Chapter 20 – Art in Motion

  The holographic feed faded, and the connection with Dorian and the Rendon's closed with a soft chime. The room fell quiet again, leaving only the hum of the wristlink’s standby glow.

  Lucien leaned back in his chair, letting the weight of the evening finally settle. Between the endless notifications, the emotional chaos downstairs, and now the logistics of printing, he hadn’t even realized how tired he was.

  But there was still one more thing left to do.

  He rubbed his temples lightly and sighed. “Cover art,” he muttered. “I can handle the formatting and layout, but I don’t have time to do the artwork myself…”

  A faint smile tugged at his lips. “And besides me, there’s only one person I’d trust to make it right.”

  He tapped the contact icon on his wristlink, and the familiar blue shimmer of a holographic call filled the air. Riven’s image blinked into existence above the desk—messy hair, smudges of paint on his cheek, and that ever-present grin.

  “Took you long enough,” Riven said before Lucien could speak. “I was starting to think you’d forgotten who paints your miracles when you don’t have time.”

  Lucien raised a brow, amused. “You knew I’d call?”

  Riven snorted. “Please. I’ve known you long enough to predict your schedule better than you do. You’d never trust anyone else with your art besides yourself—though if you had ten heads and ten pairs of hands, you’d probably try to do everything by yourself.”

  He leaned back, shaking his head with a laugh. “Seriously, Lucien, you’re a monster. Anything creative you touch—writing, music, art—turns out leagues ahead of what the rest of us can manage. It’s unfair, honestly. But since you only come equipped with one brain and two hands instead of a full creative army, I figured I’d lend mine this time.”

  Lucien laughed, the corner of his mouth quirking up. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

  “Take it however you want,” Riven said, smirking. “Just remember I was the one who said it when the royalty checks start rolling in.”

  Lucien shook his head, still smiling. “You’re not wrong. Between the layout, printer specs, and all the feedback to handle, I’m barely holding it together.”

  “That’s exactly why I didn’t wait,” Riven said, tapping his brush against a palette just out of frame. “I already read your novel the moment it dropped. Couldn’t resist. Seliora, Evelis, Kaelen, Dorian—everyone did. We’ve been talking about it nonstop in our group chat. And don’t worry—we agreed to give you a few hours before flooding you with congratulations.”

  Lucien chuckled. “That explains the suspicious silence. I was wondering when the storm would hit.”

  “Oh, it’s coming,” Riven promised with a grin. “But first things first—I finished your cover.”

  Lucien blinked. “You what?”

  Riven’s grin widened. “What, you think I’d wait for you to remember art exists? Come on, Lucien. I know how your brain works. I figured you’d call tonight, so I got ahead of it.”

  He turned slightly, and the holographic projection widened to reveal an easel behind him. The canvas displayed a moody, atmospheric scene—deep crimson tones layered with muted greys, a lone silhouette standing under a lamppost on a fog-shrouded street, geometric patterns subtly framing the composition.

  Lucien leaned forward, eyes brightening as he took it in. “Riven… that’s—”

  “Done?” Riven interrupted with mock modesty. “Yes. Brilliant? Also yes. But since you’re the genius who made this story, I’ll let you decide if anything needs tweaking.”

  Lucien studied the artwork in silence for a moment. The emotion, tone, and intrigue were all there—perfectly captured. “It’s incredible,” he said finally. “You got the mood exactly right. The light, the atmosphere—even the tension in the composition.”

  Riven made a mock bow. “Flattery will get you everywhere, author.”

  Lucien smiled. “Send me the file in high-res. I’ll handle the text placement and spine design tonight before I collapse.”

  “Already formatted for print dimensions,” Riven said, waving a brush dismissively. “I even adjusted the palette for press calibration—learned a few tricks since the last time you dragged me into one of your projects.”

  “Like I said—one head, two hands. I’m just compensating for your lack of extras.”

  Lucien laughed, the tension easing from his shoulders. “You’re impossible.”

  “Efficiently impossible,” Riven corrected, grinning. “Now go eat something. You sound like a man who’s been living off caffeine and adrenaline for twenty-four hours.”

  Lucien smiled faintly. “That’s… not inaccurate.”

  “Then fix that before you pass out on your desk,” Riven said, pointing his brush like a command baton. “I’ll send the files and mockup notes in a few minutes. Final tweaks can wait.”

  You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

  “Thanks, Riven. Really.”

  Riven shrugged lightly. “Hey, you’re the one writing our ticket to fame. Least I can do is make sure the cover looks good on every bookshelf.”

  The holographic feed flickered out, leaving Lucien staring at the dim afterglow on the desk. He leaned back again, a tired but satisfied smile settling on his face.

  He stayed up well past midnight, but the fatigue in his limbs felt different—not heavy, but purposeful. The room was dim except for the faint bluish glow of his wristlink projection, the finalized cover hovering in crisp detail.

  Riven’s art looked even more striking under calibrated light: the muted greys of a fog-drenched Marilon street, the lone figure beneath a lamppost, a thin crimson reflection spilling across wet pavement—a quiet promise of mystery. The title, A Study in Scarlet, sat elegantly along the top in sleek serif type, his name below it, framed by faint geometric motifs that hinted at both logic and art.

  Lucien adjusted the font weight twice, aligned the spine text once more out of habit, then double-checked the print margins he’d received from the Rendons.

  When the final export finished rendering, he scanned each file one last time—cover, back, print-ready manuscript, layout certification. Everything aligned, every mark in place.

  He allowed himself a long breath, then hit send.

  > [Upload Complete. Files delivered to: Stone & Quill Press]

  “Done,” he murmured, leaning back with a faint smile.

  He dimmed the wristlink, stretched, and finally headed to his room.

