The cave descended into darkness. Water dripped somewhere in the depths, and the air carried the musty scent of centuries-old decay.

  They moved in single file, the Saintess leading with her staff that cast pale light across the uneven floor. It was difficult to traverse. The floor rose and fell with sudden drops where the rock had cracked. Clive planted his feet where her light had just revealed solid ground, following the safe path she carved through the treacherous footing. Behind him, he heard the careful shuffle of the templars doing the same.

  "Stay close," Jecht whispered. "These caves connect to a whole network. Easy to get lost."

  The passage bent sharply to the right, then the walls fell away into a chamber that stopped Clive mid-step. Seven stone figures stood in a semicircle, each carved with the intricate details he was familiar with now. On inspection, they were all members of the clergy.

  "Looks like we're at the right place." Clive moved toward the center figure. He circled the statue, studying the way his robes had been carved mid-billow, as if he'd been turning when the stone claimed him. His mouth hung open, eyes wide and staring at something beyond the chamber wall. "Their faces... they were caught off guard. Like they were surprised by something."

  "They were," the Saintess replied. "And they’ll serve as a reminder."

  "A reminder?"

  "Of what happens when power goes unchecked."

  Clive took a closer look at the surroundings. The chamber beyond the statues resembled nothing so much as a cell. Iron rings were set into the walls at regular intervals, and iron bars compartmentalized into cells.

  Around him, the templars had spread out, but Clive noticed they'd positioned themselves between him and the chamber's entrance. They had drawn their weapons, and their eyes were firmly on him.

  He had a bad feeling about this. They weren't scanning for threats anymore—they were watching him.

  Captain Auron noticed the broken formation and turned, frowning. "What are you doing? Get back in position around the Saintess."

  "Sorry, captain, orders are orders," Jecht said.

  "Whose orders?" Auron's voice sharpened.

  The Saintess turned to face them. The soft light from her staff illuminated her features, but something had changed in her expression. The gentle warmth from the previous night was gone, replaced by a cold expression.

  He raised his—

  [Holy Nova]

  The cave exploded with blinding radiance. Light poured out from the Saintess's staff. Clive threw up his hands, but the brilliance penetrated his closed eyelids. The intensity was beyond anything he'd witnessed the night before with the shadowwolves. The world turned into a searing white void.

  He stumbled backward, disoriented. He tried to paint something from muscle memory, but before he could, a blow struck him from behind. The pommel of a sword was driven into the base of his skull. Pain exploded through his head, and his knees buckled. More blows came down, and the cold stone floor rushed up to meet him.

  Beside him, steel scraped against plate, searching for the gap. Auron spun, but Jecht's dagger had already found the joint under his helmet where leather met metal. The blade slid between the plates.

  "Sorry, Captain," Jecht whispered, and twisted the blade.

  Auron dropped to his knees, one gauntleted hand pressed against his throat. He tried to speak, but only blood came out.

  As Clive’s consciousness flickered, he felt rough hands stripping away his satchel, taking his sketchbooks, his paintbrush, every tool of his art. The leather straps that held his manifested weapons were cut away. Even his color palette was pried from his fingers when he tried to hold onto it.

  "Leave him alive," the Saintess's voice came from somewhere above him, distorted by the ringing in his ears. "I’ll have questions for him."

  Through the haze of pain and the afterimages burning across his ruined vision, Clive understood. This had never been about hunting a devil in the caves. This had been about hunting him. He never liked the Saintess at the start, but had gradually warmed up to her over time. Was that all an act then? Were the stories they exchanged all a bunch of lies? What was her goal?

  "Check his sleeves and boots," the saintess commanded. "Every scrap of paper, every piece of charcoal. He can bring any drawing to life. Even the smallest sketch could be a weapon."

  Hands yanked at his clothing, turning out pockets and seams. Fingers probed the lining of his jacket, searched the tops of his boots, and peeled back the cuffs of his sleeves. Clive tried to pull away, but his limbs felt like lead.

  A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

  Through the haze of encroaching unconsciousness, Clive saw her approach. She stood over him, backlit by her holy light. The rose he'd created for her dangled from her fingers.

  With the last of his strength, he muttered, “Why?”

  "You have a beautiful gift, Clive," she said almost regretfully. "But beauty can be the deadliest poison." She let the rose fall. It landed beside his face, its sweet fragrance mixing with the cave's dank air. "Your power... It could ruin everything I've worked for." She knelt beside him and whispered. "There is only room in Marblehaven for one chosen."

  "Take him to the deep cells," her voice grew distant. "Even if he does manage to draw something... no one will ever see it come to life."

  Clive woke up to a pulsing pain in his skull. His back was pressed against cold stone, and his arms were stretched wide and high in an eagle's pose. Iron cuffs bit into his wrists, carving raw lines into his skin. He was in a cell.

  The saintess… He should have seen it coming. Somewhere deep inside, he had suspected it. The stone curse victims with their absence of dark ether. What else stripped corruption so completely? But she'd played her part well, and he'd let familiarity dull his instincts. He was too naive.

  Heavy boots approached. Clive tried to lift his head, but a boot caught him in the ribs, driving the air from his lungs.

