Page 51 of Burning Her Beautiful
Below, bells toll the evening prayer. She rests her head against me. I watch lights flicker across the tiered city and feel weight lift. I have laid my heart open to public gaze and accepted the consequence. Political vultures circle, yet their talons cannot pierce truth forged in storm and tenderness.
“Tomorrow,” I murmur, “we draft the guard charter—human, half-blood, demon recruits.”
She smiles against my neck. “Equality born in lightning.”
Stars ignite overhead. The moon, having tasted the sun, now drifts white as peace. I hold Iliana, vow blazing anew. I am no longer a weapon for the throne; I am a shield for love—whether the kingdom bends or breaks beneath it.
18
ILIANA
Spring sunlight pours over Galmoleth in bright cascades, an almost impossible warmth after the eclipse’s strange twilight. Crows circle high above the palace spires, black wings flashing silver at the edges, and their caws mingle with the steady clap of craftsmen hammering new banners onto balcony rails. Gold-and-copper cloth blazes between white columns, and the city starts to breathe with tentative hope, like a patient just released from fever. I watch the bustle from the wide window of my borrowed sitting room, fingers tapping the carved-stone sill in a quiet rhythm. Yesterday Varok’s declaration rocked the court; today Matron Yalira plans to tip the entire chessboard.
A soft knock draws me from the view. Sael slips inside—cheeks pink, curls plastered to her brow from the climb up countless stairs. She presses a coded note into my palm, then leans back on her heels, catching her breath.
“Stable diversion succeeded,” she reports. “We lured two sky-lizards across the western quarter; the handlers are still chasing them.”
“Excellent,” I say, smoothing the parchment across my lap. Inside, Yalira’s elegant script confirms the midday stage for herrevelation and grants me a speaking moment directly after. My pulse stutters—opportunity feels both gift and burden.
Sael wipes a smudge of oil from her cheek. “Are you sure the city will believe her? Nobles cling to lineage like armor.”
“Truth has its own gravity,” I reply, meeting her tired eyes. “When Yalira casts it upon them, even polished armor will bend.”
Sael’s smile tilts sharp. “Then I’d better return to the tunnels before the breathing stops.”
“Stay safe,” I say, clasping her shoulder. She taps two fingers to her brow in an informal salute and vanishes into the corridor maze.
Left alone, I breathe deep, centering. Sunlight glints on the pendant Varok gifted me—the resonance stone cut from that broken collar. I rub the gem once, a habit now, then rise to dress. The emerald tunic feels familiar, yet today I add a sash of royal crimson trimmed in slate gray—the colors of the Sky Harmony Guard that Varok now leads. The fabric rests snug across my ribs, a silent tie to him while I step into uncharted territory.
When I emerge, Lys waits with a steaming mug of ginger tea. She eyes the sash, her gaze soft. “They cannot ignore you dressed as both storm and sunrise,” she says.
I laugh. “I would settle for them not tossing me into a dungeon.”
“Not after yesterday,” she scoffs, handing me the mug. “Half the city calls you Dawn-Singer now.”
The title warms me more than the tea. Dawn. Beginning. Fitting for what must unfold.
We wind through corridors toward the council rotunda, our soft steps swallowed by echoing marble. Murals depicting demon victories sprawl overhead—armor-clad generals wielding spears of lightning, conquered kingdoms kneeling under boots.I carry the weight of that history yet stride taller; that past no longer writes our future alone.
Near the grand bronze doors, Varok waits in a new uniform: a charcoal-leather coat trimmed in copper thread, runes worked into shoulder plates that gleam brighter than any medal. He still dwarfs the nobles, horns catching torchlight, yet a fresh calm molds his posture. Guards salute as he approaches me. His eyes travel the sash—pride flickers.
“Ready?” he asks simply.
“Yes.”
He offers his arm. I slide mine through, grateful for silent strength. Together we enter the rotunda’s vast circle.
A hush falls over tiered benches. Demon senators in scarlet robes, half-blood envoys shimmering in silver, and human trade delegates clutching newly issued passes—all pivot to watch us cross the mosaic floor toward the dais. King Asmodeus is not yet present; his gilded throne looms empty near the high arch. Murmurs scuttle:There they are . . . lovers, rebels, saviors, traitors.
We ascend side stairs. Varok guides me to a carved seat reserved for sky-guard captains. I pause, squeeze his hand, then step toward the podium placed center stage for Yalira’s address.
She enters moments later. Gasps ripple. The Matron’s lavender complexion glows beneath a silk gown dyed storm-violet, but her headdress—once a towering crown of lacquered horns—has been replaced by a simple circlet of silver vine, revealing her ears. Pointed tips mark demon lineage, yet faint human roundness appears at the outer edges. She has hidden them beneath ornate bone pieces for decades.
Silence thickens as she reaches the podium. She surveys the gallery with gold-flecked eyes, shoulders squared. When she speaks, each word lands like a steady drum.
“Citizens of Galmoleth. For three hundred years our city has thrived on order enforced by blood hierarchy. Yesterday proved blood alone cannot shield us.” She pauses. The hush could swallow a heartbeat. “I stand before you as Matron of House Yalira . . . and as the daughter of a human father.”
The rotunda lurches with disbelieving cries. Some leap to their feet—outraged or awestruck. A senator’s cane clatters down marble steps. Yalira lifts her palm, requesting stillness.
