Page 52 of Burning Her Beautiful
“My mixed heritage never diminished my loyalty,” she continues. “Instead it honed empathy that guided trade prosperity and famine relief. Yet the law deems my bloodline impure. I unveil this truth today to condemn such a hollow measure.”
She reaches behind her neck, unfastens the gown’s clasp, and lets the fabric fall to reveal a brand on her collarbone—half demon rune, half human script interwoven, the old scar faint. “My house thrived because unity, not purity, built its foundation.”
Her voice remains calm, but the hall quakes with reverberations of shattered dogma. I feel the resonance stone pulse at my throat, echoing her courage.
Yalira turns toward me. “Iliana, step forward.”
I cross the dais, sandals whispering. She presents a scroll of crimson wax, its fresh seal impressed with the Yalira crest now encircled by intertwined crowns.
“I petition the council to recognize Iliana Eryndor as envoy extraordinary, empowered to draft a new charter of caste equality,” she states.
Shock resets the room. The human delegates exchange stunned glances. Demon senators hiss under their breath. Half-blood envoys lean forward, hunger for change lighting their features.
I accept the scroll, fingertips steady despite the storm inside. “I am honored,” I say, raising my voice, “but this charter must be inked by voices across every tier, not mine alone.”
Murmurs follow—some supportive, some skeptical. Senator Tovor, his horns gilded in gold laminate, stands. “Ridiculous. Bloodlines ensure order. Strip them away and chaos follows.”
“Chaos already arrived,” I reply, stepping farther into the open circle. “Assassins within your ranks fired on festival crowds. Storm nearly devoured the city. Who calmed it? A union of talents across caste lines.”
He sneers. “An anomaly.”
“Or a harbinger,” I counter, letting quiet conviction carry. “Lightning once belonged only to demons; yesterday it answered a human song. The world changes whether the council wills it or not.”
Tovor’s face reddens. Before he retorts, the doors at the rear bang open. King Asmodeus enters, flanked by honor guards carrying onyx pikes. He strides to the throne yet remains standing.
The hall drops to its knees. I bow my head, then straighten quickly, scroll still raised. Asmodeus’s gaze pins me—then Yalira, then Varok. Curiosity stirs behind molten-silver eyes.
“Proceed,” he commands.
Yalira repeats her petition. As she speaks, I study the king. Yesterday he watched me calm the sky, then accepted Varok’s demotion without outward fury. Today curiosity outweighs wrath; he loves games, and new pieces have just entered the board.
Asmodeus lifts a ring-clad hand once Yalira finishes. “The council will deliberate. Until then, Iliana shall serve as provisional envoy under my oversight.” He slides his eyes to Tovor. “Objections?”
Tovor’s throat bobs. “No, Majesty.”
The resolution passes by royal edict. Gasps again. My knees nearly buckle under the sudden mantle, but I plant my feet.
As we withdraw to the wings, Varok intercepts, warmth and worry mingling in his eyes. “Envoy extraordinary,” he murmurs, mouth quirking.
“The title tastes heavy,” I breathe.
“Let me shoulder some weight.” He squeezes my elbow—a covert gesture shielding us from observing scribes.
Yalira joins, folding her arms. Sweat beads along her hairline, but satisfaction rides her smile. “Stage set,” she murmurs. “Now draft the charter before they bury the motion in procedure.”
“I will start tonight,” I promise.
Afternoon light slantsthrough library windows as I spread maps, census ledgers, and Sael’s tunnel schematics across a massive oak table. Varok perches on the edge, sharpening a quill with meticulous care. Garrik stands guard at the door, posture relaxed yet watchful.
“Yalira’s disclosure cut deeper than a blade,” Varok observes, eyes scanning lists. “Noble houses scramble for alliances.”
“Good,” I answer, scribbling names of potential reform supporters. “Momentum thrives on uncertainty.”
He sets the quill down, studying me. “You move with new authority.”
“My chains fell the moment the storm obeyed me,” I say, meeting his gaze. “Your faith forged the key.”
He reaches across parchment to clasp my hand. We share a silent moment before returning to tasks.
