Certainty snapped her fingers, and three glowing orbs materialized in the air between them. Each pulsed with a different color: azure blue, crimson red, and glittering gold. “Your options, my dedicated artist.”

  With an elegant flick of her wrist, she expanded the blue orb which revealed the spectral image of a smooth, oval wooden palette. Six vibrant pools of color were arranged in a semicircle along its outer edge, with four larger mixing wells positioned closer to the center. A thumb hole was carved near the bottom, and the entire surface glowed with rainbow colors.

  "Apprentice Color Palette," she announced with the flair of a market merchant. "Never let your limited palette constrain your unlimited imagination, Clive. With this, you can cast any spell you can dream of. The working artist's weapon of choice."

  The ghostly palette rotated slowly, showcasing every angle.

  [Color Supplies]

  Apprentice Color Palette

  - Contains 6 colors + 4 mixing slots

  - Red, Blue Yellow, White, Cyan, Magenta

  - "Tools of choice for the working artist"

  Before he could respond, she snapped her fingers, and the blue orb shrank as the red one expanded with a soft whoosh. This time, the image showed a sleek brush with a tapered handle and fine bristles.

  "Quick-stroke Brush," she continued. "Mundane name, extraordinary tool. This beauty reduces casting time by nearly a third." She demonstrated with a series of rapid painting gestures that left momentary traces of light in the air. "When that shadowwolf is mid-lunge, when that knight's blade is headed toward your throat—this is the difference between creating a masterpiece and becoming a messy memory."

  [Brushes]

  Quick-stroke Brush

  - Spell Speed +30%

  - "When time is of the essence"

  The red orb contracted, making way for the golden one. This revealed a blank canvas stretched on an ornate frame, but as Clive watched, faint images seemed to appear and disappear on its surface: a sun-dappled forest glade, a raging inferno, a peaceful mountain lake, each dissolving into the next like dreams upon waking.

  "And finally, the Canvas of Reality," Certainty said. "My personal favorite. This allows you to pre-paint background spells."

  [Special Items]

  Canvas of Reality

  - Allows pre-painting of background spells

  - One per day

  - "Preparation is key"

  “Background spells?” Clive asked.

  "You should know. All artists hate painting backgrounds due to the inordinate amount of time it takes. In the heat of combat, it’s impossible to paint a background while also avoiding, oh, dismemberment and disembowelment."

  “But backgrounds are an essential part of a scene,” Clive added.

  “Precisely!” Certainty clapped her hands together. “This will allow you to pre-paint them. Do you remember environment modifiers?”

  Clive nodded as he thought back to his fight against the shadowhounds and how the rain diminished the effects of his fire spells.

  “With background spells, the scene will be whatever you want it to be. No more pesky environments that you don’t like.”

  She made a sweeping gesture with both hands, and all three orbs shrank to brilliant pinpoints of light, no larger than fireflies. They circled her head in a lazy orbit,

  “So, my beloved Pictomancer. What will your choice be?”

  Clive pondered on his choices. All three options seemed good.

  With the increased color palette, he could imagine new spells he could cast. The addition of cyan and magenta, combined with his existing primary colors, would open up an entire spectrum of possibilities.

  The Quick-stroke Brush was equally tempting. He recalled the shadowknight’s anti-magic shield. What if he could have overwhelmed them with magic before they could recast their shield?

  And then there was the Canvas of Reality. The ability to pre-paint background spells would give him tactical advantages. What if he could prepare a slick ice field before facing knights in heavy armor? The strategic implications were staggering.

  "Well?" Certainty prompted, "I don’t like waiting, you know."

  Clive closed his eyes, visualizing each option in use. He opened his eyes, decision made.

  "I choose the Canvas of Reality," he said firmly.

  Certainty smirked. "Interesting. Care to share your reasoning?"

  "It's about preparation," Clive explained, thinking of his plans for an arsenal of weapons. "The incursion taught me that I can't predict what I'll face, but I can prepare for it. The palette and brush would make me more powerful in the moment, but the canvas lets me set the stage beforehand."

  He gestured toward his sketchbook, open to the pages of weapon designs. "I'm already working on expanding my combat options. But what good are the perfect weapons if the battlefield itself works against me? With the canvas, I control the environment too."

  Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

  A slow smile spread across Certainty's face. "My, my. Already thinking like a master. " The golden orb floated down from her constellation of choices, expanding until it materialized into a physical canvas floating before him. "This pleases me."

  Clive ran his fingers over the canvas surface. "Thank you."

  "Don't thank me yet," Certainty replied, her playful tone returning. "You're about to face challenges that will test whether your choice was wise or foolish." She rose into the air, her form beginning to shimmer and fade. "Good luck Clive, I’ll be back after another five Certainty points."

  Clive watched Certainty disappear before turning his attention to the Canvas of Reality. The possibilities excited him. He pulled out his pencils and approached the canvas, already visualizing the first background he'd prepare. He knew exactly what he wanted.

  Clive woke to sunlight streaming through the window, his neck stiff from sleeping hunched over the desk. He rubbed his burning eyes, still feeling the strain from a night of drawing. He admired his drawing before rolling up his Canvas of Reality and storing it in his pack. He was certain it was going to help him in his next battle.

  Water from Garrett's basin was cold against his face, washing away any graphite stains he had. He stretched, joints popping as he worked out the knots from his awkward sleeping position.

  Garrett was already at his forge, hammer ringing against heated steel. The blacksmith glanced up, took in Clive's rumpled appearance, and nodded with understanding.

  "If you're looking for Lucia," Garrett said, "her workshop is just across the village square, behind the tavern. Stone building with the deep red door and vines climbing the walls. Can't miss it, you can smell it from halfway across town, although some might mistake it for the tavern." He chuckled.

