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I wrote a book, and it only took me 8 years. And it’s just the first in Raven's Prophecy series.

While I was facing a blossoming, creative period, I figured out I could well write more than one book. Moreover, I got a story tossing around my mind, which you can find on my website too. Aftershock, check it out.  
 

Back to my historical fiction series, which encompasses modern-day Britain, ancient Rome, emperors, warriors, druids, and more. Despair, struggle and many challenges await Freya, Valerius, and others in this thrilling trilogy, which was written by Man Behind The Pen, David Smojver.

 

Not only will you find a fiery female lead character but also a brave Roman General who completes the picture, or to say, the book. Yes, there is a dose of romance, but don’t jump like a kangaroo yet…because this doesn't go the way you might imagine it. Here you’ll find the first chapter, so check it out, see for yourself and if you have any inputs, please let me know. I would really appreciate it.

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Raven's Prophecy

Prologue

 

"Gods, what are we going to do now?" she whispered and held tighter onto him. The river ice was cracking under their horse's hooves, and the howls of the wolves were echoing into the dark, winter forest. She could hear angry voices coming close behind them. The soldiers were not giving up the chase. A cold gust of wind blew over the river, and her long fiery hair obscured her eyes. The howling pack appeared on the bank of the river. All she could see were enormous, growling mugs and sharp teeth. The man tilted his head, and she could see a fierce warrior tattoo covering his face. Her emerald eyes shone softly in the moonlight as they surveyed the contours of his rugged features. He appeared as a brute, and yet, she pulled him closer, unafraid. She was not petrified of the man in her arms, but of what was to come. As she held him, she could feel the sticky blood oozing from his wound. The ice started giving way, and she screamed.” 

Chapter 1.

 

A storm was waiting to happen.

From the high curving window of her loft, on Harcourt Hill, just across Raleigh Park, Freya MacLeod could see the grey-blue clouds gathering above the heads of the passers-by. It was well after seven, and the damp-limp residential road seemed to finally wake up. The peoples’ reactions were slow, tiredness running in their veins just the same as their blood. Thunder bellowed, bursting through the gathering clouds to send its drumbeat along the top of the trees.

The thought of how she ended up here, surrounded by these rich people crossed her mind and made her smile. Somehow, she felt lucky, but she knew it wasn’t about luck. It was hard work, passion and a heart set on a better future. It has been no longer than six months since she established herself in the top apartment. She was in building C, and it was no big secret how the fiery red-haired girl, with vivid green eyes, became a tenant.

The Wendell Group, owed by Olivia Wendell, was one of the most powerful and influential organization in the UK and the sole developer of Wendell’s residential properties all over the country. One year ago, after losing her husband, Mrs Wendell created a pilot program along with Oxford University to cherish his memory.

“What is it we believe in? Us, as part of society. We have produced a world of contented bodies and discontented minds. That has to stop. The hope of mankind rests on the shoulders of bright, young people with passion in their eyes and fire in their soul.” Was the opening line of the speech, Mr Wendell gave in front of the board, two weeks before he passed away. To honour his memory and his desire for a better future, his wife, Olivia Wendell, created a pilot programme along with Oxford University and the European Union.

The programme was named “Leaders of Tomorrow – The complexity of intelligent leaders’ dwells in understanding our past”. The agenda was to recruit educated young minds who would not be held back by backstabbing politics and party agendas. They would look to improve humanity and help us reach for the stars. Twenty-six exceptional people were handpicked from different countries were selected to participate in the programme. Only ten of them received a Wendell full scholarship, which included their accommodation during the course. Freya was one of the ten.

At twenty-four she has finished her studies at Ljubljana University. She was also part of a research team at Wroclaw University in Poland, which conducted studies of political and historical similarities between Ancient Empires and today's superpower policies.

One of the leading researchers recommended her to the select Oxford University scholarship committee when he learned about the pilot program. In her recommendation letter was written she had an exceptionally deductive mind that could penetrate through deep-rooted mysteries hidden in ancient texts. Nothing far from the truth, but Freya possessed qualities that she, herself hasn’t discovered yet. This was an honour for her and for Wroclaw University, so she accepted without hesitation.

