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

The castle had changed.

Four days had passed since that tense, suffocating lunch, and in that short span of time, the fortress had transformed into a hive of relentless activity.

Elysia stood at the edge of the grand staircase, her hands resting on the cold, carved stone banister, and watched the chaos unfold below.

Demons bustled through the halls, their footsteps tapping in hurried rhythms against the polished floors.

Silk of every imaginable shade deep crimson, glistening silver, and shimmering obsidian was carried in great bolts by servants who moved with frantic precision.

Florists arranged black roses into towering arrangements, their thorns meticulously trimmed but still menacing.

The air was thick with the mingled scents of flowers, ink, parchment, and heated metal from the distant forge. The sound of overlapping conversations swirled like a cacophony: debates about seating charts, arguments over flower placements, murmurs about guest lists.

Elysia didn't know these people.

Didn't want to know them.

Yet here she stood, a silent observer in a world that was becoming hers whether she wanted it or not.

Her wedding.

Her wedding.

The phrase tasted bitter.

A union forged in blood and fear.

And she was the unwilling centerpiece of it all.

She turned away from the chaos below and made her way back to her chambers. The long hallways, once unfamiliar and cold, were now etched into her memory.

She passed tapestries woven with ancient demon legends—stories of queens who conquered realms, of wars won through brute strength and cunning deals.

She paused at one tapestry, her gaze snagging on a figure standing atop a field of fallen enemies. A woman with twin black horns, her arms raised in triumph, flames surrounding her like a crown.

Malvoria.

Elysia swallowed hard and moved on.

By the time she reached her chambers, two demon attendants were already waiting outside. They bowed with synchronized precision, stepping aside to reveal a tall, slender woman standing inside the room.

"Princess Elysia," one of the attendants said. "The seamstress has arrived to take your measurements for the wedding gown."

The word wedding gown sent a cold jolt through Elysia's chest.

She forced a nod and entered.

The seamstress stood by the window, a measuring tape draped around her neck like a serpent.

She was older than Elysia expected—perhaps in her late forties, with skin the deep shade of hematite. Her horns were polished obsidian, curling tightly behind her head like a crown. Her black hair was woven into intricate braids adorned with tiny silver pins that glimmered in the fading sunlight.

Her eyes, however, were what caught Elysia's attention.

Slate-gray, sharp and clinical. They swept over Elysia in a single, assessing glance.

"Good evening, Princess," the seamstress said, voice smooth and unhurried. "I am Selyra, royal seamstress to Her Majesty."

Elysia's throat tightened. "Malvoria."

"Yes." Selyra inclined her head. "The Queen was very particular about the gown's design. She requested precision. And precision is what I deliver."*

There was no warmth in the words. Only the matter-of-fact confidence of a woman who had perfected her craft.

"Please step onto the platform," Selyra instructed, gesturing toward the raised wooden dais near the mirror.

Elysia hesitated before obeying. The platform creaked faintly beneath her feet as she stepped up.

"Arms at your sides, shoulders straight," Selyra said.

The seamstress moved with practiced efficiency, circling Elysia like a hunter examining prey.

The measuring tape uncoiled from her hands like silk.

Selyra began at the shoulders, pulling the tape taut across Elysia's collarbones.

"Straighten," she said softly, adjusting Elysia's posture with firm, impersonal hands.

Her touch was cool—precise rather than gentle. Every movement felt deliberate, mechanical, like assembling a puzzle.

The tape slid down her torso next.

Chest. Waist. Hips.

Each number murmured in low tones as Selyra jotted them into a small leather notebook without looking.

Elysia stared straight ahead, her eyes fixed on her reflection in the full-length mirror.

The person staring back didn't feel like her.

Her hair, brushed to a gleaming silver sheen, fell past her shoulders. Her face, pale and set, looked distant, almost unfamiliar.

Is this who I'll be when I wear that gown?

Her gaze dropped to her wrists.

The memory of Malvoria's grip flashed through her mind—how easily the queen had pinned her, how warm her touch had been despite the coldness of her words.

Elysia clenched her jaw and focused on the seamstress again.

Selyra knelt to measure her legs next. The cool touch of the measuring tape against her calf sent a faint shiver up Elysia's spine.

"The dress will be white," Selyra said without looking up. "With crimson embroidery."*

Elysia's throat tightened. "That's... confirmed?"

"Yes."

"Of course it is," she muttered under her breath.

"Did you say something, Princess?"

"No."

Selyra rose gracefully, coiling the measuring tape around her hand. "Her Majesty requested crimson to symbolize power and tradition. White for unity. Crimson for strength. The embroidery will be done by hand."

Elysia exhaled slowly. "Right."

Chains.

Every stitch felt like another invisible chain wrapping around her, binding her more tightly to Malvoria's world.

Selyra closed the notebook with a soft snap. "I'll begin immediately. The first fitting will be in five days."

"Five days?" Elysia's stomach lurched. "That's... fast."

"The Queen insisted."

Of course she had.

Selyra gave a shallow bow, turned on her heel, and left without another word.

The room felt colder once she was gone.

Elysia stepped down from the platform, her legs shaky.

She collapsed into the nearest chair, pressing her palms against her temples.

What the hell is happening?

The knock came softly, but the door opened before she answered.

Zera entered.

The tension that had been Elysia's constant companion shifted into something sharper.

Zera's face was tight, her eyes dark with frustration as she paced into the room.

"The entire castle's buzzing about the wedding," she said, voice tight. "Flowers everywhere. Seamstresses running around like headless chickens. It's insane."

Elysia gave a hollow laugh. "Welcome to my nightmare."

Zera stopped pacing and turned toward her. "You're marrying the monster who destroyed our home."

The words landed like a slap.

"I know that," Elysia said. "You don't have to remind me."

"Apparently I do," Zera snapped. "Because you're letting it happen."

"Letting it happen?" Elysia stood abruptly. "What would you have me do? Run? Watch them kill my father?"

"I'd rather die fighting than watch you walk down that aisle."

The air crackled between them.

"And then what?" Elysia demanded. "We die heroes? We become names whispered in rebel camps? I can't save Arvandor by running away. I can't save anyone."

"You don't have to save anyone," Zera said desperately. "You just have to save yourself."

"I can't," Elysia whispered. "I made a deal."*

Silence stretched.

Zera's jaw worked as though she wanted to say more but couldn't.

Elysia turned away, walking to the window.

Outside, the demon banners swayed in the twilight breeze—black fabric adorned with crimson sigils.

She wrapped her arms around herself, staring at the unfamiliar sky.

The sunset painted the clouds blood-red.

Her reflection stared back at her in the windowpane—pale hair, tense shoulders, and hollow eyes.

Less than two weeks.

Would she even recognize herself when this was over?

"Can you leave, please?" she asked softly, not turning around.

The silence behind her lingered.

Then she heard footsteps retreating, the door opening and closing.

Elysia stayed at the window, staring into the darkening sky.

Less than two weeks.

The countdown had already begun.