Ideworld Chronicles: The Art Mage

Act 3, Chapter 6: La Ville Lumière

Day in the story: 31st December (Wednesday), afternoonThe three of us squeezed into the back seat of the Uber just as the door shut with a dull thump. A few of the house servants stood near the gate, along with Sophie’s aunt, Diana Grace Percy, who, as we’d learned, came from a long line of British aristocrats who had decided to relocate to the heart of France at some point. She waved us off, making sure—very pointedly—that I was well enough to be moving around again.

Paris on the thirty-first of December had no snow, nor did it need any to feel sharp and alive. The cold crept in regardless, threading itself through scarves and sleeves, carried on damp air.

I was dressed to signal that I still respected the chill, even though the truth was that my body, suffused with shadowlight carrying my Authority, no longer needed insulation of any kind for temperatures such as this. A long, dark coat cinched at the waist. Black boots with a solid heel. A thin silver scarf wrapped once around my neck—just in case it needed to become a makeshift weapon. It looked good on me, too. My hair was loose, brushed, and deliberately ordinary.

Peter sat to my left, sprawled just a little too comfortably, one arm braced against the seatback. He wore a thick wool coat in charcoal gray and a burgundy scarf looped carelessly around his neck. His gloves were tucked into one pocket, unused, because for him the cold too was something he acknowledged mostly on principle now. He looked relaxed, but I knew better. He was still tense about what had happened to me—and about everything that involved Jason. That was how he operated: taking it all in and stockpiling it, until the weight of it threatened to crush him.

[You are like that too.] Anansi supplied, totally unhelpfully.

No one asked you. Silence, little spider.

Zoe sat on my other side, as if they’d silently agreed that I still needed supervision. A pale coat nearly swallowed her frame, a knitted hat pulled low over her ears, and a scarf wound tight around her neck. Her hands were folded in her lap, fingers fidgeting slightly, eyes fixed on the city sliding past the windows as though she were afraid to miss something important.

The car pulled away from the curb and merged into traffic with practiced ease. Outside, Paris flowed around us. Cafés spilled warmth onto the sidewalks, windows fogged with breath and conversation, laughter escaping every time a door opened.

None of us spoke at first.

The driver had the radio on low, some unfamiliar French pop song humming in the background, while we just watched the city pass by.

“I’m not used to seeing the sky behind the buildings like that,” Zoe said eventually, her voice careful.

“That’s true,” I answered. “New York is a bit overgrown with its buildings. Here everything seems smaller, but it makes the architecture stick out somehow. Makes it more personal, right?”

“Definitely,” Zoe replied.

“Americans?” the driver asked us, his accent thick and unmistakably French.

“Yes,” Peter answered.

“It is better when dark,” the driver added. “City of lights!”

“Yeah. I’ve heard the term,” Zoe said, still staring out the window. White-walled buildings with ornamental finishes slid past us, looking like they belonged to a time when architecture wasn’t mass-produced but made by hand, meant to be looked at. And they probably were just that. “It’s because it was the first city to be completely lit by gas lights.”

“And it was a cradle of science, art, and culture in the Renaissance,” I added.

“Not everything has to be about art,” Peter said, looking toward the river on his side. There seemed to be a lot of bridges here.

“If you squint hard enough, Pete, you might notice that art is almost everywhere here,” I replied, glancing at people taking photos and even one brave soul with a sketchbook, sitting on a bench atop a warm pillow and wrapped in a blanket. Dedicated to art, even on a cold day like this.

Peter looked back out the window, then at me, a faint smile forming. “This city is an art trap,” he realized.

“It’s too late to go back now.”

“As long as Zoe is here, I’ll survive it,” he said, earning a quiet, approving whisper from his girlfriend. Suddenly, it felt a little awkward to be wedged between the two of them.

The car turned, and the street opened up. I caught glimpses of familiar landmarks between buildings: ornate balconies, shuttered windows, the occasional flash of a monument half-hidden by scaffolding or trees stripped bare for winter.

Zoe leaned forward slightly, peering past the driver as if she could already see the hill rising ahead.

“That’s Sacré-Cœur?” Peter asked.

I nodded. I’d never seen it in person, but I’d studied enough photos to recognize it anywhere. The basilica always felt like a contradiction to me—bright and pale against the city, watching everything without ever quite belonging to it. Tonight felt like a good time for contradictions like that one.

As we drove, the streets began to slope upward, subtle at first, then unmistakable. The car worked a little harder, the engine note deepening as it climbed. Traffic thickened, cars inching forward in uneven bursts, people pouring toward the same destination with a shared, unspoken intent. Everywhere I looked, there were scarves, coats, flushed faces, couples pressed close for warmth.

I caught my reflection in the window—just a woman in a dark coat with bright brown eyes and dotted skin. No suits, no masks, not a single spark or thread of shadowlight. Just me, riding through a city.