Her eyes glittered with awe when she arrived and found herself in a small loft, elegantly furnished. It wasn’t like any other cramped apartment on the campus where she previously was placed. She was the sole inhabitant, and it took her a week to unpack her personal items, and with the help of scented candles, the place smelled like spring.

A shudder coursed through her, making her aware of the commotion below. A noisy woman, who obviously was not having a pleasant morning pressed the claxon of her car, alerting her kids they were late. Four poor little souls came running towards the car, dragging their backpacks, and pushing and teasing each other. It was almost like a picture taken from a zoo enclosure. Freya smiled, shaking her head. Today seemed to be pushing everyone’s buttons.

 

She wasn’t a woman who would let herself believe in premonition or intuition, and the very thought of it was irrational. Still, the last few months, her memory and her vision were playing tricks on her. At the begging were flashes of something or someone. Lately, the flashes became a blurry image of a man wrapped in wolf pelts. He was standing on a hill, alone. There was wild grass, pale green and yellow and trees almost bared, as the seasons started to change. Every time the Stranger turns his face for a second, then the image fades. It has been hard to distinguish his features, but his eyes spoke kindness and most of all, sadness.

 

Something was coming. She could feel it, not just in the thickening of the air but in the primal beating of her own blood. When she pressed her hand to the glass, she almost expected her fingers to sizzle, snapped with the power of the electricity building. But the glass was cool and smooth, and as black as the sky. As if he heard her calling, the stranger’s image reflected in the glass. This time it was just him. Standing beside her, like a guardian of sorts. Her heart was thumping in her chest, and her hands felt clammy. 

 

Enchanted by his deep gaze, Freya let herself drift away. It troubled her deeply that he seemed so sad. She knew it wasn’t rational, but still, she couldn’t stop to wonder. “Who? Why so sad?” But the stranger was gone in the blink of an eye, leaving her with more questions than before.

 

Another crack of thunder pulled Freya back to reality. The wind was gathering force, and the storm was rolling closer, sign it’s not going to be a leisurely morning. Restless, she moved away from the window.

 

She grabbed an oversized sweater from the sofa and covered her bare shoulders. Swaying across the room, she hit her hip on the blunt edge of her desk and let out a soft curse. That spot will definitely be bruised in a couple of seconds. She glanced at the worn copy of Pride and Prejudice just barely visible amidst the various historical and psychological texts that adorned the desktop. A long, cherished memory washed the image of the stranger. The copy was given by her mother. First day of high-school. She dragged her feet to the kitchen. She ignored the stack of the past week's Times, arranged chronologically on a chair, which turned into her newspaper’s holder and filled the kettle with water. She pressed the ON button and waited for the water to boil. She stretched her body, going over her schedule once again. The kettle turned off, and she lifted on her toes to reach for the coffee jar and pick a mug.

 

While sipping her morning coffee, fuel she could not live without, she threw her eyes on yesterday’s paper. She glanced at the feature, which caused her already indisposition to alter. More of this bullshit. ‘Militant Islamists Invading EU Under the Guise of a Humanitarian Disaster’ was the front-page title. There was a photo of a refugee centre on fire and a mass of men protesting in a threatening manner.

 

“The world is going crazy,” The thought put a grin on her lips, her eyes locked on to the hot brew.

 

The world's social climate was changing. Iran was getting nuclear weapons abilities faster than anyone predicted. The United States was dealing with its own economic problems and needed constant conflict to keep the dollar from collapsing. It was one of the real reasons for invading Iraq and beforehand, staging a false flag operation in New York, which gave an excuse for going into the war in the first place. On the other side of the world, China and Russia were playing their own game of high stakes chess. Their Sino-Russian Border had been a source of constant tension since the undeclared military conflict, which started in 1969. As a result, the two superpowers were wary of their neighbours.  She idly flipped through the “World” section, pausing only for the occasional brow furrow. There was so much conflict in the Middle East, and it was obvious where all of it was going.

 

The propaganda machine was at full power, especially America's Fox News. Even Goebbels would be proud of their techniques for telling fairy tales and making people believe them.

