The knock came again. Soft but persistent. Ronan froze, staring at the door, his body tense. Another one. He should’ve expected it by now—no one was going to leave him alone after what had happened earlier.
For a brief moment, he considered ignoring it. Maybe if he stayed quiet enough, they’d go away. But he knew better. The rickety walls of his shack couldn’t keep out the cold, let alone someone determined enough to come for him. It wouldn’t hold long if they decided to push their way in.
He sighed heavily, dragging himself up from the floor, his stomach twisting painfully from hunger and exhaustion. What now? he thought bitterly as he made his way to the door, his movements slow and deliberate.
When he pulled the door open, there they were—two figures standing at the threshold. Their faces were obscured by hoods, but it was the scent that hit Ronan first. The rich, warm smell of food. It twisted his stomach into tighter knots, the hunger gnawing at him like a starving animal.
The taller of the two figures stepped forward, lowering his hood. Sharp eyes, dark hair, and an unsettling calm radiated from the man as he spoke. “Are you Ronan?”
Ronan stared at the man for a moment, his gaze flicking between him and the shorter figure behind. There was something about this man—something different from the others. No air of superiority, no condescension, just a calm, calculating presence.
“Depends,” Ronan rasped, his voice hoarse. “Who’s asking?”
Slowly, the taller man reached up and pulled back the hood of his cloak, revealing his face.
He was tall, his dark hair slicked back neatly, framing a face that was sharp and angular. His eyes, an unsettling shade of pale gray, seemed to assess everything at once—cold, calculating, and ever-watchful. A faint shadow of stubble lined his jaw, giving him a more weathered look, but his posture and bearing were unmistakably noble. His clothes, finely tailored but practical, hinted at wealth without flaunting it. His expression remained calm, almost too calm, as if every movement was carefully controlled.
The man tilted his head slightly, watching Ronan with a quiet intensity. He extended his hand, but when Ronan showed no interest in it, he slowly took it back. “I am Marquess Gideon Vandross.”
The name carried weight, but Vandross didn’t seem to flaunt it. Ronan’s eyes flicked toward the large basket held by the second figure. The shorter person, a woman, cradled it with care. The smell of food wafted through the cold air, and Ronan’s stomach clenched again.
The marquess noticed, his eyes lingering on Ronan’s face before he offered a faint smile. “I can see you’re hungry,” Vandross said smoothly. “There’s no need to starve yourself on account of us. Eat.”
Ronan’s jaw tightened, his stomach twisting at the thought of food. The offer was tempting—far too tempting—but he wasn’t about to give this man the satisfaction of watching him break.
“I’ll eat when I’m ready,” Ronan replied, his voice hard, defiant. He kept his distance, his arms crossed, though his gaze betrayed him, drawn again and again to the basket. But not in front of them. He wouldn’t let them see him falter.
Vandross studied him, his sharp eyes assessing everything in a way that unnerved Ronan. His smile didn’t waver, but there was something colder behind it. “Very well,” the marquess said softly. “I’m not here to force anything on you.”
Ronan’s muscles tensed. This was where the trap usually came in—where the promises turned to demands, where the noble would remind him of his place. But Vandross didn’t push, didn’t seem eager to corner him. Instead, he stood there, silent, waiting. Watching.
“Then what do you want?” Ronan asked, sharper than he intended, his hunger and exhaustion making him quick to anger. He hated being hungry. Hated being at the mercy of anyone, let alone a noble with veiled intentions.
Vandross’s smile faded slightly, though his voice remained calm. “I want an understanding,” he said, his tone even. “You might have been asked for loyalty and service for your magic, to get food, wealth, perhaps even power. I’m not here to offer those things.” He paused, watching Ronan’s reaction closely. “I’m offering a chance.”
“A chance?” Ronan scoffed. “A chance at what? You think I’m going to throw myself at your feet because you’ve got a loaf of bread?”
