Page 53 of Burning Her Beautiful
Hours pass in ink scrawl, page flipping, messenger pigeons dispatched. At dusk Lys brings food—honeyed figs, cheese rounds, crusty bread. We eat at the table, still debating clause verbiage.
Mid-bite a messenger bursts in, breathless. “Matron Yalira requests your presence at the river amphitheater. Urgent.”
Varok sets the bread down, muscles tightening. Garrik signals two guards. I rise, stacking papers. “Coming.”
The river amphitheaterlies in the lower tier, carved into the cliff along a rushing cataract. Lanterns line terraces, but the crowd appears smaller—mostly half-blood artisans and human workers. Yalira stands on the central stage, silhouette lit by torches. When we reach her, she beckons us close.
“Senator Tovor plots an emergency vote to strip my title,” she says quietly. “He claims impurity violates the charter. We must preempt.”
“By rallying the populace,” I realize.
“Tonight,” she confirms. “Your song carries weight.”
Varok glances at the crowd, then at me. I step onto the stage with Yalira, heart thundering. She addresses the gathering first, recounting her heritage and the council’s defiance. Murmurs of outrage shift to solidarity; whistles of support rise.
When she gestures to me, I inhale, letting the river’s roar settle my nerves. “Galmoleth stands at a crossroads,” I call. “Do we measure worth by ancient ink on lineage scrolls, or by how we lift one another when lightning falls?”
Torches flicker in the updraft, reflecting in a hundred eyes. I unfasten my cloak clasp, letting copper vines catch the firelight. “My blood is human, yet the sky answered my voice because Ihonored harmony. Yalira’s blood is blended, yet her wisdom fed hungry districts. Varok wields thunder, but sets it aside to shield the weak. These truths speak louder than pedigree.”
A cheer swells. I lift both palms. “Tomorrow the council debates the equality charter. They will watch who stands with us. Let song travel tonight—from workshops, from mines, from kitchens—until marble walls tremble.”
Someone begins the miner-scale hum. Others join. A wave of resonance flows across the amphitheater, through pipes, and into distant alleys. My pendant glows brighter, the stone resonating with collective hope.
I let vibrations wash through bone, knit sinew, renew resolve. When the song fades, I see tears on faces once hardened by labor. Hope glitters like starlight on water.
Varok steps beside me, resting his hand low on my back—silent approval. Garrik announces safe routes home; guard escorts form a protective ring.
On a walkway above the amphitheater, I spot Senator Tovor watching, jaw tight. He withdraws hastily. Fear? Perhaps. But change rarely marches unopposed.
Night deepens.Back in the library, candles sputter as we anchor charter clauses to legal precedent, weaving language both precise and poetic. Varok copies the final articles in immaculate script. Yalira stamps each with her new crest.
At dawn’s first blush, we tie the scrolls with blue ribbon and dispatch couriers to every council seat. Varok leans back, shoulders rolling. He looks at me across the littered table—ink smears, crumb-strewn plates, maps askew.
“You rewrote the city’s heartbeat,” he murmurs.
“We rewrote it,” I correct, sliding my fingers over his. “But the final chords are still ahead.”
His thumb strokes my knuckle. “Whatever storm they send, I will meet it at your side.”
I squeeze his hand, gaze drifting to the window where sunrise paints clouds rose and gold. Yesterday I woke a slave. Today I rise an envoy shaping law. Tomorrow I may stand a target again, yet I no longer move alone, nor in shadow. Yalira’s courage lights the path, Varok’s devotion fortifies it, and the city itself hums an anthem of rebirth.
A knock interrupts reflection. Garrik enters, face bright. “Council convenes at the tenth bell. Your charter tops the agenda.”
I inhale a steady breath, rising. “Then let’s greet history.”
Varok falls into step as we leave the library, parchment bundle cradled like a fragile dawn. The palace corridors buzz, but fear no longer lives in my bones; anticipation does. Each stride echoes evolution—Iliana the captive, Iliana the storm-tamer, and now Iliana the law-bearer. The pendant warms against my sternum, pulse in sync with my heart.
As we approach the assembly doors, Varok whispers, “Whatever the verdict, our story continues.”
I smile, pushing the doors inward. “Together we will write every chapter.”
19
VAROK
Istride through the eastern cloister with moonlight splashing silver across obsidian tiles, the night scents of jasmine and furnace smoke mixing in strange harmony. Armor creaks at my shoulders, yet under the new charcoal leather beats a heart quieter than it has been in days. Not calmer—never that—but steadier, tempered by the vow that guides each step. I will stand before Asmodeus and plant my flag where none of his generals, hunters, or high priests ever dared to plant it. I will name Iliana as mine—not as property, nor as trophy, but as an equal flame to match my own.
Garrik waits at the vaulted arch that opens onto the high bridge crossing from the Sky-Guard barracks to the royal keep. Torchlight paints ridges across his horns. He offers a short bow. “The council session broke an hour ago. The king summoned you to the Red Hall.”
