Page 70 of Burning Her Beautiful
His shoulders rise with a deep inhale, then he releases a breath that quakes. He sinks to his knees on the paving stones,pressing his forehead against my belly. His horns brush the fabric but touch reverently. He whispers blessings in an ancient dialect. My own tears slip, caught in my hairline.
He stands and draws me up. Arms encircle me without squeezing—protective yet not stifling. We breathe together until our heartbeats sync. Finally he steps back, wiping away stray moisture with his thumb.
“Announce when you choose,” he says. “Not before you are ready.”
“I am ready if you are.”
“I would shout from the battlements,” he admits, grin crooked. “But I accept a measured reveal.”
“We could declare it at tonight’s Moon-lit Market,” I suggest. “Public enough, yet warm.” The night festival has reopened since our charter victory; artisans trade by lantern-glow under strings of lights.
“Perfect.” He kisses my brow. “May I prepare a sky display?”
“No lightning.” I arch a brow. “A soft aurora will suffice.”
He chuckles. “Then an aurora you shall have.”
The afternoon unfoldsin soft tasks: reviewing scholarship grants for miner families, meeting with Oltyx’s acolytes about renovating the temple to blend demon and human artistry. They present a miniature mosaic depicting an open hand releasing a dove; I approve, requesting the addition of a river-swirl motif. Progress tastes sweet, though it is never free of the tang of effort.
Evening descends in ribbons of indigo. Varok and I walk hand-in-hand through the Moon-lit Market, where stalls shine with lanterns shaped like sea-shells. Children chase each other around the fountain, trailing ribbons of glow-ink. Drummersstrike upbeat rhythms; flute trills weave through laughter. We stop before a dais where bards recite news. I step onto the platform, signaling hush.
“Citizens of Galmoleth,” I begin. “You granted me voice when I first tamed the storm for our safety. Today I borrow that voice once more to share a new promise.” I place my palm over my abdomen. “Guardian Consul Varok and I expect our first child next spring.”
Cheers burst like fireworks—clapping, whistles, joyful cries. Sael, perched on a cart roof, whoops loudest. I scan the crowd, capturing faces lit with delight rather than envy. Progress measured again: The mixed-blood guardian of the city and a human-born singer welcome a child, and the crowd responds with hope.
Varok raises his arms; an aurora unfurls overhead in soft ribbons of teal and rose, reflecting in upturned faces. Gasps mingle with applause. I lean against him, watching the lights sway like gentle banners.
After the celebration, we withdraw to a riverside balcony. Torches flicker. Water murmurs secrets below.
“Do you ever fear failing them?” I ask quietly. “Child. City. Everything.”
“Fear is a compass,” he answers. “It guides us toward diligence. Yet I believe in us. Together we rewrote the sky.”
I turn, studying features softened by torchlight: the once-ruthless jaw eased by contentment, eyes still sharp but kind. “You changed so much,” I murmur.
“So did you,” he counters. “Neither change dims essence; it brightens it.”
I brush my lips to his. The kiss tastes of the nutmeg pastry we sampled earlier. He deepens it briefly, then rests his palm on my back.
The future stretches unknown, but not bleak. Houses still negotiate territory; old grudges simmer beneath cordial trade. Yet the council’s foundation is sturdier than past empires built solely on fear, and inside me life sparks a new song that will inherit a world crafted from mingled courage.
Back in our chambers, I sit at a mahogany desk and open a fresh journal. The quill hovers briefly before ink touches the page. Moonlight streams through an arched window, silvering the sheets. I write:
I was once property, then rebel, then envoy; now I am architect of dawns yet uncharted. My heart carries thunder and lullaby in equal measure, and both are needed for the child who will one day ask what freedom costs. I will answer: courage, compassion, and the persistent belief that two souls, once adversaries, can stand side by side and teach a city to sing.
Varok enters, folding his robe over a chair. He glances at my writing, then gestures to the empty seat beside the desk. “May I add a verse?”
I slide the quill into his grasp. He writes beneath my words:
And I will answer: freedom costs vigilance, humility, and the willingness to weather storms with open arms. I learned this from the dawn-singer who turned my fury into purpose.
He signs with a lightning glyph. I add a music rune. Together we close the journal, binding our vow.
Night wind rustles curtains. I snuff the candle, leaving only moonlight. We move to the balcony, gazing at a quiet city luminous with evenly spaced watch-lamps—symbols of safety, not surveillance. The river flows, constant and steady, whispering a lullaby that lulls every fear.
I place Varok’s hand over the tiny miracle once more. He listens, eyes closed. When he opens them, star reflections glitter there.
“Name?” he asks.
