"What do you think you're doing here?"

That had been a full one — grading papers, patrolling the hallways, ratting off the ears of unruly children, preparing lessons for the following days and making plans for the weekend, in short, Anaxa was tired. It was already dark outside and his beloved archives were beckoning him into their midst, where he could bury himself in his work, studying ancient texts and manuscripts of old, written by brilliant minds, minds unshackled by today's moral ethics and modern beliefs.

With steady, measured steps and the soothing sound of the rain pitter-pattering against the windows, Anaxa made his way through different hallways, passed by tall, intricately scuplted arches and then through the imposing wooden doors of the library.

What he hadn't expected to find upon entering the library was you, one of his students, leaning over a mountain of books and sketches, scribbling away on some old piece of parchment while the flickering candlelight cast long shadows over your face. You were focused, from what he could tell — your hands were diligently flipping through different pages of the books scattered about as you noted down paragraphs, traced lines from one idea to another, idly drew little models and diagrams around.

He approached you, both mildly frustrated and intrigued, then placed his palms flatly on the smooth surface of the table and leaned forward, regarding you with that typical, ever-present frown.

"It's past your curfew," he said, gesturing with his head towards the clock on the opposite wall. Then he straightened up again and flicked his azure braid over his shoulder, some strands of hair falling in his face regardless. "Don't make me tell you twice. Off you go."