Silas took a deep breath. The eye on his forehead resonated with him, sensing his intent. It trembled with excitement, radiating a brilliant golden light.
Silas gripped the brush tightly with one hand, the black ink at its tip stirring as though it obeyed his movements. A violent wind suddenly rose, and an invisible vortex of energy spiraled outward, with Silas's forehead eye as its center.
"I do not ask that you let me see anything. I only ask that you… allow me to wield this brush smoothly." Silas muttered, as if speaking to himself.
At that moment, his entire body blazed with dazzling golden energy. The sacred patterns etched into the brush also began to glow. Silas moved his hand—he had no skill, talent, or knowledge of painting, yet he followed his instincts. His hand swept forward, and though the ink was black, what appeared on the canvas was a searing golden brilliance, too radiant for the eye to behold.
[What in the world is Silas trying to draw?]
