Malvor expected sweat. He did not expect violence.
The moment Arbor shifted them into the training chamber—one of his favorites, a ruined cathedral of broken stained glass and endless sand—Annie dropped into a stance he didn't recognize.
Not dance. Not display. Combat.
Her body coiled low. Breathing slowed. Eyes narrowed to slits of calculation.
She shrank—not with fear, but precision. Smaller. Quieter. Sharper. Like she was letting the world forget her… until it was too late.
Then she moved.
Crack. A punch like thunder split the air.
Spin. Elbow. Drop. Sweep. No hesitation. No flourish.
She wasn't reacting. She was remembering.
And gods, she was beautiful.
Not soft. Not celestial.
Deadly.
Malvor leaned against a shattered pillar and tried—genuinely tried—not to look too enchanted.
He failed in spectacular fashion.
She wasn't performing. Not for him. Not for anyone. She was testing herself.
It was... exhilarating.
She flowed through the room like she'd been engineered for violence. Not just trained to defend—trained to end.
Her foot slammed into a practice dummy. It cracked across the floor and disintegrated mid-roll.
She just roundhouse-kicked a training dummy into the astral plane and I am unreasonably turned on.
Arbor, in its usual passive-aggressive fashion, conjured another.
She didn't pause. She hit harder.
Malvor laughed, a note of awe slipping into the sound. "Stars help me, this is my wife."
One day, he'd make that true. Not with rings or temples or mortal vows.
With chaos and shadow, silk and starlight. A ceremony that would be part riot, part religion.
She wouldn't need a crown. She'd need the universe to kneel.
And he wouldn't have it any other way.
She moved like war dressed in velvet. My wife.
The thought hit him like prophecy.
Not yet. But someday. Because this—this was his forever: The fury. The fire. The divine disaster who made him ache.
And she was his.
She didn't glance at him. Didn't smile.
She was too far inside the rhythm of her own storm.
And he loved it.
Loved seeing her like this. Not just surviving. Not just healing.
Owning it. Choosing it.
But then, a thought slithered in—uninvited and cruel.
What if she'd gone with Aerion?
What if this fire had been forged into a blade, sharpened not for her, but for some temple's glory?
She would've been terrifying. She would've been perfect.
And she would have never smiled again.
Malvor watched her now—grit in her teeth, sweat on her brow, knuckles bloodied—and knew the truth:
She was a weapon.
But here? With him?
She was Annie.
Even in rage. Even in ruin.
Because she chose this. Not because it was demanded. Not because it was drilled into her.
Because her body remembered. And her soul had decided.
Malvor crossed his arms, pulse ticking faster with every strike she landed.
She ducked. Blocked. Backhanded a conjured blade like it insulted her.
Then she looked at him.
Eyes locked. A silent dare.
Well?
He smirked.
"Oh, we're sparring now?"
Arbor whistled. The floor shifted beneath them. The cathedral dimmed.
The god of chaos stepped into the circle.
They circled each other in the fractured nave, light bleeding through broken glass, rainbows jagged across the sand.
Pillars leaned like old drunks. The air trembled with promise.
Malvor cracked his neck. Rolled his shoulders. Grinned like a fool in love with the end of the world.
"So what's the warm-up, my little war goddess?" he purred. "Want to wrestle? Stretch together? Maybe some... synchronized stabbing?"
She didn't answer.
Just dropped into a stance that said: Try me, clown.
His grin widened.
"Skipping foreplay. Got it."
At first, he didn't take her seriously. Not really.
He was proud, yes—but also distracted. Watching. Admiring.
She moved like wrath wearing restraint.
And he?
He was lounging. Floating on a breeze of cocky magic.
"Don't hold back on me, Star Shine. I can take it."
She didn't.
She lunged.
A blur of motion. A knee near his ribs. A foot grazing his cheekbone.
He blinked. "Oh okay! Straight to attempted murder. Love the enthusiasm."
He dodged. Easy. Popped behind her in a flash of violet chaos and whispered by her ear:
"Missed me."
She elbowed him. Hard.
Right in the gut.
