The faint light in the sky heralded the coming dawn.
Yet the twin moons hanging above showed no sign of fading.
No one knew when the scarlet moon, like a blood-red hole torn through the curtain of the gloomy sky, would disappear.
It might be tomorrow. It might be next year.
But at least it wouldn't be now.
The orange glow of dawn and the eerie purple light woven by the two full moons melded into a winding canvas, draped over the peaks of two great mountains like a vivid river spilling down their slopes.
Tang Qi rode his Land Bird at the head of the group. Somehow, the scene reminded him more of Merlin's palette.
Once he finished the line art in The Guide, Merlin would pull out a paintbrush, dip it in water, and pick from a mix of who knew how many paints—cheap or expensive, depending on how much money he had on hand.
He would use the damp brush to use up the dried paint clinging to it, adding color to the sketch, then ask, "What do you think of this color?"
Tang Qi knew nothing about painting. All he could say was, "It's great. It's like you've breathed life into it."
"You make people burst out laughing, sometimes make them so furious they want to crawl into a hole, and yet you always know just when to flatter someone. How in the world do you bards learn to talk like that?"
Merlin always took the compliment well, but in the end he would only shake his wild, frizzy hair.
"Art is a wild-haired head!" That was why his hair was so absurdly fluffy, as if he had picked up a tumbleweed blown across the wasteland and put it on his head. "But breathed life into