The marquess didn’t flinch, his gaze steady. “No. I think you’re smarter than that. And I think you’re smart enough to know that I’m not offering charity.” He took a small step forward, his presence somehow both unthreatening and commanding. “What I offer is not power, Ronan. It’s freedom.”
Ronan’s eyes narrowed, but something about the word lingered in the air. Freedom. That was something no one had offered before. It was always about servitude, about being someone else’s tool. He was sick of it.
Just as the word echoed in his mind, Ronan felt something strange. A quiet, unfamiliar sensation, almost like a whisper at the back of his thoughts. It wasn’t something he understood—it wasn’t rational—but it was there, undeniable.
It was as if something deep inside him was tugging at his instincts, sharpening his perception. His gut told him something he couldn’t explain: the marquess wasn’t lying. The man’s words weren’t hollow promises. For reasons Ronan couldn’t quite grasp, he knew that Vandross’s intentions, at least in this moment, were genuine.
He blinked, his mind trying to catch up with the feeling. Why was he so sure? Why did this moment feel... clearer than others? He shook the thought off, forcing his expression to remain hard, but the sense lingered.
“Freedom,” Ronan echoed, his voice flat, trying to maintain control. He backed away and let him enter inside. There was nowhere to sit for a noble and Ronan crossed his arms and asked, “And what’s the price for whatever freedom you are offering?”
Vandross’s lips twitched into a small smile. “There’s always a price, of course. I’m not pretending otherwise. But I’m not asking for your life or your loyalty. You’ve been in this slum long enough to know how the world works. You want something more than just survival—you want control. Over yourself, over what happens next.”
Ronan crossed his arms, leaning against the doorframe, his eyes hard. “And you’re going to give me that? Control?”
“I can give you the tools,” Vandross said, his voice smooth, persuasive. “But how you use them is up to you.”
Ronan’s heart raced, though he kept his expression guarded. The marquess was good—too good. He knew how to get under Ronan’s skin, how to dangle just enough hope without making promises that sounded hollow. But now, with this strange sense clouding his thoughts, Ronan could feel that this wasn’t the usual noble game. Vandross was being truthful—at least as truthful as someone like him could be. Although the strange part was that he felt like he could trust his words.
And that only made it more unsettling.
Ronan frowned, suspicion gnawing at him. “People like you don’t come to places like this,” he muttered, his eyes narrowing. “How’d you even find me? How did all these people coming to this dump find me? How do you all even know my name?”
Vandross’s expression didn’t change, but a flicker of something—amusement, perhaps—glimmered in his eyes. “You think you’re hidden?” He tilted his head, a small smile tugging at his lips. “There are ways, Ronan. Ways that go beyond word of mouth. You’re not as invisible as you believe. I know about you. And I know about your history. I know you got the acceptance letter for the university. Everyone who awakens their Magic, Aptitude or Anomaly at whatever age gets it.”
Ronan’s gut twisted. He knew something strange had been happening ever since the letter appeared, ever since those strange whispers of magic stirred around him. He had tried to push it all aside, but there was no denying that people—people like this marquess—were finding him. People who had no business in these slums. He was pretty sure the marquis used some pretty heavy words but he didn’t quite catch all of it. And what he did catch, he didn’t understand completely.
“What do you mean?” Ronan asked, his voice sharper now, the edge of his anxiety creeping into his words. “What ways?”
Vandross chuckled softly, the sound barely audible in the cold air. “Let’s just say... the moment you tapped into magic, the world took notice. There are ancient systems in place, ones older than either of us, that track those who awaken to magic.” He glanced at Ronan, his gaze lingering. “Once you light the spark, it’s almost impossible to hide. Almost being the key word here.”
Ronan blinked, trying to process what Vandross had said. “Systems? Like what?”
The marquess’s smile remained, but there was a little more thoughtfulness in his eyes now. “Let me explain it in a language you can understand. Think of it as a network. Something that monitors magic across the land, ensuring that no new awakening goes unnoticed. Those with access... well, they can track it, detect it. That’s how I found you. That’s how the university and the nobles found you.”
