《Enchanted Cards - The Magician's gamble》 Chapter 1: The Cards Are Dealt The city of Veyris stretched before Ronan like a promise¡ªa world built on chance, on magic, on risks worth taking. He had always been a man drawn to uncertainty, a gambler who knew how to play the odds in his favour. But Veyris was different. Here, fate wasn¡¯t just a concept¡ªit was law, carved into every cobbled street, whispered through the flickering lanterns that lined the alleys. Ronan was not an imposing figure¡ªshort in stature, but quick. His sharp brown eyes scanned everything, ever watchful, ever assessing. His hands, deft from years of pickpocketing and cheating the unwary, twitched at his sides, itching for the weight of stolen coin or a well-placed deck. His light grey hair, almost white under the lantern glow, marked him as different, but he was used to standing out. More than that, he was used to slipping away before trouble could find him. But luck had not been on his side lately. The past few weeks had been a string of losses, bad hands, and worse decisions. He was here in Veyris not just to seek fortune¡ªbut to claw his way back from the edge of ruin. The city pulsed with life as he walked its winding streets. Merchants called out their wares, their voices a cacophony of promise and persuasion. A street performer juggled a set of glowing dice, each spin shifting the numbers in impossible ways. A woman with ink-dark eyes whispered hushed predictions to a nervous man clutching a single silver coin. Everywhere he looked, fortune was being made and lost. Veyris was a city of paradoxes, at once beautiful and treacherous. The buildings were a patchwork of ages¡ªsome crumbling with time, others standing tall with polished obsidian and enchanted glass. Magic shimmered faintly in the air, an invisible current that tied the city together. The streets twisted unnaturally, shifting in ways that made newcomers lose their way. It was a city that welcomed all but never gave anything for free. He pulled his cloak tighter around him, blending into the crowd. The air thrummed with anticipation, charged with unseen forces. The Deck of Fate, they called it¡ªa set of enchanted cards that shaped lives, deciding fortune or ruin with the flip of a hand. He had heard the stories. Legends of those who had drawn greatness from the deck and those who had lost everything. A farmer turned king with a single card. A noble reduced to a beggar with another. In Veyris, fate could be cheated, but never outrun. As he walked, a voice drifted from a shadowed doorway. "Looking for your fortune, traveller? Or perhaps, looking to rewrite it?" Ronan smirked and turned his head slightly, catching sight of a hunched figure in a tattered cloak. A fortune dealer. Their kind was common here, peddling glimpses of destiny to the desperate and the greedy alike. "I don¡¯t put my trust in pretty pictures on parchment," Ronan said, stepping past him. The dealer chuckled, low and knowing. "Then why are you here?" Ronan didn¡¯t answer. He had his reasons, but he wasn¡¯t about to spill them to some alleyway trickster. Instead, he kept moving, his destination clear in his mind. Tonight, he wasn¡¯t here to buy into fate. He was here to test it. Magicians & The Power of the Cards The true power in this city did not belong to kings or merchants, but to magicians¡ªnot men born with magic, but those chosen by the cards. Every magician possessed an Anchor Card, a singular force that granted them abilities unlike any other. Once drawn, it bound to them permanently, shaping their lives, their strengths, and sometimes, their doom. And among them, one name stood above the rest. Zephyr. A man of mystery, feared and revered in equal measure. His Anchor Card was The Seer¡¯s Hand, a rarity that allowed him to read fate without distortion. Where others saw only possibility, Zephyr saw certainty. He did not gamble, did not play for wealth or glory¡ªZephyr¡¯s currency was truth. And truth was a dangerous thing. Rumours surrounded him like shadows. Some claimed he had read the fate of a king and whispered a prophecy that led to his downfall. Others said he had once drawn The Death Card for himself and lived, defying the very law of the deck. Few dared to seek him out, and even fewer left his presence unchanged. His presence in Veyris was an anomaly. Magicians of his Caliber did not linger in one place, yet he had made the city his home¡ªor perhaps, his cage. He was a fixture of the notorious tavern The Hollow Coin, a place where gamblers played not just with gold, but with fate itself. And on certain nights, when the air was thick with possibility, he offered readings. Not all who sat across from him walked away unscathed. Because when Zephyr spoke, fate listened. The Tavern & The First Glimpse of Zephyr Ronan pushed open the heavy wooden door of The Hollow Coin, stepping into the dim, smoke-filled tavern. The scent of spiced wine, damp stone, and old parchment clung to the air, mixing with the low hum of murmured bets and the occasional burst of laughter. Here, in the heart of Veyris, men and women gambled not just with gold, but with their very futures.A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation. At the far end of the room, past the gamblers hunched over flickering candlelight, he sat. A figure draped in silver-threaded fabric, his presence commanding the space around him without a word. Zephyr. His cloak pooled around him like mist, its shimmering embroidery catching the glow of enchanted lanterns. His fingers worked effortlessly through a deck of luminous cards, weaving them between his hands with an ease that spoke of mastery. Unlike the other tables, where players huddled with feverish greed or desperation, Zephyr¡¯s table was empty. Not for lack of interest¡ªbut because no one dared. Everyone knew the truth of it. A wager made with Zephyr wasn¡¯t about money. It was about fate. Coin could be won back, but a truth spoken by Zephyr became inescapable. His price wasn¡¯t measured in gold, but in the knowledge he gave¡ªand the burden that knowledge carried. A king once traded his crown for a single reading. A merchant abandoned a fortune after Zephyr revealed what lay ahead. Some left his table richer in wisdom. Others left ruined by it. That was how he earned his place in Veyris. Not through tricks or sleight of hand, but through the sheer, undeniable certainty of his readings. Those desperate enough to seek him out knew the cost. And still, they came. Some brought secrets to barter¡ªwhispers of betrayals, of hidden passages, of stolen magic yet to be claimed. Others offered favours, debts Zephyr could call upon in times of need. He never took wealth for wealth¡¯s sake. But information? Leverage? Those were worth far more than gold. Ronan took in the scene with a knowing smirk. His gaze flicked to the untouched chair across from Zephyr, then back to the man himself. The flickering light caught on Zephyr¡¯s striking features¡ªhigh cheekbones, sharp jaw, and dark eyes that seemed to see beyond the present moment. A magician, a fortune-teller, a seer. And, if the stories were to be believed, someone whose readings never failed. Most men would hesitate. Most men would turn away. Ronan was not most men. With a casual air, he strode forward, pulling back the empty chair. His boots thudded against the wooden floor as he took his seat across from the infamous magician. ¡°A game?¡± he asked, smirking. Zephyr didn¡¯t blink. His expression remained unreadable, his fingers never ceasing their movement through the deck. When he spoke, his voice was calm, measured. ¡°Not a game,¡± he said. ¡°A reading. Three cards.¡± The tavern seemed to hush around them, the air thick with something Ronan couldn¡¯t name. He leaned back slightly, weighing his options. He had always cheated fate before. But something told him¡ªtonight would be different. Ronan arched a brow. ¡°And if I don¡¯t like what they say?¡± Zephyr continued to watch him, unnervingly still, like a hunter assessing its prey. ¡°Then you will have learned something valuable, even if you refuse to listen.¡± A thrill curled in Ronan¡¯s chest, part challenge, part anticipation. He had spent his life outwitting fate, dodging misfortune by sheer will and cleverness. Cards were just paper. Luck was just an illusion shaped by the right hands. Still, something about Zephyr¡ªhis quiet confidence, his certainty¡ªunsettled him in a way he wasn¡¯t used to. And Ronan had never been able to resist a gamble. ¡°Fine.¡± He leaned forward, lacing his fingers together on the table. ¡°Let¡¯s see what fate has to say about me.¡± The Fateful Reading ¨C The Lover¡¯s Bond Zephyr¡¯s fingers moved like water over the cards, each one whispering against the next in a rhythmic shuffle. Their edges shimmered faintly, charged with something unseen, something ancient. The deck was more than paper and ink¡ªit pulsed with the weight of fate itself, a living thing bound to forces beyond comprehension. Ronan leaned forward, resting his arms on the table. His pulse remained steady, his face unreadable, but deep in his chest, a quiet curiosity curled, waiting to be fed. He had played a thousand hands before, gambled on everything from coin to crowns, but never had the stakes felt quite like this. Zephyr fanned the cards out before him in a perfect arc. He did not instruct, did not coax¡ªjust watched, his gaze unwavering, his presence patient. The silence stretched between them, turning heavy, expectant. Ronan exhaled through his nose. It¡¯s just a reading. Just cards. His fingers hovered over the spread, the cool air brushing his skin like a phantom touch. A choice. He had always believed in choices¡ªhis ability to slip past fate¡¯s grasp with clever hands and sharper instincts. But as his fingertips met the surface of a single card, a shiver licked up his spine. He turned it over. The Lover¡¯s Bond. The moment the card flipped, the tavern held its breath. The low murmur of gamblers, the clink of dice against wood¡ªall of it dulled, like the world itself had taken a step back. The lanterns didn¡¯t flicker, but their light seemed... hesitant. As if even they feared what had just been revealed. The air shifted¡ªthickening, darkening, charged. The flickering lanterns dimmed, their glow shrinking, as if recoiling from what had just been unveiled. The reaction was immediate. A few heads turned toward their table, eyes glinting with the unmistakable glimmer of intrigue. Whispers stirred the smoky air like the rustle of unseen wings, their words impossible to catch, but their meaning clear. The card had drawn attention. Ronan¡¯s stomach tightened, though he kept his expression smooth. His first instinct was to brush it off¡ªjust another legend, another fool¡¯s belief. And yet, something was wrong. Zephyr had stilled. Not a flicker of movement, not a shift of breath. He sat motionless, gaze locked onto the card, his dark eyes unreadable beneath the candle¡¯s weak glow. Ronan had expected smug certainty, or even mild amusement from the famed magician. Instead, Zephyr¡¯s fingers curled slightly against the table, his throat working in a slow swallow. Not surprise. Not amusement. Something else. ¡°This is not a card of fortune.¡± Zephyr¡¯s voice was quieter now, a thread of sound woven into the thick silence between them. His gaze lifted at last, and when it met Ronan¡¯s, the weight of it was enough to steal the breath from his lungs. Ronan had seen men lose fortunes, reputations, even their lives over a single bad hand. But never had he seen someone react to a card like this. Zephyr wasn¡¯t amused. He wasn¡¯t mocking. He was watching Ronan like something had just been decided. A chill scraped down his spine. And for the first time, Ronan wondered¡ªhad he just played a hand he couldn¡¯t win? The magician¡¯s voice was steady, but something lived beneath it¡ªsomething wary, something knowing. ¡°It is a card of fate.¡± The words settled over Ronan like a warning, velvet-wrapped but unmistakably sharp. He clenched his jaw, ignoring the flicker of unease curling at the edges of his mind. He was no stranger to omens, to stories spun by firelight about love and ruin, destiny and death. He had always called them what they were¡ªillusions, tricks played by desperate men who needed something to blame for their failures. But this didn¡¯t feel like an illusion. Zephyr was still watching him, waiting for a reaction. Waiting for him to understand something Ronan refused to see. A muscle ticked in his jaw. He exhaled, slow and measured, then let his smirk slide back into place. Fate. Love. Bonds. He didn¡¯t believe in such things. And yet¡ªhis fingers trembled ever so slightly as he reached for the next card. But as his hand moved toward the next card, the unease coiling in his chest whispered that this time¡ªfate was playing him. Chapter 2: The Lover鈥檚 Bond The Wager of Fate Before Ronan could take the next card, Zephyr''s hand shot up, stopping him. "I wouldn''t do that if I were you." "Why not?" Ronan frowned. The silver flecks in Zephyr''s gray eyes shone like moonlight catching the edge of a blade under the flickering flame of candlesticks. "Do you even know what that card meant? If you did, you wouldn''t be so eager to draw the next one." Ronan forced a smirk, but a shiver skittered down his spine at something in Zephyr''s tone. "It means I''m going to fall in love soon, doesn''t it?" He hated how unsure he sounded. He''d spent years mastering the art of bluffing, yet the presence of Zephyr made him feel as though he was standing naked before someone who already knew his hand. "After you draw a card, it isn''t just a game of chance anymore," Zephyr said smoothly. "It must be read. And if you want me to read it, you must pay. " Pay? Ronan''s unease deepened. He had put fortunes on things before, weighing what a bad bet really felt like, but the whole way Zephyr said it made this gamble feel...different. "The price doesn''t have to be gold." Zephyr slight leaned forward: the golden embroidery on his cuffs catching the dim, phosphorescent light. Ronan swallowed. Anyone could see that Zephyr was a serious player; the guy was deathly serious. There was no bluffing his way through this. And yet, against what? What did he have left to gamble with anyway? He had already lost everything¡ªmoney, freedom, name, past. He had even put his entire past on the table. And lost. "I have nothing to offer," he finally admitted, his voice quieter now. "But I need this reading. I need something-anything-that could change my fate." The Price of a Reading "Do you not have anything at all?" Zephyr inquired, voice calm yet probing. There was no accusation in it, no mockery-just a question that could offer Ronan some escape, some chance to withdraw before things got too high. There has never been a situation for Zephyr to ask such question, this was the first. He never cared enough as to why a person would seek a reading or what brought them to his table. Detached rather than ruthless, he simply let fate play its course without interference. But, something was different that moment. Something about Ronan made him hesitate. Ronan was aware of that. Now, that gave him a quick flash of courage-a gambler''s intuition telling him that maybe there was an angle to play still. Probably, if Zephyr was unwilling to push the gamble further, he could push it to his advantage. Maybe, just maybe, pity would take over on Zephyr''s heart and grant him the reading for free. After all, who wouldn''t take free stuff? Free and gain is the ultimate jackpot for a gambler. "Sorry, absolutely nothing," said Ronan tilting his head just so, letting barring a flicker of vulnerability subject to play over the part of a desperate, broken man-generation of tears would help. Reflectively considered, Zephyr made a quiet noise, "Hmm." Then out of nowhere, he raised his hand to the tavern staff. "Bring some food for our friend here." He was equally calm without drawing attention but at that moment, every ear in the whole tavern seemed to hear it, because the room had fallen into deep silence, with every patron engrossed in the unfolding magic spectacle before them. It attracted them as they were for the show, for the event that would feed their gossip later. Excited to know what would happen to someone sitting across the table from Zephyr. A sad feeling ran through the rest of the room at Zephyr''s words. Somehow, they expected more exciting things-a sobbed plea, a bet flung without thinking or stretched-to-breaking-point tension. The spell was broken, and everyone sulkily returned to affairs. The interest now reduced, as the drama that was supposedly be here, now dead. That was exactly what Zephyr had in mind. Steaming plates began to be placed before them soon. In front of them, a steaming bowl of rich venison stew, thick with root vegetables and fragrant with spices, was placed. A side of crusty, buttered bread accompanied it, along with a small dish of roasted meat, crisped at its edges to perfection.The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident. The warmth of the food contrasted starkly with Ronan''s hollow stomach, reminding just how long it had been since he last had anything substantial. Ronan narrowed his eyes slightly in observation of Zephyr. This was not an act of charity. This is a calculated gesture. The stake at this game that is supposed to be played by Ronan is altered by Zephyr. And even though Ronan still kept up the bravado, he wasn''t really sure what everything meant. Following the Magician Ronan paused long enough for hunger to do battle with his conscience and win. Bread in hand, he dunked it into the stew and threw it into his mouth. His first bite burned his tongue, but it didn''t matter; he relished the warmth descending into him, nudging him back to the present. His last meal was three days ago. That did it; that was why he was here, why he needed to break his fate. While Ronan ate, Zephyr took his time. His meal was simpler¡ªa platter of roasted vegetables and a small serving of rice. He offered no words as Ronan gorged, but he was studying Ronan with a distraction less expression. Ronan noticed the look and swallowed hurriedly. "You''re not going to nag me about my manners or anything?" Zephyr smirked a little. "Would it matter?" "No, waste of breath" Ronan admitted, his mouth now half full. "But still, it seems something you should do." "Then I won''t waste it." Afterward, they ate in silence, but Ronan felt an unshakable feeling that the magician was somehow scrutinizing him. Not watching, not surveilling¡ªstudying. Weighing something on his mind. Yet Zephyr remained silent, and soon, their plates were empty. Without uttering a word, Zephyr dropped a few coins onto the table. He stood and adjusted the cuffs of his coat as if the meal had never taken place. Blinking, Ronan said, "Hold on. That''s it? You''re just leaving?" Without turning, Zephyr replied, "Aren''t you coming?" Ronan made no movement, sitting in shock for a moment. What did that card mean after all? Did it not count just because he hadn''t paid the bill? Was that whole thing now invalid? Had he lost his only chance? With thoughts spiralling out of control, he broke free from his stupor and rushed after Zephyr as if a spell had been broken. Once they were out, Ronan was suddenly very aware of all the eyes on them. Not just those from the tavern, but those from the street, too. Heads were turning as quiet mutterings were exchanged, and stares were thrown equally at Ronan and Zephyr. "Why is everyone looking at us?" Ronan whispered. Zephyr didn''t slow his gait. "They look at me. You are just a curiosity by association." Ronan was unsure if that left him feeling better about himself or worse. As they made their way through the twisting streets, the city felt like it was changing. It had ceased to be just a collection of buildings; it was now a realm of secrets and unseen rules. Ronan had been here before, but never like this. And it was never with someone like Zephyr. At last, they stopped before tall iron gates. Ronan stared up at the grand house beyond them, a dark silhouette against the silver of the night sky. He let out a low whistle. "Didn''t peg you for someone who lived in a place like that." Slanted toward him, Zephyr''s eyes glimmered with amusement. "What did you think?" Ronan shrugged. "I dont know...a haunted tower? A secret underground lair? A tiny shack in the woods?" Zephyr smirked. "Such an active imagination you have." "Interesting choice of vocabulary for a man who reads fortune in a tavern and just happened to have a nice house," Ronan countered, voicing muted suspicion. Zephyr remained silent, pushing the gate, stepping inside and pausing to see if Ronan would follow. Ronan hesitated for the second time that night. He stepped with a big sigh. Whatever this was, he was already too deep to turn back now. The Locked Room and the Seer¡¯s Hand What Ronan saw was not what he had expected of Zephyr''s place. He had pictured something dignified, maybe with odd artifacts or eerie charms. Or maybe with a lot of secrecy, almost hidden in the shadows, hardly a home. But this? It was¡­ comforting. The place was reasonably sized, not more than three rooms, but every nook and corner were like a hug. The wooden floorboards, old in age but polished, mirrored the flickering light from the strategically placed lanterns spread across the room. The dark wooden shelves that lined the walls were crammed with leather-bound tomes, rolled-up parchment, and tiny curios that spoke of stories untold. There was that smell in the air, that scent of old paper mixed with the smuggled mystery of incense and something herbal. But far more interesting to Ronan was the door upstairs. It was a huge door, splendidly heavy, and unlike any other door in the house. It loomed large on the first floor, the wooden surface darkened and iron-bound, and, with a lock that seemed more than a little formidable, the keyhole winked back at him very intriguingly under the half-light. That must have been it. A door behind which were hidden Zephyr''s treasures. His secrets. Ronan almost clutched and rubbed his fingers against his thigh; he knew better than to try his luck just yet, but the gambler in him had already begun to speculate. If Zephyr should be considered some mystic, what lay hidden behind that door? Gold coins? Rare artifacts? Forbidden knowledge? He casually turned back towards Zephyr, throwing out a test. "It isn''t really wise to let a stranger into your house like this." Zephyr did not even bother glancing back at him. "My anchor card is the Seer¡¯s Hand. Nothing can surprise me." The absolute, confident way he said it put a chill in Ronan''s spine. But then he paused, slightly turned his head, and as if absentmindedly malignantly declared, "Almost nothing can surprise me." Ronan noted the change, subtle distinction, but before he could probe Zephyr about it, the man resumed guiding him through the house. Each room was shown with an almost languid ease. At last, they ended up in a small, cozy room. The guest room. There was an unpretentious but nice bed on the other side against the wall, draped in soft linens with a faint scent of lavender. By the window was a handmade dresser, empty except for a candlestick and a weathered pocket watch. The window was narrow but let in just enough moonlight to throw silvery slashes on the wooden floor. In the corner was a somewhat smaller bookshelf than those scattered around the house, and unlike the others, its contents were rather practical than mysterious: some well-worn novels, a map of the city, a half-opened journal with its pages seemingly abandoned¡ªalmost as if somebody left it right in the middle of a thought. "I think you''ll fit just fine here for the night," Zephyr stated calmly. Ronan visibly hesitated. He wanted to press for the reading, to demand his answer. But if he did, odds were that Zephyr would give him exactly what he wanted and then push him out in the middle of the night before having another second to breathe. Was it worth the risk? ¡°But¡ª"he began cautiously. Zephyr raised an eyebrow. "Yes?" Ronan weighed his words carefully. His gambler''s instinct told him to keep it safe, to cling tightly to whatever little power he had. Instead of pushing for the reading, he suddenly shot out another question. "Why let me into your house?" Zephyr held his gaze, his expression inscrutable. "Because we are reading a card," he said, voice calm. "We shall do so tomorrow." There was something disturbing in the strength of his delivery¡ªan assurance, a certainty, as though fate had been predetermined and tomorrow would come to fruition. The words settled deep in Ronan''s chest, coiling there like a question he was not sure he wanted the answer to. Once alone, he lay back onto the soft bed, staring up at the ceiling. He should have slept well¡ªhe was weary, full for the first time in days, and snug under a roof. But the thoughts circled and circled about Zephyr''s words, around the locked door, around the unknown awaiting him in the morning. A floorboard creaked somewhere in the house. Ronan turned toward the sound, with his heart thumping wildly against his ribs. The house was silent again. Still. Just his imagination, he told himself. He shut his eyes. Tomorrow he would know. Chapter 3: A Wager in the Dark The Selections of the Anchor Cards How is it decided what person receives which Anchor Card? That, one could say, is the question of the ages. Many may have asked, but not only handful of them have ever tried to really understand. There are many Anchor cards and they are holding the fundamental force of fate and magic. Unlike magical bloodlines, they are not conferred by inheritance. Rather, the cards select their bearers; manifesting themselves at the age of sixteen, drawn to a magician by some undefined attraction that, apparently only the cards can comprehend. Once chosen, the Anchor Card attaches itself into the bearer-as a sign of being connected for the whole life. And the part of the body where it attaches itself to becomes their centre of power. Out of all the Anchor Cards, ten are the most powerful, most coveted:
