Chapter 12

  The blazing Sun beamed down, its warmth soaking into his skin as he weaved through the throngs of people. The Vale was beginning to breathe again, the remnants of the festival fading like embers and the tourists pulling back from the Vale like a low tide. According to Jor’dan, the guild had raked in hefty profits lending out members as impromptu caravan guards—many travelers willing to pay a premium for a safe and swift journey home. He couldn’t blame em’,

  Xander steered right as a woman stumbled into the main path, a towering box in her arms that obscured her view. His fingers tightened on the edges of his pants, remembering the chaos of helping Johnil the day before the event a couple weeks ago. She reminded him of himself then, awkward but determined, so he gave her a bit of grace. Around him, the cleanup from the festival continued: people hauling crates, disassembling booths, and hauling materials back to apartments, studios, or storage spaces. What little remained of the vibrant stalls in the park were battered and half-disassembled, clinging to the last flicker of festival life. It wouldn’t be long before the Vale sparkled again.

  Familiar wisps of red hair flashed in the corner of his vision. Squinting, he spotted Sydney, her arms laden with supplies as she packed up her stall. A small chuckle escaped him. She’d probably been a hit—she always was. Sydney had a knack for drawing people in, a natural charisma that turned every interaction into an opportunity. Doubting her success would’ve been a mistake he didn’t dare make.

  He shifted his weight and turned dextral of the park, gliding toward the more polished areas of the Vale. His mother had talked him into taking Eric up on his offer, and truthfully, it hadn’t taken much convincing. Second place in the competition wasn’t something to scoff at, and the idea of letting the opportunity slip away felt wasteful. Xander still carried a kernel of doubt, still a little pessimistic about it all. He hoped getting back into his element and painting would do wonders for his psyche—Arcana knew he needed the distraction.

  The hum of his sunray was faint beneath the rhythm of the city. His eyes wandered idly, catching snippets of the bustling streets, the lingering aftermath of festival chaos. A faint tug prickled his awareness, a soft but persistent thread pulling his gaze to the left. His eyes flicked toward the distant wall of the Vale, catching the shimmer of sunlight against its surface.

  The nudge.

  Xander’s stomach tightened, his jaw clenching as he snapped his head away, muttering under his breath, “Forget it.”

  The sensation had started a couple of days after his first training session with Jor’dan—just faint nudges, like threads gently pulling him toward the wall or, more accurately, what lay beyond it. He had no intention of listening, no interest in humoring the damned Wheel. Maybe, he thought, it’d take the hint and leave him alone. It didn’t.

  And then the weirdness began.

  During his next sessions with Jor’dan, the Wheel’s tugs seemed… delayed. His reactions were slower, his movements not quite syncing with the Wheel’s nudges at all. A few bruises from Jor’dan’s punches stood as evidence of it, and he wasn’t happy. It was subtle, but Xander couldn’t shake the suspicion: was the Wheel punishing him for ignoring it? The thought was both infuriating and unnerving.

  He groaned, pushing the thought away as the nicer buildings of the Solnair district came into view. Its streets were clean and buzzing with activity, and its architecture—a harmonious blend of wood and stone—oozed quiet wealth. Eric’s studio stood out even here. Oak and spruce wood supported the bottoms of the building, while stone and vines wrapped topside giving the studio a contemporary feel.

  Xander skidded to a stop in front of the studio, spotting Eric through the wide glass windows. The Major Arcana holder sat cross-legged on the floor, brushes spread out around him like puzzle pieces he was trying to arrange. Taking a deep breath, Xander folded up his sunray and pushed open the door. A soft chime signaled his arrival, drawing Eric’s gaze up from his work.

  The man greeted him with a warm smile, setting down the brush in his hand and rising to his feet. “Welcome, Xander. I’m glad you decided to come by.”

  Xander offered a sheepish shrug. “Yeah, my mom convinced me.” His hand unconsciously brushed at the golden Wheel hovering above his head. “Didn’t mean to lead you on before. I just… didn’t see the point at the time.”

  Eric nodded, his understanding as effortless as his presence. “No harm done.” He gestured for Xander to join him. “Come on, take a seat. I think I know exactly what you need—a good paint and vent session. From Major to Major.”

  A small smile tugged at Xander’s lips as he nodded and sat down. The smell of paint and turpentine filled the studio, grounding him as Eric moved around with practiced ease, gathering supplies. The man moved like he was part of the space itself, every motion deliberate, every tool exactly where it needed to be.

  “Thanks,” Xander said, taking the towel Eric handed him and draping it over his lap. He scooted aside as Eric placed the brushes and paints between them, along with a thick canvas backed by a dark, polished frame. The professional finish made Xander’s own supplies at home feel painfully amateur by comparison.

  Eric settled down beside him, clearing his throat as he spread his own towel over his lap. “I know I’m technically supposed to be giving you pointers, but I don’t think that’s what you need right now.” He leaned back slightly, grabbing a brush. “How about this? Stop by the palace anytime. I’m usually busy, but on the days I’m not, I’d be happy to give you a few tips.”

  Xander blinked at the unexpected generosity. “Y-Yeah, I’d like that. Thanks.”

