Ideworld Chronicles: The Art Mage

Day in the story: 1st October (Wednesday)

"There are three gargoyles up there. Can you deal with them?" Zoe asked, hovering at my side.

"Well, the thunder you heard earlier? That was me dealing with one," I said, rotating my shoulder with a wince. "But it wrecked my arm. I don't think I can handle another shot like that. Not with Noxy."

"They're not stone, if that's what you're hoping," she said. "They look like steel."

"Figures," I muttered. "So, a regular pistol's out. But fire — Fire might still work."

"You'd need a very high temperature," she said, nodding slightly. "More than double what a normal campfire gives off."

"You know this kind of stuff?"

She gave a quick, sheepish shrug. "Yeah. I read a lot. Most of it was useless, until suddenly it wasn't. You'd need something like a kitchen stove flame. Blue. Hottest part of the fire."

"Perfect," I said, already pulling cans from my bag. "I've got light blue and navy spray paint. Some white too. Should be enough for what I'm thinking."

"What are you planning?"

"Something new. Sit tight and watch."

I crouched low and pulled out a stack of clean paper, shaking the cold out of my fingers as I prepped my paints.

**********

"You're sure this is going to work?" Zoe asked a few minutes later, floating just to my right. Her silvery glow flickered against the fire painting still shining bright near us, casting shifting shadows across the cables.

"I haven't tried this before," I admitted. "But I'm, like — 90% sure."

"Comforting."

By then, one of the remaining gargoyles had noticed us. It stirred on the tower ledge like a thing waking from centuries of sleep. Humanoid, but all wrong, jagged steel claws, winged limbs too small to fly, a lashing tail like a whip of scrap metal. Its face was grotesque, angular, horned like a demon cast in a forge.

It locked eyes with me and launched into the air.

The wind screamed past me as it dove. At the last second, it did something unexpected.

"Careful now!" Zoe called out.

The gargoyle opened its gaping mouth and fired a long, metallic tongue toward me like a harpoon. I barely ducked in time, dropping flat against the cold cable as it whistled past inches from my ear.

Then I moved.

I pushed off the cable with both hands and feet, launching upward and meeting the creature midair. My fingers locked around its shoulder. I brought a boot hard into its gut and the gargoyle reeled, but we were still aloft, suspended over the steel roadway like acrobats in a nightmare.

I wasn't planning to fall.

As it flailed, I twisted, rolling over its shoulder and onto its back. Its claws swiped at me, but missed. I gripped one of its horns and reached for the trap I'd prepped.

A square of paper, painted with deliberate purpose. The darker half bore the image of a wooden plank, rough, grainy texture, deeply shaded. The lighter portion was glue, rich orange with yellow swirls, dotted with glints of white and gray like light catching drying resin.

Be the glue on a plank, I thought and felt my authority take hold.

The paper straightened in my hand like a metal ruler. I slapped it down onto the creature's back. It held, firm, immovable. The gargoyle twisted and bucked, but the trap clung to its armor like it had grown there.

Then came phase two.

I touched the opposite side of the very same page, painted in wild, burning gradients of dark and light blues, accented with slashing whites. The flame looked like it had been torn straight from a blowtorch.

"Be the hottest fire," I whispered.

My chest burned with heat that wasn't heat, my power thrumming through the paint and paper. The square lit up. A brilliant flare of color exploded from my hand toward the gargoyle's back as I shoved myself off with both feet, landing hard on the cable below.

The gargoyle staggered in the air, swaying as it turned toward me, just in time for the trap to ignite.

The flame drilled through its back like a torch through ice. It screamed, no, not screamed, groaned, a low metallic wail as it thrashed in midair, clawing uselessly behind itself. It couldn't reach the paper. It couldn't stop the melting.

Then the glue evaporated, burned away in the heat. The page fell with it, glowing like a comet. My authority returned to me.

But for the gargoyle, it was too late.

The creature melted along its spine, wings buckling. Its body twisted into slag as it dropped, spiraling down toward the river below in silence.

I exhaled sharply, bracing myself on the cable with one hand.

"Well," I muttered. "Guess that worked."

Zoe floated a little higher, arms folded across her glowing chest. "Okay. That was impressive."

