Chapter 63: The Reveal (Arbor POV)
Look. I have been very patient. Again. We have come a long way, dear reader. The screaming panic attacks? Fewer. The nights where she woke up shaking and pretended she was fine while he pretended he didn't notice? Less frequent. The soft mornings? Increasing at a suspicious rate. She was actually resting sometimes. Actually laughing. Going to Ahyona. Going to Tairochi. Letting herself be held without apologizing for it.
I was proud. I am a house. I contain multitudes. All of those multitudes were clapping. Malvor, of course, responded to this emotional growth by… Developing a new problem. He got secretive.
Not the fun kind, where he's clearly hiding a birthday present or plotting a surprise date. No, this was the "I am a Chaos God with a guilty conscience and I keep slipping into a room you 'definitely don't need to worry about, darling'" kind of secretive. He would vanish for hours. No portals. No visits. Just… vanish down a hallway and lock a door only he could see. I could see it, obviously. I am the hallway.
Every time he went in there, the same things happened: His stress spiked, his magic went weirdly focused. Somewhere inside that room, someone was typing like their life depended on a deadline. You know that sound when a mortal is frantically hammering on a keyboard at 2 a.m. fueled by caffeine and existential dread? Yes. That. I knew exactly what he was doing, of course. I am not merely a house. I am also the president, treasurer, and emotional backbone of the Calista Wildfire Fan Club. It's me. Hi. I'm the problem. It's me.
Calista Wildfire: queen of emotionally devastating fantasy romance, mother of plot twists, destroyer of sleep schedules. Asha has been devouring those books years before she moved in. I remember the first time she flopped onto my couch with one of them, eyes red, muttering, "This woman releases a book a month. A month, Arbor. That's not a writer. She's not human."
You were right, my dear. You were so very right. Because Calista Wildfire is not a woman. Calista Wildfire is a six-foot-five god of chaos. I've watched him write under three pen names for centuries. I have watched him act out scenes in my living room to "check pacing." I have watched him sob into a pillow because a fictional man "wasn't emotionally ready yet." I have also watched this man stand in front of a mirror, shift his body, adjust his illusion, and practice Calista's signature author photo expression. He has a "smoldering, but accessible" face, reader. There are rules. The point is: I knew. You knew. Everyone but Asha knew.
Which brings us to the day she finally found out. You're welcome.
It started simple. Quiet afternoon. Asha was curled up on the couch with Calista's latest book, mug in hand, blanket over her legs. Her hair was up in one of those messy buns. She'd just reached That Scene. The one that had made her sit bolt upright a few days ago and mutter, "Why does this feel so damn familiar?"
She was rereading it now. Slowly. Carefully. The line hit: "The best thing about unconditional love," he whispered, "is you never feel like you deserve it. Because it isn't earned. It's given. Freely. No conditions. No exceptions. No rules… Loving you is as easy as breathing."
Her breath stuttered. I felt the spike in her memory before she did. Her fingers tightened on the page. Her heartbeat picked up. Her mind pulled a thread. Because she'd said those words. In my kitchen, to Malvor. Word for word. Her lips parted. "…Oh, hell no..."
Somewhere down the hall, a keyboard clacked faster. I did not laugh. Out loud. Malvor had, of course, locked his "absolutely-not-a-secret-writing-room" again. There was no obvious door. Just a stretch of smooth wall, if you were anyone but me. I kept it hidden because he asked nicely and fed me extra magic. Also, because watching him sneak off to write like a guilty teenager had been delightful. But today?
Today was reveal day. "How long has he been gone?" Asha muttered, snapping the book shut. Two hours, seventeen minutes, thirty-two seconds, and three dramatic sighs. I did not tell her this. She set the book down. Stood. Stretched. Her joints cracked. "Arbor?"
Yes, favorite? I blinked my light to say.
"Where is he?" Oh, I thought. Oh this is going to be fun. I brightened the lights in the corridor. She frowned. "Don't start."
