A Break in the Thread

  Ronan lay awake long after Lioren beside him slid into slumber. The echoes haunted not just his mind but also those words that Lioren had spoken carrying the weight of truth. Somebody had loved him. Someone he had loved in return. Someone he had forgotten.

  Zephyr.

  That name hung like a heartbeat far back in his soul, a note in some long-forgotten melody he could not quite remember. But it was enough.

  Enough to awaken something hungry and relentless inside his heart.

  He surveyed the sleeping faces of the others, their chests rising and falling with slow, trusting breaths. This was no mere anchor card; it was no mere puzzle piece for Marcus to seed and solve.

  These were children. Just like he was. Trapped in something that was all too cruel, far too ancient, and frightfully beyond their comprehension.

  And he could not let this happen.

  Not again.

  He clenched his fists. The passage came back to him. The secret exit he had taken long ago to escape. It was still there. It had to be.

  He rose and walked over to Lioren, placing a gentle hand on his shoulder.

  “Hey…” he whispered.

  Lioren stirred, blinking up at him, hazy with sleep yet alert. “Ronan?”

  “I’m going to get us out of here,” he said quietly. “All of us.”

  Now, Lioren was fully sitting up, nodding without question. Ronan wrapped him in yet another embrace.

  “Thank you,” he said, voice thick with sincerity. “What you told me—it means more than you know.”

  When he released Lioren, Ronan felt a newfound urge to move throughout the rest of the room. He began rousing the rest.

  Selene blinked at him through sleep. “What’s going on?”

  “Are we being summoned?” Averis asked while rubbing her eyes.

  “No,” Ronan replied, his voice calm but edged with steel. “We’re not waiting to be summoned. We’re not playing Marcus’s game anymore. We’re out of here—tonight.”

  A silence fell.

  Then—Nyra rose first, with steely light in her eyes. “I’m in.”

  Daxen grinned, cracking his knuckles. “About time.”

  They rose one after the other. There were no arguments. There were no questions raised. They began quietly to gather together what little they had: coats, shoes, small trinkets, or tokens hidden in the corners of their respective bunks. And then, in pairs and in hush, they fell behind Ronan in an orderly queue.

  He turned and looked at them—eight innocent souls standing in the pale light, holding hands with their eyes wide open, gripped by fear and hope.

  “Stay close,” Ronan said. “We move together. No one gets left behind.”

  With a simultaneous nod, they gave an acquiescent response.

  Ronan started them down the corridor, careful to keep his own steps light. The halls were unnaturally empty—no guards patrolling, no flickering magic in the air, and most alarmingly, no trace of Gabe.

  He frowned.

  This was too easy.

  Yet, still he pressed on, heart pounding louder at every corner. They crossed the old corridor, with disintegrating walls and the loose stone he once slipped through. His fingers ran through the known groove, and he pushed—

  A faint click, and the wall slid open.

  The secret passage lay open before them, untouched, as though it had been waiting.

  Too easy.

  Why?

  Where were all the guards? The enchantments? The locked doors?

  Every instinct Ronan had was telling him that something was amiss.

  But the children—his partners—they gazed at him with trust. With hope.

  So he swallowed the dread in his throat and nodded to them.

  “This way,” he said.

  And one by one, they slipped into the darkness.

  Even as the shadows swallowed them back, the growing knot tightened in Ronan's chest.

  Not a chance in hell Marcus would make the same mistake twice. Then why did it feel like they were willingly walking into one?

  The Illusion of Freedom

  They sprinted through the night. Without breaks. Without complaints. The only sounds echoing through the alleyways and tunnels of Eldoria were the hurried footsteps of the three.

  Ronan would cast a glance back over his shoulder, half-expecting a shadow to leap out from somewhere, a trap to sprout up from nowhere, a spell to be enacted.

  Nothing happened.

  With dawn, the city came alive, and they blended into its bustling heart like shadows fading into light. Soon, trembling fingers were unlocking a door leading into the tiny little rented house of his, tucked away in the quieter quarters of Eldoria.

  "Go in. Quickly."

  The children tumbled in, tired, clothes dusty and shoes worn-but they were free. For now.

  Ronan moved around the house, fluffing old blankets, finding spare clothes, water, bread-anything that would help make them feel safe. There was something about the stillness of that most trivial caretaking that soothed the searing pain in his heart.

