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—a 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—confusion.
Ronan had forsaken the past, spent years fleeing from his ghosts, and here he was—still 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–" 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.
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—" He paused—then it dawned on him.
Zephyr nodded. "You stole from powerful people, Ronan. People with connections. There is a chance—and a small one, mind you—that 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—"
"I'll pull one for myself."
Ronan straightened, alarm flashing across his face. "Zephyr—"
"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?