 

It was history repeating itself. Ancient Empires transformed into today's superpowers, but the principles and mechanisms of how they operated, remained similar. However, then, the corruption and lies weren't veiled behind talking heads and sound bites. Technology had become more sophisticated, and the means of destroying each other had become more advanced. The result was still identical. Civilians suffered, homes destroyed, and innocents were paying the price for old men's wars. 

 

Freya assumed that people could see where all this was really coming from, if only they could just open their eyes. But they chose ignorance. The real troublemakers were not in the Middle East as the news outlets proposed. They were in their skyscrapers, pulling strings from their leather chairs, manipulating their democratically elected politicians from above. 

 

The primary role of these officeholders was to keep the people compliant and enslaved to their reality shows. Their unquenchable consumerist thirst and first world “problems".  For people at the top of those organizations, the real aphrodisiac was not money, but power over lives and destinies of countries. Old chronicles confirmed sociopaths, megalomaniacs, and narcissists led this world throughout history and into modern times.

 

Europe wanted to avoid the full blast of the conflict, which motivated the European Union to fund part of the Pilot programme. Freya had always believed that deeds spoke louder than words, and luckily, she was not alone in this way of thinking. Finally, the European Parliament came to its senses learning from the past world wars, which had torn Europe apart. Thus, the need for bright new diplomats to steer Europe through these tumultuous times became crucial. 

 

The EU directive instructed its members to find, smart, educated people with know-how and give them a freehand in solving the issues, which the unfit bureaucrats had screwed up. Freya was self-assured in the knowledge that her position in Oxford was pivotal for helping to redirect the future of Europe.

 

Minutes later, Freya stepped out of the shower wrapped in a towel. She quickly combed her hair and applied a soft makeup, just to erase the marks of the long nights she pulled in.

 

She glanced at her watch and the time seemed to fly faster then she thought. It was now half eight and too late for her to be picky with her outfit. She knew she has beautiful features, and she always spent a considerable amount of time to dress. Not because of vanity, but because it gave her a higher note of confidence and she liked the feeling.

 

She opened a drawer, selected a pair of skinny jeans in deep blue colour and a top. The day was already gloomy and dark, so she chose to keep herself warm by putting on a cable knit sweater with a high neck, in a soft shade of peach. She paired the outfit with an oversized military coat and black Chelsea boots. With one last look in the mirror, she slipped her bag on a shoulder and left the apartment, just in the time to catch the bus.

 

She slammed open the front door of the building which such force she had to turn her head to check for potential damage. But instead of door damage, something else caught her eye. It wasn’t a movement, but a presence. Her eyes rested on a blackbird the size of a hawk, laying on the wet patch of grass. It was definitely a raven. Without giving herself time to think about it, she bent her knees and reached down to check on the poor soul.

 

“Fuck.” A curse left her lips when the sharp beak pinched her skin, letting red, hot drips of blood to wash the ground. “Now look what you’ve done. I was just trying to help you, silly.” Freya studied the wound and felt entitled to scold the bird.

 

With a rapid flap of wings, the bird pulled itself together. Standing on its fragile legs, the songbird tilted its head and trapped Freya’s fiery eyes in its glossy dark beads. Her lips tightened, and the hair stood up on the back of her neck. This could have been another trick her mind was playing on her, but she could swear she was staring into bright red eyes. Her ears lined with the raven’s frequency and a very sophisticated nonvocal song pierced through her body. She thought her mind was confused, but that strange melody was all she could hear. The raven sprouted its wings, trapping her wary body into something, which as dangerous as it looked, made her feel protected. After a time, the song ceased and the bird scattered in thin air.

 

The road is washed black by the recent rain and by the looks of the morning sky, sunny weather was a faraway dream. The sidewalks were crowded and noisy. The bus arrived ten minutes later. Nothing unusual, especially during rainy days. She swiped her card and took a window seat, next to an elderly woman. She wondered why the transport companies don’t put any effort into maintaining public transport. At least a well-deserved cleaning once a year, would make the difference. When it rolled off the assembly line, the seats must have been a brilliant blue, the chrome hand-rails mirroring the sunlight. Now the bus is anything but luxury. The seats dulled by the grime of years, the rails filthy, with specs of rust.

