What caught their attention next was a bed. Or at least, Kaiser assumed it was a bed. The outline suggested one: a broad frame raised slightly off the ground, corners marked by posts. But the entire thing was hidden beneath curtains of silk so pure and smooth they seemed to drink the surrounding light, making the whiteness of the room look almost dull in comparison. They hung in gentle folds from above, sealing whatever lay within from view.

Masamia, ever graceful in her strange, fluid way, slowed her steps as they approached. Her hands folded neatly before her, and she dipped her head toward the shrouded bed. When she spoke, her voice carried that lilting politeness that seemed to exist only to please.

"Master," she said softly, "We have guests."

From within the curtains came a voice, one warm, smooth, and touched with the rasp of age. But more than that, it carried the lighthearted delight of someone genuinely pleased to be addressed.

"Oh? Guests?" The tone brightened, full of an almost boyish excitement despite the years it implied. "And not just guests, but Liberators!"

Kaiser and Aria exchanged a brief glance.

"We are," Kaiser confirmed, his voice even, as though the man's enthusiasm was neither surprising nor unwelcome.

The unseen speaker chuckled, low and good-natured. "Ah, I have the deepest respect for your kind. To walk into danger so that the rest of us may rest easy, that is no small calling. I do hope your Tale goes well?"

There was something disarming about the way he said it, like an old friend greeting them after a long absence. Yet Kaiser knew better than to mistake warmth for safety.

"It has… been an eventful one," Kaiser replied, careful in his choice of words.

"Good, good," the voice murmured with genuine-sounding approval. "It pleases me to know you've come through it to reach my humble quarters."

Then, in a tone that carried nothing but gleefulness, the man within called, "Masamia, be a dear and fetch our guests some tea. And bring chairs, won't you? Something comfortable, they've been through much."

Masamia inclined her head once more, that faint, unreadable smile still curving her lips. She glided from the room without so much as a footfall, the silk hem of her dress trailing like a brushstroke left to dry in the air. Even once she'd passed from sight, the faint sense of her presence lingered, like perfume that didn't fade.

Aria's eyes stayed on the curtains. The voice behind them had been warm, polite even, but the ease of it was wrong. She could not place why exactly, only that every instinct she possessed was telling her to turn on her heel and leave.

Kaiser, of course, seemed immune. He stood with his hands behind his back, posture easy, a small smile tugging at the edge of his mouth as if he'd just been complimented.

The voice from behind the curtains came again, warm and unhurried, as though the speaker were already certain his guests would remain. "Please… enjoy the gallery while we wait. I find that the mind speaks most honestly when surrounded by creation."

"We've already seen your art," Kaiser said. "More than I'd care to admit."

From within came a pause, followed by the faintest ripple of curiosity. "Is that so? And what, precisely, do you mean by that?"

Kaiser's smile didn't reach his eyes. "The purpose of our Tale is a direct consequence of your actions."

For a few seconds, there was only silence, a thoughtful, almost puzzled quiet. Then, with the sound of fabric sighing against itself, the white curtains drew back.

The bed was not a bed at all, but more a sanctuary of light. At its center sat a painter, an old man whose age seemed woven into his every motion. His robe was the same immaculate white as the rest of the room, pooling gently around him like snowdrifts. Two creatures lay close at either side, cats, though not entirely. Their frames were a touch too sleek, their tails a shade too full, fox-like in the way their fur fanned and shimmered under the pure light streaming through the great window.

If you encounter this story on Amazon, note that it's taken without permission from the author. Report it.

The man's hands, steady despite their age, guided a brush across a small canvas propped in his lap. The bristles were wet with rich, living color, yet as the brush met the canvas, nothing marked the surface. Each stroke faded into absence, as if he were painting on air.

Kaiser's eyes narrowed, catching something that tugged at the back of his mind. It wasn't the impossible act of painting without result that struck him most, it was the man himself. The light in the room was so blinding that Sol signatures blurred into haze, but Kaiser could still make out the faint aura that clung to him. It was weak, like the final ember in a hearth, exhausted and almost fragile.

But its color was unmistakable.

Yellow.

