The crimson dawn of the First Garden still lingered in Liora's mind when she returned to the throne hall. She carried with her the warmth of that hidden place, the memory of Lucien's confession, and the strange ache of belonging.
But the court did not share her peace.
From the moment she entered, she felt it—the shift. The whispers. They crawled like spiders through the shadows, weaving webs of discontent. Demons who once bowed now kept their eyes low, as though hiding laughter. Spirits lingered in clusters, their voices too soft to hear but too sharp to ignore.
Lucien noticed it as well, though he said nothing. He sat on his throne, silent and watchful, his silver eyes sweeping the room. He did not miss a single glance, a single hiss.
At last, Liora leaned toward him, her voice low. "They're plotting."
He did not deny it. "Of course."
Her brow furrowed. "And you let them?"
Lucien's lips curved faintly. "What is rebellion, if not another test of loyalty?"
---
The court session began. Petitions were brought before them: demons demanding dominion over flames, spirits begging for release, lords seeking favors. Liora listened, judged, and balanced, her decisions sharp as her crown of thorns.
But every ruling was met with whispers. Some too quiet to hear. Others deliberate.
"She is soft."
"She weakens him."
"She is mortal, still mortal."
Liora's chest tightened, but she did not falter. She gave mercy where it was due, punishment where it was earned. When one demon lord mocked her aloud, she struck him down with a lash of flame from her rose crown, forcing him to kneel before her. The court gasped—and fell silent.
But silence did not mean loyalty.
---
Later, in her garden of burning roses, Liora found herself pacing. The whispers would not leave her ears.
"I've bent," she muttered to herself. "I've burned. I've given mercy and wrath alike. What more do they want?"
"They want you gone," a voice hissed.
Liora spun, her whip of thorns unfurling in her hand. From the shadows slithered a figure—tall, cloaked in smoke, with eyes like burning coals. It was the same demon lord she had humiliated in court.
"You dare step into my garden?" Liora demanded.
The demon bared his teeth. "This is not yours, mortal. Nothing here is yours. Not the throne. Not the crown. Not even him."
Her grip tightened. "Leave. Before I remind you how easily you bleed."
The demon laughed. "Strike me down, and a hundred more will rise. You think the Devil's bride can change us? You are a flicker, a spark in a storm. And sparks die."
Before she could reply, Lucien's voice cut through the garden.
"Enough."
The demon froze, trembling as Lucien stepped from the fire. His presence filled the air like iron. Shadows recoiled.
Lucien's gaze locked on the demon. "You will not return to this garden. Nor to my queen."
The demon sneered. "She makes you weak."
Lucien's silver eyes flared. "No. She makes me remember."
And with a gesture, the demon was gone—snuffed out like a candle.
---
When silence fell again, Liora exhaled shakily. "They hate me."
Lucien turned to her, his expression unreadable. "They fear you."
She shook her head. "Fear doesn't last. Hate festers. It grows."
For a moment, Lucien said nothing. Then, softly: "Yes. And when it grows too large, it must be cut."
The words chilled her, but they rang true.
---
That night, as she lay in her chamber, Liora couldn't sleep. She stared at the crown of thorns on her bedside, its glow faint in the dark.
She thought of her village, where whispers had once been warnings of plague. She thought of the boy Kalen, whose fate she had balanced with mercy. She thought of the First Garden, where fire had become life instead of ruin.
And she thought of the whispers in the court, growing louder with every day.
She closed her eyes, whispering into the dark. "If they want war, then let them come."
The crown pulsed once, as though it had heard her.
---
In the farthest reaches of the Ninth Flame, in a cavern older than language, the whispers had already gathered. Demon lords, jealous spirits, ancient things that even Lucien rarely summoned. They met in secret, their voices curling like smoke.
"She weakens him."
"She bends the balance."
"She must be unmade."
And in the deepest shadow, something vast stirred awake. Something older than Lucien, older than crowns and keys.
The rebellion had begun.