The morning light—if one could even call it that in a realm like this—filtered through the darkened windows of her room, casting an eerie yet oddly warm glow.
Anastasia stretched, surprisingly well-rested despite the surreal nature of her surroundings.
The en suite bathroom was a luxury she hadn't expected.Marble counters. Deep stone sinks.A shower so large it felt like stepping into a private waterfall.
When she turned it on, the water adjusted instantly to her preferred temperature, cascading over her skin in a perfect, soothing rhythm.
It was indulgent.It was relaxing.And it was suspiciously wonderful.
But when she stepped out, towel wrapped around her, she caught sight of the mirror—
And she refused to look.
The scars—the beautiful, decorative runes carved into her skin—were always there. Waiting.Silent reminders of what she'd been turned into.
A work of art.A gift for the gods.A blessing.
That's what they told her.That's what they made her believe.
But she knew the truth.
She turned away, drying off quickly, heading for the wardrobe.It was exactly what she expected.
Elegant silks. Delicate lace. Outfits meant for being seen, not worn.Malvor's idea of fashion, no doubt.
She ignored them all.
Instead, she dug until she found something simple: a long-sleeve shirt and pants.Comfortable. Functional. Covered.
The runes on her hands were harder to hide—Brigitte's marks, precise and cruel.Gloves would stand out too much.
She tugged her sleeves down as far as they'd go.
Hopefully, Malvor was too self-absorbed to notice.
Dressed and composed, Anastasia stepped into the hallway.The mansion had changed again.
White stone floors. Clean, cold walls.A stark contrast to the black onyx and flickering candlelight of the night before.
The realm itself was indecisive.Ever-shifting. Ever-chaotic.Just like its god.
She wandered. And wandered. And wandered.
Rooms bloomed open as she passed—lavish parlors, floating libraries, a hall of mirrors that reflected things that shouldn't exist.
But not a single kitchen.
Her stomach twisted with irritation.
She exhaled sharply and muttered, "Where in the hell is the kitchen?"
A door immediately swung open to her left.
She stared at it.
Then sighed. "Of course."
The kitchen was massive. Modern.Sleek marble counters. A glowing hearth in the wall.
But what caught her attention wasn't the size.
It was the coffee shrine.
An entire section of the room—dedicated to coffee.
Dozens of machines lined the counter: espresso, siphon, French press, drip, cold brew towers taller than she was.Shelves stacked with beans from regions she didn't recognize.Syrups, spices, creamers in twenty varieties.Mugs in every possible size, shape, and level of drama.
She blinked.
He must love coffee.
A god of chaos, unpredictable and wild, with a full-blown altar to caffeine?
That almost made her smile.Almost.
She opted for something classic: drip coffee. Simple. Strong. Real.
A splash of milk. Just a little sugar.No syrup circus required.
She took a slow sip, the warmth spreading through her chest.
Then turned to the refrigerator.
Empty.
Of course.
She glanced at it and said, "Greek yogurt and berries?"
The items appeared instantly on the shelf.
She blinked. Then gave the fridge a soft, absentminded pat.
"Thank you."
The food was delicious. Simple.Exactly what she needed.
As she ate, she found herself wondering…
When does he wake up?Does he even sleep?
And as if summoned by the thought—
The door swung open.
And of course.Of freaking course.He looked perfect.
Malvor strolled in like he owned the realm. (He did.)His dark hair tousled, that perfectly calculated messiness.
Expression lazy. Smug. Infuriating.
Even disheveled, he looked like he had chosen to be flawless.
Infuriating.
"Hello, Annie darling," he drawled, voice thick with amusement."Sleep well?"
She sipped her coffee. Nodded."Yes. I slept great. Thank you."
Malvor blinked.Brow arched.
Actual… gratitude?No sarcasm? No thinly veiled disdain?
His brain practically short-circuited.
She tilted her head slightly."And you? Did you sleep well?"
That was all the invitation he needed.
His grin bloomed instantly.
"Dearest Annie," he began dramatically, one hand over his heart, "I only sleep when I choose to. And last night? I did not choose to."
He leaned on the counter like it owed him rent.
"Instead," he continued, "I embarked on a perilous journey across the chaotic realms. A voyage of epic proportions."
She lifted one unimpressed brow. That was all the encouragement he needed.
"You see, I was locked in battle with a celestial phoenix—over the last drop of divine ambrosia. It was fierce. Noble. Flames! Lightning! Symphony of power!"
He waved a hand grandly.
"But alas! Just as I was about to claim victory, betrayal struck. A rogue band of time-traveling sorcerers ambushed me—jealous, of course. They wept at my brilliance. I let them leave with some of their dignity intact."
He sighed, like the tale genuinely exhausted him."And that, my dear Annie, is why I did not sleep."
Anastasia stared at him.
Then took another slow sip of coffee.
"So… you stayed up doing absolutely nothing."
Malvor gasped, clutching his chest. "How dare you!"
She shrugged. "You could've just said that."
He squinted at her. "You are no fun at all."
She lifted her coffee in a silent cheers.Took another sip.
Malvor stared at her a moment longer. Then smirked.
Oh. He was going to enjoy this.