It was raining frogs again. Not metaphorical frogs. Real, slimy, disgruntled amphibians.
"Second time this week," Basil muttered, holding an umbrella that was visibly losing the will to live. "Honestly, it's getting predictable."
They stood outside the ruins of an old observatory nestled deep in the Thornhook Bluffs. Lightning crackled in spirals overhead. The sky tasted metallic.
Rose stared at the enormous door sealed with glyphs pulsing in blue flame. "This place was a Riftward outpost, right?"
Mortain nodded. "Before the order was disbanded and half their members turned into tree sap."
"Fun."
Nimbus hovered nearby, shielding the group from incoming frog impact. "There's residual Riftborn energy inside. Strong. It's like someone used this place to summon… something."
Gregory trotted forward, slipping slightly. "Summoning's one thing. Feeding it is worse."
Rose stepped closer to the door and pressed her hand to the center glyph. It rippled like water, recognizing her touch. Slowly, it unsealed with a deep groan, revealing a vast chamber filled with empty cages, shattered starlight mirrors, and symbols drawn in ichor.
The air stank of memory.
They stepped in carefully. The walls pulsed like breathing parchment. Bones crunched beneath their boots—some human, some very much not.
At the far end of the room stood a throne of vertebrae and clock parts. And seated in it was a creature made of folds—wrinkled shadows and shivering cloth, no face, just an empty hood.
"Welcome," it said. Its voice slithered into their minds. "I have waited so long to meet the witch with the key."
Mortain stepped forward. "Who are you?"
"I am the Baitmaker," it said simply. "And you… are the next trap."
The ground trembled. Cages snapped open. Shapes poured out—Riftborn spawn, twisted by dimension, wearing stolen memories like armor. One bore Rose's own face. Another whispered in Mortain's voice.
Rose raised her hands. "We're not here to fight you."
"Of course not," the Baitmaker hissed. "You're here to lead them."
Rose blinked. "Come again?"
"You sealed the Veil. They smelled you through the scar. You are a beacon now. Wherever you go, they follow. They hunger for what touched the edge."
Basil gulped. "That would explain the frog forecast."
Mortain gritted his teeth. "So what—you're trying to use her as a lure? Lure them here?"
The Baitmaker chuckled. "No. I already have."
Above them, the ceiling cracked.
Reality thinned.
And the Riftborn began to crawl through.
Dozens. Hundreds.
Gregory reared back. "We're going to need a lot more fire."
Rose stood in the center of it all, calm. "Not fire. Choice."
She pulled out the key—not a weapon, not a tool now, but a symbol of defiance—and struck it against the floor.
It sang.
The room shattered. The Riftborn screamed.
And Rose whispered, "Follow me, then. Let's see who breaks first."