Veyris was the world in which Ronan's promise resided, from which he kept drawing his vision, one fraught with chance, magic, and all the risks worth taking. He had always been a gambler, but his play with probability was somewhere on the face of being drawn towards the uncertainty for all men.
Veyris was different. Here, fate was not merely a concept; it was law, carved into every cobbled street, whispered through the flickering lanterns that lined the alleys.
Ronan wasn't at all intimidating, instead short but quick. His sharp brown eyes scanned everything, ever watchful, ever assessing. His hands, dexterous from years of lift, snatch, and cheat, hung at his sides, craving the feel of coin or a well-placed deck. His light grey hair, almost white under the lantern glow, marked him as different, but he was used to standing out. More than that, he was used to slipping away before trouble could find him.
Lately, however, he had not been lucky.
His last few weeks had been made up of losing hands due to the bad judgment of the runner. But he had not come to Veyris to seek wealth alone-from under the brink of disaster, he intended also to claw his way back into life.
He walked through the city like that: alive. Merchants shouted of their wares, a cacophony of promise and persuasion.
A street performer juggled a set of luminous dice; each spin gave impossible shifts of floating numbers. A woman with ink-dark eyes whispered hushed predictions to a nervous, sweating man clenching a single silver coin. Everywhere he looked, fortunes were made and lost.
A city of paradoxes: beautiful and treacherous. Buildings patchworked through the ages-periodically, some crumbled by time, others stood tall, all polished obsidian and enchanted glass.
Magic shimmered faintly in that air, an invisible current that tied the city together. Streets twisted unnaturally about, and a newcomer invariably finds himself lost. It was a city welcoming all and giving nothing free of charge.
He pulled his dark travel cloak tight to him and blended with several random persons around him. Anticipation throbbed in the air, albeit charged with unseen forces.
The Deck of Fate, they called it-a set of enchanted cards that spelled lives and dealt the fortune or ruin by the flip of a hand.
He had heard the stories. Legends of who had drawn great things from the deck and those who had lost everything. A peasant turned king with a single card. A noble reduced to a beggar with another. In Veyris, fate could be cheated but never out-run.
As he strolled down a narrow, shaky alley shadowed by tall, thin buildings, a voice drifted from a shadowed doorway. "Looking for your fortune, traveller? Or perhaps, looking to rewrite it?"
Ronan made a slight sneering motion before turning his head to catch sight of a hunched figure in a threadbare cloak. A fortune dealer. They can easily be spotted here, peddling quick glimpses of destiny to addle-headed and greedy alike.
"I do not believe in fancy pictures on parchment," Ronan replied and passed beside him. The dealer chuckled low and knowing. "Then why are you here?"
"Na", he said. There were reasons but not worth sharing with an alley trickster. Destination was clear in mind.
Tonight, he wasn't here to buy into fate. He was here to test it.
Magicians & the Power of Cards
The true powers of the city are never those of kings or merchants, but of magicians— ones not born with magic, but rather those chosen by the cards. Every magician possessed one Anchor Card, and with this, they can do things no normal being can do. However, once drawn, it is bound to him for eternity, shaping his life, strengths, and sometimes, doom.
And one of those names counted among it was Zephyr. He had sharp orange hair the color of steel, piercing gray eyes, and an absolute carriage of muscle and assurance.
Mysterious man feared and revered because his Anchor Card was The Seer's Hand, a rare thing that allowed its bearer, to read fate without distortion.
All the previous bearers could see possibility; Zephyr saw certainty. He never cared for riches or glory, not, as far as he was concerned, Zephyr gambled with truth. And truth was a dangerous thing.
It was said that rumours surrounded him. Some claimed that he had read the fate of a king then whispered a prophecy into his ears, causing it to lead to his downfall. Others said he once drew The Death Card for himself and survived it-defying law of the deck. Few dared seek him, of course, and even fewer left his presence unchanged.
