I won't fall for the queen who burned my world-Chapter 204: Child names

The meeting room was far too warm.

Not because of the sunlight that filtered through the carved obsidian windows or the flickering sconces on the walls—but because Malvoria was seated at the head of the long, oval table with thirteen officials arguing over what kind of lumber was best suited for Arvandorian climate.

"My Queen," a demon economist said, his spectacles sliding down his narrow nose, "we must consider the long-term sustainability of this wood supply. If we drain the eastern forests—"

"We are not draining the eastern forests," Malvoria replied flatly.

He flinched.

Across from him, a broad-shouldered general slammed her gauntleted hand on the table. "The southern routes are faster. We’ll get materials to Arvandor twice as quickly if we use our airborne carriers."

"And what about the rogue nobles?" asked a diplomat, her black ink-stained fingers drumming on her notes. "They’re still out there—free. They won’t hesitate to sabotage construction if they see us as vulnerable."

At the far end of the table, a human representative from Arvandor sat quietly, her brown robes simple but dignified, hands folded. Her name was Lady Emeryl, and her voice, when she finally spoke, was calm but firm.

"I must thank the crown for everything you’ve done. Your Majesty, the homes we’ve received—the speed at which they were constructed—our people are calling it a miracle. We haven’t seen this kind of aid from anyone. Not even our own nobles."

Malvoria’s eyes flicked briefly to her grandmother, seated casually in the corner like a disinterested aunt—but her grey eyes gleamed with mischief.

Grandmother Saelira had used her old, wildly unpredictable magic to grow stone from the earth, shape walls from vines, and rebuild homes as if they’d bloomed from the dirt. She called it "creative gardening." Malvoria called it absurdly overpowered.

"You have my gratitude, Lady Emeryl," Malvoria said, inclining her head. "But I’m not interested in gratitude. I want progress. If we can show Arvandor what true stability looks like... we might stop history from repeating itself."

Her words settled over the room like steel.

Lady Emeryl nodded with quiet respect. "And perhaps one day... we will be allies beyond just necessity."

The others began to murmur their thoughts again—rations, deployment, logistics—but Malvoria wasn’t listening anymore.

Her eyes were locked on the sun’s angle through the window.

How many minutes had passed?

How many until she could leave this table, cross the halls, and return to the rooms where Elysia would be curled in soft silks, her hand pressed to her belly, her smile warm and sleepy?

Six months.

Six months of watching that life grow.

And still, every time Malvoria looked at her, it felt new. It felt like the first time she’d ever fallen in love.

"Your Majesty," said Captain Roane suddenly, cutting through the din, "have you and your wife considered a name yet?"

Malvoria blinked.

The room fell silent.

Roane grinned, unapologetic. "You’ve had that ’I’m not paying attention because I’m imagining my baby’s face’ look all morning."

A few of the guards and ministers chuckled.

Malvoria arched a brow. "Do I look like someone who would name a child without a council of background checks, legacy research, and twenty layers of magical protection on syllables alone?"

"Actually, yes," muttered her grandmother from the corner.

"She’ll make a list of names," Veylira deadpanned. "Three hundred of them."

"Color-coded by linguistic origin and battle worthiness," added General Alnith.

"Oh no," said one of the younger ministers, clutching his chest. "Not the naming scrolls again."

"Silence, all of you," Malvoria snapped but her lips betrayed her with a smile.

"Can we suggest names?" Roane asked eagerly.

"No," Malvoria said.

"Xeraphine," a scribe muttered under his breath.

"Pyrrhen," someone else whispered.

"Warclaw."

"Warclaw is not a name, it’s a sword technique!"

"What if it’s a girl?"

"Warclaw is gender neutral—"

Malvoria pinched the bridge of her nose. "Gods preserve me."

Veylira, unamused, calmly took notes. "You’ll want to avoid names with excessive consonants. Children tend to lisp through enchanted syllables."

Captain Roane was practically vibrating. "What about combining both of your names?"

Malvoria stared at him. "Elyvoria?"

"Malysia?"

The room burst into half-muffled laughter.

Malvoria held up a hand. "Enough. We will choose something meaningful. A name with history. A name that commands both fear and respect. And no—" she glared at her captain, "—not Flamepuff, which I know was on your lips just now."

Roane saluted innocently.

She sighed again, leaned back in her throne-like chair, and folded her hands.

"I will raise this child to speak ten languages, wield five weapons, command three magics, and spot a liar in a crowd of saints. They will be trained by the best. They will be ready."

"And if they just want to be an artist?" Saelira asked.

Malvoria paused.

Then... softened. Just a little.

"Then they’ll be the best artist in the realm."

For a moment, there was quiet.

Then she stood, brushing imaginary dust from her coat.

"Well," she said, "that’s the end of the meeting."

Everyone rose as she did, bows exchanged, salutes offered.

But her mind had already left the room.

Because her heart was down the hall, in soft golden light, waiting.

Malvoria didn’t head straight to her chambers after the meeting.

Instead, she made a familiar detour.

The hallway that led to the castle kitchens was quiet at this hour most of the kitchen staff were preparing for the midday meal but a few noticed her approach and quickly scrambled into organized chaos.

Aprons flew, spoons were dropped, and one poor assistant nearly knocked over a silver tray of teacakes trying to stand upright.

"Your Majesty!" the head cook, a plump demon woman with golden eyes and fire-touched hair, bowed so low her forehead nearly grazed the countertop. "To what do we owe—"

"Strawberries," Malvoria said smoothly. "Fresh. Sliced. Washed. In the bowl with the golden rim."

Without hesitation, the cook barked orders like a battlefield commander. "You heard the Queen! Get the reserve stock—she likes the ones from the northern fields! Gold-rimmed bowl, not silver! Go, go!"

Malvoria watched the flurry of movement with mild amusement.

Ever since Elysia’s pregnancy began, strawberries had become sacred offerings in this kitchen—available at any hour, demanded with sleepy whines or mid-sentence cravings, and always consumed with that soft hum of satisfaction that Malvoria had come to live for.

The bowl was ready in moments.

Perfectly arranged slices, vibrant red and glistening with dew, rested against a chilled porcelain dish. Malvoria took it carefully, her fingers curling around the edges.

She imagined the way Elysia’s eyes would light up when she saw them. The way she’d press a piece to Malvoria’s lips in playful insistence, even if Malvoria pretended to protest.

The way she’d lean into her afterward, cheek warm against her shoulder.

She smiled softly.

With the bowl in hand and a heart already full of anticipation, Malvoria turned on her heel and headed toward their shared chambers, where her queen, her everything was waiting.