I won't fall for the queen who burned my world-Chapter 244: Speed dating

A few days later...

Veylira had survived war councils, assassination attempts, and Malvoria’s teenage rebellion phase.

She was not, however, prepared for speed dating.

Saelira, in an act of unholy mischief masquerading as affection, had decided that "sulking over ashes and letters was undignified for a woman of your caliber" and arranged an event so outrageous it made Veylira question reality.

And the future of romantic interaction in general.

She stood now in the center of a lavish salon chamber in the west wing red velvet drapery hanging like waterfalls, gold-laced lamps glowing above small round tables, and a soft instrumental quartet playing entirely too much harp.

Every ten minutes, a chime would ring, and the current "date" would rotate. Saelira called it The Carousel of Courting.

Veylira called it Emotional Public Execution.

She was 49—young for a demon, still brimming with power and elegance, her skin smooth, her posture sharp, and her beauty untouched by time.

But tonight she felt approximately five hundred years old as she sat primly at her assigned table in a form-fitting dark amethyst gown that screamed I am not here to be entertained—and still, the suitors came.

The first was an elven poet. Naturally.

He sat with a wistful sigh, fingers too long and face too pointed. "Lady Veylira," he purred, "you are the echo of twilight at the end of the world."

She blinked. "Thank you?"

"I can feel sonnets growing in your shadow."

"I see."

"I would write you a lament so deep the forest itself would weep."

Veylira arched an eyebrow. "I’m allergic to pine."

The chime saved her before he could offer her his ash-carved lute.

Next came a demon enchantress with six earrings in one ear and a grin like a trap. "Let’s skip the flirting," she said, lounging across the table. "What’s your favorite blade length and do you prefer slow seduction or sudden ruin?"

"...Excuse me?"

"I brought a knife."

Veylira blinked. "Is this a threat or a proposal?"

"Could be both."

She waved the waitress over. "I’ll need wine. Strong. The kind that burns."

The next suitor was a towering elf-mage who only spoke in prophecy. He arrived with glowing robes and a glass orb.

"The blood moon sees your soul," he intoned. "We are destined to ignite passion beneath the trembling stars."

"I once hexed someone for less," Veylira said flatly.

The orb shimmered. "You will know me in dreams—"

"I don’t dream."

"You will."

The chime rang again, and Veylira exhaled like someone escaping execution.

Saelira, across the room with a glass of sparkling inferno, blew her a kiss.

Veylira sent her a death glare.

Then came a dragon-woman.

This one was a diplomat from the western flame isles, scaled in iridescent gold with eyes like liquified topaz. She spoke with a voice that curled like incense.

"You are quite poised," she said. "I admire restraint. I would not mind biting it."

Veylira sipped her wine. "Is this how dragons flirt now?"

"Would you prefer a demonstration?"

Veylira gestured vaguely at the guards stationed along the walls. "I prefer not to get arrested before dessert."

"I enjoy that in a woman."

The chime rang. Blessedly.

Veylira sagged back in her seat, just slightly, as another round began. She was ready to fake illness. Or death. Or both.

Until the next figure stepped through the curtain.

And her breath caught.

The woman was tall. Not in the delicate, swan-like way of some court ladies—but in the commanding way of a warrior who knew exactly how to stand like she could take a kingdom apart by hand.

Her skin was a rich, molten bronze kissed by deep crimson scales at her collarbones and forearms. Her dark hair was swept back in a short, efficient braid, and her eyes were molten gold—piercing, calm, amused. fгeewebnovёl.com

She was wearing a sleek black sleeveless coat over tightly belted crimson armor, her muscular arms crossed as she scanned the room with a casual authority that had nothing to do with fashion and everything to do with presence.

Veylira’s heart skipped.

"General Raveth," someone whispered near the curtains.

Raveth.

Her ex-commander.

Her first commander.

Her old crush.

Veylira sat up straighter. Much straighter.

Raveth approached the table with a slow, deliberate smile and a tilt of her head that made Veylira feel suddenly twenty again, full of fire and poor decisions.

"You look exactly the same," Raveth said as she sat. Her voice was lower than Veylira remembered. Smooth. Deep. Still carrying that same quiet power.

"I’ve aged like wine," Veylira replied coolly.

"You always liked the strong kind."

Veylira narrowed her eyes. "What are you doing here?"

"Got an invitation," Raveth said, resting her forearms on the table. "Didn’t know it was your dance card I’d be filling. I almost turned around."

"You don’t strike me as someone who turns around."

"I don’t," Raveth said. "That’s why I’m here."

There was a beat of silence between them.

Veylira looked her over. She was even more beautiful now—aged not into softness but strength, every line earned, every scar invisible beneath charm and steel. She looked like she could still level a mountain before breakfast.

"I used to think you hated me," Veylira murmured.

"I didn’t." Raveth’s gaze held steady. "You just outranked me, and I was too much of a coward to say anything."

Veylira laughed—quiet, breathless. "You? A coward?"

"You terrified me," Raveth admitted. "Still do, a little."

"Good," Veylira said, sipping her wine. "It’s healthy."

The chime rang.

Neither moved.

Raveth leaned forward, resting her chin on one scarred knuckle. "What do you say, Veylira? Want to terrify someone together for old time’s sake?"

Veylira felt heat curl in her chest not fire, but something slow and rising. Familiar. Dangerous. Hopeful.

She raised an eyebrow.

"Well," she said smoothly, "I suppose I could stay for one more round."

Raveth smirked, and something old and warm stirred in Veylira’s chest. It wasn’t love not yet. But it was the ghost of a once-crushed infatuation shaking off decades of dust and stretching in the light.

They sat across from each other as the room shifted around them, new suitors rotating in and out, new disasters unfolding at other tables but Veylira no longer noticed.

The air between them had changed. Familiar, charged, dangerous in a way she hadn’t let herself feel since before Malvoria’s coronation.

"I thought you retired," she said, lifting her glass.

"I did. From war," Raveth said, eyes gleaming. "Not from living."

Veylira hummed. "You’re still as dramatic as ever."

"You used to like that about me."

"I used to like that you could bench press a hellbeast with one arm."

"I still can."

That earned a laugh—real, low, effortless. Veylira shook her head, looking down at her wineglass, a rare softness settling over her expression.

"How long are you in the capital?" she asked.

"As long as it takes."

"For what?"

"To figure out if you’ll have dinner with me," Raveth said simply.

Veylira looked up.

The firelight caught the edge of Raveth’s jaw, the muscle along her neck, the tiny scar above her brow that Veylira remembered tracing once with her eyes and never again with her hands.

She leaned back, crossed her legs, and said with mock severity, "Dinner first. Threaten the world later."

Raveth smiled. "Deal."

And just like that, Veylira felt the ground shift beneath her—not violently, but enough to know the past wasn’t done with her.

This time, though, maybe it didn’t come bearing regret.

Maybe it came with armor, a smirk, and a dragon’s heart.