With a snap of his fingers, the world shifted.
One moment, they were in his kitchen. The next—they were standing before a massive, imposing structure.
All Greek things.
Pillars. Marble. Grand staircases meant to make mortals feel small.
Inside, the entrance hall was lined with statues—one for each god and goddess. Life-like replicas.
Anastasia barely spared them a glance as they strolled through, heels clicking against polished stone.
But then—
As they passed Malvor's statue—
Its clothes dropped off.
Just fell right off, landing in a heap on the floor.
Naked Malvor. Marble edition.
Anastasia did not react.
Not even a glance down.
She simply kept walking.
Both real Malvor and statue Malvor shared an identical, deeply offended puckered-lip pout.
"Annie," Malvor drawled, placing a dramatic hand over his heart, "not even a curious look?"
Anastasia narrowed her eyes at him.
And kept walking.
Malvor let out an offended gasp, throwing his hands in the air as he chased after her.
"Truly, you wound me, my heartless little Annie-dumpling!"
"You're my very own Annie Banannie Fofannie."
Malvor grinned, stepping beside her as they walked.
"That's right, I just turned you into a nursery rhyme."
Anastasia said nothing.
Not a glare. Not a sigh. Not even an eye twitch.
She just kept walking, heels clicking against the marble as they moved past the grand entry hall, down a long, intimidating corridor, and into an absurdly large formal meeting room.
Inside, all eleven other Pantheon members were already seated in their designated spots.
Waiting. Watching.
The moment Malvor entered, an audible sigh rippled through the room.
Half exhausted. Half already annoyed.
Malvor, of course, preened.
"Oh, my darlings, you look positively miserable without me."
Anastasia suppressed a smirk.
Malvor carried the comically oversized box in both arms, strutting forward with the air of a man presenting a sacred treasure.
He made a grand show of placing it in front of Aerion—setting it down just so, positioning it perfectly in the center of the table.
"A gift for our fearless leader," he announced with a flourish.
Aerion barely glanced at him before looking at the box, eyes narrowing in suspicion.
"What is this?"
Malvor sighed, long and suffering, as if he were the one being inconvenienced.
"Aerion, you dense fool, I said it is a gift." He gestured dramatically to the box. "You know? You unwrap it. Discover the surprise I have so graciously brought you."
Aerion's expression darkened.
"Do I have to open this?"
Malvor gasped, clutching his chest like he'd just been stabbed.
"Aerion, yes! You must! What kind of monster refuses a gift?"
Aerion's jaw ticked. The look on his face was pure, unfiltered annoyance.
Malvor lived for it.
Anastasia stood to the side with the air of a woman who wanted no part in this nonsense but was mildly entertained nonetheless.
Finally, with a heavy, long-suffering sigh, Aerion tore the wrapping paper off.
The room watched in silence as he lifted the lid, pulled out layers of unnecessary tissue paper—
And finally, with stiff, mechanical movements, he pulled out the model.
A perfectly crafted, absurdly detailed miniature replica of the Pantheon's formal office.
Made entirely of glue and popsicle sticks.
The silence was deafening.
Aerion let out a long, suffering sigh, rubbing his temples as if Malvor's mere existence had already drained him.
"What. Is. This?"
Malvor gasped, deeply offended.
"Aerion, you tragically simple-minded sword polisher, this is your gift! I made this. With my own two hands. Do you like it?"
He flashed a schoolboy grin, eyes glittering with mischief.
Aerion stared at the model like it was a bomb waiting to go off.
"What is wrong with it?" he asked suspiciously. "Is it a prank? A trap? Will it explode? Transform into a chaos beast? Spew glitter? Unleash a storm of sentient frogs? Curse my entire bloodline?"
The longer he listed possibilities, the wider Malvor's grin became.
"My honorable yet hopelessly dense, walking embodiment of a lecture, Aerion," Malvor purred, leaning on the table with exaggerated patience, "this is just a gift."
Aerion narrowed his eyes.
"I don't believe you."
Malvor beamed.
"You shouldn't."
But for once in his entire, chaotic, trouble-making existence—
This was just a simple thing.
No tricks.
No hidden enchantments.
No exploding frogs, tragically.
Just a perfectly crafted, painstakingly detailed, popsicle stick replica of the Pantheon's formal office.
Aerion looked at him.
Looked at the model.
Looked back at him.
"…Why?"
Malvor shrugged, still grinning.
"Because I wanted to, Aerion sweet cheeks."
Aerion stared.
Then—with the slow realization that there was nothing more to this ridiculous situation—he exhaled a long, exhausted breath and rubbed both hands down his face.
"I hate you."
Malvor preened.
"I know."