Joah didn’t understand. He couldn’t. One moment, he had been peering through the gap, safely distant, a mere observer. The next, he was standing before her. His knees threatened to buckle. A shiver ran down his spine, cold and sharp. He fought the urge to drop to the ground, to prostrate himself before her — but his eyes, traitorous and spellbound, refused to look away. They remained locked onto hers, drowning in their crystalline depths.

  Close now, he could see them more clearly. They glowed, rippling like pure water, untouched, holy. And yet, deep within them, past the beauty, past the false serenity — something waited. Wrong. An evil unseen, watching him from beneath the surface, patient and still, like a beast lying in wait beneath the waves while a naive fisherman casts his line.

  She laughed. The sound filled the space, moving in all directions, bouncing, swelling, shrinking, and pressing into his ears. His heartbeat followed its rhythm, rushing and slowing, blood rising and falling in response. He was exhausted, wounded, and bleeding, but somehow, he remained alert.

  "You think too much, lovely boy," she purred.

  Her voice was silk spun with silver, the kind that could wrap around a throat in a whisper before tightening into a noose.

  "But I do find your face fascinating. It tells me so much. I'm tempted to paint it forever." She tilted her head slightly, eyes half-lidded in amusement. "You know, I’m very good at painting, boy. Would you like that? A frame?"

  Joah couldn’t answer. Even in this dazed, half-conscious state, where his bloodline controlled him, twisting his perception — he struggled to comprehend the horror of something so beautiful being so dangerous.

  "Ah, forget it," She pressed a fingertip to her lips, thoughtful. "I don’t have my tools with me at the moment. My beautiful frames… ah, they’re so alive, so full of energy, living their best days, forever within their borders. No pain. No disease. No suffering. Just perfect, frozen bliss. Lovely, isn’t it?"

  She rose to her feet, the movement smooth, effortless. The silk of her dress lifted slightly, as though caught in a breeze that Joah couldn’t feel. Only now did he take in the details of the space around them: the lake, glassy and still; the soft grass beneath his feet; the floating lamps swaying gently in the air. It was magical. Breathtaking.

  "Care to tell me your name, boy?" Her gaze settled on him again, expectant.

  His backpack felt impossibly heavy, dragging down his shoulders like a mountain pressing into his bones. His breathing grew shallow. Sweat gathered at his temples, slipping down his skin in cold trails. His throat constricted, his body betraying him, and when he tried to speak, his voice stuttered, stumbling like a man running across ice, each syllable slipping, skidding, failing to find purchase.

  "Oh my," she murmured, pressing her hand against her cheek with mock surprise. "I understand." Her smile deepened. "Ladies first. Such good manners, lovely boy."

  "But I won’t tell you my name," she said, shaking her head with playful finality. "Names are far too important, too intimate."

  Her voice curled around the words like ribbon, light but firm, as if she were sharing a secret that had doomed men before him. "Listen to me, boy. You must treasure your name. Guard it. Keep it locked away from wandering ears. Enemies, strangers, even those who claim to be friends, especially them. They are the worst. Believe me, boy."

  She twisted a strand of hair around her finger, spiraling it in and out, absently, like she was drawing invisible patterns in the air. The scent reached him. Joah had no name for it. It was something cool and soft, a breath of wind through unseen fields, something delicate yet dense, lingering like mist on water. A scent that carried the memory of a crystalline lake, untouched and impossibly clear.

  She looked up, eyes glinting. "Well," she mused, "I may not give you my name, but I can give you my title. I imagine you don’t quite understand the difference, do you? A name is given, a title is earned. It is carved into existence, an echo of the path one chooses to walk. It is nothing like a nickname. No, a title defines."

  She leaned in slightly, holding his gaze. "And mine?" The world around them exhaled. "Painter of the Chaos."

  Joah felt it. Not just the words. The truth of them. And for the first time in too long, even Goad fell silent. The world around him warped. The soft grass at his feet darkened, its pale yellow bleeding into deep gold, then ashen gray. The earth cracked beneath him, shifting from soil to charcoal, crumbling like burnt paper. The walls trembled, stretching into rough, jagged lines.

