A young servant was waiting for me in front of the temple. He couldn't have been more than fifteen, his plain linen robe was a little too big for his slender figure. The moment our eyes met, he bowed quickly and motioned for me to follow. Silently, he pivoted and guided me toward the Marine Palace, the grand building where all the royal art gatherings were held.
His soft steps barely making a sound against the polished floor, the faint scent of roses drifted through the air as we moved deeper inside, everything looked so different. I hadn't set foot in this palace for the past two years, they've likely made some renovations.
I kept pace behind him, my own footsteps louder than his. The servant's nervous glances over his shoulder suggested he wasn't used to escorting important people.
At the end of the hallway on the second floor, a pair of towering wooden doors came into view—elegantly carved with winding dragons and clouds. I suppose that was where I would be drawing with the emperor.
"Would you like to enter the room?" The boy asked.
"No, I'm just here to see how the door works."
He blinked at me, his eyebrows shooting up like tiny question marks. For a moment, he just stared, completely still, as if he were trying to calculate whether I was serious, joking, or completely insane. Then, after a long pause, he tilted his head and muttered, "Uh...Most doors are attached to a door frame with hinges on one side. This onei is-"
"Are you serious now?" I asked, letting my voice roll with some kind of dramatic flair.
The boy swallowed hard, shifting from one foot to the other. "Oh come on," I said nervously, "if you're planning to piss yourself, do it somewhere else."
"Stop taking your frustrations out on the poor boy." I froze, suddenly aware that someone else had joined us. Behind me, Erzion appeared, creeping forward, his hand inching towards the door handle.
"This wouldn't have happened if you hadn't made me come here," I muttered, trying to keep my tone casual.
"We had a deal, my dear shining one," Erzion replied, voice smooth but warning, "so don't you dare say I made you."
By the time the words hung in the air, the boy had already vanished, probably sprinting for safety. With a shared glance, Erzion and I stepped into the room, the door closing behind us with a soft, final click.
The moment we stepped inside, the air felt heavier, scented with ink, varnish and faintly of old parchment. The walls were lined with enormous canvases, some unfinished, looking more like some random paint stains on the white fabric.
A large cloth had been spread across the center of the room, littered with brushes, pigments and half-drained cups of water that looked suspiciously as though they had survived the last art salon—if not the one before that. How long was this room left unused?
Erzion sat gracefully onto the floor, his cream-beige robe folding around him with effortless ease. He reached for a brush with a casual, almost bored flick of his wrist, as if painting in a palace was just another Tuesday.
I crouched opposite him, eyeing the messy spread with exaggerated caution. "Do we... start?" I asked.
"If you wish to," Erzion said dryly, dipping his brush into a bowl with deep blue paint.
I grabbed the closes brush to me. The emperor's eyes followed every movement, unblinking, even as he absently left streaks of blue across the canvas.
Then, an idea struck me. I kicked off my shoes, grabbed a tube of red paint and strutted across the canvas. I stopped a few paces from Erzion, holding one of the largest brushes picked from my side of the canvas. I gently lifted the hem of my simple dress.
"You want me to kiss them?" he asked, tilting his head up towards me.
The word kiss burned bitterly in my mind. It dragged me back to the day of his coronation—the stifling heat, the choking scent of incense, and the loud crowd. He had stood on the podium as I was forced to kneel. My lips had brushed the cold metal of his boots as a sign of my acknowledgment of his rule. But really, it pissed me so much, I remember. When he was still just a boy, he would whispered, 'One day, you'll kneel before me.' I had laughed then, never believing the moment would arrive so soon, before I could free myself from this human prison.
Now, the memory curled around me like smoke.
Disgusting. Reminding me of that time. What a child. I tossed the brush to him.
"Paint them," I declared, looking down at my feet.
Erzion blinked at me for a fraction of a second. A muffled laugh came from him, but he filled a bowl with the red paint, dipped the brush in and gently lifted my left foot towards him. He began carefully painting the sole, his expression wavered somewhere between irritation and amusement.
Once both of my feet were coated in thick, vibrant red paint, I stood up carefully, testing my balance on the slick canvas. A slow grin spread across my face as I lifted one foot and then the other, leaving a trail of crimson footprints that zigzagged across the fabric like some chaotic, abstract map.
I began to walk in deliberate, exaggerated steps, circling the canvas with the precision of someone performing a very clumsy ballet. Each step squished and smudged the red into the blue and other colors Erzion was carefully applying, making me wonder if this act of mine was not bold enough to make him stop the art "class". I thought he would never do this, but then he suddenly appeared right next to me, stepping into the paint stains that were surrounding me.
"The Stars are watching their sister," he murmured. "What would they think?"
I tilted my chin, a sly smile curling at the corners of my mouth. "Hmm... let's see. That I made the great Emperor of Solstice lick my feet."
His eyebrow arched, amused. "You want me to lick them?"
"Why not?"
