Chapter 5:The Viscount’s Office

Arthur wedged the polished wooden crutches under his arms, adjusting to the unfamiliar pressure against his ribs.

It was time to pay the viscount a visit. If he was going to survive the political minefield of this world, he needed data.

He pushed his door open and stepped into the corridor.

The journey to the Viscount’s office was an agonizing lesson in his new body’s limitations.

His room was on the second floor, but the lord’s study sat at the far end of the third. Navigating the grand, sweeping staircase with crutches was a nightmare.

His arms trembled with every hoisted step, cold sweat beading on his forehead as his wasted muscles burned. By the time he reached the third-floor landing, his lungs were burning, but his mind had mapped the estate’s central load-bearing walls and escape routes.

He approached a massive darkwood door adorned with silver carvings and polished brass handles.

Arthur steadied his ragged breathing, arranged his features into a mask of quiet determination, and knocked twice.

“Father? May I enter?”

A brief silence followed, thick enough to cut. Then, a weary voice called out. “Yes. Alan, open the doors.”

The armored guard stationed beside the frame bowed deeply to the Young Master, hauling the heavy double doors open.

Arthur hobbled inside. Despite his exhaustion, his eyes instantly swept the room, taking inventory. The office was grand but suffocating. Tall bookshelves lined the walls, crammed with leather-bound tomes. In the center sat a massive timber desk, positioned perfectly to command the room beneath a faded painting of the Ashborn family crest.

But what caught Arthur’s eye was the desk itself. It was meticulously organized—quills aligned by length, inkwells capped—but the neat stacks of paper weren’t letters of state. Arthur recognized the rigid formatting of financial ledgers and debt notices.

The Viscount was drowning in numbers.

Roderick sat behind the desk, rubbing his temples. He looked up, his brow furrowing instantly.

“Oliver? You shouldn’t be walking yet,” Roderick said, half-rising from his chair. His sharp eyes scanned the empty space behind his son. “And where is Layla? She is supposed to be at your side.”

Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

“She was called to help mother prepare for Aunt’s arrival,” Arthur said softly, remaining near the door to emphasize his fragile state. “I… slipped out on my own. I needed to see you.”

Roderick sighed, the tension in his rigid posture softening into profound parental exhaustion. He gestured to one of the leather armchairs. “Sit, Son. Before you collapse. You gave us quite a scare.”

Arthur carefully lowered himself into the chair, leaning his crutches against the armrest. He looked down at his pale, trembling hands, preparing to play his best card.