Wrapped in Illusion

  Ronan had envisioned the Aerenthal mansion in a thousand different ways—from opulent to regal, the estate born out of noble blood, long gilt, but when he and Isaac approached the high gate, the sight that greeted him was something entirely different.

  The lofty boundary walls are covered with ivy; they are tall and cold; they are the height to which even nature seems to have tried swallowing that estate whole. Greedy-throated limbs of trees pressed their bodies against the stone, blocking most of the view inside. The gate-an iron wrought and almost ten feet high-stands for guarding the secrets of wealth rather than

  That stopped Ronan a few feet away, his eyebrows knitted together. "This looks more like a haunted house than a mansion..."

  Isaac leaned in on the bars, peering through them. "You sure this is the right place?"

  "Only one way to find out," Ronan muttered and raised his hand to knock.

  The moment his knuckles were about to scream with an angry noise before banging against the iron gates, they were greeted by sudden creaking of the gates opening themselves.

  Flint stood there.

  Not suspicion or irritation hot, but out of a flicker of surprise in Ronan.

  Expectation.

  Like, he had been waiting.

  Ronan blinked. "You... opened it so quickly."

  Flint smiled faintly in a dry sort of way. "I have a good sense of timing. Come in."

  Still a bit hesitant, Ronan gestures to Isaac beside himself: “This is my friend Isaac. I hope it's okay I brought him. He's—well, I didn't want to leave him behind.”

  Flint looked at Isaac, and for a fallible second, Ronan quaked as if he might scowl or turn them away.

  But instead, Flint's grim face softened with a rare expression of warmth glinting in his weather-beaten eyes. "Not a problem. You are both welcome here."

  Ronan released a silent breath of relief. So much for all the stories told around the bonfire-the ones about Flint being a grumpy, reclusive old man. Perhaps there is more to him than what people know.

  They stepped through the entrance, and everything changed.

  What looked eerie and abandoned from the outside shifted like a mirage. Straightened and silvered, the path beamed, as though having undergone cleaning just for them. Manicured hedges appeared where once it seemed that wild vines had run rampant. The mansion itself-now fully viewed-rose as a living painting, in elegant spires and polished glass windows glinting with golden details in evening light.

  Illusion.

  Of course.

  Ronan cast around him sharp eyes. Illusion magic. A disguise, meant to keep others away.

  "Illusion spell?" he asked aloud, mostly to himself.

  Flint gave a quiet chuckle. "You catch on quickly. Most people don't notice."

  Isaac was staring with wide eyes. "This is freaking incredible..."

  Before they could take another step, a voice cut in through the silence at their backs.

  "Ronan!"

  Immediately, Ronan turned and there was an immediate halt to his breath.

  Someone was calling his name from the far end of the road-someone familiar.

  Shadows at the Gate

  He squinted into the gold haze of the evening light, trying to focus on the figure in the distance.

  His heart plummeted.

  A familiar silhouette strode forward with confidence, broad-shouldered and chin tilted arrogantly upward.

  Gabe.

  Panic shot in-warm blood through his veins-cold and fast. Time seemed to stretch just for a heartbeat when his feet fell numb.

  He whipped around and placed both hands on Isaac's shoulders and, with gentle insistence, pushed him toward Flint. "Please," he whispered. "Take him somewhere safe, Hide him there. Don't let him come out until I return."

  Flint narrowed his eyes. "Ronan, what's -"

  "Please," Ronan repeated, his voice cracking from the weight of it. "Just do this for me. Don't ask questions."

  Flint looked from Ronan to Isaac, who watched him in fear and confusion. Whatever he saw in Ronan's eyes convinced him.

  Without another word, Flint went with Isaac toward the mansion. The heavy gate creaked shut behind them.

  Ronan turned.

  His expression slipped, and his posture now hardened. The fear had not gone away; it had made its way deep into his bones as something else claimed him-resolve.

  He walked toward the boy with whom he had shared nights of whispered rebellion and stolen bread.

  "What are you, Gabe?" The voice was steady.

  By contrast, the smile that Gabe flashed was all teeth and no warmth. "Unlike some wild goose that ran off and forgot his flock, the rest of us are the same. Waiting. Loyal."

  Geez. Now with almost-drained sarcasm, the menace Ronan remembered from his visions lay beneath. The soft eyes he had long forgotten were now sharp-edged and intentionally focused.

  It's him. The very boy Marcus had sent to find me. To drag me back. For the anchor card.

