The court dispersed with whispers like sparks caught in wind. Some murmured fear, others awe, but all carried the weight of what they had seen: a mortal queen burning a Demon Lord into ash.
Liora returned to her chamber in silence, her whip coiled at her hip, her crown's glow still hot against her brow. Her body ached from Nyxa's smoke and claws, but her spirit throbbed with something fiercer than pain.
She had won.
Yet that night, sleep did not come.
---
The dream began as a garden. Not her own, but one vast and wild, roses taller than towers, thorns black as obsidian. The petals glowed white instead of crimson, cold and sharp as blades.
A voice slipped between the thorns.
"Brave little spark."
Liora spun, whip in hand. "Show yourself."
The roses parted, and Azazel emerged. Not bound, not broken, but whole. His wings spread wide, his fire blinding, his chains melted into molten crowns at his wrists. His eyes—stars burning at the end of time—locked on hers.
"You fight well," he said, circling her. "For one who should have died long ago."
"This is a dream," she spat.
"It is more," he whispered. "It is me. My flame finds cracks, and you are full of them."
Her crown seared as though resisting, but she stood firm. "You won't touch me."
Azazel smiled, slow and cruel. "I already have. Did you not feel it, when you pulled thorns from ash? My fire was in that soil. My breath in your roses. Your strength grows because I stir."
Her heart hammered. "Lies."
"Truth," he purred, stepping closer. The roses bent toward him as though drawn. "Lucien fears me. He fears you will see what he hides—that his reign is old, brittle, tired. He clings to you because you remind him of what he once was. But I…" His voice dropped, molten honey. "…I could make you what you were meant to be."
"And what is that?"
Azazel's grin burned. "Not queen. Not bride. Flame itself."
---
Liora woke with a gasp, drenched in sweat. Her crown burned against her brow, its thorns digging into her skin as though warning her. The roses in her garden flared without wind, restless, uneasy.
She pressed her palms to her eyes, trembling. The voice still echoed. His words crawled inside her.
Lucien entered without knocking, his silver eyes narrowing instantly. "You saw him."
She froze. "…How do you know?"
"The fire in you is unsettled." He stepped closer, studying her face. "What did he say?"
Liora hesitated. "That you fear me."
Lucien's gaze darkened. "And do you believe him?"
Her chest ached. "I don't know."
For the first time, silence stretched between them—not heavy, not hostile, but dangerous.
Lucien finally spoke, his voice low. "Azazel is not bound by chains alone. He is bound by lies. He will tell you truths twisted until they cut."
"But some truths cut because they're real," she whispered.
Lucien did not answer.
---
The days that followed grew heavier. The garden bloomed stronger than ever, but the roses burned hotter, their flames white at the edges instead of crimson. Liora felt it in her veins too: her fire ran swifter, sharper.
But at night, the whispers returned.
Azazel's voice curling in her ear: "Do you not feel it? My fire inside you? You are no longer only his."
And though she tried to ignore him, part of her wondered.
---
One evening, as she trained in the garden, her whip cracked against a stone column, shattering it to dust. The flames that burst from the strike were not crimson, nor silver. They were white.
She froze.
Lucien had been watching. His silver eyes flickered, not with surprise, but with something deeper. Fear.
"That fire is not mine," he said.
Liora's whip trembled in her grip. "…Then whose is it?"
The answer already burned in her.
Azazel's whisper slithered through her mind. "Mine."
---
That night, Liora stood before her mirror. The crown of thorns glowed faintly. Her reflection looked the same—and yet not. The fire in her eyes burned brighter, sharper. She touched her cheek, trembling.
Behind her reflection, for just a heartbeat, she saw Azazel's shadow smile.