Noctis spent days investigating the paintings with the help of the clue he had received from the whisper:
“It starts on the first day. Ends on the seventh. It continues for at least five days long.”
He understood that the paintings had to be arranged in a certain order according to their respective days. What he didn’t understand was what kind of order it was supposed to be, or what theme connected them all.
For several days, he went back and forth between the library, the corridor, and his room. He researched climate patterns and regional connections between the first and fourth days. He studied the relationship between fauna, habitats, and the natural disasters that frequently occurred in those regions.
Slowly, a rough idea began forming in his mind.
He created a sequence in which the paintings should be placed. He realized that some days would have to be skipped and rearranged to form a proper cycle. Solving the overall puzzle would take at least four weeks, since the paintings rotated daily. The new arrangement had to align logically with the first day’s paintings.
After days of thinking and comparing, he came up with the order:
1st day – Starting point. No changes.
2nd day – Fourth in order.
3rd day – Third in order.
4th day – Second in order.
5th day – Sixth in order.
6th day – Seventh in order.
7th day – Fifth in order.
The sequence represented a cycle of nature—the rise and fall of civilization. Creation, growth, change, destruction, death, and eventually humanity.
Strangely enough, it mirrored his own situation. Nature could give and take at any moment, just like this mansion.
Day by day, Noctis rearranged the paintings according to his sequence. It required patience. It required time. Almost as if the mansion itself was deliberately delaying the result.
“But for what?” he muttered to himself.
He didn’t need answers to every question.
He just needed one.
A way to escape this mansion.
Finally, he reached the sixth day’s paintings. He carefully arranged them according to the order he had decided. After placing the final painting in its proper position, he stepped back and waited.
Nothing happened.
No hidden door.
No secret passage.
No shifting wall.
The corridor remained silent, unchanged.
Noctis felt disappointment settle heavily in his chest.
“Was this not the correct order? Or was this not how it was meant to be done?”
This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.
He questioned himself repeatedly, but there were no answers. For the first time in a while, he felt mentally drained.
“Maybe there was no escape in the first place,” he thought. “Maybe I’m meant to end up like the others—stuck here forever, repeating the same routine. Cutting the same grass every day that never grows or disappears.”
With nothing else to do, he decided to head to the garden. At the very least, he didn’t want to make Silas upset.
When he arrived, Silas was already on a ladder, trimming the overgrown branches of a tree.
Noctis glanced at him briefly before shifting his focus to the shrubs growing unevenly nearby. He picked up his garden scissors and began working without a word.
He knew the plants would reset by morning.
But it didn’t matter.
If he was going to remain trapped here, he might as well get used to doing the same thing over and over again.
After a while, he heard slow footsteps approaching from behind. They carried no hostility. If anything, they felt oddly reassuring.
When he turned, Silas was looking at him with quiet concern.
“Are you okay?” Silas asked.
Noctis paused.
“No. Not really.”
This was the first time he had heard such a calm and almost comforting tone from Silas. For a moment, he hesitated before continuing to trim the bushes.
Silas crouched down beside him and started shaping the shrubs as well.
“When you write an exam,” Silas said, “do you expect the teacher to correct your paper immediately?”
Noctis looked at him, slightly confused by the question.
“No. I’d actually prefer if the results were delayed.”
“Then why the long face?” Silas continued. “When you cut a bush, you don’t expect it to take shape instantly. You wait. You give it time. Only then do you see the result of your work.”
Noctis stared at the shrub in his hands.
He hadn’t thought of it that way.
“You’re right,” he admitted with a faint smile. “Maybe I expected results too quickly.”
Silas stood up.
“Good job today. The bushes should show the result by tomorrow.”
He walked away and resumed trimming the branches.
Noctis remained still for a moment, thinking carefully about what Silas had said.
Then it clicked.
The paintings changed every day.
He had arranged them correctly—but he had expected the result immediately.
With a small grin forming on his face, he murmured,
“Oh. I understand now.”
Satisfied, he returned to his room. After the clock struck ten, he stood by the window for a moment, staring at the night sky before finally lying down.
The next morning, he went straight to the corridor.
As soon as he arrived, a faint smile appeared on his face.
“That bastard knows way too much.” Noctis murmured to himself.
The paintings had changed.
All seven of them.
This time, they depicted a town from the late 1800s to early 1900s. Each painting represented a different part of the same town—streets, houses, markets, railways.
But Noctis didn’t waste time studying them.
Instinctively, he checked behind each painting.
Behind the first—one note.
Behind the second—another.
By the time he finished, he had six notes and a pass.
A pass to the third floor.
He slipped the notes into his pocket, deciding to read them later. His immediate focus was the third floor.
He made his way to the stairs.
After pausing briefly and taking a steady breath, he began climbing.
Every few seconds, he looked back to see if someone was watching.
No one.
At least not yet.
The stairs creaked under his weight as he slowly ascended.
Finally, only one step remained.
He paused again.
Then stepped forward.
His foot touched the wooden floor.
He had reached the third floor.
No head maid stopped him this time.
For a brief moment, he allowed himself to acknowledge the victory before turning his attention to his surroundings.
The third floor felt different.
There was a faint scent of polished wood in the air. The atmosphere was lighter. The silence wasn’t heavy or suffocating.
He could hear birds outside the windows. The wind moved softly through the curtains. Somewhere in the distance, the footsteps of maids going about their work echoed naturally.
It felt as though time actually moved here.
Unlike the rest of the mansion.
