Breakfast was not a meal.
It was a tribunal.
Thomas understood this the moment he stepped into the dining hall and felt six pairs of eyes turn toward him at once. The room was already full, the long oak table laid with meticulous precision, silverware aligned as though measured rather than placed. Sunlight filtered in through tall windows, catching on polished wood and porcelain, but it did nothing to soften the atmosphere.
At the head of the table sat Lord Reginald Ashcombe.
He was rigid as carved stone, his presence anchoring the room with quiet, unquestioned authority. Broad shoulders held straight despite his age, his expression unreadable, severe without being cruel. This was a man accustomed to obedience, to being listened to without needing to raise his voice.
To his right sat Lady Margaret Ashcombe.
She was composed and elegant, her posture flawless, her attire immaculate. When she looked at Thomas, her expression warmed just enough to pass for affection—but not enough to offer refuge. There was distance in her eyes, the practiced restraint of a woman who loved as duty allowed, no more, no less.
Between them—and along the length of the table—sat the children.
All five of them.
Closest to their father was Edmund, the eldest. Broad-shouldered, dark-haired, and unmistakably groomed for inheritance, he occupied his place with ease. He regarded Thomas with polite indifference, the kind that required no effort. Edmund carried the confidence of someone who had never once doubted his place in the world.
Next came Beatrice, the second child and eldest daughter.
Her posture was immaculate, her movements precise. Sharp eyes assessed Thomas openly, and she offered him a faint smile—pleasant, controlled, and entirely calculated. Beatrice was observant. She noticed things. Worse, she remembered them.
Beside her sat Julian, the third child.
He gave Thomas a quick nod, friendly but distracted, already halfway lost in his own thoughts. Julian's attention never lingered long on people; it moved restlessly, always chasing ideas just beyond reach. Clever, the inherited memories whispered. Clever—and impatient.
Thomas took his seat as the fourth child, acutely aware of the position it represented. Neither burdened with expectation nor spared from scrutiny. A place easy to overlook—until it wasn't.
Across from him sat Nathaniel, younger by two years.
All restless energy and poorly concealed curiosity, Nathaniel grinned openly, clearly pleased to see him. His foot bounced beneath the table, and his eyes shone with the kind of enthusiasm that had yet to be disciplined out of him.
At the far end sat Lydia, the youngest.
She could not have been more than ten. Her feet barely reached the floor as she clutched her teacup with both hands, watching Thomas as though he were a story she wanted to hear again. There was no calculation in her gaze. Only curiosity. Only innocence.
Two girls. Four boys.
A complete family.
Thomas sat among them, surrounded by blood that was not his own, roles he had never lived, and expectations that pressed in from all sides. The table felt too long. The silence too deliberate.
"You're late," Edmund said mildly.
Thomas inclined his head. "Forgive me."
Lord Reginald's gaze lingered on him longer than necessary, sharp and measuring. "You look different."
The words carried weight—more observation than accusation.
"I slept poorly," Thomas replied, choosing each word with care.
Across the table, Beatrice's eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly. She said nothing, but her attention sharpened, as if filing the moment away for later.
Lady Margaret intervened with practiced ease. "Today is a significant day," she said, her voice smooth, controlled. "Your admission has brought pride to our house, Aldric."
The name still felt foreign on Thomas's tongue, like a garment worn too soon.
"Yes, Mother."
Nathaniel leaned forward eagerly, nearly upsetting his teacup. "Is it true the university's library has books sealed with silver clasps?"
Julian snorted softly. "Those are myths."
"They are not," Beatrice said calmly. "The cathedral oversees several collections."
At the mention of the cathedral, something subtle shifted around the table. Even Lydia straightened in her seat, her small hands tightening around her cup.
Thomas noticed.
"Eat," Lord Reginald said. "You need your strength."
The meal proceeded in formal silence, broken only by occasional remarks about scheduled appearances, expectations, and obligations. Thomas listened more than he spoke, absorbing not just the words, but the unspoken hierarchy beneath them.
Edmund spoke when he wished.
Beatrice when she chose.
Julian when permitted.
Nathaniel when he forgot himself.
Lydia—rarely at all.
When breakfast finally ended, chairs shifted and footsteps echoed softly against the floor. One by one, his siblings rose and filed out.
Nathaniel lingered.
"You really got in," he said, grinning openly. "I knew you would."
Thomas returned the smile—genuinely this time. "Thank you."
Lydia tugged gently at his sleeve. "Will you write?"
"Yes," Thomas said without hesitation. "I promise."
Her eyes lit up.
As the others disappeared through the doors, Lord Reginald remained seated. The silence stretched until it felt deliberate.
Thomas stood still.
"You represent the family now," his father said quietly. "Not just to your peers—but to the cathedral. Attend services. Avoid unnecessary curiosity. And remember…"
His gaze hardened slightly.
"Some doors are closed for a good reason."
Thomas inclined his head once more.
"Yes, Father."
He left the dining hall and walked down the long corridor beyond it.
The doors closed behind him with a muted finality, sealing away the quiet judgment of the breakfast table. The hall stretched ahead, lined with dark wood paneling polished to a dull sheen, portraits of Ashcombe ancestors staring down from gilded frames. Their eyes followed him as he passed—or so it felt—faces stern, dignified, and unyielding.
Sunlight filtered in through tall, narrow windows, cutting the corridor into alternating bands of light and shadow. His footsteps echoed softly against the stone floor, measured and controlled, as though the house itself demanded restraint from those who walked within it.
Thomas exhaled slowly.
Only now, beyond the reach of his family's attention, did the weight of the morning settle fully on his chest. The name Aldric lingered in his thoughts, heavy with expectation, while memories that were not his pressed quietly at the edges of his mind—less intrusive now, but no less present.
He reached his chamber and pushed the door open. The familiar scent of polished wood and linen greeted him, yet it offered no comfort. He stood just inside, hand still resting on the handle, his thoughts circling the same impossible question.
Reincarnation? Regression? The words felt absurd even as they refused to leave him alone. How was such a thing even possible?
In his previous life, he had often wondered what awaited people after death—whether there was an ending, a continuation, or simply nothing at all. Perhaps this was his answer. Not heaven, not oblivion, but displacement. A second beginning wrapped in someone else's name and history.
He let out a quiet, humorless breath. He did not hate this new life. How could he? He had awakened in comfort, in wealth, in a body untouched by age or illness. If he wished, he could live without want, shielded from the harshness that had worn him down before. A life of ease lay open before him.
And yet…
Unease coiled in his stomach.
The sensation returned—subtle but undeniable—as though unseen eyes were fixed upon him, measuring, waiting. His shoulders tensed. A shiver crawled up his spine, sharp and involuntary.
Slowly, Thomas turned, scanning the empty room.
Nothing stirred. Nothing revealed itself.
But the feeling did not fade.