NOVEL NEXT Chapter 14: Princess Elysia is here
Malvoria sat alone in her chambers, the dim glow of enchanted violet flames flickering in the sconces lining the obsidian walls. The heavy velvet curtains were drawn back, revealing the blackened sky outside, painted with the distant embers of what remained of Arvandor.
The castle was silent, save for the faint crackling of the torches and the occasional howl of the wind beyond the spires. Yet, within her mind, there was no silence—only thoughts, tangled and restless, looping back to the words she had spoken earlier that night.
"Princess Elysia of Arvandor. Surrender, or your father dies."
A simple command. A declaration of power. A move that should have ended this tedious game of hide-and-seek.
And yet…
If Elysia did not come, it would be a waste.
It was one thing to crush a kingdom, to raze a city, to bring an arrogant king to his knees. That had been necessary. It had been satisfying.
But this?
Threatening a father's life to force his daughter out of hiding?
That was—heartless.
Malvoria curled her fingers over the armrests of her throne-like chair, her sharp nails digging into the polished black stone. She had been called many things over the years—cruel, merciless, a conqueror, a tyrant. She had embraced them all.
Because power demanded cruelty.
Because mercy was weakness.
And yet, even now, she found herself lingering on the thought.
Would Elysia come?
Would she let her father die?
Or was she stubborn enough to endure the cost of defying Malvoria?
Her thoughts were interrupted by the sound of her chamber doors swinging open without a knock.
Only one person would dare enter her rooms uninvited.
Malvoria didn't need to turn to know it was her mother.
Queen-Mother Veylira stood in the doorway, her long crimson robes trailing behind her, embroidered with intricate silver runes that shimmered faintly in the candlelight. Her fiery red hair, streaked with strands of silver, was twisted into an elaborate braid, coiled over one shoulder.
Her sharp grey eyes, so similar to Malvoria's, took in the room, then settled on her daughter.
"Your war is turning to chaos," Veylira said without preamble, her voice as calm and measured as ever. "And chaos is unpredictable."
Malvoria exhaled through her nose, leaning back in her chair. "Chaos is necessary."
Veylira stepped further inside, her expression unreadable. "Is it? The kingdom is already in ruins. The people fear you. The survivors are running or hiding like rats. You have made your point."
Malvoria's jaw tightened. "Have I?"
Veylira studied her for a moment before glancing toward the balcony. "You rule through fear. That is your choice. And yet, you forget that fear is a fickle thing."
Malvoria scoffed. "Fear keeps them in line."
Veylira's gaze sharpened. "Until it doesn't."
Malvoria stiffened, her patience beginning to thin. "You didn't come here to lecture me."
"No," Veylira admitted, stepping closer. "I came to warn you. The destruction you have wrought is irreversible. You can burn a kingdom to the ground, but what will you do when the ashes settle?"
Malvoria clenched her teeth, feeling something hot coil in her chest.
"Are you saying I should stop?" she asked, her voice dangerously quiet.
"I am saying you should think," Veylira countered. "How many more must die before it satisfies you? Before your message is clear?"
Malvoria stood abruptly, the motion sharp and commanding. "You think this is about satisfaction?" she hissed. "This is about control. This is about ensuring no one ever dares defy me again. That no one ever refuses me again."
Veylira held her gaze, unwavering. "And what of Elysia?"
Malvoria stilled.
Veylira's lips curled slightly, as if she had struck a nerve. "You have gone to great lengths for a single woman. Is it truly about revenge? Or is it something else?"
Malvoria's fists clenched. "Careful, Mother."
Veylira chuckled, but there was no amusement in it. "I merely wonder how deep this obsession runs."
Malvoria's eyes darkened, her anger a slow, simmering burn beneath her skin. "She is mine."
Veylira sighed, turning away. "If she does not surrender, what will you do? Kill her father? And then what? Destroy the rest of what remains?"
Malvoria didn't answer.
Because she didn't know.
Before the tension could snap, there was a hurried knock at the chamber doors.
One of her guards entered, his armor still dusted with soot, his expression tense.
"My queen," he said, bowing.
Malvoria's grey eyes flicked to him, her patience thin. "Speak."
The guard lifted his head.
"Princess Elysia is here."
Malvoria smirked. Victory tasted sweet, and this moment—this long-awaited moment—was hers.
She had won.
She let the thought settle, savoring it. Princess Elysia of Arvandor is here. She had come willingly, stepping into the lion's den, surrendering herself. Whether it was for her father, her people, or her own sense of duty didn't matter.
All that mattered was that she was here.
Malvoria let out a slow breath, steadying the flicker of something beneath the triumph. Anticipation? Amusement? A strange, unexpected sliver of excitement?
No matter.
She cast one last glance at her mother, whose expression remained unreadable, golden eyes sharp with something Malvoria did not care to name. Then, without another word, she turned and strode from the chamber.
Her boots echoed against the polished obsidian floors as she moved through the castle's halls, unhurried, her pace deliberate. She wanted to enjoy this.
She thought of all the things she could say when she arrived—Did you finally come to kneel? Did your father's life weigh more than your own pride? Did you realize that no matter how far you ran, you were always going to belong to me?
Each phrase twisted in her mind, but none felt right.
This was not the groveling surrender of a broken princess.
No, Elysia had come on her own terms.
That alone intrigued her.
When she reached the entrance, the heavy iron doors had already been pulled open, letting the cool night air filter in. Her demon guards stood in formation, their hulking forms surrounding the lone figure at the center of it all.
And there, standing tall despite her circumstances, was her.
Elysia.
Malvoria stilled, her sharp golden eyes taking in the sight before her.
The princess was beautiful.
Not in the delicate, fragile way that noblewomen often were, but in the way a storm was beautiful—powerful, untamed, something meant to be admired even as it threatened to consume everything in its path.
Her long silver hair cascaded down her back in waves, strands catching in the torchlight like liquid moonlight.
Her violet eyes, striking even from a distance, burned with something fierce, something unbroken despite everything that had happened.
She had been running. Malvoria could see it in the faint exhaustion around her eyes, the dirt smudging the hem of her tunic, the way her body held just the slightest tension from days—no, weeks—of survival.
Yet, despite all that, she stood tall.
Proud.
Defiant.
Malvoria's smirk deepened.
"Welcome to my castle."