Page 4 of The Devil's Canvas

I almost laugh. Humans always assume they can buy what they want, that power is nothing more than a transaction waiting to be completed. I tilt my head, watching him carefully. "Let’s start with the basics, shall we? Power is not created. It is transferred. Stolen, taken, bartered away. You don’t simply wish for something and have it appear—you take it from another. And the greater the gift, the greater the loss."

Cassius doesn’t flinch. "I understand," he says smoothly. "I know where the gift should come from."

"Do you?"

"My daughter," he says without hesitation. "Ophelia."

The name lingers in the air, and though I don’t react, something inside me sharpens.

"She was born with something she never should have had," he continues, voice measured. "A gift wasted on someone who refuses to use it. She isolates herself, locks herself away from the world, creating nothing of value. And worse—she's spiteful. Vindictive. Her entire existence is designed to bring others down."

Ah. So this is his angle.

"And you believe Melanie is the one who deserves it," I say, though it isn’t a question.

Cassius stiffens, his polished exterior cracking for just a second. It’s quick—just a flicker of tension in his jaw, the briefest hesitation—but I see it.

He knows. He knows that I didn’t need him to tell me who she is.

And I watch as the realization settles in, as his carefully crafted confidence wavers.

I smirk, slow and deliberate, letting the silence stretch between us.

Cassius doesn’t speak.

I don’t rush him.

I like watching people squirm.

"She was meant for greatness," Cassius insists. "She commands attention, captivates with her presence. She was always the one meant to shine, yet Ophelia—" His lips press together as if the very thought of her disgusts him. "She stands in the way. She manipulates, she poisons, she drags everything down with her. She is selfish, cruel. The world would be better if she were nothing at all."

I tap my fingers against the desk.

Humans love to rewrite their own narratives. Villains must be villains. Heroes must be heroes. There is no room for nuance in their minds.

I exhale slowly, considering his conviction."Fair," I say, weighing the word. It never means what they think it does.

Cassius waits, still convinced this is a clean exchange—a gift taken, a gift given, a transaction that benefits him and his favored daughter. He expects power without consequence.

Humans always make that mistake.

I don’t answer immediately. I watch him instead, letting the silence stretch, letting it press down on him. It unsettles the humans, makes them question things they were once so sure of.

Not Cassius.

He stands tall, his expression unreadable, his confidence unwavering. But confidence means nothing here. Not in my domain.

"You want her gift transferred," I say finally. "A simple request on the surface. But again, power is not created, Cassius. It is taken, bound, and reshaped. And you—" my gaze sharpens slightly, "must carry the weight of that exchange."

He squares his shoulders, unwavering. "Explain the terms."

"From the moment this bargain is sealed, Melanie’s rise or fall will be tied to you. Her victories will be yours. Her failures, yours as well. If she succeeds, you succeed. If she falters—" I tilt my head slightly, "so do you."

A flicker of calculation flashes in his eyes. He expected a price, but he did not expect it to be this personal.

"And Ophelia?" he asks, his tone void of hesitation.

"She will still feel," I say, smooth and deliberate. "But she will never be able to express it. Not in words, not in action, not in art. Every emotion she experiences will be locked inside of her, unheard and unseen. She will carry joy, sorrow, rage, and love—" I pause, letting it settle, "but she will never be able to release them."

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