Neither amnesia nor the brothers trying to steer her fate will stop Amber Fallbrook from uncovering the truth about herself, the Alchemary, and the legend of the Philosopher’s Stone. New York Times bestselling author Rachel Vincent (Soul Screamers, The Shifters) pens a dark paranormal romantasy centered on alchemy magic—and those who dare harness it.
Intrigued? Read on to discover the synopsis and an excerpt from The Alchemary by Rachel Vincent, which releases on April 7th 2026.
Naked, knowing little more than her name, Amber Fallbrook does not recognize the stone tower she’s awoken in, or the vast, glittering ocean beyond its window. Turning, she finds a very a different view: a beautiful, nearly nude man stirring in her bed. He is a stranger, as is the man who barges into the room seconds later, clearly expecting to find Amber alone.
Who are they? Who is she? Why can’t she remember?
Shocked to discover that she’s in her dormitory room at the Alchemary—the realm’s prestigious university dedicated to the study of alchemy—Amber has no recollection of having been one of the school’s top students for the past two years. The two men—brothers—are her childhood friends, even if “friends” is not exactly the energy in the room.
One brother claims he wants to protect her, and the other to help her recover her memory. But nothing is at it seems at the Alchemary. Not the intentions of her classmates and faculty, not the stunning, labyrinthine campus, not the two brothers she’s increasingly attracted to—maybe not even Amber herself.
Despite her memory loss, Amber rejoins her classes and prepares for the deadly Alchemary Trials alongside the other Mastery-level students. But as invigorating as the flowing language and symbology of alchemy is, she can’t help but notice that for an institution shining light on the quest for human perfection there are a lot of dark shadows in its winding corridors.
Excerpt of THE ALCHEMARY: Book 1 of the Alchemy Trials by Rachel Vincent © Disney Enterprises, Inc
I shivered on the exam table, chilled by the smooth marble surface despite the weight of both my shift and my frock.
Across the room, Desmond stood huddled in the corner with Dr. Winhoof and the Bluehelm, discussing my future as if I couldn’t hear them. As if my thoughts on the matter held no relevance.
Wilder snagged my cloak from a coatrack in the corner and draped it over my shoulders. “Chin up, Amber. It’s not all bad,” he whispered as he rubbed my arms through my sleeves, as if he knew they were covered in gooseflesh.
“How is losing every aspect of my adult life not ‘all bad’?” I demanded in a matching whisper.
A brazen grin lit up his blue eyes, like a candle flaring behind stained glass. “You still have me, and I find you more fascinating and mysterious than ever.”
I rolled my eyes at him, fighting a smile. “You’re suggesting that should be my primary concern?”
“Well, it certainly is mine.” He boosted himself onto the table next to me and bumped my shoulder with his own. But then his gaze, too, was drawn toward the meeting in the corner of the room.
“With all due respect, madam,” Desmond said, “given that Amber is suffering from what appears to be profound amnesia, of an unknown nature and cause, I see no way for her to safely proceed with her Mastery year.”
Irritation spiked in my heartbeat, briefly blurring the edges of my vision. My hands clenched around the edge of the exam table.
Wilder shot me a sympathetic look.
“The trials are dangerous enough for students who know what they’re doing,” Desmond continued. “And regardless of her status at the school yesterday, today she can’t tell the difference between precious metals and base metals. Between a solution and a suspension.”
That was not accurate. I still had the foundational-level knowledge I’d come to the Alchemary with—what I’d learned as a child from my mother—but it would do me no good to argue with his assertion.
The past half hour had been spent in examination of my memories, and to my surprise, the Bluehelm had stayed for the entire exam, her aide taking distressingly few notes, because there was little, evidently, that was noteworthy.
I remembered nothing after my eighteenth year, but part of that year, too, was spotty. There was no clean line dividing the “before amnesia” and “after amnesia” portions of my memory, but Dr. Winhoof had determined, through exhaustive questioning, that I remembered nothing of my time at the Alchemary. Nothing of the skills I’d gained or the projects I’d worked on.
Despite his hyperbolic stance, Desmond was correct: I was not ready for the Mastery-year trials.
And yet that bolt of anger—of indignation—persisted, burning in my belly like an incompatible meal. I’d wanted to be an alchemist for most of my life. I’d grown up in my mother’s village apothecary shop, hearing stories of the Alchemary and the great works done there—done here—by the most accomplished scientists in the world. Amnesia had not erased my drive to become an alchemist. And the knowledge that I’d been almost there before whatever had happened—the knowledge that I’d worked, and studied, and sacrificed, and learned, all for nothing—had left me bitter on a level that stretched beyond present and past, and burrowed deep into my soul.
Rather than end my ambition, amnesia had left me motivated.
I couldn’t be sure how I would have reacted to something like this if I hadn’t forgotten my entire adult life, but this felt like a moment for fighting. Not for giving up. Not for going home with my metaphorical tail between my legs. And not just for my future as an alchemist.
