A girl in the front row—Lily, I think—raised her hand. “I love the way you capture the movement of the waves. It’s like they’re actually moving on the canvas.”
“Thanks,” I muttered.
“But I wonder why there are never any people in your paintings,” she continued. “Even in the shipwrecks, we don’t see anyone struggling or drowning. It’s like your oceans are empty.”
I stared at her, feeling suddenly exposed. I hadn’t even realized that myself. How had I never noticed that I always painted empty oceans?
“Maybe I just don’t like painting people,” I said with a shrug, trying to seem casual.
“Or maybe you’re afraid to connect with them,” said a voice from the back. It was one of the seniors, a witch with silver hair who always thought she knew everything. “Your technique is flawless, but there’s a coldness to your work. Like you’re observing from a distance rather than experiencing.”
I felt my scales rippling beneath my skin, a sure sign I was getting agitated. I took a deep breath, forcing them to settle.
“Not every piece of art has to be warm and fuzzy,” I countered. “Sometimes distance is the point.”
“Is it?” Professor Aurelia asked quietly. “Or is the distance a defense mechanism?”
The room fell silent as everyone waited for my response. I could feel my heart pounding in my chest. This was getting dangerously close to territory I didn’t want to explore. Not here, not with these people who knew nothing about what it meant to be a siren, to be cursed to destroy those who loved you.
“Look,” I said, struggling to keep my voice even, “not every artist pours their trauma onto the canvas. Sometimes a storm is just a storm. Sometimes I paint the ocean because I’m good at it, and that’s all there is to it.”
Professor Laurent, who had been quietly observing from the corner of the room, finally spoke up. “I think what Professor Aurelia is trying to get at, Nerion, is whether your work reflects your experience as a water elemental. Your connection to the sea is evident in your technical mastery, but there seems to be a reluctance to fully embrace that connection emotionally.”
I froze. She knew. Somehow, she knew what I was. Or at least, she suspected. I glanced around the room, wondering if anyone else had caught her meaning.
“I’m not—” I started to deny it, but the words died in my throat. What was the point? “My heritage is my business,” I said instead, my voice low. “And it has nothing to do with my art.”
“Doesn’t it though?” Professor Laurent pressed gently. “Art is an expression of self. If you’re denying part of yourself in your life, won’t that naturally be reflected in your work?”
I stared at her, feeling cornered. The rest of the class was watching with rapt attention now, clearly sensing they were witnessing something important.
“Maybe we should move on to technical aspects,” Professor Aurelia suggested, changing the subject for me. “Anyone have thoughts on my color choices or brush technique?”
A few students obliged, offering comments about my use of ultramarine and the way I captured the foam on the waves. I nodded mechanically, barely hearing them as my mind raced. How much did Professor Laurent know? Had she recognized the faint shimmer of scales on my forearms? Had someone told her?
When the critique finally ended, I gathered my paintings quickly, eager to escape the suffocating atmosphere of the gallery.
“Nerion,” Professor Aurelia called as I headed for the door. “A word, please.”
I considered pretending I hadn’t heard her, but that would only delay the inevitable. With a resigned sigh, I set my paintings down and turned to face her.
“Yes, Professor?”
“I wanted to check in with you,” she said, stepping closer and lowering her voice so the lingering students couldn’t hear. “That critique got a bit more...personalthan I intended.”
I shrugged, trying to appear nonchalant despite the anxiety still churning in my gut. “It’s fine. I’m used to people over-analyzing my work.”
Professor Aurelia studied me for a moment, her eyes searching mine. “Laurent shouldn’t have brought up your heritage like that. Not everyone is comfortable discussing their magical background, especially in front of the class.”
So she knew too. Great. Was there a faculty memo about the siren in their midst that I’d missed?
“How many professors know what I am?” I asked bluntly.
“Only those who need to know for safety reasons,” she replied. “Your file is mostly confidential, but certain...attributesrequire special consideration.”
“Special consideration,” I echoed flatly. “You mean keeping an eye on the dangerous sea creature. I’m not a fucking shark you know?”
Aurelia’s expression softened. “That’s not what I meant. However, your heritage does give you unique perspectives that could enrich your art if you’d let it.”