CHAPTER NINETEEN; The Last Stroke Before Dawn

"Are you going to join the exhibition?" Keiran asked, spotting me in my usual spot in the clubroom, painting alone while the twins were still in their afternoon class. "Oh, wow, what's this? A new masterpiece?" he added, noticing what I was working on.

"What exhibition?" I replied, not even pausing to put the brush down, continuing to stroke roughly yet predictably at the canvas in front of me.

"The Artisan Den's Annual Exhibition. If you want to showcase your paintings I'll arrange it for you." He leaned against the windowsill, arms crossed, watching me paint. "What are you even painting?" His brows furrowed in a frown.

The brush hovered in mid-air as I shifted my gaze to him. "My death," I answered in a serious tone, watching the crease in his forehead deepen. But before he could react, I laughed, returning to my painting. "Kidding." I said, though my tone betrayed the word that came out of my lips.

My mind was in utter chaos after what happened in Professor Eli's class, and Kairos' presence only added to my headache. It drove me to seek refuge in the clubroom, where I unleashed my wrath, confusion, and sense of loss onto the canvas. It was my only means of escape from the overwhelming emotions and chaotic thoughts that have been dragging me at the center of the tempestuous maelstrom that I found myself into.

Yet, the longer the bristle of my brush dances against the canvas, the heavier it felt in my hand. The colors seeping into my thoughts before I could even decide which one to use first, as the memory that I buried, resurfaces—like an undead that refuses to rest.

"I had a dream." I spoke softly, in contrast to how rough my every stroke was. "I died beneath the guillotine."

The white lie I uttered tasted bitter on my tongue, but the weight in my chest demanded release. Even if it wasn't the full truth, a part of me begged to be shared—as if it needed to let someone in, even if only for a fleeting moment.

I heard Keiran exhaled as he pulled a chair next to mine and sat down, "For what reason?" He asked, his voice steady but laced with curiosity.

An empty laugh escaped my lips as I glanced over my shoulder, "Treason." I replied, the word bitter on my tongue. "I was framed."

"And?" Keiran's voice was calm, but the edge in his words cut through the silence. "You didn't try to clear your name? Or ask for help?"

I paused, my hand tightening around the brush as it hovered in the air for a moment, my eyes stayed fixed on the painting—at the guillotine, stark and unyielding stood in the middle of the canvas, like a towering executioner's thrones—etched against the golden glow of a dying sun. "I did…" I whispered, my words barely audible. "But it cost me everything."

I turned my hollow gaze back to Keiran. "Which led me to face death…" My voice wavered as I looked away. "Willingly. So, the cruel prince couldn't save me."

Keiran's gaze lingered at me for a moment, not saying a word as if absorbing the tragic story that I had just told him. I went back to painting, giving him enough time to process everything in silence.

"Why?" I glanced and met his curious gaze. "Why didn't you let the prince save you? Was he the one who framed you?" he asked, completely absorbed in the flow of our conversation.

My heart felt a sting, unable to say anything as the memories of that bloody night flashed in my head like a movie scene. My hands kept moving, but every stroke I painted on the canvas unleashed the tempestuous rage residing within me. "He was the first one who pointed his sword at me." I turned to Keiran, my voice cold and sharp, "And took the lives of my precious people."

Keiran stared at me, his dark eyes glimmering with curiosity, as if he were trying to piece together a puzzle. "So, you chose death even though you knew there was a way for him to save you?" His tone was gentle, almost probing, like he was genuinely intrigued by the reasoning behind my choice. He tilted his head slightly, a soft crease forming on his brow, but there was no judgment—just a quiet eagerness to understand.

I smiled faintly, my fingers brushing against the edge of the canvas as I turned my gaze back to the half-finished painting. The colors were muted, strokes deliberately incomplete—like a story interrupted mid-sentence. "In every story, the villainess is destined to die—but a perfect one should never beg for her life, never plead." My voice softened as I dipped the brush into a darker hue. "She writes her own story."

Silence fell between us as if we were both savoring the exchange of thoughts we shared. The noise outside the open window was a soothing hum of life—the rustling of leaves, distant chatter, and the occasional chirping of birds—mingling seamlessly with the gentle breeze that carried the faint scent of blooming flowers.

"You have a very peculiar dream," Keiran finally broke the silence as he walked toward the window and leaned against the frame, his gaze drifting to the scenery outside. "Almost sounds like a previous life," he murmured, his tone thoughtful, as if weighing the strange connection between my words and something buried deep in his own thoughts.

I could only sigh, thinking how I wished it was really just a dream. That what I was going through right now was merely a defense mechanism, a coping mechanism for the traumatic events that that Karina experienced—and that I was nothing more than an alter, a fragment of her. But the letter I kept with me—the one I found upon arriving in this world, was proof that this was my reality. I wasn't just a passing thought, a fictional character—I was someone who had been born bearing the features of my creator, brought to life at the expense of her soul.

"So, are you going to join the exhibition?" Keiran asked after a while. His gaze returned to mine, and a knowing smile lingered on his lips.

