In Caer Durn, people still whisper of Verrin Hollow when the sea fog swallows the coast and the candles shiver in the quiet air. It was a house of beauty once, a haven for artists and dreamers—but that was before the last painter made his masterpiece. Before the woman in the canvas found her voice.
The few who entered after him all told the same tale: a painting of two figures, their faces rendered with a truth that was terrible to behold. The man and the woman were so lifelike that their eyes seemed to track you, and if you watched long enough, you'd swear they moved. At midnight, they said, the woman's hand would tremble, a bare millimeter of a shift, reaching for the man who was frozen forever out of reach.
Some believe it is merely a fable. Others believe it is a curse.
But the truth, according to the elders, is simple: There was a painter who was utterly lost in his creation, and a woman who cherished liberty above all else. Obsession doesn't allow beauty to die—it only gives it a dark and patient eternity.