I started. I lit the path. One by one, lights on the floor blinked awake, leading down the hall like some kind of enchanted airport runway. "Oh, we're doing this," she said, squinting. "Fine."
She followed. At the end of the hall, where ordinary eyes would see nothing but smooth stone, I let a seam appear. "Arbor, Is there a door there?"
The wall flickered. A doorway glowed faintly. She stared. "Has that always been there?"
Yes. Obviously. But I once again did not respond. She took a step toward it. The wards shivered. Malvor had layered protections on this room like a paranoid dragon. No sound in, no sound out, no prying eyes, no unauthorized entry. Normally, I honored that. Today, I accidentally forgot. The wards loosened. Inside, his voice drifted through the crack. Low. Intense. "…he doesn't believe he deserves it. But love isn't a transaction, it's a... ugh, no, that sounds preachy."
Tap tap tap. Keys. Asha froze. She pressed her hand to the door. "Arbor. Open it."
The wards hesitated. I blinked a light red. Indicating he will be mad.
"I'm already mad. Open the door."
Well. When you put it like that. The lock clicked. The handle turned. The world's worst-kept secret blew wide open. The room was a disaster. Like "Genius Creative in Active Meltdown" disaster. Stacks of printed manuscripts towered in uneven piles.Walls were covered in story maps. Threads of red string, sticky notes, scribbled timelines. A huge corkboard displayed all of Calista Wildfire's book covers, each lovingly annotated with sales numbers, reader quotes, and "fix this in next series" notes.
In the center of it all sat Malvor. He was in full Calista mode. Loose satin robe. Hair tied back in a greying brown messy knot. Glasses perched low on his nose for no practical reason, purely for the vibe. His chaos magic shimmered faintly around him, shaping faint illusions of swirling text and shifting scenes. He was reading aloud as he typed. "…and when he finally let himself believe it, when he finally understood that she loved him without conditions…" He paused, fingers hovering over the keys. "He realized home had never been a place. It had always been her."
He typed it. Asha stepped fully into the room. She said, very calmly, "…You have got to be kidding me."
Malvor froze. Then, without turning, he said in his normal voice, "Arbor, if this is another intervention about my caffeine consumption, I swear to—"
He turned. Saw her. Stopped existing for a full three seconds. "Asha," he croaked. "Darling. Love of my chaotic, fragile soul. What a… surprise."
She stared at him. Stared at the desk. Stared at the wall of Calista covers. Her eyes dropped to the open document. She read. Her expression shifted in slow motion from confusion → realization → betrayal → murder. "…Is that... Is that my line?"
His mouth opened. Closed. "Define 'your'," he tried.
She stalked forward. "You stole what I said to you."
He held up his hands. "Borrowed."
"You plagiarized my feelings!"
Arbor Note: At this moment, I deliberately dimmed the lights for dramatic courtroom energy.
Malvor winced. "It was… thematically resonant."
"You took the words I used to tell you I loved you," she said, voice low and shaking now, "You shoved them into your book and gave them to him." She jabbed a finger at the screen. "Why is your sad fictional man getting my line?"
He bristled, offended on behalf of his creation. "He's deeply nuanced, actually—"
"Malvor."
He shut up. Silence stretched. The glow from the monitor flickered against her face, picking up the hurt there. "I thought I recognized it. When I read it in Calista's book. I thought, 'that sounds so… familiar.' I thought it was just good writing."
"Darling," he said weakly, "it is good writing."
"I was talking about me."
He grimaced. "Right. Yes. Of course. You are… exemplary source material."
I wanted to slap him with a door.
He saw the anger, saw the hurt, and for once in his life stopped trying to dodge. "Asha," he said quietly, stepping closer, robe swishing dramatically because he doesn't know how to move normally. "Listen to me."
"No," she snapped. "You listen to me."
