I won’t fall for the queen who burned my world

The fifth day dawned with an oppressive weight pressing down on Elysia's chest.

The air in her chambers was thick, the silence unsettling as she sat on the edge of her bed, already bracing herself for the ordeal to come. The second fitting.

The seamstress had promised it would be "the most critical stage" of the process. The dress was nearly complete now—just the final adjustments and details remained.

Elysia wished it would somehow unravel in the seamstress's hands.

The knock came promptly at mid-morning. Three sharp, efficient taps.

The door opened before she could respond, and Selyra stepped inside with her usual expression of cool detachment. Two assistants trailed behind her, carrying garment bags draped in thick protective silk.

"Princess," Selyra greeted, her slate-grey eyes scanning Elysia with that same calculating look she'd had during the first fitting. "We'll begin immediately. The Queen's mother will join us shortly."

Elysia groaned internally.

As if standing stiffly for hours while demons jabbed her with pins wasn't bad enough, now she had to endure Veylira's relentless enthusiasm.

She followed the seamstress into the adjoining room, where a freestanding mirror and a wooden dais awaited.

The dress was already there.

Elysia's breath caught when she saw it.

White silk shimmered beneath the lantern light, fluid and smooth as moonlit water. The crimson embroidery swirled across the bodice and skirt in intricate flame-like patterns, each thread catching the light with an almost metallic gleam.

The design was beautiful.

And she hated it.

The flames reminded her of Arvandor burning. Of her home reduced to ash.

And the silk—the stark, pristine white—clung to the identity this place was trying to impose on her.

The Queen's bride. The outsider becoming one of them.

No.

She stepped onto the dais, forcing her shoulders back as Selyra and the assistants moved around her with practiced efficiency.

The first touch of the fabric against her skin sent a shiver down her spine.

"Arms up," Selyra instructed, unfurling the gown.

Elysia obeyed. The silk slid over her body like a second skin, whispering against her bare arms. The weight of the material settled heavily on her shoulders.

The assistants began pinning and adjusting, murmuring measurements back and forth in Demonic.

The embroidery curled along the bodice in fiery arcs that trailed down the skirt. Around the hem, crimson thread twisted into jagged peaks, like a wildfire creeping upward.

"You're holding your breath," Selyra said without looking up. "Relax your ribs or the fit will be wrong."

"Sorry," Elysia muttered, forcing herself to exhale.

She wanted to rip the dress off.

She wanted to burn it.

The silk molded to her body, making her feel seen in ways she didn't want to be. The dress didn't just fit; it claimed her.

The door swung open with a loud bang.

"Ah! My darling princess!"

Veylira swept into the room like a storm wrapped in silk, her violet gown adorned with tiny diamond-like stars that shimmered as she moved. Her smile was dazzling, her eyes gleaming with excitement.

"Look at you!" she exclaimed, clapping her hands together. "Absolutely magnificent."

Elysia forced a polite smile. "Good morning, Lady Veylira."

"Morning? Who cares about the time?" Veylira circled her, eyes devouring every detail. "This is perfection. The flames are divine. Exactly as I imagined."

"The Queen requested the design," Selyra corrected, voice flat.

"Of course she did," Veylira said dismissively, not breaking her stride. "And the white! Oh, it's so symbolic. Innocence meets power. A perfect balance."

Elysia's stomach churned. "I don't feel very balanced."

"Nonsense!" Veylira's eyes sparkled. "You look like a queen."

The words stabbed through Elysia's composure.

Queen.

The title hung over her like an executioner's axe.

Her jaw tightened as the seamstress knelt to adjust the hem. The pins pricked her skin occasionally, sharp stings grounding her in reality.

Veylira kept talking.

"The ceremony will be breathtaking. We've finalized the seating chart. The front rows reserved for the generals, naturally. And the cake—oh, wait until you see the cake!"

Elysia closed her eyes briefly, tuning out the endless stream of details.

