"The day I watched the colors fade."
They say art is eternal. That once you pour your soul onto the canvas, it never dies.
But they never told me that souls could rot, too.
The night it happened, the air smelled like rain and gunpowder. I remember the spotlight on my face — too bright, too pure — as if it was mocking me for still breathing. The applause was still echoing when the world turned red.
People screamed. The ceremony that was supposed to mark the end of my suffering became the beginning of another kind of silence.
And there he was — Xanver — collapsing right before my eyes, blood painting his temple, his hand reaching toward me like a final brushstroke on an unfinished piece.
I didn't cry. Not at first. Maybe because I'd already used up every tear I had trying to survive that cursed place. EUNOYA. The empire that turned beauty into a weapon, and artists into slaves.
I thought I escaped it.
But the truth is… no one ever escapes art. It clings to you, whispers in your dreams, drips into your veins until you can't tell if you're creating or being created.
Sometimes, when I close my eyes, I still see the academy's tall gates looming over me, as if they're waiting for me to come back. As if they're not done with me yet.
My name is Ambrielle Miller, and this is the story of how I traded my soul for a dream—
and how the dream demanded payment in blood.