Chapter 7: Chip In The Cup (Her POV)
I woke up feeling… refreshed. Actually refreshed. No hands shaking me awake, no forced routines, no one hovering over me. I wasn't waking in survival mode. The room was calm too, unchanged for the week. Same soft purples, same gentle cyan glow across the walls. Like the house had decided stability was the right permanent choice. I stretched slowly, joints popping in a satisfying way. "Good morning,"
I told the room. A small pulse of light flickered in the corner, like the house blinked back. I smiled a small smirk. Morning stretches. A bit of exercise. Not the desperate, punishing routine I'd clung to before. Habit, not obligation. My muscles loosened easily. The shower was perfect again. Not surprising at this point. I wrapped myself in one of the unnecessarily huge soft towels. I found a simple tunic and pants waiting neatly on the counter. Exactly my taste. I appreciated that. I dressed and headed to the kitchen. The shrine to coffee had expanded again. Of course it had. There were new jars, new syrups, new mugs arranged like an altar. But my mug, the one I'd found on day four, waited in its usual place.
A large, simple lilac mug. No glitter. No gold trim. Nothing fancy. Just… mine. I reached for it and misjudged the distance.When the mug slipped from my fingers, the sound was sharp. Too sharp. Clink. Crack. My heart lurched. Instinct hit before thought.
"I'm sorry," I blurted, voice tight. The house reacted instantly, lights flickering, shelves rattling, a ripple of frantic energy rushing through the room like it feared it had done something wrong. I froze. For a split second, every muscle in my body braced. Waiting for the shouting, the punishment, the consequences that always followed a mistake. The house stilled, not like it calmed, like it realized. It saw my tension and reacted to me. The frantic flickering softened into a slow, warm glow that spread across the floor in a reassuring pulse. An apology. My breath stuttered. "It's okay," I whispered, lifting the mug with shaking hands. I turned it so the house could "see." "See? It's fine. Just a chip. Look, it still works."
The house answered with the gentlest shimmer of violet light at my feet. Not distressed. Comforting. Trying. My throat tightened painfully. No one had ever reacted like that. I swallowed hard. "We're not in trouble," I murmured more to myself than to the house. "You didn't do anything wrong."
Another soft pulse. Warm. Protective. For the first time in my life, something, someone, acknowledged my flinch and responded with care. The house stilled, watching. I traced the chipped edge with my thumb. Still perfectly usable. Still mine. "Just a small piece missing. Gives it character. Like us."
A warm pulse of light rippled through the kitchen. Not distressed this time, almost… pleased. I smiled down at the mug, turned on the coffee. For the coffee. I pulled ingredients out one by one, stacking flavors, building monstrosities. Espresso shots. Syrups. Whipped cream. Chocolate shavings. Caramel drizzle. Two cups of liquid chaos. Exactly the sort of thing that belonged to him. When I finished, I hesitated. One for me. One for him. My hands curled around the mugs.
"Can you take me to Malvor?" I whispered. The door to my left swung open immediately. A small light above the frame flickered. Quick. Bright. Almost… happy. I huffed a quiet breath that might have been a laugh. "Thank you, house."
The light blinked twice in answer. Balancing both drinks, I followed the corridor as it shifted. The walls darkened gradually from pale marble to deep onyx shot through with gold. The air cooled. The floor under my bare feet turned smoother, glossier. By the time I stopped, I knew that this was his. His bedroom door was carved from black stone veined with glitter, as if someone had frozen a galaxy mid-explosion. The handle was gold, warm under my fingers before I even knocked. I bumped my elbow gently against the frame. "Malvor?"
"Come in," his voice called, syrupy sweet. And then, in the same breath, louder, "Who is it?"
I rolled my eyes and opened the door. Bedrooms had always meant performance. Transaction. Expectation. My feet hesitated on the threshold before my mind caught up. His room hit me like a performance. Mirrors. Everywhere. Not just one over a dresser or a tasteful framed piece. Entire panels of mirrored glass set into walls, wardrobe doors, the ceiling. Narrow strips catching light along the bedframe. A thousand reflections of black and gold and glitter. It should have been obscene, tacky, self-obsessed. It wasn't.
