I won't fall for the queen who burned my world-Chapter 216: You’re here

Malvoria had ruled a realm soaked in blood, stood unshaken against war councils and assassination plots, and had once burned an entire battlefield to ash with nothing but her voice and the crackle of her flame.

But today, she was surrendering.

Not to an enemy. Not to weakness.

To love.

With a simple signature and an arched brow, Malvoria handed the thick stack of military ledgers to her mother, Veylira.

Then, without a word, she slid the diplomatic reports toward her grandmother, Saelira, who blinked behind her spectacles as if Malvoria had grown a second head.

"Excuse me?" Saelira’s voice was sharp. "Did you just give me the entire tax brief from the Western border and a list of emissary visits for the next three weeks?"

"Yes," Malvoria said flatly.

"And the trade ledger?"

"Yes."

Saelira narrowed her eyes. "Do I look like your secretary?"

"You look like the woman who conquered two nations by age twenty-five. You’ll manage."

"I was hoping to nap today."

"Then you shouldn’t have had a granddaughter."

Saelira scowled. Veylira smirked behind her tea.

"I am focusing on Elysia," Malvoria said, already rising, her armor clinking with each step toward the door.

"And before either of you lecture me about responsibility, let me remind you both that my pregnant wife nearly exploded the roof last week."

Saelira muttered something about "dramatic bloodlines" as she took the ledger.

Malvoria didn’t look back. She had bigger things to conquer today.

Like building a cradle.

It had seemed so simple in her head. A quiet gesture of devotion. A tangible gift for Elysia.

Malvoria had entered the unused crafting hall of the east wing with rolled sleeves, a handpicked plank of enchanted demonwood, and an expression of pure determination.

She did not, however, have experience.

Three hours later, she was covered in sawdust, her shirt sticking to her back, and she had somehow managed to hammer a nail into her thumb instead of the support beam.

The cradle lay in front of her like a half-eaten carcass of good intentions and bad angles. One leg was too short.

One rail leaned inward like it regretted being born. The rest looked like it might crumble under the weight of a pillow.

Malvoria stared at it in mounting disbelief. "What the hells is this."

The hammer clattered to the floor as she rubbed a smudge of ash off her cheek and then kicked the crooked beam.

It fell over with a loud crack.

She glared down at it like it had personally insulted her bloodline. fɾēewebnσveℓ.com

And that’s how Veylira found her.

Arms folded, robes immaculate, not a speck of dust on her, standing in the doorway with a look of amused horror.

"Oh, my gods," Veylira said slowly. "You’re... you’re really trying to build it yourself."

Malvoria turned. "Don’t start."

"You look like you’ve been rolling in gravel."

"I had a vision."

"Was the vision structurally sound?"

Malvoria dragged a hand down her face and sighed. "I thought it would be something special. Something I could say I made myself. A gift from a mother to her child."

Veylira stepped forward, her gaze softening.

"Sweetheart," she said gently. "You’re a queen. You don’t build cradles. You commission them."

"I don’t want to commission it. I want to make something with my hands. Something that means something."

"It does mean something," Veylira said, touching Malvoria’s arm. "The fact that you tried."

They stood in silence for a moment, surrounded by the mess.

Malvoria looked around at the chaos splintered wood, bent nails, her once-sharp tools dulled by misuse. Her hands ached. Her shoulders throbbed.

And still, the cradle was crooked.

"Elysia deserves something perfect," she said quietly. "Something worthy."

Veylira smiled, her eyes soft. "She already has it."

Malvoria looked over, startled.

"You," Veylira said, simply. "You’re here. Present. Loving. Trying. That’s more than most queens ever manage."

Malvoria exhaled, the tension easing from her shoulders for the first time all day.

"I don’t know how to do this," she admitted. "Not just parenting. Loving like this. It feels like there’s no limit. Like I’d burn the world for her, and it still wouldn’t be enough."

Veylira leaned down and brushed a few curls of sawdust off her daughter’s shoulder. "That’s exactly how I felt the first time I held you."

Malvoria blinked.

"And when I saw you grow up," Veylira continued. "I realized something. Love doesn’t soften us, Malvoria. It sharpens us. Makes us lethal in new ways. You’re not weaker now—you’re just dangerous in different places."

Malvoria’s throat tightened.

Veylira looked at the broken cradle. "Now. Let’s call in the carpenters before that thing collapses and takes your pride with it."

Malvoria gave a half-smile. "Only if you promise not to tell Elysia."

"No promises," Veylira said cheerfully. "This story is going to be adorable."

They turned toward the door.

Veylira paused, watching Malvoria hesitate before picking up the one intact piece of the cradle the curved top rail she had carved herself.

It was simple. Uneven.

But it had a single engraved sigil in the center: two flames crossing, wrapped around a tiny spark.

Their family mark.

Malvoria held it gently in her hands.

Veylira placed a hand on her shoulder, her voice soft. "Let me help you?"

Malvoria stared down at the salvaged piece of wood in her hands.

The engraving was a little crooked, clearly carved in a moment of stubborn determination but something about its imperfection made it feel more personal. More real.

Veylira had already summoned the castle’s best craftsmen, and within minutes, three of them arrived all wide-eyed at the mess, but far too disciplined to comment aloud.

Instead, they moved with polite efficiency, collecting the ruined beams and making quiet notes about what could be salvaged.

Malvoria crossed her arms as one of them gently picked up the slanted base she’d assembled and immediately winced.

"I told you we should’ve let you practice on a chair first," Veylira muttered beside her.

"I can command armies, wield demonic fire, rewrite battle strategies mid-conflict—but one cradle," Malvoria grumbled, "and I am utterly defeated."

Veylira chuckled. "That’s the magic of parenting. It’s the one war we all lose and still come back for."

Malvoria looked around at the sawdust-covered floor, at the craftspeople measuring her shattered attempt with soft, pitying smiles, and at the only usable piece—the engraved top rail still cradled in her hands.

She exhaled slowly, then laughed under her breath.

"We are really bad at this."