By noon, the tactical foundations for Google were laid. Sharon stood by the door with a stack of files, her gaze lingering on me longer than usual. She didn't ask why I was leaving early; she simply nodded, her eyes reflecting a growing distance. Wanda and Pietro were at the house, their presence now a permanent part of my reality. Wanda was adapting with a grace that bordered on the supernatural, while Pietro… Pietro was a sentinel, his eyes never leaving me, sensing that the "normalcy" I provided was merely a thin veil over something vast.
In Malibu, Tony had declared a "Creative Sabbatical." He paced his workshop. He had tried to convince himself that the first meeting was a fever dream—a byproduct of betrayal and Scotch. But the clarity remained. His mind felt sharper, his soul heavier. As the hour approached, he sat in his racing car, hands gripping the wheel. He was waiting for the world to dissolve. Not again, he thought, his heart hammering. And yet... please, let it be again.
In the Necropolis of Wakanda, T'Challa dismissed his guards. He stood among the statues of the Panther Kings, a ruler seeking counsel from a power even older than his bloodline. He respected the pull. If the world was a game of shadows, he would ensure Wakanda was the one holding the torch. He closed his eyes, his breathing steady, inviting the silver fog to take him.
Wanda listened for the pull. In the library of the mansion, she looked at me as I entered the room. Our eyes met in a moment of absolute understanding. She gave me a small, genuine smile—a silent "thank you" for the world I had opened for her. Then, the walls of the mansion blurred into gray.
————
Above the mottled stone table sat The Fool, a majestic silhouette that exerted a gravitational pull on their very souls.
I rose from my seat at the edge of the table. The sound of stone grinding against stone echoed through the hall. I stood straight, head bowed, and began the recitation:
"The Fool that doesn't belong to this era."
"The Mysterious Ruler above the gray fog."
"The King of Yellow and Black who wields good luck."
"The True Creator who embodies luck, deception, and fate."
I bowed deeper. "We pray for your grace. We pray for your blessing. We pray for the mercy of your gaze."
One by one, they followed. Tony's voice was a rough whisper. T'Challa's was a resonant baritone. Wanda's was a melodic hum. They were a surrender to the impossible. The castle accepted the prayer. The pressure remained, but the hostility vanished.
————-
"So," Tony broke the silence, "We've done the mysterious liturgy. Can we skip to the part where I see who I'm stuck in an elevator with? Trust grows with clarity, and I'm currently blind."
T'Challa nodded. "It would help."
Wanda's voice was soft. "It would help."
"There is merit in this," I said. "This gathering was never meant to be built on blind faith alone."
Tony raised an eyebrow. "That almost sounds like a yes."
"I will speak in favor of it," I continued. "Knowing who stands beside you makes cooperation easier. Fear fades faster when uncertainty does."
Wanda looked at him, surprised.
T'Challa inclined his head slightly. "Then the decision rests with the one upon the throne."
All eyes lifted instinctively toward the vast silhouette seated above them.
A long pause followed. Then, the absolute voice of The Fool descended.
"…Very well."
The gray fog thinned. The swirling mists that had obscured their features spiraled away.
Tony stood revealed—standing too casually, his eyes darting with the analytical hunger of a genius.
T'Challa sat with the regal authority of a Prince.
Wanda looked brighter, her eyes glowing with a clarity that made her look like a person who had finally found her home.
And then, they saw Aryan. I sat at the edge of the table, looking entirely too ordinary for such a place.
Tony's brows knit together. He looked from me to the throne. He's just a kid, Tony thought. But he was here first. He knows the names. He knows the Master.
T'Challa observed my lack of hesitation. Chosen first. A mediator permitted to stand in the presence of The Fool.
Wanda's smile was unconscious.
"You may call me Aryan," I said.
"Aryan," he said, "I've run scans. In my workshop, with my own hands. I used every sensor Stark Industries owns."
I turned my attention toward him, "And?"
"My muscle density has increased by six hundred percent. My neural processing speed is up. My recovery rate—I cut my finger on a glass, and it closed in three minutes." Tony tapped his temple sharply. "But my DNA? It's the baseline. No mutations. No foreign protein sequences. No chemical traces of a serum. According to science, I'm just a very lucky, very healthy human. So explain this to me like I'm not insane."
I offered a faint smile. "You're not insane, Tony. You are simply trying to use a ruler to measure a dream. You're thinking in the wrong framework."
Prince T'Challa spoke. "I have observed the same. The enhancement did not rewrite my biological essence. It feels… layered. As if a new truth has been placed upon my skin rather than injected into my veins."
I exhaled slowly, "The power you obtain through Sefirah Castle is not biological, technological, or genetic. It is metaphysical."
Tony's eyes narrowed. "You're saying reality just... accepts that I'm stronger now?"
"More than that," I replied. "Reality is informed by it. When you purchase power here, you aren't injecting a substance. You are being acknowledged by fate as someone who already possesses that power. The universe sees a new fact."
I glanced briefly toward the silhouette on the throne. "The justification for your strength is rewritten in the Book of Fate itself. If someone scans you, they find nothing—no anomaly, no serum—because the outcome has already been approved. The power remains because it is now fundamentally yours."
T'Challa's eyes narrowed. "Acknowledged… by whom?"
I glanced—briefly—toward the throne.
"By The Fool."
Tony let out an appreciative whistle. "That's... terrifyingly clean."
"It means there is no trail," T'Challa added, his princely mind already calculating the tactical advantages. "No vulnerability for an enemy to exploit. No serum for a chemist to steal."
"Exactly," I said. "Power acquired here cannot be reverse-engineered."
Tony grimaced, "Well, there goes my plan for an IPO on 'Super-Soldier-In-A-Can.'"
I kept my gaze steady. "If you truly wish to grant this power to another, Tony... it is possible. But the path is narrow."
Their attention sharpened instantly.
"You may purchase the power again and designate a recipient," I explained. "But the procedure is sacred. The one who accepts the power must recite the honorifics of The Fool—just as you did. And the cost is twice the original price."
"Steep," Tony muttered. "Why the premium?"
"Because generosity in this world is a high-risk investment," I replied. "If your recipient is untrustworthy—if they reveal their power to governments, to organizations like SHIELD or the Ten Rings—you won't be questioned just once. You will become the Source. And the world never leaves a Source alone. Sefirah Castle does not forbid choice, but it does not shield you from the responsibility of that choice."
Wanda's voice was a mere breath. "So even kindness can be a cage.
Then Tony leaned back again, rubbing his chin. "So basically," he said, "we're walking paradoxes now."
"Yes."
"Protected by an unknowable god."
"…Yes."
Tony laughed quietly. "Man," he muttered, "and I thought the Arc Reactor was complicated."
Wanda looked up toward the throne again. "Does The Fool… care what we do with it?" she asked softly.
From the high throne, the voice of The Fool descended.
"Power is not sin."
"Intention is."
For Tony, the words were a scalpel. He thought about Obadiah selling weapons of master destruction illegally, the "Jericho" he was supposed to demonstrate. He had told himself he wasn't responsible for what happened after the check cleared. But if power itself wasn't the sin... then his sin was the part of him that chose not to care. The billionaire who hid behind equations realized he could no longer hide behind ignorance.
For T'Challa, the sentence was a mirror. He thought of Wakanda's isolation. They had the power to heal the world, yet they sat behind a veil. If intention was the final measure, then the burden of a Prince was not to avoid power, but to ensure his will never rotted into apathy. Tradition was no longer a refuge; only choice remained.
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