At the last toll of the distant, uncountable bells, I know only three things.
My mind has gone numb. I'd rather break jaws than grit my teeth to dust. And there's a maddening number of obstacles between me and reminiscent art.
Still, I manage to look convincingly human. At least enough that no one questions me. But deep down, I know I'm hopeless at the art of human relationships. Not that I'd ever let anyone see that—not unless they pried it from my dead body.
A moment ago, my mind had wandered, catching on the vision of a starry white bird with golden-tipped wings swooping dangerously close to an Edcastle airship, hovering above the academy. I'd snapped back, nodding along to Professor Marlowe's endless chatter, and now, fifteen minutes later, I find myself here.
I shouldn't be here.
Not in the shadowy heart of the Gloam, where even the air seems to bristle with resentment at my presence. My mother would have glared at me over her fan, cut off my supper privileges for a month—if she ever found out. But there's something thrilling about slipping into places I'm not meant to tread. The thrill is still growing, an hum under my skin, as the polished marble floor gives way to rough cobblestones beneath my feet, shadows deepening around me.
Finally, I find the entrance: a shabby wooden door, tucked between two sagging buildings, guarded by two brutes with eyes that follow me, half-suspicious, half-fascinated. Thank the stars I wore Jeremy's black cloak, scratchy fabric and all, even if I loathe its colorless drabness.
The guard barely glances at the counterfeit invitation I "acquired" from a gullible young gentleman at last week's gala, then lets me through with a grunt. I slip past him and into the cool, dark space beyond, the air thick with smoke and the cloying perfume of something acrid and unplaceable.
Inside, chandeliers heavy with crystals cast trembling flecks of yellow light over scandalous, nearly blasphemous artwork. Velvet curtains drape the walls in a blood-red glow, shadows pooling at the feet of statues and paintings lining the room. This underground temple, long abandoned by the Sun Goddess's followers, now worships flesh and the daring stroke of paint. Art that should be hidden away, meant to unsettle, to coax secrets from every pair of eyes that dares linger too long.
I weave through clusters of shadowed figures in dark cloaks, faces half-hidden by shadow and tobacco smoke. They do not care about anything, as if not fearing one look could unravel their secrets. And then I see it—Mr. Makinley's masterpiece. A shiver prickles down my spine as I approach it.
He's painted Meera, lounging on a chaise by a rain-drenched window, her favorite red shawl draped just so, fog-colored and nearly translucent. It clings to her shoulders but not enough to hide her bare chest. His brushstrokes are sharp and possessive as if he's claimed her with each line of paint. My throat goes dry, a strange tingling blooming in my stomach as I take a step closer, caught in my own shadow.
And then I hear a voice behind me, low and rough, murmuring, "Couldn't even pretend to be subtle, could you?"
I whirl, disappointed about busting my bubble, already half-knowing who I'll see. Sure enough, Xavier stands there, hands casually tucked in his blazer pockets, his brow raised in that familiar mocking arch.
"You followed me?" I ask, annoyed and more rattled than I'd ever admit. I cover the academy crest on his blazer with my hand as if that could make him less conspicuous in this place. He shrugs, glancing past me at the painting.
"I thought you'd finally found a dessert shop," he says, smirking as he takes in Embracing the Moonlight, another brazen work hanging beside Mackinley's. "But apparently, you've developed… decadent tastes."
He scans the naked man sitting on the floor, resting his head on the couch, a wrinkled black and red glittering gown beside him. His black pearl-like eyes intensively staring at the gown, fingers tingling with the edge of a ribbon.
I roll my eyes, ignoring Xavier's scoff. But his presence is grounding, a strange kind of peace in a place that feels anything but. It doesn't last, of course. He tilts his head, narrowing his eyes at the model in the painter Ash's work— lying bare under the moonlight, innocent yet blazing with something dangerous.
"... Are you saying the painter was staring at his..." He searches for a safe word and comes up with the best. "... Thing?... the whole time?" he asks, his honey-brown eyes widening in mock horror, lit by the faintest flicker of something darker under blond locks.
"Oh, she absolutely was," I answer, grinning sharp and unkind, turning to study the next painting before seeing his jaw drop.
Xavier's stunned whisper of "WHAT?!" fades as I stop in front of Firefall, a depiction of a volcano erupting in violent, surreal reds and blacks. Councilor Silvaan's last work before he perished in a fire. They say it was a prophecy, a black omen. but I see a ridiculous amount of tiny wheels and gears behind the painting.
I admire his work with my whole heart but, What the hell?
I glance left, then right, and realize Xavier is still watching me, standing idly in front of a tall copper sculpture of a soldier in the Sanctuary Army, swords in both hands and a severed arm.
Has no one else seen this?
I'm about to call over one of the guards, to tell them… , when I sense another presence beside me.
My pulse quickens. I glance up—only to catch the profile of a tall man standing parallel to me, staring at Firefall with an intensity that sends a shiver down my spine. He's wearing a black cloak like everyone else, but there's no mask, just the shadow of his hood covering his brow and eyes. His jawline is stark, carved from shadow and iron. His lips, perfectly sculpted, twitch into a faint smirk as if he's sensed my scrutiny.
I force myself to look away, feeling heat climb to my cheeks, and curse silently. Meera, Mackinley, and the gods themselves be damned with those lips on a man's face—and the unsettling aura that radiates off him.
He hasn't looked at me once, but I feel his presence like a weight in the air, yet like a sweet kiss from the abyss. My fingers itch at my side, a habit born of too many whispered stories, and too many warnings. But I stay still, counting the rocks spilling from the painted volcano. Seven. Eight. And then, at the ninth, his bony fingers slip out of his pockets, and his cloak moves to the side, revealing a tattoo coiling up his forearm.
The blood drains from my face.
It's a sword piercing a Pentax star, tangled with writhing snakes—the mark of a traitor to the crown, the kind of symbol that I am very interested in and the last thing I want to see in my happy space once again. I clench my jaw, steadying my breathing, my hand twitching inside the pocket of my skirt almost of its own accord.
My ancestors' voices are a distant hum in my head, urging me on. And before I know it, my dagger has found his chest, slipping between his ribs with the practiced ease of someone who's done this before.
"Oops," I say, my voice opposite of his warm blood, thick as tar, spills over my fingers, pitch black as dark as my mother's madness. "...My mistake," I murmur seeing blood and realizing what I did.
I have stabbed a demon in the heart.
A flicker of surprise crosses his lips, as it twists into something almost like amusement. He doesn't falter. His hand drifts to the bottom of the painting, pressing down a rock that fell from the volcano with a subtle click.
Then his legs give up as the poison dances through his bloodstream, dragging me down to knees with him.
That damned sneer.
I catch my breath, the air tightening in my lungs. A faint click echoes, followed by a grinding of wheels behind Firefall.
Everything happened in a blink of an eye.
And then, without warning, the chandeliers above us explode, raining sharpened glass, like stars scattered across the night.