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Maelle stood before Verso’s Soul Shard.
It was the third time this week. Or the fourth, she no longer kept track. With each passing day, her visits grew more frequent.
She watched the boy paint.
A new Gestral ring bloomed beneath his hands. Another stretch of railroad appeared, steel and wood bending to childish logic. He poured his imagination into every corner of his world, shaping it with unwavering devotion.
A benevolent king to his kingdom.
This is what he wished for, Maelle thought in contempt. For this world to live.
And yet, unease lingered. Obsessive. Persistent. The same question surfaced, silently begged, eternally unanswered.
Is it what you would have wanted?
Silence.
No gentle reassurance. No presence to soothe the anxieties coiling inside her. The boy kept painting.
Maelle exhaled slowly and turned away from him, abandoning him to the eternal act of creation.
She stepped out of the colourful limbo and back toward more familiar ground.
Fresh air greeted her, the welcome contrast biting against her warm skin. Enough to strip away the lingering effluves of Chroma that clung to her like a leech. A shiver ran through her. It was the middle of autumn. Gustave had warned her to dress more warmly. He wouldn’t be happy if she caught a cold.
She headed home, her steps guided by habit alone.
First left.
Second right.
The comforting scent of a bakery drifted through the air, almost enough to chase away the weight of her visit. She turned her head toward it—then frowned.
There was no bakery.
Must be coming from one of the apartments, she thought, mildly disappointed.
When she arrived home, Gustave was already in the kitchen.
“Aah, you’re here! I thought you’d never arrive!” he said, dropping vegetables into a pot. “I’m making Emma’s favourite. I heard she’s having a hell of a da—”
He turned around.
“You went out dressed like this? Are you insane?”
Maelle rolled her eyes. “I just went for a walk. And it’s not like I couldn’t make myself a coat anyway.”
“Paintress or not,” Gustave said, pointing a finger at her, “no one falls sick under my watch, young lady.”
A bright smile graced Maelle’s lips.
After everything that had happened—after Alicia’s identity had been revealed to a chosen few—he still treated her as if nothing had changed. She was grateful for it. His presence was the final piece she needed for everything to feel… right.
“So,” he said more carefully, “how was your visit?”
She shrugged. “Fine, I guess. He still seems happy to paint.”
Gustave hummed, offering no comment.
She glanced at him, a knowing smile tugging at her lips. “This time, he was working on a new railway. Between the Meadows and the Drafts.”
“Oh, I have to see that,” Gustave exclaimed.
She chuckled at his excitement, a melancholic sense of déjà vu washing over her.
Verso. He was likely still hiding in Monoco’s station. The thought stirred a quiet ache in her chest. She had tried everything after the concert. But he had left without a word. Not even a look towards her...
As she set the table, she found the bottom drawer empty.
“There are no plates.”
“They’re in the cupboard, as always,” Gustave pointed out. “Did the Gommage erase your memory too?”
Maelle stuck her tongue out at him as she moved toward the offending cupboard. She was sure he must have moved them.
Emma finally joined them, drained after an entire day spent in meetings. The three of them shared dinner in warmth and laughter—listening in amazement as Gustave described his latest invention, Emma recounting a ridiculous neighbourhood feud involving a Lumerian, a Gestral, and an illegal casino.
Maelle watched them, a wide grin splitting her face.
Everything was perfect.
Gustave was still watching her.
A week later, they invited Lune to Gustave’s workshop— the Cour des Miracles, as he liked to call it—his new invention finally ready to be tested.
Maelle stood slightly behind them.
Lune stared in awe at the prototype Gustave had completed with his apprentices, a project Maelle herself had helped with. The invention was meant to reshape Chroma into willed forms, blurring the line between Painting and technology.
An impossible feat.
Of course, Gustave had built it.
Watching them discuss it with childlike excitement was almost endearing.
Nerds, she thought fondly.
Her mind wandered as she admired the rays of sunlight spilling through the window, bathing the workshop in a soft glow. She inhaled deeply, holding onto this moment. Peaceful normalcy. Fought for. Earned.
