Eyes in the canvas

Neoma's paintbrush moved in slow, deliberate strokes, dragging hues of crimson and charcoal across the canvas like whispers of a dream she couldn't quite understand. The late afternoon light filtered through the studio windows, bathing the room in golden dust—but she barely noticed. Paint clung to her fingers, her shirt stained but her mind drifted far from the canvas."

She had signed the contract that morning—the ink still haunting her fingertips. A marriage, not of love but of convenience. Mutual benefit, they said. Business. Future. Stability. Words that sounded like metal clanging in her ears.

And Sebastian.

His name alone stirred something strange in her—like a familiar ache she didn't know she remembered. He was cold and precise, all sharp cheekbones and calculated words. Yet when he looked at her—really looked—it felt like he saw beneath her skin.

Her hand paused mid-air, brush dripping red.

Why him?

Why did her heart skip when he lingered too close? Why did she dream of his voice in the quiet hours, low and steady, like the rhythm of a storm approaching? Although he was annoying, he clouded her thoughts lately. She told herself she wasn't thinking about him—just about how to survive. That's all."

The painting before her had twisted into something she didn't recognize, a pair of eyes emerging from a blur of color. Eyes that looked eerily like his. Conflicted. Curious. Watching her.

Neoma sighed and set the brush down. The canvas stared back at her like a mirror reflecting her confusion.

She didn't know if it was longing, danger, or something else entirely. All she knew was that Sebastian Vaelrath was creeping into her art and, worse, into her heart—and that terrified her more than anything in the world.

And she hated him for it.

Her eyelids grew heavy. The brush slipped from her fingers. The scent of paint blurred into lilacs...

The ancient stone walls of the castle stood tall and proud, bathed in the soft lavender light of twilight. Ivy curled along the archways, and torches flickered to life as dusk fell, casting a golden glow on the guests seated in the open courtyard. The air buzzed with anticipation and the scent of blooming lilacs from the garden below.

At the far end of the courtyard, beneath a grand archway draped in white silk and silver roses, the groom stood in regal attire. A tailored coat of deep navy, trimmed in silver, hugged his broad shoulders. But his face betrayed all his composure—eyes scanning the aisle, heart racing with each passing second.

The massive oak doors creaked open.

Gasps rippled through the crowd.

She stood framed in the castle's doorway like a vision from a dream—the bride, draped in a gown of embroidered satin that caught the torchlight with every movement. A delicate crown of moonstone rested atop her hair, and her long veil trailed behind her like mist. She moved with grace, each step a quiet echo on the flagstone path, her gaze fixed only on him.

Trumpets played softly from the castle balcony above, and rose petals rained down from the highest towers as she approached. Her father whispered something to her before placing her hand into the groom's waiting palm.

"You came," he breathed, as if still unsure this moment was real.

"Even if the castle were burning," she whispered back, "I'd still walk through fire to find you."

Their hands locked, not just in tradition—but in destiny.

The ceremony began under the open sky, stars slowly emerging as the officiant spoke of loyalty, sacrifice, and eternal love. Each vow echoed off the castle walls, ancient stone bearing witness to their promise.

When they kissed—slow, reverent, full of unspoken history—the guests erupted into cheers, and the bells of the castle rang out across the valley.

In the distance, fireworks burst in a dazzling display, lighting up the sky in their honor, as if the entire kingdom rejoiced. For a moment, it felt as if time itself had paused... so love could be crowned king and queen.

They stared at each other in awe, in admiration, in love.

Then—everything changed.

The castle grew dark. Guests vanished into thin air.

Her husband laughed hysterically, his emerald-green eyes glowing as flames engulfed his body. He grabbed her, yanking her toward him.

"You're mine."

She let out a terrified scream fear written all over her face

She jolted awake, skin slick with sweat, paint still smudging her hands.

She was still in the studio.

She had fallen asleep on the chair—mid-stroke, mid-thought, mid-heartache—while painting.

It was a nightmare.

Had her mind conjured that? Or was it a warning?