Echoes of a Forgotten Thread
The night air felt cool in Eldoria, an air all the more refreshing in its contrast with the thick, perfumed heat of the masquerade ballroom. Ronan barely looked back as he stepped out of the manor; the click of his boots against cobblestone barely louder than the thrum of blood in his ears.
"Isaac, let's go," he said flatly.
Isaac looked back at the glittering windows, then at Ronan, and quietly fell into step beside him. Caelan was standing near the entrance, his bewitching mask still covering his facial expression-but his eyes said everything. Regret.
Ronan did not look at him.
In silence, they walked through Eldoria's moonlight-strewn streets. The city lay quieter, with the chaos of the masquerade packed away behind velvet curtains and enchanted thresholds. Lanterns flickered overhead, casting soft halos as they passed.
Isaac glanced sideways. "What happened back there?" he asked little softer than a whisper.
Ronan let out a long breath. "Caelan's not good for us."
Isaac blinked, then nodded without pressing. He understood Ronan quite enough by now to know when to keep silence speaking. But Ronan's thoughts wouldn't still.
Upon entering their small apartment, Isaac slipped off into his room, leaving Ronan alone in the main space. The room was quiet and bathes in the faint glow of the city outside. Ronan sat by the window with elbows on his knees, fingers laced together.
Ronan stared at the starlit skyline of Eldoria, but all he could see was Caelan's expression-the firm-lipped disappointment, flash of entitled feeling behind words. "I thought he was one of the different ones, not like the rest.
But he was wrong.
He had wanted to believe Caelan to be real-something larger than what they'd shared. Mistook polish for sincerity; and that, somehow, stung more than he'd expected.
Maybe the pull-the strange draw he felt toward Caelan wasn't fate at all.
Maybe it was a mistake.
Or maybe it had never really been about Caelan to begin with.
Because no matter how hard Ronan tried to push it away, there was still that ghost of a memory. A warmth not rooted in tonight's glittering chaos, but in something deeper. Older. A vision of a man whose face he couldn't quite place, but whose presence had once wrapped around him like home.
Security. Trust. Unconditional love.
And it hadn't felt performative. It hadn't demanded anything. It had just… been.
He gripped the windowsill tighter.
Why can't I remember him?
Had that memory been stolen somehow? Or gambled away along with so much else in his life? But no-that didn't sit right. The timing didn't match. That memory had always been out of reach- long before he ever placed his first bet.
Time, place, reason- such things meant little in his world.
And he- how, still, in her memory he would presume to know that he loved that man?
Now there were only pieces. A lingering ache. A void shaped like a person he couldn't name.
And he knew that no matter how charming this Caelan could be or how noble, he didn't belong anywhere near that part of Ronan's heart.
Not anymore.
Not ever.
The Unraveling Thread
Caelan sat alone in the grandeur of his estate, surrounded by silent luxuries that suddenly felt empty. The ballroom, or rather one corridor of his mind, echoed with Ronan skirting past him without a word. He could still recall the cool dismissal in Ronan's eyes.
What had gone wrong?
Everything had gone so well that past week. Or Caelan had thought. There had been stolen glances, quiet moments, and much laughter together. He had been sure all along that Ronan felt the same pull toward him. After all, beneath the shield of cautious eyes and sharp tongue, there must be a heart softening up for him.
He re-ran their conversations, searching for signs of missteps. The only difficult-to-explain aspect was the boy, perhaps Isaac, and Ronan's apparent protectiveness over him.
"He said he didn't have any siblings," he whispered to himself, feeling loneliness fill every corner of that marble house. "So who is that boy to him?"
Was it a lie? A truth hidden away? Or something deeper than either?
For the first time in a long while, Caelan felt that something was breaking the surface-a sharp pang of hurt in his chest that startled him. He knew rejection; of course, he did. But this one would puncture heavily and deeply.
This one mattered.
But why could he not understand-why had he lain wide awake far past dawn? Why had Ronan brought someone else? Why had he shut so quickly? Why, that night, did it seem as if something broke rather than began?
By the next morning, his resolve was still firm but frayed. Caelan made his way to Seraphine's haute couture and wore his best coat. His hair was tied elegantly into waves, every detail attended to with the precision of a jigsaw puzzle piece fitting into place; if anything could still be set right with whatever it was that had cracked, he hoped this would be it.
As he stepped inside, the bell above the door rang softly. From behind the counter, Ronan looked up.
"Good morning," Caelan said, forcing a small smile.
Ronan nodded. "Welcome back, Your Grace. What can I help you with today?"
That Your Grace formality stung Caelan more than he had expected.
