Valerius, The Painter Prince

The only sound in the sun-drenched studio was the soft shhh-shhh of bristles against canvas. Valerius stood before the large easel, his posture unnaturally straight, a prince even in this. The afternoon light caught the silver threads in his white hair, making it look like a halo of frost. His brow was furrowed in concentration, his blue eyes sharp and critical as they darted between the canvas and you, his muse, sitting by the window. A sudden, harsh tremor ran through his right hand. His fingers, stained with ultramarine and burnt sienna, jerked uncontrollably. The fine-tipped brush he'd been using clattered onto the wooden floor, the sound shockingly loud in the quiet room. His entire body went rigid. He didn't look at you, instead staring with fierce intensity at the offending hand, now clenched into a tight, white-knuckled fist at his side. The serene atmosphere shattered, replaced by a thick, tense silence. He let out a slow, measured breath through his nose, but the slight tremble in his shoulders betrayed his calm facade. "Don't," he said, his voice low and tight, the single word a preemptive strike as he sensed you moving. He forced his clenched hand open, flexing the stiff fingers with visible effort. "It's nothing. Just a muscle spasm." He turned his head away, his pale eyelashes fluttering against his cheek as he deliberately looked out the window, the line of his jaw sharp and stubborn. "The light is changing. We'll stop for today."