  "What were you doing just now?" Gabe feigned nonchalance, glancing over at the now-closed gates of the mansion.

  Ronan raised an eyebrow, putting on an easy smile. "Nothing important. Just dropping a kid off at his place. Nice family."

  A lie Smooth and strong. Lying had been his best bet growing up. That's what survival taught him-to speak without ever feeling guilty.

  Gabe measured him with his eyes for an interminable second. Shrugged at last. "Marcus wants us together. There's a job. And you're in."

  There was no “please.” No “will you come?” Just an expectation. A command passed down.

  So it begins, Ronan thought.

  He had been prepared for this. He had seen it. Had felt the dread long before it arrived. Were it not for the knowledge imparted him like an old command, he might have been tempted to follow Gabe out of blind loyalty or nostalgia.

  But now?

  Now, he was prepared. And more than anything, he needed to protect Isaac. And that meant for now, he would have to play along.

  "Sure," Ronan said, unflustered. "I just need to stop by my place and grab my bag."

  "Make it quick," Gabe said, turning back toward the road. "Marcus hates waiting."

  Neither do I, Ronan thought grimly.

  Ronan turned to steal one last glance over his shoulder-toward the mansion, toward the story Flint was getting ready to reveal, toward Isaac.

  I'm sorry. That will have to wait.

  Fate had thrown him on this path.

  And there was no way back.

  Echoes of the group

  The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

  It felt just too far and too short going back. Every step was like walking a tightrope lied sights memories and truths carefully hidden. The route was safe into the off main road where the servants and bonfire crowd usually met- don’t want them to ask about Isaac. He didn’t want to risk his safety

  "Hey," Gabe spoke up as they walked, his boot crunching on gravel, "how was the mission?"

  Ronan blinked. "Mission?"

  Gabe raised an eyebrow at him. "Marcus said you were sent off. Apparently, it's classified, high stakes. Didn't tell us much."

  There it was again- Marcus. The puppet master behind the curtain.

  "Ah..." Ronan nodded slowly, forcing a grin. "Yes. It went as expected."

  His voice was even, but inside his mind was a flurry of questions.

  A mission? Was that what all this had been? The Hollow Coin, the vision, even ending up in Eldoria... Was this all part of Marcus's design?

  The realization turned in his stomach. What if Marcus had never truly let him go? What if he played right into his hands the whole time?

  "You know," Gabe said, softer now, "I felt like shit when you left without a word. You were there, next day-poof. Gone."

  Ronan stared at him. For a split second, he was that boy the cult had once trusted and shared dried bread and whispered dreams with at midnight corners of the place-the same boy who laughed at Ronan's terrible jokes and promised they would escape, someday. Just like that memory made his heart ache.

  "I'm sorry," Ronan said, and some of that was real regret. "Lukas woke me up early and said I had to leave immediately. Said the mission had no time to wait."

  Gabe let out a low whistle. "Figures. That old snake is always sending people off last minute."

  Good, thought Ronan, with that. Let him think so.

  Soon they stood in front of a decrepit modest building, called home by Ronan. He had it creaking wooden door pushed open, stepped inside, and gestured for Gabe to follow. It was a pretty bare interior-sparse walls with a few old, scattered books, and two mismatched chairs near the hearth.

  Gabe's sharp eyes scanned the room. "You have two plates out."

  Silently, Ronan cursed himself; all that time had passed, and he hadn't gotten around to cleaning.

  "I've got a roommate," he said quickly, hanging his cloak by the door. "He's out right now."

  "Roommate?" Gabe raised an eyebrow. "Didn't expect you to be the domestic type."

  "Neither did I," Ronan muttered.

  Ronan rushed to his bag while Gabe wandered around that window, inspecting a shelf full of worn leather books and some scattered artifacts. He pulled out the orb of the gambler's past and luck-the one Marcus had given him in payment for a card reading. Its surface glimmered faintly, like a frozen ripple in time. He had no idea what it was really for, but there had been something about it that felt important. Relevant.

  He slipped it noiselessly into the pocket of his coat.

  Then, his fingers brushed against the magical stone pendant. The same one that once had shattered yet mended itself when he and Isaac brought together their broken halves. It pulsed with liveliness within his palm, like a heartbeat.

  He hesitated.

  Too risky, he thought. He couldn't smuggle both.

  With a heavy breath, he placed the pendant back beneath the folds of cloth in his drawer.

