Page 4 of Burning Her Beautiful
I close my eyes. Another breath. Weight lifts from my chest by increments. When I open them I stand taller, anchored.
My gaze flicks to the door. Locked by power I cannot parse. Yet locks invite challenge. I cross the room, skim callused fingers over the sigil. It feels cool now, beaten metal tinny beneath my nails. No latch, no seam. Escape dreams wilt. I turn away before frustration sours into despair and pace the room’s perimeter instead, noting everything. Shelves crammed with obsidian boxes no larger than a fist, a low cedar chest heavy with bronze fastenings, a washstand carved from mottled jade. In a corner a tall mirror leans against polished basalt. I pause before it.
My reflection startles. Lamplight smudges bruises into dusty violets beneath my eyes. Wind and grime have tangled my waist-length hair into knotted ropes. I lift a curl; it springs back stubborn as a vine. Beneath the plain linen shift my shoulders square, though exhaustion drags at them. Mother would tell me that is the posture of survivors. Father would tease that my chin can shear granite. I adjust that chin, straighten, and study the faint red marks circling wrists. They sting, but pain anchors. Pain reminds.
When Varok touched me earlier—when warmth pooled through his fingertips and closed broken skin—something bright and terrifying ignited in my chest. Not gratitude alone. Certainly not trust. Something wilder. It thrums again now, a stubborn ember refusing ash. I turn away from the mirror.
The hum leaves my throat, widens into the chorus of the old plains song my brother loved. I pick up the tune while shrugging from the shift. Steam still veils the bath. I slide beneath water fragrant with mint until warmth laps at my clavicles and the heat coaxes every taut muscle into surrender. Yet my mind refuses rest.
The raid blazes back, unbidden. Pine-scented night air whipping about me, lanterns fizzing out under demon magic, red bolts splitting tents like parchment. I recall the oak staff in my hands, the way its splinters pierced my palms when I swung at the horn-helmed brute who dragged Lys from her bedroll. I still taste blood where he struck my mouth. They bound us before dawn, marched us down ravines where the sun never reached. When the path turned upward into cloud I understood the legends held truth. Humans stolen for Galmoleth rarely returned, and those few carried hollowness where spirit once lived.
Yet my spirit still writhes, angry and bright. Maybe that is why Varok’s gaze stirred something. Monsters sense kindred flame.
I scrub peach-scented soap over arms, rinse until water clouds. When I rise, droplets race down olive skin, catching light like quicksilver. A fresh garment waits on a stand—soft doeskin trousers and a tunic the hue of moonlit copper. I dress, grateful that he offered practical attire rather than filmy gowns favored by demon courtiers. I braid damp hair into a sleek rope, then thread a short piece of ribbon I find tucked beside a brush. Tiny victories.
A silver tray rests on a low table near the hearth: sliced starfruit, wedges of pale cheese, dark bread still warm. A steaming bowl of stew gives off a scent that makes my stomach roar despite wariness. Hunger wears many masks; tonight it chooses negotiation. I tear a hunk of bread, sniff. No bitternesshints at poison. The cheese smells sharp, wholesome. I dip the bread into stew, taste honey and chili and smoked root. Appetite wins. I eat in measured bites until the bowl empties, wipe the last drop with bread, and lean back against cushions. Warmth blooms behind my sternum. Strength returns.
The door sigil flares brighter. My pulse leaps before hinges creak inward. Varok strides through, cloak swirling like blood-black silk. Lamplight skims over him, catching runes that pulse along his arms in muted scarlet. He carries a second silver tray balanced on one palm. Roasted fowl, bowl of pomegranate seeds, dark wine in two shallow cups. He sets the tray on the table where the empty bowl rests, gaze dropping to its spotless interior.
“You have eaten.” Satisfaction threads the words, though his tone remains quiet.
“I suspected the food was not drugged,” I answer, meeting his eyes. “If you wish me strong for tomorrow’s spectacle, safety serves you.”
“That it does.” He lifts the cup nearest him, sips. “Still, I planned to ensure compliance.”
“Force-feeding would dent your image,” I note, tone light. “Though perhaps bolts of chaos magic are typical seasoning here.”
A flicker of amusement glints before he masks it. “Bolts bruise the flavor. I prefer persuasion.” He offers the second cup. “Wine. Sip slowly, it burns.”
I accept. The liquid pours down my throat like molten rubies, sweet at first, then spiced heat that races to fingertips. I set the cup aside and brace elbows on my knees, studying him. He stands near the hearth, head tilted, horns glossy as river stones. His eyes, molten silver at this distance, remain unreadable. Yet something churns beneath that surface—tension, curiosity, perhaps a shred of confusion he hides even from himself.
“You eat nothing?” I ask.
“I will later.”
“Afraid I might sharpen a bone and strike?”
“Bones are blunt compared to some implements in this palace.” He gestures to the chair opposite the hearth. “Sit. We discuss tomorrow’s sequence.”
I stay on cushions. “I prefer to stand.” Defiance rings harsher than intended. I lift my chin. “A stolen goat may graze but remains tethered.”
He regards me for a breath, then nods. “Stand, then. Tomorrow Asmodeus presents you before the Sanctum of Oltyx. You will wear a shift of white, no jewelry, no metal. You will kneel at the foot of the altar until commanded.”
“Commanded to die,” I murmur.
“Commanded to submit.” He steps closer. “There is difference, though often measured in heartbeats.”
His proximity charges the air. The fire behind him paints highlights along the carved slope of horns, the harsh line of jaw, the hollow at his throat where shadows gather. Scars on his shoulders catch light. My gaze follows one scar that trails from collarbone to bicep, a pale ribbon against crimson skin. I imagine how he earned it, picture swords clashing under black skies. The thought should frighten. Instead intrigue threads its way through caution.
He exhales, as if my scrutiny burns. “Eat more,” he orders, pushing the bowl of seeds forward. “Fasting drains the heart. I want it strong.”
I pluck three seeds, let juice burst on my tongue, sticky and tart. We share silence while storm wind whooshes beyond the balcony arch. The hush between us feels less like pause, more like a drawn bow.
He drags a second cushion closer, sits cross-legged, boots braced on the rug’s fringe. Firelight gilds runes on his arms toember gold. “Tell me of the raid,” he says. “I need knowledge of your strength.”
“This conversation profits you alone.”
“A blacksmith tests ore before forging.” He inclines his head. “Speak, Iliana.”