She picked up the nearest book. Calista's most recent release. The one with the heroine who was definitely-not-Asha-but-absolutely-was. She flipped to the first page. Read the dedication out loud. "To My Forever." Her jaw clenched. She grabbed the previous book from a stack. "To the one who taught me softness." Another. "To the woman who walked herself out of the dark."
She dropped the books onto his desk one by one. They hit with little thuds that sounded a lot like a heart trying not to break. "Every book, every damn book you've released since I met you."
He swallowed. "Yes."
"Those were about me."
"Yes."
"The heroines—" She grabbed one, flipped through pages with frantic fingers. "The sex worker who doesn't know who she is if she isn't useful. The girl who thinks love is transactional. The one who keeps everyone else from falling apart while she breaks quietly in the background." Her voice thinned. "That's me."
He looked like he wanted to argue semantics. Didn't dare.
"And this guy," she said, slapping a page where the male lead was doing something extremely familiar and extremely stupid, "is you. Right down to the dramatic monologues and the suits. You've been writing our relationship in your books."
He nodded once. "Yes."
"For months."
"Yes."
"Instead of telling me."
His shoulders sagged. "Also yes."
I softened the lighting a fraction. The room's hum gentled. "Why?" she whispered.
Malvor's bravado wavered. For once, he didn't reach for a joke. "Because, I didn't know how to say it out loud without…" He gestured helplessly. "Exploding. Or ruining it. Or scaring you."
Her throat tightened. "So you just… shoved it into the bestseller list instead."
He winced. "…That sounds worse when you say it like that." He raked a hand through his hair, smearing ink across his temple. "I've always written my feelings. Long before you. It was… safer. I could be honest on the page, and if no one understood. I could pretend it was just fiction." He swallowed hard. "But then you had been reading them. You liked them. You liked me without knowing it was me. You underlined my worst confessions and said, 'God, I love this part.'"
I remember that. She did. Several times. Out loud. While hugging a pillow like it owed her money.
"I started dedicating them to you because I didn't know how to handle the fact that you existed," he said, voice low, raw. "You, with your scars and your stubborn hope and your absolutely infuriating way of loving me anyway." A breath shuddered out of him. "I stole your words. Because they were the truest thing anyone has ever said to me. A part of me hoped… if I put them in a story, it would feel… less terrifying that someone like you would say them to someone like me."
Her anger didn't vanish. But it shifted. Made room. "You should've asked."
He nodded. "I know."
"You should've told me."
"I know, I'm telling you now." He took a cautious step forward, then another, stopping when he was close enough for her to see how much his hands were shaking. "I have been writing my way toward you. Every month. Every book. Every ridiculous plotline. The heroine changed because you changed. The hero grew up because I was trying to." He gave a short, self-conscious laugh. "I made him say your line because when you said it to me, I finally believed you. I wanted him to have that, too. I wanted some version of me to get it right the first time."
Silence. Asha stood there, surrounded by physical evidence that she'd been loved in paragraphs and chapters and dedications for months without knowing. "You dedicated every book to me." She said it so soft.
"Since the day I saw you walking in this house with one of them under your arm, yes."
"You've been writing about us in front of my face."
"Yes."
"And I didn't notice."
He breathed out a shaky smile. "That was, respectfully, both the best and worst part."
Something in her cracked. Not the painful way. The releasing way. "You are such an idiot," she whispered, eyes wet.
He relaxed a fraction. "Deeply, irreparably."
"I am an idiot for not seeing it."
"You had other things to worry about. Like, you know, not dying. Recovering from divine trauma. Learning that you're allowed to rest."
Her lips twitched. "Still. I should've realized my favorite author wrote exactly like the man I sleep next to."
"Oh, darling," he murmured, stepping close enough that their foreheads almost touched. "I was counting on you not noticing. You terrify me when you're perceptive."
She laughed. It came out wet, broken, real. Then she shoved him. Not hard. Just enough to make him stumble back a step. "That line was mine!"
"Yes."
"You owe me royalties."
His eyes lit up. "Are… we negotiating co-author credit? Because I have ideas—"
"Don't push it."
