The day of his birth finally arrived.
A day Malvor had invented a mortal holiday for. A day marked by chaos, costumes, questionable worship practices, and glitter shortages in at least six realms.
And yet, somehow, he still woke up early.
Coffee in one hand. A kiss in the other.
Asha blinked at him from beneath the blankets, bleary-eyed and half-buried in pillows. He looked far too smug for this early in the morning.
"Mocha," he said, offering the cup like a peace treaty. "Made with extra sin."
She took it. Sipped. Grunted approval. "Still too smug."
He leaned down and brushed a kiss against her temple. His lips lingered, soft and reverent.
"I'll be busy until later," he murmured, pulling back. "Big day. Lots of divine nonsense to oversee."
She squinted at him over her mug. "You mean your party?"
"I mean my glorious tribute to existence itself, yes."
She groaned and flopped onto her back like she'd just been struck by divine inconvenience.
"What's the theme this time? Do I even want to know?"
He grinned. His eyes sparkled like a glitterbomb had gone off behind them.
"Malvoween: A Celebration of Divine Chaos, Good Taste, and Me."
A beat.
"...You made everyone dress like you, didn't you?"
"Every guest. No magic allowed."
She stared at him. Long sip. Slow sigh.
"Oh hells. More of you."
He winked. "Yes, my lovely. More of me."
And then he vanished in a shimmer of magic—probably to torment caterers, seduce mirrors, and build a confetti cannon shaped like his own face.
Asha stared at the ceiling for a long moment.
Then she dragged herself out of bed. "More of you," she muttered. "Fine. But I'm winning."
⟁⟁𓂃✦𓂀✦𓂃⟁⟁𓂃✦𓂀✦𓂃⟁⟁
The Party Subspace—Malvor's personally conjured pocket dimension—was already over capacity and wildly under control.
Gods. Mortals. Demi-things. Questionable anomalies. All shoulder to shoulder, waiting below a floating stage. And every single one of them was dressed like Malvor.
And yet... none of them were him.
The lights dimmed. The music began. Familiar. Too familiar.
A choir burst into an elaborate harmonized chant—clearly a corrupted version of "Happy Birthday."
"To the god who made chaos a brand, To the one with the most perfect hands, To the breaker of hearts and reality... Happy Malvo-ween to thee!"
The sky split open.
A meteor plummeted from the heavens—sparkling, swirling, made entirely of champagne and sequins.
It hit the stage in a dramatic explosion of golden mist and glitter confetti. The crowd screamed. Someone fainted. Possibly two.
And when the shimmer settled...
There he stood.
Malvor.
Dressed to ruin lives and steal worship.
An onyx black suit that shone like a black diamond. Gold bowtie. Matching eyeliner. Hair like he'd personally convinced the wind to style it.
He extended his arms, head thrown back, and basked in the chaos.
"You're welcome for my existence," he declared, voice like velvet sin.
The crowd erupted.
And the real contest had just begun.
⟁⟁𓂃✦𓂀✦𓂃⟁⟁𓂃✦𓂀✦𓂃⟁⟁
The Judges' Table appeared next.
Long. Crystal. Beneath a banner that read:
"We Literally Don't Know What We're Doing But We're Judging Anyway."
Judge 1: Tairochi. God of Earth. Stoic. Massive. Looked like he'd been carved by regret and left to brood.
He crossed his arms. Didn't blink. Held up a tiny chalkboard with a 5 on it. For who? Unclear.
"He made me do this," Tairochi muttered. "I am not amused."
Judge 2: Sporesby, a mushroom citizen of Malvor's Realm. Wore a sequined mini-suit. Jiggled with excitement. Spoke only in spores and joy.
"Bloop! CHAOS FOR EVERYONE!"
He slammed a buzzer. Confetti exploded. A contestant was declared "flavorful."
Judge 3: Doug. Just Doug. Possibly human. No one remembered inviting him.
Together, they were:
Divine Authority (the unwilling)
Fungal Enthusiasm (the unhinged)
Vibes-Based Mediocrity (Doug)
Malvor turned to them, arms wide.
"Judges," he purred. "Are you ready to evaluate the very best versions of me?"
Doug gave a thumbs up. Sporesby released spores. Tairochi blinked.
"Perfect," Malvor said.
The runway shimmered. Contestants began to strut, flounce, and glide like gods auditioning for a play only Malvor could direct.
⟁⟁𓂃✦𓂀✦𓂃⟁⟁𓂃✦𓂀✦𓂃⟁⟁
Vittia, Age 5, Absolute Tyrant
Wore a glittery trash bag. A paper crown. Held a broken stick wrapped in tinfoil—her "chaos wand."
"I am Malvor! But better! And I fart stars!"
The crowd lost it. Doug took notes. Sporesby shrieked. Tairochi did not blink.
Brigitte, Age 15, Existential Goth
Draped in black feathers. Eyeliner smudged. Radiating emotional trauma.
"I am the embodiment of misunderstood divinity."
Malvor launched a cupcake at her. She caught it. Took a bite. Didn't smile. Sparkled anyway.
Luxor, Too Hot for Reality
Bronzed skin. Bronze suit. Literal glow.
The audience gasped. The judges panicked.
Tairochi: "Unfair." Doug: "I'm feeling emotions I don't understand." Sporesby: "HOT HOT HOT BLOOP!"
Malvor: "Sabotage."
Yara, Malvor the Morning After
She sauntered. Glitter clung to strategic places.
"I'm Malvor post-realm bender."
She blew him a kiss. He caught it. Tucked it into his coat.
"You're not wrong," he admitted.
Then—
The room went still. The lights paused. The music stopped.
A flourish of doves. Gold glitter. Small creatures throwing petals like it was the wedding of drama and danger.
And there she was.
Asha.
Chestnut wig. His suit. Tailored. Devastating.
She didn't use magic. She didn't need to.
She walked like him. Exactly like him.
One raised brow. Disappointment incarnate.
The crowd fell silent. A mirror exploded. Someone whispered, "Oh no."
Malvor whispered to himself, "I'm not okay."
She twirled. Dramatically. Coat flaring.
To Sporesby: she whispered in fluent Spore. Sporesby shuddered and released a cloud of pink spores.
To Doug: "Numbers are so sexy." She winked. Doug fell off his chair.
To Tairochi: "I would let your stone break me in the best way."
Tairochi visibly reacted. Malvor whimpered.
Then she circled Malvor.
Predatory. Dangerous. Confident.
She stopped inches away. Too close. Deliciously illegal.
In his voice, she said:
"Darling... I believe I win."
He could not respond.
Sporesby hit the golden buzzer. Doug screamed. Tairochi wrote: "I concede."
Malvor's soul? Gone. Left the building.
She smiled.
He melted.
And the party? Was just getting started.