"I thought I'd check if my order was ready; and, perhaps, I would see how you were doing?"
Ronan did not hesitate in his response. "Your order will be out shortly."
Polite. Professional. Cold.
Caelan leaned a bit over the counter and lowered his voice. "I was hoping we could talk."
Ronan's eyes flicked upward. "About clothes?"
Caelan hesitated then straightened. "Right. Of course."
Then it had ended in a firm hand, a neatly folded pack of clothes, and a whispered thank-you. Ronan slipped through the back without a glance backward, and for once in many years, Caelan left with a feeling of a door being firmly closed on him.
But he still wasn't ready to give up.
And for the next month, everything was tried by Caelan.
He sent rare sweets from the northern isles. Left roses at the shop with notes penned with his own hand. Waited under the awning in drenching rain, drink warm in hand, only to escort Ronan home. Each act had been met by calm gratitude, but no warmth.
One evening when Ronan was locking up, he found Caelan leaning against the post outside.
"You don't give up easily, do you?" Ronan asked, shoving his keys into his coat pocket.
"I know I've messed something up," Caelan said softly. "I just don't know what."
"You didn't mess up one thing, Caelan," Ronan said. "You... were just never the right fit."
Caelan stepped closer. "How can you be so sure? I still feel like there is something between us."
Ronan looked at him. Really looked. For the first time in weeks.
"There was something," he admitted. "But it wasn't what I thought—and I don't want to keep leading you on just because you're persistent."
The words had been carefully chosen, but they banged down like a slamming gate.
Caelan swallowed with difficulty, his voice barely above a whisper now. "So... this really is it?"
"I think it is for both of our bests," Ronan said. "You deserve someone who wants the same things. Who sees you without doubt."
Caelan could offer no rebuttal. He stood for a moment longer, then nodded.
"I'm not going to bother again. But if you should ever need anything... just say the word."
Ronan gave a small smile, full of sort-of relief, yet still reluctant. "Thank you. Really."
Shoulders squared, Caelan walked away, but his feet moved slower than normal. As he leaned back against the door, Ronan let go of a breath he had not known he had been holding.
It had ended worse than he had feared.
And maybe, that peace had been the answer he had unconsciously been searching for.
Threads of Regret
Zephyr had never known anyone like her.
There was something quieter, something more achingly heartbreaking in her, with every new meeting. This sickness, infinitely old, woven into her every gesture, spoke louder than anything Zephyr could ever have said. It was not a new sore—old and bruised, ceaselessly scabbed over, endlessly torn open again.
The next time Zephyr met her was in the glaring silence of the throne room, back again. That large chamber, bathed in silvery light, where time seemed to halt, and stars hummed beneath the marble floor.
But this time, she did not dismiss him with that cold aloofness he had come to expect.
She did not send him away.
She simply gestured to the empty throne beside hers, and Zephyr rose and took a seat without saying another word.
They sat for a long time in silence.
The weight of her presence, usually so demanding, felt somehow diminished. Not weaker, just... fatigued.
Finally, she whispered something into the stillness, swallowed by the currents of wind. "I was young once."
Zephyr stole a glance in her direction. It was not the content that surprised him but rather the nakedness of the words.
"I wanted to be really involved in fate-keeping," she went on, still staring ahead, riveted nowhere. "Not just as the one who dictated destinies, but the one who carried them out. Thus I moved, here and there, to the mortal world. To correct paths. To set things right."
Her voice trailed on: a memory, a confession.
"There was a man," she said softly. "He was different from the others. He was trying to stop fate. His wife was fated to die in childbirth. He tried everything to fight it—every prayer, every herb, every ancient magic he could summon to keep her alive."
She closed her eyes, folding her hands over each other in her lap.
"And I went to ensure it happened. To make sure fate held."
Zephyr didn't say a word. Rather, he listened like one anticipating a storm somewhere on the horizon—knowing it has the lightning with it.
"I watched him for hours. His hands shaking as he held hers. His eyes full of devotion, fear, and something else—love, so deep it felt like a force of nature."
Finally turning her head and casting a distant gaze toward him, Fate continued. "I envied her."
Her words had been left unembellished, starkly naked, and keenly sharp.
"I wanted to be the one he looked at that way. I wanted that kind of love. So pure. So unyielding. I think... I fell for him in that moment."
"What happened then?" Zephyr asked, genuinely curious, yet with a frown.
"I did what I had to do," she said, her voice breaking like glass underfoot. "I let death come. I fulfilled the fate as it should."
She looked away again, this time with glossy eyes.
