Chapter 4: The Portrait Bound to the Soul
The trail on the bar's hauntings had gone cold.
I stared at the stack of documents on my desk without really seeing them. My thoughts dragged, thick and slow. When my phone buzzed, the sharp vibration pulled me back.
Selene.
"Rhan, I found something about that painting!" Her voice was tight—half excitement, half disbelief.
"Where are you?"
"The university library. Can you come?"
It was 11:30 a.m. The morning had slipped by with nothing to show for it. I was running out of places to look.
"Alright," I said. "I'm on my way."
---
Selene spotted me the moment I stepped onto campus.
Black jeans. A white printed tee. Clean lines. She moved with easy confidence, weaving through students without breaking stride.
"It's called Portrait of Aya the Healer," she said instead of greeting me. "There's a record attached to it. More than a thousand years old."
"Healer? Aya?" I lifted an eyebrow.
We walked side by side across the grounds as she spoke, her pace brisk.
"Over a millennium ago, a young sovereign fell gravely ill. Court physicians failed him, so healers were summoned from outside the palace. Aya was the daughter of a medical family. Skilled. Beautiful. Known for her dancing. She entered the palace with her father."
Selene slowed, just slightly.
"The sovereign and she... grew close. Closer than they should have."
I'd heard variations of this story before.
"The Queen Mother despised her origins," Selene went on. "She saw Aya as a blemish on the court. In the end... she ordered her execution."
I let out a quiet breath. "That was cruel."
"That wasn't the end," Selene said, lowering her voice. "The sovereign fell apart. One of the royal attendants offered him a solution."
She hesitated.
"Go on," I said.
"Use Aya's blood as ink. Her bones as the brush. Her hair for the bristles. A court painter would preserve her likeness. That way, the sovereign could 'be with' her every night."
My jaw tightened.
"From then on," Selene said, "he spent every night with the painting. He died not long after. Sudden. The only thing left behind was the Portrait of Aya the Healer—later known simply as the Portrait of a Beauty."
I stood in silence for a moment.
"Then why the veil?"
"Custom," Selene said. "Healer families forbade unmarried women from showing their faces. Or... maybe that's just how the sovereign chose to remember her."
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I shook my head.
"No," I said. "He wanted her that way."
Selene looked at me.
"That isn't tradition," I added. "That's obsession."
The word settled between us.
I took out my phone and dialed Jasper.
"Who gave you that painting?" I asked as soon as he answered.
Jasper exhaled. "A friend. He used to run a distillery—used to. He said it came from the palace. I didn't think much of it. The office wall was empty, so I hung it there."
"Where is he now?"
"He disappeared after the factory collapsed. People say he fled the country. Why—"
A brief silence.
"Is the painting a problem?"
"It might be," I said. "A serious one. We need to examine it again."
"Damn it!" Jasper snapped. "If that thing's behind all this, I'll skin that bastard Kai alive."
Even through the phone, the anger in his voice felt raw.
---
Back in the office, I went straight to the painting.
An unfamiliar pull tightened in my chest.
To lift the veil.
To see her face.
Even the thought felt dangerous—like standing too close to an edge you couldn't see.
"Rhan... is it really the painting?" Jasper's voice cut in.
I stepped back and drew a slow breath.
"It is," I said. "But it isn't just a portrait of a beauty. This is Aya the Healer."
I told him what Selene had uncovered.
"Blood as ink... bone as the brush...?" The color drained from Jasper's face. "You're saying that's real?"
I didn't answer at once. Instead, I rested my fingers lightly against the surface.
It wasn't dry paper or rough canvas worn by age. The texture was smooth—almost unnaturally so. Not the smoothness of varnish or preserved silk, but something softer beneath the fingertips.
My throat tightened.
"It's possible," I said.
Jasper swallowed. "You... felt something?"
"It's worse than I thought."
I kept my voice even.
"It isn't just blood, bone, and hair." I paused.
"The canvas itself—"
Jasper stared at me.
"—is human skin. Hers."
He stiffened. "H-human skin? You're sure?"
"The texture matches," I said. "To be certain, I need a comparison."
"A comparison?"
Before he could press further, the door opened.
Selene stepped in, bubble teas in hand—bright, relaxed, unaware of the shift in the room.
Both Jasper and I turned toward her.
She slowed.
"Why are you looking at me like that?" Her voice wavered. "What do you want?"
"You're just in time!" Jasper blurted. "Let Rhan touch you!"
Selene froze. Color rushed to her face.
"Have you completely lost your mind?!"
"Not like that!" Jasper shot back. "He thinks the painting's made of human skin. He needs something to compare it to!"
She turned to me slowly.
I nodded. "It's necessary."
She drew in a steadying breath and rolled up her sleeve. "Here."
I shook my head. "That won't help. Skin that's constantly exposed changes texture."
I hesitated.
"What I felt was closer to the skin along the back."
Her face flushed deeper. She looked between us.
Jasper raised both hands. "I'll wait outside."
He slipped out and shut the door.
Selene stood still for a moment, then turned away. Slowly, she lifted the hem of her shirt, revealing a stretch of smooth skin.
I placed my fingertips lightly against her back.
Warm.
Firm.
Alive.
Compared to the painting, the difference was slight.
Her skin held warmth.
The canvas did not.
"That's enough," I said, pulling my hand away. "Thank you."
She lowered her shirt, eyes downcast. "It's fine. You're helping my cousin."
Jasper pushed the door open a crack. "Is... is it done?"
I nodded. "Confirmed. Human skin."
Selene inhaled sharply. "A painting made from skin..."
Her voice softened.
"Like that old story about a spirit stepping out of a painting?"
"No," I said.
"Worse."
---
"This is called Skinbound Resurrection."
Selene's face drained of color, and Jasper lowered himself into a chair as if his knees had given out.
"It requires a complete body," I said evenly. "You already know the method."
No one interrupted.
"If the painting gathers the essence of three hundred and sixty-five living people, she can return."
Jasper's fingers tightened against his sleeve. "She... comes back?"
I nodded toward the painting. "he figures inside aren't decorative. They're the count."
They moved closer, whispering numbers under their breath. The silence thickened as they tallied.
"Rhan..." Jasper said at last. "hree hundred and sixty-three."
Selene drew a slow breath. "With the central figure, that's three hundred and sixty-four."
A chill crept up my spine.
"Two more."
Selene looked at me sharply. "You had us count because the number changes."
"Yes."
I traced the edge of the frame, then indicated the details they had overlooked.
"The clothing isn't consistent."
Armor. Court robes. Tribal patterns.
Styles separated by centuries layered into a single surface.
"No modern clothing..." Selene murmured.
"She was sealed for nearly a century," I said. "If she's feeding again, the pattern will shift."
Jasper's voice dropped to almost nothing.
"Two more."
This time, the room offered no reply.
