Just before dawn, a gangly figure climbs out of a window and face-plants into a conveniently placed mud puddle. So much for a graceful exit, but that does not stop him, he is determined to reach his destination. After picking himself up and brushing off, he continues rushing forward. One might wonder why he is climbing out of a window so early, before sunrise, with a hat hiding his face—perhaps a thief on the run? 

He finally reaches his destination—a library, its stone walls looming in the half-light. Nonetheless, he enters, seeking refuge from a small crowd. It is still early, so few people are around. He moves between shelves, clearly searching for something specific. While walking backwards, he accidentally bumps into an unseen obstacle. The sudden movement causes his hat to tumble off, and crimson locks cascade out of the hat.

“Good Heavens!” exclaims the man he has bumped into. “You’re a woman.”

The girl, for indeed she is, clamps her hand over his mouth. In the same fluid motion, she pulls a dagger out of her waistband, and presses it to his throat, ready to slit his throat if he utters a single word. The man, pale as a ghost with eyes bluer than a clear summer sky, stands stock-still, probably wondering if this is normal library behaviour.

“What of it?" she hisses. "Never seen a woman before?"

“Never the one masquerading as a boy.” the man’s eyes sparkle with amusement, his eyebrows reaching for the rafters. “You’re not very good at that, by the way.”

She scowls, face reddening. “I’m good enough to get into this library, aren’t I?”

 “Clearly not,” he replies, eyeing her dagger. "Also, do lower that blade. You're holding it like a child."

"Do you not know?" she replies, face redder than her hair. "Women are barred from this place. And should my mother learn of my deception, sneaking out at this hour... Well, I dare say she'd have me hanged." 

"Well, that's rather silly," he replies. "Now, about that dagger–"

“I can wield it well enough.”

“Clearly not.”

She pauses, eyeing his peculiar outfit. "Speaking of odd attire, what's your excuse for looking like you've stepped out of a fairy tale?" 

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He wears a dark black cloak that shrouds his form, but his broad shoulders are still noticeable regardless of his king-size cloak. It seems he, too, wishes to remain hidden.

“There is absolutely nothing odd about my attire,” he exclaims theatrically.

His hooded cloak hides his features but wisps of white hair could be seen.

“No one,” she scoffs, reaching for  his hood, “Wears a hood indoors.”

And what she glimpses beneath his hood causes her to squeal in shock—the man possesses elven ears, and his eyes sparkle like the clearest sapphires. For a moment he looks ethereal. 

The tables turn swiftly, now it’s his turn to silence her before they draw unwanted attention, he snatches the dagger from her grasp and, before she can protest, pins her against the nearest bookshelf.

“For Heaven’s sake, woman. Lower your voice,” he hushes, “Unless you wish for both of us to be hanged.” His blue eyes peek into hers, their faces mere inches apart, and his hand holds the dagger at her throat. Her heart races, not because she is so close to a man, but from the realisation that he isn't a man at all—he is something else entirely, and with a dagger at her throat, on top of that.

“What are you? Some kind of monster” she breathes, giving up.

He smirked, “Just a man with a few… extras. And you’re just a girl with a bad attitude.”

“Are you going to kill me?”

“I had no intention of hurting you,” he assures her, “ but striking in self-defence hardly counts as an attack, won’t you agree?”

“Lower that down or I’ll scream,” she hisses.

“And blow your cover? I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”

She knows he is right. She knows she wouldn’t do that either, she would rather die at the hands of this peculiar stranger than be discarded from the society—from her house.

She swallows hard. “How about we strike a bargain? I’ll keep your secret, and you shall do the same.”

“A fair proposition,” he nods, lowering the blade

“May I have my dagger back now?” 

“Of course,” he replies, returning it. “Next time, ensure you hold it properly.”

As she returns the weapon to her belt, he wrinkles his nose. “What is that foul odour? Surely it’s not you?”

Just then the realisation hits, she has plunged into the mud, she has scrubbed herself a bit, but clearly not enough to get rid of the smell.

“How would you know the natural scent of humans?” she deflects. “You apparently aren’t one of us.”

“Is that truly how mortals smell?” disgust is evident on his face.

“Indeed.”

“I shall take my leave now,” she announces, turning to go.

The man calls after her, “I hope you don’t forget our pact of secrecy.”