If war was coming, the people of Emberfen decided it should at least arrive fashionably late and slightly hungover.
Preparations were underway. Weapons were sharpened, armor enchanted, and battle plans drafted in ink that shimmered faintly with magic—or caffeine. Possibly both. But before marching off to face divine annihilation, the Emberkin insisted on holding a send-off.
"It's not a party," Rose was told repeatedly. "It's a ritualistic morale enhancement gathering."
She wasn't fooled. There was whiskey.
The heart of Emberfen's camp had transformed overnight into a volcanic festival. Great drums boomed with rhythmic fervor, and dancers painted in glowing coals leapt through flame-rings. Lava-born creatures rolled dice made of molten glass and told fortunes no one wanted to hear.
"Your death will be poetic," one told Basil cheerfully.
"Fantastic," Basil muttered, chugging something that made his eyebrows smoke.
Rose stood to the side of it all, a drink in hand, watching her allies celebrate the impending apocalypse like it was a solstice fair. She smiled, but there was a weight in her chest—a storm she hadn't quite named.
She felt Mortain before she saw him. His presence was like low thunder: quiet, heavy, and impossible to ignore.
"You're not dancing," he said.
She raised an eyebrow. "Neither are you."
"I don't dance."
"Same."
They stood side by side, watching Emberfen shimmer with life.
Mortain took a slow breath. "They need this, you know."
"I know."
"We might all be dead in a week."
"I know that too."
He looked at her. "So why are you still here?"
She turned toward him, meeting his storm-gray gaze. "Because I never walk away before the fire goes out."
Mortain studied her for a moment, then held out a hand.
She blinked. "You said you don't dance."
"I changed my mind."
Hesitantly, she took his hand. His touch was cool—like rain against her heat. They stepped into the edge of the circle, among flames and laughter and a wild rhythm that seemed to have no steps but plenty of chaos.
It was clumsy, at first. She nearly stepped on his foot. He bumped into a fire juggler. Someone shouted, "Get a tent!"
But then the rhythm found them—or they found each other within it.
They moved like storm and spark: out of sync and perfectly in step, rough edges matching in unexpected places. Her laughter, when it came, was unguarded. His smile was rare and real.
For a moment, war was just a shadow waiting at the edge of the firelight.
When the music slowed, Mortain leaned close, his voice a whisper in her ear. "You make me want to survive this."
She looked up at him, heart hammering in her chest. "Then we better make sure you do."
For once, the god of storms didn't have anything clever to say. He just held her a little closer as the fire crackled around them.
And for that one night, the end of the world waited its turn.