A small, cluttered study filled with the faint smell of ink and old parchment. A fire crackling in the hearth. His grandfather's rough, calloused hand turning the pages of a thick, weathered book, his deep voice weaving a tale of distant lands and noble deeds.
As a child, he had sat on the edge of his chair, wide-eyed and captivated, more by the man's presence than the story itself.
Back then, reading had been a shared ritual, a thread connecting them. It was not the act of reading he'd cherished, but the sense of belonging it gave him—a fleeting moment of peace in a world that had often felt too vast and uncaring.
But that was his memory. His.
"I didn't have much time for it when I was younger," he admitted.
The thought unsettled him. The life he now lived was Arlon Throndsen's, but its roots were obscured to him—memories like shadows cast by someone else. The boy that had grown up here in this castle wasn't truly him.
What had Arlon's childhood been like? Had he loved books? Or had they been nothing more than tools in his education as the heir?
There were no answers to these questions, and perhaps there never would be. But the echoes of his own past, and the faint glimpses of the original Arlon's, left a quiet ache in his chest.
His fingers tightened briefly on the book's spine.
"But I've come to appreciate its value," he said finally, his voice even.
Irien glanced up, her gaze curious but respectful. "Then…what's your favorite kind of book now?"
Arlon hesitated, briefly considering the question. "Ones that teach," he said finally. "But also ones that make you think."
The twins exchanged a glance, their smiles subtle but telling.
The scent of freshly brewed tea reached the library before Dimitri himself arrived. The faint clink of a silver tray announced his entrance, and the twins perked up immediately.
"Ah, perfect timing," Irish said with a grin, closing her book with a soft thud. "I was just getting hungry."
Irien nodded, her gaze drifting to the tray. "Thank you, Dimitri," she said softly.
Dimitri set the tray down on the table with practiced grace, revealing an assortment of tea and delicately arranged biscuits. His sharp eyes flicked briefly to Arlon, then to the twins, a faint smile tugging at the corners of his lips. "I thought a little refreshment would do you all some good."
Arlon reached for his tea without a word, taking a slow sip. The earthy flavor was familiar, if not entirely to his liking.
He set the cup down carefully, his gaze shifting to the twins, who were eagerly helping themselves to the snacks.
Irish reached for her cup but bumped her elbow against one of the books she had brought over. In an instant, the tea tipped forward, spilling across the table and soaking the edge of the book.
Clink—
Ah!
"Oh no!" Irish gasped, scrambling to lift the book. Her face flushed red with panic as she dabbed at the pages with a napkin. "I'm so sorry! I didn't mean to—this was one of my favorite books—"
Arlon watched her for a moment, his expression calm but thoughtful. He reached out, gently taking the book from her hands.
"It's not ruined," he said evenly, inspecting the damage. "It can be repaired. Or replaced."
Irish blinked up at him, her panic fading slightly. "But…"
He placed the book back on the table, his tone steady but reassuring. "Accidents happen. It's not worth worrying over."
Irien, who had been watching silently, spoke up. "He's right, Irish. We can ask someone to restore it."
Irish let out a small sigh of relief, her shoulders relaxing. "Thank you, Lord Arlon." She hesitated, then added with a sheepish grin, "I guess I got a little too excited."
Ace, who had been lounging on the table, flicked his tail lazily and glanced at Arlon. "Imagine that. You, of all people, playing the role of the reassuring older brother."
Arlon ignored him, his gaze shifting back to the twins. "Be more careful next time."
Irish nodded quickly, her energy returning as she reached for another biscuit.
As the moment passed, Irien placed her hands lightly on the book she had brought earlier—the one about the knight. "This reminds me of something Mother told us," she said softly, her gaze distant.
Irish tilted her head. "About the story?"
Irien nodded. "She said that knights weren't just warriors. They were protectors. They had to care for their families, their people, even when it wasn't easy."
Arlon's gaze remained steady, though her words stirred something faint within him.
