At first, he thought Navir had lost it. Fully snapped. Too many equations. Too many loops. Talking to probability like it owed him money.
But then—
He looked closer.
The way Navir's hands moved. The precision in his gestures. The patterns forming and collapsing on the screens.
Not random. Not madness.
Genius. Raw. Unfiltered. Terrifying.
Malvor stepped forward, slow now. No quip. No sparkle.
He watched the symbols flash. Watched Navir mumble to himself and reroute three formulas mid-sentence. His eyes were wild—but focused.
Not broken. Inspired.
"You're not unraveling," Malvor said quietly. "You're igniting."
Navir didn't answer. Couldn't. He was too deep in it. Too fast.
His thoughts were lightning strikes on glass. Words barely kept up with his mouth. The math couldn't stabilize long enough to be shared.
Malvor tilted his head. "You didn't come out of that place broken," he murmured. "You came out curious."
He stepped closer. "And that's so much worse."
The air flickered again—screens rewriting themselves. Navir whispered:
"The axis isn't fixed—it's flexing. The pattern wants to rewrite around her. Everything's shifting…"
Malvor just listened now.
Not because he understood it all. But because the smartest god he knew was finally unsure of something.
And that meant the universe was changing.
Malvor stepped closer. Close enough that the light from Navir's calculations cast faint, flickering shadows across his face.
"Navir."
No answer.
"Hey. What did you see in there?"
That landed.
Navir twitched—barely—but his fingers stopped moving. The screens stilled. For a breath. For a blink.
Then—
"Infinity," he whispered.
His eyes didn't meet Malvor's. They didn't look anywhere. Just… stared inward.
"I saw every outcome. Every branch. Every timeline this universe could take. Every variable collapse. Every domino that never fell."
A pause.
"I didn't just see the future. I saw all futures. Every divergence. Every path that ends in fire. In ice. In her."
Malvor's mouth opened, then closed. And Navir kept going—his voice low and strange, like he was still hearing it while he said it.
"She was there in all of them. Not a force. Not a ruler. A constant. The tether. The reason things could still continue."
His hands trembled now, but not from fear. From speed. From the sheer electricity of thought racing through him.
"I thought it was all universes. But no. No—it was just ours. I think. I hope. I can't…"
He closed his eyes, swaying slightly.
"It was too much. I don't know how long I was there. Could've been years. Centuries. Time didn't move there—it just was."
Malvor stepped in. Placed a hand on his shoulder.
"She didn't mean to trap you there."
"I know," Navir said."That's what terrifies me."
His voice cracked.
"She accidentally folded reality in on itselfand tied it into a knot no god could undo."
And Malvor, for once, had no clever thing to say.Just silence.
Because they both understood:
Asha didn't just survive the divine.She anchored it.
Navir's voice was a whisper—fractured, almost pleading.
"Does she know?"
Malvor didn't hesitate.
"No," he said softly. "She doesn't."
A beat.
"I didn't either."
Navir's jaw flexed. He nodded—just once. Not in acceptance, but in acknowledgment. He filed it away like data. Another variable. Another weight.
Malvor tried again. "What else did you see? Was there more?"
But Navir was already lost in it again.
His eyes flicked back to the screens—writing faster, messier now. Whole pages blinking into being before collapsing under their own complexity.
"If axis equals constant… then entropy must bend… unless she is entropy—no, no, no, the math doesn't hold—unless that's the point—"
"Navir—"
"—probability collapse ratio must be wrong—no, skewed—skewed by tether influence—she's not the cause—she's the calibration—she's—"
Malvor exhaled. Long. Tired.
He stepped back. Watched for a few more seconds as the god of knowledge chased his own understanding through a maze of stars and spiraling code.
Malvor turned to go. There was nothing more to pull from Navir—not now, Not with his brain still sprinting through probabilities like a god trying to out-think a paradox.
But then—
"One more thing," Navir muttered.
Malvor stopped.Didn't turn. Just waited.
"In the fold… we were not alone."
His voice was thin. Distant. Like he was speaking through the memory rather than about it.
"There was something there. It didn't speak. Didn't move. Just… watched."
A pause. Long. Too long.
"It knew I didn't belong. It saw me."
Malvor's throat went tight.
"And?"
Navir's voice dropped to a whisper.
"I think it smiled."
Then Malvor turned.
"I'll come back," he said.
No response.
Just the hum of magic, numbers, and a mind racing faster than even a god could follow.
So Malvor left him there.
Alone in the room made of light and logic, still whispering the name of the woman who unknowingly tethered the universe to herself.
"Axiom," Navir breathed again. And didn't stop.
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Malvor returned to Arbor. Not with flair. Not with magic. Just… appeared.
The house sensed him instantly—walls brightening, runes pulsing, coffee starting itself like it knew he wouldn't make it otherwise.
But he didn't move.
He stood in the entryway for a long time, cloak half-off his shoulder, glitter smeared on his jaw like an old war wound.
He could still hear Navir.
"She's not the cause. She's the calibration. She's the axis."
He spent the next hour doing nothing.
Not the usual Malvor kind of nothing—no sparkles, no distractions, no illusionary food fights with sentient cupcakes.
Just… silence.
He sat in their room, flicking a marble of chaos between his fingers. Let it shift forms. A cat. A crown. A star. Her eyes.
He tossed it across the room and let it disappear midair.
And when he heard the portal hum?
He was on his feet before the sound had finished.
Asha stepped in—hair tied up, sweater soft, eyes tired but calm.
And Malvor smiled like his world had clicked back into place.
He pressed his face to her shoulder, just for a second, Like if he let go he'd unravel too.
"There she is," he said softly. "My axis of adorable."
She raised an eyebrow. "What?"
"Nothing. Just missed you."
He almost said it. Right there. He opened his mouth.
"There's something I should tell you…"
Her fingers brushed through his hair. She was warm. Solid. Here.
And he couldn't do it. Not yet.
He just held her tighter.
"Later," he whispered instead. "It can wait."
Because for now?
She was home.
And everything else—the prophecy, the title, the infinite swirl of fate—could burn for just a little longer.
He buried his face against her shoulder. Her scent hit him — warm, clean, real. No magic. No destiny. Just Asha. And gods, it almost broke him again. Because for all the infinities she'd bent, all the realms she'd anchored—She still chose him.