The studio was a sanctum of shadows and half-forgotten dreams, a place where time folded in on itself like wet canvas bunched beneath a painter's hand. The air was thick with the scent of turpentine and the faint trace of jasmine — the residue of Elvira, even when she wasn't there.
Avegar stood before the enormous canvas, the raw, unprimed linen nearly twice his height, stretched tight over a frame like a beating heart. His brush hovered, trembling like a spider's leg over the web, poised to capture a storm.
He began with black — a deep, pulsating black, so thick it seemed to swallow the light around it. It spread in furious, swirling strokes, each movement carrying the weight of nights spent chasing shadows inside his own mind.
Then came the red — not just red, but a violent, bleeding scarlet that leaked and bled into the darkness like molten glass. It streaked and cracked across the surface, raw and urgent, alive with pain and desire.
From the chaos emerged the shape of her — Elvira.
Not a portrait, no clear lines or edges, but a tempest of color and emotion — her hair a wild river of ink-black, tangled with streaks of scarlet that caught the studio's dim light and shimmered like fire.
Avegar's eyes traced the turbulent fall of her locks, the way they curled around the exposed hollow of her neck, and how the red veins of paint snaked across the black like a living thing. The hair was her rebellion — untamed, wild, and impossible to hold.
His breath caught in his throat, and his hand moved faster, more desperate. The hair stretched beyond the edges of the canvas, as if trying to break free, a shadow clawing at the fragile prison of paint.
Avegar imagined her standing before him — not as the quiet girl who hid behind secrets, but as the storm herself. A tempest wrapped in silk and fire, with eyes like thunderclouds and lips carved from ice.
He reached out as if to touch that storm but stopped himself, fingers trembling, brush dripping with crimson.
His mind drifted to forbidden places — fantasies too sharp to speak aloud.
He saw her whispering secrets only he could hear, her breath warm against his skin, the flicker of a smile that meant everything and nothing.
She was both muse and madness, a riddle he could never solve.
But then the tic came — involuntary, harsh.
A sharp twitch of his neck, left, right, left — a relic of a broken lineage, a physical scar inherited from a father long dead. The tic grounded him, a jarring reminder of reality when the fantasies spiraled dangerously close to obsession.
Avegar exhaled slowly, the brush pausing mid-stroke.
The studio was silent except for the faint rasp of bristles against canvas and the steady beat of his own heart.
Then came the weight.
A warmth pressed down on his thigh, deliberate and slow.
Startled, he glanced to the side. Anna was there — poised and perfect — legs crossed, her knee resting lightly on his lap, the soft silk of her skirt pooling around her like a promise.
Her eyes sparkled with mischief and something darker, a challenge woven through the curves of her smile.
"Lost in her again?" Anna teased, voice low and sultry, fingers trailing just barely over his wrist.
Avegar swallowed hard, the heat blooming beneath his skin. He was unaccustomed to such ease, such boldness.
"I suppose," he admitted, voice rough but steady.
Anna's leg shifted, pressing closer.
"You know," she murmured, "Elvira would never let you capture her fully. She's a wild thing — a storm, not a painting."
Avegar laughed, a dry sound edged with pain.
"That's the problem," he said. "She can't be tamed."
Anna's fingers traced lazy paths along his forearm, igniting embers beneath his skin.
"I think you like the chase," she whispered, "the torment."
Avegar wanted to confess everything — the way Elvira haunted his dreams, the way her hair tangled in his mind, the ache beneath his ribs.
But the words caught, thorny and sharp.
Instead, he let his breath hitch and tilted his head, allowing her to brush the rough stubble along his jaw.
"Maybe," he said, voice rough with confession, "I'm afraid to stop."
Anna's smile deepened, dangerous and sweet.
She moved her leg, pressing harder against his, and Avegar's breath caught.
---
The moment stretched, fragile and electric, suspended in the dim light of the studio.
Anna leaned in, lips brushing the shell of his ear, warm and electric.
"I have a secret," she whispered.
Avegar's pulse quickened.
"Tell me," he said, voice low.
Her lips curled into a sly smile, but she only whispered one name:
"Professor L."
---
The Shadows of Taboo
The name hung between them like a forbidden spell.
Anna pulled back just enough for their eyes to meet, glowing with memories that hurt and healed all at once.
"He was my teacher," she said softly, voice thick with longing and regret.
Avegar's brush paused, paint drying on his fingers.
Anna laughed, a sound like broken glass, sharp and beautiful.
"He was brilliant — dangerous, intoxicating. He taught me about power and surrender, about the things that lurk beneath control."
Her fingers gripped his wrist tightly, grounding herself in the present.
"We weren't just teacher and student. We were prisoners in a game neither of us wanted to end."
Avegar stared, torn between fascination and unease.
"Did he hurt you?"
Anna's eyes darkened, a storm behind the lashes.
"In ways that mattered. But in ways that made me stronger."
The studio thickened with the ghosts of that story, shadows pooling at their feet.
Avegar set down his brush and let his fingers brush a stray lock of Anna's hair.
"We all have chains," he said softly.