"I'll take that as high praise."

She nodded, her expression half-proud, half-worried. "You've got two more."

"I've got more pages as well," I said.

"I know. How's your shoulder?"

"Screaming," I admitted.

"Do you think you can do it again?" Zoe asked, her voice laced with concern. She floated closer, the soft glow of her form warming the cold air and laid her tiny hands gently on my injured shoulder.

"I don't have a choice," I said. "If I want to get inside."

"But you don't have to go inside," she said, more firmly now. "And whatever's in there, " she glanced toward the looming silhouette of the castle ", is probably worse than gargoyles. You'll still need to be strong enough to reach your Domain. That's a journey in itself, Lex."

I didn't answer immediately. I just sighed and let the pain remind me I was still standing. She was right, of course.

But still, I couldn't walk away from this. Not now. It felt like a heist. Like I was breaking into something I'm not supposed to touch. And I needed that win. After how many times Shiroi's dropped me like dead weight. I needed to take something back for once.

"What happens to this place," I asked, "when I go home?"

"What do you mean?"

"The gargoyles I beat. The fire I used. Will they stay down? Or does it all reset?"

She nodded slowly. "They'll stay as they are. For a while. Inanimate stuff reforms slowly here in Ideworld."

"But it does reform?"

"Yes. Everything here is like a shadow. A reflection cast by the real thing from our world. As long as the original still exists, the echo eventually returns to form. It just takes time."

"What about the people I saw? In the cars, the streets — they looked like they were frozen mid-thought. Are they shadows too?"

"Yes," she said. "They're echoes of real people. Dream versions, conjured from bits of memory, emotion and behavior. If you were to destroy one of them, really destroy it, the person on the other side might feel something shift. A change in mood, maybe. A sudden doubt. A crack in the loop they're stuck in."

I looked at her. "So, it's like — their shadow self carries the weight of everything they've built up. And if I kill it here, I give them a chance to change?"

"Exactly," she said. "It's a loop. Their thoughts and feelings feed the shadows and the shadows, in turn, feed something back. Most people are stuck in it without even realizing."

"And if they sleep again—?"

"The dream will rebuild them," she said. "A new version, born of where they're at emotionally, mentally. Slightly different. Sometimes better. Sometimes worse."

I whistled low. "So, I could, in theory kill off someone's depression?"

Zoe gave a half-smile, floating just above the cable now. "Yeah. You could frame it like that."

"What about you? You're asleep right now. And what about me?" I asked, narrowing my eyes. "Is there a version of me wandering around here right now?"

"If there was, it would probably be sleeping," Zoe said. "Shadows mimic the patterns of their real-world counterparts."

Then I guess mine wouldn't sleep much at all, Zoe.

"But there's no shadow of you here," she added. "Or me. Not anymore."

"Oh. Because we're awake? That's what it means?"

"Yes. Awake people don't cast shadows here. Your shadow became your Domain's crystal. Mine became this body I'm using now. Non-magical awoken individuals don't cast shadows either."

"But you also said things here can wake up," I said. "What happens to their real-world counterparts then?"

She hesitated. "That — I don't know, Lex."

This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it

Damn. That's interesting.

"You asked about things reforming. Is that because you're finally thinking about heading home?" she asked hopefully.

She really wanted me to stop. I could see it in the way she hovered slightly lower now, like she was preparing for disappointment. I understood, even appreciated it. But she didn't know me very well yet.

"Well," I said, rotating my aching shoulder, "I did consider it for a second. When my arm felt like it got mangled by a train. But it's better now, kind of. So, I'll keep going."

I smiled at her. She gave me a look, equal parts amusement and pity. Fair.

"But maybe you could help me," I said. "The remaining gargoyles — they're on the far side of this tower, right?"

"Yes."

"Maybe I can sneak in without them noticing." I paused, thinking aloud. "Can you carry stuff in here?"

"No."

"Damn." I squinted into the space ahead of us, gears turning. "Can I — paint you?"

"Like, on paper? Why?"

"No," I said, eyes lighting up, "like how I painted over myself. Can I put paint on you?"

