By the time we finished, I was dazed in the best way, glitter still stuck to my mouth, stomach full, head spinning from food that may or may not have winked at me. Malvor stood, extending a hand. "Come on, Annie, my moonbeam of mayhem. You haven't seen the best part yet."
Still laughing, I let him lead me down a drifting walkway, the cobbles adjusting like a living sidewalk. Around us, balloon-like homes bobbed in the cosmic breeze, swaying as though tethered to nothing but whimsy. Then I heard it: the sound of a child's squeal. We stepped through an arch of glowing crystal vines and into the strangest, most wonderful park I had ever seen. The grass shimmered with faint light, tickling under my bare feet. Swings floated in looping circles. Trees with cotton candy leaves shaded upside-down fountains. A gelatin slide bounced squealing children all the way down.
The children themselves… gods, what even were they? One with wings too big for his body looped over a girl whose tail was made of starlight. A tiny child with hooves and flowers growing from her hair spun beside a boy made entirely of smoke and giggles. A dog proudly walked a toddler who looked suspiciously like a plant. Malvor settled onto a floating bench drifting lazily in midair and patted the spot beside him. I sat, unable to stop staring. "I could people-watch here all day," he said quietly.
I turned. He wasn't grinning. Not posturing. Just watching. There was something still, almost reverent, in his face. "Do you come here often?" I asked.
"Sometimes," he said. "When I want to remember that chaos doesn't always mean destruction. Sometimes it means… new things being born." He nodded toward the children. "None of them make sense. They're all glorious accidents. Yet… they laugh."
I leaned against him, resting my head on his shoulder. "This place is insane."
"It's mine," he said softly. "Now it's yours too. If you want it."
I closed my eyes, listening to the giggles and the whisper of candy leaves swaying in the breeze. I did want it. All of it. Even the gelatin slide. Especially that. The children darted across the playground like joy had never been caged. Some had wings too big for their little bodies, others had tails that glittered like starlight, and a few were made of pure mischief and light. I watched them, my heart aching in a way I couldn't quite name. "Malvor," I said softly, "do you have any children?"
He recoiled so dramatically I nearly laughed. One hand to his chest, eyes wide like I'd accused him of murder. "Absolutely not. Gods no. Chaos no. In so many gloriously loud and echoing no's… no. I have never spawned."
I blinked at him, amused. "That was… a lot."
He barreled on. "The idea of children has always felt like a long-term curse wrapped in tiny grubby hands. Do you know how loud they are? And sticky? Maximus alone has more spawnlings than I can count. Twenty-eight, Annie. Twenty-eight. Every one of them comes out with some ridiculous god-power. Have you ever seen a toddler who can shoot lasers from strange places? Disgusting. Dangerous. Disrespectful. Disaster."
My lips twitched, but my gaze stayed on the children. "Would you ever want them?"
That question changed him. The dramatic tilt of his head stilled. His voice softened. "I never did. Not once. Not in all my centuries." He hesitated. "But… maybe. With you. I might want something I have never let myself want."
I turned to him, startled. That was when the ache hit. It pulsed through me, sharp and quiet, spilling down the bond before I could stop it. The pain of what I could never have. He moved instantly, wrapping me in his arms, pulling me into the warmth of him. "Annie," he whispered, raw, "I did not mean it like that." My hands rested against his chest. I couldn't speak. "Your value to me," he said firmly, "is not in what you can or cannot give me. It's you. Your mind. Your chaos. Your laugh. The way you look at me like I am worth something." I didn't cry. But I clung to him tighter. "And besides," he murmured with a faint grin, "in this realm of chaos, babies aren't always made the old-fashioned way."
That earned him a laugh, small but real. And for a while, it was enough just to let him hold me. We stayed like that, listening to the laughter of strange little beings who didn't care that they weren't supposed to exist. His thumb traced circles on my back until my breathing steadied. Then, because I couldn't help myself, I said, "Wait. You're an ageless being. How in all your existence have you not had children? You're not exactly celibate."
He gave me a flat, unamused stare. "Annie. That is not funny."
I grinned anyway. "Come on. Admit it. You've had plenty of chances."
"Yes. I have turned them all down."
"You said you never wanted children," I pressed, tilting my head. "But still. In all this time? Not once?"
"No." His voice was firm. "For a god to have children, they must want them. Our magic doesn't… slip."
I blinked. "So no accidents?"
"Yes and no."
My brow furrowed. "What does that mean?"
He sighed like I'd just signed him up for jury duty. "It means gods have urges, but creation only happens when we will it. There's no oops. If a child is born of a god, it's because someone chose it. Willed it. Made it so."
"Even if the parents aren't on the same page?"
He nodded. "Even then. If one wills it strongly enough, that is enough. But it is rare. Very rare."
I let that settle. "So all those divine children…"
"Every single one," he confirmed, "was wanted. Intended."
"You never did?"
"I never wanted to bind myself like that. Never wanted to be responsible for something permanent." His voice softened. "Until you."
He didn't say it aloud, but I felt it, deep and unshakable, thrumming through the bond.
And for the first time, the idea didn't hurt. Not because it erased what I couldn't have, but because he was here, with me, now, in a place where chaos meant anything was possible.
He must have felt the heaviness still lingering, because of course he did the thing Malvor always did when emotions pressed too close: he ran straight for nonsense.
"Well," he said, stroking his chin like a scholar of mischief, "the good news is, babies don't have to be made the old-fashioned way. We have options."
I arched a brow. "Options?"
