Chapter 5: You Notice? (Her POV)
The table cracked. I didn't outwardly react. I didn't understand why he was angry. I knew anger. Intimately, thoroughly, but not this kind. His was confusing. It unsettled me. My breath hitched. His anger didn't frighten me. The echo did. The sound of splintering wood crawled under my skin, too familiar, too close. "I… I'm going to my room."
He didn't stop me. Didn't even look up. Maybe he was lost in whatever storm I'd put in him. Or maybe I'd offended him. That was usually how these things went. I stood. Walked. The hallway blurred at the edges. My heartbeat climbed like it had a job to do. By the time I reached my room, the memory had already unfurled. The crack.
Not the table. Stone. I sat on the edge of the bed as the walls shifted, tightening like a fist. I pressed my palms into the mattress. Justice. That was what he called himself. Son of Valor. Son of Aerion. Born of righteousness, drenched in hypocrisy. I don't know if any of it was true, but he had enough money to be on the exclusive list. The one I served. He liked games. That night, he'd wanted two of us to play. I had always been requested by him. The halls had been shifting. A labyrinth designed for punishment. She and I ran barefoot across cold marble, breath tearing in our throats. We didn't scream. Screaming only made them excited. We just ran.
"If we split, one lives," she whispered. She was wrong. Hope makes us all fools. We didn't have time to argue. I heard him first. Heavy boots. Calm footsteps. A hunter who already knew the ending. CRACK.
Not wood. Bone. Her body hitting the wall before her mind caught up. I saw her silhouette jerk once. I saw her blood arc across the torchlight and spray my cheek. Warm and metallic. His hand around her throat. Her feet kicking once, twice. The wet gurgle that didn't sound like a person anymore. She didn't get a second chance. He turned to me next. He always played with his food before he devoured it.
My lungs locked. My body remembering what my mind refused to. I lay back on the bed and stared at the ceiling until the walls stopped moving. Pain is only unbearable if you let yourself feel it. His voice, his breath, the scrape of his boots on stone. It all bleeds together in my head until the memory collapses under its own weight. It always does. Memories like that don't stay sharp. They just… imprint. I exhale slowly. Releasing something I never chose to carry. My mind shows me what I survived. Then it puts it back just like training, conditioning, and Ahyona's priests had taught me to. I lie down not to comfort myself. Just because my body is tired. Sleep comes fast. It always does after remembering.
I woke before dawn on my third morning in Malvor's realm. For a heartbeat, I didn't move. Yesterday morning had taught me one thing: opening my eyes was an invitation for the realm to present something ridiculous. The room had been fit for a queen, gaudy and over-the-top. I finally opened my eyes and froze. Soft purple and cyan light drifted across the ceiling like slow-moving auroras. My favorite colors. Light that breathed with the room. The gold accents had dulled into muted bronze. The overwhelming cathedral-like arches had relaxed into gentle curves. The entire room had changed tone. What was once intimidating felt… almost safe. My throat tightened before I could stop it. I pushed upright slowly, eyes tracing the new shapes, the new hues. It wasn't subtle. It wasn't random. The house had changed the room for me. No one had ever adjusted anything for my comfort. I didn't know what to do with that. "Good morning," I muttered to the ceiling. "Thank you for the changes."
A soft ripple of violet light answered from the floorboards. I exhaled sharply and swung my legs over the edge of the bed. Don't let the cracks show, Anastasia. Routine. Routine was safe. Stretch. Roll shoulders. Neck. Arms. Breathe. Hold. Exhale. Push-ups. Squats. Core work. Shadow strikes. The colors shifted with my breath. Brightening when I focused, softening when I exhaled. Like the room was breathing with me. Training in a space responding to me felt…dangerously close to being cared for. I didn't like how that felt in my chest. I stepped into the bathroom next. The shower turned on at the exact right temperature again. Yesterday I'd thought it was chance. Today? I doubted it. The soap lathered smoothly. No scent. I hadn't noticed yesterday. But now it struck me: In a realm made of sensory overload the soap was plain. Neutral. Designed not to overwhelm. For me. My fingers tightened around the bar. My chest felt too heavy. Push it back down, Anastasia.
I rinsed quickly and stepped out. The self-adjusting mirror was gone. A large warm towel sat folded on the counter. The house was being careful with me. I didn't know whether that was comforting or terrifying. Clothes next. The wardrobe had rearranged itself overnight. Less silk and lace today, more practical options. Still dramatic, but toned down, as if someone had whispered "be normal" to an opera closet. I picked fitted black pants and a long-sleeved shirt soft enough to move in. The closet had learned something about me. I didn't like that either. When I opened the door, the hallway had changed again. Softer arches. Warm ambient light. Trinkets in soft purples and blues tucked into little alcoves. Curiosity humming in the air. The house wasn't just responding. It was…learning me. Trying to please me.
I didn't have to wander to find the kitchen this time. The path unfolded directly, doors opening just before I reached them. Helpful. Eager. Too eager. The kitchen greeted me like it had been waiting all night. Warm light pooled across stone counters, the hearth already lit to a comfortable glow. The shrine to coffee had expanded. Something, had added tiny purple and blue jars. I refused to think about it. I brewed a simple cup for myself but added a few ingredients and some whipped cream on top. Just as I finished topping the cup, he sauntered in. All smirk. Half-buttoned shirt like a 70's movie star. Hair tousled like he'd styled it by rolling in silk sheets. Eyes bright with mischief he hadn't voiced yet.
"Good morning, Annie sweetheart," he purred, sliding into the room like he owned gravity. Of course he did here.
I lifted my mug. "Morning."
He stopped mid-strut. His eyes flicked behind me. Toward the lingering trace of cyan light on my skin, toward the faint glitter of violet on my sleeve. His smirk faltered. Just slightly. "Oh. Well. Someone woke up… radiant."
The word hit harder than it should have. I ignored it. "Coffee?" I asked simply.
His grin returned instantly, theatrical and bright. "An offering? For me?" He pressed a hand to his chest. "Annie, darling, you'll make a god feel spoiled."
I poured and set a second mug in front of him. "You're already spoiled."
His laugh was warm. Real. "Deliciously true."
He added a disgusting amount of things to his coffee then took a long drink, eyes on me over the rim, calculating in that lazy, dangerous way he had. Something moved behind those warm caramel eyes.