"I'm going to bind the throne using my own methods," Rowan said. "Step out first. When the token I gave you starts flickering, come back in."
Miles Reed nodded and withdrew from the space above the gray fog.
The moment Miles vanished, Rowan reached forward and tore the throne from its anchoring position, dragging it directly into his personal inner world.
Reality bent.
Chains formed from pure conceptual law extended outward, wrapping around the ancient structure one layer at a time.
Rowan began the binding.
Although the throne was one of the primordial cornerstones of this universe, its current user was still Miles. And Miles had offered it willingly.
That made all the difference.
Under the pressure of Rowan's domain, resistance was minimal.
Once the binding was complete, Rowan would become its true master.
He would be able to access its functions.
But it would not immediately increase his raw strength.
At this stage, the throne functioned more like an external instrument.
Useful.
Powerful.
But not yet fused.
Only when Rowan eventually reached the absolute summit of this world's supernatural hierarchy could the throne merge fully with his existence and undergo a qualitative transformation.
For now, it was a blade in hand.
Later, it would become part of his body.
"Done."
Less than half an hour had passed.
The throne sank quietly into Rowan's control, its essence imprinted with his soul.
From this moment onward, no god, no hidden will, no resurrected ancient being could wrest it away.
The only way to reclaim it…
Was to kill Rowan.
Not this body alone.
But every incarnation.
Across every world.
At the same moment, Miles felt something snap.
The faint connection he had always sensed between himself and the throne vanished.
His heart clenched.
Then the small silver token Rowan had given him began to glow.
Following Rowan's instructions, Miles took several steps backward.
A thread of light wrapped around his body and pulled him upward.
He reappeared above the gray fog.
The throne awaited him.
Or rather…
Access to it did.
Rowan stood before him.
He raised a finger and tapped Miles lightly between the brows.
A subtle mark settled into Miles's soul.
The connection returned.
But it felt different.
Cleaner.
Structured.
Not ownership.
Permission.
"You can use it the same way you always have," Rowan said. "Nothing changes operationally."
Before, the throne had been rigged with ancient contingencies.
It had been designed to nurture a suitable vessel.
To cultivate a replacement.
Now, those hidden mechanisms were gone.
Rowan had erased them.
The throne belonged to him.
Miles was its authorized user.
And because Rowan had granted full access, Miles could actually draw on more of its power than before.
This was not charity.
Rowan wanted Miles capable of protecting himself.
So he wouldn't need constant intervention.
At three in the afternoon, the Tarot Club convened as usual.
None of the members knew that the real center of authority had shifted.
To them, the Fool still sat upon the throne.
In truth, the one who truly held power sat among them.
Audrey Hall and Alger Wilson both glanced toward Rowan the moment they appeared.
They still remembered the infant they had seen at the banquet.
Now he looked unmistakably like an adult.
The contradiction gnawed at them.
After the formal greetings, Alger addressed Miles.
"Mr. Fool, I've obtained nineteen pages of Emperor Roselle's diary. I can only memorize six at a time, so it will take several sessions."
"Well done," Miles said, accepting the manifested notebook.
Then Alger turned toward Rowan.
"Mr. Power, thank you for eliminating Zilingus. Unfortunately, I still haven't been able to access historical records from the early epochs. I'm willing to compensate with money, artifacts, materials, or any information you require."
Rowan smiled.
"No need. Mr. Fool has already paid on your behalf. The nineteen diary pages are sufficient."
Alger froze for a split second.
Then nodded solemnly.
This explanation preserved the Fool's mystique.
An ancient existence knowing ancient history was only natural.
It also prevented uncomfortable questions.
Miles, after all, was not wealthy enough to purchase nineteen pages of something so rare.
Rowan had no intention of letting Miles lose face.
Miles was his front.
His mask.
His intermediary.
And Roselle's diary still held value.
Rowan now knew much about the first three epochs.
But everything that came after remained fragmented.
Roselle's notes would fill those gaps.
The Tarot Club was still small.
Still fragile.
But given time and resources, they would grow.
And grown tools were far more useful than sharp ones.