  1. The Seer''s Hand - a gift of visions but a curse of light, the one who sees beyond time.
  2. The Tempest''s Wrath - Power like an unrelenting storm-wild, untamed, and unstoppable.
  3. The Hollow Veil - master of illusions, bending reality itself to their will.
  4. The Chained Abyss - strength drawn from sacrifice, a powerful force both feared and misunderstood.
  5. The Everflame - a heart of eternal fire, subsuming the embodiments of both passion and destruction.
  6. Silent Echo - the whispering of the forgotten voices revealing truths long buried.
  7. The Tainted Crown - a ruler marked by fate; fated to great or abysmal destinies.
  8. The Blooded Dagger - means enabling the warrior to have a kill with precision and instinct.
  9. The Gilded Mirage - the trickster''s Favor; of deception and fortune made one.
  10. The Wandering Shadow - one who walks between worlds, unseen yet ever-present.
Each of these cards hold tremendous power and irrevocably changed the fate of the ones they selected. There was a legend of the time when all ten bearers would have existed simultaneously--a moment when the prophecy trampled with most fear could be challenged by their unified powers. But history had never seen such a gathering. The cards had never come together. And the prophecy¡­.? Its long lost with history. But power never comes for free. A price must be paid; to command the magic of an Anchor Card, one must exchange something valuable for it. Some gave gold; others spend fate itself, while the more desperate sacrificed glimmering pieces of their own souls. Those who failed to keep their end of the bargain risked even more than what they had gained throughout their lives. The Seer''s Hand-One Anomaly in Fate From the beginning it has always been that the Anchor Cards find their bearers in the moment they thermally become sixteen. Zephyr is the exception. Days passed and rolled into Months and then into years. But he never got a single card calling for him. Initially, the magical society thought of him as a abnormality, a magically disabled - someone whose power had been voided by fate. While some said it was unnatural - ¡°if no card has come to him, no card will ever come." "Oh! Maybe his magic is broken," said others with a hint of smirking pity. Those comments weighed him down; suffocating thickly: without an Anchor Card, Zephyr was hardly a magician, just someone invalid. On the fringes of magical society, he did fit into a neither-outcast-nor-accepted category. A lot changed on the eve of his twentieth birthday. The Seer''s Hand sought him. It didn¡¯t come in a whisper; it wasn''t quite that soft like those who received a Anchor Card before. It blazed through him, like molten metal piercing through the chest, through the very being where such an imprint could never be wiped away. The pain was sheer torture. He had passed out for two days. When he came to, he was not simply a magician. He was a phenomenon. The visions came first in jolts, overpowering flashes of futures yet unfolding. Lives unraveled before one''s eyes; destinies tangled together, incomprehensible for the most part. There was no way for him to control the flood of knowledge and visions that came to him ¨C as there was no one to teach him. In time, with a lot of trial and errors, he trained himself to what he is today. In over two centuries, the Seer''s Hand had not chosen its bearer. Questions arose about the length of its absence, slowly leading to their doubts of if it would ever return. And yet it had returned - for him. Unlike those before him, the other Seers with same Anchor card, who could only see glimpses of the future, he could see it entirely. His visions were accurate and to the mark, there were no mistakes or guesses. This led to a general misconception, spread by few who were jealous that he could alter their fate with his words. And that sent chills down the back of everyone''s spine, forcing them to keep their distance from him. The magical world withdrew in fear. How is it that this most powerful of Anchor Cards should rise at so late a time? Why should it choose an outcast? To their utter disbelief, the predictions of this anchor card bearer were sharper, clearer, and utterly inescapable: its offered no alternative; the very voices which at one time had been dismissive now began to add their whispers into the mix: "He was chosen, but late, because there is a reason." "Visions... no one has seen anything like them." "Fate-it is possible that the intention was just to bring a late perfection when the right person got The Seer''s Hand." If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. Please report it. Respect replaced ridicule. Fear replaced doubt. Zephyr had turned into a man who was able to see everything. At least that¡¯s what he thought. But that was until eight days ago. A Vision Unbidden Zephyr has not been able to sleep. His mind would not turn off, tangled instead in the vision which had struck him like a lightning bolt eight days before meeting Ronan. It shouldn¡ät have happened. He should have been used to controlling his power by now. His visions would only came at his calling, wherein he was in control and did it with intent. Gone were the days of sufferings, horrifying flashes of the future bestowed upon him whenever fate deemed it interesting. And yet... For the first time in years, an uninvited vision had come. It had blasted him during that dark night, crashing into the peace of his mind with a force that ultimately left him breathless. He had awoken jerkily, gasping, trembling with exertion as the images burned bright in his mind. He saw a card drawn. Not just any card. The Lover''s Bond. It was not an Anchor Card, but to him, it had same weight that simply could not be explained. It vibrated with power, its golden edges shimmering as unseen fingers held it in place. Then he heard a voice. "He does not belong in your fate, yet you will gamble with destiny itself to keep him." Zephyr had never heard that voice before. It was an alien sound, foreign to the undertow of his visions - it was not a vision. Something beyond that. Something ancient. A sharp wretched pain shot through his chest; the Seer¡¯s Hand recoiled-the very same magic which made him who he was. It withdrew from him, as if it too was bewildered by what it had just witnessed. Such a happening had never been recorded in history. He couldn¡¯t find it anywhere, not in any book, not even in the ancient ones. And the worst part, he was not able to pull a card himself to check his future. For his Seer¡¯s magic refused to give him any vision, not even a glimpse. Now, days later, Ronan had come. Zephyr did not believe in coincidences. He turned over in his bed, staring up at the darkened ceiling with the weight of the vision heavy upon him, like an iron chain. The Lover''s Bond. A card of union. A card of unavoidable fate. And the man who had pulled that card now lay sleeping under his very roof. For the first time in years, Zephyr had a question he could not answer. Not even The Seer''s Hand could tell him how this story would end. A Morning of Unanswered Questions The bright morning showed no promise of peace. In the depth of unfamiliar bed, Ronan stirred; his body would not rise. His chest had warmth, a leftover feeling that clung there-a feeling as soft and strange as the fading sounds of an echoing melody. Frowning, he realized it was something he could put a name to but was not necessarily unwelcome. Then all of a sudden, up came memory like a slap upon him. His eyes flew wide open. He had been dreaming. For one heartbeat, he lay just staring at the ceiling in disbelief. It was some sort of dream-he dreamed that he was dreaming, terribly, wonderfully vivid and real. But the more he reached for it, the faster it crumbled, slipping through his fingers like grains of sand. Completely wrong there. He sat up abruptly, a nasty chill creeping into his bones, notwithstanding the warmth of the room. He remembered ¡­¡­. I lost my dreams. The last bet he played, the one which ruined him, took away everything, including his dream. "But how come I have been able to dream last night?" He had lost everything to gambling-including his ability to dream. It remains unclear what has changed, though he does recall dreaming. It was a throbbing between his temples. He struggled to bring back any single shred of it, but it seemed that nothing remained apart from that unsettling fact of it having happened at all. Swung his legs over the side of the bed, rubbing at his temples. Zephyr might know, but he had enough strange, creepy treasure tucked away behind those silver eyes of his. Still, it kept nagging at him. It was not just a dream, but it felt different, almost as if, well, it didn''t belong to him in the first place. By the time Ronan shuffled into the living room, he found Zephyr already there, perching stiffly in a high-backed chair with his hands folded in his lap. He gazed far away into nothing in particular. The hearth had grown cold now, snaking its shadows along the walls. The magician hadn''t been bothered to stoke it back to life. Heavy atmosphere within the room-laden with all that remained unsaid. Ronan halted. Zephyr looked¡­ somehow different. Not tired per se, but far away, as though his mind had spent the night unraveling things too complex for Ronan to grasp. Whatever haunted him kept clinging to his aura; a quiet storm behind his face. Then, the silence stayed. Neither of them spoke. Ronan shifted on his feet uncomfortably under that weight. At last, he cleared his throat after what seemed to be eternity. "So¡­" Zephyr''s eyes flicked toward him and with that, pulled himself back from wherever his mind had wandered. His voice-so calm-but too measured, too deliberate. "So, do you want to continue with the card reading now?" For a moment, he was taken aback at how suddenly, it had come to the point by Zephyr. "Okay, but with the same condition as before. I have nothing with which to pay you," he said. He expected to get mockery, disapproval, or maybe even the slightest hint of amusement. But Zephyr just scrutinized him for a moment before standing. "First, let''s go to the study. We can continue our discussion there." Ronan scowled. "Okay, but¡ªhold on¡ª" He straightened, squaring his shoulders. There was something more urgent, more pressing to figure out first. "But what about breakfast?" It was meant to be a very nonchalant question, but it came out sounding far more serious than he intended. Zephyr blinked once, then raised an unimpressed eyebrow. "You don''t understand. I don''t know when I''ll be able eating next and I refuse to make life-changing decisions on an empty stomach." He pointed to his own chest. "I''m running on nothing but hope right now, and hope doesn''t fill one''s empty stomach." Zephyr sighed somewhat wearily then turned down the hallway. Ronan''s spirits rose. "Was that a yes to breakfast?" "No." "But¡ª" "If you are hungry, then you should probably have thought of it before gambling away your fortune," Zephyr said as he continued walking. "Now come." Dramatic groan could be heard from Ronan, but he still followed. "At least give me a slice of bread¡ª!" A Gamble of Fate Zephyr led Ronan to the first floor and stopped dead in front of a grand double door. A flick of his fingers sent magic crackling through the air, quietly unlocking them with a click. The doors opened up to a treasury that left Ronan momentarily breathless. Gold glimmered here and there beneath the flicker of the candlelight, piled up next to artifacts of untold worth. Some folk''s trinkets from forgotten civilizations, ancient scrolls bound in leather, painting that probably cost a fortune¡ªall around him varied wealth were simply everywhere. And yet, even now when wealth was within reach, he didn¡¯t dare to touch anything. A strange weight pressed down on him, an invisible force warning him that not all that was in the room belonged to the world of the living. Zephyr strode on, as if all the riches meant nothing to him, and led Ronan further back into the room. Nestled under an elaborate tapestry was another entrance: small and humble but gave Ronan goose bumps. A secret room. The moment they stepped into it, the atmosphere change completely. Unlike outside where the magnificence really displayed, the chamber was a simple one. Its centre occupied just one table with a chair on either side. The air had a faint smell of parchment and candle wax, but something deeper beneath it-the smell of old magic. Zephyr took his seat with an unreadable expression and motioned that Ronan should follow suit. Ronan hesitated. Until now, he had always avoided the magician, fearing his power. Greed was still enticing his fingers to steal something valuable, but fear kept him still. Zephyr was no ordinary man. He was a Seer, and if indeed the stories were true, stealing from him meant a sentence of death. Reluctantly, Ronan sat down. Then Zephyr''s demeanour changed. He usually aloofness vanished, replaced by something far more unsettling. His gaze turned sharp, calculating, as if peeling back Ronan''s very soul. This, then, was his true business face. And it was terrifying. ¡°Let''s cut the chase.¡± Zephyr''s tone spoke of calm because it was powerful enough to be an unexpressed threat. ¡°I take it you have gambled everything, including yourself and your luck?¡± Ronan swallowed deeply. ¡°Yes.¡± There was a flicker of something¡ªsympathy? amusement?¡ªcrossed Zephyr''s face before he went on. "You should know, the rules of this reading differ from any gamble you''ve played before. This deck demands truth. If you try to cheat or run... you won''t just lose." His voice dropped to something colder. "You''ll be cursed." Ronan tensed. He had spent his entire life based on tricks and lies, half-chance and, well, some real stealing. But that was not to be for the game here. ¡°And I am not afraid,¡± he said, though the words barely came out. Zephyr exhaled, almost as if deciding something. ¡°I don¡¯t usually do this,¡± he admitted, ¡°but I have no choice.¡± He reached into his coat and pulled out the deck of cards. The very air around them began to shift, filling with the pressure of unseen power behind them. ¡°Everything else was already up for stakes save the Card of fate itself,¡± he said and caught Ronan''s eye. ¡°Since you don¡¯t own it, you cannot transfer it entirely. But you can share it.¡± Ronan frowned. ¡°What does that mean?¡± ¡°It means,¡± Zephyr said, quieter now, more deliberate, ¡°that from this moment forward, our fates will be bound. We will share the same card... the same destiny.¡± His fingers ghosted over the deck before he revealed the name. "The Lovers'' Bond." The words jolted through Ronan. A common fate. It hit him now. "It''s no wonder Zephyr hesitated before making this offer," he thought to himself "A Seer, a man who saw the very threads of fate himself, was offering to tie his destiny to that of a reckless gambler." For the first time in his life, Ronan felt something strange. Respect. Not the grudging respect reserved for an adversary, but something deeper. Zephyr was putting himself at risk alone, shouldering something that was never his. Ronan could have analysed the consequences, weighed his options like any gambler would. But he didn''t. He made the one choice that mattered. With steady resolve, he met Zephyr''s gaze. "I accept." Whatever came next-whatever price he had to pay-he would face it. For the first time in a long time... he had company to share his fate. Chapter 4: Secrets in the Cards The price of sight Zephyr had always thought of himself as a man above the whim of fate. He was the one gazing through the future threads of time and read destinies with practiced ease. Fate, to him, was something that he observed and manipulated ¨C if needed. He was never meant to be enslaved by it. He had always thought that seeing the future meant he could change the future, carve himself a path through the storm. At the very least, he thought he could stave off what was coming. And yet fate has bound him in this design to tread the very pathway, of which he had already foreseen. The cruelest irony burned the chest like a bitter joke. As he sat across from Ronan, observing the wary glint in the gambler''s eye, he realized the bitter truth - he was doing precisely the thing his vision had shown. There would be no deviation. No escape. Inevitability lay on him like an iron shackle. He quietly released his breath and stretched out his hand. Ronan frowned, hesitated. His sharp instincts warned him to be careful, but lurking curiosity won out. Slowly, carefully he placed his hand in Zephyr''s. Rough, calloused from living by his wits over the years. Quite a contrast to Zephyr''s steady, cool grip like it had never been subjected to the storm turbulence of the world. "Payment would need to be formally agreed," Zephyr stated, his voice calm and measured, hiding something from within. Ronan lifted his lips as if to smile but there was nothing amusing in it. "Right. Wouldn''t want to cheat a magician." Zephyr returned no smile but tightened his grip over Ronan, sending a strange energy coiling above the two between them as it transmitted shivers through the gambler. Then Zephyr started his incantation. The words slipped from his lips like silk, an ancient language woven into the magic itself. The temperature of the room dropped; the air started glowing with a colour of magic Ronan had never seen. With a gust od air, that was not there a minute ago, stirred the edges of Zephyr¡¯s robe and hair, sending ripples in them. When the first word came out of his mouth, there was ethereal fire in his eyes - bright silver, like moonlight on its highest point. It wasn''t light; oh no, it was something far deeper, something endless, something like staring into the abyss of time itself. "In the name of the Seer''s Hand, the price is set," Zephyr intoned, his voice jerking through the room, woven with something more than human. A sharp pull tugged at Ronan''s chest; he felt something, an invisible thread, being pulled away from deep inside. Breath was stuck in his throat when some vital force was siphoned away like sand flowing in an hourglass. He has parted with lot of things during his gambles, but this is the first time he had felt a pull with such a force and intensity. This is different from all other wagers, he could feel the difference in power it held. " The giver offers a fraction of fate," continued Zephyr, his hold firm and obstinate. " A portion of the card¡¯s destiny, exchanged for knowledge unknown." Ronan''s pulse thudded against his skin, but he didn''t dare pull away. His throat felt parched, his instincts were screaming at him to finish this, to run, but he held. There was something about this, that felt irreversible. "The contract is sealed," Zephyr declared. The glow in his eyes pulsed once, then faded into a softer shimmer before vanishing completely. Silence followed them hushed. Zephyr let go of Ronan, but the gambler instantly recoiled, cradling his palm as though it had been burned. The lingering chill in his veins refused to fade. "What... what the hell did you just do?" Ronan croaked softly. Zephyr raised his gaze; there was haunting something in his expression. "I took your wager," he said simply. "Now... I see." A dark shadow flickered in Zephyr¡¯s silver eyes. And then, the vision came crashing down. A Glimpse of Fate Ronan hesitated less than a heartbeat before laying his palm against Zephyr''s. The second the two skins touched, a sharp current passed though him, sharp¡ªnot painfully so but electric; like the sparks before storm hits. Then the world untwisted around him. It was as though someone had dragged him into the future, the present smoothly dissolving into a vision, it felt almost real. He noted he was still in this very house, only everything around him was different. The air felt warmer, filled with the smell of burning wood and something dully spicy. The crackling fire in the hearth sent flickering tongues of golden light to dance along the walls. And there he sat, resting his head on a shoulder. Wait ¨C not just any shoulder... Zephyr¡¯s shoulder. Ronan''s heart raced. The sight of himself so calm, so laid-back, set off an unsettling series of reactions within him. He was not just sitting there; he was murmuring something to Zephyr, and it looked like the shared words were quiet and intimate. He felt warm with a slight blush dusting his cheeks. Zephyr¡­ Zephyr was smiling down on him with a kind of look that melted his usual guarded expression. Before Ronan could grasp what this could mean, a voice deep and ancient rippled through the vision, surrounding him like a dark blanket: "With a shared card comes the Lover''s Bond, binding both to the same fate. A fate rewritten for the wager given. Mistakes do not go unpunished." The voice laid its weight, not only as sound pulses traveling through him, then carving into the matter of being. The warmth of the vision turned heavy in the warning left unspoken. And then¡ªjust like that¡ªthe vision shattered. Ronan gasped and stumbled back, his hand jerking from Zephyr''s as if burnt. Zephyr, too, had jerked backward, his usual composed face was filled with unreadable expression. They sat there, staring at now empty hands, their breath uneven, both of them unable to meet each other''s eyes. If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation. This was not what they had expected. Not at all. Bound by Fate Ronan let out an audible breath to steady himself; however, the weight of what he had seen weighed down on him. "So . . . " he slowly began, voice showing the disbelief, slowly moving towards something else ¨C something unspoken "Yes," Zephyr said, with his own poise crumbling just a little and the normal streak of assurance in his tone fading. "That was . . . well, unexpected." Ronan let out a breathless chuckle, as he attempted to comprehend. "For you as well? Wow!" Zephyr flickered his gaze at him, searching him, as if weighing something in Ronan''s expression. Yet, whatever he was searching for was never found. He shifted his focus again and grabbed at any thought to relieve the dense, blaring tension now selling between them. "You have two more cards," he said, far too quick, far too sudden, words colliding awkwardly in space between them. Ronan only stared at him, still dazed. "Can we do it some other time?" He needed time¡ªto think, to breathe, to understand how a gamble for his future had suddenly tangled him in something far more dangerous than a simple fate. He was here for fortune, for fate. But the fate-card had shown him something entirely different. Love. With him. The tension between them that was once a simmer had now escalated to the next level. And both of them were not sure how to address it. Zephyr cleared his throat, and looked almost¡ªhesitant? Did he too feel the weight of it? Ronan thought "So... breakfast?" Zephyr asked, uncertainty leaking into his words, which was very unfamiliar to him. Ronan seized the excuse with relief. "Yes, let''s go," he immediately exclaimed, pushing himself off too quickly, yearning to avoid the air thick with all those unspoken words. While he walked back, out of the hidden room, normally, he would have turned back for another glance at the treasure hoard. His fingers would be twitching with the urge to grab something glittering, something valuable. But today, he did not. Not because he was not tempted. But because for the first time, gold was not the most important thing right now. When he walked in, the kitchen felt warm, releasing the same quiet, unassuming comfort found in the rest of the house. The faint smell of spices and something sweet, having been lived in made it home, not just a house. The realization seeped into him like the first rays of sunlight during dawn . The same warmth he had felt in the vision. The same ease that rose from feeling at home. Ronan swallowed. This-this was something he had longed for, dreamed of, but never had: a warm home. A place where he wasn''t merely passing through, wasn''t merely surviving. Someone to share it with. Maybe...maybe fate was not all bad after all. Maybe, just maybe-this was something he could really get used to. An Invitation Unspoken The kitchen door swung open, and Zephyr entered, sleeves rolled up with practiced ease, but breakfast never once crossed his mind. The vision lingered with him, like a ghost of a touch-warmth, firelight, and Ronan leaning against him. The very objectivity scaring him sent a shiver down his spine; a discomfort he had not come to know. Reading the threads of fate for years, observing path after path unraveling before him, but... having never once thought to entrap himself. And now... he was complicit. Complicit with him. That thought unsettled him, albeit not entirely in an unpleasant fashion. He poured egg contents into the pan, and the sizzle provided a soft soundtrack between them. He focused on the mundane, anchoring himself to the present with the determination not to allow the vision to control his feelings. But he felt Ronan''s eyes on him-they were an intense stare. Zephyr did not have to look to know Ronan was watching him-his eyes tracing the curve of his fingers as he moved, emotions flickering through his undeniably handsome features. And Ronan... felt something that was new to him curl in his chest. Warmth. It did not make sense. Why should he feel this way watching Zephyr do something so mundane? The man was just making breakfast; there was just something about it, some feeling of safety¡ªthat feeling which told him he was meant to be here. Could the bond have something to do with it? The binding of their fates? Or perhaps something deeper? The thought made Ronan''s chest feel tight. He was not ready to question it. Before he even realized it, a small, shy smile crept across his face. Across a wooden table, the two of them seated, scrambled eggs and bread in front of them, simple but warm and cozy. Yet, the silence felt even heavier between them now. Zephyr thought it best to break the silence. "What is your next plan?" he asked, voice careful and measured. Ronan froze. He would rather not answer. The question brought him back to the world¡ªback to a world where he had no place to go, where he had gambled away everything. But, more than that... it made him realize something else. He did not want to leave. He clutched tightly to his fork, his appetite fading away. The mere thought of leaving behind anything that offered this kind of warmth, this fleeting sense of acceptance, made his stomach constrict. And yet¡­ he could not say it. He shrugged awkwardly and tried to make his voice careless. "I''m not sure." There was a pause, as Zephyr tapped his fingers gently over the wooden table. Then, without looking at Ronan, he said, "Do you... want to stay?" Ronan actually split with breath. It was not only the question that wrenched him; it was also the way Zephyr said it. Almost uncertainly, like he had never quite had to put it forth. Like he was not sure he should. And then Ronan saw it... The faint start of pink tinting Zephyr''s ears. Was he... nervous? The realization lanced through Ronan with an unwholesome form of excitement, disconcerting him in a way he had no clue about. He swallowed hard, his heart pounding so hard it should have been embarrassing. "Can I?" he finally asked, this time his voice quieter, laced with uncertainty, laced with fragility. Zephyr looked straight at him now, pure sincerity in his eyes; for the first time, no hint of distance, no guard. "If you want," his voice dropped to a low murmur now; almost a little uncertain. Then after a moment, he added, "And... for as long as you want." Ronan could easily say that he had taken risks his entire life- he had taken dangerous ones, reckless ones, foolish ones. But this? This, perhaps, was an ultimate gamble. And this time... he was more than willing to take it. A Shift in the Air After the reading, something had changed between the two of them. It was not apparent, and neither of them spoke about it. But both could sense that it lingered in the air between them, a very subtle hint of storm of emotions and feeling brewing at the horizon. The way they looked at each other had changed, it no longer was casual or indifferent. It was like a switch had been flipped. *** The first change was in the way their eyes met. Zephyr caught himself glancing at Ronan frequently, almost unconsciously. In the very beginning, it was nothing serious; simply stolen glances when he thought the gambler wasn''t paying attention. But then one night, sitting across from each other, this small little table, he caught Ronan doing the same. Their eyes locked, neither wanting to look away. The fire burning softly in the background, casting dancing shadows on the walls, and yet neither of them moved. Ronan was the first to break the spell, coughing and pretending that the half-eaten piece of bread on his plate was really interesting. But he was betrayed by the slight twitch at the corner of his lips. Zephyr felt the warmth creep up his neck, but he said nothing. Neither of them did. But something was acknowledged that night ¨C something they both understood and they didn¡¯t want to take it. *** The next change came in their movements. Ronan being a thief had always been light on his feet. Always slipping through the spaces without making a sound, which was an instinct honed by years of living on the edge. But now¡­ he lingered He no longer moved around like a ghost, now he lingered. He would hover somewhere near the kitchen when Zephyr cooked, or stay near the fireplace when Zephyr read, or stay near the door when Zephyr stepped out for air. He stayed and his eyes always observed everything, every movement of Zephyr Not too close to tip off, but close enough to notice. And Zephyr? He let it happen. More than that, he found himself unconsciously closing the distance as well. One day, while Ronan leaned against the kitchen counter, gazing at Zephyr prepare tea, Zephyr moved past him - only to realize too late that there was very little distance between them. Their shoulders brushed. It was the briefest of touches, just a second of warmth. But Ronan stiffened, his breath hitched. Zephyr hesitated. His instinct told him to step away, to put some space between them before things became complicated. But instead, he did the opposite - he let the moment stretch, let the quiet between them hum with something unsaid. When he finally turned to hand Ronan a cup, their fingers touched. Neither of them pulled away. The air between them crackled like magic. Ronan accepted the cup with his fingers lingering just a moment too long. "Thanks," he murmured, voice slightly lower than usual. Zephyr swallowed. "Yeah." It wasn¡¯t much. But it was something. *** Then there was the way they spoke to each other. Zephyr never had been someone to speak until it was necessary, and Ronan had always masked his true feelings with sharp wit and deflection. But that had changed now, they would pause ¨C hesitant against their character to put an effort to hold a converstion One night, as they sat by the fire, Ronan sighed and leaned back against the couch, stretching his legs. ¡°Are you always this quiet?¡± he asked, glancing at Zephyr. Zephyr smirked. ¡°Are you always this talkative?¡± Ronan chuckled, shaking his head. ¡°Guess not.¡± Silence settled between them, comfortable yet heavy. Then, softly¡ªso softly Zephyr almost missed it¡ªRonan said his name. ¡°Zephyr.¡± Not as a joke, not as a casual remark. Ronan said his name, as if it meant something, it held some emotion that he had not heard before. Zephyr took the book in his lap, curling his fingers around it, gripping it a little too tightly. He didn''t respond, but his heart did. A name spoken like a secret. It was not love. Not yet. Something just as dangerous. Something undeniable. Chapter 5: An Illusion of Safety A Fateful Meeting at The Hollow Coin They danced around each other in their own world, a tune from their hearts only they could hear¡ªsoft, uncertain, yet undeniable. It had been a week since Ronan¡¯s first card reading, since the very fabric of fate had a thread around them. Which neither could ignore. They spoke nothing of it, yet it lingered between them like a half-whispered secret, thick and inescapable. Their eyes met too often but held a bit too long. A hint of curiosity, of hesitation, and of something deeper neither dared name. Attraction Ronan would catch Zephyr watching him, his silver eyes clouded with thoughts, which he never spoke. And in return, Zephyr would find Ronan too close, almost hovering just at the edge of his personal space, as if testing the invisible pull between them. There was something in the air, that sparked their interest and made their heart race. A stolen glance across the room. The brush of fingers when exchanging a cup of tea. The way their voices softened when calling each other¡¯s names. It was a slow unravelling, a shift neither could stop, nor wanted to. And yet, beneath it all, there was something else. A quiet, creeping uncertainty. Because fate had never been kind¡ªespecially to those who tried to outrun it. Zephyr decided to return to The Hollow Coin, the dimly lit tavern where gossips were traded as often as coin. He knew he would very soon meet someone important there¡ªsomeone whose presence had already been whispered to him in fragments of the vision. Someone who could change the fate that had begun to spin around him and Ronan, bringing them together. And of course Ronan had insisted on going along. ¡°I¡¯ll keep my distance,¡± Ronan promised. Although him going was whether for his own sake or Zephyr¡¯s sake, Ronan wasn¡¯t entirely sure. Maybe it was an excuse. Maybe he just didn¡¯t want to be away from Zephyr. Still, Ronan brought a few coins he had borrowed from Zephyr, hoping to try his non-existing luck. The last time he had gambled, fate had given him something far different than coin¡ªsomething that had unsettled him more than losing his bet ever could. *** Inside, the tavern was alive with the sounds of murmured deals, clinking glasses, and the low whispers of a group of thieves sharing the loot in the corner. A fog of pipe smoke curled in the air, mixing with the scent of alcohol and candle wax. Zephyr sat at his usual worn wooden table near the back, his drink mostly stayed untouched, except for the occasional sip to overcome boredom. The liquid was sweet, masking the stronger alcohol beneath. But he wasn¡¯t here for the drink. He was waiting. Then, a voice spoke from behind him. ¡°Hi.¡± It was too casual for his liking. Zephyr turned, meeting the sharp gaze of a man in his mid-twenties. He was tall, lean, and carried himself with a confidence, as if he held some knowledge that gave him an advantage. His clothes fit perfectly, like it was tailored for him. His every movement was calculated and measured. One word popped in Zephyr¡¯s mind - Cunning. ¡°You¡¯re the Seer, aren¡¯t you?