Malvoria was many things.
Queen. Warrior. Strategist. Lover.
But right now?
She was a half-burned woman walking through Saelira's endless marble halls, draped in what could only be described as the world's most ridiculous embroidered shawl.
While her wife whispered frantic apologies beside her and her daughter gleefully babbled in the background.
It was, Malvoria thought dryly, not her finest hour.
"I swear," Elysia said for the fifth—or was it sixth?—time, clutching Malvoria's arm as they walked, "I didn't mean to blast your clothes off. Or your skin. Mostly your clothes."
Malvoria gave her a side-eye so dry it could have sparked a drought.
"I gathered that," she said.
Kaelith, still perched proudly in Lara's arms, made a loud, delighted noise and flapped the hem of Lara's sleeve like a victory banner.
"She's proud of her moms," Lara said, grinning. "You should see it as a compliment. Boom, fire! Big win for the dynasty."
"Lara," Malvoria said sweetly. "Leave."
