Malvor stood, gasping, wild-eyed, trembling with fury. Chaos bled from his very pores. Reality warped around him. Pillars rippled like water. The floor twisted into molten glass.
He lifted his hand and screamed.
The throne exploded in a cyclone of raw, prismatic chaos. Shards of divine metal rained down like knives.
The palace collapsed.
The roof groaned, then caved in with a deafening roar. Walls buckled. Statues shattered. Columns crumbled. Fire licked through the stone like the mouth of hell yawning open.
Malvor stood at the center of it all, untouched, the eye of his own storm.
Chest heaving. Eyes glowing. Hands soaked in blood.
His voice dropped to a whisper.
"I will find you."
A pause. Cold. Vicious.
"I will unmake you."
His fists curled.
"And when I do…"
The chaos around him pulsed, bending light and sound.
"There will be no mercy. No honor. No trial. Only me. And pain. And every drop of blood you ever thought sacred."
When it was done, when every altar had been defiled, every statue reduced to rubble, every echo of Aerion's pride ground beneath his heel, Malvor stood at the center of it all.
A crater where the palace had been.
A smoking ruin.
No temples. No memories. No mercy.
Nothing.
And still no Annie.
The space where she should have been still burned behind his eyes, her name a weight in his throat too heavy to speak.
His voice, when it finally returned, was hollow. Broken.
"You will beg," he whispered. "You will scream. You will know pain as a concept redefined."
He turned once more toward the shattered skyline, blood still dripping from his fingers.
"And then, Aerion… you will know me."
The words hung in the air, hot and sharp.
Then came the silence.
Malvor stood motionless, surrounded by the wreckage of a god's legacy, chest heaving, chaos flickering across his skin like veins of wildfire. But the scream inside him, the one that had been endless, began to still.
Not because the rage had faded.
No.
Because it had condensed.
Solidified.
Cold.
Sharp.
He closed his eyes.
And began to think.
Where would he go? Where would that smug, sanctimonious coward run after taking her?
Not back here.
Not to this ruin.
Aerion was arrogant, but not stupid. He would hide. Plan. Scheme. He would not take Annie unless he was sure he could keep her.
So… who would help him?
Who would know where he went?
He started pacing through the rubble, boots crushing glass and bone, chaos dancing quietly at his fingertips.
Not Brigitte. Not Yara. Not Maximus. Not Luxor. No one else was close enough. No one else shadowed Aerion like…
Navir.
His lip curled.
Of course.
The God of Innovation. The Architect of Order. Always observing. Always calculating. Always nearby, especially when Aerion was involved. They had been allies for ages. Sharpening each other. Power paired with strategy. Brawn and brains.
Malvor's eyes narrowed.
Navir would know.
He exhaled, slow and cold.
Good.
Let Navir know.
Let him see what happens when a god of chaos turns his wrath toward precision. Toward purpose.
Let him see what happens when Malvor stops laughing.
With a snap of divine will, Malvor vanished from Aerion's blood-stained courtyard and reappeared in the heart of Navir's domain.
The shift in energy was immediate.
Gone was the brutality of stone and fire.
Here, everything pulsed with luminous precision. Navir's realm stretched upward in symmetrical grace, a city built from impossible geometry, sleek towers of obsidian and neon, floating rings of data, walkways that glowed underfoot, shifting with the weight of thought itself. Divine algorithms shimmered in the air, and translucent platforms weaved through the sky like threads on a loom.
Malvor did not care.
He stormed forward, an open wound of chaos bleeding into order. Automated guardians paused mid-patrol, scanning him with blinking lenses. They did not move against him; his aura was too volatile, his energy too unstable. They knew better.
His eyes searched, wild and sharp.
No Annie.
No Aerion.
Only blinking lights, sacred tech, and silence.
"ANNIE!" he shouted into the crystalline air. "NAVIR!"
A cluster of engineers and robed tech priests looked up from glowing panels, frozen in place. One, braver or dumber than the rest, stepped forward, her voice trembling. "Lord Malvor. We… we were not expecting—"
"Where is he?" Malvor growled. "Where is Navir?"
The hesitation was enough.
He stepped forward, and the floor beneath her warped. Not cracked. Not scorched. Warped. A spiraling, impossible distortion in the sleek tile, like code fracturing under pressure. Her data tablet sparked and dissolved into fractal patterns. Her mouth opened, but no sound came out.
"Do not test me." His voice dripped venom. "I am not in the mood for ceremony."
"Th-the tower," another priest gasped, pointing upward. "Top level. He is in council."
Malvor did not thank them. He did not spare a look.
He vanished.
Only static and ozone remained in his wake.
He reappeared at the apex of the highest tower, ready to rip doors off hinges, to tear secrets from Navir's mind like paper from a scroll.
But what greeted him…
It was a machine.