Page 14 of Burning Her Beautiful

ILIANA

G rey dawn drifts through the library’s high windows, softening the rigid angles of shelves crammed with varicolored tomes.

The pale light glances off the runic globes that hover near the ceiling, casting wavering halos across the floor.

I sit alone at the long oak table where Varok and I spent half the night tracing sabotage sigils, my elbows propped on an atlas the size of a breadboard.

A thin wisp of steam curls from the teacup balanced in my palms, jasmine and sweet citrus coaxing warmth into my bones.

The hush feels impossible after the whirlwind of yesterday—council accusations, Sarivya’s poisoned bud, Varok’s fierce defense.

He left hours ago to pry up the matron’s schemes by their roots.

The moment he stepped into the corridor I felt the room tilt, as if he carried half the gravity with him.

I remind myself that absence is an ally this morning; I need unguarded moments to weave the next threads of revolt.

I close the atlas and dress quickly, trading my charcoal-smudged tunic for a slate-blue linen gown that drapes to mid-calf.

The fabric is plain enough to blend with servants yet sturdy enough to endure steam and soap.

I knot a narrow belt at my waist and tug the leather-bound notebook Varok gave me into its loops.

The crystal shard that once served as a stolen trinket now feels like a talisman; I slide it behind my ear where it hides among dark waves.

One last breath, and I step into the corridor, trusting intuition to guide each choice.

Garrik waits outside the archway, leaning against a jasper column with arms folded. His crimson skin gleams beneath torchlight, and the polished hilts of twin daggers rise above his shoulders like silver crescents. He lifts an eyebrow in greeting.

“Morning patrol switches in two turns,” he says without preamble. “If you want to walk the lower halls unseen, now is the gap.”

“How fortunate,” I reply. “I was just thinking of a laundry basket full of secrets that needs sorting.”

Amusement flashes across his amber eyes. He straightens, tilting his head to indicate the stairwell. “Follow, and keep hood low.”

We descend spiral flights that smell of iron and damp stone until warm mist kisses our faces.

Beyond a wrought-iron gate, the washhouses sprawl in a maze of steaming cauldrons and churning water wheels.

Human workers bend over vats, their voices muffled beneath the hiss of the pipes overhead.

I pull my cloak tighter and slip into the bustle while Garrik melts into a shadowed alcove, watchful but unobtrusive.

A familiar laugh bubbles across the din, and my heart leaps before I even spot its owner.

Lys sits on an overturned crate, mending a satin hem with nimble fingers.

Her short golden hair, bound by a rag, shines like burnished straw beneath lantern light.

She hums a jaunty tune that somehow lifts the damp gloom surrounding us.

“You are still turning noble rags into finery,” I call, weaving between piles of wet linen.

Lys’s head snaps up. Blue eyes widen, then fill with tears she refuses to let fall. She drops the needle and rushes forward, wrapping her arms around me with enough force to make breath hitch. The scent of lavender starch clings to her sleeves.

“I heard every rumor.” Her voice trembles. “They said you were alive but collared in silk, dancing at demon banquets.”

“I doubt anyone danced,” I murmur into her hair. We pull apart, and she studies me from head to toe, cataloguing bruises and changes. She wipes away moisture with the back of her hand, then exhales shakily.

“Are you safe?”

“For now,” I answer. “But I need more than safety. Walk with me.”

We wind through the steam, speaking softly.

Lys tells me two humans were sold to Sarivya’s kitchens last week, and an elderly cook was whipped for spilling silverwort sauce on a lord’s boots.

Her stories carve fresh trenches of anger under my ribs.

When she finishes, I guide her toward a narrow sluice channel where water funnels into a grate, the noise masking our words.

“We can change this,” I say, voice steady. “I am planting something, but I need roots in every wing of the palace.”

She tips her head, suspicion mingling with hope. “What kind of planting?”

“Information,” I explain, outlining a simple code of hums that can travel through pipes and wall-stones. “I learned from a miner that resonant crystals carry these frequencies. If we pass messages along the laundry shafts, guards will never hear.”

Lys’s gaze turns fierce. “Teach me, and I will teach the maids.”

I squeeze her fingers, then slip a torn scrap of parchment into her palm—a sliver bearing Varok’s personal seal. “Show this if anyone questions your presence outside assigned halls.”

She laughs, soft and incredulous. “Borrowing signatures from demon lords now? You are incorrigible.”

“That is my charm,” I whisper. We embrace again, longer this time, before I retreat into the mist. Garrik materializes beside me as if conjured by farewell.

“Laundry army recruited?” he drawls.

“Give them a day,” I reply. “They will run the palace before you can oil your blades.”

He huffs a laugh, then shadows my return to the tower.

Late afternoon finds me hunched over a resonance console in Varok’s laboratory, adjusting copper dials that encircle a quartz pillar.

Each turn of the gear alters the pitch humming through the stone; tiny amber glyphs pulse in time with my heartbeat.

The laboratory windows overlook the chasm beyond the palace wall, and every now and then a stray lightning flare paints the crystal with ghostly fire.

Sael arrives balancing a tray of vegetable stew and seed bread. She lingers at the threshold until I beckon her in.

“Stay,” I invite. “I need ears that know how rock sings. Will you listen?”

Her mismatched hazel and brown eyes widen, but she sets the tray on a stool and perches on the floor beside the console.

I ask about the miner song she mentioned yesterday, a pattern used to gauge safe fractures.

