The Boundless Prophecy

Chapter 2 (2.5(a) Oceanic Woods)

Wallace's heart raced as the words echoed, his palms slick with sweat. Caren mirrored his unease, her expression turning grim. The weight of anticipation settled upon them both. Wallace's mind went blank, unsure how to react if the reply veered from his expectations. Anxious and edgy feelings gnawed at him relentlessly.

They followed the elf without a word.

Leading them back to the counting-house, the elf veered from their previous route, guiding them through a door at the rear of the resting place. Taking a deep breath, he gently knocked on the door, a muffled reply echoing from within.

Pushing the door ajar, the elf gestured for them to enter, lingering outside himself.

Wallace and Caren stepped into darkness, the heavy breaths nearby hinting at a living presence. The unfamiliarity of the dark, uncertain space churned within Wallace's chest; he sensed Caren trembling slightly beside him.

The room suddenly illuminated as the door clicked shut behind them.

A werewolf stood before them, aged and holding an oil lamp that cast flickering light, revealing only the silhouette of him. He remained silent, turning away, prompting them to follow.

The faint glow of the oil lamp revealed the outlines of the passageway, its brick walls cold and damp as Wallace unintentionally brushed against them with his elbows, the unnatural chill akin to touching frost.

Walking in silence at an agonizingly slow pace, their minds consumed by the need to know the dean's reply, it felt impolite to rush the old werewolf, who visibly took a deep breath before each step. Wallace sighed softly, exchanging a sombre glance with Caren, somehow prompting an inexplicable smile from her.

After navigating through several twists and turns in the passageway, leaving Wallace doubting his ability to find his way back, they finally arrived at a lobby. Illuminated by torches affixed to the walls, tapestries adorned with portraits of unfamiliar faces hung between them. Amongst these, Wallace recognised only Madam Monette's portrait, surmising that the others depicted chief chemists at Angelwing.

With a trembling hand, the old werewolf extinguished the oil lamp by lowering the wick until the flame flickered out.

"Wait here," he uttered, his first words since their brief acquaintance.

Sauntering away, he vanished from the lobby. Wallace and Caren took their time studying the tapestries, each portrait exuding a sombre and forced solemnity. An old man's portrait, featuring piercing green eyes akin to a shark's gaze, a pointed nose, and thin lips, hung higher than the rest. The halo of his bald head, adorned with a few silver strands, bore a rather amusing aspect.

"Must be their head of the chief chemists or whatever they call him," Wallace murmured.

"I'm worried about the reply," Caren interjected without preamble, her gaze fixed on the flickering torch flames.

The fire's reflection danced in her eyes. Wallace turned to her, nodding in weary agreement. He didn't want to feign reassurance, knowing Caren preferred bitter truths to sweet lies. The weight of their shared concern hung heavily between them.

"It would be unfathomable if the dean chose confidentiality over saving the patients," Wallace almost whispered, surprised by his own words. He held an unwavering trust in the dean, having been given countless opportunities to excel. Yet, in this instance alone, the dean seemed shrouded in secrecy, withholding information. They remained entirely clueless about the incident and the extent of the investigation.

Caren's expression was inscrutable after Wallace's candid admission. The entire situation had taken on an air of mystery, particularly after Madam Monette disclosed its potential link to a tragedy from fifty years ago.