No electricity. No cables. No sign of modern life.
The absence struck him harder than the luxury. The room was illuminated only by the pale morning light and a tall standing mirror positioned opposite the bed. Its gilded frame was ornate without being garish—restrained craftsmanship meant to signal wealth without vulgarity.
Thomas approached it slowly, dread pooling in his stomach.
A boy stared back at him.
Seventeen, perhaps. Dark hair, neatly trimmed. Features refined, composed in a way that spoke of breeding and expectation rather than youth. There was no mistaking it—this was a noble's son. A body shaped by privilege.
But the eyes—
The eyes did not belong.
They were tired. Watchful. Carrying the weight of decades spent alone with disappointment and quiet resignation. Eyes that had seen too much life to belong to a boy who had barely begun one.
Thomas pressed a hand to his chest.
The boy mirrored the motion perfectly.
"This isn't real," he said.
The words sounded hollow even as he spoke them. Everything felt solid—the thick rug beneath his feet, the cool glass of the mirror beneath his fingertips, the steady heartbeat thumping beneath his ribs. Strong. Young. Insistent.
A knock sounded at the door.
"Master Aldric," a gentle voice called. "Are you awake, sir?"
The name struck him like a physical blow.
Aldric.
Something stirred deep within his mind, uninvited and unwelcome. Etiquette lessons. Riding instructors. The weight of expectation pressed into straight-backed posture. A father's stern gaze. A mother's distant, measured affection. None of it belonged to Thomas Hale—and yet it crowded his thoughts with alarming familiarity.
"Yes," he managed after a moment. "I'm awake."
The door opened, and a middle-aged man stepped inside, dressed in a finely tailored servant's uniform. He bowed deeply.
"Forgive my intrusion, my lord," the man said. "Your father requests your presence in the dining hall. He wished to congratulate you personally."
"Congratulate me?" Thomas echoed.
The servant smiled. "Your admission letter arrived yesterday evening, sir. The household has been abuzz ever since."
Admission.
The word tugged at something newly formed in his mind. His gaze shifted instinctively to the desk near the window.
A letter lay there.
He crossed the room quickly, hands trembling, and lifted it with care. The seal was intact—dark red wax pressed with a crest he somehow recognized. He broke it and unfolded the parchment.
The words swam before his eyes, then settled into cruel clarity.
He had been accepted.
One of the youngest noble admissions in decades. A prestigious university—not large, but revered. A place where future leaders, scholars, and clergy were shaped, and where lineage mattered almost as much as merit.
Thomas's stomach twisted.
He turned toward the window. Beyond the iron gates of the estate stretched a city that felt like London—but was not. Stone streets wound between buildings of dark brick and aged stone. Horse-drawn carriages rattled past beneath gas-lit lamps. Men in long coats and hats moved with purpose. Women walked with practiced awareness. Somewhere in the distance, a church bell tolled, heavy and authoritative.
He looked back at the letter.
The date was written clearly at the top.
2025.
His breath caught.
This was not a dream. This was not madness.
This was a world that had marched forward in years while remaining frozen in custom, appearance, and pace—like history held in place by an unseen hand.
The servant cleared his throat politely. "Shall I inform your father that you will be joining him shortly, my lord?"
Thomas folded the letter with deliberate care.
"Yes," he said, forcing steadiness into his voice. "Tell him I'll be there shortly."
The servant bowed and exited.
Thomas remained still.
He had died an unremarkable man.
And he had awakened as the son of a nobleman in a world that felt deliberately restrained. Something had gone wrong—or something had gone right in a way he did not yet understand.
As he dressed in the clothes laid out for him—tailored, expensive, unfamiliar—a strange sensation settled in his chest. Not fear.
Anticipation.
Somewhere beyond his awareness, forces older than the nation itself felt the quiet disturbance of a soul entering where it did not belong.
And they had taken notice.