When Heart's Waver

  When Ronan entered, darkness was already in and weighed heavily on the quiet night. Twilight lanterns gave the little room a warm golden light, throwing shadows on the walls dancing like echoes of his thoughts.

  He closed the door, but not quietly enough to escape the notice of Issac.

  The boy was sitting curled near the fire, a book lying open, clearly forgotten on his lap. He stared at Ronan with concern that softened his face.

  "You late," Isaac said in almost a whisper.

  Ronan replied tiredly with a smile and shrugged out of his cloak to hang it beside the door. "I just lost track of time."

  "You saw Flint?" Isaac began, knowing the answer beforehand.

  Ronan nodded and settled down into the seat next to him. For a time, neither of them spoke. The fire crackled in the space between them like a ticking clock.

  "I don't even know where to start," Ronan began at last, rubbing a hand over his face. "The story he told me... about his grandson, Ron—it hurt. It hurt more than it should have."

  Isaac cocked his head. "Why?"

  "Because it felt familiar," Ronan murmured. "Almost like mourning someone I've already lost... I don't really remember him at all."

  Isaac fell silent, letting the silence stretch just enough for Ronan to fill it.

  "Ron," he continued, "was brave and loyal and he kept watch-shed upon the young master of the Aerenthal family as if he were a mere shadow to him. And Flint spoke of him with such love. But it ended in tragedy. Tragedy. The whole family wiped out."

  Ronan looked at his hands. "Except maybe not."

  Isaac blinked. "What do you mean?"

  "I don't know how to put it, but... I keep coming back to this thought—what if I was the young master?" Ronan's voice quivered slightly as he admitted it. "I know it's absurd. But the way people look at me, the names, the fragments in my dreams... it all feels too strange."

  He took a shaky breath. "But if every last one of the family died, I couldn't be."

  Isaac didn't say anything. He listened.

  "And then there's even more," Ronan said, letting the words tumble out now. "Flint said Ron had found his fated one—a boy he met in another city. He was so sure. He was so full of hope. But he never got to go back to him. Never got to love him."

  Ronan's voice broke a little.

  "I did the opposite, Isaac. I rejected my fated one. I looked Caelan in the eye and walked away. And yet... the moment I saw him, I knew. I knew."

  The first time he had opened his mouth, Isaac spoke. "Do you regret it?"

  "I don't know," Ronan whispered. "That's what is tearing me apart."

  Isaac waited long. Then he set aside his book and leaned closer.

  "I'm too young to know everything," he said with a solemnity that belied his age, "but there's one thing I believe."

  Ronan looked at him, waiting.

  "No matter what," Issac said with slowness, "if your heart isn't in it—even if they're your fated—it would be better not to accept them. Because staying with someone out of obligation or guilt... that would be a torture for both of you."

  Ronan stared at him, stunned by the clarity of the boy's words. "You're really something else, you know?"

  Issac gave a faint smile. "I just say what's on my mind."

  Sinking back, Ronan sighed. The confusion hadn't cleared, but it felt a little less heavy with Issac beside him.

  After a pause, Ronan glanced down at the boy again. "Going back to Aerenthal mansion tomorrow. Want to accompany me?"

  Isaac hesitated for a moment and quickly said, "Of course."

  Ronan smiled softly. "Thanks."

  And that was how, in that dim light, in that small room, two survivors from different perspectives, one of a broken past, and one from a shattered present, sat side by side, waiting for the morrow to unravel truths that fate had hidden in deep silence.

  Threads of the Fated

  The next day at work, Ronan swept through the boutique like a ghost of himself. He folded gowns that didn’t need folding, directed a customer toward the wrong fitting room, and spilled a tray of gem-encrusted hairpins—twice.

  Whenever someone spoke to him, he merely nodded absently; his mind was lost far away, somewhere beyond the satin and lace of Seraphine’s posh little store.

  Back there, his heart, in the past. Somewhere above Aerenthal. With Flint. With memories he didn’t even know could be his.

  And with Caelan.

  "Ronan!"

