Two days later, the senior clergy of the Cathedral departed Tingen.
Order returned.
To ordinary citizens, the entire incident amounted to nothing more than a freak meteor striking a house on the outskirts of town. Property damage. No casualties. An odd story to tell over dinner.
None of them knew how close they had come to being offered up as sacrifices to something that should never exist.
At two in the afternoon, an hour before the Tarot gathering, Miles Reed invited Rowan Mercer to his apartment.
Miles first relayed the official aftermath. Quiet cleanup. Evidence sealed. Witnesses redirected. The usual ecclesiastical erasure.
In return, Rowan shared everything he had uncovered through his confrontation with the True Creator.
No embellishment.
No omissions.
When Rowan finished, Miles sat in silence.
"…So it's real," he murmured.
He had suspected it long ago, ever since he noticed the cocoons drifting above the gray fog. But suspicion and confirmation were not the same thing.
Knowing that this world was Earth.
Knowing that the people he had loved were long dead.
Knowing that there was no path home.
The weight hit him all at once.
For several minutes, Miles simply stared at the floor.
Then he took a slow breath.
He had already mourned in fragments.
This was merely the final burial.
"I can't go back," he said quietly. "So I'll live here properly."
He wasn't alone anymore.
He had companions. Allies. People who relied on him.
That had to be enough.
Rowan studied him from across the table.
"So," Rowan said, "what are you planning to do now?"
Miles hesitated, then spoke.
"I want to make a deal with you."
He had never been particularly ambitious. The Tarot Club, his steady advancement, all of it had started with one simple goal.
Find a way home.
That goal was gone.
But the recent godspawn incident had taught him something else.
This world was lethal.
If he wanted to protect the people around him, he needed strength.
And therein lay the problem.
The faster he advanced, the closer he came to becoming a vessel for the ancient will sleeping behind the scenes.
Growth meant suicide.
Stagnation meant helplessness.
Unless he removed the source of the problem entirely.
The ancient structure bound to him.
The throne hidden above the gray fog.
The burden he carried was a curse.
But to someone powerful enough, it would look like an opportunity.
Miles knew that if he announced its existence publicly, countless beings would try to seize it.
They would not negotiate.
They would kill him and take it.
So instead, he chose the only person he trusted.
Rowan Mercer.
Rowan was strong enough to hold it.
And unlike Miles, Rowan was not seeking a quiet life.
Miles met Rowan's eyes.
"I want to give you the throne," he said. "In exchange, I want your protection. When I'm in real danger… I want you to step in. Like you did this time."
Rowan did not pretend to be surprised.
This was exactly what he had anticipated.
"Deal," Rowan said.
"I'll bind it using my own method. But for now, it stays with you."
Miles blinked.
"You can keep using it," Rowan continued. "Maintain your identity. Continue acting as the Fool. Use the Tarot Club to gather information and grow."
Rowan had no reason to rush.
To fully assimilate the throne, one would need to reach the absolute pinnacle of that particular supernatural path.
Until then, possessing it changed little.
Especially now.
Rowan could already rely on powers far superior to anything native to this world.
There was another consideration.
Someone was watching.
The goddess of night had been observing Miles for a long time.
Rowan suspected she already knew why Miles possessed the throne.
And based on what Rowan had learned, she might not be a local at all.
If she was another soul from the old world…
Then many mysteries suddenly made sense.
Three cocoons had already broken.
Miles was one.
Emperor Roselle had been another.
The third was not Miles, as he once believed.
It was likely her.
Which explained everything.
Why she never attempted to seize the throne.
Why she merely guided Miles into her church and kept him within sight.
If she, too, was a contingency tied to the ancient will, then touching the throne would be courting annihilation.
Rowan had already drawn her attention simply by approaching Miles.
If she discovered that Rowan had taken possession of the throne outright, she would descend personally.
Not yet.
Rowan still required the Night Church's resources.
He still needed their formulas. Their materials. Their infrastructure.
So the illusion would remain.
Miles would appear to be the sole owner.
Rowan would be the hidden master.
"Advance slowly," Rowan said. "Follow the normal process of this world. No shortcuts."
Miles nodded.
Rowan understood the danger better than anyone.
Raw power meant nothing if it triggered the awakening of something older.
Even with a soul and body capable of suppressing backlash, forcing growth would only accelerate the return of buried wills.
Especially the most ancient one.
Patience was safer.
Step by step.
Formula.
Ritual.
Assimilation.
When Rowan eventually reached the summit, it would be clean.
Stable.
And irreversible.
The throne had changed hands.
No one else needed to know.