 

For more than forty minutes, the bus rocked them from side to side as they travel these familiar roads, their brains affording the time to prolong their sleep or stare without focus. There were those who chatter, their voices rising and blending together in the sweet ritual of friends. Some absorb themselves in music, others drift into worries that will erase themselves on arrival when their body re-joins the world of moving and speaking to others. 

 

As she stepped out on the Little Clarendon Street, a bold wind comes to greet her. A mix of cold air and drizzles brush her skin with passion, tousling her copper hair in messy ringlets. It gave her a wild look like her soul was untamed. She wrapped her locks around her hand and tucked into her sweater, clearing her face.

 

“Watch it.” She snapped when a boy tumbled into her. Steadying herself, she turned on her heels and walk down the narrow alee filled with diverse shops and cafés.

 

As she stepped into another world, the air becomes more delicious than everything. The aroma captures the rich flavour of coffee beans and the sweetness of the cakes and pastries baked at her arm’s length. A mixture of flavours. Vanilla and cinnamon, chocolate and mint. The blend is perfection.

 

Freya rushed her steps towards the quirky turquoise and white façade. It was her favourite café. SOČA. The colour pallet, as well as the name engraved on the sign above the window, represented a reminder for the owner and … her.

 

She swung open the door and eyes painted in the same bright turquoise shade as the river Soča, welcomed Freya.

 

“Good morning, my dear.” Marga, the owner, pulled her in a tight embrace. She ran her hands up and down Freya’s arms, warming her up. “Such a cold Thursday.”

 

 

“Morning, Marga.” She softly kissed the woman’s cheek. “And it doesn’t seem the arctic wind will loosen its grip.”

 

“Sašo, come out here, old man,” Marga shouted over her shoulder.

 

“What’s with this uproar so early in the day, old woman?” Sašo asked, peeking his head out of the back room. A fatherly smile curved his lips, and he came out, cleaning his hands on his baker’s apron. “My dear girl,” He pulled her in an embrace same as Marga. “I thought you forgot about us.”

 

Freya kissed his cheek and smiled. “How could I ever do that. You know you are as dear as my parents are to me.” And that was true. Since she came here and found out that Marga and Sašo the town didn’t seem foreign to her anymore. In their eyes, she could see her home, and in their arms, she could feel her parents' love. The couple didn’t have any children, and somehow Freya became their adopted daughter. She was overwhelmed with their love and care.

 

As her parents, Marga and Sašo came from a small, charming Slovenian town, named Bovec. Her mother was born and raised in the alpine town, and her father was Scottish. They met when he was vacationing in the region with some friends during his university days. Her father, Gordon, a renowned writer, was responsible for giving her the curiosity and zest for deciphering ancient mysteries when she was helping him with his research. 

 

Her mom, Katrina, was a doctor in Tolmin hospital, a mere thirty min away from Bovec. She fondly remembered her childhood in Soča River Valley, known in ancient times as Aesontius river. Season after season, the landscape changes, but the warmth and the astonishment never dissipate. Vivid colours, wildflowers rising from the earth, the smell of fresh-cut grass. The clear, blue sky becomes an infinite stage for the trills of the birds and the hums of the trees. Crisp mornings and pristine snow crunching under her feet. The same aquamarine sky above her head.

 

She propped her hand on the edge of the counter. “The course keeps me busier than I imagined.”

 

Marga handed her a paper cup filled with a double shot of caramel macchiato. “I hope you don’t forget to take care of yourself, little one.”

 

She clasped her hands around the cup. The warmth of the liquid tingled her cold skin. “I am. And, I promise I will make time to come see you more often.” She winked and took a lid to cover her cup.

 

“I know, I know.” Marga came to Freya’s side and gave her a final hug. “Now go,” She gently tapped her shoulders, “Before that cranky, old man comes back and will not let you go without trying his new pastries.”

 

“Next time, I promise.” She said, blowing a kiss as she took off.

 

By the time she finished her brew, Freya had found herself walking the halls crowded with people. Perfect chaos were the words she could use to describe the place. Laughter sounds along the halls joined with exciting conversations and shouts. On her left side, a couple was making out. Their ignorance amazed her.

