"Annie, are you all right?" Malvor's voice slips into her mind, velvet soft but lined with sharp concern.
Her hand tightens slightly around the scroll. Her head feels light, her chest tight, but she nods, just once. Small. Controlled.
Fine, she sends back, even though she knows he does not believe it.
She stares down at the open box in her lap, forcing her features into a look of mild confusion, tilting her head as if still puzzling through the riddle. Pretending. That part, at least, comes naturally.
But Malvor knows her too well. She can feel his hesitation. The way he lingers on her emotions, weighing them like pages in one of his ridiculous dramatic journals.
Then he shifts.
The presence of him in her mind pulls back, and in its place, she feels something else—heat, crackling like a fuse lit too close to an open flame.
She does not look up, but she feels it—Malvor striding away from her seat with purpose, heading toward the dais where Luxor lounges like a smug golden deity who knows exactly what chaos he's caused.
Annie exhales slowly through her nose, folding the papyrus gently and tucking it back inside the box. She sets the lid down with care, her fingers brushing the wood like it might shatter under her touch.
She does not move.
Does not speak.
Then a shadow falls over her.
Long. Towering. Familiar.
She looks up slowly, finding herself face to face with Aerion.
His posture is impeccable, his golden armor polished to an arrogant gleam. He regards her with a look that is entirely unreadable, neither warm nor cold, just… intense. Assessing.
She offers him a polite, practiced smile. The kind she used to wear in temples. The kind that hides everything.
"Lord Aerion," she says smoothly, as though her heart is not still racing.
"Anastasia," he replies, voice like a blade being unsheathed.
He says her name like it's a fact, not a greeting. A confirmation. A weight.
She holds his gaze, calm and composed. But inside, the box in her lap feels heavier than ever.
"You really are the most lovely mortal I have ever seen," Aerion says, his voice smooth as polished steel, his words carefully measured, as if they were meant to impress rather than connect.
Annie tilts her head just slightly, her lips curving into a perfect, polite smile. "Thank you," she replies, her tone syrupy sweet, her posture poised. It is the kind of false warmth honed over years in temples and altars so fake, it almost seems real.
He eats it up.
Without waiting for an invitation, Aerion lowers himself onto the bench beside her, his broad shoulders eclipsing her personal space as though it does not exist. He lounges with affected casualness, one arm draped along the backrest behind her, too close, too assuming.
"I have always admired strength in women," he continues, his eyes sweeping down her form with less subtlety than he thinks he has. "And poise. Grace under pressure. You have that… divine quiet."
She resists the urge to roll her eyes. Barely.
"That is very kind of you to say," she says smoothly, keeping her voice perfectly neutral, like she hasn't heard more meaningful compliments from men half as arrogant and twice as clever.
Aerion leans in slightly, his voice dropping. "You know, I don't usually notice mortals. But you, there is something... captivating. And I have an eye for potential."
Gods, is he trying to be seductive? she thinks, and it is so bad she nearly laughs aloud.
He plucks a grape from a nearby platter and offers it to her, holding it delicately between two fingers like it's a precious jewel rather than sticky fruit. "Would you allow me the honor of feeding you?"
Annie blinks. Once. Slowly.
"I have fed myself quite well, thank you," she replies with a smile so sweet it could rot teeth. "But I appreciate the offer."
Aerion seems momentarily thrown off, unsure whether he is being flirted with or mocked. The confidence flickers for just a breath.
Then he doubles down. "You are… mysterious," he murmurs, leaning closer. "That's very rare. And I am very good at unraveling mystery."
Annie picks up the box again, fingers brushing the lid lightly as if it's far more interesting than whatever Aerion thinks he is doing.
Her smile doesn't crack. But inside, she's a scream sealed in glass.
"I will keep that in mind," she says, her voice light, her eyes still unreadable. "If I ever need unraveling."
He smiles, clearly thinking he has made progress.
She smiles, knowing he has not.
Aerion watches her as if she's a riddle he has halfway solved and far too pleased with himself for it. "You know," he says, his voice dipping into what he likely thinks is sultry, "I have won wars with less beauty than yours by my side."
Annie gives a soft, obliging smile, her expression serene. She does not flinch, does not rise to the bait, and certainly does not encourage him, but she does not push either. The smile is just enough to keep him talking, just enough to keep her power in the interaction, even if he does not see it.
He mistakes her stillness for submission. Her silence for consent.
He shifts closer, their thighs now touching. "I find myself… drawn to you." His hand drapes lazily over the back of the bench again, creeping just a little further down toward her shoulder.
She does not move.