The scratch of the quill against the parchment was the only sound in the dimly lit hall of the Royal Archives. Silas sat at his desk, but his mind was miles away, or rather, years ahead.
His new perception was a curse as much as it was a blessing. Every movement in the palace felt magnified. The rustle of a servant's silk dress three floors up, the clicking of the guards' boots on the cobblestone, and the steady, rhythmic thumping of Master Elian's sickly heart. It was as if the world itself was a book, and he was finally reading the margins.
"You're staring at the wall again, Silas," a soft voice interrupted his thoughts.
He turned to see Kaelen, his only friend from his past life—the man who had tried to smuggle him out of the city before the execution. In this timeline, Kaelen was still just a junior scribe, his face full of youthful optimism that Silas had long ago buried in a shallow grave.
"Just thinking about the Prince's victory," Silas lied, his voice steady. "It seems... too perfect, doesn't it?"
Kaelen leaned in, his voice dropping to a whisper. "Careful. Walls have ears in this palace, and the Ink-Master isn't in a forgiving mood today."
Silas didn't answer. He focused his gaze on Kaelen. In an instant, the truth bled into his mind. He didn't see a system; he felt a heavy, cold knowledge. He saw Kaelen's hidden sin—stealing medicinal herbs from the Royal Dispensary to treat his dying sister. It was a crime that, in his previous life, had led to Kaelen's imprisonment.
"Go home early tonight, Kaelen," Silas said, grabbing his friend's wrist. His grip was tighter than intended. "The North Gate guards are switching shifts at sunset. They're lazy then. If you have anything to... transport, that's your window."
Kaelen's face went pale. His eyes darted around the room, searching Silas's face for a trap. "How did you—?"
"Just a hunch," Silas interrupted, turning back to his scroll. "The archives tell many stories, if you know how to read between the lines."
Kaelen lingered for a moment, his breath hitching, before nodding curtly and disappearing into the shadows of the library.
Silas felt a strange warmth in his chest, a sense of synchronization with the flow of time. He reached for the official report of the Prince's victory—the one Master Elian had ordered him to glorify. He didn't change the words, not yet. He simply signed it at the bottom with a tiny, invisible drop of his own blood mixed with the ink.
Now, he would know exactly whose hands this lie passed through. And more importantly, he would know when it reached Valerius.
The hunter was no longer waiting for the future. He was crafting it.