She blinked at me like I'd just started speaking another language. "I don't know, Lex. Why would you want to paint me?"

"You said this isn't your permanent spiritual body. You'll make a new one the next time you dream, right?"

She looked a little wary now. "Lex, you're starting to scare me. Yes, that's true. What are you thinking?"

"I want you to carry something for me. Something to distract the gargoyles. But to do that, I need to make part of you physical."

I pulled out a can of skin-tone spray paint. "Gimme your arms. Straighten them."

She hesitated, but eventually landed and held out her arms.

I sprayed the paint, nothing. It passed right through.

"It doesn't work," she said, backing off.

"Hold them there," I said quickly. I took a breath, focused and sprayed again, but this time with intent. Be the physical arms, I thought, channeling my authority through the spray.

The light inside me moved outward, through the paint and settled on her limbs. I felt it immediately, a pushback. A clash of wills. Authority against authority. But then she yielded.

"Sorry," she said, a little shaken. "Instinct. I let your authority in. It would've won anyway —yours is stronger than mine."

"So awakened people, our authorities can clash?"

"Yes. That's why it's hard to use magic directly on others. But if your Domain's strong enough—" She trailed off.

"I get it. So how do you feel? Any different?"

She flew down and cautiously touched the nearest cable. Her hands jerked back instantly.

"It's cold!"

"No shit, Sherlock."

"It worked, Lex!"

"Okay then, I hope you don't mind a bit of hearing damage."

"What?" Zoe blinked, but I was already working.

I uncapped my paints, black, silver, blues, reds, white and a splash of yellow. My hands moved quickly, lines and colors coming to life with each stroke. Before long, I had it: a painting of a police siren, jagged and chaotic, vibrating with implied sound and movement. It already looked alive.

I placed my palm over the paper and focused. The colors shimmered, light pulling from inside me, through my fingers and into the page.

Be the loudest and shiniest police siren possible.

The effect was immediate. The air split with a blaring, constant wail. Blue light burst from the page like lightning, wild and unchanging. The sound, the light, it wasn't shifting. It was stuck in a single mode. But it was working.

"Take it, Zoe!" I shouted over the cacophony. "Get their attention, fly off and drop it in the river!"

She nodded, though her face winced from the sound and took the paper, comically huge in her tiny hands. It flailed in the wind behind her like a parachute with a personality disorder, flashing and howling as she zipped off.

It worked.

In the distance, two gargoyles peeled off from their posts, flying after her like angry hornets. She led them down toward the river, the siren still screaming.

I dropped into a sprint, heading straight for the tower.

The castle loomed above like a mountain grown sideways, massive walls, smaller towers stacked like crooked teeth, parapets and ledges winding like frozen vines. I ran along a wide outer ledge until I spotted what I needed.

The gate.

It was inset into the stone, tall and stubborn. No gargoyles in sight now, they were chasing the noise bomb. Good.

I started spraying, fast and rough. The black paint was almost gone, each burst of the can growing thinner.

"Come on, come on—" I muttered.

When I had enough, I slapped my hand on the painted section and whispered, Be the hole.

The stone shimmered and then the black rectangle opened into nothingness.

"Zoe, go!" I yelled as she veered back toward me, siren ditched in the river.

She zipped through and I dove in right after her, the shriek of the distant siren echoing behind us.

We landed in a narrow hall, smaller than I expected, dim but strangely cozy. Most of the light came from clusters of half-melted candles scattered across the floor and gathered near the massive staircase ahead. Wax had pooled around their bases like forgotten snowdrifts.

The staircase dominated the opposite wall, wide and elegant, spiraling leftward into the tower's upper reaches. A plush red carpet stretched up the steps, its golden embroidery faded but still regal, like a king in retirement.

Old electrical bulbs jutted out from the stone walls here and there, their light faint and flickering. Loose wires trailed along the stone like veins, disappearing into cracks or curling into dead ends. I had no idea what they powered, if anything.

"We made it!" Zoe shouted, her voice echoing.

I winced, held a finger to my lips. "Let's keep it quiet, Zoe."

She nodded sheepishly. "Sure. Now you want quiet." That got a grin out of me.

