The dull, wet crunch of bone snapping beneath her fist should have been satisfying. The muffled scream, the choked gasp of pain—normally, it was like a lullaby, something that settled the restlessness inside her, something that made her feel alive. But today, it was annoying.
Malvoria stood in the center of the training grounds, her breath slow and controlled, grey eyes sharp as she surveyed the broken men at her feet.
The captains of her elite soldiers, or what remained of them after their so-called "training session." If it could even be called that.
One of them, a towering demon with black horns curved backward like scythes, groaned as he tried to push himself up on shaking arms. He barely got halfway before Malvoria slammed a boot into his ribs, sending him sprawling with a pained grunt.
"You're pathetic," she said coldly, flicking blood from her knuckles. "I was bored before we even began."
The others lay groaning in the dirt, their armor dented, their faces bruised and bloodied. The scent of sweat and iron filled the air, clinging to her skin like a lover's touch. Normally, it would be enough.
Normally, the act of tearing flesh and breaking bone would ease the tension in her muscles, would send her into a state of ruthless satisfaction.
Not today.
Today, every punch felt dull. Every crack of bone, every gasp of pain—it was all meaningless noise in the background of her frustration. Even the sight of blood, warm and glistening against the dark stone beneath her feet, did nothing to temper the coiling irritation in her gut.
That damn king.
Her fingers twitched at her sides, itching to break something else.
As if sensing her storming mood, one of the surviving captains finally dared to speak. He wiped the blood from his split lip, his one good eye squinting up at her warily.
"My queen," he rasped, voice hoarse from the sheer number of blows he had taken. "When do we march on Thalor's kingdom?"
Silence.
For a long moment, Malvoria simply stared at him. Slowly, she rolled her shoulders, flexing her fingers. She could feel the bruises forming beneath her armor—not that it mattered. A mere inconvenience.
"When the time is right," she finally answered, voice smooth as silk yet edged with steel. "A few days, perhaps."
The demon swallowed thickly but nodded.
Malvoria tilted her head, watching as he wiped at the blood on his face with a trembling hand. He was afraid. He had every reason to be.
Her gaze flickered to the rest of them. None of them would dare challenge her.
Good.
But fear alone was not enough.
"I'm not marching just to take a little princess," she murmured, more to herself than to them. "No. That would be too easy."
She wanted more than just to seize Elysia from the comfort of her golden cage.
She wanted to break their kingdom. She wanted every mortal fool who thought themselves safe behind their fragile walls to know—you do not refuse Malvoria and walk away unscathed.
At the thought, a slow, dangerous smile curled at the edges of her lips.
She turned without another word, leaving the broken captains where they lay.
The war room was bathed in dim candlelight, the glow of violet-flamed torches flickering against the walls of carved obsidian.
A long table stretched through the center of the chamber, its dark surface gleaming under the soft light. At its heart lay a massive map, crafted from enchanted parchment, its surface shifting and shimmering as new information was added by unseen magic.
The kingdom of Arvandor was spread across it in fine detail—rolling green valleys, towering mountains, and at its heart, the capital city of Eldoria, where King Thalor sat upon his doomed throne.
The walls that protected Eldoria were strong, reinforced with old magic, but old did not mean impenetrable.
Malvoria ran her fingers over the edge of the map, taking in every weakness, every flaw.
"Report," she commanded.
Across the table, her generals straightened. A group of demons, each more ruthless than the last, each standing in rigid attention.
General Varok, a beast of a demon with a massive clawed hand resting on the hilt of his jagged blade, spoke first.
"Our scouts report that Eldoria's defenses have been strengthened over the past few days. King Thalor knows an attack is inevitable."
"As he should," Malvoria murmured, lips curving. "And yet, he stays his hand."
Varok gave a sharp nod. "He is waiting. Trying to predict our next move."
A mistake.
Malvoria dragged her clawed fingers over the parchment, the ink shifting beneath her touch. "We will not give him time to prepare."
Another general, a leaner demon with sharp features and an even sharper mind, spoke next. "We have been gathering the forces as you commanded, my queen.
We've selected warriors not just for strength, but for strategy. We will not overwhelm Eldoria in numbers alone—we will gut them from the inside."
Malvoria's golden eyes gleamed.
"Show me."
The general flicked his fingers, and the map shifted again.
Thin red lines snaked toward Eldoria, marking potential paths of attack. Some were obvious—the direct approach, smashing through their walls with sheer force.
Others were more insidious—shadowed routes through the dense forest, paths that would allow infiltration deep into the city before the battle even truly began.
She studied them all.
"We take the eastern approach first," she said, tapping the section of the map where the mountains curved around the edge of the kingdom.
"Their forces are concentrated in the south, expecting an attack through the trade routes. We will give them what they expect."
Her smile widened.
"And then we will take what they do not expect."
Varok grinned, revealing sharp fangs. "A feint?"
"A slaughter," Malvoria corrected. "We will send an advance force—enough to draw their attention, enough to make them think they are winning. And when they are focused on the battle before them, when they are so sure they have predicted our movements—"
Her fingers trailed up to the northernmost section of the map.
"—we strike from the mountains. Cut off their escape. Burn their homes. Drag their king from his throne."
The room was silent for a heartbeat.
Then, one of the younger demons—Lieutenant Orvas—spoke hesitantly. "And the princess?"
Ah, yes. The princess.
Malvoria's fingers curled slightly over the map, her nails dragging faint lines across the parchment.
The princess was a different matter entirely.
She had seen the sketches. The silver hair, the fire in her violet eyes. Strength, raw and untamed. Potential.
She could still remember the way her mother had presented that book of prospects, had listed off names of powerful women fit to be Malvoria's consort. She had ignored them all. Until she had seen her.
Elysia of Arvandor.
No mere political tool. No frail, simpering noble.
She would not just be taken.
She would be claimed.
"We will take her," Malvoria said, voice slow, deliberate. "Alive."
Orvas hesitated. "And if she resists?"
Malvoria's eyes darkened.
"Then she will learn."
The room shifted, the tension thickening. The scent of blood and burning wax filled the air as the demons exchanged glances, understanding all too well the meaning behind their queen's words.
No one defied Malvoria.
Not a king.
Not a kingdom.
And certainly not a princess who had yet to learn her place.
Malvoria exhaled, rolling her shoulders. Finally, finally, she felt something close to satisfaction settle in her chest.
She turned from the map, her gaze sweeping over her assembled warriors. "Prepare the army. We march in three days."
A chorus of voices rose in unison.
"As you command, my queen."
Malvoria allowed herself one last glance at the map, at the tiny painted representation of Eldoria, so proud, so untouched.
Not for long.