Chapter 1: The Library
Allira Ashwood propped her chin on her hand, trying and failing to make the glyphs for multi-layered barrier modulation swim into any kind of coherent order on the parchment before her. The afternoon sun, spilling through the grand library window, was too warm. The distant, rhythmic crash of the ocean against the cliffs was too hypnotic. Her own brain was a cluttered, rebellious thing, demanding a more interesting form of mental engagement.
With a furtive glance down the deserted aisle of towering mahogany shelves, she slipped a slim volume from between two hefty treatises on mana-channeling. The spicy cover of A Duke’s Midnight Promise was discreetly hidden beneath a sheaf of her own notes, its gilded title catching the light of the enchanted lantern overhead. The scent of aged paper and dried lavender was abruptly overlaid with the imagined perfume of a Regency ballroom.
She opened to her folded page, and the world of formulas and theorems dissolved. Here was a scene of breathless tension in a moonlit garden. The dialogue was deliciously forthright.
His hands, strong and unyielding, found the small of her back, drawing her against the hard plane of his body. “You think to deny this, Caroline? When every glance between us is a spark?”
Allira let out a soft, satisfied sigh, tracing the line with her finger. This was what she needed. A respite. A little forbidden electricity to jump-start her own weary academic brain. The scholarly silence of the library pressed in, making the clandestine read all the more thrilling. She devoured another paragraph, completely absorbed in the duke’s murmured threats and the heroine’s defiant, fluttering heart.
“My, my, my. That doesn’t look like Ley Line Grid Calculations.”
The voice, low and amused, came from directly beside her right ear.
Allira jolted as if struck by a static charge. Her elbow knocked her inkwell, and she fumbled the book, slamming it shut with a sound like a thunderclap in the quiet. Heat flooded her face, traveling from her chest to the roots of her chestnut hair. She looked up, her clear blue eyes wide.
Exxon Sato leaned casually against the edge of her study carrel, a lazy, knowing smile playing on his lips. The sunlight from the window haloed his sharp features and caught in the deep hazel of his eyes. His long, dark hair was tied back at the nape of his neck, but a few messy strands escaped, brushing his cheekbone. He looked effortlessly, infuriatingly at ease.
“Exxon! What are you doing here?” Her voice came out a half-octave too high, squeaky with attempted nonchalance.
He just kept smiling, that infuriating, attractive smile, and reached a hand toward the offending book now hidden under her notes. “Let’s see what’s more captivating than tertiary mana theory.”
She slapped her palm over the stack, pulling it protectively against her chest. The parchment crackled. “You didn’t answer my question.”
He straightened, his gaze lifting past her head, scanning the empty study tables and the breathtaking vista of endless blue ocean framed by the arch. “I was curious. Usually, you slink down to the refectory for lunch by now. Figured I’d intercept you. See if I could steal some pork off your plate.” He looked back down at her, his eyes glinting. “Your clandestine literary habits explain the tardiness. Much more fun than lunch.”
“It’s research,” Allira said defensively, regrouping. She pushed the book further under her notes. “Comparative narrative structures in modern popular media. A… sociological lens.”
“A sociological lens focused very intently on shirtless stable boys, I’d wager.” He chuckled, the sound warm and utterly unconvinced. He pulled out the chair opposite her and sat, stretching his long legs out under the table until his boot nudged her shin. “Come on, Ashwood. Spill. Is it the one with the pirate captain? Or the shadow mage with the tragic past?”
She glared at him, but the tension in her shoulders began to melt. This was their rhythm. Three years of shared classes, late-night study sessions in this very library, and a friendship built on a foundation of mutual sarcasm and intellectual one-upmanship. He was the only person who could have caught her like this and not made her want to teleport herself into the sea.
“It’s a duke,” she conceded, a reluctant smile tugging at her own mouth. “And his hands are ‘strong and unyielding.’”
Exxon winced in mock pain. “Oof. Predictable. You need to branch out. I hear there’s a sensational new one about a golem-smith. Very technical. Lots of… firm masonry.”
