The morning brought no warmth or light but instead a strange, troubling stillness. It was the kind of silence that made the heart jump, even though it never seemed to give rest.
Ronan had curled to rest near the exit of the bunker, leaning against the cold stone wall and keeping his eyes half-watchful on the others as they stirred awake. None spoke of it, yet the air was heavy with expectation. A fine terror buzzed just beneath it.
Yet in some indefinable way, through all the capture, the betrayal, and the looming uncertainty, something strangely resilient in the children tugged at his heart.
Theron and Daxen had been involved in an imaginary duel with wooden spoons kept from dinner two nights ago. Sylas sat cross-legged nearby, pretending to be judge and was dramatically announcing, "Ten points to whoever doesn't burn anything!"
Vaela and Averis were knotting together little patterns with threads and loose straw, both challenging each other to construct the ugliest bracelet. Selene was busy braiding Nyra's hair, telling little jokes that made both of them snort in suppressed laughter.
Lioren quietly hummed a soft tune, while Isaac sat beside him and simply listened. There was defiance in life, yet even in the simplest of gestures, there was life.
These were children, and in the child-like way, they created joy in the face of fear.
But Ronan wasn't a child anymore.
He did not laugh.
He was terrified—for them, he supposed. Not as they were terrified. Colder. More distant. Older. A weight made of time and memory and regret sat heavy on his chest.
He felt an echo of a dream in his bones from the previous night. Fate. Zephyr. A promise. A truth only half-remembered. An assured tenderness that told him, somewhere, someone had loved him enough to send ripples through the universe.
Someone waits. Someone could still be searching for him.
But none of that would matter if he couldn't save these children.
His gaze swept over them: Theron, audacious and headstrong; Lioren, observant and calm; Selene, graceful strength; Daxen, fiercely wild but loyally so; Sylas, ever complex and ever-watchful; Nyra, sharp and clever; Averis, chaotic yet kind; Vaela, so intelligent, so brave; and Isaac, who still did not know how very important he was.
Eight cards. Two missing.
The Seer′s Hand....and The Tainted Crown.
Ronan clenched his jaw. He did not know who was meant to bear the Seer′s hand; him or Isaac. And that gnawed at him.
If he knew, maybe he could buy himself time. Maybe he could bargain for himself or hide the truth better. But right now, everything available to him was only an elusion-and Marcus was far beyond guessing. He knew too much.
In that case, time seemed to disappear as Ronan thought it.
There, he thought, their end was counted in numbers. Not days. Hours. And if Marcus was anything to go by, there would be no mercy.
But panic wouldn′t help. Any fear Ronan expressed would go through one of them to the next, creating a storm. And he could not let them shatter. Not yet. Not when they still could do something, however little.
And thus did the calm shatter.
The door creaked open.
The silence swallowed them.
Gabe stepped in with four unfamiliar figures. Each wore obsidian robes lined with shining symbols, glyphs barely glowing with contained power. Their faces were masked, but Ronan could feel the surge of their magic in the air.
And they weren't empty-handed.
Food on trays. Golden pastries. Bread rising beneath clouds of steam. Fruit in bowls. Meats sliced thinly, with sweetened tea.
A feast.
One of the girls whispered, "It smells like a festival..."
Ronan stayed quiet.
He didn't have to speak.
He knew what it was.
He had seen it before: this kindness that had come too late. The smile before the beheading.
The last supper before execution.
A letter from a dear
Something or someone strange caught Ronan's attention just as the group was breaking apart from breakfast.
One of Gabe's men kept throwing a glance his way. Not a suspicious one... but sort of shaky. A man who wanted to make up his mind, whose mind was made already, and he knew he would rue the choice either way.
Ronan tilted his head in semi-disgust. Just paranoia?
That same guy lingered at the back of the group as they departed. He half stopped, did a once-over, and then with a gentle flick of his wrist tossed something toward Ronan: a small note, or folded piece of paper.
Ronan caught it in mid-air without much, maybe any, sound.
Grumbling underneath his breath, he'd muttered, “I don't owe him anything after this,” and had then jogged to catch up with others.
With fingers tightening over the paper, Ronan began to wonder.
Who was that? Why now?
But he could not ask, not yet, for by now, the kids had gone all around the bunker, forming a circle and passing pieces of fruit, laughing at some joke Sylas cracked. Theron was busy demonstrating how fast he could peel something with a dagger; Nyra, on the other hand, kept conjuring little illusions—miniature storms in the palm of her hand making the others gasp and cheer.
"Come sit with us, Ronan!" called Averis, patting the spot beside her.
He smiled tightly. "In a bit. I'll eat later."
They nodded and returned to chattering noisily, brightly. For now, they were just children again. Innocent. Untouched by what was waiting for them.
