Malvor pulled back fully now, eyes wide, chest rising too fast.
"No. No, no, no, Annie, why aren't you talking? Is this part of the magic? Did something happen? Did she curse you?"
His voice pitched higher with each question, panic swirling in his golden tan eyes.
"Annie, was this the cost? Was this the cost?! What kind of monster takes your voice, I swear on all twelve gods I will burn her stupid abyss to the ground—"
THWACK.
A heavy hardcover book, glowing, no less, dropped from the ceiling and bounced off his head.
Malvor yelped, stumbling back with a very undignified, "OW?!"
He spun in place. "Arbor! You little traitor—"
But Annie was laughing.
Silently, but fully.
Shoulders shaking, lips curved, eyes sparkling.
And somehow, in all the dread and grief and unspoken weight, that laughter made it okay.
Malvor blinked at her.
"Are you laughing at me right now?"
She nodded, breathless.
He scowled dramatically. "This is emotional sabotage."
Annie rolled her eyes, then lifted her hand and signed three and days—two deliberate motions.
Malvor squinted. "Three days…?"
She nodded again.
His eyes widened. "Just three days?"
Another nod.
His entire body slumped in relief. "Oh thank the gods. You nearly gave me a divine heart attack."
He looked up at the ceiling and muttered, "I take back what I said, Arbor, but you are still extremely rude."
A glowing heart shimmered across the ceiling in response.
Annie touched his face again, her hand so gentle it made his eyes sting.
"You're still a menace," he whispered.
But he kissed her anyway. Soft. Reverent. Grateful.
Malvor pulled her gently to the couch, never letting go of her hand. He eased her down beside him, lifting her arm into his lap, the sleeve falling away to reveal the fresh, glowing rune on her forearm.
Leyla's mark.
It shimmered like starlight caught in ink, its edges elegant and complex, as if it had been carved by shadows themselves.
He traced it with slow fingers, reverent. Careful.
"Did it hurt?" he asked quietly, thumb brushing over the raised lines.
Annie shook her head.
Then mimed rubbing her eyes, her hand flopping over her face with exaggerated drama, then pressing her cheek into her shoulder like a sleepy child.
He snorted. "So dramatic. You would think you were tired or something."
She shrugged innocently.
He stared at her for a second longer, then let out a slow sigh. "Right. That's it. Come on, my little corpse bride."
Before she could protest, he scooped her up, bridal style, arms strong beneath her knees and back, cradling her like something precious.
She didn't resist.
Didn't need to.
She leaned into his chest, her forehead tucked under his chin, letting herself go boneless in his arms.
"Bathroom," he muttered to Arbor as they passed through the hall. "Give me candles, magic steam, and the kind of bath that makes you forget the concept of war."
The tub was already filling when they arrived.
Wide enough for two. The water shimmered a soft purple-blue, steam curling like dreams off the surface. Tiny golden lights floated above the surface, Arbor's version of starlight, flickering gently like fireflies.
Malvor set her down beside the tub, helped her undress without teasing or flair, just tenderness. Then he stripped his own shirt, rolled his eyes when she tried to whistle, and slid into the warm water with her pulled tight against him.
Annie sighed.
Nestled into his chest, legs tangled with his under the water, her head against his shoulder.
She smiled with her eyes closed.
Happy.
Safe.
Home.
He ran his fingers through her wet hair, slow and easy, the water lapping gently around them.
"You're here," he whispered. "And I can't hear your voice, but gods… you still take the air right out of my lungs."
She didn't need to answer.
Her hand over his heart said enough.
They stayed that way until the water cooled, and the stars above began to fade.
Wrapped in warmth.
Wrapped in each other.
That night, for the first time in what felt like years—
She slept.
No restless shifting. No silent gasps. No whispered names from dreams that weren't hers. Just slow, steady breaths, rising and falling like waves against his chest.
Malvor did not sleep.
Not because he couldn't.
But because he wouldn't.
He lay there with her wrapped in his arms, one hand splayed across the curve of her back, the other brushing idle, soothing strokes through her hair. Her body was soft against his, limp with real rest, not the haunted stillness of exhaustion. Her face, so often tight with thought, with pain, with too much, was relaxed.
Peaceful.
Radiant, even in the dim moonlight bleeding through the bedroom curtains.
He studied every detail of her.
Her lashes twitching faintly when she dreamed, not nightmares, he was sure of it.
The tiny scar at the corner of her mouth that only showed when she wasn't tense.
The way her fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt like she couldn't help it.
Gods, he loved her.
He loved her in the quiet, in the storm, in the screamless sleep where she finally, finally found peace.
He pressed his lips to her forehead. To the top of her head. To her shoulder. Each one silent. Worshipful.
And then he whispered, voice barely a breath:
"Sleep, My Lioness. I've got you."
She didn't stir.
Not even once.
And that was the miracle.