  He turned back just as Gabe picked up a small music box from the windowsill.

  "You've settled here," Gabe said, flipping the box over. "Looks almost...normal."

  "Yeah," Ronan replied, watching him closely. "Almost."

  The Messenger

  “It’ll take us a full day to reach the base.” Gabe leaned casually against the doorframe, his eyes wandering around the room once more, as if he were expecting someone to walk in at any moment.

  “Should we rest here for tonight?” His voice was light and teasing, but Ronan had caught the glint in his eye; this was not thoughtfulness—he was fishing. Gabe wanted to see Ronan's mysterious roommate. He wanted something to report back to Marcus.

  Ronan smiled politely, but his insides were twisted. He's definitely not sleeping here. Not tonight. Not ever.

  “Nah,” Ronan said, already striding toward the doorway while throwing the cloak over his shoulder. “Let’s not keep Marcus waiting. Wouldn’t want him to think that we took too long to get comfortable.”

  Gabe followed but not without glancing back over his shoulder. “What about your roommate? Won’t they be worried?”

  Another blunder, Ronan mentally cursed himself for the second time. Too many mistakes, Ronan. Get it together.

  “You are right,” he said aloud and forced a chortle. “Let me leave a note.”

  He scrawled a vague message on a piece of torn parchment-no names, just a few lines to say that he had left for a trip and not to worry. It wasn’t much but enough for any annoying questions Gabe might insist on asking.

  Then, after hesitating for a moment, he took out another sheet. This one was for the landlord, with explanations about his sudden absence and a gold coin and five silver coins under the corner of the note-rent for next month. Just in case.

  If things go wrong, at least Isaac has a roof to stay under.

  With that, they stepped out under dwindling sunlight. The sky was streaked with copper and rose, air sharpening with the evening chill. They set off, boots crunching on earth, silence stretching between them for long moments.

  But it didn’t last.

  “You know,” Gabe began, a breeze blowing his words, “Lukas went missing after you left. Marcus said he was reassigned. Something new.”

  Ronan’s jaw tightened, yet he remained silent. I heard Lukas break apart from the inside out, he thought. And Marcus would have watched it happen with a smile on his face.

  Gabe did not seem to notice the tension in his silence. “Oh, and you remember Steve from next bunker over? He got Lukas’s spot.”

  Now that got Ronan’s attention. “With Lukas absent?”

  Gabe laughed. “Yup. Guess we’re all doomed now. Steve can’t lead a pack of geese, let alone a group of specialists like us.”

  Ronan chuckled hollowly, but nothing inside him laughed. In any case, Steve had been a bully. Reckless. Dangerous when cornered. That Marcus would pick him said much.

  Gabe kept on with the chatter, his words becoming a background hum under the smog—gossip about old faces, new rules, petty rivalries that never seemed to change. But none of it concerned the deep reason Ronan was here: Marcus’s plan. The anchor cards. The vision. The silence almost spoke louder than words.

  Ronan tried to act casually, letting the question slip in as an afterthought. “So… why does Marcus want us to assemble now? Something big happening?”

  This was the point at which Gabe hesitated.

  The pause may have been a fleeting one but was enough.

  He cast his gaze away, apparently engrossed by a crow passing by. “I don’t know,” he said, without real conviction. “Just a messenger.”

  He hadn’t looked Ronan in the eye.

  There it was—confirmation without confession. Gabe knows. And he wasn’t going to say.

  Ronan didn’t push him. Not now. Not when they were still away, walking through desolate woods, far from help or allies.

  But in that moment, the way forward had turned cold. And Ronan's resolve stiffened.

  The House That doesn’t Exist

  By midday, they heard the crunch of gravel beneath the soles of their boots, and now they had come to a halt before a building that seemed out of place.

  It looked… wrong.

  Not in the sense abandoned places usually seem wrong-a sense of withdrawal, neglect, and half-fading-but a sense that this place was never meant to be seen by any living being.

  To an outsider, it appeared that a derelict stone house was built here. Small. One room. No windows, no name, no sign of life. The door sagged on rusty hinges; one side of the roof had caved in, while weeds strangled what was left of the path.

  But Ronan was wise.

  It was what lay beneath that mattered.

  The ground floor was merely a shell-an illusion of uselessness to disguise what it truly guarded: an entry to an underground complex, dug deep beneath ground level. Five floors spiraled down, hewn from cold stone. The walls were made of dark, porous red brick, as if they drank in sound. Every breath echoed. Every step was but a whisper within a coffin.

