No plan survives contact with the enemy.
- Helmuth von Moltke the Elder
———
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 dark clothing lay folded on my chair: black wool trousers, a charcoal tunic, and soft leather boots that would muffle my footsteps.
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 servants' wing was 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. 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?"
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.
Ahead, a narrow service door was set into the archive wing's wall, its paint peeling like sunburnt skin. The lock was a joke of iron and rust, an antique from an era when a stern look was considered high security.
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, 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, 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. 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.
A new sound reached my ears—not footsteps this time, but something worse. Voices. Multiple voices, coming from somewhere ahead.
Guards doing a sweep? Servants sneaking around? A family of particularly chatty ghosts? Please let it be ghosts.
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.
What should I do? 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 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.
I backtracked carefully, retracing my steps to a side passage I'd noted earlier. This route was longer and more dangerous—it led through a section where the ceiling had partially collapsed, leaving a maze of fallen beams and debris. But it would bring me to the archive chamber's exterior wall, away from the gambling guards.
Moonlight filtered through gaps in the damaged ceiling, creating slivers of silver that alternated with patches of absolute darkness. The original Kaelen had been many things, but athletic wasn't one of them. Every muscle in my body screamed protest as I squeezed through gaps barely wide enough for my shoulders.
A timber shifted under my hand, sending a shower of dust and small stones cascading to the floor below. I froze, listening for any sign that the guards had heard. Their dice game continued uninterrupted, punctuated by laughter and the clink of coins changing hands.
Apparently, gambling is more absorbing than I thought. Good to know the universal constants hold true even in fantasy worlds.
The exterior wall finally came into view through a gap in the rubble. Ancient stone blocks, each one larger than my torso, rose into the darkness above. The windows were set high, their iron bars black against the night sky. But there—third window from the corner—I could see what I was looking for.
One of the bars hung at an odd angle, corroded by decades of rain and neglect. The gap looked barely wide enough for a person, but the original Kaelen had been built like a scarecrow with abandonment issues. If anyone could squeeze through that opening, it was me.
Climbing the wall proved easier than expected. I ascended slowly, testing each grip before trusting it with my weight. The stones were slick with moisture and age, but they held.
The loose bar moved under pressure, swinging aside with a grinding protest that sounded like a rusty gate in a horror novel. The gap beyond was smaller than it had appeared from below—a narrow rectangle that would require some creative contortion to navigate.
Right. Time to become one with my inner pretzel.
I fed my arms through first, then my head and shoulders. The iron bars scraped against my back and chest, catching on my tunic and threatening to trap me halfway through like a cork in a bottle. For a terrifying moment, I thought I'd misjudged the opening, that I'd be stuck there until dawn.
I twisted and writhed, ignoring the bite of metal against my ribs, until gravity finally made itself known. I tumbled through the window, landing on the archive chamber floor with a thud that seemed to echo through the entire wing.
Smooth, Kaelen. Real smooth. Next time, remember to stick the landing.
I lay still for a moment, listening for any sign that my dramatic entrance had attracted attention. The guards' conversation continued from the chamber next door, uninterrupted by my acrobatic display.
The archive chamber were filled with tall shelves, packed with books, scrolls, and documents that chronicled centuries of Leone family history.
But I wasn't here for the family history. According to the forum post I remembered, the [Rune of Diminishment] was hidden in a false bottom drawer of the archivist's desk—a massive oak monstrosity that dominated one corner of the chamber.
Please be here. Please be real. Please don't let me have risked everything for a figment of some internet stranger's imagination.
The drawers were old and swollen with moisture, requiring careful pressure to open without noise. The first drawer yielded nothing but moldy ledgers. The second contained rusted pens and dried ink.
The third drawer stuck fast, warped wood refusing to budge despite my efforts. I worked at it carefully, applying pressure at different angles until something gave way with a soft crack. The drawer slid open, revealing...
More ledgers.
False bottom. The forum post mentioned a false bottom.
I ran my fingers along the drawer's interior, feeling for any irregularity in the wood. There—a slight depression near the back corner, barely visible in the moonlight. I pressed down, and a section of the drawer bottom shifted aside with a whisper of hidden hinges.
Beneath lay a small compartment, and within that compartment sat a single object.
The [Rune of Diminishment] was smaller than I'd expected—a disc of dark stone about the size of a coin, carved with symbols that seemed to writhe in the moonlight. It felt warm to the touch, pulsing with a subtle energy that made my fingers tingle.
It's real. It's actually real. PlotHoleFinder69, wherever you are, I owe you a beer.