The Art Building—or, as its residents more often call it, The Atelier—is an anomaly amid the orderliness of the Veinara Academy. While other buildings are constructed with rigid symmetry and cold granite, the Atelier is a pile of red bricks overgrown with wild vines, with stained glass windows of varying sizes.

  Usually, Mira came to art class in the east tower, accompanied only by Laich and his madness. But today, Liach asked Mira to come directly to the art building, saying that was enough of an introduction. And as soon as Mira pushed open the heavy oak door, she was greeted by a cacophony of sounds and smells.

  The sharp scent of turpentine mixed with the smell of wet clay, heated metal, and the sweet, rotten aroma of overripe fruit. The spacious room was no longer quiet.

  For the first time in a month, Mira saw Laich's other “students.”

  There were about seven people scattered around the studio. They were not wearing their neat academy uniforms. Their blazers were tied around their waists, their shirt sleeves rolled up to their armpits, and paint stains were their badges of honor.

  In the left corner, a skinny young man with green-dyed hair was standing in front of a blank canvas. His eyes were tightly closed. His mouth mumbled dissonant, discordant notes. “Hmmmm... hnnnggg... KA!” Every time he shouted, his hand splattered red paint onto the canvas with a convulsive movement.

  At the center table, an elf girl with welding goggles was melting barbed wire into a shape resembling a human heart. Her fingers were wrapped in blood-soaked bandages, but she didn't care. She smiled at the hot wire like a mother looking at her baby.

  In a dark corner near the warehouse, a large man—more like a bouncer than an artist—was smashing chunks of marble with a small hammer.

  Mira stood in the doorway, feeling out of place in her neat uniform and bow tie that Arlen had tied for her again. Here, neatness was a sin.

  “Ah, the Palace Muse has finally descended to earth.”

  Laich's baritone voice cut through the noise. The art instructor emerged from behind a pile of velvet curtains on the model stage. He wore a leather apron covered in black stains, his long silver hair tied carelessly with a used paintbrush.

  Laich clapped his hands twice. The sound was not loud, but it was enough to make all activity in the room stop instantly. The Green-Haired Youth stopped shouting. The Girl with Welding Goggles turned off her torch. The Giant lowered his hammer.

  All eyes were on Laich, then shifted to Mira. Their gaze was neither adoring nor condescending like that of students from other departments. Their gaze was... hungry. They visually dissected Mira—examining the composition of her face, her posture, and the “color” of her aura.

  “Meet her,” Laich said, nodding toward Mira. “Rhea. The Prince's new toy, but don't let that fool you. She has more darkness in her head than all of you combined.”

  Mira resisted the urge to roll her eyes. What kind of introduction was that?

  “Rhea,” Laich pointed at his students one by one. “That's Jeno. He paints sounds. Don't ask, I don't want to explain.” The Green-Haired Girl waved her hand, covered in red paint. "That's Ara. She's a sculptor who believes art requires blood sacrifice. Be careful if she borrows a knife.“ The Girl with Welding Goggles grinned, revealing teeth stained black. ”And that's Bax. He speaks three words a day. The rest he communicates through stones." The Giant just nodded stiffly.

  “Welcome to the Department of Culture and Arts, for real,” said Laich, spreading his arms. “A place of satisfaction for those who are too crazy for the Department of Magic and too weak for the Department of Combat.”

  Mira walked in, placing her bag on an empty bench far from Jeno's paint splatters. “You said there was an important announcement, Laich. About next month's exam.”

  The atmosphere in the room changed. The air, which had been relaxed and chaotic, suddenly thickened. Jeno opened his eyes. Ara took off her welding goggles. Bax slowly put down his hammer.

  Laich jumped up onto the lecturer's desk, his legs swinging casually.

  “That's right,” said Laich, his face turning serious. “As you know, in two months it will be The Second Domain Tournament. A violent feast where academies from across the continent gather to break each other's bones for a stupid gold cup.”

  Laich took a hand-rolled cigarette, tucked it behind his ear (not lighting it due to academy rules, even though he often broke them).

  “The Veinara Academy will send three representatives,” Laich continued. “Three people who will carry the name of this school.”

  He raised three fingers.

  “New rule this year: Those three representatives CANNOT be from the same department. The goal is to show off our glorious ‘curricular balance’.”

  Laich lowered one finger. “One slot is probably going to the Combat Department. Lukas Askagarg and his big sword will probably take that one. He's the favorite, he's a general's son, he's boring.”

  Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  He lowered his second finger. “One more slot is likely to belong to the Department of Elemental Magic or the Department of Nature. They have dozens of candidates who could blow up this building with a sneeze. Maybe one of Henesa's students.”

  Laich stared at his students with burning eyes. "That leaves one slot. The third slot. Maybe the Department of Elemental Magic and the Department of Nature could both be chosen. But their current generation isn't that strong. The proof is that Rhea was able to defeat a high-ranking student from the Department of Elemental Magic in less than a minute."

  Mira blinked repeatedly. It was the first time she had seen Laich talk this much. The man really looked like a true master.

  “Trash slot,” Ara muttered sarcastically. “Usually, they give it to the Mathematics, Strategy, or Healing Departments. We arts kids are never considered.”

  “This year is different,” Laich cut in sharply. "This year, I have submitted a petition to the Principal. That the Arts and Culture Department has the right to participate in the Into the Diamond selection next month. Besides, we have Mira in our department; she's the principal's daughter."

  Silence fell over the room. Jeno's mouth hung open.

