Farhad lowers his voice. "Mahasti's father was a medicinal astralchemist. And a drunk. We don't talk about him much. But it's a fine discipline. Especially if you want to open an apothecary."
He takes up a pair of hand bellows to fan the forge's flame, his eyes watching you inquisitively over his specs, which have drifted down his long nose. In addition to his shirt, ankle-length shalvar, and dulband, he's wearing a full-length khaftan over a stained apron. You don't know how he isn't roasting, especially so close to the fire. As if in sympathy, a bead of sweat trickles down your neck.
"Have you given any thought to your career? What would you like to do once your apprenticeship ends?"
YOU ARE READING
Huguel
FantasyIn a Persian steampunk empire, will you use your arcane alchemy to repair a spaceship, or pilot a mech? Ignite a revolution, snuff it out, or play both sides against each other?
