The wind whispered like a wounded breath.
Ren stood on the threshold of Saph's floating island—one foot on dreamstuff, the other on cracked paintstone. All around him, the canvases suspended in the air trembled. Some flapped like caged birds. Others wept streaks of grey oil, dripping sorrow into the abyss below.
Saph didn't wait.
She dragged the glowing paintbrush across the ground, carving a stroke of color that lit the path between them. The color? An unfamiliar tone—a bruised violet that pulsed like a fading heartbeat.
"Welcome to Chroma Shard," she muttered. "Or what's left of it."
Ren followed the path. Every step forward tugged at him, like he was stepping into a memory that wanted to forget itself. The island was small—maybe the size of a village plaza—but it felt enormous. Each ruined mural on its cracked surfaces radiated old emotion. Old hurt. Some of it… disturbingly familiar.
"What happened here?" Ren asked.
"A story failed," Saph replied. "A dream collapsed. The ink ran dry. Choose your metaphor—they all end the same."
She stopped beside one of the floating canvases. A massive one—half-erased, half-burnt. It showed a boy in gold armor, kneeling beside a fallen creature with wings.
Ren couldn't read the details.
Because someone had scratched it out with rage.
"This was a hero's story," she said. "But he refused to let it end. He tried to repaint the world until it bent to his fantasy. The island rejected him. Everything unraveled."
She touched the canvas. A ripple ran across it—and for half a heartbeat, Ren heard a scream echo through the clouds.
Saph turned to him.
"I'm here to fix it. Not restore it—Saph's Broken Island it. Paint a version that can live without collapsing."
Ren raised a brow. "And you want my help?"
"I want your perspective," she said. "You're not from here. You haven't been ruined yet."
She pointed to an empty canvas on a floating pedestal.
"That's your station."
Ren walked toward it. The pedestal responded to his presence—lifting the frame slightly, as if welcoming his touch. Balladbrand, slung across his back, pulsed gently—responding not to threat, but Saph's Broken Island.
He looked at the blank canvas.
Nothing stared back.
And in that nothing, he felt possibility.
"I don't know what to paint," he said.
Saph's voice came softer now.
"Then paint what you miss."
That stopped him.
He thought of Cindale. Of Crimpet and the jam wars. Of Serein and the floating ruins. Of the baked-sunlight smell of the Lumina Market. He thought of walking without a map, laughing in the face of fate.
His brush moved.
A line.
Then a curve.
A streak of orange joy. A dab of foolish blue. A swirl of green curiosity.
And in the center of it all—a figure, leaping forward, hand outstretched, toward a world unraveling and smiling anyway.
The canvas shivered.
Then shone.
Saph stepped beside him. She studied his work in silence.
Then, quietly: "You remember with color. That's rare."
Ren blinked. "Was that good?"
"Don't get cocky."
But she was smiling.
All across the island, other canvases began to hum. A chain reaction. Sparks of color returning. Murals breathing. A nearby sculpture reassembled itself into a spiral dancer that bowed to Ren with metallic grace.
Saph pointed at the sky.
"You woke something."
High above, the clouds split—just enough to reveal a looming sky-structure made of interwoven color threads. A gate. A stairway. A junction.
"Is that… our way out?" Ren asked.
"Not yet. Not until we finish this story."
"And if we fail?"
Saph met his gaze.
"Then Chroma Shard breaks again. But this time, it takes you with it."
◇
Far across the Painted Skies, in a region untouched by color, a figure made of inverted hues stepped through a rift in silence. His eyes were unpainted. His hands held an unprimed brush—one that stole color instead of giving it.
He looked toward Chroma Shard.
And whispered, "The Catalyst walks too freely."