The smell of linseed oil and cheap turpentine always made Roderick's head ache by noon.
He leaned back in his chair, the wood creaking under his slight frame, and squinted at the canvas.
It was supposed to be a portrait of a knight.
A noble warrior of Gildenfell, perhaps, standing tall in polished plate armor.
Instead, it looked like a lopsided charcoal smudge with limbs that didn't match in length.
The head was too large, the torso was a grainy rectangle, and the sword looked more like a bent baguette.
Roderick wiped a streak of black paint off his forehead, only to realize he'd just smeared more onto his skin. He sighed, throwing his brush into a jar of murky water.
"Masterpiece," he muttered, his voice thick with sarcasm.
His room was large—too large for someone who didn't contribute anything to the family name. The furniture was made of dark, expensive oak, and the rugs were hand-woven imports.
It was the kind of room a high-ranking mage's son deserved. The problem was, Roderick was only a mage's son by blood, not by ability.
A soft knock came at the door before it pushed open.
His mother, Petra, stepped in carrying a tray with a glass of juice and some sliced fruit.
She smiled, though there was always that flicker of pity in her eyes that Roderick hated more than anything.
"Still at it, dear?" she asked, setting the tray down on a small side table cleared of clutter. She walked over to stand behind him, looking at the canvas.
Roderick tensed, waiting for the lie.
"Oh, Roderick," she said softly, placing a hand on his shoulder. "I love the... energy in this one. You can really feel the weight of the armor."
"It's a blob, Mom. You can say it."
"It's a work in progress," she corrected him gently. "Art takes time. Just like anything else."
"Magic doesn't take this much time," Roderick snapped, then immediately regretted it. He looked down at his paint-stained hands. "Sorry. I just... I've been on this for three hours and it still looks like a stick figure."
"You have your father's persistence," Petra said, squeezing his shoulder. "That counts for more than—"
The door didn't just open this time; it slammed against the wall.
Caspian Vale marched in, his presence immediately making the room feel smaller.
He was three years older than Roderick, broader, and radiated the kind of easy confidence that came with being a B-rank Gravity mage at twenty-one.
His blue eyes—the same shade as Roderick's—were scanning the floor with annoyance.
"Where is it?" Caspian demanded, ignoring his mother entirely.
"Where is what, Caspian?" Petra asked, her tone sharpening.
"My silver pendant. The one from the Academy. I left it on the dining table last night and the servants said they saw Roderick picking up things in there this morning."
Roderick didn't look up from his canvas. "I didn't touch your stupid pendant."
Caspian walked over, his boots heavy on the floorboards. He stopped right next to the easel and let out a sharp, dry laugh. "Is this what you've been doing all morning? Playing with mud?"
"It's paint," Roderick said, his jaw tightening.
"It's a waste of time," Caspian countered.
He reached out, and for a second, the air around the canvas seemed to thicken.
The gravity shifted, just a fraction, making Roderick's stomach flip. Caspian didn't touch the painting; he didn't have to.
He just looked at it with pure disdain. "Father is out there helping the King's council stabilize the southern borders, I'm preparing for the rank-advancement trials, and you're in here drawing sticks."
"Caspian, that's enough," Petra said firmly.
"Why is it enough? He's eighteen. He should be doing something. Anything." Caspian looked at Roderick, his expression turning from mockery to genuine disappointment. "You're a Vale. Even if you don't have a drop of mana in your veins, you could at least try to learn a trade that doesn't involve making a mess of expensive canvas. You're a failure, Roddy. A well-dressed, pampered failure."
Caspian turned on his heel and walked out. "Check the laundry for my pendant, Mom. If he didn't steal it, maybe a maid did."
The silence that followed was heavy. Petra sighed, looking toward the door and then back at her younger son. "He's just stressed, Roderick. The trials are coming up and—"
"I'm going to take a bath," Roderick interrupted. He stood up, avoiding her gaze.
"But your snack—"
"I'm not hungry."
He walked past her, keeping his eyes on the floor until he reached his private washroom. He shut the door and bolted it.
