Page 64 of Burning Her Beautiful
We complete the circuit and then slip away to a courtyard fountain. Lilies float, their perfume mild. Varok traces the water with a fingertip. “A ceremony for our union must come soon. Not for politics—for us.”
Heat blooms in my cheeks. “Soon,” I echo. “But something humbler than a marble cathedral—perhaps the cliff above the river where our song first rose?”
He chuckles. “You choose the view; I’ll bring the vows.”
Laughter dances between us, light and free.
The day progresses with relentless meetings. At sunset I retreat to a study to draft decrees. Candle-light warms the pages. Varok enters with a tray of roasted roots and citrus stew. We eat, discussing patrol schedules and festival plans. Conversation drifts to trivial joys: new harp strings for me, fresh training pikes for recruits, a stray cat that has adopted the tower stables.
Night deepens. I set my quill down, stretching my spine. Varok lifts me from the chair and carries me to a cushioned window seat. The city below glows with lanterns, like constellations migrated to earth. Drifts of choral song waft up—harmonies we taught the river folk blending with horn trills of temple acolytes.
I lay my head on his chest. His heartbeat thrums steady, an anchor. “Earlier, fear whispered I might lose myself inside these titles,” I admit. “Yet each time I speak, I feel more myself.”
“Because the titles rise from who you already were,” he says. “Not the reverse.”
I glide fingers along the silver runes on his arm. “And you, captain who once refused the crown for truth?”
“I feel lighter without the weight of false obedience.” He kisses my hair. “You wrote freedom into my marrow.”
We sit in quiet until the bells mark midnight. He stands, offering a hand. “Bed.” His smile holds a gentle command. I follow, stepping out of my shoes and slipping off my robe. We lie beneath the linen sheet. He pulls me close, the nape of my neck cradled by his palm. I study the lines of his face: a strong jaw, a scar beneath the left brow, lashes dark against moonlit skin. Awe rises—how far we have traveled from that dungeon corridor where he forced bread to my lips, pretending indifference to the flicker in his eyes.
He brushes a thumb along the glyph on my collarbone. “Does it ache?”
“No. It hums.”
“Sing for me, then,” he whispers.
I part my lips, releasing a low lullaby my mother taught in orchard summers. Notes weave softness. His eyes close, breath slowing. I trail fingers through his hair, marveling at tenderness once hidden by armor. The song fades into hush.
He opens his eyes again, voice rough. “Tomorrow the world begins a new ledger. Let us fill the first page with promise.”
“What promise?”
“That we’ll argue with honesty, protect without restraint, and love without condition.” He lifts my hand, kissing each fingertip. “I vow this.”
Tears gather. “I vow to question when doubt arises, to steady when storms return, and to celebrate every small victory.” I press my forehead to his. “So vowed.”
We drift into sleep.
I wake before dawn,slipping from his arms to navigate the corridor alone: chorus practice. In Echo Hall, I stand at the polished-marble center where architecture doubles each word. I inhale and release a steady tone. My voice meets stone, returns richer, layering until the hall thrums. At the final sustain, the glyph glows. High windows blaze gold. A new day arrives.
Footsteps echo. Asmodeus enters, cloak trailing. I bow, but he raises a hand. “No bow needed, Envoy.” His smile is thin but genuine. “I come not as king, but as a craftsman of state seeking a teacher. Show me how to wield harmony.”
Shock stills me, but then I nod. I guide him through breathing and resonance. He follows—rigid at first, then loosening. Notes mingle: an old ruler and a new envoy shaping a chord uncomplicated by pride. When the final tone fades, silence feels alive with possibility.
He inclines his head. “Gratitude.”
I smile. “The lesson continues any time.”
He departs. I exhale, heart lifting. If a king can seek guidance, perhaps the path ahead is less jagged.
Later, Varok and I meet Garrik at the training yard where mixed recruits spar. We watch a human girl slip under a demon boy’s strike, wooden staff tapping his knee. Laughter erupts; I cheer, and they grin, pride unhidden.
After drills, teams gather. Varok gestures. “Envoy, share a word.”
I face them. “Harmony is not the absence of clash; it is the willingness to listen until dissonance becomes a chord.” I raise a staff, demonstrating a measure we learned from sky lizards—an arc that deflects without breaking an opponent. They mimic, creating a rhythm of thuds and cries. Hope plugs my throat.
As the recruits disperse, a courier rushes up with a rolled parchment bound by a purple ribbon—an invitation from House Lumet to host a joint harvest festival led by children from all castes. I grin and hand it to Varok. He kisses my temple. “Your diary will soon burst.”
