Chapter 2
The next day, Elara arrived at Professor Thorne's office with a knot of anxiety in her stomach. His office was not in the main building with the other faculty, but in a separate, older wing of the academy, a place that felt forgotten and lived in. The air was cool and smelled of old books and something else she couldn't quite place—a faint metallic tang, like rust or blood. The room was sparsely furnished, dominated by floor-to-ceiling bookshelves overflowing with volumes on anatomy, art history, and philosophy. A large, worn leather armchair sat in the corner, and a single, unadorned sculpture stood on a pedestal in the middle of the room. It was a piece of his own, a twisting spiral of bronze that seemed to scream with silent agony.
He was sitting at a heavy oak desk, a book open in front of him. He didn't look up as she entered, the silence stretching taut between them. Elara stood just inside the doorway, clutching the straps of her bag, feeling like a moth trapped in a spider's web.
"Close the door, Vance," he said without lifting his head. His voice was low, and she obeyed, the heavy wood clicking shut behind her.
Finally, he looked up, and the full force of his gaze hit her. He gestured to the chair opposite his desk. "Sit."
She sat, her back straight, her hands clasped in her lap. He watched her for a long moment, those dark, storm-cloud eyes assessing her. "You have talent," he stated, the words a blunt instrument. "A rare, raw talent. But it's buried under a mountain of fear."
Elara's throat tightened. "I don't know what you mean, Professor."
He leaned forward, his elbows on the desk, a dangerous glint in his eyes. "Don't lie to me. It's in your work. All those beautiful, broken forms. You're trying to hide the wound, but the bandages you're using are transparent. You're not sculpting the human form, Vance. You're sculpting yourself."
His words were like a physical blow. She had spent years trying to keep that part of herself hidden, and he had seen it in a single glance. She felt a flicker of defiance. "All artists draw from their own experiences."
"Yes," he agreed, a slow, predatory smile touching his lips. "But most have the courage to face what they're drawing from. You're still running from it. Your work is a whisper when it should be a scream."
He rose from his desk and walked over to the bronze sculpture. He ran his hand over its cold surface, his touch both tender and possessive. "Art is not about beauty, Vance. It's about truth. It's about exposing the ugly, raw parts of the soul and making something beautiful and honest from the wreckage."
He turned back to her, his gaze intense. "My class is not about technique. It's about finding that wreckage. It's about pushing past your limits and finding the truth you've been so carefully hiding. I will break you down, Vance. I will shatter your fragile defenses and force you to create something real, or you will not pass my class."
Elara's breath caught in her chest. The air in the room felt heavy and charged, the metallic scent now seeming to emanate from him. The offer wasn't a choice; it was a demand. He was offering to tear her apart and put her back together in his image. It was terrifying, but a thrill, a dangerous spark, ignited deep within her. It was the same feeling she got right before she took a leap of faith, right before she stepped off a cliff into the unknown.
He walked back to his desk, his every movement controlled and deliberate. "I want you to sculpt a self-portrait," he said, the command echoing in the silent room. "Not your face. Not your body. I want you to sculpt your fear. I want you to make it tangible. Bring it to the studio tomorrow night. We'll work on it alone."
"Alone?" she questioned, the word a whisper.
"Yes," he confirmed, his eyes never leaving hers. "Just you and me, Vance. A lesson in shadow."