  ---

  Across the city, the old workshop of Stone & Quill Press glowed faintly in the lamplight.

  Theo was half-dozing in his chair when his wristlink pinged.

  He blinked, then sat up quickly. “Dad—the files came through!”

  Mr. Rendon looked up from his desk, where he’d been reviewing the ink-feed calibrations. “Already?”

  Theo projected the files mid-air, and the cover art appeared in vivid holographic color, spinning gently under the flickering workshop lights. Both men stood still.

  The crimson tones washed across the rough brick walls—a lone figure under a lamplight, coat fluttering in the mist. The composition was perfect: the quiet pull of intrigue, the stillness before revelation.

  Theo whistled softly. “That’s… gorgeous. Fits the story exactly.”

  Mr. Rendon nodded slowly, the faint red hue reflecting in his glasses. “It does. Simple, deliberate. Just enough mystery to draw the eye.”

  Theo grinned. “You finished reading it too, right? That ending twist—didn’t see it coming at all.”

  His father chuckled, genuine enjoyment in his voice. “Neither did I. It’s been a long time since I liked a mystery story. We’ll print this one right—sharp, clean, perfect alignment. Let’s make sure when people hold this book, they know it was made with care.”

  Theo straightened, his earlier weariness replaced by quiet excitement. “I’ll get the press prepped for the proof run first thing in the morning.”

  Mr. Rendon nodded. “Good. No delays. The story deserves nothing less.”

  The holographic projection faded, but the crimson light seemed to linger—reflecting in the old man’s glasses, painting faint glimmers on the iron press that, come dawn, would be alive again.

  ---

  Lucien had barely closed his eyes when his wristlink buzzed again—bright blue across the dark room.

  He groaned softly, half-laughing. “If that’s another notification, I swear…”

  But it wasn’t. The device flickered once, then projected a holographic window mid-air.

  Five familiar faces blinked into existence, voices overlapping immediately.

  “LUCIEN!”

  Kaelen’s grin was blinding. “You thought you could sneak a bestseller and go to bed quietly?”

  Seliora folded her arms, though she was smiling. “We decided to give you a day to breathe before bombarding you with congratulations,” she said. “But clearly, you’d have just worked yourself into the ground if we hadn’t interrupted.”

  Evelis lifted a cup into view, her tone dry but amused. “Consider this your celebration party. Unscheduled, of course.”

  Riven added with mock solemnity, “And entirely your fault for being successful.”

  Dorian’s calm voice came last, a faint smile in it. “I warned them you’d be exhausted, but they don’t listen. Consider me an accessory to the crime.”

  Lucien ran a tired hand through his hair, smiling faintly. “You know, I thought I’d earned some sleep tonight. Turns out fame doesn’t come with peace.”

  Riven chuckled. “You? Sleep? After everything today? Please. You’d just lie there planning your next ten projects.”

  Lucien chuckled and leaned back against the headboard. “Maybe. But in my defense, it’s been one very long day.”

  Kaelen leaned closer, teasing. “Oh? Do tell.”

  Lucien counted on his fingers with mock exhaustion. “Let’s see—woke up to a flood of notifications, nearly drowned in tips and comments, found out the café turned into a celebration hall, Alina almost bankrupted me with joy, my parents got emotional, the staff threw a parade, I spent the afternoon negotiating with Dorian and the Rendons, then finalized the cover with Riven—who apparently doesn’t sleep either.”

  Riven rolled his eyes. “Oh, please. You’re the genius who’s great at every creative discipline under the suns. I just try to look useful next to you.”

  Lucien laughed dryly. “And now you all appear in my room like ghosts of productivity past to keep me from sleeping. Very considerate.”

  Seliora smiled faintly. “You earned the disturbance. We couldn’t let you end the day without a proper congratulations.”

  Evelis nodded, her voice warm. “You did it, Lucien. Really did it.”

  Kaelen leaned in again, grinning. “Hey, before you disappear into your next project, make sure you set aside a few physical copies for us. I’m framing mine.”

  Riven nodded quickly. “Same here—and don’t even think you’re getting away without autographs this time. You owe us.”

  Seliora smiled. “We’ll be humble about it, of course… but we expect beautifully signed dedications. Maybe something poetic.”

  Lucien laughed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “You all sound like opportunistic collectors.”

  Evelis chuckled. “Collectors with excellent taste, thank you very much.”

  Dorian’s calm tone cut through with a trace of humor. “They’re not wrong, though. Keep a few of the first batch for yourself, Ashborne. First editions tend to appreciate—especially once the author becomes impossible to reach.”

  Lucien rolled his eyes but smiled. “Fine, fine. I’ll keep a few before you lot raid the stockroom. Though if I sign them, I’m charging extra.”

  That earned a round of laughter that carried easily through the flickering light.

  For a moment, the teasing faded—replaced by quiet pride shared through flickering light.

  Lucien looked at them all and felt that familiar warmth in his chest, the kind that had nothing to do with numbers or fame. “Thank you,” he said softly. “Now—if you’re all done being sentimental—can I go to sleep before the sun rises again?”

  Kaelen laughed. “Fine, fine. We’ll let you rest, Mr. Famous Author.”

  Riven smiled. “Dream of royalty checks.”

  Dorian, ever calm, finished simply. “Rest well, Ashborne. Tomorrow will be busier than today.”

  The call blinked out, leaving Lucien alone again. He exhaled, smiling to himself in the dark.

  “Tomorrow can wait,” he murmured, closing his eyes. “Tonight’s earned.”

  He turned over once, half-smiling even as sleep began to pull him under.

  “…and if anyone calls before noon,” he muttered drowsily, “I’m disowning them.”

  The room fell quiet once more, the soft hum of his wristlink fading.