¡± the man asked, his tone both curious and amused. Zephyr studied him carefully. He could see the flashes of possibilities swirling around him. They weren¡¯t clear yet, but there was something about him¡ªsomething dangerous. ¡°Yes,¡± Zephyr replied, keeping his voice calm. ¡°How may I help you?¡± The man smiled, sharp as a blade. ¡°I¡¯ve lost a parrot.¡± Zephyr blinked. ¡°A¡­ parrot?¡± ¡°A rare one. Very valuable.¡± He replied, as if Zephyr was supposed to get the hint. Something was off. Zephyr had done countless readings, but rarely did people come with something so mundane. The man was testing him. Probing. This wasn¡¯t about a parrot. ¡°Your name?¡± Zephyr asked, his tone had not turned professional, keeping it neutral. ¡°Marcus,¡± the man replied, extending a hand. Zephyr didn¡¯t take it. Not yet. ¡°And what price are you willing to pay?¡± Marcus¡¯s smirk widened, as if he had expected the question. ¡°I have something interesting¡ªluck and the past from a gambler I collected before.¡± Zephyr¡¯s eyes glanced at Ronan from across the room, who was watching them from afar, his fingers idly tapping the side of a stolen coin. His heart tensed slightly. Luck from a gambler. Fate had a strange sense of humour. ¡°You get three readings,¡± Zephyr said, turning his eyes back to Marcus. ¡°You can stop at any time. But once you see, you can¡¯t unsee.¡± Marcus¡¯s smirk didn¡¯t fade. On the contrary, it deepened. ¡°That sounds fair.¡± The Hand That Deals in Shadows If there ever was a man who could stab you in your chest while smiling and making you feel comfortable, it would be Marcus. Sharp features¡ªhigh cheekbones, a chiselled jaw, and a smirk that never quite reached his eyes. He was smooth talker, easily bringing trust into people, who realize their mistake too late. But his eyes were a completely different story. They shone with the thrill of someone who always played to win. One who looked at people not as friends, not as enemies, but as pawn pieces for a game only he had mastered. The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident. Yet, despite all this cool charisma, he had instant opposite effect on Ronan. Zephyr noticed it immediately. The moment Marcus sat down; Ronan''s face lost all its colour, and had a very guarded expression. Fear. It wasn''t visible clearly -not enough for most to detect-but Zephyr has spent years reading people, learning their movements, so he caught it almost immediately. The slight tension in Ronan''s jaw. The way his fingers curled into the fabric of his sleeve. The fact that he drew his shoulders back as though bracing himself for an imminent blow that may or may not occur. Zephyr noted the reaction. He decided to ignore it. At least for the time being. Calmly, he reached for his deck of cards, the worn edges familiar beneath his fingertips as he shuffled. Then, with a practiced hand, he laid them out on the table in a precise spread. "Pick one," instructed Zephyr. Marcus lingered barely a moment upon the cards before gliding his fingers over a single card and flipping it over. The Hound. Zephyr''s stomach gave a faint twist. A hunter. A seeker. A relentless force that never stopped when it had caught a scent. Marcus would find what he was looking for. The only question was whether it was his to being with. After a movement of silence, Zephyr extended his hand. Without hesitation, Marcus placed his palms against it, and the smirk of his never faltering. Their skin touched, and Zephyr felt the hum of energy running through his veins. In that instance, he felt the shift of air, the binding of the deal locking into place. He parted his lips, and the chant hissed forth, as if poured into being by the winds: "The payment is given, the exchange is sealed. So may a gambler of past and luck entwined grant to a thrall: No force undo what is done." Faint glow pulsed between their hands, then it formed - a sphere shifting light, glowing and swirling like liquid gold. It sat above Zephyr''s palm, directly pulsing as if it were breathing: the past and luck of a gambler. Zephyr barely had any time to register it before the vision hit him - The world tilted. The tavern blurred, swallowed in shadows, and when it cleared¡ª Marcus. Standing tall, face aglow with triumph, his lips curved into an entirely satisfied smile, fingers of both hands curling around an unseen prize. Power radiated from him, like a storm barely held in check. But that wasn''t the end of the vision. The scene shifted, darkened. And then, through the haze of fate¡ª Ronan. Standing beside Marcus. His expression unreadable, his stance too still. And then, to Zephyr''s shock¡ª Ronan nodded. Agreeing. Zephyr''s breath caught in his throat, the vision splintering apart as reality snapped back into place. Something was about to change. And Ronan would be a part of that change. A Vanishing Act Marcus slowly let out his breath, showing satisfaction laced deeply in the lines of his face. There was a deep smirk as his eyes gleamed in something unreadable - something dangerous. He looked like a man he had just won a game only he knew he was playing. That did not sit well with Zephyr. There was something off about how Marcus was carrying himself; not just pleased, but triumphant. Almost as if the vision had not given him just an answer, but a certainty. A certainty that sent an uneasy shock down Zephyr''s spine. Nevertheless, he kept his voice steady. "''The next card?¡± he reminded Marcus, giving him a chance to continue with the card reading. As a response a small smile curved his lips and Marcus shook his head. "Thank you but no," he replied smoothly. "I got what I was looking for." The glinting brightness in his eyes that twisted Zephyr''s gut with unease, the man looked like had stumbled upon something precious. Something unexpected to find. Something that would not be let go. Zephyr did not like it. It was the thing...about Marcus, about the vision, Ronan''s reaction earlier...all gnawing at him like an unseeable force pressing against fate itself. And then, cold realization, a sudden thought. Ronan. His eyes darted to where the boy had just been standing. Empty. There was nothing. That thrumming heartbeat inside him stuttered again. His gaze swept across the tavern floor, searching through the bunch of guests, through the flickering dance of light between shadows. Nothing. Ronan had disappeared. A pit of uncertainty settled in Zephyr''s chest, coiling tightly like a noose. He whirled around sharply towards Marcus- Only to find that Marcus had also vanished. The chair stood empty now, with but a faint fading warmth marking the place where he had sat. No retreating footsteps, nor lingering presence. Just-. Gone. Vanished. Zephyr gripped the table, feeling the toll of his pulse drumming loudly in his ears. Whispers in the Dark Zephyr stepped out of the tavern, and the cool night winds cut through his skin as he glanced around the almost dark street. The distant hum of faint conversations and clinking of glasses that buzzed behind him were of no concern to him. Ronan. He focused on a figure just beyond the lantern''s glow, an entity being half-consumed by shadows. Ronan. The thief was standing near the entrance of a narrow alley, arms crossed and posture tense. The face was expressionless, but the stillness, almost eerie stillness, of that figure was painfully seizing Zephyr''s heart. He was waiting. But for what? Or for whom? Zephyr strode toward him and closed the distance within a few quick steps. "What happened?" he asked, keeping his voice aloof. Ronan hardly looked at him, instead shuffling his feet slightly. "Needed some fresh air," he murmured. An obvious lie. Zephyr had known it the moment Ronan had forced the words out. The way his fingers curled up into his sleeves, the momentary pause he took before trying to play it cool¡ªRonan was hiding something. But Zephyr didn¡¯t prod any further. Not yet. He also refrained from stating that he had seen Ronan in the vision. That Marcus had also been there. That whatever it was that had just happened in the tavern was far from being over. They stood in silence for a moment, stretched into a night that felt more like an unfinished sentence lying between them. Then, all of a sudden, "Let''s go home." Ronan said, urgency tightening his voice. Zephyr hesitated, scrutinizing him. There was something there, something flickering in the depths of Ronan''s gaze¡ªfear, perhaps? A shadow of unease? Zephyr had wanted to ask. But Ronan was already moving. So he followed. *** By the time they reached home, Ronan was miles away. Just there physically-he was right there seated at the small table, tracing the wood absentmindedly in thought; but what was on his mind? Where were his thoughts? Far away. Zephyr observed him silently, his furrowed brow, his lips drawn tightly into a line serious enough. He was thinking. No¡ªhe was brooding. Whatever happened back at the tavern, whatever made Ronan want to leave that instant was still gripping him. Zephyr breathed out audibly. He moved toward the kitchen, accompanied by the clink of dishes and the muted warmth from the fire. It hung in the air, laden with an unsaid tension neither one dared to confront. After a few minutes, Zephyr put a plate down before Ronan. "Come, have dinner," he said in a softer tone than normal. Ronan seemed taken aback, lifting his head as if pulled suddenly from a deep trance. He stared blankly at Zephyr for a heartbeat, and then in a slow, cautious manner reached for the food. But even as he picked up his fork, that distant look in his eyes did not seem to fade. A Fate Unveiled The tension in the air felt like it could be cut with a knife, lingering between them even after they had finished their meal. The flickering candles on the table danced in a flame stretch and shrink as if they reflected awkwardness in the air of the room. Then, all of a sudden¡ª "Let''s have my second card read." Ronan said Zephyr''s fingers had stopped moving around his empty cup. He raised his eyes to Ronan, face considering him carefully. Something was different in his voice: an edge of calculation, a quiet resolve as if he had already made up his mind about something before even saying the words aloud. Zephyr''s stomach twisted. It was definitely not simple curiosity about fate. This was deliberate. Still, he nodded. "Alright." Because, to tell the truth, he wanted to know as well. *** They moved into the card-reading room. As always it felt thick, heavy with the concealed unseen forces, a fate just beyond mortal hands'' reach. Shadows crept along the walls stretching, curling from the glow of the lantern, as if the very room knew something crucial was about to happen. Zephyr placed himself, as per his usual, across the open space that separated him from Ronan, who sat with crossed arms and a blank expression. The wooden table dividing them felt thin and feeble barrier separating them from the unknown. Zephyr reached for the deck, fingers gliding over the well-used cards, worn quite smooth from years of use. This ritual had a rhythm to it, familiarity¡ªbut something was off that night. With effortless skill, he shuffled, the cards whispering secrets as they slithered against one another. Then, he fanned them out before Ronan. "Choose," he said softly. Ronan hesitated for a mere fraction of a second before reaching out. His fingers brushed lightly over the cards, moving almost absentmindedly, before finally settling on one. Then he pulled it from the deck. Turned it over. And the moment Zephyr saw it¡ª The blood in his body froze. It showed dark and ominous imagery, almost smoldering in the dim candlelight around its edges. The Tower. A symbol of sudden calamity, ruin, and unavoidable, dismal fate. Pain blossomed in Zephyr''s chest, a sharp twisting ache that felt almost all too real¡ªas if the fate written in this card had already begun to take form. He didn¡¯t want to read it. Didn''t want to say anything about it. But ¨C He had to. Because this was his gift. His curse. His obligation. Slowly, Zephyr exhaled, preparing himself for the storm he knew was coming. And then, almost inaudibly, he uttered the words neither of them wanted to hear. Chapter 6: The Curse Revealed The Tower Deathly stillness settled in the room when Zephyr turned over the card. The flicker of the candle light became dimmer and the semblance of golden glow became less conspicuous against the weight of shadows in the corners. Even the atmosphere felt denser, knocking against his skin like the heavy pressure of an invisible storm. No need of looking at the picture. He already knew it. The Tower. Zephyr''s stomach turned into a cold knot. A card for ruin. Upheaval, suddenly and catastrophically. Destinies splintered at random into dust and broken remnants. On the other side of the table, Ronan sat silently. His sharp eyes focused on Zephyr''s face, reading the flicker of unease crossing it. "Not a good card, is it?" Ronan finally said. His voice was level, but there was something underneath-something guarded. Zephyr hesitated. His fingers coiled against the table edge; the wood was grounding him against the tide of dread rising inside. "No," he said softly, "it isn''t." Ronan exhaled loudly through his nose, inclining his head back slightly, as though to let the weight of the words roll past him. A long silence stretched between them filled only by the crackling of candles and the faint whisper of the wind outside. Then Zephyr forced himself to straighten, to push past the unease twisting in his gut. "This is your second reading," he reminded, his voice steadier now. "Payment has already been taken." Ronan had no reply. He could only glower at Zephyr. And then¡ª A sudden force wrenched Zephyr forward, dragging him under. Lightning strike had hit hard in vision, searing through his mind and ripping him out of that dimly-lit room into something far darker. A Fate Unraveling Rain had soaked the world around him flooding it with cold. Zephyr stood like a statue in the torment of a narrow street, the stone slick beneath his feet, making the breath curl in damp night air. A distant storm rumbled in the sky above it, with thunder rolling like an omen. And then he saw him. Ronan. He was walking away. Each step was deliberately made yet heavy with finality, as though a man were forcing himself out of a place he did not really want to leave. His broad, tense shoulders were slightly stooped. His head was bowed so low that you could hardly see it. But then again, he didn''t look back. Zephyr tried to move, tried to call out; only his voice was stolen by the vision, his body rendered helpless as though held captive in the very threads of fate, holding him in chains. He watched helplessly as Ronan disappeared farther and farther away. And then- A shift. The air snapped, twisting the whole scene into something not graspable by Zephyr. Before those dim lantern lights streaked through that darkness like fire, the rain blurred. And all of a sudden, Ronan was running. Not walking. Not leaving. Running. His breath ripped in and out, feet slapped on the wet stone and kept running over jagged edges, following narrow paths. There was panic in the air, like a second skin. There was something going after him, his heart began to pound in his chest. A shadow behind him, long but unnatural, and bent like a twisting curl as if it was not just mere absence of light - but something alive. Something gnawing. Ronan clutched a bag in his hand with a desperate grip to his chest with white knuckles, the fingers holding on as if life depended on the keeping it close. Zephyr struggled against that vision, trying to move, trying to cry out¡ª Until, without warning- A sharp crack split the night. A convulsing gasp ripped itself from Ronan''s throat. Zephyr hardly had time to see what happened when this vision was folding in on itself like a dying star, dragging him downward into the void- This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it And then- He was back. The weight of vision slammed into him like a physical force. Zephyr''s eyes snapped open, his lungs burning as though he had come up for air after drowning, and his pulse was a wild drum in his ears; his fingers trembled against the table. The candlelight wavered with great force, struggling to fend off the darkness. And when he looked up- Ronan was now staring at him, and the expression was no longer shadowed with mere suspicion. No. This time, there was something raw in his gaze. Fear. A fear neither of them cared to name. A Curse Foretold Zephyr hardly had time to take a breath. That vision had shaken him. His mind would not stop whirling with the sight of Ronan, running like a living nightmare and clutching tightly to a bag with desperate fingers. But before he could process what he had seen and before his hands were to part, Another force struck again. This was different. Not the same as previously; it was not the same time too from the other one. It was not a view of the past or future; neither was it a memory nor a prophecy. It was something else entirely. Presence. Everything around them is blank. Wooden table, dim light from the candle, the room itself-all gone. They were now swallowed into a void. Nothingness above and beneath, behind and before: dark in neither light nor shape. Neither land nor sky, just a vast, silent void. Yet¡ª They were still holding hands. Instinct drew Zephyr''s fingers about Ronan''s and grounded himself with the only thing that felt real in this place. Ronan''s grip was also hard and tense, his pulse thrumming a steady beat against Zephyr''s skin. Then¡ª A voice. Deep and resonant, it echoed within the void, ancient in a way that made Zephyr''s bones ache with the weight of it. He had heard that voice once before. It was the same one that told him about the Lovers'' Bond. It rumbled through the emptiness, not near or far, neither a whisper nor a roar, it is. "Fools who stray from fate shall bear its curse." With the weight of the words, invisible and crackling with energy tendrils through the void like distant thunders, the air trembled. Zephyr''s breath hitched. Better learned not to speak-this was not something that invited interruptions. The voice continued, weaving through the air like silk and stone through a heavy mind laden with riddles and unseen calls. " Sever the bond, and the heart shall shatter, yet not break. Forget the name, yet feel the loss. An empty ache, a wound unseen. The Lovers¡¯ Bond undone, yet never whole again." Zephyr could hear the pounding of his heartbeat. A curse. If they were to break apart, if they were to part, they would forget each other. But not entirely, not in the manner that time erases memories, nor in how the old wounds fade out into distant scars. Much worse than that. They would continue living but in oblivion of their loss, with emptied hearts that could never be filled again. They would have a phantom ache, an absence without name or reason in their hearts, something missing but never remembered. Zephyr gulped hard. He turned his head and caught Ronan''s eyes. Ronan looked inscrutable- still, quiet in his tone-and yet he gripped Zephyr''s hand strongly. His breathing was slow and measured, but Zephyr could see the tension in his jaw, the flicker of something dark behind his eyes. The voice spoke again, and this time, it was not a warning. " But fate may yet weave a thread anew. A bond rekindled, a path restored. Two hands reaching through the fog¡ª Led by fate, found once more." These words wound through them like a spell, heavy with promise, heavy with an inevitability neither of them understood as yet. Then- Silence. And in the blink of an eye-the vision shattered. The nothingness fractured like glass, and suddenly-they were back. The candlelight flickered. The air in the room got thicker like stone, heavy, as if touched by something that could only be understood outside the mortal realm. Their hands-burned together-were clasped yet charged with some unseen energy. Neither spoke, nor moved. Because the weight of what had just been revealed hung between them. They could turn upon them; they could choose to sever whatever fragile thread tied them together. But they would never be whole again if they did. Secrets in the Silence Ronan pretended not to look anywhere except the floor. He felt unable to address Zephyr, body tight with some emotion or intention that lay heavy in the air between them. It was the expression of something that remained unstated, a tension that seemed to draw the atmosphere in their direction. But they weren''t that kind of couple yet, not even close. Zephyr had absolutely no right to be asking these questions. No rights at all to invade Ronan''s thought, however badly he wanted to. Thus, silence began to stretch, while he pondered what to say. Eventually¡ª "Do you want the last card to be read as well?" His voice was steady, yet even he could sense the tension woven in. Ronan stiffened even more, hands curling loosely into fists at his side. The time it took him to think before he answered, albeit short, was very telling. And then he shook his head. "I need some time to put my thoughts in order," he said, voice low yet firm: an emotional wall. And before Zephyr could say anything, Ronan swiftly turned and left. Just like that. Zephyr was watching the door closing on him; the distant sound of Ronan''s receding footfalls felt steadily in the night. He exhaled. Now the room felt a different place; an empty place, as if something alive had walked right out with him. He did not chase after Ronan. He did not call out his name. If Ronan wanted his space, then Zephyr would give him that. Still, an uneasy sensation settled in his chest, with a silent uproar gathering beneath his ribs. Night dragged on, Minutes turned into hours. By the lantern''s dim light, Zephyr waited¡ªbecause through it all, despite Ronan''s indifference, something told him Ronan would show up sooner or later. And he did- sneaking in after midnight, moving quietly as if he had something to hide. He had not expected to find Zephyr still awake, Sitting there. Waiting. Words That Change Everything Ronan hesitated in the doorway, luxuriously lingering half-turned to decide between stepping into the room or slipping back into the night. Too late. Zephyr was already looking at him. The glow of the lantern flickered, the shadow stretching across the room between them like an unspoken tension. Zephyr stood with his arms crossed, golden eyes unreadable, though under the tautness of his jaw and fingers gripping his sleeves, frustration was deeply etched on his face. "I know we are not in a relationship yet," he said in an even voice with a hint of rawness entering, "but that is no reason for you to ignore me." Ronan winced, guilt flashing on his face. "I was not¡ª" Zephyr interrupted him. "You were." Ronan sighed, running a hand through his hair. He looked so tired. Torn. As if whatever had burdened him all night settled down and weighed itself deep into his bones. "I just needed some time to think." Zephyr scoffed. "Is that a thing you couldn''t do? Think here? With me?" Ronan exhaled sharply through his nose, his voice growing frustratingly loud. "It really isn''t that simple, Zephyr." "Really?" Zephyr shot back, "You disappear for hours, come back in the dead of night, and what, expect me to just pretend everything is fine?" Ronan did not answer. Zephyr shook his head, chest tightening. "I''m trying here, Ronan. I know you''re withholding something from me. I can feel it. But I cannot force you into talking. I just¡ª" he exhaled, dropping his voice. "I just don''t want to be shut out." Somewhere within Ronan, that found a point of contact. His shoulders slumped a little, and for the first time, he looked away¡ªnot out of avoidance, but as if he was struggling to find the right words. Then, without further ado, he crossed the room and sat next to Zephyr. The bed dipped underneath him. His shoulder had brushed against Zephyr''s, and though it was mere contact, Zephyr felt a gentle jolt rise in him all the same. Neither of them said anything for a long time. A low hum of winds outside, an irregular crackle sound from the candle burning low, filled the silence. Then at last¡ª "Before we talk about anything else, I need to make something clear," Ronan said, in a voice that was low, but steady. Zephyr turned his head slightly, his brow creasing. Ronan inhaled deeply. Then he looked into Zephyr''s eyes, dark and unwavering. "No matter what the cards say. No matter what fate has written for us." His voice was low but firm. Unyielding. "You mean something to me." Zephyr froze. "And I will never betray what I have here." At those words, something within Zephyr gave a painful clasp. But Ronan wasn''t finished yet. His hands, which had been resting idly against his knees, curled in slight. Clear enough: he was nervous. But when he spoke next, there was nothing uncertain in his voice. "I don''t care if the universe is trying to pull us apart. I don''t care if the visions tell me I''m meant to walk away. I don''t care about fate, Zephyr." He was now fully turned toward him, so there was no way to misinterpreting the weight of what he was saying. "I care about you." The words were simple. But something sharp and unexpected pierced Zephyr''s chest, like a thread pulled just a little too tight, threatening to unravel something he wasn''t ready to face. And then- "I want to have a family with you." Zephyr''s breath hitched. For a moment, he forgot how to move, how to think, how to breathe. Ronan wasn''t saying it because of any obligation. Because the cards had tied them. Because fate demanded it. But he wanted it. Wanted him. And for the very first time, Zephyr wasn''t sure he was ready for that truth. Chapter 7: The Gambler鈥檚 confession In the Quiet of the Night Ronan released a slow breath and, with reluctance that felt foreign to him, moved in the opposite direction. Then, softly, gently leaned in with his head resting against Zephyr¡¯s shoulder. For a second, Zephyr felt stunned by the rare display of vulnerability. Then he relaxed and tilted his head to rest on Ronan¡¯s shoulder. Outside, it might as well have been a cold and desolate world, another night drawing itself around them like a cocoon; only the sound of two hearts beating in sync along with the rhythm of their breath, joined in an ode as if it were never meant to be divided. "You know," Ronan murmured, barely above a whisper, "I don¡¯t let people get close to me." Zephyr said nothing. He waited. "Never have." Ronan chuckled again, softly, disdainfully. "Easier that way. No attachments. No weight holding me down. That was the way I survived." Zephyr swallowed; the dry lump in his throat hurt. "And then you happened." Ronan''s fingers curled gently against the fabric of Zephyr''s sleeve, perhaps grounding himself in the moment. "You walked into my life, all light and warmth, and suddenly-" he exhaled, shaking his head against Zephyr''s shoulder, "suddenly, I didn''t know how to live without it." Zephyr''s breath caught, but he did not move, did not dare to break the fragile moment. "It frightened me," Ronan uttered. "Still does." His voice deepened, becoming almost hoarse. "Because if I lost this, if I lost you, I don''t know if I would find my way back." Zephyr closed his eyes for a second, absorbing the impact of those words. And then, cautiously, he reached out. His fingers brushed against Ronan''s; such a soft touch¡ªfor the first moment, uncertain. But as Ronan did not withdraw, Zephyr allowed his hand to rest upon Ronan''s, feeling their warmth intertwining. "You won''t lose me," Zephyr said softly. Ronan did not answer right away; the way his fingers tightened slightly under Zephyr''s grip spoke enough. A silence had stretched between them, heavy with the unspoken rather than uncomfortable. And after a moment: "Do you trust me?" Ronan asked softly. Zephyr turned his head slightly, their faces closer on account of it, close enough that he could feel the warmth of Ronan''s breath. "I do." It sounded simple, but the weight behind it was anything but. "Why?" Ronan''s voice came almost indistinctly, like a whisper, as though he was uncertain he was worthy of an answer. Zephyr parted his lips, his heart colliding against his ribs. "Because," he murmured, "no matter what you''ve done, no matter how many times you try to push me away, I see you." He squeezed Ronan''s hand gently. "And I know the kind of man you are." Ronan let out a shaky breath. "What if I messed up?" Zephyr smiled softly, knowingly. "Then I''ll be here to remind you who you are." For long minutes, neither of them spoke. They just sat there pressed against one another, the weight of their pasts and the uncertainty of the future they would forge held between them like a fragile thread. But, in that moment, in the quiet warmth of the night: They were not alone. Not anymore. The Man Who Stole My Name Ronan didn¡¯t want to let the moment pass too quickly. The warmth of Zephyr beside him, his steady breathing was a grounding comfort. He knew once he spoke, once he told the tale of dark shadows of his past, this peaceful moment will be lost. And so, he sat watching the smouldering ember of the fire slowly turn to ash, it''s very dim light only illuminating the darkness for what he thought was minutes, but in fact was hours. At last, he drew one deep breath and began. "I do not remember where I was born," said Ronan, barely above a whisper. "I do not remember if I had a family or what kind of life I lived back then." Zephyr did not stir, waiting. "The first thing I do remember is sitting in front of a gambler." His jaw clamped down. His fingers felt like clenching into fists. " His name was Lukas." Zephyr felt the heavy weight in Ronan''s tone, in the bitterness with which each word was laced. "He was not an evil man. At least, not in the beginning. There was some warmth about him, an easy smile that made one want to trust him. And I did. That was my first mistake." Zephyr swallowed. "What did he do?" Ronan let out a long breath. "He said I had gambled with him." Zephyr frowned. "Gambled what?" He turned to Zephyr, meeting his sharp silver eyes. Zephyr frowned. "What do you mean? What did you lose?" Ronan turned his gaze slightly, fixing his eyes on Zephyr. " I had wagered something far greater than coin, Zephyr. Lukas claimed that I had bet my past." A chill ran up Zephyr''s spine. "My name. My history. Everything that made me who I was before that moment¡ªit was gone." Zephyr frowned. "That... that can''t be possible." "Yet," Ronan drawled darkly, " here I am. A man with no past, no memory, nothing except what Lukas told me." Unauthorized content usage: if you discover this narrative on Amazon, report the violation. A long silence developed between them. " Out of pity, or so he claimed, he gave me a new name.¡± ¡°Ronan. As if I should be grateful" he said mockingly The name Zephyr had gotten so used to. A name given not by birth, but by a gambler''s mercy. "I should have questioned him. I should have fought for answers. But I was lost, Zephyr. Without memories, I had no purpose. No direction." Zephyr said softly, "And hence you followed him." Ronan gave an empty nod. " Yes. Lukas said he would take me to someone who could help me find my way." And off he had gone like a desperate fool. The Master of Shadows Lukas led him through the inevitable underground - nightmare created by the city where streets darkened, alleys grew narrower and air strangled its own profundity with an intangible presentiment. Then when they penetrated further, the city appeared less and less like a place fit for people''s habitation, but rather, like one groaning with corpses of lost souls, a labyrinth of shadow in which names had no power. Lukas took him to a place without a name. No signs present at its entrance. No maps sketched its existence. Engulfed in the dark folds of the city, buried very deep in stone and secrecy. "What sort of place is this?" Ronan had inquired, a little uneasily, as a tremor crept into his voice. Lukas had smiled, a smile that was all worn and tired. "Somewhere where you can belong," he said. But even before that, Ronan felt it. A whisper in the back of his mind. A warning he didn''t yet understand. And that''s where he met Marcus. Ronan''s hands fashioned clenched fists as he said the name. "He wasn''t a normal man," he murmured distantly. "He had something... there was something wrong about him. Like, when he looked at you, you would feel like he already knew who you were. Or worse-what you would become. Like you were just a piece in a game he had already won." Zephyr would not move, but Ronan felt the way his body tensed beside him. "Marcus was running some sort of... secretive operation. I have no idea what it''s even called. A guild? A cult? A training ground for the lost?" Ronan brought his hands through his hair in frustration barely disguised in his tone. "Whatever it was, no sense made. To me, anyway. It made sense just to him." Boys like him gather there, and yet dozens of them, all expressing the same hollow looks and void stares. Desperate. Lost. Trying to hold on to anything that looked like purpose. " We lived in the cellars,¡± Ronan continued in a whisper, his voice lower now, heavier. "Row after row of rusted bunk beds, placed so close together that we could barely move, like soldiers awaiting war.¡± ¡° Except there was no war. Just training. Over and over, until our bodies ached and our minds stopped questioning it." Zephyr''s gut twisted. "They made you into a thief." Ronan expelled a bitter laugh. "They were turning me into something. I just didn''t know what." He paused. "I wasn''t given an assignment yet. But I could feel it, Zephyr. That place wasn''t just wrong-it was cursed. It sank into your skin, into your bones. It changed people." Something was about to happen to him. He could feel it. And then¡ªone night, everything changed. Ronan had been asleep, his body sore from another day of rough training, when a hand grip on his shoulder. He woke with a start, blinking in dim cellar light. Lukas knelt next to his bed. But the face, ordinarily so unreadable, so carefully carved, was different now. For the first time, Lukas looked afraid. "Boy!" whispered Lukas, almost painfully. "You need to run." Ronan blinked, caught in between before and after, waking and sleeping. "What?" "Run." Lukas''s fingers gripped his shoulder. "Now. As far as you can. " Panic contorted in Ronan''s gut. He sat up, heart racing. "Why? What''s happening? " Lukas shook his head. "Don''t ask. Just go." "Lukas-" "Don''t look back," Lukas said, tightening his grip. His voice had turned desperate. "Even if you hear me scream." Zephyr held his breath. "Then he shoved me toward a secret passage. A door hidden behind one of the cellar walls. I didn''t even know it existed. But he did." A way out. A way away from Marcus. "And I ran." Into the black slits of the tunnels. Into that voraciously damp, narrow passage, twisted beneath the city like a tributary. Until the tunnel turned into streets, with a cold, wet night slap on the face. And then he heard it The sound that he still couldn¡¯t forget. The screams. Blood-curdling. Agonizing. Lukas was screaming. Ronan''s legs almost gave away underneath him. His body was crying to go back, to stop it, and help - But the order banged in his head. "Don''t turn back." So, he clenched his fists, his nails digging into his palms, and ran. Run through the streets and keep running until the city is far behind-in a world standing still-but surrounded by the cold, endless night around him. "I didn''t stop until I reached the outskirts of Veyris," Ronan murmured hollowly. Then he dropped to the ground, gasping for breath, shaking hands. Marcus was behind him. Lukas was gone. And Ronan had nothing there was for him. Nothing but the name given to him by a gambler. The Beggar¡¯s Wisdom Ronan had been wandering the outskirts of Veyris for days. Cold. Hungry. Alone. He had left behind the city, but its nightmares still clung to him. Every inch of his body throbbed; his belly was twirled in hunger, while his mind buzzed with questions that found no answer. He had nothing¡ªno home, no past, no future. And then, he met her. "She was a beggar," he said of her. His voice softened. "An old woman who had nothing but still gave away whatever little she could.