The sound of her heels echoed like gunfire in the corridor.
Each step, sharp, high, holy, rang off the polished floors of Maximus's glitter-drenched temple. Her skirt still flounced, her gold-painted skin still glowed, but all of it felt wrong. Like a costume she hadn't agreed to wear.
She didn't rush.
She didn't cry.
She just walked. Straight-backed. Chin high. Past gods and demigods too stunned to speak. Past laughter that now felt too loud, too forced. Past Ravina, who watched her with a serpent's satisfaction and a raised glass.
Asha didn't spare her a glance.
The moment the portal opened, she stepped through, straight into the Observatory.
Stars shimmered above her. Galaxies spun slow and ancient. A million suns blinked into focus like distant lanterns, watching. Waiting.
Her heels hit the glassy platform: click. click. click.
Too loud.
Too much.
She stopped. Let out a breath. Snapped her fingers.
And just like that—The clothes were gone.
The body paint. The heels. The shine.
Replaced by a worn t-shirt. Soft pants. Comfy sneakers. Hair in a messy bun. A mug of coffee in one hand. Still hot.
No glamour. No seduction. Just her.
Asha.
She didn't speak. She didn't need to.
She walked toward the edge, slow, quiet. No fanfare this time. Just breath and starlight. The vast glass platform stretched around her in all directions, suspended in cosmic silence.
Below: darkness.
Above: infinite color.
And around her, stillness.
Not cold. Not empty. Warm.
She sipped her coffee. Let it sit on her tongue.
Then finally, she let her shoulders fall. Her jaw unclenched. Her body just be.
Not for anyone. Not to prove anything. Just to exist.
And in the quiet of the stars, she whispered, not to the universe, not to the gods, not even to herself:
"I need a minute."
The stars heard her. And they waited.
He hadn't lied.
Just… withheld.
And that hurt. Not the sharp, soul-deep pain of betrayal. Just a small, hollow ache behind her ribs. A bruise where trust had been stretching into something more.
Was she embarrassed?
No.
Ashamed?
Absolutely not.
She was tired. Tired of toasts. Of sideways glances. Of half-truths dressed in gold.
She sipped her coffee, slow and quiet.
Above her, the stars spun lazily in their orbits, each one pulsing with color, movement, meaning. The galaxies drifted like thoughts, too big to hold, too bright to ignore.
The magic here responded to her presence. Moved for her. Spun for her.
But still…There was no peace.
The space was beautiful. Enchanting. Awe-inspiring.
But beneath the beauty, there was always motion. Chaos, contained, curated, dazzling, but chaos nonetheless.
Even now, sitting cross-legged on the glass floor, her body wrapped in soft cotton, the coffee warm in her hands… she could feel it.
The hum of disorder. The thrum of something always moving.
This was Malvor's realm.
Even in its quietest corners, it buzzed.
Not bad. Not wrong.
Just… never still.
She sat there for a while.
No timer. No pressure. Just breathing and letting her mind settle, like silt at the bottom of a storm-tossed pool.
And when she finally stood, the stars shifted in farewell. A single cluster bloomed as she passed, red and white, like a heartbeat.
She didn't need to say where she was going.
The portal opened before she reached the edge.
Cold light spilled through.
She stepped into Aerion's realm without looking back.
Before the portal closed, she opened the bond.
Just a thread. Just enough.
My Chaos, she whispered through it, her mind brushing his like fingers against silk. I am fine. I am here.
She didn't press pain into the bond. Didn't send the ache, or the hollow weight, or the echo of Ravina's voice. She gave him the only thing she could offer right now:
Peace. Soft, steady .And love.
I love you. I need space, not distance. I am safe.
She poured warmth through the bond, slow and deliberate, like a sunbeam across his skin. She imagined wrapping it around him like a blanket, her version of safety. Her constant.
And then she closed the bond again, gently.
Not shutting him out.
Just letting him breathe.
The portal shimmered shut behind her.
And she turned.
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Aerion's realm was gone.
Not empty. Not destroyed in the way that leaves ruins behind. No.
It was devoured.
Like a bomb had gone off, and then a black hole had pulled it all inward. The air still crackled with vacuum burned magic. There were pieces of things: a half melted sword, a stone arch twisted into itself, banners that hung from nothing.
What wasn't gone was scarred. Warped.
The sky above was gray and bruised. The ground beneath her boots crunched like glass. There were no birds. No sound.
Just that awful sense of absence. Like the realm itself had been erased. Like grief had teeth.
Asha didn't move. Not yet.
She just stood there.
Letting her eyes adjust to the nothing.
She walked.
Not with purpose.
Not with fury.
Just… movement. The kind you do when your body doesn't know what else to do.
The realm was fractured, gutted. Pieces floated where buildings used to stand. Stone bridges led to nowhere. Marble columns spiraled into the air and vanished into the bruised clouds.
Ash-colored dust clung to her sneakers. She stepped over what might have once been a shield, now cracked down the middle like a broken promise. The air here didn't taste like death.
It tasted like the aftermath.
And then—
A pulse.
Small. Subtle. Wrong.
She turned toward it without thinking.
The fold in the realm was nearly invisible, tucked between the remnants of two stone pillars that had no business still standing. She shouldn't have seen it. Shouldn't have felt it.
But she did.
Because she'd been here before.
She stepped through the tear in space.
And into the room.
Not a bedroom. Not a training chamber. Not a throne room.
The Room.
The one he'd taken her to. That night.
A secret space carved out of lightless stone and silence. Still whole. Untouched by the destruction outside. Like even the black hole that consumed the realm had hesitated at its edges.
The magic here was different. Stale. Heavy.
And the pain—
It lived in the walls.
Not just hers.
She could feel it, radiating out like heat from old coals.
This place had seen things.
Asha stepped further in.
Her fingers grazed a carved emblem on the wall, an old symbol of valor, warped slightly with age.
She wasn't the only one.
She had never been the only one.
Just the last.
The thought sank into her chest, leaden and cold.
And still she stood there.
Letting the grief of others, of countless others, settle around her like dust.
She didn't cry. There was nothing left in her to break. Not here.
Not in this room.