Peter noticed my expression. “You good?”

“Yeah,” I said. And I meant it. “Just thinking.”

Zoe smiled softly, resting her head back against the seat. “Thank you for taking us here. I’ve never been abroad before.”

“Same,” Peter added.

“I just fear now that nothing’s going to top it ever again,” Zoe continued, and I understood her. Compared to New York’s cold beauty, where size and grandeur overshadowed detail, this felt like stepping into a fairytale.

“I feel like there are so many places in the world, and each one has its own magic to offer,” I answered finally.

The Uber slowed as we neared the base of the hill, headlights washing over stone steps and clusters of people gathered in anticipation. Somewhere above us, our friends were already waiting, laughing, probably arguing about something trivial, unaware of how precious that normalcy was to me. Ideworld had its share of whimsy and beauty, even in New York, a city I had spent my entire life in, and I had no doubt that Paris’s version of it would be even more magical. But even this mundane type had so much to offer that it was difficult to take it all in at once.

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The driver glanced at us in the rearview mirror. “This is as far as I can go.”

“That’s perfect,” I said.

Cold air spilled in immediately as we exited the car, carrying the distant sound of voices and music drifting down from Montmartre—Paris’s district of art and narrow streets. Despite being here for the first time in my life, I felt at home among the people gathered to be part of something spectacular, not only in a temporal sense, but a spatial one as well. Time was peculiar indeed. Today the old year would leave us and a new one we would greet, but place mattered just as much. It, too, was a new world for all of us.

“Ready?” Peter asked, glancing up the hill toward Sacré-Cœur, its pale silhouette visible against the sky.

We nodded in unison. Zoe and I—and all three of us together—started walking upward, into the last night of the year.

“Where are you guys?” Peter asked into the phone to my left as I focused on walking. The stairs were steep and plentiful, but the cathedral above promised an unusual experience, so I took each step with relative ease.

“Really?” he asked, just as Zoe stopped to stare back at the city below us. She was completely enchanted, eyes wide, mouth slightly open, the view clearly reaching her heart. “We just arrived at the stairs to that basilica you wanted to see,” he told Sophie, if I heard right.

“Stay close to me,” I whispered to Zoe. As we climbed, I noticed a group of three young men pickpocketing unsuspecting tourists with the smooth efficiency of a well-practiced team. One handsome guy kept their marks busy with conversation while his partners relieved them of whatever belongings were within reach. “Thieves ahead.”

“Oh,” she said quietly, following my gaze.

“Guys, the rest will be here shortly. We can wait for them,” Peter informed us, keeping us up to date. “They went to the Moulin Rouge first.”

We stepped aside from the slow-moving river of people and onto the frosted grass. There were two sets of stairs here, both leading up to Sacré-Cœur—one used by people climbing, the other by those coming down. Since we’d stopped for now, we found ourselves in between the two.

“Those guys you noticed,” Zoe murmured, tugging lightly at my sleeve, “they’re coming toward us.”

“What guys?” Peter asked, but the answer arrived before I could respond.

“Wesh, les belles, vous êtes là pour apprendre c’est quoi le vrai amour ou quoi ?”

The tall, handsome one spoke first. He wore a black, puffy jacket with too many folds to be innocent, pockets hidden where hands could disappear easily. A gold chain glinted at his neck. His two companions fanned out smoothly, already circling.

“We don’t speak French,” Peter said, flatly.

“Ah, dommage, frère… à Paris, tout le monde est censé parler un peu français quand même.” I didn’t understand the words, but I understood the cadence. Either he was testing us, or he was giving instructions disguised as banter. Men like this always used language as camouflage.

“Okay,” I said, stepping in before the tension could thicken. I tilted my head, softened my eyes, played the part. While my attention stayed on him, my peripheral vision tracked the other two. “I don’t know what you’re saying,” I added lightly, “but your language is so sexy.”

That much, he definitely understood. His eyes brightened with interest.

I closed the distance, watching his hands as I slipped my arms around his shoulders with faux carelessness. “It’s such a shame we can’t really talk,” I whispered near his ear. “We could have such a good time together.”

As I leaned away, my fingers caught his gold chain. One clean, long practiced motion, and I had it in my right hand as I stepped aside.

“Apologise, madame,” he said, lids lowering, a crooked smile forming. “I speak enough to understand.” He glanced past me. “We show you three, nice clubs, yeah? Then maybe just the two of us, hm?”

That was the signal.

His partners moved in. One angled toward Zoe, the other toward Peter.

And just like that, the game changed.

“Stop this,” I said calmly.

Peter moved closer to Zoe, placing himself between her and the three men, putting distance between us and them. “You guys are small fry,” I added, lifting the man’s gold chain so they could all see it.

