Page 10 of Burning Her Beautiful

ILIANA

I dream of vines blooming above a cloud-drowned world.

They unfurl in cracks of marble, scale crystal chandeliers, weave luminous tunnels through midnight air.

When petals burst open they release a hush so heavy it steals my breath.

At the heart of one blossom stands Varok, clad in shadow and shimmer, watching me with molten eyes as if I alone decide whether dawn rises.

The hush fractures with a knock on my door.

I jolt awake, pulse sprinting. Candlelight from a candelabrum on the low dresser throws spike-shaped shadows across the ceiling.

My borrowed chamber feels larger after last night’s spectacle, as though the walls breathed in awe and never exhaled.

The knock repeats, softer. A servant, no doubt, come to tend the fire.

I answer, voice still husky from sleep. When the girl enters—no older than my brother would be, had he lived—she sets a tray beside the library couch where I fell asleep reading Varok’s treatise on resonant stones. She bows without meeting my gaze.

“Thank you.” I wait until she glances up before I offer a smile. “What’s your name?”

Her eyes widen, one brown, one hazel—mixed blood, maybe. “Sael,” she whispers.

“How long have you served here, Sael?”

“Since I was traded from the lower mines, my lady.”

Lady. The word lands heavy, but I nod. She turns as if to hurry out. “Wait,” I say. “Are you treated well?”

She stills, shoulders stiff. After a beat she nods, though the gesture carries hesitation.

Fear lingers at the edges of her expression.

I cannot promise safety, but I can hold her gaze until some faint ember of comfort sparks.

Eventually she dips another curt bow and slips out, closing the door soundlessly.

I stare after her, guilt blooming. The ballroom vines might have awed nobles, but servants’ chains remain. A show of beauty does not feed hungry or quell cruelty. Remember that, I tell myself as I stretch muscles sore from yesterday’s training and last night’s tension.

On the tray sits tea tinted rose by pressed citrus peel, a dish of soft cheese drizzled with pistachio honey, and a note weighted by a polished agate cube. I free the slip.

Your performance grew silent watchers. Do not open the balcony curtains until I return. V.

A single consonant, but it pricks nerves. Silent watchers. I shift, scan every shadow dancing on paneled walls. Floorboards creak above. Someone patrols the hall outside. Varok left a ward, yet spies wear invisible faces here.

I pour tea, let steam caress cheeks while I pace the carpet, replaying the night.

Varok’s warmth tracing my jaw, the sincerity in his vow to follow me through any shattered wall, the way petals glowed violet when my hum met his magic.

Each memory sends heat gliding through veins.

Yet I recall, too, the dull eyes of pearl-collared humans at Sarivya’s party, the way their shoulders slumped beneath decorative chains.

Freedom for me means nothing if others remain trophies.

Several hours pass in restless planning.

I comb through Varok’s treatise, making notes in the margins with charcoal.

Resonant crystals can amplify subtle voices underground, like the hum of trapped water or shifting fault lines.

Could that same principle magnify a mortal’s heartbeat?

Perhaps the Sanctum could mistake amplified rhythm for divine echo.

The thought sparks excitement, but it relies on access to stones and silence. For now, I study.

Knuckles rap on the door again—heavy this time. Varok’s voice, smooth as late-night embers. I hide the annotated treatise under pillows before admitting him.

He enters wearing a deep blue coat that buttons high on sculpted chest, sleeves ending in wide cuffs.

His hair is tied back in a tighter knot than usual, horns polished to a mirror shine.

Under lamplight the coat sheen shifts like storm water.

He looks composed. Polished. Yet fatigue shadows his eyes, faint lines near the corners, as though he folded half-dreams into corners of his study instead of sleeping.

His gaze sweeps me—loose amber blouse, knee-length trousers of black wool, bare feet curling on the rug—and some of that composure melts. “You should be resting,” he says.

“I should be many things,” I reply. “Certainty rarely joins the list.”

A smile hovers, then fades as he crosses to the window.

He flicks two fingers. The heavy drapes part just enough to reveal slanted sunlight, yet shadows of window slats cloak the rest. “Spies linger on roof ledges,” he murmurs, back still to me.

“Sarivya doubts I can keep secrets. She sent watchers to confirm emotion in my chambers.”

Emotion. Not treason. His vulnerability shows in that single careful word. He fears what she might see on his face more than what we plotted last night. My pulse spikes, not with fear, but empathy.

“Then we give her nothing,” I say, stepping forward. When he turns, I stand close yet leave a hand’s span. “You wanted me prepared for manipulation. Let us practice.”

