Mirror of the Past: The Villainess' True End

CHAPTER NINETEEN: The Last Stroke Before Dawn

"Are you going to join the exhibition?" Keiran asked, spotting me in my usual spot in the clubroom, painting alone while the twins were still in their afternoon class. "Oh, wow, what's this? A new masterpiece?" he added, noticing what I was working on.

"What exhibition?" I replied, not even pausing to put the brush down, continuing to stroke roughly yet predictably at the canvas in front of me.

"The Artisan Den's Annual Exhibition. If you want to showcase your paintings I'll arrange it for you." He leaned against the windowsill, arms crossed, watching me paint. "What are you even painting?" His brows furrowed in a frown.

The brush hovered in mid-air as I shifted my gaze to him. "My death," I answered in a serious tone, watching the crease in his forehead deepen. But before he could react, I laughed, returning to my painting. "Kidding." I said, though my tone betrayed the word that came out of my lips.

My mind was in utter chaos after what happened in Professor Eli's class, and Kairos' presence only added to my headache. It drove me to seek refuge in the clubroom, where I unleashed my wrath, confusion, and sense of loss onto the canvas. It was my only means of escape from the overwhelming emotions and chaotic thoughts that have been dragging me at the center of the tempestuous maelstrom that I found myself into.

Yet, the longer the bristle of my brush dances against the canvas, the heavier it felt in my hand. The colors seeping into my thoughts before I could even decide which one to use first, as the memory that I buried, resurfaces—like an undead that refuses to rest.

"I had a dream." I spoke softly, in contrast to how rough my every stroke was. "I died beneath the guillotine."

The white lie I uttered tasted bitter on my tongue, but the weight in my chest demanded release. Even if it wasn't the full truth, a part of me begged to be shared—as if it needed to let someone in, even if only for a fleeting moment.

I heard Keiran exhaled as he pulled a chair next to mine and sat down, "For what reason?" He asked, his voice steady but laced with curiosity.

An empty laugh escaped my lips as I glanced over my shoulder, "Treason." I replied, the word bitter on my tongue. "I was framed."

"And?" Keiran's voice was calm, but the edge in his words cut through the silence. "You didn't try to clear your name? Or ask for help?"

I paused, my hand tightening around the brush as it hovered in the air for a moment, my eyes stayed fixed on the painting—at the guillotine, stark and unyielding stood in the middle of the canvas, like a towering executioner's thrones—etched against the golden glow of a dying sun. "I did..." I whispered, my words barely audible. "But it cost me everything."

I turned my hollow gaze back to Keiran. "Which led me to face death..." My voice wavered as I looked away. "Willingly. So, the cruel prince couldn't save me."

Keiran's gaze lingered at me for a moment, not saying a word as if absorbing the tragic story that I had just told him. I went back to painting, giving him enough time to process everything in silence.

"Why?" I glanced and met his curious gaze. "Why didn't you let the prince save you? Was he the one who framed you?" he asked, completely absorbed in the flow of our conversation.

My heart felt a sting, unable to say anything as the memories of that bloody night flashed in my head like a movie scene. My hands kept moving, but every stroke I painted on the canvas unleashed the tempestuous rage residing within me. "He was the first one who pointed his sword at me." I turned to Keiran, my voice cold and sharp, "And took the lives of my precious people."

Keiran stared at me, his dark eyes glimmering with curiosity, as if he were trying to piece together a puzzle. "So, you chose death even though you knew there was a way for him to save you?" His tone was gentle, almost probing, like he was genuinely intrigued by the reasoning behind my choice. He tilted his head slightly, a soft crease forming on his brow, but there was no judgment—just a quiet eagerness to understand.