Kaiser's lips remained the same. Then, without warning, he gave a short, genuine laugh. "Ah… I understand now why you respect Liberators," he said, his voice rich with mock admiration. "Forgive me, elder, I see you were one yourself."

The old man did not rise to the bait. He kept painting, the empty strokes moving in slow, thoughtful arcs across the blank canvas. Yet, there was the faintest upward twitch at the corner of his mouth, as if he had heard the remark and chosen to keep the response to himself.

When at last he lifted his gaze to them, it was with the composure of someone who measured every glance before giving it. "I am Hieronymus Bosch," he said, voice calm, unhurried, and lacking any flourish that might soften it. "A simple painter who… perhaps… has taken his hobby to the point of obsession."

The words hung in the air for only a heartbeat before the soft whisper of silk returned. Masamia glided into view, her presence folding neatly back into the room as though she had never left it. In one hand she carried a tray of polished wood, inlaid with threads of gold leaf that bore a porcelain teapot painted in thin, sweeping strokes of cobalt. Three cups, so fine the light nearly passed through them, rested alongside a small mountain of perfectly cut sugar cubes stacked with geometric precision.

Balanced in her other arm were two high-backed chairs, their frames a pale ivory lacquer, their cushions upholstered in white silk embroidered faintly with the vines. She moved with an ease that made the burden look weightless, setting the tray on a low table between them before placing the chairs in a perfect arc facing the bed.

"Please," Masamia murmured, her tone dipped in courtesy as smooth as poured cream. "Be seated."

Kaiser didn't immediately comply. Instead, he studied Bosch in silence, weighing the man's posture, the way his hand continued its ghostly work, the unbroken calm in his eyes. Aria, though still unsettled, took the offered seat first, her movements cautious, her gaze never fully leaving their host.

Masamia began to pour. The tea steamed faintly, carrying the delicate fragrance of something floral, though faint enough that it felt less like a drink and more like smelling a flower. She placed the cups before them, her hands steady, her eyes still.

Bosch rested his brush across the lip of a small porcelain jar, folding his hands together in his lap as if conceding that the moment for pleasantries had passed.

"Now…" he began, his voice touched with a light curiosity that did not quite hide the steel underneath, "You mentioned that the purpose of your Tale was a consequence of my actions. I would… very much like to hear what you meant by that."

The room seemed to narrow, the blinding light from the great window pressing in at the edges, as though it too leaned forward to hear.

Before Kaiser could respond, Masamia's voice slipped gently into the conversation. "Forgive me, Master, for speaking out of turn," she said, dipping her head in a gesture so practiced it was almost ritual. "But I must inform you of something that is true... my master has not left this room for quite some time. Not for errands, not for visits… not even for the changing of seasons."

Kaiser's gaze flicked toward her, the faintest twitch of interest passing through his expression. "How long?"

Masamia met his eyes without hesitation, though her tone softened further, almost reverent in its delivery. "As I understand it, four hundred years."

Aria's head turned sharply toward her, the words striking with the force of a hammer blow. Even the steady hum of the light in the room seemed to falter for a moment, as if the space itself had been startled.

Kaiser said nothing at first. His expression did not change, no widening of eyes, no raised brow, yet there was a subtle shift, a tightening of the focus behind his gaze, like a predator adjusting to the scent of something far more interesting than it had expected.

Bosch, for his part, only chuckled softly, a dry, almost self-deprecating sound. "It is… possible she's correct," he admitted. "Time is a poor companion in these walls. I measure it only in paintings now, and I've lost count of them more times than I care to say."

Masamia stepped back, folding her hands neatly before her once more. "I have served here for a far lesser amount of time, Master. But from the stories you have told me, it is reasonable to think it."

Kaiser finally leaned back in his chair, one hand curling loosely around the porcelain teacup before him. "Four centuries," he murmured, more to himself than to either of them. "Then whatever binds you here is either a curse… or a choice."

Bosch tilted his head slightly, a faint smile ghosting across his face. "I would be inclined to say both."

It was a good line, clever even, but Kaiser's eyes told a different story entirely. The smile on his lips remained, but in his mind, the hunt had shifted.

If you find any errors ( broken links, non-standard content, etc.. ), Please let us know < report chapter > so we can fix it as soon as possible.