The inside of the Everspire felt impossibly wide, like the laws of space had politely excused themselves. A spiraling staircase wound up into infinity, and the walls were crammed with books—grimoire, journal, storybook, manifesto. Some whispered. Some growled. One was weeping quietly into its own spine.
Rose brushed her fingers along the nearest shelf. "This is where he keeps everything he's ever known."
"Or everything he's ever wanted to forget," Basil murmured, eyeing a book titled On the Ethics of Lightning Warfare that oozed black ink.
Mortain stood in the center of the chamber, gazing around like a stranger in his own mind. "I haven't been here in centuries."
Nimbus hovered near the ceiling. "Looks like you didn't dust."
Mortain almost smiled. Almost.
Rose reached for a book that glowed faintly silver. It slid from the shelf willingly. The cover read: Rose, Before the Storm.
She blinked. "This is about me."
Mortain looked away. "I didn't mean to keep it."
She opened it anyway.
Pages unfurled memories she hadn't known were witnessed—her first spell, cast in defiance. Her first failure, hidden behind bravado. A quiet moment when she stared at her reflection and wondered if she was too much or not enough.
"These are things I never told anyone," she said, voice barely above a whisper.
"I watched," Mortain admitted. "From afar. When I was still a god. You fascinated me. You burned so brightly and didn't apologize for it."
Rose's cheeks warmed. She closed the book gently.
Basil tilted his head, watching Mortain with an unreadable expression. "You loved her even before you knew what that meant."
Mortain didn't deny it.
"I thought if I could keep her in my story, I wouldn't forget what hope looked like."
Rose looked up. "Then why did you try to kill me?"
"Because gods aren't supposed to love," Mortain said. "Not mortals. Not themselves. And I—I didn't know how to be anything else."
Nimbus fluttered down, nudging a different book off the shelf. It opened with a thump and a dramatic sigh.
Inside was an illustration—child Mortain and a woman cloaked in moonlight, holding his hand.
"My mother," he said. "Before the world decided I belonged to it instead."
The tower shivered gently, a deep hum rippling through the walls like thunder learning to whisper.
Basil stepped to Rose's side. "You said this place is alive, right?"
She nodded. "Built from memory. Fed by belief."
"Then it's listening now," he said.
Indeed, the books began to rustle, pages turning themselves, words rewriting as if the tower was… rewriting him.
Mortain looked up. "It wants me to choose."
"Choose what?" Rose asked.
"Who I'll be. What kind of story I want to live."
Rose held out her hand.
"Then write it with us."
Mortain hesitated.
Then he reached back.
Fingers entwined.
And the tower lit from within—not fire, not lightning, but a soft golden glow that pulsed with possibility.
Outside, thunder rumbled.
Not in anger.
But as applause.