The Weight of Unanswered
As Aether ascended the winding steps leading to the grand gate, he slowed, one hand resting on the cool stone banister. The gate loomed above him—similar in appearance to those below.
He turned, glancing down the stairway where Henri waited a few steps below. His voice was almost a whisper, laced with a vulnerability he rarely let show.
"I don't think I want to enter now…"
He said it slowly, his gaze lingering on Henri as he started retreating, uncertainty etched across his face.
Henri blinked, caught off guard. His confusion was immediate.
"What?" His brow furrowed, as if Aether's hesitation carried more weight than he could explain.
Sir Eadric, standing nearby, sighed and glanced between them.
"I'm not forcing you, lad, if that's what you're thinking—"
"I know you're not," Aether cut in, his voice edged with frustration, though his face remained impassive.
"Anna already has a room for me. On the highest floor… over there."
He gestured toward a looming mansion beside the floating stairway, pointing at a small window near the top.
A tense silence followed.
"Maybe I'll come back later… just to see this floor in a different light. But for now… I'd rather not."
He turned sharply, his fingers brushing the wall as he descended, each step more deliberate.
Sir Eadric scratched his head, clearly trying to make sense of the sudden shift.
He cupped his hands and called down, "What's that, lad? Speak up!"
Aether rolled his eyes, but a faint smile tugged at his lips.
"Nothing, Sir Eadric."
He reached the balcony and opened the heavy, ornately carved gate. The solid wood under his palm was a small comfort—a rare moment of control.
Inside, he paused and inhaled deeply, chest heaving with restrained emotion.
"I don't have to mention a name every time I meet someone, do I?"
The thought echoed in his head, half directed at the realm. A faint smirk broke across his face.
"Maybe I just don't have to meet people."
His gaze drifted to his severed arm, hidden beneath a white sleeve but impossible to ignore. Phantom pain pulsed with his heartbeat.
He thought of his conversations with Sir Eadric.
"The implants, and the history," he muttered, filing away the only useful details—partitioning them from the distrust that shadowed every exchange.
That brief lesson had felt heavier than most.
"Text… I'm sorry," he whispered, recalling the night he read pages that answered only what they chose to reveal.
He moved through the grand parlor, past neatly arranged couches. His eyes drifted toward the east door. Text's strange limitations surfaced in his memory—restrictions on the very questions he most wanted to ask.
No recent events. No personal opinions. No modern knowledge.
He recalled his last reading, voice dripping with sarcasm:
"'Written by the tour guide who's too noble to reveal anything useful.'"
The memory made him smile faintly. He slouched, leaning on the edge of a decorative table, drained by the relentless unknowns.
Maybe I'm the one who should be asking better questions.
He reached the eastern door, fingers brushing the cold knob. As he touched it, time blurred, pulling him back to a memory from three days ago.
Eyes shut, he took a deep breath.
"Text, what exactly can't I ask you? it would be useful when trying calculations,"
A faint glow emanated from his hand. Golden, flickering words appeared in the air, stacking rapidly. Lines upon lines of restrictions filled the room with their oppressive weight.
1. Current Events
– Nothing after the handbook's writing date
– No predictions or opinions
2. Personal Information
– No questions about undocumented people
– No advice on individual circumstances
– No private or familial matters
– No health specifics
3. Modern Technology
– No explanations of new devices
– No troubleshooting
4. Contemporary Culture
– No modern entertainment, trends, or art
– No social movements
5. Specific Local Information
– No directions
– No local events or city layouts
6. Recent Discoveries
– No new science, medicine, or space info
7. Personal Opinions
– No new or adaptive responses
8. Time-sensitive Info
– No prices, weather, or news
9. Individual Experiences
– No undocumented stories
– No personal insights
10. Modern Systems
– No laws, education, business, or social services
"Enough," he whispered, voice hoarse.
"What am I even allowed to ask you?"
A small, bitter laugh escaped.
1. Historical Information
– Ancient civilizations, events, figures
– Old traditions, texts, battles, discoveries
2. General Knowledge
– Scientific principles, math, philosophy
– Classical literature, old languages, natural phenomena
3. Established Theories
– Classical physics, complex maths, medicine, astronomy, chemistry.
The text flickered again.
Aether's grip on the doorknob tightened."Enough. I feel like you're contradicting yourself—but fine," he said, louder now, shaking his head."None of this... none of it is what I actually need. I need something that helps me—now."
Cultural Heritage
– Folk tales, myths, customs, celebrations, art, music, languages
Natural World
– Animal behavior, plants, geology, stars, weather, ecology
Traditional Skills
– Cooking, building, survival, farming, crafting
"Alright, that's enough questions for a night."
His mood soured.
The doorknob clicked under his hand.
The hallway beyond was no comfort—the bathroom at the end lurked like a warning.
Should've asked Anna to help, he thought, swallowing down the frustration.
His arm throbbed, the ache intensifying. He clenched his hand, willing away the pain, quickening his pace toward the staircase.
The second floor mirrored the first—a cruel joke, given what had happened in Adelaide's room.
"Shape fanatic," he muttered bitterly as he moved to the central stairs.
Memories surged.
The last time he'd fled down this hall, Adelaide's fury close behind, her blade flashing. His right hand had saved him, clawing at the stone just enough to escape.
He looked down at the faded scar.
His body had catalogued every mistake.
At the bottom of the second stairs, he paused near a window. The glowing stairway outside bathed the garden in pale light.
"I didn't think I was a hero; I thought I had a heart," he muttered with a smirk, climbing higher.
Each step seemed to weigh heavier than the last, as though the memories from days past were pressing down on him, replaying his dash up these very steps, Adelaide close behind, fury in her eyes.
His jaw clenched as he reached the top, his fingers brushing the faint scar on his arm—a constant reminder of his escape and survival.
He paused by a window. His reflection floated faintly in the glass.
"It's fixed. It's new now—a new identity, like me," he murmured, tracing the frame.
He was held by the throat here.
The burnt marks still stained the floor, black and defeated.
"If it were sentient, would it choose a new name too?"
His gaze dropped to the waterfall far below—his past playing out in flashes.
A sudden laugh escaped, honest and sharp.
"I definitely shaped her jaw and arm," he recalled with a flicker of pride, before darker memories crept in.
He shook them off and turned toward the dark green door just a few steps away—his new room.
Standing before it, the color grounded him.
"This is my room now," he said softly, as if naming it made it real.
Opening the door, he froze.
The room stretched wide—larger than expected, almost like a hall.
High ceilings. Subtle tapestries. A grand bed of green and silver, thick and inviting.
"It's very large," he noted aloud.
"Like Rald's bar big."
The thought of the bustling tavern surfaced—light, warmth, laughter. Everything this place wasn't.
He leapt onto the bed, laughing softly as he sank into the covers. The tension drained from his body.
Silence followed.
His eyes drifted shut. Memories slipped away.
For the first time in what felt like ages, he relaxed.
The trauma dulled at the edges.
The door remained ajar—half-open to the world, as if he couldn't quite bring himself to shut it out completely.