"And I think... he hated me for it. Not in words. But in the way he stared at me—after she was gone. I stayed a moment too long. I ought not to have. But I did. He knew I wasn't mortal. And I think he logically realized who I was."
A soft, bitter chuckle passed through her lips. "That's probably why he did what he did."
Zephyr leaned lightly forward. "What do you mean?"
But she simply shook her head.
"No more today," she uttered softly. "This... is already more than I should have spoken."
Zephyr did not press her. He just remained by her side, staring ahead and absorbing the silence shared by a goddess who fell in love with a mortal man destined to lose everything.
And perhaps in that deep, dark quiet, something faint yet palpable stirred between them.
The Weight of Memory
Isaac settled on the windowsill, the chin resting on the bar of the window, fingers tracing glass patterns absently. Outside, the world moved away-unconscious, uncaring.
Down below, on the cobbled street, a little family juggled at table-cafes. A mother and a father shone laughter with their very little boy over a common plate of pastries. The boy seemed to nestle into his father's side with one little crumb on one cheek, which, in grand, exaggerated flair, his father wiped off and laughed with him.
Isaac saw them with lips curved into the paling smile-softly wistful-but mournfully sad.
You looked older than your years at that moment. Not by features, but nothing behind your eyes weighed heavily. That type of weight one carries only after being deep in betrayal.
He once lived in such ways.
A mother would brush his hair, kiss him on the forehead every morning. A father would teach him to climb this tree in their garden, would carry him around on his shoulders. A full-time nanny would rock him to sleep with a hundred lullabies when he couldn't sleep. A grand home filled with laughter and warmth. He was the only child from awfully prestigious lineage-spoiled not just by the parents, but also grandfathers from both sides. Warm shawls and hugs, honey-dipped cookies, bedtime stories read in extra-dramatic voices were what he recalled.
And then came a stranger.
A man shrouded in magic and sweet whispers. A man who wore silk gloves and smiled red toothpick spars.
All began slowly-his parents were turning away from him, irritable, hugs turned to forgetfulness, smiles disappeared. Then it started, the slapping-at first with open hands, then by fists. It got even worse. He couldn't see any of his grandparents anymore. And all the servants he loved disappeared one by one.
"I don't even know if they are alive," Isaac whispered, breath fogging the window. "I miss them."
Quietness hasn the room behind him-Ronan still out there-silky slants of evening light across the wooden floor. It was one of those still moments, when a memory clung like shadow.
He closed his eyes and it all came flooding back in.
That night.
The hunger. The darkness. The pain.
Locked up in the cellar. Days without food. Days without light. Bones aching, skin bruised, torn. He lay there, delirious, feeling as his body began to go. He could feel something inside him breaking open-magic crackling in his veins, wild and uncontrolled.
That's when Marta came.
Not that he remembered everything clearly, just flashes. Doors slamming open. Her shouting. The sickening thud of fists as she put herself between him and his parents. Her arms wrapping around him as she pulled him from that hell.
Later, when they had gone-cursing, furious-she would take him in her lap and put, "Drink this," into his ear.
He remembered the coolness of the potion on his cracked lips. The taste of mint and bitter root. Then... darkness.
He woke in her room-her old, sun-warmed room smelling of dried herbs and lavender oil. There sat the girl next to him, eyes red but steady, hands still trembling from what she had done.
"I had to absorb your magic," she'd said softly, brushing his hair back. "It was leaving you... and it would have burned you from the inside."
She would have been like a ghost of herself-hollowed out and aged. What was once vibrant skin was pale, with gray streaks that hadn't been there before. She looked so much older than her years, like a decade older.
"You saved me," Isaac whispered.
She smiled tired. "You would have done the same."
Later, she explained everything.
She used to have a Healer Anchor Card-which is rare and has delicate magic tied to herbal knowledge and foresight. She is no master, but she knows enough to help. For a long time, she has suspected something bad was going to happen. So she had prepared a life-saving potion ahead of time: something that could pull someone from the brink.
"You'll need this much more than I ever would," she'd said.
And when he fell, she carried him over there, to that old cottage of hers, the one she never spoke about. Weeks spent bringing him back to life-treatment for burns, healing broken skin, soothing wild flickers of magic still surging inside him.
When he finally got better, he saw the toll it had taken. The strong woman in her thirties now looked closer to fifty. She moved slower. Smiled less.
Yet, she never once regretted saving him.
The last thing she did before sending him off was sell the cottage, her last possession, and give him a pouch of silver coins and a note.
"Go to Eldoria," she instructed. "Wait there. Someone will come for you. Someone good."
