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—soft, 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—especially 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—someone 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—something 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—something 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—luck 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—high 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.
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—
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—
Ronan.
Standing beside Marcus. His expression unreadable, his stance too still.
And then, to Zephyr's shock—
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—Ronan 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—fear, 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—he 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—
"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—but 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—
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—as 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 –
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.