The path narrowed to a single space. Not a room, just a hush. A final breath held too long. At its center: A pedestal. No gold. No velvet. Just cold stone. And truth.
Atop it stood a statue of me, fractured, mosaic-like. Broken pieces reassembled with desperate hands and too much hope. The seams still oozed. The glue never set. My figure was bent, not bowed. As if the weight of being had finally become too much. My body shimmered with cracks. Thousands of them, spine, throat, legs, arms. Some jagged. Some delicate. Porcelain veining, but deeper. Every shard held a memory. I could feel it. What held it all together? A mask.
Not worn, held. Two raw, shaking hands gripped it in front of my face. Split down the middle: One side, the painted smile of comedy. The other, the smeared tear of tragedy. My real face was hidden. Not from shame, but because no one had ever looked beyond the act. The statue's hands, gods. My hands were bleeding. Bone-deep. Torn wide. Locked around the mask like it was both lifeline and weapon. The blood wasn't fresh, but it hadn't dried either. It was ritual. Ongoing. Endless.
At the base, a plaque. No shimmer. No song. Just a single line etched in cursive gold: "She smiled. Because she had to." I didn't move. Didn't blink. I just stood there. The pain wasn't a scream. It was a quiet ache that spread through my ribs like frost, slow, invasive, inescapable.
When my knees finally shook, I didn't fall. I reached out. Braced my palm against a nearby tree, one breath, one heartbeat, one inch of my spine still standing. Not because I wanted to move forward. But because somewhere beneath the bruised bark and bleeding masks, I still could. I stepped slowly out of the grove.
The doors didn't slam or sigh. They just closed, quietly final, sealing the weight of it all behind me like a confession you can't unsay. I didn't cry. I didn't collapse. But gods, it felt like I'd aged a century in there. My steps were slower now. My shoulders heavier. Not with defeat, with understanding.
Ahyona was waiting. Still in her middle-aged form, though something behind her eyes shimmered. Like she'd aged ten years just watching. She didn't speak. Just extended a hand and led me into a smaller room off the path. It was warm here. Soft. But not safe. The candlelight flickered, suspended in crystal chandeliers shaped like teardrops. Even the air felt aware. The parlor was less grand than the grove, but no less strange. Two benches waited, deep plum velvet. They creaked, not with sound, but with emotion. The one on the left gave a soft hiccup of a sob as I lowered myself into it.
Ahyona poured tea into delicate pottery. It smelled like lavender and regret. When I sipped, it tasted like grief and honey. Ahyona folded into the opposite seat. No clipboard. No pen. Just presence. "Start wherever you like, dear," she said gently. "The lodge will fill in the gaps."
I stared down at my cup for a long time. "I don't know where to start."
"Then start there."
My breath left me in a slow, involuntary shudder. I tried to speak, But the words scattered. So I circled them. Facts. Timelines. Things that had happened to me, like I was narrating someone else's tragedy. But the lodge wasn't having it. The mirror on the far wall darkened, rippling like a disturbed pond. First, nothing. Then, a red-haired child. Mute. Bound in silence. The image flickered. Now: a younger me in the temple. Kneeling. Obedient. My hands clenched around nothing. My lips moving, but no sound came out.
Ahyona said nothing. Just watched. My voice cracked. "I was sold. And after that... I was remade so many times, I don't know what parts are mine."
The teacup in my hand trembled. The surface rippled, darker, thicker now. "I was good at it. The pretending. The versions. I knew how to make them love me. Or at least want me. That was survival." I blinked fast. Too fast. "I thought... if I could be exactly what someone wanted, then I'd matter."
Ahyona asked, quiet as a secret: "Did it work?"
I didn't answer. I didn't have to. The torches dimmed. The room leaned in, breathless. I whispered it, soft as a sin: "Even with Malvor… I didn't mean to do it. But I think I still disappeared. Just softer this time."
I set the teacup down. It sobbed. Then stilled.
"I don't know if anyone's ever loved the real me." I swallowed. "I don't even know if I have." My voice dropped further, as if each word took more oxygen than I had to spare. "He never asked for anything from me."
I stared at the steam rising between us, eyes glassy. "But I gave anyway. Because that's what I've always done. I don't know how to stop."
The torches flickered again. Somewhere behind the walls, a wind chime began to play, familiar, but wrong. Like a lullaby played underwater. Slowed. Warped. Ahyona didn't respond. Didn't nod. Didn't offer affirmations. She just listened. Her silence? It wasn't empty. It was permission. Permission to unravel. To sit in the shame without being shamed. To speak truth without it being soothed away.
So I kept going. "With him, it's different. It always has been. He doesn't pull. He doesn't demand. And that… should make it easier. But somehow it's worse." I blinked hard, like I was trying not to remember something too clearly. "Because if he never asked... then he never needed it. If he never needed it… maybe I was never necessary."
The mirror behind me shifted again. Now it showed Malvor's bed. My curled form asleep. His hand resting gently on my back. Not lust. Just presence. The version of him in the reflection smiled in his sleep. The first true smile I'd ever seen in a mirror here.
Ahyona finally spoke, barely louder than steam. "You were never meant to earn your place, Asha. You were always meant to have one."
My throat tightened. "Then why do I still feel like a guest in my own life?"
Ahyona didn't answer. The silence wrapped around us like velvet stitched with shards of glass.
