You will never have her

The cool night air settled over Malvoria as she stepped away from the castle entrance, her boots clicking against the polished black stone of the courtyard.

The torches lining the pathway flickered, casting long, dancing shadows along the towering walls of her fortress.

She walked with purpose, her cape billowing slightly behind her as she made her way toward the lower levels of the castle, where King Thalor was being held.

It was time to deliver the news.

At the same time, she gestured for one of the nearby attendants—a slim demoness with curling black horns and sharp, feline eyes.

"Send word to the healers," Malvoria commanded without pausing. "Have them tend to the king. He is no use to me if he dies before I can put him to proper use."

The demoness bowed deeply before vanishing into the castle's interior.

Malvoria smirked to herself as she continued down the hall.

Elysia had surrendered for her father. Whether it was out of love, duty, or foolish hope didn't matter. The important thing was that she had come. And now, the king—so full of fire and stubborn will—would have to face the consequences of his failure.

When she entered the cell, the sight that greeted her was nothing short of pitiful.

King Thalor sat against the cold stone wall, his once-regal blue tunic torn, his silver-threaded hair matted with sweat. His face bore the marks of battle, bruises blooming along his jaw, a gash near his temple where dried blood had crusted over. Yet despite his disheveled state, his blue eyes still burned with the same stubborn defiance.

Malvoria let the door shut behind her, the sound echoing in the chamber.

She took a step forward, her smirk widening.

"Your daughter is here."

For a moment, Thalor didn't move.

Then, with a sharp, furious exhale, he surged to his feet, his muscles tensing, his face twisting with unfiltered rage.

Before Malvoria could so much as blink, he lunged.

Sloppy.

Predictable.

Effortlessly, she sidestepped him, pivoting with ease as his momentum carried him forward. He staggered slightly, catching himself against the stone wall with a grunt.

The guards outside reacted instantly.

Swords were drawn, footsteps thundered, and within seconds, half a dozen blades were pointed at the fallen king.

Malvoria lifted a hand, her voice cool, commanding.

"Stand down."

The guards hesitated, confused.

Malvoria tilted her head, her smirk returning. "He is still breathing because his daughter asked it of me. And I do not go back on my word."

Slowly, reluctantly, the guards lowered their weapons.

Thalor turned to face her again, his chest rising and falling heavily. His breathing was ragged, but his glare was sharp as ever.

"You expect me to thank you?" he spat.

Malvoria chuckled. "No. I expect you to sit there and realize just how utterly powerless you are."

His jaw tightened.

"You did this," he said, his voice a low growl. "You burned my kingdom. You—"

"I did what I had to," Malvoria interrupted smoothly, crossing her arms. "And now, your daughter belongs to me."

Thalor flinched, just for a fraction of a second.

But Malvoria caught it.

She leaned in slightly, voice dropping to something softer—dangerous.

"How does it feel, knowing that everything you did—all your pride, your resistance—amounted to nothing? Knowing that the only reason you are still breathing is because your daughter bargained for your life?"

Silence.

Then, Thalor laughed.

It was bitter, sharp as broken glass.

"You think you've won."

Malvoria arched a brow. "Haven't I?"

He smiled, but there was no humor in it. "You may have her in chains, but you will never have her loyalty. You will never have her."

Malvoria exhaled through her nose, unimpressed.

"We shall see," she murmured, before turning to the doorway.

She gestured to a nearby demon servant. "See that the healers tend to him. I want him alive and functioning."

The servant bowed deeply before hurrying away.

Malvoria turned back to Thalor. "I'll have clothing brought for you. I wouldn't want Elysia to see you looking too pitiful."

With that, she left the room, her boots echoing against the stone floors as she made her way back toward the grand hall.

It was almost dinnertime.

Her thoughts drifted, unbidden, to Elysia.

She had been beautiful.

More striking in person than in any of the portraits, more captivating than Malvoria had expected.

But that was irrelevant.

She needed a wife. A consort. Someone to bear her heir.

And that was all Elysia needed to be.

Malvoria walked through the halls of her castle with the same deliberate confidence as always, but her thoughts were elsewhere.

The echo of her boots against the polished stone, the flickering of the violet torches along the walls—none of it held her attention. Instead, her mind lingered on the moment she had just left behind.

Thalor's hatred had been expected. His rage, predictable. But his words…

"You think you've won."

She had brushed it off at the time, but the echo of it followed her, biting at the edges of her thoughts.

She had won.

Elysia had walked into her domain, had handed herself over in exchange for her father's life. She had chosen this, whether she admitted it or not.

So why did the words linger?

Malvoria exhaled sharply, shaking off the thought as she reached her chambers. She pushed open the heavy doors, stepping into the dimly lit space.

The room was large, draped in shades of deep red and black, the furniture carved from dark wood, elegant and imposing.

A grand canopy bed sat against the far wall, veiled in sheer crimson curtains, the silk sheets untouched. To the side, a polished black vanity stood, a gilded mirror reflecting the faint glow of the torches.

But right now, Malvoria's focus was on the bathing chamber.

She stripped off her commandant uniform, the fabric heavy with the scent of smoke and battle. Her muscles ached slightly, not from strain, but from the relentless movement of the past few days.

Steam curled around her as she stepped into the warm water, sighing as the heat seeped into her skin.

For a moment, she allowed herself to relax, to let the tension unravel, the weight of war and strategy slipping away beneath the water's surface.

And yet, her mind refused to still.

Her thoughts drifted—to silver hair, to defiant violet eyes, to the way Elysia had stood before her with a strength Malvoria hadn't expected.

The princess had been afraid.

But she had not broken.

Malvoria smirked to herself, running a hand through her damp red hair before stepping out of the bath.

She dried off quickly, dressing in a crisp white shirt and fitted black trousers, the fabric clinging to her form in all the right places.

A sharp knock at the door pulled her from her thoughts.

"Enter," she called.

The door opened, revealing one of the castle's servants—a young demoness with pale gray skin and curling horns, her eyes lowered in deference.

"My queen," the servant began hesitantly. "The princess's clothing has not yet been chosen."

Malvoria arched a brow. "And?"

The demoness hesitated. "Would you like to select it yourself?"

A flicker of amusement passed through Malvoria's expression.

She strolled toward the large wooden wardrobe near the far wall, pulling the doors open with ease. Inside, rows of finely tailored garments hung in pristine order, ranging from regal formalwear to more practical attire.

She let her fingers drift over the fabric, considering.

She could dress Elysia in something simple. Something modest.

But that would not do.

She smirked as she pulled out a gown—a deep, royal blue dress, embroidered with silver patterns resembling curling flames. The fabric was smooth, elegant, fitting for a princess. The color would suit her, would complement those striking violet eyes.

Malvoria turned, holding up the dress.

"I will deliver it to her myself."