The days since the Saintess's passing were tough for Marblehaven. Some hailed Clive as a hero, others treated him with skepticism. After all, he departed with the whole entourage of the Saintess, but was the only one to return.

  The pounding on Clive's door came before dawn on the third day. He'd been awake anyway, staring at the ceiling. Sleep was something he had difficulty with after everything he’d been through. Two church guards stood in the hallway when he opened the door. One had fresh bread crumbs on his uniform. The other kept his hand on his sword hilt.

  "The bishop wants to speak with you."

  They didn't wait for him to dress properly. He grabbed a simple shirt and followed them to the church. The interrogation room in the church's lower levels had no windows. There were only stone walls and a single oil lamp that cast shadows on the bishop's face. The man's fingers drummed against the oak table between them.

  "Tell me again about how the Saintess fell."

  Clive told the same story he had rehearsed one too many times now. They faced the Devil at the ruins of the Cathedral of First Light, where she gave her life up to defeat him. He kept his voice firm, meeting the bishop's fierce glare.

  “Our men have searched the area. The Saintess body was found. She died from a stab wound. Yet the Devil’s body was nowhere to be seen. Most curious, wouldn’t you say.”

  “What comes from the darkness returns to the darkness. The Devil has no physical form, yet is present in all our hearts.”

  The bishop circled the table, stopping behind Clive's chair. "Twenty Templars. Twelve priests. The Saintess herself. And why is it that you alone survived?"

  Clive didn't turn. "I think you will find that I am quite difficult to kill. Many have tried."

  The silence stretched between them. Water dripped somewhere in the darkness beyond the lamp's reach. Finally, the bishop moved back to his side of the table.

  "We shall see, Clive Weston. The church is nothing but thorough in its investigations."

  “Good luck with that.”

  The bishop opened the door, "Good day, Mister Weston. But do watch yourself. The nail that sticks out tends to get hammered down."

  Clive stood and walked through the open door. Thirty-three stone stairs led up from the interrogation room. In the church proper, a young priest waited.

  "The bishop asked me to escort you out."

  They walked in silence. Outside, the morning crowds went about their business. Some nodded at him. Clive wondered how much of the church was complicit in the Saintess deeds. Were there still members of the church aware of the Saintess true plan? Perhaps even the bishop himself.

  No matter. Clive was never a fan of politics. As long as they did not harm the people, he was loath to involve himself in their business.

  The next few days, Clive found himself without purpose. With the stone curse gone and without any new quest from Certainty, he spent his time at Garrett’s forge drawing.

  He started on the eighteenth sword.

  "You planning to open a weapon museum?" Garrett asked, glancing over.

  Clive looked down at his sketches. The same sword, over and over. He turned the page.

  On the sixth morning, he tried painting. Set up his Canvas in the workshop's back corner, mixing his colors. Red like the Saintess's blood. White like her robes. Black like the void blade he pierced her with.

  The painting became a muddy brown within minutes. Abstract nothing.

  He cleaned his brushes and started again.

  By noon, three failed attempts lay stacked against the wall.

  "What are they supposed to be?" Emma asked when she visited.

  "Nothing." Clive mixed more paint. "They're supposed to be nothing."

  On the eighth morning, a temple messenger arrived at the forge. "The High Priest has reviewed our findings." The messenger pulled a rolled parchment from his sleeve. "A week without new petrification. The cessation of new cases confirms the Saintess succeeded in her mission."

  He placed the parchment on Garrett's workbench, next to scattered iron filings.

  "Your account has been accepted into the official record. The church thanks you for your service. You're free to go about your business."

  Garrett waited until the messenger left before speaking. "Free to go about your business. Like you needed their permission."

  Clive rolled up his sketches. "They could have made things difficult."

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  "They still might." Garrett set down his hammer and wiped his hands on his leather apron. "You know what? You've been haunting my forge for a week, drawing the same sword over and over. Time you got out."

  "I'm fine here."

  "You're not. Come on." Garrett untied his apron. "Emma, watch the forge. We're going to the Brass Griffin."

  "It's barely past noon."

  "Perfect time. Fewer people to stare at you."

  Clive looked at his pile of identical sketches. Garrett was already heading for the door.

  "Besides," Garrett called back, "Lucia's been asking about you as well."

  That evening, the Brass Griffin tavern was beginning to fill with the after-work crowd. Plenty of eyes followed Clive to their table. Conversations dropped to whispers when he entered, then gradually returned to normal volume.

  Clive took a corner table where he could watch the door. The tavern was half-full, dock workers mostly, a few merchants, a table of off-duty guards playing dice. On the wall next to his table, Clive noticed a drawing. Crude figures, but the message was clear. One stick figure running away. Another figure crowned with radiating lines, standing alone against a mass of scribbled darkness.

  Morris, the innkeeper, appeared with a wet rag. "I'm so sorry, sir." He scrubbed frantically at the marks. "Doodles by uncultured—"

  "It’s fine, leave it," Clive said.

  Morris paused, rag dripping gray water. "Sir?"

  "It's fine. Leave it."

  "Should've stayed." The voice came from the bar, just loud enough to carry. A longshoreman, staring into his ale. "Man should've stayed. Should've fought."

  His drinking partner, smaller but with scarred knuckles, nodded. "Twenty templars dead. But the painter walks out without a scratch."