  "Artist," the guard spat. Even in the dark, Clive recognized the voice. It was one of the templars. "Thinks he's special because he can make pretty pictures come to life."

  Another kick, higher this time, catching his shoulder. "Won't be so special once the stone takes you." The guard's laugh was brittle. "The Vice-captain… no… Captain Jecht now. He says it's more poetic that way. Miracle healer turned to stone by the very affliction you came to cure." He crouched down. "They'll tell stories about you in the town square. How the brave artist ventured into the devil's lair, only to be petrified by its evil. Such a tragedy."

  "Why?" Clive tasted blood as he spoke. "Why help her?"

  "Why?" The guard stood. " The Saintess is the future. Or at least that’s what the higher-ups say. I just want to be on the winning side. The conservatives have been slowly disappearing one by one. It's only a matter of time until the reformists control everything. Only a fool wouldn’t see the signs.”

  Pathetic. Survival at the cost of morality was reprehensible.

  The guard delivered a boot to Clive’s head. “I’ll miss the sushi you made, though. That was good eating. But with the gold the Saintess is paying, I’ll be able to afford the real thing from the Thorwalds.”

  “All this.. For gold? You must be proud of yourself.” Clive said.

  "Better than the alternative." The guard's voice carried a defensive edge. "Cross the Saintess and I’ll just end up as a statue myself."

  "So, you murder innocents instead."

  "Innocents?" The guard laughed, but it sounded forced. "None of us are innocent. Look at the crimes Father Michael was guilty of. Corruption, trafficking of young girls. The Saintess didn’t make up those charges."

  "And what about Auron? Wasn’t he your captain?"

  The silence stretched long enough that Clive thought the guard might not answer.

  "Captain Auron was a good man," the templar finally said. "A pity he was on the wrong side."

  The guard's voice grew quieter, almost thoughtful. “The cathedral catacombs grow more crowded each month. Sometimes I wonder if any of those statues were real devils at all." His boots retreated toward the entrance, and Clive heard the sound of iron slamming shut. "Suppose it doesn't matter now. Stone is stone."

  The footsteps faded, leaving Clive alone in the darkness. Auron was dead. The captain had died confused, betrayed by his own men. What about Tacitus? Was he in on this too? From their brief conversations, it sounded like he was on the side of the conservatives. Clive worried for his safety.

  And what about the people of Marblehaven. Lucia, Garrett, Emma. Despite what the guard thought, they were innocent. The Saintess would have them all turn to stone. Clive wouldn’t allow that. He would stop them. He had to.

  Clive flexed his fingers. They'd taken his brushes, his paint, his papers. Every tool of his trade—gone. But they'd left him with skin and blood and bone. And that was all he needed.

  The cuffs were tight, but that worked in his favor. Each twist of his wrists opened the raw skin further. Each scrape against the iron drew fresh blood. The pain burned bright, but the adrenaline woke him up from the dull throb where the sword pommel had cracked his skull.

  Blood ran down the cuffs in ribbons. As an artist, he'd always found it fascinating how blood changed color as it dried, from bright arterial red to deep rust-brown. Like paint oxidizing on canvas. Like iron surrendering to time.

  Minutes crawled past in the absolute blackness of his cell. He forced himself to be patient. The copper-penny scent filled his nose, so similar to the pigments he used to mix in his studio. Nature's first paint, he thought grimly. The color humans had used to make art since they first pressed their hands against cave walls.

  He tested the cuffs again. There. He felt it. The telltale roughness beneath his fingertips. The rough powdery texture, like a rusty chain left in the rain.

  [Paint: Red Rust]

  The iron oxidized in seconds, dissolving the cuffs into red-brown flakes that cascaded down his arms.

  Getting to his feet sent pain through his stiffened shoulders, but the cell door was his only way out. In the darkness, he had to work by touch alone. His fingers traced the door's edge until they found the hinges, each one thick as a man's wrist and heavy with accumulated rust. Old metal, but still too strong to break.

  For now, at least.

  He pressed his bleeding wrists against the upper hinge, gritting his teeth as torn skin met rough iron. The blood needed to coat it completely, had to penetrate each pit and crevice where rust had already begun its slow work. Moving to the lower hinge, he painted it with the same grim determination he'd once used on festival murals.

  The waiting was worse this time. Each creak in the darkness might be approaching footsteps, each draft could herald the guard's return. He focused his hearing, listening for any sign of movement beyond. Nothing but his own heartbeat and the distant drip of water.

  His fingers found the hinges again, testing their texture. Still wet. Still warm. He forced himself to count heartbeats. Just a little longer.

  Finally, that familiar gritty texture beneath his fingertips.

  [Paint: Red Rust]

  The hinges crumbled and the cell door, suddenly unanchored, crashed down.

  He was out.

  ------------------------

  The first painters mixed their pigments with blood and spit, pressing handprints onto cave walls by firelight. They painted not because they had fine brushes or perfect canvases, but because they had something that demanded to be made real. Twenty thousand years later, in a cell near Marblehaven, an artist discovered that some things never change.

  —The Legendary Moonlight Artist