The gray dawn filtered through frosted windowpanes as Roland Farter stirred in his cot. Each breath felt thick with anticipation—today, he would confront the greatest danger of all: knowledge.
Since the day of his reincarnation, memories of his former life had drifted through his mind like half‐remembered dreams. Now, in the quiet hours before sunrise, Roland knew that those memories contained the key to survival—and perhaps the undoing of his carefully constructed anonymity.
He rose silently, wrapping his cloak around his shoulders against the chill. The barracks lay dark and hushed. Footsteps echoed in the hallway—Talia, making her early rounds. She paused at his door.
"Up early," she whispered, voice low.
Roland nodded. "I need to find the old scribe's quarters."
Talia's brow furrowed. "Dangerous place for wanderers at this hour."
Roland offered a tight smile. "I'll be discreet."
She nodded once, then slipped away. Roland paused to steady his breathing, then crept into the corridor, boots silent on the stone floor. The castle's sleeping heart beat softly above—until he reached the scribe's door, marked with a quill and inkpot. Roland gently pushed it open.
Inside, the old scribe, Master Cedric, sat hunched over a desk piled with scrolls. His ink‐black robes swept the floor, and his long white beard lay curled on the tabletop. Cedric looked up, eyes narrowing.
"Roland Farter," he rasped. "What business have you here at this hour?"
Roland stepped forward. "I—Master Cedric, I need to see the archives—specifically, the late Lord Everyne's private notes."
Cedric's lips twitched—a smile or a sneer, Roland could not tell. "Ambitious request." He motioned to a high cabinet with iron‐bound doors. "Follow me."
They crossed the chamber to the cabinet. Cedric tapped a hidden latch, releasing the doors with a soft click. Inside lay scrolls tied with crimson ribbon and leather‐bound notebooks. Roland's heart thundered—among these lay the fragment of the original manuscript he'd once written.
"Be careful," Cedric warned. "Curiosity can kill more than demons."
Roland unwrapped a notebook labeled Everyne's Observations. The script was crisp, familiar. He inhaled—a rush of recognition. Every inked word was his own creation.
He flipped to the final pages—spoilers he'd never penned: a prophecy, a hidden heir, the Dark Lord's downfall by an accursed blade. His pulse pounded. If these secrets leaked, he'd be tempted to alter events—and fate punished deviations harshly.
Cedric leaned over his shoulder. "Learning the end doesn't grant power to change it. Stories march to their own drum."
Roland swallowed. "But I can't risk spoilers. I need to understand which events are fixed."
Cedric's eyes glinted. "Pages can lie as much as truth. But knowledge helps you play the game."
Roland scanned the prophecy:
> "When the moon bleeds red o'er Ardenia's crest,
The hidden child shall rise from darkness' nest.
The accursed blade must pierce the tyrant's heart,
Or all shall fade ere the dawn can start."
He closed the notebook. "I never wrote this."
Cedric nodded. "Neither did I. The final chapters were lost—until now."
Roland's mind whirled. He slid the notebook back, tied the ribbon carefully, and replaced it. "Thank you, Master Cedric. I—"
Footsteps thundered in the corridor outside. Roland froze. The heavy oak door rattled. Cedric's hand darted to a hidden lever, sliding open a panel behind the desk.
"Quick," Cedric hissed, pulling Roland inside. A narrow tunnel yawned in darkness—just wide enough for one at a time. Roland swallowed and squeezed through, Cedric's robes brushing his back. The panel slid shut with a click.
Roland pressed his back against the wall, heart racing, as heavy boots passed overhead. Voices muttered—a guard detail, on patrol. They paused beside the scribe's room. Roland held his breath until the footsteps receded. Then he emerged from the tunnel into a dusty storeroom lined with parchment scrolls and bundles of paper.
He exhaled, legs trembling. Cedric crouched beside a crate. "They suspect nothing. You must leave now—before the sun's first light."
Roland retrieved the notebook and tucked it inside his jerkin. "I will. But… thank you."
Cedric offered a nod. "Remember, boy: every author leaves behind words—but the story lives on without them."
Roland retraced his steps, emerging quietly into the predawn corridor. He slipped back to his quarters as light seeped over the horizon.
Back in his bunk, he sat cross‐legged, notebook in hand. The prophecy loomed before him like a gaunt specter. He traced the words with trembling fingers, his author's instinct warring with his mob's caution.
He closed his eyes and made a vow: he would follow the manuscript's outline—no detours, no extra twists. Fate might be cruel, but knowledge was a shield.
As dawn's first rays struck the banners above the courtyard, Roland prepared to face a new day—one in which the story he'd written and the life he now lived intertwined in dangerous ways.