The castle humd with restless energy, an undercurrent of activity that never seed to stop.
Malvoria stood at the edge of the grand courtyard, arms crossed over her chest, watching demons rush about with fabrics and flowers as though their lives depended on the placent of a rose petal.
Her mother's influence was unmistakable.
Black roses woven with crimson ribbons adorned the railings. Elegant silk drapes fluttered from balconies, dyed in shades of silver and red—royal colors, as her mother liked to remind everyone.
The servants moved with frantic purpose, adjusting and readjusting the floral arches in preparation for the wedding of the century, as Veylira had dubbed it.
Malvoria scowled.
She didn't care about flowers.
She didn't care about silks or table placents or the intricate pattern being embroidered into Elysia's wedding gown.
The entire spectacle felt like an unnecessary distraction.
The wedding itself didn't matter.
Only what ca after.
The heir.
That was the goal. That was the reason she'd agreed to this ridiculous charade in the first place.
An heir would cent her rule.
Would bind Arvandor to the Demon Dominion with blood rather than steel.
Would give her everything she needed.
After that, Elysia could fade into the background.
The sooner, the better.
So why, when she thought about the princess, did sothing deep inside her stir with restless unease?
Malvoria exhaled sharply and turned away from the courtyard. The heavy thud of her boots against the stone floor accompanied her as she stalked through the castle.
She hadn't gotten anything done all day, thanks to her mother's incessant ddling.
Flowers, Malvoria! her mother had chirped that morning. The right flowers send a ssage.
Apparently, an abundance of black roses and crimson orchids sent the ssage: We are terrifying but elegant.
Malvoria had stopped listening after that.
She'd already given her mother free rein with the wedding plans. The more Veylira obsessed over flowers, the less she interfered in Malvoria's actual duties.
But the council—they were harder to ignore.
The eting had started like any other.
The council chamber was a vast, circular room with walls carved from volcanic rock, the surface etched with ancient demonic sigils that pulsed faintly with residual magic. A heavy obsidian table sat in the center, around which twelve generals and advisors had gathered.
Malvoria had entered the room to find them already murmuring among themselves. The mont she took her seat, the conversations ceased.
General Tharix, a hulking figure with spiked horns and a voice like grinding stone, cleared his throat. "My Queen," he began, "the council wishes to revisit the topic of the... forthcoming union."
Malvoria arched a brow. "Revisit?"
"Yes," Tharix said, eyes flicking to his peers. "There are concerns."
"Concerns."* Malvoria leaned back, clasping her hands together. "Speak plainly, General."*
Tharix hesitated. "Many believe that marrying the Arvandorian princess is... unnecessary."
Murmurs of agreent rumbled around the table.
"Unnecessary?" Malvoria's voice remained mild, but the subtle shift in her tone made the room go still. "Explain."
Tharix shifted uncomfortably. "The kingdom is ours. We hold their lands. Their people are broken. Why do we need this marriage when we already rule by strength?"
"Strength fades," Malvoria said, voice cold. "Fear wanes. The mont we loosen our grip, they will rise again. But if their princess becos my wife—if our heir is of both bloodlines—they'll accept the new order."*
"Or resent it even more," muttered General Korva, a wiry demoness known for her bluntness. "You're giving the enemy a seat at our table."*
Malvoria's lips twitched in a humorless smile. "We're not giving them a seat. We're taking their princess and making her ours."*
Silence followed.
Malvoria let it stretch before continuing. "This marriage isn't about sentint. It's a tool. A weapon more effective than any sword."
The council shifted uneasily.
"And if the princess resists?" Korva asked. "She's not one of us. She'll fight this."
Malvoria's smile sharpened. "She can fight all she wants. The outco remains the sa."
The discussion had ended shortly after.
But Malvoria had left the chamber with an unfamiliar weight pressing against her chest.
The princess resists.
Yes.
Elysia resisted with every breath.
And that resistance was becoming... distracting.
The scent of Zera clinging to her skin still haunted Malvoria.
It was just a hug, Elysia had said.
Malvoria didn't believe it.
The thought of that woman's hands on Elysia, of that scent wrapping around her like a claim, made Malvoria's blood simr with a possessive anger she couldn't fully rationalize.
She's not yours.
She's your future wife, but not yours.
Her jaw tightened.
With a growl, she veered toward the training grounds.
The courtyard was alive with the tallic clang of swords clashing, the bark of commands, and the rhythmic stomp of boots.
The soldiers stilled when they saw her.
"Clear the sparring ring," Malvoria ordered. "I need a distraction."
The commanders exchanged nervous glances before obeying.
Three stepped forward—seasoned warriors, handpicked for their skill.
Malvoria drew her twin swords, the dark steel humming with latent magic.
"Attack ," she said simply. "All of you."
They hesitated.
"Now."
The first lunged, sword slicing toward her ribs.
Malvoria sidestepped, her blade flashing downward with brutal efficiency. The strike sent the man's weapon flying, and her follow-up kick slamd into his chest, hurling him to the ground.
The second ca from behind.
She ducked the overhead strike and pivoted, one sword blocking while the other whipped across his thigh. Blood sprayed across the sand, and he collapsed with a groan.
The third tried to flank her.
Malvoria dropped low, sweeping his legs from beneath him.
He hit the ground hard.
Without pause, she pressed the edge of her sword to his throat.
"Too slow," she said, eyes gleaming with cold satisfaction.
The commanders groaned on the ground as she rose and sheathed her weapons.
The fight had lasted less than a minute.
And yet—
The tension in her chest hadn't eased.
The restlessness still churned beneath her skin.
With a frustrated growl, she left the training grounds and stalked back into the castle.
She didn't have a destination in mind.
She walked through hallways draped in wedding decorations, passed servants who bowed hastily, turned down corridors she rarely visited.
And then—
She stopped.
Elysia's door stood before her.
Malvoria stared at it, her breath slow and deliberate.
The temptation to knock—to see her, to confront her, to do sothing—itched beneath her skin.
But she didn't move.
Instead, she listened.
From inside, voices drifted through the door. Muffled, indistinct.
Elysia's voice—soft, low, with an edge of frustration.
And then—
Laughter.
A clear, genuine laugh that Malvoria had never heard from her before.
Her chest tightened.
The second voice was Zera's.
The words were unclear, but the tone was unmistakable: easy familiarity. Shared history. Intimacy.
The possessive anger returned like a crack of thunder.
Her fists clenched.
It was just a hug, she reminded herself.
But the sound of that laughter kept echoing in her mind as she turned away and stalked down the hall, jaw tight and thoughts tangled.
The scent of Zera on Elysia's skin had been faint four days ago.
Now she feared it was sinking deeper.
And Malvoria wasn't sure what bothered her more: the thought of Zera growing closer to Elysia—
Or the fact that she cared.
Reviews
All reviews (0)