The voices around her slowly faded as she let the warmth envelop her. Her thoughts drifted.
Sunlight filtering through leaves.
A dog sleeping at her feet.
Smells of paint.
…
“Maelle?”
She blinked. Gustave and Lune were both looking at her expectantly.
“We were wondering if you could gather some pure Chroma for the test.”
She tensed. Since Verso had left, she had sworn to use her powers only when absolutely necessary.
It’s just a test, she told herself.
She raised her hand, drawing a faint thread of energy from the world. Controlled. Careful. Just enough to be useful. Not enough to be dangerous.
Lune gasped softly.
The admiration in her eyes made something twist warmly inside Maelle. Praise was rare from the usually cold woman, and she lingered on that gaze for a brief moment.
Stern. Icy.
Loving—despite everything…
Then—
Darkness.
When she opened her eyes, she was sitting down. Gustave knelt before her.
“Maelle. Are you okay?” He asked, worry knitting his brows.
“What—what happened?”
“You froze. Is it the Chroma? I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have—”
But Maelle wasn’t listening. Her gaze lingered on Lune, who had appeared as a totally different woman just before. Arms crossed. Barefoot. Vertigo crashed over her.
“I’m fine,” she forced a chuckle. “Guess I’m getting old. Just like you.”
Gustave frowned. He placed a hand on her forehead. “You’re burning up,” he muttered. “Go home. Warm yourself. I’ll be back early.”
Maelle nodded.
He hugged her tightly. “Go rest.”
She headed for the door, head heavy. “Don’t have too much fun without me.”
Gustave waved back—the black mane he had taken so long to trim already tousled.
She left quickly, breath caught in her throat.
The day after began like any other. Nevrons checkup. Tea with Sophie. Lunch with Sciel and Pierre.
Now she was heading home, her steps guided by habit alone.
Straight ahead.
Boulevard Duport-Percier.
Second left.
The streets were still overflowing with decorative lights. Christmas had only just ended, reluctantly giving way to New Year’s Eve. Snow wrapped the city in a thick white mantle. Everything felt silent. Empty. And yet—poetic.
Then Maelle found it.
This was the place they had told her about.
Secret. Hidden from the eyes of their enemies. A place where rhymes, rhythms, and verses intertwined. Where words carried the essence of the world itself. Where sentences shaped understanding, birthed meaning, dared the unthinkable, imagined the unimaginable.
A world she had always dreamed of entering.
Excitement tangled with anxiety. It was forbidden. Dangerous. Voices and laughter leaked through the heavy wooden door. She inhaled deeply, steadying herself, and pushed it open—
Gustave stood in the doorway.
Maelle blinked.
She was home.
Gustave rushed toward her, his hands trembling on her shoulders. “Where were you?” he blurted. “I was so worried.”
“Don’t exaggerate,” she huffed. “I was just having lunch with Sciel.”
“What? But—it’s already nightfall!”
“What?”
Her chest tightened. She forgot how to breath.
“You’ve been a bit… out of it lately,” Gustave said softly, searching her face. “Are you sure you’re okay?”
“Yeah—don’t worry,” she replied too quickly. “I guess I just needed some air.”
He studied her, then sighed. “Go make yourself comfortable. We’ll talk later. Emma won’t be home tonight. It’s been a long time since we didn't have an everything’s allowed evening,” he added with a wink.
Maelle forced a smile and climbed the stairs.
“Maelle?”
She stopped.
For a moment, the name sounded wrong.
“You know you can tell me anything.”
Her smile slipped.
“I know… I’m fine,” she whispered.
She didn’t wait for him to realise it.
Her head spun as she rushed into the bathroom, legs shaking.
The sink. Now.
She splashed her face eagerly, the cold a blessing against her burning skin. She focused on her breath, trying to calm herself.
Then, a sound caught her attention.
Gurgling. As if the drain was choking.
She lowered her hands.
Chroma flowed across the sink, refusing to drain away. It pooled, then stretched, drawn by an unseen current.
Her breath caught.
Suddenly, the dark mass started to move.
