The first time I whispered a story to the wind, it was with the certainty that it would end in my death. I may have been a child then, but I understood the implications of the crime I was committing. To perform art is to lie, to lie is to sin, and to sin is to attract the shadows that haunt the dark. Still, instead of running from what I’d done, I waited with bated breath, safe in the sunlight, while my eyes were locked on the woods at the edge of my village. I hardly dared blink for fear I’d miss the telltale sign of movement darkening between the trees. Some indication that I’d stirred a shadow monster’s hunger.

When an hour passed and no such danger presented itself, I wasn’t relieved.

I was disappointed.

Not because I wanted to die; I wanted to feel alive. To quell the longing inside me, instilled not by sin but by holy scripture.

There is no lie greater than fiction,

No sin more beautiful than art.

Stray not unto these pleasures,

For the devil is their muse.

Gods, the way those lines moved me back then. Though they were meant to serve as a warning not to partake in the forbidden arts, they never sounded like one to me. They sounded like a calling. A challenge. Could I weave a tale so fascinating the devil would take notice? One so beautiful the Shades that plague humanity would seek my death?