In the darkness, she dreams.
She remembers the altar. The real one.
Perfume. Silk. Rose petals.
She remembers laying still. Quiet. Good.
Maximus's priests never needed to force her. They coaxed—like temptation wrapped in velvet. Smiling. Singing. Worship with praise hands and poisoned honey.
"Just like that," they said. "You're meant for this. You make it beautiful."
And she did.
She made it beautiful so they wouldn't make it worse.
So the smiles would stay on their faces and not twist into something sharp.
That's where the memory ends. And the nightmare begins.
The petals rot first.
The silk around her wrists tightens. Not rope—expectation. Not knots—praise turned prison. The altar pulses beneath her like a heartbeat not her own. Wet. Greedy. Alive.
She's naked again. Laid out like an offering. Not bound by hands, but by the weight of who they told her to be.
The perfume thickens—sweet, then sour. Sickly. Choking. It clogs her throat, crawls down her lungs like smoke from burning flowers. She coughs—only no sound comes out. Her voice has already been tithed.
And then she sees him.
Maximus, golden and gleaming. Theatrical. Smug. Smiling with the kind of pride that ruins little girls and writes odes to their pain.
"Show them how good you are," he croons. "You love being watched, don't you?"
Malvor throws confetti into the air like he's the emcee of her suffering. The jester-king of her violation.
"Give them what they want, Annie Bear," he giggles. Like it's a game. Like she's a puppet. Like her fear makes the show more fun.
The gods surround her. Twelve shadows of power and apathy.
Eyes glowing .Mouths smiling. Hands waiting.
Ravina steps forward.
Her touch is soft. Gentle. A caress that feels like an apology she never earned. A vial appears in her hand—glass shimmering, liquid glinting like betrayal in moonlight.
"To dull the pain," Ravina says. Her voice is sweet, honeyed.
"Or maybe to deepen it."
She tilts the vial. Annie's mouth is forced open—tasting roses soaked in vinegar and venom. It burns going down. Her stomach coils, her veins spark.
"We are what we pretend to be," Ravina whispers. "And you pretend so well."
Annie tries to scream. To move. To beg.
But then—
Aerion.
He appears like wrath incarnate.
His hand slams over her mouth. The other grinds her arm into the altar. Bone to stone. Flesh to fury.
"You owed me," he growls. Hot breath. Metal tang. The stink of justice warped into vengeance.
"Don't pretend this isn't fair."
He leans in. Too close. Too heavy. His shadow smothers the world.
"You embarrassed me," he hisses. "Made me look weak. In front of everyone."
His knee wedges between hers. She thrashes—he laughs. "Now you get to pay for it."
She tries to speak. To tell him no. But his grip tightens.
"You're lucky I'm even giving you the rune this way," he spits. "You wanted this, remember?"
He forces his hand to her thigh.
The light sears her skin. Twisting. Carving. Claiming.
"You said yes," he snaps. "The moment you stepped into my temple. Don't rewrite history just because you don't like the ending."
The gods applaud.
Tairochi doesn't move. Navir films it all. Leyla dips her brush in her own blood and paints her suffering like it's divine art.
Yara claps lazily. Sips from a pearl-crusted goblet like this is a beachside cabaret. "Such a performance," she drawls. "Such style."
Vitaria passes out tissues."We love a girl who suffers gracefully."
Maximus bites into a peach. Juice drips down his chin. He watches with gleaming eyes and sadistic pride.
"You've always been my favorite."
And Malvor?
He laughs.
Not a villain's cackle. Not cruelty.
Just... detached.
Amused.
Like she's an improv act he didn't ask for but finds mildly entertaining.
"Look at her," he says. "She's perfect. She was made for this."
She finally screams.
But it's not terror. Not raw.
It's trained.
Beautiful.
Tuned like a violin drawn across bone.
A choir of priests hums her name like a hymn. The altar sings back.
She jerks awake.
Gasping. Drenched. Shaking so hard the mattress shivers beneath her.
Her hand flies to her thigh.
The Aerion rune is cold.
But the pain is still there. Not on the skin. Deeper. Inside the places no one sees.
She remembers his face. His breath. His hand.
She remembers the altar. How it pulsed like it wanted to devour her.
And she remembers Malvor.
How he hadn't asked. Hadn't looked. Hadn't seen.
The nightmare wasn't real.
But the pain was. The silence was.
The performance never stopped.
She lies back down. But she doesn't close her eyes.
Not yet.
The sheets are soft. The room is safe. Malvor breathes beside her. Peaceful. Oblivious.
She reaches for him. Just barely. Her fingertips brush his wrist.
A question. A prayer. A plea she doesn't say aloud.
He doesn't stir.
Of course not.
She pulls her hand back. Tucks it against her ribs. Holds herself.
Waits.
For morning. For silence. For him to finally see her—not the girl with the perfect scream, not the chaos darling he wanted, but the ruin underneath.
Maybe then she'll scream for real.
Maybe then he'll hear it.
Or maybe—
She'll just smile. Like always.
Because performance is survival.
And the sheets?
They don't hold her.
They never did.
She rises.
Dresses. Quiet. Efficient.
No notes. No explanations. No goodbye.
She tells herself she needs light.
Even if it burns.
She tells herself it's just for the rune. Just another transaction.
Just another altar.
But the gods always know better.
Especially the ones made of light.