Novel & Cerita Of A Muse

“You’re not them. And that’s the problem.” I glare up at him, defiant despite the pounding of my heart, despite the heat pooling low in my stomach from his closeness. “Then what am I, huh? Some new toy? Something for your ego to conquer?” He leans in, his breath warm and sinful against my lips but not touching. “You’re my muse.” I scoff, feeling all emotions at once. His muse? What does that even mean? I was not is painting. I was not his poem. Not a tragic masterpiece he could destroy and claim it to be beautiful.

I pulled free first, “Sorry. But don’t think this counts for anything, I’m still mad at you.” “Fair enough,” he kissed my cheek, “But before we start, know that I won’t be able to answer everything.” I sat on my desk, “Then answer this, who was that voice?” “You’re Muse,” he said lightly. I stared at him blankly, “What do you mean?” “Everyone has some form of music in their souls,” he explained, “But a musician has a unique Muse inside of them, whether it be classical, rock, or a mixture of both.”

Muse's attendants laughed. "Great Master Pearlo is our most powerful Earthly Celestial in the Mystique Realm. He has been undefeated since 300 years ago. Almost everyone is below him except Saint Onyx. Not even a Heavenly Celestial could," one of them said. "Honestly, do you really think you can marry Mirth under Lady Muse's watchful eyes?" another added. Mirth blushed and tightened her fists. "Don't bother with them. They don't know how big the universe is," Logan said calmly.

Damien called through the phone and she jerked back to reality. She had to call Zaire but for now, she had to handle Damien’s questions. “Y…yes Damien, I am Muse.” She uttered in a trembling voice, “But the things is…” Her voice faltered, unsure of the lie she was going to cook up. She had just said that she was Muse, and that was something she did not know if she can maintain. Muse was a damn good designer, her designs making waves across borders and in international bodies. Of course, she would be able to catch the eye of someone like the Queen of Oakcrest.

I bang on a pot with a spoon, singing a off-key nursery rhyme at the top of my lungs. It is a war of aesthetics. A battle for his soul fought with color and sound. My creations are not good. They are not beautiful. But they are true. They are real. They are us. And their sheer, mundane, clashing joy is a dissonance the Muse cannot tolerate. It feeds on refined sorrow, not on messy, loud happiness. The clash of our creations—his dark perfection, my bright chaos—creates a psychic static that shakes the workshop. The Muse flickers, its beautiful form destabilizing. It cannot process this. It cannot consume this.

A flowing red dress framed my figure, and every careful stroke showed the artist's affection toward me. The artist was Anthony, and the title read, "My Only Muse". A hand-painted portrait carried a weight and romance that no confession could match. The entire social circle was in an uproar, shocked that Anthony, who had always been notoriously wild and arrogant, could fall so deeply for a woman. No one expected that after three years of living in the shadows, I would return, looking vibrant and more breathtaking than ever. Comment after comment calling us a perfect match flooded in, each one landing like a blow, leaving Caleb unable to stay composed.

For royal families to travel to these events is a tradition, Aunt Martha told me. "I am anxious for you to meet Maxon. My cousin is a wonderful man; we are all waiting for him to find his muse. He says he already found it, but it slipped through his fingers, but knowing him, it shouldn't take him long to find it," said Elena. "Muse?" I said, confused. "Ha, I forgot there were still some terms you didn't know, for werewolves. It's MATE for us; it's MUSA OR MUSE for women."

“All five of you are my muses.” They stared. Then they laughed. Th en they cried. Then they kissed me. All at once. The exhibition would not have one muse. It would have five. And the canvases would be filled.

Too bad, I’m desperate. “So I need a muse.” I spoke letting all of that friendly tone disperse and revealing the tired emotions that I’ve been bottling up. He seemed pretty shocked for a second before masking it up. “I want to enter into WYP so badly. It’s my dream and now the latest project demands me to have a muse or a mini gallery of my own muse.” “I don’t care about all that. What’s in it for me?” Josiah said after hearing me out. I smirked at his response. He listened and didn’t even interrupt me. It may be stupid to think that but I rather go with it.

A door at the far end of the hall stood slightly ajar. I was about to keep walking when something caught my eye—paint. Soft strokes of color near the edge of the frame. I paused, glanced around. No footsteps. No voices. Just silence and shadows. I pushed the door open just enough to peer inside. And froze. The room was bathed in natural light, dust motes dancing through it. Easels stood at angles, some with canvases half-covered, others fully exposed. Portraits. All of the men. Each painted with such intensity it made my chest tighten. Their eyes told stories—grief, yearning, quiet vulnerability. And in all of them, there was something familiar. Not their faces, but their emotions.