  Seraphine’s voice cut through the low murmur of the boutique like the snapping of silk ribbon. He lifted his gaze, eyes focused on her from where he stood, arms entangled in the half-sorted rack of cloaks.

  She didn’t need to call again. She just gave him that look—that she was more than his employer, she was a woman of power and magic, and right now, fully aware of the fact that her best employee was down and out.

  "Come," she said simply, gesturing toward the back office.

  Ronan followed, albeit reluctantly, with his heart beating somehow a bit faster.

  The inside felt warm under the incense, perfumed by slightly perceptible traces of enchantment. Sitting elegantly in her chair, velvet-backed, Seraphine didn't speak immediately. She seemed only to study him with those amber watchful eyes.

  "What is going on, Ronan?" she finally asked.

  "Nothing," he replied, brushing a hand through his hair. "Just... too much on my mind, I guess."

  She arched a brow. "I shall not accept the vague excuses when they have cost me customers and shattered perfume bottles."

  Suddenly he felt uncomfortable. "I'm sorry. I'll pull myself together."

  "Perhaps," she said, tilting her head a little, "you should talk about it. That might do you some good."

  Her voice was gentle. Too gentle. A soft tune veiling her words.

  Ronan blinked, realizing too late that she was weaving charm magic into her tone.

  "Seraphine..." he warned, but the resistance began to subside. His lips parted as the dam broke, and the words flowed from him.

  "I rejected my fated one," he went on. "And now I don't know if I made the right decision or the biggest mistake in my life."

  He sank into the chair in front of her, massaging his temple. "I'm waiting for someone I hardly remember. Maybe for someone who doesn't even exist. What if it is all in my head?"

  Seraphine kept staring at him for a long time. Her lips became a thin line, and her eyes flashed—not with disapproval, but something much more calculating. She looked as if she was doing mathematics in her head.

  "That's it?" she finally asked. "Let me see your hand."

  He frowned. "Why?"

  "Because I have a suspicion," came her simple reply.

  Ronan sighed and handed over his hand. The moment her fingers touched his palm, he felt it—magic. Not the overwhelming kind, but subtle. Almost like charged particles of dust about to turn into a storm. It buzzed softly against his skin, tingling up his arm and settling behind his eyes.

  Then it was gone.

  Seraphine relaxed back, a victorious expression smoothing her features. "I knew it."

  "Knew what?" Ronan squinted. "What did you just do?"

  She didn't answer immediately. Instead, she reclined and slowly tapped a finger on her chin.

  "Your soul signature... It has traces of something very old. Faint, almost as if it had been sealed. Someone covered your aura a long time ago."

  His heart skipped. "Veiled?"

  "Yes. Your emotional aura is fragmented—someone tried to erase bits from you but did not succeed completely. It's as if your being is... incomplete."

  He stiffened. "And that means?"

  Seraphine met his eyes then, serious. "It means your instincts are not wrong, Ronan. You are tracing someone in your past. Someone who is real. And I would wager... someone who once meant everything to you."

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  He sharply inhaled.

  "You think I was someone else before?"

  "I think you were more than you know. And someone didn't want you to remember."

  For a long time, neither spoke. The air between them, saturated with perfume, felt as though it were bursting with unsaid truths.

  Then Seraphine's voice softened again. "Don't blame yourself for pushing Caelan away. You can't give your heart fully until you know who you are. Not if you are still not whole."

  Ronan looked down at his hand—the one she had held—and clenched it into a fist.

  He might not have gathered all the answers yet. But now, more than ever, he felt that he needed answers.

  "Thank you," he said in a soft voice. "For... whatever that was."

  Seraphine smirked, "You will figure it out, Ronan. You always do."

  The Whisper Beneath the Cover

  Seraphine lingered, lips parting and closing again, almost as though she were swallowing words. The moment Ronan noticed, he paused by the door.

  “What is it?”

  Seraphine hesitated, dubiously brushing one strand of loose hair. Her expression flickered again between curiosity and caution. “There’s something more I want to talk to you about. But… maybe not now. After your shift—come see me.”

