"It is not because things are difficult that we do not dare, it is because we do not dare that they are difficult."
***
The grandfather clock struck midnight.
Twelve deep chimes rolled through the manor. In my old life, midnight meant "time to stop procrastinating and actually start that essay." In this life, it meant "try not to die doing something stupid."
I slid out of bed slowly. My bare feet hit cold stone and I winced. The dark clothes I'd prepared earlier sat on my chair. Black wool trousers. Charcoal tunic. Soft leather boots that wouldn't echo on stone floors.
Look at me. Dressing up like a budget assassin to go rummage through my own family's abandoned wing. My college advisor would be so proud of how I'm applying my education.
In my past life, the most dangerous thing I'd ever done was jaywalking across campus while holding coffee. Now I was about to break into a condemned building in a world where nobles could legally execute people for making eye contact wrong.
Career growth. Personal development. Living my best life.
The servants' corridor was narrow. Cramped. The ceiling hung low enough to touch if I reached up. The air smelled like lye soap and sweat. Honest smells. Working smells. A different world from the perfumed halls where the family actually lived.
This is insane. I'm betting everything on a forum post from a guy named PlotDeviceHunter69. The rune might not even exist. Could have been some throwaway detail the author typed during a caffeine binge and forgot about five minutes later.
But what was the alternative? Wait around like livestock until Leo decided to fulfill his canonical duty and murder me in second year?
Yeah, no. I've thought about it. Dying still isn't on my to-do list.
A sound froze me mid-step.
Footsteps. Heavy boots on stone. Steady rhythm. Coming closer.
I pressed myself into an alcove in the wall. Barely wide enough for my shoulders. More decoration than hiding spot. It would have to work.
"...telling you, Marcus, the dice were loaded." A gruff voice, getting closer. "Nobody rolls three sixes in a row. It's mathematically improbable."
"Maybe you're just unlucky, Jenkins." The second voice was younger. Patient. Tired. "Remember last month when you lost your whole pay to that card sharp? You said the cards were marked then too."
They walked past. Their voices faded down the corridor. Something about guard stations and shift changes.
I counted to thirty. Then fifty. Then a full minute before I moved.
Okay. Still alive. Good start.
Ahead, half-hidden in shadow, I spotted a narrow service door. Paint peeling. Wood that had seen better centuries. The lock was a rusty antique from an era when "security" meant hoping people were too polite to break in.
Engineering degree, meet medieval technology. Let's see who wins.
The lock took about three minutes with a bent piece of wire I'd prepared earlier. The tumblers were simple. Old. Designed to keep honest people honest rather than stop anyone who actually wanted in. The door opened with a soft groan from hinges that hadn't seen oil since my grandparents were born.
The archive wing smelled like old paper and neglect. Dust floated in the moonlight from grimy windows. The floorboards complained under my weight, each creak loud enough to make me flinch.
Right. Mental map time. Straight corridor. Past the portrait of Great-Uncle Mortimer the Morose. Left at the intersection. Straight shot to the main archive chamber.
Simple. What could possibly go wrong?
Everything, apparently.
Great-Uncle Mortimer glared at me from his portrait as I passed. His painted eyes seemed to follow me through the darkness. His expression suggested he'd never smiled in his entire life and wasn't about to start now, even in death.
Cheery guy. Bet he was a blast at family gatherings.
The corridor ahead got darker. Irregular patches of moonlight came through windows set too high to be useful. The original architect had apparently believed in "atmosphere" over "being able to see where you're going."
The floorboards here were dangerous. Warped. Soft in places where the wood had started to rot. I tested each step before putting my full weight down, feeling through my boots for the solid beams underneath. Slow work. Agonizing. But better than punching a foot through rotten wood and announcing myself to the entire estate.
Then I heard voices.
Guards on a surprise sweep? Servants sneaking off for a midnight hookup? Ghosts complaining about property values in the afterlife?
Please let it be ghosts. I can work with ghosts.
I pressed myself against the wall and listened.
"...don't see why we have to check this section every night." A woman's voice. Annoyed. "Nobody comes back here. It's condemned."
"Orders are orders." A man this time. Bored. "Lord Leone wants the old wing monitored. Something about preventing accidents."
"Accidents." The woman snorted. "More like preventing his embarrassment of a son from wandering in here and getting himself killed. Though honestly, would that be such a loss?"
Ouch. But fair.
"Don't let anyone hear you say that." The man's voice dropped. "Word is the young master's been acting strange lately. Different. The kitchen staff are talking."
"Strange how?"
"Quiet. Polite. Apologizing for things." A pause. "Actually apologizing. Not the fake kind."
"That is strange." The woman sounded genuinely confused. "You think he hit his head or something?"
"Who knows. Come on, let's finish this sweep and get back. My feet are killing me."