  “Eh,” Eric waved him off with a flick of his wrist. “Us Majors have to look out for each other. Now, let’s get started, shall we?”

  Nodding, Xander reached for a brush, his eyes drifting over the array of paints. Shades and hues he’d never even seen before gleamed in perfectly lined rows—it was like a painter’s dream laid out in front of him. He uncapped a deep crimson and added a dollop to his palette, the rich color instantly drawing his focus.

  “I didn’t want this card,” he muttered, almost to himself, as he dipped the brush into the red. He paused, then dragged a thick, deliberate line across the canvas. “I really didn’t.”

  Eric glanced at him, his expression steady but inviting Xander to continue.

  “In the competition, I’d finally decided I was going to take control of my life. That I’d choose what came next,” Xander murmured, his voice low and raw. The brush moved again, leaving another bold streak. “And then I get chosen. The Wheel of Fortune, of all cards. Like some kind of sick joke.”

  A bitter laugh escaped him, the sound hollow in the studio. “The second I decide to take the wheel, it gets yanked out of my hands.”

  There was a brief pause, the soft swish of Eric’s brush filling the silence before he finally spoke. “I can’t say I fully understand or relate to your situation, Xander,” he admitted, his tone measured. “But what I can tell you is this—things in life often have deeper meanings than what we think.”

  Xander felt a retort bubbling up, but out of respect, he held his tongue, waiting for Eric to finish.

  “What I mean is, with or without the card, choice has always been… complicated. Some might even call it an illusion,” Eric continued, his voice calm but firm. “We like to think we’re in control, but so much shapes where we end up. Our environments, our friends, our families—all of it plays a role in molding who we are.”

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  Xander started to protest, “But—” only to stop short as Eric held up a hand.

  “Just hear me out. From the moment we’re born, we’re influenced—whether we like it or not. Sure, the cards come in and do it in a more obvious way, but at the end of the day, it’s still you at your core. Think about it for a second. Look at the people around you who’ve been chosen. Don’t you notice a theme?”

  The question lingered in the air, and Xander’s brush stilled mid-stroke as he turned the thought over in his mind. His gaze unfocused, memories surfacing of people he’d known who were chosen. Jor’dan came to mind first, a flustered mess when his card found him, but now? Confidence radiated off him in waves, earned through years of dedication. Then there was Jonathan, a kid from his old class, who had grown into one of the most respected builders in Solari.

  Maurice’s theory wormed its way back into his thoughts. The idea that the cards chose people who best embodied their traits—or at least had the potential to. That word lingered. Potential.

  He’d been so wrapped up in the confusion and frustration of why he’d been chosen, so focused on resisting the pull of it all, that he hadn’t truly thought about what it might mean. What it might say about him…

  “It’s not easy.” Eric’s voice cut through his thoughts, each soft brushstroke against the canvas like roots grounding Xander to the present. “But I don’t believe the cards choose randomly. Even in the worst of men, you can see why they were chosen.”

  Xander paused mid-stroke, letting the words sink in. He’d never thought of it that way before. There were cards associated with darker traits, and each card has its reverse. Convicts, murderers—even they’d been chosen. But why? If the cards knew so much, why pick people who were bound to wreak havoc?

  Lost in thought, Xander picked up a smaller brush and began mixing colors. Ochre yellow, cadmium red, and ultramarine blue blended into a tan-brown hue that mirrored his own skin tone. The quiet between them was comfortable, almost therapeutic—a chance to reflect on Eric’s words without the need to fill the silence.

  “If you don’t mind me asking,” he ventured, breaking the calm. “How do you and Lucil share the Lover’s card? I thought the Major Arcana could only choose one holder.” He kept his tone gentle, unsure if the question might be a sore spot.

  Eric’s laugh was light and unbothered, his shoulders shrugging as if it was the easiest question in the world. “Now that,” he said, dipping his brush into a vibrant green, “I don’t exactly have an answer for. But I can tell you a little about how it works.”

  He gestured to the tiger on his canvas, and Xander leaned closer. His eyes widened as the painted animal stretched, sniffing the blank space below as if it were real ground. The illusion was mesmerizing, the tiger’s movements fluid and lifelike.

  “Our powers are split,” Eric explained, his brush adding details to the tiger’s coat. “When we’re apart, they function on a smaller scale. It’s only when we’re close that we can fully unleash what the card allows us to do.”

  Xander nodded slowly, watching the tiger swat at the painted leaves Eric was adding. It made sense, now that he thought about it. The Lover’s card was about connection, balance—a reflection of halves that made a whole. The idea of it belonging to one person alone seemed almost contradictory.

  “That dragon you saw at the festival, for example?” Eric chuckled, the corners of his mouth quirking up as he added another leaf. “No way I could’ve pulled that off without her there.”

  Xander felt a pang of envy in his chest. If he could trade this stupid Wheel for Eric’s ability, he would do it in a heartbeat. The thought lingered, simmering, until he forced his focus back to the canvas in front of him. Letting himself get consumed by what-ifs wouldn’t help anything. With a small grumble, he leaned in closer, working to refine the larger shapes he’d already laid down.

