"I want you to feel it," she said, so softly it was barely air.
He blinked.
"Feel what, love?"
She didn't answer with words.
She didn't have to.
She opened the bond.
Not by accident. Not from panic, or lust, or pain.
This time, she opened it on purpose.
And gods, he staggered.
It wasn't a flood. It wasn't chaos.
It was her. Raw. Aching. Beautiful.
Love.
So much love it knocked the wind out of him. Threaded through grief and guilt and fear—But unmistakably hers.
She held it open for just a few seconds, like stretching muscles she hadn't used in too long.
She let him in.
And he felt her.
He felt how deeply she loved him, quietly, wildly, without condition. How terrified she was of it. How desperately she needed him to understand this wasn't a mask or a performance or a reflex.
This was real.
And beneath it—He felt her reaching for him, too.
Tentative. Careful.
She found devotion.
He wasn't shielding it. Not from her. Not anymore.
She felt the way he looked at her and saw not ruin, but divinity. How her laughter rang in his mind like a favorite song. How she, her, not Annie the mask, but Asha the survivor, was his peace.
She gasped, overwhelmed, and the bond flickered—Then gently dimmed as she pulled back, trembling.
"I can't hold it for long," she said, breath shaking. "But I wanted you to know. I needed you to feel it. Just once."
He didn't speak.
He just pulled her into his arms and held her like she'd handed him the universe.
Because she had.
"So, Master of Mischief…" she murmured, a smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth.
"What do you dream?"
He huffed a soft laugh—automatic, like he was about to say something ridiculous.
But the bond was still there. Faint, but open.
And he couldn't lie.
Not to her. Not after what she'd just given him.
"…I dream of things I'm not supposed to want," he said finally.
Her fingers paused.
"I dream of a house that doesn't vanish when I turn my back. I dream of someone laughing in my kitchen. Someone staying. I dream of coffee in the morning and terrible jokes and knowing that when I go to sleep, you'll still be there."
Her eyes widened slightly.
Not because she didn't believe it—
But because it was him saying it.
"I dream of being enough," he said, quieter now.
"Not worshiped. Not feared. Just… loved. For who I am. Even when I'm being an idiot. Especially then."
She didn't tease him.
Didn't laugh.
She leaned up and kissed his jaw. Slow. Gentle.
"You're more than enough. Even when you're a complete idiot."
He smiled into her hair, arms tightening around her.
And somewhere deep in the bond, she felt it:
He'd been dreaming of her for longer than he even realized.
He whispered it into the quiet, into the fragile peace they were still learning how to trust.
"Alright, My Always. What do you dream… when the screaming stops?"
She didn't answer right away.
Just breathed in slowly, like the truth might burn her on its way out.
Then, simply:
"Mireya."
Malvor froze.
Not in jealousy. Not in anger. But because he remembered."
That illusion Leyla had crafted. The child with his eyes and her hair. The laugh that still echoed in the back of her mind like a lullaby she never got to sing.
"I dream of her," she said softly. "Her chubby little hands. Braiding her hair. Her calling me Mommy like it was the most natural thing in the world."
"I know it wasn't real. I know Leyla made it up. But gods…" Her breath caught.
"It felt real. Like something I lost before I ever had the chance to try."
Her hand pressed flat against his chest, grounding herself in the rhythm of his heartbeat.
"I always wanted to be a mom," she whispered.
"Before the temple. Before the runes. I used to pretend I had a baby tucked under the blankets. I'd sing lullabies to empty air—just to feel like I had someone of my own."
Malvor swallowed hard.
He remembered teasing her once, after a caramel-apple-covered goblin-child screeched through his realm. He had said they were never having kids.
That was a joke.
This was sacred.
She wasn't asking him.
But he answered anyway.
He sat up slightly, just enough to cradle her face in his hands.
His eyes burned, not with mischief, but something far more dangerous.
Conviction.
"You're going to have that," he said, voice fierce and low. "Not because you need it to be whole. Not because it fixes anything."
"But because you want it. And I will burn down every realm, every rule, every god who says you can't."
Her lip trembled. "Malvor…"
"You're going to be someone's mother," he whispered. "They'll have your fire."
"And we'll love them so much the world won't dare lay a finger on them."
She stared at him, breathless.
"I used to think I was too broken," she whispered. "That I couldn't—"
"You're not broken." He pressed his forehead to hers. "You're becoming. And I'll be here, every step of the way."
She didn't cry.
She smiled.
And in the bond between them, he felt it:
Hope.
Not a wish. Not a fantasy.
Just a quiet, steady flicker of something real.
She was still curled against him, a soft smile barely touching her lips, when he exhaled deeply—like he was trying to release an entire lifetime of loneliness.
Then, with zero warning:
"I'm naming our firstborn Malvor Jr."
She groaned. "Absolutely not."
"Malvor the Second, then?" he tried again, completely unfazed. "Lord of Cuteness. Master of Mayhem. Maybe a tiny cape—"
"If you put a cape on our baby, I will divorce you before we're even married."
"Oh good, so we're getting married?" He grinned.
She slapped his chest, but it was half-hearted. Laughing. Light.
Exactly what he'd hoped for.
But behind the teasing…
He already had a name. Not one he'd say aloud, not yet. It was silly and serious, bold and beautiful. A name meant to carry the chaos.
But one day?
When the time was right?
He'd whisper it to her.
And she'd know.
He wasn't just dreaming anymore.
He was building.