Chapter 6: The Collector
The next morning, the world felt wrong.
Lior sat at the window, coffee growing cold in his hands. Outside, the city buzzed normally—cars, voices, the metallic screech of a tram—but under it all, he felt a pressure. Like something had been disturbed.
Aven noticed it too. He stood beside the canvas that held the chained warden, his eyes narrowed. "It's quiet now. But not gone."
Lior didn't speak. His head throbbed with phantom brushstrokes. Even with his favorite tool broken, he couldn't stop imagining new lines. New faces. More figures trapped in paint and memory.
"I need air," he muttered.
Aven looked up, alarmed. "You're not safe alone."
"I can't breathe in here. I'll be fine."
"Lior—"
"I'll go to the gallery. Full of people. Broad daylight. You can follow me in ghost mode, whatever you do."
Aven hesitated, then nodded. "Stay near the light."
Lior grabbed his sketchbook and left.
---
The city gallery was tucked between two bookstores downtown, a narrow staircase leading to a second floor painted in stark white and deep indigo. It wasn't famous, but it was quiet, and for now, that was enough.
Lior walked slowly past unfamiliar exhibits. Abstract shapes, surrealist portraits. Things that didn't breathe beneath their frames. He let himself relax.
Until someone spoke.
"Your work reminds me of the old gods."
Lior turned sharply.
A man stood in the corner, half in shadow. Tall, elegant. Gray suit with silver trim. His eyes were a pale green—not warm.
"I'm sorry?" Lior asked.
The man stepped forward. "The emotion. The restraint. The… summoning."
Lior stiffened. "I haven't shown anything here."
The man smiled thinly. "Not publicly. But you leave traces. Sketches. I have an eye for cursed ink."
Lior's skin prickled.
"Who are you?"
"Name's Idris." The man reached into his coat and pulled out a small, pale envelope. "I collect what others fear."
Lior didn't take the envelope.
Idris's smile sharpened. "I'd like to acquire one of your pieces."
"I don't sell."
"Everything is for sale, Lior."
Lior stepped back. "How do you know my name?"
Idris's eyes gleamed. "Because I once tried to buy your mother's final painting. Before it was burned."
The air froze.
Lior's fingers went numb.
He remembered the painting. A faceless man, arms open like wings. The one his mother painted before she disappeared. The one his father destroyed.
"You're lying," Lior said hoarsely.
"Am I?" Idris opened the envelope. Inside was a photograph—blurred but unmistakable. The painting. Still intact.
Lior reached for it.
Idris snatched it back.
"I'll give you this," he murmured, "in exchange for one original brushstroke. From your hand. Anything you wish to paint."
Lior's pulse thundered in his ears.
Before he could reply, the room grew cold.
Aven stood at the far end of the gallery, shadows clinging to his coat. His eyes locked onto Idris.
"Step away from him."
Idris didn't flinch. "So this is the spirit you birthed. Impressive. Far more… intact than the others."
Aven stepped between them. "Lior doesn't paint for strangers. He paints for himself."
Idris's grin widened. "We'll see. Temptation is its own brush."
Then he turned and walked away, vanishing into the stairs like smoke.
---
Back home, Lior slammed the door shut and threw his sketchbook against the wall.
"That man—he knew my mother's painting. He has it, Aven. He has it."
Aven picked up the sketchbook silently. "He's dangerous."
"Why didn't you tell me others could use my power?"
"I didn't know they'd survived. The council sealed everything."
"Well, apparently this one collects cursed art."
Aven's jaw tensed. "If he gets a painting made by your hand, he might be able to trap you."
Lior sank onto the floor, shaking.
"They're closing in, aren't they?"
"Yes. One by one."
Lior looked up. "Then we need to find the painting. My mother's. If it's tied to this—if it was the start—we need to see what she painted."
Aven nodded. "And we'll burn it, if we must."
Lior touched his fingers to his lips. "She always said I'd free something terrible someday. That I had her brushstrokes in my blood."
"You freed me," Aven said gently.
"Was that a mistake?"
"No." Aven crouched beside him. "You saved me. Now let me save you."
Their fingers brushed.
Outside, the sky darkened too early.
And somewhere far away, Idris stood before a sealed vault, whispering to a painting that pulsed with light.
---
End of Chapter 6