  "Maybe he made a deal," the first one said. "Maybe that's why—"

  The barmaid appeared at their elbows, bottle in hand. She refilled their mugs without being asked, foam running over the sides.

  "Maybe," she said, voice pleasant as spring rain, "you should ask him directly instead of mumbling into your beer like gossiping fishwives."

  The smaller man turned on his stool. "We're just saying—"

  "You're just saying nothing worth hearing."

  She crossed to Clive's table with a bottle and two glasses. Before she could speak again, a voice rose from near the dice game.

  "Leave him be. Man saved us all."

  One of the off-duty guards stood, hand on his belt. Not touching his sword, but close enough. "The Saintess chose him to accompany her. That's enough for me."

  "Enough for you?" The longshoreman turned fully now, face flushed. "Your wife didn't turn to stone while you watched."

  "And she won't now, thanks to him."

  The scarred-knuckle man stood. "Convenient, isn't it? He survives, she doesn't, and suddenly we're supposed to—"

  "Supposed to what?" The guard took a step forward. "Show some gratitude?"

  Garrett rose from his seat. The movement drew eyes. "Everyone sit down."

  "Or what, old man?"

  "You don’t want to know, boy."

  The tension stretched taut. Someone's hand drifted toward a knife. A chair scraped. The longshoreman's partner flexed his scarred fingers.

  Clive stood.

  The room went still.

  He walked to the bar. The crowd parted. He stopped in front of the longshoreman, close enough to smell the salt on his breath.

  "What was her name?"

  The man blinked. "What?"

  "Your wife. The one who turned to stone. What was her name?"

  "Margaret." The word came out cracked. "Maggie."

  "When?"

  "Three months back. Washing clothes by the river. I heard her scream, ran outside, and her legs were already gray. By the time I reached her..." He stared into his ale. "Stone to the waist."

  Clive pulled out the stool next to him and sat. The scarred-knuckle man tensed, but Clive ignored him, signaling Morris for a drink.

  "I couldn't save them all," Clive said when the drink arrived. "Couldn't save the templars. Couldn't save the priests. Couldn't even save the Saintess. But I stopped it from taking anyone else."

  "How do we know that?" The scarred man's voice was quieter now, uncertain.

  "You don't. You just know the curse stopped when I came back." Clive raised his glass. "To Margaret. To all of them."

  The longshoreman stared at him for a long moment. Then, slowly, he raised his own mug. "To Maggie."

  Others joined in, voices calling out names. "To Robert." "To Anna." "To James who worked the docks."

  When the toast ended, the longshoreman turned back to his drink. His partner sat down. The guard returned to his dice game. The tension didn't disappear entirely, but it loosened.

  The barmaid touched Clive's shoulder as he returned to his table. "That was well done."

  "They're scared," Clive said, accepting the glass she poured. "Scared people need someone to blame."

  A small figure appeared at Clive's elbow. A young boy with paint stains on his fingers that matched Clive's own. He clutched a piece of parchment and a stub of charcoal.

  "You're him, aren't you? The artist who saved Marblehaven?"

  Morris started to shoo him away, but Clive held up a hand.

  "I'm an artist, yes."

  The boy thrust the parchment forward. It showed a crude attempt at drawing a person—circle head, stick body, but the hands were carefully detailed, each finger distinct.

  "I want to learn. Could you teach me? My ma says art's worthless, but you saved everyone with it, didn't you? So it can't be worthless."

  Clive studied the drawing. The proportions were wrong, but the hands—the boy had really looked at hands, tried to understand how they worked.

  "What's your name?"

  "Tim. Timothy Marsh."

  "Can you come to Garrett's forge tomorrow morning, Tim? Bring whatever you use to draw with."

  The boy's face split into a grin. He bobbed his head and ran off, narrowly avoiding collision with a serving girl.

  "You're teaching now?" Garrett asked.

  "Maybe." Clive turned the boy's drawing toward the light. Those carefully observed fingers. "The city needs something new. Not another Saintess. Maybe just... people learning to create instead of destroy."

  Over the next hour, three more children approached. Then, a young woman who painted flowers on pottery. An old man who carved walking sticks. Each one asking, in their own way, if art could be more than decoration. If it could matter.

  By the time the tavern closed, Clive had a list of seventeen names.

  "You're really doing this," Garrett said, looking at the list. "Starting a school?"

  "A guild, maybe. For artists, crafters. People who want to build."

  The barmaid collected the empty glasses, then paused. "That boy, Tim. His mother's right, you know. Art won't feed him. Won't keep him warm."

  "No. But it might keep him human."

  She studied his face for a moment, then nodded. “Good luck, Clive, it sounds fun.”

  Outside, someone had drawn another picture on the tavern's exterior wall. This one showed a figure holding a brush like a sword, standing between the darkness and a group of smaller figures. The rain would wash it away eventually, but tonight it served as an appreciation for the hero who saved Marblehaven.

  The master's tools will never dismantle the master's house. They may allow us temporarily to beat him at his own game, but they will never enable us to bring about genuine change.

  But sometimes the master's house burns down on its own, and what matters then is not the tools that built it, but the hands willing to clear the rubble and plant something new in the ash.

  —The Legendary Moonlight Artist