The descent from the Oracle's shrine was steep, but Rose hardly noticed the terrain beneath her boots. Her mind buzzed like a struck bell, still reverberating with the visions she'd seen.
Nimbus hovered beside her, unusually quiet. "You've been staring into space for an hour. If you're about to explode, can I get a warning this time?"
"No explosions," she said. "Just... revelations."
Basil walked a few paces behind, silent as always, but his eyes were fixed on Rose. He knew the weight of prophecy. He also knew that look on her face—the one that meant she'd seen something impossible.
Rose stopped abruptly. "Mortain was once human."
Basil caught up. "How?"
"Before the godhood. Before the war. He was a boy with a gift for storms... like me."
Nimbus crackled softly. "Okay, that's spooky."
"He didn't want to be worshipped," Rose continued. "He wanted to protect. But power twists when it's fed by fear. He was remade by those who needed a god to blame."
Basil folded his arms. "And now he's trying to do the same thing to you."
Rose nodded. "He thinks I'm his mirror. But I'm not. I saw the end in the vision—and it wasn't a battle. It was a choice. His."
She didn't say what else she saw: her own face, tear-streaked, holding out her hand to Mortain as the world crumbled around them. A chance for peace. For redemption. But only if he chose it.
As they passed out of the Cradle, a low rumble echoed across the hills.
Thunder—but not Rose's doing.
Nimbus squinted at the sky. "Uh... that's not natural."
Clouds gathered fast, swirling with green lightning and dark winds. The sky split open like a wound—and through it stepped a figure cloaked in shadow and ash.
Mortain.
He did not float. He walked.
Calmly. Intentionally.
As if arriving at a reunion, not a confrontation.
"Stormchild," he said, voice like velvet soaked in venom. "You found my past. I'm impressed."
Rose stood her ground. "I saw who you were. I saw who you could've been."
Mortain's smile twitched. "Ah. The mercy play. You think you understand me because you glimpsed a few convenient sorrows?"
"I saw enough," she said. "Enough to know you're not beyond saving."
He laughed then—truly laughed, the sound deep and bitter.
"Save me?" he echoed. "You think you're strong enough to shoulder my sins?"
Rose didn't flinch. "No. But I'm strong enough to offer you a way out. That's what you never got, isn't it? A choice."
For a moment, Mortain said nothing.
Then, with a gesture, the ground split between them, molten light pouring from the wound.
"This is my world now," he said, eyes glowing like burning coal. "You can't unmake what already rules."
Rose stepped forward, eyes alight with her own storm.
"I don't need to unmake you," she whispered. "I just need to remind you what you used to be."
Mortain's smile faded.
The storm between them cracked.
And so began the war of gods.