The grandfather clock's deep chime rolled through the manor like a death knell. Midnight. The witching hour, as the servants called it—though in my case, it was more like the "please don't let me die horribly" hour.
I slipped from beneath my covers, bare feet touching the cold stone floor. The chill shot up my legs, a sharp reminder that this wasn't some fever dream. The dark clothing I'd selected earlier lay folded on my chair: black wool trousers, a charcoal tunic, and soft leather boots that would muffle my footsteps. No belt buckles to catch moonlight. No jewelry to jangle. Just shadows wearing human form.
You know, in my past life, the most dangerous thing I'd ever done was jaywalking across campus during rush hour. Now I'm about to commit breaking and entering in a world where nobles can legally execute peasants for looking at them wrong. Career advancement at its finest.
The door hinges cooperated—I'd oiled them yesterday during my "recovery" from stomach troubles. The hallway stretched before me like a throat waiting to swallow me whole. Moonlight slanted through tall windows, creating a checkerboard of silver and black across the stone floor. Beautiful and treacherous.
Each step required calculation. The original Kaelen's memories provided a mental map of every loose board, every squeaky stone. Third step from my door—solid. Fifth step—creaks under weight. Seventh step—another safe zone. I moved like a ghost haunting his own home, muscles tense with the constant fear of discovery.
The servants' wing lay ahead, a narrow corridor that smelled of lye soap and honest sweat. Here, the walls closed in, and the ceiling dropped low enough that I could touch it if I reached up. Perfect for hiding, terrible for escape routes. My breathing sounded thunderous in the confined space, each exhale a betrayal waiting to happen.
This is insane. I'm risking everything on a forum post from a guy whose username was literally "PlotHoleFinder69." For all I know, the rune doesn't even exist. Maybe it was just some random throwaway detail the author forgot about five minutes after writing it.
But what choice did I have? The alternative was waiting around for Leo to murder me in my second year, and I'd already established that I wasn't particularly fond of dying.
A sound froze me mid-step—footsteps echoing from the main corridor. Heavy boots on stone, moving with the measured pace of guards on patrol. I pressed myself against the wall, feeling the rough stone bite through my tunic. The alcove beside me was barely wide enough for my shoulders, but it would have to do.
"—telling you, Marcus, the dice were loaded," came a gruff voice, growing closer. "Nobody rolls three sixes in a row without some help."
"Maybe you're just unlucky, Jenkins," replied his companion, younger by the sound of it. "Remember last month when you lost your entire pay to that card sharp from the village?"
Jenkins. The tardy guard whose schedule I'd memorized. Right on time to be late for his shift change. Some people are so reliable in their unreliability.
The footsteps passed my hiding spot, their conversation fading as they continued toward the guard station. I counted to thirty, then fifty, then a full minute before emerging from my alcove. My heart hammered against my ribs like it was trying to break free and run away without me—which, honestly, sounded like a reasonable survival strategy.
The service entrance to the archive wing lay just ahead, a narrow door set into the wall like an afterthought. The wood was old and weathered, paint peeling in long strips that curled like dead skin. The lock was a simple affair—iron and rust, older than my grandfather's grandfather. I produced the lockpicks I'd fashioned from broken hairpins and dinner forks, feeling like the world's most amateur burglar.
Engineering degree, meet medieval security systems. This should be interesting.
The lock mechanism was simpler than I'd expected, designed in an era when the greatest security concern was keeping honest people honest. Three minutes of careful work, and the tumblers clicked into place. The door swung open with a whisper of protest from hinges that hadn't seen oil in decades.
The archive wing smelled of decay and forgotten time. Dust motes danced in the moonlight that filtered through grimy windows, and the floorboards groaned under my weight like old bones settling. The silence here was different from the rest of the manor—deeper, more oppressive, as if the very air was thick with centuries of secrets.
Right. Straight corridor, past the portrait of Great-Uncle Mortimer the Morose, left at the intersection, then straight to the main archive chamber. Simple. What could go wrong?
Everything, as it turned out.
The portrait of Great-Uncle Mortimer watched me pass with painted eyes that seemed to track my movement. His expression of perpetual disappointment felt particularly appropriate given my current circumstances. Past him, the corridor stretched into darkness, broken only by patches of moonlight from windows set high in the wall.
The floorboards here were treacherous. I tested each step before committing my full weight, feeling for the solid beams beneath the rotting planks. The original Kaelen had explored this wing once as a child, before Father had declared it off-limits. Those memories served me now, guiding me around the worst spots where the floor had partially collapsed.
A new sound reached my ears—not footsteps this time, but something worse. Voices. Multiple voices, coming from somewhere ahead. My blood turned to ice water in my veins.
Guards doing a sweep? Servants sneaking around? A family of particularly chatty ghosts? Please let it be ghosts. Ghosts can't have me flogged.
I crept forward, each step a study in controlled terror. The voices grew clearer as I approached a bend in the corridor. Two men, discussing something in low tones that carried in the still air.
"—shouldn't be here this late," the first was saying. "Lord Aldric finds out we've been using his archives for our dice games..."
"Relax, Thomas," came the reply. "Old Aldric never comes to this wing. Neither does that witch of a stepmother. And young Master Lucius thinks the place is haunted."
Great. Gambling guards using the archive chamber as their private casino. Because this night wasn't complicated enough already.
I pressed myself against the wall, mind racing through possibilities. Wait them out? They might be here all night. Go back? I'd never get another opportunity like this. Create a distraction? With what, my sparkling personality and natural charisma?
The conversation continued, punctuated by the rattle of dice on wood and occasional curses as someone lost a bet. I counted at least three distinct voices, maybe four. Too many to sneak past, even if I could get close enough to the chamber.
But then I remembered something from my reconnaissance—the window with the loose bar. The guards were using the main chamber, but they wouldn't be watching every window. If I could reach the exterior wall...
Time for Plan B. Or is this Plan C? I've lost track. Time for the "desperately improvised and probably suicidal" plan.