Page 11 of Burning Her Beautiful

He lifts brow, half smile. “Then I follow.” Turning away, he shrugs on deep-blue cloak, fastening pauldrons engraved with runic knots—a sight that reminds me of his station.

At door, he pauses. “Iliana.”

“Yes?”

“The note you wrote in margin of my treatise—resonant amplification—clever. We will test tonight.” He taps temple, then departs, leaving faint scent of cedar.

My brows shoot upward. He found my hidden annotations, yet instead of anger he shows respect. That shift warms chest, though caution whispers.

Garrik arrives, respectful yet watchful. His crimson skin and amber eyes draw stares as we traverse corridors gilded by midday glow. He keeps distance, but his presence proclaims I walk under Varok’s shield.

On lift platform servants bow; others avert gaze. Some humans glance up, hope flickers before they remember their collars. The weight of those looks tugs at conscience. I resolve to learn names, stories—battle requires allies.

Mid-tier gardens bloom under glass domes that filter cruel sun into soft radiance. Cascading ponds reflect pale sky, stone paths twist among orchids coaxed to blossom year-round. Few nobles stroll early afternoon, leaving space for secret thoughts.

I walk ahead, Garrik trailing a polite few paces. He examines every arch, assessing threats. I pause at a pond where koi dart, scales shimmering copper and pearl. Reflections ripple, and for a heartbeat I see myself in last night’s gown, Varok behind me, petals raining violet.

“Beautiful fish,” I say, breaking memory.

Garrik stops beside me. “Imported from river deltas below the cloud belt. They survived harsh crossing.”

“Survival shapes beauty,” I muse.

“True.” He studies me, eyes gentler than expected. “You shift Dominus Varok.”

My breath stills. “Do I?”

“He walks lighter.” Garrik’s lips twitch. “He scowls less at dawn.”

I arch brow. “That counts for much?”

“More than tempest runes.” He kneels, flicks small crumb into water. Fish swarm near. “He once planned everything three moves ahead. Now?” He glances at me. “He improvises.”

“You disapprove?”

“I watch consequences.” His gaze turns distant. “Changing him invites storms no shield blocks.”

I kneel too, skirt bunching at knees. Water laps stone. “Storms already gather. Together we might guide rain away from innocents.”

A faint smile graces him. “Perhaps.” He stands. “May I ask something personal?”

“You may try.”

“What sings through your hum? I have never heard that melody.”

I hum the three notes softly; koi ripple. “A planting chant. My mother taught me to time seed drops.” I touch water, swirl pattern. “It roots me in who I was before chains.”

Garrik nods. We share quiet until footsteps crunch gravel. A human girl in pearl collar approaches carrying folded linens. Fear constricts her features when she sees Garrik.

“Easy,” he murmurs. “She means no harm.”

I beckon the girl. She hesitates, then steps near. Her collar bruises her neck. “I was told to bring fresh napkins to the pavilion,” she whispers.

“There.” Garrik points. She hurries away.

“That collar,” I say when she disappears, “who decides humans must wear them?”

He exhales. “Custom older than I.” He frowns at my glare. “I punish none, Iliana. I simply navigate currents.”

I grip edge of pond. “Currents can change.”

He gives a curt nod. “Understood.” He offers hand to help me stand. His grip is warm, firm. “Come. We return before the council ends.”

Back in my suite I pace, mind spinning future strategies. The servant Sael returns with afternoon fruit. I ask her quietly how many humans are on this floor. She hesitates but answers—twelve, mostly personal attendants. I scribble names she shares with hesitant pride. Seeds planted.

Evening approaches. Varok’s seal arrives again, this time requesting my presence at the sanctuary balcony for resonant testing.

I change into lightweight tunic and leggings for mobility, braid hair tight with crystal shard glinting.

Garrik escorts me to a towering observatory dome where Varok waits among swirling glyphs chalked on marble.

He greets me with small smile that tilts heart.

Together we test my concept: I hum into stone, Varok channels chaos through crystals embedded in floor.

The sound magnifies, rippling across dome walls like rolling thunder, yet gentle.

My voice becomes river, echoing on every surface.

The resonance thrills, but I wobble under vibration.

Varok steadies me, hand on spine—warmth soothing.

Admiration lights his face. “Your idea, your success.”

Our eyes lock. Pulse quickens. He clears throat, steps back, but that glimpse of pure pride carves soft space in chest.

Hours pass in refining hum-charges. We laugh twice when echoes shatter vases unintentionally. Each laugh draws us closer, cracks earlier walls. At last we stand side by side, sweaty, exhilarated.

“I did not manipulate you today,” he says softly.

“No,” I answer. “You collaborated.”

He lifts my hand, brushes knuckles with lips. Gentle. “Then we continue as co-architects.”

Heat floods cheeks. I squeeze his fingers, then release. “Until tomorrow,” I whisper.

He turns to leave, pauses. “Sleep, Iliana. I need you strong.”

“I will try.”

Door closes, but warmth lingers. I collapse onto couch, heart racing.

Today I teased a demon lord, earned respect from his lieutenant, planted hope in servants’ hearts, and saw vulnerability flicker behind silver eyes.

Defiance still burns, but empathy now intertwines, green shoots curling along edges of resistance.

I braid those feelings into my hair with the crystal shard, binding them tight. Tomorrow tactics may shift, yet tonight I allow myself to feel the tremor of attraction. Not surrender. Not yet. But the path ahead no longer seems lit by fear alone. Possibility glimmers, fragile yet fiercely bright.

I blow out candles, slide beneath soft covers, and hum the planting song. Stone resonates faintly, perhaps remembering our new craft. Somewhere in the tower Varok stands at a window, perhaps hearing the echo and knowing it is meant for him.

Storms still loom. Chains still clink. But seeds have been sown in cracks of marble, and I intend to nurture every one until vines rise again—this time not as spectacle but as roots of change.