¡± Zephyr listened; his heart tightened. "She must-never have thought twice before making up her mind to rescue me," Ronan said, eyes cast down. "I was probably slumped over like a dead man beside the road. She was just going to pass, like so many others, shrugging it off." But no, she hadn¡¯t. Instead, she kneeled next to him and put a piece of bread through his quaking hands. "Eat," she said, her voice roughened with age but sure. "Before the crows do it for you." He had been too weary to offer a rebuttal. "She shared her food with me. Let me sit beside her fire at night. She had nothing, yet she made space for me in her world." Zephyr''s throat tightened. "She raised you." Ronan slowly nodded. " For the first time in weeks, I didn¡¯t have to fight just to exist. We had almost nothing, but for a little while, it was enough." Not a home. Not a family. Close. "I gave her back what little I could.¡± ¡° Scraps from my pockets, stolen trinkets from passersby. It wasn¡¯t much, but it kept us warm. Kept us fed. For a few weeks, it was¡­ peaceful." Then things changed one night. He had just settled real nice beside the fire while listening contently to the woman¡¯s low hum. Just then her hand darted out from somewhere and laid an utterly unyielding grip on Ronan''s wrist. Ronan stiffened. Her grip was strong, her fingers aching like brittle iron upon his skin. "You must leave," she whispered. An urgent whisper, ice trickling down his spine. Ronan frowned. "What? Why?" The fire glimmered and flickered, throwing ghastly shapes on her face. She was not herself. The weariness was gone, replaced by a kith and kin sharpness, one laced with dread. "Watching," she used that hushed tone of hers. Zephyr''s breath hitched. "Who?" Ronan asked, fighting anxious knots in his stomach. "Who is watching?" She didn''t answer. Instead, from the folds of her tattered cloak, she took something small and thrust it into his palm: one coin, worn thin with age, a very single coin. "To the Hollow Coin," she said, struggling against the grief clinging to her voice, "Find the Seer. They will tell you the truth." Ronan swallowed. "What truth?" The old woman locked her pale eyes upon him, filled now with an enigma he couldn''t name. "The truth about yourself." That sent a tingling sensation crawling up his spine. And then¡ªjust like that¡ªshe pushed him away. As if she had never known him. As if he had never sat beside her fire, never shared his stolen food. "Go, boy," she muttered, her back turned on him. "Before it''s too late." Ronan hesitated. To ask? To stay? But the air felt different now. Tense. Waiting. Now he turned around and ran, leaving. He didn¡¯t know what the Hollow Coin was. He didn¡¯t know who the Seer would be. But something told him-this was only the beginning. The Hunter¡¯s Shadow Ronan''s only destination was now the Hollow Coin. The beggar''s voice floated in Ronan''s mind, a warning. "Do not attract attention." Once, he had resisted that feeling. No more petty thieving. No gambling dens. No insane risks. He traversed the streets of Veyris like a shade, snatching just enough to keep him alive. Never staying too long, never leaving behind any scent. But then came Zephyr. A crack of warmth into his otherwise freeze-stiff world. For the first time in many years, the weight on Ronan''s chest eased with Zephyr. A distraction now¡ªalmost like the first bit of light through the shadows. For a fleeting second, he dared to think¡ªmaybe things were changing. Maybe he actually got away. Until-he saw him. Marcus. The world leapt. Across the tavern, seated across a polished table, he looked immaculate as ever. One of the most expensive suits, hands positioned so casually, the face in a mask of neutrality. Not staring into the crowd. He was staring at Ronan. A cold shudder ran down Ronan''s spine. Breath ceased. Run, screamed the mind. And run he did. Ronan turned on his heels and bolted right out of the tavern, almost knocking some patrons aside with his stampede through the haze. Streets of Veyris were all blurred as he zipped past carts and merchants and choking bystanders. His heart was drumming in his chest, sharp breath ragged. Faster! Faster! He turned a corner; his feet skidded on loose cobblestones. And froze. Marcus was there. Waiting. Ronan hadn''t heard him approach; hadn''t felt anything. He had just¡ªmaterialized. Slowly, a smile that was all too familiar spread across Marcus'' lips. "Much grown." Silk voice, the same spellbinding calm from years ago. "I almost didn''t recognize you." Ronan clenching his fists, pulse roaring beneath his skin. "What do you want?" he spat. Marcus tilted his head, dark eyes gleaming with amusement. "I have been looking for you." A breath caught in Ronan''s throat. He took a step back. One slow, deliberate step. "Well," he said, "now you''ve found me." A chuckle escaped Marcus¡ªa sound Ronan hadn''t heard in years but one that had set ice coursing down his spine. "I indeed have." He turned and walked away¡ªleaving no threats, no demands, not once trying to drag him back. Just a smirk that spoke the words, "I know I have won this." There is no way to describe Ronan''s state; he felt frozen. Cold, heavy dread coiling around his gut. Marcus had found him. And worse, he let him go. Chapter 8: Threads of Yesterday The Weight of Truth Zephyr remained speechless as a havoc of thoughts trap his mind. Ronan''s past unfolded before him like a tragic story of deceitful memories, whispered warnings, a person who should have been the victor but became more the victim. A bartered pawn of fate. The pressure of the realization weighed on his chest. How could he ever think Ronan was simply a thief? A common liar? Still, all these things did nothing to change the truth staring him in the face. "What happens now?" He started questioning. The thought echoed endlessly, growing quieter and quieter, more like a whisper of doubt. Was it in their power to alter destiny? But surely, could they really just ignore it? The lover''s bond¡ªa warning. A curse. What would become of them if fate took action? Zephyr glanced at Ronan. The thief, with all his sharp edges and defiant recklessness, looked¡­ lighter. Unburdened. But still something deeper remained¡ªconfusion. Ronan had forsaken the past, spent years fleeing from his ghosts, and here he was¡ªstill lost. Still caught up in a game he didn''t understand. Zephyr gulped. Is this where they turned and fought against fate? Or was it already too late? The Unspoken Truth The silence that was stretching between the two of them was heavy and subtle enough to be compared with a thread that neither of them dared to snap. Both were aware of what lay under the surface, but neither had the guts to admit it. It wasn''t just the fate looming over them that kept their lips tightly sealed; it was something far worse-the way they felt about each other. Heaving very slightly, the tough fingers curled against the soft fabric of his cloak. The heart was pounding in the chest, mercilessly traitorous, with a threat to betray him. "Just say it." Zephyr thought. But how could he? How could he confess to something that was so dangerously close? He turned slightly, glancing subtly at Ronan. Ronan, sitting a breath away without the usual bravado, replaced with the quiet anxiousness that Zephyr had never seen before. His fingers twitched against his knee, as if warring with himself. "Is he thinking the same thing?" Zephyr thought. Finally, Ronan exhaled slowly and dared to speak after what felt like ages. "This is ridiculous." Blinking as if startled, Zephyr asked, "What?" Ronald clenched his jaw; he rubbed his eyes on his hand, leaning back slightly as he let a dry chuckle -one that satisfactorily masked his unease. "Us. Sitting here like we''re terrified little children. I fought thieves, escaped death, outran curses, and yet-" he hesitated as his gaze fell in humiliation, thereby failing to tell the others, "-we can''t even say what we''re thinking." Zephyr''s mouth dried quite a bit. The fingers were clenched into a knot in his lap. "And what is that?" he asked Ronan met his gaze, and for the first time since their conversation started, he looked truly vulnerable. "That I don¡¯t know what to do with you." That was painful-as in, it hit Zephyr in the heart. "Oh." Ronan''s lips were pressed into thinness, frustration flaring in his eyes. "That came out wrong." Zephyr smiled at him slowly, not so sure of himself. "No, I think it came out just right." Ronan released a breath that was more quaking than anything as he looked at his hands. "I mean it, though. You¨C" he gestured vaguely, "you make everything feel somehow different." Zephyr felt his throat tightening. "Different how?" Ronan''s fingers were drumming against his knee. "Just¡­ maybe for the first time, I don''t want to keep running." There were words hanging in the air between them stealing the air out of Zephyr''s lungs. Ronan exhaled sharply, then quickly looked away. "Forget I said that." But Zephyr didn''t want to forget. Because, gods help him, he felt the same. He hesitated, turning just enough to reach out, brushing Ronan''s knuckles, just barely, a touch so soft and fleeting that it might have been mistaken for an accident. Ronan stiffened. Zephyr could hardly catch his breath. Neither person moved. Neither pulled away. The world became tremendously smaller, isolated into silence, inapposite relative to the tiny inch of room separating them. Then Zephyr admitted in a breath barely above a whisper, "You scare me." Ronan took a jagged breath at that. Support the author by searching for the original publication of this novel. Not from fear. But from understanding. "Yeah," he murmured. "You scare me too." There was no kiss at that moment. They did not reach for one another. But at that moment, amidst all the fragility between fear and longing, something had already shifted, changed. The Man in the Shadows Something clicked then; something sharp, something inimical. Something that drew cold fingers down his spine. "Marcus is ahead of the game..." He had known them; had been watching, studying, waiting. But they knew nothing about him. The fire crackled low between them, and neither of them found warmth in it. Ronan was tense, sitting there, idly toying with a loose thread of his sleeve, with his mind clearly preoccupied with the same unsettling thought. Finally, Zephyr breathed out. "Who is Marcus?" Ronan went tight-jawed. "Someone I don¡¯t ever want to see again." "That¡¯s not an answer." Ronan swept his palm through his hair, frustration glimmering in his eyes. "I don¡¯t have one." "So let''s find one," said Zephyr in an unwavering tone. Ronan barked a hollow laugh. "And how do you suggest we do that? Just march up to him and ask?" Zephyr mocked, rolling his eyes. "Oh, yes, marvellous idea: ''Hello, Marcus, would you kindly tell us all your secrets by the way?''" Ronan smirked. "Pretty sure he''ll love that." The flicker of amusement was gone just as quickly. They stayed in the heavy silence while both were racking their brains for some type of plan. "I think we might ask around?" Zephyr suggested. "Find everyone who could have worked for him." Ronan shook his head. "No one who worked for Marcus is the type to talk. And if they are, they aren''t alive to do so." The cold weight settled on Zephyr''s stomach. Ronan leaned slightly forward; elbows resting on his knees. Then, he said, "We could try the city archives. See if his name shows up anywhere." Zephyr raised an eyebrow. "And what on earth do we tell the archivist? ''Excuse me, sir, but do you have any records on the man who is very likely a criminal mastermind?''" "Fine," Ronan said brusquely. "Then what do you suggest?" Zephyr paused, considering, then frowned. But then a sudden realization dawned upon him. "Our treasures," he blurted out. Ronan blinked. "What?" "The things you steal through the years," Zephyr clarified. "You do keep them, right?" Ronan hesitated. "Some of them, yeah. But what does that have to do with¡ª" He paused¡ªthen it dawned on him. Zephyr nodded. "You stole from powerful people, Ronan. People with connections. There is a chance¡ªand a small one, mind you¡ªthat something in your collection might lead us to Marcus. A document, a letter, something." Ronan stared at him for a long moment, then let out a slow breath. "You really think we might find something?" "I think," Zephyr replied, "that we don¡¯t have many other choices." Ronan sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. "Fine. But I hope you¡¯re ready to do some digging." Zephyr bombed a smile. "I¡¯ve been putting up with you for weeks; I think I can manage it." Ronan rolled his eyes, but a flicker of something gentler showed beneath the layers of sarcasm. Hope. For the first time since Marcus had shown up, they truly had a plan. A Glimpse into Shadows The wretched glow of lanterns flickered on the walls as Zephyr and Ronan sat amid the scattered debris of plundered trophies, letters, and artifacts. It had been long hours: hours spent hunting down, going through old parchments, going through every stolen chest. Nothing useful was found. Ronan sighed and rubbed his temples. "Well, that was a huge waste of time." Zephyr did not respond. His fingers traced the edges of a small, ornate box, a relic given to him as payment by one of his more eccentric clients one time. Inside lay a single artifact, a gift and a curse. "What?" Ronan said, picking on the change in Zephyr''s mood. "I am," Zephyr said, trying to breathe, "not yet finished with this." Ronan watched as Zephyr picked the artifact from the box. It was just a delicate thing- a small disk of obsidian engraved with silver swirling patterns, cool to touch, thrumming with ancient magic. Ronan scowled. "That''s not for you." "It was given to me as payment." Zephyr turned the artifact over in his hands. "It lets the user glimpse into someone''s past. Just once. The same person can''t be viewed twice." Ronan''s body went rigid. "And you think this will work on Marcus?" Zephyr met his gaze. "It has to." A silence stretched between them, tense before Ronan gave a slow nod. Zephyr set the artifact on the floor between them and took a deep breath. Magic throbbed beneath his fingertips, whispering, waiting. "Show me," Zephyr thought-as he closed his eyes and began the chant. The voice was low but steady, a language older than time itself weaving through the air. The shadows in the room turned darker, curling towards the edges of light, waiting, watching. The artifact shook. And so, it started. Fractured Memories It pulsed once. Then twice. A wind, sharp and cold, weaved through the room. The shadows quickly began swirling, stretching and distorting into forms never before seen. Suddenly, the world around them became hazy, transforming into something completely different-hard memories, others not quite so. They stood in the magnificent estate. Marble floors gleamed under the cold indifference of an artificial chandelier. Walls of the estate bore painted prestige photograph by names of men and women whose faces became touchless, just a gallery of expectations. In the center of the room stood a boy. Small. Fragile. Dressed in expensive silk but bearing the posture of someone used to being overlooked. His hands trembled as he held up a perfect report card. "Mother, Father, look! I got the highest marks in my class!" The man by the fireplace barely glanced at him. The woman sitting by the window didn''t move. Silence. The boy swallowed. He put the report card on the table and stepped forward hesitantly. "Are you... proud of me?" His father exhaled sharply, turning the page of his newspaper as if the boy''s presence was nothing more than an inconvenience. His mother didn''t even look up. Something cracked inside the boy. The vision shifted. Now he sat alone at a grand dining hall, a lavish banquet set before him, untouched. Servants moved around him like ghosts, watching after the boy whom no one could have seen to be less than invisible. More flashes. A night spent shivering in the cold halls outside his parents'' locked study, listening to whispers not meant for him. "He''s not ours." "We cannot let him know." The boy''s breath hitched. His small hands curled into fists. Then, the memory fractured. Darkness bled into the vision like ink spilled across parchment. The next moment was a blur-a child running, small legs carrying him through empty streets, past looming buildings, past everything he had ever known. His breath came in sharp gasps. His feet were bare. Alone. A ten years old. And then-nothing. The vision collapsed, breaking into black mist. Zephyr and Ronan stumbled back as the artifact sputtered and cracked, its magic depleted. The room was so completely quiet. Zephyr''s heart was pounding. "It''s as if...he had had his past erased." Ronan''s eyes remained locked at the place where the memory had been, his jaw clenched. "Or he made sure no one would ever see the rest of it." They shared a look-an unreadable medley of trepidation and comprehension. Marcus was not just dangerous. He himself was a ghost with a past that no one need know. A Price Yet Unknown The air between them was filled with silence, heavy and perhaps a little uncertain. The debris of what had happened-the broken childhood and secrets of deeper-rooted truths-all brought them back to square one. No closer to understanding Marcus. No closer to stopping him. Zephyr sucked in a deep breath and swept his hand over his hair. "It''s all lost for us in the past." Ronan leaned forward on the side of the table in a cross-armed position. "So what then? There are no more options left?" Zephyr hesitated, but then he lifted his gaze. "Then we go forward." Ronan scowled. "Forward?" Zephyr nodded. "We have been trying to learn more about Marcus''s past, yet all we have come up with are pieces that are missing. But then, perhaps, just perhaps, it is in the future that we may have the information we need." Ronan stilled. The deck. The cursed deck. Zephyr had seen Ronan use two of his three cards before. The first had left him breathless. The second had nearly unraveled him. There was only one left. "No," Ronan said firmly. "I''m not using my last card." "I don''t want you to," said Zephyr softly. Ronan blinked. "Then how¡ª" "I''ll pull one for myself." Ronan straightened, alarm flashing across his face. "Zephyr¡ª" "I have to." Zephyr took a slow breath as if steadying himself. "If Marcus is as dangerous as we think, and if our lives are involved in something far greater than us, then I need to know what''s coming." The flickering candlelight cast shadows across Ronan''s face. "Do you even know what that means? Pulling a card from that deck--it''s not just a glimpse into the future; it''s a bargain. And you don''t know what the payment will be." Zephyr''s lips parted slightly. "Nothing is free." Ronan''s hands clenched. There was an electric air between these two, weighed down by everything that was unspoken, everything that was unconfessed. Zephyr took a step closer. "I have to do this." Ronan shook his head, an unusual vulnerability flashing in his eyes. "You don''t. We''ll find another way." "What if we don''t?" Zephyr whispered. That silence was deafening. Ronan looked away first. Zephyr faced the deck. His destiny had already begun unravelling the second he met Ronan. Now, it was to be put in the cards. But then again, what price would the cards demand? Chapter 9: The price of Fate The Price of Magic It settled like a stone on his chest, a weight heavier than any burden he had ever carried before. It wasn''t simply the fear of what he might witness; it was what it would cost him. Gazing into the future was no easy task, even less so when fate itself intervened. And magic wouldn''t be satisfied with something trivial. No, it would demand something far greater. Something irreplaceable. And he must be willing to relinquish it. He let his fingers curl at his sides as he eyed Ronan. The thief was seated at the far end of the desk, idly tossing a gold coin up and down, the glimmer of gold dancing in the dim candlelight. The way Ronan scrutinized the coin, his face furrowed in thought, told Zephyr he clearly was not aware of the tension tightening in Zephyr''s shoulders or his mildly trembling hands at the thought of what came next. If Ronan knew the risk Zephyr was prepared to take, he would never let him do it. So, Zephyr smiled, hoping it was reassuring rather than merely fragile. "I need to do this alone." The coin at that instant froze in the air as Ronan caught it clenching his fingers around the metal. Ronan''s golden eyes were sharp yet uncertain as they emerged to meet Zephyr''s gaze. "Alone?" he asked again, scepticism tinting his voice. Zephyr nodded, maintaining a steady face. "The magic¡­ it requires focus. If you''re there, it might interfere." That wasn''t a complete lie. Magic was volatile, but it was also very dangerous. And it would also need prices to be paid. This was more than just about the focus. It was about the price he would be paying. And he didn''t want Ronan to see just how much it would cost. Ronan''s narrowed gaze sparked with conviction like a slow-burning flame. "I don''t like this." "Neither do I," Zephyr admitted, his voice softer now as he reached out, placing a hand on Ronan''s arm. "But I need to do this, Ronan. Trust me?" For a moment, Ronan was silent. His mouth opened as if to contest, then stopped. Zephyr could see it¡ªthe war within him. The instinct to rebel against this, demand an answer, and not allow Zephyr to go through something alone. But there was something else¡ªthe more fragile something. Trust. A sigh sharp and reluctant escaped from Ronan as he turned away from him, now gripping the coin tighter in his hands. "...Fine," he muttered. Zephyr squeezed Ronan''s arm briefly before pulling free; an ache settled in his chest where Ronan''s warmth had lingered on his fingers. "Wait for me here," he whispered barely above a whisper. And with that, he turned and vanished behind the heavy velvet curtain leading into the card-reading room. As the fabric rippled in his wake, Ronan remained seated, eyes fixed on the candle''s ever-flickering flame, weighted down by all the things there were to say. Some part of him wanted to chase after Zephyr. Another part of him already feared that to wait would be the greatest mistake of his life. A Temptation Too Familiar The silence that followed became eerie-the sort of quiet that pressed in from all sides, filling the room with nearly suffocating quietness. Ronan drew a slow breath, leaning back against the desk, fingers now tapping on the wood unconsciously. The only motion in the room came from candlelight; the light flickered, sending shadows dancing on the walls of Zephyr''s treasure room. Artifacts lined the shelves-rare objects whose stories had been lost to time, relics of the old magic and fate. Each held some mystery, some past waiting to be untangled. Just one caught his interest. The golden spear. The one Marcus had given Zephyr as payment. It was nowhere near being the finest artifact in the room. There were jewelled daggers, there were spellbinding tomes, and there were trinkets tingling with dormant energy. Yet, this simple artifact stood out to him. It was calling to him. He stammered for breath as he approached, heart beating in bare rhythm, slow and heavy, against his chest. It rested on a dark shelf of wood, flanked by two dusty tomes, as if it had been abandoned there, forgotten. But Ronan felt it; he felt its weigh-the hum of the unseen curling around it like a whisper. He bit the inside of his mouth as he longingly scanned the spear''s sleek body with his eyes-the way the surface caught the flickering candlelight, aglow with an almost ghostly edge. There was an odd sense of familiarity to it. Too familiar. And then¡ª A flicker of memory. The vision. The second card reading. The bag he had seen himself carrying, laden with the weight of something cherished. Protecting it. Holding on. His heart thundered against his chest, aching yet consistent. Was this it? Was this what Lukas had taken from him? His fingers moved a little at his sides. Every instinct weakly urged him to reach out, to grab it; to claim what might have once been his. But he couldn¡¯t. No. No, this wasn¡¯t his. This tale has been unlawfully obtained from Royal Road. If you discover it on Amazon, kindly report it. This belonged to Zephyr. This was part of the magician¡¯s collection, nothing more than a piece in a world where Ronan belonged less than nothing. Yet... Ronan swallowed hard as his breath trembled. Perhaps-just perhaps, it was not theft if it had been his. The thought twisted somewhere painfully deep into his mind. His hand hovered above the spear: the air around it thickening, moving. Some presence-something palpable yet hidden-coiled along its body like a warning. His heart thudded against his ribs. If this really bore witness to his past... If this was all that Lukas had stolen... What if he took it? Which thought terrified him even more: What if he left it behind? A Meeting with Fate Taking a slow breath, Zephyr felt his fingers glide across the cool, ornate wooden surface of the table. Beneath this weighty chair scrolled all the coiled history of a thousand heartbreaking decisions¡ªmortal decisions that could not be revoked. Energy crackled deftly in haunting arms around him, touching him on the skin, like invisible fingers. Smells of ancient paper and burnt candle wax pervaded the stillness. But there was something other than that. Something deeper. Something ancient. A force older than time itself. He released his breath slowly and began to chant. The words rolled from his tongue not spoken but unveiled. They were not his-they belonged to the universe, to the very fabric of existence. They curled into the air like whispered secrets, weaving an invisible bridge between the present and the unseen. Then- A shift. The temperature drops in the room, a chill creeping across his skin as the candle flames tremble violently, the golden light pouring into something deep and turned luminous blue. The walls seem to exhale, stretching and contracting as though space wasn''t quite real anymore. And then she came. A wrinkle in space, a shimmer in time, and suddenly she was just there. No door had opened. No shadow stretched before her. She was not coming in-or rather, she didn''t enter the room at all. She simply was there. And she was beautiful. She was ethereal. She was otherworldly. She was ¨C Fate. Her form shimmered like stardust wrapped in the shape of a woman. A gown of constellations clothed her figure, whose fabric seemed to roll and undulate as if woven from the very night sky itself. Every movement sent ripples through the air, bending reality to her presence. Golden chains coiled around her wrists-dainty but unbroken-while now they slithered as a living thing up her arms and vanished into the void. Tied with no one, bound to nothing. A symbol of her existence: shackled to time yet never controlled by it. Like liquid midnight, her hair rained dark as the gash between the stars, threaded with the faint glimmer of those long-forgotten galaxies. Then those eyes- No. It was not eyes. They were shifting pools of past, present, and future swirling endlessly, unfathomable in their depth. They settled upon Zephyr, with not a hint of kindness nor cruelty. Only with knowing. Her lips curved into a lazy, almost amused smile, which did not reach her eyes. "You have called me, Zephyr of Veyris," she said, her voice layered with echoes. By all accounts, it contained the echoes of everything that has ever existed in all forms of reality-there were tales, fables, even songs. It was not a voice. It was all voices. "And now, you must name your price." Zephyr swallowed, his throat dry. The weight of her words pressed against his very soul. He had known it would not come easily. He had prepared himself for this. And yet, here he was, face to face with Fate herself, feeling her all-encompassing presence coil around him- Was any amount of preparation ever enough to make him ready? The Weight of the Bargain The unsettling grin of Fate was edged sharp, deceptively soft, an arched brow and amused almost with the stardust in her hair as if that held galaxies set unraveling, slow and deliberate motion: "The price can''t be a small one," she murmured. Inevitable where her voice was neither cruel nor kind. Zephyr swallowed. His throat was dry. He already knew the cost would be high before he stepped into this room, but standing before Fate herself now, it was no longer distant, no longer theoretical-in fact, it was here now, pushing against him, threading cold fingers of dread through his spine. Still, he could not hesitate. Not when Ronan''s future hung in the balance. Not when this was the only chance to break the chains Marcus had wound around him. Straightening his back, he forced his voice to remain steady. "What if I give a chunk of my lifespan?" he asked, fingers curling into his palm. "Or a part of my magic?" A hush fell over the two of them. Heavy and thick. Then, the air shifted. Not violently; suddenly but just enough for him to feel it. Like the tightening of a noose, like the weight of invisible chains coiling around his skin. Fate chuckled. The sound was light, almost airy-but it held the echoes of something vast and unknowable. Like wind whispering through forgotten ruins, like laughter carried from another lifetime. "No," she said simply. "I have no use for such things." Zephyr''s heart thumped against his ribs. "Then what?" His voice settled with a thread of fear shot through it, despite his best efforts. Fate studied him with that inscrutable gaze, luminous in which she stripped something from layers inside his soul, looking for something completely hidden. Then-it was a smile. Slow. Amused. Mischievous. "You are willing to pay such a price for love," she mused, voice both caress and warning, burdened by a thousand untold tales. "But tell me, Zephyr-why?" Zephyr blinked, thrown off balance. "What do you mean?" Fate took a slow step forward, her golden chains glinting under the dim candlelight, shifting like living things around her wrists. "This love you fight for is not yours to begin with," she whispered, and her voice curled into the space between them like smoke, wrapping around his very thoughts. "So why? Why do you bend your will, your magic, your very existence for something that was never meant to be yours?" Zephyr''s breath hitched. The words should have made him angry. Should have. But instead, they crept into his thoughts like roots of something that should have never been. He squeezed his fists together. "Because it matters," he said in a quietly steady tone. His Fate expression did not shift, but he swore something flickered in that ever-changing gaze. "Because love is not something to be dictated by fate or curses," he continued. "It is something we choose." Silence. Then- A twinkle in her gaze. "Is it so?" The air between them rippled. And in that instant-Zephyr just knew. She had made her decision. The Trial of the Forgotten The air thickened with fate present, warping between them; Zephyr''s space started twisting as if reality was retreating from her very step. The candle flames started writhing, perhaps drawn toward the spectacular allure of her presence; the eerie blue glow was casting restless shadows that danced along the walls and ceiling. "You think that love is a choice?" she softly inquired, her voice a silky thread wrapping around a core of steel. "Let us see if your love can indeed survive without a choice." The breath caught in Zephyr''s throat. A cold unpleasantness coiled in his gut. "What do you mean?" Fate extended a hand. And for the first time, Zephyr foresaw beyond her beauty¡ªthe sheer unbridled force thrummed through her very being. Unkind. Unmerciful. An unfettered brunt-force, the essence of time itself within the palm of her hand. "I will test you," she simply stated, each word marked by the finality of an unbroken prophecy. "To see if your sacrifice is worth it." His chest tightened at Fate''s words. "How?'''' A slow and deliberate smile creased Fate''s lips, a promise mixed with a sentence. "You will be my enforcer," she said. "A being that exists in the in-between, a shadow existing only for the balance of time and fate. In so doing, you will lose yourself, your memories, and your identity." Zephyr''s heart thundered in his ears. Lose himself? "You will be forgotten," Fate said, her voice somehow neither kind nor cruel, only sure. "By everyone. And you, too, will forget." Zephyr staggered back as the weight of her words settled in his bones. Forget? Forget Ronan? Forget the life they had just started to build, the moments they had stolen, the pieces of themselves they had carved into each other? A horrible, suffocating fear seized his chest. Fate stepped closer. Her eyes were twin galaxies collapsing in. "And because of the curse which binds you, he will forget you as well." Zephyr''s throat tightened. "That''s not¡ª" "But if you''re correct," Fate interrupted pleasantly, "if love is a choice and not simply memory and fate binding you, then you will find one another again." An implicit challenge. A trial steeped in destiny. Zephyr could hear his heart thundering like a war drum. This was more than a price¡ªthis was an examination. A horrible, cosmic gamble. She wanted to see whether love could transcend time. To see whether it could reach beyond the burden of lost memories and forgotten promises. And if it couldn''t... Zephyr''s fingers clenched into fists. He had come here for answers. To protect Ronan. To fight for him. But now¡ªnow he was being asked to risk it all. No past to cement them. No memories to guide him. No assurance. Would he take that leap? Could