The forest around them echoed with haunting calls. Clive set down his dried meat and reached for his sword.

  "Shadowhounds," Lucia said quietly, her throwing knives already in hand. "Three, maybe four. Coming from the north."

  Clive could see them now, dark shapes moving between the trees. But after his many encounters with these shadow creatures, he felt no fear. Instead, anticipation coursed through him. He saw them as an opportunity to get stronger, a stepping stone to his goal of Ascended.

  "They're not that threatening anymore," he murmured, stepping forward to meet them. “Leave them to me.”

  The first shadowhound burst from the treeline. Clive’s [Motion Vision] caught it easily and dispatched it with a dagger, [Red Fire Burst] combo. Step, slide, stab, paint. It was second nature to him now.

  Three more shadowhounds emerged from the opposite sides, trying to flank him. Clive assessed the tactical situation in an instant. His dagger's short reach would force him to engage each creature individually, letting the other overwhelm him. Against a crowd of enemies, he needed a spear. His hands were already flipping to the drawing in his sketchbook.

  Light flashed as the spear materialized in his grip just as the lead shadowhound reached striking distance. The creature's momentum carried it straight onto the spear point, which punched through its smoky form with a wet tearing sound. Clive twisted the shaft and ripped the weapon free as the shadowhound dissolved into wisps of darkness.

  The remaining two creatures tried to circle him, but the spear's reach changed everything. When the one on his left lunged, Clive swept the butt of the weapon around in a wide arc, catching it mid-leap and sending it tumbling to the forest floor. Before it could recover, he reversed his grip and drove the spear point down through its center mass. The final shadowhound made a desperate rush. This made its movement predictable and a simple thrust finished it off.

  [Level Up]

  [Spear Mastery Level 3]

  [Dagger Mastery Level 3]

  [Power Level + 2]

  Clive stood in the sudden silence, spear still at the ready, breathing steadily. The weapon felt natural in his hands now. Each thrust, recovery, and repositioning had flowed seamlessly into the next.

  "Impressive," Lucia said, lowering her knives. "You didn't even need my help this time."

  "They're getting easier," Clive replied. "Or I'm getting better. Probably both." He proceeded to dump his spear onto the ground, unwilling to carry the extra weight with him.

  The next morning, Clive and Lucia broke camp and continued their journey. Ahead of them was a small farm situated in the plains. A humble cottage with a thatched roof, a barn, and fields that should have been bustling with activity this time of year.

  "Something's wrong," Lucia murmured. "The wheat's nearly ready for harvest, but no one's preparing."

  Clive squinted, noting the absence of smoke from the chimney despite the coolness of the morning and a solitary figure sitting motionless in the dooryard.

  "We should check on them," he said, already starting down the path.

  As they approached, a middle-aged woman emerged from the cottage. She wore a simple homespun dress.

  "Travelers! We don't see many these days." She greeted them with a smile. "I'm Marta. My husband Willem's inside with Father." Her smile faltered slightly. "What brings you to these parts?"

  Lucia stepped forward. "Thank you, Marta. I'm Lucia Thornwald of Marblehaven. I’m an Apothecary. And this is Clive, an artist."

  Marta's eyes widened. "An apothecary? Praise the Light! Perhaps you've come at the right time." She gestured urgently for them to follow. "Please, come inside. We could use your knowledge."

  The interior of the cottage was clean but sparse. The main room served as both kitchen and living area, with a hearth at one end and a table in the center. A young boy sat at the table, carving a piece of wood. He barely looked up as they entered.

  At the corner was a small altar. Wilted flowers were scattered around personal trinkets that adorned its surface: a tarnished locket, a broken wooden toy soldier, and a small mirror. At the center was a candle that burned before a wooden symbol of the church.

  Next to the altar sat Willem. Beside him in a chair was an elderly man, Gregor, but Clive felt his breath catch. The old man's right arm and shoulder had the unmistakable gray of stone, the transformation creeping across his collar bone and up his neck.

  Every few moments, the old man's body would seize with a silent spasm. Sweat beaded on his forehead. Where flesh met stone, the skin was inflamed and taut. His left hand gripped the chair arm with white knuckles, fingernails digging into the wood.

  "It started last week," Willem said as he noticed Clive’s gaze. "Just his fingertips at first. We thought he'd touched something cursed in the old well."

  Lucia moved forward immediately. She knelt before the old man, whose eyes followed her movements though he remained silent.

  Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  "May I?" she asked softly, and at his faint nod, she gently examined the boundary between flesh and stone.

  "Can you help him?" Marta begged, her eyes searching Lucia's face for any sign of hope.

  "There is no cure," Lucia admitted. "But I have something to ease his discomfort." She withdrew a health potion from her pack. "This won't reverse the transformation," she explained, uncorking the vial. "But it will dull the pain."

  Gregor accepted the potion with his good hand. The effect wasn't dramatic but gradually, the tension in his face eased. The gray at the edges of the stone remained, but the inflammation surrounding it dulled. "Thank you," he whispered, "It hurts less now."

  Lucia nodded. "It will help for a time."

  A heavy silence settled over the room until Willem broke it with a sigh.

  "We're all that's left in these parts," Willem explained. "Between the monsters and the curse, everyone has been leaving. The Kellers left last week. The Smiths before them… We should have left with them."

  "We can't leave Father," Marta said firmly, placing a protective hand on her father’s shoulder. "And this land has been in his family for six generations."

  Willem looked toward the altar, “Then all we can do is pray. Hope that the Lord of Light will show mercy on our family.” Willem spread his hands. "The priests say it's a test of faith. Only the light can save us from the Devil’s curse."