Her muscles ached from standing still. Her mind ached from the endless reminders of the life being constructed around her without her consent.

The dress was almost finished. The walls were adorned with demon banners. The guest list was finalized.

This wasn't a nightmare she could wake from.

It was happening.

"Tilt your chin slightly," Selyra instructed. "I need to pin the collar."

Elysia obeyed, swallowing hard as the seamstress's cool fingers brushed her throat.

The silk collar sat high around her neck, embroidered with delicate crimson runes that she couldn't decipher.

"And the tiara," Veylira continued, "will arrive from the artisans in the north tomorrow. Malvoria insisted it match the embroidery."

Elysia's heart stuttered. "Malvoria insisted?"

"Oh yes," Veylira said, smiling knowingly. "She may pretend not to care, but she cares more than she lets on."

The words rattled her more than they should have.

Malvoria was cold. Calculating. Indifferent.

Wasn't she?

The seamstress finished her last pin. "Done," Selyra announced, stepping back. "Princess, you can step down now."*

Elysia moved carefully, the weight of the dress shifting with her as she descended from the dais.

The silk whispered with each step.

She turned toward the mirror.

The woman staring back didn't look like a prisoner.

She looked... regal.

The crimson flames licked up the skirt with an almost living quality. The bodice fit snugly, accentuating her figure with elegant precision. The high collar framed her neck, giving her a sharp, proud silhouette.

She hated it.

Because it made her look like she belonged here.

A soft knock interrupted her thoughts.

The door opened.

Malvoria stepped inside.

The air shifted immediately.

The seamstress froze mid-sentence. The assistants backed away from the dress. Even Veylira, normally impervious, fell silent.

Malvoria's eyes swept across the room and landed on Elysia.

She said nothing.

But that gaze—cool, assessing—burned hotter than any of the crimson embroidery.

She wore black today. Black trousers, a fitted black tunic embroidered with dark silver runes. Her hair, usually tied back, was loose around her shoulders. Her horns gleamed faintly under the lantern light.

"Ah," Veylira said, clearing her throat. "Well. We should leave the Queen to... admire the dress."

Without waiting for Malvoria's response, she ushered Selyra and the assistants out of the room, closing the door behind her.

The silence that followed crackled with tension.

Malvoria didn't move.

She simply stared.

Elysia shifted uncomfortably. "What?"

Malvoria's lips curved slightly. "You look like a queen."

The echo of Veylira's words sent a shiver through her.

"I'm not your queen," Elysia said.

Malvoria stepped closer, her boots nearly silent against the stone floor. "Not yet."

The heat of her presence filled the room.

The silk of the dress suddenly felt suffocating, clinging to Elysia's skin like a second layer of restraint.

Malvoria's gaze dropped to the embroidery. "The flames suit you."

Her gloved hand lifted, fingers brushing the crimson threads over Elysia's waist.

The touch was light, but it set every nerve in Elysia's body on edge.

She swallowed, throat tight. "You picked this design?"

"Yes." Malvoria's thumb trailed along the line of a crimson flame. "The fire reminded me of you."

"Burning?" Elysia asked bitterly.

"Resilient."

The word caught her off guard.

Her heart slammed against her ribs as Malvoria's touch lingered a second too long.

The room felt too small. Too hot.

"You can't run from this," Malvoria said softly, her breath warm against Elysia's cheek. "No matter how much you want to."

Elysia's pulse stuttered.

She took a step back.

Malvoria's hand caught her wrist, holding her still.

Her grip wasn't tight.

But it was unyielding.

Their eyes locked.

Elysia's breath faltered as that dark grey gaze seemed to strip away every pretense, every defiant mask she tried to wear.

For a moment, neither of them moved.

The tension stretched impossibly taut.

Then—

Malvoria released her and turned away.

She left without another word.

The door clicked shut behind her.

Elysia stood there, heart racing, the silk of the dress suddenly unbearably heavy.