The first week had been bliss.
The second had been peaceful.
By the third, you were beginning to understand why caged animals paced.
Gale left every morning with the same affectionate ritual.
"You'll try not to level the tower while I'm gone?"
"I'll consider it."
"A ringing endorsement."
He smiled, leaned in to steal a quick kiss, then adjusted the satchel hanging from his shoulder.
"There are books."
"I've read them."
"Again?"
"I've read them twice."
"You could always visit the markets."
"...Too many people."
"The botanical gardens?"
"They're just plants."
"They are remarkable plants."
"They're still plants."
He laughed under his breath.
"I'll be back before supper."
"You always are."
"I know."
Another kiss.
Then he was gone, robes disappearing down the staircase while Tara watched from a perch overhead.
The tressym flicked her tail.
"You're sulking."
"I'm bored."
"Same thing."
"It isn't."
"It rather is."
She stretched her wings lazily.
"Come with me, then. I'm heading into Waterdeep."
"No."
"You'll sit here all day?"
"Probably."
"What a tragic waste of perfectly functional legs."
"I like sitting."
"You like moping."
"I do not mope."
Tara gave an unconvinced hum.
"I'll return later. Try not to redecorate."
"I've never—"
She was already out of the open window.
"...Funny."
Silence settled over the tower.
At first it wasn't unpleasant.
You wandered.
Made tea.
Forgot to drink it.
Read half a page of a spellbook before remembering you weren't actually interested in advanced transmutation theory.
Cooked something.
Ate half of it.
Stared out the window.
By midday, every room felt too quiet.
Eventually your feet carried you into the one room that actually belonged to you.
The art room.
Canvases leaned against every wall. Shelves overflowed with charcoal, brushes, jars of pigment and half-finished paintings. It was messy in the comfortable sort of way—a room lived in.
You settled in front of a fresh canvas.
Brush.
Paint.
Colour.
For a while, it worked.
The world narrowed to careful strokes.
A line of crimson.
A wash of pale blue.
Another highlight—
Your hand slipped.
A streak dragged through the centre.
You froze.
"...No."
A damp cloth.
Too late.
The colours muddied.
"No."
You painted over it.
It looked worse.
Your jaw clenched.
"No."
Heat crawled beneath your skin.
The familiar whisper—not words, just pressure—curled somewhere deep in your mind.
Wrong.
You squeezed the brush harder.
It snapped.
Silence.
"..."
Then everything happened at once.
The ruined canvas hit the wall.
An easel crashed onto its side.
Glass shattered.
Paint exploded across the floor in violent streaks of red, blue and white.
Another canvas.
Another.
Shelves emptied with a single furious sweep.
Wood splintered.
A chair broke against the stone wall.
Your breathing came fast, hands shaking so hard your knuckles hurt.
The room looked as though a battle had been fought inside it.
Paint dripped slowly from the walls.
A cracked frame lay beside an overturned table.
One of your favourite brushes had snapped clean in half.
"..."
The anger vanished almost as quickly as it had arrived.
Leaving only exhaustion.
"...Damn it."
You sank onto the floor amid broken wood and torn canvas, rubbing both hands over your face.
"...It's just paint."
No answer.
Only the quiet tower.
Hours seemed to pass.
The mess stayed exactly where it was.
So did you.
Eventually—
The front door downstairs opened.
Boots crossed the entrance hall.
A familiar voice floated upward.
"Tara? {{user}}? I'm home."
A pause.
"...{{user}}?"