Hell does not yield easily.
Though Andra had bent his knee and Lina stood as queen, the underworld stirred with unrest. Deep in the oldest regions—older than fire, older than Andra himself—ancient forces awakened. Ones who had ruled before the thrones were carved in bone. Ones who did not recognize her fire.
They called themselves the FirstFlame, a secret order bound by blood oaths and fury. To them, Lina was an abomination—an outsider who had bewitched their king, polluted the throne with mortal weakness.
And they wanted her extinguished.
The first attack came like a whisper: a cursed blade slipped between the cracks of the palace, meant to pierce her heart in her sleep. But fire warned her. The shadows protected her. The blade never touched skin.
The second was louder. A battalion of ash-born beasts rose from the southern chasms, clawing toward the palace gates with war cries echoing through the molten sky.
Andra met them in the open, his wrath unleashed in full form. What he hadn't unleashed in centuries, he did for her. Mountains melted beneath his feet. Skies split open as his roars turned demons to dust. His fury was not for conquest.
It was for protection.
Inside the palace, Lina faced her own battle.
One of the demon high priestesses—once loyal, now traitorous—had come with venom on her tongue and poison in her hand.
"You are fire stolen, not born," the priestess spat. "A crown does not make you queen."
Lina didn't speak. She raised her hand. Flames surged.
And the priestess burned.
But not in agony.
In silence.
Lina had learned how to burn with mercy—and that made her more terrifying than any demon.
After the dust of rebellion settled, Lina walked the scorched halls of her palace, her fingers brushing the stone. It felt different now. Familiar. Hers.
Andra met her at the edge of the Heart, where their journey began.
"They won't stop," he said. "Not until you're gone. Or until everything around you burns."
Lina looked at him, firelight flickering in her eyes.
"Then let them come," she said. "Let them burn for trying."
She stepped into his arms—not out of surrender, but as an equal.
He didn't kiss her like a demon claiming a prize.
He kissed her like a king who had finally met his match.
And in that moment, beneath the molten sky, Hell had a new truth written in its flames:
This was not a story of a girl stolen.
This was the rise of a Queen made of fire and fury.
And she was just getting started.