I won't fall for the queen who burned my world-Chapter 172: Are you pregnant?

Three weeks had passed since that night in the shared chamber.

Three weeks of waking up tangled in silk sheets and warmer limbs. Of low-voiced conversations over breakfast, late-night walks along the candlelit terraces, and, admittedly, an excessive amount of sex that left Elysia half convinced Malvoria had made some private game out of discovering every surface in the castle they hadn’t yet defiled.

Not that she was complaining.

In fact, for the first time since the surrender, since the war, since her entire life had been rewritten with the ink of politics and blood, Elysia felt... good.

Not safe. She wasn’t that naïve. But steady.

There was a rhythm now. A subtle understanding between them. A closeness that had once felt impossible.

And yet, like a dull echo at the back of her mind, there was still the lingering absence of one person.

Zera.

Three weeks, and she hadn’t seen her. Not once.

No quiet knocks at her door. No requests to talk. No angry glares across the dining hall. No accidental encounters in the garden or training yards.

Just silence.

And that silence was beginning to feel loud.

Elysia knew she needed to speak with her. Not just for closure but because it was the right thing to do. Break up with Zera was the best solution.

Zera deserved more than this heavy pause in place of a goodbye. Their relationship hadn’t been perfect, but it had mattered. She’d cared. Still did. Just not... in the way she used to.

Not since Malvoria.

Not since that night on the mountain, and every night after.

But she wasn’t going to dwell on it now. Not when she was seated in the middle of the most absurd and somehow adorable chaos she had ever organized.

A tea party.

With the castle maids.

And yes—it had been her idea.

A "morale-boosting, mid-week, no-politics-no-demons-no-princess-brooding-allowed" tea party.

They were on the east balcony, which she had personally redecorated with pink banners, gold-trimmed cushions, and way too many miniature cakes, some of which were shaped like demon horns and had little candy flames on top.

A delicate white lace tablecloth draped over the long wooden table, now mostly covered in crumbs, jam, and what could only be described as confectionery carnage.

The maids were trying their best to keep it formal, but Elysia had banned titles and curtsies for the afternoon. She wanted fun. She wanted normalcy.

Instead, she got chaos.

"I’m just saying," piped up Tilda, the youngest maid, pouring tea with exaggerated elegance, "if I had to choose between being impaled by a celestial spear or spending a night in the Queen’s chamber, I’d pick the spear."

"Tilda!" gasped Arna, scandalized, nearly choking on her sugared biscuit.

Tilda grinned. "What? It’s not a bad death."

"She is married to her, you know," Arna whispered loudly, nodding toward Elysia.

Elysia took a sip of her tea and deadpanned, "It’s fine. I’ve also considered the spear."

That sent all of them into laughter.

Even the older ones, who’d been trying to maintain their professional composure, gave in with delicate snorts and hidden smiles.

Someone reached for more jam and knocked over a plate. A strawberry tart went flying. Tilda caught it with a napkin, raised it in victory, and immediately dropped it again onto her lap.

Elysia watched the scene unfold with a strange, aching fondness.

This, too, felt real.

She hadn’t expected to bond with the staff. But they were kind, curious, sharp-tongued, and just a little too invested in her sex life for anyone’s comfort.

At some point, they’d stopped seeing her as just a political hostage and more like... someone who was here to stay.

Someone who had chosen this.

Chosen her.

Malvoria.

Elysia smiled to herself and reached for a small vanilla cream puff.

And then paused.

Her stomach turned.

Just slightly. Just a strange little flip, like it had forgotten how to process air.

She blinked.

Set the pastry down.

It wasn’t the first time this had happened. Over the past week, she’d found herself turning away from food she usually loved.

A bit of nausea in the morning. A weird craving for spiced eggs at three in the afternoon. And then there was the other thing.

She hadn’t gotten her period.

Which, admittedly, wasn’t alarming by itself. Stress did strange things to her cycle, and gods knew she’d been dealing with enough to throw everything off.

But now her body felt... off. Not wrong. Not sick.

Just strange.

"Your Majesty," said one of the maids, gently.

Elysia looked up.

They were all staring at her.

Apparently she’d been sitting with the cream puff in her hand, eyes distant, for longer than she realized.

"I’m fine," she said quickly, offering a smile. "Just thinking."

Tilda leaned forward, conspiratorially. "Thinking about Her Majesty?"

Elysia chuckled, a bit forced. "Maybe."

"Is she good at kissing?"

"Tilda!" Arna shouted again.

"She’s married to her! It’s a valid question!"

Elysia shook her head and wiped her hands on her napkin, suddenly unsure how she felt—physically and emotionally.

There was a strange warmth pooling low in her stomach, not quite nausea, not quite hunger.

"Are you sure you’re alright, Your Majesty?" another maid asked.

"Yes," Elysia said. "Just—tired, maybe."

"You’ve looked a bit pale lately," murmured Arna.

"And moody," added Tilda.

"Not moody," Elysia protested.

"Yesterday you bit a fork," said another, "because someone mentioned the color beige."

"It was a boring color!"

They all laughed again, but this time Elysia didn’t.

She set the napkin down slowly.

Tilda squinted at her. "Wait."

Elysia blinked. "What?"

Tilda tilted her head, assessing. "When was your last period?"

Elysia’s breath caught. "I—what?"

"No, seriously." Tilda leaned forward like a hawk eyeing its prey. "Because you’re kind of glowing. And pale. And cranky. And you didn’t eat your tart."

Everyone went silent.

Then, from the far end of the table, someone said it.

Not loudly.

Not teasing.

Just softly, like a sudden truth clicking into place.

"...Are you pregnant, Your Majesty?"