He stared at a painted portrait on the wall and its familiar golden signature, trying to understand why people appreciated such frozen, glorified representations of a single moment.

Despite coming from the Anani family - the noble family in charge of the continent’s arts - Milo wasn’t artistic in the least. Rather, he found beauty in the physics and mathematics of nature. Physics held the world together, and was a puzzle to figure out using only numbers. One day, those numbers would come together to fully explain the universe. 

Specifically, he had found a fascination for the wind - how it allowed birds to fly or skyships to glide through the sky, how it could go from a breeze to a hurricane. He quickly learned the math around it and followed his passion through his education, year after year, ignoring his grandfather's pleas for him to pursue the arts. But why would he? He had always made air move around him - as a child, it is how people knew he was upset or nervous. Any strong emotion could cause a small storm, any dark thought could rustle the curtains.


And yet, nobody knew why. 

One day, he lost his minimal control over it. It was four years ago; the same day his sister told him she was sick. Finding control over it was as difficult as finding peace over her death - some days were simply easier than others.

Despite his newfound 'normalcy', he was still shunned. He was the only one from his family to have magic that didn’t relate to arts, no affinity to pencils or paint brushes, and only barely understood music. His mother was the city’s greatest tattoo artist, his aunt created stunning maps with the McGinty company, his grandfather was a portrait artist for the royal family, especially appreciated by the Regis.

And yet both he and his uncle were inclined towards mathematics. 

So, Milo started his final university project under his uncle’s supervision. Together, they pieced together the secrets that hid behind the winds, using their creativity to try to understand the greater picture of it. 

To Milo, creativity was in mathematics, in nature, in the idea that discovering its rules often came from the most unusual sources of inspiration.

Only, his grandfather, High Keeper of the Arts, didn't want to hear it. The signature on the new painting of the Regis that adorned the university hallway taunted him, looked down on him, reminded him of everything he was expected to be, of everything he wasn't.

It was all just a big game he would never win.

"Come on, Milo, we're going to be late to the lecture."

Milo blinked out of his thoughts and tore his gaze away from the painting. He wasn't entirely sure which of his friends had just spoken up, but he smiled at them both anyway.

"Yeah, let's go."

*~*~*~*