 

She felt like an unwelcomed voyeur when the couple’s eyes caught her staring, making her flinch and pick up her pace. A bittersweet feeling made her heart pump faster the blood in her veins. She didn’t believe in soul mates, and there was no sense of loneliness. Still, she wanted to find a someone with whom she’ll embrace the rush of euphoria, the pleasure and abandonment. Her stomach tightened and a strange eagerness prickled along her skin.

 

Shaking the thought, Freya run up the wooden stairs. The classroom was situated at the top floor on the old building and accessible only by a narrow, strange angled staircase. The squeak did not surprise her, but it was immediate and loud once she put her foot on the step.

 

“Good morning.” She greeted her colleagues and took a seat at an empty window desk.

 

Her classmates were good, smart people, and one could see that the combination of their ways of thinking. Their character and their working experiences could quite possibly bring about the changes the pilot program wanted to achieve. The key to success was that the governments would allow these graduates to continue with their work in the European Parliament. The idea was to create committees with executive power, which would regulate European countries in such a way that the European Union could stay economically and militarily strong and, hopefully, become independent from NATO. European countries signed a document with which they agreed to allow those committees to suggest changes in their policies for the greater good, and subsequently, obligated signature countries to abide by those suggestions.

 

“You look so serious, Freya.” Aisling, one of the British students, took the seat next to her.

She tried to smile and turned away before she looked at her again. “Long morning. Not enough sleep. It will pass.” She wasn’t sure what else to say, and they weren’t close enough to share private aspects of their lives either.

 

“Contemporary civilization” was their first class and it has been modelled after Irwin Edman’s book “Human traits and their social significance”. She powered her Mac and opened the file with the course contents. “Racial and cultural continuity” was this week’s topic and from the looks of it will become a very intense exchange of words.

 

She read one more time the text submitted by the professor, formulating an idea on the matter. “Again, we may have inherited “white elephants,” which may be of absolutely no use to us, encumbrances of which we cannot easily rid ourselves, influential ideas which are no longer adequate to our present situation, obsolete emotions, methods, or institutions. We may allow our cultural inheritance, through bad education, to fall into disrepair and decay. Since we are so dependent on the past, our attitude toward it, which in turn determines the use we make of it, is of the most crucial significance.

 

The several characteristic and varying attitudes toward the past which are so markedly current are not determined solely by logical considerations. For individuals and social groups, particular features of their heritage have significant emotional associations. The living past is composed of habits, traditions, values, which are vivid and vital issues to those who practice them. Traditions, customs, or social methods come to have intrinsic values; they become the centre of deep attachments and strong passion. They are a rich element of the atmosphere of the present; they are woven into the intimate fabric of our lives.”

 

“Simon and Cornelia will fight like cats and dogs.” Aisling gave Freya a shrug and moved her eyes over the pair sitting two rows below.

 

“And I thought my day couldn’t get worse.” Freya murmured under her breath, sensing the tension rising in the air. She didn’t condemn their passion. Far from the truth. But not even Professor McGuire could mediate the argument once it kicked off. This course was the only one she had to attend today, and that will make it easier for her mind to cope with.

 

The rain, so heavy in the air you could taste it, held up. Still, the lightning intensified piercing through the dark sky. At the same time, the boom of thunder quaked the earth, as if trying to wake up demos buried in the deepest corners of Hell.

 

Four hours later, she walked out of the classroom, tired and hungry. Simon and Cornelia had the argument of their life, and that conversation continued even after the course ended. Menacing clouds were still fuming across the dull sky, and the rain stopped. Only a capricious wind and icy steady drops remained behind, feeding the hungry puddles. No matter how miserable she felt, she couldn’t just go back to her place. As far as she could see, she had two choices. She could go back to her apartment and bury herself in papers and essays. Or, she could sit in Bodley’s arms for a couple of hours, among aged books, surrounded by a warm and dusty smell, just like the one you can find inside of an attic.

 

She liked the second idea. In fact, she thought it was a very inspired one. She pulled her collar and buttoned her coat without taking the time to debate with herself. The four-hour-long debate she just happened to survive, was enough for today. A soft smile curled her lips. She filled her lungs with the fresh scent of rain and the smell of the old city. Ten minutes later she walked through the stone archways of the Bodleian. The main reading rooms smelled of old leather and burnished wood. Bodleian Library represents much more than a library. In her eyes, the spectacular buildings represent a piece of history, which lies at the core of Oxford University, and it has strong associations with historical and literary figures. It fascinated her. 

