Archmage Selvarion of the White Spire arrived three years later.
He came alone, without guards, without wards, without visible enchantments. That alone marked him as dangerous.
He bowed to Kael.
Not deeply.
But sincerely.
"I have studied magic for two hundred and thirty-seven years," Selvarion said. "You are not magic."
Kael nodded. "I know."
"You are not divine."
"I know."
"You are not a chosen hero."
"I know."
Selvarion swallowed. "You are a contradiction."
Kael smiled faintly. "You noticed."
The Archmage gestured, and a diagram of runes unfolded in the air between them—complex, layered, exquisite.
"Observe," Selvarion said, casting a spell designed to measure limits.
The spell vanished.
Not dispelled.
Not broken.
Invalidated.
The runes unraveled, offended.
Selvarion laughed.
A brittle, joyous sound.
"There is no ceiling," he whispered. "You are not a container of power. You are the reference point power measures itself against."
Kael tilted his head. "Is that bad?"
Selvarion met his eyes.
"Yes."
Kael waited.
"Because," the Archmage continued softly, "everything that exists does so because it is permitted. And permission implies an authority."
Silence stretched
Kael asked, "Who gave me permission?"
Selvarion's voice trembled.
"No one."
The Archmage knelt.
"Forgive us," he said. "We built gods. We forged crowns. We shattered power because we feared it."
Kael looked at the sky.
Something ancient stirred behind it.
"They're coming, aren't they?" Kael asked.
Selvarion nodded.
"Yes."
Kael exhaled.
"Good."