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—the 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—delicate, trembling, like a spider's thread—into 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—that true love's powerful proclivity to defy the fate—might 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.
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—annoyance, 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—but 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´t 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—Marcus 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—"
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—
"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—like he was the vital piece in a game neither of them quite grasped. But how? Unless it was— 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—" 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—
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—"
"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—"
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—an 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—"
"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 absentminded 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.