The estate documents told a story of systematic failure that would have made Cael's former professors weep.

He'd spent the last three hours going through every piece of paper on the desk, and the picture they painted was worse than he'd initially thought. Much worse. The original Sarek Ashford hadn't just been incompetent, he'd been catastrophically negligent in ways that defied basic logic.

Cael rubbed his eyes, which felt gritty with exhaustion despite having just woken up in this body. Or maybe this body was already exhausted. Looking at the dates on some of these documents, the original Sarek had been up gambling until dawn most nights. No wonder everything had fallen apart.

He made a final note on the scrap of parchment he'd been using—he'd have to figure out where to get proper paper later, and sat back. The preliminary assessment was complete, and it was grim.

Assets: One mid-sized estate comprising approximately 50,000 people across twelve villages and one main town. Fertile land with river access. A crumbling manor house. Minimal livestock. Some outdated farming equipment.

Liabilities: Debts totaling what appeared to be the equivalent of several years' worth of revenue. Crumbling infrastructure throughout the estate. No functional sewage system. Contaminated water sources. Roads in disrepair. Storage facilities inadequate. A staff that had apparently given up trying to maintain anything.

Timeline: One month until the tax collector arrived. Two years until the family's execution in the original story.

Probability of success without intervention: Zero.

Cael stood and stretched, his new body protesting the hours of sitting hunched over the desk. The sun was fully up now, streaming through the grimy window. He needed to see the estate itself, needed to assess the physical infrastructure before he could create any kind of meaningful plan.

But first, he supposed he should meet the family. His family now, technically, though the thought still felt surreal.

He moved to the wardrobe and opened it, finding clothes that confirmed his worst suspicions about the original Sarek's priorities. Expensive fabrics, elaborate embroidery, the kind of ostentatious noble wear that cost a fortune and served no practical purpose. Meanwhile, according to the documents, the estate's farmers were using tools that should have been replaced a decade ago.

Cael selected the simplest outfit he could find—still ridiculously elaborate by his standards, with more buttons than seemed strictly necessary, and dressed himself. The clothes felt strange, the fabric heavy and restrictive in ways his modern clothing never had been. He fumbled with the laces and ties, making a mental note to figure out this world's fashion conventions before he accidentally scandalized someone.

A knock at the door made him freeze.

"My lord?" A woman's voice, cautious and uncertain. "It's nearly midday. I've brought water for washing."

Midday? Cael glanced at the window, reassessing the sun's position. He'd lost track of time going through the documents. In his old life, he'd been known for working through lunch when a project demanded it. Apparently, some habits transcended transmigration.

"Come in," he called, then winced at how uncertain his voice sounded. He needed to work on that. Confidence was half of leadership, and right now he felt anything but confident.

The door opened to reveal a young woman in a maid's uniform, carrying a pitcher of water. She was maybe twenty-two or twenty-three, with brown hair pulled back in a severe bun and the kind of tired eyes that spoke of too much work and too little appreciation. She stopped short when she saw him, her eyes widening.

"My lord, you're... dressed already?" She sounded shocked, as if this was somehow noteworthy.

Cael realized he had no idea what the original Sarek's daily routine had been. "I woke early," he said carefully. "I had work to attend to."

The maid's eyes flicked to the desk, taking in the scattered documents and his notes. Something like surprise crossed her face before she schooled it back to neutral professionalism.

"Of course, my lord." She set the pitcher down on the washstand. "Shall I bring breakfast to your room, or will you be dining with the family?"

Family. Right. He needed to face them eventually. Might as well get it over with.

"I'll dine with the family," Cael said. "Where would I find them at this hour?"

The maid's surprise was more obvious this time. She actually blinked at him. "The... the dining room, my lord. As always. Your lady mother and sister are usually there by now, and your father sometimes joins them when he's feeling well enough."

There was something in her tone when she mentioned his father—concern mixed with resignation. Cael made a mental note to find out more about his father's condition. The documents had mentioned Count Vance Ashford's illness but hadn't gone into detail. He only knew he got sicker and sicker since both Sarek’s older brothers died.

"Thank you..." Cael trailed off, realizing he didn't know her name.

"Jocelyn, my lord." She curtsied, looking increasingly bewildered. "I've been your mother's head maid for three years."

Three years, and the original Sarek apparently hadn't bothered to learn her name. Cael felt a surge of secondhand embarrassment for this body's previous occupant.