 

The main door was a portal which takes its visitors in the past, as well as in the future. Bodley’s guest had no idea what was even possible, once they found themselves behind the massive door.

 

With careful steps, Freya made her way to the upper gallery, searching for a particular bookshelf.

 

“Hmm,” She clutched her hands behind her back, and bent from the waist down. “I’m sure this is the right place.” Moving her head, she followed with her eyes the covers of the books, sliding over them and softly mouthing each title.

 

Easily excited, she squatted and searched the row below. “There,” She thought she spotted the cover. “Not ‘The Insulted and Humiliated’. Maybe someone found it first.” She mutters, stopping her search.

 

A little bit disappointed, she straightened up, stretched her body and walk around the library. Row after row of neatly lined up books with their spines facing outward, Freya wandered in a part of the library she had never been before. The very existence of this wing was foreign to her. Behind secured glass doors, the bookcase was straight, and it hugged the walls all around. Small dividers compartmenting the rows, with small golden inscriptions on its corners, gave the room a unique character. In the centre, four delicately carved desks with golden table lamps made this room even more enthralling.

 

Intrigued, she pulled out from the pocket her pass and swiped it on the red blinking light, bellow the handle. “It worth a try.” She thought, before hearing the faint click.

Startled, she pushed the door and stepped into this captivating room. Books in leather covers, different shades and sizes stored in an orderly fashion on one side, scrolls and parchment sheets on the other. The middle area caught her eye. The books stored there were work of art. The binding on each row was finely detailed, with small gold lettering engraved on the spine. She opened the covers of one or two, but it contained words she could not identify. 

 

Freya inched away slowly, but the strange melody she heard earlier, that day began ringing in her ears. As someone cast a spell on her, she bent her body and reach beneath the bottom shelf.

 

She pulled out a book. The cover was made from black leather, but on a careful touch, the binding felt rough and soft, and it appeared to be made from a sort of a twisted silk thread, glued together. The front cover was framed with an ivy vine engraving, same shade as the binding. The distinguished part was the footer, which contained some letters, Roman numerals and odd patterns.

 

What was it, so private the writer chose to set it down in this mysterious way?

 

She turned over the book, and a chill went down her spine. A blood-red ink ivy vines created a woman’s silhouette with a cloak draping down her shoulders. She said nothing, but with her eyes focused on the cover, she lifted a hand to her own face. She traced her fingertips over the outline. The same jaw, the same mouth, nose, eyes. She felt a strong bond which she could not explain.

 

She didn’t know if the book was one of the restricted manuscripts, and as selfish as it seemed, she chose to ignore the library rules and opened it.   

 

The fragile pages almost became delicate snowflakes with the touch of her hand. Most people would have left this book without as much as a backwards glance or called the assigned librarian for this section, but she was enthralled.

 

Flipping the first two pages, gently not to tear the delicate paper she searched for a name, a title, a clue of what the book was about. But nothing came out. The further she went, the pages changed into a yellowish shade, old and dusty. No words or drawings until the end of it.

 

Her mind was whirling. Could this be just a crude joke? The thought flashed through her head, but she refused to accept the idea.

 

“What are you doing here? This place is forbidden to visitors.” Snarled a sharp voice from behind her.

 

She leapt to her feet and cast a worried look over her shoulder. A pair of grey eyes made her heart thudding in fright. The book took her senses. She didn’t hear the click which unlocked the door.

 

With a herculean effort, she made herself breathe. Be calm. Speak up. Her quivering fingers clutched around the book like her life depended on it.

 

The woman was standing in the doorway, staring at her with her arms crossed in front of her chest. Her features were neat and small. She held herself very straight. She was one of those women who proved that age is a trivial matter.

 

Freya observed her short sandy blond hair, was slicked back in a typical European hairstyle, which was a marvellous precision cut. It made her appearance effortlessly glamourous. She must have been in her late fifties, or even early sixties, but nothing could give away her age. Only fine lines around her eyes and corner of her lips, but even those couldn’t take your eyes from the high cheekbones painted in a soft blush colour.        