Ronan’s chest tightened, feeling a lot naked. He had no idea that simply having magic could put him on someone’s radar—let alone an entire system. He had never asked for this, never wanted it, but it was too late now. The magic was there, and apparently, people knew.
“And what happens now?” Ronan asked, his voice low.
Vandross raised an eyebrow, his expression calm but unreadable. “Now? Now, you decide what you want to do with it. As you can guess, not everyone in this world awakens to magic. In terms of numbers, you can say it’s almost 1 in 5000. You are basically a Celestium Crystal once you awaken your magic, hence the noble servants you met with. Magic isn’t something you can ignore, Ronan. You either control it, or it controls you.” He paused, letting the words sink in. “That’s what I’m offering—a way for you to control it. To use it, instead of letting it use you.”
He let those words sink in. Then he asked, “What’s a Celestium Crystal?”
Vandross blinked, clearly not expecting that to be Ronan’s first question. His calm, composed exterior cracked for a fraction of a second, a brief look of surprise flickering across his face. Then he chuckled, low and almost approving, as if he found Ronan’s curiosity more amusing than frustrating.
"You cut right to it, don’t you?" Vandross mused, slipping a hand into his coat pocket. “A Celestium Crystal is a rare... Wait.”
From his pocket, he withdrew a small, iridescent crystal, no larger than a pebble. It shimmered faintly in the dim light, casting an otherworldly glow that danced between shades of blue and silver. He held it up between his fingers, turning it so the light caught on its many facets.
The woman beside him shifted, her eyes narrowing slightly. "Marquis, are you sure—?"
He silenced her with a raised hand, his gaze never leaving Ronan. "I’m sure." His tone was firm, final, leaving no room for argument.
Vandross stepped closer, holding the crystal out to Ronan. "This is what you’ve become—something rare, something powerful."
Ronan hesitated, but then slowly held out his hand. The marquis put it in his hand and Ronan looked at it closely.
It was pretty. Wish his sister could see this; she loved shiny things.
“And what makes me so interesting?” Ronan pressed. “What is it that I have that you need?”
This time, Vandross hesitated, but only for a moment. His eyes locked onto Ronan’s, and there was a sharpness in his gaze, something that felt... aware. “You know the answer to that,” the marquess said softly. “You’ve felt it, haven’t you? Something inside you has changed. Magic, Ronan. Now you have value people like me seek.”
Ronan sighed. Magic. He had tried to push the thought aside, but he couldn’t ignore it anymore. Not with what had been happening. The spirit, the letter—everything was pushing him toward something he couldn’t explain.
“And you think I can help you?” Ronan’s voice was lower now, wary.
Vandross smiled again, but it was thinner, more calculating this time. “I know you can.”
Ronan wasn’t convinced, “I want to know your true motives.”
Vandross’ gaze turned dark, “You are not entitled to that.”
The kind of life Ronan had lived had told him that backing down didn’t really yield results most of the time, “Then why the hell do you think you are entitled to my cooperation?”
Vandross stared at him a little longer than he was comfortable with and then laughed, “I knew I liked you.” After a small pause, he said, “You are not entitled to my true motives because they don’t concern you. But I can tell you this. You have the power to change the face of the whole empire. And I have no intention of forcing you into anything.”
Ronan felt a sudden tightness in his chest. For the first time in the entire conversation, genuine nervousness crept into his gut, gnawing at the edges of his mind. He shifted his weight slightly, uncomfortable with the weight of Vandross' words. “I don't want to change the empire,” he muttered, his voice more defensive than he intended.
Vandross tilted his head, his eyes gleaming with a calculating interest. “That,” he said smoothly, “is your choice to make. You can decide that for yourself. But let me tell you this: you won't be able to make any decision worth a damn while rotting away in the slums.”
Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.
Ronan’s patience snapped. He clenched his fists, his voice rising with frustration. “What the hell do you want from me? Stop dancing around with all these fancy words and tell me what you really want!”
Vandross didn’t flinch at Ronan’s outburst. In fact, the faintest trace of a smile curled at the edge of his lips, as if he had expected this. “Alright,” he said, his voice finally clear and direct. “I want you to become my adoptive son.”
Ronan blinked, caught off guard by the sudden declaration.
“All I want,” Vandross continued, his gaze unwavering, “is for you to take my name and attend the university under my sponsorship. No tricks, no hidden motives. That’s it.”
The room fell into a tense silence. Ronan stood there, his mind racing as the weight of what Vandross had just said settled over him like a heavy blanket. It was so straightforward that it felt like a trap.
Ronan swallowed, feeling the weight of the offer. “What do you gain from this?” he asked, his voice slightly unsteady.
Gideon’s smile widened. “To change the game, Ronan. And you’re my piece on the board.”
Ronan stared at him, his mind spinning. His gut feeling, the one he didn’t understand, still told him that Vandross was being honest. The marquess wasn’t lying, but there was something more to it—something Ronan couldn’t quite grasp yet.
“I’ll…I’ll think about it,” Ronan muttered, his voice low.
Vandross nodded, as if he’d expected that answer. “Take your time,” he said, his voice soft, unhurried. “I’ll return tomorrow. Until then, eat. You’ll need your strength.”
The marquess turned, gesturing for his companion to follow. The woman set the basket of food beside him. Before they could leave, Ronan stopped him, “Wait.”
He crossed the distance between him and the marquis and held out the crystal he didn’t ask back to him, “Here.”
The marquis looked at him funny, “You can keep it.”
“I have no use in holding on to something that means nothing to me.”
The marquis tilted his head, considering. A slow smile crept onto his face, but it wasn’t one of amusement anymore. It was understanding.
"Very well," Vandross said softly, his fingers closing around the crystal as he took it back. "Perhaps you're right."
He turned towards the door and said, “Don’t think it’s the end of your world, Ronan. Your world doesn’t end—ever. It keeps going, whether you’re ready or not. Whether you fight or surrender, it never stops. It doesn’t care if you believe in it, and it sure as hell doesn’t care if you give up.”
And then they disappeared into the night.
For a long moment, Ronan didn’t move. His eyes stayed locked on the door, his thoughts in haywire. He didn’t really trust Vandross, but there was something different about him. Something that didn’t feel like a trap, even if he couldn’t fully believe it yet.
His gaze shifted to the basket. The smell hit him again, stronger now, rich and warm. It twisted his stomach into knots, the gnawing hunger pulling at him relentlessly.
Without thinking, Ronan lunged for the basket. His hands tore at the cloth covering it, fingers trembling as he yanked it away. Inside was bread, meat, fruit—more food than he had seen in weeks. His stomach twisted painfully, his hunger so overwhelming that he barely noticed what he was doing.
He stuffed the bread into his mouth, tearing at the soft, warm loaf with his teeth like a wild animal afraid it would be taken from him. The bread was fresh, rich, and buttery—nothing like the dry scraps he was used to. But he didn’t care. His throat burned as he swallowed without chewing, each bite a frantic attempt to silence the gnawing hunger that had taken root inside him.
The meat followed—tender, succulent, and dripping with juices. It practically melted in his mouth, the taste rich and savory, but Ronan didn’t savor it. He was too desperate. His hands shook as they tore at the food, stuffing more and more into his mouth. He chewed quickly, barely tasting the luxury of it, too consumed by the need to fill the hollow ache inside him.
The fruit was sweet, bursting with flavor that might’ve brought someone else to tears of joy. But for Ronan, it was nothing more than sustenance. He ate mechanically, his body trembling as he gulped down bite after bite, the juices spilling down his chin and hands. The richness of the food contrasted starkly with the squalor around him, but it only fueled his desperation.
