The Ashcombe estate did not sleep.
Aldric realized this sometime after midnight. Lying awake beneath the sheets, the manor breathed around him, not with air but with presence. Footsteps passed in the distant corridors. A door closed softly somewhere far below. Even the walls seemed attentive, as though the house itself possessed a quiet awareness of those who moved within it.
In his old life, silence had been empty.
Here, it was observant.
He stared at the canopy above his bed, watching shadows shift as the candle burned low. His mind refused to settle. Too much had changed too quickly, and too little had been explained.
Craft. Pride. Archives.
The words circled endlessly.
He had tried to ignore them at first. Tried to adjust to the surface of this life—the etiquette, the meals, the expectations. He told himself that answers would come with time, that patience was the rational choice.
But patience required distraction.
And this world offered none.
No phone to numb his thoughts. No endless noise to drown them out. Just books, conversations measured to politeness, and a family whose affection felt conditional, weighed against reputation and legacy.
Aldric sat up slowly, exhaling through his nose.
I can't stay ignorant, he thought. Not here.
The thought was calm. Firm. Not born of fear, but necessity.
He had already learned one truth: this world punished ignorance far more harshly than curiosity.
The next morning, Aldric began quietly.
He did not ask outright about the archives. That would have drawn attention too quickly. Instead, he let his questions drift naturally, disguised as idle interest.
During breakfast, he asked a servant about the oldest book in the manor's collection.
"The public library contains texts dating back several centuries, my lord," the man replied smoothly, eyes lowered. "Anything older would be… unsuitable for general study."
Unsuitable.
Later, during his afternoon lesson, Aldric asked his tutor whether noble families maintained private historical records beyond what was taught at the university.
The tutor smiled thinly. "Some knowledge is preserved to maintain stability," he said. "Not all truths serve the public good."
That phrase again.
Not all truths.
By the third day, Aldric stopped asking questions altogether.
Instead, he watched.
He noted how servants altered their routes subtly, avoiding certain corridors unless assigned there. How guards lingered longer near the eastern wing of the estate, hands resting closer to their weapons. How even Beatrice—sharp-eyed, observant Beatrice—grew carefully neutral whenever conversation drifted toward family history.
There was a boundary here.
An invisible line drawn not by walls, but by consequence.
And boundaries, Aldric knew, existed for one reason: to protect something worth hiding.
That night, he waited.
The estate's rhythm revealed itself slowly. Candlelight dimmed. Conversations faded. Even the constant hum of motion eased into a watchful stillness.
When the moment felt right—not because the house slept, but because it listened less—Aldric rose.
He dressed plainly, choosing comfort over nobility. No crest. No adornment. If he was discovered, he wanted to look like a restless boy, not a schemer.
The corridors were cooler at night. Stone absorbed the chill and held it close, pressing through the soles of his slippers. His footsteps echoed softly, but not loudly enough to carry far.
As he approached the eastern wing, the air changed.
It wasn't temperature. It wasn't smell.
It was pressure.
A subtle resistance pressed against his chest, as though the space ahead of him disapproved of his presence. Aldric slowed, heart beating steadily—not from fear, but from alertness.
He had felt this before.
In the hospital room, moments before death.
In the seconds after waking in this world.
That same sense of standing at the edge of something that did not care whether he crossed or not.
He continued.
The eastern corridor was narrower than the others, its stone darker, older. No portraits lined the walls here. No banners. No reminders of legacy or triumph.
Only stone and shadow.
As he passed, his eyes caught on faint carvings etched into the walls. Symbols worn smooth by time, almost invisible unless the light struck them just right. They weren't decorative. They followed patterns—repeating shapes, deliberate spacing.
Aldric reached out, brushing his fingers against one.
The reaction was immediate.
A subtle vibration ran up his arm, not painful, not pleasant. Just… acknowledgment.
He withdrew his hand slowly, breath shallow.
These aren't warnings, he realized. They're filters.
At the end of the corridor stood a door.
Iron-banded. Reinforced. Plain.
At its center was the Ashcombe crest.
Not painted. Not gilded.
Carved.
The swan's wings were raised, feathers sharp, posture proud and defiant. Unlike the ceremonial crests displayed throughout the manor, this one bore signs of wear. Chips. Scratches. Marks left by time and conflict.
This crest had witnessed things.
Aldric placed his palm against the door.
For a moment, nothing happened.
Then the pressure eased.
The door opened without a sound.
Inside, the archives awaited.
They were smaller than he expected. No sweeping halls or towering shelves. No attempt at grandeur.
Just rows of tightly packed shelves, books sealed and bound in ways that made Aldric uneasy. Some were wrapped in thick cloth. Others encased in glass. A few were chained directly to the shelves themselves, iron links etched with sigils that matched those in the corridor.
This was not a place of pride.
It was a place of containment.
Aldric stepped inside, the door closing softly behind him.
The air smelled old—not dusty, but preserved. As though time itself moved differently here. His footsteps felt muted, swallowed by the space.
He scanned the shelves slowly.
No titles. No authors.
Only identifiers carved into spines and seals.
Then he felt it.
Not a pull. Not a voice.
A weight.
His gaze settled on a single book resting on a stone pedestal near the far wall.
It was bound in dark material—leather, perhaps, but treated with something that dulled its surface. Iron chains wrapped tightly around it, looping through reinforced clasps. Each link bore the Ashcombe crest, smaller but unmistakable.
This book was not meant to be read.
It was meant to be kept.
Aldric approached cautiously.
The pressure intensified with each step, like standing beneath deep water. His heartbeat remained steady, but his senses sharpened.
If this is here, he thought, then it matters.
He did not rush.
He studied the chains, the seals, the placement. This was not punishment. It was preservation. The kind reserved for dangerous tools, not forbidden ideas.
With deliberate care, Aldric unfastened the final clasp.
The pressure vanished instantly.
The book felt heavy in his hands—not physically, but conceptually. As though it carried more than ink and parchment.
He did not linger.
Tucking the book beneath his arm, Aldric retraced his steps, the corridor parting for him without resistance.
The door closed behind him, sealing the archives away once more.
Only when he reached his room did he allow himself to breathe freely.
He placed the book on his desk and stared at it for a long moment.
Whatever answers he sought lay within.
And whatever consequences followed…
He would face them awake.