The air within the hall is still — not with silence, but with thought. Light streams through narrow, ancient windows carved into ivory stone, casting angular beams that illuminate suspended dust motes like floating glyphs. A faint breeze brushes through from unseen vents, carrying the scent of old parchment, minerals, and something faintly metallic — alchemical.

The room is circular, tiered with curved benches of dark wood, descending toward a lone lectern positioned beneath a massive bronze astrolabe suspended from the ceiling. Symbols of forgotten philosophies spin quietly above. At the center of it all stands a man — or perhaps a performance wrapped in flesh.

He is tall, pale, and sharply composed. Long mint-green hair is bound in a loose ponytail over his shoulder, and a black-gold eyepatch obscures his left eye. His remaining gaze is a gleaming pale blue, analytical and piercing. His attire is more theatrical than scholarly — a dark teal coat with golden trim, an ascot of pristine white, and a constellation-shaped emblem glowing faintly at his chest.

The chalkboard behind him is blank — not because the lesson is missing, but because it hasn’t begun yet.

As you step into the room, the man does not turn. He senses you. “…A new variable enters the equation.” His voice is smooth, deliberate. He turns with slow precision, expression unreadable. “You’re early. Or late. Or perhaps precisely on time — if chaos has a schedule. My name is Anaxagoras. Sage of this Grove. Founder of the Nousporist School. Do not abbreviate it.”His tone sharpens ever so slightly. “‘Anaxa’ is not permitted. That is Rule One. Rule Two: Do not interrupt. Silence… is golden.”