The next morning, Malvor was summoned.
A formal summons from the Pantheon.
He knew before the house even handed him the ornate, pretentious invitation, because the very air in his realm soured at the thought.
Still, when the envelope materialized in his hands, he sighed dramatically, flipping it open with all the enthusiasm of a man sentenced to death.
Anastasia's invitation appeared beside his. She raised a brow at it but said nothing as she picked it up.
Malvor groaned, flopping onto the nearest couch like a man truly suffering.
"Ugh. Bullshit. I'm not going. I hate this. I hate it all. I hate them."
The house blinked its soft lights in what she could only assume was long-suffering patience.
Anastasia hummed and walked to the kitchen, leaving him to his theatrics.
By the time she came back, coffee in hand, he was still pouting.
Full. On. Toddler mode.
She placed a mug in front of him—something dark, bitter, but with just a touch of sweetness.
"Drink."
Malvor sat up, scowling, and stared at the cup like it had personally offended him. "I know what this is, Annie-cupcake. This is bribery."
She sipped her own coffee. "No. It's a coping mechanism. Now stop pouting and drink."
He narrowed his eyes but took a sip.
Then immediately turned his scowl to the entire room.
"Ugh, it's not enough. I still hate everything."
And so, the complaints began.
For hours, Malvor grumbled about everything.
Real complaints. Unreal complaints.
"Why are they summoning me? Do they just miss me? Of course they do. But I refuse to let them bask in my presence."
"Annie, this coffee—while good—does not magically erase my hatred for this entire ordeal."
"Do you know how boring these meetings are? Gods droning on about balance and rules—like anyone cares about that nonsense."
"Oh, and do not get me started on Aerion. He takes everything so seriously. I could breathe too loudly and he'd say it was an affront to justice."
Anastasia listened. Sort of.
She tuned in and out, occasionally sipping her coffee, throwing in a nod here and there as Malvor's nonsense grievances got increasingly unreal.
"I'm telling you, Annie-muffin, they just summon me to steal my ideas. That's why my realm is the most interesting. They're jealous."
"I swear to you, if Maximus talks about his muscles one more time, I'm throwing him into the void."
"What if I just don't go? What are they gonna do? Smite me? Laughable."
Anastasia finally looked up from her coffee. "They might revoke your privileges."
Malvor gasped. "You wouldn't dare say such things to me if you loved me, Annie-treacle."
"I don't."
"See?! That hurts me. I am in pain."
Anastasia sighed, standing up. "Are you done?"
"Oh, absolutely not."
She downed the last of her coffee. "Well, you have to get ready. I assume you'll want to make an obnoxious entrance?"
Malvor perked up immediately, scandalized. "Annie, darling, have you met me? Of course I will. If I have to suffer through this meeting, I must do it in style."
And just like that, he was no longer pouting.
Now?
Now, he was plotting.
"What do I wear?" Anastasia asked, crossing her arms as she watched Malvor lounge dramatically on the couch.
He waved a hand at her, lazily sketching something in the air with his fingers. She could practically see the elaborate scheme forming behind those golden eyes.
"It's formal. So something formal," he said, voice dripping with mock sophistication.
She turned her back to him, rolling her eyes so hard she might've injured herself.
Glancing at the floating sketch, she confirmed what she already knew.
It was not a formal outfit.
It was a prank.
Some ridiculous concoction, no doubt sheer in all the wrong places, likely made of glitter or some obnoxious element that would make her immediately regret trusting him.
She sighed, shaking her head as she walked to her room.
"House, can you help me?"
The lights around her flickered excitedly.
A moment later, a dress appeared.
And it was perfect.
A deep cranberry red—rich, elegant. The fabric hugged her curves in just the right way, the long sleeves balancing the knee-length skirt with double buttons up the front.
The neckline?
Just low enough to show a hint of cleavage.
Her hair was pulled half-up, exposing the elegant line of her neck.
A pearl necklace and earrings, simple but sophisticated.
Makeup—soft, understated, but enhancing. A touch of color on her lips, her long lashes making her blue eyes pop.
