Page 32 of Burning Her Beautiful
“When the council roars for blood,” I answer, “choose mercy even if it costs prestige. Let your strength bloom in restraint.”
He considers, then nods. “Tomorrow, if Sarivya’s allies call for punishment, I will deny them.”
“Not deny,” I correct gently. “Offer them a better dream.”
A faint smile curves his mouth. “Your dream.”
“Our dream,” I amend. “A sky where vines and crystals grow unshackled and collars remain memory.”
He shifts, placing one hand atop mine where it rests on limestone. “Then we will plant that dream. But tonight”—herises smoothly—“you asked for space, and I honor that request.” He extends a hand to help me stand. “Come, I will escort you to your chamber, then return to draft mercy.”
As he lifts me, warmth flares up my arm. I ground myself, breathing slow. Boundaries, Iliana. You chose them. I withdraw my hand once I findmyfooting. His mouth tightens, but he nods. We walk side by side throughthedarkened gardens. Petals close for the night, yet under our steps they glow faint, as if unconsciously attuned to the path we carve.
At my door he pauses, not crossingthethreshold. “Rest,” he says, voice husky yet held in check. “Tomorrow we face thunder awake.”
I place a palm on his chest, feelingtherune’s heat. “Thank you for letting me breathe.”
“Thank you,” he answers, “for teaching me breathing is not weakness.”
He leaves; the corridor swallows his silhouette. Alone, I lean against the wooden panel, heart throbbing like a tame animal testing cage bars. Last night’s pleasure still hums beneathmyskin, but tonight clarity reigns. I vow to hold him close to purpose, not suffocate us in want.
I light a single lamp and open my notebook, recording new codes devised with Sael. My pen scratches steady while thoughts flutter. I catalogue resource caches, list half-blood families likely to vote with Yalira. Each sentence grounds me, forging anchor lines to the woman I was before chains.
Hours later I setthequill aside, flex cramped fingers. Moonlight spills throughthebalcony doors, carving silver stripes acrossthefloorboards. I step outside, lettingthenight air cool the fever behind my eyes. Far below, the lower tiers shimmer with scattered lights. Somewhere Lys sleeps, Sael hums, Jonn tempers iron. Their trust steadiesmyresolve.
Desire may spark rebellion, but loyalty and strategy will keep flames controlled. I will love Varok if love can stand alongside freedom, not in place of it. Tomorrow I will test that truth. For now I foldmyarms overtherailing and hum the miner song into the wind, sending the note through crystal veins to every heart listening in the dark.
The sky does not answer, yet in the hush I feel countless breaths catch, then release. Hope drifts between us on invisible threads, braiding a network no collar can latch. I stay until the hum dies on my lips and dawn paints faint blushes in the east. Only then do I slip into bed, clasping the wilted blossom in my fist.
Boundaries may blur; storms may break stone. Still, I lay my head on the pillow certain of one vow—my roots dig deeper than any net of power, and I will not be uprooted again.
11
VAROK
The gong of the seventh bell vibrates through the stone like a restless heart. I stand before the mirror in my strategy chamber, fastening the final clasp of a charcoal coat that molds to my torso as if poured there. The fabric carries etched runic threads that have thrummed all night while I refined their weave. Garrik waits by the doorway, arms folded, his keen eyes tracing every motion. He offers neither compliment nor critique; he knows silence steadies the knot in my gut better than any endorsement.
I flex my fingers. Sparks answer under the skin, hungry to break free. They cannot—not yet. Today the court must see precision, not raw power. Strength delivered with a surgeon’s touch convinces even the most skittish ally. I roll my shoulders once, releasing the last hint of stiffness from what little passed for sleep. Visions of Iliana’s face kept invading my dreams—her eyes shining with both fire and caution as she hummed into the wind. I push the memory aside and face my lieutenant.
“Report,” I say.
“Sarivya’s decree will enter the floor at mid-morning. She has spent the sunrise weaving support in the basilica courtyard.”Garrik’s tone carries crafted neutrality, but his fingers drum the pommel of his dagger. “Half-blood nobles drift between fear and fury. They want guidance.”
“They will have it.” I grab the jade folio from my desk—evidence forged by Iliana’s hand and disguised as merchant ledgers. “Yalira waits outside the amphitheater. When I signal, she releases this into the current.”
Garrik tilts his head. “And if Sarivya counters with fresh poison?”
“I convert her venom to spectacle.” The confidence in my voice tastes thin. I swallow, refusing to let frailty surface. “Is Iliana ready?”
“She prepares in the resonance gallery. The cloak you sent fits, yet she still chooses the plain belt.” He almost smiles. “She keeps anchors close.”
“Good. Anchors keep storms from raging beyond control.” I sweep past him. He falls into step on my left.
Corridors pulsewith the anxious chatter of courtiers. Vibrant pennants hang limp in the still air, their embroidered crests dulled by the murky sunrise. As we pass, whispers ripple—tongues tasting rumor of today’s vote and any excuse to watch a demon stumble. I keep my gaze forward, drawing calm from the steady cadence of bootsteps.
We reach the entrance of the resonance gallery, a long hall lined with crystal pillars that once amplified hymnals to the heavens. Today it acts as both rehearsal space and potential stage for disaster. Iliana stands near the center column, her back turned, adjusting the fall of her dusky-purple cloak. She wearsfitted trousers beneath, ready to move if this goes poorly. A single copper filament threads her braid, catching stray light.
I dismiss Garrik with a nod. When the doors hush closed behind him, Iliana turns. Her lips quirk in greeting, but tension radiates along her shoulders.
