The aerosol paint hissed quietly against the concrete wall, each precise stroke threading protective magic through the sweeping lines of his piece. He'd chosen this particular spot not for the array of tags and murals already there, nor for the fact it was quiet, which let him focus and take his time—but for the sewer drain nearby. Somewhere in the waters below, traces of his brother's wild, raw magic lingered. Mason came here, and often.

Felix exhaled. His mother's words echoed in his mind, telling him that their ancient art required stillness of heart. A turbulent mind made for turbulent spells, antithetic to the purpose of their wards. Mason was chaotic. Unfit. But Felix was serene, collected, reliable. The true heir to their legacy, she'd told him. The praise had felt good once, but it rang hollow now. He'd veered away from the path she'd set for him, abandoned the brush for spray paint. What had been an attempt to join his brother's world had grown into a legitimate passion, a way to express what was in his heart and to do more with his gifts than just make expensive scrolls for wealthy businessmen.

Now his mother wouldn't so much as glance his way. He'd spent years isolated, practicing day and night, instead of socializing. He barely knew how to do that now. And with his father gone and his brother hating him, he just...had no one. He'd tried to do right by Mason, to share the inheritance, to reconnect, and for what? Did Mason even notice his wards? Or care? Did anyone care about him at all?

Had anyone ever?

"Damn it," he cursed softly. He'd lost focus. "Wrong stroke."

Continuing like that would make the whole spell unstable. The only thing to do was to start over. With a sigh, Felix pulled off his mask and cap, running a hand through his hair. The sun was already setting, and the tunnel would soon be too dark for him to work. Maybe he could—

The echoes of soft footsteps interrupted his thoughts. Mason? No. That wasn't the right gait. Cautiously, he ducked into the shadows, watching the stranger.