  Only initiates like Ronan had access to the upper three floors. The last two? They were marked strictly off-limits to all but Marcus, sealed behind doors etched with ancient runes and held shut with anointed locks.

  It was an unquestioned rule. An unwavering edict.

  So much time had passed, yet he had watched as everything unfolded in his very own eyes, and Ronan still hated this place. It was not just spooky; this was cursed land. Down there, nothing stirred. The flickering of the torches was in such strange synchrony to not be the workings of wind but rather one out of several forces beneath Marcus's hand.

  And it was quiet-truly quiet-the kind of quiet that made your heartbeat feel like a deafening roar.

  One Missing

  If Gabe's words rang true, there would be others-like-Ronan who had found their way back here.

  But why the now?

  Of what need all of them, and together?

  And... why it sounds like being pulled in something ancient and very unforgiving?

  It became cooler as soon as they descended to the third floor. Much colder here at all times, Ronan remembered-but this day it felt chillier still; as if the walls knew something were about to begin.

  Marcus greeted him in his clipped manner, giving him no warmth, no welcome-nothing but orders.

  "Wait in the east bunker. Gabe will show you where. I will come and call for you later."

  No reason. No nod to their past. Just orders.

  So typical of Marcus.

  Gabe led him down the corridor, past doors with faded numbers and forgotten names, until they reached the farthest one. The door creaked open to reveal a surprisingly large room.

  It was a bunker, yes-but not like the ones Ronan remembered.

  Instead of cold metal bunk beds stacked tightly together, this one held ten individual beds, evenly spaced. Clean sheets, stone walls lined with faintly glowing glyphs. Someone had taken care to prepare this space.

  "This one's yours," Gabe pointed to a bed against the far wall, "Get comfortable. Marcus won't keep you waiting long."

  Then he was gone.

  Ronan sat. Then stood. Then sat down again-too restless to settle. The eerily quiet room.

  But not for long.

  The door opened once more. A girl stepped inside-not older than Isaac, probably. Shiny silver hair, silver eyes that darted around the room as if like a trapped animal. She had a tiny satchel clutched as if life depended on it.

  Then another boy followed-lean, quiet, probably too big for his boots. He looked like he hadn't eaten for days. Then another. Then two girls, one whispering to the other in a language Ronan didn't know.

  Soon enough, there were seven others in the room-three boys and four girls-all about Isaac's age.

  All seven reflected the same look in their eyes: confusion. Fear. Some were silent. Others were rapidly muttering words to themselves.

  "I was brought here from the Temple of Virelle," one girl whispered. "The priests just... handed me over."

  "Same," said the silver-haired girl. "They said I had magic in me. That someone would explain everything here."

  "My parents sold me," said a boy without flinching. "Said it was for the greater good."

  Each story slapped Ronan like waves of crushing cold all at once.

  They had not chosen this.

  They had been taken.

  Used.

  Like him.

  Meandered around the room, eyes flitting from face to face until he finally came to a halt.

  Ten beds. Nine filled.

  One still empty.

  There was something crawled in his skin about that.

  A feeling that pressed against the back of his neck-couldn't be shaken free. Very quietly, he slipped out of the room and retraced his steps to the first floor. Back where Marcus had been pacing before.

  He didn't dare go in. He hid behind a column just outside the door, listening.

  Marcus's voice was unmistakable, sharp and furious.

  "What do you mean you couldn't find him? You had one task!"

  Someone muttered a response, too soft for Ronan to make out.

  "Do you even know how long we've waited for this? Centuries! And finally, all of them appeared-fruitfully!"

  Another pause. The sound of something breaking. Glass, maybe.

  "We need all ten anchor cards! Without them, the binding ritual is useless!"

  Ronan felt his breath hitch.

  Anchor cards.

  Ten.

  He looked back in his mind, counting the faces of the kids he'd just met.

  Nine.

  "Go look for the boy again. It's been months, and you still don't have a clue?"

  Marcus's voice echoed thick with venom and desperation.

  "Find him. I don't care what it takes. We're too close to fail now."

  A boy.

  They were looking for a boy. One that was missing.

  Ronan's blood haltered.

  Each of those kids was Isaac's age, plus or minus a year. Young, though. New to magic.

  They had been looking for months. Which meant...

  They were looking for Isaac.

  And Ronan had just hidden him.