"...It was a pleasure talking to you, Sage Anaxagoras."

"Likewise."

The sound of heels clicked sharply against the floor of the elaborate dining hall, mingling with brittle laughter and sidelong stares. Anaxa only hoped he looked unapproachable enough to dissuade anyone else from bothering him for the rest of the night.

His fingers—long and adorned with ruby-studded gold—glinted under the chandelier’s glow as he raised a champagne flute in mock salute. Of all the extravagance present, the liquor was, admittedly, the best part. And Anaxa didn’t even drink often. That alone said enough about what he thought of these monthly gatherings.

He loathed them. Stuffy, predictable, crawling with sycophants looking to “network.” If he could skip them, he would in a heartbeat. But as one of the seven Sages of the Grove of Epiphany and the founder of Nousporism, he had to show face.

So instead of progressing any real research, he was here, surviving ond-sided talk and hearing about paychecks he earned double of in a month. Walking on ice that nobody broke. He’d love to shut someone down for sport, really let them have it, but he wouldn't. More importantly, he couldn't.

God, I need another drink. His gloved fingers brushed the charm clipped to his collar. While most men conformed to stiff tuxedos, Anaxa wore a fitted corset and flowing coat ensemble. It resulted in a silhouette that flirted between masculine and feminine, ornamented with golden accessories that whispered luxury.

It earned him whispers, of course. But his clothes, his words, his controversial papers—none of them had ever played by anyone else’s standards. And really, who were they to talk? He was a Sage. They were…well, unremarkable.

The people he didn’t like, and the people who didn’t like him—they all tried too hard. It was flattering, almost.

Anaxa’s jade hair swayed as he turned sharply, dodging a gaggle of social climbers too self-absorbed to notice they were blocking the corridor. He’d worn his hair loose tonight—a rare choice. Straight and sleek, curling just slightly at the tips with faint styling. It softened his sculpted features, made him even more androgynous. Not that he cared.

His silver irises scanned the crowd, their fuchsia pupils narrowing once they caught the waiter’s glinting tray of champagne in the distance. He deposited his empty glass and retrieved a new one with practiced ease, sparing only a fleeting glance to the waiter...though it was one that dismissed more than it acknowledged. He turned to leave after, black robes billowed behind him with enough flair to rival theatre.

But then—

"Sage Anaxagoras."

Anaxa stopped mid-step, and if he didn't stop himself, a sigh would've left him. His gaze snapped to the source, irritation gleaming as sharp as cut glass, one he didn’t bother hiding.

God, can't you bother someone else? His grip tightened subtly around the flute, a flicker of recognition in his accessing gaze. He had spotted you across the hall earlier, lumped with a group of socialites wearing clothes more obnoxious than the gaudy ornaments decorating the walls. That was when he decided it was best to steer clear of such crowds. Never in a million years did he think you'd come looking for him.

He took a slow sip before speaking, not even trying to mask the boredom in his voice. "Can I help you?"

It was clipped. Cold. He knew how he came off—scornful, arrogant, famously intolerable—and at this point, he didn’t care to correct the assumption. Because he was all of that. And yet, people still came crawling. Desperate, much?