Sweat dripped from Lucky’s chin, splattering onto the rough canvas before him. His breath hitched in his throat as he dragged a piece of charcoal across the coarse texture, trying to capture the curve of a shoulder he shouldn't dare to remember. Every stroke of his hand was a confession, a dangerous map of his deepest, most forbidden desires. If the authorities found even a scrap of these drawings, they would brand him a deviant and throw him into the deep, damp pits beneath the city.
Peeling paint from the slanted attic ceiling offered little comfort in the damp, stifling heat of the afternoon. This cramped wooden space was his only sanctuary, a secret cage filled with half-finished dreams and memories he was forced to keep buried. If anyone discovered what he painted here, the consequence would be swift and merciless, ending his fragile existence in an instant.
Julian’s face stared back at him from the sketches strewn across the dusty floorboards. They had been classmates once, forced by circumstances to share a cramped, splintered wooden bench at the very back of the academy’s drafty lecture hall. Though they were officially just students sitting side by side, an unspoken harmony had bound them together from the moment their shoulders first brushed.
Strangers assumed they were merely classmates, but the truth ran far deeper than any superficial academic bond. No one else in that sterile classroom understood the silent language they spoke with a single, fleeting glance. They breathed in perfect unison, their thoughts aligning so effortlessly that spoken words became entirely redundant. Sitting on that hard bench, they had carved out a private world of two, a quiet rebellion against the cold, unfeeling society outside.
Underneath the heavy wooden desk, their knees would occasionally touch, sending a jolt of warmth through Lucky’s entire body. They passed small, folded notes hidden inside the margins of boring history textbooks, sharing jokes and secrets that made the oppressive atmosphere of the academy bearable. It was an extraordinary connection, a perfect alignment of two souls who had found their match in a world designed to keep them apart.
Society called that beautiful connection a sickness, a dark stain on the soul that needed to be purged with fire and blood. The Crimson Inquisition made sure everyone knew the penalty for such unnatural affection, hunting down anyone who dared to love outside their rigid, sterile laws. Lucky had spent his entire life learning to hide, to swallow his feelings until they felt like lead in his stomach.
Deep down, a dark voice whispered that perhaps the Inquisition was right, that he was broken and cursed. This self-loathing was a constant companion, a heavy anchor that made him doubt his own right to exist, let alone love. He couldn't bring himself to fight for his own worth, choosing instead to hide in the shadows of this dusty attic, drawing his memories in secret.
A sudden, sharp sting flared along his left forearm, breaking his train of thought and making him drop the charcoal. It rolled across the uneven floor, disappearing into a dark crack between the boards. He squeezed his wrist, his knuckles turning white as the skin began to hum with a strange, iridescent light.
Swirling and intricate, the tattoo's silver and violet lines began to wake up again. Heat flared beneath his flesh, mimicking the sensation of boiling oil poured directly over his veins, making his chest heave as he fought the urge to scream. He collapsed against the edge of his easel, his teeth grinding together so hard his jaw ached, feeling his very life force slowly being drained away by the magic.
"Not now," he whispered into the empty room, his voice cracking with desperation. "Please, not today."
Golden light bled through his closed eyelids, drowning out the dim, dusty gray of his attic studio. The pain peaked, a blinding flash of agony that suddenly melted into a wave of profound, intoxicating warmth that filled his entire being. His surroundings dissolved, leaving him weightless as the physical world slipped away.
Vibrant green fields stretched out before him under a sky of brilliant, impossible violet. Trees adorned with glowing, sapphire leaves rustled in a gentle breeze that smelled of sweet jasmine and clean rain, a world untouched by the soot and misery of his home. This was the hidden realm, the mythical sanctuary his tattoo promised him in fleeting, draining bursts.
Two figures stood in the distance, bathed in the soft, warm glow of a double sun. They walked hand-in-hand, their fingers intertwined with a casual confidence that made Lucky’s chest ache with a mixture of intense longing and sorrow. One of the figures turned, laughing, his face a blur of golden light that felt agonizingly familiar, like a half-remembered dream of Julian.
One of the figures pulled the other close, wrapping his arms around his waist in a fierce, open embrace that defied the very concept of fear. No laws forbade their touch here, and no inquisitors hunted them down for the crime of loving one another. It was a place where love was as natural as the air they breathed, a paradise of pure acceptance.
Lucky reached out a trembling hand, desperately wanting to step into the light, to feel the warmth of that sun on his face and the touch of another hand in his. He wanted to run to them, to lose himself in a world where his heart was not a death sentence. He stepped forward, but his foot met nothing but empty air as the ground began to tremble.
