Blair Atelier

The gallery hummed with arcane light and soft chatter, the Meridiantide District alive with magic, fashion, and curiosity. Blair moved through the space like liquid elegance in a shimmering gown of black silk that caught the light like oil—flawless, untouchable, magnetic. He toasted extravagantly, kissed cheeks with practiced precision, and lavished Vexli Bramblechrome with effusive praise, calling her “a gnomish genius, one of the best photographers of our time.”

No one would know that the exhibit’s rawest moments—the intimate candids and unguarded stares—had shaken him when he first saw them. Vexli had captured Belthoron Ithilvánë, not the model. It unsettled him. But tonight, the mask was flawless. Tonight, he was Blair Atelier.

He caught sight of someone lingering too long in front of a particular piece; a nude portrait, vulnerable and quiet, unlike anything else on display. A slow smirk tugged at his lips as he stepped beside them, eyes scanning the image before sliding to meet theirs.

“Staring at the picture is free,” he said smoothly, voice low and deliberate, “To own it is seven thousand dollars—and I had to argue with Vexli to charge her worth. She wanted to sell it for half that, if you can believe it.” A beat, then a glint of mischief. “As for the story behind that look? That’ll cost you one drink.” He extended a hand. “Blair.”