He stripped off his clothes and stepped into the sunken stone tub.
The water was hot—the servants had prepared it earlier—but he barely felt the heat. He sank until the water reached his chin, staring at the steam rising toward the ceiling.
The words pampered failure circled in his mind like vultures.
Why was he the one? In a family of legendary mages, how did the bloodline just... stop? Benedict Vale could crush a carriage into a metal ball with a flick of his wrist.
Caspian could pin a dozen men to the floor without breaking a sweat.
Even his mother had a decent grasp of wind magic, though she chose to use it for domestic comforts.
And then there was him. Roderick.
He had spent years trying to manifest even a spark.
He'd read every book, attended every lecture, and endured the most expensive tutors Gildenfell had to offer.
Nothing. He was a hollow vessel. A dead end.
Does she really love me? he wondered, thinking of his mother's forced smiles. Or does she just feel sorry for the broken bird in the nest?
He stayed in the water until it turned lukewarm and his skin began to prune. By the time he got out and dressed in a fresh tunic and trousers, the house was quiet.
His father was likely at the palace, and Caspian was probably at the training grounds, showing off.
Roderick walked back into his bedroom, feeling a strange sense of exhaustion. He just wanted to go to bed and forget the day. He didn't even want to look at the painting.
He entered the room, the smell of paint still lingering. He moved toward his bed, intending to collapse, but a sudden noise stopped him.
Thud.
It was the sound of something hitting the floor. Something heavy.
Roderick froze.
He looked toward his desk. His water bucket—the one he used to wash his brushes—had tipped over. Water was pooling across the hardwood floor.
"Great," he muttered. "Just great."
He grabbed a rag from the side table and stepped closer to the spill. As he reached down, he stopped.
The canvas on the easel was blank.
He blinked, rubbing his eyes. He looked again. The portrait he had spent three hours on—the bad charcoal warrior with the baguette sword—was gone.
The white surface was clean, save for a few faint stains where the charcoal had been pressed too hard.
Then, he heard a wet, scratching sound.
It was coming from the floor, right in the middle of the puddle of water.
Roderick's heart thudded.
He watched as a shape began to rise out of the spilled water and paint. At first, it looked like a clump of wet clothes. But as it grew taller, the lines became sharper.
It was a figure. A man.
Except, it wasn't a man. It was 2D, like a piece of paper stood upright, yet it occupied three-dimensional space.
It was made of charcoal lines and grey-wash paint. Its head was a lopsided circle. Its arms were thin, shaky black strokes. Its sword was a thick, dark smudge at its side.
It was his painting.
The stick-man turned its head toward him. It didn't have eyes—just two dots of ink—but Roderick felt a chill run down his spine as if it were staring directly into his soul.
The creature took a step. Its movement was jittery, like a flickering candle flame. Its "feet" made a scratching sound against the wood, like a pencil dragging across parchment.
"What the..." Roderick's voice failed him.
He stumbled backward, hitting his desk. He reached out and grabbed a heavy glass paperweight, his knuckles white. "What are you? Get back!"
The stick-figure didn't stop. It raised one of its thin, black arms. The charcoal on its "hand" looked wet, dripping slightly onto the floor. It let out a sound—not a voice, but the rasping sound of paper being torn.
Horror surged through Roderick. He didn't think; he just bolted for the door. He grabbed the handle and yanked, but his hands were shaking so much he couldn't get the latch to turn on the first try.
"Help!" he shouted, his voice cracking. "Mom! Someone!"
He looked back over his shoulder. The stick-man was standing in the center of the room now, its head tilted at an impossible angle. It wasn't attacking, but its presence felt like a nightmare made flesh.
Suddenly, a high-pitched chime rang out, echoing inside his skull.
The world around him seemed to stutter for a fraction of a second. A translucent blue window flickered into existence, floating in the air right in front of his eyes.
[SYSTEM ACTIVATED]
[CONGRATULATIONS ON BEING THE SELECTED USER]