy's train station, posture relaxed, gaze unfocused as he watched people move past. The station was busier than usual, filled with overlapping voices and the steady rhythm of footsteps against stone. It was a calm day, classes suspended, which explained the crowd. Students laughed and talked in small groups, while nobles passed through with practiced ease, many of them heading toward Velkaris to spend the day away from the academy.

He stood out even without trying.

A few glances lingered longer than they should have, some curious, others cautious. Word traveled fast, and Trafalgar's presence alone was enough to draw attention now.

He noticed Bartholomew before the boy noticed him.

Bartholomew came running through the station, breath uneven, white hair damp and clinging to his forehead. One hand kept hold of his glasses, clearly at risk of slipping off, while the other gripped the strap of a bag slung over his shoulder. He slowed only when he reached the bench, stopping just short of bumping into it.

"You didn't have to run like that," Trafalgar said, a small laugh slipping out despite himself.

Bartholomew straightened quickly, cheeks flushed. "S-sorry," he said, voice low, eyes darting around for a moment as he became aware of the people watching. "I d-didn't want to m-make you wait."

Trafalgar waved it off lightly, but he saw it then, the way Bartholomew's shoulders tensed. The looks weren't for him. They were for Trafalgar.

Bartholomew noticed too.

The train arrived moments later, its presence announced by a low hum that cut through the station's noise. The doors slid open, and the flow of passengers began to move.

Bartholomew instinctively headed toward one of the regular wagons, blending into the crowd out of habit. He barely made it a few steps before Trafalgar reached out and caught the back of his white jersey, stopping him in place.

"This way," Trafalgar said. "You're with me."

Bartholomew blinked, startled, then nodded quickly and followed without question. They boarded the first wagon together and took a pair of seats side by side, slightly removed from the rest of the passengers. The atmosphere inside was quieter, more controlled, the kind of space reserved for those who didn't need to explain their presence.

The train pulled away from the station, and Velkaris began to draw closer with every passing second. The journey would take twenty minutes, as always.

"So," Trafalgar said after a moment, breaking the silence, "where are we going exactly?"

Bartholomew adjusted his glasses, fingers tightening briefly around the strap of his bag. "A city," he said. "Salca. It's not very big, but it has a Gate. That's how we'll get there so quickly." His voice carried a trace of excitement now. "It's the only clear location mentioned in the notebooks. Everything else is… incomplete."

His golden eyes were bright, filled with anticipation rather than doubt. Whatever waited for them in Salca, he believed it mattered.

Trafalgar leaned back slightly, listening, expectation held firmly in check. They weren't wandering at random. This was a trail left behind on purpose.

Ancient.

And personal.

By the time the train reached Velkaris, the crowd had only grown thicker. The doors opened, and they moved with the flow, stepping onto the platform before making their way toward the Gate Hub. The structure stood tall and familiar, lines of travelers already forming in front of the active Gates, voices overlapping as fees were paid and destinations confirmed.

They queued for Salca, paid without delay, and stepped forward together.

The sensation of transit washed over them briefly, a shift in pressure and light that lasted only a moment before the world settled again.

Salca revealed itself quietly.

It was a beautiful city, smaller than Velkaris but carefully kept, its streets clean and its buildings shaped by older hands. A cathedral rose near the center, stonework detailed and solemn, while a castle overlooked the city from higher ground, its presence steady rather than imposing. The architecture leaned toward something more medieval, less touched by modern refinement, as if time moved a little slower here.

Trafalgar took it in with a measured glance.

'It's in this city?' he thought. 'Strange, at the very least.'

There was nothing obvious. No signs pointing them forward, no immediate pull toward a specific place. Just a city going about its day, unaware of what might be hidden within its walls.

Bartholomew stood beside him, eyes already scanning their surroundings, excitement restrained but unmistakable.

They hadn't found anything yet.

But neither of them doubted it.

Whatever the notebooks had been pointing toward was here.

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