Page 36 of Burning Her Beautiful
Twilight drapesthe corridors in lavender shadows by the time I reach Varok’s strategy chamber. He indicated we would meet here, but the thick oak doors remain closed. Garrik leans against a column across the hall, arms folded in what looks likepatience, though one foot taps a subtle rhythm betraying impatience.
“He is detained with the Chancellor,” Garrik explains, nodding toward the door. “I was about to fetch you for a separate briefing.”
We step into a side library lined with parchment scrolls whose titles I cannot decipher. A single desk lamp casts amber pools on a stack of ledgers.
“Three factions loyal to Sarivya pledge vengeance,” Garrik says in a low voice. “Two command house guards, the third finances hired blades.”
“Numbers?”
“Maybe thirty trained swords. More if coin flows.”
“Targets?”
“You and Varok.” His tone remains clinical, but the hand near his dagger tightens. “They plan public humiliation before a lethal strike, likely at tomorrow’s tribunal when the evidence is formally registered.”
Heat chills in my veins, an alchemy of anger and dread. “Public humiliation how?”
“Rumor claims they will parade you in a collar forged by Sarivya’s artisans—display the ‘rogue sorceress’ before stripping Varok of rank.”
My pulse stammers, yet I force a steady breath. “And their plan to subdue him?”
“Poison runes baked into the collar’s clasp. If he breaks it, chaos feedback sings into his brand.” Garrik slams a scroll flat. “Ingenious and vile.”
A tremor travels from my shoulders downward, but I ground my feet and lift my chin. “Then we must craft counter-ingenuity.” Resolve crystallizes like winter glass. “We let them attempt their humiliation… only we control the ending.”
Garrik’s brows lift. “Explain.”
I lean over the small table, tracing lines on Gediron parchment, conjuring strategy as I speak. “We intercept the craftsman forging the collar. Replace the poison runes with dormant crystals tuned to our frequency. When they clasp it publicly, Varok channels energy to shatter the collar outward—a harmless burst that appears destructive only to the conspirators. He emerges unscathed, and their plot backfires.”
Garrik scrutinizes my sketch, lips pursing. “Risk mounts. One fault and the rune arcs back.”
“Risk is lesser than surrendering spectacle to them.”
A moment passes before he nods. “I will locate the smith tonight.” He rolls the parchment shut. “Varok may resist using you as bait.”
“Varok will understand the necessity,” I say, though my stomach tightens.
Garrik strides out to marshal spies. I follow toward the central stair but divert into an alcove overlooking the terrace where we met at dawn. Varok stands there now, alone, his gaze lost in violet dusk. I hesitate, but the weight of knowledge pushes me forward.
My footsteps echo softlyacross the mosaic tiles. He turns, eyebrows lifting at my approach. The gloom paints warm amber across his skin, lighting the runes that never quite rest.
“I thought you would be with Chancellor Velyth,” I say.
“Discussion ended early.” He studies my expression. “You carry a storm in your eyes.”
“Storm brings warning.” I glance at the view before facing him. “Your enemies craft a new collar meant to shame me andbreak you.” I relay Garrik’s intelligence, voice steady though my pulse thrums.
When I finish, silence stretches, taut as drawn wire. Varok’s jaw tightens, the veins along his neck pulsing.
“I will not permit them to touch you,” he says at last, each word hammered from steel.
I touch his arm. “Listen before you decide. We can bend their collar into a trap.”
I explain the plan, including my part as willing bait. His eyes narrow as the strategy unfolds, yet rage flickers in the silver depths. When I finish, he steps back, pacing three strides before whirling.
“You ask me to risk your life on a public stage.”
“I risk my dignity each time nobles ogle.” I fold my arms. “This time let that gaze become a dagger turned on them.”