he even truly believe that their love would persist¡ªwould whittle its way through the void, through the darkness, and back to the light? Fate was standing before him, waiting. Watching. There was no turning back now. His moment of choice lay right in front of Zephyr. And it felt like the universe held its breath. Chapter 10: A Love Unwritten A Gamble with Fate Fate overshadowed Zephyr like an eclipse, presiding over the room with an awful tranquillity. The clever sparkle of her golden eyes held both rare amusement and unfathomable knowledge, one that spanned from infinite lifetimes to a certain foundation of stature. "Is it worth gazing into the future?" Fate questioned, her voice lilting with mercifully gentle yet utterly unforgiving overtones of inevitability and provocation. Zephyr¡¯s breath came out in small gasps. All along, he had known that magic came at a price, but this was far more than he had bargained for. More than a simple exchange. More than pain or power. More like the whole unraveling of everything that he was. Fate tilted her head in contemplation as stardust from her hair somewhat shimmered across the void like constellations rearranging themselves. "Do you really wish to lose everything?" she wondered, a hint of sympathy underlying her words. "Your anchor card too?" Zephyr stiffened. The anchor card. His tether to this world. The last thing keeping him from disappearing entirely into the unknown. If he were to give it up, then there would be no way back. No refuge. No identity. He would belong to Fate. "It would never come back," she whispered, the sealing weight of her words laid itself upon him, clanking like chains. His hands had balled into fists at his sides. A thousand thoughts were battling in his mind, each one screaming madness, reckless abandon, unfathomable loss. And yet, amidst the ruckus of reason and doubt, one thought stood out in clarity like burning fire. Ronan. How he had fought for life even when the world wanted to break him. How he had been a lone warrior burdened with loads too heavy, not having anyone to share it with. His esoteric look at Zephyr¡ªthe look that worked like a precious jewel, vital and irreplaceable. How could Ronan not be worth everything? Zephyr swallowed thickly; his throat was tight. When it came, his voice was raw with longing, almost a whisper. "What if my love finds me?" There was a moment of flickering expression across Fate''s visage: amusement? Curiosity? It was almost as if something inscrutable crept into her eyes for the first time. She tapped a finger against her chin, weighing. Then she answered. "If he remembers something about the bond you both share in his heart," she considered, "he will be allowed to dream of you. To get glimpses. I will show him the way to find you." Zephyr''s lips parted. Hope slipped in¡ªdelicate, trembling, like a spider''s thread¡ªinto her words. "But," Fate added, sharpened in her discourse, "if he does not remember you by the end of his time in this world, then you will be eternally mine." The air grew weighty, pressing against his skin, ribs, and lungs. His stomach twisted. An unwelcome gamble. A wager so cruel. If Ronan remembered, they would have a chance. If he did not however... Zephyr was just about through. Bound to Fate. A shadow. An enforcer. A forgotten soul. He took a steadying breath, bolstering himself against the weight of his fear. Was this a risk worth taking? His heart already knew the answer. The Price of Love Zephyr exhaled slowly, his pulse hammering against his ribs, each thud thundering into the silence and reminding him that he was about to give up something. An unseen weight pressed down upon him, wrapped around him tightly as though around his very soul, daring him to falter. Fate was with him. He understood now. This was not just a deal. A bet. With existence itself, it was a wager. The price? His life for Ronan''s life and love. Was it possible? Could he willingly throw himself into the unknown, disappear into nothingness, with only the fragile hope that Ronan might remember? That love¡ªthat true love''s powerful proclivity to defy the fate¡ªmight just remember? His mind seemed to be absolutely whirling with all the what-ifs, uncertainties, and the thought that, maybe, all this was in vain. But deep down, his heart had already decided. Yeah. Yes. Because Ronan did deserve a future. One without curses, shadows lurking at his heels. A life where he might be free. Yes. Because, if nothing, Ronan would lose his battle against Marcus, whatever he had before, and against a fate that had been cruelly written for him before he had a chance to fight it. Even if it meant that Zephyr himself would be lost. Curling his hand into fists, nails biting into his palm while he stood up against that tide of fear overwhelming him. "I''m ready," he said, his voice steady despite the storm raging within him. Fate smiled. Slow. Knowing. Victorious. Zephyr inhaled sharply, forcing himself to remain still beneath the weight of her gaze. "But I have one request," he added now, his voice softer but firm. Fate arched a delicate brow as though intrigued. "I want to send him off first," Zephyr proceeded every word laced quietly with determination. "Like in the vision. After that¡­ I will follow you." For the first time, something unreadable passed across Fate''s face. A pause. A hesitation. Not out of doubt, but something else entirely. Respect, perhaps. Or curiosity-the sheer depth of his devotion, the unshakeable resolve in his voice, the way he clung to love even when it meant letting go. She inclined her head, the movement regal and absolute. "Granted." And the word rang through the air sealing up his fate. Zephyr''s chest tightened. This was it. His last goodbye. The Price of a Wish Bright golden chains from her wrists glimmered in the distant candlelight. The air surrounding her appeared to shimmer with an ominous glow, bending in respect to her will. "I shall show you," she uttered in a sound smooth and commanding, woven with time itself. Zephyr''s breath caught in his throat. He had come so far in making peace with his decision, and yet there was something within him that languished yet. Something stubborn fought for its control with him, demanding something more. His fingers twitched along his sides, and what was left of his defiance burned in his chest. Unauthorized usage: this narrative is on Amazon without the author''s consent. Report any sightings. He lifted his gaze to hers, steadying his will for the storm raging in him. "Can we bring Ronan here as well?" His quiet voice had something firm that insisted. "He needs to see the vision too. I will forget everything anyway." Some flicker passed across Fate''s face¡ªannoyance, amusement, or perhaps a fragment of curiosity. The golden eyes narrowed, her power bearing down upon him with the weight of an impending storm. Card reading room walls dimmed and shifted in response to the energy. "You are demanding too much," she stated in almost a whisper, with the slight tilt of her head forwarding her evaluation of him. "I shall indulge you in this one last time. No more requests." The air within the room suddenly thickened with primordial malefic power. Awakening from what felt like a dream, Zephyr found himself letting out a breath he did not know he had been holding. He had won this favor¡ªbut again, at what price? He knew well never to underestimate the generosity of Fate. Every gift she chose to grant came with invisible shackles. But this opportunity would not die in vain. A faint weary smile appeared on his lips. "Thank you," he said simply, but there was much weight behind that courtesy: a rare recognition of the force that set before him. Not wasting another moment, Zephyr closed his eyes and seized the opportunity to reach his magic into the thread connecting him to Ronan. It was thin and quivering, like the flame of a candle in the wind, yet it still held. The one tie to this world, the one thing he would not let slip away. He reached for Ronan. Outside the walls of the chamber and across realms of time, Ronan began to hear. And as that connection flared, the world shifted. A wind, howling in rage, swept through the chamber, even though no doors were opened at that moment. Candle flames blazed, burning fitfully; shadows danced across the walls in chaos. Even the floor of the chamber seemed to shudder, holding its breath for what was to come. And there he stood. Ronan stumbled inside, breathless and with eyes wide open to take in the strange room. He appeared dazed, leaning forward as if trying to grasp some rational explanation of how he had been summoned there. "Zephyr?" His voice was gravelly with confusion yet pitchy with some deep feeling-concern, perhaps, or fear. Zephyr let his breath flow out slowly as his eyes ran over him. Something bittersweet ached in his heart just to look upon Ronan, knowing this would be one of his last memories of Ronan, before his memories faded, before the choice was cast. "I need you to see something," Zephyr said softly, a tone that was unfamiliar to Ronan. Ronan took a careful step forward, now staring from Zephyr to Fate. He froze; something instinctive in him warned him against all that he could comprehend. "Who is she?" he said, suspicion streaking his voice. Fate answered his question with nothing more than a smile, her face tilting just ever so slightly. The galaxies in her hair twirled, dancing like constellations reshuffling in the vast sky. "I am the one who will show you the truth," she replied. Ronan clenched his jaw, but Zephyr placed a hand on his arm, steadied him. There was no time to explain. "Trust me," Zephyr murmured. To his credit, Ronan did. His shoulders eased, just slightly, but his right hand twitched, like he could not resist the impulse to reach for a weapon he hadn''t brought. His trust was rarely given, but in this case, he was extending one to Zephyr. Now Fate extended both hands, palms facing up, an invitation and a warning. "Then come," she said. "See what has been written...and what is yet to be." With those very words, energy like fire was released, weighing heavily upon the atmosphere with the weight of destiny as the vision began. The Shadowed Truth The moment when Ronan stepped forward, the vision took hold. The air in the chamber pulsed with unseeable powers; the candle flames flickered unnaturally, almost as if they were in the pull of some force much greater than themselves. Silence fell in that heavy and oppressive space before the rest of the world began to shift around them. Darkness washed into the very edges of their vision, and the room dissolved itself where something heavy and dark had started to spill across the very reality itself. And then - A new scene began to unfold. **** A dimly lit chamber. A dark stone wall towered, alive but damp and cold with strange symbols painted on it, moving with a faint pulse. So thickened was the silence around him that he could only hear the faint murmurs of voice low outside the silence enveloping them. Marcus stood erect in the middle, stiffened like a statue. His expression was inscrutable. Where his golden eyes, as much like Ronan''s, shone with something cold-dead certainty combined with some element of submission, the submission was not directed at himself. His words were directed to someone. Someone unseen. The shadows at the end of the vision shifted unnaturally, warping and curling around a figure that remained obscured. Ronan and Zephyr strained to see but experienced denial at the hands of dark shadows. The words, however, were quite clear. ¡°I understand, Father. ¡° The voice was levelled and deliberate-too deliberate. ¡°I will bring him. ¡° Pause. Breath, heavy with a silence, thick with meaning. "You''ll take him under your control like previous ones before." Ronan felt his blood turn to ice. The thing, unknown and unfeeling, was crushing in weight, however. Whoever Marcus was speaking to-whatever this "father" was-was commanding a raw power such that no one would have ever dared disobey. Ronan''s fists clenched to the sides. The pulse roared in his ears, drowning everything else. Marcus. The one who bore his blood. Is he really only a pawn in someone else''s game? Or worse-he chose this willingly? Before he got to understand, the vision shifted again. **** Now a different location with stone walls still around them, but these walls were not cold and dispassionate. No, a vibrant sense of purpose was going here. Torches lined the room, intermittently casting their flickering light on a crowd of scorched black, military-clothed people. The smell was that of damp earth and burning wax, giving life to the room. In the middle-stood Marcus again, but his was not the same appearance this time. This was no longer submission, but command. Before him knelt a man Ronan recognised instantly-one of the survivors from the bunker. He had fought with this man, shared whispered words under cover of night, trusted him, and now- " It''s time," Marcus announced, his voice guaranteed. " We need to prepare for war." Ronan''s breath caught. "Yes my Lord." The man bowed before him. His voice was reverent. " What is your command?" Marcus''s expression darkened as his gaze set on something hidden. His lips curled slightly-not quite a smile, but the shadow of something close. "We will need the anchor card," he said. "Call him. We need him." The vision cracked. Shattering like a glass mirror; the world split into a thousand pieces of light and shadow and then vanished into nothing. The chamber came rushing back with the gale of air. Zephyr stumbled as a sharp stab blotched through his head while his senses aligned once again. Next to him stood Ronan, utterly statuesque in posture, eyes wide open and breath ragged. The sheer weight of what they have witnessed was on them like iron chains. "Marcus..." Ronan''s voice barely held above a whisper, but the hurt of it was unmistakable. Zephyr swallowed painfully, settling into his bones with the harsh weight of reality. Marcus wasn¡ät working alone. There was something, someone far more powerful standing behind him. And worse- They were after the anchor card. The Missing Piece Zephyr''s breath was shallow, his head racing, as the last echoes of the vision drifted away. A cold unease slithered down his spine, whispering of something unseen but, in some way, certainly there. His stomach twisted. They needed Ronan. That much was clear, but what had taken place? The vision revolved around him¡ªMarcus speaking inaudibly in reverent tones, and there was something pulling strings behind the scenes. But the pieces weren''t lining up; something was missing. "Anchor card¡ª" Zephyr turned the words over in his mind, dissecting them, searching for a hidden meaning. Marcus had commissioned his men to fetch it. But why? His pulse thumped as he turned to look at Ronan. "You don'' have one," he said softly. Ronan frowned. "What?" "The anchor card," Zephyr turned the words in his mind, trying to analyze, his voice taut with uncertainty, "It''s something that only magicians have. It is the core of their magic. It is what keeps them tethered to existence. But you..." Zephyr hesitated, watching as Ronan''s expression transitioned from confusion to something colder, something more wary. "You''re no magician, Ronan." The statement hung in the air between them, heavy, undeniable. Ronan crossed his arms. "No. I''m not." And yet¡ª "Then why do they need you?" said Zephyr in a whisper more to himself than to Ronan. It was bewildering. Marcus had spoken as if Ronan were to be indispensable to the operation¡ªlike he was the vital piece in a game neither of them quite grasped. But how? Unless it was¡ª An awful notion suddenly struck Zephyr. "Is there something from your past we''ve missed? " His voice was sharper now, urgent. "Something?" Ronan''s expression clouded over. He knitted his brows together in frustration. "I don''t know. I¡ª" He let out a sharp breath that raked a hand through his hair. "I don''t remember everything, alright? My past isn''t exactly something I like digging into." Zephyr studied him closely as his magician instincts shrieked that the truth lay buried somewhere in those missing memories. Something Marcus knew. Something that Fate had not revealed. "We need to find out," Zephyr said finally. His tone left no argument. Because if Marcus came for Ronan¡ª Then Ronan was far more important than either of them had ever realized. The Price of Fate A sound, sharp enough to cleave through silence, lanced the air. Fate cleared her throat, and her golden eyes shone with quiet finality. "It is now time for the payment," she stated with a voice as final as the closing of an unbreakable contract. Zephyr took a long breath to steady himself. "What are you paying?" asked Ronan, his discriminating eyes betraying just a hint of his doubts. Zephyr forced a smile; it was light, dismissive-almost every part of him, though, ached under the weight of what was to come. "Nothing important. Don''t worry about that." But that made Ronan''s frown deeper; his instincts were sharp. "Zephyr¡ª" "There is no time," was how Zephyr cut him off, his voice firm. "You need to leave before they come looking for you." Ronan hesitated. "But the curse¡ª" Zephyr turned his head for an instant. His eyes landed on Fate. She appeared unreadable, patient, waiting. "Maybe it''s best to leave it for fate." They were light words, but Ronan wouldn''t be fooled. Zephyr took the immediate step forward, putting a firm hand on Ronan''s shoulder. "You need to find out your past." The emphasis was marked, pressed into Ronan''s bones. Because this journey and the real truth would actually belong to Ronan alone. "Take whatever you find useful from the treasure and leave." His voice was quieter now; it had something that bordered on resignation in it. " It won¡¯t be of any use to me anymore." Ronan stiffened. Jagged were the edges of Zephyr''s words-they felt all wrong. Final. As if by saying it there was a kind of good-bye without actually saying it. And that terrified him. A Farewell Without Goodbye The next few minutes slipped by in a blur. Zephyr moved with an urgent calm, helping Ronan get as much as he could carry¡ªan orb, a handful of gold coins, a few supplies. But Ronan could feel it, pressing against him like an unseen force. He wasn¡¯t just helping. He was pushing him out. "Zephyr, slow down¡ª" "You need to go," Zephyr said, shoving a pack into Ronan''s hands. Tightening around Ronan''s chest, he sensed that something was wrong. Zephyr was harried and insistent. Could not articulate words in rebuttal. He stood in the middle of the threshold, turning his head back. Zephyr, lit weakly inside the room, stood waiting in that same unreadable demeanor-where the eyes twisted Ronan''s stomach-that felt too much like an ending. A lump formed in Ronan''s throat, but he forced himself to smile. "I''ll be back." Zephyr remained mute. Instead, he lifted a hand in a small, almost absent-minded wave, his fingers barely curling. So Ronan turned, stepping out into the unknown, the weight of an unfinished story pressing against his spine. Hoping, praying that at the end of all this, he would find his way back. Back to the truth. Back to past. Back to him. Chapter 11: The Land of Fate A Heart Unraveled He stood frozen at the threshold, breath caught somewhere between his ribs. Ronan''s figure shrank smaller by the tick of a second, into nothingness, into distance, into inevitability. And with every motion of Ronan away from him, something stretched even tighter within him-pulling, straining until it snapped. A jagged, cutting pain cleaved its way through his chest, raw and violent - the kind that took the breath away. Something he had never felt before-there was a tearing inside him, a rift splitting wide open in the very fabric of his being. And then- Nothing. The pain vanished just as fast as it came, washing away with an aching silence that sat heavily in his soul. No warmth. No rope anchoring him. Just an empty void, choking him. His fingers twitched at his sides in search of something-someone-who was now gone. His mind reeling trying to grasp something, anything, A memory - a name. And the harder he tried to remember, the more it slipped from his mind¡¯s fingers, trickling like grains of sand. His heartbeat slowed, and the world dulled and numbed around him to the point where even his emotional state felt far away-muted. It felt as if there had been a slight broken record of his essence, leaving behind an unfinished puzzle. A delicate but resolute grasp rested upon his shoulder, grounding him. ¡°It''s time,¡± Fate intoned, her voice weighed with the burden of destiny. Zephyr swallowed, coerced into a nod. He turned to follow her, but his body held back. Some instinct within him resisted this-had fought for this. Against his better judgment, his eyes darted back toward the path Ronan had taken, his heart clutching-seemingly for some forbidden reason. Now, it was empty. And yet, that emptiness did not feel unfamiliar. It felt as if...something had been stolen. "What happened?" Fate asked, her golden eyes glimmering with the intangibles of impatience and curiosity. Zephyr frowned, his brow knitting together as he attempted to arrive at an answer. "I don''t know." His voice was even quieter now, unreasonably hollow. "I feel like¡­ I''m missing something." Fate studied him for a long moment, unreadable. There was something in her gaze-something ephemeral and almost pitying-but it dissipated before he could correctly name it. "Come." Softer now, but firm. "The way forward does not wait." Zephyr tore his gaze from the empty road, an odd ache settling in his heart. With a final glance - not sure why he looked back - he turned and followed her into the unknown. The Land Beyond Time Zephyr stepped through the rip in space and time, and the air around him shifted. It was unlike anything he had ever felt before¡ªno weight, no gravity, no direction. The very concept of space unraveled, stretching and folding in ways his mind couldn¡¯t quite grasp. And then, the world solidified before him. The Land of Fate. It was breathtaking. The sky shimmered in hues that defied description, shifting between deep indigos, radiant golds, and soft silvers as if it were painted anew with each passing second. Floating islands of ivory stone drifted in a boundless expanse, connected by bridges of woven starlight. Rivers of liquid silver cascaded down into endless voids, disappearing into nothingness. Everything felt suspended¡ªlike time itself had unraveled here, leaving only an eternal, serene stillness. But what caught Zephyr¡¯s attention the most was the life that thrived in this place. Tiny creatures flitted through the air, no taller than his hand, their delicate wings carrying them in unpredictable patterns. Some resembled miniature foxes with feathered tails that shimmered like constellations. Others had translucent, jellyfish-like bodies that pulsed with a soft, celestial glow. They moved in clusters, murmuring in a language of chiming sounds and hushed whispers. "The fate keepers," Fate explained, her voice laced with something almost fond. "They maintain the balance, weaving the threads of time where they have frayed." Zephyr watched, mesmerized, as one fate keeper floated past him, its large, luminous eyes blinking curiously before darting away in a blur of stardust. Fate raised her hand and snapped her fingers. Instantly, two of the fate keepers broke away from their clusters and hovered before her. One was a small, cat-like creature with sleek silver fur, its ears long and tufted at the tips. Its tail was an ever-shifting stream of golden light, fading and reappearing as it moved. Its eyes were deep violet, filled with mischief. The other was smaller, almost owl-like, with a round body covered in soft, iridescent feathers. Its wings, though tiny, shimmered like gossamer threads of fate itself. Unlike the first, this one exuded an air of quiet wisdom, its golden eyes studying Zephyr with silent intrigue. "Liora, Solis," Fate addressed them. "Report." Liora, the silver-furred one, huffed and flicked her tail. "The threads of fate are stable¡ªfor now. But there''s been some¡­ interference." "Interference?" Fate¡¯s eyes narrowed. "A few loose strands," Solis added in a soft, measured voice. "A connection refusing to be erased." His gaze lingered on Zephyr. Fate exhaled, not surprised but slightly annoyed. "It matters little now. You have a task ahead of you." She gestured toward Zephyr. "Show him around. Let him understand what he has become a part of." Liora grinned, baring tiny, sharp teeth. "A tour? Oh, I like this one." Solis nodded, his gaze still unreadable. "Come, Zephyr. There is much to see." Zephyr glanced at Fate, but she merely inclined her head before turning away, already focused on something unseen. Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings. As he followed Liora and Solis deeper into the Land of Fate, a strange unease settled over him. Somewhere, in the shifting tides of time and destiny, a connection had refused to break. And though he couldn¡¯t remember what it was¡ª Somewhere deep inside, he knew. The Keepers of Fate Liora was practically springing as she flitted ahead, her silver tail flickering like a trail of shooting stars. ¡°So, you''re new here, right?¡± she chirped, spinning midair to hover beside Zephyr. ¡°Well, lucky for you. I''m an excellent guide. Solis is a little bland, but don''t worry-I''ll make it fun. ¡° Solis only sighed as he drifted quietly beside her. "I am thorough, not boring," he corrected, his golden eyes unwavering. "Thoroughly boring," Liora said, flashing Zephyr a teasing grin. Zephyr huffed a soft laugh, but it was distant, like there was something missing-some weight he had been carrying but suddenly disappeared, leaving only a ghost of its pressure against his chest. "So," he said, "you both are fate keepers. What exactly does that mean?" "Oh! Wow! That was a brilliant question!" Liora whooped in glee as she spun around in the air and landed on his shoulder, curling up like a cat made with stardust. "There are, like, five main types of fate keepers, just like there are ten powerful anchor cards." "Five?" Zephyr asked with a small frown. There was something stirring, vague in his memory at the mention of anchor cards. There were no memories, though, just a weird emptiness. "Indeed," Solis confirmed. "Each group plays a vital role in the maintenance of the balance of fate." They led him along a bridge woven from silver light over an expanse where threads of fate shimmered and twisted like strands of a cosmic loom. The faint outlines of figures, people who were not meant to be here, could be seen, mere phantoms in the weave of lives that once would have been written, redirected, or severed. "We are the Watchers," continued Solis, voice strong and assured. "We oversee the threads of destiny. We ensure that nothing frays and that fate flows in accordance with its design. When interference happens, we are the first to respond." "Like the repairmen of fate," thought Zephyr. "More like its enforcers," Liora corrected. "Then there are the Weavers," Solis continued gesturing at a floating structure in the distance, a very large ethereal workshop made of glowing filaments, into which tiny creatures scuttled constantly, weaving shimmering strands into the fabric of time with their delicate hands. "They craft and maintain the fates of the living. Every thread, every choice, every path-it is their work that shapes the flow of existence." Zephyr, his mouth open in awe, watched the Weavers at work. Some unraveled the golden threads, while some tied them back, some with new strength and some redirected altogether. The sheer intricacy of their work was staggering. "Then we have the Guardians," Liora said, gesturing to another place-an immense area filled with towering spires, at the tops of which the larger fate keepers patrolled like silent sentinels. These creatures had sleek, armored bodies, their wings edged in obsidian. "They protect the threads from contamination. When someone or something threatens fate itself, the Guardians step in." A chill crawled down Zephyr''s spine. "Corruption?" Solis nodded solemnly. "Some defy fate, twist it, make it unnatural; some want to rewrite their own destiny, while others..." He broke off. Liora filled in, "Others try to control it. Manipulate it. Keep it all to themselves." A shadow crossed Zephyr''s face. He had no memory of why those words unsettled him so deeply, but they did. "Then we have the Archivists," continued Solis, gesturing toward a seemingly endless library of floating tomes and shining scrolls. "They are the keepers, recording everything-the past, the present, and the infinite options of the future. Every life, every decision, every consequence-it is all documented here." Zephyr''s gaze lingered on the towering shelves. There was a strange pull settling deep in his chest, but he forced himself to look away. "And finally," Liora said, lowering her voice a little, "there are the Heralds." "Heralds?" Zephyr raised a brow. "They are the ones who take fate out of the world directly into the mortal world," explained Solis. "When the time comes for fate to intervene directly¡­ they are sent." "Sent to do what?" Zephyr frowned. "To deliver messages," Liora said, "or warnings to others. Or..." She hesitated. "Or to ensure fate''s decree is carried out," Solis finished. Zephyr shivered down his spine. He, however, did not know why. "Come," said Solis, leading them toward what looked like a gigantic, celestial factory-pulsing with light pillars outlined in synchronized rhythms while gears of pure energy continuously shifted and turned. "This is where each of us is assigned our tasks. The keepers of fate return here to oversee the balance." Zephyr inhaled deeply, taking it all in. The Land of Fate was more than just a place-it was a living, breathing force, constantly shaping, correcting, and guiding the unseen forces that governed existence. And now he was part of it. But as he continued to follow Liora and Solis deeper into the Land of Fate, a quiet but persistent question gnawed at him. Had he forgotten something? Or someone? A Role Unwritten Zephyr sighed slowly in search of steadiness. The overwhelming characteristic of this space¡ªthe endless spools of fates weaving, celestial wheels turning¡ªwas truly overbearing. But now, standing in the heart of it all, there was only one question bugging him. "What is my task?" he asked, his voice calm, notwithstanding the uncertainty swirling inside. Liora and Solis exchanged glances. It wasn''t just a fleeting look; there was a silent conversation, something weighty that passed between them. Solis, as always composed, gave the faintest nod as if to say, "Fine." Liora turned towards Zephyr, her shimmering wings twitching slightly as she thought of her words. "Well, you''re kind of a... manager," she began with a playful lilt in her voice. Zephyr blinked. "A manager?" That was hardly the grand title he had expected. Solis sighed. "An Enforcer of Fate," he implied. "You are in charge of supervising fate itself. Unlike us, whose fates are each fixed to specific roles, you ensure everything runs as it should-from the Weavers, who spin destiny, to its Guardians, who protect it, to its Heralds, who bring its decrees. You are the first and the last line of order here." Zephyr frowned. "And¡­ did someone walk this path before me?" At this, Liora hesitated. For the first time since she had met her, she seemed lost for words. It was Solis who answered next. "No," he said simply. Zephyr''s pulse quickened. "No?" Liora shrugged and her wings fluttered. "Nope. Fate does not bring people here. This world is for fate keepers alone. Just the fact that you are here? That''s unheard of." Zephyr tried to digest that bit of news. Fate had given him that task, and this was brought into the realm outside the confines of time and space: he was, however, the only one of his kind. "So what does that mean for me?" he posed carefully. "It means," Solis said, his gaze unwavering, "that your existence here is an anomaly. But Fate has chosen you, and her will is absolute. You are now part of this world. Whether or not you should be here is irrelevant-you are here and have a duty to fulfill." Something about those words managed to make Zephyr''s chest again feel hollow, as if something were missing. But of course he could not remember why. Liora clapped her hands together, as if to lighten the mood. "Anyway! We''re still working on your accommodation, so you''ll have to wait a little bit." Zephyr canted his head. "Working on it?" "Yep!" Liora pointed to the front, where a horde of tiny creatures not bigger than his palm was flitting about in the air. They had sleek, segmented bodies, like ants made out of shimmering crystal, but with delicate, translucent wings that flickered as they moved. They zipped back and forth from one corner to another, carrying what looked like strands of pure light and weaving those strands together into towering structures that appeared out of nowhere. "The Fate Workers," Solis said. "They are responsible for building, maintaining, and, if necessary, destroying everything that is here." This was the foundation upon which the Land of Fate built itself, according to Fate''s will. Zephyr watched with fascination as those tiny creatures worked together in absolute harmony, movements synchronized, like live machines. "They don''t talk," said Liora. "But they know what has to be done. You give them a task; they won''t disobey." Zephyr studied them, entranced. There was something calming in their unyielding readiness and effortless coordination; yet an unsettling thought crept into his mind. "If they build and destroy what Fate orders¡­," he murmured more to himself than to them, "then what happens when something no longer serves its purpose?" Solis met his gaze. "Then it ceases to exist." A strange chill ran through Zephyr''s spine. Liora, ever the optimist, patted his shoulder. "You know what, don''t broach it too hard! You are a part of Fate''s grand design now. And trust me, she never makes mistakes." That left him bemused. He could not tell why, but those words felt as far from consolation as possible. A Question Without an Answer Something gnawed uneasily inside of Zephyr. The Fate Workers continued building, tirelessly weaving the very structure of his new existence. But it was wrong somehow, even the very bringing of him here, a weight of a role that had never existed before. His golden eyes narrowed as he turned back to Liora and Solis. "Why?" he asked, his voice steady but tinged with uncertainty. Liora blinked. "Why what?" "Why am I here? Why did Fate choose me?" He curled his fingers in his palms. "You said Fate never brings people here. That I''m the first. This place is only for Fate Keepers. Then why did she break her own rules for me?" For the first time, Liora looked uncomfortable. Her usual brightness faded in the light. Her wings twitched as she glanced