The topic of the meeting shifted.Another holiday.Another festival.
This one?For Luxor.
Golden boy Luxor.The God of Light. The God of Flashy Lights.
And if Malvor's entrances were extravagant, Luxor's could be even worse.
He glanced up at the god in question—all sun-kissed arrogance and effortless beauty.
Dark hair. Gold eyes. Tan skin that practically gleamed like polished bronze.
Gorgeous.
Then again, they were gods—they were all gorgeous.
Still.
Malvor winked at Luxor.
Luxor rolled his eyes, unimpressed but so used to Malvor's nonsense that it barely registered.
And unfortunately, that sent Malvor's thoughts spiraling.Down.Into something very, very inappropriate.Involving Luxor.
Specifically how he might get those golden eyes to do something other than glare.Something more… intense.Something filthy.
His grip on Anastasia's thigh tightened.Then slid higher.More demanding.More insistent.
Luxor kept talking, oblivious.Malvor did not hear a single word.
His mind was very much elsewhere.
Ah, yes.That one time.
…Well.
Technically two times.
But Malvor had been far too wasted to properly remember one of them.
Shame.A real, damn shame.
Because Luxor's realm?It was beautiful.
A golden paradise of pyramids, palaces, and perfection.
Of traps, of course—Luxor had a thing for tests and proving worthiness—but Malvor had always found the challenge entertaining.
Maybe it was time for a visit.A little trip to that glorious, sun-drenched kingdom.
For business, obviously.Strictly.Professional.
Malvor's grip on Anastasia's thigh inched even higher.
Just as Malvor's fingers reached the apex of where he really wanted to be—
Anastasia placed her hand over his.
A silent pause.A moment of wordless communication.
Malvor, lips close to her ear, whispered,"Annie Princess, you are no fun."
Anastasia's expression didn't shift.She simply looked at him, cool and unreadable.
And then—She let go.
Just like that.
If he wanted to continue, he could.No protest. No refusal.
But that ruined the fun.
How dare she allow it?How dare she not resist, not fight, not react?
Malvor stared at her, seething internally.
Damn woman.That was not how the game was played.
Every gods-damned time.She does this.Ruins the fun.
Malvor felt her imperceptible smirk before he even saw it.She knew.
His fingers squeezed her thigh one last time in silent retaliation before he pulled away, placing both hands dramatically on the table.
Fine. Fine.
His gaze drifted over the other gods, noting—as he always did—that they were all perfect.
Every single one.
Perfect faces.Perfect bodies.
No flaws. No stray details.
And then there was Annie.
Beautiful. But—flawed.
In small ways, ways he hadn't really considered before.
She had… hair.
Not head hair. Everyone had that—even the goddesses, with their perfect, sculpted brows and effortless waves of divine locks.
No, Annie had hair everywhere.Arms, legs—probably more places, if he went looking.
Was that… gross?
He squinted, examining the fine hairs on her forearm.
No.No, it wasn't gross.
It was just… normal.Mortal.
His own arms were smooth, untouched by anything as unrefined as stray hair. Had they always been?
He tilted his head.His own appearance…
Had it changed over time?
His hair had always been this deep, rich chestnut color. His eyes always a perfect tan-gold.
Both excellent colors on him, obviously.
But he thought back—way back.
The 70s.
He had definitely had chest hair in the 70s.Because chest hair had been incredibly fashionable.
He shuddered, physically recoiling at the memory of his own ridiculous haircut back then.
What was he thinking?
Had his hair actually been longer? Had he chosen that mustache, or had his appearance just… adjusted to mortal trends?
Oh, gods above and below.
Did his appearance shift based on what was attractive to mortals at any given time?
Of course it did.
They all changed.All the gods.
Subtle shifts.Slight adjustments.Nothing drastic—but enough.
Enough to be relevant.Enough to be wanted.
Hadn't he always been the epitome of whatever was most desirable?
Hadn't they all?
Hadn't he once had absurdly broad shoulders and a square jaw, back when warriors were the height of mortal lust?
Hadn't his features softened in the last century, just enough to fit a new ideal?
Hadn't he—
Malvor stared at his hands like they held forbidden knowledge.
Of course they changed.
But realizing it was deeply unsettling.
Malvor's thoughts wandered.Little things.Trivial things.
Like Annie's flaws.
Yes, yes. Where was he?
Oh, right.
He looked back at her face, tilting his head slightly.
She had lines.
Lines.
Malvor squinted at her face.
The lines.
They weren't deep, not like the ones mortals got when they aged past their prime, but they were there.
The softest creases at the corners of her eyes when she narrowed them in suspicion. The faintest dip in her brow when she was unimpressed (which, unfortunately, was often).
Were those laugh lines?
Had she laughed enough in her life to earn those?
He was almost certain she hadn't.
And yet, there they were.
Etched into her otherwise young, mortal-perfect face like the tiniest betrayals of time.
Her skin should have been flawless. Not just flawless, but divinely untouched—like the other goddesses, their faces smoothed to inhuman, porcelain perfection.
But she had… character.
Little things, barely there, only visible if you really looked.
And gods above, he was really looking.
If he pressed his thumb just beneath her eye, would it smooth away?Would it stay?Would she get more lines?Was she still aging, just incredibly slowly?
Would she—
Oh, gods.
Would she get old woman hands?
Mortal hands had a very specific way of aging.They got veiny, bony, papery.Would she—
He snorted, the thought hitting him all at once.
Old Woman Annie.Granny Annie.
The idea of calling her that—of immortalizing it—was so funny, the laughter just burst out of him.
Aerion immediately looked over, unimpressed.
"Something funny, Malvor?"
Malvor, still half-laughing, tilted his head back lazily.
"Oh, just the way your face looks when you speak. Like an overcooked potato trying to lecture a room full of people who don't give a single shit."
Aerion sighed.A deep, long-suffering sigh.
And then, as if deciding Malvor wasn't worth the energy, he simply continued with his boring festival agenda.
Malvor grinned to himself.
He had so many new questions about Old Woman Annie.
He was never letting this go.