The door opened.
Malvor scrambled to his feet like the ground might vanish beneath him if he did not reach her fast enough.
"Annie—"
"No." Her voice was sharp. Not cruel. Not cold. Just final.
She stepped out, barefoot, wrapped in the oversized robe he'd left her days ago. Her hair was damp. Her eyes rimmed red, not from tears, but from exhaustion. Too many nights with no sleep. Too many days of war inside her own mind.
Malvor froze. His lips parted, but she raised a hand and cut him off before he could say a word.
"I had to shut you out," she said. "And you kept pushing."
His shoulders flinched.
She looked up at him, dark eyes blazing with more clarity than he'd seen in days. "Do you have any idea how hard it is to block you out? Your voice? Your guilt? Your pain?"
"I was trying to get them out. Aerion. Navir." Her jaw tightened. "Ravina."
The name hit him like a hammer to the ribs. He visibly recoiled, the breath punched from his chest.
Disbelief stilled his heart. "Ravina?"
His mind reeled.
It couldn't be.
Not her.
Memories surged like a tide, Ravina laughing with her head thrown back in the Forest of Whispers, vines curling playfully around her wrists. Her voice teasing, flirtatious. Her hand in his as they danced beneath bioluminescent leaves. Her legs draped over his lap as they sat on some high branch overlooking the trees, trading stories like secrets. Whispering mischief. Whispering safety.
She had always been soft with him. Not fragile, not weak, just soft in the way she moved around him. Gentle in a way gods rarely were.
There was a time, nearly a thousand years ago, when she was the only one he saw. The closest thing to exclusivity he'd ever known. She had shared his bed. Shared her stories. Shared her realm like it was a home for him.
He had thought, hoped, she was a friend. As much as anyone in the Pantheon could be.
And now?
She had touched Annie.
She knew. Ravina knew what Annie meant to him. She had to. And she still—
His hands shook, rage curling in the pit of his stomach like acid.
"Why?" he whispered, voice cracked. "Why would she…?"
Annie said nothing. She didn't have to.
He stared at her, his thoughts tearing themselves apart.
This wasn't Aerion, all brutish pride and rage.
It wasn't Navir, cold and clinical.
This was Ravina. The one who once whispered poetry into his skin. The one who helped him plant the dream gardens in his realm.
And now?
She marked Annie. That was all he needed to know.
Malvor swayed, grief twisting behind his ribs, different from what he had felt before. This wasn't about love. This was about trust. And the betrayal of it cut even deeper.
He looked at Annie.
She watched him. Calm. Steady. Grounded.
Because she had not shattered.
He had.
"She was supposed to be better," he murmured. "She was supposed to know me."
Annie's jaw twitched, but her gaze didn't soften. "Then you weren't paying attention. She's always liked growing things where no one's looking."
Malvor's heart clenched.
And there it was.
Ravina hadn't changed.
He had.
And now he was the one left holding the pieces.
Annie didn't reach for him this time.
Because she didn't need to.
She was already stronger than the gods who had hurt her.
But Malvor?
He had never felt weaker.
And more furious.
Ever.
Annie did not blink. She reached up and pulled her damp hair aside, revealing the delicate rune behind her left ear. A flower.
"Ravina's," she said flatly. "She tried to tangle my thoughts with vines. I untangled them."
Malvor stared, horror sinking into him like frostbite.
"I shut you out," she continued, "because if I did not, you would have made it worse. Not on purpose. But your pain? Your guilt? It made them louder. I could not hear myself think, and I needed to hear myself."
She let her hair fall back in place, shielding the rune again. "I didn't need your grief. I didn't need your sorrow."
She took a breath. "And I sure as hell did not need your sympathy."
He blinked, speechless.
"I have lived through worse," she said, gaze steady. "You know that, don't you?"
He nodded slowly, jaw clenched.
"This?" she said, gesturing to herself. "This did not break me. You think it did because you feel broken. That is your problem. Not mine."
Her voice was steel now.
"They touched my body, not my mind. And the only reason they even got that far was because they were gods and they cheated. But I am not carrying this like a wound. I am carrying it like a weapon."
Malvor's throat moved, but no words came out.
"I do not want your comfort. I want revenge."
He swallowed. "You will get it."
She stepped close, so close her presence nearly broke him all over again. "Good."
She looked at him then, really looked. Her expression softened just a fraction, something in her eyes flickering. Not tenderness, certainty.
"And Malvor," she said, her voice quieter now, "I need you to know something."
He braced himself.
"This, what happened, it did not change how I feel about you."
He looked up, startled.
"I still want you," she said simply. "I still feel the same."
The words hit him harder than any divine strike ever had.
"But if you make this about you again. If you drown yourself in guilt and forget I'm the one who had to live through it, I will punch you in the throat."
A small, stunned laugh escaped him. Raw. Shaky.
She did not smile.
"I'm still Annie. I'm still the one who makes fun of your hair. I'm still here. I am not afraid."
And then, with regal grace and zero drama, she turned around and walked down the hall like a queen who had always ruled this house.
And Malvor?
He stared after her like a man reborn.
Because his Annie was not broken.
She was furious.
And the gods who hurt her?
They were already dead. They just did not know it yet.
She did not say anything when she came into the kitchen. Just moved with her usual deliberate calm, sleeves rolled up, hair half-dried and pushed back. The robe was gone, replaced with simple clothes, comfortable and plain, her armor in softness.
She went to the counter.
Boiled water. Ground the beans.
Malvor watched in silence, afraid to breathe too loud.
It was French press. Not her preferred method. The dark roast. No sugar. No cream. Just bold, plain bitterness.
She poured it into two mugs.
Handed him his without ceremony.
And sat across from him at the table.
Their fingers brushed. Neither of them flinched.
Malvor's fingers trembled around the mug.
He almost choked on a sob.
The normalcy of it—
Her.
Here.
Sitting across from him.
The same way they had sat a hundred mornings before, half asleep, sarcastic, warm with shared glances over coffee and bad jokes.
He swallowed hard, trying to drink but failing to taste a thing.
His eyes welled again. But he did not cry.
He just looked at her.
Really looked.