Clive edged into the corridor, hands trailing the rough wall. The stone was damp beneath his palms, slick with condensation in the cool cave. Without any source of light, the uneven ground turned treacherous. He'd worked in dim studios before, mixing pigments by candlelight, but this was different.

  Twice, he nearly tripped. Each step forward was a test, foot extended, listening for the hollow sound that might warn of a pit or sudden drop. He paused, steadying himself against the wall, and focused on his senses. Where would they keep his equipment? Not far, surely. Guards were lazy people—they'd want his confiscated items close enough to inventory, but not so close that a prisoner might reach them through cell bars.

  He activated his [Apothecary's Nose] and suddenly the stale cave air separated into distinct threads of scent. Stone dust. Rust. The lingering copper of dried blood, his own, still coating his torn wrists. But there, threading through the dank atmosphere, was the sharp scent of turpentine and the earthier notes of ground pigments. Clive smiled. It was his paint.

  The scent trail led him left down the corridor, past what felt like more cell doors. The stone beneath his feet grew smoother here. This area had been worked on. Probably for the guards’ comfort. A good sign then.

  Twenty paces. Thirty. The paint smell grew stronger, accompanied now by other familiar scents: the oiled leather of his satchel and the wood polish from his brush handles.

  His outstretched hand found empty space where the wall should be. A doorway. The scents were strongest here, practically radiating from the opening. He pressed himself against the door frame and listened.

  Silence. Not even the sound of breathing. The coast was clear. Good. He wasn’t sure if he could beat the guards without his tools.

  He slipped inside, hands groping the space in front of him. He bumped into something. The echo of the knock indicated it was wood. A table. His fingers walked across its surface. His heart surged as his hands closed around familiar shapes: the worn leather of his satchel and the rough wood of his brushes. Bingo.

  They'd tossed everything carelessly on the wooden table beside what must be the guards' station. His searching fingers found empty cups, still warm, with the lingering bitter scent of whatever passed for booze in this place. Playing cards lay scattered across part of the table's surface. A half-finished game, abandoned mid-hand. The guards must have grown bored with their watch, confident that iron and stone would hold their prisoner.

  Their mistake.

  Clive gathered his tools. His brush, his palette, his sketchbook, his charcoal. Clive breathe a sigh of relief. Everything seemed to be there. Everything except—

  His hands swept the table again, more frantically now. The Canvas of Reality. Where was it? That canvas had always been his ultimate weapon. Did they know that? They'd been thorough enough to separate his most dangerous tool from the rest. Smart. Perhaps the Saintess understood his abilities better than he'd given her credit for.

  No matter. He hadn’t prepared a background with the Saintess in mind. It was unlikely to be helpful in the upcoming battle.

  From deeper in the complex, Clive heard the sound of footsteps against stone. Two sets, he counted. One heavy and deliberate, the other lighter and faster, trying to match pace. The guards were returning.

  He swept his tools into his satchel and pressed himself into the corner where two walls met. The footsteps grew closer, accompanied now by voices that echoed in the stone corridors.

  "Sir, are you sure about this?" The younger voice stuttered. "The Saintess's orders were clear. Inform her the moment the artist awakens."

  "Trust me, kid." The older guard's voice was guff. Clive recognized it as Jecht. "You’ve seen what he can do. I say we could do with a few more mithril swords.”

  “Will he cooperate with us, sir?”

  “Let me worry about that. I can be very persuasive.” The sound of knuckles cracking travelled to Clive’s ear. “By the time I'm finished, he'll be begging to draw us whatever we want.”

  "The Saintess won't approve if she finds out we—"

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  "The Saintess doesn't need to know everything. She gets her pet artist turned to stone, we get a few high-quality weapons for our trouble. Everyone wins."

  "What if he refuses?"

  "Then we find out just how much pain it takes to change an artist's mind about his principles."

  Their footsteps paused. Clive pressed harder against the stone, becoming one with the shadows.

  "Back to business," Jecht continued, "Have you contacted the dealer yet?"

  "Not yet, sir. I’ll contact the Thornwalds tomorrow."

  "Imbecile." A loud smack reverberated in the corridor. "Are you trying to get us all caught. No legitimate broker will touch mithril, it’ll raise too many questions. We’ll need to go through the underground channels to fence all that equipment from the templars we killed. Captain Auron’s gear alone is worth a small fortune. The Saintess was kind enough to let us keep it. Don’t mess it up.”