Ronan withdrew to a corner of the bunker, away from probing eyes and laughter that suddenly felt too heavy on his shoulders. He carefully unfolded the paper.
The handwriting seemed somewhat shaky, but it was indeed familiar. One corner bore a faint stain—blood or ink, he could not tell.
Dear Boy,
If you get this letter, I am dead and you have been captured.
I do deserve this death. I have cheated and killed so many; I should have felt the same cold detachment toward you as I have always felt toward the others.
But I don't.
You might not remember who I am—or who you are. But this letter is not about the past. It is about now.
I used to believe Marcus was gathering children to build a secret society. That we'd use your gifts to con the world and line our pockets. That's why I followed him, dear old friend. That's why we built that bunker. Just a game. Just a scheme.
But he changed a few years ago. After you were brought here.
His ambitions... are darker now. Bigger than this world.
He isn't alone, either. I have seen him talking to someone. A man cloaked in shadows who called himself "Father."
They want all ten anchor cards. They want to use that power for something unnatural.
Please be careful.
I can't say much yet. But you mean everything.
This is all I could do; for my son Ronan, for whatever is left of my soul.
P.S. If by any miracle you survive, there is a treasure in my bag. Take it with you. It will help you remember… help you know the truth.
With regards,
A regretful father
Ronan's breath hitched in his throat.
Son?
The very word sat heavily around his chest.
The man who threw this letter. He knew. And he tried, in his own twisted way, to help. A letter. A treasure. A truth.
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He folded the letter slowly, his hands trembling a little.
He glanced toward the circle of children. They were still laughing, still pretending.
He would protect them. He must.
Even if it kills him.
A father A son
An unexpected knock at the bunker door pierced through the remaining warmth of breakfast.
"Wrap it up. We’ll be back soon," said a voice cold and commanding, unmistakably Gabe's.
There was a moment of silence in the room, as if everyone suddenly felt the weight of where they were and what this day could bring. Then there was a soft tap of cutlery and subdued murmurs.
Ronan stared at the slice of half-eaten bread in his hand, untouched since that first bite.
He felt... not quite off-balance. Not afraid. More like the ground beneath him was made of glass that kept shifting. With every second, it cracked one new way.
The letter continued to burn in his pocket.
He already knew much of what Lukas had revealed—Marcus's obsession with the anchor cards, the darker ambitions, the shadowy "Father." A lot of it he had worked out for himself.
But one thing struck him from left field.
Ronan's father.
The words clanged around in his head, redrawing themselves in the blurred wisps of every breath he took.
Lukas was his father.
Which meant...
He turned his gaze to the wall, as though piercing through it would assist in clarifying the scattered chaos in his mind.
Flint.
His thoughts stuttered. That tender yet haunted man who had welcomed him with kindness without question—Flint had once spoken of a son. A son who had gone astray, broken and lost.
Was Lukas Flint's son?
Which would make...
His grip on the bread tightened as the realization jolted him.
He was Flint's grandson.
The man who had found his way to Eldoria, unaware of his past, without carrying any magic or anchor card and a worn-out bag... He was not a lost orphan. He had a name. A family. A bloodline.
For one heartbeat, perhaps two, his vision swam. He leaned back against the wall.
So he was not the Young Master at Aerenthal Mansion; he had always been the best friend of one.
That blurry, fragmented memory of walking through those halls was not a dream but rather a memory—a series of memories to which he had once belonged.
And then another confusion hit, deeper.
The silver-eyed boy.
The boy who had featured in his visions. The boy Flint had once described—the boy whom his grandson had known when they were kids.
Was that... the one who shared his fated bond?
Then who was Caelan?
That had felt like a fated bond. That meeting, that pull between them—it rocked him hard. Hadn't he thought Caelan was the one? The bond had blossomed. Strong. Electric.
But was it merely an echo of an old bond?
"What is... happening...?" he barely whispered to himself.
"Hmm?" Isaac leaned forward from his spot, the frown running deep on his face with concern. "You okay?"
Ronan blinked, not realizing he spoke out loud. He forced himself to smile and nodded. "Yeah. Just... thinking."
Isaac did not push. He nodded slightly and returned to his meal. But a few seconds longer, he stole glances at Ronan.
Ronan rubbed the temples of his head.
Nothing made sense anymore. His name. His family. His past. His future.
And now-thrusting the knife in a little deeper-he had to march in somewhere amidst whatever nightmare Marcus had set and play innocent, having every piece of him break inside.
The Weight of Inheritance
Did father rob me of my magic and cast me into this life? The question settled cold like ice in Ronan's veins.
His father. That man's name still sat bitterly in Ronan's mind—Lukas.
