Page 31 of The Devil's Canvas

The glass no longer looks like glass. It moves like water, shifting with the weight of something pressing against it, something stretching the boundary between his world and mine. The swirling blackness pulses, its edges curling, shifting, pressing outward, bending, waiting. My throat tightens, my stomach twists, because suddenly I know what this is.

He’s mirroring me.

A tremor rolls through me, my breath unsteady as my fingers rise—hesitating, hovering—before instinct wins over reason. Every part of me screams don’t, don’t touch it, don’t do this—but the moment my palm meets the glass, the world shifts.

The air crackles—electric, charged, alive. The mirror pulses, bending inward, not just reflecting but pulling. The weight of it tugs against me, threatening to tip me forward, and I stumble, barely catching myself before I fall through.

Heat. Skin. A grip like steel catching my wrist before I slip away.

I feel him.

The Mark flares violently. White-hot pain explodes across my chest, searing through me like fire in my veins. I choke on a cry, clutching my ribs, my vision blurring at the edges as something inside me pulls too hard, too fast. The mirror flickers, the image warping, Julian’s face shifting between the man I met and something else, something darker, something not meant to be seen. The Mark ignites, burning so bright it spills light across the room, illuminating the crimson fire in his gaze as it flickers downward.

His expression sharpens. His voice is low, edged with something I don’t recognize.

“A portal—” Julian breathes, and for the first time, I don’t think he knows what comes next.

He’s gone. The mirror ripples once, twice—before snapping back to normal, like nothing ever happened. The last thing I see before he disappears isn’t a smirk. It’s something else. Shock. Almost… fear.

And I know—he’s coming for me. I don’t need to see him to know. I can feel it in my very soul.

I turn and run out of the room. I need air. Space. The apartment is closing in on me, walls too tight, shadows pressing in. I don’t stop moving. I just leave.

Emilien’s gallery will help me decompress. Hopefully.

The gallery is beautiful—a tapestry of color and movement, captured in stillness. The walls are lined with carefully curated chaos, bold strokes clashing with delicate details, each piece demanding to be seen. Frames stretch across stark white walls, the scent of oil paint and varnish still clinging to the air. Conversations hum softly in the background, footsteps muted against sleek floors.

It’s elegant. It’s alive. It’s everything a gallery should be.

Emilien is bustling around, excitedly greeting people. He sees me, and a grin lights up his face.

"Lia!" he says, running up to me.

When he wraps his arms around me, I melt into the embrace. Emilien has been one of the few I've shared my art with. He knows that it's changed. He knows it’s tied to my emotions, how it basically sucks now.

"I want your pieces hanging here," he says, walking over to the empty spot on the wall. A whole section, actually.

"You know where I stand, Emilien," I say.

"I know, but you should be showcasing your work," he whines, dragging out the words with an exaggerated sigh, like the mere thought of effort physically pains him.

"Not happening."

"Come on, just think about it. It’s been years. Your work deserves to be seen."

I stay firm. "No, Emilien. I told you. Not now. Not ever."

"You’re wasting your talent," he sighs.

Talent. Right.I don’t even know if I have any left. How can I be wasting something that isn’t there?

There’s no color anymore, no feeling. Just gray. Everything I try to paint looks the same—flat, lifeless, and hollow. I keep waiting for something to change, for it to come back, for that thing inside me to spark again. But it doesn’t. It just sits there, locked away, out of reach.

What if it’s gone completely? What if I lost it? What if I open myself up, put my work on these walls, and it’s just proof that I have nothing left to give?

What if everyone sees it? What if they look at my work and feel exactly what I feel—nothing?

God, I hate this. I hate that I can’t even explain it, that I can’t tell Emilien that it’s not about fear or rejection or even the attention. It’s about the fact that the one thing I’ve ever been good at doesn’t feel like mine anymore.

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