Dawn saw Atlas perched upon an unseen rooftop above the winding course of the Thames. Mist writhed from the dark water, moving like ghostly phantoms under Westminster Bridge's vaults. The city was still rousing itself: market stalls groaned awake, carriage wheels rattled on cobblestones, and ringing bells far away told the hour. Still, Atlas did not budge, holding the Blazon Portrait in one gloved hand and a mug of chamomile tea in the other. The pale, watery light of the rising sun streamed through his hood, casting a gleam on the frame's elaborate silver runes.
He gazed into the painted figure within—a blue-clad noblewoman with skin as pale as porcelain, eyes cast downward, lips curled in a wistful half-smile. No mark signed the painting; no inscription declared her name. Only the runes hinted at a secret strength, an unuttered vow that this painting was something more. Atlas recalled when he first caught sight of those eyes flashing in candlelight—a moment when paint turned to pulse, pigment to breath. He sensed that pulse now, as though the subject of the painting was arising from a deep sleep and stretching toward him.
Placing his tea aside, Atlas ran his finger over the runes. His Gift thrummed in reaction, a soft vibration that troubled the air. Gingerly, he spoke in half-remembered words from ancient grimoires: a cadence of sounds both strange and familiar. The runes faintly glowed under his fingers, and for one moment, the woman's painted eyes looked up to meet his with living recognition.
Then the radiance dimmed, the whispers of power dwindling into the painting. Atlas pulled his hand back, his heart racing. The painting remained immobile—and yet each movement of the brush appeared to vibrate with hidden life.
He could not linger here. News of his burglary would find the Black Heralds by midday, and Scotland Yard's men would quickly ransack the city for his tracks. Atlas tucked the portrait into a leather pouch and leapt off the rooftop into an alleyway below. His black cloak devoured him as he ran towards Covent Garden, heart pounding with excitement.
By mid-morning, the market square was alive. Fruit sellers shouted their offerings; flower girls moved through the crowd, baskets full of hyacinths and peonies. Atlas threaded among them, mask gone and cloak exchanged for the humble disguise of a traveling sketch artist: charcoal pieces stuck into his belt, a worn satchel of parchment across his shoulder. To the passing citizenry, he was an innocuous bohemian, recording street life with flourishes of black on white.
He stopped in front of a stall that displayed shiny tea sets and picked up a small tin of gunpowder tea, checking the label. A teapot of porcelain shone under scarves of green silk, and Atlas breathed in the aroma of bergamot. He bought the two teas, leaving the vendor a generous tip, then walked on, making fast sketches of flower vendors and thin shop facades.
His destination was the rear door to an antiquarian's store on Castle Court—a crumbling alleyway lined by crooked fronts and shuttered windows. Within the shop, its owner, Lucien Price, traded in odd books and curiosities, a tacit friend whom Atlas confided in secrets unknown to others. Lucien's business card stated "Occult & Esoteric," though in reality, he dealt in any relic too bizarre or forbidden for mainstream collectors.
Atlas slipped through the door, setting his satchel on a counter cluttered with leather-bound tomes and brass astrolabes. Lucien looked up from polishing a bronze statuette of an Icarus figure, his pince-nez glinting.
"Morning, Atlas," Lucien said, voice low and cautious. "You're early."
"Night was… fruitful," Atlas answered, relaxing out of his hood. He unclipped the satchel and pulled out the Blazon Portrait, setting it gingerly on an easel Lucien had set up. The antiquarian's eyes went wide as he examined the runes.
"Where did you find this?" Lucien breathed, running his fingers over the carvings. "These wards—Alchemy, Old Saxon, a piece of Enochian."
"I freed it from the Black Heralds," Atlas replied with a dry smile. "Had some complications."
Lucien paced around the painting, muttering to himself as though in conversation with its subject. "It is alive," he whispered. "The pigments… they move in the corner of the eye."
Atlas nodded. "I saw it last night. But when I touched it, the glow dissipated."
"Power is always a key," Lucien answered. "A word or a catalyst. Without it, magic slumbers."
He searched behind the counter and pulled out a leather-bound book, its cover embossed with a single rune identical to that in the portrait. "This grimoire was the original painter's. It says a ritual—a 'Vivify' spell to attach a soul to canvas. But the closing incantation is missing."
Atlas read the book, its pages aged to yellow. The ritual needed blood ink, an obsidian mirror, and the offering of something cherished. "I can make do," Atlas said. "My Gift might create the spark it lacks."
Lucien's eyes flashed with worry. "Your Gift is strong, but unreliable. You risk calling attention—." His voice dropped off at the unspoken idea: of other Gifted, who would pick up on the ritual, drawn by the potential for power.
Atlas put a hand on Lucien's shoulder. "I'll be careful.
Lucien exhaled slowly and nodded. "Very well. But you'll need supplies." He handed Atlas a list: vials of rare pigments, vials of wolf's blood, a shard of volcanic glass. "I can procure these by tomorrow. And I've arranged a secure location for the ritual—an abandoned crypt beneath St. Bartholomew's. No interruptions there."