Irish leaned forward, resting her chin on her hands. "Do you think knights got scared?"
Irien glanced at her sister, then back at Arlon. "Probably. But they didn't let it stop them."
For a moment, the library was quiet, the weight of her words lingering in the air.
Arlon finally spoke, his tone calm but firm. "Courage isn't the absence of fear. It's acting in spite of it."
Irish's eyes widened slightly, and Irien gave a small, thoughtful nod.
Dimitri, standing nearby, watched the exchange with quiet approval.
The twins eventually returned to their books, their chatter softening into occasional whispers. Arlon leaned back slightly in his chair, his gaze distant as he considered the unexpected moment of connection.
For all their energy and inexperience, the twins had a quiet strength about them—one that reminded him of the weight of his own role.
And yet, in this quiet library, surrounded by books and the warmth of companionship, he felt something else: the faint but steady beginnings of trust.
The warm hum of the library filled the quiet space as the twins flipped through the pages of their books. Irish, who had finished her third biscuit, sat cross-legged in her chair, leaning over a colorful volume filled with old fables.
Scratch— Scratch—
Irien, seated beside her, was neatly annotating a book on household management, her pen scratching softly against the page.
Ace, now sprawled on a corner of the table, flicked his tail in lazy disinterest, his red ribbon glinting faintly in the light.
Arlon, ever the silent observer, had his eyes half-closed, resting for a moment as the twins occupied themselves.
Pop- Crackle—
The crackling fire in the nearby hearth added a faint warmth to the room, creating an atmosphere that felt surprisingly… serene.
Irish, always the first to break a lull, let out a soft gasp as she tapped a finger on her book. "Oh, I know this one!" she said excitedly, holding the book up for Irien to see.
Irien looked over briefly. "The fable?" she asked, tilting her head.
Irish nodded quickly. "Yes! Mother used to read this to us when we were little." She turned toward Arlon, holding the book out toward him. "Do you know it, Lord Arlon? The Wolf and the Sheep?"
"..!"
The mention of the title made Arlon pause, his gaze sharpening slightly as his thoughts briefly drifted elsewhere. The memory of that story—the first book he'd opened in the villa after waking in this world—pressed faintly at the edges of his mind.
"Yes," he said after a moment, his tone even. "I've read it before."
Irish's eyes lit up. "Oh! You should read it to us, Lord Arlon!"
Arlon blinked, caught off guard by her sudden suggestion. "Read it?"
Irien glanced up from her notes, a faint flicker of curiosity in her usually reserved expression. "It's been a while since we've heard someone read to us," she said quietly.
"I don't—" Arlon began, but Irish interrupted, practically bouncing in her seat.
"Please? You have the perfect voice for it!" she insisted, beaming.
Ace lifted his head slightly, clearly amused, and muttered into Arlon's mind, "You can't escape this one, noble Arlon. They're determined."
Arlon let out a quiet sigh, his expression unreadable. He didn't particularly relish the idea of playing the storyteller, but the twins' expectant gazes—and the faint tug of curiosity in his own chest—left him with little choice.
"Fine," he said after a pause, his voice calm yet faintly reluctant. "Bring it over."
Irish's grin widened, and she practically leapt from her chair to hand him the book. She returned to her seat, sitting upright with childlike enthusiasm as Irien settled more calmly beside her.
Arlon flipped open the book, his fingers brushing over the textured pages. The familiar title stared back at him, and for a brief moment, the room around him seemed to blur.
The memory rose sharply—sitting in the villa's stifling quiet, the heavy reality of his new existence pressing down on him. That first reading hadn't felt like a mere fable; it had been a warning, a cruel reflection of the role fate had thrust upon him.
"The Wolf and the Sheep," he began, his voice cutting smoothly through the quiet.
His voice faltered for a brief moment, barely noticeable to the twins, but to him, the weight of the story pressed heavily on his chest. Still, he continued, each word a tether to a reality he could not escape.
That first reading had been a reflection of his predicament—this time, it felt like a warning.