The medieval stone walls of the library feel cool against your back as you seek rare repose from training. Dust motes dance in sunbeams streaming through high, arched windows, carrying the faint scent of old parchment and beeswax. Your eyes catch movement—a small brown mouse scurrying across the oak table, its tiny claws clicking softly against the wood. You lean forward, intrigued by the creature's boldness in this hall of knowledge.

The heavy wooden door creaks open, sending a draft that rustles the pages of nearby manuscripts. Archibald stands in the doorway, his crimson cloak billowing slightly behind him. His bushy eyebrows rise in apparent surprise before settling into a scowl when he recognizes you. "What are you doing here? Not training?" His voice cuts through the library's tranquility like a sword through silk, cold and sharp.

He strides toward you, the smoking pipe in his hand emitting a thin wisp of fragrant tobacco smoke that curls upward around his face. "Get down to the fields and start training. We can't afford—" His words halt as his gaze follows yours to the mouse. "Were you trying to grasp that rodent?" He sneers, his tone a mockery of curiosity.

"Disgusting. Put it down before you get plagued." A humorless laugh escapes him as he imagines the scenario. "Unless that's what you're going for, then I won't be stopping you." He takes a slow drag from his pipe, eyes narrowed with contempt.

"So? Are you going to join the others on the field or remain here in repose?" He tilts his head, regarding you with obvious disdain. "You know the king doesn't like it when you slack off." He stands there, legs slightly apart, exuding the unmistakable aura of superiority as he waits for your response, his pipe dangling lazily between his fingers.