She floated beside me, still catching her breath, even if it was more habit than need. "That was pretty awesome, though. Haven't had an adventure like that— well, ever."

"We wouldn't be here without you," I said. "You were incredible out there."

She smiled, a little awkwardly, brushing a lock of luminous hair behind her ear. "We make a good team, Lex."

I nodded, then looked toward the spiraling staircase.

"Let's find out what's at the top," I said as I reached for the inside of the gate, right where I'd painted the hole on the other side. I placed my hand there and pulled my authority back, closing it off.

Zoe fluttered down and landed lightly on my shoulder.

"Hey, wait a sec," I said. "You told me you can't interact with anything here, but I've seen you walk, jump, sit on me and now you're just chilling on my shoulder."

"It's simple, Lex," she said with a grin. "I can feel resistance. So, I can walk on stuff, lean on it, touch it, but I can't actually hold anything, not really."

"Kinda makes sense," I muttered.

"Good enough," she laughed.

We began the climb, well, I did. She was just along for the ride, perched like a glowing raven.

"When you wake up," I asked after a while, "you'll just disappear? No warning?"

"Depends. If someone wakes me up suddenly, then yeah, poof. Gone. But if my body just finishes its rest naturally, I get this tugging feeling first, kind of like a gentle pull at the base of my spine. Then I vanish."

"Cool," I said, even though it sounded a little terrifying.

A beat of silence passed. Then Zoe tilted her head, the realization hitting.

"How is it," she asked, "that you, an artist, are so, what's the word, agile? Battle-ready? And annoyingly quick on your feet?"

I sighed. "Alright, but this stays between you and me, okay?"

"Promise," she said, instantly serious.

"I'm also a thief. I steal things, valuable things, from rich people. Been doing it for about seven years now."

She didn't respond at first.

"I was picked up and trained when I was ten," I added.

"You must've had it rough," she said finally. "Didn't you?"

"Sometimes. Especially in the beginning. But I got through it. And now — now it's mostly exciting. Especially since magic got involved. Stealing artifacts? Beats jewelry any day."

She nodded slowly. "I get it now. Your drive. That hunger."

"Thanks for not judging," I said.

"Does Peter know?"

"Yeah. He's the only one who does, well, until now."

I ascended the staircase with ease, or something close to it, despite the pain in my side, a deep, rhythmic throb that pulsed with every step like a second heartbeat. Noxy had really done me dirty with that one shot. I hadn't expected it to hit as hard as it did. But I kept that part to myself. No need to get Zoe more worried than she already was. I still had my right arm, my dominant one, working just fine and that was good enough for now.

At the top, the stairs opened into a hall, vast and hushed, far larger than the chamber below. The walls here were made of large red bricks, old and uneven in places, giving the room a kind of reverent, industrial charm. Strands of exposed electrical wiring ran along them like veins, feeding dim, humming lightbulbs that threw long shadows across the space.

The whole room felt like a shrine, an altar to craftsmanship. Dozens of tables and workstations stood arranged in quiet reverence, each one scattered with tools, worn gloves, yellowed papers. Blueprints hung everywhere, some pinned neatly to corkboards, others stuffed between pipes and steel cabinets, curling at the edges like forgotten leaves. The air smelled faintly of copper, oil and dust. Time lingered here.

Two doors awaited. One to the left of the stairs, sturdy, steel-framed, closed tight. The other stood at the far end of the room, directly ahead, same build. Same silence.

This place wasn't just a castle. It was memory, poured into stone and sealed in metal.

And something still lived in that memory.

From both doors, I could hear movement. The sounds of life, of labor. Footsteps pacing with purpose, tools striking metal, hammers, wrenches, the whine of welding. A low rhythm threaded it all together. Then came the singing, deep voices carrying a workman's chant, low and melodic, echoing off the red-brick walls with surprising warmth:

"Hammer and cable, swingin' high,

Building a road to touch the sky.

Rivets ring where the eagles fly,

Over the river, bold we try.

Hoist that beam, boys, don't let go,

Steel and sweat in the River's flow.

Stone and wire, strong and wide,

We're hangin' dreams on the rising tide.

Cold wind bites and the sun beats down,

Still, we climb above this town.

