It was the day of the art exhibition. The venue: the Thornwald estate’s great hall was loaned to Clive for this event. What had once been a space for formal dinners and stiff political negotiations now breathed with color and creativity. Clive stood near the entrance, watching servants adjust the last of the display easels while early arrivals filtered in through the massive oak doors. Thanks to Lord Thornwald’s assistance in marketing the event, they were expecting a sizeable crowd to show up. Not just from Marblehaven but from the surrounding towns as well.

  Lord Thornwald approached him. "The Earl of Ironhaven sent his regrets. Something about urgent business in the capital."

  "His loss," Clive said as he adjusted the angle of a landscape painting. Margaret had spent three days on that piece, capturing the view of Marblehaven from the northern hills just as the sun rose over the rooftops.

  "Perhaps. His coin purse would have been welcome, though. We’ve spent a sizable amount on this event. It would be good if we could recuperate our investments.”

  “Think of it as an investment for the future. Our first event builds up our reputation. Subsequent events are when we start to bring in the profit.”

  Lord Thornwald let out a chuckle. “Well said. Your business acumen grows with each day.” He surveyed the hall. Several of the nobles stole furtive glances at Clive, even as they examined the artworks. “It appears some of our guests are here purely out of curiosity about the miracle healer who saved our city. They’re expecting spectacle."

  "They'll get art instead. Let’s keep that as the focus for today."

  A commotion at the entrance drew their attention. Lady Blackwood arrived with an entourage that trailed behind her like peacocks. She wore a dress of deep purple silk with gold thread.

  "Master Weston!" She swept toward him. "I simply had to see what all of Marblehaven has been whispering about. Is it true you can paint reality itself into being?"

  "I paint. Reality does what it will."

  She laughed. "How delightfully cryptic. You must show me everything."

  Over the next hour, the hall filled. Clive guided small groups through the displays, explaining techniques when asked but mostly letting the work speak for itself. He'd arranged the pieces deliberately, starting with simple charcoal sketches near the entrance, building to more complex works deeper in the hall.

  The nobles reacted predictably. Some nodded knowingly at pieces they didn't understand. Others made comments about how the colors reminded them of their summer estates.

  A portly man in emerald velvet stopped before a landscape of wildflowers. "This reminds me of my mother's garden."

  Lord Thornwald materialized beside him like a merchant sensing opportunity. "Then for twenty gold pieces, you could have it. Your mother's garden will be with you always."

  "Twenty?" The man's jowls shook. "For paint and canvas?"

  "For memory made permanent," Thornwald corrected. "Though if you prefer, Lord Ashford was also admiring that piece earlier."

  The man's grip tightened on his coin purse. "Fifteen."

  "Twenty-five. The price just went up."

  "That's robbery!"

  "That's commerce." Thornwald smiled. "Shall I send for Lord Ashford?"

  The man fumbled for his purse, muttering about extortion while Thornwald's secretary appeared from nowhere to handle the transaction. Clive watched with awe as Thornwald worked the room, turning aesthetic appreciation into economic opportunity.

  Three more sales in the next ten minutes. Thornwald never pushed nor pleaded. He'd mention another buyer's interest, casually quote a price, then start to walk away. They always called him back.

  "The Countess of Westmarch just acquired 'Dawn Over the Vineyards,'" the secretary whispered to Thornwald between transactions. "Forty gold."

  "Make sure Lord Pemberton hears about it. He owns the competing vineyard."

  Within minutes, Pemberton had purchased two pieces featuring agricultural scenes, each for forty-five gold.

  Clive had initially bristled at the commerce of it all; art reduced to status symbols and investment opportunities didn’t bode well with him. But the guild's coffers were filling. Half of every sale went to the artist, the other half to the guild's operations. Thornwald took his cut only from the surplus, after materials and workshop costs were covered. It was more than fair.

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  "Thornwald’s playing the nobles like a harp," Garrett said, appearing behind Clive. "Watch him. He just sold that portrait of the bakery to a man who's never set foot in one."

  Clive smiled, glad that Garrett had come. "Speaking of portraits." Clive led him deeper into the hall. "There's something I want you to see."

  They stopped before a large canvas mounted between two windows. Clive had spent three afternoons in Garrett's smithy capturing this. The anvil bore every nick and groove he'd observed. In the background, half-finished weapons hung on the walls, each one recognizable to anyone who knew Garrett's work.

  Garrett stood there, arms crossed. The painting had caught him mid-swing, shoulders bunched with effort, face lit by forge-glow.

  "You made my workshop look almost noble," Garrett said finally.

  "I drew what I saw."

  "Then you need spectacles."

  But he didn't move. His eyes tracked across the canvas, pausing at details.

  "That crack's too small," he said after five minutes.

  "It's to scale."

