Curse Painter Novels & Stories

I stop abruptly and the man stops with me, his hand grabbing my arm and pulling me close. "Did not think someone like you would be this shy-" he traces my face with the back of his fingers and I slap his hand away from my face, shaking lightly. "Someone like me?!" I hiss between my teeth and it seems that my rage only fuels something within the man as he smirks at me, showing off his disgustingly yellow teeth. Up close, Father Cassimir is even more disgusting. Maybe if he took better care of himself... no! It was a matter of the heart! his heart was tainted and no amount of water and soap would wash that away!

Even as I snarled, “I will tear you apart with my bare hands.” But before I could, my body locked up, seized by a force I didn’t understand. My breath stuttered, my pulse hammering in my skull as whatever curse he had placed on me dug deeper, branding itself inside me. I felt my dragon form breaking, twisting into something lesser, something in-between. One of my men shouted in horror. Another rushed forward to steady me, but I shoved him off. I would not fall in front of them. I would not show weakness. The wizard wiped at his face with shaking hands. He was still crying.

"The curse isn't from my mother. Well, it was gotten through her but it wasn't from her. A greater force made her do it. But, what force is it?" "It doesn't make too much sense," Rendall said and Helia nodded in agreement. "Yes, it doesn't. If the curse isn't from my mother, then who is it from and why did the person curse Khron and Wulfe?" ******************** "Where are they?" Alpha Janus thundered as soon as a warrior walked into his room. "We haven't found them," the warrior replied and Alpha Janus snarled at him. "What do you mean? There are so many of you searching for two were-creatures. The other is just a female and you're telling me this? Are you all warriors or losers?"

It wasn't like I hadn't tried telling my family about the curse. A month ago, the pack witch, Alina Lopez, told me that the curse was extremely deadly, with no way of lifting it. I would be coughing up blood and dying in a month. The first thing I did was to return home to see my family. As soon as I walked in, I saw my older brother, Kent Greene, happily holding up a beautiful new dress against Natali Fisher. "Dad, Mom, look at the dress Kent bought for me—isn't it beautiful?" Natali twirled around with the dress and looked over to Mom and Dad.

“What is it like to be a full-time painter? Is it hard if I try to pursue that in the near future?” Pierre stared at me, his eyes thoughtful. “Being a full-time painter can be both rewarding and challenging,” he began. “It allows for the freedom to create and express oneself through art, but it also requires dedication, hard work, and a strong business sense.” He paused, letting the weight of his words sink in before continuing. “One of the main ways that full-time painters make a living is through selling their artwork. This can be done through various avenues: galleries, art shows, online platforms, or even direct sales to clients. Each method has its unique benefits and challenges.”

To a Tactician, it was a topographic map of intent. The brushstrokes were aggressive. Upward slashes. Violence in the wrist movement. The painter hadn't just marked the territory; they had struck it. The white pigment was thick, industrial-grade polymer—likely scavenged from the Dregs' shipyards where the hulls of dead tankers rotted in the acid rain. And it was fresh. The smell hit the back of my throat—sharp, chemical acetone. It cut through the prevailing stench of mold and urine, stinging my sinuses.

I can't let her come in-between my senses of reasoning. I paced to the study room and picked up the book I have on my table. I have not been able to get to another page. I am just at one page ever since. The curse is something I wouldn't love anyone to know about because I don't know how to break it. The curse is a difficult thing and now that she has known, the bond from our fate would act as a catalyst to put us together. I couldn't really concentrate on the book. I will open a page, read small. Before I know it, I am already thinking heavily again.

The most unnerving thing was his smile, stretched unnaturally wide as if carved onto his face. “This is the Blood Curse,” the figure explained, his tone delightfully cruel. “A unique art. In this era, no one but us can cure it. The only way to rid yourself of it is by draining every drop of your blood… but we both know you can’t do that.” He chuckled darkly. “I told you I’d make you beg. This is just the beginning.” Danial’s heart sank as the word “curse” reached his ears. His mind flashed back to his encounter with the Curse King. Could this be related?

Now, they waited. The wave did its work not with a roar, but with a whisper. It was a pollen of productive dissatisfaction, drifting into the sealed ecosystems of the Editors' "perfected" worlds. The Grand Curator's moment of doubt was not an isolated event. It was a catalyst. On the world of the painter and the crooked apple, the "glitch" became a movement. "The Crooked Apple School" rejected narrative perfection, seeking instead to capture the beauty of the unique, the off-center, the unresolved. Their art was deemed flawed by the Editors' algorithms, but it resonated with a deep, forgotten part of the populace's soul.

"They disbanded two decades ago... or so we were told." The air thickened. "Someone survived," Elias said grimly. "And they've found us." Veyra broke the seal and unrolled the parchment, eyes scanning the looping script written in a deep red ink that shimmered unnaturally, as though alive beneath the surface. Each word seemed to pulse as she read it aloud: "To the one born of frost and fire, child of prophecy and danger, We write to you not with threat, but with truth. The curse can be broken—but only by hands that carry both legacy and sacrifice.