"Option one: win one as a prize. There's a ring toss at the Carnival. Instead of a goldfish, you get a baby. Totally random. Could be a screamer. Could be the god of spreadsheets. Who knows?" I snorted. "Option two: build one. Like an Ikea kit. Probably missing a limb at first, but Arbor can fix that." I laughed. "Option three: cosmic wine, full moon, and, bam, a tiny version of us bossing the shadows by morning."
"Disturbingly plausible."
"Option four," he said, lowering his voice like it was classified, "plant one. Magical cabbage patch. Six weeks, a little emotional compost, very sustainable." I doubled over, wheezing. "And option five," he announced grandly, "steal one from Maximus. He's got at least twelve spares. Call it divine recycling."
Tears stung my eyes from laughing. "You're horrible."
"Innovative," he corrected proudly. The ache in my chest loosened. I leaned into him, still laughing, still warm. His smile softened, just for me. "I don't care how it happens, Annie. I care that it's with you."
I looked up, eyes shimmering. "Even from a cabbage patch?"
"Especially from a cabbage patch."
We left the floating town hand in hand, both of us still giggling about baby cabbages. The stars were already out, though technically, this place didn't even have a sky. Just endless shimmer, endless shifting light, as if the whole realm had decided to pretend at infinity. Malvor squeezed my hand, his grin sharp but softer than usual.
"You've seen a lot of my Realm now, Annie," he murmured, voice full of that theatrical weight he loved so much. "But I saved the best for last."
I arched a brow. "The best?"
"The absolute best." His wink glittered like starlight. "I call it the Observatory. Not because it watches but because it lets you see."
With a flick of his hand, the floating chaos dissolved. The carnival, the laughter, the noise, it all vanished. We stood on a vast, glassy platform suspended in the middle of nothing. Or everything. Below us: darkness that felt endless. Above us: galaxies, planets, stars. Some pulsed soft and steady, others blazed red and furious. Nebulas unfurled in slow, swirling dances, glowing like cosmic silk. There was no wind. No gravity. Just stardust and silence. Somehow, impossibly, it was warm. I edged closer, toes curling against the glass, startled when I realized there was no edge. The platform stretched forever in every direction, but not in a way that made me feel lost. It felt safe. Cradled. The hum of magic wrapped around me like a heartbeat.
"This is…" I couldn't even finish. Words weren't enough.
"Here." Malvor's voice had gone low, reverent. He reached for me, guiding my hand toward a cluster of golden stars. The moment he did, that section bloomed larger, spilling into a massive illusion, rotating slowly, burning brighter.
"Every star has a story," he said. "Some are already dead. Some are just being born. Some hold worlds. Some hold dreams." His mouth curled into that crooked grin. "And some are only here to be pretty. Like me."
I snorted despite myself, but my hand kept reaching. When I brushed my fingers across the galaxy, the starlight responded, flaring brighter, spilling sparks of color across my skin.
"They respond to me?" I whispered.
"They respond to intention," he said, and for once there was no joke in his voice. Just quiet certainty. "And you, my Annie… you're very good at wanting things."
I let the starlight curl around my hand, my chest tightening. I wanted too much. Always had. And here, under this impossible sky, the wanting felt endless. He didn't interrupt the silence. For once, Malvor just stood there, watching me. Letting me breathe. Letting me look. Letting me feel.
"Why bring me here?" I asked finally, my eyes still on the galaxies spinning slowly above us.
He leaned close, his voice a low murmur against my ear. "Because when I built this, I thought it was for me. But now… I know it was for you."
I turned to him then, the words caught somewhere in my throat. My fingers brushed along the line of his jaw, soft, hesitant, but real. His forehead pressed to mine like it was the most natural thing in the world. Noses brushing. Breaths mingling. My heart hammering so hard I could swear the stars were echoing it. He kissed me. Not teasing. Not demanding. Not like all the games we had played before. This kiss was different. It was soft. Reverent. A question and an answer all at once. It wasn't about hunger. It wasn't even about passion. It was about belonging. My gasp broke into his mouth, my fingers knotting in his shirt. His hands slid to my face like I was fragile, like I was precious, like I wasn't carved from scars and survival.
The stars spun overhead, galaxies blooming brighter every time my lips moved against his. The platform itself seemed to hum beneath us, warm and alive, like the whole place approved. He kissed me like I was something holy. I kissed him back like he was something I couldn't bear to lose. When his mouth moved down my throat, pressing to the frantic pulse there, I shivered. When he traced his lips along my collarbone, when he pressed kisses into the scars I usually hid, I shook. He didn't flinch. Didn't look away. He worshipped them. Worshipped me. And I let him. My hands roamed his body with growing boldness, learning him, mapping him like constellations across warm skin. Every sound he made, every hitch of breath, every groan, every whisper of my name. I drank it in like I had been dying of thirst.
He laid me down, the glass beneath us glowed, catching the stars in my hair, scattering them like jewels across my body. It didn't feel like conquest. It felt like consecration. We unraveled each other slowly, carefully, reverently. My laughter tangled with my gasps, my moans slipped into his mouth like confessions. Every touch felt like truth. Every kiss, a prayer. When he sank into me, I broke. Not in fear. Not in pain. But in the way walls fall when you realize you don't need them anymore. The bond screamed alive between us, full of golden heat and impossible light, flooding every part of me until I thought I might burst. There was no past in that moment. No scars. No chains. Only us.
The stars spun, the galaxies breathed, and we moved together, slow, aching, holy. Until I cried out his name, until he whispered mine like it was the only word that mattered, until there was nothing left but light and chaos and love. When it was over, I lay trembling against him, his thumb brushing reverently at the corner of my mouth. My body still hummed, every rune on my skin burning with something other than pain. Hope. His eyes locked on mine, soft and endless, and I knew. This wasn't just want. It wasn't even just love. It was home.