  The way she said it didn’t sound casual. It felt heavy with secrets, just waiting for the right moment to be told.

  Ronan nodded slowly. “Fine.”

  The rest of the day passed easier than the morning. Talking to Seraphine helped to clear some of the fog in his mind though it opened up new questions. But that one thread she tugged at—something hidden inside him—kept pulling. What else did she know?

  She was sitting in her back office, candles lit in a soft circle around her desk, fingers wrapped around a cup of steaming tea when Ronan stepped in after the last customer had left and the boutique closed.

  “You said you wanted to talk?” he asked.

  She looked up, the candlelight gilding her cheekbones. “Yes.”

  Ronan sat down on the other side of the desk.

  “The first time I noticed it was when you hugged me after getting your first paycheck,” she started. “You were happy, open… and in that moment, I felt it. The magic.”

  He blinked. “What magic?”

  "A magic that’s been trapped inside you. Not just sealed—hidden. Whoever did it used ancient methods, ones I’ve only read about. Layers of concealment, like locking magic behind mirrors inside your soul.”

  “Then how is it you sensed it?” Ronan felt his chest tighten.

  Seraphine smiled faintly. “My anchor card is Charm. I can sense enchantments and illusions… even ones meant to be undetectable.”

  “I must tell you one more thing. Fated bonds—they exist only for magicians. If someone gets one, it means there is still magic active within them. No exceptions.”

  His breath caught. “You’re saying… if I sensed a fated bond with Caelan—”

  “Then you still have magic inside you,” she confirmed. “Even if it’s sealed, suppressed, forgotten—it’s there. Otherwise, you wouldn’t have felt anything. Fate does not waste her efforts.”

  Ronan reclined, his mind storming with thoughts. “Why would anyone do that to me?”

  She hesitated. “My guess? Whoever sealed your magic sealed those memories, too. Maybe to protect you. Or maybe to protect someone else.”

  Ronan leaned back in his chair, forlorn. "This is all new to me, Seraphine. I don't even remember what a fated bond really means."

  A gentle smile formed on her lips as she stood up. "Relax and get comfortable. This will take some time."

  She handed him a mug of tea and then poured herself one. Silence settled upon the room. The candles stood lit in flickering silence, and Seraphine's voice took the cadence of an ancient tale passed by whisper into shadow.

  "Once upon a time," she began, "these magicians with powerful anchor cards were hunted. They were abducted and forced into marriages, or worse still; their anchor cards were stolen, snatched from their essence and leaving them hollow and sometimes dead."

  Ronan stared into his cup of tea, unable to comprehend such a reality.

  "The slaughter was stopped by ten most powerful magicians, each a master in a different arcane path. They called themselves The Arcana. They sacrificed pieces of themselves, their own magic, sometimes even fragments of their life force, to weave a spell that could not be undone."

  "A curse?" Ronan interrupted.

  "A boon under the disguise of a curse," she corrected him.

  Her voice dipped lower. "They called upon Fate herself."

  Ronan's eyes widened.

  "She listened," Seraphine said. "Not because she had to—but because she chose to. And she offered them a deal. 'If you give your lives to protect love, I will make it so that love itself becomes your protection.'"

  "And that's when fated bonds began?" Ronan asked.

  She nodded. "From that moment forward, every magician—every true wielder of an anchor card—would be born with a fated bond. A connection drawn by fate herself. A soulmate."

  But then her voice took on a sharper edge.

  "There was a condition."

  "What kind of condition?" Ronan asked, bracing himself.

  "The bond will live as long as a magician upholds their magic, and when magic fades, the bond will break; this is what Fate has said."

  Ronan's fingers tightened around his cup.

  "They were shocked," she continued. "And they asked, 'Isn't it cruel, if one still loves and the other forgets?'"

  Seraphine's eyes gleamed in the firelight as she repeated Fate's reply:

  ‘Fate can only bring them this close. The rest... is with their hearts.’

  "But there was a price," she said. "There is always a price."

