I won't fall for the queen who burned my world-Chapter 229: Don’t panic

The moment the words left Elysia’s mouth—"I think my water just broke"—everything shattered.

Malvoria froze, mid-lunge toward her sister, one hand still gripping Lara’s boot. Her brain, for all its capacity to plan wars and execute brutal tactics with terrifying efficiency, flatlined.

She turned slowly, the same way one might turn to face a rampaging dragon they didn’t want to acknowledge.

Elysia sat there, blinking rapidly, her hands cradling her swollen belly with a stunned expression on her face. A darkening puddle pooled beneath her seat.

Malvoria dropped the boot.

"What—what does that mean?!" she demanded, as if someone had just started speaking in an ancient tongue.

"What—what do we do now? Where’s—where’s—Faelira! Someone get Faelira! Why are you all just standing there?!"

"Already did," Veylira said calmly, tossing a summoning crystal into the air before catching it again. "She’ll be here in thirty seconds."

"I—I didn’t prepare a speech! Or towels! Or boiling water! Are we supposed to boil water? Is that still a thing?!"

"I’m not boiling anything," Lara muttered from the floor, still half under the table. "I just got hit with divine vengeance by a chair leg."

Malvoria rushed to Elysia’s side, hands hovering uselessly in the air. "Do you—do you hurt? Are you hurting? Where does it hurt? Can I punch it?"

Elysia gave her a bemused look. "I don’t think violence helps the situation."

Saelira stood with elegance born of eons. "Oh, I love this part," she sighed. "The chaos, the screaming, the babies."

Veylira rolled her eyes. "You liked it because you fainted before the pain started."

"Semantics," Saelira replied.

The doors burst open as Faelira entered, her robes already swept back and her sleeves rolled high. Her expression was serenity carved in elven features.

"I sensed the change before the summons reached me," she said, as though that were normal. "We must move her to the birthing chamber. Now."

Malvoria nodded with excessive urgency. "Yes, yes, move her, please, where’s the—how do we—do we carry her?"

"Walking is fine," Faelira replied with infinite patience.

"I’ll carry her," Malvoria blurted, already scooping Elysia up with a bit more panic than grace.

"Malvoria," Elysia hissed, clutching her arms. "I can walk."

"You could, before your body betrayed you and decided today of all days is the day," Malvoria muttered.

"I didn’t pick the date."

Faelira sighed, already guiding them toward the doors. "This way. Quickly, but calmly."

Malvoria followed like a woman possessed.

The corridor outside the dining room transformed into a tunnel of tension. Maids scattered, guards snapped to attention, and somewhere in the distance a trumpet player who had the worst timing imaginable began a celebratory tune—before Saelira threw a spoon at him.

"Out," Veylira barked at the musicians. "This isn’t a wedding encore, it’s a birth!"

"Do we have the lavender oils? The cloths? Where are the cloths?" Malvoria demanded as they reached the royal nursery hall.

"We have them, your majesty," said a calm midwife standing near the birthing suite.

"I want fresh cloths! What if these are stale?!"

"They’re magical. They refresh with time."

Malvoria blinked. "I want twice as many."

Elysia snorted, still in Malvoria’s arms. "You’re worse than me."

"I am composed," Malvoria said stiffly. "This is how a composed person panics."

The birthing suite was warm and glowing, the air thick with incense and protective spells woven into every stone.

Soft enchantments whispered from the walls, meant to ease pain and calm breathing.

The bed was large, reinforced with charms to handle even the most powerful magic surges. Faelira’s assistants were already preparing salves, crystals, and herbs.

Elysia was gently lowered to the bed. Malvoria hovered like a war general waiting for her best soldier to return from the battlefield.

"She’s going to be okay, right?" she asked for the sixth time as Faelira examined Elysia’s pulse and gently touched her belly.

"Yes," Faelira said again, "provided you stop asking me and let me do my job."

"I am letting you do your job!"

"You’re standing in my light."

"I am the light."

"Out of the way, light."

Malvoria shuffled two paces left.

Veylira entered behind them with a knowing look and handed Malvoria a towel. "For your sweating."

"I am not sweating."

"You’re dripping."

"I’m emotionally glistening."

Elysia groaned as a contraction twisted her features.

Malvoria nearly leapt forward, only to be held back by Faelira’s extended hand like she was training a particularly high-strung war beast.

"She’s going into early labor," Faelira said calmly. "Her body is reacting to the magical surge and the demon child’s own powers. Nothing to panic about—unless you keep panicking, in which case I will panic."

Malvoria nodded. Then immediately panicked again. "Is it coming now?"

Faelira gave her a flat look.

"Malvoria," Elysia said weakly, reaching out.

Malvoria rushed to the bedside and clasped her hand. "Yes? Do you need more support? A spell? A glass of—"

"You’re squeezing my fingers into powder."

She released her grip instantly. "Sorry. I’m so sorry. I love you."

"You’re still doing it."

"Right. Less love."

Elysia let out a breath between clenched teeth as another contraction gripped her.

Malvoria winced like she could feel it herself. "Should I duel it? I will duel your uterus."

Veylira snorted.

Faelira gave a tiny smile despite herself. "If love could punch a contraction, we’d have no need for healers."

They worked quickly. Faelira guided the room into gentle efficiency, assigning staff to specific spells and tasks.

Midwives checked the dilation, monitored the pulse, and set a circle of flame-hardened sigils around the bed to channel Elysia’s magic if it grew unstable.

Malvoria didn’t move from her wife’s side.

She kissed her brow. "You’re doing so well. I’m so proud of you."

"I just started."

"And I’m already proud. You’re a goddess."

Elysia gave a weak chuckle and squeezed her hand. "Thank you."

Then the pain hit harder.

The next contraction made her back arch and her lips part in a silent cry.

"Faelira!" Malvoria shouted, jolting upright. "She’s dying!"

"She’s not," Faelira said patiently, "she’s laboring."

"Same thing!"

Faelira made a note on a scroll and looked up with serene finality.

"The labor," she said, "is starting."

Malvoria’s world narrowed to the bed.

To Elysia.

To the life they had created.

And the chaos only deepened.