  "The hell it is."

  Another five minutes passed. A duchess tried to engage Garrett in conversation about commissioning work. He grunted at her without looking away from the painting. She retreated. He stayed there another ten minutes, studying the piece.

  Across the hall, Lucia's voice rang out.

  "Lord Gallantine, what is this supposed to be?"

  Clive turned to see Lucia standing before a canvas at the far end of the hall. Markus stood beside it, his hands constantly smoothing his robes

  "It's..." Markus reached for the covering. "May I?"

  The portrait that emerged made Lucia take a step back.

  Lucia in her workshop, but not posed or prettified. She leaned over a workbench, completely absorbed in her task. Her hair had escaped from its pins, falling across her face. Her fingers were stained purple from whatever she was working with. Empty vials littered the bench around her, and through the window behind her, the sun was setting. It wasn’t perfect, and you could tell it was the work of an amateur. But it was honest.

  "You made me look..." She stopped.

  "I drew what I saw," Markus said quietly. "Someone brilliant. Dedicated. Uncompromising." He took a breath. "Beautiful."

  Lucia stared at the portrait, then at Markus, then back at the portrait.

  "Your proportions are wrong," she said finally.

  "I know."

  "And you made my nose too small."

  "I thought you'd appreciate that."

  Despite herself, Lucia smiled. "It's terrible."

  "It's yours." He gestured toward the portrait. "If you want it. I just wanted you to have something that showed how I see you.”

  Lucia opened her mouth to respond, but whatever she might have said was lost as Lord Thornwald's voice carried across the hall, calling for attention.

  "Ladies and gentlemen, if you would gather please. Master Weston has prepared something special for the finale."

  The crowd began to shift toward the center of the hall. Markus started to move with them, then stopped when he realized Lucia hadn't followed. She was still looking at the portrait.

  "We should—" he began.

  "I'll take it," she said quickly, not looking at him. "The painting. But only because it would be rude to refuse."

  She moved past him toward the gathering crowd before he could respond, though Clive noticed Markus standing there a moment longer, a smile crossing his face before he smoothed his expression and followed.

  Clive made his way to the center of the hall where a covered canvas stood.

  "Everyone, thank you for coming." Clive began, " When I first arrived in Marblehaven, someone told me art was a luxury this city couldn't afford. They said we needed weapons for defense, potions for healing, trade goods for prosperity. All true. All necessary.”

  He gestured to paintings lining the walls. “But the worst has passed. The stone curse is gone. Now, we are free to nourish the soul. Art doesn't fill stomachs or defend walls. But it does something else. It reminds us why we fill those stomachs, why we defend those walls. The pieces you have seen today have come from the hands of our students. Hands that until recently had never held a brush for anything but whitewashing walls. Bakers, smiths, merchants' daughters. Given the opportunity, this is what they can create. And with your support, we hope to be able to give even more people this same opportunity.”

  A round of applause filled the room.

  “For this last piece, I drew something which encapsulated the spirit of Marblehaven. The person who saved us from the stone curse."

  He pulled away the covering.

  The hall went silent.

  The painting towered eight feet high. In it, the Saintess stood at the center of a battlefield veined with red magma. Angelic wings erupted from her back, lifting her above the ground. Her staff was raised high, shining light below. And facing her, was a horned devil who held a blade in one hand and a fireball in another.

  "Mother of mercy," someone whispered.

  Lady Blackwood had actually stepped backward. "It's beautiful."

  Lord Thornwald cleared his throat. "Well then. Shall we begin the bidding? Such a magnificent piece surely deserves—"

  "One thousand gold."

  The bid came from Lord Ashford, standing near the back.

  "Fifteen hundred."

  "Two thousand."

  The numbers climbed. Three thousand. Four. At five thousand, even Lord Thornwald looked stunned. At seven thousand, most of the bidders dropped out.

  "Ten thousand gold pieces."

  Everyone turned. A hooded man stood at the very back of the hall, someone Clive hadn't noticed arrive. He wore simple black robes. The man moved through the crowd, and the nobles parted before him like water. When he reached the painting, he pushed back his hood.

  Scars decorated both sides of his face, along with old burn marks that disfigured him. His left eye was milky white. The right one fixed on the painting with an intensity that made the nearest nobles step back.

  "The Saintess." His voice was rough. "Marblehaven's precious symbol." He studied the painting with great interest. "My only regret is that I couldn't kill her myself."

  Alarm bells rang in Clive’s head. His hand subtly gravitated to his brush. He wasn’t sure of this person’s intentions yet, but he had a bad feeling. “And who might you be, sir?”

  “My name is Al Sayid.”

  The canvas holds what the eye sees, but the artist reveals what the heart knows—that beauty and terror are often painted with the same hand.

  —The Legendary Moonlight Artist