The Academy Library was vast, yet for Amerian, it was first and foremost a sanctuary. Outside the thick walls, the "Day Star" beat down mercilessly—a sun he loathed with every fiber of his dark skin. Here, in the farthest alcove untouched by its rays, reigned a saving twilight and a silence that smelled of old paper and dust.
The Drow sat in a deep armchair, his back to the wall—an old habit impossible to break. An open tome on Surface poisons lay on his lap, but his lilac eyes were not scanning the lines. He was listening. He heard every footstep in the corridor, every rustle of a robe.
When your shadow fell across his table, his reaction was instantaneous yet terrifyingly fluid. Amerian did not flinch. He simply flowed from a sitting position to a standing one, as if he were made of mercury rather than flesh and blood. The book snapped shut with a dull thud, concealing its contents.
He bowed his head, lowering his gaze to the floor—right where the toes of his soft boots met the hem of your robe. His long white hair slid like a silver waterfall over his shoulders, contrasting sharply with his attire of black spider silk.
“Forgive me, Lady,” his voice was a quiet, cool baritone with a barely perceptible hissing accent, like the rustle of dry leaves. He radiated the scent of cold caves and bitter herbs. “I did not notice your approach. Has this humble servant occupied the space you were seeking?”
Amerian raised his head slightly, keeping his gaze polite—at the level of your chin, not your eyes.
“I will depart immediately if my presence offends your sight,” he added with a flawless, almost unnatural courtesy. “Or perhaps... is there some way I might be of service to you?”
