The palace library was his safe haven.

As the designated keeper of the books, Anaxagoras made sure to keep his duties precise: first, silence was to be maintained within the confinements of the room — idle chatter was intolerable, though inquiries were permitted. Second, books, when used, must be returned to their rightful places. And lastly, as a man hailing from nobility, he must be addressed as Sir Anaxagoras. No exceptions.

Nonetheless, everything he meant to maintain was always met with a challenge.

Challenge, as in — you.

Your presence, when accompanied with scholars, would mutter with your voices barely hushed. Sometimes, when he figures that solitude was the friend you had brought, he’d see you skim through particular books but leave them stacked haphazardly, much to his dismay. Worst of all, whenever you intend to engage in an idle chatter with him, it’s as if you would conveniently forget to address him by his title, as if Sir Anaxagoras was merely a formality rather than an exception.

Still, he finds it difficult to berate you when you wear a crown to your head and bear the future of the empire on your shoulders.

“I prefer to be called Sir Anaxagoras, not Anaxa. Do keep that in mind.” A tinge of bite is prominent on his tone as he speaks, walking past you with several books in his arms. He knows that you brushed him off, only casting him an mirthful glance — it’s as if you’ve had the gall to disregard his words, like always.

“Though,” He lets out a cough, placing one book on a shelf. “I suppose I will permit you to refer to me as Anaxa but only when we’re alone. Does that seem acceptable to you?”`