I won't fall for the queen who burned my world-Chapter 211: The naming blade

Malvoria woke up smiling.

It was an unfamiliar feeling gentle, warm, almost embarrassing. She blinked against the soft morning light slipping through the tall windows, the silk curtains fluttering with the faintest breeze. Her body was still heavy with sleep, but her heart... her heart was already awake.

She turned her head slowly and found exactly what she hoped for.

Elysia, nestled into the crook of her arm, hair a halo of silver splayed over the pillow, one hand resting lightly on her round belly.

Malvoria’s breath caugt.

There was something sacred about these mornings. Something raw and real. With Elysia’s skin still warm from sleep and the world still silent outside their door, this was the only place where Malvoria ever truly let her guard down.

Elysia stirred, lashes fluttering open. She gave Malvoria a soft, sleepy smile. "You’re grinning," she murmured, her voice rasped with morning.

"I am not."

"You are."

Malvoria smirked and leaned in, brushing her lips across Elysia’s forehead. "Maybe."

Elysia chuckled, her fingers shifting over her stomach. "You’re excited."

"I have no idea what you mean," Malvoria replied, even as her eyes dropped to Elysia’s belly.

The child stirred beneath the surface, a ripple of motion. Stronger now. More distinct. Malvoria pressed her hand gently against the bump, feeling the small, insistent thump that answered her touch.

She exhaled slowly.

"I like when they kick," she said, her voice softer than usual.

"You like being punched in the hand?"

"Only by this one."

There was a knock at the door, and at Malvoria’s permission, a maid entered—pushing a silver cart loaded with breakfast trays.

The scent filled the room almost instantly.

Spiced honey pastries, soft cheese dusted with herbs, sugared blackberries, a warm tart of caramelized onions and leeks wrapped in flakey golden crust.

A bowl of freshly sliced strawberries gods, always strawberries sat beside a pitcher of rosewater tea.

Malvoria helped Elysia sit upright, stacking pillows behind her with uncharacteristic gentleness. She served her first, delicately arranging bites on her plate, slicing fruit, drizzling honey over warm bread.

Elysia arched a brow. "You’re spoiling me."

"You’re carrying my child."

"You say that like it’s a tax I’m collecting."

Malvoria smirked, offering a forkful of strawberry. "Eat. Then insult me."

Elysia opened her mouth for the fruit. "Fair deal."

They ate together slowly, in comfortable silence broken only by occasional remarks and shared smiles. Malvoria let her fingers linger on Elysia’s wrist as they spoke, or rest lightly on the curve of her belly when the child moved.

"I thought about the blade again," she said at last, wiping her mouth with a napkin. "The ceremonial one."

Elysia looked up. "The one for the naming ceremony?"

"Yes."

Demon tradition dictated a blade be crafted before the child’s birth a symbol of their lineage and the family that would defend them. It was a deeply rooted practice, older than most of the bloodlines still alive.

The blade would not be wielded by the child immediately of course not but it would be placed near them at the moment of their naming, a silent promise: You will be protected. You belong.

And in time, it would become theirs.

"I want it perfect," Malvoria continued, her eyes gleaming. "Something strong. Elegant. Like you."

Elysia flushed lightly. "Like me?"

Malvoria stood, kissed her temple, and said, "Yes. Stay here. Rest. I’ll see to it myself."

---

The forge was nestled in the lower courtyard of the palace—a place of smoke, sparks, and molten beauty.

Demon blacksmiths were not mere artisans; they were spellcrafters in steel, binding old magic into the very grain of the metal.

Malvoria strode across the stone floor, her boots echoing. The master smith, a towering demon named Gravor, looked up from the blazing hearth.

"Your Majesty," he bowed, sweat slicking his horns. "To what do I owe this singeing honor?"

"I want a blade," Malvoria said without preamble. "For my child."

Gravor blinked. "The naming blade?"

She nodded. "I’ll oversee it myself."

The smith’s eyebrows rose. "I expected you to send a design. A sketch. Or an order."

"This child will not hold a mass-produced relic," she said coldly. "We forge it. Now."

Gravor grinned, clearly delighted. "I’ll clear the table."

She moved like she belonged there. Unbuttoning her formal coat and rolling up her sleeves, Malvoria stepped beside the workbench, examining the metals set out in preparation.

"We’ll start with umbrasil," she murmured, touching the dark grey ingot. "For strength."

"Of course."

"And a thread of silvertine for balance. Harmony."

Gravor nodded, pulling the needed alloys from their organized rows. "You’ve thought about this."

"I’ve been thinking about it since I first touched her belly."

Together, they began heating the metals, combining them over flame enchanted with stability runes. The room pulsed with heat, sweat slicking Malvoria’s back as she helped shape the raw form.

She took the hammer first.

Every strike rang with purpose.

Gravor watched her work, occasionally guiding her, correcting angles, offering a word when needed—but mostly, he let her be. Let her pour her strength into every curve, every taper.

As the blade began to take shape—long, elegant, slightly curved at the tip—Gravor whistled. "It’s beautiful."

"It’s hers," Malvoria said.

"Hers?"

"Elysia," she clarified. "It’s hers first. The child will take it from her hands. Not mine."

Gravor tilted his head. "Never seen a consort present the blade before."

"She is more than consort," Malvoria said sharply. "She is queen."

He smiled faintly. "As you say, Your Majesty."

Hours passed. The enchantment process began—old sigils etched with fire-ink into the blade’s core. Malvoria selected runes herself. Protection. Endurance. Clarity.

"She won’t hold it until they’re older," Gravor noted.

"She will guard it until they’re ready."

At last, they quenched the blade—dipping it into a basin of violet-tinged oil that hissed and steamed under the heat. When it was cool enough to hold, Malvoria ran her hand down the spine of the steel.

It was perfect.

Not ostentatious. Not gilded.

A warrior’s promise, forged in love.

Gravor wrapped it in dark velvet, sealing it with red ribbon. "I’ll deliver it to your chambers tomorrow?"

"No," Malvoria said, taking the bundle.

She would carry it herself.