They didn't sleep.
After the battle with Mortain's avatar, rest became a luxury none of them could afford. The sky had turned crimson—an omen. The kind even old gods would notice.
Rose sat atop a stone ridge, the ash field below still smoldering. Her magic thrummed restlessly beneath her skin. She was stronger now. Not just from power—but from choice.
She had chosen not to be Mortain's pawn. Chosen to fight. Chosen Basil.
He climbed the ridge to sit beside her, his shoulder brushing hers. For a moment, neither spoke. The silence was easy now, full of shared weight.
"Do you ever wonder," she murmured, "what would've happened if I said yes? If I'd taken Mortain's offer?"
"I do," he admitted. "But I never believed you would."
She gave him a sidelong glance. "Really? Even with my whole 'destructive chaos-witch' aesthetic?"
He smiled faintly. "That's not what defines you."
"No?" she said, a little teasing, a little wistful.
"You're stubborn. Brilliant. Reckless. You burn everything you touch—but somehow, the right things catch fire."
There was something soft in his voice that made her chest flutter.
Before she could answer, Nimbus crashed into them with the urgency of a very small, very frantic thundercloud.
"Disaster!" he squeaked. "Well—invitation, then disaster! I found something!"
He dropped a scorched scroll into Rose's lap. It pulsed faintly with silver ink and bore a wax seal shaped like a lightning bolt pierced through a crown.
Rose raised an eyebrow. "This is from the Storm Court."
Basil tensed. "They never send messages. Not unless it's a summons or a threat."
"Well," Rose said, cracking the seal, "let's see if we're being summoned to court or by it."
The scroll unfurled itself with a hiss. The words shifted, glowing.
To the bearer of the Breaking Sigil,
You are called to the Storm Court. Your storm has touched the boundaries of power. We require your presence before judgment, or alliance, is decided.
Come. Or be claimed.
—The Maelstrom Regent
Rose sat back slowly. "That's… not ominous at all."
"What do they want with you?" Basil asked.
Nimbus perched on her shoulder. "Probably to crown her or kill her. You know how courts are."
Rose looked at her hand—the glyph glowed gently beneath the skin, still pulsing from her last spell. It made sense. The Storm Court had sensed the awakening.
"They think I belong to them," she said. "They're wrong."
"But we should go," Basil said, eyes narrowing. "If Mortain's preparing an army, we need allies."
"And answers," Rose agreed.
She stood, scroll in hand, and faced the swirling red horizon.
"To the Storm Court, then," she said.
Nimbus groaned. "Ugh. Royal politics. My second least favorite kind of doom."
Rose smirked. "What's your first?"
"Wedding invitations."
Rose and Basil exchanged a glance.
Then she took his hand—because whatever storms were coming, they were going to face them together.