Page 12 of Burning Her Beautiful

VAROK

D awn slinks over Galmoleth like a wary animal, streaking the cloud bank beneath our floating continent with bruised lavender.

I stand at the highest parapet of the Soz’garoth spire, cloak snapping around my calves, hands braced on chilled merlon stone.

Below me the palace sprawls in layered terraces—balconies festooned with last night’s enchanted vines, domes of translucent crystal catching first light like spun sugar.

A pretty veneer. Inside those walls, rot whispers beneath every polished tile.

Behind me, the iron door to the watch stair groans open. Garrik’s boots crunch frost-slick flagstones. He stops an arm’s length away, gives a slight bow more respectful than formal.

“Council assembles within the hour,” he says. “Rumors reached them before sunrise.”

Predictable. “Which version spreads fastest?”

“That Iliana is a sorceress who bewitched you,” he answers. “Sarivya promotes a sweeter tale: you have been bewitched by a sorceress you created to hide your waning strength.”

I bark a grim laugh that evaporates in the wind. “She seeds both sides, so whichever bears fruit she claims.”

Garrik nods. “Two mid-tier clans petition to have Iliana examined by the Inscriptorum.”

“They want sigil-masters carving through her mind.” Rage flashes through me, bright and hot. I snuff it before it scorches my tongue. “Not yet.”

“Never, if I can help it,” Garrik mutters.

He watches me, eyes steady, waiting for instruction. Dawn winds tug at the corner of a sealed letter in his hand. I hold out my palm. He relinquishes it.

Crimson wax bears Sarivya’s crest—a stylized lily twined about a dagger. I break the seal, read crisp lines inked in violet.

Dominus Varok,

The council requests your presence at ninth bell to address concerns regarding last night’s display. As you hold the favor of His Majesty, your insight is invaluable in clarifying rumors that threaten court stability.

In deference,

Matron Sarivya of House Velinth

Polite poison. She cloaks accusation in respect, yet each chosen word hints I must answer for scandal I birthed.

I fold the letter. “Tell the heralds I will attend. And have scribes prepare the full enchantment ledger of last night’s vines.”

Garrik whistles. “Transparency?”

“Selective transparency.” I tap letter against knuckles. “I intend to drown suspicion in so many irrelevant details no one remembers what question they asked.”

“That leaves Sarivya.” Garrik’s voice turns flint-sharp. “Her network reached the king’s privy council. I discovered two silver envoys bribed for testimony about your hesitation in the Sanctum.”

I breathe once, twice, let the cold soak anger until it cools into focus. “Remove them. Quietly. No corpses—just discredited reports.”

“Yes, Dominus.” He bows, but before turning he hesitates. “There are gentler paths, you know.”

“Gentle paths end in graves for people like us,” I reply. “See it done.”

He leaves. I remain another minute, letting wind scour edges of temper. When frost’s sting numbs fingers, I pivot, stride back toward the stair. Duty demands marble mask soon; no cracks allowed.

The council chamber stretches round and tall as a cathedral bell, its domed ceiling painted with Oltyx rising from raw earth, fist gripping planets like marbles.

Sun spears through oculus, gilding motes of dust that swirl above curved benches.

Thirty nobles already occupy seats carved from obsidian veined with gold: matrons draped in brocade, lordlings smelling of crushed spices, commanders in scale armor.

I enter through the north arch, cloak trailing, face carved to serenity.

Conversations falter, then resume in nervous hush. I feel every glance needle my skin—some wary, some hungry. Iliana’s name flickers on lips like forbidden sweet. I take my place at the speaker’s dais, steel toes thunking stone.

Asmodeus does not attend today. He has sent his voice instead—High Chancellor Velyth, a sallow demon whose calm hides cruelty honed by decades of policy. Velyth rises. “Council convenes on matter of arcane propriety.” His voice echoes crisp. “Dominus Varok, you stand ready to account?”

“I stand ready,” I answer.

Chancellor gestures. Sarivya sweeps to her feet, violet gown catching light.

She looks ethereal, every line calculated to evoke fragility—though I know the claws beneath.

“Honored council,” she says, voice pure honey, “our laws grant great latitude to Soz’garoth Masters.

Yet no mage, however gifted, may endanger Galmoleth’s structural grace for personal indulgence.

Last night’s outburst of rampant growth destabilized support columns in my south ballroom. ”

She flicks wrist; an aide unfurls a scroll of parchment midair. Spidery glyphs describe cracks along load-bearing buttress—likely conjured after the fact. Murmurs spread.

“Damage is regrettable,” I say. My tone remains mild. “However, the vines responded precisely to containment sigils I set. No masonry shifted beyond predicted tolerance. My ledger stands available for scrutiny.”