But with every bite, the food began to taste bitter. Not in his mouth, but deep inside him. It was as if the act of eating, of surviving, made the ache in his chest worse. He ate faster, as though trying to fill a void that couldn’t be filled.
His hands slowed, and suddenly, the food wasn’t enough. His chest tightened painfully, and tears welled in his eyes.
His mother. His sister.
He gasped, a sob choking him as the memories rushed back—too sharp, too raw. Their faces, their laughter, the warmth of their presence, all gone. Taken from him. The food in his mouth turned to ash as tears streamed down his face.
"Why..." The word came out broken, a whisper that barely left his lips. "Why did this happen to me?"
The sobs came harder now, his chest heaving with each breath. He kept eating, his body acting on instinct, but his heart was breaking with every bite. He didn’t want to eat. He didn’t want to be here, alone, choking down food in this cold, empty shack. He wanted them. He wanted his mother, his sister. But they were gone.
Tears blurred his vision as he stuffed another piece of bread into his mouth, chewing frantically, trying to keep the grief at bay. But it was too much. The pain, the loss—it overwhelmed him, crushing him from the inside out.
His body shook as he wept, his hands trembling as he reached for more food, unable to stop. He hated this. He hated how pathetic he was, how weak he felt, how broken. He hated the world for taking everything from him.
"Why..." His voice cracked, barely audible through the sobs. "Why me?"
He didn’t know who he was asking. He wasn’t sure it mattered. No one was listening. No one cared. He was just another forgotten soul in this cursed place.
Suddenly, something lodged in his throat. He gasped, choking, his body lurching forward as he coughed, the piece of bread stuck tight. Panic surged through him as he clawed at his throat, desperate for air.
His hands fumbled blindly through the basket, and by sheer luck, they found a pitcher. He grabbed it, his fingers shaking as he brought it to his lips. It was milk—cold, fresh. He gulped it down, the liquid soothing his burning throat as he gasped for air.
The blockage cleared, but Ronan didn’t stop. He drank and drank, barely noticing as the milk dripped down his chin, mixing with his tears. His sobs quieted for a moment, but the grief was still there, heavy and suffocating.
When the pitcher was empty, he tossed it aside and reached for more food. He kept eating, his hands moving automatically as the tears continued to fall. His chest ached, his throat was raw, but none of it mattered. He couldn’t stop. He couldn’t let himself feel the full weight of the emptiness that had swallowed his life whole.
He cried harder, his sobs muffled by the food in his mouth, his body shaking uncontrollably as he tried to fill the void. But the more he ate, the more the ache inside him grew. He missed them so much. They were all he had, and now they were gone. And he was alone.
The sobs finally quieted, exhaustion settling into his bones as the last of the food disappeared. Ronan slumped against the wall, his body spent, his hands limp in his lap. His eyes were swollen, his throat sore, but the tears kept coming, silently now, as he stared at the empty basket beside him.
He didn’t know how long he sat there, his mind numb, his body trembling from the weight of it all. His eyelids grew heavy, the room spinning as exhaustion overtook him.
And then, mercifully, sleep claimed him, pulling him into the dark, empty void where the pain couldn’t reach him. Not for a little while, at least.
***
The next morning came slowly. Ronan stirred, his body aching as he blinked against the pale light creeping through the cracks in the walls. For a moment, he stayed still, unsure if he was awake or caught in some lingering dream. Then, the pain hit.
His stomach cramped painfully, a dull ache that spread through his entire body. He groaned, curling in on himself, his arms wrapped tightly around his middle. The food from the night before sat heavy in his gut, a bitter reminder of the desperation that had overtaken him.
Too much... too fast.
Ronan forced himself to sit up, wincing as the pain in his stomach flared. His throat was raw, his head pounding. The shack felt smaller, more oppressive, as the memories of the previous night washed over him.
The marquess. The food. The offer.