A magician of his Caliber made Veyris valuable and different. Generally, high calibre magicians did not spend long in one place. He, however, seemed to have made this city home, or perhaps a cage.
And there was The Hollow Coin, the one with a reputation in taverns: gamblers gambled fortunes and courage with fate at this place. And on some nights, when possibility thickened in the air, readings could be had from him.
Not all came out of him unscathed.
Because when Zephyr spoke, fate listened.
The Tavern & The First Glimpse of Zephyr
Ronan pushed open the heavy wooden door of The Hollow Coin, stepping into the dim, smoke-filled tavern. The scent of spiced wine, damp stone, and old parchment clung to the air, mixing with the low hum of murmured bets and the occasional burst of laughter. Here, in the heart of Veyris, men and women gambled not only with gold but also with their very futures.
At the far end of the room, beyond the gamblers huddled close to flickering candlelight, he sat. A figure cloaked in silver-threaded fabric emptying the air around him from any but his. Zephyr.
His cloak pooled around him like mist, the shimmering embroidery catching the glow of enchanted lanterns. His fingers worked effortlessly through a deck of luminous cards, weaving them between his hands so easily that it could testify to the fact of quibble.
Unlike the other tables, where players jostled with fevered greed or desperation, Zephyr's table was empty. Not for lack of interest—but because no one dared.
Indeed, everyone knew what was true.
A wager with the man is not a wager between gold. A gamble with Zephyr is not about money. It is about fate.
Coin can be won again, but the truth spoken by Zephyr is impossible for one to evade. His price is not found in gold but in knowledge-and the weight that knowledge caries. A kind once exchanged his crown with just one reading. A merchant let go millions when Zephyr told of what lay ahead. Some emerged from his table with added wisdom. Others carried riches.
That is how he gained the right to be in Veyris; not tricks, not sleight of hand, but the palpable and undeniable weight of his readings. With that desperation in mind, a person would go through great means to seek him out.
And still, they came. Some carrying secrets to trade-a tiny whisper about treachery, hidden passages, or stolen magic still on claim. Others pledged promises, debts Zephyr could call down during times of need. He didn't take wealth just for sake of it. But information? Leveraging? Worth that and much more than gold.
Ronan smirked knowingly in appreciation of the scene around him. His gaze flicked over the untouched chair across from Zephyr, and back to the man himself.
The flicker of light caught Zephyr in a sharp-featured profile-high cheekbones, sharp jaw, and grey eyes that seemed to penetrate time. A magician, a fortune-teller, a seer. And, if one were to believe the stories, someone whose readings never failed.
Most men would hesitate. Most men would turn away.
Ronan was not most men.
With a casual air, he strode forward, pulling back the empty chair. His boots thudded against the wooden floor of the tavern as he sank down onto the chair opposite the infamous magician.
"A game?" he asked while smirking.
Zephyr did not blink. His expression remained unreadable, his fingers never ceasing their movement through the deck. When he spoke, his voice was calm, measured.
"Not a game," he said. "A reading. Three cards."
The tavern seemed to hush about them, heavy in the air with something that Ronan could not quite name. He leaned back a little, weighing his options. He had always cheated fate before.
But something told him-tonight would be different.
Ronan raised an eyebrow. "And if I don't like what they say?"
Zephyr continued to watch him, unnervingly still, like a hunter assessing its prey. "Then you will have learned something valuable, even if you refuse to listen."
Part challenge, part anticipation-a thrill curled in Ronan's chest. Having spent a life dodging misfortunes with sheer willpower and craftiness, Ronan was used to outsmarting fate. Cards-for all their worth-could just as easily be paper. Luck was merely illusion shaped by the right hands.
Still, something about Zephyr-his quiet confidence, his certainty-managed to unsettle him in a way he wasn't much used to encountering.
Besides, Ronan had never been able to resist a gamble.
"Fine." He leaned forward and laced his fingers on the table. "Let's see what fate has to say about me."
