He was vibrating. Feral. Drunk on her presence and his own unravelling. He was halfway through composing a sonnet in his head about the curve of her calf when—
Ravina stood.
A toast.
Malvor barely noticed Ravina rise. His eyes were still glued to Asha, tracking the way her painted fingers brushed the stem of her glass. She'd just laughed at something one of the many children said, something bright, flirty, and meaningless. The sound of it had settled in his chest like honey.
She was glowing. Lit from within. Powerful, magnetic, his.
And then—
"Here is to the gods who still have their children… and to those who don't."
The words were slow. Smooth. Dipped in venom and dipped again, like a blade sharpened for ceremony.
"May our mistakes not end in murder next time."
Silence.
A ripple cut through the room, so sharp, so sudden, it felt like the music itself skipped. Glasses stilled midair. Brigitte's smile faltered. Maximus blinked like someone had farted during a eulogy.
Malvor stiffened.
His heartbeat, which had been lazily drunk and dancing in his chest, suddenly dropped. Heavy. Cold.
Asha turned.
Her flame painted skin caught the light. Her eyes, those beautiful eyes, narrowed, soft with confusion.
"...What did you say?"
And Ravina?
She didn't flinch. She didn't stutter. She smiled.
"Oh, you didn't know? I figured he told you everything. How he destroyed Aerion's realm." "Especially the part where he killed Orion."
Glass shattered. Someone dropped a goblet, Malvor couldn't tell who.
Maximus let out a startled laugh. "Oh, Ravina, you wicked little—"But no one joined in.
Because the words hung there. Killed. Orion. Like a thunderclap in a temple. Like blood in water.
And Asha—
Asha finally looked at him.
Not in play. Not in power. Not with teasing or seduction.
But in shock.
The joy she had worn seconds ago vanished. Like it had been stripped from her by force. Her mouth opened slightly, no sound coming out. Her eyes flicked over his face like they were trying to make sense of him, like she was seeing something new and not liking what she saw.
Malvor's world shrank.
The party was still happening, technically. Someone coughed. Another just quietly set their glass down, like it no longer belonged in their hand. Maximus tried to recover. Vitaria didn't. Her silence landed like a verdict. And the older children? They looked everywhere but at Asha.
But Malvor only saw her.
And she wasn't angry.
No, worse.
She was hurt.
And it gutted him.
Because this wasn't about guilt. This wasn't about whether Orion deserved it, or what Aerion had done, or the justifications he had wrapped around the act like armor.
It was about truth.
About the fact that he hadn't told her.
And the look in her eyes said everything:
This isn't just about what you did. It's about what you didn't say.
Ravina sat down like she'd just delivered a standing ovation performance.
She sipped her wine, unbothered. No, worse. Smug. Her expression was a mask of polite satisfaction, but her eyes… oh, her eyes sparkled with victory. Not joy. Not righteousness. Spite. Like a child who'd just yanked the wings off a butterfly and called it art.
She didn't look at Asha. She looked at Malvor. Dead in the eye.
Raised her glass in a slow little toast. And winked.
He moved.
Malvor didn't even think, he just went. Pushed his way through a stunned silence, through gods and demigods and indulgent voyeurs frozen in the shock of the moment.
Asha had stepped away from the crowd. Not rushed. Not fleeing. Just…gone still.
The way you go still when you realize the ground under you isn't ground at all. Just glass. And it's cracking.
"Asha—" he said, voice catching on her name. His breath hitched. "Asha, I, I can explain. I didn't, It's not what, he wasn't—"
She turned toward him. And it hurt. Not because she was cold. But because she wasn't.
She was calm. Gentle. Soft-spoken.
Kind. Which made it feel worse.
She drew in a quiet breath, like she was steadying herself, then offered him almost a smile. Not quite forgiveness. Just... grace.
"I just need time to process that information, Malvor."
That was all she said. No blame. No shouting. No venom.
His mouth opened. Closed. Like he might argue—might beg—but even his chaos couldn't find words that wouldn't make it worse.
Just… space. And he couldn't argue with that.
Didn't dare.
So he stood there. Fists clenched. Mind racing. The echo of Ravina's words still ringing in the space between them.
And Asha turned. Walked away.
Leaving him standing in the glitter stained ruins of a party he suddenly could not wait to leave.
He didn't chase her.
He couldn't.
Because what would he even say?
She didn't owe him forgiveness. She didn't owe him grace. And still, she'd given him both—just enough to leave him drowning in his own guilt.
The party resumed around him like it hadn't cracked open at the center. Maximus, ever the consummate hedonist, clapped a few times and bellowed something unintelligible to the room. A few scattered cheers followed. Nervous laughter. Movement.
But none of it touched him.
He was made of glass now. Brittle. Shattered in places he didn't even know could break.
He'd fought monsters. Defied gods. Built an empire of illusion just to feel wanted. But one soft-spoken sentence from Asha had left him gutted.
"I just need time."
Not rejection. Not condemnation. Just truth.
And that truth?
It weighed more than any punishment the Pantheon could offer.
He turned away. Slowly. Deliberately. Every movement aching with the effort of pretending he was still whole.
A piece of glitter drifted down from the ceiling—leftover from the celebration, still trying to sparkle in the wrong kind of silence.
He caught it.
Held it in his palm.
Watched it tremble.
It was shaped like a star. Mocking, really. Tiny. Harmless. A remnant of something bright and loud and forgettable.
Just like him.
Malvor clenched his fist. The glitter crumpled.
And still, it shone.