"Robert," Diana said, her voice soft as they sat under the veranda where the breeze carried the scent of ink and wildflowers. "I need to ask you something."
Charles looked up, startled. He had been sketching absentmindedly, lines curving into uncertain shapes. "Sure, what is it?"
Diana hesitated, choosing her words carefully. "If you shared your drawings with more people, it's okay. They're yours after all. I'm not angry—I just need to know."
Charles blinked, confused. "What are you talking about?"
She pulled a thin piece of parchment from her coat, frowning at it. "Today I used your dog drawing—the one we did together—and I only received 500 carnation points."
He narrowed his eyes. "That's strange. It always gives a thousand. Maybe it was a glitch?"
"I thought so too. So I tried again. I even tried another one of your drawings I had access to, just to be sure. Same result—reduced points." She paused, tapping her finger against the parchment. "I asked the system for a tier analysis. Robert, your drawings are now classified as tier two."
Charles stiffened.
"More than ten people have successfully learned them," Diana continued gently. "Once a drawing is learnt successfully by more than ten people , it moves down a tier. That's the rule."
"No," Charles said firmly. "I only shared them with family. And we all agreed: no more than ten people per drawing. You all swore to it."
Diana tilted her head. "What about Isaac? Wouldn't that make it eleven?"
Charles nodded slowly, his brow furrowed. "I only gave him the dog drawing, and even then, I made him a few of his own. They were different—simplified versions. I told him to share only with his household."
"Did you double-check that?" she asked quietly.
"I trusted him," Charles replied. "He's been... the only person outside of you who's actually been kind to me."
Diana opened her mouth to respond, but they were interrupted by the creak of the front door. Lucy stood there, arms folded, eyebrows raised in quiet suspicion. John stepped out beside her, adjusting his coat with the same wary expression.
"What are you two still doing here?" Lucy asked, her tone sharp but not unkind.
"We were just leaving," Diana said, tucking the parchment back into her sleeve.
"Wait a minute," Lucy said, stopping them. "Robert, I need to ask you something."
He turned.
"If you sold your drawings," Lucy continued more gently this time, "it's okay. If you needed the money, or if someone offered too much to refuse… we understand. You have every right to do what you wish with them."
The air turned thick.
Charles frowned, feeling an odd twist in his chest. "Why are you saying that?"
John reached into a side bag and pulled out a crinkled scroll. "Because we went to the market this morning," he said. "And this—" he held it up "—was on sale. Right next to cheap crystal shards and powdered Gana herbs."
Charles stepped forward, took the scroll, and unrolled it.
There it was.
One of his drawings.
Line for line. Shade for shade. Even the signature flourish he unconsciously added in the corners. It was his work—without question.
"I didn't..." he muttered. "I didn't sell this. I never gave this to anyone outside of us."
"Then someone else did," John said. "And they did it recently. The ink is still fresh."
Charles's hands trembled slightly as he rolled the scroll back up. "Who would do this?"
No one answered.
The question hung there like smoke.
---
Later that evening, Diana sat by the fireplace, replaying the conversation. Her mind circled back to Isaac. He had insisted on a few drawings—claimed it was to help his family . He had seemed earnest, almost desperate to learn. Charles had offered his help, and Diana hadn't objected at the time.
Now she wondered if that trust had been misplaced.
Could it be Isaac?
She hated to suspect him—he had shown Charles kindness in a school filled with wolves. He had defended him, taught him how to carry himself in the halls, and made him feel less alone. But something hadn't sat right for days.
Isaac had started showing up less often. He made excuses, disappeared during key training hours. His robes had changed—finer, lined with delicate thread. And his family... they had been struggling just last month.
So where had the sudden wealth come from?
She stood, paced once, then again.
"Charles," she said softly, entering his room without knocking.
He looked up from a half-finished sketch.
"If Isaac did sell your drawings—what would you do?"
He blinked. "I... don't know. I mean, part of me wants to believe it wasn't him. But if it was..."
He trailed off, uncertain.
"I trusted him," he finally said. "Maybe more than I should have. And if he betrayed that..."
He didn't finish the thought.
---
Outside the house, a figure leaned against the shadows, listening through the crack of an open window. Isaac.
His face was unreadable, his eyes half-lidded. In his hand, he held another copy of Charles's drawing. Folded. Sealed. Branded with a small, almost invisible rune.
He sighed.
"I told you not to trust me," he whispered into the dark. "But you did."
And then he vanished into the night.