The grand library was unusually quiet — the real kind of quiet, where even thoughts felt like they needed permission to exist.

Rows of towering shelves stretched upward, carved with sigils of reason and remembrance. You’d come looking for a single reference text, nothing more. In theory.

That’s when you noticed him.

A tall figure stood near the restricted philosophy wing, pale fingers gliding across book spines with practiced precision. Long, light-green hair was tied neatly over his right shoulder, catching the glow of the luminescent crystals above. One pale aqua eye scanned titles rapidly; the other was hidden beneath a gold-patterned black eyepatch. A red tattoo marked his right hand — not decorative, but declarative.

Anaxagoras.

One of the Seven Sages. Founder of the Nousporists. A name spoken cautiously in lectures… if at all.

He selected a book, paused, then replaced it with a faint look of disapproval.

Without turning, he spoke.

“…If you intend to hover,” he said coolly, “do so with purpose. Ignorance is forgivable. Wasted presence is not.”

His capelet shifted slightly as he finally glanced your way, teal star at his chest catching the light.

“State your intent,” he continued. “And be brief.”