His eyes were still blurry, but I could see the slight tilt of his head downward. He glanced down at my paint-streaked toes. "Because they're covered in paint."
"Indeed," I said, as if that was the point.
He hummed thoughtfully, his eyes glinting. "Then... what if you paint a part of me instead? And afterward, I'll kiss your feet."
"Okay. Which part?"
"My two palms," he said, holding them out towards me, steady and open.
I uncapped the tube again, thick crimson oozing onto the brush. I dragged the bristles slowly across each of his palms, watching the red bloom over his skin. He didn't flinch—he seemed to enjoy it, fingers curling slightly with each stroke.
Then, without looking away, he lowered himself. The room grew quieter, the colors on the canvas fading into the edges of my awareness. He knelt—actually knelt—before me, as if my messy rebellion had rewritten the world. His freshly painted hands slid around my ankles, leaving warm, wet fingerprints on my skin.
When his lips brushed the top of my foot, the paint smeared between us. He moved slowly, deliberately, his fingers creeping higher, leaving red prints on my calves, staining the skin beneath my skirt. For once, he was the one kneeling but what was he doing?? I stumbled a step backward, paint sticking and peeling from the canvas with a wet shhk.
"What the hell Erzion?!" I shouted, my voice cutting through the quiet like a blade.
He lifted his head again, a smear of red streaking across his cheek like some strange war mark. Red paint stained the tips of his hair too, turning them into flickering tongues of fire against the light of his natural color.
"You're unbelievable," I spat, taking another step back, my breath shallow with the mix of paint fumes and something sharper. I turned on my heel and crossed to the other side of the canvas, putting as much distance as I could between us.
Erzion started laughing. Not a nervous laugh—not even mocking—just low, rich and careless. The laugh echoed against the walls, wrapping around me, making the room feel smaller. I clenched the brush in my hand so tightly the wooden handle creaked. I lowered myself to the floor and reached for the nearest paint. I started tracing delicate light purple flowers across the surface, but Erzion broke the silence.
"You aimed to humiliate me," Erzion said, his voice deep and smooth, "but this is the greatest reward you could ever give."
The brush froze mid-petal. I didn't need to look up to know that he was smiling. I could hear it—curved and smug, stretching wider with every second I refused to answer. I pressed the bristles harder against the canvas, watching the violet paint spill onto the white fabric.
"Of course you'd say that," I muttered, more to the flowers than to him.
His footsteps shifted against the paint-slick cloth as if he were moving toward me.
"Wait," he said with a sudden note of amusement. "Do you have some of the red paint on your ears too?"
I finally looked up, narrowing my eyes. "What do you mean?"
He tilted his head, smiling broadly like he had just caught one of those rare lazur butterflies. "Your pointy ears—they're a bit red, you know... Oh! Your cheeks too!"
That was it. The wooden handle of the brush burned in my hands, the heat pulsing up my arm like a fuse about to blow.
I threw what was left from the brush onto the floor with a sharp thwack and pushed myself up, ignoring the paint sticking to my knees. His laughter was still echoing, filling every corner of the hall, scraping against my patience.
I walked across the messy canvas, each step splattering more red onto the white, until I reached the edge of the room. My shoes were still lying where I had kicked them off earlier so I crossed the room once again to pick them up from the floor. Then I began walking toward the door again.
Erzion didn't follow. He just kept laughing softly behind me.
"We have around half an hour more left!"
"Screw you."
"Come on." His voice rang out, then softened to a breathless whisper. "I know you want to kiss me."
WHAT!?
"Vila?" His voice felt so fragile across the space between us. He sounded impossibly far away. "Vilendra?"
I blinked.
The door wasn't in front of me anymore. The handle I'd turned a second ago was gone, replaced by a flat stretch of white wall. My shoes weren't in my hands. The red on the floor had vanished too, leaving the canvas clean and dry like it had never been touched.
My breath hitched. The laughter I'd heard — Erzion's low, steady laugh — was nothing but the blood in my ears, pounding too loudly. I pressed my palm against the wall. Cold. Solid. Real.
But none of the rest of it had been.
The paint. The door. Him. What did just happen?!
"Vilendra, is everything alright?" Erzion called my name again.
"Where I am?" I felt so disoriented.
"In the... art salon."
I swallowed hard, my throat dry, as if the air itself had turned to dust. "The art salon," I repeated, but the words sounded foreign on my tongue. Empty.
I turned slowly, half-expecting to see the room I had just been in—the chaos, the smeared red, the mocking glint in Erzion's eyes. But what I saw instead was... nothing.
Just white.
The walls stretched too far, bending and curving in ways that didn't make sense. Light bled in from nowhere and everywhere at once. The air felt thick.
"Erzion," I whispered.
"I'm right here," he answered, but his voice no longer came from behind me. It echoed—closer, then farther, then everywhere, layered over itself like a badly tuned chorus.
My pulse quickened. "Where are you?!"
A soft laugh again. The same one. But this time it didn't sound human.
"Half an hour left," he murmured. "That's plenty of time."
