"Just a little fortune-telling." Delilah held the mirror-map higher. "Free of charge. Consider it a professional courtesy."
The mirror's surface rippled again, and an image formed—Morgana, but not as she was now. This Morgana was diminished, her silver hair dulled to gray, her elegant robes replaced with tattered rags. She huddled alone in darkness, magical energy being siphoned from her body by an unseen force.
"That's not possible," Morgana whispered, her violet eyes wide with horror. "I've accounted for every variable! Every possibility!" Her voice rose to a shriek. "No! He promised immortality, not this!"
Around them, the battle raged. Sam's massive wolf form tore through shadow creatures, his movements a blur of fur and fangs. Zelda hurled glowing sigils that exploded on impact while Vic moved with preternatural speed, his fangs bared in a feral grin. Even Mayor Grimble contributed, his miniaturized hat somehow firing tiny municipal ordinances that exploded like firecrackers.
But Morgana saw none of it. Her gaze remained locked on the mirror, transfixed by her future.
"The thing about collectors," Delilah said, her voice cutting through the chaos, "is that once they have what they want, they tend to discard the packaging."
The mirror shifted again, showing the shadowy figure of the Collector turning away from Morgana, discarding her like a used tissue after extracting the last of her power.
"He wouldn't," Morgana breathed, but doubt had crept into her voice. "I'm his most valuable?—"
"Tool?" Delilah finished. "That's all you are to him. A means to an end."
Fat Bastard chose that moment to streak across the battlefield, somehow having followed them despite no one inviting him. The enormous orange cat launched himself at a shadow creature, his battle cry a surprisingly terrifying yowl.
"Even the cat has more agency than you do," Delilah noted.
Morgana's concentration faltered, the ritual's energy fluctuating wildly. The mirror showed one final image—Morgana consumed by the very power she had helped to channel, her body dissolving into the void.
"You're lying!" Morgana snarled, but her hands trembled. "This is just another fortune-teller trick!"
"You know it isn't." Delilah stood her ground. "You've felt it, haven't you? Those moments when he uses your body like a puppet? When you speak words that aren't yours?"
A flash of recognition crossed Morgana's face before she could hide it.
Sam seized the moment of distraction, breaking through the perimeter of shadow creatures. He lunged toward the witch, a blur of muscle and fur, his yellow eyes locked on his target.
"This isn't my fate!" Morgana screamed, hurling a bolt of energy at the mirror.
The bolt bounced off, striking one of the floating artifacts. The delicate balance of the ritual shattered, energy cascading in wild, unpredictable waves.
"That's the thing about fate," Delilah said as Sam closed in. "It's not what happens to you—it's what you choose when faced with the truth."
For just an instant, something like gratitude flickered across Morgana's face before chaos engulfed them all.
The ritual circle's energy exploded outward in wild, chaotic waves. Delilah dove behind a fallen tree as magical backlash scorched the ground where she'd stood. The mirror-map clutched to her chest continued to pulse with strange energy.
Sam had almost reached Morgana when a fresh wave of shadow creatures materialized between them, their forms twisting unnaturally as they moved. Mac and his shifter team were pinned down on the perimeter, fighting a losing battle against the endless shadows.
"We need a miracle," Delilah muttered, her head pounding with the beginnings of a vision-induced migraine.
A high, theatrical voice rang out from above. "Did someone call for a fabulous intervention?"
Delilah looked up and blinked twice, certain her vision was playing tricks on her. But no—Fabio was descending from the sky, standing proudly atop what appeared to be a giant floating croissant. Behind him flew an armada of baked goods, organized in perfect military formation.
"Cavalry has arrived, darlings!" Fabio's auburn hair whipped dramatically in the wind, flour somehow still dusting his immaculate outfit. "Operation Pastry Assault commences... NOW!"
He raised his arms like a symphony conductor, and the pastries responded to his movements.
"Croissants to the left flank! Muffins provide air support! Danish squadron, engage! Show these shadows the power of proper lamination!"
The shadow creatures paused in apparent confusion as they were suddenly bombarded by aggressive baked goods. A particularly vicious chocolate croissant slammed into a shadow, exploding in a shower of buttery shrapnel and cocoa powder that made the creature dissolve with a hiss.
"The secret is in the butter-to-flour ratio," Fabio explained, swooping lower on his pastry platform. "Emotional magic baked at precisely three hundred and fifty degrees creates the perfect anti-shadow consistency!"