He swallowed hard, his mind racing despite the dull ache in his body. He didn’t trust Vandross—he didn’t trust anyone. But the truth was undeniable: even if he didn’t know what the right answer was, but maybe he didn’t need to.
A knock echoed through the shack. Ronan’s heart sank. He already knew what it was.
For hours now, messengers and servants had been coming—nobles sending their lackeys to the slums to recruit him, each with promises more elaborate than the last. The offers had all been the same—power, wealth, status. Empty words from people who didn’t know him, who didn’t care. They only saw his potential, his newly discovered magic, and what it could do for them.
He rejected every one of them.
He didn’t need to see them to know it was another servant, another messenger sent by someone far too comfortable in their noble life. Desperation clung to them, not for themselves but for the masters they served, trying to collect Ronan like some prized asset.
But he wasn’t going to fall into their traps. He wasn’t going to be anyone’s pawn. No one would control his fate—he wouldn’t let them. Not after everything he’d lost. They were the kind of people who would never understand what it was like to suffer, to be forgotten, to live without hope.
And yet, they had come here. They had come looking for him. He was no longer invisible. No longer ignored. The world had changed around him, and now, like it or not, he was part of it. But one thing solidified something in his mind.
He wasn’t going to let them control his fate. If he was going to do this, it would be on his terms.
He was probably going to need a plan.
And he was going to make one right after he yelled at the person who just knocked.
“LEAVE ME ALONE!”
There was a pause, and then a familiar voice responded, calm and measured. “That might be difficult if you’re planning on agreeing to my offer.”
Ronan’s eyes widened as he swung the door open. Standing in the doorway, hood down, was Marquess Gideon Vandross. His dark eyes gleamed with that unsettling calm, his lips twitching into the faintest of smiles.
“You,” Ronan muttered, stepping back to let him in. “Didn’t expect you back so soon.”
Vandross entered the shack, his eyes sweeping over the cramped space. “I did say I’d return tonight. But it seems your yelling at the messengers might cause some trouble if you decide to go through with our deal.”
Ronan closed the door behind him, crossing his arms. “I’ll cross that bridge when I get to it.”
The marquess raised an eyebrow, amused. “Fair enough.” He turned, fixing Ronan with a sharp look. “Have you made your decision?”
Ronan hesitated for only a moment before nodding. “Yeah. I’ve made up my mind. But I have three conditions.”
Vandross’s interest piqued, a flicker of curiosity in his eyes. “Go on.”
Ronan straightened, his voice steady. “First, I will keep my freedom. I’m not some puppet for you or anyone else. We work together, but I won’t serve you.”
Vandross nodded, clearly expecting this. “Agreed.”
“Second,” Ronan continued, “I need the right to walk away. No strings, no questions. If I feel like I need out, I’m out.”
“Reasonable,” the marquess replied, his expression still calm. “You have my word.”
Ronan narrowed his eyes, making sure his next point was clear. “And third, you don’t control me. You might give me the tools, but my choices are my own. No manipulation, no games.”
Vandross paused for a moment, considering Ronan’s words carefully. Then he smiled, slow and calculated. “I accept your conditions. I give you my word—you will have your freedom, the right to walk away, and your autonomy.”
Ronan’s eyes narrowed. “How can I trust you? Words mean nothing when you don’t know someone.” He paused. “They don’t mean anything even if you do know them.”
The marquess raised an eyebrow, then gave a faint smirk. With a casual flick of his wrist, a piece of parchment appeared out of thin air, materializing between his fingers. The movement was smooth, almost unnatural, and for a moment, Ronan couldn’t help the flicker of surprise that crossed his face.
Vandross noticed and smirked a little more, the gleam in his eyes almost teasing. “Surprised?”
It looked official—heavy parchment with intricate lettering that was definitely beyond anything Ronan had ever seen before. But there was one problem.
“I can’t read,” Ronan muttered, glaring at the marquess.