Thin streams branched and reconnected, carving deliberate paths as they slid toward the drain. Each curve felt intentional, as if controlled by an unseen force.
A letter took shape.
Then another.
Her vision tunneled.
“No,” she whispered. “No, no—”
The last line settled into place.
ALICIA.
The name stared back at her from the sink, already dissolving, as if it had never needed to last. Only needed to be read.
Her knees weakened.
She looked up.
The mirror did not reflect her.
Something stood there. Its outline matched her own, but only in the way a sketch resembles the final painting. A gaping hole split its right side, an emptiness that bled Chroma in steady streams, the same bright substance still whispering her name as it fell.
Scars mapped its face, like cracks in drying paint. Light burned beneath them, like flames trying to free themselves from the broken shell.
Then, it smiled.
Not a snarl. Not a threat.
A familiar expression.
An open-mouthed grin, stretched too wide.
The reflection raised its hand. Not reaching for her, but as if holding something, fingers poised as if gripping a brush.
“No,” she breathed, backing away.
The grin only widened.
She screamed and drove her fist into the mirror.
The image shattered, splintering across the floor like fragments of a broken mind.
She collapsed among the glass, heart hammering, breath ragged.
Footsteps thundered up the stairs.
“Maelle!” Gustave knelt beside her. “What’s happening?”
She only threw herself into his arms. “Make it stop. Please, make it stop,” she sobbed, not hearing him, eyes fixed on visions he couldn’t see.
“Ssh, shhh, it’s okay,” he whispered softly. “You’re okay.”
The words landed like shards of glass against her chest. She flinched, her body trembling as a memory scraped against the fragile walls of her mind. She forced it back into forgotten limbs, anchoring herself to Gustave’s presence, to anything that could stop it from surfacing.
He placed a hand on her forehead, gasping. “You’re burning up... let’s get you to bed.”
He lifted her carefully toward her room, her head against his chest. She clung to his shirt as he tucked her in, not ready to let go.
“Can you… stay with me?” she whispered.
“Of course,” he said softly. He tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “But tomorrow, we’ll talk. We’ll figure it out together, okay?”
“…Okay.”
He lay down beside her, pulling her into his arms.
“If it’s contagious,” he added, “I expect breakfast in bed every morning.”
She let out a thin laugh against his chest.
Silence settled around them—still, fragile.
Maelle was the first to break.
“Please… don’t leave me again.”
He held her tighter.
“Never.”
Sleep never came. Maelle waited for Gustave’s breath to go steady, a sign that he had fallen asleep. She carefully touched his face from the tip of her fingers, memorising every detail of him, not knowing why, only that it mattered. That after what she was about to do, everything might change forever.
We have to go.
Not yet.
Now.
Before the choice is taken from us.
She ran.
And ran.
And ran.
Before the thought could take shape.
The pavement burned under her bare feet.
Her vision blurred. Every time she blinked, a different place unfolded before her eyes. Time thinned behind her, unraveling with every step.
To where?
She didn’t know.
Her steps carried her anyway.
“Please. I need your help.”
The boy didn’t look up—unaware, or uncaring, of her presence. He kept painting.
“I just need a little more time. Please!”
Silence.
The boy kept painting.
Maelle’s voice rose, sharper. “If you don’t help me, we won’t be able to save this world anymore!”
The boy kept painting.
Maelle’s fists clenched. Her chest tightened. Every heartbeat pounded in her ears.
Why won’t he hear me, why won’t he look at me? “WHY DO YOU HATE ME?”
The boy’s hand finally stopped.
Slowly, he turned toward her.
Maelle stared at the face she had seen countless times—but never truly looked at.
He was crying.
She rushed toward him, hand outstretched—
Flames erupted between them.
The boy was gone.
A man stood in his place.
And the man was burning.
Burning.
Burning.
Burning.
He screamed, a sound that she knew too well, from a voice that had once whispered hope into her darkest moments.
She clamped her hands over her ears, but it was useless, as if the world itself were wailing in agony. She wanted to reach out, to pull him from the flames, but her hands met only empty air. Smoke stung her eyes, the smell of burning flesh filling her lungs.