Anna nodded.
"Sometimes chains are what keep us from falling." "Would you come to my birthday party today?"
Avegar nodded, uneasy.
---
The door creaked, breaking the spell.
"Come," she said. "You have to see them."
Avegar hesitated, then followed, heart still pounding with the shape of desire and danger left behind on the canvas.
---
The apartment was a cluttered hive of warmth and chaos, a place where paint-stained canvases leaned against every wall, half-smoked cigarettes cooled on ashtrays overflowing with memories, and the scent of spilled wine mingled with incense that still clung stubbornly to the curtains. The air trembled with the energy of too many voices laughing too loudly and stories being spun too quickly.
At the center of it all was Avegar, his tall, slender frame hunched over an easel, the soft glow of a lamp casting long shadows across his sharp cheekbones. His brown hair fell untamed around his face, a wild mane that matched the storm brewing behind his eyes. Tonight, he was consumed by the canvas before him—a half-finished portrait of Elvira.
The painting was raw and fierce, streaks of deep black and violent red coiling like fire through the shape of her wild hair. Her eyes were fierce pools of night, as if they held the secrets of a thousand forgotten wars. To Avegar, she wasn't just a subject—she was a myth trapped in oil and pigment, the wild heartbeat he could never quite catch.
Near the window, Anna lounged in a silk blouse undone at the collar, one leg crossed over the other with casual elegance, the soft fabric of her skirt riding up just enough to reveal the smooth curve of her thigh. Her eyes sparkled with mischief as she watched Avegar's intense focus.
"You paint her like she's some kind of wild animal you're trying to cage," she teased, her voice a blend of honey and smoke.
Avegar didn't look away from the canvas. "Maybe I am."
She laughed, the sound light and teasing, then shifted closer, letting her leg brush against his calf with deliberate slowness. "If you spent half as much time talking to people as you do brooding over that canvas, you might actually make friends."
He gave a dry chuckle, lips twitching. "Friends are overrated."
Anna's eyes glittered. "Yeah? Well, I'm pretty sure you're just afraid of getting caught in the storm she is."
He finally met her gaze, dark eyes sharp. "Storms pass."
"But they leave wreckage behind," she said softly, a slow smile curling on her lips.
Behind them, the rest of the apartment was alive with noise and color.
Julian was sprawled on the floor near the bookshelf, animatedly arguing with Alexis over which Lana Del Rey album was the most iconic. Julian's curly hair bounced with every emphatic gesture, his laughter booming across the room. Alexis, cool and composed, countered with dry wit, sipping from a glass of cheap red wine as if it were the most sophisticated drink in the world.
In the corner, Vivienne was threading glitter into the hair of a friend, humming a morbid tune that sounded like a twisted lullaby. Her fingers moved deftly, the soft shimmer catching the light and casting tiny rainbows on the wall.
The room smelled of smoke, spilt drinks, and something floral—Anna's signature perfume mixing with the rosewater soap that Avegar sometimes used on his brushes.
Anna leaned back, resting her head against the couch cushions. "Honestly, if this is what your art world looks like, maybe I'm not missing much."
Avegar's lips curled. "You're not."
She caught his eyes, bold and teasing. "I bet you have fantasies about her, you know."
He shrugged, but there was a flicker of something unguarded in his expression. "Maybe."
"Tell me one."
He glanced back at the canvas, then whispered, "Her hair—black and red—like fire and shadow tangled together. I see her standing on the edge of a storm, wild and untamed, daring the world to try and break her."
Anna smiled, her gaze flicking down to his hands, which trembled slightly as they hovered over the brush. "Sounds like a tragedy."
"Maybe," Avegar said softly, "but a beautiful one."
---
The wine flowed faster as the evening deepened, the atmosphere shifting into a joking, drunken haze. Conversations bubbled and stumbled, teasing and flirting threading through the air like a dance.
Anna, ever the provocateur, stretched out her legs again, this time draping one smoothly over the arm of the couch, her bare foot brushing against the thigh of a stunned but silent Julian. She winked at Avegar. "Watch and learn, artist."
Julian laughed nervously, trying to cover his flush with a cough.
Across the room, Alexis shook his head, a bemused smirk tugging at his lips. "You're hopeless."
Vivienne, catching the vibe, gave a low whistle, her glittering hands still in motion. "Party's heating up."
Avegar's eyes never left Anna's slow, deliberate movements, the way she owned the room with just a look or a touch. There was heat in the air—a tension between them that simmered under the surface, teasing and dangerous.
Anna caught his gaze and leaned in, voice dropping to a sultry murmur. "You know, if you ever want a muse who fights back, I'm right here."
He smirked. "Dangerous muses tend to get burned."
She smiled wider. "Then maybe it's time you learned to dance in the fire."
---
The doorbell rang abruptly, cutting through the hum of laughter and music.
Avegar looked up sharply as the door swung open and Marco stepped in, boots heavy and worn, the unmistakable scent of pine and dirt clinging to his jacket. His tall, athletic frame filled the doorway, eyes scanning the room with a quiet intensity.