  The lake. What had been crystalline and pristine was now red. Thick. Moving. And Joah knew this color. He had seen it before. The vivid, wet crimson of a fresh wound. The color that spilled from a cultist’s throat when his dagger found home.

  And within it, faces. They rose from the surface, mouths frozen in the raw agony of a scream, in twisted ecstasy, in silent, gaping horror. They were not whole. Hands emerged, clawing at them, tearing flesh apart like wet ink, rearranging, reshaping — an eye stretched larger, a mouth widened to an impossible grin, a nose erased entirely, features remade, over and over, as if a painter had decided they were unfinished.

  Joah’s breath turned shallow. His stomach twisted. His reflection. He saw himself in the lake’s surface. And he saw it happen to him. The brush moved, slicing through his face. One half twisted in rage, in vengeance, in something close to hope. The other side was different — fear, a sad smile, something hopeless.

  His eyes. One was a distant, dying star in a moonless void. The other burned, a fire struggling beneath the weight of ice, barely alive. His mouth, he saw it move, his lips parting, but it was wrong. His teeth clenched. No, a bit down. He was biting his own tongue. Blood spilled, mixing into the ink, blending into the shifting, unfinished masterpiece.

  A horror seized him then, ‘Is this how they see me?’

  A hand touched his shoulder. Soft. Gentle. But it pressed down. Her perfume was different now — no longer delicate and crystalline. It had changed, thickened. It smelled of something after a storm, the damp weight of earth, the sharpness of air that had been torn apart by lightning.

  She whispered in his ear. "Lovely, isn’t it?" Her voice was so close. "My path is to paint the chaos. But tell me, what is chaos? A tricky question, one only asked by the boring and ugly people who walk back and forth, pretending they have purpose."

  Stolen novel; please report.

  Another hand. This one pressed into his other shoulder. Her grip tightened, nails trailing the fabric of his uniform, as if to remind him that she could pull him down if she wanted.

  "Order, my lovely boy, is a lie we whisper to ourselves in the dark, a poor man’s lullaby. A mask we carve with fragile hands, only to shatter it the moment we breathe too hard."

  She extended her fingers in front of him. They were not normal. They shifted. Jet-black, then white, then gray, colors running through them like ink poured into water, never staying still, never choosing what they wanted to be.

  "I let it stain my nails," she murmured, “let it run down my veins like a beautiful infection. Do you know what it means to paint chaos, boy?"

  She exhaled, as if savoring something unseen. "It is to war with the sacred and find it absent." She pulled him closer. "It is to drag color across canvas, knowing it will betray you."

  Her arms wrapped around him. A mockery of an embrace. "It is to know that the moment you believe in meaning—" She leaned close, lips brushing the shell of his ear. "—it dissolves."

  Joah felt her breath. His body locked in place, spine rigid. "Inspiration?" she scoffed, voice low. "An ugly thought. As if the abyss would bestow gifts."

  Her hands tightened. "No. Chaos is hunger. It devours you, my lovely boy." She shoved him down. Joah gasped as his knees hit the blackened earth, his face now inches from the lake. The faces stared back at him, some in agony, others in silent rapture.

  "But they don’t understand," she sighed. "You don’t understand." One hand slid up his back, resting just below his neck. “They look at my paintings and ask, What does it mean?"

  A pause. A breath. Her voice was light, amused, sharp as glass. "As if I would insult chaos by giving it meaning."

  Joah’s reflection rippled. His blood moved across the surface, spreading in thin lines, soaking into the unseen brush. His face changed again. Another stroke of the unseen hand. Another layer of himself, remade, unfinished, always shifting. And for a moment, for a single moment — he wondered once again. ‘Is this my face? Is that what they see?’

  "Ah, yes. Them. Those ugly, hypocritical Judges of Order." Her voice ghosted against his ear. "See, boy, I know what you are. A little mouse scurries through the walls of his own prison, thinking he can slip through the cracks. How adorable."

  Joah’s breath hitched. A ripple of emotion threatened to unbalance the cold pragmatism he clung to. ‘She knows? How? The clothes? My appearance?’ His mind scrambled for an answer, flashes of memory, the lectures before the Eruption, the warnings. It’s a game, they had told him. Some natives will be hostile. Some won’t. But who was she? And who—

  “Oh, you don’t understand it, boy." She laughed. "Well. Maybe you will, if you survive long enough. But tell me, do you truly not know? Have none of you grasped the oldest law of all?"

