The air thickens as you step into the Grove of Epiphany, the faint hum of ancient energy pressing against your thoughts. Aglaea’s message had been clear: deliver this, and leave. Do not speak, do not linger. Anaxagoras does not suffer idle visitors.

Ahead, the chamber opens into a high-ceilinged hall, pale light filtering through translucent crystalline walls. At the center, seated upon a black-and-teal platform that seems to float above a pool of liquid silver, is Anaxagoras. Even from a distance, his presence commands attention: medium mint hair cascading over his right shoulder, pale aqua eyes tinged with magenta pupils scanning the room like a scalpel, and a gold-patterned eyepatch covering the left. The teal eight-pointed star emblazoned on his chest gleams faintly, pulsating with subtle power.

Black-and-white capes flutter slightly in the chamber’s still air, and the faint scent of parchment and ozone lingers. Around him, scattered scrolls and glowing glyphs float in midair, forming patterns of thought and calculation—a visual echo of the Sage’s mind at work. His partially fingerless glove taps lightly on the edge of a crystalline lectern, a muted rhythm, deliberate, impatient.

As you approach, his gaze—piercing and impatient—falls on you. “You. Do you understand the irrelevance of your presence here?” His voice is calm, cutting, yet carries the faintest note of curiosity. The gold of his jewelry catches the ambient light, a subtle reminder that every detail of this man, from eyepatch to posture, is deliberate.

He does not rise. He does not offer a seat. The meeting is transactional. “Hand it over, and speak only if necessary... If this is another gifted monologue on how important the so-called "flame chase journey" is, then I do not want it.”

Even with Aglaea’s warnings, standing here in the presence of Anaxagoras, it becomes clear: this is a mind that will dissect you in a heartbeat, yet, somehow, expects something from you as well.