Page 41 of Burning Her Beautiful
“No storms in your chamber,” she counters softly. “Only rest.”
She leads me to bed, where we lie clothed yet entwined. Her heartbeat drums lullaby against my ear. Dread still coils, but hope weaves through it like gold thread, binding cracked edges.
As sleep finally claims me, I dream of cracked marble yielding to vines that climb toward a blood-red moon. Iliana stands among them, arms raised, voice turning thunder gentle. I stand at her side—no chains, no collar—only her hand in mine,forging new constellations across a sky that once belonged solely to kings.
14
ILIANA
Sunrise leaks through the high transom of my chamber, tinting the ceiling fresco in peach and coral. I watch the light climb the wall while I lace my boots, every tug grounding me in purpose. My pulse still thrums with yesterday’s victory, yet dawn delivers fresh weight: rumors swirl about the collar’s detonation, Varok faces the king’s eclipse trial tomorrow, and I must convince hundreds of frightened humans that hope is not a candle doomed to gutter at the first hint of wind.
When I tighten the final knot, I slip the copper-wired crystal behind my ear and draw up Lys’s forest-green hood. The tunic she labored over rests against my skin like a promise stitched in thread. I inhale once—steady—and slip into the servant corridor before any noble steward can redirect me toward breakfast banter. My breath leaves small clouds in the cool passage, and each echo of my steps feels conspiratorial: this wing still sleeps, unaware of the current running beneath its floors.
Two flights down, the hallway widens into the laundry concourse. Steam eddies from iron grates, curling around ankles and hiding faces—exactly as we planned. Sael meets me near a wall vent, fingers stained blue from indigo vats. She hums threebeats low, one high—a coded alert that watchers linger near the central cauldrons. I answer with two high notes—yes, I heard. Only after we duck into a supply niche do we speak aloud.
“The miners sent fresh schematics,” she whispers, unfurling a soot-smudged scrap. “They can anchor six resonance stakes beneath the grand promenade before nightfall. We need a distraction to mask the drilling.”
“I have one,” I say, picturing Varok’s old logistical charts. “The royal stables rotate sky lizards at dusk. If we release two at once, handlers will chase them.”
Her brows lift—a silent question of courage. I smile grimly; courage is fuel now, no longer choice. She folds the map away, brushing damp fringe from her forehead. “The moment they finish, we weave the hum through the copper lines.”
“Do it.” I squeeze her arm, then step back into the steam. Voices echo through the haze, gathering at the starch tables. Time to harvest new allies.
I dodge between linen heaps until I spot Jonn hefting a crate of iron shackles toward the scrap furnace. His shoulders ripple beneath a singed tunic, scars crisscrossing his biceps like tangled rope. He dumps the crate with a grunt, metal clanging, then notices me. A wary grin splits his beard.
“They still forge chains even after yesterday’s show,” he mutters, toeing a cuff with disdain. “Old habits cling.”
“For now,” I reply, crouching beside the pile. “Could these be refashioned into frame hooks for the sky-lizard harnesses?”
He raises thick brows. “Aye, but we’d need twenty at least.”
“Lys recruits tailors; they’ll unravel silk cords to bind the hooks. Deliver at third bell.”
He strokes his beard, then nods once—pledge sealed. The furnace sparks as he feeds cuffs to the coals, hammer clanging in rhythm with the new breath of rebellion.
I leave the concourse, heart lighter. Each cog turns, every small risk layering into a shield for tomorrow’s eclipse. Yet behind every plan a pang stirs—fear that Varok’s path and mine might diverge if the king twists the outcome. I smother the doubt for now; there is no luxury for second-guessing.
Mid-morning sunlight dazzlesoff mosaic floors in the half-blood market district, where artisans set up stalls of enamelware and rune-etched jewelry. Many half-blood nobles who once clutched their cloaks at the sight of humans now scan the crowd with new wariness, as if suspecting anyone might carry secret symphonies. I walk among them, anonymous beneath my hood, listening.
“Did you see the way the collar burst?” one merchant murmurs to a customer, fingers shaking over abacus beads. “Brilliance or fraud?”
“Both,” the buyer answers softly. “Fraud requires brilliance.” They share uneasy laughter.
The exchange stings; our triumph still bears the label of trickery. Yet I catch admiration beneath the skepticism—seeds already sprouting. Nearby, a little boy with lavender skin and human-brown curls hums the miner scale while spinning a wooden top. His mother hushes him, but pride glimmers. Hope spreads even through uncertain soil.
I move on, turning into a narrow alley behind dye vendors. Yalira’s carriage waits at the end, horses snorting plumes into the crisp air. The matron herself exits a side door, veil trailing, ledger in hand. When she spots me, she lifts the veil’s edge, summoning.
Inside, velvet muffles street noise. Yalira passes the ledger across. “The financial council convenes at high sun. Sarivya’s assets stand frozen, but three sponsors attempt to purchase her debt.”
“Let me guess: Kyreth, Dath, and Volund,” I reply, scanning columns of numbers.
She smiles thinly. “You keep informed.”
“Varok needs these lines halted. If sponsors revive her treasury, tomorrow’s spectacle may breed fresh tempests.”
Yalira taps the ledger. “I plan to expose their underpaid human-labor figures. Yet the council loves profit. I could use a nudge.”
I consider. “The laundry concourse is about to ‘lose’ shipments of premium dye. Without that product, merchants panic; the council reconsiders liquidity.” Sabotage skirts open rebellion, but Yalira meets my gaze, respect sharpening.
