The mirror pulsed with quiet light, now smooth and unbroken—its frame no longer a crown of thorns but woven vines, blooming with pale, spectral flowers. As Rose and Basil stepped closer, the surface shimmered, revealing a map unlike any they'd seen before.
It didn't show land or sky or sea.
It showed memories.
Floating islands of thought, drifting across an endless expanse of dark. Glimpses of Mortain's past—his childhood treehouse, the tower he first raised with lightning, the first soul he ever took. Moments of power. And moments of shame.
Nimbus squinted at the map. "I hate to say this, but his subconscious has better cartography than mine."
Rose touched one of the islands, and it expanded—a ghostly vision playing in the mirror. A younger Mortain, no older than fourteen, pacing the edge of a crater he'd made with a single spell. Around him were the remnants of an army, scorched and unmoving.
And in his eyes—pure horror.
"He didn't mean to kill them," Rose said. "Not all of them."
Basil frowned. "Then why didn't he stop?"
Rose hesitated. "Because after that day, everyone expected him to be a monster. And it's easier to become what people fear than fight to prove them wrong."
The mirror pulsed again and highlighted a path—each memory lighting up one by one, leading through a winding, invisible thread of significance. At the end, a door. Simple. Wooden. Familiar.
"That's the entrance to the Everspire," Rose murmured.
"His sanctuary?" Basil asked.
"No," she said. "His beginning."
Nimbus hovered in front of the mirror. "So we walk into the brain of a storm god, follow the tragic breadcrumb trail of his trauma, and knock on his childhood front door?"
"Yes," Rose said. "And hope he answers as a boy, not a god."
Before Basil could reply, the cavern began to tremble. Not violently—but with weight, like the mountain was holding its breath.
The mirror split—not shattered, but parted—opening a shimmering gateway.
"Well," Nimbus muttered. "That's not foreboding at all."
Rose reached for Basil's hand. He took it without hesitation.
"We don't know what's waiting on the other side," she said.
"We never do," he replied.
Together, they stepped through.
—
The world beyond was quiet. Cold. It resembled the real world only in shape, not in feeling. Trees stood still without wind. Rivers flowed but made no sound. The sky was pale as parchment, stitched with stars that didn't move.
And far ahead, on a lonely hill, stood the Everspire.
The door waited.
But something else did too.
A figure, sitting in the grass. Tall. Familiar.
Mortain.
Not cloaked in lightning. Not wreathed in fury.
Just a man.
Watching the door like he wasn't sure he could open it.
He looked at Rose and Basil as they approached—and for the first time, didn't raise his hands in defense.
Instead, he simply asked, "Do you remember me?"
Rose's answer was quiet.
"I think you're starting to remember yourself."