Page 10 of Burning Her Beautiful
“Yet she loves to watch others fire first, so blame cannot tie directly to her,” he adds.
“Precisely,” I continue. “She will stoke gossip that you weaken under mortal influence, perhaps spread rumor that your magic falters.”
He grimaces. “Already begun.”
“Then you counter.” I lean forward, heartbeat quickening with the thrill of strategy. “Prove strength not through cruelty but unpredictability. Host a public demonstration of control that does not involve blood. If you can bend stone or summon stormlight without harming anyone, fear will renew.”
“Fear returns easily.” His voice darkens. “Respect is rarer.”
“Then conjure awe, not dread,” I insist. “Reveal power laced with restraint. They will wonder which leash holds you.”
Varok considers, fingers drumming the porcelain cup. “A show of discipline,” he murmurs. “Yes. I could shift the palace’s hanging gardens mid-banquet. Let the vines bloom out of season.”
“Beauty forged from chaos,” I say. “They will not know whether to cheer or tremble.”
He lifts his head, silver gaze alight. “Clever storm.” The nickname sends warmth cascading through nerves. I quash it before it shows.
He sets cups aside and rises. I follow. He approaches shelves where scrolls line the cedar wood in long neat rows. Selecting one, he unrolls it on the table. Architectural sketches of tiered terraces and irrigation sigils cover the parchment. He taps a spiral near the top level. “These locks hold the soil in place. Loosen them and vines will pour skyward.”
“How do we ensure no guest tumbles off the ledge?”
He glances up. “We? You intend to stand beside me?”
I lift chin. “You asked for insight. I will not hide when the plan unfurls.”
A slow smile curves his mouth, erasing years of iron from his features. “Then we shore the rails with a net of consciousness. I weave a barrier of air.” He traces lines in the air above the scroll; sparks trail from his fingertip.
I nod, adrenaline already humming. I sense the unspoken: tomorrow’s spectacle buys us time, yet also highlights how closely our fates now twine.
Silence settles. He rolls the scroll, replaces it. When he turns back I catch a new softness in his expression, as though I have shifted from burden to accomplice. It unsettles and thrills in equal measure.
He moves toward the door. “Rest now. Dawn practice requires focus.” His hand hovers near the latch, then drops. He faces me once more. “You searched for escape. I do not condemn it,” he says. “I would do the same.” His shoulders lift as though shedding weight. “Yet understand this truth: if you flee Galmoleth tonight, Asmodeus hunts you across every plane. And I…” He pauses, words snagging. “I must chase.”
The admission pins me. Not threat, but confession. My pulse stumbles. “Because of duty,” I say, voice hushed.
“Duty,” he echoes. “Obsession. Perhaps both.” He presses thumb to the rune; the door eases open. Before stepping through he glances back. “Do not burn yourself searching for cracks in prison walls when you may soon wield the key.” Then he is gone.
The rune dims. I sit slowly, heart hammering. Varok’s closeness lingers in the room like charged air after lightning. He sees me as accomplice, storms within storms swirling together. Dangerous ground. Yet beneath danger blooms intrigue. Perhaps even trust.
I pace the balcony again before sleep. The clouds glow violet, and above them the sky stretches ink-black, pricked with stars too distant to warm. I touch the shard hidden in my braid. It pulses faintly, mirroring the rune on my door—waiting.
Inside the chamber I extinguish candles. I curl on cushions, cloak wrapped tight. Sleep steals in at last, tangled with dreams of winding vines and silver eyes.
Day breaks in a hush of rose quartz light filtered through high windows. A servant arrives bearing breakfast, her eyes downcast. I thank her softly. She glances up, almost startled that a prisoner’s words color with courtesy. After she leaves I eat ripe figs drizzled with honey, chew seed bread dense with fruit, and drink mint tea that clears cobwebs from my mind. I rub at the chalk traces still faint on my arms, then dress in fitted trousers and a thin russet blouse left on the chair. Armor of confidence.
Footsteps echo beyond the door before the rune brightens. Varok enters wearing a sleeveless coat of dark green leather that shows every sculpted line of his arms. His horns gleam newly polished, and his hair is bound in a braided knot at the crown. He carries two books, sets them beside the tea tray, and nods approval when he sees I am ready. “We practice projection this morning,” he says. “If you control your posture, I can weave power around you without exposing the trick.”
“Let us begin.”
We clear space. He instructs me to stand balanced weight on both feet, shoulders relaxed, arms lifted slightly away from ribs. “Imagine you grasp a thread inside your chest,” he says, “then pull it outward through your palms.” I follow. Heat pools behind sternum, but no spark leaps across skin.
He steps behind, places large hands above my elbows without touching. Energy hums between us, gathering like static before a summer storm. He whispers directions, breath brushing the shell of my ear. “Breathe deeper. Draw the thread.”
I inhale slowly. Visualizing golden rope coiling within, I tug gently. A prickle flutters along arms. The faint lines of chalk reappear, glowing dim violet. Varok’s body stiffens behind me, reverberating with the echo of power he channels yet pretends is mine.
“Hold,” he murmurs. A tingling climbs wrists to fingertips. Sparks blossom between outstretched fingers like tiny stars. I gasp, exhilarated. He withdraws, letting me steady alone. The sparks dim but linger.
“Your face,” he says, “reveals wonder. Reserve such openness for the moment before the council. Surprise them. Let admiration or fear follow. Never let them see rehearsed confidence.”
