Mortain sat with his knees drawn to his chest, fingers tracing invisible lines in the pale grass. He looked younger here, unburdened by the jagged crown of storms that usually adorned his head. But his eyes—those remained unchanged. Heavy. Tired. Eternal.
Rose and Basil stopped a few steps away. Nimbus hovered uncertainly, unusually silent.
"No godhood today?" Rose asked gently.
Mortain looked up. "Even gods get tired of pretending."
Basil's stance was guarded but not hostile. "Is this real? Or another trick?"
"If it were a trick," Mortain said softly, "would I be this lonely in it?"
Silence.
The Everspire loomed behind him. A crooked tower that leaned slightly to the left, with shuttered windows and a lopsided weather vane. A tower built from memory, not stone.
"I don't remember building it," Mortain said, nodding to the spire. "But I know I did. It was the first place I called mine."
Rose sat down beside him without asking. "Do you want to go inside?"
He shook his head. "I don't think it will let me."
Nimbus blinked. "Wait, you're locked out of your own brain-tower?"
"It's not locked," Mortain replied. "I just don't think I deserve to open it."
Rose studied him. "Then why did you bring us here?"
"Because I don't know how to fix what I broke. And every time I try, I make it worse." He looked at her, eyes rimmed red but dry. "You saw what I did in the mirror. What I've always done. I destroy. Even when I want to save."
"You protected your pain," Rose said. "You wrapped it in shadows and called it power."
Mortain winced.
Basil stepped forward, voice low. "Why start remembering now?"
"Because she saw me," Mortain said, not looking at Rose but clearly speaking of her. "Not just what I did. But who I was before it."
Rose reached out, took his hand. It trembled, but he didn't pull away.
"We all carry storms," she said. "But we choose whether we drown in them—or learn to dance with the thunder."
Mortain gave a hollow laugh. "That sounds like something someone brave would say."
Rose smiled. "Fake it until the lightning believes you."
He looked at the door again.
Basil nodded toward it. "Then let's see if it opens."
Mortain stood. His hand lingered on the knob.
It didn't resist.
With a soft click, the door creaked open.
Warm light spilled out. The scent of old paper, cinnamon, and rain on stone. Inside, a library. A child's bed. A broken wand resting on a shelf. Pieces of a life forgotten—but not gone.
Mortain stepped through first.
Rose and Basil followed.
Nimbus zipped in last and muttered, "Okay, but if anyone in here offers me emotional insight, I'm leaving."
They didn't know what they'd find in the tower.
But for the first time, Mortain didn't look like a god about to destroy the world.
He looked like a man finally willing to rebuild it.