Page 9 of Burning Her Beautiful
First, the balcony. Wind has eased since dusk, trading its teeth for a steady sigh that threads through every crack in the stone balustrade. Lightning flares far beneath, revealing murky rivers of cloud and dark spires jutting from Galmoleth’s underbelly. I test the height of the archway, fingers searching for hidden levers or seams. Only flawless basalt answers. The rail remains slick with stray mist. Even if I dared climb again, my options remain drop or surrender.
Back inside I circle the bedchamber perimeter, tapping every panel, pressing against carved vines in the wainscoting. When a segment near the fireplace gives a whisper of hollow feedback, hope flares. I kneel, tracing the design—a serpent swallowing its own tail. The motif repeats along the entire frieze, but only this one section rings hollow. I search for a catch and find none.
I rise, scan shelves weighed down with ivory boxes. Inside one I discover bundles of charcoal sticks, soft parchment sheets trimmed with silver thread. Another holds a cluster of iridescent stones—focal crystals Varok uses to channel chaos. I tuck a single sliver the shape of a tear into my braid, careful not to nick scalp. A weapon? Maybe. Or a key if I learn how to coax its energy.
The hollow panel still teases. I lift the iron poker from the hearth and pry gently at the edge. The carved serpent refuses to budge. A rueful breath escapes. Patience, my mother would say. Stone tells its story only when the chisel listens. I run my palm over the serpent’s head and retreat for now.
A low chime echoes beyond the door. Moments later the rune brightens from ash to ruby, and the latch clicks. No knock precedes Varok’s entrance. He strides in, cloak billowing around powerful strides, and the room seems to shrink. The library lesson ended hours ago, yet evidence of our practice lingers:chalk spills across a low table, the sigil rod rests beside an extinguished lamp, and faint violet trails still ghost along my forearms where lines of fake power once glowed.
He halts mid-step, gaze sweeping the chamber. His eyes land on my bare feet, climb my borrowed cloak, then flick to the poker still clutched loosely in my grip. Amusement edges his mouth. “Planning rebellion with a hearth tool?”
“Improvisation,” I answer. “A virtue on the surface.”
“Useful here as well.” He approaches the table, runs one fingertip through the chalk dust. Tiny sparks flit up from the contact, dancing toward his skin before fading. “You have not slept.”
“Neither have you.”
He lifts his shoulders. “Rest is luxury. Not habit.” His gaze seeks mine, intent yet not aggressive. The lamps set facets of silver aglow in those metallic irises. He looks less a demon lord and more a sleepless scholar, though the runes beneath his skin pulse with undiminished threat.
I lower the poker but do not set it down. “Does the king plan to visit before dawn?”
“No. He has retired to weigh petitions.” Varok clasps his hands behind his back, attention sharpening. “You explore, yet the room remains unbreached. Tell me what you have learned.”
Blunt request. “Walls hold no seams,” I say. “Door sigil requires your command. Balcony leads to death quicker than your blade. The fireplace vent narrows after six feet, then angles downward. I doubt lungs can withstand the smoke.”
He nods, unsurprised. “Anything else?”
“The wainscoting near the hearth rings hollow.”
His brows lift, intrigued. He kneels, presses the serpent carving. A panel slides aside, revealing a niche the size of a small cupboard. Inside rests a shallow black box bound by bands of pale metal. He exhales a soft hum. “I forgot this vault exists.”
I lean closer. “What lies within?”
“A memory,” he answers, voice almost gentle. He does not open the box. Instead he pushes the panel back into place and stands. “Your curiosity rivals mine.” Attention flicks to the sliver of crystal woven into my braid. “You stole a shard.”
“You left temptation in plain sight.” I straighten. “It gleams. I collect small, sharp things.”
He steps forward, fingers lifting to brush the shard. I brace, but the touch never lands; his hand hovers a breath away from my braid, then falls. “Keep it,” he says quietly. “If it empowers, use it.”
The permission unsettles. Despots crave control; Varok offers a weapon. Why? I swallow questions. “Your turn,” I say. “What have you learned since the Sanctum?”
His expression cools, lines around his mouth tensing. “Sarivya scents weakness,” he admits. “Tonight she lobbied half the high council to press for my removal as ritual master.”
“Because you spared me.”
“Because I hesitated,” he says, accepting the brand without protest. “Demons equate hesitation with rot.” He steps toward the hearth, stirs embers. “In political games, one exploits rot until the structure collapses or is rebuilt stronger.”
“Which path do you choose?”
His gaze snaps back, alive with dark resolve. “Rebuild.” The single word vibrates with intent. A flicker of pride stirs in my chest, swiftly followed by caution. Building something new might crush those trapped beneath the scaffolding.
The fire pops, scattering sparks that swirl between us before fading. Varok draws breath. “You explored the room. Explore me now.”
I blink. “I beg your pardon.”
“I require your perspective.” He moves to the low table and gestures for me to sit opposite. I obey, cloak pooling aroundmy legs. He pours tea from a silver vessel into two cups. The brew releases steam scented with cinnamon and bark. He waits until I sip before he speaks. “My failure in the Sanctum offered my enemies leverage. I must regain control without drawing suspicion to our ruse. You observe court from a unique perch—one both low and dangerously visible.” He studies me over the rim of his cup. “Tell me how they will strike next.”
The request feels genuine. I set my cup aside, gather thoughts. “Sarivya craves spectacle,” I say. “She will not challenge you in a closed chamber; she’ll engineer a scene where her accusation lands like an arrow before witnesses.”