The bed was massive, piled with silk and velvet, black sheets with a gold sheen when the light hit them. The curtains were heavy, shimmering, pooling like spilled ink. Every surface glowed with a soft, deliberate light that made the space feel rich, warm, theatrical but not cheap. It was chaos, refined. Every angle reflected him back at himself, and now, at me. I stepped inside carefully, suddenly aware that there was nowhere in this room I wouldn't be seen from three angles at once. For most of my life, being in someone's bedroom meant one thing: performance, expectation, work. This felt… different. Just me, holding two coffees, and a god draped across a chair like he was posing for a portrait only he could see.
He lounged with one arm slung over the back, ankle crossed over his knee, smirk already waiting. His hair was tousled, but perfect. Always irritatingly perfect. He watched me take in the mirrors, chin lifting almost imperceptibly. as if the room was a part of him and he was waiting to see my judgment.
"I made you coffee," I said. I wasn't sure why I'd made him one. Habit. Routine. Or maybe something worse. Something softer.
His brow lifted. "Oh. That's almost sweet of you, Annie honey bun. Maybe even useful."
He stretched slowly, hand out like I'd brought an offering to his altar. I handed him the mug anyway. "You have an absurd amount of options," I muttered. "So I made something equally absurd."
He hummed, lifted the cup, and took a sip. His smirk faltered. Just slightly. Brows pulling together like something had betrayed him. He took another long drink, studying me over the rim. "Well, now that's just unfair." My fingers tightened around my own mug. Of course, the next words out of his mouth were, "That's almost as delicious as you, Annie Snack-um."
I gave him a flat look. He grinned wider. "Is this how you like your coffee?"
"Yes." I lifted mine. "I prefer not to taste it."
He laughed, delighted. "My darling, you are purely delightful."
I took another sip and set my cup on the nearest table, letting my face remain unreadable. His room shimmered around us in a hundred reflections. Him in every mirror. Me in the edges. "Malvor," I said quietly. "Am I solely here for your entertainment? What was the purpose of you taking possession of me?"
One brow arched. "Did I have to have a reason?"
"I guess not," I said.
He sipped again, then indulged me with something that sounded like truth. "Honestly? I did it because the other eleven assholes wanted you."
I blinked. "You took me just to piss them off?"
A petty reason. A stupid one. Somehow… better than most reasons I'd been claimed before. "Oh yes, Annie cupcake." He swirled the coffee in his mug like wine. "The SHITS priest promised you were worth it."
"What did you pay?"
His smirk sharpened. "The best thing I could imagine. I won't prank them for ten years."
I stared. "…That's it?"
"That's it." His grin turned wicked. "But I never said you wouldn't prank them."
One of the mirrors caught my raised eyebrow and threw it back at me from three directions. "Will that be my job?"
He tapped his chin thoughtfully. "Sometimes." Then leaned back, entirely self-satisfied. "I don't actually have a job for you. You're free to do what you want, in my realm, unless I need you."
That sounded suspiciously like a test. Or a trap. Or both. "That sounds suspiciously like a trap."
"Darling Annie muffin, if it were a trap, you'd already be caught."
"That's not as reassuring as you think it is."
"Oh, I wasn't trying to reassure you. I was trying to be charming." I sighed. He beamed."Annie baby cakes, tell me more about you."
"My eyes and hair are natural. But I don't know what parts of me are truly mine. My body grew under magic. I went to every Sacred Heralds temple. Every rune represents one of you."
That got his attention. "Oh really?"
"Yes. Did any of them feel like you?"
His eyes flickered to my ribs, the memory of those swirls etched into me. His voice dropped. "The ones on your ribs. Chaotic. Beautiful."
I tilted my head. "Of course those are yours."
"Oh? That certain, are we?"
I shrugged. "Did they feel different?"
He tapped his mug, thoughtful. Then finally admitted, "They felt… like home." Silence stretched. He let me watch him for once, no smirk, no trick. Just the weight of his words. I wasn't sure which of us was more unsettled by it.