  Ronan looked up. "What was it?"

  "A prophecy," she said softly. "One spoken by Fate, but given to her by the Time Keepers. She handed it to The Arcana and vanished."

  "What did it say?" Ronan asked.

  "Nobody knows," she sighed. "The scroll with the prophecy was lost eons ago. Some say it burned in the last war between the old kingdoms. Others say it's hidden, locked away in a realm only accessible when the stars align."

  "But..." she met his eyes. "It's said that when the time is ripe, the prophecy shall awaken. And the one meant to hear it—the Seer—will know."

  A chill ran down Ronan's spine.

  "Is that real? Or simply a legend?"

  She took a sip of the tea, half-closing her eyes. "Everything begins as a legend. Until it comes true."

  Ronan remained sitting there for what felt like an eternity, the taste of the tea having long left his mouth, as he remained deep in thought, entangling every thought that had just been laid before him.

  If what Seraphine said were true... then perhaps he was still not just a wanderer chasing ghosts.

  Beneath the Weight of Fate

  The past forty-eight hours had been anything but kind to Ronan.

  He had felt so settled for a month-routine, laughter, a job, Isaac by his side. Everything had fallen into place so nicely that he had almost forgotten just how unstable the ground truly was beneath him. But now it felt that the entire world was cracking open, whispering the secrets of his past, memories that were not his-own, and yet were.

  Arriving at home that evening, Ronan was greeted by Isaac, who from the corner had been drawing something in the dirt with a stick. Must be the look on Ronan's face that said it all for Isaac-just getting up and showing the lines of worry on his childish features.

  "You look like a tornado's hit you," Isaac said lightly, though concern was present in his eyes.

  Ronan managed a weak smile. "More like, I'm a tornado."

  He plopped down beside him, resting his back against the wall, allowing carpet silence to carry him for a moment before turning toward him.

  "What do you know about fated bonds?" he asked, almost inaudibly.

  Isaac blinked. "Not much... Just that it's supposed to guide you to the one meant for you. Like... love that is destined. Why?"

  "Seraphine told me everything today," Ronan said softly. "About how it is not just a feeling-it's fate. Magic. A bond created by the gods themselves...and the Arcana. And there's a prophecy attached. One no one remembers."

  "A prophecy?" exclaimed Isaac.

  "Later," Ronan said, giving a nod.

  Isaac looked out the window in thought, contemplative. "Fate works in her own way... We never know what she is up to. Sometimes she feels cruel. But maybe she just tries to put everything in balance."

  And with a yearning look and faraway tone, he added, "When I get my anchor card... I will find my fated one too."

  Ronan's heart sank.

  Isaac should already have received that anchor card, though. His magic had come back weeks ago, and still-nothing. No card. No sign.

  And Ronan had no idea how to help. He couldn't even be sure how his own magic worked.

  Perhaps Flint knew more.

  He pushed himself off the ground and brushed the dust from his pants. "Come on, let's eat out tonight."

  Isaac's face instantly lit up. "Really?"

  "Yes. And after dinner, we will stop by Aerenthal mansion. Flint is expecting me. You are coming along."

  They briefly stopped at the bonfire circle before leaving-enough to greet the regulars and let the village gossip wash over them.

  The fire crackled to their left, bathing golden light upon familiar faces that were shrouded in the ever-present haze of murmurs and speculations. Now, this, too, had become an unofficial tradition: Each evening, tales were exchanged, gossip circulated, and a small fragment of truth occasionally slipped out by pure accident.

  "Did you hear?" Lysa said, the merchant's daughter, leaning in conspiratorially. "Old Master Wyllard apparently tried the hair growth potion from the apothecary. Poor man grew eyebrows down to his chin!"

  Laughter erupted from the entire group.

  “His punishment for calling my brother a ‘mushroom in a tunic,’” someone else chimed in.

  The laughter faded into another murmur of whispers.

  "Oh! And the palace roof collapsed again," said a tall boy named Harrin. "Third time this month. They say it's cursed. My aunt's friend swears she saw a shadow watching from the spire."

