The night bit colder, a raw wind outside crying like a lost child. Trees bowed, heavy with sorrow, and Canya felt its mournful breath slither through her window's unsealed cracks. Yet, her heart beat warmer, louder, faster, a frantic drum against her ribs. The letter, now crumpled, bore Samantha's undeniably elegant script. Its warning ignited a thousand doubts. She whispered the words aloud, as if to test their reality:
"The boy is not your destiny, but he may help you find it…"
The words hit her like a physical blow. How could Allan not be her destiny? Every sign, every whisper of fate, pointed to them. Canya rose, wrapping her arms tightly around herself, pacing. Her aunt had always hinted at secrets, seeing what others missed, hearing voices no one else could. But how could her truth be so different from her father's?
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Meanwhile, in the next room, Allan sat on his bed, eyes fixed on his open palms. The lone candle flickered, offering meager light and warmth. Thomas's prophecy had stirred something deep within him. He now understood the brush of eminence—no painter, save the spirit itself, walked with one. He closed his eyes, and Canya's face appeared: her eyes, sharp with demand; her voice, soft with desperation. She deserved answers. He could no longer feign ignorance.
When his eyes opened, the room seemed darker, the candle dying. But the air vibrated subtly, as if reality held its breath.
"You were called here for a reason," the voice inside him whispered. "But the prophecy they follow is erroneous."
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Canya, now on the floor, back pressed against her bed, stared at the letter. The room was silent but for the wind's low moan.
Then, three soft knocks.
She sprang up, hiding the letter under her mattress before opening the door. "Allan?" His face was paler than usual, but his eyes held a new depth, a stark decision.
"Can I come in?"
She stepped aside, nodding. He entered slowly, like someone burdened by an unbearable truth. "I need to tell you something," he said quietly. "Something I should have said earlier."
Canya sat, motioning for him to sit across from her. "Go on."
"What if the prophecy is true? I'm a spirit painter, and from what he says, you're probably the stick..." He trailed off, unable to voice the rest.
She blinked, a small, knowing smile touching her lips. She didn't know what to tell him.
"For months, apart from my normal spirit paints," Allan admitted, "I didn't understand it. But there were signs. I saw people before they died. I painted strangers I'd never met, and days later, they'd show up in my life, exactly as I drew them. And sometimes, the paintings would speak."
Canya listened in silence, watching his hands, as if they might still conjure magic.
"Unless I had a client, I didn't paint because I was scared," he said, a bitter laugh escaping him. "Sometimes, I wished I didn't have this gift. But apparently, gifts don't ask for permission."
"How does normal spirit painting work?" Canya asked.
"Simple: a client sits before me and surrenders their will. Once I have their will, I control their spirit. I enter a deep meditative mode, drawing a world where I take this spirit. In this world, the client's ailments—even the ones they're unaware of—are revealed. With magic flowing from me to the brush of eminence, I trap their woes inside. When they wake up, they're healed."
"That is crazy," Canya gasped, eyes wide. "Will you paint me one of those paintings?"
"I will," Allan nodded.
"What happens to the painting after the client is healed?"
"Destroyed. It crumbles to nothingness."
A moment of silence passed. Then, Canya spoke. "I got a letter."
"What kind of letter?"
"From Samantha."
Allan straightened. "Who is Samantha?"
"My aunt. She says the prophecy is misunderstood. That you're not my destiny… but that you may help me find it."
Allan frowned, the words pressing sharply into him. "Then why does your father think we're meant to be… married?":
She hesitated. "Because everything else fits. The prophecy, the timing, your presence."
He stood, walking to her window, looking out into the night. "Prophecies are just riddles people dress in divine clothing. And sometimes they wear the wrong shoes."
Her lips curled into a small smile despite herself.
"I saw you," he said suddenly, not turning back. "In my paintings. Before I ever came here. When I saw you yesterday, something stirred in me. Your father thought it was connected to his prophecy, but it was just my memory trying to remind me of you. I didn't remember until this evening. When I saw you, you were crying by a fallen tree. Holding a black staff, and walking into a storm."
She stood slowly, the words chilling her spine. "A storm?"
He turned, eyes meeting hers. "Yes. And behind you, a shadow. One I couldn't see clearly. But it followed you."
"And you think it's death?" she whispered.
"I used to. Now I think it is something else."