“ALICIA,” he begged, his body turning to ash. “HELP ME!”
She squeezed her eyes shut, tears streaming. “Stop it. STOP IT,” she screamed, but her voice was only a rasp in the inferno, swallowed by the pleadings of the man she could not save.
“MAELLE!”
She gasped, eyes flying open.
No fire. No screams.
The boy kept painting.
A silhouette was running toward her, breathless.
“Verso…” she whispered, voice trembling.
“What’s happening?” he asked, strain in his voice. “Are you okay?”
“You… you were burning. How—how did you…”
“What do you mean?” he cut in.
Maelle searched his face for burns. There were none. Only worried eyes and trembling lips. Relief and fear waged war in her chest, twisting every sensation into something unbearable.
Then the question she had carried for months surfaced again. Insistent. Inescapable.
She had to know.
“Do you… hate me?”
“What?”
“Do you hate me?” Her voice shook. “For the fire?”
“Maelle…” He slowed, approaching carefully. “What are you talking about? I’m not—”
“You should… you should hate me,” she interrupted, voice breaking. “I’m the reason you… died.”
Her body began to shake. Memories collided, overlapped. Smell of paint intertwined with smoke. Colour of red with sky-blue eyes.
“Maelle…” He hesitated.
“I know,” she forced out through clenched teeth. “I’ll never have a real answer. But this… this is the closest I’ll ever get to the truth.”
Tears kept pouring—clear, steady. She was exhausted.
He stepped closer, then wrapped her in his arms, careful, gentle.
“If I had to die again for you,” he said softly, “I would. Over and over. Without hesitation.”
Whatever shape she had left could no longer hold.
Her body followed the fracture inside her. Strong arms held her. A warm hand cradled her face, slick with oily tears that painted his fingers. She felt his breath hitch.
Then her vision shifted.
The weight of his arms changed, grounding her in a way so different from Verso, yet so similar. For a moment, her mind clung desperately to the familiar figure she thought she saw.
The icy stare softened into warm, dark brown eyes. The dark hair gave way to unruly brown curls.
Her heart skipped.
“Gustave…”
A sad smile curved his lips. “There you are… I was worried.”
“How did you—”
“I heard you leaving. You’re not as stealthy as you think,” he teased gently.
“Where is Verso?” Panic flared. “He was right here, where did he go?” She tried to stand, frantic.
I don’t want him to go. Not again.
“Hey, hey,” Gustave murmured. “It’s okay. Don’t worry. I promise… you’re going to be okay.”
Maelle blinked. His words seeped through her like poison. The memory slammed back with merciless clarity. The fire. His screams. That promise—whispered as he burned alive before her. This time, she could not stop it. Could not hold it back.
The last thread anchoring her to herself gave way.
Her breath came in ragged bursts, her heart hammering like a drum. Thin sparks of Chroma leapt from her fingertips. The limbo around them quivered. A whisper of energy brushed against her skin like static, prickling every nerve. Then… everything trembled.
The Chroma surged, answering panic before her mind could even grasp it. Their grief collided—bone against bone—splintering whatever fragile shape they still held.
“No—no—no—NO!”
I won’t let them leave me.
“It’s not okay,” she sobbed. “It’s not—”
Because you are dead.
Because you died.
And it’s all my fault.
Because I let it happen.
You are dead.
We have to fix it.
The ground trembled beneath her feet. She levitated, arms raised, drawing on every ounce of power she possessed, desperate to hold herself together in this fragile reality.
The streets cracked in fleeting shadows. The sky rippled, folding itself like paper. Time bent in quiet, unsettling waves, reshaping itself in response to her will.
She stepped past the point where turning back was still a choice.
Maelle and Alicia blurred, drowned by the dark creature—breaking, creating, painting.
“MAELLE!” Gustave screamed.
Outside the Canvas, Alicia stood motionless, one hand raised toward a limbo of her own creation.
Chroma poured from her right side, torrents of unshed tears spilling from an eye that no longer existed.
The girl kept painting.
A wide grin splitting her face.