My eyes buried in the canvas—a quiet sense of indecision settled within me. The brushstrokes were unfinished, yet they somehow felt complete in their own way—just like my life at this moment. Was I ready to show this world, the life I once had? I wasn't sure. The thought lingered, but it didn't weigh me down. It was simply a question that had no answer yet, a decision still waiting to be made. The canvas showed my end and beginning, the remnants of a life already written. And perhaps, for me—this villainess—to find my true end, I had to stop looking back to my past. To truly move forward, I should stop clinging to the remnants of the life I once had. I needed to face everything—the reality I'd been running from, the parts of myself I feared acknowledging. Only then, I could find a way to live beyond the story that had been written for me—live the life that she bestowed on me.

A decisive sigh escaped my lips as I met Keiran's gaze. "Sure," I said, my voice steady but laced with determination. "But I want this painting displayed on its own."

Keiran smiled widely, his eyes glinting with mischief, and gave my shoulder a playful tap as he turned to leave. "Consider it done," he said, his voice light and confident, as if nothing could stand in the way of his promise.

—

Nox University's courtyard is alive with color and movement, pulsing with infectious energy—a world transformed into an artist's playground. Handmade signs guide visitors to various areas, each offering a different creative activity—Live Painting, the Clay & Pottery Corner, and the Sketch & Doodle Zone.

In one corner of the courtyard, where the Live Painting session takes place, string lights and paper lanterns sway overhead, casting a warm, flickering glow over large murals-in-progress stretched across temporary panels. Attendees are invited to pick up a brush and add their touch, blending different styles into a single masterpiece.

Nearby, one of the twins hosts a pottery demonstration, captivating the audience as they watch in fascination. Across from them, the Sketch & Doodle Zone features a small screen-printing station, where attendees can print their own tote bags or shirts with their unique sketches or doodles.

The smile on my lips doesn't fade as I watch the students in paint-splattered clothes playfully move between stations, their laughter blending with the lively hum of the live acoustic band at the courtyard entrance, where Lila is assigned. From where I sit, cradling a warm cup of tea, I take in the scene—the bold splashes of color spreading across canvases, the gentle shaping of clay as it takes form, and the absorbed expressions of students immersed in their creations. The air carries the faint scent of paint, damp clay, and freshly brewed coffee from a nearby stall, merging into something oddly comforting. This place, buzzing with creativity and joy, feels like a world of its own.

My gaze drifted and it stopped in the quiet corner of the courtyard where all the creations of the Artisan Den's members are displayed. Unlike the lively corner of the courtyard where it's bustling with energy, the exhibition space has the exact opposite atmosphere. There are only a few people checking out each painting, sketch, sculpture, and piece of pottery crafted by the Artisan Den's members, but those people aren't just anyone—they are our potential buyers.

Keiran made sure to split the Artisan Den's festival into two—one for students who wanted free stuff and to try out art, creating a lively and interactive space filled with laughter and experimentation, and the other for potential buyers who truly understood the value of art, offering a more refined and intimate atmosphere where each piece could be properly appreciated and sold to those who recognized its worth. I wasn't really planning on selling my art pieces, but Keiran insisted that I should, or it would just gather dust in our club room.

Even though I included some of my paintings in the exhibition, the last one I painted was placed alone in the center, set apart from the rest—just as Keiran had promised.

There had been many offers, but whenever I asked the buyers what they felt about my painting—the depiction of my ending and beginning, my own death, the piece I named 'The Villainess' True End'—none of them gave me the right answer. So, I kept declining their offers.

"'The Villainess' True End' is the only piece that hasn't found a buyer yet," Keiran informed me as he sat in the chair across from me. He eyed me with dissatisfaction, his fingers drumming lightly against the table. "Do you even want to sell your painting or not? Because honestly, it feels like you're just making excuses. That's why you keep asking them what emotion your piece is trying to exude." He added.

A soft chuckle escaped my lips as I took a sip of my tea, the warmth spreading through me as I savored the subtle bitterness. I leaned back slightly, meeting Keiran's dissatisfied gaze with quiet amusement. "The right buyer will come if they truly understand what that painting means," I said, my fingers tracing the rim of my cup. "It's not just about the price—it's about whether they understand what I am trying to convey."

Keiran sighed and looked at me as if he were raising the white flag—he knew, even without me saying a word, that he wouldn't win this argument and that my decision was final.

I was about to take a sip of my tea when my heart skipped a beat upon seeing a familiar figure walk into the small, man-made gallery we had for our art pieces. From my obscure spot in the corner, where we couldn't be immediately seen, I watched him in silence, my fingers tightening slightly around my cup.

It's been a few days since I started keeping my conversations with Kairos to a minimum for a simple reason—I'm preparing my heart for the day I can finally confront him about what he knows about me. And with the way he's acting—less intrusive, restrained—as if he understood that I needed space.

Although he was still disruptive whenever we crossed paths while I was with the others, whether intentionally or not, there was a noticeable shift—his presence no longer felt as overwhelming, as if he was holding himself back just enough to respect the distance I had placed between us. Yet, even in his silence, I could still feel the weight of his gaze, lingering just long enough to remind me that he was still there.