The fateful reading – The binding of lovers
Zephyr's fingers flowed like water across the cards, each whispering to the next in an even rhythmic shuffle. Their edges gleamed faintly, with what, he felt, was something unseen, something ancient.
The deck was more than just paper and ink. It pulsed with the very weight of fate, a living thing shackled to forces beyond comprehension.
Ronan leaned forward, arms on the table. His pulse was steady; his face was unreadable; but deep inside him, a quiet curiosity coiled, waiting for its moments to be sated.
He had played a thousand hands before, gambling everything from a coin to crowns, but never had the stakes felt this way before.
Zephyr fanned the cards out in a perfect arc before him. He did not beckon; he did not persuade; he simply watched, his gaze steady and his being patient. The silence had stretched between them, filled with an air of heavy anticipation.
Ronan snorted in a sharp breath from his nose. Just a reading. Just cards.
His fingers hovered over the spread as though the breath from the air caressed his skin with the forgettable embrace of a ghost. A choice. He had always believed in choices—his ability to slip past fate's grasp with clever hands and sharper instincts.
But the moment his fingers alighted on the face of a single card, a shudder ran down his spine.
He turned it over.
The Lover's Bond.
With the flip of the card, the air of the tavern held its breath. The gamblers' whispers, the clink of dice against wood—all faded, as if the world itself had retreated a little. The lanterns stilled, and their light almost… hesitated.
Did they too fear what had just come to light? With an irreversible movement, the air thickened, darkened, and charged. The flickering lanterns dimmed, their glow retracting as if in recoil from the image that had just been conjured.
Eyes darted toward their table, the glimmer of intrigue unmistakable. Whispers swirled up into the smoke-veiled distance, like the fluttering of unseen wings, their content rendered unintelligible but their essence well understood: that card had attracted attention.
Forcing himself to maintain a composed exterior, Ronan felt his stomach wrenching tight. He almost dismissed it, thinking, another tale, a fool's belief. Something, however, had unsettled him.
Zephyr was frozen.
Not a twitch, not a breath taken. He sat eerily still, his concentration still fastened on the card, his dark eyes dulled by the flickering candlelight.
Ronan had expected smug certainty or perhaps mild amusement from the legendary magician. Instead, those fingers of Zephyr's tensed slightly on the table, and he swallowed almost imperceptibly.
Not surprise. Not amusement.
Something else.
"This is not a card of luck," Zephyr's voice had dropped further in volume, a sound winding itself through the dense silence between them.
When at last his gaze lifted to Ronan, the old weight in his eyes stole the very breath from Ronan's lungs.
Ronan had seen men lose fortunes, reputations, and even their lives all in a horrible flick of their hand. But never had he seen a man respond like this to any card.
Not that Zephyr cared to be amused. He was watching Ronan as if something had just been set into motion.
A chill raced along Ronan's spine, and for the first time, he wondered—had he just played an unwinnable hand?
Something tremored under that steady voice of the magician's—a feeling of caution, heightened awareness.
"It is a card of fate."
The words settled over Ronan like a warning: velvet-sheathed but undeniably razor-edged.
He slammed his jaw shut, unwilling to acknowledge the flicker of unease at the edge of his consciousness. He was well aware of the signs, tales spun on long winter nights about love and ruin, destiny and death.
He had always called them what they were: illusions, tricks played by desperate men wanting an explanation for their failures.
But this wasn't feeling like an illusion.
Zephyr still watched him, awaiting some reaction, awaiting for him to grasp some understanding Ronan refused to entertain.
A muscle in his jaw twitching, he exhaled slowly, methodically, and let the smirk return.
Fate. Love. Bonds.
He did not truly believe in such things.
Yet, his fingers trembled just a touch when he reached for the next card. Hope, uneasy and distrusting, that snake in the grass winding through his chest, whispered of yet another occasion when fate was playing him this time.