The door opened. I scrambled to my feet so fast the floor seemed to tilt under me. My chest ached with the sudden rush of hope. "Annie—"
"No." Her voice stopped me cold. Not cruel. Not icy. Just… final. She stepped out barefoot, wrapped in the oversized robe I'd left her days ago. Damp hair clung to her cheeks, her eyes rimmed red. Not from crying, but from exhaustion. Too many sleepless nights. Too many wars fought inside her head where I couldn't follow. I froze, lips parting, but she raised her hand and cut me off before I could speak.
"I had to shut you out," she said. "And you kept pushing."
The words hit like a slap. My shoulders twitched. She lifted her chin, her gaze locking on mine, sharp and unflinching. "Do you have any idea how hard it is to block you out? Your voice? Your guilt? Your pain?"
I couldn't answer.
"I was trying to get them out." Her jaw tightened. "Aerion. Navir." A pause. Her eyes darkened. "Ravina."
The name cracked through me like a hammer to bone. I recoiled, breath ripped from my chest.
"Ravina?" My voice sounded hollow even to me. I didn't want to believe it. Couldn't.
Memories rose unbidden: Ravina's laughter under the bioluminescent canopy of her forest, vines curling at her wrists like jewelry. Her teasing voice when she leaned too close. Nights tangled in branches and stories. Mornings where she made her realm feel, if not safe, then… familiar. Once, long ago, she had been the only one I'd almost given exclusivity. My near-friend. My near-something. And now? She had touched Annie. She knew what Annie meant. She had to. And still...
My hands shook, fury gnawing through my veins like acid. "Why?" My voice cracked. "Why would she—"
Annie didn't answer. She didn't have to. This wasn't Aerion, brutish in his pride. It wasn't Navir, cold and clinical. It was Ravina. The one I had trusted enough to plant dream gardens with. The one who once whispered poetry into my skin. She had marked Annie. My chest split under the weight of it. Not rage this time. Betrayal. A deeper wound. I looked at Annie. She held my gaze steady, unwavering, calm in a way I wasn't. Because she hadn't broken. I had.
"She was supposed to be better," I whispered. "She was supposed to know me."
Annie's jaw flickered, but her eyes stayed steady. "Then you weren't paying attention. She's always liked growing things where no one's looking."
The words twisted like a knife. Ravina hadn't changed. I had. Now I was the one left choking on the pieces. Annie didn't reach for me. She didn't need to. She was already standing taller than the gods who had scarred her. But me? I had never felt weaker. Or angrier.
She pushed her robe aside, revealing the delicate runes carved on her upper left thigh: Illusory vines and flowers swirl, faintly glowing. "Ravina's," she said flatly. "She tried to tangle my thoughts with vines. I untangled them." Horror iced through me.
"I shut you out," she continued, "because if I didn't, you would have made it worse. Not on purpose. But your pain? Your guilt? It made them louder. I needed to hear myself."
Her robe fell back into place, hiding the marks again. "I didn't need your grief. Or your sorrow." She inhaled. "And I sure as hell didn't need your sympathy." My throat tightened.
"I've lived through worse," she said, voice like steel. "You know that." I nodded slowly, teeth grinding.
"This?" She gestured to herself. "This didn't break me. You think it did because you feel broken. That's your problem, Malvor. Not mine." Her words cut clean.
"They touched my body, not my mind. And the only reason they got that far was because they cheated. Because they're gods." Her eyes flared. "But I am not carrying this like a wound. I'm carrying it like a weapon." I had no words. Only silence pressing at my ribs.
"I don't want your comfort," she said, stepping closer, her heat brushing mine. "I want revenge."
My voice came out low, steady. "You'll get it."
"Good."
Her eyes softened, barely. Not tender. Certain. "And Malvor… I need you to know something." I braced for another blow.
"This doesn't change how I feel about you." My heart stuttered. I blinked at her, stunned.
"I still want you," she said, simple as a dagger in the dark. "I still feel the same." The words hit harder than any divine strike.
"But if you make this about you again, if you drown in guilt and forget I'm the one who lived through it. I will punch you in the throat." A broken laugh escaped me, ragged and raw. She didn't smile.
"I'm still Annie. The one who mocks your hair. The one who rolls her eyes at your nonsense. I'm still here. I'm not afraid. I am just angry."
With a queen's composure, she turned and walked down the hall, regal in her plainness. I stared after her, breathless, as if reborn. My Annie was not broken. She was furious. The gods who touched her? They were already dead. They just hadn't realized it yet.
In the kitchen, she moved with deliberate calm, sleeves rolled, hair damp, plain clothes like armor. She brewed coffee, dark, bitter, no cream, no sugar. She poured two mugs. Handed one to me without ceremony. Our fingers brushed. Neither of us flinched. I nearly sobbed at the normalcy. Her. Here. Across the table. The same way we had sat a hundred mornings before. I swallowed hard, unable to taste a drop. My hands trembled. My eyes burned. I just looked at her. Really looked. Because after everything, she was still here. That meant the world wasn't done with me yet.