He grinned, aching and bright. "Noted."
She wiped at her eyes with the back of her hand. "So," she said slowly, "Calista Wildfire is you."
He straightened. Flicked an imaginary cape. "Calista Wildfire is a carefully crafted brand and also a state of mind. But yes. It's me."
"And Vesper Lune and Honey DeVyne?"
He coughed. "We do not have to talk about Honey DeVyne right now."
"Oh, we absolutely do. But later." She looked around the room. At the pages. The maps. The wall of covers. "All this time, you were writing love letters. I thought I was just… a fan."
His voice dropped. "You were my favorite reader long before you were my favorite everything else."
She exhaled. Long. Shaky. Then, finally, finally, she smiled. "Next time, you ask before you use my lines."
He nodded solemnly. "Yes, darling."
"You put one heroine in there who doesn't look like me, for variety."
He grimaced. "But why would I do that when you're clearly the superior template?"
"Malvor."
"…Fine. One."
"Two," she said.
"One and a half."
"Two, or I plagiarize your monologues at your next Pantheon meeting."
He went pale. "Cruel."
She smirked. "Accurate."
He laughed. It sounded like relief. Then she reached past him, grabbed his laptop, and flipped the screen back toward her. "For the record," she said, scrolling up the page, "this scene is too purple. This metaphor—" she pointed "—is terrible. What does 'his soul folding like badly stacked laundry' even mean?"
"It's avant-garde," he protested.
"It's stupid, move this line here. Cut this paragraph. Let her walk away once. Make him chase."
I watched his eyes widen as she tore through his draft like a professional editor with a grudge. "Oh," he whispered. "Oh, this is hot."
"Focus, author boy," she said. But she was smiling. She moved behind his chair, hands still on the keyboard, and he settled back into it, letting her guide the story. Together. I dimmed the lights to a warm, cozy glow. Let the room breathe.
Because this? This was healing too. Hours later, when she finally left the room with ink on her fingers and a tiny, stunned smile on her face, he called after her, "Asha?" She turned. He flexed his fingers, still covered in gold. "For the record, loving you is not just as easy as breathing." Her brow arched. "It's easier. Breathing's involuntary. Loving you is a choice I keep making on purpose."
She stared at him. "Okay," she said, voice a little unsteady. "That one you can keep."
"Dibs," he said softly. She disappeared down the hall. I closed the door, locked it, and pulsed warm approval through my walls. Later that night, she curled back onto the couch with a Calista book. Not to escape, but to recognize. To trace the evolution of his love on the page and see herself where she hadn't looked before. She laughed at parts she'd once cried over. Cried at parts she'd skimmed. Rolled her eyes at a particularly dramatic line and muttered, "God, you're ridiculous," and I felt him grin in the other room like he'd heard her through ten feet of enchanted stone. She got to the dedications again. Read them with new eyes. She whispered, "You idiot," but it sounded a lot like I love you. Because she did. She knew, now, he'd been telling her in hardcover this whole time.
Now, dear reader, we arrive at you. Yes, you. Don't look at the page like that. You knew. You knew from the first time she said, "No one human releases a book a month," and I flickered the lights. You knew when Calista's hero started sounding exactly like a certain chaos idiot pacing my halls. You knew when the dedications got weirdly specific. You have been screaming at her in your head for at least ten chapters: HE'S CALISTA. WAKE UP.
Consider this your validation. You were right. Congratulations. You are now an honorary member of the Calista Wildfire Fan Club. I run the meetings. Snacks in the kitchen. Emotional damage in every chapter. Shout out to our biggest fan Devon!
Agenda:
1. Roast Malvor for stealing his girlfriend's line.
2. Applaud him for dedicating every book to her.
3. Vote on whether Asha should be allowed to edit all future drafts. (My vote: yes. The laundry metaphor was a hate crime.)
Remember, you figured it out before she did. Don't worry. I won't tell her.