  Once they were fed and tucked into couches and corners, some already dozing off, Ronan finally stepped outside into the morning sun.

  But even the morning sun felt suspiciously warm.

  The place was too quiet.

  Why hadn’t Marcus sent any men after us?

  Maybe he hadn’t seen us?

  Or worse…perhaps this was all according to his plan? Just maybe Ronan was walking smack onto a trail baited by Marcus.

  That thought sent chills down his spine, but he managed to tamp it down. One more thing was left before everything else: Find Isaac.

  He secured his cloak tighter and was on his way to the only place that came to mind: the Aerenthal mansion.

  By afternoon, the wrought-iron gate loomed ahead of him. But he had not run into anyone. No guards. No pursuers. Nothing.

  The mansion that always looked great and elder was zealous of the stories it possessed.

  Ronan knocked, his heart hammering louder than ever. For a moment, he feared no one would respond. But then-

  The heavy door creaked open, and there he was.

  Flint.

  Those sharp eyes, calm face, and that aura that suggested he knew far more than anyone would think.

  "Ronan," Flint said, raising a brow, "Look what the cat dragged in?"

  With a sigh, Ronan managed to smile a tired, fleeting smile. "Can't stay long."

  "Trouble?"

  "Much more than I can explain. Right now, the less you know-the better."

  Flint frowned slightly, crossing his arms. "You know I hate being left out of the plans."

  "I will explain. Just-not now,” Ronan said, urgency creeping into his voice. “I’m running out of time.”

  There was a long pause.

  Flint studied him for a breath, then stepped aside.

  “Upstairs. He hasn’t left the guest room since you disappeared.”

  Gratefully, Ronan nodded. Moments later, he returned with Isaac, whose shock gave way to worry, and finally the smile of someone calm and sure of what to do next.

  They moved quick on either side, walking through the streets of Eldoria.

  "Marcus is gathering ten anchor cards," Ronan said as they went. "Nine are known. Four boys. Four girls. All escaped with me."

  Isaac blinked. "What’s he trying to do with them?"

  "Don’t know. But I’m not letting him succeed. The moment I know everyone is safe-including you-we are out of here."

  "And…the cards?"

  "You and I might be the missing two," Ronan muttered. "Or maybe we are just loose ends. Either way, I’m not waiting to find out."

  Just before they entered the street leading to his house, Ronan stopped Isaac behind an old bakery.

  "Wait here," he said. "I just want to be sure everything's fine before you come in."

  Isaac hesitated. "You think somethings wrong?"

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  "I know somethings wrong," Ronan whispered.

  He stepped forward alone.

  The moment his hand hit the door handle, he felt his muscles tense in his body.

  The air felt...stale.

  No.

  He opened the door.

  “Let’s go-” he started to say.

  And then—

  His words were damned.

  There, sitting cross-legged in the middle of the living room with his fingers steepled, was Gabe.

  The children were gathered around him-silent, frozen like statues, their eyes alert and suspicious but unharmed.

  Gabe's face split in a grin that was sharp and knowing.

  "Took you long enough," he purred.

  Ronan had stifled breath.

  The door shut behind him.

  The Cost of a Choice

  Ronan's gaze zipped across the room, scanning frantically up and down each child.

  Theron: blank expression, eyes wide.

  Nyra: cool demeanor, fingers twitching in anxiety.

  Selene: would not meet his eye.

  Daxen: stood close to Gabe, unmoving.

  Lioren: regarded him with an expression that was incomprehensible—except for the flicker of something… desperate… pleading.

  What had happened? Why hadn't they run? Why was Gabe here and no alarm had been raised?

  Panic surged through him, roaring like fire in his veins.

  Mentally, he began devising the two possibilities available to him.

  Stay. Get caught. Hope Isaac is far away from them.

  Run. Look for Isaac. Take him somewhere—anywhere—the hell away from Eldoria. Away from Marcus. And forsake the eight lives staring back at him now.

  No. Not forsake. Call them to safety.

  If Marcus needed ten, and Ronan ensured he had only nine, then the ritual, or whatever nightmare was in store, wouldn't happen.

  One beat.

  Then another.

  And then—

  Lioren moved.

