Page 56 of Burning Her Beautiful
Cold coils around my spine. “Impartiality to prejudice?”
“They spin whichever word suits.” He steps close, voice low. “I will not rescind. But they rally votes to overrule the crown via an ancient war clause. If they pass it, you lose your title, she loses envoy status, the reforms die.”
I clench my fists. “What leverage remains?”
“As the war clause cites threat to the realm as its trigger, we must prove there is a greater threat outside the council than within it—something only the Sky Guard can contain. I dispatched scouts to the volcanic rim: seismic spines flare. If a quake hits during the vote, you must lead containment. Show the council the need for unity.”
“Arrange a spectacle to sway opinion,” I summarize.
“Call it a demonstration.” His eyes harden. “Succeed, and the charter passes; fail, and I cannot shield you.”
I nod slowly. “Then I will stop the quake.”
He adds, quieter, “Your bond hides no retreat—remember that.”
“I remember.” I leave without ceremony.
Evening falls blood-orange.I brief Iliana, Yalira, and Garrik. We board a sky-skiff and race toward the volcanic rim west of the city. Steam columns curl into clouds; earth tremors jostle the deck. Elementals—magma sprites—swarm fissures.
I leap from the skiff first, runes blazing. My guard squads deploy nets tuned to Iliana’s frequency. She stands on the prow, her hum rising through dusk. The sprites shudder, drawn intonets where copper filaments siphon excess heat. I wield a glaive against stone golems birthed from the quake, slicing lava veins to cool the crust.
Ground rips beneath me. I plunge, catch a slope. Garrik drags me up. Sweat and ash coat armor, but the crate of quartz charges remains intact. We hammer spikes into the fault ridge, Iliana’s hum guiding the tempo. The earth stills—rumble fading to groan, then silence. Stars emerge through smoke. Success.
We return by midnight. The council is still in heated debate. As we stride into the hall, blackened with ash, helmets tucked under our arms, senators gawk.
“Quake contained,” I announce, tossing a scorched golem core onto marble. “Unified guard saved the western farms.”
Tovor sputters objection, but a half-blood envoy counters with a casualty log showing zero deaths. Applause erupts from lower tiers. Asmodeus, seated, hides a smile.
The vote commences. Scroll bearers tally quickly. Result: the charter passes by a slim edge. My bond stands, Yalira retains her seat, caste equality takes its first legal breath.
Relief floods the hall. Iliana’s eyes shine wet, but she raises her chin. I exhale, letting tension slip. Tovor storms out. I sense future battles, yet joy prevails tonight.
Later,the roof garden under the moon. A cool breeze dims the fire’s memory on my skin. Iliana drapes her cloak around us both as we sit on a carved bench. She rests her head on my shoulder.
“You faced king, council, and volcano—and still breathe,” she teases softly.
“Because your song steadied the earth under my boots,” I answer, lips brushing her hair.
She turns, kissing me slow—a scrap of ash tasting on our mouths. “We changed law.”
“We changed fate,” I correct.
We fall silent, watching fireflies dance over the lily pond. In the distance, cathedral bells chime the second hour past midnight. The future is yet unknown, but fear does not settle; commitment has replaced it.
“I thought power required a cold heart,” I confess. “But love carved a new blade sharper than any forged iron.”
She smiles, squeezing my hand. “And together we wield it.”
I draw her close, gaze sweeping the city lights. Tomorrow enemies will regroup, storms will gather. Yet tonight we bask in fragile triumph, hearts beating a duet—steady and bright—a promise carved on very air.
20
ILIANA
Moonlight washes Galmoleth in pale blue, softening the edges of ramparts and spires as if a patient artist has taken a charcoal stick and blurred every hard line. From the balcony of Varok’s new command tower, I watch lantern-barges drift along the river, each vessel carrying singers who hum the motif we spun at the amphitheater. Their harmony rises on the cool night wind, curling around me like a silken shawl. The melody lifts, pauses, and settles again—steady, reassuring, alive.
Behind me, the chamber glows with heart-warmth. Fires burn low in twin braziers, perfuming the air with cedar and crushed sage. Maps of fault lines and troop patrols lie stacked on a round table, their edges weighted by quartz anchors. The world beyond these walls still schemes and plots, but for a few stolen hours the parchment can wait. Tonight belongs not to charts or laws, but to the living currents that thread between Varok and me, tugging with quiet insistence.
