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—money, 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 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—a 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—studying. 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—almost 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—"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—an 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—he 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.