  Clive frowned but said nothing.

  “We can’t thank you enough, we don’t have much, but will you stay for a meal? It's the least we can offer.

  Clive glanced at Lucia, then at the position of the sun through the window. "We have time," he decided. "Thank you for your hospitality.”

  Marta busied herself preparing a meal, a simple but hearty stew with what vegetables they could spare. The scent of rosemary and thyme filled the small space as they gathered around the table.

  "Tomas," she called to the boy, "Set the table for our guests, please."

  As the stew reached completion, Willem helped Gregor to the table. Once seated, Gregor insisted on saying the blessing, refusing Willem's offer to do it in his stead. "We have guests," he said firmly. "And the Light still gives me breath to speak."

  They all bowed their heads as Gregor raised his good hand in the traditional gesture of the Light.

  "Blessed Light that shines in darkness," he intoned. "We thank you for this bounty before us, for the hands that prepared it, and for bringing travelers to our door when the roads grow empty. May your warmth fill our bodies as your wisdom fills our hearts. Shine your mercy upon us in these shadow times."

  "Shine mercy," the others murmured in response.

  They ate mostly in silence, only the occasional scrape of spoons against wooden bowls and the crackle of the hearth fire interrupted the quiet. Lucia made a few polite inquiries about local herbs, while Clive observed the family dynamics.

  Halfway through the meal, Gregor suddenly stiffened, his spoon clattering to the table. A strangled groan escaped him as his left hand flew to his right shoulder where flesh met stone.

  "Father!" Willem was instantly at his side.

  Gregor's face contorted in agony as he fought to control his breathing.

  Marta stifled a sob, her hand covering her mouth. "How long?" she whispered, not to her husband but to Lucia. "How long does he have left?"

  "The progression varies," she said carefully. "But at this rate... a few weeks, if he's lucky. Once it reaches the heart..."

  She didn't need to finish. The spreading stillness would eventually claim that vital organ, turning the very thing that gave life into unyielding stone.

  "Perhaps... perhaps another potion?" Marta suggested with desperate hope.

  "I've given what I can," Lucia said gently. "More wouldn't help, and might harm. I'm sorry."

  Willem helped his father back to his chair near the hearth, where the warmth seemed to provide some small comfort. The meal continued in even heavier silence, though none had much appetite left.

  As they finished, Clive made a decision. He pulled out his sketchbook and a pencil from his pack.

  "If you'll permit me," he said to Gregor, "I'd like to draw you and your family. A portrait, as a thank you for your hospitality."

  The old man looked up, curiosity temporarily overriding his pain. "A portrait?"

  "Of sorts," Clive replied with a small smile. "Something to remember this day by."

  Willem appeared skeptical. "Father is in no condition to sit for a portrait."

  "It won't take long," Clive assured him. "And he needn't pose. Just... be together, as you are."

  After a moment's hesitation, Willem nodded. Marta called Tomas over, and the family gathered near Gregor's chair, positioning themselves as they might for a formal portrait.

  Clive’s pencil moved across the paper with swift, assured strokes. He started with Gregor, capturing not just his physical form with its terrible transformation, but the dignity that persisted despite it. In the drawing, Gregor stood tall, one arm around Marta's shoulders, the other clasping Willem's hand. Tomas appeared between them, his small face alight with childish joy.

  After an hour of intense concentration, Clive finished with the final details. "It's done," he said, carefully detaching the page from his sketchbook.

  He handed it to Gregor.

  "You've made me whole again," he whispered, tears gathering in his rheumy eyes.

  Clive shook his head gently. "I've only shown what's already there," he said, "The stone may claim your body, but it can't touch who you truly are."

  Willem stood silent, his hand finding his wife's shoulder. He cleared his throat twice before he could speak. "You have a rare gift," he finally said, "To see beyond what's in front of you."

  It wasn't a cure. It couldn't stop the spread of stone. But it was what Clive could offer—a small moment of grace for a family that had already lost so much.

  Tomas, who had remained at the edge of the group, finally stepped forward to see.

  "You made Grandfather smile," he said quietly.

  Clive glanced at the actual Gregor, whose face was still etched with discomfort despite his best efforts. In the portrait, however, he had a radiant smile.

  "He is always smiling," Clive agreed. "I just drew what I saw beneath the surface."

  Willem carefully took the portrait from Gregor's trembling hands. He stared at it for a long moment before carrying it to the altar in the corner. He positioned it at the center, gently moving aside the tarnished locket and broken toy soldier to make space.

  "It will stay here," Willem said, "Not as a memorial of what we've lost, but as a reminder of what remains."

  After Willem placed the portrait on the altar, they sat together for a while. Marta offered them tea, which they accepted gratefully. As time passed, Lucia mentioned the journey that still lay ahead. They gathered their belongings, while Marta insisted on packing them a small bundle of bread and cheese for the road.

  As they said their goodbyes at the cottage door, Gregor grasped Clive's hand. "Thank you," the old man said, his eyes brighter than they had been all day.

  With a final wave, they continued on their way to the Shadowfen. They walked in silence along the fields of untended wheat. Lucia glanced sideways at Clive, studying his profile against the afternoon sun.

  "You know Clive," she said. "My potions eased Gregor’s pain." She paused, remembering Gregor's face when he'd looked at the portrait. "But what you gave them back there... it was something so much more." She shook her head slightly, a small smile forming on her lips. "I think I'm beginning to see the value of art."

  The artist's greatest gift is not to show us beauty, but to reveal the beauty that was always there.

  -The Legendary Moonlight Artist