Page 44 of Aries

Aries looks up from where he’s arranging our breakfast, one eyebrow arched. “Both at once?”

“The combined activities will reveal deeper truths about your connection,” they explain. “You must perceive each other through a creator’s eyes while expressing yourselves through varied outlets.”

My heart sinks. “I’m equally terrible at both painting and singing.”

His lips quirk upward—that expression I’m treasuring more with each appearance. “This should be interesting.”

“All necessary supplies await in the garden,” the Committee continues. “Complete the exercise by sunset.” With that, they ghost from view, leaving us with our latest challenge.

An hour later, we’ve set up easels in the garden, paints and brushes arranged alongside a simple wooden flute provided for musical accompaniment. Spark hovers nearby, trailing rainbow sparkles that seem to suggest artistic inspiration.

“So, how exactly does this work?” I ask, studying the blank canvas with the same enthusiasm I’d show a torture device. “Paint while singing? Take turns?”

“Why don’t you start with a song that means something to you?” Aries settles at his easel with practiced ease—movements too fluid, too confident for someone who’s never mentioned artistic training. Heat creeps up my neck as I watch those large hands adjust his brush with surgical precision. “We’ll both paint while you sing, then I’ll take over the vocals while we keep working.”

The familiar flutter of performance anxiety hits my stomach. “You know how singing makes me nervous.”

“I know how beautifully you express yourself,” he corrects gently, mixing colors with sure, confident strokes. “Even when you think you’re terrible at it.”

Taking a shaky breath, I begin the only song I know all the words to—that old Earth children’s tune about wishing on a star. My voice wavers and cracks, missing notes spectacularly, but Aries doesn’t flinch. Instead, he begins painting with surprising skill, his eyes moving between canvas and my face as I struggle through the melody.

“That was… enthusiastic,” he says when I finish, and I can’t help laughing.

“Diplomatically put. Your turn.”

Ancient words spill from his lips—a gladiator training song that turns our garden into something primal and dangerous. Rich baritone vibrations seem to reach inside my chest, making my brush hand tremble as I try to focus on my canvas instead of the way his throat moves with each note. The melody carries scars—hints of brotherhood forged in blood, honor carved from desperation. Both our brushes move in rhythm now, his voice providing a cadence that syncs our creative energy until painting becomes almost like dancing. Something about singing frees him—drops his careful control until raw emotion bleeds through every word.

“You never mentioned you could paint,” I observe, watching him create what’s clearly going to be a recognizable portrait, while my own attempt looks like abstract chaos.

“My mother taught me,” he says quietly, not pausing in his work. “Before the slavers came. She said I had a natural eye for color.”

Another piece of his past, offered freely. I wonder if these revelations will come more frequently now that he’s talked about Kren. I’d love to hear more of these tiny treasures shared without the reluctance that once characterized any personal disclosure.

My own attempt at painting him goes about as expected. What should be his strong jaw looks more like a lopsided rectangle, and his distinctive horns resemble bent twigs rather than elegant bronze curves.

“This is hopeless,” I mutter, dabbing more yellow onto what’s supposed to be his eyes. “You’re going to look like a deranged goat with anger issues.”

“I’ve been called worse,” he says solemnly, though his eyes sparkle with mischief.

“Well,” I add, loading my brush with purple paint, “at least you’ll be a colorful deranged goat.”

Without warning, I flick the brush toward him. Paint arcs through the air, landing in a spectacular splatter across his forearm.

Instead of annoyance, his expression holds pure delight—something I’ve rarely seen from him. With deliberate precision, he dips his brush in green paint and retaliates. Cool droplets land on my cheek.

“Now we’re even,” he says, golden eyes gleaming with challenge.

“Are we?” Loading my brush with yellow, I aim for maximum splatter effect.

Soon we’re both decorated with rainbow colors, our canvases forgotten as we wage an increasingly elaborate paint war. Spark joins enthusiastically, trailing through wet paint then zooming in patterns that leave light-infused color streaks between us.

“The Committee did say we should explore artistic expression,” I remind him solemnly, though laughter threatens to bubble up.

“I believe I’m getting the hang of that.” With surgical precision, he sends a tiny red dot right to the tip of my nose.

“How did you manage that?” I yowl.

But as our battle continues, something shifts. Our laughter mingles with the afternoon breeze, paint decorating us like festival markings. The combination of music and art, of playful combat and growing intimacy, creates something I hadn’t expected.

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