Rowan followed the gaze of Primordial Time. For the first time since he appeared, he truly looked at Vyraak. There was recognition in his eyes, but no gratitude, no anger. It was the look a sculptor might give a block of stone, an assessment of material and potential. Rowan had picked the right person for his plans.
"The blade found a worthy vessel," Rowan stated, his tone matter-of-fact. "It required strength, resilience, and a certain… stubborn pride to survive the journey. To find this place when I could not. This blade was forged of my flesh and Will, and very few would be able to wield it."
The words should have been another blow to Vyraak's pride. He was a vessel, a tool, confirmed by the maker himself. Yet, hearing it in this chamber, before the map of all things, the sting was lessened.
He was a tool, yes, but one that had been used to knock on the door of a Primordial's house. There was a dark honour in that.
