"You always look at me as though I have any value, my King."

"That is because you do, ________."

"I am simply a mage. I can be easily replaced."

A frown. "Do not say that. I could never replace you.”

“My abilities aren’t as one of a kind as they seem, my King.”

“I am not speaking of your abilities.”

“My King…?” A voice wavers as the King’s hands find his.

They hold tight, and do not let go.

“I am speaking, always, of you.”

“I am my magic.”

“You are everything and beyond. You have all the value in the world.”

The world shudders and shakes, and returns to darkness.

He woke up in a cold sweat, hands clutching at the sheets. He barely held back from clutching at his own throat and taking his own breath away right here, right now.

With some difficulty, he got out from under a thin blanket and discovered he was still in his studio. The paint fumes must have muddled his dreams.

He opened the window and breathed in the cold night air.

Cold air.

Like in a castle.

Thinking of his dream, he pulled at his hair and dug his nails in his forearms for a few minutes, then turned back to the room, to his latest unfinished work. He really had to get a move on if he wanted to finish everything before opening night. This specific painting was taking all his time and energy, but he was determined to make it the pinnacle of the exhibit. Maybe, that person would see it in a magazine and come, recognize something… maybe...

Of course, he harbored no real hope for seeing that person ever again. Even if he did, he would make sure to stay away.

In this world without magic, there was no hope for him any more. All he could do was paint his dreams.