I won't fall for the queen who burned my world-Chapter 208: Try again. I dare you.

The bed was cold.

Malvoria rolled over, half-asleep, expecting the familiar warmth of Elysia tucked against her side the curve of her back fitting so perfectly into the hollow of Malvoria’s body, the way her silver hair tangled across the pillow, strands finding their way onto Malvoria’s chest overnight.

But today, there was nothing but a dent in the sheets and the faint scent of roses.

She cracked one eye open, squinting against the early light filtering through the window.

Gone.

"Traitor," she muttered into the mattress, her voice gravelly with sleep. "You abandoned me."

She sprawled like a sulking feline, one leg thrown dramatically over the side of the bed. "No kiss. No good morning."

For a long moment, she considered staying there just to make a point. Maybe Elysia would come back. freewebnøvel.com

Maybe she was hiding behind a curtain, waiting to leap out and confess her undying love and apologize for this betrayal.

But alas.

No ambush of affection came.

Grumbling under her breath, Malvoria finally sat up, ran a hand through her tangled red braid, and began the grim morning task of pretending to be responsible. Being Queen, it turned out, did not grant one the luxury of dramatic sulking.

She’d barely changed into her crisp black uniform and buckled the silver chains across her shoulders when the knock came at her office door.

Too early.

Too fast.

Something was wrong.

"Enter," she snapped, and the door swung open to reveal one of her officers—Captain Elorin, a seasoned demon with a scar bisecting his lip and sharp eyes that rarely blinked.

He bowed quickly. "Your Majesty. Urgent report from the southern border."

Malvoria’s brow tightened. "Already?"

Elorin stepped forward and laid a sealed parchment on her desk. "Smoke spotted near the Shavarn outpost. Confirmed rebel movement. It’s not a random fire. A village was attacked—one under your direct protection."

She snatched the report, breaking the seal with a sharp flick of her clawed thumb, and scanned the contents. Each word burned.

A demon village.

Peaceful. Remote. One of the small communities that had survived generations of conflict, too stubborn or too proud to flee. The smoke hadn’t even cleared and already she had the body count: seventeen injured. Four missing. Two children among the casualties.

Her teeth clenched. "Did they leave a symbol?"

Elorin nodded grimly. "Painted in ash. The same insignia we found after the banquet attack."

So it was them. Again. The faction that refused to die. Shadow rebels, cowards striking in the dark.

"And the villagers?"

"Terrified. Most were hiding in root cellars. A few tried to fight but... they were overwhelmed."

Of course they were.

Malvoria’s fingers curled tightly over the edge of the desk, her nails leaving faint gouges in the wood. Elorin waited, silent.

"Suggestions?" she asked, voice cold.

"An immediate strike," he said, as if it were obvious. "They’re still in the area. We found tracks. A direct assault would cripple them."

"No," Malvoria said.

Elorin blinked. "Your Majesty—"

"I said no." She met his gaze, steel for steel. "We send scouts. Not an army."

He didn’t argue—he knew better—but his silence was heavy with unspoken thoughts. She waved him off.

Once the door closed behind him, Malvoria leaned back in her chair and stared at the report again.

A direct assault would be satisfying.

But too much could go wrong.

Elysia was nearing her due date. Three months. That was nothing. The rebels had already gotten close once—far too close.

And while she trusted her commanders, she had seen enough to know the cost of reckless bloodshed.

She rose and walked slowly to the war room, the long corridor echoing with each measured step. No guards followed her. She wanted the silence.

Inside the chamber, the grand map of the Demon Realm covered the wall—sprawling and detailed, with glowing sigils marking villages, trade routes, fortresses. Tiny red marks dotted the edges—rebel sightings, conflicts, uncertainty.

She stood before it and pressed her fingertips to the southern region, right above the now-charred village.

If she closed her eyes, she could already hear Elysia’s voice in her head: "Be careful. Think first."

So she did.

Her fingers drifted across the old roads—the ones barely used anymore. Her mind followed the curves of forest trails and long-forgotten watchtowers.

There were too many gaps in their knowledge. Too many places the rebels could hide. But attacking without knowing the full picture?

It could push the rest of them deeper underground. Scatter them like embers into dry grass.

She needed time.

And patience.

Two things she hated.

Her hand dropped to her side. Her magic pulsed beneath her skin, restless and burning.

Still, her thoughts kept sliding back—to Elysia.

Her wife, now so visibly pregnant that Malvoria couldn’t stop herself from staring every time she passed.

The gentle way her fingers drifted over her belly. The soft smiles she gave when Malvoria brought her strawberries—even at ridiculous hours.

The way she talked to the baby when she thought no one was listening. Whispering promises of safety and love and a better world.

And suddenly, Malvoria felt it again—that creeping weight in her chest. The one that came not from war or duty or power.

But from fear.

Real, bone-deep fear.

Because if something happened again—if the rebels ever got close enough to hurt them—Malvoria didn’t know what she would become.

Her hands clenched at her sides.

Her magic pulsed again.

The shadows in the war room shifted unnaturally. A breeze that didn’t exist stirred the papers on the long table. The candles flickered low.

She didn’t even notice until the flames had turned a strange shade of crimson.

Her voice, when it came, was low and deadly.

"I will burn down the world before I let them get close again."

The silence afterward was complete.

She breathed slowly, forcing the power to settle. The room returned to stillness.

Three more months.

That was all.

She just had to hold the kingdom together for three more months.

And then she would have her child in her arms.

Their child.

Born not of fear or duty or politics—but from something that still surprised her every time she thought about it.

Love.

Malvoria closed her eyes and imagined it. Not just the birth. But what came after.

Elysia, asleep in their bed, a small bundle curled in her arms. Laughter echoing in the halls instead of war drums.

A nursery filled with sunlight, not smoke. Tiny hands wrapped around her finger. A future that didn’t require blood to buy peace.

She would make that world, no matter what it took.

Even if she had to carve it into the bones of every last rebel herself.

She turned back to the map and whispered, "Try again. I dare you."