After mastering the lessons of logic, strength, healing, and wisdom, Elder Aarion sent me to the western meadow of the island. He said it was a place blessed by wind and colour — a land where imagination breathed freely.
When I reached there, I understood why. The western side of Aarvak Island was nothing like the calm valleys I had grown used to. Here, flowers bloomed in colours I'd never seen before — silver, crimson, and even shimmering blue-gold petals that changed shades with the sun. The air itself shimmered faintly, carrying the scent of silk and roses.
In the middle of that dazzling field stood a tall marble structure shaped like a workshop. Its doors were open, and soft music floated out — the quiet sound of strings and chimes blending into the humming of tools. I stepped inside and froze.
The walls were covered with fabrics that glowed like flowing water. Dresses that floated in the air as if worn by invisible people. Shoes crafted of crystal. Ornaments that shone with pale fire. And standing at the centre, sketching something on a floating sheet of light, was a man who looked too elegant to belong to this world.
He had golden-brown hair that fell over his shoulders and sharp, gentle features that reminded me of both an artist and a king. His eyes were amber — soft yet commanding — and his outfit was a mixture of ancient and modern: a white cloak with silver threads and black gloves that reached his wrists.
He turned toward me with a half-smile. "So, the boy with the seven-star mark finally arrives."
"Are you the next master?" I asked quietly.
He laughed lightly. "Titles bore me, but yes—I am your fifth teacher. You may call me Master Lucien Graviel — The Weaver of Beauty."
Elder Aarion's voice came from behind. "Lucien Graviel was once the most celebrated designer across worlds. In one realm, he created crowns for kings; in another, automobiles that defied gravity. He once built a harp from light itself. The people gave him many names—The Muse of Creation, The Divine Maker, The Spirit of Aesthetics."
Lucien rested his pencil and smiled faintly. "They call you by titles when they stop understanding you. I am simply a man who creates because silence feels empty."
From him, I would learn the most unpredictable craft of all — creation.
My training under Master Lucien was unlike anything before. Where Kaien taught discipline, and Inara taught calm, Lucien taught wonder. "The world is made of forms," he said. "Every form has rhythm, every rhythm has beauty. Learn to see that, and you can shape anything — from silk to steel."
He taught me to design with both hands and heart. The first week, he made me weave simple cloth using bright golden threads from strange island spiders. He showed me how to feel the fabric before cutting it — "Let your fingers speak to the thread before your mind does," he said.
Then came jewellery. He handed me uncut crystals that grew from the cliffs. "Each gem hums differently," he explained. "Listen to its sound before you shape it." And when I pressed it to my ear, I actually heard faint vibrations — tiny songs trapped inside the stone.
He called it the Art of Silent Music — knowing the sound of beauty without noise.
After that came carpentry, shoemaking, painting, and sculpting. My small hands could barely hold the tools, but he guided them patiently, never letting me hurry. "Rushing ruins grace," he said often.
He also taught me modern creation design through symbols of science. Inside his workshop were strange devices that shaped light and sound into solid form. He called these Dream Printers. Through them, he showed me how shaping a thought could create structures as strong as metal.
"Technology," he told me once, "is modern art that forgot its soul. But you will remember it. You will give your creations purpose beyond beauty."
He didn't just teach how to make—he taught why to make. "When kings wanted power, they came to me," he said one night, sketching under glowing lamps. "When gods wanted worship, they wore my crowns. And when I finally made something for myself, I realised beauty without meaning is an empty mirror."
I asked him why he had come to this island.
He looked at the silver waterfall outside. "Because I created too much that never deserved to exist. Here, I learn what should be made — not what can be."
Some nights, he would play music — enchanting melodies from instruments half-ancient, half-modern. The sound filled the air like soft rain, and with every note, the lights around us shaped themselves into forms — dresses, sculptures, even small animals made of glowing fabric.
"See?" he said once, as I watched wide-eyed. "When creation and intention merge, life is born. That is the true artist's gift."
He also taught me to design practical art — clothing that could change temperature, jewels that responded to emotion, and vehicles shaped like wind. "Art is not for eyes alone," he said. "It must serve, inspire, and protect."
Sometimes, he trained me using games. One day, he scattered broken items before me—a torn shoe, a cracked vase, a bent dagger—and said, "Fix them. But don't make them the same. Make them better."
I worked for hours, reshaping and rethinking. When I finally showed him the results, he smiled. "Improvement, he said, "is also a kind of creation. You did well."
His energy was unlike any teacher before him. Calm but colourful, composed yet unpredictable. Some days, he was silent, lost in drawing designs that painted themselves midair. Other days, he was full of life, calling me "apprentice of chaos" as we turned wind and light into art together.
Before I left, he handed me a glowing pen wrought from silver roots of the island tree. "Use this to design your destiny," he said. "But remember — every creation binds a soul. Create with purpose."
When I asked what he meant, he smiled sadly. "Because in one of my worlds, I built perfection — and perfection destroyed itself. I came here to remember that imperfection is what keeps beauty alive."
As I walked out of his workshop that last evening, the sunset covered the meadow in flowing gold. The dresses hanging around the workshop swayed as if alive, and somewhere, Lucien's music played softly on the wind.
And that was how I met Lucien Graviel—The Weaver of Beauty, the master who taught me that creation is not just colour and form but the voice of the soul trying to make the world a little more beautiful, even for a moment.