The upper gardens lay in a cavern open to the night sky. Strange flowers bloomed in silver and crimson, fed by warm volcanic soil. Fireflies — or something like them — shimmered in the air.
Elara wandered beneath twisting black trees, her guards keeping respectful distance.
She felt eyes on her.
From balconies above, nobles whispered. She knew what they saw: a fragile human wearing a devil's crown.
A figure stepped into her path.
Lady Seraphine — tall, elegant, with curved horns and sharp amber eyes. One of Malakar's oldest advisors.
"You do not belong here," Seraphine said coolly.
"Perhaps not," Elara replied.
"The King's mercy toward your kind has always been weakness."
"Is that what you believe?"
"It is what history proves."
Elara lifted her chin. "Then perhaps history is ready to change."
Seraphine studied her as though examining a rare insect. "Be careful, human queen. The mountain accepts no softness."
With that, she vanished into shadow.
That night, Elara dreamed of fire swallowing her whole.