By midday, the cursed forest had faded behind them, giving way to a desolate stretch of jagged hills and swirling ash. No path led forward—just winds that whispered lies and dust that stung the eyes.
"This place looks like someone lost a bet with a volcano," Nimbus muttered, hiding in Rose's hood.
"It's called the Howling Cradle," Basil said, scanning the ridgeline. "Legend says it holds the bones of the first oracle. The one who dared tell Mortain the truth."
Rose squinted into the haze. "What truth?"
"That he would never be loved the way he wanted," Basil replied softly.
Silence fell between them like a dropped stone.
They climbed in uneasy quiet, boots crunching over shattered rock and brittle soil. The deeper they went, the more distorted the land became. Trees twisted into the shapes of weeping women. Stones bore faces locked in screams. The wind began to wail—not with air, but with voice.
The Cradle was not abandoned. It was mourning.
At the summit, they found the shrine.
A cracked, bone-white arch, half-buried in the ash, marked the entrance to a cave. Above it, inscribed in a dead language, were three jagged teeth embedded in the stone. Each one pulsed faintly with magic—ancient, brittle, and angry.
"This is it," Rose whispered. "The Oracle's resting place."
Nimbus peered cautiously. "You think she'll be happy to see visitors?"
Rose stepped forward. "Only one way to find out."
Inside the cave, the air grew cold and close, thick with sorrow. Candles lit themselves as they passed, casting shadows that seemed to flinch away from the light.
Then came the voice.
"You trespass on prophecy."
It wasn't loud. But it pressed into the skull, like a whisper from inside the bones.
Rose stepped into the center of the chamber, where a skeleton sat propped on a throne of petrified roots. Her jaw was open in a final scream, her hands wrapped around a stone basin filled with ink as dark as night.
"The Oracle," Basil murmured.
The skeleton's head jerked.
"I am what remains of her," the voice said. "Prophecy torn from the throat. Sight without eyes."
Rose knelt. "We seek Mortain. We seek to end him."
"Many have sought," the Oracle replied. "All became echoes. Why will you be different?"
Rose didn't hesitate. "Because I'm not afraid to understand him."
Silence.
Then the skeleton's mouth moved again—mechanical, grating.
"You seek answers. Then drink."
Rose stared at the basin. The ink rippled like oil.
Basil caught her arm. "You don't have to—"
"Yes," she said. "I do."
She dipped her fingers into the ink and brought it to her lips.
Cold. Bitter. Endless.
The cave spun. Her body fell away.
And then—
Visions.
Mortain as a child, weeping in a field of stars. A crown he never wanted. Blood he never meant to spill. Love turned away. Time collapsed.
And her own face, at the end of it all, standing over him.
Not with a sword.
But with an offer.
She gasped, pulling back into the present, heart racing.
"What did you see?" Basil asked.
Rose stood slowly.
"The ending," she said. "And the choice he'll have to make."