"The soul is the canvas. The brush is the key." — Ancient Artisan Proverb
Azeriah pov
The Divine Sanctum had once pulsed with life—gold-threaded tapestries that shimmered with celestial threads, floating glass orbs that whispered the names of the gods, fragrant light cascading like petals through the stained crystal windows. But now, the air was heavy. Still. Watching.
Azeriah stood alone in the sanctum's heart, her body too light, her breath too loud in the vastness. Once, her steps would have echoed with ceremony, but now they went unanswered. Even the sanctum—a holy place said to hum with the gods' breath—had gone silent.
She was unraveling.
The divine brush lay on the pedestal before her, its bristles untouched, dipped in no ink or pigment. Its handle glowed faintly, but it no longer hummed for her. She could barely feel it anymore, and it should have frightened her. But Azeriah only stared.
She hadn't painted in weeks.
Once, she had painted the sunrise into existence. Her strokes filled temples with warmth. She gave color to spring's first bloom, to hope in a widow's heart, to memory in a grieving father's hands. But now… she was a shell. A prophet with no vision. A divine artist without color.
She dropped to her knees before the blank canvas, fingers trembling. Her ceremonial robes pooled around her like spilled ink, and her once-golden hair hung dull and tangled. The sanctum's guardians—silent, faceless sentinels carved from onyx—watched from their places in the shadows, unmoving. Unhelpful.
She tried to remember the last time she'd heard the gods speak.
They used to visit her in dreams, in fire, in the color bursts between one heartbeat and the next. But now, the dreams were gone. Her sleep was empty. Her soul—empty. Her last divine painting had failed. No, she had failed. The relic painting that was meant to seal the growing darkness—the one written in prophecy—remained undone. And because of that, the Hollow Flame had begun to burn too bright in the far reaches of the empire. Whispers of decay. Of unmaking.
And yet the canvas before her remained blank.
She was failing.
Every attempt dissolved beneath her hand. Color twisted into nothing. Visions came as silence. The gods had grown cold.
She whispered, "You should've chosen someone else."
No answer. Only the brush, resting in its cradle atop the black marble pedestal, and the blank canvas before her—massive, tall as a door, framed in divine gold. A canvas that had waited centuries for her hands. A canvas that seemed to watch her now.
Azeriah stepped forward, barefoot on the cold floor. Her silk robes whispered with the motion.
One stroke. That's all she could manage tonight. Even if it meant nothing. Even if the gods never answered. Even if she had to tear her soul open to make it happen.
She lifted the divine brush. For a breathless instant, it felt familiar again. It warmed in her grip—not hot, but alive. Responding. Resisting. It remembered her.
She drew in a shaky breath. "Let this mean something," she whispered.
And she moved.
The bristles kissed the canvas in a single, smooth stroke.
And in that moment,
The air tightened, and her vision blurred for a moment, a sudden pressure pulling her. Something ancient moved in the ether around her.
A thread snapped.
Time twisted.
Reality carved.
The divine brush in Azeriah's hand blazed with light. Not fire, but a fracture—thin, golden, searing through the fabric of the sanctum like a comet. The canvas pulsed, and then ruptured with color, threads of ink and light spilling into the air.
Azeriah's knees buckled, the divine brush clattering to the floor.
She fell forward, catching herself on the canvas—but her fingers passed into the paint, like water rippling around her touch. Her breath hitched.
This had never happened before.
The canvas responded.
Azeriah gasped as the room tilted. Her hands dug into the painting , but she felt It wasn't her body that was being pulled—it was her soul. Something tugged at it with aching gentleness, like the fingers of an artist pulling thread through silk.
Her heart thundered. This wasn't death. This wasn't divine punishment.
It was displacement.
"No," she whispered. "Not yet—"
And then she understood.
This was not the gods abandoning her. This was the gods exchanging her.
Replacing her.
A voice spoke. Not aloud, but inside her.
"She is coming."
Azeriah's eyes widened. "Who?"
No answer.
The painting pulsed. A beam of violet light erupted from its center, blinding and impossible. It hit her square in the chest. Her mouth opened in a silent cry. Her body arched, and for one eternal, unbroken moment, Azeriah felt herself unravel.
Her soul—the divine tether that had long felt frayed and faded—snapped like a harp string. Something tore through her. A presence. A foreignness. A her that wasn't her.
And then—
Darkness.
She floated in a place beyond breath and body.
She wasn't dead. But she wasn't living either.
She was… caught. Stilled. The edges of her spirit throbbed like bruises.
And then, from the distant folds of time and reality, she heard it:
A whisper.
A woman's voice, quiet and broken, trembling with longing.
"Let me finish this. Just this. Just once…"
And in the wake of that plea, a final brushstroke tore the veil.
And as Azeriah's body collapsed, eyes wide, breath shuddering—
A soul fell into place.
She was no longer Azeriah .
And the canvas before her now held two brushstrokes.