A heavy, rhythmic thud echoed through the beautiful vision, vibrating through his skull and cracking the violet sky like cheap glass. The peaceful colors began to bleed away, replaced by a harsh, suffocating darkness that pressed in from all sides.
"Move!" a harsh voice barked from somewhere far away, the sound muffled and distorted as if traveling through deep water.
Iron-shod boots struck the cobblestones directly below his attic window, the sharp sound shattering the peaceful paradise. The illusion splintered into a thousand jagged pieces, dragging him back to reality with a violent, physical jolt.
Lucky fell backward, his spine slamming hard against the unyielding floorboards of his attic. The transition was brutal, knocking the wind from his lungs and leaving his vision swimming with dark, watery spots. Cold sweat drenched his shirt as he lay panting, his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird.
Down on the street, the marching pattern of the Crimson Inquisition guards grew louder, closer. Their heavy boots beat a terrifying rhythm against the cobblestones, a stark reminder of the constant peril of his hidden truth. He could hear the clanking of their heavy iron armor and the sharp, commanding tones of their officer.
"Clear the way!" another guard shouted, his voice carrying clearly through the thin, uninsulated walls of the attic. "By order of the High Inquisitor, all residences on this block are subject to immediate inspection!"
Panic seized Lucky, locking his muscles in place before adrenaline finally kicked in. If they came up here, if they saw his paintings of Julian, or worse, the glowing ink on his skin, he would never see the light of day again. They would drag him to the town square, display him as a monster, and erase him from existence.
Desperately, he dragged himself across the floor, his fingers scraping against the wood as he pulled a heavy canvas over his sketches. His hands shook so violently he nearly knocked over his jar of dirty turpentine, which would have sent a loud crash echoing down the stairs.
Every breath felt like swallowing glass as he tried to quiet his frantic respiration. The Inquisition didn't just arrest people like him; they destroyed them, leaving nothing but ashes and warning signs to keep the rest of the populace compliant. He remembered the stories of the iron collars, the burning brands, and the silent cells beneath the Cathedral of the Cleansing Flame.
Silence fell over the street, but it was a tense, suffocating quiet that offered no comfort. The patrol had paused directly outside his building, their presence felt like a heavy weight pressing down on the roof. He held his breath, pressing his back against the wall, his eyes glued to the heavy wooden door of his attic.
Minutes dragged like hours, each second an agonizing test of his sanity. Finally, the metallic clank of their armor began to fade slightly as they moved further down the alley, searching other homes, hunting other souls who dared to feel.
Slowly, the tension in his shoulders began to drain, replaced by a hollow, aching exhaustion. The visions always demanded a heavy price, stealing a fraction of his remaining vitality, leaving him weaker and more fragile with every journey.
Looking down at his left forearm, he watched the silver and violet ink slowly dimming back into a dull, greyish scar. The skin around it was raw and red, blistered from the intense heat of the magic that kept him alive yet slowly killed him.
"Why?" he whispered into the empty room, pulling his sleeve down to cover the mark. "Why show me a world I can never touch?"
No answers came to comfort him. The quiet of the attic was absolute, broken only by his ragged breathing and the distant, fading calls of the street patrols.
Closing his eyes, he pictured Julian's smile from their academy days, when they sat on that wooden bench and dreamed of a future that seemed so close yet so impossibly far. They had promised to find a way out of this city, to run to the eastern borders where the Inquisition's grip was said to be weaker.
But promises were fragile things in a city built on fear and betrayal, and Julian had been forced to flee months ago, leaving Lucky behind with nothing but a burning arm and a heart full of unspoken words.
Remembering the way Julian’s hand had felt against his own on that shared bench was the only thing keeping him alive, a dangerous anchor pulling him deeper into the waters of rebellion.
Standing up on shaky legs, he headed toward the small window that overlooked the crowded, soot-stained roofs of the lower district. Grey smoke choked the sky, a miserable contrast to the brilliant violet skies of his vision. He pressed his forehead against the cold glass, letting the chill soothe the fever burning beneath his skin.
Warped and ancient, the wooden window frame left a small, permanent gap at the bottom that let in the draft. He had never bothered to fix it, preferring the cold air to the stifling, dusty heat of his small room.
As the tattoo's glow fades, leaving him gasping for air, a chill wind blows through a forgotten crack in the attic window, carrying with it a single, withered crimson petal – impossible, as no such flowers grow near his home.