The Mouthless King reeled, his shadow form unraveling in wisps of gray and gold. His silence was no longer a weapon but a wound, bleeding into the battlefield like fog. The Hollow Choir trembled—no longer singing, only murmuring, their harmony shattered.
Rose landed beside Mortain, boots skidding through ash.
He staggered, swaying from the drain of power. She caught his arm. "Still with me?"
He managed a smirk. "Didn't come all this way to die before the dramatic monologue."
Above them, the Mouthless King hovered slightly off the ground, suspended by ancient, cracking magic. His robes fluttered like torn parchment. He was faltering—but not finished.
"I underestimated you," he spoke into their minds. "You are not fire. You are wildfire. Dangerous. Directionless."
Rose clenched her fists, flames licking up her arms. "And you are fear. Dressed up as peace. You silence the world because you're terrified of hearing it scream."
Mortain's storm flared around him. "We've seen your mercy, and it looks a lot like a grave."
The Mouthless King didn't respond with words. His body split into three dark silhouettes—echoes of himself. Each moved in silence, wielding illusions and dread, sweeping across the battlefield toward them.
Rose and Mortain stood back-to-back.
"Pick one," Mortain said, lightning dancing along his arms.
"Only one?" Rose replied, smirking.
The first shadow lunged, swinging a blade made of frozen stillness. Rose ducked and countered, her Bramble Fire bursting in a spiral of flame that seared the illusion into smoke.
The second flickered behind Mortain. It hissed in his ear—secrets, memories, forgotten regrets. He flinched but thrust both hands outward, unleashing a crackling dome of light. The echo shattered.
The third moved slower. It didn't attack.
It stared at Rose.
And spoke.
"You are alone."
That hit differently. It wasn't magic—it was doubt, cold and real.
"You're not like them," the echo continued. "Even your fire won't change that."
But Rose had heard that voice before. It lived in her heart. She had fought it every night she'd spent in Bramblewood, every morning she'd woken up to another day of being too much or not enough.
And now, she smiled.
"You're wrong," she said.
Behind her, Mortain met her gaze—and nodded.
"You see, I've got people now. A storm who stands beside me. A talking cloud who makes me laugh. A goblin who bakes explosive pies. I've got a world to protect."
She raised her hand. The Bramble Fire roared to life, no longer just orange or red—but streaked with violet, gold, and deep green, the colors of the land she loved.
And with one motion, she sent it forth—consuming the final echo.
Only the Mouthless King remained.
He stepped forward, slower now, weakened.
"You cannot stop what is inevitable," he whispered.
Rose's flames flared brighter.
"Maybe not," she said. "But I can fight it anyway."