Later, when the last slice was gone and the fort had slouched into a nest of limbs and crumbs, Malvor spoke.
The question had been gnawing at him all day. It finally clawed free.
"What did you see in Leyla's realm?" he asked, voice low. "What did she give you?"
Annie didn't answer.
Not at first.
She stared down at her empty mug, thumb tracing lazy circles around the rim. Then she shrugged.
A small, careful movement. Like if she moved too much, it might spill out.
I don't know.
But she did. Gods, she did.
It wasn't power. Or clarity. Or control.
It was a dream.
A little stone house on a sun-drenched hill. A crooked kitchen that smelled like rosemary and bread. Warmth stitched into the walls. Laughter echoing down the hall like it had always belonged there.
A little girl with auburn curls who called her Mama.
And a man.
Malvor's face. But not his eyes. Not the storm. Just a smile. Clean. Gentle. Empty.
He wasn't real. He was perfect. And he was wrong.
Her throat tightened. Her hand stilled.
How could she explain the illusion that almost held her hostage?How could she admit that part of her wanted it?
Malvor didn't push. Didn't pry.
He just reached out, lacing his fingers through hers. Slow. Steady. Warm like sunrise.
"Whatever it is… you don't have to carry it alone."
Her fingers twitched.
Almost squeezed.
But not yet.
That night, the silence returned.
Not peaceful. Not soft.
Heavy.
She curled inward, her back to him, body braced like she was waiting for the next blow—tight, small, coiled like a blade dulled from overuse.
Malvor did not sleep.
He listened.
To the tremor in her breath. To the ghosts hiding in her stillness. To the war behind her silence.
And when the twitching started—shoulders jerking, lips parting in a whisper that never found sound—he touched her cheek.
"Annie," he breathed. "You're safe. Come back."
She didn't wake. But she leaned into him.
Just enough.
It was barely anything.
And it shattered him.
Not with tears. But with the helpless, aching urge to fix what he couldn't touch.
Arbor's soft, half-committed sunlight crept through the windows like it wasn't sure it was welcome.
Malvor was already in the kitchen. No glamour. No sparkle. Just two mugs and a roast strong enough to reanimate the soul.
No foam hearts today. No chaos spirals. Just warmth.
He needed her warm.
When she shuffled in—hair wild, eyes soft, movements loose—he met her with the mug already waiting.
She took it without a word. One sip. Her shoulders eased, like thread pulled free from a knot.
She didn't thank him.
She didn't have to.
They sat in the hush of morning. Twin mugs. No jokes. No masks.
Just the kind of silence that didn't ask for anything.
He watched her over the rim of his cup. Still quiet. Still distant. Still here.
And for now, that was enough.
Until—
She set her mug down.
Stretched.
And threw a lazy jab into the air.
Malvor blinked.
"…Are you shadowboxing at my breakfast table?"
She ducked. Spun. Kicked at nothing with sharp, effortless grace.
"Oh," he said, realization dawning like a bucket of ice. "You're not fighting me. You're training."
She didn't reply.
Just smirked.
And suddenly, he saw it.
She wasn't running from the dark anymore. She was walking into it.
Head high. Fists ready.
Malvor stood. Drained his mug. Extended a hand like he was offering her a battlefield.
"Let's go break something, my shadow queen."
But even as the words left his mouth, something twisted low in his chest.
Because now he saw it.
The way she moved—fluid, lethal, precise. The way her body remembered things she hadn't told him. The way she wasn't shaking off sleep. She was reinhabiting a weapon.
She wasn't just trained.
She was engineered.
Not the ornamental self-defense mortals clung to. Not grace for the sake of beauty.
This was tactical. Efficient. Surgical.
She moved like someone who'd learned a hundred ways to end a fight… and remembered every single one.
Malvor's heart hiccupped.
Had he missed this?
Had he fallen so hard for her smirks and softness, her sleepy limbs and stubborn courage, that he forgot to look for the steel?
She had never been soft. Not really.
The silence? Calculation. The stillness? Control.
The way she curled into his chest? Strategy.
And he, the god of chaos, had mistaken her composure for something fragile.
He felt stupid.
No—worse.
Unworthy.
Because while he was building blanket forts and crafting coffee hearts, she was remembering how to be dangerous again.
She had trained in twelve realms. Spoken pain in twelve dialects. Carried survival like a second skin.
She didn't just bear their runes.
She bore their skills.
And now?
They were waking up.
That brilliant, terrifying mind was clicking back into place. That body, scarred and divine, was remembering how to move like war.
Malvor swallowed hard.
What if he couldn't keep up?
What if the Annie he adored—the one who teased him, who kissed his smirk like a dare, who rolled her eyes at his dramatics—what if she was just a lull?
A chrysalis?
And now… she was breaking free.
She turned to him, sweat-damp, steady, wild-eyed.
"Ready?" she signed, one brow raised.
He blinked.
Then smiled.
Still here. Still Annie.
But gods, she was more.
He took her hand.
And this time, when he said, "Let's go break something," he meant himself—if she asked.