Page 54 of Burning Her Beautiful
“I know,” I answer. “Sentinel pigeons carry news faster than whispers tonight.”
“Rumors multiply all the same,” he says, falling into step beside me. “Half the guard claims Asmodeus prepares charges.The rest swear he wants to promote you back to general, just to save face.”
I huff a low laugh. “He wants neither. He wants blood—but prefers to see whether the taste will be mine or the council’s before he bites.”
Marble balustrades glide past. Below, terraces spark with lanterns shaped like open scrolls—citizens celebrating the charter debate Yalira forced onto the docket. They do not know how that vote will land tomorrow, yet hope spins them in circles. Their song of last night still echoes in wind-tunnels, the faint hum brushing my ears. That resonance fuels me now.
We cross the bridge to the keep gate. Iron-glaive sentinels salute, eyes flicking to the insignia of the Sky Harmony Guard on my collar. They are still not used to seeing that crest on a demon commander, but they drop their halberds in deference. Garrik stops there; protocol demands I enter the throne wing alone. One look from him speaks all advice unsaid: keep temper sheathed and heart visible.
Inside, passageways wind like arteries of a stone beast, lit by dragon-glass sconces that tinge walls blue. I pass portraits of ancient kings—faces hardened by conquest. No portrait shows a monarch smiling. Perhaps tonight will shatter more than council laws.
The Red Hall doors loom, carved cedar inlaid with rubies that glimmer like fresh wounds. Two Stormbound Knights cross twin spears barring entrance. I raise my hand; runes along my knuckles spark. They retreat, pushing the doors open. Heat billows out—scent of brazier coals and spiced resin.
Asmodeus stands before the central flame pit, a cloak of midnight scale draping to the floor, horns braided with iron cuffs. He turns—molten eyes locking on me as the doors thud shut behind. His tail flicks once, a sign of coiled patience.
“Captain Varok,” he greets, slow and measured. “You kept me waiting.”
“I had petitions to read,” I reply with equal calm. “The people speak louder than marble tonight.”
He circles the fire, hands clasped behind his back. “The people speak because you give them permission. You raise a human slave to envoy and dare nobles to bristle.” His voice drips curiosity, but embers of anger pulse beneath.
“I raise her because she earned that rise—because this city needs her voice.” I step closer, boots echoing. “Because you, Majesty, need truth unsweetened by fear.”
His laugh rumbles deep, echoing against scarlet tiles. “Truth. A malleable trinket.” He gestures to a low obsidian table where a stack of documents waits. “Council petitions to revoke Yalira’s charter stand here. They request my seal. I consider them. You can imagine their contents.”
“I can,” I say softly. “What is your vote?”
“That depends.” He lifts one scroll, flicking the wax seal with a claw. “Your attachment complicates matters. If I banish Iliana, the populace may riot, claiming I crush a symbol of hope. If I spare her, nobles claim I appease cowards. Either path dims my crown.”
I cross my arms over my chest. “There is a third path.”
“Ah.” He raises a brow. “Do enlighten your king.”
“Accept Iliana’s role, and accept my public bond with her. Present the partnership as a strategic alliance that melds demon might with human innovation.” I hold his gaze. “The empire will call it visionary.”
“Or call it treachery,” he counters, tossing the scroll aside—parchment fluttering. “Rumors say you intend to wed the Dawn-Singer. Where does loyalty to the throne linger in such a union?”
“My loyalty stands here.” I tap a fist over my brand. “It forged under your command years before this debate. You taughtme power demands sacrifice. Today my sacrifice is title, ease—perhaps life—to secure Galmoleth’s evolution instead of its demise.”
Flames crackle. He steps closer—towering, though we share height. “Speak plain: do you claim her as consort?”
I set my shoulders, feel heart steady. “I do. Before king, sky, and every ancestor in these walls—Iliana is my chosen mate in soul and purpose.”
The admission rings out, bold and irrevocable. Heat rushes my face, not in shame but in relief: chains of secrecy splinter.
Asmodeus’s eyes narrow, gleaming like magma starved for a vent. “In ancient law, a consort binds not just bed, but house and land. You would tether my northern shields to a mortal woman’s whim?”
“To a mortal woman who commands lightning, voice, and the hearts of your subjects.” I uncross my arms, open my palms. “Deny that strength and the throne fractures.”
He studies me, tail lashing. “You risk civil war for romance.”
“I risk civil war to prevent a greater one. Contain these changes now—guide them—and you keep the crown secure. Suppress them and a storm of resentment will raze walls no lightning ever touched.”
Silence yawns. Flames bend sideways in a draft, hissing. He turns back to the pit, gaze on coals. Long moments stretch. I breathe slow—ready for a swinging blade.
At length he speaks, voice softer yet more dangerous. “You have learned the strategist’s art well, Varok: twist love into a lever. But machines strain with every extra cog. If this bond fails, my city bleeds.”
“It will not fail,” I promise—conviction thrumming through every scar and rune.