  The process was tedious but grounding, each careful stroke a step toward clarity. Rendering was always satisfying—transforming vague blocks of color into something tangible. But his favorite part, the part that made the hours worth it, was adding the light and shadows. That was when the image came alive, each highlight and shadow breathing life into the piece.rendering—the lighting. Adding the lighting and shadows always took the piece to the next level.

  Time passed in a blur, both of them absorbed in their work. The room was filled with the soft sounds of bristles against canvas, the occasional shuffle as one of them reached for a new color or brush. The world outside melted away, leaving only the hum of creativity between them.

  Xander finally sat back, rolling his shoulders as he studied the finished painting in front of him. It was simple—almost minimalist—but it tugged at something deep within him. A quiet part of his spirit felt lighter, less burdened. He wasn’t sure why, but for the first time in days, he found himself smiling.

  The piece depicted himself in close-up, the background purposefully dark to draw attention to the foreground. The bold red stroke he’d painted at the very beginning had become the focal point, slicing across his eyes like a deliberate statement.

  Eric leaned over, his grin wide as he took it in. “That’s pretty sweet,” he said, nudging Xander lightly. “I was wondering at first what that line was for, but now it makes sense. Good work.”

  Xander’s cheeks flushed faintly as Eric set down his brush and turned to him with a more earnest look. “And I meant what I said earlier,” Eric added. “Come by the palace sometime when I’m there. I enjoyed this.”

  The words hit Xander harder than he’d expected. Eric—his long-time inspiration—had enjoyed spending time with him? The self-doubt he’d carried into the studio tried to claw its way back, whispering that Eric was just being polite. But looking at the man’s genuine expression, Xander found it easier to silence the voice this time.

  “Thanks,” Xander managed, a small but sincere smile spreading across his face. He leaned over to look at Eric’s finished piece, eyes widening. “Jeez… this is amazing!” The tiger was mid-pounce in a dense forest, the details so intricate it felt alive. Every tree, every stump, every leaf seemed like an interactive part of the tiger’s story, weaving together in harmony.

  Eric chuckled as he began cleaning up the supplies. “Thanks, I’m sure Lucy likes it.”

  “Lucy?” He blurted, brows scrunching before the realization hit. Xander snickered, “The tiger?”

  “Who else?” Eric shot him a wry grin.

  The studio filled with laughter as they tidied up. Xander felt noticeably lighter—relieved in a way he hadn’t realized he needed. He silently thanked his mom for convincing him to come. For just a few hours, the weight of the Wheel had lifted, and he’d been able to lose himself in something he loved.

  They said their goodbyes, Xander promising to stop by the palace once Eric had finished his next project for the Vale. Clutching his canvas under one arm, he stepped onto his sunray board and set a course for home. The relaxed buzz of creative satisfaction lingered as he cruised through the streets, weaving carefully to avoid jostling the canvas. Eric had reassured him it was durable, but Xander wasn’t taking any chances.

  As he reached the south side—the curving streets that’d lead him back home—a familiar tugging sensation returned. The pull toward the wall.

  Irritation surged like a tide, souring his good mood. Of course, the Wheel couldn’t let him have peace for long. This time, the tug was stronger, sharper, like invisible threads twisting his insides into a tight knot.

  Xander snarled under his breath, “Fuck. Off.”

  The words had barely left his lips when he turned a corner to the right—and his stomach twisted in sudden, searing pain. His balance wavered, and he hit the ground with a thud, the canvas tumbling onto the rocky pavement beside him.

  The knot in his stomach felt alive, twisting and pulling as though it were rearranging his insides. Each wave of pain struck sharper than the last, threatening to tear through him. His eyes squeezed shut, jaw tightening as he weathered the storm. It wasn’t just discomfort—it was purposeful, deliberate. The Wheel wasn’t just tugging anymore; it was demanding.

  It’d never been this bad before. The thought hit him like a cold spike of dread: Was the Wheel starting to get angry? Would it eventually kill him if he didn’t listen?

  The pain began to subside, ebbing into a dull ache that left him trembling. He cautiously opened his eyes, the world around him swimming back into focus. The first thing he saw was the distant wall, its towering form looming on the horizon.

  A coincidence? No. He already knew the answer to that.

  This damned Wheel wasn’t taking no for an answer—and that realization sent a ripple of fear coursing through him. His stomach churned, though this time it wasn’t from the Wheel.

  He just wanted to live. To be safe. To have a comfortable life in Solari, painting, helping at the shop, existing without being thrown into the chaos of the unknown. Was that really too much to fucking ask?

  The Wheel clicked behind him, its steady turn loud in the oppressive silence. The sound felt like an answer, firm and unyielding.

  Xander scowled, his fear quickly morphing into frustration. He pushed himself off the ground, swiping at the dust clinging to his clothes, and reached for the canvas. But his hands trembled as he picked it up, the dull ache in his stomach a constant reminder.

  The Wheel had made its intentions clear. He wasn’t sure what terrified him more—the possibility that it wouldn’t stop… or the fact that, deep down, he knew he couldn’t ignore it any longer.

  Both.