Chapter 6: The Sanctuary of Dust

It was mid-morning by the time Arthur began his descent. His destination was clear: The Family Library.

Unlike the opulent, sunlit guest wings above, the library was buried in the subterranean levels of the estate, away from prying eyes. It was rumored to hold a massive collection—a silent, rotting testament to the era when the Ashborns were still Dukes.

Navigating the narrow stone stairs downward proved treacherous. The air grew damp and cold. Arthur gripped the iron railing with white-knuckled intensity, painstakingly lowering himself step by step on his crutches.

One slip in the dark, and his frail neck would snap.

At last, panting and slick with cold sweat, he reached the basement landing. The doors loomed before him, massive, iron-banded darkwood, guarding the dust of the past.

Sitting on a three-legged stool beside the entrance was a guard who looked as weathered as the wood itself. He was whittling a piece of pine with a wickedly sharp knife.

“Halt,” the old man grunted, not even looking up. “No children. No noise. No food. Back to the nursery, Young Master.”

Arthur’s jaw tightened at the dismissal, but he kept his face perfectly blank. He reached into his pocket and presented the heavy bronze key.

“My father gave me clearance, Old Marcus.”

The whittling knife froze. Marcus slowly raised his head, his sharp, cloudy ember eyes scanning the bruised, exhausted boy before locking onto the key.

“Apologies, Young Master,” the old man rumbled, his tone shifting into wary, professional respect. He held out a calloused hand. “Let me verify the seal.”

Arthur handed it over. Marcus rubbed his thumb over the engraved Ashborn crest, checking the wards, before handing it back.

“It is genuine. You may enter the primary stacks. But heed the Viscount’s orders—the iron gate at the back leading to the Underground Archives remains locked to you. If you require a specific ledger, ring the brass bell.”

“Thank you, Marcus,” Arthur said, pocketing the key. He paused, leaning heavily on his crutches. “Could you send a runner for Layla? Tell her to brew a pot of the strongest black tea she can find and bring it down here.”

Marcus raised a bushy eyebrow. Strong black tea? For a boy who usually drank warm, sweetened milk?

“Hm. Interesting…” the old guard muttered, a dry chuckle rattling in his chest. “I will send word, Young Master.”

Arthur nodded and pushed the heavy door open.

It groaned in protest, sealing out the ambient noise of the mansion behind him. Arthur stood in the entryway, his breath hitching. It was a vast, subterranean cathedral of knowledge. Rows upon rows of towering bookshelves stretched into the gloom, illuminated only by the weak, dying orange glow of failing magical lamps.

But as his engineer’s eyes adjusted, the romanticism vanished. He saw the structural neglect. Dust coated the reading tables in a thick grey film. Spiderwebs draped the upper shelves like funeral shrouds.

He bypassed the sections dedicated to poetry and mythology, hobbling straight for the historical and economic texts. He couldn’t access the restricted Archives yet, but he could build a baseline with the public records.

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Arthur cleared a layer of dust from a sturdy oak table, dropped into a creaky wooden chair, and pulled a massive, leather-bound tome toward him: General Summaries of Territory Yields.

He cracked the spine and began to read.

Hours dissolved. Layla eventually slipped into the room, placed a steaming cup of bitter tea at his elbow, and retreated without a word. Arthur didn’t even glance up. He was completely submerged in the numbers—a hyper-focus carried over from his grueling university days on Earth. When Arthur Vance compiled data, the rest of the universe ceased to exist.

Page after page, his eyes devoured tonnage reports, iron ore pricing, and timber exports, mentally plotting a scatter graph of the family’s history.

By the time the basement shadows lengthened into pure black, Layla finally cleared her throat from the doorway.