Would any father do that to his child?
Apparently… mine did.
There was no anger in the thought. Only a quiet, aching sadness. Sadness that crept to the corners of his chest and rested there like dust. What kind of father would take power away from a son and throw him in a trap like this?
His fists clenched over the remnants of the small meal on his plate.
Yet somewhere through that grief, a flicker of sanity broke through.
The orb.
Ronan's hand unconsciously searched his pocket, fingers gliding over the cool, smooth surface through the cloth. He thought back to the way he’d found it, how it had called him—almost as if it had recognized him.
An orb that sealed a gambler’s luck…and their past.
What if it wasn’t just any magical object? What if Lukas had hidden more than memories in there—what if this was the only protection he could offer? A final, desperate gift from a father who'd chosen the wrong side too many times?
A slow exhalation escaped Ronan, a bitter smile forming upon his lips.
So, he knew. Lukas knew more than I did—of course, he did.
Then clearly, it arrived back—those last lines of the letter…
“In case you survive; in my bag, a treasure…I would use to help you know the truth.”
Ronan set right up in his chair.
He will survive. He had every right to that treasure. Every right to the truth. Every reason to make it out alive.
He took a few last gulps of breakfast, swallowing down nerves and all.
The door creaked open again, admitting the same four men who had served him food. Their faces were unreadable, trained, and cold. One of them gave a slight nod.
“Time to move,” he said, his voice flat.
As they were gathering up, the boy who'd thrown the note at Ronan moved beside him—almost close enough that Ronan could sense the tension radiating off him.
“Give it back,” the boy whispered without looking at him. “If they find out you have it, we’re both dead.”
Ronan hesitated for perhaps a second, but he quickly shoved the folded letter back into the boy's palm.
The boy wasted no time—he ripped the paper into shreds, crushed them in his palm, and stuffed the scraps into his coat pocket.
“Thanks.” He muttered. “You didn’t read it out loud, did you?”
“No,” Ronan said quietly.
“Good,” the boy replied, then said with a strange, almost sad expression, “That was the last thing I owed him.”
Before Ronan could voice his inquiries, the boy moved up ahead to join the others.
They lined up in twos, hands instinctively linked. Theron and Selene. Nyra and Sylas. Averis and Lioren. Isaac and Ronan. No one spoke on the descent through the familiar corridor, past guarded doorways, down the winding staircase that seemed ever tighter and darker.
Down to the fifth level.
The last one.
Ronan exhaled, directing a tight clenching of the orb in his pocket and a memory of Lukas's letter becoming inscribed into his mind.
What awaited him below, he did not know; but he was sure on one thing:
He would not die here.
Not with the truth still awaiting him.
Not with someone still loving him out there.
The Hall of Arcana
Certainly not what Ronan had expected.
The crude stone walls and damp shadows of the upper floors were long gone. There was something else, something new, when he stepped on the fifth level.
It sparkled diaphanously in chaos and density with magic; so dense it prickled against his skin. The floor, he realized, was made of black marble with silver veins that faintly glimmered in dim light. Intricate symbols-glowing blue, gold, and violet-were carved on the walls and floor in a language Ronan could not decipher. It was not just foreign; it was ancient. Magic of a kind that did not belong to this world.
From the epicenter of the large circular chamber arose a portico-ringed with silver stones and pulsating light. Outwards, in perfect symmetry, ten individual chambers lay equidistant from one another-as distant as the little marks on a colossal clock-face. Each being unique-doors carved with different magical sigils, walls humming with their own breed of energy. One was veined in ice; another one was wreathing flame. One was surrounded by floating motes of earth and metal, while another seemed to vanish into shadow completely.
But every one of them expressed the same power: Anchor magic.
Dead in the center of it all stood an eleventh chamber even taller than the others. It was covered in carvings that bent and twisted whenever Ronan looked at it too long. It pulsed as though it were a living being.
That one was for Marcus. Or the "Father" to whom he answered to.
With that thought, Ronan felt his stomach twist.
He did not have much time to admire-or be afraid of-the architecture.
Ronan and Isaac were suddenly pulled aside by two guards and escorted straight to Marcus, who was waiting judgmentally near the center of it all. He looked sharper than ever in a coat of the finest wool, with hair slick and eyes jetted with glitter. But Ronan could see the way Marcus's jaw ticked. He was impatient. Coiled tight.
"You would at least tell me what you are planning?'' Ronan asked, his voice calm despite the throbbing in his chest.
Marcus turned and smiled like a snake.
"Oh, of course," he purred, "We shall begin with the calling of your anchor cards. Once you and Isaac receive yours, we will put you in the chamber that accords with your fate."