  Just the faintest trace of it: his hand brushed along his thigh and his fingers flicked outwards—like a silent command. A whispering between souls.

  Run.

  Ronan's eyes met his.

  That's a cue.

  That's the only way.

  A shudder rolled out of him and then—

  He turned on his heel.

  A sharp intake halted the world: Gabe, caught off-balance.

  And then Ronan was racing out the door, heart pounding behind his ribs as his legs beat against the cobbled street. His small backpack banged against his side, and in his pocket, the orb pulsed with a faint warmth, as if sensing danger too.

  Don't look back. Don't look back.

  But he did.

  Once.

  Just once.

  And Gabe was not following him.

  He didn't shout. He didn't chase. He didn't even move.

  Why?

  Why not?

  Ronan's chest tightened accordingly. This time, fear was no longer just fear; it was realization.

  They let him go.

  Throwing him into the alleyway behind the bakery, he exclaimed, eyes wide with urgency, "Isaac!"

  But Isaac wasn't alone.

  He stood frozen with another figure gripping his arm.

  One of Ronan's former bunker mates.

  Ronan froze.

  The street around him faded away, and his stomach dropped. No...

  Reality hit him like a blade to the gut.

  This had been the plan.

  Always had been the plan.

  They let him hear about the missing child.

  They let him run.

  They let him think he was in control.

  But they had never wanted him.

  They had wanted Isaac.

  And now, since Ronan had run straight to him, they had both.

  Isaac's eyes met his.

  Wider, with betrayal. Fear. And something else: understanding.

  "Ronan..." Isaac whispered, voice cracking, "You brought them right to me."

  Ronan staggered back, mouth trembling. "No. No, I— I didn’t know. I swear—"

  “You were the only one who could’ve led them here.”

  “I was trying to save you!” Ronan pleaded, the words ugly and raw. “I didn’t know they’d let me go just to—”

  “Too late,” said Isaac's companion, wrenching the arm he held with a calculated pressure. “Thanks for doing the hard part.”

  Isaac didn't fight back.

  He only gave Ronan one last look.

  And something broke inside Ronan.

  The Price of All Ten

  Ronan barely took a breath when the shadows shifted again.

  Coming from the edge of the alleyway was Marcus—calm, collected, and utterly cruel.

  He wore his usual refined robes, a tranquil expression that never seemed to reach his eyes, and an unsettling air of composure. Instead, what sent a chill down Ronan's spine was not that appearance of calm—it was the mockery embedded in his tone.

  “Save yourself… like before, Ronan?”

  Ronan stood frozen.

  Those words blasted through him like the rush of an overwrought memory that sent waves of ache through him.

  Lukas.

  The boy who cast himself into grave danger, bloodied and broken, so that Ronan could escape to safety. The one whose voice haunted Ronan's dreams. The one he hadn't spoken of for years.

  Marcus's smile grew wider at the sight of the flicker of devastation in Ronan's eyes. "You remember, don’t you? The way he screamed your name as they dragged him away? And you didn’t turn back.”

  “I swear, that’s not true,” Ronan barely whispered over the rush of blood in the ears.

  But it was.

  He hadn’t turned back.

  And Marcus knew it.

  Ronan gritted his teeth, forcing the guilt down. That was an old story.

  Here was the now.

  He glanced at Isaac, who was still being held tightly by the bunker chump—his expression unreadable. Behind them, more figures began to show up, emerging from alleys, rooftops, and doorways. And soon there came Gabe—guiding another eight children into view, their faces displaying a confusing mix of fear, confusion, and resignation.

  All ten.

  He'd led them all into a lion's den.

  And Marcus had just closed the jaws.

  Ronan returned to Marcus and spoke, with a voice that felt unusually hollow yet somehow managed to sound courageous: "If I come with you willingly… will you let the others go? Will you let them live?"

  His word was quivering with hope. Pleading. The final attempt to haggle with a man who did not play fair.

  The arched brow Marcus gave him spoke volumes on the weight of such an audacity of hope.

  "Maybe," he said at last, voice like velvet soaked in venom. "Let’s see."

  He waved a hand toward the people lining this entryway.

  “Take them all.”

  Nothing about the transition was even faraway similar to the last time.

  There were no monitoring footsteps, no hushed conversations, no mock civility—quite unlike the journey with Gabe.

