I won't fall for the queen who burned my world-Chapter 327: Banquet clothes for Kaelith part 2

Malvoria’s castle had survived many sieges, but none so ferocious or so absurd as the current battle raging in the royal dressing room.

If chaos had a throne, Kaelith was sitting on it, flushed with power, a handful of purple fire threatening everything within reach.

The child’s earlier reluctance to wear anything other than trousers and a rumpled tunic had evolved into outright rebellion: every dress, every frilly jacket, every delicate sash that didn’t meet her approval went up in small, fragrant flames.

Elysia, eyes wide, tried in vain to salvage a pink frock as Kaelith set the hem ablaze. "Kaelith! That was silk—do you know how long it took the seamstress to make that?"

Kaelith only giggled, tiny fangs flashing, her hands already reaching for another garment. Malvoria watched with a kind of pride mingled with exasperation.

The fire was her own color, deep violet and edged in gold—protective, lively, utterly untamable.

She supposed she should intervene, but the truth was, she understood the impulse. She’d hated fancy clothes too, as a child.

There had always been something constricting about layers of silk and lace, something false in trying to dress up a creature born for wildness.

Elysia met Malvoria’s eyes with a plea. "Are you going to help, or just admire her destruction?"

Malvoria couldn’t suppress her grin. "She’s got good taste. Besides, it’s just a little fire. It’ll keep the seamstresses busy."

Kaelith seized a ruffled shirt—pale blue with tiny white clouds. She examined it, then held it up with clear suspicion.

"No like," she declared, and, with a flourish, set the sleeve alight. The fire curled around her fingers but didn’t burn her skin. The shirt crumpled into ashes before Malvoria could blink.

This was clearly becoming a pattern. Every time Kaelith disliked an outfit, a spark leapt from her hand, and another garment was lost to her developing magic.

At first the maids were aghast, but soon they learned to dart out of the line of fire. One even had the presence of mind to snatch a particularly expensive cape out of Kaelith’s grasp before it met a similar fate.

"Let’s try this one!" Elysia suggested, her tone a little desperate, holding up a simple violet tunic edged in black. "Look, it’s the same color as your fire, Kaelith."

Kaelith paused, thoughtful, eyes narrowing. She ran a chubby finger down the sleeve, inspecting it with the seriousness of a general reviewing her troops. For a moment it seemed she might accept it. Then she scrunched up her nose and handed it back. "No."

Malvoria knelt, hiding her laughter behind her hand. She looked Kaelith in the eye, matching the child’s gravity. "Tell me what you want, little tyrant."

Kaelith chewed her lip, considering. Her gaze flickered from the ruined heap of frills and ribbons to Malvoria herself: boots, trousers, the sharp lines of a uniform, the deep red sash at her waist, her black hair braided away from her face.

Malvoria was always practical—never skirts, never flowing sleeves, always a little dangerous. Kaelith stared, thoughtful and intent.

Elysia caught on first. She smiled gently, ruffling Kaelith’s wild hair. "Do you want to dress like mama Malvoria?"

Kaelith nodded, then reached for Malvoria’s lapel with sticky hands, a look of absolute determination on her face.

"Mama. Like Mama," she repeated, in the clear, earnest tone of a child who has decided something and expects the world to follow.

Malvoria’s heart softened to syrup. "You want a uniform? Not a dress? Just like me?"

Kaelith nodded again, bouncing a little, face bright with hope. "Like Mama. Pants. Red."

Elysia covered her mouth, laughter bubbling out. "There it is. She doesn’t want to be a princess—she wants to be a general."

Malvoria straightened, pride and mischief blooming together. "I suppose that’s fitting. She’s already conquered the wardrobe."

Elysia rolled her eyes, but she was smiling as she stood and brushed off the last remnants of charred silk. "Let’s see what we can do."

The maids, grateful for a clear directive, hurried to fetch options from the other side of the wardrobe: miniature trousers of black wool, tiny crimson jackets with shiny brass buttons, a belt with a faux sword-hilt, and even a pair of soft boots with little golden tips.

Kaelith watched the preparations with awe, her mood instantly transformed. She reached for the jacket, running her fingers over the buttons as if she were already practicing how to salute.

Elysia helped her into the trousers, pulling them up over round little legs. Malvoria fastened the jacket, slipping her hands beneath Kaelith’s arms to turn her for inspection. Kaelith held her arms out, face serious as a queen’s, waiting for approval.

"You look fierce," Malvoria declared, fixing the collar and adjusting the crimson sash around Kaelith’s waist. "No one will dare defy you now."

Kaelith grinned, lifting her chin, eyes shining with pride. "Fierce!" she echoed, as if it were the highest compliment in the world.

Elysia clapped softly, her smile melting into something gentle. "She looks perfect. Just like her mama."

There was a sense of peace in the room for the first time all morning—a pause in the chaos, the scent of burnt silk lingering alongside the glow of contentment.

Kaelith looked at herself in the mirror, then at Malvoria, mimicking her mother’s posture: back straight, chin up, feet apart like she was ready to issue orders. The resemblance was both funny and oddly moving.

The spell broke, as it always did, in laughter. Kaelith turned, marched up to a bewildered maid, and pointed at her jacket. "Like Mama!" she boasted, tugging at the lapel.

The maid tried to curtsey, almost tripping on her skirt in the process. Malvoria suppressed a chuckle and rescued her with a nod.

They tried a few accessories—tiny medals, a hat a size too big that Kaelith tried to eat, a little belt that she insisted on wearing askew.

Every time Elysia or Malvoria suggested something too frilly, Kaelith would shake her head with exaggerated disapproval, waving her hands and muttering, "No, no, no," until they relented.

In the end, Kaelith stood before the mirror in black trousers, crimson jacket, shiny boots, and a golden sash. Her hair was tamed—barely—into two little braids. Malvoria crouched beside her, fastening a tiny, toy sword to her belt.

"There," Malvoria said softly, pride and love warring in her chest. "My little general. Are you ready to show the other what you will wear?"

Kaelith puffed out her chest, looking utterly delighted. "Ready!" she shouted. Then, with all the gravity of a true commander, she turned to Elysia. "Mama, march!"

Elysia obliged, joining Kaelith in a lap around the dressing room, their feet echoing on the polished floors, the laughter of maids and the scent of charred silk in their wake.

Malvoria followed, barely able to believe the child she and Elysia had made—a whirlwind of will, magic, and charm.

After a full lap, Kaelith stopped before Malvoria, threw her arms around her legs, and hugged her tightly. "Love Mama," she said, suddenly shy.

Malvoria scooped her up, holding her close. "And I love you, little tyrant. More than anything."

Elysia brushed a hand through Kaelith’s hair, then let her head rest on Malvoria’s shoulder. "She’s going to remember this, you know. Every flame, every choice."

Malvoria smiled, pressing her lips to Elysia’s forehead. "Good. I want her to remember that she always had a choice. That she could always be herself—even if it means we go through uniforms faster than we go through cookies."

Elysia laughed, eyes shining with tears she didn’t bother to hide. "Let’s go show the others."

They marched together, three in step, Kaelith waving to every servant and soldier they passed, soaking up the attention and adoration like the sun itself. Raveth, seeing the outfit, let out a low whistle. "Looks like we have a new general in the making."

Veylira nodded, smiling slyly. "The court won’t know what hit them."