Chapter 2

On the outside, Lily was a fortress of calm.

But I had a secret.

A strange, new secret that had just started.

A few days after the announcement, as I was sweeping the floor near her workstation, I could see her placid expression as she stared at an unfinished sculpture.

And then, clear as a bell inside my own head, I heard a voice that was hers but not spoken.

The old fool. He's so desperate for a final spark he'd light his own legacy on fire just to feel warm for a minute.

I froze, broom in hand.

I looked at her.

Her lips hadn't moved.

She was perfectly still.

I thought I was losing my mind, that the stress of the situation was making me hear things.

But it was the beginning of a terrible and powerful connection.

I could hear her real thoughts, the ones she locked away behind that serene face.

It was a glimpse into the raging storm behind the castle walls, and it was both terrifying and thrilling.

Lily was the heart of this studio.

There was no denying it.

She was the one who knew the exact consistency of the clay for a delicate bust versus a massive torso.

She knew which quarry the best marble came from and how to read its veins before the first cut.

When Master Thomas would fall into one of his creative depressions, it was Lily who would coax him out, not with flattery, but with a quiet, steady presence and a perfectly prepared workspace that invited creation.

We, the younger apprentices, learned more from watching Lily's silent work than from all of Master Thomas's grand speeches.

Our little community was furious.

We saw Serena for what she was: an intruder.

We gave her the cold shoulder, answering her cheerful greetings with monosyllabic grunts.

We'd fall silent when she entered a room.

It was a petty, childish rebellion, but it was all we had.

We were loyal to Lily, and this invasion felt like a betrayal of all of us.

Thomas was our master, but Lily was our leader.

Thomas, lost in his infatuation, didn't seem to notice or care.

He paraded Serena around the studio, draping his arm over her shoulders, laughing too loudly at her vapid jokes.

He'd bring her to the workshop while we were trying to concentrate, her cloying perfume lingering for hours.

The sight of them together was a constant source of irritation and second-hand embarrassment.

The art world outside the mountain began to whisper.

"Have you heard about Thomas?" they'd say. "Lost his mind over some socialite. Poor Lily."

I'd watch Lily during those days and my heart would ache for her.

I saw the toll of her decade of service in the faint lines around her eyes and the permanent stoop in her shoulders from leaning over massive blocks of stone.

Her hands, though strong, were scarred and perpetually stained.

She had poured her life into this place, into him.

Her own artistic ambitions had been put aside, year after year, always for the sake of his "next great work."

She was the ghostwriter of his genius, and now he was erasing her name from the page completely.

The night he announced the engagement, he and Serena had a small celebration with expensive champagne in the main house.

We apprentices stayed in our common quarters, the silence heavy and miserable.

I glanced out the window and saw Lily, alone in the workshop.

She wasn't crying.

She was just standing in front of her own, untouched block of marble, her hand resting on its cold surface.

The contrast was brutal: the sound of their laughter echoing from the house, and her silent, lonely vigil in the studio that was once her entire world.

A deep, burning sense of injustice settled in my gut, and I knew this was far from over.