The book lay closed where he had left it, its worn cover undisturbed beneath his hand.
For a time, he could not tell how long, Thorsten remained seated in silence, his gaze resting on the grain of the desk as though he had been studying it.
It was only until a small knock sounded at the door that his eyes regained their focus.
He blinked away thoughtful haze clouding his vision, taking a moment to realise where he was before moving towards the room's door.
The servant on the other side bowed in greeting before leading him towards the dining hall.
Thorsten followed her without a word, his steps almost mechanical as his body moved more on memory than action.
Even as he was eating lunch, his movements were mechanical in nature as he ate the food.
He had registered Leon speaking to him and responded in kind, but if you were to ask him, the contents of their discussion were lost to him.
Just background noise to fill the dead space.
The time spent with his tutors passed by much the same.
With the contents of their lesson's going though one ear and out the other.
Thorsten's body was in the room with them, writing notes and nodding along with their lessons, but his mind was elsewhere.
Drifting aimlessly inside a sea of his own thoughts, letting the current guide him as he worked to piece together the scraps he found drifting along with him.
But no matter which pieces he tried to fit into place, nothing ever seemed to stick—leaving him with a messy collage of incomplete ideas and an empty feeling in his chest.
Who wrote that last message? What were they referring to? Did they know that this world was a game… so many questions piled to the point that he felt weighed down by the numerous unknowns he had stumbled into.
One question had turned into two, then two into four, four to sixteen until his thoughts were derailed by the mountain of unknowns piling up into a mountain.
Yet no matter how long he thought on it, no answer awaited him on the path he was on.
Leaving him to absently gaze into the space in front of him as he tried to maintain a semblance of normalcy amidst his chaotic thoughts.
A deep, troubled sigh escaped Thorsten's lips, causing Mr. Klein to stop writing on the board to glance back at him.
"Is there an issue?" He asked, his voice carrying questioning instead of the expected reproach.
"No, sir."
"I see, tell me if there is anything you are struggling to understand."
Mr. Klein then continued with his explanation, speaking a little slower than earlier as to make his words easier to explain.
Due to Thorsten's performance in the previous lesson, Mr. Klein revised his lesson plans—condensing several minor concepts into a single session.
However, realising it may have been too much to absorb at once, he slowed his explanations slightly.
Thorsten didn't notice the change in Mr. Klein's speech, his gaze stayed fixed on the blackboard without truly seeing it.
*****
After finishing dinner with his family, Thorsten found himself once again seated before that same story book before him.
He had spent most of the day after discovering its contents going in circles, trying to make sense of something he couldn't even be sure was real.
So, after dinner, he had swiftly excused himself and returned to his room with the idea of implementing a different approach to his dilemma.
On the large desk, the story book sat open on the story about the scholar prince, not to be read but instead analysed.
He realised that no matter how much he thought about it, the question's he wanted wouldn't just magically reveal themselves, so he'd have to go searching for them himself.
Even with all the resources he lacked access to, time was something he had in spades, so all that was left to do was use to its fullest.
'There's no time like the present.'
He said to himself, outlining a brief outline on his task on a nearby piece of paper.
_____________________
The next three days were spent trying to decipher the words, sentences and sometimes entire paragraphs that had been lost due to the pages being stuck together.
Thorsten kept a finger trailing along each line as he read, while his dominant hand worked to transcribe what remained legible—reconstructing the missing portions where he could, shaping the fragments into something coherent.
He knew this would not produce a perfect replica of the original text, nor was that his aim.
What he needed was a stable, readable version of the stories; one he could analyse and annotate without risking further damage to the original or being hindered by gaps in the text.
Starting with the clearest passages and working towards the most illegible, he proceeded with measured care, refining each section until it held together with as much consistency as he could manage.
_____________________
Once he had completed a coherent draft of each fairytale, Thorsten turned his attention to comparison—examining their contents for recurring elements and inconsistencies.
It was then that a pattern began to emerge.
None of the characters were ever given proper names.
Instead, they were identified only by their roles or distinguishing traits—titles, professions, monikers, or physical characteristics used to construct a rough image of who they were meant to be.
