I won't fall for the queen who burned my world-Chapter 315: Side - : the babysitting king

When Elysia pressed her daughter into Thalor’s arms that morning, he’d smiled with the easy confidence of a man who had ruled a kingdom through war and famine, who had parleyed with dragons and brokered peace with demons.

"Enjoy your day," he’d said, bouncing Kaelith gently on his hip. "We’ll have fun, won’t we, little star?"

Kaelith beamed up at him, her chubby hands already reaching for his royal collar.

Elysia had given him a look—one part gratitude, one part warning—and Malvoria’s mouth had twitched in what he could only interpret as wicked glee.

Then, with a final chorus of farewells and "be good for Grandpa," they were gone, laughter trailing down the hall like a comet’s tail.

Thalor set Kaelith on the thick carpet of the sitting room and straightened, rolling his shoulders. The castle was quieter than he’d heard it in months.

He glanced down at his granddaughter—barely ten months old, hair already a wild riot of red and silver, eyes bright with possibilities. "So, what shall we do first, Your Royal Highness?"

"Yah!" Kaelith declared, the word that meant everything and nothing.

"Excellent suggestion," Thalor replied, having no idea what she meant but eager to humor her. "We’ll begin with... blocks?"

He fetched the painted wooden set from a nearby chest. Kaelith squealed with delight as he stacked towers for her to knock over, her laughter filling the air.

For a while, they played Thalor telling silly stories, Kaelith toppling towers and chasing the red block she’d declared her "dragon." It was blissfully simple.

But as the shadows shifted and the first hour crept past, Kaelith’s attention turned...restless.

She crawled toward the bookshelf with determined purpose, knocking over a stack of reports Malvoria had left on the coffee table. Thalor winced, rescuing a sheet before Kaelith could draw on it with her jammy fingers.

"No paperwork today," he scolded gently, scooping her up. She squirmed and gave him a look that was all Malvoria: imperious, impossible to defy.

With a deep breath, Thalor carried her to the window seat. They watched birds swoop through the garden, Kaelith babbling at every flutter.

He tried to tell her about the time a peacock had invaded the Arvandor throne room, but Kaelith was more interested in the sunbeam creeping along the window.

She reached for it, as if she could pluck the light from the air and to Thalor’s astonishment, her little fist glowed faint purple for a moment.

"Let’s not tell your mothers about that," he murmured, heart thumping.

He tried to redirect her with picture books, but Kaelith was on a mission. She spotted a basket of fruit, wobbled over, and began to hurl grapes at the wall with surprising accuracy. By the third grape, Thalor realized he was under siege.

"Cease fire, Princess!" he cried, ducking behind an armchair.

Kaelith cackled, launching a final grape in his general direction. It bounced off his shoe, then rolled beneath the piano.

"Victory is yours!" Thalor surrendered, making a show of raising his hands. Kaelith clapped and giggled, the sound so pure that Thalor’s heart squeezed.

He sat on the rug, watching her crawl in delighted circles. There was something wild about her joy—reckless and contagious.

He wondered, not for the first time, what the future would hold for this child born of two queens, half fire, half storm.

He closed his eyes for a moment, imagining how easily he might have said no that morning.

He could have. He could have claimed tiredness, or business, or old bones. He could have left Kaelith with a nursemaid or suggested another day.

He pictured himself reading in his study, sipping tea while someone else chased a giggling ball of magic down the corridor.

But then what?

He would have missed Kaelith’s victory dance, her open-mouthed delight at toppling towers, her unfiltered wonder at birds and sunbeams.

He would have missed the way she looked at him—like he was the only person in the world who could understand "yah" and turn it into an adventure.

He realized, with a sudden pang, that he would trade every moment of peace for this: for chaos, for the burnt-toast scent of wild magic, for the sticky kiss pressed to his nose when Kaelith crawled into his lap, triumphant.

At that moment, Kaelith spotted the candlestick on the low table. She made a determined beeline for it, eyes bright with purpose.

"Oh, no, you don’t—" Thalor lunged, but Kaelith was quick, snatching it up in both hands. She grinned at him, teeth flashing. "Hot," she announced.

"Yes, it is hot," Thalor agreed, trying to pry her fingers from the wax.

Kaelith, unimpressed by his diplomacy, summoned a little spark of purple flame—just a flicker, barely more than a candle’s breath. The wick sputtered, caught, and for a heartbeat, the room was bathed in violet light.

Thalor stared, caught between pride and terror.

"Not a word to your mothers," he begged, managing to blow out the flame before anything ignited. "Let’s... let’s try coloring, shall we?"

He fetched the battered box of crayons, spreading them on the floor. Kaelith selected blue, promptly scrawling a series of zigzags across the rug.

He wondered if there was a spell to remove crayon. Or jam. Or fire, for that matter. ƒгeewёbnovel.com

As the morning wore on, Thalor discovered Kaelith’s attention span was shorter than a sparrow’s sigh.

They colored, stacked blocks, played "hide the grape" (he lost), and built a fort from pillows that promptly collapsed, burying both of them in a soft avalanche. Kaelith shrieked with glee, burrowing deeper.

"I surrender!" Thalor declared, poking his head out from a mound of cushions.

Kaelith crawled onto his back and clung to his hair. "Horsey!" she demanded.

He snorted. "Horsey it is." He crawled in slow circles, Kaelith giggling wildly atop her royal steed. By the third lap, he was out of breath, but Kaelith’s laughter fueled him on.

At some point, he must have closed his eyes—just for a moment. When he opened them, Kaelith was gone.

Panic seized him, but a crash from the corridor guided him to the wardrobe, where Kaelith had managed to pull every cloak from the rack and was now fashioning a nest.

"You little architect," he said, hauling her out. "Let’s get you some lunch before you bring down the castle."

Kaelith kicked her legs in delight, arms reaching for the ceiling as if she could conjure a feast from thin air.

He carried her toward the kitchens, thinking with a mixture of pride, horror, and laughter that he wouldn’t trade this day for all the peace in the world.