Shades of War

The air reeked of iron and burnt flesh. It clung to Luca’s nostrils, as if war had seeped into the very pores of the city. Florence lay fractured under the tyrant's thumb, and though Luca's hands were stained with pigment, it was the blood of battle that haunted him. He crouched over his easel, brushing crimson strokes onto the canvas, trying to drown the memory of war in art, but every stroke only deepened the ache in his chest.

Outside, boots hammered the cobblestones like a drum beating for a bloodletting. Soldiers, faceless in their helmets, marched through the narrow streets as if the city itself would fall in step. Their presence was a dark cloud looming, an omen. Luca’s fingers tensed, the brush trembling in his hand. His studio felt too small, the air too thick.