"That technique just now," Solarian said slowly, still staring at the restored manor, "it resembles one of the higher-order restoration arts. Where did you learn it?"
Rowan smiled and shook his head.
"It's something I developed myself."
"Then what you mentioned earlier," Rowan continued, curiosity genuine, "the thirty-six greater arts you referred to. What exactly are they?"
Solarian paused, then chuckled.
"Ah. That."
He settled into explanation without hesitation, speaking as if recounting common knowledge rather than guarded secrets.
The so-called greater arts, Solarian explained, were not simple tricks or transformations. They were foundational cosmic techniques, each governing a different aspect of reality: restoration, inversion, transposition, elemental command, spatial traversal, temporal correction, and direct intervention in life and death.
Their counterparts, the lesser seventy-two disciplines, were broader and more flexible, focused on utility rather than authority. Mobility, concealment, elemental resistance, spiritual perception, illusion, reinforcement, and survival techniques fell into that category.
Most practitioners learned only fragments.
A handful mastered a few.
Only legends could wield the full scope.
Rowan listened carefully, mentally comparing what Solarian described to techniques he had encountered across other worlds.
When the explanation ended, Rowan inclined his head.
"That clarifies a great deal. Thank you."
Solarian studied him with renewed interest.
"To recreate an effect resembling high-order restoration without direct inheritance," he said, impressed, "that's not something effort alone can achieve."
Rowan waved it off lightly.
"I've just wandered through a lot of systems. Picked up habits."
Before the conversation could deepen, footsteps approached.
The lord of the manor stepped forward, composed but visibly emotional.
"My thanks to all of you," he said. "For saving my son."
He gestured toward the restored hall.
"Please. Join us. Let tonight continue as it was meant to."
Solarian accepted immediately. Rowan followed without hesitation.
Vexar, however, raised a hand.
"I won't stay."
He glanced at Glacien, then back toward the horizon.
"I need to report what happened to the Deep Tide Dominion."
This outcome had diverged too sharply from his original plans. Adjustments were required.
Before leaving, he paused.
"You," he said to Glacien. "Stay."
Glacien's eyes widened.
"Here?"
"Yes," Vexar replied calmly. "Attend the celebration. Represent the Dominion."
He did not say the rest aloud, but the meaning was clear.
Observe. Remember. Ensure promises were kept.
Glacien bowed deeply.
"Thank you, Master."
When Vexar departed, the manor filled once more with light, laughter, and relief.
As the night wore on, Rowan spent long hours speaking with Solarian.
He learned the archsage was exactly as he appeared: sincere, unpretentious, fond of comfort and conversation, and far too honest for political games. A rare temperament in a world shaped by calculation.
Rowan liked him.
Solarian liked Rowan even more.
Especially after Rowan casually produced wines and dishes from distant realms, each more surprising than the last.
By midnight, Solarian was openly calling Rowan a brother-in-spirit and making vague promises about future introductions once certain secluded figures returned to the world.
The celebration finally dwindled.
Guests departed.
Lanterns dimmed.
Then—
The air shifted.
A familiar presence returned.
Vexar reappeared in the courtyard.
In his hand was a severed dragon talon, polished to a deep violet sheen, humming faintly with residual power.
Rowan's smile faded.
Something else had begun.