Canvas of Prophecy

sky. By day, the city was alive with the vibrant hum of artists, traders, and scholars. But at night, when the rest of the world slep

to spill across the room, illuminating the clutter of his workspace-half-finished canvases, brushes smeared with vivid hues, and wooden palettes smeared with thick layers of pain

d was working through some unsolvable riddle. His dreams were vivid-more vivid than any he had ever experienced. In his mind's

though it were the very fabric of the universe itself. The canvas was blank at first, a pure white void that both terrified and

rly morning sky. Then came golds and reds, deep and brilliant, flowing across the surface in waves. The colors seemed to have lives of

ny brush he had ever held before. As he lifted the brush to the canvas, it moved on its own, guiding his hand in sweeping strokes. His body seemed to

ing else entirely-something foreboding. The reds became the color of blood, pooling in shadows. The blues darkened into the col

s Ari

t strange-its spires were crumbling, the streets flooded with darkness. Above it, the sky swirled with ominous clouds, great tendrils of smoke rising from

s hand froze. He stared at the painting, heart thudding in his chest, his mind racing with con

e, he saw something move. It wasn

open. The dr

ing seemed as it should have been-except for the overwhelming sense of dread that clung to his mind. He wiped the sweat from his forehea

touch of his brush. But now, there was something on it. Elias's heart leapt into his throat as he stumbled t

ugh they had only just started to form, but they were unmistakable. The soft blues of the sky. T

istakably his style. Every stroke, every line, was his own. He reached out with trembling fingers to touch the surface of the ca

ion hit him

the painting. He had someh

m clattering to the floor brought a sharpness to the silence that followed. Elias stared at the canvas, h

had h

inting showed destruction-ruin-but he couldn't understand why he had painted it or how. As he stood there, staring at the half-formed im

shimmering faintly in the moonlight. He hadn't noticed it before-had never seen it before tonight. He should h

uld stop it, the bristles sweeping across the canvas with a grace and precision that felt almost u

a was b

f people running, fleeing from some unseen terror. The city's grand towers, once proud symbols of its strength and culture,

, and his hand began to shake. But he couldn't stop. It was as though the brush had taken control, guiding him to f

he brush fell from his hand, clattering to the floor. Elias stum

ting was

as, its fate sealed in vivid color and shadow. The destruction was absolute, and Elias could do no

ain, but this time, Elias wasn't moving the brush. The hues deepened, swirling together as though the painting itself w

his eyes wide with disbelief. The painti

ing. He wasn't painting a vision of de

as knew that his life h

t of him, the echoes of his dream still fresh in his mind. The painting had stopped moving now, its

future. Or at

was: could

ld do next. The weight of the knowledge pressed down on him like a heavy shro

me a nightmare. And Elias, t