Standing in the hallway, barefoot, shirtless, still sleep warm and blinking at her like a dream he hadn't meant to wake from.
His eyes landed on her. Then on the rune. Then back to her face.
He opened his mouth. Closed it.
And in that silence, her whole body went still.
He didn't ask. Didn't accuse. Didn't demand to understand.
He just crossed the room, knelt in front of her, and pressed his forehead gently to her knee. Not like a god. Like a man who knew he'd missed something important.
He knelt. Not in worship. Not in want. Not the way men had knelt before. This was different. This was real.
"I'm sorry," he whispered. "I should have seen you weren't okay."
Her throat tightened.
She didn't expect him to say that.
Didn't expect him to say anything.
Not when she'd come back glowing. Controlled. Perfect.
Not when she'd smiled like nothing cracked inside her.
She stared down at him, this impossible god at her feet, barefoot and bleary-eyed, looking at her like she mattered.
Like Anastasia mattered.
And her hand moved.
Rested lightly in his hair. Not pulling. Not pushing. Just there.
Connection. Question. Chance.
He closed his eyes. Let out a slow breath against her knee.
And she didn't smile. Didn't perform. Didn't run.
She just stayed. Still. Shaking.
But not alone.
He looked up at her.
Saw the war behind her eyes. The battle she hadn't invited him to. The pain he hadn't caused, but had unknowingly let happen.
He didn't ask for details. Didn't try to fix it. Didn't reach for the pieces she hadn't offered.
He just said, softly, "You don't have to be perfect with me."
And she—
She didn't collapse into his arms like a scene she'd rehearsed a thousand times. She just existed, raw, unraveling, real.
But she did not pull away either.
They stayed like that. Knees touching. Rune glowing. Fire flickering.
And for the first time in days, she didn't feel like a ghost wearing skin.
She felt like a woman. Held. Seen.
Not saved. Not yet.
But maybe...
Just maybe...
Worth saving.
Annie was the armor. Annie was the performance. Annie was the version Malvor fell in love with, the one who could keep pace with his chaos, roll her eyes at his antics, hand him coffee like nothing had ever hurt her.
But Annie was a lie.
Not a malicious one. Not even a conscious one. But a survival mask. A beautiful role she played so well that even she started to believe it.
And now, after Luxor, after the dream, after the weight of every silence—
She can't go back.
So… she lets Annie go.
Annie.
His Annie.
He loved her. He still does. But he loved "Annie" because she made it easy.
Because "Annie" never screamed. Never asked him to look too closely. Because "Annie" let him pretend he wasn't part of the problem. That his love was enough. That being the one who made her laugh could undo what others had carved.
But now, he sees it. That his Annie wasn't her. That the woman in front of him, quiet, shattered, strong enough to walk through fire but not to name herself, isn't Annie.
She's not Anastasia either.
Anastasia is the name of the girl they branded. The temple pet. The relic. The saint of scars.
She is neither.
She is… becoming
The one who made him laugh. Who played along with his chaos, who kissed him and kicked him and handed him bitter coffee like she didn't still flinch from shadows.
He loved her.
Gods, he loved her.
But it hit him now, slow, cruel, and inevitable.
Annie had been a gift. Not for her. For him. Shaped by what he needed, softness, steadiness, someone who laughed at his chaos and handed him coffee like she didn't still flinch from shadows.
The version of her who smiled when she wanted to scream. Who curled into his side even when her heart was somewhere else. Who let him believe she was okay because he needed her to be.
And she'd given it. All of it.
Because he was the god who didn't force.
Just like the priests who coaxed. Just like the altar that pulsed and smiled and praised.
Annie was a beautiful lie.
Built from love.
But still… a lie.
"I'm not her," the thought whispered, barely formed.
Not Annie.
Not Anastasia.
Annie was soft. Sweet. Palatable.
A balm for other people's wounds.
Asha was not soft. Asha did not smile to be safe.
Asha burned.
"I'm not… Annie." She hesitated, like the name still held teeth. "Not anymore."
"My name is Asha."
He doesn't argue. Doesn't try to correct her. But his face falls. Because it's the moment he realizes—His Annie is gone. And this woman standing before him might love him...But she will never need him the same way again.
Malvor didn't speak.
Didn't try to call her back to the name he loved.
He just looked at her, like something holy and hurting, pulled from the wreckage.
She sat beside him.
Not touching. Not retreating.
Just… breathing. For once.
"I never got to mourn," she said.
Malvor's heart cracked down the center. He hadn't even thought about mourning. He'd been so damn relieved she came back at all.
Her voice was low. Controlled. That kind of terrifying calm that comes after the storm but before the flood.
"You thought I was okay," she continued. "Because I was strong. Because I made jokes. Because I drank your coffee and wore your robe and didn't scream every time someone said my name."
"I gave you what you needed," she said. "Someone steady. Someone funny. Someone who could survive anything."
Her fingers curled into her palm, nails digging crescent moons into her skin.