Rowan rcer lay quietly in his crib, staring at the ceiling.
Sothing felt... different.
He turned his attention inward.
The unstable pressure that usually lingered after major operations was gone.
Completely gone.
"That was fast," Rowan murmured.
He had only spent a short ti manipulating Jason, yet the internal resistance that accompanied his recent advancent had already settled.
The reason was obvious.
He hadn’t rely created a puppet.
He had orchestrated a high-risk assassination, overwheld elite defenders, and escaped pursuit from a top-tier enforcer without exposing himself.
From start to finish, the world believed the killer was Jason Belial.
Not the hand behind him.
That distinction mattered.
If a normal mystic attempted sothing like this alone, they would have died ten tis over.
But Rowan had operated exactly as a hidden controller should.
Invisible.
Untouchable.
By morning, Beckland was in chaos.
Duke Nigan’s death dominated every newspaper, every tavern conversation, every whispered exchange.
A sitting duke.
Leader of the conservative bloc.
Public representative of the Storm Church.
Assassinated inside his own estate.
Official reports claid the assassin had been killed on the spot.
The bla was pinned, as usual, on the Aurora Order.
They never denied such accusations.
Sotis they even embraced them.
Jason Belial continued his life as a banker without missing a single appointnt.
No suspicion.
No ripples.
The mysterious employer had not yet appeared.
Which suited Rowan just fine.
Night fell.
Rowan appeared on Beckland Bridge, in the George District.
The poor quarter was quiet at this hour. No carriages. No pedestrians. Even the guards leaned against the railings, half asleep.
Green vines descended silently from above, weaving themselves into a living ladder.
Rowan climbed.
At the top waited Bernadette Gustav, dressed in the practical attire of a sea captain.
"Let’s begin," she said.
No pleasantries.
A spirit-bound contract ford between them, lines of pale light stitching through the air.
Rowan signed without hesitation.
Bernadette watched closely, then relaxed.
Only then did she produce a thick bundle of weathered journals.
"All of them," she said.
Rowan accepted the stack.
"Want to read them aloud?"
Bernadette shook her head.
"No. Just tell what matters."
The pages began flipping on their own.
Seconds passed.
Rowan closed the last book.
"Roselle traveled to the Red Moon," Rowan said. "Sothing there altered him. The change worsened over ti. He knew it. That’s why he attempted to use the Black Emperor’s resurrection chanism to purge the corruption."
Bernadette’s fingers tightened.
"So he might still be alive."
"Yes. But sothing went wrong."
Rowan continued.
"He built his final mausoleum on an uncharted island he discovered during an earlier voyage. Three of his companions died there. The island’s location isn’t recorded directly, but clues point toward families connected to Edwards, Benjamin Abraham, and the descendants of the three dead explorers."
Silence followed.
Bernadette’s eyes glistened.
"I knew it," she whispered. "He wouldn’t have beco a monster for no reason."
She straightened and bowed slightly.
"Thank you."
After a mont’s hesitation, she spoke again.
"If I find the island... will you co with ?"
Rowan studied her.
"I will. For a price."
Bernadette reached into her coat and produced an antique brass lamp etched with dense sigils.
"This is the Wishing Lamp," she said. "My father left it to . It can grant up to ten wishes."
Rowan’s gaze sharpened.
Bernadette did not embellish.
"It doesn’t grant wishes kindly. It twists anings. If you wished to beco a god, it might fuse you with a hostile deity instead."
She held it out anyway.
"If the wording is careful, the first two wishes are relatively safe."
For Bernadette, no artifact was worth more than her father.
Rowan accepted the lamp.
So objects radiated danger.
Others radiated destiny.
This one radiated both.
...
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