The rays of bright sunlight spilled across the room, cutting through the thin curtains and landing squarely on my face. Outside, the cheerful chirping of birds filled the air— light, fluttering notes that seemed determined to announce what a perfect morning it was. Somewhere in the distance, a pair of doves cooed lazily, as if playing their own tunes.
I groaned and shifted, unimpressed. The birds might have been in the mood to serenade the dawn, but I was not their audience. A rough, rasping sound escaped me as I forced my eyes open. Bloodshot. Great.
I hadn't slept properly, not for lack of sleep, because ofcourse– I was damn tired and dying to rest. That part was fine. But apparently, the moment I surrendered to sleep, this stupid brain decided to replay Sebastian's memories in endless, excruciating detail. Not even the kind of memories that might be remotely useful—no, of course not. Just the same bizarre, unnerving ones. Creepy paintings in dimly lit rooms, with too much shadow where there shouldn't be any. Off-key music that scratched at my nerves, playing from nowhere and everywhere at once.
All night it was the same loop: paintbrush dragging across a canvas I couldn't see clearly, the faint smell of turpentine, the echo of a piano key struck too hard and left ringing in the air. None of it told me anything, and yet it clung to me, refusing to fade. By the time morning came, it felt like I hadn't rested at all. My head was heavy, my thoughts sluggish. The sunlight seemed sharper than it should be, stabbing at my eyes as I sat up.
I sat there for a moment, letting my eyes adjust, but the sunlight didn't get any less irritating. My mind wandered— unhelpfully, back to my decision yesterday—that planning could be done later and rest comes first— the brilliant strategy .
Shockingly, it hadn't worked. All I'd managed was to gain a headache. And my mental health hasn't completely collapsed, but it isn't exactly bouncing back either. If anything, it feels like it has stalled somewhere between "functioning" and "actively falling apart," and is just waiting for the right shove to pick a side.
Five days. That's all the time I have before things became… complicated. Enough time to get moving, but also enough to justify doing absolutely nothing for a little longer.
With that thought, I slid back under the bedsheet, pulling it over my head until the sunlight dimmed into a tolerable haze. I won't be moving. Not even the harsh glare burning through the fabric can pry me from my spot. For now, the plan is simple: close my eyes, shut out the world, and pretend I have no problems. With that I close my in seek of a proper rest.
By the time I woke up— again, the sunlight had mellowed into the deeper gold of late evening. The air felt cooler, quieter, the kind of calm that seeps into the walls after a long day. I sat at my desk, a half-empty cup of tea beside me, and allowed myself a smug little smile.
Going back to sleep had been the right decision. Absolutely flawless. While the rest of the household had been busy doing whatever it was they did all day, I had been busy recovering. My head felt lighter now, no longer weighed down by the fog of exhaustion. The heaviness in my limbs was gone, my thoughts sharper, cleaner. Even my mood had lifted— well, relatively speaking.
And now, finally, I was ready to work—or plan that is.
The goal was simple: acquire the spatial ring. The execution, less so. Such an item wouldn't just be left sitting around; it would be kept close, and likely under more than one layer of protection. Which means I need to plan out an entire heist.
I leaned back in my chair, tapping my fingers against the armrest. Servants' gossip could be useful, but too many questions would draw attention. A direct search would be quicker, but riskier. Get caught by the guards and I can say goodbye to subtlety altogether.
The more I turned the problem over in my head, the more one solution seemed… almost laughably obvious. Why go to all the trouble of sneaking around when I could simply have the Baron give it to me? He was my father, after all— or at least Sebastian's father. Surely, I could frame it as a request for training, preparation, or some noble coming-of-age nonsense.
It sounded reasonable. Too reasonable. The kind of idea that made me feel clever until reality got involved.
I rehearsed it in my head: calm tone, casual delivery, no hint of desperation. I'd imply that I'd heard of the ring's existence—maybe from a servant, maybe from one of his own careless remarks— and that I was interested in how it worked and how it would be wise to learn how to use it now rather than later if ever required. It would sound practical and responsible.
The trouble is, as much as I know the Baron I know that he won't part with valuable things easily, especially not things with layers of magical utility. Every decision he made is weighed against some personal scale that I understand nothing about.
Still, the more I think about it, the more it feelsworth trying. If he agrees, I'll save myself the headache of plotting a theft. If he refused… well, then I'd be right back where I started, except with confirmation that subtlety wasn't going to cut it.
The image of him flatly saying no— maybe even with that faintly frown— flashed through my mind. I could already hear him giving me some lecture about "responsibility" or "earning what I ask for," while the ring remained exactly where it was.
I drummed my fingers against the desk. Fine. I'd try the direct route first. And if that doesn't work out I'll just be back to plan one— theft.
The next day, I found the Baron in his study. The room smelled faintly of polished wood and old paper, the air still except for the quiet scratching of his pen. He didn't look up when I stepped inside, just gestured vaguely for me to speak.
I cleared my throat, already running through my carefully prepared words.
"I wanted to ask you about the spatial ring," I began, keeping my voice steady, casual. "I heard about it, and I find it quite interesting. I believe it would be quite useful to me."
The Baron finally looked up, his expression unreadable. I braced myself for the lecture I'd already half-written in my head.
Instead, he said, "Fine. I'll give it to you tomorrow."
…That was it? No questions, no suspicion, not even the faintest trace of reluctance.
Just— fine.