Page 99 of The Devil's Canvas

“You may reach across realms—speak, feel, listen—but only when allowed.”

“You are not ornamental. You are instrumental.”

“You will be summoned when the Loom calls for you. You will answer without resistance.”

“And above all,” the final voice softens, “you will not pretend to be what you were. You are Duvain. You are immortal. You are not returning. You are becoming.”

The flames ripple, curl inward and show her the truth.

Melanie stands beneath studio lights too bright for comfort. Her makeup is flawless, her hair styled to perfection. But none of it matters—her eyes are wrong. Distant. Empty.

It’s a memory, but we’re watching it unfold like it’s happening now.

A scene begins.She faces her co-star, voice trembling just enough to suggest emotion. “No one else ever mattered. Just you,” she says, delivering the line like it’s been drilled into her spine.

It lands with a thud.

“Cut,” someone barks from behind the camera.

Harrison Drake stands, tight-lipped and frowning. He exhales through his nose. “Let’s go again.”

Another take. Same line. Same emptiness. “Cut.”

Melanie’s brows furrow as she steps forward, tension tightening her shoulders. “I don’t know what else you want from me.”

“I want you to feel it,” Harrison replies, stepping into the light. “Not recite it.”

She stares back at him insulted, but she doesn’t argue. However, the silence that follows says enough.

The fire flickers.

Melanie walks down a pristine hallway, her heels clicking like a clock winding down. A studio rep waits for her. Cool. Distant. Not offering a seat.

“We’re recasting,” he says flatly.

Melanie stiffens. “You’re joking.”

“You’re not right for the role.”

“You said I was the lead,” Melanie snaps, voice brittle.

The rep doesn’t flinch, doesn’t pause. “You were. Until you weren’t.”

The fire shifts.

She storms into her agent’s office, the smile she perfected years ago faltering. Her headshot is gone from the wall. The space where it hung now just empty drywall.

“You’re not serious,” she says, eyes narrowing.

He shrugs, stepping around the desk to collect a few loose folders. “You’re not marketable anymore.”

“I’m Melanie Arden.”

“That used to mean something,” he replies, not unkindly. He extends a hand to shake.

She doesn’t take it, instead she turns and slams the door as she leaves.

The fire coils again. Heat rising.

---