Annie watched the strange children playing, some with wings, others with tails, a few made of pure light and mischief. They darted across the floating playground like joy had never been caged.
"Malvor," she said softly, her voice thoughtful, "do you have any children?"
He recoiled dramatically, putting a hand to his chest like she'd just slapped him. "Absolutely not. Gods no. Chaos no. In so many gloriously loud and echoing no's… no. I have never spawned."
She blinked at him, amused. "That was… a lot."
He wasn't done. "The idea of children has always felt like… a long-term curse wrapped in tiny grubby hands. Do you know how loud they are? And sticky? Maximus alone has more children than I can count, and that's just with Vitaria. Twenty-eight. Twenty-eight spawnlings with god-like powers. Have you ever seen a toddler who can shoot lasers from strange places? Disgusting. Dangerous. Disrespectful. Disaster."
She smiled faintly, but her eyes did not leave the children. "Would you ever want them?"
That quiet question stilled him.
"I never did," he said honestly, his voice softer now. "Not once. Not in all my centuries. But…"
She finally turned to look at him.
"But maybe. With you. I might want something I have never let myself want."
She did not respond right away. But through their bond, he felt it—a pain. Deep and sharp. A quiet ache that had nothing to do with him and everything to do with what she could never have.
He moved to her side in an instant, wrapping his arms around her and pulling her against his chest. "Annie," he whispered, voice raw, "I did not mean it like that."
Her hands rested on his chest, silent.
"Your value to me is not in what you can or cannot do for me," he said firmly. "It is you. Your mind, your chaos, your laugh, the way you look at me like I am worth something."
She did not cry. But she held him tighter.
"And besides," he murmured, a faint grin tugging at the edge of his mouth, "in this realm of chaos, babies are not always made the old-fashioned way."
That earned him a soft laugh. And for now, it was enough just to hold her.
Malvor held her close for a long while, letting the silence stretch as the soft sounds of laughter echoed from the strange playground nearby. He did not rush her, just let his thumb draw light, absent circles on her back as her breathing evened out.
Eventually, she broke the quiet with a faint, teasing laugh. "Wait… you are an ageless being. How in all your existence have you not had children? You are not exactly celibate."
He pulled back slightly to give her an unamused deadpan stare. "Annie. That is not funny."
She grinned. "Come on, just admit it, you've had plenty of chances."
His gaze remained flat. "Yes. And I have turned them all down."
"You said you never wanted children," she said, shifting so she could look up at him. "But still. In all your time? Not even once?"
"No," he replied firmly. "In order for a god to have children, they must want them. It does not just happen. Our magic does not… slip."
She blinked. "So no accidents?"
He gave a long, slow sigh. "Yes… and no."
Her brow furrowed. "What does that mean?"
"It means gods have… urges. Temptations. But creation, actual life? That only happens when we intend it. There is no oops. If a child is born of a god, it is because someone chose for it to be so."
"Even if the parents are not on the same page?"
He nodded. "Even then. If one god wills it strongly enough… that is enough. But it is rare. Very rare."
Her lips parted, thoughts swirling behind her eyes. "So all those divine children running around…"
"Every single one," Malvor confirmed, "was wanted. Intended. Crafted by will and magic."
She nodded slowly, piecing it together. "And you never did."
"I never wanted to bind myself to another being that way. Never wanted to be responsible for something so… permanent. Until you."
He did not say the last part out loud, but she heard it, felt it through their bond.
And for a moment, the idea did not hurt. Not because it changed her past, but because he was here, with her, now, and in this strange and beautiful realm of chaos, anything was possible.
Malvor felt the heaviness still clinging to her, barely hidden beneath her smile, her breath, the way she held herself a little too still.
So, naturally, he did what he always did when things got too real.
He leaned back, stroked his chin with mock seriousness, and said, "Well, the good news is, since babies do not have to be made the old-fashioned way, we have a lot of different options."
Annie raised a brow, skeptical. "Oh really?"
"Absolutely. For example, option one: win one as a prize."
"A prize?" she asked, a laugh already threatening her lips.
He nodded solemnly. "There is a game in the Carnival. Very exclusive. Ring toss. But instead of a goldfish, you win a baby. Totally random. Could be a screamer. Could be the next god of spreadsheets. Chaos, really."
She snorted.
"Option two," he continued, ticking off fingers. "Build a baby. Piece by piece. Like a divine Ikea kit. Probably missing a limb at first, but Arbor can fix that."
Annie laughed.
"Option three," he said, now clearly gaining momentum, "get drunk on cosmic wine, dance under a full moon, and wake up to find a very tiny version of ourselves already bossing around the shadows."
"Okay, that one sounds scarily plausible."
He leaned closer, whispering like it was a state secret. "Option four: plant a baby. Find a magical Cabbage Patch. It takes six weeks and some emotional compost. Very sustainable."
Annie burst into laughter.
"And option five," he said, standing and pacing dramatically, "we steal one. Snatch it from Maximus. He has at least twelve he has forgotten about. We can call it 'divine recycling.'"
She doubled over, wheezing with laughter, tears springing to her eyes. "You are horrible."
"I prefer innovative," he said proudly.
The mood had lifted, just enough. The weight in her chest eased. She leaned into him again, warm and glowing from laughter.
He smiled down at her, voice gentler this time. "I do not care how it happens, Annie. I care that it is with you."
She looked up, eyes shimmering, not with sorrow now, but something softer. "Even from a cabbage patch?"
He grinned. "Especially from a cabbage patch."
They left the floating town hand in hand, still quietly laughing about the baby cabbage patch.