Page 8 of Burning Her Beautiful
“Sketching destiny.” I smile faintly. “Or forging an illusion. Hold out your arms.”
I chalk sigils along her forearms, lines of power that appear to float above skin. Each curve hums faintly but carries no true danger. When finished I add a single mark above her heart, a spiral similar to the brand on my chest though far gentler. As I draw it I feel her breath warm my cheek. My pulse trips. I finish quickly and step back.
“When nobles see these glow,” I explain, “they will believe the god inside you awakens.”
She peers at the marks. “How will they glow?”
“My chaos will dance across them.” I keep the explanation simple. She does not need to know that mingling my power with any mortal might invite arcane repercussions. “For the effect to convince, you must appear to summon it.”
She arcs a brow. “You want me to act?”
“Indeed.”
Her lips tilt, almost amused. “Tell me how.”
I pull a slender silver rod from my belt. “When I raise this,” I say, “close your eyes, breathe deep, envision stone shifting beneath ocean waves. The sigils will flare. You must then open your eyes as if awakened by the vision.”
“That seems…exaggerated.”
“Court thrives on drama. We will provide.” I hold her gaze until she sighs. “Very well.”
We practice. Over and again she closes her eyes, breathes, waits for my cue. My chaos threads through the chalk, making the marks smolder violet-gold. Each time she opens her eyes they shine with honest wonder that takes me by surprise. No trained actress could replicate it. Though the power is mine, her spirit lends it raw resonance.
At one point she sways, so I catch her elbows. Our faces hover inches apart. The scent of her skin stirs heat low in my belly. Her throat works in a silent swallow. I release her too quickly and cross the room, feigning interest in a scroll.
By the third repetition her stance strengthens. She lifts chin, shoulders back, as though she truly channels deep earth. Watching her I taste the edge of temptation. If I could teach her to wield real magic in three nights, everything might change. Yet such miracles belong in legends written by gods with kinder hearts than mine.
Night deepens outside the clerestory. Lamps dim. I stop the lesson, summon a servant to bring supper. Iliana eats while scanning spines nearest her, asking about the titles of treatises on mineral spirits and fault magics. Her curiosity brightens the library. Torchlight catches the chalk on her arms so it flickers softly, as if the sigils remember power.
When plates are cleared I escort her back toward her chambers. We walk in companionable silence. The corridor outside her door stands empty. I pause before the sigil lock.She faces me, fingers twisting the fabric at her hip—first sign of nerves all evening.
“I will guard your rest,” I promise. “You are safe here.” A truth for tonight at least.
She nods. Eyes linger on my face. “Thank you for sparing me.”
“I spared myself.” The confession slips out. Lightning flares beyond the slit window, lighting her smile—small, fragile, yet dazzling as sunrise. My chest constricts.
“I should sleep,” she says, voice hushed.
“Yes.” I step back. “Rest. Tomorrow we create legends.”
She disappears inside. The door seals. I stand there until the rune fades cool beneath my palm, willing the walls to keep her safe.
Only when I walk away do I let the storm inside me surge. Three nights. I have gambled with gods and kings before, but never with my own soul. Now I must forge a miracle from chalk, courage, and the reckless desire that threatens to devour us both.
If I fail, her heart stops beating. If I succeed, mine may belong to her long before she realizes. Either path could unmake me, yet I feel no regret. Some storms exist to break the sky so a new world can be born.
In the silence of my tower I set the kirpan on my worktable. Candle flame flickers along its cruel curve. I stare at the blade and see my reflection again, silver eyes shadowed by conflict. Then I draw a cloth over the steel, burying its hunger in darkness, and turn to my books, seeking the line between devotion and rebellion where salvation might hide.
4
ILIANA
Sleep remains stubbornly out of reach. Candle stubs gutter low in sconces, smearing gold across walls carved with winged beasts, yet no true warmth touches me. I sit cross-legged on the pile of cushions, bare toes curled against thick wool, and watch the slow pulse of the rune that seals my door. Its heartbeat matches the thunder rumbling far below the floating continent, as if stone and storm conspire to remind every captive soul that escape requires more than courage.
Somewhere in Varok’s tower a bell tolls three measured notes. Demon hours mark the cycle of high winds, not sun, and I have begun to learn their rhythm. This is the hour when servants douse torches in lesser corridors, when noble revels shift from formal to dangerous, when scholars retire to dream up darker theories. It is also the hour when the quiet deepens enough that secrets think they can breathe.
I push to my feet and pad across the carpet. The cloak Varok left draped over a chair covers me from shoulder to ankle—black wool lined with blood-red silk that whispers each time I move. It still carries his scent, smoke and cedar, and the faint metallic tang that always seems suspended in the air around him. I drawthe fabric closer, banish the warmth that stirs in my chest, and turn focus to practical matters.