"I thought I was being honest," I said slowly. "I thought Annie was real. That the calm, the softness, the control... was me. That I had finally found something whole." The mirror shifted again. Me curled against Malvor's chest. Smiling. Sleeping. A picture of peace. "If they hadn't touched me, if Aerion, Ravina, and Navir hadn't taken the last thing I didn't even know I was guarding—" My jaw locked. "If they hadn't violated me… I would have stayed." I said it flatly. Not with shame. With devastation. "I would have kept pretending. Kept smiling. Kept building my little fantasy life with him. Never questioned it. Never cracked the mask."
My voice hitched. "I was happy. At least I thought I was. Because no one had touched the dam yet. No one had reminded me that I was still... still property if someone powerful enough wanted me." The torches pulsed violently. The mirror blurred. "They didn't just break my body," I whispered. "They broke the lie."
My breath hitched. My chest tightened, like ribs cinched too tight to hold anything soft. "The lie that I was safe. That I was enough. That if I stayed small and sweet and careful...nothing could reach me. I would've lived like that forever. A quiet, lovely life. In Malvor's bed. In his world. In his arms... I never would have healed."
The room responded. Leaves curled in on themselves. A sob echoed, soft, hidden, from somewhere behind the walls. Ahyona's voice came gently, like a balm she wasn't sure would soothe: "You weren't healed. You were hidden."
My hands shook. "And the worst part is…he never asked me to hide. Not once. But I still did it." I exhaled. Barely breathed. "I made myself disappear. Worst of all, I called it love."
I reached for my cup again. This time, it didn't sob. "This time..." I looked up, voice steady. "I will stay."
Ahyona leaned forward now, voice a little firmer, but not unkind. "Then let's unlearn it," she said. "Let's find what's left when you stop disappearing." A pause. "Would you let him see that version of you? Even if she's raw? Even if she's angry?"
I blinked hard. "Yes," I said. "Because if he loves me at all, he deserves to know who he loves."
Ahyona gave me a choice. No pressure. No guiding hand. Just a question. She stood, no flourish, no fanfare. Just an elegant shift of motion as she crossed the room and opened the door. She didn't call for him. He was already there. He stepped in slowly, careful, like his boots might disturb the quiet. His coat was gone. So was the usual glamour. Just Malvor. Raw. Tall. Tan-eyed. So strangely still. When he saw me?
He smiled. Not the smirk. Not the smolder. Something warm. Something real. He didn't rush across the room. He stood there for a breath. Then said it, earnest, steady. Soft in the way that only comes after surviving something you didn't think you would: "Thank you for letting me be here."
That was it. No demands. No questions. No flood of words to drown the moment. Just that. Gratitude. For me. For the now. For being allowed into the part of me I used to hide even from myself. I exhaled slowly. I didn't brace for the next wound. I let him see me. Not the perfect girl. Not the vessel. Not Anastasia. Not Annie. Just... Asha. This woman I want to learn to become.
Malvor didn't move right away. His hands stayed at his sides, careful. As if afraid too much affection might crack the moment. But gods, I could tell, he wanted to hold me. Wanted to wrap me in his arms like something sacred. "You look tired," he said gently.
I let out a dry, brittle laugh. "Understatement of the century."
He smiled, genuinely, but didn't push. I gestured to the seat beside me. Only then did he step forward. Quiet. Respectful. He sat like someone afraid to wake a sleeping storm. For a long time, we didn't speak. The tea between us had long gone cold. The room didn't react. No crying walls. No sobbing furniture. No flickering drama. Just stillness. Just us. "I thought I was protecting you," I said finally. My voice wasn't bitter. Just... tired. Honest. "From everything I've been through. From everything I still carry."
He turned slightly toward me. "I never needed protection from you."
"But I needed it from myself." That landed harder than anything else could've.
He reached out slowly, palm up between us. An offering. Not a request. I hesitated, only a moment, before sliding my hand into his. It fit easily. It always had. "I'm not asking you to fix anything," I said.
He shook his head. "I'd never try to fix you, my love. I just want to know you."
I huffed. Half-breath, half-laugh. But it still counted. "I just don't want to disappear again."
"Then don't," he said. "Be seen. Be loud. Be messy. I will always stay."
My fingers tightened around his. "Even if I fall apart?"
"Especially then. Like I said, always." A pause. "Always and forever." The torches dimmed above us, casting soft, golden light over our joined hands. Somewhere behind the walls, a flute began to play. This one was different. Not warped. Not broken. Just quiet. Gentle. Restful.
Ahyona had not returned. I wondered if she ever would, or if this was the final part of the healing. Sitting beside someone who didn't try to rescue me. Didn't rewrite my pain. Just stayed.
"I'm not ready for forever," I whispered.
Malvor looked at me, tan eyes full of warmth, and gave the smallest, sweetest smile. "Then stay for now."
Something inside me softened. Cracked. Exhaled. Ahyona reappeared in the doorway. Now wielding a wooden cup with a tiny sprig of cedar and what looked suspiciously like edible glitter floating inside. Her gaze swept over us, me and Malvor, hand in hand. Not saying a word, but somehow saying everything. She smiled. Slow. Knowing. "Healing is exhausting, darling," she said, breezing in like grief in perfume. "Go nap while the universe rearranges itself."
Malvor blinked. "Is that what it's doing?"
Ahyona sipped. "What else do you think trauma processing is? Cosmic feng shui."
She winked at me. "You did well. Even if you hate me tomorrow."
I smiled. A real one. "I think I already do."
"Perfect," Ahyona beamed. "That means it's working."
With that, she turned, dress swaying, glittering drink in hand, and disappeared back into the lodge, leaving behind the scent of sage smoke and old regrets. Malvor leaned in. "She terrifies me."
I nodded solemnly. "She terrifies everyone."
We stood. Slowly. Neither of us let go. Because even if the universe wasn't quite rearranged yet, We were.