For my memory.
Whatever had happened to me to drain the well of my memory, it had happened here. It was related to this place, somehow. And I could not shake the certainty that if I left, I would be abandoning my best chance of reversing the loss. Not just of my alchemical skills, but of my life.
“As badly as I hate to admit it,” Dr. Winhoof said. “And as dearly as I would love to study this case . . . I’m afraid Desmond is correct. The trials are much too dangerous for someone with inadequate knowledge of alchemy, regardless of the reason for that inadequacy.”
A strangled sound leaked from my throat, and Wilder’s hand curled around mine, warming my fingers. “There’s still time,” he whispered.
Dr. Winhoof turned. “What was that?” he asked, but I could see from the twitch at one corner of his mouth that he’d heard perfectly well. That he concurred with whatever Wilder’s point was, but he didn’t want to be the one to make it in front of his superior.
Wilder cleared his throat. “I said there’s still time.”
“For what?” Desmond glared at his brother.
“For her to learn. To relearn. The first trial is six weeks away, and—”
“And you think she can relearn two full years of studies—not to mention all the time spent on her independent project—in a month and a half?” the older Gregory brother demanded.
Wilder glanced at me, and his smile buoyed my confidence. “I think that if anyone can, she can.”
“Exactly how strong a student was I?” I asked, vexed that I couldn’t answer my own question. That I couldn’t feel pride in my accomplishments—whatever those were.
“Cressa?” The Bluehelm glanced at her aide, who pulled a string-bound book from the bag slung over one shoulder. My name was written on the cover of the slim volume.
Cressa opened the book, balancing it over the tablet she still held in one hand, and her dark brows rose as she scanned a chart filled with brief scores and notations.
“You were an extraordinary student,” she said as she closed the book. Then her gray-eyed gaze met mine, and it was cooler than I’d expected, given the compliment. “Academically speaking, anyway.”
The Bluehelm seemed unsurprised by the assessment, and I realized that though she might not have known the particulars, she must have been familiar with my accomplishments. Why else would she have come to assess one ailing student when she likely had a full agenda on the first day of the semester?
“Is it possible?” I asked. And though the decision would ultimately belong to the Bluehelm, I found myself looking at Desmond instead. “Isn’t it at least possible that if the knowledge is still locked up in here”—I tapped on my temple—“that studying what I’ve already learned could just sort of . . . jar it all loose?”
And that staying here, where something had clearly gone wrong for me, could show me how to set things right again?
No one seemed willing to hazard a guess.
“Even if it doesn’t,” Wilder finally said, “there’s always the chance that your memory will come back on its own. Right?” He turned to Dr. Winhoof, who looked completely uncertain and distinctly uncomfortable with that predicament. “It’d be a shame for her to drop out and go back to Innswood, only to recover her memory next week. She would have missed a week of classes and research. And trial prep.”
Desmond made a dismissive sound. “The chances are very slim that that scenario will prove even remotely relevant.”
“And yet . . . that chance exists?” The Bluehelm turned to Dr. Winhoof. “Can we say for certain that it doesn’t?”
He frowned. “Cases of amnesia are very, very rare, and these are extraordinary circumstances. In most of the cases I’m familiar with, the victim’s memory did eventually return. I cannot guess how quickly that might happen for Ms. Fallbrook, but I also can’t say it won’t happen. The truth is that it could happen tomorrow.”
Desmond crossed his arms over his chest, his left side hiddenby the drape of his asymmetrical cape. “And it might never happen.”
“As I see it, we have two options,” Dr. Winhoof said. “We can allow her to stay, with certain conditions and restrictions, to give her memory a chance to recover. Or we can dismiss her from the Alchemary, which would be denying her the chance to prepare for the trials even if her memory comes back.” He cleared his throat. “It seems to me that less harm would be done by the former option. After all, if her memory fails to return, she can always be excluded from the trials and sent home.”
His logic lit a spark inside me that was part determination and part fear. I could not lose this opportunity.
“I want to stay,” I said. “I should stay. I have clearly earned my place here, and I have no doubt I’m capable of applying that drive and determination to recovering everything I’ve lost.”
I took a deep breath and fixed my gaze on Desmond for a moment before shifting it firmly toward the Bluehelm. “Please. I want to stay.”
Desmond’s coppery scowl burned into me, before he, too, turned to the Bluehelm. “I must officially object. No student who lacks a grasp of basic alchemical theory belongs in the Mastery year class, regardless of the—”
“Consider yourself heard,” the Bluehelm interrupted. “And your objection noted. But given that you are neither a physician nor one of Ms. Fallbrook’s instructors, you lack standing in this debate, and I agree with Dr. Winhoof, that she should be allowed to stay, at least for now.” She glanced pointedly at Cressa, who began scribbling madly on the wax tablet as the older woman spoke. “Under the following conditions . . .”
