I won't fall for the queen who burned my world-Chapter 181: We’ll make it warm

When Elysia opened her eyes, the first thing she noticed was the silence.

The second was the empty space beside her.

The sheets were cool where Malvoria’s body had been, a faint indent still marking the spot where she’d lain—tall, strong, familiar.

The scent of her lingered in the pillows.

It was the first morning in almost a month that Elysia had woken up without Malvoria’s arm draped over her waist or her breath slow and steady beside her.

She usually waited, even on early-duty mornings, long enough to press a kiss to her temple, whisper something sardonic or sweet before vanishing into the duties of command.

But not today.

She’d returned late last night—later than usual—and she’d looked... off.

There hadn’t been any blood, no visible wounds, but her eyes had been distant. Shadowed. She’d undressed quietly, joined Elysia in bed without a word, and held her tightly, as though the silence itself was some kind of shield.

Elysia hadn’t pressed.

She’d learned not to.

Some things Malvoria carried like weapons—too sharp to name aloud.

But now, in the grey hush of morning, the absence ached more than she expected.

She pushed herself up slowly, the silk sheets slipping from her shoulders. The room was warm, the fire still crackling low in the hearth.

Pale light filtered through the tall arched windows, pooling like silver across the stone floor.

With slow, deliberate movements, she rose and dressed in a soft robe, then padded barefoot toward the sitting alcove by the window.

It was one of her favorite places—an arched nook with plush cushions and a low table, overlooking the east gardens.

Steam rose gently from the teacup waiting there, the jasmine and bergamot mix she’d grown addicted to over the past month.

Her hands wrapped around the warm porcelain, but her gaze drifted elsewhere.

To her belly.

Still flat, still unchanged to the world. But not to her.

She felt it.

Not just the growing awareness of change, but the sense of it. Her body was no longer hers alone. Her senses had sharpened smells more vivid, sounds more piercing. Fatigue crept in sooner.

Hunger came in waves, unexpected and strange.

She stared down at the cup for a long moment, then set it aside and pressed her hand lightly against her stomach.

When had it happened?

That was the most maddening part.

There had been so many times—so many tangled nights and stolen mornings, limbs and mouths and gasping confessions half-lost in silk and shadow. At one point, they’d made love three times before breakfast and then again after the council meeting.

It could have been then.

Or during their retreat to the mountain.

Or the bath. The infamous bath.

Or on their wedding night.

A flush rose to her cheeks at the memory.

Still, despite the heat in her face, worry knotted quietly in her chest.

She had drunk a little wine last week. Not much, but enough. A glass at dinner. Another when Malvoria had looked especially tired, and she’d wanted to coax a smile from her.

The healers always warned against too much alcohol during early pregnancy, and although she told herself that one or two glasses weren’t enough to do any harm...

The anxiety clung to her anyway.

She didn’t want to ask Malvoria’s healers yet—not until Malvoria knew.

Not until they knew.

The thought brought her back to last night.

Malvoria had been tense. Not angry, not cold but pulled taut like a bowstring. Her hand had lingered too long at the hilt of her sword. Her mouth had moved like she wanted to speak, then changed her mind.

Something was wrong.

Elysia knew her well enough to recognize the signs. Malvoria was at her calmest when preparing for battle, at her gentlest when cornered with truth. But when she was troubled? When something was close but not yet solvable?

She locked herself down.

Closed the doors.

Elysia’s fingers curled slightly against her stomach.

The world was always threatening to break around them war, betrayal, shadows beneath the throne but now, more than ever, she wished for peace.

Not just for herself.

But for the tiny spark growing within her.

And with Malvoria’s birthday banquet only days away, Elysia wanted to hold on to this moment this quiet, this secret just a little longer.

She would tell her then.

She would make it special.

Not just a declaration, not just an announcement.

A gift.

A beginning.

The thought steadied her, enough that she took a slow sip of her tea and let the warmth settle into her.

And then came the knock.

Soft. Polite. Predictable.

Only one maid knocked like that—three short taps, followed by an eager silence like someone bouncing on their heels.

"Enter," Elysia called, setting the cup down.

The door creaked open, and in swept Tilda, as punctual as ever, cheeks flushed with some barely-contained energy, her apron slightly crooked and one strand of hair rebelling against the otherwise perfect braid.

"Your Majesty," she greeted, half out of breath. "I wasn’t sure if you were up yet."

"I am."

"You’re alone," Tilda observed immediately, glancing around like Malvoria might spring from under the chaise.

"She left early. Something urgent, I think."

Tilda pursed her lips. "She looked tense last night."

"You saw her?"

"Of course. She passed by the kitchen after midnight. She looked like she’d fought a basilisk and won, but barely."

Elysia exhaled, more of a sigh than a response.

"I’m worried," she admitted. "But she didn’t say anything."

"She probably didn’t want to worry you."

"She always doesn’t want to worry me. Which means I worry more."

Tilda tilted her head. "Well... maybe it’s something she needs to work through first. You know how she is."

Elysia nodded slowly. "Too proud to share, too stubborn to fall."

"Sounds like someone else I know," Tilda said sweetly, before bustling to the tea tray to refill her cup.

Elysia smiled faintly and accepted the gesture.

For a few minutes, they sat quietly—Tilda adjusting pillows that didn’t need adjusting, Elysia sipping tea that had already gone lukewarm, both pretending they weren’t hiding things from each other.

Then, softly, Tilda said, "Have you thought more about how you’ll tell her?"

Elysia looked up.

Tilda didn’t clarify. She didn’t need to.

Elysia pressed her hand to her stomach again, this time with a slow, fond smile.

"I want it to be perfect."

"It will be."

"You don’t know that."

Tilda shrugged. "She loves you. You could tell her while throwing bread rolls across the banquet hall and she’d probably still cry." ƒrēewebnoѵёl.cσm

"I hope she doesn’t cry."

"She’ll try not to. Which means she will."

Elysia laughed, then leaned back against the window frame.

The sun was climbing now, streaking the garden with light. She let herself watch it for a moment, wondering if the world would look different to her child. If they would see this place as a kingdom, or simply... home.

"I want to raise them here," she said softly.

Tilda glanced over. "The child?"

Elysia nodded. "I want them to grow up with this view. With a garden. With a home that feels warm, even if the walls are made of stone."

Tilda smiled gently. "Then we’ll make it warm."

Elysia’s throat tightened unexpectedly.

She sipped her tea again, just to keep from getting emotional.

And thought, not for the first time, of Malvoria’s face when she would find out.

What it might look like.

What she might say.

And how much she already loved her.

Even if she didn’t quite know it yet.