She threw a crumpled piece of drafting vellum at him. He caught it without looking.
“What do you want, Sato? Really. You’re like a cat. You don’t appear unless you want something.”
He leaned forward, elbows on the table, his playful demeanor shifting into something slightly more focused. The enchanted light above them glinted off the silver ring he wore on his thumb. “Two things. First, Professor Vance is looking for you. Something about your latest barrier schematics having ‘aesthetic flair but structural fragility.’ His words, not mine.”
Allira groaned, her head thunking down onto her arms atop her notes. The real world rushed back in, cold and demanding. “He wants me to re-solidify the entire foundational lattice. That’s twenty hours of work. Minimum.”
“Which leads me to my second point,” Exxon said, his voice dropping, becoming conspiratorial. “You’ve been chained to this carrel for a week. Your brain is going to turn into parchment. You need a break. A real one.”
She peeked up at him from the crook of her arm. “What did you have in mind? A thrilling evening re-cataloguing the restricted section?”
“Better.” His grin returned, wider now, edged with a hint of the mischief he was famous for. “The Tidefall Gala. Tomorrow night.”
She blinked. The Tidefall Gala was the university’s annual formal event, a glittering, magical affair held in the Grand Atrium. It was also, in her opinion, a den of academic posturing and stiff, uncomfortable shoes. “You hate those things. You said last year’s was a ‘soul-sucking parade of polite ambition.’”
“I did. And it was.” He nodded agreeably. “But this year, the entertainment isn’t some endless harp recital. They’ve booked The Glimmerwings. For a full set.”
That got her attention. The Glimmerwings were a band from the Eastern Empire, famous for weaving illusion magic directly into their music. Seeing them live was borderline impossible. It was also exactly the kind of chaotic, beautiful, non-academic stimulus her bored brain craved.
“How did the university afford that?” she breathed, sitting up straight.
“A wealthy alumnus with questionable taste in music but excellent connections.” Exxon shrugged. “So.We go. We suffer through an hour of canapés and small-talk. Then we watch the Atrium turn into a psychotropic light-show. It’s the perfect break. Better than any duke in a garden.”
He had her. He knew he had her. The prospect of real magic, the kind that wasn’t about equations or containment fields, was irresistible. It was also an event. Which meant…
“I don’t have anything to wear,” she said, the practical problem surfacing immediately. “My formal robe has a permanent stain from that alchemy incident with the phosphorescent slime.”
“Details.” Exxon waved a hand dismissively. “Wear your lecture robes. Tell everyone it’s an avant-garde statement on academic oppression.”
She laughed, the sound bright in the quiet space. For a moment, the ocean’s heartbeat and the smell of old books and the easy, familiar presence of her friend wove together into a perfect point of contentment. The boring, endless study session was forgotten. The embarrassing book was forgotten.
“Fine,” she said, shaking her head. “You’ve successfully diverted me from my path to scholastic glory. I’ll go.”
“Excellent.” He stood, pushing the chair back with a soft scrape. “Now, about that pork…”
“You’re buying,” she said, beginning to gather her things. She carefully, discreetly, slid the romance novel into her satchel, burying it beneath the unforgiving weight of her barrier configuration texts.
“A small price to pay for your company,” he said with an exaggerated bow.
They walked together out of the silent, sunlit rows of books and into the stone-flagged corridor, his shoulder brushing hers as they navigated the stream of other students. His earlier teasing lingered, a warm, silly ember in her chest. The promise of tomorrow’ gala hung in the air, a shimmering distraction.
As they pushed through the heavy oak doors into the courtyard, the salt-tinged wind catching their hair, Exxon glanced at her. “So,” he said, his tone casual, almost offhand. “What happens after the garden? With the duke?”
Allira shot him a sidelong look, hugging her satchel to her side. “Wouldn’t you like to know.”
His laugh was carried away by the sea breeze, and for the first time all day, she didn’t feel bored at all.