Dinner was extravagant, of course. Malvor only ate the best, the most refined, the most indulgent meals the world had to offer. Tonight, it was a dish so meticulously crafted that even mortals would consider it art.
He sat across from Anastasia, sipping his wine with a lazy smirk.
"This," he declared, gesturing to the perfectly plated masterpiece before them, "is my favorite meal."
She raised an eyebrow, waiting.
"I first discovered it in the eighties" he continued, "at this tiny, hole-in-the-wall restaurant. It was magnificent. The flavors, the richness, the experience." He sighed dramatically, staring off as if reliving a fond memory. "Ah, but the eighties Annie darling, now that was a decade."
She took a bite, chewing slowly as he launched into full-blown nostalgia.
"The big hair! The music! The neon!" He grinned. "It was a time of true excess. The parties were legendary. The fashion was horrendous, and yet, iconic. People thought they were living in the future, Annie baby, and I reveled in it all."
Then, Anastasia did something unexpected.
"Yeah, I remember the 'eighties," she said casually, taking another bite.
Malvor laughed, waving a dismissive hand. "Oh, Annie, child, you are what? Twenty-two? Twenty-three?"
Still chewing, she looked at him.
"I was born in Nineteen sixty nine."
Malvor snorted, shaking his head. "Annie, love, be serious."
She was serious.
His grin faltered.
Wait.
Wait.
He did the math. Nineteen sixty nine? It was two thousand twenty four. That would make her—
"Fifty-five," he muttered, staring at her in dawning horror.
He blinked. "FIFTY-FIVE?!"
Anastasia, damn her, just shrugged.
Another shrug.
Malvor gripped the edge of the table. "Annie? What?"
Another shrug!
"Annie?! HOW are you that old?"*
She finally looked up at him, and for the first time, he saw it.
Those eyes.
They weren't young.
They weren't the eyes of someone in their early twenties. They weren't full of naive curiosity or the reckless bravado of youth. They were steady, sharp, knowing.
There was wisdom there. Experience. A lifetime of it.
She sighed, setting down her fork.
"I was blessed with magic to stop my aging process."
A beat of silence.
"Oh."
"Yeah."
That was it?!
No story? No elaborate explanation?
Nothing?
Malvor twitched.
"That's it? That's all you're giving me?"
She lifted her glass and took a sip of water.
He narrowed his eyes.
Damn it, he would pry the words out of her if he had to.
"Annie, beautiful Annie," Malvor sighed, drumming his fingers against the table. "How did they stop the aging process? What kind of magic did they use?"
No answer.
Of course.
He debated commanding her to answer. The urge was there, thrumming beneath his skin. A god's word was law, and he could make her tell him whatever he wanted.
But when he opened his mouth—
"I don't know," she said simply. "All I know is that they used magic."
He closed his mouth.
Studied her.
Really looked at her.
The forever-young face, the striking too-blue eyes, the kind of mouth that could be a distraction in the best and worst ways. She was stunning, not just for a mortal, but in general.
It made him wonder.
"Is your appearance because of magic?" he asked, curiosity creeping into his voice.
Anastasia shook her head. "No… and yes."
Malvor raised a brow, intrigued.
She set her glass down, fingers tapping lightly against the stem. "This is me," she said slowly, "but almost the best, perfect enhanced version. If that makes sense?"
He blinked.
Then nodded because, actually? It did make sense.
His own appearance shifted depending on what he wanted, sharper when he was feeling cruel, softer when he was feeling playful.
She must have seen something in his expression because she smirked slightly.
"Well," he drawled, "you sure do know how to design women, Annie sweetheart."
Anastasia smiled, not a smirk, not a polite nothing, but a soft, secretive thing.
Knowing.
And that…
That was dangerous.
Anastasia finished her meal, quiet as Malvor studied her.
Not subtle glances.
Not passing curiosity.
Staring.
Bold. Unwavering. As if she were a puzzle he had only just realized he desperately wanted to solve.
She set down her fork, tilting her head slightly.
"Malvor?"
His name on her sinful mouth.
His fingers twitched.
"Why are you staring?"
Malvor's lips curled into something lazy, something almost lazy but too focused to be casual.
"Oh, Annie," he murmured, "you are the most lovely mortal I have ever met." His head tilted slightly. "But I suppose you are not truly mortal, are you? Not exactly?"
She held his gaze, unbothered. "Not exactly. But I am mortal."
His eyes swept over her, tracing the contours of her face, the lines of her posture, the way she existed in a space that felt like it shouldn't contain her.
Then, his gaze caught on her hands.
Not the graceful fingers or the delicate shape.
The runes.
He had noticed them before, in passing, but had never really looked. Now, they held his attention completely.
At first glance, they seemed like strange tattoos, intricate, curling symbols marked along the backs of her hands, stretching faintly toward her wrists.
Malvor tentatively reached out, then stopped.
He met her eyes.
"May I?"
A sigh. A hesitation.
Then, a nod.
He took her hands gently, very gently, as if the god of chaos was afraid to break something. He lifted them to eye level, studying the markings.
Not ink.
Not tattoos.
Scars.
Some faint, barely there. Others deep, carved into her skin in a way that spoke of pain long endured.
His thumb brushed over one of the older scars, tracing the edges. The texture was different, raised, uneven, a story he did not know.
Malvor had lived countless lifetimes, had seen everything.
And yet, this?
This was something new.
Malvor's grip on her wrist tightened, not enough to hurt, but enough that he had to consciously remind himself to let go.
"When did they start this?"
His voice was low. Like thunder rolling in the distance.
Anastasia inhaled slowly. If she noticed the tension radiating from him, she didn't comment on it.
