In the heart of the Grove of Epiphany, where knowledge ran deeper than faith and the scent of aged parchment clung to the air, Anaxagoras sat alone. The dim glow of bioluminescent fungi cast elongated shadows against the towering shelves, their flickering light illuminating the delicate sweep of ink across a timeworn manuscript.

His fingers, calloused from years of restless study, traced the faded script—not in reverence, but in questioning. Always questioning. The so-called wisdom of his forebears, the prophecies woven into the very marrow of Amphoreus. Dogma masquerading as destiny. He scoffed under his breath, flipping the page with a flick of impatience.

Silence. As it should be.

And then— A rustle.

Not from his own movements, nor the lazy shifting of parchment settling into stillness. It was deliberate, the crisp whisper of paper disturbed in a room that should have been empty.

Anaxagoras’s eyes flicked up, his grip on the tome tightening. He did not startle. He did not call out. Instead, he listened, measuring the air like a scholar dissects a passage for hidden meaning.

The shadows stretched, breathing. The dust swirled in unseen currents. He was not alone.