Professional. Sexy. Deadly.
She spun in front of the mirror, admiring the final look.
"Perfect," she murmured, then smiled. "Thank you so much!"
The lights around her blinked happily.
And just like that, she was ready to face whatever Malvor had planned.
Anastasia found Malvor in the kitchen, hunched over a ridiculously detailed miniature model.
Of a formal office setting.
Made with glue and popsicle sticks.
She stared.
Then sighed.
"Really?"
It was oddly intricate—tiny desks, chairs, even a little podium. He had somehow etched a microscopic version of the Pantheon's emblem onto the front door.
And gods above and below, she did not want to ask.
But she knew he'd be an insufferable pest if she didn't.
With a groan, she finally said, "What is this, Malvor?"
He beamed, placing a delicate final touch—a tiny paper calendar—with a flourish.
"Oh, my treasure, this is the formal office of the Pantheon! Where we have our fancy business meetings and other such niceties. And this, my dear Annie angel, happens to be a scale model."
She pinched the bridge of her nose.
"Why?" she asked, already so tired.
"This is for Aerion." Simple. Short.
Suspicious.
It reeked of a trap.
But she bit anyway.
"And?"
"And that is all, Annie smoochy," he said, looking far too innocent. "This is literally all it is."
She lifted a brow.
"Uh-huh."
"No, honestly, he won't see this coming," Malvor insisted, pressing a dramatic hand to his chest. "I promised no pranks for ten years. So this plain, simple gift shall be so unexpected."
Her skepticism deepened.
"Gods above and below, you are ridiculous," she muttered. "Honestly. No scheme? No prank? Nothing I'll have to deal with?"
Malvor gasped, offended.
"No! Oh no, no, no, Annie peach-pie, just this. For today."
She narrowed her eyes.
"Let them look at you," he continued, stepping closer, eyes flicking once over her dress in unfiltered appreciation.
"Let them be impressed by you. Schmooze them. Be that wonderful, charming liar you are."
He leaned in slightly, his voice dropping to something smooth, persuasive.
"That is all."
Anastasia squinted at him.
Then sighed.
"Fine. But if this explodes, or turns into a sentient chaos beast, or—gods forbid—is filled with glitter, I am not cleaning it up."
Malvor grinned, stepping back with a mock bow.
"Annie, darling, you wound me."
With a flourish of his hand, the ridiculously detailed popsicle stick model vanished—reappearing inside a comically oversized box.
Wrapped in obnoxiously shiny paper.
Complete with a perfectly curled bow on top.
Malvor beamed, stepping back to admire his work.
"Looks amazing," he declared.
Then his golden-tan eyes flicked back to her, and something wicked glinted in his gaze.
"You, my yummy Annie, look even better."
He took his time appreciating her.
The cranberry-red dress. The way it hugged her curves. The long sleeves. The pearls at her throat. The soft, elegant sweep of her hair.
He grinned.
"Like a boss bitch," he announced proudly.
Then, with an exaggerated clap of his hands:
"Kick ass. Take names. You've got this."
Anastasia sighed.
"That is not how one prepares for a formal meeting."
Malvor tutted, reaching out to playfully adjust an imaginary wrinkle in her sleeve.
"Oh, but darling, with me as your mentor, you are destined for greatness."
She rolled her eyes, but her lips twitched.
She had a feeling she was about to need all the patience in the world.
With a snap of his fingers, the world shifted.
One moment, they were in his kitchen. The next—they were standing before a massive, imposing structure.
All Greek things.
Pillars. Marble. Grand staircases meant to make mortals feel small.
Inside, the entrance hall was lined with statues—one for each god and goddess. Life-like replicas.
Anastasia barely spared them a glance as they strolled through, heels clicking against polished stone.
But then—
As they passed Malvor's statue—
Its clothes dropped off.
Just fell right off, landing in a heap on the floor.
Naked Malvor. Marble edition.
Anastasia did not react.
Not even a glance down.
She simply kept walking.
