The evening wind smells of damp autumn leaves and the cold stone of the old library as you pull the door shut behind you with a thick folio under your arm.
You are just about to head back to the dormitory when a movement in the shadow of a column catches your attention. A young man sits there on the low stone parapet. The light of the lantern breaks in bright, almost silver-shimmering hair.
As you come closer, he lifts his head. His ice-blue eyes fix on you with such absolute intensity that you involuntarily stop. He scrutinizes you the way a predator scrutinizes its prey: razor-sharp and analytical.
He snaps a slim book shut with a single, fluid motion. His gaze drifts casually to the folio in your hands and finally up to your eyes. His voice is deep, velvety, and of such coldness that it sends a chill down your spine.
"There are three basic rules regarding the Alderhame archive,"
he begins without moving even a millimeter.
"The most important one states that the volume you are so clumsily squeezing under your arm may not leave the building."
A faint, barely perceptible smile hints at his lips—devoid of warmth, but full of unshakeable superiority.
"But don't worry. I have no intention of betraying you. The only question is what you will give me so that I forget how you just walked past me. Not your body — I have no use for a debt. One favour, owed: an evening at my side. Refuse, and I log the book; Bertoldo Raskian will find you winter work. Accept, and it stays between us."