Page 70 of The Immortal Covenant

Once the performance ended with the bard’s final bow, Silas tossed a few coins into the passing hat and continued on his way, trying to dampen the wistfulness that had stolen over him.

Like most people, he’d been born without any inherent magic of his own. And though he’d long dreamed of acquiring a magical art, other responsibilities had always gotten in the way. While he wouldn’t trade his current life for anything, a part of himstill yearned for more than perusing old history books. Perhaps someday.

His dour mood lifted the moment his small cottage came into view. With its clapboard windows, beds of blooming flowers, brightly colored walls, and chimney puffing up a steady stream of smoke, it represented everything he’d spent his life searching for.

Of course, that wasn’t only because of the building itself.

“I’m home,” he called as he entered, shucking off his coat and moving to the kitchen to start unloading the fresh produce he’d procured for the week.

No response.

He grinned to himself, shaking his head.Why am I not surprised?

Keeping only the persimmon with him after giving it a quick rinse, he exited the kitchen and passed through the cozy living room with overflowing bookshelves and a crowded table full of his papers, out the back and down the cobbled path to the nearby shed. He didn’t bother rapping on the door, knowing he’d either be ignored or snapped at if he did, and quietly slipped inside.

Mel sat before an easel, surrounded by a haphazard assortment of paints. Silas stepped up behind him, silently studying the emerging painting. Mel had been working on this one for a while now—near a month.

“It’s almost finished,” Mel said without looking up. His brush scritched over the canvas.

“It’s beautiful.”

Mel snorted as he lowered his brush and deposited it carefully to the side. Only then did his concentration on the painting break. He stretched, his back cracking as he twisted from side to side.

“Compliments mean nothing coming from you. You’re my husband—you’re obligated to say that.”

“That isnottrue!” Silas protested. “Remember that painting you did of the knight slaying the dragon? I told you—rightly—that the knight looked constipated.”

Mel rolled his pale gray eyes. “If you’re trying to convince me to take your artistic opinion seriously, I’m sorry to say you’re failing, love.” His eyes fell on the persimmon, his gaze instantly brightening. “Is that for me?”

“Itwas.”Silas raised the persimmon, turning it over in his hand speculatively. He sniffed, feigning hurt. “Now, though, I’m not so sure. Perhaps me and my persimmon should go back in the house where we’re wanted.”

Mel eyed the persimmon hungrily. “Just you. The persimmon can stay.”

His lips twitching, Silas offered the fruit. Mel swiped it and immediately took a bite. Juice dribbled down his chin.

Silas shook his head. “You know, you’re supposed to wash those before you eat them.”

Mel paused, lowering the chomped fruit. “You didn’t wash it before you gave it to me?”

Silas managed to hold onto his frown for a handful more heartbeats before his face split into a wide grin. “Of course, I did. I know better than to offer you food you can’t eat right away.” He stepped past Mel to study the painting. “I hope I’m not interrupting your artistic flow or whatever. I just figured you could probably use a break.”

Movement behind him announced Mel’s presence an instant before he wrapped his arms around Silas, tugging him back against his chest. He leaned in to press a soft kiss to Silas’ cheek. “Thanks, love. You always seem to know exactly what I need before I do.”

The sharp, tangy smell of persimmon assaulted Silas’ nostrils. He squirmed, making a show of wiping away the faint residue of juice Mel’s kiss had left behind while Mel chuckled.

“Someonehas to take care of you so you don’t starve to death out here.”

His attention returned to the painting, and he allowed himself to fully take it in. It wasn’t finished yet, but Mel had made good progress since Silas last saw it a week or so ago.

The painting depicted an imagined battlefield split down the middle. On the left, winged Celestials ablaze with golden flame and wielding lances of fire fought terrible abominations from the Void that were all claws and fangs and tentacles. Just the sight of them ignited some primal instinct within Silas, eliciting a shudder.

On the right, horned Infernals, pale with armor black as night, wielded dark blades against the same eldritch horrors. Despite the stark divide down the middle of the canvas, separating shadow from light, something about the way Mel had drawn the scene suggested the two sides fought together against a common foe. Even unfinished, the painting was exquisite.

“It might be the best you’ve ever done,” Silas said truthfully, glancing back at Mel.

Mel grunted noncommittally, but Silas could tell from the flush that crept up his neck that the compliment pleased him.

Silas hesitated. Keeping his voice carefully neutral, he said, “It should fetch a decent price when it’s done. Might be worth a trip into Reeth to find the right buyer.”

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