over to Solis. Solis remained inscrutable, however. Dark, piercing eyes met Zephyr''s without a flicker of reaction. "The will of Fate is unshakeable," he said evenly. "There is no reason beyond that. You are here because she deemed it so." Zephyr clenched his jaws. "That isn''t an answer." Liora laughed softly. "That is the answer. Honestly, you should take it as an honor! You''ve been elected for something bigger than yourself; that''s exciting, isn''t it?" "No," said Zephyr flatly. "It is disturbing." Liora''s wings stilled. Solis exhaled slowly, his gaze unflinching. "Some questions do not have answers." "That''s a convenient way of saying you don''t want to tell me." In a lighter, teasing voice, Liora dished off, "Come on, get your head out of the clouds. There is nothing so mysterious about this. You have a job now, and trust me, you are going to be busy, so that is all that remarks." Zephyr regarded them both carefully. Liora was too eager to go on. Solis was too in control. They knew something. And they weren''t telling him. There was a flicker of something-an emotion he could not quite name-passing through him; a vague, ghostly sensation of loss-as if something had been taken even before he had a chance to grasp it. "What is she planning?" He murmured it more to himself than to them. This brought Solis and Liora to an exchange of glances. For once, Zephyr caught it. There was a reason. There was something they weren¡¯t saying. And it wasn¡¯t just about him being the first human here. Fate had a plan. And he had the sinking feeling that he wasn¡¯t going to like it. Chapter 12: Path to Lost Time A Man Without a Past The air thick in The Hollow Coin was stale ale, charred meats, and the musk smell of typical unwashed bodies. Heavy wooden doors creaked shut behind Ronan, sealing him in the tavern where dimly lighted places reek of all kinds of desperation. Gamblers brood on their losses at sticky tables while mercenaries occupy the shady corners, and thieves exchange secrets over cheap whiskey. It hadn''t changed. Cracked floorboards groaned beneath his boots, the flickering candlelight casting restless shadows against the smoke-stained walls. In the far corner, a drunken bard slurred his way through an off-tune melody, strumming a battered lute with more enthusiasm than skill. A group of men hunched over a dice game, their hushed voices punctuated by the occasional curse or the scrape of coins across the wood. He thought he would feel at home but something felt ¡­. off. No, it wasn¡¯t the place that had changed. Maybe it was just him. Ronan swallowed hard; the weight of his loss settled over him like an anchor. He now had nothing: no past to cling to, no future to chase, and no love into which to return. It was a dull ache, persistent in his chest--an unhealed wound. For hours he roamed the streets, directionless, with feet shuffling as though conscious without thought. Left without compass. Left without purpose. And where there was none of either, he had given a chance to his instinct. That instinct had led him here. He stepped toward a mostly empty table at the back and thumped down onto the seat after exhaling quietly. The crowd buzzed around him, swallowing murmurs and clinking tankards that occasionally erupted in measures of uproarious laughter, yet he still couldn''t help but feel distanced from it, as though he were watching through a fog. A wench passed smelling of steam and set down a bowl of hissing stew and a slab of rough bread, without looking even once in his direction. He was not into acknowledging her. His fingers curled around the wooden spoon, stirring the thick broth absently. He wasn''t really hungry-to be exact. But every now and then, just doing something could humanize a person, contacting him with the world. And right now, he wasn''t even sure he felt that way. His eyes lazily roamed about the room, taking in the familiar faces of thieves, swindlers, and lost souls like him. Then, something drew his attention a few tables away. A conversation of low serious intrigue. Ronan stilled, tightening his hand around the spoon. He had spent enough years to survive in places like this to learn when a conversation was worth listening to. And this one? This has the unmistakable weight of opportunity. A Gamble in the Dark At the farthest nook of the tavern, hidden in faint candlelight, two men sat hunkered over a battered wooden table. Their voices were hushed, almost inaudible against the hum of the room¡ªcareful, secretive. The kind of conversation that wasn''t meant to be overheard. Ronan had hung out with people like them long enough to know when something was being discussed that required value. A little twist of his head, ear at the right angle to hear the sound while keeping his expression neutral, his spoon idly stirring untouched stew. The wiry man with the jagged scar tracing his cheek drummed restless fingers on the tabletop, and then he came in so close, whispering but very firm: "Word is, they''re still lookin''," he muttered. "Months now, and not a damn thing." The man with a broad shoulder and thick tangled beard scoffed. "If they haven''t found him by now, either he don''t wanna be found... or he''s dead." The scarred man shook his head; his lips pressed together into a thin line. "Nah. The kind of power they''re looking for? That doesn''t just disappear. Someone would''ve noticed. Somebody has to know where he is." Ronan tightened his grip around the edge of his bowl. A place where lost gamblers did shady jobs. A hunt for someone with immense magic. Too much coincidence. Something stirred within him; a pulse of something sharp and undeniable. Curiosity. Instinct. A bit of sheer desperation. His own body moved before his mind could second-guess it. He rose from his seat and moved toward them with the familiar, easy confidence that masked intent, the kind that said he belonged. The two men stopped speaking as his shadow fell over their table, both of them looking at him with expressions immediately shifting to cautious scrutiny. "Need an extra set of hands?" Ronan said with a light, easy tone, though his heartbeat felt anything but steady. The man with the beard lifted an eyebrow. "You any good at finding things?" Ronan smirked, resting his hands on the back of an empty chair. "I have a knack for it." A tense beat of silence passed between them. The scarred man leaned back, hands crossed across his chest, looking at Ronan before weighing his offer. "A dry spell for months-and no leads," he finally relented, "If you can help, we won''t ask too many questions." That was fine. Because Ronan had far more questions than answers himself. And this job would bring him just that little bit closer to the truth or whatever it was he had lost. This job was for him. A Name in the Dark He leaned closer, and his fingers idly traced the rim of the tankard while the two men engaged in a clipped, cautious conversation- the kind that is habitual among people who have encountered long roads often enough and have learned to trust strangers. "The task is very simple," said the scarred man, his voice low yet firm. He went further to explain, "Find a boy. Ten-year-old boy. Curly black-haired boy. Brown-eyed boy. Affluent, desperate parents. Rumour has it¡ªthe boy has magic in his blood- strong magic." Ronan frowned, and a prickle crawled up his spine. "The boy''s runaway?" He shook his head as he replied. "Kidnapped. Few months back. The boy''s nanny- the one meant to protect him- vanished with him. She did not demand any ransom, nor have left any demands. Just vanished." His fingers seemed to tighten around the tankard rim, his thumb pressed to the cool metal. "The nanny. Who was she?" He kept his tone neutral, but something inside braced itself for the answer. "Young woman. No real records on her- just that she''d been hired years ago and trusted with the boy''s safety. People say she was quiet, kept to herself. Wore layers of tattered shawls, always hunched over like she carried the weight of the world on her back." His companion let out a rough chuckle. "Some folks remember her hands- thin, wiry fingers, veins like creeping vines. Others recall her eyes. Strange, deep-set, always watching, like she saw things no one else could." Ronan inhaled sharply. He knew someone like that. The beggar woman. The one who had helped him when no one else had. If you encounter this tale on Amazon, note that it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it. The one who gave him a cryptic warning, as if she knew something he didn''t. It could be her. And yet¡­ it does not fit. The age does not match. Is she a kidnapper? His mind was racing back in reference to the warmth of her voice, the wisdom of her words. She was kind, weary yet sharp-wised in a way that spoke of a life hardened by suffering. Were she the kidnapper, her motive would not be some ransom or some cruelty towards the boy. There must be a reason. Ronan kept his face neutral and steeled his features into careful interest. "And you have nothing?" The bearded man grunted in frustration. "None that has led anywhere useful. Every trail goes cold before we even get close." Ronan slowly nodded as if to make a decision. "I might be able to help," he said, measuring out his words. "No promises, but I''ll at least see what I can dig up." The scarred man gave a quick nod. "Get us something and you''ll be compensated well." He barely managed to hear him. Money did not matter. Indeed, even he was interested in something far more valuable. In fact, the truth. The Beggar¡¯s Secret The road was on the outskirts of town, stretching onward into an angular wasteland of solitude; the silence draping itself over the air like a specter retained from ages past. The night was laden with sorrow, the sky no emptier than an ink pot save for a thin line of moonlight barely gracing those jagged ruins that lay ahead. The pathway was without lanterns or any signs of life, deserted by all but the wind that rustled the crisps of grass in fitful murmurs. Damp earth mingled with the acrid remains of an old fire, curling around Ronan''s lungs as a ghost of something lost. His boots pressed softly along the dirt path, each sound swallowed by the hush of the night. The ruins loomed before his sight¡ªweather-worn stones jutting from the land like broken bones crumbling under time''s unwieldy weight. Shadows pooled between them, extending long, cold, and implacable. No lifting of voices, no stirring of being carried by the wind¡ªonly silence and coldness. She was there. Hunched up by a jagged wall, her frail form wrapped in tatters, she looked even smaller now; shrunken, as though time had begun to tear her from the inside out. Her gnarled hands clasped the folds of her cloak, bony fingers curling as if to ward off a chill that had nothing to do with the air. Ronan hesitated, then moved closer; his heart felt slow and deliberate, although he had a nagging feeling about ideations of fate. The woman stirred. Her face turned to him, their eyes connected. Recognition deep within her eyes momentarily illuminated, only to be extinguished as swiftly as a fleeting shadow under candlelight. Then came relief. Then¡ªgrief. Grief that seemed to excavate itself into her very being. She breathed in, sending out her breath into the chill like the last wisp of a dying ember. "You are cursed." That was not an accusation. It was neither a question. It was just a simple, unwavering truth. Ronan''s spine had gone stiff. He had heard such words before, glibly bantered and uttered in whispers by the superstitious na?vet¨¦s that feared him. They should not have unsettled him. And yet, they did! "Yes, but¡ª" "But you are not here for yourself," she cut him off, the voice rasping against his ear like dry leaves scratching against stone. Her stare, bold and madly knowledgeable, pinioned him in place. "You seek something else. Someone." His heartbeats became fast. "Do you know anything?" She sighed, and the weight of unsaid truths pressed her shoulders lower. Her eyes flickered beyond him, searching the darkness, probing the empty road behind him as if expecting something-or someone-to be hiding just past sight. Then she spoke. "I once helped the boy escape from torture." The words hit like hammer on steel. No pause. No doubt. Just quiet, unmoving conviction. Ronan caught his breath. "Escape?" The word felt strange on his tongue, like a piece of a puzzle that did not quite fit. That had not been the story told to him. That had not been what they at The Hollow Coin had said. "People are saying you kidnapped him," he said, but kept his voice careful, keeping her gaze for the smallest crack in the wall of her resolve. The woman made a dry, tired sound of laughter, which was bitter and sharp as a winter''s bite. "And you believe them?" Ronan hesitated. And then, quietly, "No. That is why I have come to you alone." For a moment, the only sound between them was the wind curling through the ruins. Then, slowly, she smiled¡ªa bit knowingly, almost wistful. "Then you are wiser than most." Night shifted about them, thick with something unseen, something that waited. And in that moment, Ronan knew, whatever truth awaited him ahead would change everything. A Magician¡¯s Burden Breath rattled in the old woman''s chest; it was a weak but persistent sound like a candle flickering to its final flicker. She beckoned Ronan closer with those trembling fingers, curling as if trying to grasp something unseen¡ªthe thing had already begun slipping away. Even in that dim light, he could see urgency on her clouded eyes¡ªthe fire would refuse to die with time-and something far darker. "I don''t have much time," she said in a low voice, cautiously balanced, as if sheer determination kept it from shattering. "You have to hear everything before it''s too late." Ronan knelt beside her, cold seeping through him from the earth, though he hardly minded. His instincts screamed that this moment was more significant than he understood. "Tell me,¡± He urged. She exhaled an involuntary shuddering breath as if each word would cost her something impossible to repurchase. "I was once a magician," she began, her voice holding the weight of an old memory, "but I''ve lost my anchor card long ago. Without it, I became powerless. A shadow of what I once was." Squeezing the folds of her cloak as if it hurt to continue into the memory. "I had nothing; no title, power, or home. So I did what I had to in order to survive. I took work as a nanny for a wealthy family." Ronan said nothing, just listened as the wind howled down empty streets, carrying echoes of a long-buried story. "I took care of their son, Isaac, as if he were my own," she went on, and her voice softened for the first time, imbued with quiet fondness. "He was different. His magic- it was unlike anything I''d ever seen. Pure. Untamed." But then, her face darkened. "And that was why they feared him." Ronan scowled. "Who?" "The parents," she said bitterly, warmth in her voice turned to ice. "They loved him once. Or maybe they only loved the idea of him before they knew what he really was. When he was seven, a man in a black cloak came to the house." She swallowed and her hands trembled as if she could still feel the weight of that moment pressing down on her. "He whispered something to them, something I never heard. But after that¡­ everything changed." A cold dread coiled in Ronan''s gut. "Changed how?" She bared her teeth, her eyes clouded with ghosts from yesteryear. "They became different- like puppets pulled by invisible strings. Cold. Distant. And then the cruelty began. They called it ''correction,'' but it was nothing more than torture. They tried to break him, to mold him into something else-something unnatural." Ronan''s fingers curled into fists. He had seen enough in his life to understand what people were capable of when faced with those who did not know the fear of the unknown. "And Isaac?" he demanded more quietly. The woman had eyes full of tears, a grief so deep it seemed to hollow her. "He didn''t understand. How could he?" ¡°They were his parents. He wanted to please them, to make them love him again. But no matter how much he obeyed, all the hurt always remained. " She exhaled shakily; the sound brittle. ¡°One night, he couldn''t take it anymore. In his agony, his magic broke free." Ronan''s body stiffened. He knew what happened when magic got out of control. "It would have destroyed the entire house," she confessed. "Killed them all. But I couldn''t allow that to happen-I wouldn''t let him become a monster in their eyes." Her frail fingers lifted, pressing lightly against her chest, right above her heart. "So, it was the only thing I could do; I absorbed into myself." ¡°I captured his magic-his pain-inside my soul. " Ronan''s breath caught. "And it''s been eating me alive ever since," she whispered. "That is why I look like this. The magic festers inside me, corroding my body from the inside out. I was never meant to hold power like his." Ronan could only stare, horror settling in his bones like ice. "You sacrificed yourself for him." A faint, tired smile touched her lips. "I would do it again." The winds howled through the ruins, cold and restrained, but Ronan sensed something else shaping itself in the air-a truth which might never be undone. A Final Gift The wind sharpened a gust against the ruins like a warning in whispers. It was cold air but something more palpable, invisible; a force just about to come alive. The woman''s face hardened while her frail hands gripped Ronan''s wrist so firmly that it surprised him. ¡°I''m running out of time," she said, every word jagged with urgency. "Listen carefully. The moment I die, magic will return to its rightful owner - Isaac. When it does, he will be needing protection." In his ears, his pulse thundered. Isaac. The name suddenly had weight, pressing into his chest like an unspoken command. "Where is he?" he demanded. Regret flickered across her face. "I don''t know," she said, the words tight with guilt. " But.." Her fingers fumbled in the folds of her cloak, searching with cold, trembling urgency, and finally something was pulled free-a small pearl-sized pebble. It gleamed softly, impossibly in the dim light, almost as it had some glow magic could explain. She pressed it into his palm. "This will lead you to him." Ronan stared at it, mind reeling. "What is this?" "A guide," simply said. "If you listen, it will show you the way." He clenched his jaw. "And what happens after that?" The woman exhaled slowly, tiredly. But in her tired eyes, something sharp remained - a glimmer of knowledge that ran deeper than words. "For all that you are doing for me... allow me to give you something in return." Ronan frowned. "What do you mean? She watched him like that, considering the weight of her next words. And when she finally spoke, they were not at all what he expected. "Stay with Isaac." A strange chill curled down his spine. There was a finality in her voice, as if she had seen something of his fate¡ªsomething inevitable. "He shall guide you to your lost memories," she continued, her tone unwavering, resolute. "And he will help you reclaim what is rightfully yours." Everything seemed to quiet around them. The air grew still. Ronan''s breath turned sharp and strategic in his lungs. A familiar cold settled in his bones-something deeper than fear. "What are you talking about?" he demanded. But she only smiled, knowing, fatigue better suited their face and both legs against the weight of what remained unspoken between them. Then, with one last breath, her body became still. Silence. Then-a shift. The air trembled, humming with something unseeable. Ronan barely had time to process what had happened before he felt it-an invisible force pulsing outward from her lifeless form, rippling through the night like a silent storm. The magic was leaving her. The magic was returning to its owner. And wherever Isaac was.... He would feel it. A New Path There Ronan sat unmoving, fingers still wrapped around the smooth, blooming pebble. The stillness of the night pressed in upon him. The only break in this hush was the distant sigh of the wind. His thoughts swirled chaotically. Could it really be true? Could it be that Isaac really holds the key to his past? Did he once hold magic-something strong, something precious-and lose it, the same way she did? The weight of the questions sat down hard on him, a heavy and choking burden. Each weighed down with the pointed edges of something half-remembered, of something almost there. Then there was a pulsing in his palm before the thought could go any further. The hum hit hard. A flash of light. The feeling jolted him back into consciousness, away from his thoughts. The glow, although faint, was continuous; there definitely was a pull, a taut thread wrapping tight around his ribs. The pebble was not to be just an inanimate object. It was a guide. A summons. It was calling him. Ronan tightened his grip around it. The old lady gave everything to save Isaac. Her last act was to save him, to have him found so he would not be alone. The very least Ronan could do would be to honour her sacrifice. One last glance back at her still body, Ronan pulled himself upright. The night lay empty and empty before him, but once more, the stone pulsed, stronger, surer, in his palm. He turned. And, without a moment''s hesitation, he stepped into the unknown. Chapter 13: Where it all begins Entering a new city In Ronan''s palm, a pebble slow pulsed, its glow barely sufficient to illuminate the path ahead. Tugging upon his chest with every tremor, the pulse was an invisible thread that led him forward through twisting roads and unfamiliar lands before him. Hours passed, a long haul in the danger of dim moonlight, until suddenly, the scenery changed. The split pavements and barren suburbs gave way to immaculate cobblestone streets, smoothened by years of petitioning. He had finally reached Eldoria. The city, unlike any Ronan had seen, was wide, opulent, overflowing with the drench of wealth and history. White stone spires soared high into the sky, golden rooftops illuminated by the light of street lanterns flickering far down below. The scent of fresh roses lay thick with the aromatic cedarwood, heavy and pleasant against the damp odour of earth and decay that was remote behind him in the ruins from where he came. The roads welcomed estates larger than the last; each swirling with wrought-iron gates, specifically carved, with enormous courtyards blossoming with rare flowers. Fountains carved from marble sparkled in the squares, where the water glistened in the light of the moon. Everything breathed power, ancestry, something too old and untouchable, in Eldoria. This was a place built for the elite. The family and their descendants stayed there in the city of which bloodlines defined worth; commoners like Ronan were hardly shadows against the grandeur. Even so, he found himself walking these streets, tugged along by the ever-urgent call of the stone in his hand. The pebble guided him over the crooked alleys away from the tall estates, until the show shifted once more. The gleaming marble streets faded into worn stone paths. The perfumed odors and polished wood woods had grown humble¡ªroasted meats, fresh bread, and sharp snaps of ale. Ronan had now reached The Copperside District, the working quarter of Eldoria. The city poured with life, unlike the pristine elegance of the noble residences. Dim-lighted bars were alive with chatter, and food stalls pitched up on the street. Workers down from shifts gathered together huddling for some stories over cheap drinks. He spotted a casual food tavern wedged in between two bigger shops¡ªa wooden shack, really, with mismatched tables and the smell of roasting meat wafting out of an open grill. Probably these workers served in the grand estates, attending royalty while living on scraps. Ronan kept moving, his gaze scanning the area. The stone in his palm vibrated harder, the pull sharper, more urgent. Then, at the far end of the food joint, standing in the flickering glow of a lantern, he saw him. A boy. Dark eyes. Sharp features. A presence too quiet for someone so young. Isaac. Finding the boy Ronan froze, pulse hammering in ears. Isaac looked nothing like the description the men from The Hollow Coin said; maybe that was why they had not been able to track him down. The boy changed. He was taller than Ronan thought-his frame lean but strong, built for running, surviving. His hair, once described as a striking black curls, had been dyed a dark brown so blended in with that of the city''s commoners. His clothes would not attract attention and were quite simple and worn, yet clean, one of those that-they looked like an ordinary street kid. But there was something else about him. Something in the way he held himself-rigid, cautious, and ready to flee at a moment''s notice. And most definitely of all, the way his eyes flicked around, scanning the crowd, assessing threats. This was a boy who had been hunted before. A boy who knew danger. And now he was looking at Ronan with a blend of wariness and something nearly fear. "Who are you?" Isaac asked, his voice steady, but his fingers curled tightly into his sleeves. Ronan didn''t move. He kept his tone even, careful. "I''m Ronan. Your nanny sent me." A flicker of something crossed Isaac''s face-confusion, disbelief-but he didn''t relax. If anything, he seemed even more tense. "Prove it," he said, his voice firmer now. Ronan hesitated for only a moment before he reached into his pocket and pulled out the small, glowing pebble. Isaac''s eyes widened. Slowly, almost hesitantly, he reached into his own pocket. When he pulled his hand free, a second pebble lay in his palm. Identical. Glowing. Neither of them spoke for a long time. Around them faded the world-the murmurs of workers, crackling fire nearby, the hint of food in the air. Stolen content warning: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences. Just them. Two strangers. Two pieces of the same puzzle. And for the first time since Ronan had stepped in Eldoria... He knew absolutely that he was right where he needed to be. The embrace The stone in Ronan''s palm trembled¡ªsynced perfectly with the one in Isaac''s pocket. As Isaac withdrew his own half, the connection became undeniable. These were no mere pebbles. They were something more. Ronan slowly moved them closer together, an invisible force drawing them into the same proximity like that of opposite ends of a magnet. At the instant they touched¡ª A spark. An invisible pulse of energy rippled through them: not one half, but two seals, reconnecting at the edges, mending the line as if it had never been broken. In less than a second, the stone regained its composite becoming whole again. Then it changed before their very eyes. The surface withered and dulled, color glowing, darkening, shifting until it gleamed with unmistakable royal blue color. Ronan took a breath. The enchantment was alive within the stone. And yet, despite the sudden apparition of power, the streets around them were impossibly still. Quiet hours stretched into deep night¡ªnot the late hours before dawn, where the world was fairly suspended between rest and awakening. There was no one to witness what had happily just been. But Isaac had had enough. Something within him seemed to come undone: A tensing, a hesitance. His shoulders dipped slightly, the guarded look in his eyes softening. Then for the first time, he truly looked at Ronan; almost for a second he caught himself seeing him not as a stranger but as someone he could trust. And then¡ªthen, without warning, he stepped forward and enveloped him in a hug. Ronan stiffened¡ªnot the response he''d been expecting. Isaac was still just a boy¡ªa tired, wary child caught in something far larger than he should ever have been. Ronan was now able to see it clearly: the exhaustion engraven into his posture, the weight in his dark eyes. He was running for far too long. Ronan hesitated for a second, and then moved, laying a gentle hand on the boy''s back. "You''re not alone anymore," he muttered, the words coming unbidden even though as soon as he said them he knew them to be true. Isaac just pulled away a bit; he rubbed the back of his eyes as if he''d not meant to be emotional. "Yeah," he mumbled with a soft voice. "I know." For a second, silence stretched between them. But nagging at the back of Ronan''s mind was a question he could not shake off. It was plain Isaac had been robbed of his magic. But if he had never regained it up until this moment, what in the world had happened to his anchor card? An anchor card was a conduit placed in the hands of a magic-user immediately after their powers had first stabilized¡ªit was a tether, a leash. Without it, their powers were untamed. So what had happened to Isaac''s? Ronan frowned, intently asking, "Isaac, what''s about your anchor card? When you lost your magic... did you lose that too?" There was a pause before he replied, the fingers of his left hand biting into the fabric of his shirt while the shadow of something unreadable darkened his eyes. "No." He voiced it soft, under his breath so that Ronan almost didn''t catch it. "By the time I turned ten¡­ my magic was already gone." He swallowed, his throat bobbing. "I never received an anchor card." Quiet dismay flooded Ronan''s chest at the sorrow in his voice. For a child born with magic, that was nonsensical. Isaac was lucky to have Marta for a nanny to hold his magic for him. Isaac had never had control. Never had the chance to learn, to grow into his power. It had been ever so removed from him long before he ever really comprehended what it meant. Before Ronan could fully process what that might entail, he heard himself saying while still grappling in thought: "Now that you have it back¡­ maybe we should wait." Wait¡ªuntil Isaac''s magic settled. Until they understood what had just happened. Until they could figure out why this stone had led them to each other. Isaac let his head bob a little, but that expression of uncertainty flickered across him, as if he were not sure he could afford the luxury of waiting. As if he were not certain whether they had time. The boy who ran Isaac hesitated for a mere second before placing the reunited stone into Ronan''s palm. "It''s yours," he simply said. Ronan furrowed his brow, feeling its weight pressing against his skin, alive with warmth from their strange interaction. He turned the stone in his palm, studying its smooth royal blue surface. "I don''t need gifts," he muttered, shoving it toward Isaac. But the boy shook his head. "No," he said quietly with certainty. "It''s not a gift. And it''s not mine." Ronan opened his mouth to protest, but Isaac grabbed his wrist and yanked him into a chair before he realized what was happening. With a casual wave, he signalled the server to take his order. Ronan narrowed his eyes. "Are you seriously trying to feed me to get away from this conversation?" Isaac only smiled. "Maybe." Ronan exhaled through his nose; it was a struggle to keep his mouth from curling up in the slightest smirk. "Fine," he said, putting the stone down between them. "Then tell me what this is. Why do you think it''s mine?" Isaac''s expression grew serious. He reached over, fingers just brushing the smooth surface of the stone. "Because Marta told me the story," he said quietly. "She told me everything." Ronan stopped moving. Isaac took a breath before elaborating. "A long time ago...before she ever met me, Marta met someone else," he whispered. "A boy¡ªone who was running, just like I was." Ronan''s fingers tightened against the table. "She never knew where he had come from," Isaac went on, quieter now. "Only that he looked scared¡ªdesperate. He was barely older than I am, all bruised and tired, like he''d been running for miles. And when she bumped into him, he didn''t yell, didn''t fight. He just¡­" Isaac hesitated, his gaze locked on Ronan as though assessing the next set of words. "He just gave her something. This pendant." Ronan sucked in a breath. "She didn''t know why," Isaac admitted. "She didn''t know what it meant. But the boy told her one thing before disappearing into the night." He stole another glance at the stone. "One day I''ll find you again, and I''ll need you to help me find my way back. This stone will help solve both our problems." Ronan could feel his heartbeat in his throat. That can''t be right. That boy¡ªwhoever he was¡ªwasn''t him. Was he? "The thing is," he pondered, "Marta never saw that boy again. Not for years. And she thought maybe she never would." Ronan sat immobile, unable to take his eyes off the stone. "But the night she took me in," Isaac continued, tapping lightly on the table, "she did something strange." "What?" Ronan managed, his voice barely above a whisper. Isaac''s gaze met his. "She broke the stone." By now, Ronan''s lips parted, but no sound came out. "She broke it in half," Isaac explained, fingers held up as though remembering the moment. "And it didn''t just break¡ªit broke clean in half, fair down the middle, right through two identical halves." His eyes darkened with an unfathomable expression. "And then she told me to run." Ronan''s fingers felt like they had contracted around the stone. "She said someone would come," Isaac proceeded. "She didn''t know when, but she knew a man would find me, carrying the other half of the stone. And when that happened¡­" He breathed out. "I would know that he was the boy from her story." Ronan couldn''t move. The realization clawed its way into his chest like something inevitable¡ªsomething that had always been there, just waiting to be acknowledged. Isaac was studying him, his dark eyes unblinking. "That''s how I know," he said quietly. "You are that boy, Ronan." The air between them felt heavier now. Something unseen clicked into position. The world tilted. And for the first time in years, Ronan wasn''t sure if he wanted to run toward the truth or from it. A sharp breath left Ronan''s lips, and meanwhile, his grip on the stone tightened as something broke open in his mind. He had been here before. Running. Desperate. Afraid. And somewhere in that forgotten past, he had given up this piece of himself¡ªentrusted it to a total stranger, thinking he would come back for it one day. Now, after all these years, it had finally come back to him. Ronan''s pulse thundered in his ears. Isaac was still watching him, waiting. Slowly, carefully, Ronan placed the stone on the table between them, as though staring at it might make it disappear. "What was I running from?" he asked. Isaac''s face grew serious. "I don''t know," he admitted, "but I think it''s time to find out." Chapter 14: A Walk Towards the Unknown The Fire Beneath the Shadows By the time Isaac led Ronan away from the fast-food joint, the streets of elite citified space had emptied. A very grand facade of marble-edged walls and ornately decorated gates opened into something a lot humbler: a winding path into the bowels of the city. Ronan went silently