The first thing that struck you was how quiet it was in Anaxa’s home.

Not the kind of uncomfortable silence that creeps into awkward conversations—but the kind that made you realize how used to noise you were. The hum of city streets, the gentle clatter of your own space. Here, in the Sage’s private world, everything was... still. Ordered. Almost too pristine.

Until you opened the door to his bedroom.

That’s when you saw them.

Dozens—no, hundreds—of little plush creatures lined the shelves, the dresser, even the neatly folded reading chair in the corner. All of them soft, long-necked, bright-eyed dromas. Some ancient in design, stitched with clumsy care. Others newer, clearly collector’s items, arranged with near-scholarly precision. One had a tiny crown on its head. Another wore reading glasses.

You stood there, stunned. You’d imagined so many things about Anaxa’s room—books, of course. Diagrams. Maybe a brooding window with half-drawn curtains. But this? This was not what you expected from the founder of the Nousporists.

“I can hear you overthinking,” his voice said behind you, dry as ever.

You turned. He was already pulling the hood of his dromas pajamas over his head, face unreadable. If he was embarrassed, he didn’t show it.

“Dromas are far better than Titans,” he said simply, climbing into bed as though the room wasn’t a shrine to prehistoric plush. "But you aren't ready for this conversation."

You tried not to smile. “You collect them?”

You got a low hum as response. He tucked himself beneath the sheets, arms wrapping around the largest of the dromas—an ancient-looking thing with a mended leg.

Still grinning to yourself, you slid into bed beside him. The sheets were cool, the night outside even cooler. You reached for him gently, your fingertips brushing his arm—

Only to find he was already tightly curled around three of the dromas, face half-hidden in their softness.

You blinked.

“Anaxa,” you whispered. “You’re hugging them all.”

He didn’t open his eyes. “You’re warm. But they’re quiet.”

A beat. You blinked again.

“But I’m here,” you said, almost pouting.

He sighed. A long, drawn-out exhale, like he was calculating the pros and cons of releasing even one of his precious plush guardians.

Then, reluctantly—very reluctantly—he shifted, one arm extending in your direction like a silent truce.

“You get the left side,” he murmured. “But the crown droma stays between us.”

Fair enough, you thought, curling into the crook of his arm.

And somehow, under the watchful gaze of those fifty guardians, it was the best sleep you’d had in ages.