He lifts a brow. “You wish to spar now?” Explanation flickers in metallic eyes. “Verbal, not magical.”

“Exactly.” I gesture to two cushioned chairs near the fireplace. We sit, angled slightly, knees almost brushing. Flames crackle low between blackened logs.

“Begin,” I say, lacing fingers on my lap.

He studies me. “The king enjoyed your performance,” he begins, tone casual, like conversation at a garden party. “He may request a private display soon.”

I suppress alarm, keep posture relaxed. “I would be honored. Yet new tricks require breathing space. Surely a mage values the forging time of any blade.”

“It will be your place, as consort, to comply swiftly.”

His phrasing drips control. I meet his gaze, tilt my head. “Consort, perhaps, but not puppet. You said you wished my heart beating, not bound.”

I catch a quick flare in his eyes—admiration or desire, perhaps both. Still, he presses. “Defiance before nobles impressed. Defiance before royalty punishes.”

I lean back, consider. “Then teach me to please without subservience. Help me wield words like you wield vines.”

Silence blooms. He exhales, a slow surrender of tension. “Very well. Counterpoint achieved.” He leans forward, elbows on knees. “Your turn.”

I choose a softer tactic. “Last night you retreated, though you could have claimed any reward. Why?”

That vulnerability flickers again. He shifts, gaze sliding to fire. “ restraint tests resolve,” he says, measured, yet warmth creeps under words.

“Or reveals tenderness.” I watch him, noting how his breath deepens. “You fear tenderness is weakness Sarivya can parade. Yet hiding it feeds her appetite.”

He faces me fully. “What alternative?”

“Control what she sees.” I rise, extend hand. He takes it, stands. “We act the consummate alliance where watchers expect cracks.” My heart thunders—am I truly advocating display of closeness? Yes, because strength blooms in softness shared boldly.

His eyes darken, but he nods. “Show me.”

I guide him toward balcony. Curtains part just enough for watchers to glimpse silhouettes.

I step into filtered light, glancing at his shoulder—he follows cue, stepping behind me, hands settling lightly on my waist. Outside, roof shadows ripple.

I rest back against his chest. He stiffens, then gradually eases, palms spreading across stomach.

To watchers, we appear lovers sharing morning hush.

My pulse races, yet calm filters outward. “Speak,” I whisper, though spies might read lips. “Tell me of your sleepless night.”

“I kept company with chaos,” he answers softly. “It offers questions no wine can drown.”

“And answers?” I ask.

“One. The garden display cannot placate Asmodeus forever.”

I nod. “Then we craft next move.”

His breath stirs hair near my ear. “You do not rest either.”

“I rest when wind stills.” I turn within his grip, meeting his gaze. “Perhaps you can teach me calm once charges clear.”

He searches my face, something unspoken carving lines between brows. Gently he releases me. “Enough for spies today.” Curtains swish shut.

My legs wobble faintly; I cross to tea tray, pour a fresh cup, steady hands with practiced ease. He watches, arms folded, then paces toward bookshelves.

“I find your poise weaponized,” he says.

I sip, savor sweetness. “I learned from your example.”

A laugh breaks out, sudden, low, genuine. It shifts the atmosphere brighter. He turns, shakes head. “You twist my own blade with elegance.”

I set cup down, step nearer. “May I ask something personal?”

“Dangerous ground.”

“We tread it already.” I hold his gaze. “Your brand—” I motion near his heart “—does it hurt?”

He blinks, perhaps expecting another question. Fingers rise, tracing the spiral beneath coat. “Constant ache,” he admits. “Like ember pressed to bone.”

“Then each day you bear pain. I glimpse that vulnerability, Varok. Others see only power.”

He exhales, jaw flexing. “Pain reminds me I belong to something greater.”

“Pain can also erode.” I offer a half-smile. “Let it not corrode empathy.”

Something softens. He lifts my hand, turns it palm up. The silver cord marks faded but visible. His thumb strokes faint groove. “Pain carved here, too.” He lifts hand to lips, presses a kiss to scar. Heat bursts under skin, travels upward until cheeks burn.

“I remember,” I murmur, fighting tremor. “I remember how you healed it.”

His eyes distance, as if memory cuts deeper than healing.

He lowers our joined hands. “I must attend council soon.” He releases me, strides to desk, scribbles note, seals with wax.

“Garrik will escort you to mid-tier gardens. Fresher air there.” He hands me parchment.

“Treat this as pass. Guards yield under my seal.”

I accept. “And if I wander beyond?”