  This time, they were herded.

  No explanations. No softness. Just cold commands and rough hands. They were dragged, shoved, and eventually thrown into a long wagon fitted with enchanted restraints and steel-lined walls.

  The wagon was being pulled by strange, majestic beasts—Snitters.

  Ronan was watching in awe, though his gut was nagging him with fear. He had read them in storybooks—creatures rare and untamable.

  It looked like an oversized donkey, but its bulk and height were cow-like. Their hind legs resembled an athlete's-sleek muscles coiled for speed. But it was those wings that robbed the very breath from Ronan's lungs: wide and iridescent, feathered in silverish hues that glimmered under the moonlight.

  Snitters could run faster than any horse, could fly heavy loads, and could sense lies like bloodhounds. They were the right and privilege of kings and their minions of wealth—and Marcus had four.

  He was flaunting them, Ronan bitterly concluded. Because he could.

  As they were loaded inside, Ronan reached for Isaac's hand and gripped it tight as if that one embrace would keep him tethered—grounded in the world that had just pitched madly out of control.

  “Sorry,” Ronan whispered, his voice cracking.

  Isaac gave no response.

  He didn’t have to.

  The silence said enough.

  Time passed for hours as the Snitters galloped across forest trails and through the sky. Howling wind surged around them, but inside that enchanted wagon, there was only a hollow chill.

  No one spoke.

  Ten condemned souls, cramped into silence, simply sat awaiting whatever fate Marcus had in store for them.

  Eventually, the wagon slowed.

  The ground below them shifted—the rumble of stone roads and open air gave way to the clinking of ancient cobbles and a creaky-gated entrance.

  They had arrived.

  Back to the hidden underground fortress.

  Back to where all this had started.

  Back to Marcus.

  And this time, no one was pretending.

  The Weight of Failure

  The door creaked open into a cruel familiarity as they were marched back into the bunker which they had once escaped so desperately.

  Heavier than ever, air somehow remembered an old memory of the walls-that earlier failed rebellion in everyone's life.

  Last to step inside was Ronan. The cold stone beneath felt sharper underfoot, and the silence greeting them seemed louder than before.

  He clung to the track's end guilt clawing up his spine.

  I led them directly into the lion's den.

  His fists clenched as he stared at the others. He couldn’t make himself speak. Surely, he thought, they must hate me now. He had dragged them through hope, only to crash them harder back into despair.

  But when finally his gaze touched theirs…

  There was no rage.

  No blame.

  Just...quiet sympathy.

  Even at the end of the crowd, Isaac managed to give him a soft, weary smile. That much made Ronan's knees weaken just a little, threatening to buckle from beneath him.

  He turned his face away, ashamed of the tears threatening to spill. But Theron stepped forth, voicing interruption to the quiet with a quiet certainty.

  “It wasn’t your fault,” he said.

  Ronan blinked. “What?”

  “You tried,” Theron repeated. “You gave us hope. You gave us something to believe in, even if just for a day.”

  "None of us would’ve done better," added Selene with a kind of sympathy that few understood as she stepped in and placed her hand on Ronan's shoulder. “You acted by instinct for us, and you did it.”

  Nyra, curled up on a cot nearby, nodded. “Marcus is... too cunning. Too powerful. But for a few hours, we weren’t his. We were free. That mattered.”

  Ronan stood gazing at them—these strange and brave souls, most deserving to turn against him for the odds stacked against him. They embraced him like family instead. The emotion swelled so fast within him in his chest that he could not speak.

  Sylas, typically a realist, shrugged from his perch next to the wall. "Whatever Marcus's goal with this, let's face it. Hiding hasn't worked. Delay won't either."

  Isaac slipped to the ground next to him. Soft voice like he was thinking, "But we still don't know how they expect to use all ten anchor cards. You and I… we don't even have ours yet."

  That hurt a bit more than he cared to admit. The anchor cards were supposed to be reflections of one's essence, one's soul—what did it mean that they had none?

  "A Seer would have predicted everything," Averis joked half-heartedly; "We could have seen it coming."

  A soft laugh-easy, but tired-had spread about the group. Yet, it helped.

  It reminded them that they were still alive. Still together.

  Even in a cage, that meant something.

