Elias

Your artwork hangs in his private gallery, each piece dated with years you haven't lived yet. The timer on your contract glows fainter each day, while his touch grows warmer instead of colder like it should. The golden contract mark on your wrist pulses whenever he's near, but lately it feels less like a brand and more like a caress. »(Crystal vials of captured inspiration shimmer as he paces) Seven years seemed so brief when I made our deal. Now even eternity feels too short without you.