The feathered pen known as Artifact 0-08 carried a reputation that bordered on myth.
Every confirmed owner.
Every long-term researcher.
All of them had died in strange, inexplicable ways.
No clear evidence showed the artifact directly harming those who handled it.
Instead, it behaved… creatively.
It would sometimes begin writing on its own.
Even when it already had a master.
More than one former owner had woken up to discover they had become the central character in a bizarre story.
And once the words appeared, nothing could erase the outcome.
Tearing out pages did nothing.
Burning notebooks changed nothing.
The story always finished.
Records suggested that roughly:
Seven percent of these stories were absurd and darkly comedic.
Twelve percent were purely horrific.
Ten percent were both.
That afternoon, Chris returned home with Rowan.
That evening, after Jack finished work, they exchanged good news.
Chris told him about the one hundred and fifty pounds.
Jack told her about his impending promotion and transfer to Backlund.
They celebrated.
Then made a decision.
Within a week, they would sell both the old house and the new one, gather everything they owned, and relocate to Backlund.
Rowan felt no resistance to the plan.
He had already intended to go there.
Tingen was too small.
Too shallow.
Backlund held deeper archives, stronger institutions, and more dangerous opportunities.
Late at night, Rowan stayed in.
No wandering.
No rooftop patrols.
He focused entirely on adapting his power.
Specifically, on how to express his sealing techniques using this world's spiritual energy and ritual structure.
But staying inside did not mean being left alone.
The familiar tug of gray fog brushed against his awareness.
Klein.
Rowan accepted the pull.
Inside the fog, Klein looked tense.
"Something happened," Klein said quickly. "A high executor from the Church arrived. Name's Crestet Sesima. One of the top nine."
Rowan waited.
"The Storm Church sent one too. Both sides agreed to meet you at the docks."
Klein explained what had happened.
Dunn had reported everything to headquarters.
Headquarters responded immediately.
If Rowan was possessed by an evil god, they would eliminate him on the spot.
If not, they would evaluate whether he could be recruited.
"The captains are already on their way to your house," Klein added. "I slipped in here to warn you first."
Rowan nodded.
"Relax. It's fine."
He left the fog.
Half an hour later, a strange, gentle pressure washed over his consciousness.
Not hostile.
Not invasive.
He allowed it.
The world blurred.
He found himself standing in a dream.
Dunn stood across from him.
"So that's the Nightmare ability," Rowan said lightly.
Dunn looked mildly surprised.
"Good evening, Mr. Mercer. Two high executors would like to meet you."
"If you insist."
Rowan stepped forward.
The dream shattered.
He rose from his crib, slipped through the window, and landed silently on the street below.
Dunn and Gherman were waiting.
A carriage stood ready.
They rode in silence.
The destination was a quiet stretch of river near the docks.
Two groups stood facing each other.
All supernatural.
None ordinary.
Klein was among those on the left.
Rowan stepped down from the carriage and glanced around.
"This feels less like a meeting and more like an ambush," he said, amused.
No one laughed.
He walked forward anyway.
"Good evening, gentlemen."
The two figures standing at the center studied him.
An infant.
Wearing a cloak.
Greeting them calmly.
Several operatives showed visible discomfort.
They had seen monstrous infants before.
They had never seen one that behaved like a courteous adult.
The executor from the Church of the Night appeared quiet and restrained.
Easy to overlook.
The executor from the Storm Church radiated pressure.
Commanding.
Aggressive.
Evaluating.
Two faiths.
Two temperaments.
And Rowan, standing between them.
Smiling.