The Realm of Mischief glittered and flexed and shimmered around them like it knew they were happy, and wanted to show off.
And Asha?
She wasn't just surviving it.
She was thriving.
But eventually…
When the stars had turned a little softer, and the laughter had started to echo instead of ring—
She quietly slipped away.
The bedroom was still.
Exactly as she'd left it.
No glitter.
No horns.
No marching bands.
Just quiet.
She didn't even need to say anything. Arbor sighed the door shut behind her like a nod of understanding.
Asha peeled off the cape. Toed off her boots. Let her hair fall loose.
Then she crawled onto the bed, still glowing faintly from the runes, still smiling.
And exhaled.
Not because she was overwhelmed.
Not because she was escaping.
But because she'd learned to protect this space. Hers. Theirs.
And even with chaos in her bones and laughter on her lips…
She still deserved silence.
She didn't hear him come in.
The room didn't change, not really. It was still quiet. Still soft. Still hers.
But the moment he crossed the threshold, the air warmed.
Like the Realm itself sighed.
Malvor said nothing.
No dramatic entrance. No smug remarks.
Just the faint sound of his bare feet on the floor and the quiet exhale he only ever let out in this room. With her.
She was lying on her side, her back to the door, half-curled into the comfort of the pillows. Her braid had come undone at the ends. Her rune-glow had dimmed to a gentle ember.
He didn't ask if she needed him.
He just came.
Sat beside her, careful not to shift the bed too much, like he didn't want to disturb the quiet that had settled over her skin like stardust.
And then, he touched her.
Not possessively.
Not protectively.
Just… lovingly.
One hand brushing a strand of hair from her cheek. The other trailing down her arm, fingers finding hers and curling gently between them. Anchoring. Present.
She sighed, soft and content.
Didn't open her eyes.
Didn't need to.
He leaned in and kissed the top of her head. Slow. Warm. Breath lingering like a promise he didn't have to say.
And then he began to braid her hair.
Not for function.
Not for show.
But because he loved her. And because doing this, being here, touching her, basking in her nearness, was enough to undo him.
His fingers moved carefully, reverently, weaving her hair strand by strand.
Not because it needed taming.
Not because she needed fixing.
But because chaos had always been his weapon—breaking, bending, unmaking.
And this?
This was building.
This was proof that he could create something soft. Something lasting. Something that stayed.
The world had always told him he was destruction in a pretty suit.
But here, with her, he could be hands braiding hair under the hush of candlelight. He could be breath against her temple and warmth curled around her back.
He could be hers.
And gods, wasn't that the only miracle he had ever wanted?
He finished the braid slowly, pressing a kiss to the crown of her head as he tucked the last strand into place.
She shifted slightly in her sleep, the tiniest, contented sigh slipping from her lips.
He smiled into her hair, arms tightening just a little.
There was a time he would've called that a victory.
Now?
It was gratitude.
Because she was not a battle to win.She was the peace he never thought he'd deserve.
And she stayed.
Even when the world didn't deserve her, she stayed.
He let the braid rest across her shoulder, and bent forward again, this time pressing his lips to her temple, then her cheek, then just beneath her jaw.
Not rushed.
Not needy.
Just… grateful.
Desperately, achingly grateful.
He whispered it, so softly, she might've dreamed it:
"You don't have to say anything. I just… I needed to be near you."
She turned slightly. Opened her eyes at last.
Their gaze met.
And gods, she'd never seen anyone look so completely undone by happiness.
"I'm here," she whispered.
He smiled. That soft one. The one no one else ever saw.
"I know. And it's everything."
He holds her hands in his, reverently, like they were relics made of starfire and sugar.
"Hold still," he breathed.
And then—
He kissed each one.
Not just the palms, but every curve, every line, every rune like it was something sacred.
Left.
Right.
Palm.
Wrist.
Knuckle.
Then just held it there against his chest, over his heart like he was afraid it might stop if he let go.
She shifted in his arms, just enough to press her cheek against his chest, her fingers still laced with his, her breathing soft and steady.
No tension.
No flinches.
No whispered cries in the dark.
She hadn't had a nightmare in over a month.
And every single night without one felt like a miracle. He wasn't sure he deserved but would protect with everything he had.
Malvor watched her sleep.
Not because he was worried.
But because he was happy.
Utterly, devastatingly happy.
That she was here.
That she was safe.
That she was his.
Her braid rested gently against her shoulder. His fingers traced it absentmindedly, memorizing every twist like a prayer.
The room was silent.
Not magically so.
Just… content.
He leaned in close, his lips brushing her temple, and whispered the words he never said to anyone else. The words that belonged to her and her alone:
"My Always."
She didn't stir.
Didn't need to.
She already knew.
And as the Realm of Mischief curled in around them like a soft blanket of magic and moonlight, Malvor closed his eyes.
He didn't need to perform.
He didn't need to fill the silence.
Because this?
This was the dream.
And she was still there when he woke.