  He gestured toward the north end of the village. "She'll be in her cellar at this hour, no doubt. That woman treats her casks like newborns. Checks them thrice daily and whispers to them when she thinks no one's listening." A smile softened his face. "Claims dawn's the perfect time to taste what the night has awakened in her potions 'Essence absorption peaks during dawn,' she says."

  Garrett laughed. "Utter nonsense, if you ask me." He shook his head, but his eyes held unmistakable respect. "Still, I've never tasted finer potions than hers. That's the curious thing about Lucia—all her fanciful notions somehow yield results that the by-the-book brewers can't match."

  "Been that way since she was knee-high. While other children were making mud pies, she was already fermenting berries in her mother's cellar, cataloging the effects of different woods on flavor. The Potions Guild offered her master status three years back, but her family..." He trailed off, suddenly remembering he was speaking to a stranger.

  Clive nodded thoughtfully as he remembered his conflicts with Jill. "Family expectations can often come between artistic pursuits," he offered. "It’s never easy to choose between your family and your art.”

  "Well," he continued, "highborn families have their own ideas about proper vocations. Let's just say that in their eyes, trading casks with common merchants doesn't befit someone of her bloodline. Their loss is our town's gain, I suppose." He tapped his temple. "Mark my words, that woman could revolutionize potion-crafting if given half a chance. Sometimes I wonder if she's got a touch of the old magic in her veins."

  Clive thanked the blacksmith and made his way back through the village center. The central square was quiet as the merchants had not reopened their shop after yesterday’s battle.

  Following Garrett's directions, Clive soon spotted a sturdy two-story stone building that stood apart from the others around it. Grapevines trellises climbed up the walls, camouflaging them in green. Barrels of various sizes were stacked neatly along one side, and what had once been a modest garden had expanded into orderly rows of grape varietals, each section marked with small wooden stakes bearing names Clive didn't recognize.

  The red door stood slightly ajar. A small brass bell hung beside it, along with a bundle of dried vine tendrils woven into a decorative knot.

  From within came the gentle sounds of liquid being poured and the soft clink of glass against glass, accompanied by a woman's humming.

  Clive rapped his knuckles against the door frame and called out, "Lucia?"

  The humming stopped abruptly. A moment later, Lucia appeared in the doorway with rolled-up sleeves and stained purple fingers. A leather apron protected her clothes as she carried a slender glass filled with ruby liquid. Her eyes brightened at the sight of him.

  "Well! Glad you still remember me. I was worried something might have happened to you after last night.” She raised the glass slightly in greeting.

  “Thanks. I’m fine.”

  “How was your sojourn in fire and metal? Tell me, did Garrett bend your ear with all his talk of steel memory and pattern-welding?"

  "That and more," Clive admitted. "I had no idea there was so much to know about forging a simple blade."

  “Nothing is simple once you truly understand it. That's something both Garrett and I agree on, despite our different crafts."

  She beckoned him inside. The ground floor was part winery, part laboratory. Oak casks of varying sizes lined one wall, each marked with a symbol and date. The walls were lined by shelves containing hundreds of labeled jars, bundles of drying plants hanging from the curved ceiling, and tables covered with various apparatus: mortars of different sizes, small copper stills, glass containers connected by coiled tubes. A workbench near the back held rows of potted seedlings, each marked with small wooden tags.

  "So," Lucia said, returning to a table where several small bowls contained powders in varying shades of green, "did you enjoy your lesson in metallurgy? I've never had the patience for it myself. Imagine having to slave over a burning flame the whole day. I could think of few things more unpleasent." She ran her fingers along a wooden cask, caressing the grain. "Wine, on the other hand, it's alive, constantly changing, responding to the slightest variation in temperature or time. What sleeps in these barrels today will awaken as something entirely new tomorrow."

  Lucia approached a row of oak barrels. She selected one marked with a crimson spiral symbol, produced a glass pipette, and extracted a sample of deep ruby liquid.

  "This," she said, offering one to Clive, "is last autumn's cabernet-merlot blend. From the southeastern slope where the soil runs red with iron."

  Clive accepted the glass, but when he took a sip of it, the wine struck like a hammer blow. It was rough to drink with fierce tannins seizing his tongue. He couldn’t suppress a cough. “That’s… remarkably assertive,” he managed.

  Lucia laughed. "Most people would just say it's undrinkable."

  She took a sip herself, seeming to savor the astringency that had ambushed Clive. "The etheric essence remains trapped within the tannin matrix. Like a butterfly still struggling in its chrysalis. In three years, perhaps four, these same tannins will soften and release the bound energy. What assaults your palate now will transform into complex layers of flavor and healing properties."

  She traced a finger along the rim of her glass. "A less experienced potion master would add sweetness to mask the youth, or distill it down for immediate use in common remedies. But patience transforms this into something remarkable—a greater healing potion capable of mending the body, or sealing a mortal wound."

  Clive shook his head. "Hard to imagine that something so... aggressive could heal anything." He studied the liquid with renewed interest. "At the moment, it seems more likely to put someone down than pick them up."

  Lucia smiled. "Enough about that. A rather interesting rumor has been circulating since dawn. They say a strange mage appeared on the battlefield last night. Not one of the Arcanum's usual suspects, but someone who called himself a..." she paused, tapping her glass thoughtfully, "'Pictomancer'"

  "And what of it?"

  "The Arcanum has taken notice. They're quite interested in meeting this 'Pictomancer.' She paused. "Would you consider an audience with them? Nobody knows more about magic than them. It could help you in your training."

  Clive considered the implications. "If they can help me develop these abilities, perhaps it's worth the risk.

  Forty-two. That’s the number of paper folds you need to reach the moon. Have you tried it? I have. The moon, I can confirm, is quite cold

  -The book of Certainty 3:8