  That stirred some nervous murmurs.

  Then came another low whisper.

  "Did you see him? Caelan from the Marrowen family? He came by the apothecary this morning."

  Ronan tensed, unable to breathe.

  "He looked...lost," the girl continued. "Like someone who's trying to remember something and can't. Wouldn't speak to anyone. Just stared at the herbs like he didn't know why he was there. He used to be so cold and proud, remember? But now... he just looks sad."

  A sigh drifted from somewhere. "They say heartbreak messes with magic."

  Ronan felt paralyzed.

  He could easily take those words niggling at him.

  Not that he had seen Caelan since that rejection. Caelan had passed him since that night. And yet he was out there, a ghost in sorrow, trying to hold himself together.

  What have I done?

  A sudden tightness clamped around his chest, and it must have surfaced on his face for Isaac to jump right in.

  "Ronan," he said gently, tugging at his sleeve, "Let us go. We will be late for Flint."

  Ronan affirmed quietly, thanking him with all his heart for the rescue.

  They walked in silence. The air felt cool now, and they were heading toward the edge of the city. The Aerenthal mansion nestled against the abandoned palace, once a proud being left to gather ivy and silence.

  No one lived this close to it anymore. Not because of any law or guard, but because of something heavier: forgetting. It wasn't just that people avoided the palace-they had stopped speaking of it entirely. As if the memory had been literally pulled from the seams of their minds.

  Nobody knew or rather nobody remembered the story of the king. Why he disappeared. Why the palace had been left to rot with the passing of the seasons. It had become merely a background image to the city, a painting nobody chose to scrutinize.

  A few called it cursed. Others said grief was silencing it. And very few believed that the royal bloodline had been wiped out altogether, lost to war or, worse, betrayal.

  But as the tall iron gates of the mansion came into view, with the fireflies dancing in the mist around it, Ronan felt himself musing...

  Is that heir ever truly dead?

  And if not, is he ready to meet himself?

  Whispers of the Anchor Card

  The palace and its cloaked past could wait.

  He told himself that more than once as the loomed closer, its shadow from deepening dusk carved out to the untold promises of its walls. The king, the royal family, and the forgotten palace had mysteries for another day.

  Right now, two things mattered more than any forgotten monarch:

  Find out the real truth of his past…

  Help Isaac find his anchor card.

  But, of that second thought resounded, he suddenly realized- the kind of a tight, choking feeling clenching around his ribs and refusing to let go.

  If I had magic…

  Where's my anchor card?

  He stood still for just a moment, watching his feet on the gravel path.

  Isaac turned towards him, anxious. "Are you alright, man?"

  "I…" Ronan blinked. "I don't know."

  It was too quiet in the air, too quiet in the wind.

  "Isaac," he uttered soft, "if I have magic… why haven't I found my anchor card yet?"

  Isaac's eyeballs widened. "I thought… maybe it was something you ever had and lost when your memories went missing?"

  "But maybe. Or maybe…" He swallowed. "Maybe it's hidden. Sealed. Like the rest of me."

  A confusion of a thousand questions flooded into him just then.

  What happened to his anchor card?

  Was it stolen, or broken?

  Was it lying dormant within him, waiting to be awakened?

  Or… was it never meant to be found again?

  The sinking thought that maybe he was a magician without an anchor card: That he was incomplete clawed heart-deep into his soul.

  Answers had becoming very much overdue in his life.

  And tonight, he was pinning all those hopes on a man clad in the past.

  Flint.

  Flint, who might remember more than he let on. Flint, who had looked at Ronan with a flicker of something that felt dangerously close to recognition. Flint, who may just be the key to everything Ronan had lost.

  Ronan exhaled, "Come on," he said to Isaac. "We've got to find out who I am. And you…" He smiled softly at the boy. "You need your anchor card."

  Isaac beamed with delight, nodding, and followed him.

  Then in front of them, the gates of the mansion creaked open, and somewhere in within, Flint was waiting-for holding the last threads of a story that Ronan was desperately trying to weave back together.