  Clive's jaw twitched. They were desecrating Auron's corpse, selling his equipment like common bandits. The captain had died confused and betrayed, and now these vultures were picking over his remains.

  "Yes sir, I'll contact Blackwell’s associates first thing tomorrow. He handles that kind of... problematic merchandise."

  "Good. Make sure you—"

  The voices grew louder as they entered the guard room. Clive heard the scrape of chair legs against stone, the clink of metal cups being set down. Then silence.

  "What the hell?" Jecht’s voice rose. "Where are his things?"

  "I... I left them right here on the table, sir. The satchel, the brushes, everything."

  "Well they're not here now, are they?" Footsteps moved rapidly around the room, searching. "Check the floor. Maybe they fell."

  "Sir, there's no way they could have just—"

  "Then where are they?" Jecht shouted. "Items don't just walk away on their own!"

  More movement. The sound of wooden chairs being dragged, cups knocked aside. Then running footsteps toward the cells.

  "The prisoner!" The younger guard's voice cracked with panic. "We need to check the prisoner!"

  Their footsteps thundered down the corridor toward Clive's former cell. He heard the moment they discovered the fallen door—a string of curses, followed by the sound of weapons being drawn.

  "How did he get out?" Jecht screamed. "Iron cuffs don't just rust through. Not in one night."

  "His power, sir. He must have used his power somehow."

  "With what? We took everything! Every scrap of paper, every piece of charcoal!"

  "Maybe... maybe he doesn't need tools?"

  A long silence. Then Jecht spoke, low and dangerous: "Find him. Search every cell, every corridor. He can't have gone far in the dark."

  "What about the Saintess? Shouldn't we—"

  "We find him first. If she learns we let him escape..." His voice trailed off, but the implication was clear.

  "Yes sir."

  Their footsteps split apart, one set heading deeper into the complex, the other coming back toward the guard room. Toward Clive.

  He had seconds to decide. Run and risk getting lost in the underground maze, or stay and confront one guard with the element of surprise on his side. The choice was obvious. He had his equipment now. He didn’t need to run now.

  "I swear I left everything right here," the guard muttered, stepping into the room. "The satchel was—"

  He stopped mid-sentence. His torch illuminated the room to reveal Clive sitting casually on the table. His satchel rested beside him, brushes arranged in a neat fan across his palm.

  “You were looking for me?”

  The guard stumbled backward, torch wavering in his grip. The flame dipped low enough that shadows swallowed half of Clive's face, leaving only his eyes visible in the amber light.

  "How did you—the cell door—" The young templar's voice cracked like an adolescent's.

  "Rusty hinges." Clive lifted one bloodied wrist, letting the torchlight catch the raw wounds where the iron had bitten deep. "Amazing how quickly metal deteriorates when you give it the right encouragement."

  The guard's free hand moved to his sword hilt, but his grip was uncertain. He kept glancing toward the doorway as if calculating the distance to safety.

  "Well, here I am," Clive continued, sliding down from the table. His boots made no sound against the stone floor. "Did you need something? Or were you just planning to stand there looking surprised?"

  The guard's throat worked silently for a moment. Then training overrode panic.

  "Captain!" he cried out.

  Clive's brush was already moving before the shout finished reverberating. Paint flowed across the air in a perfect sphere, yellow pigment catching and holding the torchlight until it blazed like a miniature sun.

  [Paint: Amber Fireball]

  The sphere struck the guard center-mass, erupting in a burst of golden flame that sent him crashing into the wall. His torch clattered across the floor. The man slumped against the stones, his leather armor smoking where the fire had kissed it.

  Heavy footsteps thundered down the corridor—Jecht, running toward the sound of combat.

  Clive stepped over the fallen guard and positioned himself in the doorway. The torchlight behind him threw his shadow long across the corridor floor, forming a dark silhouette that seemed to stretch toward his approaching enemy.

  "Captain Jecht," he called out. "I was hoping we'd get another chance to chat."

  The footsteps slowed, then stopped entirely. In the flickering torchlight, Clive could make out the glint of drawn steel.

  "Clever little artist," Jecht's voice carried from the darkness beyond the light. "But you're still trapped down here with us. Nowhere to run."

  "Who said anything about running?" Clive raised his brush. "I came here to cure a curse. Turns out I found one after all."

  They thought iron could hold what fire had forged. They were wrong about the metal, and wrong about the man.

  —Inscription found carved into the wall of Cell Block Seven