Dinner was extravagant, of course.Malvor only ate the best, the most refined, the most indulgent meals the world had to offer.
Tonight, it was a dish so meticulously crafted that even mortals would consider it art.
He sat across from Anastasia, sipping his wine with a lazy smirk.
"This," he declared, gesturing to the perfectly plated masterpiece before them,"is my favorite meal."
She raised an eyebrow, waiting.
"I first discovered it in the eighties," he continued,"at this tiny, hole-in-the-wall restaurant. It was magnificent. The flavors, the richness, the experience."
He sighed dramatically, staring off as if reliving a fond memory.
"Ah, Annie darling, now that was a decade."
She took a bite, chewing slowly as he launched into full-blown nostalgia.
"The big hair! The music! The neon!"He grinned."It was a time of true excess. The parties were legendary. The fashion was horrendous, and yet, iconic. People thought they were living in the future, Annie baby, and I revered in it all."
Then, Anastasia did something unexpected.
"Yeah, I remember the eighties," she said casually, taking another bite.
Malvor laughed, waving a dismissive hand.
"Oh, Annie, child, you are what? Twenty-two? Twenty-three?"
Still chewing, she looked at him.
"I was born in 1969."
Malvor snorted, shaking his head.
"Annie, love, be serious."
She was serious.His grin faltered.
Wait.Wait.
He did the math.
1969? It was 2024.That would make her—
"Fifty-five," he muttered, staring at her in dawning horror.
He blinked.
"FIFTY-FIVE?!"
Anastasia, damn her, just shrugged.Another shrug.
Malvor gripped the edge of the table.
"Annie? What?"
Another shrug!
"Annie?! HOW are you that old?"
She finally looked up at him, and for the first time, he saw it.
Those eyes.
They were not young.They weren't the eyes of someone in their early twenties.They weren't full of naive curiosity or the reckless bravado of youth.
They were steady.Sharp.Knowing.
There was wisdom there.Experience. A lifetime of it.
She sighed, setting down her fork.
"I was blessed with magic to stop my aging process."
A beat of silence.
"Oh."
"Yeah."
That was it?!No story? No elaborate explanation?Nothing?!
Malvor twitched.
"That's it? That's all you're giving me?"
She lifted her glass and took a sip of water.
He narrowed his eyes.
Damn it, he would pry the words out of her if he had to.
"Annie, beautiful Annie," Malvor sighed, drumming his fingers against the table."How did they stop the aging process? What kind of magic did they use?"
No answer.
Of course.
He debated commanding her to answer.The urge was there, thrumming beneath his skin.
A god's word was law, and he could make her tell him whatever he wanted.
But when he opened his mouth—
"I don't know," she said simply."All I know is that they used magic."
He closed his mouth.
Studied her.
Really looked at her.
The forever-young face.The striking too-blue eyes.The kind of mouth that could be a distraction in the best and worst ways.
She was stunning—not just for a mortal, but in general.
It made him wonder.
"Is your appearance because of magic?" he asked, curiosity creeping into his voice.
Anastasia shook her head.
"No… and yes."
Malvor raised a brow, intrigued.
She set her glass down, fingers tapping lightly against the stem.
"This is me," she said slowly,"but almost the best, perfect enhanced version. If that makes sense?"
He blinked.
Then nodded—because actually?It did make sense.
His own appearance shifted depending on what he wanted.Sharper when he was feeling cruel, softer when he was feeling playful.
She must have seen something in his expression, because she smirked slightly.
"Well," he drawled,"you sure do know how to design women, Annie sweetheart."
Anastasia smiled.Not a smirk.Not a polite nothing.
A soft, secretive thing.Knowing.
And that...
That was dangerous.
Anastasia finished her meal, quiet as Malvor studied her.
Not subtle glances.Not passing curiosity.
Staring.
Bold.Unwavering.As if she were a puzzle he had only just realized he desperately wanted to solve.
She set down her fork, tilting her head slightly.
"Malvor?"
His name on her sinful mouth.
His fingers twitched.
"Why are you staring?"
Malvor's lips curled into something lazy, something almost casual but too focused to be idle.
"Oh, Annie," he murmured,"you are the most lovely mortal I have ever met."
His head tilted slightly.
"But I suppose you are not truly mortal, are you? Not exactly?"
She held his gaze, unbothered.
"Not exactly. But I am mortal."
His eyes swept over her.The contours of her face.The lines of her posture.The way she existed in a space that felt like it shouldn't contain her.
Then, his gaze caught on her hands.
Not the graceful fingers.Not the delicate shape.
The runes.
He had noticed them before, in passing, but had never really looked.
Now, they held his attention completely.
At first glance, they seemed like strange tattoos—intricate, curling symbols marked along the backs of her hands, stretching faintly toward her wrists.
Malvor tentatively reached out—then stopped.
He met her eyes.
"May I?"
A sigh.A hesitation.
Then, a nod.
He took her hands gently—very gently—as if the god of chaos was afraid to break something.
He lifted them to eye level, studying the markings.
Not ink.Not tattoos.
Scars.
Some faint, barely there. Others deep, carved into her skin in a way that spoke of pain long endured.
His thumb brushed over one of the older scars, tracing the edges.The texture was different. Raised. Uneven.
A story he did not know.
Malvor had lived countless lifetimes. Had seen everything.
And yet, this?
This was something new.
His grip on her wrist tightened—not enough to hurt, but enough that he had to consciously remind himself to let go.
"When did they start this?"
His voice was low.Like thunder rolling in the distance.
Anastasia inhaled slowly.If she noticed the tension radiating from him, she didn't comment on it.
"The first ones… I was eight."
His entire body locked.
"The magic only works if the pain is present," she continued.Her voice was steady, but there was something in her eyes—memory. Resignation.Acceptance of a truth she had never been allowed to fight.
"So no medication. No numbing it. Just pain."
Malvor said nothing, jaw tight as she kept speaking.
"The first time was awful. My right forearm.I passed out halfway through. They stopped. When I woke up… they continued."
His fingers twitched over her skin.
"It felt like days for them to finish," she murmured."Chanting and carving. Over and over."
Malvor stared at her.At the calmness with which she said it.
Like it was a fact.A detail of her existence—not the absolute atrocity it was.
His entire body burned with something dark and unfamiliar.
Something he didn't have a name for.
And for the first time in a long, long time—
Malvor did not know what to say.