I raise a hand. Garrik’s assistant approaches with bound volume inscribed in my hand this morning. He passes copies to scribes. Pages riffle; blue-ink formulas glitter.

A stout lord in iron pauldrons peers at figures, brow wrinkling. “These calculations exceed my reading.”

“As intended,” I note. Laughter ripples—short, uneasy.

Sarivya’s smile strains. “Let us dismiss structural debates, Dominus. Greater concern involves the human catalyst in your ritual. Several witnesses attest she hummed, guiding the vines.”

“The witness describing her hum most clearly,” I reply, “was Sarivya herself. Which means she stood within range of the display she claims imperiled her guests.”

Ripples of surprise. A commander hides smirk behind gauntlet.

Sarivya’s eyes flash, but she inclines head. “Curiosity drew me close, yes. But curiosity does not sanction risk. I request that the human be examined by Inscriptorum to verify she bears no uncontrolled gift that might threaten us.”

Murmurs swell louder. Velyth lifts gavel, strikes once. “Dominus Varok, response?”

I meet Sarivya’s gaze, let silver flare in my eyes until reflection dances across her corneas. “Iliana performs only under my direction. Her hum cannot shape power without my channel. Should the council doubt, they may witness demonstration.”

“Dangerous gambit,” Velyth murmurs.

“Necessary,” I counter. “At sundown, I will bind my own abilities and permit Iliana to hum alone. If vines stir, I submit her to Inscriptorum. If nothing happens, the council retracts its petition.”

Gasps. Even Sarivya cannot hide flicker of unease. She expected denial, not challenge. Chancellor Velyth studies me, then nods slowly. “Agreement accepted.”

Hammer falls. Session adjourned. Nobles rise in clumps, whisper storms swirling. Sarivya glides to me, mask of courtesy cracking at edge.

“Bold tactic,” she says under breath. “What if she sings and power answers?”

“Then I will watch.” I lean close, lips near her ear so only she hears. “But understand this: if you push Iliana toward harm, lilies will bloom from your tongue the moment you lie asleep.”

She blanches, straightens, composes smile. “We shall see which flowers sprout.” She sweeps away, gown whispering threats.

I exhale. My heart thumps hard, not from fear, but rage at the box I’ve built. Sunrise test could expose everything. I gambled because corner left no room—better to direct spotlight than flee it. Yet doubt gnaws.

Garrik approaches. “Are you mad?” he whispers.

“Possibly,” I mutter. But inside, a plan buds. If I temper resonance stones, maybe hum alone indeed stirs nothing. I must sabotage my own matrix.

The vaulted hallway outside the chamber rings with footsteps. I stride toward western wing where vault labs sit, rewriting glyph arrays in head. At crossing I collide with Velyth. The chancellor blocks path, eyes sharp as scalpel.

“You escalate tension needlessly,” he warns. “The king enjoys spectacle but abhors chaos he cannot command.”

I bow fractionally. “My loyalty remains absolute.”

“Does it?” Velyth’s gaze cools. “Word travels. Slaves claim your nights are spent in mortal’s chambers.”

Ice knifes spine. “Unfounded gossip.”

“Perhaps. Yet perception guides daggers.” He hands folded parchment. “Kyreth’s spies tracked Sarivya purchasing nightshade from surface smugglers. She will move soon.”

I flick seal, scan intel. “Thank you.”

“Protecting Galmoleth protects all of us.” Velyth’s thin lips curved faintly. “Even human attachments have their use.”

He strides off before I answer. I pocket parchment, mind racing—nightshade, a poison that slows heartbeats beyond detection, perfect for framing weakened magic.

Midday storms rumble distant when I finally return to tower. Iliana waits in library, hair still braided from training, wearing ash-gray tunic belted with bronze clasp. She stands before a chalk board scribbled chalk runes—my own earlier equations, now annotated. Sharp mind, quicker than lightning.

She faces me, reading weight in posture. “Council?”

“They demand you hum tonight, unaided, to prove you pose no threat.”

Her throat works. “And if vines move?”

“They will not.” I stride to desk, unroll blueprint of resonance matrix. “I will sever pathways beforehand.”

She scans lines. “You risk exposing sabotage.”

“I will hide it inside complexity.”

She lays a hand on parchment, halting my rush. “Varok, why stake position for me? You could have yielded examination by Inscriptorum—proven her doubts wrong through official channels.”

I cover her hand with mine. “The Inscriptorum crushes minds while they search. Your memories, your song—they value nothing except results.” Heat swells in chest. “I will not let them carve you.”

Her eyes shine with surprise, then soften. “Your plan endangers your standing.”