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—careful, 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—the 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.
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—weather-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—only 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—grief.
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 naïvetés that feared him. They should not have unsettled him. And yet, they did!
"Yes, but—"
"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—a 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—the thing had already begun slipping away.
Even in that dim light, he could see urgency on her clouded eyes—the 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—something 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.