They sit in silence for a beat. The story settles between them, warm and golden like the sunlight spilling across the blanket. It isn't a grand story. But it's his. And he gave it to her.
Just like he's giving her everything else.
Without saying it out loud.
Without needing to.
They linger in the golden warmth of the afternoon sun, stretched out on the blanket, surrounded by the quiet hum of nature. The air was fresh and fragrant with blooming wildflowers, the distant stream bubbling softly in the valley below.
It was peaceful in a way that felt almost impossible. They had eaten what they could of the picnic, mostly fruit and cheese, as Malvor had outright refused the peanut butter sandwiches he had charred into inedible black lumps.
She leaned back, head tilted toward the sun. A breath of stillness passed between them, and then she broke it.
"I told you my Aerion runes were the worst," she said, her voice quiet but steady.
Malvor turned toward her, propped on one elbow. She reached for the hem of her sundress and pulled it up to her thigh, revealing the long stretch of her right leg. From the top of her thigh to the arch of her foot, the skin was a map of intricate, merciless carvings.
Brutal designs etched into her flesh, razor-sharp patterns of war, justice, peace, and the ever-moving air that Aerion claimed dominion over.
Malvor's expression shifted. His usual humor and easy charm faded into something more serious, more reverent. His eyes traced every cruel line, every mark that had been seared into her body.
Slowly, with a gentleness she had not expected, he reached out and ran his fingertips along the runes. His touch barely grazed her skin, reverent and careful, like she was something sacred.
"They look deep," he murmured. His hand paused over her knee, where the design turned vicious, jagged lines swallowing the joint like the bite of a beast.
She nodded. Her voice, when it came again, was soft but firm. "They were. The worst. This was my longest one."
His brows drew together. "How long?"
"Three years," she said. "From when I was eighteen until I was twenty-one. They did it in stages. Lower leg first. Then upper. Each section took four months. The recovery after… another six."
She kept her gaze on the distant stream as she spoke, her voice steady but distant, like she was reciting someone else's history.
"The priests told me I had to earn every inch," she said. "That pain is the price of peace. That war carves its mark not only into the world, but into the body. Into the soul."
Malvor's hand stilled, resting lightly on her knee, but he didn't speak.
"They started at my ankle," she continued. "Each morning, I would wake up knowing it was coming. The sound of the blade being prepared, the chanting. They said I had to embody Aerion's ideals, justice, balance, order. But those ideals… they cut deeper than the knife. They carved until the blade scraped bone."
Her fingers trailed along her shin, as if remembering where the worst pain had lived. "There were no breaks. No rest. They would carve for hours, then bandage it, then return the next day and do more. When I could not stand the pain, they said I was weak. That the strongest warriors endure in silence."
She let out a breathless laugh. It was dry. Bitter. "When they got to my knee, it was different. The skin there is tighter. Closer to the bone. The chanting got louder. Sharper. I think they knew it would break me."
Malvor's eyes had not left her leg. His fingers moved again, tracing just beside the runes that spiraled around her kneecap like a crown of barbed wire. He didn't need to speak, his emotions bled through the bond between them: rage, sorrow, awe.
"I could not walk for nearly half a year," she whispered. "They told me the weakness was in my mind. That once I accepted the pain, I would transcend it. That the mark of Aerion would elevate me."
Her voice wavered slightly.
"But all it did was remind me that I was theirs. That I was a canvas for their gods. Nothing more."
There was silence after that, only the soft murmur of wind over stone and the faint song of birds from the trees beyond. And Malvor, eyes blazing with fury he didn't dare unleash, sat quietly beside her, his hand still resting gently on her leg.
Malvor's fingers clenched slightly before relaxing again. He continued to trace the lines, softer now, like he was trying to ease old pain from the past. The wind whispered around them, tugging gently at the grass and the edges of the blanket.
He didn't speak. Not yet. Because what could he say?
But he looked at her with something stronger than words, fierce, protective, proud. Like her survival was a miracle. Like she was a masterpiece carved from pain and defiance.
And Annie, for once, let him look.
Let herself be seen.
He looked at her leg for a long moment, his fingers gently brushing the edge of the savage runes, before leaning in to press a soft, reverent kiss to her knee.
"Annie," he said, his voice low, full of something sacred, something real. "You are the strongest person I have ever met."
She did not move, did not speak, but her breath caught, just for a second.
"I see you, Annie," he continued, his lips brushing softly over her skin again, just above the jagged edge of a rune. "Not the body they used. Not the pain they left behind. Not the survivor with a thousand scars."
Another kiss, just to the side.
"I see the woman who still stood after every cut," he said. "I see the sharp mind, the one that reads people like books and cuts through bullshit with a glance."
A kiss to the curve of her thigh.
"I see the fire in your spine," he murmured. "The one they never broke. I see the heart you guard so fiercely. The softness you still have, even after everything."
His mouth pressed lower now, each kiss like a promise.
"I see beauty," he said, lips warm against her skin. "Real, raw, untouchable beauty. The kind that was not given, it was forged."
He kissed just beside another rune, slower this time.
"I see strength," he whispered. "Not the kind they demanded, but the kind you chose. The kind that lets you laugh, and love, and still walk toward people when you have every reason to run."
Another kiss.
"I see the woman who lets me in," he finished, voice trembling now with emotion he wasn't even trying to hide. "Even when it scares her."
He finally looked up, eyes meeting hers. There was no mischief in his face, no grin, no smirk. Just truth. Raw, open, and unshakable.
"You are everything, Annie." His voice broke softly. "And I see all of you."
And she let him.