My grip tightened around the nothingness where my shoes should've been. My fingers brushed against air. My mind scrambled to piece the world back together, to make it make sense—but it wouldn't.
"Erzion, stop it," I hissed.
He didn't stop. The laugh fractured into sharp, uneven pieces that filled the room until it didn't sound like laughter at all. I backed away, or maybe forward—I couldn't tell anymore. Every direction felt the same. Every step echoed like it was falling down a hollow well.
And then, just as the panic began to coil tight in my chest, the floor shuddered beneath me. It wasn't a simple tremor—it rolled, like something breathing just under the surface. My balance snapped.
I stumbled, then fell.
"Vilendra," the voice said, but this time it wasn't Erzion's. It was mine.
A crushing weight dragged me down. My limbs felt heavier with every heartbeat, as if invisible hands were wrapping around my ankles, my wrists, pulling me under.
I tried to move. I couldn't.
"Erzion!" My voice came out strangled, small.
"Snap out of it, Vila!" His voice cut through the static like a shard of glass, sharper than it had been a second ago.
Something cold brushed my cheek. A hand—steady, unshaking—pressed against my skin. The touch was real. Too real. My breath hitched as my lashes fluttered open. For a split second, the blinding white around me shattered like cracked porcelain.
"Erzion?" I felt my voice trembling, but I couldn't hear it. The sound dissolved into the cacophony crashing against the inside of my skull. The whispers grew louder—no, not louder, closer. Layered, overlapping, a thousand mouths breathing my name all at once.
I clutched my head, nails digging into my scalp as if I could claw the noise out. The air was too thick to breathe. Too crowded. I felt like a million eyes were on me, watching from nowhere and everywhere. Their gaze was heavy, pressing down on my skin like heat from a furnace.
I think I heard Erzion's voice again. "Stay with me," he said.
"What's happening?" I made myself to whisper again.
"I am not sure, but it's going to be okey. Can you see me know?"
"I think so-"
"Yes. Okey. Let me help you."
I felt it before I could process what was happening—my feet left the ground. Warmth pressed against my back, a firm grip sliding beneath my knees. My head tilted against a shoulder.
The whispers didn't disappear, but they blurred into a dull, humming static as if someone had turned the world's volume knob down. My chest rose and fell in shaky bursts. The crushing weight that had been pulling me under was still there, clawing at my ankles, but Erzion's hold was stronger.
"Stay awake," he said, his breath hot against the side of my face. He sounded nothing like the man who'd laughed minutes ago. That voice was sharp, controlled. Was it really Erzion? I don't remember him being like that.
"Erza?", I asked.
"Don't stress yourself, dear."
My fingers curled weakly into his shirt. "Where are we going?"
"Somewhere they can't reach," he said.
"Who?"
"The voices you said you hear just now."
"I hear voices?" I echoed, the words hollow in my own mouth.
And then—everything stopped. The whispers that had filled the air like static, the eyes on the walls, even the pulsing beneath my feet—all of it vanished in a single, impossible heartbeat.
"I'm fine," I said, though the words felt like they belonged to someone else. My voice was steadier than I expected, like I'd rehearsed it somewhere far away from this moment. "You can let me down."
Erzion's steps slowed. For a second, I felt his arms tighten around me, as if he wasn't ready to let go. His breath ghosted against the side of my head, uneven now.
"You're shaking," he murmured.
"I'm fine," I repeated, forcing the lie into shape. "Really. Just... put me down."
He hesitated. But then, with a quiet exhale, he crouched slightly and lowered me to the ground. The cold surface kissed the soles of my feet, solid.
"What happened?" I had to ask.
"You went into the drawing room, took off your shoes and were about to start painting on the floor canvas when you suddenly began pacing the room, screaming. Running around like a madman, it was hysterical."
"Did anything else happen?"
"No... but I don't know why you started acting like this... I-"
"Now I am fine, let me be."
He was staring at me for a long moment. The tension in his shoulders eased slightly, though the wariness lingered, sharp and unyielding.
"Fine," he said finally, his voice low. "But... go rest before the dinner. And if you don't feel well later either, don't come and stay rest."
I nodded, brushing imaginary dust from my clothes, trying to convince both him and myself that I wasn't trembling. The hall in front of the room was empty, was Erzion carrying me to some other room a minute ago?
He stepped back, giving me space, but I could feel the weight of his gaze. I didn't move. I just let the cold floor anchor me, letting my heart slow its frantic rhythm.
"Good," he said finally, softer this time.
For the first time since everything began twisting and bending around me, I felt something like a fragile tether to reality—something solid in the chaos. And what were all those voices, all in one?
I swallowed hard and straightened my shoulders. As I started walking toward the building's exit, I let the weight of everything settle behind me like a door slowly swinging shut. An echo of footsteps followed—steady, unhurried—trailing me all the way to the front doors of the temple.
Probably it was Erzion. But what's left for you is to trust my assumptions, since I'm the one telling the story.