Both real Malvor and statue Malvor shared an identical, deeply offended puckered-lip pout.
"Annie," Malvor drawled, placing a dramatic hand over his heart, "not even a curious look?"
Anastasia narrowed her eyes at him.
And kept walking.
Malvor let out an offended gasp, throwing his hands in the air as he chased after her.
"Truly, you wound me, my heartless little Annie-dumpling!"
"You're my very own Annie Banannie Fofannie."
Malvor grinned, stepping beside her as they walked.
"That's right, I just turned you into a nursery rhyme."
Anastasia said nothing.
Not a glare. Not a sigh. Not even an eye twitch.
She just kept walking, heels clicking against the marble as they moved past the grand entry hall, down a long, intimidating corridor, and into an absurdly large formal meeting room.
Inside, all eleven other Pantheon members were already seated in their designated spots.
Waiting. Watching.
The moment Malvor entered, an audible sigh rippled through the room.
Half exhausted. Half already annoyed.
Malvor, of course, preened.
"Oh, my darlings, you look positively miserable without me."
Anastasia suppressed a smirk.
Malvor carried the comically oversized box in both arms, strutting forward with the air of a man presenting a sacred treasure.
He made a grand show of placing it in front of Aerion—setting it down just so, positioning it perfectly in the center of the table.
"A gift for our fearless leader," he announced with a flourish.
Aerion barely glanced at him before looking at the box, eyes narrowing in suspicion.
"What is this?"
Malvor sighed, long and suffering, as if he were the one being inconvenienced.
"Aerion, you dense fool, I said it is a gift." He gestured dramatically to the box. "You know? You unwrap it. Discover the surprise I have so graciously brought you."
Aerion's expression darkened.
"Do I have to open this?"
Malvor gasped, clutching his chest like he'd just been stabbed.
"Aerion, yes! You must! What kind of monster refuses a gift?"
Aerion's jaw ticked. The look on his face was pure, unfiltered annoyance.
Malvor lived for it.
Anastasia, standing to the side with the air of a woman who wanted no part in this nonsense but was mildly entertained nonetheless.
Finally, with a heavy, long-suffering sigh, Aerion tore the wrapping paper off.
The room watched in silence as he lifted the lid, pulled out layers of unnecessary tissue paper—
And finally, with stiff, mechanical movements, he pulled out the model.
A perfectly crafted, absurdly detailed miniature replica of the Pantheon's formal office.
Made entirely of glue and popsicle sticks.
The silence was deafening.
Aerion let out a long, suffering sigh, rubbing his temples as if Malvor's mere existence had already drained him.
"What. Is. This?"
Malvor gasped, deeply offended.
"Aerion, you tragically simple-minded sword polisher, this is your gift! I made this. With my own two hands. Do you like it?"
He flashed a schoolboy grin, eyes glittering with mischief.
Aerion stared at the model like it was a bomb waiting to go off.
"What is wrong with it?" he asked suspiciously. "Is it a prank? A trap? Will it explode? Transform into a chaos beast? Spew glitter? Unleash a storm of sentient frogs? Curse my entire bloodline?"
The longer he listed possibilities, the wider Malvor's grin became.
"My honorable yet hopelessly dense, walking embodiment of a lecture, Aerion," Malvor purred, leaning on the table with exaggerated patience, "this is just a gift."
Aerion narrowed his eyes.
"I don't believe you."
Malvor beamed.
"You shouldn't."
But for once in his entire, chaotic, trouble-making existence—
This was just a simple thing.
No tricks.
No hidden enchantments.
No exploding frogs, tragically.
Just a perfectly crafted, painstakingly detailed, popsicle stick replica of the Pantheon's formal office.
Aerion looked at him.
Looked at the model.
Looked back at him.
"…Why?"
Malvor shrugged, still grinning.
"Because I wanted to, Aerion sweet cheeks."
Aerion stared.
Then—with the slow realization that there was nothing more to this ridiculous situation—he exhaled a long, exhausted breath and rubbed both hands down his face.
"I hate you."
Malvor preened.
"I know."