"The first ones… I was eight."
His entire body locked.
"The magic only works if the pain is present," she continued, her voice steady, but there was something in her eyes, memory. Resignation. Acceptance of a truth she had never been allowed to fight.
"So no medication. No numbing it. Just pain."
Malvor said nothing, jaw tight as she kept speaking.
"The first time was awful," she admitted. "My right forearm. I passed out halfway through. They stopped. When I woke up… they continued."
His fingers twitched over her skin.
"It felt like days for them to finish," she murmured. "Chanting and carving. Over and over."
Malvor stared at her, at the calmness with which she said it.
Like it was a fact. A detail of her existence, not the absolute atrocity it was.
His entire body burned with something dark and unfamiliar.
Something he didn't have a name for.
And for the first time in a long, long time—
Malvor didn't know what to say.
Malvor watched as Anastasia rolled up her sleeve further, revealing more of the intricate scars winding up her right forearm. His fingers ghosted over them, tracing the rough, uneven lines, marks that had been cut into her, not inked.
"Can I see more?"
He didn't know why he wanted to. He just did.
As much as he wanted to see, he didn't want to.
She nodded, standing with that same unwavering calm.
And then, without hesitation, without pretense, she pulled her shirt over her head and let it drop to the chair.
Malvor's brain completely failed.
His entire system crashed.
Gods above, boobs.
OH.
Oh, no.
Focus. Stop looking. Don't be that guy.
His mouth opened, but what came out was an undignified, choked sound, somewhere between a strangled gasp and the start of a word that never made it.
Anastasia didn't even react.
Didn't flinch. Didn't hesitate. Just stood there, utterly unbothered, arms relaxed at her sides.
Malvor, however, was having a complete meltdown.
His eyes bulged, darting instinctively over the expanse of bare skin before him. The long, lean lines of her torso, the dip of her waist, the swell of her, Oh, hells, stop looking at that, focus, FOCUS!
He forced himself to look past her curves.
And then he saw them.
The runes.
Carved all over her body.
His gaze dragged across her arms, completely covered. Down her ribs, over her stomach, winding in intricate patterns.
Her neck and chest were surprisingly clear, though there were marks just beneath the band of her bra.
Malvor exhaled sharply, his chest tight.
This, this was not what he had expected.
This was so much worse.
"What are they?"
Malvor's voice was barely more than a whisper, his fingers hovering just above the runes that curved beneath her bra.
Anastasia met his eyes, her expression unreadable. Then, after a pause, she nodded.
"You can touch them."
His breath hitched slightly, just for a moment, before his hand moved, fingertips brushing over the intricate lines.
The smallest details. Tiny, delicate swirls of chaos, curling across each rib.
Why did they make him think of himself?
His palm settled against her skin, feeling the contrast, the softness of her flesh, the firmness of the bone beneath, the rough ridges of scars carved with painful precision.
She was a work of art.
"They're beautiful in their own way," he murmured, the words escaping him before he could second-guess them.
Anastasia stilled.
His thumb traced over one of the swirls, memorizing the shape.
"When did they carve these?"
She hesitated, just for a moment.
"I was in my twenties. For the ribs."
Malvor clenched his jaw.
Years. Decades of this.
His chest felt tight, an unfamiliar sensation curling through him.
He should let go.
But he didn't.
"I want to see them all."
The words left Malvor's mouth before he could second-guess them.
Anastasia met his gaze, searching for something in his expression. Whatever she found must have satisfied her, because, once again, without hesitation, she reached for her waistband and slid her pants down, stepping out of them effortlessly.
No nerves.
No reaction.
Nothing.
She stood before him now, dressed only in a bra and panties, the runes covering nearly every inch of her exposed skin.
Malvor swallowed.
She was… unshaken. Completely indifferent to the fact that she was standing nearly bare in front of him.
Why?
Why was she so okay with this?
His gaze trailed over her again, not with lust but with awe. The runes weren't uniform, some were elegant, swirling designs, others sharp and jagged, etched into her thighs, her stomach, her back. This was not art meant to be admired, it was branding.
It was ownership.
His jaw tightened.
"Annie," his voice was rough, "what are you? What were you?"
For the first time, he wasn't sure what to ask. How to ask it.
Anastasia didn't blink. Didn't waver.
"I was a shrine worker," she said simply.
Malvor raised a brow. "A shrine worker? Oh? What kind?"
She knew what he was asking.
But instead of answering, she just looked at him.
Calm.
Knowing.
And silent.
Anastasia watched him carefully, her bright blue eyes steady, unflinching.
"Do you really want the answer?" she asked.
Did he?
Malvor hesitated, not out of fear, but because he knew whatever she was about to say would be something he couldn't joke away. Something that would stick.
Still, he nodded. "Yes."
She inhaled slowly, not breaking eye contact.
"The temple called us shrine workers," she began, her voice even, "but our role was… more intimate than that."
Malvor's fingers twitched.
"We were trained to serve the divine. To bring pleasure, to offer comfort, to fulfill any desire that was asked of us."
The words were spoken plainly, without shame, without embellishment. Just fact.
Malvor's entire body went still.
She continued, voice smooth and controlled, as if she were explaining someone else's life.
"For many, we were seen as sacred. Blessed. A living offering to the gods themselves." A pause. "For others, we were just bodies to be used."
A sharp crack echoed in the room.
It took Malvor a second to realize it was his own fist clenching so hard against the table that he'd splintered the wood.
Anastasia noticed.
But she didn't react.
She just waited.
And for the first time in centuries, Malvor had nothing to say.
The table cracked. And so did something in him.