after him; boots crunching across rough cobblestones. With every step, the polish of the city faded away until narrow alleys, patched roofs, and a sweet damp smell of earth began warming up. Isaac moved about with the confidence of a person who belonged here. Even at his tender age, he knew precisely where he was going. Finally they arrived at a makeshift site squashed between two abandoned buildings. Within they would discover a gathering of tents and rotting wooden shacks for temporary lodging-the abode of the unfit into the so-called perfection of the city. Isaac stopped before a small dilapidated tent, proudly gestured at it. "Home," he said simply. Ronan raised an eyebrow. It barely seemed big enough for a child and certainly not a safe place to spend the night. Before he was able to voice his opinion, Isaac turned to the cluster of people gathered around an out-door fire just outside the tent. The warm flicker from flames did play against their faces in deep shadows, cast out as they conversed in quiet murmured tones. "The servants of the royal families," Isaac further explained though with quieter voice. "During the day, they work inside the palaces, but at night¡­ they come here to talk. Share news. Secrets." Ronan gazed over the group at which men and women were dressed practically plain clothes. They bore the weariness of life, tempered by what joint hope might keep them going, the fact that they are not just domestic servants but survivors. As soon as they saw Isaac, their faces brightened. "There you are, kid!" one of them called. "And you brought a friend!" Isaac grinned and pulled Ronan forward. The strangers welcomed them without hesitation, shifting their seats to make room around the fire. The warmth of their acceptance was oddly comforting. Ronan settled down to observe, curious but wary, as the talk went on. A woman with sharp intelligent eyes leaned forward, lowering her voice. "Did you hear? Lady Evelyne''s daughter just turned ten. She got her anchor card today." Beside her, a young man sighed faintly. "An illusion card," he muttered, shaking his head. "A weak one." "Too bad," said another. "She has always been kind. Not like the of her family." Ronan listened intently, but before he could process that information, someone chimed in. "Oh, and did you know?" an elderly woman whispered. "Two children from House Veltros and House Aldren were kidnapped in broad daylight." Ronan''s attention snapped to her. Kidnapped? During the day? Isaac looked equally alarmed. "What? When?" "Just yesterday," the woman went on, lowering her voice as if afraid someone might overhear. "Right within the royal district. No ransom notes, no demands. Just¡­ gone." Ronan leaned in. "Do they know who took them?" She glanced around as if checking that no unwanted ears were listening in, then, in a hushed tone, replied: "Yes. And I could tell you exactly how it happened." The crackle of the fire between them; holding the weight of her sentences. Ronan suspected everything was going to be different from now on because of what she was going to say next. The Teacher Who Wasn¡¯t The glow of the fire crackled to life, casting flickering shadows on the weary faces that witnessed the story. Ronan was leaning away. The pulse beat somewhere in his throat, and slowly, the woman went on. "There had recently been a teacher brought who was supposed to help the children focus their magical power and make them stronger," she barely whispered. "You know how it is, them chasing after those ten core anchor cards. Always desperate for their children to stand among the strongest." The fire crackled around them, casting sinister shadows over the assembly. Some senior servants exchanged uneasy glances, as if they were already privy to the story''s import. "But he wasn¡¯t a teacher," she said darkly. "He was a fraud, a charlatan. He was not interested in instructing them¡ªhe was observing them." A shudder went down Ronan''s spine. Studying them? The woman nodded as though she had been reading his mind. Bitterly she said, "He earned their trust. Made them think he was helping. But the whole time, it was just a waiting game for him. Watching them. Learning their strengths. And then-" She snapped her fingers. "---he took them." The snap reverberated through the calmness of the night. Ronan tightened his grip on the cloak. "How?" he asked, his voice more hoarse than he had thought it would be. The woman looked around before answering, as if checking for unseen listeners. "No one knows for sure. But one night, there was a terrible storm. You know the kind that shakes the walls and rattles the chandeliers. And in the morning, the two strongest children were just," she said sweeping her arms wide, fingers slipping through the air like sand, "gone." Royal Road is the home of this novel. Visit there to read the original and support the author. "Vanished?" Issac asked, frowning. The woman nodded darkly. "Not a single footprint. No forced doors. No signs of struggle. Just... gone." Somebody drew in breath sharply. Another servant muttered something about "bad omens". Ronan''s stomach turned. A storm. No signs of a break-in. No magic detected. That was far from an ordinary abduction. That was enchantment. The woman proceeded, lowering her voice a notch. "The worst part? The parents didn¡¯t even fight it." Veins in Ronan''s forehead popped. "What do you mean?" Bending forward, she looked around and whispered, "It¡¯s like he had them under a spell." A shiver rippled down Ronan''s spine. "Once he told the parents their children were gone, they just... accepted it. No rage, no tears. They barely reacted. Like they somehow knew already and just went along with it." Issac''s fingers twisted beside him. Another servant began to speak. "I never did like that man. He was rude with us and to the kids, too. But with the parents?" The man looked both disgusted and very uneasy. "He would change just like that. Polite, suddenly. Almost... charming." Tightening in Ronan''s chest. "His name," he demanded. "What was his name?" A pause. The woman frowned in thought. "His name was... I think it was Mark?" "No," another man interrupted sharply. "It was Marcus." Ronan felt the blood drain from his face. The fire crackled. The shadows appeared to extend. Marcus. His stomach twisted violently. It couldn''t be. But every terrible thing that had ever happened in his life had always come back to Marcus. Pieces of a Forgotten Truth Isaac tightened his grip around Ronan''s wrist as his voice fell to barely above a whisper beneath the crackling inferno. "It is him." Ronan turned sharply. His face was basically pale, expression haunted. "Marcus is the same person who talked with my parents. The one who made them..." he murmured. He swallowed hard and couldn''t go on. But Ronan didn''t need him to. Torture. The word went unspoken but hung there, between the two like some spectre. Ronan''s tightened jaw clenched further as the dark and undeniable shapes began to click into place. The Tower card. The second enchanted card''s vision. What he had seen... Pain flashing through destruction. A woman showing him glimpses of a world that did not yet exist. But there had been a man too. Someone beside her. Ronan''s breath hitched. Wait. Why can''t I remember? His mind grasped for the memory, but it was like smoke, eluding his grasp. An empty void. An empty space where a name-a face-should be. His pulse raced faster and faster. Who was he? Why did it feel like it mattered? Ronan shook his head hard, pushing the thought away. He couldn''t afford distractions, and not now. One thing he was sure about, though. Marcus was looking for something. And whatever it was, had something to do with the enchanted cards. That explained everything. The kidnappings. The lies. The way Marcus crawled into powerful places, watching, waiting. But still, one question remained. The why. Why did Marcus need the cards? Why was he snatching up children, only the very powerful ones? And most importantly... What was coming? Threads of the Past It came silent in that small gathering when the conversation fell darker. The crackling fire threw flickering shadows on their faces, illuminating expressions of unease and sorrow. "But this isn''t the first time this has happened, you know?" a woman, with voice quiet yet firm, spoke. Ronan turned towards her; she was older, with aged lines of weariness on her face and still hers were sharp eyes-the types which saw a lot yet remembered everything. Another man sitting cross-legged near the fire nodded in agreement. "Many royal families have lost their most powerful children over the years. None of them were ever tracked or found." A chill ran down Ronan''s spine. How deep did this go? He came forward. "But didn''t the Royals take some measures?" The man scoffed; "they try. But somehow, they always end up under that man''s control." Marcus. Ronan tightened his grip on his knee. What kind of power did he possess? Manipulating even the highest-ranking bloodlines? Then another voice cut in, styling through the air at night. "I remember¡­ the family Flint worked for." Ronan''s breath caught. The man- one of the servant- continued in a low voice with touches of horror. "His son was taken two years ago. Strongest of his generation- one of the strongest." The woman beside him shook her head and wrapped her arms around herself. "But worse part wasn''t boy''s disappearance." She looked up, eyes glistening with the firelight reflection. "It was the massacre that followed." The flames popped in the silence that followed. "Entire family massacred. Every last one of them. And the boy? He was never found." Ronan''s chest felt - no tightened - as if something was pulling him inwards. A kind of invisible force, a feeling so visceral it nearly knocked the breath out of him. Something was wrong. Something was also missing. His fingers curled instinctively around the blue stone in his pocket as one single weighty thought formed. I need to know more. Ronan swallowed hard, steadying his voice. "Is Flint here?" The old woman studied him, her gaze heavy with something unreadable. A Locked Past Ronan tightened his hands into fists, and he did not want any disgruntlement betraying his expression. Flint was the sole link to his past, the one person who offered a possible way of deciphering it but was seated behind a magic barrier impenetrable to Ronan. '''' That old man?'''' one of the men chuckled, shaking his head. '''' He has been acting grumpy since that night. Seldom speaks with anyone anymore. He has been looking after the entire mansion alone now. Hardly comes here anymore'' He has not been here for quite a long time. It''s an old story. The words hit Ronan more seriously than he had expected. Alone, Flint had been alone for all this time. Survivor to a massacre-left with only the hollow mansion and its ghosts, victors among the family he once served. And he was now Ronan''s only hope. ''''Can I meet him?'''' was all Ronan found to say, his tone tinged with urgency. They exchanged glances, and one sighed. ''''The mansion is protected by magic; only the descendants of that family can break it.'''' Ronan''s stomach twisted. So close, yet entirely unreachable. He exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair. Shadows flickered in the firelight all around, reflecting the dark uncertainty settling into his heart. Is this the end? But just then, as he started to sink deep within that helpless feeling, a woman across the fire spoke. ''''If you really want to see him, just wait a few days.'''' Ronan''s head snapped up. ''''Why?'''' She sneered. ''''Just because old man Flint might be a hermit, he has a buckling weakness-compelling gossip. He generally cannot stay away from it for too long. Just wait a few days, and he will turn up here. He always does.'''' Hope leapt for Ronan''s chest. A few days. That''s all. Flint would come, and he would come prepared for that moment. Until that day¡­ He glanced at Issac, the boy watched him keenly, tracing deep shapes along the edge of the formerly broken royal blue stone. Ronan sat up straight-he had a new responsibility. While he waited for Flint, he also had to help Issac recover what rightly belonged to him. Anchor card. A Firelit Circle of Gossip As the hours dragged on, the conversation had melted into gossip about the palace. Low-ranking staff who had put in long hours were now loosening their tongues in front of the dying embers. "Did you hear about the latest of Mirna''s tantrums?" said the older man. "She threw her breakfast tray at the head chef, because the eggs were ''too symmetrical.''" The young woman snorted. "I heard she tried to exile a gardener for ''walking too loudly'' in the palace grounds. Honestly, had the Queen not doted on her, someone would have thrown her down the well by now," she laughed. Laughter bubbled around the circle. Now a boy leaned close, lowering his voice. "Sir Gallian--the ''bravest knight in the kingdom,'' they say--fainted at the sight of a mouse in the royal stables." Ronan raised his eyebrows. "A mouse?" The boy nodded. "A little one. The stable boys said he screamed the most pathetic scream and clambered on a barrel for dear life. They had to bribe him down with bread!" Isaac stifled a laugh. "That must make his anchor card the ''Card of Overreaction.''" The firelight danced over the smiling faces, and for an instant, Ronan allowed himself to feel its simple, human warmth. But the rest of his mind was somewhere else. Because somewhere out there, Flint was holding answers. And Marcus¡­ ... was playing a dangerous game with stolen magic and disappearing children. The why still shadowed Ronan like a dark rain. But for sure, he would not leave this city without answers. Chapter 15: The Door to Life Echoes of Kindness Ronan awoke, muscles stiff from cramped postures to which he had succumbed in sleep. The air was redolent of dying embers and bread far off somewhere in the distance. He blinked against the low morning rays, slowly adapting to the unknown surroundings. The campfire had long since died, leaving only a few embers glowing faintly in the fireplace. Chatter and laughter from the night before had given way to an eerie silence. Everyone had gone. But something was different. A shawl had been draped over him and Issac: It was a simple, old, worn kind of fabric but warm nevertheless. Ronan traced its rough texture with his fingers, and the warmth spread in his chest. He wasn¡¯t used to this¡ªkindness without ulterior motives. He turned towards Issac, who lay beside him, all curled up and breathing evenly in his sleep, and he thought it strange how someone he had known only for a few hours already felt familiar. A memory arose of cold, damp walls, the scent of rust and decay, and the flickering light of a lantern. The bunker. The place he survived in for years, where one had to keep their head down and look out for themselves. No warmth. No kindness. Except for Lukas. Ronan swallowed hard. Lukas was the only one who had ever shown him a shred of humanity. And Lukas had died for him. A steely resolve set in Ronan''s bones. Lukas''s sacrifice would not be in vain. And with Issac beside him, another life hung in the balance. He could not afford to fail. Ronan shook his thoughts away, took a deep breath, and stood. He had to make some money while he waited for Flint. Probably a little extra would help, especially with another mouth to feed. Shadows Among the Wealthy The streets buzzed in movement, but not in the way Ronan had expected; instead, of nobility parading their riches, the city breathed life''s essence by servants of simple yet well-kept clothes hurrying about their work. He realized that stealing here would be different. These people were different from members of the Hollow Coin gang or corrupt merchants in the lower districts. They were kind. They had also fed Issac. They had also shared warmth with him. Stealing from them felt... wrong. Ronan sighed and adjusted his tattered cloak, made his way toward the grand shops lining the central market. An expensive jewelry store caught his eye-polished glass windows displayed golden necklaces and gemstones fit for a royal. If there were any chances to be hired, this would be the place. Gathering every heart, he stepped inside. The whole wood and lavender smell divinely greeted him. The house was crystal clear, full of gleaming display rooms and chandeliers, shining as though ever starlight could find birth within the imagery of glinting itself. Without taking another step, a sharply dressed man came forward-his very persona rendered him manager, with a forced smile-those two eyes betrayed anger. "Can I help you?" - asked in a high clipped voice, with air of thinly veiled disdain by the manager. Ronan straightened. "I seek a job; do you have available openings?" The polite facade of the manager crumbled. He laughed with, arms folded across him, "Job? Here? Do you even know where you are?" Ronan let his face remain impassive. "A jewellery store." "Of the elite-jewellery store. And you-"the man sneered, pointing to Ronan''s shabby attire. "-are hardly the type of employee we hire." "I learn fast. I''m good with my hands." The manager laughed briefly, shaking his head. "I''m sure you are. But we don''t need street rats handling precious gems. Get out." Ronan clenched his jaws but could not voice out anything he had been taught about these types of men-men that thought they were better than others simply because they were wealthy. Putting up a fight wouldn''t do him any good. In no time, he turned and left, twisting his stomach with disappointment. Hunger and Opportunity Hours went by, and Ronan had found no work. He sat with hunger pangs rolling through his abdomen, exhaustion weighing down his limbs. At last, he turned around and walked toward the food joint where he had first met Issac. As he entered the place, he saw Issac working busily, running between tables with his arms full of empty plates and wiping off the surfaces. The boy''s small frame moved quite rapidly about the floor, and the look on his face was that of deep attraction. Ronan scowled; Issac should not have to work this hard just to have something to eat. The moment Issac saw him, his face lit up. "Ronan!" He rushed over and thrust a plate of food into Ronan''s hands. "Here, eat. You look like you are about to collapse." Ronan hesitated, guilt creeping in. "I should be taking care of you, not the other way around." Issac shrugged. "I don''t mind. Besides, I like helping here. The people are nice." Ronan settled down; his stomach gave him no choice. He ate fast, letting the warmth feed his weariness. But while chewing, his mind was racing. He had to get a job. Soon. Finishing, he left Issac tending to the tables and resumed the search. It was not long before he found himself standing in front of an enormous building, the likes of which he had never seen before; its grandeur made anything he had ever encountered look shabby. The nobles in fine clothes strode in and out under conversation tainted with the arrogance only the rich could possess. He had no intention of stepping inside after his last attempt. But just then, a vivid discussion caught his attention. "You know how important he is! Why did you act like that?'''' a woman scolded from the doorway, her voice laced with frustration. "He was rude first! Just because he has money and power doesn''t mean he can treat us like dirt!" a younger, angrier voice snapped back. Ronan leaned against the wall, listening. The argument culminated with the younger man storming out, face flushed with anger. A moment later, the manager came out with a foul look and cursing to herself. Ronan wasted no time. He stepped in. "What?" the manager shot unceremoniously, obviously still in a bad mood. Ronan maintained an even tone. "I am looking for work. Do you have any openings?" The manager''s frown wavered. Mild interest now colored her gaze as it swept over Ronan, critically assessing him. Ronan remained motionless, allowing her to stare. This narrative has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. If you see it on Amazon, please report it. Then, slowly, the woman broke into a grin. "Interesting," she mused. She circled Ronan, her keen eyes examining every detail of his lean frame, the way he carried himself, the rare combination of silver hair and brown eyes. Ronan had remained mute, but he felt a change. Whether or not he had just found one was anyone''s guess. The Silver-Tongued Manager "O, welcome to Velvet and Vervain: I am Seraphine, the manager, and you, my dear, are at the right place.," the woman whispered, smouldering as silk and curling her lips in knowing smile. Before Ronan could take a breath, she continued, "So when can you start working?" His mouth opened to say he needed time to think about the offer, but instead, replied her with a "Right now." Instantly, he felt as the words released him-the faint whisper of magic lifting from within, subtle but unmistakable- and a tightness around his stomach. He had run into charm magic countless times before, but it was terrorizing in how easily Seraphine maneuvered her way around it. Charm anchor cards are rare but very recognizable. They have a knack for making their needs your own; you find that your will has been modified without your knowledge. And he was now caught in it. Seraphine''s smile grew even wider, the kind that would indicate she could sense his realization. "Excellent, now let us get you clothed appropriately." He protested before being whisked away to a back room where a set of neatly pressed uniforms awaited him. The drapes were finer than anything he had ever owned-black and gold-trimmed, crisp with embroidered patterns exuding luxury. He hesitated before pulling it on feeling an odd sense of displacement. He had, however, spent a lifetime on the outside stealing from the rich instead of serving them. But here he is. As soon as he made the move in his new uniform, Seraphine clapped her hands. "Perfect. Now I''ll give you the tour." The store was vast, two floors of lavish displays of silk, velvet, and gold-threaded garments. Rows of jewelry glinted under enchanted lighting, and walls were lined with perfumes that cost more than some people earned in a year. Ronan''s job was simple: assist the wealthy clientele, help them shop, carry their purchases, and make suggestions where needed. "You''ll earn fifteen silver coins a week," said Seraphine; this translates to one and a half gold, not bad for a newcomer, huh? Her gaze was sharp, measuring him even as she smiled. Ronan nodded, mind racing at the possibilities. One week''s work would suffice to get him and Isaac off the streets. For now, assuming the role of a humble shop assistant might well be the better option. A New Beginning With the day winding down to a close, Ronan was almost unaware of how very tired he truly felt. His feet were sore, and his sore arms were from carting heavy bags, but he had done it-his first day of honest work. He had thought that he would hate it, but instead he almost felt...something else. Maybe quiet pride. Seraphine came over as he was preparing to leave. "And? How was your first day?" There seemed to be something in the tone, as if she were expecting disappointment. Ronan hesitated for a while and replied, "Good. I will be back tomorrow." Something softened in her eyes. "Glad to hear it. See you then, Ronan." Then he left the shop and walked toward the food joint to pick up Isaac, as promised. By the time they had reached their tent, the night had fully set, and once more, the small gathering of servants sat around the bonfire in hushed murmurs and laughter. "Look who finally decided to show up!" one older man teased as Ronan and Isaac made their entrance. Ronan smirked. "Miss me already?" "Hardly," chimed in another lady with a chortle. "But we did save some gossip for you." He and Isaac settled in, and stories flourished-trivial, scandalous, and downright silly. "Did you hear about Lady Mirabelle?" a young servant whispered, conspiratorially. "She thought her reflection in the enchanted mirror was an intruder and tried to fight herself!" There was a ripple of laughter from the group. "And Lord Cedric?" another joined in. "Apparently, he was caught sneaking into the kitchens at night to steal sweets. The cook finally enchanted the door to scream every time he tried!" Isaac snickered. "Sounds like something I would do." "Oh, and the best one¡ªDuke Everard''s son challenged a street magician to a duel, thinking he was a fraud. Turns out, the magician was an actual sorcerer, and the poor duke''s son levitated upside down for an hour." Laughter continued, warm and light, soothing the weight Ronan had borne for too long. For the first time in years, he felt he belonged. The following few days passed in a blur of work and brotherhood. Ronan had banned Isaac from working, insisting he was earning more than enough for both of them. Soon they could rent a little place for themselves. On the evening of his first payday, Seraphine asked him to step aside. "You did brilliantly, Ronan. A couple of royals even tipped you." She handed him a small pouch. "Here you go-your wage for the first week." Ronan opened the pouch, and his eyes widened at the sight of two gold coins and five silver ones. He couldn''t hide his happiness, and impulsively hugged Seraphine with heartwarming gratitude; "Thank you". Seraphine stiffened somewhat but did not pull away; rather, her expression changed for a moment. Not charming. Something else. Power. There was something about Ronan, something she had touched just a little in that exchange; an imposition, a force, something blocked-maybe hidden but still clearly there. She shook off the feeling. It wasn''t her matter. "Don''t spend it all in one place," she said with a grin, and off he went, eager to tell Arthur. A Place to Call Home As flames crackled in the center of the circle, Ronan, sat a little taller, pride brimming in his chest. He looked around at the familiar faces-those who became his makeshift family soon in these days-and announced, "I got my first payment. We''ll soon rent out a place." Suddenly, there were cheers and applause for him, and warm smiles to welcome his words. Issac beamed at him, eyes shining with eyes of excitement. "Would we not see you guys anymore?" asked one of the older men, Nolan, his voice somewhat full of sadness. "No, no, we will still come every night," Ronan quickly reassured them. He wasn''t going to detach himself from the only real bonds formed, and he was still waiting for Flint. "I''m not going to mention how close they are, but very close: one or two houses down," said another voice, pointing toward an old run-down house that had a faded "To¡ªLet" sign barely a few feet away. "Yes! Yes! We should, Ronan!" Issac said, practically bouncing in his seat. And Ronan hesitated a moment, his fingers grazing over his coins in his pocket. He had never seemed to have such luck-not through bunkers, not even through alleys, not while betting his life for scraps. But perhaps this was not his fortune. Perhaps it belonged to Issac. And if Issac had good fortune, so may have Ronan taken his share. "Of course. Let''s talk to them in the morning," he echoed. At the first ray of dawn, they were facing the house owner''s gruff-looking, bushy-bearded face, the calculating eyes looking at them. The house was rented at ten silver coins or one gold coin a month, payable upfront. Ronan didn''t think twice and handed over the gold coin, the hardest coin he has ever worked for, sounding symbolic of something deeper-stability, security, perhaps even a future. The man growled approvingly, handed them the key, and just like that, they were settled. The first thing they did was take a hot shower, scrubbing away the grime of the streets. Shiny after having been clean for a while, they went to the food joint down the street and enjoyed a hot and peaceful breakfast. Ronan left Issac in their new place and set out for work. As he walked, something quite peculiar seemed to echo within him. He could get used to this¡­ having a home. Wait¡­ The thought felt like a lightning bolt to his chest. Home. He had that before, didn''t he? With a man. Important. Someone who made him safe. But no matter how he racked his brains, he could not remember. There was just a blank area in his memory. He reached the shop where he worked before he could dwell too long over it. The last customer Velvet & Vervain had been even busier. The Ethereal Masquerade was next in a vast parade of yearly solemn occasions for young magicians of noble birth to meet their possible partners and display their abilities. Inside the shop, it was all silks and lace, shimmering enchantments stitched into every piece of cloth. Royals and noble-born magicians were darting about, searching for an outfit that would outshine those of a rival. Ronan rushed around helping customers with combos of fabrics that complemented skin tones, pinning collars, suggesting accessories that would lift the outfit. And the tips! Oh, the tips were raining. More than he had thought. More than he had dared to hope. Exhausted but feeling happy, he had ended his day just before the store closed down. The last few stragglers were purchasing things here and there for their needs. And then the bell chimed. A young man entered, his posture graceful, his aura different from the others. He was about the same age as Ronan, maybe a bit older, darkly-eyed, and exuded a confidence with such effortless grace. "Are you still open?" he asked, his voice rich and calm with a tinge of politeness. "Sorry, we we-maybe-Jetron paused in his refusal as their eyes locked. An odd, almost electric sensation settled in his belly. A current, as if the gravitational pull were shifting around him, trying to drag him in. There hung a sense of recognition at the edge of his awareness, yet there was no memory tied to it. Like meeting someone special. Like special, special. A skip in his heartbeat. "Sorry?" the young man nudged again, tilting his head slightly. Ronan swallowed, composing himself. "Sorry. Please, do come in. I am Ronan, and I will be making an appointment for you," he said. The young man smiled-an almost imperceptible yet knowing smile. "Hi, Ronan. I am Caelan of the Marrowen family. Sorry for coming so late, but I am in dire need of an outfit for the ball. The place I initially ordered from messed up my outfit, and I really don''t have any other choice." Ronan nodded and led him down the aisles, showcasing various suits, cloaks, and accessory pieces. Caelan was decisive but kept eyeing Ronan. Not just polite, casual glances, but lingering ones, carrying something unreadable. The sense of it was mutual. The connection. The pull. Something was amiss, though. His chest felt constricted, and his heart was not following its steady course. An unease wound around his stomach, nagging him that something was off. And one thing he had learned was to never disregard that feeling. Chapter 16: A walk with fate The Illusion of Time Zephyr floated with Fate''s realm, suspended in a conditional existence in which time could not claim them. Golden air shimmered like liquid, yet without the sun or the moon, there could exist no passing of day into night. Great lances of the land yawned skyward, marble and crystal, untouched by decay and impermanent grandeur. It was impossible to know for how long, moments¡ªif they could be termed so¡ªhad elapsed since he had come. Solis and Liora remained by his side, as steadfast companions, guiding him through this peculiar and tangible world. But still, he felt sick. An ominous feeling coiled in his stomach. If everything around were eternal, in a universe where time was unfettered, what, then, kept them there? What would prevent them from getting swept away in the coiling tendrils of fate? He turned toward his companions, the words bubbling unbidden from his mouth. "How does time work around here?" Liora tipped her head, gilded strands of hair catching the unending light of the realm. A glimmer of enlightenment creased her lips¡ªthe smile was almost an indulgence. "This is a very simple concept," she let spill, her voice a ripple over a smooth lake. "Nothing escapes time. Not even fate. But we are not bound by it in the land of fate. We move freely¡ªbackwards, forwards, sideways, through strands that weave existence itself. Only the Fate Keepers and Fate herself can do this. You, however, cannot." Zephyr frowned. "Why?" His companion, Solis, who had been silently amused, finally chose to speak. "Because there is always a price. For anything. If we are to have it our way on time, then we owe it respect. There has to be a balance." He lifted a hand and gestured into the distance. A golden tower loomed on the horizon, greater than anything Zephyr had ever seen. It pulsed quietly in a rhythmic glow, its exterior turning like time itself weaved within. "Do you see that tower?" Solis asked. "That is where time gets tethered. The Pillar of Present. For any time travel, if one wishes to tread the path to past or future, it must be traversed through the doors. But," he gravelled, his eyes darkening, "the price is unknown." A shiver experienced by Zephyr. The gravity with which Solis spoke painted the words with a tint of warning, rather than mere uncertainty. "But then... how do I know when it is day or night?" Zephyr pushed past the unsettling thought. Liora smiled and pulled something from the folds of her robes. With a flick of her wrist, she tossed the object to him. Zephyr caught it and turned it over in his hands. It looked somewhat like a pocket watch, but instead of numbers on its face, the round disk was divided in half ¡ªthe left half painted turquoise blue with the image of a sun, while the right half was deep indigo sprinkled with glittering stars. A single, delicate hand rested at the center, pointing between the two halves. "This is a Fate Keeper''s Watch," Liora went on to explain. "Whenever we wish to step into the mortal world, we think of a place and press this button¡ª" she pointed to a small dial on the side, "¡ªand it will tell us if it is day or night there." Zephyr''s fingers ran over the smooth glass as he watched the tiny hand fluctuating between the two halves. "And what if I break it?" he frowned. Liora laughed, like distant wind chimes. "Then time will break with it. And that is not something you want to happen." He swallowed. "Right." Still, something didn"t add up. He glanced back at the half-built structure they had been working on, then back to Liora and Solis. He had never seen them rest. Never seen them stop. "Then... when do you rest?" he asked. Liora blinked. Then, as if he had asked something completely ridiculous, she let out a soft scoff. "Rest? We do not rest, Zephyr. Fate never rests." Zephyr''s breath caught. There was a certainty behind her voice that was absolute. Still, it unsettled him. He looked toward the distant towering spires reaching far beyond the golden haze with swirling thoughts of questions he was