She hums a descending minor scale, soft as thread.

The quartz responds with a quake so gentle I feel it only through my fingertips. Joy sparks.

“If we embed this underneath a banquet hall,” I muse, “a single hum could shatter every goblet without cracking stone.”

Sael giggles behind her hand, the sound shy and delighted. “May I hear what you plan?”

I outline the vision—codes traveling through pipes, crystals acting as nodes. She nods, leaning in. We tap timings against the crystal until the pillar flickers green with potential. By the time she returns to evening duties, we have the skeleton of a communication web.

Dusk steals in, painting corridors violet.

The empty root cellar off the main kitchen feels colder than memory, but its thick stone walls promise secrecy.

Ten humans gather beneath sputtering lanterns: Lys, Sael, two kitchen boys, three laundry women, Jonn the chain-maker with scarred palms, and a fragile-looking groom who nevertheless crushes iron nails into neat spirals while he waits.

Garrik stands by the arch, arms crossed, eyes sweeping each face for threats.

He does not speak, yet his presence shields us.

I climb onto an upturned crate and clear my throat. Lantern flames flutter, sending shadows dancing across the ceiling.

“A collar weighs less than a stone,” I begin, “but it crushes dreams all the same. We cannot lift it by brute strength alone. So we use whispers, and those whispers will become wind.”

Lys squeezes my ankle in encouragement. I demonstrate the hum code: a low note for watchmen, a paired trill for safe passage, a high sustained pitch for urgent summons. Sael hums alongside me, her voice guiding others into resonance. We practice until every throat vibrates with shared purpose.

Jonn raises a battered hand. “And if these whispers are heard?”

“Then we scatter like embers,” I say, “and we burn in different corners until the fire meets again.”

Eyes gleam, some frightened, some hungry. No one refuses the plan.

When the lanterns sputter low, Garrik ushers them out in small clusters. He pauses beside me while Sael extinguishes the last flame.

“You plant more than whispers tonight,” he says quietly. “You plant loyalty.”

“Loyalty nurtured by hope,” I reply, tugging the hood up. “It grows faster than fear.”

He nods once, and we part ways down diverging corridors.

Night settles thick and windless over the tower when I step onto the balcony. Varok stands at the rail, backlit by a half moon that floats between tower spires like a pale coin. The enchanted vines, quiescent all day, rustle awake at his presence, leaves brushing his forearms in greeting.

I move beside him, resting my elbows on the cool stone. From this height the cloud ocean spreads endless, silvered by moonlight. A hush stretches between us, serene yet charged.

“Council chatter?” I ask.

He releases a breath. “They chase Sarivya’s scent but stumble over her perfumes.” He turns, and moonlight spills across his face, accentuating the subtle strain around his eyes. “I heard you visited the washhouses.”

“They were overdue for a song,” I say lightly. “And I collected musicians.”

He huffs a quiet laugh. “Your orchestra may topple kingdoms.” Admiration warms his tone, a balm against the day’s trials.

We exchange the events of our separate missions, aligning strategies for Yalira’s decree. A comfortable silence follows, broken only by leaf sighs. He studies my braid where the moon-white blossom still nestles.

“You kept the flower,” he murmurs.

“It reminds me that beauty can be weapon and shield.”

His hand rises, brushing a strand away from my cheek. His knuckles graze skin like velvet tinder. Heat pools low in my belly.

“Your storms are gentler tonight,” he says.

“Storms rest before they rage anew.” I lift a hand to his chest, feeling the steady thunder of his heart.

He captures my palm, turns it to press a kiss at the pulse point. Desire ignites, but deeper than the simmering need lies gratitude—an ache to show him he is more than a branded weapon.

Before thought can betray courage, I lean in and press my mouth softly to his cheek. He stills, as if the world has narrowed to the shape of my lips. Then he exhales—a ragged sound—and tilts my chin until our gazes lock.

“You kissed me,” he says, voice gone rough at the edges.

“I did,” I breathe. “To thank you.”

The corner of his mouth lifts. “Thank me again.”

He lowers his head. Our lips meet, slow and deliberate. A spark jumps, and the vines above us unfurl, leaves brushing hair as if eager spectators. His hands settle at my waist, firm and reverent, yet he does not push further. When we part, he leans his forehead against mine.

“I should let you rest,” he murmurs, though his thumbs stroke small circles that belie restraint.

“Then we both should.” I step back, heartbeat galloping. “Tomorrow will come too soon.”

He nods, but the hunger in his gaze promises unfinished business. He threads the moon-white blossom from my braid and tucks it behind his ear with a playful arch of brow. I laugh, the sound airy in the night.

“Sleep, Iliana,” he orders gently.

I retreat into the suite. At the doorway I glance back. He remains on the balcony, the flower glowing ghost-pale against dark hair, silver eyes alight..

Sleep toys with me but refuses conquest. I pace, replaying every hum, every stolen glance. Eventually I sprawl across the bed, still wearing my slate-blue gown, and stare at the coffered ceiling. Thunder murmurs beneath the floating continent, yet inside my chest a steadier storm builds.

I will break every collar. I will weave whisper networks until walls themselves sing of freedom. And when marble pillars finally crack, whether by secret song or violent vine, I will walk into the lightning without regret.

Purpose thrums behind my ribs until exhaustion drapes like velvet. As my eyes drift shut, I feel the ghost of Varok’s kiss against my pulse, anchoring me to a future neither of us yet dares to name.