Page 43 of Burning Her Beautiful
He exhales, astonished. “You would claim a public bond?”
“When freed slaves and half-blood nobles unite, they need a symbol—not a collar, not a decree—something living that proves power and compassion coexist.” My voice softens. “We embody that, if we choose.”
He presses his forehead to mine, wind stilled around us. “Then after the eclipse, we announce the alliance.”
I close my eyes. Fear and hope intertwine. “After the eclipse.”
A horn blares from the lower ramparts: shift change. We step apart, yet the invisible tether remains.
“I return to the gallery,” I say.
“Garrik will escort you after the tasks.”
We share small smiles. I head back through the castle, mind juggling logistics and heart-songs.
Evening descendsunder violet clouds bruising the sky. Sael’s sabotage halts the dye shaft; frantic overseers chase phantom malfunctions while Yalira secures council dismissal of Sarivya’s sponsors. Progress tastes sweet. Yet in the concourse tension thickens—slaves whisper of tomorrow’s eclipse, fearing divine wrath and royal punishment alike. I climb onto a soap crate, cloak swirling, voice rising louder than the clanging vats.
“Storms approach,” I declare, “but we now shape the wind. Tomorrow the sky will darken, yet beneath it we stand unbound. Varok fights on the council floor, but vines sprout only because you tend the seeds. Do not shrink when shadows fall; raise your hum—the low note, the minor third, whatever frequency you carry. When our net hums, the sky answers.”
Eyes widen—some doubtful, others shining. Jonn thumps a fist to his chest; Sael hums softly, joined by Lys. The tune spreads, a living current sparking hope.
An overseer’s shout breaks the moment, but workers scatter efficiently, routines intact. The overseer glares, yet finds no fault: vats still churn. Under that noise the hum persists like a heartbeat.
Night cloaks Galmoleth.I slip into Varok’s library through the secret passage behind a tapestry. He sits at the desk, face illuminated by a rune-lit globe, parchment litter mapping lightning arcs. When he looks up, weariness melts.
“Dye shipment delayed,” I report.
He leans back, folding his hands. “You wield sabotage like a surgeon.”
“We wield,” I correct. “Slaves, miners, half-blood allies. You risk the crown’s ire; we risk chains. Equal stakes.”
“Equal,” he echoes, standing. He lifts my hand, brushing knuckles. “You glow with stormfire.”
I laugh softly. “Stormfire demands rest. We both should sleep.”
He gestures to the couch beside the hearth. Flames crackle gentle warmth. We sit, shoulders touching. Silence deepens but feels safe. He unlaces gauntlets, revealing faint remnants of chain burns. I trace one mark lightly. He closes his eyes, breath hitching.
“We will outrun his chains,” I whisper.
“We will break them,” he amends, voice husky.
I rest my head on his shoulder, inhaling cedar and ink. My eyes droop, but before sleep overtakes, I murmur, “Whatever tomorrow brings, we share the burden.”
His arm encircles my waist. “Together,” he promises.
In the glow of the coals, hope breathes with us. Plans stand ready, hearts aligned. Eclipse looms—but beneath its shadow, roots burrow fierce and deep, waiting to push stone aside in a bloom of lightning-touched petals.
15
VAROK
Midnight walks the corridors as a restless companion, filling alcoves with moving dark. I drift through those shadows like a ghost who has lost the map back to his bones. Every torch, every window arch, carries memories I cannot escape: a collar bursting like fireworks, chains sinking into flesh beneath the king’s throne, Iliana’s vow that her song will calm the coming eclipse. These moments should steady me; instead they circle inside my chest, grinding against one another until sparks ignite a fear I barely understand.
I should pore over contingency charts or refine the signal shafts that must fire tomorrow. Instead I find myself outside the door to Iliana’s chamber, breath caught halfway between courage and shame. The impulse that leads me here blindsides me. It is not hunger for dominance, not a desire to mark her skin with proof that she is mine. I seek warmth—reassurance—the quiet that gathers only when her heartbeat steadies beside my own.
Yet the door remains shut, and etiquette dictates that I turn away and let her rest before the challenge we face. I lift my hand anyway, knuckles hovering near the wood. The breath I drawtastes of cedar smoke and regret. I lower my hand, retreat two steps, then stop because leaving feels like snapping something delicate.
The latch clicks. The door opens a finger-width. A sliver of lamplight spills across the hall, warm and drowsy. Her voice follows, low and rough with interrupted dreams. “Varok? Are you hurt?”
