Page 62 of Burning Her Beautiful
We stay there until the bells quiet, letting the sun bake fear from our bones. Each breath tastes of iron and jasmine and distant bakery sugar—an odd mixture marking the birth of a new era.
Later, we return to the council chamber to sign the amended charter. Yalira guides the quill in Iliana’s hand while glyphs still flare with light. As the final stroke dries, the parchment shivers then calms, as if settling under the weight of destiny.
At dusk, a feast erupts in the royal garden. Musicians from both upper terraces and river quarters blend instruments—lute with drum, horn with reed. I dance only once, pulling Iliana into a slow spin among the roses while torches scatter sparks above. She laughs, that sound chiming like crystal. For a heartbeat the world narrows to that laugh and the fragrance of bloom.
Night deepens; stars reflect in the palace pond. I stand with Garrik near the perimeter, scanning shadows by habit. He nudges me. “Stormborn, you realize you outranked half these lords before midday—now half bow to you.”
“I prefer them standing,” I answer. “Harder to stab when kneeling? Perhaps. But easier to hold accountable.”
He chuckles. “Duty never leaves.”
“No,” I agree. “But neither does hope.”
Iliana appears, entwining her fingers with mine. “Come. They want a toast.” She drags me toward the dais where Asmodeus lifts a jeweled goblet. He speaks of unity—of faith in change. When he finishes and the crowd drinks, he passes the goblet to me.
I raise it. “Courage is not absence of fear but the decision that love outranks it.” I turn, offering the goblet to Iliana. Shetouches the rim to her lips, then raises it to the assembly. Applause rings.
The feast roars on, but we eventually slip away—up a spiral staircase to the tower where a night breeze cools heated skin. We lean against a parapet, city lights sprawled below like a river of embers.
Iliana inhales. “Do you think Oltyx will return?”
“Only if we falter.” I brush her hair aside, revealing faint glyphs. “And we will not.”
We stand in silence, hearts beating a calm cadence. Clouds drift, revealing a full moon. I remember that childhood sunrise I told her last night: colors bathing the peaks. This moonrise mirrors that wonder, silver washing a city grown strange and new.
I pull her close, hand on the small of her back. “The Accord named you guardian of dawn.”
“And you sentinel of the bridge,” she reminds me, resting her head on my shoulder.
“Bridges stand when stones interlock,” I say. “My stone against yours.”
Below, bells toll the final hour. Gates close, yet possibilities open wide. In the quiet I feel a swirl of gratitude—toward Garrik, toward Yalira, even toward Asmodeus, who surrendered pride for the realm’s good, and most toward the unfathomable Herald who saw worth in an unlikely pair.
Iliana turns in my embrace, lips brushing mine. The kiss is soft, free of urgency, flavored with the promise of mornings to come. She whispers against my mouth, “Tomorrow we start repair.”
“And tonight we hold each other,” I finish.
Inside, the fire waits in the hearth. Its glow flickers on parchment still wet with the charter seal, on armor stackedneatly by the wall, and on two cups of honey-wine left by thoughtful attendants. I pour and pass a cup. She raises hers.
“To bridges,” she says.
“To dawn,” I answer.
We drink, savor sweetness, then place cups aside. No further words are needed. Outside, the city hums restful under the new law. Inside, we begin the future with steady hearts and open hands, ready to guide the flame into an era no lineage scroll ever dared imagine.
I look once more through the window. Clouds part, revealing a star that streaks across the void—its trail bright and brief. I follow its arc until it fades beyond the horizon. Hope is a streak that blazes, then leaves the darkness brighter because it passed.
I turn back to Iliana, the glow of the fire dancing in her eyes. She reaches; I step into her embrace. Together we face the warmth of the hearth and the new chapter waiting beyond dawn.
22
ILIANA
Morning breaks over Galmoleth like a soft ribbon of rose-gold satin, and for the first time since I arrived in this city of marble and fire, the air does not taste of fear. It tastes of new parchment drying in the courtyard sun, of bread ovens set alight for a festival rather than for rations, of honeysuckle that climbs the south wall—now left unmuzzled by smoke. I stand on the balcony outside our shared tower chamber and let the breeze carry these scents through my hair. Far below, masons work swift magic, chiseling old demon runes from the eastern gate and replacing them with intertwined sigils that echo the glyph Oltyx sealed across my collarbone: twin spirals, one angled like a horn, the other curved like a human ear.
I shift the gauzy robe about my shoulders and glance inside. Varok still sleeps, sprawled across the bed in tangled sheets, an arm flung toward the place my body occupied hours ago. The glow of dawn limns the ridges of his shoulders, the curve of a black horn, and the faint silver traceries Oltyx’s blessing burned along his spine. The sight draws a smile that warms my entire chest. I watch his breathing—slow and even—and thank every unseen deity for this peace.
A polite cough drifts from the doorway. Lys hovers with a tray balanced on her palms. “Envoy,” she says, though her grin softens the honorific. “Stewed fig and barley cakes. And an official summons.” She nudges a folded parchment with her elbow before setting the tray on the vanity.
