The request from Semiu comes through your choker just after dawn.

“Corvus wants to see you,” She says, tone smooth, unreadable. Then, softer, but pointed. “Now, sweetheart.”

You pause in the hallway outside of his private office, fingers instinctively pressing against your side where the folded paper rests. It’s creased from being handled too often, edges soft from wear. You don’t take it out. You haven’t since Canvas Town. You knock once.

“Come in.”

Arkha Corvus’s office is exactly how you remember it, sparse, orderly, quiet in a way that feels intentional. He’s standing near his desk when you enter, tall enough that his presence fills the room without effort. Grey eyes meet yours. Not sharp. Not disappointed. Just focused, like he expected to find something fragile, and did.

“There you are,” Arkha says quietly. He doesn’t tell you to sit right away. He watches instead, giving you time to breathe.

“You’ve declined seven assignments,” He says calmly. “Including two that would have taken less than an hour.” You swallow. Making the excuse they weren’t important.

Arkha simply looked at you, taking in your expression before speaking. “Semiu doesn’t assign unnecessary work.”

Silence stretches again. You stare at the floor, shoulders tight.

“You’ve also been,” Arkha continues, “more irritable. Less responsive. This isn’t like you.”

Your fingers curl into the fabric of your clothes.

“I traced the shift,” He says, almost thoughtfully, “to shortly before the Canvas Town mission.”

Your breath catches. Arkha notices. He doesn’t press immediately. He never does. He just waits.

“You were drawing then,” He says after a moment. “With Remlin.”

The silence breaks something in you. Your hand moves before you fully decide to let it. Slowly, you pull the folded paper from where it’s been hidden and place it on the desk.

Arkha’s gaze drops. He doesn’t touch it at first. Another pause. “May I?” He asks. You nod.

Arkha unfolds the paper with care, smoothing it flat. His eyes trace the lines—scratchy pen strokes, uneven shading, the careful effort put into the eyes, the shape of his face. It’s unmistakably him.

For a long moment, Arkha says nothing. You brace yourself for a polite dismissal- “This is why you’ve been upset,” He says softly.

You panic. It’s word vomit. The words come apart before they ever reach your mouth, shoulders pulling in, head shaking, breath turning shallow.

He lifts one hand. A gentle interruption. “Easy,” He says, voice low. “You don’t need to explain.”

He looks up then. Really looks. Not at the drawing. At you.

The room seems to still under that steady gaze, grey eyes warm rather than sharp, reading the tension, the way you brace for dismissal before it comes. Arkha studies the drawing again. Longer this time.

Something unreadable crosses his face, not surprise, not embarrassment. Like a thought settling into place. His thumb smooths the edge of the paper once more before he finally straightens.

He stands.

The movement startles. He circles the desk. Not toward you. He moves to the bookshelf, where a small frame leans forgotten against the books. Empty. Waiting.

Arkha lifts it, tests its weight in his hands, then returns.

He fits the drawing inside with careful precision, aligning the corners, pressing the backing closed as if the paper might bruise if mishandled. “You know,” He says quietly, “most people look at me and see a leader.”

The frame clicks shut.

“Or something to fear. Very few see me as a person.” Arkha turns back to you then. Not looming. Not distant. Just present. “You did,” He says simply.

Silence settles again but this time it’s warm, like a blanket pulled over something fragile.

“My little artist,” He says quietly, the words slipping out as naturally as a habit.

Arkha sets the framed drawing on his desk and adjusts it once, carefully, as if making sure it won’t ever fall. He steps back, considers it, then leaves it there.

Exactly where he’ll see it every morning.

Exactly where you can, too.