 

She was wearing a classic white shirt with rolled sleeves, just above her elbows, tucked in a pencil skirt, a deep blue shade reminding Freya of the night sky in the bright summer days. Fine golden jewelleries and a pair of pointed heels, made this woman look exquisite.

 

“I asked you a question, Miss…” The woman took off her dark-framed reading glasses and pinched the bridge between her eyes before resting it back on her pointed nose.

 

“I – I – My name – ” In front of this woman, her confidence disappeared like seafoam, and she became a scared little girl. Pull yourself together, Freya. She admonished herself and cleared her throat before finding her words again.

 

“My name is Freya. I am an Oxford student. Here is my library pass.” She handed the card and took a step back.

 

“No student was granted an access card to this area of the library. This specific section hasn’t been inaugurated yet due to the fragility of these valuable records. One will require a special pass,” The woman pointed her red access card “which only handpicked people by the Oxford Special Committee will have access.” She paused and stared at her. Her gaze eased, and her thin lips curbed in a faint smile. “I am Julia Miller. I was assigned to supervise this wing.” She reached out in a friendly gesture.

 

Shaking her hand, Freya smiled.

 

Julia moved past Freya. Her heels clicking on the hardwood floor. She pulled a chair and took a seat, crossing her legs. She gestured to Freya the opposite chair. She put the book down on the desk and slightly pushed it towards the woman with an apologetic smile.

 

“Freya. I am curious.” She propped her elbows on the table and brought her chin forward, inches above the cradle formed by her hands. “How did you get in?”

 

“I swiped my card.” She answered with a shrug.

 

Julia looked her right in the eye. “Your card?”

 

“Yes. I received a scholarship from Wendell Group, and they were the ones who provided me with all the documents need for my stay in the UK.”

 

Julia eased back on her chair and let a relief smile out. “Now it makes sense.”

 

“I am afraid I do not understand,” Freya said, confused.

 

“The Wendell Group financed this section of the library. You must have been granted access before we even had the plans for the room.” Julia rearranged herself and smiled brief.

 

“Oh.” The sound escaped Freya’s lips.

 

Julia bent over the table and picked the black book, studying with her fingers. “This is odd.” She said after a closer examination.

 

“I am sorry,” Freya said apologetically. “I didn’t know this was a restricted area and I wanted to take the book and study it in detail at home.”

 

“Odd, indeed.” Julia mutter under her breath, ignoring Freya’s words. She opened it. Something stirred on the woman’s face. Her eyes were searching the pages, with an urge Freya couldn’t understand.

 

“There’s no writing on it,” Freya said quietly.

 

A silence followed. The woman stopped her search and lifted her eyes. “Sometimes, things are not what they seem.” She closed the book and offered it to Freya. “You’d be surprised how easily people can mistake everything for nothing, and vice versa. I think it’s the same with the book. For some, it might be nothing. Or everything. Our fingers, our souls wander over things every day. It is a mere choice if we pick it up or forget about it. I believe this is the case of you. Your soul heard the call and your fingers chose to pick it up.” Julia spoke with wisdom.

 

Freya took it and pulled it at her chest. A gesture which she didn’t quite understand at the time. “You mean I was searching for a strange, unprinted book and somehow I found it here?”

 

Julia’s eyes warmed. “I chose to believe so. Maybe a long search might come to an end.” She rose to her feet, staring idly over the dark sky through the glass ceiling. “But I think you will not be ready until you understand the true worth of what you must relinquish.”

 

“I am afraid I don’t understand your words. I mean no disrespect, but I better take my leave.” Freya brushed past her. She stopped and turned on her heels. “As for the book, I better put it back. After all, there’s no writing on it.” She was lying. She wanted the book. Everything in her core screamed to run out of the building, taking the mysterious book with her.

 

Julia refused to take it. “Why don’t you keep it today? And if you still don’t wish to study, you can return it tomorrow.” She gently tapped Freya’s shoulder. “No harm in that.”

 

Holding back a relief sigh, Freya answered plainly. “Ok. Sure. Goodbye.” She turned her back, heading towards the door.

 

“See you soon, Freya.” Julia softly smiled.

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