I won’t fall for the queen who burned my world

The door to the gardens closed behind Malvoria with a sharp, metallic click.

She didn't look back.

Her pulse still raced, her skin hot beneath her tunic. The scent of lavender lingered in her nostrils, maddeningly persistent. Her jaw ached from clenching it so tightly during that entire encounter.

What the hell was that?

The memory of Elysia's eyes—wide, wary, and defiant—clung to her. The flush on her cheeks. The way her breath hitched when Malvoria had leaned in.

And her own reaction...

That was the part she couldn't shake.

The loss of control. The impulse to lean in and close the distance. The surge of possessive hunger that had coiled in her chest when she saw Elysia there, vulnerable and fierce beneath the moonlight.

Malvoria cursed under her breath and quickened her pace.

She needed distance from that moment. From her.

Strategy.

Battle.

Things she could control.

The war room awaited—solid, unyielding, a place where instinct and calculation replaced dangerous emotions.

When she pushed open the doors, the chamber was already lit with enchanted lanterns that cast a cold, bluish glow across the obsidian table.

The massive map of the Dominion and its conquered territories stretched across the surface, mountains and rivers meticulously etched into the stone. Small figurines—soldiers, fortresses, and siege engines—marked troop deployments and potential threats.

Malvoria crossed the room, unbuckling her sword belt and tossing it onto a nearby chair. The steel clinked softly against the wood.

She exhaled slowly, forcing herself to focus.

A knock interrupted the fragile calm she was trying to build.

"Enter."

The door opened, and General Korva stepped in.

Korva was lean, wiry, with short-cropped black hair and ridged horns that curled like a ram's. Her uniform was immaculate, the insignia of the Northern Command pinned to her chest.

"Your Majesty," she said, bowing. "We've received new reports from the scouts in the northern forests."

Malvoria gestured for her to approach. "Show me."

Korva spread a parchment across the table. The hand-drawn lines depicted the dense forests north of what had once been Arvandor's border. Tiny red marks dotted several locations.

"Rebel activity has increased here, here, and here," Korva said, tapping each cluster. "Small groups, but well-organized. They've been targeting supply lines along the mountain passes."*

Malvoria's eyes narrowed. "Arvandorian survivors?"

"Mostly," Korva confirmed. "But there are rumors of demon defectors as well."*

Malvoria's jaw tightened. "Defectors."

The word tasted foul.

"Likely disaffected conscripts," Korva added quickly. "Our forces occupied those villages less than three months ago. Loyalty hasn't had time to root itself."

Malvoria traced a finger along the path of the latest attacks. The rebel positions formed a rough arc around the northern forests, strategically positioned to disrupt supply lines feeding her forward outposts.

Amateurs wouldn't have chosen those locations.

This was someone who knew the terrain.

Someone like Thalor. Or Zera.

Malvoria's grip on the table edge tightened.

Of course it's them.

They hadn't tried to flee. Not yet. But that didn't mean they'd been idle.

"What do you want us to do?" Korva asked.

"What do you suggest?" Malvoria replied, not lifting her gaze from the map.

"A punitive expedition," Korva said without hesitation. "Burn their camps. Make an example of them."*

The suggestion was expected. Textbook demon tactics. Overwhelming force. Swift retribution.

And under normal circumstances, Malvoria might have agreed.

But the timing was too convenient.

Her fingers hovered over the rebel markers, her thoughts spinning through the possibilities.

They weren't just hitting supply lines. They were drawing attention to themselves.

Bait.

The rebels wanted her to react. To send forces northward, weaken the capital's defenses.

The logical move was clear.

"No," Malvoria said.

Korva blinked. "No?"

"Let them gather." Malvoria tapped the map, voice turning cold. "They think they're clever, trying to lure us into the woods. Let them believe it's working."

"But, Your Majesty—"

"After the wedding," Malvoria continued, cutting her off, "we'll deal with them. Once the marriage is sealed, they'll lose public support. The people will see that Arvandor is ours, not just by conquest but by blood."

Korva's brow furrowed. "With respect, my Queen, that's risky. If the rebels grow too bold—"

"Then they'll become easier to find," Malvoria said. "They're rats. And eventually, rats get careless."

The general hesitated, then inclined her head. "As you command."

"Dismissed."

Korva saluted and left.

The door shut behind her with a soft, echoing thud.

Malvoria leaned against the edge of the table and exhaled.

The northern forests blurred beneath her gaze.

The rebels would wait.

The wedding came first.

She ran a hand through her hair, pushing damp strands back from her face.

Her mind, however, refused to stay tethered to strategy.

The name that hovered in her thoughts wasn't Thalor. Or Zera.

It was Elysia.

Elysia in that damn dress.

The way she'd stood so still while the seamstress adjusted the hem.

The moment her breath caught when Malvoria touched the embroidery.

Her eyes in the garden.

That mixture of anger, defiance... and something else Malvoria couldn't quite name.

Her hand drifted to her chest, fingers brushing the fabric where Elysia's scent had lingered.

This isn't part of the plan.

Her mind whispered it like a mantra.

The plan was to marry Elysia, secure an heir, and return to ruling from a distance.

The plan didn't involve tension that felt like static crackling in the air whenever Elysia looked at her.

It didn't involve standing outside her chambers like a fool, listening for her voice.

It certainly didn't involve the ache low in her body whenever she remembered the curve of Elysia's lips when she spoke with that sharp, cutting tone.

Malvoria straightened abruptly and strode from the war room.

Her feet carried her toward the west wing.

Her mother's domain.

The door to Veylira's sitting room was open.

She found her reclining on a divan, a crystal glass of wine balanced delicately between two fingers.

"Malvoria," Veylira greeted without looking up. "Twice in one week. I'm honored."

"Why are you doing this?" Malvoria asked, voice low.

"Doing what?"

"The wedding. The dress. The... the meddling."*

Veylira's smile was infuriatingly serene. "Is that what you think this is? Meddling?"

"That's exactly what it is."

Her mother set the glass down and rose. The silk of her gown whispered around her ankles as she approached. "I'm helping, darling. You just don't want to admit you need it."*

"I don't need anything."

"No?" Veylira's eyes gleamed with amusement. "Then why do you look like a caged animal right now?"

Malvoria's hands curled into fists. "Stay out of my affairs."

"Your affairs?" Veylira chuckled softly. "Sweetheart, I've watched you wage war across three continents without blinking. But this? This is different. This isn't a battlefield, Malvoria. You can't just swing a sword at it."

"I know what I'm doing."

"Do you?" Her mother's smile sharpened. "Because from where I stand, you're trying very hard to convince yourself that Elysia is nothing more than a pawn."*

The name sent a jolt through her.

Malvoria schooled her expression into ice. "She is a pawn."

"And yet," Veylira whispered, "you can't stop thinking about her, can you?"

Malvoria turned on her heel. "We're done here."

"You need her," Veylira called after her. "More than you want to admit."

Malvoria didn't stop.

Her footsteps echoed through the hall, each one pounding like a war drum.

Her mother was wrong.

Elysia was a pawn.

A political tool.

And in two weeks, she'd fulfill that purpose.

But the thought didn't bring the satisfaction it should have.

The name still lingered, just beneath the surface.

Elysia.

Always, Elysia.