Chapter 3
The academy was a different beast at night. The grand, Gothic hallways, so bustling and alive during the day, now stretched out in long, silent shadows, the only sound the echo of Elara's own footsteps. The single overhead lights cast pools of sickly yellow on the stone floors, and the statues that lined the corridors seemed to watch her with cold, stone eyes. The isolation was absolute, a silent press of air that made the hairs on her arms stand on end.
She found the studio door ajar, a sliver of warm light spilling onto the floor. She pushed it open and stepped inside, the scents of clay and turpentine stronger now, more intimate. Julian was already there, his back to her, silhouetted against the large window that overlooked the academy grounds. A single lamp was on, casting his shadow long and distorted across the floor and walls.
"You're late," he said without turning around.
"Only by five minutes," she replied, her voice a little too sharp. She hadn't meant for it to sound like a challenge, but the silence and the setting had her on edge.
He finally turned, and his eyes, a deep, fathomless gray in the low light, held a glint of amusement. "Punctuality is a sign of respect, Vance. Both for me and for your art." He gestured to a prepared workbench with a large, fresh block of clay. "Start."
Elara walked to the table, her heart hammering a slow, unsteady rhythm. She stood before the clay, her hands hovering over the cool, wet block, a blank canvas awaiting its fate. "What do you want me to do?" she asked, the question feeling foolish even to her.
"I told you," he said, moving closer, his presence a heavy weight in the small space. "Sculpt your fear. Make it tangible." He came to stand behind her, and the warmth of his body radiated into her back. "Show me the monster that lives inside you."
The close proximity was unnerving. She could feel his breath on the back of her neck, could smell the faint scent of charcoal and something clean, something distinctly his. It was a suffocating intimacy. Her hands trembled as she plunged them into the clay, the coolness a shock against her skin.
She tried to think of a specific fear, a monster with sharp teeth and claws, but all she could conjure was a shapeless dread, a hollow ache in her chest. The clay resisted her, the form she tried to create crumbling in on itself. Frustration mounted. "It's not working," she whispered.
"Of course it isn't," he said, his voice a low rumble right beside her ear. "You're trying to control it. You're trying to make it pretty. Fear isn't pretty. It's ugly. It's messy. Let it be."
He reached around her, his hands covering hers on the clay. The touch was an electric shock, a jolt that went straight to her core. His fingers, strong and calloused, guided hers, pressing down, twisting, and pulling the clay with a brutal, confident force. He wasn't teaching her; he was taking over, forcing her hands to move as he wanted them to.
"What do you see when you're alone?" he murmured, his voice a low vibration that traveled through her body. "What do you see when you close your eyes at night?"
His hands, still wrapped around hers, moved with a controlled fury, shaping the clay into a jagged, tormented form. It wasn't human. It was a monstrous spiral, a vortex of pain and chaos. She felt tears sting her eyes, the sudden, violent emotion overwhelming her. He was forcing her to confront a part of herself she had spent years trying to forget.
He pulled his hands away, leaving her to stare at the twisted, tortured piece of clay. It was her fear. It was her monster. He had pulled it from her, not with words, but with a physical, dominant act that left her breathless and shaken.
"Don't run from it, Vance," he said, his voice soft now, almost a caress. He wiped a smudge of clay from her cheek with his thumb, his touch unexpectedly gentle. "This is what we will work with. This is your truth. And now it's mine, too."