Page 42 of Burning Her Beautiful
“Make it so,” she says. “And Iliana—walk carefully. Sharp tides swallow bold swimmers.”
“I know,” I murmur, exiting the carriage with the ledger tucked inside my cloak.
Back inside the service corridors,I convene a hasty council of slaves in a disused storeroom. Lys, Sael, Jonn, the groom Alrik, and two recently freed half-blood pages cluster around a cracked slate table, maps spread wide.
“We must delay the premium-dye loads,” I explain, pointing to the route. “This barrel chokes the line between lower vats and the hoist. Sael, can you jam the gears?”
“Easily,” she says. “But overseers hold rune keys to restart flow.”
Lys lifts her wrist, revealing slender picks hidden in her cuff seam. “Keys mean nothing when locks crumble.” She winks.
Tasks finalized, we break. Alrik lingers, hands worry-worn. “Iliana,” he begins, voice low, “whispers claim you share Varok’s bed. They wonder where your loyalty lies.”
Heat floods my cheeks. “My loyalty stays with freedom.”
“Yet freedom demands distance from chains—including gilded ones,” he presses, not unkind.
I steady my breath. “Distance is a luxury we cannot afford. Influence gained from proximity weaves threads you cannot yet see. Trust me: the tapestry will hold.”
His shoulders relax a fraction. “Then we trust.” He nods and departs.
Alone, I sink onto a crate, fingers trembling. Every rumor tests my rope-bridge between worlds. I love Varok—that truth has roots too deep to ignore—yet love cannot eclipse responsibility. I grip the pendant at my throat, grounding myself.
Footsteps approach. I rise as Garrik steps into the doorway, military bearing crisp in every stride.
“Dominus requests your presence at the archery terrace,” he states.
“Now?”
“Midday.” His gaze flicks to my dusty boots. “Dress warm; the winds shift.”
He leaves. I recall Varok’s bruises last night, the chain burns hidden by his collar. A swell of protectiveness surges. Tightening my cloak, I head toward the terrace.
The archeryterrace juts from the fortress wall, open to a sheer drop. Target banners flutter against snow-touched peaks across the chasm. Varok stands at the rail, coat flapping like dark wings. He holds a short recurved bow, but no arrow is nocked.
When I step onto the stone, the wind whips my hood back. He turns, eyes rimmed with fatigue yet shining at my arrival.
“I needed air and thought of you,” he says.
“Air I can grant,” I reply, joining him.
He passes the bow. “Draw.”
I raise a brow but comply, setting an arrow onto the string. The pull strains my shoulders; the bow sings when I release, the shaft piercing the outer ring of a target fifty paces away.
“Adequate,” he says, lips hinting at humor.
He nocks another arrow, this one barbed with copper filaments. “Signal shaft,” he explains. “Tomorrow night I will fire these above the eclipse crowd. The filaments will open conduits to your resonance nets.”
My heart beats faster. “A spectacle of light and sound.”
“Or pandemonium.” He lowers the bow. “If the nets fail, the king will unleash the chains again.”
“They will hold,” I insist.
Silence stretches. At last he speaks, voice almost shy. “When Asmodeus asked if I love you, I answered yes. He will use that confession against us.”
I rest a hand on his arm, feeling tension beneath the cloth. “Love becomes liability only if hidden. Let them see it.”
