Shadow of the Abyss

Chapter 81: Artesty

There had always been a single rule Tene had impressed upon her son to complement the charm he carried. From the day he was conceived, Tene instilled within him a sense of regality, as she often said. "Be it King or Queen, servant or Lord. One must have a particular etiquette for Order to exist."

Altair remembered those words, comprehending them as he shook Captain Jorna Mike's hand. His palm felt so greasy and wet that it made one want to shower, but from the silly smile on his face, Altair found himself willing to forgive.

"I am your captain and the man you report directly to." He said, sensing the power held in the boy's palm. He looked up at the pup, which seemed to have been the talk of the fort in recent weeks. "Is this your familiar? Or Pet."

"She is my family," Altair said. And Mike heard the warning in his tone.

"I see. Either way. She'll need to be marked." Fat Mike said. "Put a collar on her or something. Either way. Fall-in is usually at 0400 hours, so you are about two hours late." He chuckled, noticing the indifference.

"We'll let this be your first warning, especially since you weren't told about it, nor did you take the initiative to ask."

"Oh... I don't know." Altair began with a mischievous grin. "I'm technically not even sworn in. I'm but a civilian the admiral has on her base."

Unable to bear it, Fat Mike roiled with laughter. Slapping the boy on the back. "Good! Good! But no loopholes! Tomorrow at 0400.

Don't be late. Oh, and you can have the day to get situated. I hear you woke midday yesterday." He said, levitating away with a mighty roar of laughter.

"He's a cunning one," Ren said after a long while.

"Really?"

"You don't think so?"

Altair shrugged. "I don't know enough. It's too early to say... But he's extremely strong." he looked down at his palm, somewhat disgusted at the greasy, wet ooze on his hand, and wiped it onto his pants. "Well. Shall we continue?"

From shop to shop, Altair and Ren journeyed without end, talking and laughing, buying trinkets that caught Ren's eye. It had come as a great shock at how much seven hundred sols were to him. He could still recall spending hundreds, if not thousands, on every meal or some trousers when he was with Tene.

However, despite all the clothes, trinkets, and snacks they bought, he had spent no more than twelve Sols. It was then he understood why Tene insisted on granting him an allowance upon his seventh.

"Young man?" One of the peddlers at the stall called. He was a short fellow with small, beady eyes with a missing headline at the center of his head. "Are you, by chance, interested in painting?"

"Oh!" read more at mvle_mp,y,r

Noticing Ren move top his head, Altair looked up at her. "What do you think?" he asked when the system alerted him of a message.

[Divine Sin, Daddy, Recommends you find a hobby outside butchering.]

Altair raised a brow at his father's recommendation, unable to grasp why. 'Surely they had to be a reason?' he thought, drawing towards the peddler. 'Father promised to help me... and he hasn't stirred me wrong... Yet... let's just hope this isn't a waste of money.' he told himself as if to justify his mindless spending.

"Give me a canvas, a brush, various painting oils, charcoal, paint, and whatever you think I'll need." He said.

Ren leaped over his brow with a vibrancy in her eyes. "Is that for me!"

He snickered. "You're a greedy one, aren't you? No. But I'll try to draw you."

The glow brightened. "Really," Ren said, lifting her head and releasing a mighty howl filled with her presence. Pressure raced through the soldiers' hearts as they gulped, their legs buckled as they tried to combat the innate fear they held.

Ren was silently staring at him, facing towards him on her stomach, legs kicked high in the air, while the ends of his shirt rested, barely reaching beneath the back of her knee, while her chin and arms rested softly on top of the pillow.

Allowing the tip of his pencil to dance over the canvas, Altair started with the bedding and sheets. He scribbled away as Ren silently observed him. She watched how his eyes shone with focus, how his lips twitched when he got stuck, how he sometimes observed her with a softness he didn't show to others, and his two colorful eyes. Ren had always loved how they gleamed at times.

One was a dazzling scarlet. The other was a black amethyst, and it was her favorite. When she looked into that eye of his, Ren felt she was looking into the darkness in which light ceased to exist: It was that very darkness that sucked her in, devouring her until all she felt was... peace.

For three hours, Altair drew, pushing Mana into the Eye of Sacrilege to hone his Insight. Slowly, his strokes began to change, gaining the same finesse as how he swung his sword. And slowly, the small pen became his sword.

[Ding!]

[Grave of Night Proficiency has increased by 0.1]

Proficiency: 0.01 → 0.21%

[Soul of the Indomitable Proficiency has Increased by 10%]

Proficiency: 45 → 65%

He began on Ren. Starting with her feet, which kicked back and forth, Altair's pencil slid down into arcs, never allowing his pen to rise until needed. He poured more mana into his eyes and finger, ignoring the stifling sensation within his meridians. Wanting nothing more than for her to be perfect.

Altair found himself lost. He'd love the sword. He loved everything about it. From the hiss of his blade through the air, how it shimmered silver beneath the aimless rays of light, and the tingly taste of metal, it oozed. Front the day he was born, Altair had never felt more attuned with the sword until now.

"Done," Altair said, looking up at Ren. He turned the canvas to her, feeling a little exposed as if he was bearing his heart. "I still need to color it, but..." His words trailed off, watching as Ren began to shed tears.

"It... its... It doesn't need to be colored." She whispered, staring at the sketch that showcased a woman with such vibrancy. Ren felt as though she was standing in a mirror. "I... I look so pretty. Is that really me." she touched her cheeks, where Altair drew so visibly, she gasped.

"Ren? Do you not like it?"

"I love it!" She hurriedly said, shifting her gaze to him. "It's mine now."

"Huh? But that's my—"

"It's mine."

"But it's my first—"

"It's mine," Ren said, kicking to her feet. She stared down at Altair like a queen bearing down on her subjects. "Mine."

The Prince relented. He glanced at his painting and sighed, recalling all those other paintings he saw and thought. 'I got everything right, but it's empty. Devoid of emotions.'

And as if something popped into his head, he looked down at his palm. "Just like my sword... It, too, lacks emotion." He stood up with a snap, nearly bumping into Ren.

He towered over her and lightly coiled his palms against her waist.

"I think I get it," He told her, holding her firmly. "Next time I draw you. It'll be better. I'll portray you... all of you. So Reina... from today onwards, you will be my muse."

His words did not come as a suggestion, favor, or even a request. No. Altair told her, unbothered by any indiscretion or refusal. And at that moment, Ren had never felt her heart quiver so hard, for she knew, in a way, her Prince was claiming her.

She beamed. "Ok... I will be your muse."