"What is he doing here?" Keiran asked out of nowhere, pulling me from my thoughts and making me tear my gaze away from Kairos—only to feel instant regret the moment I saw who he was talking about.

It was Achilles Dimitri—the one person I never wanted to see.

Like Kairos, he didn't seem to notice us. He walked straight into the gallery, his steps purposeful—only to come to an abrupt halt the moment his eyes landed on the painting in the center.

My painting.

I couldn't see their full expressions, but their side profiles told me enough.

Achilles stood frozen, his posture tense, shoulders slightly hunched. From the rigid set of his jaw and the way his fingers curled ever so slightly, I could sense a storm of emotions—shock, sorrow, regret—all bottled up beneath his composed exterior. He didn't turn to face us, but the way he stood, unmoving, said more than words ever could.

Kairos, on the other hand, was different. Fury. But not toward Achilles—he hadn't even noticed him. His eyes were locked onto my painting, his expression dark and unreadable, yet the way his fists clenched and his chest rose with controlled breaths made it clear. He wasn't just mad—he was seething.

It was the emotion that I'd been wanting to see—Implacable hatred.

Just like what I had felt when I faced my own death.

And the exact emotion my painting was trying to capture.

Achilles left almost immediately, as if he couldn't contain the emotions bottled up inside him. His steps were hurried, his posture stiff—like a man running from something he wasn't ready to face.

Kairos, on the other hand, didn't move. His eyes never left my painting as he pulled out his phone and dialed a number with unsettling calmness.

At that exact moment, Keiran's phone rang.

We both looked at each other as Kairos' name flashed across the screen.

I gave him a small nod. "Answer it. Put it on speaker."

"What's up?" Keiran answered casually, his tone giving nothing away. The outside noise was muffled where we were, making it impossible for Kairos to know our exact location.

There was a brief pause before Kairos spoke, his voice firm, unwavering.

"Where is she?"

I felt Keiran's gaze flicker toward me, searching for my reaction, but I didn't look at him. My focus remained on Kairos—on the way his grip on his phone tightened, on the unrelenting intensity in his eyes as he stared at my painting, as if afraid it would vanish the moment he looked away.

"I wonder where. I haven't seen her today." Keiran lied effortlessly, his tone light, unconcerned.

The response almost made me chuckle. I shook my head, glancing at him with an amused expression. Even without me saying a word, he already knew what to do—what to say.

Just like how my twin did back in my world.

Kairos remained silent for a moment before taking a deep, ragged breath.

"I'm buying this piece. How much is it?" His voice was calm—too calm—but the restrained fury beneath it was impossible to miss.

"Which one?" Keiran asked, acting oblivious to which piece Kairos was referring to.

"You know damn well what I meant." Kairos didn't bother hiding his annoyance. "I've already bought her other paintings, yet you failed to tell me that there was still one left."

His words should have been nothing more than a complaint, but my mind latched onto something else entirely.

He bought all my paintings?

I stared at Keiran, my amusement fading into something more complicated.

Keiran flashed me a knowing smile, as if silently telling me he'd explain everything later.

"Oh, that one." His tone was deliberately casual. "She has specific requirements for anyone who wants to buy it, which is why I told you to come and check the gallery."

He sighed dramatically before adding, "I know you only want her works, but at least take a look at my other members' pieces. Don't be biased."

His complaint was lighthearted, but I could tell he was stalling—keeping Kairos occupied while I processed what I had just learned.

"What is it? The requirements to acquire this painting?" Kairos asked without hesitation.

Keiran glanced at me, silently seeking permission to continue our charade. I gave a small nod before shifting my gaze back to Kairos.

"In one word, what is the emotion she wants to convey in this painting?" Keiran finally asked—the very question I had instructed him to pose to anyone who wished to claim it.

Kairos fell silent, his eyes locked onto my painting as if searching for the answer hidden within its strokes.

"Is that all? If I answer correctly, will she let me, have it?" His voice was steady, but there was an unmistakable edge to it.

Then, his gaze shifted.

Our eyes met across the room, yet he remained where he stood—waiting, unwavering.

"Should I answer it?" Keiran asked, shaking his head slightly, as if he saw no need to continue acting as the middleman now that Kairos had already noticed us.

"Tell me." I took a deep breath, steadying myself. "One word. If you're correct, then you'll get it for free."

But deep down, I already knew.

Even without him saying it, I could see the answer written all over his face—the moment his eyes locked onto my painting, the emotion was unmistakable.

Kairos's gaze shifted back to my painting, as if truly seeing it for the first time. The sharp guillotine. The woman beneath it, facing the crowded town center with a smile that defied fate itself.

Something in him stirred—an emotion he had long since buried, one he had sworn to keep locked away for eternity. But now, standing before my painting, he could no longer ignore it.

"Hatred."

The word hung in the air, heavy and absolute.

I let out a quiet sigh of defeat, the kind that comes when you realize you've reached the inevitable conclusion. Without another word, I gathered my things—a silent cue for Keiran.

I had finally found the one who should own that painting.

And I'm done running.

It's time for me to face him properly.