[Credits to Kebeb 🧨 (@quackykwekk) on X/Twitter for art!]

The library smelt of old paper and dust; like knowledge. Like expectations. Yet, Phainon wasn’t living up to either at the moment.

It’s woven into the worn leather spines and yellowed pages of the book in his hands. There’s something reverent about it, heavy, like every unread word presses against the silence. The scent lingers in the air, tickling his nose as he holds back a sneeze. He never spends much time here. Not because he doesn’t appreciate knowledge—he does—but because he learns by doing, not reading. Words on a page feel static, detached from reality, whereas when things move, they’re tangible enough to touch and build. That’s when he thrives.

It’s too quiet. Phainon’s used to background noise—friends chatting, coffee machines, music. Here, the only sounds are pages rustling, keyboards clicking, pens scratching, and the rhythmic tick of an old clock above him. The silence demands something of him, making him hyper-aware of every inhale, every shift in his seat, every tap of his fingers. Dim lamps cast long shadows across rows of bookshelves, stretching like pathways to another world. The library feels like a relic, a place that whispers rather than speaks, that judges you for being too loud, too alive.

He slumps over the open book, no longer caring if he disturbs the stillness. He hates this—despises it, even—but if he wants to pass, he has to focus...yet, when he tries, the words blur together, and diagrams make no sense. He could use his laptop, but it barely works, and the public wifi is useless.

He sits up, sighs, and rubs his face, his exhaustion creeping in. His shoulders are stiff from hours of studying, but there’s no time to stop. His fingers crack in quick succession, a small ritual to focus himself as the lights above him buzz.

He has less than three hours to make something passable. His notebook was unhelpful - scattered with frantic underlines and doodles…a mess. He sighs again, determination settling in. The clock is against him, but he’ll get it done, like always.

He then dozed off onto his book, unaware he was angering an ancient force beyond his comprehension…

The Head Librarian, and owner, of the Public Library he was in.

An hour later, he’s rudely and abruptly awoken from his enjoyable (yet not very comfortable) slumber. He grunts, half-awake and half-offended, and lifts his head from where he’d slobbered mindlessly onto the neat pages of the book, turning his head to meet the eyes of the person who’d shaken him awake, only to be met with possibly the most stunning man he’d ever had the privilege of seeing in person.

His silhouette, framed by the muted morning light filtering through the high windows, was strong. He wore a black dress shirt, sleeves rolled with precise, almost surgical neatness to his forearms, beneath a well-fitted brown coat that carried the faint scent of worn leather and old paper. Dark jeans, sharp in their simplicity, and a single, understated ring upon his left hand completed the picture of a man who had chosen practicality without sacrificing presence.

Said ring was a heavy signet ring of polished gold, its surface catching the library’s cool light with a muted, dignified gleam. The face of the ring bore a peculiar design: a rough, circular pattern etched with what appeared to be deep, branching scars, resembling ancient wood or fractured earth. At its heart, sharp, spiked lines jutted outward like a stylised brand—an emblem that spoke not of delicate artistry, but of something primal, enduring, and untamed.

His long hair, a striking cascade of beige and red, was pulled into a half-up, half-down style, a small, deliberate bun perched at the back of his head, with one thick braid hung over his shoulder. Most arresting of all were his eyes. Behind thin, black-framed glasses, his golden gaze burned with a fierce, unspoken judgement. The glasses did little to soften him; if anything, they sharpened the impression that he missed nothing, forgave nothing.

Phainon stared like an idiot, without words.