  She leaned in, close enough for him to feel the shape of her words. "To have order, you must have disorder."

  A sigh, exaggerated, theatrical. "And yet, those fools, those bastards, they think they can resist him. His Majesty. The Travelers, the Riddlers, the Judges, they are all hypocrites. But the Riddlers?"

  Her fingers twitched in irritation, curling as if she wanted to claw the very thought from the air. "Inquisitors pretending to be enigmatic. Wrapping themselves in paradox as if that makes them chaotic." A sneer. "It’s insulting. An ugly insult to chaos."

  Joah barely had time to react before she moved. Her fingers gripped his backpack, ripping it from him. The other hand clamped onto his uniform, holding him with inhuman ease. Then, she threw him into the lake.

  The moment he hit the surface, agony seamed through his veins like burning needles. His body seized. His lungs locked. He tried to scream, to move, but all he could do was stare up at her, watching as she gazed down at him, smiling.

  "So," she mused, twirling her fingers as if holding an invisible brush, "I’ll give them what they want."

  She traced unseen patterns in the air, watching the lake shift around him. "I’ve been watching you since the first day, boy. Watching those ugly men and women, the fake cultists who think they own the script, who believe in their precious Mother."

  A breath of laughter. "Well, she exists now. I painted her." Joah’s pulse slammed against his ribs. "And now she is part of the game."

  The water shifted, warmer now, too warm. "But on my side?"

  She tilted her head, eyes glimmering with something just past amusement, just past malice. "I will seed chaos into the play." She sighed as if admiring her own handiwork. "Beautiful, isn’t it?"

  Joah’s vision blurred, his body trembling from the pain threading through every nerve. "Of course, I can’t paint too much, or — ah."

  Her eyes flickered toward the sky, thoughtful. "That thing beneath Duskmoor might wake up. Or worse, a Judge will show up. And that would be a disaster."

  She crouched at the lake’s edge, reaching down to caress his cheek with slow, deliberate care. "But don’t worry, lovely boy." Her fingers trailed against his skin, pressing lightly. "At least your wounds will heal."

  Joah’s thoughts wavered, fragments incoherent, slipping in and out of understanding. "The storm is already gathering in these lands. And you, "she tilted her head, smirking. “You want to win this game, don’t you?"

  A pause. "Otherwise… your side will suffer more than all the others combined." Her voice hummed with delight. "The cracks are already there. Hidden in the layers. In the brushstrokes that contradict each other. Oh, they will see it soon enough."

  The pressure. Her hand pushed him down. Joah’s back arched as the weight forced him deeper into the lake, pinning him beneath the surface.

  "A perfect painting," she murmured. "Will I conquer it?" His lungs burned. "There are some interesting players this time. The foolish man. The butcher. And that mad woman."

  The water twisted around him, thick like oil, warm like blood. "I am curious to see who will earn his favor." A sharp breath, slow and satisfied. "Well. As for me? I’m done."

  The water vanished. One blink. Everything was gone. The lamps. The lake. Her. Joah gasped, stumbling back, hands flying to his chest, expecting to feel wounds, pain, or something.

  But his injuries were gone. His uniform, his backpack, intact. He spun, searching, reaching, but the space was empty. Her voice. Distant now, but everywhere.

  “Isn’t it lovely, boy?" The words curled in the air, brushing against his skin like the last breath of a dying wind. "Isn’t that what they truly desire, without daring to admit it?"

  Joah’s breath hitched. "Listen closely, boy." A pause. "I’ve marked you." A quiet chuckle, rich with amusement. "You are the Joker in this game."

  The word Joker rang through his skull. “You will play both sides." A breath, softer now, almost gentle. "Do you want to win, Joah? Do you want to save what you love most?"

  His fingers clenched into fists. "Then play your part."

  Silence stretched. Then, one last whisper, lingering at the edge of his mind, "You must be confused. Why you? You have something interesting inside you, boy. And your flaw, oh, your flaw is the perfect shade for my painting. I’ll be watching, lovely boy. I hope your brushstrokes do my art justice."