Page 38 of Burning Her Beautiful
“Kyreth enjoys drama until it guts their trade routes,” I mutter. “Tell them the ledgers have moved to the Royal Archive for audit. They may submit formal requests.”
“That will delay them days,” Garrik observes.
“Time I need to weave stronger nets.” I pinch the bridge of my nose. “What of the collar smith?”
“Secured.” He crosses the room and sets a small iron clasp on the desk. The hinge glints with harmless copper runes. “Poison glyphs replaced with resonance crystals tuned to her hum. One twist from either side shatters it outward.”
I test the clasp, feeling the faint vibration of dormant power. Relief nudges worry aside for a breath. “Well done. Station four guards in rotation outside the smith’s quarters until the tribunal. Sarivya’s remnants will look for him.”
Garrik inclines his head, but the tension pulling at his mouth remains. “You have not addressed Asmodeus’s summons.”
My blood runs colder than the window glass. “When?”
“The message arrived an hour after midnight.” He slides a scroll across the desk. “He expects you in the Sanctum of Chains after the tribunal—private audience.”
I roll the scroll open. The king’s seal glows faintly red—burning wax enchanted to track my acceptance. No response yet, but it warms beneath my fingertips, sensing hesitation. Asmodeus rarely calls an officer to that sanctum unless a lesson awaits. My brand throbs in anticipation of pain.
“Send acknowledgment,” I say. My voice remains even, though the room tilts. Consequences come fast.
Garrik bows, worry tightening his eyes. “And if you do not return intact?”
“You lead the guard. Protect Iliana, secure reforms, and complete the transition plan.” I force steadiness into every word. “Galmoleth survives without me.”
“Your faith in me dishonors your worth,” he snaps.
I almost smile. “You have always hated compliments.”
He stiffens, then clears his throat. “Very well. I will comply.”
He leaves, and silence crashes back, heavier than before. I circle the desk, dragging a fingertip across inked routes that represent lifetimes. All of this could collapse with one wrong breath.
Footsteps approach again, softer, familiar. Iliana steps through the open doorway carrying a covered tray. She wearstheforest-green tunic Lys tailored, copper-vine embroidery catching lamplight. She glances at the maps, then at my face.
“Breakfast,” she says, lifting the lid. Steam carries the aroma of spiced oats, fresh figs, and strong tea. Even the scent eases the ache behind my eyes.
“You should be resting,” I say, though gratitude threads the words.
“So should you.” She sets the tray down, pouring tea into two porcelain cups. “We survive today on steady hands, not empty stomachs.”
I takeacup, sip, and taste more than leaves—nutty undertones that soothe nerves. She watches, gauging each swallow.
“I heard about Asmodeus,” she says quietly.
“Word travels quickly through whisper pipes,” I reply, trying for lightness. She does not smile.
“If he punishes you, this entire structure we build could topple.”
“I am aware.”
“Then let me petition to accompany?—”
“No.” My tone bares more panic than intended. I temper it. “He summoned me alone. Bringing you would signal defiance.”
She lifts her chin. “Or solidarity.”
I shake my head, forcing calm. “He would interpret it as leverage and crush it. You stay here. Your presence at the tribunal must remain focal.”
Her gaze tightens, but she nods. She stirs her own cup, then setsthespoon down with a clink that echoes finality. “Then promise me you walk lightly.”
