Death is immortality.
Death is your second chance.
Velian Terrashine belongs to a classless society of equality, art and democracy; a land full of creativity and mindfulness. It is in that perfect political system that one wrong movement, one carele...
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THE PAINTING WASN'T like the ones the artists of Lantra created, the ones I'd never managed to draw. With perplexed meanings, vague lines and many layers of color to generate a sense of mystery and depth, I'd always needed plenty of time to figure out the crucial message the artist wanted to give out to the world—if I'd even interpreted it correctly.
But this one was simple, nothing complicated or thoughtful. At least it didn't seem that way. It was just a forest filled with cypresses, the sky painted the deepest shade of grey, dark clouds impeding the light from coming in and bathing the place in sunshine. An empty forest on a misty day. Calligraphic letters covered the right side of the painting. They were small and close to each other, making it almost impossible for me to discern the words they formed.
I eased into a more comfortable position. Slightly closing my eyes, I tried to make sense of the letters, but even the ink had started fading, making me wonder how many years before had that painting been drawn. It seemed like it held the meaning of human existence, the secrets of the universe and God's eulogy, as well. It looked sacred and rare, something you wouldn't find in Lantra's galleries; something you wouldn't find in Lantra in general. For it was too simple, and simplicity was condemned here.
Putting letter after letter, words began shaping, and putting word after word, the sentence was complete.
Will magic save me now?
Swallowing hard, I brushed a finger over it, feeling its scratchy texture against my skin. Not only was that sentencebabsurd, but even holding a painting like that could put me at risk.
Magic wasn't only banned from this land, but also any book, song, drawing or even conversation that revolved around it, was being strictly punished. Magic was gone and it would never return. Talking about it, thinking about it, learning about it was useless and risky—at least that was what everyone had been told from infancy. It was contradicting. The way our political system evangelized about democracy and freedom of expression but at the same time put constraints on everything magic-related.
I crossed my arms, contemplating whether I should walk away and act like I'd never seen that man and his painting, or stay here for a little longer and risk my life.
But my life had been at stake ever since the moment I was born and sooner or later, I knew that I was either going to be discovered and executed for something I hadn't been in control over—my eye color—or realize that this kind of death was dehumanizing and decide to take my life with my own hands.
I shoved the thought off my mind and made myself focus on what really mattered.
That drawing should have never been painted; this sentence should have never been written. It contained the word magic and its owner should have been killed the moment he'd been born for his flaming, shining, golden eyes. We shouldn't have met here. Our first encounter should have been in some cauldron in Hell, slowly burning in smoldering flames as punishment.