"Ow. Rude. That's my flirting lung."
She didn't stop. Jab. Jab. Low sweep.
Malvor flipped backward, laughing like a lunatic with a crush.
"Oh, you are mad at me. That's hot."
She came at him harder. No hesitation.
Her shadow cracked the floor.
Leyla's domain.
Darkness swirled beneath her feet and reached for him—writhing fingers of pitch, sticky and hungry, wrapping around his legs.
He blinked. "Oh. Well. Rude."
She charged.
Ravina's vines exploded from the earth—thick, thorned, and furious. They climbed the broken pillars, hissed toward him like they remembered every offense he'd ever committed.
Malvor snapped his fingers and vanished just before a vine could impale him. He reappeared behind her, grinning through adrenaline.
She didn't miss a beat.
Didn't even flinch.
Another strike.
He dodged again, tapping her shoulder mid-dodge like he was tagging her in some divine game of chase.
"Annie, love, I like a little aggression, but I'm not sure what the plan is here—ACK—"
She clipped his ribs.
He wheezed.
"Okay. You do have a plan. Proud of you."
He backed off with a flash of chaos, sparks of golden magic flicking from his fingers, blinking through time just far enough to stay out of reach.
"Gotta say, babe—this is the sexiest murder attempt I've ever survived. And that includes Brigitte's dream clown phase. Don't ask."
She hurled a dagger of shadow at his face.
He ducked.
Barely.
"Whoa! Rude. Also, 9 out of 10—your shoulder dropped."
She rolled her eyes and threw two more.
He gasped. "Ten out of ten! There she is!"
Still laughing. Still cocky.
Right up until she vanished.
Just… gone.
He blinked. "Wait—"
She reappeared above him.
And dropped like judgment.
He blocked—barely—sliding backward across the sand, sparks of chaos bursting outward.
She wasn't playing anymore.
And she wasn't alone.
Vines snapped from the sand. Shadows clawed the air. They knew his name.
He blinked through space again, but she followed.
Not cleanly. Not smoothly.
But enough.
Enough to land a punch to his jaw that made his ears ring.
He staggered.
"Ohhh shit," he laughed, giddy, blood in his mouth. "You're copying me."
Her grin was slow.
Sinister.
Beautiful.
His heart did something profoundly stupid.
"You absolute thief," he gasped, dodging another wave of raw chaos. Her version now—wild and blue and gorgeous. "You took my power and made it prettier. How dare you."
She shrugged mid-fight. Arrogant. Effortless.
His hands lit with fire.
Her fingers shimmered with shadow and time.
They collided.
Boom.
Explosion. Sand surged. Glass cracked. Light bent.
He hit the ground hard. Wind knocked out. Armor split.
She stalked toward him, vines twitching around her like they were licking their teeth.
Malvor coughed, waving dust from his eyes.
"Okay, okay—" he wheezed. "I'll admit it."
She tilted her head.
Waiting.
He pushed to his feet slowly. Blood on his lip. Still grinning.
"I might be really into this."
She didn't give him time to clarify.
She charged.
He barely blocked.
Then it was chaos.
A blur of movement. Fist against flame. Vines lashing. Shadows spinning. She moved with Aerion's precision. Navir's calculation. Ravina's rage. Leyla's darkness.
And his chaos.
Just enough to keep him off balance.
Malvor was sweating. Laughing. Losing.
And gods—
She was beautiful.
Not delicate.
Beautiful like a thunderstorm swallowing a battlefield.
Then—she stole his move.
Bent reality around him.
The floor warped, inverted. Vines rose in impossible geometry.
And—
WHAM.
Malvor slammed into the ground.
Pinned.
Shadow. Vine. Air. Even his own magic, twisted back on him with her will.
She stood over him, panting.
Victor. Silent. Glorious.
Vines wrapped his wrist like jealous lovers. Sand crackled under him.
And he? He just laughed.
Breathless. Broken. Delighted.
"Oh, Annie…" he groaned. "If you were trying to awaken something in me…"
A slow grin stretched across his bloodied mouth.
"Mission. Accomplished."