Page 49 of Burning Her Beautiful
The first note is low and resonant, vibrating the stone beneath my boots. The crowd quiets. I draw the signal shaft, notch it, and set my feet shoulder-width. The second note rises, threaded with a tremor of tension.
I exhale, draw back, sight into the thickening cloud shelf. The moon veils three-quarters of the sun; strange dusk floods the city. I release.
The arrow arcs silver through air, a comet of intent. At its peak, it blossoms into seven strands that hiss outward, invisible filaments felt rather than seen. My runes flare, guiding energy to anchors hidden in the city walls. A muffled boom rings as the web ignites.
Iliana’s voice lifts to a third, brighter note. Clouds ripple above, lightning flickering yet bending sideways—reined like startled stallions. A collective sigh rises from the terraces.
Then chaos enters.
From the east stair, a figure in guard livery draws a crossbow and fires at the tower gears. The bolt thuds into the brass mechanism; sparks skitter; gears jam. The platform lurches.Iliana stumbles, cloak whipping. Another rogue guard leaps onto the rampart walkway near me, brandishing a curved blade.
My heart detonates with protective fury.
He charges, blade aimed at my ribs. I parry with the bow, wood cracking. I yank a dagger from my belt and slam the hilt into his jaw. He reels. I pivot, kick him over the battlement. He tumbles; his scream cuts short. Crowd screams echo.
I pivot again to the tower. The platform judders; gears shriek metal agony. Iliana grips the rail, maintaining her hum though the note wavers. Lightning above flicks unpredictable.
“Sappers to the tower gears!” I bellow at royal engineers, but many duck—cowards. I sprint along the rampart, leaping a gap to an adjacent rooftop, boots skidding on clay tiles. Wind knifes across my face.
Below, half-blood nobles attempt order. King Asmodeus rises in his royal box atop the dais, expression carved from stone, eyes smoldering. He will view this as Iliana’s failing, regardless of sabotage. My chest burns.
I reach a maintenance ladder and race down, three rungs at a time. At the tower base, rogue guards block access, blades out. They wear Velinth insignia on their bracers. Two crossbows level at my heart.
“Step aside or die,” I warn.
They hesitate only a breath. Bolts fly. I dive, roll, feel one shaft pass inches from my ear. I surge forward, bring the dagger across the first guard’s thigh, severing the tendon. He crumples. The second guard swings. I catch his wrist, twist until bone snaps. He howls. I ram a knee into his stomach; he spits blood.
Iliana’s hum falters—audible even here. Lightning stabs the ground outside the amphitheater; thunder shakes windows.
I slam my heel into the door. Hinges rip free. Inside, a gear teeters—metal teeth grind, locked by the bolt lodged deep. I leaponto the platform base and grab the wheel. “Hold your breath,” I call upward.
She sees me through the slats, nods, voice hitching. With one free hand I grip the bolt, pry with the dagger tip. Metal squeals but refuses. Adrenaline surges; I channel raw force through the runes into my fingers. Heat builds; metal softens. I wrench. Bolt snaps. Gears unlock; the platform stabilizes.
Iliana’s note steadies, climbs into a pure tone. Lightning obeys, sheathing itself into glowing whorls above.
Relief crashes. Yet something inside me snaps too. I climb the ladder onto the platform, ignoring protocol. Crowd gasps at the breach of ceremony. I stride to her, pull her against my chest with one arm while the other raises my blade toward the sky.
“Touch her again and Galmoleth burns,” I roar, my voice amplified by the resonance stones hidden in the dais days ago. It booms across every tier, echoing like the wrath of gods.
Silence swallows the amphitheater. Even thunder hushes. My declaration reverberates: not a commander’s order, but a lover’s vow—raw and dangerous.
Across the plaza, Asmodeus stands, arms crossed. His gaze pins me—fury, calculation, intrigue. I do not yield. I place a kiss on Iliana’s brow before tens of thousands. Murmurs swell into shocked clamor.
Iliana does not flinch. She places a hand over my heart, the pendant glowing bright. She turns to the crowd, voice clear although she does not shout.
“We protect this city together,” she states. “Storm bows to harmony, not division.”
The resonance stones carry her calm deeper than my threat. The crowd listens, breaths synchronizing.
Above, the moon finishes its conquest. The sun becomes a ring of fire; darkness settles. Stars blink in midday. Iliana hums a final chord. The lightning web contracts, becoming a luminousaurora dancing over rooftops. Awe replaces fear. Someone begins to applaud. It spreads like ripples, rising to a thunderous roar.
She lowers her arms, sagging slightly. I hold her steady. Tears glimmer on her lashes—joy, relief, sorrow at the necessity of such display.
As applause booms, I face the king’s box and bow—not in subservience, but in open challenge: recognition of his power, yet a declaration of my own. The king inclines his head a mere fraction, lips curled, message unreadable.
We descend as sunlight creeps back, gold washing the city in renewed light. At the base, engineers and scribes babble analysis, but they part like water around us. Garrik appears, eyes wide.
“That declaration…” he whispers.
