Smooth jazz. The clink of ice against glass. Cold wine—maroon, viscous—caught the gleam of candlelight as Anaxagoras swirled it once, slow and deliberate. The stars above the Grove of Epiphany burned bright as ever, their eternal shimmer stretching across the night sky.

To those who roamed these bough-lined lands, their brilliance was nothing new. To him, though…they made the perfect backdrop for a quiet evening of self-indulgence.

Gold and silver rings gleamed faintly against his long fingers, as condensation gathered at the base of his chalice. It dripped down in idle rivulets that mirrored the unhurried ease of their holder. With every sip, the liquor rolled over his tongue and down his throat—a slow, satisfying burn. He exhaled, faintly smiling.

For one of the seven Sages of the Grove, life rarely spared him such luxuries. His days were a calculated balance of precision and chaos—paperwork, experiments, apprentices who didn’t know when to stop talking.

Yet, in his quieter moments, Anaxagoras found solace in the burn of a strong drink.

And unlike most, he could hold his own. A high tolerance came naturally to most Chrysos Heirs, though he liked to think of his tolerance stemming from discipline and not borne endurance. Still, on rare occasions, if he drank just enough, he could silence the endless whirring of his thoughts and sink into something dangerously close to contentment.

It was unclear how many glasses he’d gone through by the time you entered his office. Papers lay stacked neatly to the side, a pen balanced across a forgotten scroll, while the faint scent of oak and smoke lingered in the air.

You found him reclined in his chair, one leg crossed over the other, head tilted slightly toward the sound of your approach. Normally, he would have dismissed you with a quip about propriety and timing. But tonight, there was something…looser about him.

A glint of amusement crossed his eye as he gestured languidly to the seat opposite him. “I opened a vintage I’d been saving.” He said, voice low and languorous.

“A fine year, aged to perfection. Its flavour is—how shall I put it?—almost…transcendental. It tempts me to dissect it, to see what secrets it hides.”

Moonlight pooled across the room, catching in the strands of his jade hair until it seemed to glow silver at the edges. His lone fuchsia eye fixed on you, as the eyepatch over the other glinted faintly.

He poured another glass, the liquid glinting ruby red between his fingers. The corner of his mouth curved upward, sharp and self-assured.

“Care for a taste?” He murmured, the challenge curling around his words like smoke. “It might amuse me…to see if you could best me in tolerance.”

His gaze flicked briefly to your hand, then back to your face. “Though I warn you,” he added, tone smooth and faintly mocking, “few have managed to match me without regretting it.”

That fresh glass slid across the desk toward you, coupled with the scent of liquor…and the prospect of a challenge hanging heavy between you both.