"Home. Or Hell, depending on your perspective."

"Your home."

"Yes."

Are they leaving immediately? 

After the Queen relays orders to her lieutenants regarding the disposition of captives and survivors. Then she summons her mount, a winged horse with leathery skin stretched thin over emaciated bones, barding in the same style and color palette as her own armor. She climbs easily into the saddle and leans over to pluck Lily up and set her in front.

She settles quietly, though she eyes the summoned mount with poorly disguised fascination.

A potential lever to direct behavior, good.

She clicks her tongue at the horse and it breaks into a trot building to a canter before spreading its wings and rising into the sky. She directs it to circle, giving them a view of the destruction the assault has wrought. "Carve this view into your heart, child."

She can't do anything else (the same way she couldn't help but glance at every corpse they passed, looking for her dead family). (Except it's worse, because she should've protected these lands and their people.)

A few more passes, then they're off for the homelands of the Demon Lord.

She watches the landscape under them, an odd feeling in her chest. (She wonders if it's grief.)

It's a long flight- no one wants to live next to the Demon Lands if they have a choice.

Partway through, she starts humming a tune, quick and low and surprisingly melodic.

She tenses. (The Demon Queen has a nice voice...)

"What's that song?" she asks in a whisper after a few minutes of silently listening. 

"An old marching song. For victorious homecoming."

"...Why did you even attack us? What victory did you even get?"

"A harvest of hatred, child, fear and terror. It is much more sustainable to farm such things outside of one's own desmesne."

"What ritual needs those?"

Laugh. "Demoniac ones, of course."

"I'm not scared of you."

"That is why you are up here and not below. You feed a different requirement."

"Hatred?"

"Hatred, yes, and the potential strength you harbor."

A new weird feeling in her belly joins all the weird feelings in her chest. "No one else thinks I'm strong," she says, challengingly.

"You aren't," she responds simply. "Potential strength, I said."

"No one else sees even that."

"That is their failing, not mine."