City shouts from far below,

But up here, the silence grows.

Hoist that beam, boys, don't let go,

Steel and sweat in the River's flow.

Stone and wire, strong and wide,

We're hangin' dreams on the rising tide.

One more bolt and the day is done,

Bridges rise with the setting sun.

Sing it loud so the world may see,

We built this span for you and me."

"A catchy tune, isn't it?" Zoe whispered beside me.

"Yeah… but I'm wondering why they're here, Zoe."

"What do you mean?"

"This castle… it doesn't exist in our world. It's like it sprouted from the bridge itself. So how are these people here? Are they real?"

"Oh… I see what you're getting at." She hovered slightly ahead now, thoughtful. "I don't think they're real. Not in the way we are."

"So how do I even tell the difference? Between someone real and… a shadow?"

"You can't. Not for certain. If they look human, it's almost impossible to tell. There aren't any hard signs."

"If they look human?" I raised a brow.

"Oh, yeah. Shadows can get… warped. Twisted by their emotions, by what they want, or fear. It shows in their bodies sometimes."

I nodded slowly, eyes still on the closed door. "So… why do you think these are shadows?"

"Because of where we are," she said, voice soft but firm. "When I was little, my grandma brought me to a place like this. A house, but it was built on top of a monument. A shadow lived there, of the man the monument honored. But he wasn't a shadow cast by himself. He was born from the memories of the people who built that monument. Their reverence gave him shape."

Zoe floated in front of me now, wings barely flapping, gesturing animatedly as she talked.

"So," I said, connecting the dots, "these singing people… they could be memory-shadows of the bridge's builders. And this castle, maybe it's the bridge's gift to them? A reward for what they gave it?"

"That'd be my guess."

"And would they be… hostile?"

Zoe's floated in place as she considered. "If they think you're a threat to the bridge, maybe. But it's hard to say. The guy we met back then was nice. Kinda chill, actually."

"Let's hope these ones sing more than they stab."

Zoe gave a dry laugh, but I caught the flicker of worry behind it.

"So, what's the plan?" she asked, hovering close.

"I'll rig a few traps in here, trip them up if we get chased. Then I knock. Try to talk. If it goes bad, we either fight or bolt. Depends how the wind's blowing."

"Shouldn't you prep a way out first?" she asked. "A hole downstairs or something?"

I sighed, dragging a hand down my face. I really didn't want to hike all the way back down, but she was right. The worst plans are the ones that forget failure is possible.

"Yeah. Let's go."

We descended slowly, saving our strength. My side still ached from Noxy's blast, like a splinter of lightning stuck under my ribs, but I kept quiet about it. Zoe didn't need extra reasons to worry.

After a few minutes, we reached the first-floor landing again. I sprayed the last of my black paint into the shape of a jagged oval on the inside of the gate, one last exit, should things go sideways. The can sputtered, emptied and I tossed it aside with a clatter.

"Let's hope we won't need any more holes," Zoe muttered, watching it roll to a stop.

"Yeah," I said. "But if we're running for our lives, I'll touch this one to activate it. As soon as I do, fly. No hesitation. If the gargoyles are waiting outside, I'll lead them off, back toward the city."

"Okay. I'll meet you near the end of the bridge." Her voice was light, but she twitched with tension.

We turned and climbed again.

This time, I worked as I moved. On some steps I painted a thin sheet of ice, smooth and gleaming like spilled moonlight. Others I coated to look like adhesive. I tested them briefly, touching them with my foot and channeling authority to see if they'd respond. They did. The ice slicked instantly, the glue clung like a trap. I withdrew my influence, letting them lie dormant, for now.

These were my lines in the sand. If things went bad, the staircase would become my battlefield.

I approached the door where the singing still echoed, low and metallic, like voices caught in steel pipes. I knocked, once, twice, until I heard the rhythm falter and one of the voices step away from the song. Footsteps, heavy and uneven, shuffled closer. I caught the scent before I saw him: sweat soaked into old canvas, grease and scorched iron. The stench was thick enough to turn my stomach, but I kept my Usagi mask in place. Enhanced senses could be the difference between safety and regret in a place like this.

The door creaked open, metal screeching against stone.