The creatures came at once—four of them, maybe five—distorted shadows twisted into fang and limb, born from pain, shaped by fear. They didn't roar. They didn't snarl. They wept.
Rose scrambled up, the air around her sparking to life as she raised a hand and called the storm. But something was different—her magic hesitated, flickering like a nervous candle.
"These aren't monsters," she said, her voice tight. "They're made of sorrow."
Basil lunged forward, slicing through the nearest one. It fell apart like wet paper, only to reform seconds later, now with two heads and a trail of sobbing laughter.
"Can't kill grief," he muttered. "Not with steel."
"But maybe," Rose said, stepping forward, "with truth."
She closed her eyes. Let the storm calm. Let her breathing slow.
The creatures lunged.
And she whispered, "I forgive you."
Light burst from her chest—not harsh, not scorching, but soft and endless. Like dawn. Like absolution.
The shadows reeled, their forms unraveling. One let out a cry like a child lost in the dark. Another dissolved into feathers. A third simply collapsed, as if too tired to continue existing.
Only one remained.
The largest. Its eyes were Mortain's. Its voice was his, layered with guilt. "You can't forgive what hasn't repented."
Rose stepped closer, heart aching. "Maybe not. But I can choose not to hate you."
It struck—claws out, teeth gnashing.
Basil was between them in an instant, blade ready—but Rose raised a hand.
"No."
She caught the creature in her arms.
It thrashed once, twice—and then it wept.
Not monstrous.
Not divine.
Just a broken echo of a broken boy.
"I see you," she whispered. "Even now."
The shadow stilled. And then, like smoke on the wind, it vanished.
Silence fell.
Nimbus floated down slowly. "So. That was new."
Rose collapsed to her knees. Her heart was pounding, her palms stung from gripping sorrow like it was something tangible. Basil knelt beside her, touching her shoulder gently.
"You didn't destroy them," he said.
"They weren't enemies," she replied. "They were parts of him he couldn't face. Someone had to."
He studied her face for a moment. "You amaze me."
"Don't say things like that," she said, a little breathless.
"Why not?"
"Because I'm tired. And sad. And you're incredibly handsome when the torchlight hits your cheek like that."
He raised a brow. "So, now's a bad time to kiss you?"
She blinked. "Wait, that was on the table?"
Basil leaned in, pausing just short of her lips. "Still is."
She kissed him.
Soft. Brief. Electric.
It wasn't a victory kiss.
It was a promise.
They pulled apart as the broken mirror behind them began to reform—no longer a reflection of Mortain's grief, but something else. A map.
The next step.
Rose stood, brushing ash from her cloak.
"Let's go find the boy who became a god," she said.
"And see if he remembers how to be human."