This held true even for the central figures.
The Sorcerer King was referred to only by his title, and while others were described with slight variations, the absence of names remained consistent throughout.
The same omission extended to the settings.
There were also no city or town names mentioned, with the parts he could make out only ever describing landmarks or the land the cities were built upon.
At times, small illustrations accompanied these descriptions—fragmented glimpses of the world the stories took place in: a magical city suspended above a crystal-clear lake, a village hidden within the shadow of a valley, a mountain inverted upon itself, concealing the lair of a dragon.
_____________________
Slowly and carefully, he began sorting out all of his discoveries and taking note of any elements that stood out, or deviated too far from the patterns established by the other tales.
Using this method, it was not long until he hit his first real obstacle.
What followed were several, long hours of quiet deliberation that had him losing focus during his lessons.
Even as the sky beyond his window was dyed by the warm hues of the setting sun, he sat rooted at his desk, eyes fixed on the scattered notes spread out before him.
Thorsten's ink-stained finger tapped idly against his cheek, leaving faint smudges he did not notice as he read—and reread—the tale of the Dragon-Slaying Hero.
Of all the stories in the collection, this one was the most unique in terms of perspective.
Though still written in the third person, it was the only tale that shifted perspective to follow another character. This remained true even when accounting for the previously hidden sections.
"… a hero or a heroine… a heroine or a hero?" He murmured.
It broke from the established structure the other stories had, introducing another central figure where the others had focused on the fall of the established main character.
The sequence was not entirely inconsistent—it still aligned, in part, with how the stories progressed once their 'true' endings were revealed—but it refused to fit cleanly within the framework he had constructed.
There were other stories that deviated slightly, but none to this extent.
This one resisted classification entirely.
It never gave enough of either of its main characters for him to comfortably place them within a bracket.
He could account for both—or neither. There was no clear middle ground.
"No, maybe I'm still missing something."
He turned back to the point where the perspective shifted, scanning the pages again in search of anything he might have overlooked. His fingers caught on the edge of one page, scratching at it until it gave slightly under the pressure.
'Back to square one…'
The thought lingered as he exhaled a defeated sigh, his gaze drifting to the illustration of a lone lily.
A quiet silence settled in the room, with only his faint breaths to fill the space.
Then, gradually, he straightened and gripped his pen once again.
If the structure refused to accommodate the story, then the structure itself would have to change.
Although he wasn't fully convinced it was entirely correct, he settled on a compromise—he'd treat them as two separate individuals whose paths just so happened to intersect.
It was a little awkward, but workable.
With that decided, he finally wrapped up with that section, letting out a relieved breath after writing down the final point.
With that decided, he finalised the section, then set down his pen as a quiet breath left him.
It was just as he was about to start on the next portion of his analysis, that a soft knock reached his ears, pulling his attention towards the carved, wooden door of the room.
"Ehem—" He cleared his dry throat softly before replying to the person on the other side of the door, "Enter, please."
The door opened, and a familiar maid stepped inside, offering a slight bow. "Dinner is ready, young lord."
'Is it already that time?'
He wondered to himself, noting the warm hues of the evening sky beyond the window.
"I'll be down immediately." Thorsten said, climbing off his chair to follow her to the dining room.
But was stopped a few paces from the door as the maid stepped in front of him and lowered herself onto one knee.
"There appears to be something on your face, young master."
'Hmm?'
Before he could ask what, she had already produced a handkerchief and started gently wiping at whatever was on his face.
When she finally pulled her hand away, he noticed the blue-black smudges staining the white handkerchief.
Thorsten looked down at his ink-stained hands.
There was already water prepared in the dining room, but he found the thought of washing ink there unpleasant. Turning away, he made for the nearby washroom instead.
There was already a pot to wash his hand's prepared in the dining room, but the thought of washing ink off in there didn't sit well with him.
Turning away, he made way for the nearby washroom instead.
The door closed behind him with a soft click.
For a moment, the maid remained where she was.
Then, without a word, she carefully folded the handkerchief and slipped it into her pocket.