Anna's leg slipped away from Avegar's knee, and a slow, deliberate smile spread across her lips.
Marco's gaze locked onto Avegar's, the tension between them crackling silently as he extended a hand.
Avegar hesitated only a moment before clasping it firmly, their handshake loaded with unspoken challenges. It felt as Marco, Anna's brother knew something he shouldn't know.
The party swirled around them—laughter, smoke, music—but beneath it all, the undercurrents were shifting.
"It's not good, what am I doing here?" Avegar thought.
---
ELVIRA POV - Vision in the Water
Elvira walked the dark corridor with the key tight in her grip, its metal warm against her palm—as if pulsing in time with her heartbeat. The narrow hallway, long forgotten by time, pressed in around her with ancient weight. Vines curled along the ceiling like veins feeding some slumbering beast beneath the stone.
At the very end, she found the door.
No markings. No handle. Only a keyhole—shaped like a serpent's eye, narrow and waiting.
She hesitated.
Then, with a breath that shook, she slid the key in and turned.
Click.
The door groaned open.
But behind it, there was no chamber. No treasure. No prison.
Only a still pool of water.
Moonlight filtered down from an opening far above, casting a silver beam across the surface. The water was so smooth it looked like glass, reflecting her face back at her—pale, bloodstained, wide-eyed.
Elvira stepped forward.
Something in her blood stirred.
She knelt, breath fogging slightly as it met the water's chill. And then—without knowing why—she reached out and touched it.
The moment her fingertips broke the surface, the vision took her.
---
The chamber around her vanished.
In its place, a forest of glass and black fire. The ground beneath her shimmered like obsidian, cracked with glowing veins of gold. A wind whispered through trees of petrified bone.
And at the center of it all: a throne of thorns.
Upon it, bound by threads of glowing magic, sat a man.
His head was bowed, long gray-streaked hair falling over his face. His hands were shackled with blackened iron, but still, even in torment, he radiated something unshakable. Authority. Grace. Power. Wild tattoos covered his muscular arms.
He looked up.
His eyes were hers.
Not metaphorically — truly hers. That same shade of storm-touched gray, flecked with silver. A mirror of blood and soul.
"Elvira," he said with recognition, his voice warping the space around them. Not in volume — in weight. Like a name remembered by the world itself.
She stepped forward, trembling.
"Are you real?" she asked. "Is this…?"
"A tether," he said. "Old magic. You opened the gate."
She shook her head, breath catching. "I thought you were dead. I thought—"
"There was no time to tell you," he said, voice breaking. "Your mother hid you. She used the last of her power to conceal the bloodline—so even I couldn't reach you."
His chains glowed faintly as he moved.
"Where are you?" she asked. "I'll come to you. I'll—"
"No," Elric said, and for the first time, a note of fear entered his voice. "You must not. Not yet. I am held in the Sanctum of the Broken Oath… beneath the blood courts of Rowegan. They cannot know you live, not until the seal is broken."
"I can break it," Elvira said, fiercely now. "I'll find a way."
"You will," he replied, gently. "But not alone."
The vision flickered, the fire behind him dimming.
"There is another part of you still hidden," he whispered. "Another of what you are."
Then, softer: "He carries it."
"Who?" she asked.
But she already knew.
"Avegar," Elric said.
Her chest constricted.
"He carries the missing thread," her father said. "He doesn't know it, but the bite was the spark. The bond has awakened what lies buried. In you. In him. In me."
"What am I becoming?" she asked.
Elric's face twisted in sorrow.
"Queen," he said. "And something older than queens. Older than blood."
The vision cracked.
Chains glowed white-hot.
"Elvira," he called as the vision tore away, "when the moon bleeds—return to the water. I will call you again."
And then—
Darkness.
---
She came to, gasping, face hovering over the still pool. Her reflection rippled — fractured, unfamiliar.
Her fingers trembled.
The water stilled again, but she knew now: it wasn't just a pool.
It was a mirror of the bloodline.
A memory and a warning.
She touched her chest where the bite still pulsed faintly. Not pain—power. The old kind. Dangerous. Sacred.
Her father was alive.
Imprisoned. Bound beneath the blood courts of Rowegan. Hidden… but waiting.
And Avegar—
She didn't know whether to fear him or need him more.
But she knew this: she would return to the water when the moon bled.
And when she did, she would bring fire.
—------
THE HOME, THE OTHER CASTLE
Elvira stepped quietly back into her chambers, the moonlight trailing her like a cloak. Her heart still thudded with the vision—the glimpse of her father bound, alive, imprisoned somewhere in the cold heart of the Rowegan dynasty. It haunted her, clung to her like mist.
She lit a single candle, and the soft glow illuminated something on her desk.
A letter. Black wax. No crest.
Her breath hitched.
She broke the seal with trembling fingers.
> Meet me in the Moon Garden. No guards. No masks.
I need to see you. Just you.
— Avegar
Her throat tightened. For a long moment, she didn't breathe.
Something warm bloomed beneath her ribs.
She held the note to her chest, eyes fluttering shut, her heart blossoming with hope
Maybe… maybe he felt it too.