He lunged for it immediately, but years of training—and reflexes sharpened by my Authority—made it child’s play to evade him. I slipped inside his reach, pressed my heel down on his shoe, and drove my elbow into his solar plexus. He folded with a sharp gasp.

His two friends rushed me, but Peter was already moving. I saw his muscles tense, shadowlight racing along his legs. In a blink, he was between me and them, suddenly larger, more imposing than he had been a moment before. They hesitated—then thought better of it, backing off.

“Give me chain back,” the sweet-talker said as I let him straighten up, trying not to turn the whole thing into a spectacle. Thankfully, people were very good at pretending they hadn’t seen anything.

“Excuse me?” I replied. “I stole it fair and square. Do you return what you steal to your targets?”

“That not same. We don’t speak after.”

“Listen,” Peter cut in, his tone steady. “We don’t want any problems. You go one way, we go another, okay?” It was a far better move than mine. My instinct had been to belittle them, and I had. It wasn’t exactly enlightened.

I tossed the chain back. He caught it easily.

“Go,” I said.

After a few exchanged looks, they melted back into the crowd.

We watched them disappear. Then Peter turned to me, stepping close. “Do not ever pull a stunt like that again,” he said, his voice sharp enough to finally match his name. “Not everyone here is bulletproof or fast enough to avoid a knife. Think about others—not just yourself.”

I was still reeling from the first words when he continued.

“You’re right,” I said quietly. “I’m sorry.”

“That was pretty scary,” Zoe added. Only then did it really sink in how much my actions could have hurt her.

“I was thinking only about myself,” I admitted. “I saw them for what they were, and instead of pushing them away, I wanted to show them who was boss.”

“I love you,” Peter said, slipping an arm around Zoe protectively, still keeping an eye on where the men had gone, “but you can be a real ass sometimes. We know what you’re worth. You don’t have to prove it all the time.”

“It won’t happen again.”

“It better not,” he said, while Zoe gave me a small, tentative smile, sending me into a state of deep internal meditation.

As we kept waiting, they talked about the beauty of the city below us, trying to distract themselves from what had just happened. I stayed quiet, looking out over the city spread beneath me. Paris was slowly surrendering to the winter afternoon—the light thinning, stretching, and finally giving way to shadow. My breath fogged in front of me, vanishing as quickly as it formed.

From up here, the city looked softer. Buildings dissolved into dark shapes as the sky deepened into blue-grey, and then—almost shyly at first—the lights began to appear. A row of streetlamps. Windows glowing amber. Headlights threading through avenues like veins, carrying warmth back into a cooling body.

Watching the city answer darkness and cold, something in me shifted too.

I realized how long I had lived wrapped in my own veil of night, convinced that darkness was all there was. I had learned to navigate it, to weaponize it, to hide inside it so well that I mistook survival for forced solitude. I told myself I was made of shadows, that light was something external—fragile and borrowed at best.

But standing there, with the city igniting below me, I saw how wrong that had been.

There were lights already burning within me. They had been there for a long time—I had just refused to name them. My friends, for one. Peter’s stubborn loyalty. Zoe’s quiet steadiness. Sophie’s fierce care. Nick’s awkward but earnest courage. Each of them was a small, defiant glow, refusing to go out no matter how much darkness pressed in. I hadn’t noticed how often they had lit my way simply by staying.

Then there was my talent. Not just one, but two, entwined like twin flames. Art and thievery—creation and taking—both requiring vision, precision, and nerve. I had always treated them as contradictions, as if one invalidated the other. But they didn’t. Together, they formed something complete: the ability to reshape the world, whether through beauty or necessity.

And finally, there was my magic.

Shadowlight.

By looking at Paris, I understood something about the name of that force. I knew it was a way for people of Earth to differentiate it from ordinary light, born of power from the other side—hence the shadow. But for me, it took on a different meaning in that moment of revelation. My light did not need to erase shadow to exist. It lived beside it, within it, and sometimes even because of it.

My magic wasn’t proof that I was a tyrant imposing my will onto art. It gave art a chance to become something more—a will to change the world by being active rather than passive. And it allowed me to see art differently, revealing a facet that had never existed for me before. That, in itself, was beautiful.

I had been lost in the darkness that taught me I had to constantly prove myself to the world—that I was more than the orphan with crayons, the punchline, the chubby kid mocked for her skin. To show my friends that I had power. To show Penrose that I could be independent.

I was a mage now. An accomplished thief. A damn good artist. And there was light within me that could shine on its own. The only thing I needed to do was stop obscuring it by wrapping myself in the darkness I had learned to live in.

The city below shimmered now, fully awake in its twilight skin. And for the first time in a long while, I didn’t feel like I was standing apart from it and the world. I felt like I belonged to the same pattern—one more hard-won and imperfect light, but burning all the same.