Chapter 2 – Break of the Sky
"The soul is the canvas. The brush is the key." — Ancient Artisan Proverb
She gasped, choking on a breath that wasn't hers.
Cold marble pressed against her back. Her eyes flew open to a ceiling painted with sprawling mural. Gold stars stretched across the ceiling, and winged figures glided between them. The strokes were bright and new, as if painted moments ago.
This… wasn't her apartment.
She pushed herself upright, breath trembling. Torch flames shaped like wings flickered softly, casting delicate patterns across the walls. The air carried the faint scent of incense and dried paint.
Every nerve inside her screamed wrong.
She looked down at her hands and froze.
Smooth. Delicate. Perfect. These weren't her hands.
Her breath hitched. She grabbed a strand of her hair. It slipped like silk through her fingers—long, golden, glowing faintly like sunlight trapped in every strand. Her real hair was short. Dark. Messy.
"What—what is happening?" she whispered to no one.
Her voice didn't sound like hers either.
Footsteps shifted around her.
Only then did she realize she wasn't alone.
Figures in long robes stood in a circle around her, faces hidden beneath deep hoods. Their presence felt heavy, like the weight of judgment itself had taken form.
One stepped forward, lowering his hood.
An older man, skin lined with age, stared at her with hollow eyes. They weren't confused—they were disappointed. Angry. Betrayed.
He lifted his hands and placed his thumbs gently against her temples.
Soleil flinched. "D-Don't—stop—" But no sound left her mouth. Her lips moved, but her voice remained trapped.
Panic punched through her ribs.
The man's eyes slipped shut. Silence stretched. His brows drew together. His mouth tightened.
Then he pulled his hands back sharply.
"I can't feel it," he murmured, horror flickering across his face. "There's… nothing. No divine pulse. No power at all."
A ripple of shock moved through the robed figures.
"What have you done," one hissed, "to make the gods strip you of your gifts?"
"You must have sinned," another said coldly. "Gravely."
"She was chosen," a third spat, "and now she has been rejected?"
"She failed the relic," someone at the back whispered harshly. "She brought shame to the sanctuary."
Soleil's chest tightened. Her pulses hammered.
"Wait—what? I don't un—understand." The words tangled in her throat. She couldn't understand what was going on.
Her eyes darted around in panic. Chosen? Rejected? Relic? Gods?
None of this was real. None of this made any sense.
A sudden yank snapped her out of her thoughts.
They were prying something out of her hand.
A brush.
Not hers, yet somehow it felt like it belonged to her more than anything in her life ever had. Sleek, carved with gold inlays, humming softly like a heartbeat. The moment they pulled it away, a sharp ache ripped through her chest.
"Stop! Don't—please—"
They didn't listen.
The brush was sealed inside a floating crystal case. The moment the case locked, the brush dimmed—like it was alive and grieving.
Soleil staggered to her feet, her legs trembling.
"What relic?" Her voice shook. "What gods? What are you talking about? Please—what's happening?"
Her foot slipped on the polished marble. She caught herself on a pillar, lungs burning.
The room spun around her.
Voices overlapped. Judging. Accusing. Whispering curses she didn't understand.
She backed away, heart slamming against her ribs.
"This is not real," she whispered. "It can be real."
No one moved to help. No one even softened their expression.
They looked at her the way people looked at a painting ruined beyond repair.
Her head throbbed—dull at first, then sharp and blinding. She stumbled, crashing against a column. The cold seeped into her bones.
What relic did they mean? What powers? Why couldn't she speak properly? Where was she?
Was she even alive?
The pressure inside her skull built and built—until she could hear nothing but the frantic thud of her heart.
She dropped to her knees.
Hands slapped against the marble as she tried to keep herself up.
Her body didn't feel like hers. Her voice didn't feel like hers. Nothing felt like hers.
A strangled whimper left her throat. Tears blurred her vision.
"I just want this to end," she whispered.
But they had already turned away, talking among themselves as if she were nothing but a failed experiment.
Her fingers trembled as she curled in on herself.
Her heart was a storm of fear and disbelief. She didn't belong here. She didn't know how she got here. She didn't even know who she was supposed to be anymore.
Then everything stopped. The murmurs. The movement. The air itself. Silence dropped like a blade.
The robed figures stiffened. Their heads bowed instantly, fear carved into every line of their bodies.
The temperature shifted, colder and heavier.
Someone was walking toward them.
Boots echoed across the marble floor—slow, deliberate and unmistakably commanding.
Each step felt like it shook the air.
Soleil's body collapsed. Her breaths became small and shaky. She tried to lift her head—her vision swaying.
A shadow fell over her.
With vision blurry she met his gaze, a cold green eyes sharp enough to cut through the haze filling her mind. Watching her not with confusion, disgust or anger.
Her breath froze halfway through her lungs, and that was the last thing she saw before consciousness slipped from her grasp…