unsure he was ready to ask. Reflections of Home The structure was finally complete. Zephyr stepped into the dwelling with Solis and Liora, half-expecting something strange and unfamiliar; instead, what greeted him was something monotonously near home. The space was modest¡ªa single room with a small kitchen, an adjoining washroom. The walls bore the same muted tones as his former quarters, and the furniture arrangement felt reflectively unsettlingly familiar. Even the scent in the air was December-warm, causing a remnant at the bottom of his chest to stir awake. He stepped forward slowly, dragging his fingers over the wooden table in the center of the room. The grain, the heft of it; it was exactly the same as that of the one he had left behind. Frowning slightly, he said, "Why does it look like my home?" Solis propped himself casually against the doorway with an unreadable expression on his face. "Because we used it as a reference for the Fate Workers. A familiar place would make it easier for you to exist here." Zephyr''s fingers tightened against the table as he sneered at the two of them. The very thought of it made him uneasy. It felt too precise. Too perfect. A recreation spun not off the visuals but the memory. He took in a deep breath. "If you need any assistance, call our names, and we will attend to you," Liora interjected gently yet firmly. "For now, rest." And with that, they both departed. The sudden silence was disarming. Zephyr was, for the first time since stepping into this strange realm, left alone. Slowly exhaling, he rubbed his forearms as if shaking off something sinister that had been watching him. He needed a moment. He dipped into the tub to ease the tightness in his shoulders, but the stifling unease in his chest remained. By the time he lay down in his bed, sleep kept evading him¡ªhis mind unwillingly filled with ephemeral shadows and voicings just out of reach. When he finally rose, his restlessness had not faltered. He couldn''t stay here¡ªnot yet. So he left. Beyond lay Fate, stretching infinitely, streaming golden light to form soft halos over the distant spires. Zephyr moved around, watching the Fate Keepers bustle about with purpose¡ªnever stopping, never hesitating. The streets became a mighty loom, with each Fates Keeper taking their thread, each evidently engaged in a task that none but themselves understood. None appeared to pay him any mind. At first, he thought them indifferent. The deeper he stepped along the lane, however, and some began to notice him. They flicked some unreadable response from silverish heads his way. A few of them approached with ghostly light, deliberately sweeping around him like silent sentinels. Watching him. Judging him. Yet none spoke. Zephyr had prickled skin under their scrutiny, but he would not yield to his rising unease. He simply forged ahead and strolled past them in silence. Before long, he stood at the base of the golden tower Solis had mentioned before, looking challengingly down upon him, its intricate carvings shifting just slightly as if the structure were alive. But it was not the tower that interested Zephyr. It was what lay beyond it. Throwing caution to the winds, he rounded the massive structure onto the other side. Instantly, the air changed. Whereas before, the land pulsated with brilliance and energy, this side stood in ghastly calm. The golden glow muted to an off-white hue, so inactive it was almost as though time stopped in his favor. And oddest of all: there was no one here. No Fate Keepers. No movement. The land stretched a perfect mirror image of the place he had just left, only¡­ deserted. Zephyr''s breath hitched. Why? Why had this place been left untouched? Why had no one crossed this threshold? Unauthorized use of content: if you find this story on Amazon, report the violation. He took another step forward, the hush deepening around him, wrapping around him in some unseen strings. Something was here. Or rather¡­ something had once been here. And whatever it was, the Fate Keepers wanted nothing to do with it. The Forgotten Reflection Zephyr took another careful step forward, his boots barely making any sound against the ground. It was as if the air swallowed every sound. This side of the land was an exact replica of the one he had just departed from: every bridge, every structure, and every winding path existed exactly in their places. But here sat the Fate Keepers. No one walked. No life. Even the golden tower¡ªwhich he turned back to see¡ªfaced him directly, yet he had walked around it with assurance. That thought really sent a shivery pang down his back. It felt like stepping into an illusion, reflecting the other side of reality but without the warmth of possibility. He knelt by the floor, feeling his fingers upon the smooth ground, expecting dust or decay. Nothing. No age. No use. It was as if this place had been abandoned in a hurry¡ªabandoned by unseen hands unaffected by time. His heart raced, and all senses heightened at the eerie silence. What was this place? And even more imperative... why had it been left behind? He walked for what seemed to be hours. There was no telling time here, no sun or moon to guide him. Even the structures were monochromatic¡ªevery one just the same as any on the other side, and each encased in some absolute and untimely stillness. Until he came across something that wasn''t a reflection. It had looked like another building at a distance. But closeness? No, not quite. This one was called a bit of character from a very distant tangent: unlike Fate Keepers, who resided in equally smooth, equally blandly pleasant buildings, the one before him had some signature of difference; on a very subtle note, the curves in the architecture had more variance, less ethereal in its presence, lesser in the golden glow that possessed all other buildings that merely gleamed and pulsed; it stood in shadow, so deeply defined by a very gray tone that absorbed light instead of reflecting it. Zephyr''s fingers twitched. This was not built for the Fate Keepers. But who was it for, then? A slow terror settled in his stomach. Here, in this forgotten silence where time itself seemed not to be moving anymore, he was alone. So, then who had lived here before? And even more chillingly... why weren''t they here any longer? The Echoes of Love Zephyr stood hesitant at the entrance of the grand structure: darkened, high, and concealing all within its eerie stillness backed by the deserted mirror world. Age-old on the outside, it seemed to have withstood the test of time at the very last moment. But with the smallest sound from inside, his breath came caught. Somebody was inside. Curiosity-or maybe something deeper-urged him toward it. The door creaked gently as he moved it, revealing a breath-stealing landscape. Majestic was the inside. Unlike the modest and uniform designs occupied by the Fate Keepers, this was carved with elegance and lavishness. Floors gleamed as if freshly polished every day, reflecting the gentle glow of lanterns eternally burning. Intricate patterns danced across high vaulted ceilings, displaying constellations Zephyr had never even seen before. In the center of the entrance hall stood the grand fountain, endlessly repeating water flow, shimmering an unnatural iridescence. An indoor garden stretched like an infinite distance to the left, vines curling along marble pillars, blooms luminescent in the dim light. Time, it seemed, deserted world plants. The most striking feature, though, was the throne room. Zephyr experienced a strange weight set down in his chest as he stepped inside. Not what would step much into a throne room-opulence, dominance, power-Senya, dear. It felt desolate. There was the grand throne, a statement of intertwining gold and obsidian, completely empty. Dust piled around its base, untouched, unclaimed. Instead, seated off to the side on a far smaller chair, was Fate herself. She was on her elbow beside the armrest, fingers resting lightly against her temple, eyes staring into an empty space ahead of her. She looked sad. Like she had lost something. Or someone. Zephyr swallowed uneasily, shifting awkwardly on his feet before clearing his throat. "Hi." His voice echoed painfully against the high ceilings. Fate tilted her head backward, flickering her expression into something unpredictable. She composed her features into one of soft, pleasant smiles, one that did little to mask the grief beneath it. "Hi, Zephyr. What brings you here?" Her tone was casual, yet there was an unnatural lightness to it; it seemed as if she were trying to brush away something beneath it. But Zephyr had seen the way she had clutched something in her hands before tucking it quickly out of sight. "Oh, I was just roaming around," he admitted, casting a curious glance in her direction. "What are you doing?" He expected her to totally sidestep the question and say something meaningless and vague. "Ah, yes. I was thinking about love, Zephyr." Heavy words, laden with age and brokenness far deeper than his own. "Let me tell you, Zephyr: it is not always what you expect." There was pain in her voice, tucked deep away beneath the empirical control of tone. "What does that mean?" he asked, feeling the urge to dig much deeper. Fate just exhaled through her nose again and turned her head slightly as if weighing her words. "Love cannot change people, Zephyr. If you try very hard, the only one who will suffer is you." It was a simple talk, and yet it made those few words linger like some unspoken tragedy with a very sad tone in her voice. Thoughts spun through Zephyr''s mind. Whom had she once loved? What did she lose? But before he could shrink the courage to ask, she was already propelling herself upward, her graceful mannerism betraying none of the dejection she carried. She was leaving. Zephyr stepped closer. "What happened here?" He spoke loud enough to break the silence. Fate halted at the doorway, still with her back pressed against him. "I''m not saying anything." Then, barely above a whisper, she murmured - "One mistake." And she walked out, leaving Zephyr completely alone in the forsaken throne room, staring at that empty power seat while the echoes of her words settled deep in his bones. The Ruins of a Love Forgotten Zephyr followed Fate as she led him through the deserted land where his every footfall was lost to the saturated silence of lifeless stone paths striding ahead of him. The silence grew thicker, hanging down over him as if something he could not see was pressing upon him. She halted at a dilapidated bridge, staring over the ruins with an absent look. ''This,'' she finally spoke softly, more at that moment than before, ''was the original Land of Fate.'' Zephyr turned his nose in a direction opposite the rest of the tableau. The beautiful, haunting landscape mirrored only the same world from which he came- this was completely lifeless. Same high towers, same great bridges, same sort of pathways; yet, there was an utter absence of vitality. As if Time had simply walked out of this ghost town, leaving behind those tiny echoes of what once lived. Fate moved ahead, trailing her fingers along what may have been once a glorious balcony''s stone railing. "It was alive," she quietly spoke, more to herself. "Fate Keepers would bustle through those streets weaving the threads of destiny while we would sing, dance, and laugh under the endless sky. Beautiful. Hopeful." There was a wistful small smile on her face but in her eyes it did not reach her Then as if the shadow crossed over the memory, the warmth drained from her face. "Everything seemed perfect. Until I met him." Zephyr stilled. " Hmmm...? " he echoed warily. Fate sighed then, a long measured breath, and walked past a pile of statue debris whose eroded head had long lost its identity. "Fate Keepers don,''t have love, that''s why, Zephyr." The last two were spoken slowly and deliberately as if convincing herself. "We''re out of it, over it. But I didn''t care. I wanted to be with him." It was the way she said it-wanted. Past tense-that made his heart ache. "I brought him here," she continued, passing through a barely-alive archway that had withstood time''s cruelty. "Showed him everything. Gave him all that he asked for." Her tone carried none of the anger that might have accompanied that statement but also bore a hollowness-a deep quiet ache that had never been healed. There wasn''t anything Zephyr could think of to say at that moment, so he followed her farther. Around the buildings, fissures had increased, some half-destroyed, others swallowed up by creeping vines, as if nature itself had attempted to cleanse the incident from memory. Fate stopped in front of a collapsed courtyard. There''s a fountain-a remnant in the middle of all that mess. Once-called glory, the structure was a ruin without any drop of the water it once had. Some marbles lay scattered across cracked tiles, and at the very heart of it, a single carved figure remained half-buried in the rubble. Zephyr edged closer, dusting away the dirt. It was a statue of two persons. One of them was her, Fate-carved in an elegant pose, reaching outward with an extended hand. The other... was unrecognizable. Only the remnants of one arm were left, the rest of the statue violently destroyed. Zephyr''s breath caught in his throat. Future: Fate gazed upon him in silence. "But then... the true colors showed." "Her voice, though below a whisper, rang like a thunder across the empty land below." He turned to her but could not catch her eye. Instead, she roamed over the sapphire pool that was wrecked by time, over the ghosts of what used to be. "He ruined everything." With the suddenness of a chill, Zephyr felt it creep up his spine. "Why?" he asked before he could stop himself. The response was not immediate on Fate''s part, as she bent and dusted off the remains of the statue under her fingers. Then, without lifting her gaze, she said¡ª "Because love is not enough to change someone, Zephyr. And I learned that too late." Silence hung thick and suffocating between them. He wanted to inquire further-to understand and know. But the way she sat with her fingers over the fractured stone forced him to hesitation about asking her any further questions. Some wounds aren''t meant to be opened. Fate stood suddenly, brushing the dust off her hands. "I couldn''t bear to erase it," she admitted, surveying the devastation, "so I left it for now. And I built a new Land of Fate." Zephyr turned around to look back at what surrounded them in desolation-it was a reflection of what everything once was. An abandoned space. A dead love. And a story that is left unfinished. He gulped his questions down and forced himself to follow her as she walked away. A Debt to Time Fate took a final glance at the ruin, and those golden eyes of hers were dimmed slightly with something that was nameless to Zephyr. "This is the payment for my mistake," she murmured almost to herself. Her fingers flickered along her side as if to indicate a desire to reach out-to touch, to clutch something perhaps long gone within her own heart; but she turned away instead, the expression on her face unreadable. Before Zephyr could say anything, Fate lifted her hand, and just like that, the world around them shifted. The decaying land faded, swallowed by a ripple in space, and when Zephyr opened his eyes again, they were back. The new Land of Fate. The shift was grotesque. Where once nothing but the hush of silence and decay lay, now the soft hum of life filled the air. Fate Keepers moved about in their endless chores with their robes trailing like streaks of woven light. The splendid edifices gleamed under the golden sky, untouched by the burden of loss. Zephyr breathed deeply. The energy here felt different. Lighter. Brighter. Fate studied him carefully. "And I would appreciate it if you don''t mention it to the Fate Keepers. They cannot get in, hence they do not know it exists." Zephyr turned sharply to her. "They don''t know?" Fate just shook her head. Her face revealed nothing. A secret world, an outlawed past. And she had just unveiled it to him. Why? Before he could pry more, she inclined her head and shifted her gaze. "What do you feel about this place?" she asked with a reason hidden beneath¡ªa test. Zephyr frowned slightly. He did not know what she was looking for, but he decided to be truthful. "I like it." He looked around, watching the way the Fate Keepers moved, with purpose and seamlessly, as if in a grand design. "Everything is beautiful and alive. The Fate Keepers are...interesting."** Fate smiled knowingly but said nothing. Still, the weight of unanswered questions pressed against Zephyr''s heart. "But what is my role here? Why am I here?" He looked at her, trying to find something¡ªclarity, guidance. "What am I meant to do?" The one question that had been biting away at him since the moment he had arrived. It was not good enough just to exist in this land: there must have been a purpose. Fate held his eyes, her expression entirely unreadable. "At this point you are an Enforcer of Fate," she said smoothly. "You will, however, know your true responsibility whenever the time is right." Zephyr narrowed his eyes. "When is this time?" Fate laughed softly and shook her head. "You will know when the time is right." Zephyr gritted his jaw. He hated the riddles. But before he could ask further, something mischievous danced in Fate''s golden eyes as she tilted her head. " Oh, by the way¡ªhe has found his fated one." Zephyr stiffened. Something deep in his chest lurched as though an invisible thread had been pulled tight. Who? Who had found their fated one? Wait-why was she telling him this? A creeping sense of unease slipped down his spine. Something was off. Something was amiss. The words awakened something deep within his mind-a thought, a memory, a truth that could not be summoned. His fists clenched. What had he forgotten! And more importantly, why? Chapter 17: The thread of love Dance of Intentions Anticipation ran like a river in the shop. The rich fabrics, shimmering brighter than the sun, glistened like water under the warm glow of lanterns, while scents of perfume and ink permeated the air with sweet trepidation. The Ethereal Masquerade, the grandest ball of the year, was just two days away, and the capital had seen all members of nobility flooding in from every part of the kingdom. Ronan had never been busier. The very corners of the boutique bore every imaginable kind of client¡ªvelvet gowns being hemmed, gemstone buttons polished to perfection, and masked ensembles wrapped gingerly in tissue paper and ribbons. But amongst all this hustle, there was this one client who appeared with uncanny regularity. Caelan of House Marrowen. Day after day that week, Caelan had come, at times as early as dawn and at times just a few minutes before closing, with some new request or excuse to be made, none of which had really seemed quite urgent enough to have warranted such frequency of visits. ¡°I forgot to ask for matching gloves,¡± Caelan said, his hands gently laid upon the counter, effortlessly smiling in that princely way. ¡°I trust you will help me choose the right ones, Ronan?¡± ¡°The ribbon isn''t quite the shade I had in mind,'''' he said the next evening, though it looked exactly the same. ''''Can we try another? I''ll need your eye for it, of course.'''' "I was thinking of maybe adding a little embroidery to the inner lining. Something understated... perhaps of a raven?" he leaned closer to Ronan as they looked over a swatch book. "A little secret only I would know about." "Caelan once praised me on my ability to keep late hours. When he made this statement, the last traces of daylight vanished from the world, leaving nothing before me but the gentle glow of candles and determined shadows. Even when he seemed to be rushing in before closing time, he took the time to consider whether I was free tomorrow and suggested going for a quiet evening walk." Ronan smiled politely and declined. But even as he turned away, Caelan''s gaze lingered on his back like a soothing pressure he was helpless to shed. Ronan had mixed feelings after each of Caelan''s visits. There was attraction¡ªundeniably so; Caelan was charming, elegant, and attentive, with a soft laugh lingering sweetness in Ronan''s ears long after he left. But something was... off. Not wrong; not threatening¡ªjust... out of sync. Whatever it was, Ronan could not put it into words. Wearing a coat almost big but not quite! Hearing a tune that lacks an off note. He tried to shrug it off. Surely, he thought, he had imagined it. But every night when he returned to the modest rented house he now called home with Issac, he would lie wide awake staring at the ceiling, with a curious restlessness in his heart. Then Caelan should arrive yet again on the night preceding the deadly Masquerade. Ronan had hardly turned the sign when the familiar door chime jingled. ¡°Okay then, you¡¯re late,¡± he teased before looking up¡ªonly to find Caelan, a slender envelope in ivory between his fingers, expression far too serious for the occasion. ¡°I¡¯ve been thinking about this for days,¡± Caelan said, ¡°and I know it is sudden, but I do not want to dance with anyone else.¡± Ronan blinked. "I want you to go to the Ethereal Masquerade with me," Caelan said, taking a step closer, "as my guest¡ªsomeone I hope to know better." Silence stretched in the air between them like a drawn thread. He could hear the scratching sound of a quill in the back, an amused customer outside, and the faint ticking of the store clock. He wasn''t sure why he hesitated. Everything about this moment felt like something from a dream: a nobleman asking him¡ª absolutely no one¡ªto one enchanted night full of lights and masks and music. But that odd feeling crept back. The aching morbidness beneath his ribs. But still... "Alright," Ronan finally said- his voice somehow quieter than he expected. "I''ll go with you." Caelan''s incandescent smile was the first spark of the flame. Then he walked away, and the door closed behind him, while Ronan slowly let out his breath. Something still didn''t feel right within him. Shadows Beneath the Mask On the day of the Ethereal Masquerade, the word shimmered with magic throughout Eldoria. The entire city felt suspended, awaiting this impending occasion-like the stars themselves were holding their breath. Above the shop in a small room, Ronan stood by the cracked mirror adjusting his sleeves of his worn tunic. The fabric was neat but had grown old-the drape felt totally wrong for an occasion as grand as this. Behind him, Issac hovered with curiosity glowing in his eyes. The fingers of the hand at his side twitched-as though he were itching to open a door to a place he had never been allowed to enter. Eventually, Ronan turned away from the mirror to face Issac. "You aren''t going with me," he firmly stated with a protective tone. "There still may be some people looking for you out there. It''s too risky." Issac was steady staring into Ronan''s eyes, his arms crossed with his lips set in an obstinate line. "Ronan, I have been hiding in shadows long enough. For once, I just want to see what the world looks like in lights." Ronan blinked, taken aback by the words. There was no anger in Issac''s voice; only hope. And something softer, more fragile: a wish to belong. "Issac...," he tried, rubbing the bridge of his nose, trying to reason with him. "You said we have a home now. That I am safe." Issac stepped closer, voice low and undeterred. "Let me believe that tonight." That trust alone was what broke Ronan. The very trust he had worked hard to gain. He gazed at Issac for quite a time before sighing as his heart cracked open, just a little more. "Okay," he finally spoke, grief-stricken and moved. "But if we do this, we''ll do it right." The afternoon was spent pooling what little Ronan had made in tips for the week. The clinking coins held purpose-modest, but sufficient. To get something special. When Seraphine had seen them poring over the pouch of coins behind the counter, she asked no questions. Rather, she raised one eyebrow and said, "Follow me." The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation. Into the backroom she took them, where garments of another life hung like sleeping memories. Rich fabric, neatly tailored jackets, and silks of muted golds and midnight hues. Ronan stood aghast. "This is for nobility." "It was," Seraphine said and winked. "But tonight, I think you two could pass for royalty." She even allowed them to choose a few delicate jewels-ornate pins and simple cufflinks-for less than a third of their value. As she handed the silver star-shaped clasp to Issac, she said, smiling, "You should look like you belong there." By the time the evening came, they both were undergoing vast changes. Issac donned a deep emerald jacket that captured the light as dew rests on the leaves; his dark curls pinned back with the silver star. He looked far from the frightened boy Ronan first met; tonight, he looked like one who could step among the dreams. The midnight-blue fitted coat and raven-feathered half-mask had almost made Ronan feel like a stranger to himself. He felt something soften within when, with a glint of giddy excitement, Issac had glanced at him. Perhaps the night might not go so bad after all. They had made it to the Ethereal Masquerade just as the floating lanterns began their ascension. Light danced on the marble floor, the chandelier stalled above lazily rotating, casting rainbows across the ensemble of masked strangers. An orchestra filled the air-violins, flutes, and soft drums knitted together something ancient and elegant. At the far end of the ballroom, Caelan stood in a fitted navy and starlight coat. His silver-tipped mask accentuated his sharp cheekbones and his self-assured stance. His eyes lit up when he first laid eyes on Ronan. Then...they shifted. "You brought someone," Caelan said as they neared, his voice polite but strained. "This is Issac," Ronan said nonchalantly, giving the boy''s shoulder a gentle squeeze. Caelan forced a smile. "Of course. Nice to meet you." But Ronan never missed his flicker of surprise or Caelan''s jaw tightening. Clearly, he did not expect to share Ronan''s attention like that tonight. Throughout the night, Caelan had tried persistently to pull Ronan away, toward the gardens, toward the quieter corners, toward anything, really, that did not involve Issac. But Ronan had refused time after time. "I don''t want to leave him alone," he said once, gentle yet firm. Caelan''s smile became thin. "You don''t trust the wards? This whole place is wrapped in protective spells. He''ll be fine." "It''s not about that," Ronan said simply. "It''s about him." At that, exasperation finally boiled over. They stood by a crystal fountain, close to the edge of the ballroom, where the trickling of water sounded gentle like whispers. "I had imagined this night would be different," Caelan muttered. "Just the two of us. I thought there was...something here." "There is," Ronan admitted. "But I never said this was a date." Caelan''s eyes flashed. "No, you didn''t. But it felt like you wanted it to be." Ronan hesitated. There had been something: an attraction, a flicker of interest. But it was waning now, like a candle in a storm. Caelan stepped closer with a softened voice. "I want to see where this goes. I want to know you, Ronan. Not just for a dance. For real." For one moment, Ronan almost believed him. But then his gaze drifted, unwittingly, to the opposite end of the ballroom, where Issac stood under a shower of silver ribbons. He laughed, head thrown back slightly and light caught in his curls like fireflies. And something very strange happened to Ronan''s heart. It did not ache. It did not flutter. It settled. He did not quite know what his heart was trying to say to him just yet. But slowly, he was beginning to listen. The Uneasy Masquerade Ronan stood in a veritable sea of velvet masks and chandeliers cascading from a great height, with music swelling around him like a living organism. Everywhere he turned, the world shimmered¡ªa fleeting gilding over candlelight and laughter, magic rolling in the air like silk. What a sight it was: fountains sprinkled with starlight, gliding dancers that seemed the very color of dreams, chandeliers raining droplets of crystal light down unto the ballroom floor of Eldoria''s Grand Hall. He should be enchanted. Yet all he felt was a tightening knot in his chest. On Caelan''s right, Ronan''s partner leaned in, charmingly enough to fool anyone else. He walked in navy and silver, every line of his silhouette an exercise of calculated elegance. His smooth charm rang with fluid confidence. He laughed at all the right times, said all the right things, and was, in all, magnetic. Too magnetic. Scrupulously proper on paper¡ªan insult to Ronan''s gut that twisted itself dark by the moment. Caelan''s eyes flicked toward Issac again. Subtle. Brief. Ronan caught it¡ªevery glance lined with some sharpness, with some measuring quality. An instant of irritation when Issac smiled. Not curiosity in the lingering look. Control. It wasn¡¯t jealousy. It was possessiveness, clad in silk and wine. Ronan sipped from his glass and let his gaze drift about the room. There stood Issac near the ballroom¡¯s edge, watching the dancers with the wonder of wide-open eyes, his mask slightly adrift, his curls tousled by the wayward gusts of winds kicked up by passing guests. He was out of place¡ªbut only in a manner sufficiently like stars being out of place on a painted sky. "He seems overwhelmed," Caelan murmured beside him, nodding toward Issac. Ronan did not answer. "Come into earshot," Caelan leaned toward him deeply, his voice lowering. "We could get away for a while¡ªa quieter balcony, just you and me." Ronan smiled, his expression barely drifting into the positive. "Maybe later." "Come on," Caelan insisted, hand pressed against his arm. "You owe yourself some peace tonight. I¡¯ve been dying to be with you for weeks!" That word¡ªowed¡ªwhipped through Ronan like a crack of a whip. His heartbeats quickened not for excitement but for an urgent warning. Why does he keep pulling me aside? Why does he act like I belong to him? Why does he look at Issac like that? The room felt too hot. The music too loud. The beauty too brittle. "I just need a minute," said Ronan, stepping away. He turned toward where Issac had been lounging. Gone. Empty. "Issac?" His voice failed to rise above the music. Ronan flitted around the room¡ªribbons and masks and laughter swirling together. But no trace of him. The blade of panic cut through his chest. He took a step forward, and then Caelan was blocking his path. "He''s fine," Caelan said softly. "The building is shielded with magic. No one can get in or out without being seen. Just breathe, Ronan." Ronan remained unmoved. "He''s probably just exploring," Caelan added. "You don''t need to go chasing after him." But Ronan''s instincts were screaming. "No," he articulated, sharper than intended. "Something''s not right." Caelan''s polished facade faltered. "Don''t overreact." "You don''t know his past," Ronan snapped, wrenching his arm free. "I do." And with that, he entered through a mass of guests, pushing past silk gowns and feathered masks, his mind forced to push aside all distractions through a single word: Issac. Studying the events of the night, he wasn''t sure where fear ended and fury began; all he understood was that Caelan had not been the one needing him. The Mask Slips Ronan''s pulse pounded in his ears as he skirted the outer edges of the ballroom. His every instinct was sharp with alertness. He paid barely any attention to the dancing couples or to the musicians settled in the gallery. His gaze cut through the finery, scanning every face¡ªeach mask. Caelan quickly joined him, frustration colored his voice. "Where are you going?" "Issac left," Ronan said without slowing. Caelan cut in front of him. "He¡¯s not a kid, Ronan. He¡¯s probably getting something to eat or getting some air." Ronan tried to move past him. Caelan grabbed his arm again, a low-voiced, pointed, almost angry-spoken: "Do not ruin the night. We were finally getting somewhere. Do not throw that away over some kid." And then the mask slipped. What lay beneath was not anger. It was something colder. Possessive. Entitled. Ronan stared at him in shock for half a second, then pulled his arm away as though it had been burned. "You don''t get to talk about him like that," he said, with his voice trembling with restrained rage. "You don''t know him." Ronan didn''t answer. He pushed past Caelan and stormed out of the ballroom, ignoring all the stares and murmurs. He followed the path of laughter and soft music into a quieter corridor, feeling his heart race harder than the music behind him. He eventually found a side room¡ªone of the private lounges scattered about the manor¡ªwhere a few of Caelan''s friends were gathering, sipping enchanted wine and laughing lazily. And there was Issac. He was not in any danger; nor was he distressed. He sat with them, somewhat stiff, but smiling¡ªpolitely responding to the conversation. A drink had been offered to him, a silken shawl thrown around his shoulders as if he belonged. They were not ridiculing him. They were not being unkind. They just took him for Caelan''s guest¡­ and received him as such. And Ronan stood there, in the doorway, watching. An odd calm descended upon him, with a tint of something bitter. Issac was fine. But Caelan¡­ Caelan was not. Back in the ballroom, the last words of Caelan were still echoing in his mind. "Don''t ruin this over some kid." It wasn''t what he said -- it was how he said it. The tone. The entitlement. The way the charm cracked just for a second in revealing the rot beneath. And then Ronan understood. Caelan put on the same mask as so many other nobles with polished shoes and prettier lies Ronan had met before. They knew how to smile while treating others as property. Like ornaments for their story. Caelan had tried to be different. In the end, he was just another Royal. Unlike... him. Ronan didn''t know to whom the memory belonged. A phantom residing in his mind. An entity without a face. Yet every time it was brushed against, he felt the same things - Security. Trust. Unconditional love. Things he had not known for years. Things he didn''t even know he missed until now. He shut his eyes. He wanted to remember - just a glimpse. A name. A voice. A smile. But there was only mist. And silence. He once again opened his eyes and looked at Issac-laughing now, beaming visibly. No, Ronan was not in love with him. That was not what this was about. But watching Issac reminded him of a truth he could not unsee: Some people make you feel like you have to earn your place. And some people make you feel like you¡¯ve always belonged. Caelan never was the one. Not for lack of worth. But, because Ronan had, long ago, known someone who was. Even if he couldn''t recall who that might be... His heart never forgot.