Ronan looked back at the ten outer chambers. Each felt so distinct now he was up close, almost as if they had lives of their own. Breathing. Watching.
"You have been putting this plan into motion for some time, I suspect," murmured Ronan.
Marcus chuckled delightedly, if not condescendingly. "Longer than that, actually. You think you're special, boy, but this story was far older than you."
He then tilted his head, glancing first at Ronan and then at Isaac, as one would do when considering which toy to break first.
"Hmm, who should I take first? You? Or Isaac?" he remarked with feigned friendship.
Almost felt like a cat playing with its prey, and Marcus was very much the cat.
Marcus leaned in closer, his breath chilling Ronan's ear. “This wait has far exceeded all limits,” he said in a slightly manic tone. “I should probably start with Isaac. Perhaps carve it out of him? You know, so your greedy little heart will remember what it sounded like when Lukas screamed.”
Ronan tensed, cutting deep with words blunter than a dagger. He remembered the echoes of Lukas's voice, the way it had broken at the time of his departure. No matter what that man had done, Lukas had shielded him. In his own fractured way, he had loved.
"Can you start with me first?" Ronan stepped forward, his tone low. "Don't touch them. If it's to kill me, so much better. I owe them that much."
An amused eyebrow went up on Marcus's face. "So noble now, are we?"
"Just tired of being a disappointment," Ronan replied.
Marcus gestured at the portal. "Then without any fuss, into the center."
Ronan breathed in, nodded once, and stepped into the glowing ring.
Magic surged and radiated around him, almost as if intending to vacate his lungs of breath. Once he turned back, and his blood turned to ice.
All the children were being ushered out toward the outer chamber, each one standing in front of one.
Even Isaac.
Marcus knew.
"You tricked me," Ronan whispered. Horror crept up his eyes. "You knew the anchor card of Isaac all along."
"What did you expect?" Marcus put on an act of being surprised. "Your little rebellion delayed things, but it did help clarify a few things."
"But… how?" Ronan said.
Marcus's eyes glimmered.
"Because without your anchor card, Isaac's never would have surfaced. Only when all nine anchor cards exist in the same time and space… can the tenth be called forth."
Ronan choked on his breath.
"Which means…?"
Marcus's eyes flared as he stepped closer, his voice drumming with authority.
"The Tainted Crown-his card-manifests only when the other nine are present. That is the curse left behind by The Arcana. A safeguard... or a prophecy, depending on whom you ask."
Ronan dry swallowed. "So it has to do with the prophecy..."
"Yes and no," said Marcus with a shrug.
"I'm not trying to fulfill the prophecy," he said, lowly menacing. "I'm trying to destroy it."
The Spark That Lit the change
Ronan stood frozen in the center of the portal, magic curling at his feet like mist, hearing his heart pounding louder than the whispers in the chamber. He hadn't really intended to say anything-it had just slipped out.
"If you are already certain of which anchor card belongs to whom, why not put me in my chamber?"
The words echoed across the chamber like a spark in a quiet forest. So close, breathing too loud.
As soon as those words came out of his mouth, Ronan clapped his hand over his mouth.
"You dumb. You dumb. You dumb."
Why did I say that?
And then Marcus took pause in the middle of the chamber. He turned his head toward Ronan slowly, the silence hanging like a blade.
And then- he smiled.
The kind of smile that made Ronan's blood turn to ice.
For a split second, Marcus tilted his head as if in thought. Then his expression changed, became more thoughtful, more calculating. And then he clapped once, terrifyingly final.
"You are right."
It was faint, but the chamber trembled, as if even the magic here were taking heed of his decision.
"Put them all in their separate chambers," Marcus ordered, voice echoing.
Like clockwork, the guards sprang into action, as if they'd just been waiting for this order.
"No, no, no," Ronan murmured under his breath, horror rising in his throat. "You and your big mouth... You just killed everyone."
He hated himself that moment. Hated the sharp tongue he couldn't leash. Hated how fast he had fallen into rhythm with Marcus.
One after another, the children were led-no, escorted-into the chambers that surrounded the center. Each of them looked confused, some frightened, some still too young to understand what was happening. The magical doors opened as they approached, accepting them as if they belonged there.
Even Isaac was silent now, read faces were unreadable as he entered a chamber shrouded in shadows. His eyes met Ronan's for the briefest instant- questioning, searching- but Ronan couldn't meet his gaze. Too ashamed.
The doors would not close.
Not yet.
Instead, Marcus strode into the middle, now sharing the heart of the portal with Ronan. The marble beneath them pulsed with light, reacting to his presence.
Marcus raised his arms, eyes shining with valor.
"Finally," he whispered, disclaiming Ronan and addressing more the chamber itself.
"The alignment has commenced."