"They kidnapped me, Malvor."
She didn't say their names. She didn't need to.
Her voice broke around the edges, but not like glass. Like stone.
"They took my body. My mind. My choice. Ravina smiled while she left me there. With them."
She didn't cry.
She said it like facts. Like weather. Like things that happened to someone else.
"I wasn't even supposed to survive," she whispered. "They had a note ready for you."
Malvor's head dropped. His hands fisted in the fabric of his pants.
"I know," he said. "I read it."
You always liked broken things. So I broke your favorite toy.—Aerion
Asha stared into the fire.
"It wasn't the pain," she said. "It wasn't the assault or the humiliation or the way they laughed while they carved into me."
She turned to him. Eyes sharp. Unforgiving.
"It was coming back... and pretending I was fine. Because you needed me to be."
He flinched like she'd hit him.
She didn't let up.
"You brought me home. And you gave me peace. And I loved you for that. But you also gave me silence. And I didn't know how to break it."
"I didn't know," he said quietly.
"No," she corrected. "You didn't want to know."
She exhaled like it cost her something.
"I was your dream girl. Broken in all the right places. Strong where it looked impressive. Quiet where it kept things easy."
He reached for her hand.
She let him take it.
"But I'm not a dream anymore," she said. "I'm Asha. And I'm angry. And I hurt. And I will never be what I was again."
Silence.
Rain tapped harder on the windows.
And then Malvor said—
"I know that now."
She looked at him.
"I want to be the strong one this time," he added. "If you'll let me."
And gods, he meant it. She could see it in his face. In the guilt. The grief. The way he looked at her like she wasn't his salvation, like she was his equal.
Asha nodded. Once.
And this time, she leaned into him.
Not like a surrender.
Like a choice.
"I didn't want Luxor," she choked out. "Not really. I wanted punishment. I wanted to feel something that wasn't rot. I wanted the light to hurt me the way the dark did, so at least I wouldn't feel confused."
"He was kind," she said. "He was so gentle. And I hated him for it. Because I faked it so well. I made it beautiful, Malvor. Just like I always do."
She looked up.
"I'm so tired of making it beautiful."
Something inside him cracked wide open. Not grief for losing Annie. Grief for never realizing sooner that Asha had been fighting to be born all along.
He squeezed her hands.
He shifted, slow, cautious, as if afraid to break her all over again.
His fingers found her left wrist—where Luxor's rune burned gold across her skin. The place he hadn't touched. Hadn't dared.
Until now.
Without a word, he lifted her hand. Brushed his thumb over the lines, so light it almost wasn't real.
Then, he bent low—and kissed the center of her palm. Pressed his mouth there like a vow he couldn't speak.
Asha closed her eyes.
She didn't pull away.
He moved higher. Kissed the inside of her wrist, the crook of her elbow, the sharp blaze along her shoulder where Luxor's light had written its name into her body.
He kissed all of it.
Not claiming. Not healing. Just... seeing.
When he reached the waves winding up her thigh—Yara's mark—he hesitated. Looked up at her.
Asked permission without asking.
Asha nodded once. Barely breathing.
So he kissed those too.
Soft. Slow. Shattering.
He didn't worship her power this time.
He mourned it.
He kissed her like every scar was a prayer left unanswered—and he was trying to believe anyway.
When he finished, he pressed his forehead to her knee again.
Not begging forgiveness. Not offering salvation.
Just saying: I see you. And I'm still here.
"I can be strong now," he whispered. "You don't have to be."
"I don't know who I am without the strength," she admitted.
"Then we'll figure it out," he said. "Together."
She laughed again, softer this time.
"God of Mischief giving pep talks now?"
He smiled, just a little. "Don't get used to it."
She leaned forward, rested her forehead to his. "I won't."
They stayed like that, foreheads touching, hands clasped, firelight flickering like a heartbeat between them.
Later, she stared into the mirror. Not blinking. Not smiling. Just… breathing.
"My name is Asha," she whispered. And this time, she didn't just believe it. She felt it burn.
The bed dipped under her weight, and she sighed as she settled beside him, freshly showered and wrapped in one of his oversized shirts. Her hair was damp, dripping onto the pillow, but he didn't complain. He just turned his head and watched her in the dim light like she might disappear if he blinked.
They didn't speak at first.
Not out of tension—But because silence had finally become safe again.
His voice came low, almost a whisper, like it didn't want to scare hers away.
"I know you would never hurt me."
She flinched, barely, but he caught it. He always caught it now.
He didn't reach for her. Didn't press. He just waited, eyes steady, breathing slow.
"You're my safe place," he added, even softer. "Even when you're hurting. Especially then."
She didn't say it back.
She loved him. Gods, she loved him.
But some part of her was always braced for the storm.
Her eyes stayed fixed on the ceiling like it might hold answers, like she couldn't look at him and say it.