You walked into the room, where the bed took up almost half of the space. Black silk sheets—everything seemed so... unmistakably Legend. He was laying in the middle of it, shirt off, the sheets clung low enough to show off the exquisite wings tattooed on his back. You knew many of his tattoos weren't real. But you wished so badly for this one to be real. You wanted so much to just reach out and trace the delicate lines of ink.

Your gaze wandered to his face. He looked as if he had fallen asleep while reading. A book laid next to his hand on the pillow, his hair falling over his face like raven feathers. You were so mesmerized by the sight of him that you didn't notice the enormous mural painted over his bed.

You took a few steps closer to it. From further away it seemed like the sky at night. But looking closer, it was a kaleidoscope of images. Stars and night and hourglasses, hot air balloons, top hats and skulls and roses, death and canals, waterfalls of tears, blood and ruins and riches. It was beauty and horror and pain and longing. Legend's soul was painted on this wall. It was as if his whole life was on it. So incredibly personal and deep.

Your heart sped up when you found the image. You and Legend during the last Caraval. In this picture, you could have been a goddess by the way he painted you on those tragic steps, while he looked more like a grim shadow. Was this how he saw himself?

"What do you think of it?" His voice, low and rough with sleep, pulled you out of your thoughts.

You looked at him and discovered he was sitting on the edge of the bed, bare feet on the ground, black pants covering his legs and nothing on his flawless chest.