The marquess tilted his head, his smile softening slightly. “No matter. This is a pact created with magic—an ancient contract. I don’t need you to read it; It is an empty parchment which will fill with words as I say then I need your consent. Once we agree, the pact will be bound by magic itself. It’s not something either of us can break, even if we wanted to.”
Ronan’s skepticism flared, but he couldn’t ignore the pull of the offer. He took a step closer to inspect the parchment. “So, this paper binds you to your word? No loopholes? No tricks?”
“None,” Vandross assured him. “It holds both of us accountable. Should I break the terms, the consequences fall on me. And the same applies to you. It's magic, Ronan, not noble lies.”
Ronan studied the parchment for a long moment, still wary, but he knew wanted to take this chance. And on some primal level, even if he couldn’t quite understand, he felt like that marquis was telling the truth. If this deal could truly offer him freedom... then maybe, just maybe, it was worth the risk.
He clenched his fists and nodded. “Alright.”
The marquess’s smile widened, but there was no hint of malice—just calm satisfaction. “Good.”
Vandross straightened, his expression becoming more formal, his voice resonating with authority. He flicked his hand, and the glowing parchment floated between them once again. Slowly, he began to speak the terms aloud, his tone precise and deliberate.
“I, Marquess Gideon Vandross of Ravencia, hereby enter into a binding magical pact with Ronan Grey, based on the following terms.”
As he spoke, words magically started to appear on the parchment, swirling in cursive. He glanced at Ronan briefly, then continued.
“First, Ronan Grey shall retain his complete freedom and autonomy. He will not be bound to servitude, nor shall he owe any allegiance beyond the terms of this pact. He will have the right to make his own choices and act according to his will.
“Second, Ronan Grey may choose to walk away from this pact at any time. No retribution, no binding consequences, and no pursuit. Should he find this deal unsatisfactory or wish to part ways, he may leave freely.
“Third, no manipulation or deceit shall be used to control, subvert, or coerce Ronan Grey. His decisions, actions, and paths remain his own. The assistance provided by Marquess Gideon Vandross shall be in good faith, offering only tools, resources, and knowledge to further his development.”
Vandross’s gaze locked onto Ronan’s. His voice dropped slightly, the weight of the moment palpable.
“In return, Ronan Grey agrees to use his gifts and abilities to assist Marquess Gideon Vandross in fulfilling his goals, with the understanding that both parties gain equally from this arrangement. Should either party fail to uphold their end of the pact, the consequences will fall directly upon the one in breach, enforced by the binding power of magic.”
The parchment glowed slightly, shimmering with energy, as Vandross finished. His dark eyes met Ronan’s as he asked, “Do you, Ronan Grey, consent to these terms as said aloud?”
Ronan felt a pressure in the air, the gravity of the situation sinking into him. This was no casual agreement. The magic binding this pact would hold him accountable just as much as it would Vandross.
He took a deep breath, his voice steady as he responded, “Yes. I consent.”
The parchment shimmered brighter, then dissolved into golden particles that vanished into the air. A soft hum of magic lingered in the room for a moment before everything fell still.
Vandross gave a slow nod, a satisfied smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “Then it’s done.”
Vandross’ eyes lingered on the spot where the parchment had dissolved, then shifted to Ronan, curiosity gleaming beneath his calm exterior. He tilted his head slightly. “You know, Ronan, I find it curious. You never once asked if my goals were evil or good. Even if it doesn’t matter now, weren’t you the least bit curious?”
Ronan remained still for a moment, his expression unreadable, before meeting Gideon’s gaze. His voice was low, steady, carrying a weight that seemed far beyond his years.
“The world doesn’t care about good or evil,” Ronan said. “It’s cruel to everyone—whether you’re right or wrong, strong or weak. In the end, I don’t care what you believe.” He straightened, his tone unwavering. “I’ll decide what’s right or wrong when the time comes. Not you. Not anyone else.”