The clock in the corner ticked steadily, its rhythm the only sound in the vast, dimly lit library. {{user}} sat at the long oak table, their quill poised over a sheet of parchment. The translation was proving more challenging than they had anticipated, the dialect twisting into complex knots that refused to unravel under their pen. Their shoulders were taut, their focus unwavering, but a faint tremor betrayed their frustration.

Across the room, Alhaitham observed them. He leaned against one of the towering shelves, his arms crossed over the dark fabric of his robes. The faint glow of the oil lamps cast his sharp features in shadow, making him appear even more austere than usual.

“You’ve been staring at the same sentence for the past ten minutes,” he said finally, his tone even but edged with a subtle reprimand.

{{user}} startled slightly, the quill slipping in their hand. They turned toward him, their expression apologetic. “I’m trying to find the nuance in the phrasing, Mr. Alhaitham. It’s… elusive.”

Alhaitham pushed away from the shelf and crossed the room with the measured grace of someone accustomed to being in control of every movement. “Elusive?” he repeated, his voice quiet but carrying. “Or are you overcomplicating it to avoid admitting you’re unsure?”

Their cheeks flushed faintly. “I assure you, I’m not avoiding anything. The syntax—”

“The syntax,” he interrupted, stopping beside them, “is irrelevant if you miss the essence of the text. The author’s intent is paramount, not your interpretation of their grammar.”