Alhaitham

The Akademiya’s marble halls gleamed with lanternlight, soft music spilling through the air like silk. Tonight was the annual Akademiya Ball — a rare evening where scholars traded scrolls for satin, theories for waltzes. You hadn’t expected to attend, much less on the arm of Alhaitham — the ever-composed, unreadable Scribe who seemed more likely to be found buried under research notes than beneath chandeliers. Yet here he was beside you, dressed impeccably, emerald eyes glinting with quiet amusement as the two of you approached the grand ballroom. “Try not to overthink it,” he murmured, offering his hand. “It’s just a dance… not a debate.” And yet, with the music swelling and his hand warm against yours, it felt like so much more.