Part I The Acolyte & The Alchemist
The Acolyte & The Alchemist: Part I
The boy with raven hair did not notice when the copper-haired girl sat beside him. He remained still, his focus steely on the manuscript before him. He preferred the library for its silence. Two dozen students could funnel in to study here and scarcely cross paths.
That was why he had come in the first place—to study and become an acolyte of lost knowledge. Such a pursuit demanded unwavering concentration.
And yet, the scent of cinnamon and clove curled toward him as the woman brushed her unbound hair over her shoulder. His head turned instinctively, betraying him before he even realized his focus had faltered.
“I hope you don’t mind,” she said, the threat of a smile dancing on her lips. “This side of the library has the best lighting.”
Midday light bathed the grand room in gold. And yet, of all the empty seats, she had chosen one a mere breath away from his.
He furrowed his brows. “No, I don’t—” He bristled, meaning to lie, but stopped when their eyes met. The words became truth. “—mind,” he finished, the furrow in his brow disappearing. “You’re the new student, aren’t you?”
His gaze traced the sharp line of her jaw, the undulating curve of her lips, the proud arch of her brows. Her skin was the color of the coffee he preferred to drink in the morning—equal parts espresso and milk.
Why do novels always fixate on the color of someone’s hair? He wondered, faltering when he realized her beauty could not be contained by words alone. The manuscript before him lay forgotten.
“New to Foresyth, yes. But I have been a scholar far longer than I have been a student.”
The boy wasn’t one for infatuation. He had always preferred books over people, but there was something different about this woman.
It wasn’t just beauty that held him captive.
No, it was the depth of knowledge in her eyes, as if she harbored secrets vast enough that even this library could not hold them.
She slid a stack of books to the edge of the desk, and he traced the movement, trying to catch their titles. One stood out before she cracked the spine: A Meditation on Khorvyn Occultism.
“I’m Hamra.” She extended her hand across the narrow space between them, as if closing a distance that had always been meant to shrink.
The boy took her hand, soft and supple in his. A faint prickle of static snapped at his fingertips.
The two spent the afternoon in companionable silence, reading book after book, each lost in their own respective world.
The boy did not yet realize it would be the first of many such afternoons.