Wednesday. Three o’clock in the afternoon.
The Tarot Club gathered as it always did.
One by one, blurred figures took their seats at the long bronze table. Justice. The Hanged Man. The Sun. Two new presences flickered into being as well—Judgent and the Magician, recently drawn into the circle.
They exchanged greetings, brief introductions, polite acknowledgnts between veterans and newcors. Then ca the offering of Roselle’s diaries, and the silent reading overseen by The Fool. When that ritual concluded, the eting shifted into its more practical phase.
Trade.
Rowan rcer spoke first.
"I’ve acquired several items this week," he said calmly. "A Shepherd’s characteristic. A Corruption Baron. Two from the Abyss pathway. A Recorder. A Witch of Affliction. A Wind-Blessed. A Requiem Conductor. A Potion Professor. And a full progression set from Constable up to Punisher."
He paused.
"I also have the corresponding formulas for every stage below those."
Silence followed.
Even Klein, seated above as The Fool, felt the weight of it.
These were not scraps of mystical materials gathered from ruins. These were distilled characteristics—remnants of the dead. You did not collect that many in a week without bloodshed.
How many enemies had Rowan eliminated?
Then again, Rowan had been openly hunting cultists. His ties with the churches of Night and Storm were no secret. That explanation steadied the room, though it did not entirely calm it.
Across the table, the two newest mbers stared in stunned disbelief. In Backlund’s underground gatherings, obtaining even one suitable formula could take months of searching and haggling.
Here, they were laid out like rchandise on a counter.
Justice raised her hand first.
"I’d like the Psychologist characteristic we discussed previously. I can pay in full."
She had nearly finished digesting her current potion. Preparation for advancent required foresight.
The Hanged Man followed.
"I’ll take the Wind-Blessed. I don’t have sufficient funds at the mont. I’ll settle the debt within three days."
Judgent and the Magician exchanged a look.
Debt?
That was unheard of in Beyonder transactions.
Justice offered a gentle explanation, careful not to reveal more than necessary. "Mr. Power allows it. Loans as well. No interest. Repaynt when able."
Both newcors blinked.
That wasn’t generosity. That bordered on reckless.
Rowan simply watched, faint amusent in his eyes. To him, these were trivial sums.
The Sun lifted his hand next.
"I need a weapon," he said plainly. "Sothing suited for combat."
Rowan nodded once.
A massive greatsword materialized in his grasp, ford through transfiguration. Its blade glead cold and clean. With a flick of his finger, subtle runic patterns etched themselves along the tal.
"Channel your spirituality into it," Rowan instructed. "Speak the trigger phrase and it will respond. Lightning. Fla. Wind. Water."
The Sun’s reaction was imdiate and unguarded.
"I’ll trade materials," he said quickly. "That will suffice."
The sword radiated practical strength. In the harsh world he ca from, such a weapon was more than luxury. It was survival.
Rowan glanced around the table. Others were eyeing the blade with poorly concealed interest.
"If any of you require similar equipnt," he added casually, "I can accommodate."
To him, crafting low-tier mystical items required seconds. A minor diversion.
Praise followed almost reflexively.
Few here knew that such creations typically required specialized pathways devoted to machinery and craftsmanship. They assud the sword had been prepared beforehand.
They did not realize Rowan had forged it on the spot.
Judgent hesitated, then raised her hand.
"I’d like the Constable characteristic," she said. "I don’t have enough yet. May I owe you the remainder?"
Rowan retrieved the item and tossed it gently across the table.
"No need to stand on ceremony," he replied. "We’ve t before."
She caught it, confusion crossing her face.
"We have?"
"Four days ago. At the gathering where A was captured. You and the Magician were there."
Recognition struck both won at once.
"The infant—"
"One of my appearances," Rowan said lightly.
The table grew quieter.
So the child they had witnessed, effortlessly confronting a dangerous cultist, had been him.
Or rather, one mask among many.
The implication lingered in the air like smoke.
Then the Magician gathered her courage.
"Mr. Power," she began, voice steady but tight beneath the surface, "I need help. I can’t offer much now, but I’ll repay the favor in ti."
Rowan regarded her with renewed focus.
The prior trades had been incidental. This was the mont he had been waiting for.
"Tell your story," he said.
Behind her request lay a connection—to sothing sealed, sothing distant and dangerous.
And Rowan intended to follow that thread to its source.
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