1 Prologue

"Lady Demeter's pieces are always an exceptional work in this generation."

"Truly a work of art. I don't know how she does it,"

"Have you seen her latest gallery? It felt so overwhelming!"

"For sure- She is truly a master in the making."

"Whether it's writing, painting, sculpting- she can master it all! What else can she do?"

"Bah! At this point the question you should be asking is- What can't she do?"

Dark purple eyes blinked against the harsh flashes of cameras in the studio. Interviewers stood on their toes with their mics clutched tightly within their palms, sweaty from anxiety and anticipation, eager to ask and be answered. Who could not look forward to have a scoop of this generations Master of Arts? So despite the harsh pushes from interviewers in different agencies in addition to the busy crowd, plus the stuffy area they had to endure, a sliver of a content from Lady Demeter would be all it takes to get a higher rating.

Annoying cameras flashes in all angles, blinding the poor artist in the center of it all. Lady Demeter is a name known in all corners of the country. Everything started almost 4 years ago when her first work was discovered by this world, a piece called Ungrasped Unknown. This was the piece that won her her very first award in the National Arts Competition. The NAC is a school representing art competition. This was recently founded as an act of encouraging artists within the country. Contestants or representatives would be given a certain theme along with limited time to produce an art withing that theme and duration. National Artists from the country would be chosen to judge the results and choose a winner. It was as nerve-wracking as every other tournaments in the world. It certainly was also a lot more pressure for artist with years of experience, the heavy burden of needing to win was suffocating mist in the air. So when a girl no older than 14 years old, having nothing but a canvas and some spare paint pulled up with a painting that shook the entire audience was definitely something they needed to see for themselves.

As multiple other contestants placed down their brushes, some dignified a look of satisfaction, some on the verge of tears, and some bit their lips in highly strung anticipation. Young ones eyes would linger in the judges face, trying to find any signs of a reaction as they would walk around and gaze at the art pieces by their side, already trying to calculate the results before it were even decided upon. For them, those answers were akin to pouring water on a lit match placed near fuel. So when the judges would spare no reaction as they passed was already a water clear defeat. Each artist would drop like moths to a flame.

Soon enough they reached the tiny table of a young teen. Her painting was casually displayed on an easel stand just like, everyone else, with the words Ungrasped Unknown written in a messy and bold letters below. Dark eyes stared into the distance as the judges huddled altogether around the easel, murmuring amongst each other. However this new behaviour would attract the attention of other kids. Curious and eager, almost everyone huddled to get a glimpse of what the fuss was about. At first, anyone would have spared a glance and moved along but something enthralling about the work would draw you in. A twisted feeling of comforting agony made you stare at it for long, as if it was asking- begging you to search for something hidden within the canvas. A desperate and nagging persuasion of wanting to claw your nails inside and scrape out the drying paint just to feed in the curiosity of what it hid.

That afternoon, Ungrasped Unknown had won the award for NAC. Truly a joyous occasion, even other competitors came rushing by her side to congratulate the winner as she clasped the gold medal that hung on her chest. But regardless of the bright and cheerful atmosphere, those once again distant and dark eyes stared without hope, pass her parent, and at the empty chair within the audience that was neither marked nor owned by no one.

"Lady Demeter, what inspired your latest gallery La Coupe? Is there any personal meaning behind it?" One interviewer raised from her chair, her pixie cut hair neatly hugged the back of her neck as her shirt tucked within her pants. She nervously stood, awaiting for an answer with the mic clutched to her hand. As soon as Lady Demeter answers her question, the spotlight would immediately go to another interviewer and she would miss her chance to ask another question. It was a competitive job- being an interviewer, specially when the subject of attention was Lady Demeter. Having known this, she steeled herself. I won't give up this chance to just anyone, so come at me if you dare!

"Inspiration...hm-" Lady Demeter tapped her chin in thought, long light curls of her hair falling carelessly to frame her pale face before she turned her dark eyes towards the interviewer

"-Recently, I've been having dreams of...a certain feeling," She carefully constructed her words. It wasn't much of a feeling but part of what she said was true, however the more she thought of it, even she didn't know what that dream was about. All she knew herself was it was enough to create the new gallery. How curious indeed.

"A dream?" The woman echoed back in confusion. Unfortunately, this minor slip up caused her the mic within her hands as other interviewers rushed to ask more questions, leaving her to wait again for her turn as she sat back dejected on her seat.

"Lady Demeter, you say that the new gallery is inspired by a dream, does that dream suppose to contain the certain muse of all your previous works?"

"Why have all your works center around the mysterious man? Is he someone important?"

"Lady Demeter, Who is this muse?"

One by one, the crowd had began to stand up leaning closer and closer towards the podium in busy frenzy. Even the staff had a difficult time trying to control the overwhelming paparazzi, the only contrasting face in such an atmosphere was the cause of it all. Lady Demeter stared bitterly at her hands, those questions leaving a rusted gear into her head that had been running for as long as she could remember. Just who was this man? This man, the muse of her works, the unknown and ungrasped, the rusted gear in her head that made her function and rot all the same.

"That's a very good question," Lady Demeter said, "I wonder the same thing."