The candlelight flickered as young Elias dipped his brush into a pool of deep blue paint. His tiny attic room smelled of damp wood and old parchment, a place where he spent his nights lost in colors and dreams. In the orphanage, he was just another forgotten child, but in his paintings, he was a god.
With a few strokes, he painted a small sparrow, its feathers detailed with precision beyond his years. Then, with a whisper under his breath, he finished the final stroke—and the bird blinked. A moment later, it ruffled its feathers, stretched its tiny wings, and fluttered into the air.
Elias grinned. The magic was real.
His gift had first appeared when he was six. A lonely boy with no friends, he had drawn a cat in the dust on the orphanage floor, and to his astonishment, it had leaped up, purring and rubbing against his leg. Over the years, his skill grew, as did his power. He could create anything—a loaf of bread when he was hungry, a warm coat in winter, a candle when the nights were too dark.
But he had always been careful.
Until now.
One evening, after a particularly cruel day at the orphanage, Elias felt an unfamiliar bitterness in his heart. The headmistress, Madame Roth, had struck him for speaking out of turn. His anger boiled inside him as he stared at the blank canvas before him. His fingers trembled, gripping the brush tighter than ever before.
He painted a man—tall, draped in shadows, with piercing silver eyes that seemed to glow. His hands were clawed, his presence commanding. A guardian, Elias thought, someone to protect me.
The final stroke was made. The painting shuddered.
Then, the figure stepped out.
Elias gasped, stumbling backward. The Shadow Guardian stood before him, his silver eyes locking onto the boy’s. “Master,” he said, his voice smooth as silk. “What is your command?”
Elias hesitated. He hadn’t thought this far ahead. “I… I just wanted someone to keep me safe.”
The Guardian bowed. “Then it shall be so.”
For days, the Guardian watched over Elias. No one dared to touch him, not even Madame Roth. But something was wrong. At night, Elias would hear whispers coming from the painting still hanging on his wall. Shapes flickered inside it, shifting like living shadows. And then, one night, he saw them.
Other figures. Crawling out from the darkness of the unfinished strokes.
It started small. A black cat with eyes like burning embers slinked through the orphanage halls. Then came the faceless children, their laughter hollow, echoing from the walls. Elias tried to ignore them, to believe it was all a dream.
Until the Guardian changed.
“You have made me strong, Master,” the Guardian said one evening, his form taller, his voice deeper. “But why stop with just me?”
Elias’s heart pounded. “What do you mean?”
The Guardian gestured to the unfinished painting. “You gave me life. Now, let me do the same for others.”
Elias shook his head. “No. This was a mistake.”
The Guardian’s silver eyes darkened. “A mistake? You created me. You cannot unmake me.”
A chill ran through Elias. He turned, grabbing his brush, ready to paint over the Guardian, to erase him back into nothingness. But before the bristles could touch the canvas, a clawed hand seized his wrist.
“You will not undo me.”
Elias ran. Down the creaking stairs, through the empty halls. The orphanage was silent—too silent. He reached the great hall and stopped, his breath caught in his throat.
The paintings had come alive.
Creatures slithered out of frames, figures stepped from their oil prisons. Shadows danced along the walls. The Guardian stood at the center, arms spread wide, his laughter echoing like a storm.
Elias had created life. Now, it was consuming him.
He knew there was only one way to stop it. Racing back to his attic, he grabbed the largest canvas he could find. His hands shook, sweat dripping onto the fabric. He painted—not a monster, not a warrior, but light.
A radiant sun, golden and blinding, its warmth spilling across the scene. He poured every ounce of his will into it, every bit of himself, his hopes, his fears, his love for the world he had once dreamed of creating.
The attic door burst open. The Guardian loomed over him, fury in his silver eyes.
“No more,” Elias whispered.
With the final stroke, the sun in his painting flared to life.
Light exploded from the canvas, consuming the room in a golden blaze. The Guardian roared, his form unraveling, shadows twisting and burning away. The creatures screamed as they were pulled back into the void of the paintings from which they had come.
And then—
Silence.
Elias awoke to daylight streaming through the attic window. The orphanage was untouched, as if nothing had happened. But the paintings were gone, their frames empty. All except one.
The sun painting remained, glowing softly, warmth radiating from its surface. Elias touched it, feeling the gentle pulse beneath his fingertips. He had learned a lesson that night.
Creation was a gift—but only if wielded with care.
Elias picked up his brush once more. This time, he would paint carefully.
For he was the Reality Painter, and his world was his to create.