He still remembers how she held his face before he boarded the carriage, tears brimming in her eyes.
"You are more than what they made you believe, Isaac. You are not cursed. You are a gift."
Now, putting a hand over his own heart, he stared out the window at a family he no longer had.
"I still miss you, Marta," he did whisper. "You were more of a mother to me than she ever was."
Isaac was enveloped in memory and kept together with a promise-the promise of a savior who had come right in time and gave him home again.
Ronan was the name.
Embers and Echoes
After Ronan stepped across the threshold, the sun had long dipped below Eldoria's rooftops, and with the weight of the day draped around his shoulders like a worn out cloak. He let the door fall shut behind him with a click so charmingly concealed by the overt silence of the house, which relaxed him like a balm.
Isaac had kept vigil by the window again; knees tucked near his chin, he rested it on his arms and stared at the families in the street below. Ronan halted at the threshold, watching him. At that time, the boy looked unbearably quiet, like a wick burning in a room full of people who had not noticed.
"Isaac," he called tenderly.
The boy turned, his face brightening into a quiet smile. "Hey."
"Come on. Let's eat."
Supper had been straightforward: soup, bread, some roasted roots Seraphine had sent home for them. They were seated side by side on the floor, steam curling between them, loudly contrasted by only the quiet crackle of the small hearth.
Ronan stirred his bowl yet did not eat. Caelan's voice, his face, somehow were still lingering in every crease of the night in Ronan's thoughts, alongside the mysterious sharp sting in Ronan's own heart that had nothing once so ever to do with romance and everything to do with disappointment.
"I think he really liked you," Isaac said suddenly, still looking down.
Ronan blinked. "Caelan?"
Isaac nodded.
"I know," Ronan replied softly. "What made it harder, I guess."
The bowl whispered as Ronan placed it down. "He was sweet and sincere. Just not the one. My heart belongs somewhere else. Somewhere I can't explain."
Isaac glanced over; eyes oozing that quiet understanding only one who has truly been through fire could offer. "Better you did not pretend otherwise."
Ronan gave a lopsided smile. "I just didn't want to hurt him."
"Sometimes a little hurt now saves a ton of hurt later."
The words landed heavy upon him. Older than Isaac had any right to sound. Ronan did not reply but squeezed his shoulder gently.
After they had cleared up, Ronan found himself slipping into his coat again.
"I'm going to sit by the fire for a while," he said. "You coming?"
Isaac shook his head. "Think I'll stay in tonight."
Ronan nodded, and then he stepped outside into the fresh night air.
Behind the housing quarter, the servants' bonfire was a warm sight—a crackling fire, tales told, laughter danced across the stars. Same faces always. Old Jemma with her toothless cackle. The baker's apprentice who sang too loud. The twins who insisted they were Eldoria's finest pickpockets.
Except tonight... someone new sat near the fire.
An old man.
He did not say anything. He did not smile. He merely stared at the hearth with a gaze akin to one watching something that was flickering in the embers only he could perceive.
Ronan slowed down.
He had been working in the city for weeks now. He knew every face that came into their group. This one was not one of them.
Hunched slightly over, his wiry build showed through the thick traveling cloak. Deep lines ran across his face as if chiseled in by the sands of time. His hands resting calmly on a cane were marred by ancient burns.
And yet... his presence was not frail. Instead, it was blunt, still. Like a blade well hidden under moss.
No one else seemed to pay him any notice. No one even glanced his way.
Ronan on a log across the fire, unable to shake off the strange feeling that the man was waiting for somebody.
Then suddenly the man spoke, sans lifting his gaze.
"Funny thing about fire," he rasped. "Burns you if you're not careful. But it can show you what has been buried in the dark."
Ronan's spine stiffened.
The old man very slowly raised his gaze, and those eyes, clearer than they ought to have been, locked upon Ronan.
"I once knew someone," he said, his voice now low. "A boy with a lion's heart and a gambler's spirit."
Ronan's mouth was dried out. "Who ... are you?"
The corner of the man's mouth twitched; it was not quite a smile.
"Flint," he said.
Then he stood and departed without so much as a word, with the flickers of the fire throwing shadows over his weathered face.
As he turned to leave, it seemed almost thoughtlessly, he said, "You remind me of him."
And with that, he disappeared, vanishing into the shadows of the alley behind the fire with his cane tapping lightly against the cobblestone.
Ronan sat frozen—an unwelcoming chill was settling into his chest, refusing to be dispersed by the warm caress of the fire.
There was something vaguely familiar in that man: his voice, some truth Ronan did not feel he was ready to face.
Flint.
The one that Ronan had been waiting for.