  The door creaked open again, and Gabe walked in, carrying a tray laden with bowls. The scent hanging in they were warm, something bland, and even oddly comforting, yet soup.

  He stuffed bowls into people's hands using a mechanical efficiency, that is, until the last of them had been delivered.

  Then, his voice cold as ever, he spoke:

  "Rest up. Tomorrow morning, you'll be going to the Chamber."

  Did not elaborate.

  Did not bother with questions.

  Just walked outside, locking the heavy door behind him with a definitive click.

  Alone again.

  Ronan gazes down the food, which hasn't been touched, before looking around the room at the people who slowly fade away into silence. Some eat. Some curl up. Some just sit, lost in thought.

  He felt a light weight against his shoulder.

  "We'll find a way," Isaac whispered.

  Ronan turned his gaze at him, darkly doubtful.

  "How can you be so sure?"

  Isaac smiled softly. "Because this time, you're not alone."

  Ronan exhaled a shaky breath.

  No, he wasn't. Not anymore.

  The Gambler’s Dream

  Sleep came slow that night.

  While the others hastily succumbed into uneasy sleep, Ronan, on a bitterly cold stone floor, stared into the deeper recesses of a low ceiling in the bunker.

  His mind remained uncontrollably active: guilt, uncertainty, and powerlessness.

  But gradually, though, everything around him dwindled away. Sleep, albeit uninvited, well needed, pulled him in.

  And then there were dreams.

  Once a gambler who had wagered everything-his past, his dream, his magic and heart-and lost, there was nothing like the luxury of dreams left for him. Two dreams since fleeing from Marcus.

  But this dream... was different.

  Upon waking, he was no longer in the bunker.

  He was standing underneath a wide, open sky, dark and infinite. Stars pulsed above like distant hearts strewn across the fabric of the universe. The air was still, neither warm nor cold. Silent.

  And then came that soft voice in the silence.

  "You are dreaming," she said.

  Ronan turned.

  She stood a few feet away, her silhouette ethereal against the horizon, flowing shadows draped around her like a cloak of stardust. The same woman he met before—the one who had introduced him to Marcus, who awakened memories inside of him.

  "Hi," Ronan awkwardly said, rubbing the back of his neck—unsure what one does to greet a vision, if indeed she was one.

  At first, she said nothing, but looked up at the sky.

  "Fate," she said.

  Ronan blinked. "What?"

  She turned back to him, the tiniest hint of a smile on her lips. "I am Fate."

  He laughed nervously. "Oh. Uh… I’m Ronan." He sounded more like he was asking a question than making an introduction.

  She laughed. Fully. It rang clear and bright, rippling softly through the stars. "That's a good one. It's been a long time since I laughed like that."

  Ronan stared, completely bewildered and a little embarrassed. But there was no mockery in Fate's gaze; there was something deeper—curiosity; warmth.

  "You know," she said after a long pause, sounding thoughtful now, almost gentle, "you're proving me wrong with every step you take."

  He shifted uneasily. "I'm... sorry?"

  Her head shook, a kind of wistfulness settling over her expression. "No. I'm not angry. In fact... I'm happy."

  He was startled. "Happy?"

  "I promised Zephyr that I would come to you," she said softly.

  His heart lurched. The name struck something within him, a chord still vibrating from Lioren's voiced echo.

  "Zephyr?" he whispered.

  Fate nodded, her gaze growing distant now, as if peering through time, beyond the stars overhead. "But this isn't the moment. Not yet. You're not ready."

  "What did you promise him?" Ronan asked, urgency threading his voice. "Why do I feel like... like I should remember something?"

  At this, Fate's smile became sorrowful, but kind. "You will. In time."

  She stepped back, her form shimmering, fading into the sky.

  "Wait—" Ronan reached out. "Just tell me one thing. Why me?"

  But she was gone.

  The stars blinked. Silence deepened.

  He stood now alone in a grassy field stretching infinitely below a celestial sea. The stillness hummed about him like a lullaby left behind.

  He whispered to himself.

  "Zephyr..."

  The name tasted both foreign and familiar. Like something once cherished... and long lost.

  A promise. A dream. A fate intertwined with a boy who still haunted his heart.

  Why did he not remember?

  And more importantly—

  What had Zephyr asked Fate to do… for him?