Atlas tucked the list into his pocket. "Thank you."
As he turned to leave, Lucien hesitated. "Be cautious, Atlas. There are those who would kill for this painting."
Atlas paused at the door, hand on the latch. "Then I'll need to stay one step ahead."
Night again descended, and Atlas made ready for the ritual within the secret crypt. Candlelight reflected off wet stone walls, lighting alcoves carved with faded effigies of saints. In the middle, he set out the portrait upon an iron table, its frame placed over a circle of chalk-drawn runes corresponding to those inscribed on the canvas. Next to it, Lucien's materials shone in silver bowls: black pigment, blood ink, and the volcanic shard—black as night.
Atlas wore a humble indigo robe, hood yanked low over his face. He ran his fingers around the circle, muttering the incantations he had learned from Lucien's grimoire. Every syllable was a stroke on a secret chord, resonating through the quiet of the crypt. He dipped a quill in the blood ink and inscribed new runes along the border of the portrait, every stroke slow and deliberate.
When the last rune solidified, Atlas's Gift surged: the accustomed buzz of Doppelganger energy, diluted to a new frequency. He touched the volcanic fragment to the surface of the portrait, allowing it to etch a line over the painted woman's heart. Lightning appeared to arc in his blood, and the eyes in the portrait fluttered.
Then, quiet.
For an instant, nothing stirred. The candles flared as if momentarily caught in a gust of air. Atlas stood still, holding his breath.
Then, the woman painted on the canvas came to life.
Her hand—a delicate brushstroke—rose off the canvas. Fingertips danced over Atlas's hand. He stepped back, heart racing with terror and wonder. Standing before him was a figure, no taller than the canvas's frame, yet alive—its blue dress rippling even when there was no wind, hair floating as if it were underwater.
"My name… is Elara," she breathed, voice as gentle as moonlight. "You have awakened me."
Atlas's thoughts whirled. The ritual had worked, attaching Elara's spirit to flesh and paint. Her eyes, great and shining, roved his face. "Why?"
Elara's eyes wandered to the runic circle. "To set me free from stillness." She stepped off the canvas with no hesitation, her body insubstantial yet real, like fog condensed into flesh. "But my freedom comes at your expense."
Atlas ground his jaw. He had risked it: that the bond would need to be paid with something more than ink and blood. "What do you want?"
Elara's mouth was a smile of sad beauty. "A piece of your Gift. A fragment of your soul." Her hand drifted near his chest, where the Napoleon watch rested inside his coat. "Only so can I live."
Atlas swallowed. To share a shard of his Gift was to make himself weaker—maybe beyond repair. But to walk away now would sentence Elara to permanent silence, suspended between life and art. His heart shuddered.
He shut his eyes and called upon his Gift: the mimicry of power, the replication. He pictured one echo of himself—one that would be able to bear the spark without destroying the original. He severed a strand of his essence with precise concentration, directing it into Elara's receptive shape. The shard of power burst, and Elara gasped, her face filling with color.
Thank you," she whispered, reaching out to brush her fingers over his cheek—warm against his flesh. "I will never forget your generosity."
Atlas sensed the loss—a hollow where his Gift used to be. The world seemed duller, the buzz of power a distant hum. But the ritual circle blazed with fresh life, and Elara was whole beside him, no longer tied to canvas.
He steadied himself against the table. "Rest here," he said gently. "I'll find a way to restore what you've lost."
Elara tilted her head and entered the center of the ring. The runes dimmed and disappeared, as if burned away by her presence. She turned, her eyes aglow, and waved a hand in goodbye. Then, with a quiet sigh, she disappeared—her form dispersing into wisps of light that rose up, dissolving into the darkness of the crypt.
Atlas knelt in the dust of the runes, his heart full of sacrifice and victory. He had won more than a prize from a heist—he had released a living spirit. And he had paid, though, as well, the price of losing a piece of his own Gift. He would sense that loss, a gap in the fabric of his ability.
He rose, collecting his tools and shutting the rift of the crypt entrance behind him. Night air greeted his face, cool and fresh beneath the glow of gaslight-topped buildings. Inside his satchel was the Blazon Portrait modified—its frame now hollow save for the lingering aura of magic. He would bring it to Lucien to study, to discover how to bind Elara fully without further expense.
Before him stretched a fresh challenge: the city's streets swarmed with competing Gifted, attracted by rumors of the portrait's ability. The Black Heralds would pursue him; Scotland Yard's finest agents would pursue him. And beyond them all was a greater danger—those who desired the ability to ensnare souls in art.
Atlas clenched his jaw. His Gift could be diminished, but his mind was still razor-sharp. He'd pulled off his biggest score ever—not of gold or gems, but of life. And now, he'd guard his prize.
He disappeared into the London mist, silhouette engulfed by the darkness, prepared to command the shadows anew. The Midnight Mist was like smiling specter guarding his retreating form The next act of the opera would be immortal, its stage eternally the city itself—and Atlas, its covert maestro, would lead each note.