  “You mean, Master...” Bax spoke (his voice heavy like rubbing stones), “...we have to fight?”

  “Not fight like barbarians, Bax,” Laich jumped down from the table and walked around them. “The Second Domain Tournament isn't just about who hits the hardest. There are rounds about Presence, Illusion, and Mental Domination. Who is more skilled at manipulating perception than an artist?”

  Laich stopped in front of Mira. "A wizard can burn down a forest. But an artist can make an enemy believe that the forest is burning without lighting a fire. That is our power."

  Laich turned to face the entire class. “The Into the Diamond exam will be held in four weeks. It is the academy's internal selection. Whoever passes this class will become Veinara's Third Representative in the Sky Tournament.”

  Mira felt her heart beat faster. This was it. Her path. If she could enter the Sky Tournament as an official representative, she would have her own stage. She would no longer be just the “Exiled Princess Adopted by the Ashart Family.” She would become a recognized power on the continent. And if she went there, she could find her sister, her ultimate goal.

  “But there's a condition,” said Laich, a sly smile etched on his face. “You won't pass the selection if you only paint flowers or carve horse statues. You must prove that your art is a Weapon.”

  Laich kicked a wooden box in the middle of the room. It contained a stack of small blank canvases.

  “Today's assignment is go straight to this department representative. I don't want to waste too much time before the new year,” Laich ordered. “You have one hour. Create a piece that can make me feel physical pain without touching me. Use paint, clay, sound, anything.”

  “Begin.”

  ***

  Chaos erupted again.

  Jeno immediately ran to his canvas, grabbed his palette knife, and began scraping thick black paint with a deafening sound. He wanted to create a noisy visual.

  Ara took the barbed wire. She began wrapping it around the mannequin's neck, pulling it so tight that the mannequin's head almost came off. A visualization of strangulation.

  Bax took a lump of red clay. He hit it, slammed it, shaped it into something abstract but heavy and oppressive.

  Mira stood still in front of her canvas. She held a brush. But she didn't move. How do you make people feel pain without touching them?

  She remembered Arlen. Not the strong Arlen. But the fragile Arlen in the morning. Arlen's pain didn't come from physical wounds. His pain came from emptiness. From isolation. From being the only person at the top of a cold tower.

  The sharpest pain isn't being stabbed with a knife. The sharpest pain is loss.

  Mira dipped her brush into white paint. Pale white. She wasn't painting blood. She wasn't painting monsters.

  She painted a long, luxurious dining table. A table laden with delicious food, crystal glasses, and golden candles. But there were no chairs. And no exit. Only the table, floating in a gray void. And in the center of the table, there was a small plate holding a single rotten grape.

  Mira painted using the Show Don't Tell visual technique. She didn't paint people crying. She painted the cause of the crying.

  She worked quickly. Her hands moved efficiently, a legacy of sword training translated to a paintbrush. Her strokes were firm. The shadows in the painting were sharp.

  An hour passed. “Time's up!” shouted Laich.

  Laich walked around to assess the artwork.

  He stopped in front of Jeno's piece. Jeno's canvas was covered in aggressive, chaotic black lines. “Noisy, Jeno. Very noisy. It gives me a headache. Good. But it's an annoying kind of pain, not a frightening one. Grade: C.”

  He moved on to Ara. A mannequin statue entangled in wire. “Cliché, Ara. Blood and barbed wire? You can do better than this. This is physical pain. Superficial. Grade: C plus.”

  He passed by Bax. Bax's lump of clay was shaped like a cube with a crack in the middle. Simple. Heavy. "Hmm. Oppression. I feel suffocated looking at this. Not bad, Bax. Grade: B."

  Finally, Laich stopped in front of Mira. He stared at the painting on the dining table. A long silence.

  Jeno and Ara peeked over, curious to see what the “Princess of the Palace” had painted.

  Mira's painting was simple. Too much empty space (negative space). But the details on the table... the sparkle on the empty crystal glasses... and the rot on that one grape...

  “This...” Ara muttered, rubbing her own arm. “Why do I feel hungry but nauseous looking at it?”

  “It's not hunger,” Jeno said softly, no longer shouting. “It's loneliness. A noisy loneliness.”

  Laich turned to look at Mira. “You're not painting pain, Rhea,” Laich said.

  “I'm painting hunger, Laich,” Mira replied calmly. "Hunger amid luxury. The pain of having everything but no one to share it with."

  It was a portrait of Arlen's life. A portrait of the “Fake Family” that Mira witnessed every day. Luxury rotting from within.

  Laich grinned. His white teeth flashed between his unkempt beard. “Psychological. Cruel. Elegant.”

  Laich took a red marker from his pocket. He wrote a large letter A in the corner of Mira's canvas.

  “You passed the class selection, Ashart,” announced Laich. “You will represent the Department of Arts and Culture in next month's Into the Diamond exam.”

  “That's it?” asked Mira.

  “I'm a simple person.”

  Ara hissed enviously, but did not argue. Jeno just nodded in admiration. Bax gave her a thumbs-up.

  “But remember,” Laich leaned his face close to Mira's, his voice lowered so that only Mira could hear. "In the exam, you will be fighting Lukas Askagarg. He won't attack you with dining table metaphors. He will attack you with a fifty-kilogram steel sword. How will your art stop that?"

  “Art is an illusion, Laich,” whispered Mira, her eyes flashing coldly—the eyes of a killer disguised as an artist. “And even the strongest warrior will die if he slashes at the wrong shadow.”

  Laich laughed freely. “That's the answer I was looking for!”