The sound of the dining hall doors closing behind Elysia echoed like a sharp crack in the tense silence. Malvoria remained seated, the faint smirk still playing on her lips, though her mind was already spinning.
She could still feel Elysia's presence, the tension crackling between them like a live wire, even though the princess had left the room.
She reached for her goblet, swirling the dark wine slowly, the liquid catching the soft flicker of candlelight. But before she could take a sip, she felt it—the weight of a gaze still boring into her.
Zera.
Malvoria's eyes flicked to the young woman seated across the table, her hands clenched into fists so tight that her knuckles had gone white.
The air between them felt charged, a silent challenge crackling in the space that separated them.
"Sothing you'd like to say?" Malvoria asked coolly, arching a brow as she leaned back in her chair, the very picture of unbothered calm.
Zera's glare could have cut through steel. "You're despicable," she spat, each word dripping with venom.
"You think you've won just because you forced Elysia into this—this nightmare. But you haven't. You never will."
Malvoria chuckled softly, the sound low and dangerous. "And yet, here we are. She's in my castle. Soon to be my queen. Remind again, Zera, which of us lost?"
The words were a spark to dry kindling.
Zera shot up from her seat, the chair scraping harshly against the stone floor. The other occupants of the dining hall—servants, guards—froze, their eyes darting between the two won, uncertain whether to intervene or flee.
Malvoria remained seated, her gaze steady and unflinching as Zera approached, every step radiating barely contained fury.
"You might have power now," Zera hissed, her voice trembling with rage, "but you'll never have her heart. Never."
Malvoria's smirk widened. "I don't need her heart," she said smoothly. "Just her hand."
The words were ant to wound, to provoke—and they succeeded.
Zera lunged, her fist flying toward Malvoria's face with a force born of raw emotion.
But Malvoria was faster.
She rose from her chair in one fluid motion, her arm snapping up to catch Zera's wrist mid-strike. The impact reverberated through the room, but Malvoria barely flinched.
Zera struggled, trying to break free from Malvoria's iron grip, but the Demon Queen held her fast, her expression now devoid of amusent.
"Foolish," Malvoria whispered, her voice a low growl. "Did you really think you could touch ?"
With a swift, brutal twist, Malvoria wrenched Zera's arm to the side, forcing a gasp of pain from the young woman. But before Zera could react further, Malvoria's fist connected with her stomach in a single, precise blow.
The sound was sickening—a dull thud that echoed through the silent hall.
Zera staggered back, coughing violently, crimson blood splattering onto the pristine marble floor. She clutched her abdon, struggling to catch her breath, her eyes wide with shock and pain.
Malvoria straightened, adjusting the cuffs of her tunic as if nothing had happened.
"Let that be a reminder," she said coldly, "that challenging will only end one way."
Zera glared up at her, eyes blazing even through the pain. "This isn't over," she rasped, blood staining her lips.
Malvoria chuckled darkly. "No, it isn't. But you'll regret every mont of it."
With that, she turned on her heel, the soft click of her boots against the marble the only sound as she strode toward the exit. The servants parted like waves before her, their eyes lowered, afraid to et her gaze.
Malvoria didn't look back.
---
The walk back to her chambers felt longer than usual, though perhaps it was simply the weight of her own thoughts slowing her steps.
The adrenaline from the altercation with Zera still thrumd faintly beneath her skin, but it was quickly being replaced by sothing far more exhausting.
Frustration.
Not at Zera, nor at the useless attempts to defy her authority. No, her frustration was entirely self-inflicted. She was losing control—of herself, of her emotions, of her carefully laid plans.
And she despised it.
By the ti she reached the tall, ornate doors of her chambers, her mind was a whirlwind. She pushed the doors open with a little more force than necessary, the wood creaking in protest as they swung wide.
She expected solitude.
What she found instead made her pause.
Seated gracefully on a velvet armchair by the window was her mother, Veylira. The older woman's hair shimred faintly in the moonlight streaming through the glass, her sharp gray eyes watching Malvoria with an unreadable expression.
She wore a gown of deep navy, constellations embroidered in silver thread across the fabric, making her look like she had stepped out of the night sky itself.
Malvoria let out a slow breath, already dreading whatever conversation was about to unfold.
"Mother," she greeted flatly, closing the doors behind her.
Veylira smiled faintly, though there was sothing almost predatory in the curve of her lips. "Daughter," she replied smoothly. "Eventful evening?"
Malvoria scowled, pulling off her gloves and tossing them onto a nearby table. "What do you want?"
Veylira's smile didn't falter. She rose from her chair with fluid grace, approaching her daughter with slow, deliberate steps. "I might ask the sa of you," she murmured. "Though from what I hear, you've already taken what you want."
Malvoria's eyes narrowed. "If you're here to lecture —"
"Lecture?" Veylira interrupted softly, raising a brow. "No, my dear. I'm simply curious."
"About what?" Malvoria snapped, her patience wearing thin.
Veylira's gaze sharpened. "About why my daughter—the fierce, unrelenting conqueror—looks so utterly conflicted."
Malvoria's jaw tightened. "I'm not conflicted."
Her mother chuckled softly. "No? Then why did you nearly tear that poor girl apart in the dining hall?"
"She attacked first," Malvoria shot back defensively.
"Of course she did," Veylira said, her voice laced with amusent. "But we both know that wasn't why you hit her."
Malvoria turned away, pacing toward the fireplace at the far end of the room. The flas flickered weakly, casting long shadows across the walls. She stared into the embers, her hands clenched into fists at her sides.
"Why do you care?" she muttered.
Veylira's voice softened, though it lost none of its sharpness. "Because you're my daughter. And because I know what it looks like when you're battling yourself."
Malvoria exhaled harshly, raking a hand through her dark hair. "I'm not battling anything. The wedding is a strategic necessity. Nothing more."
Veylira humd thoughtfully. "Is that what you tell yourself?"
Malvoria whirled around, eyes blazing. "It's the truth."
Her mother stepped closer, her expression unreadable but her eyes filled with sothing that made Malvoria's chest tighten. "Then why," Veylira whispered, "do you look at Elysia like she's more than just a ans to an end?"
Malvoria's breath caught, her chest tightening painfully. "Enough," she growled. "This conversation is over."
Veylira watched her for a mont longer, then sighed softly. "Very well," she said, her tone almost wistful. "But before I go, there is one thing."
Malvoria's brow furrowed as her mother reached into the folds of her gown, producing a delicate silver necklace. The pendant was a simple crescent moon, inlaid with a faintly glowing sapphire that shimred in the dim light.
"Please," Veylira said, holding the necklace out to her daughter, "give that to Elysia to wear for the wedding."
Malvoria stared at the necklace, her expression unreadable, but inside, a storm raged.
Because in that mont, the weight of what was coming—the wedding, the vows, the inevitable entanglent of their lives—pressed down on her with more force than any battle ever had.
And she wasn't sure how much longer she could keep pretending it didn't matter.
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