Page 18 of Burning Her Beautiful

“He plots three contingencies deep. But he also trusts me to weave one of my own.” I hesitate. “You must guarantee safe exit channels for humans who wish to flee once chaos breaks.”

Yalira studies me, then inclines her head. “Consider it done. The western stables will shelter them.”

We clasp wrists. After I leave, resolve steadies my heartbeat: I can love a storm without drowning if I chart escape for those who cannot ride lightning.

Moonrise finds me perched on a deserted parapet above the auxiliary gardens, legs dangling over a dizzying drop.

I hum a low note—one I have not sung since childhood—letting the sound seep into stone.

My voice quivers with questions that have no easy answer.

The resonance crystals buried beneath the walkway shiver in reply, carrying the hum toward the laundry vents.

Footsteps crunch on gravel behind me. Varok emerges from an arch, wearing travel leathers dark as wet slate. Citron–pine cologne mingles with the night air, pricking senses that remember too vividly the taste of his lips. He stops an arm’s length away, hands clasped behind his back.

“You asked for space,” he says quietly. “But I worried when twilight fell and you were not within safe wings.”

“Safe is relative,” I answer, swinging a foot. “I needed solitude.”

He gazes over the railing, assessing how easily a misstep could spill me into the abyss. “May I sit?”

I nod. He lowers himself beside me, boots resting on the ledge but his body angled inward so a single horn would catch me if I leaned too far.

Wind tugs strands of hair across my mouth. Without thinking I brush them away, then glance at him. Concern shadows his eyes.

“Regret?” he asks, voice barely audible above the breeze.

I study the curve of distant lightning on the horizon. “No.” The word tastes honest, yet freighted. “I regret the power you hold over me—but not the night itself.”

Relief flickers, quickly veiled. “I hold power over many. With you I would rather share it.”

“That is the paradox,” I whisper. “Shared power tilts when hearts tilt.” My throat tightens. “If tomorrow’s vote goes poorly?—”

“It will not,” he interrupts. Lightning flashes again, illuminating determination etched into the hard planes of his features. “But if threads tangle, I will cut them.”

“I fear cutting threads may sever more than bondage.” I draw my knees to my chest, resting my chin. “I need to remain me, not a mirror of your desires.”

He breathes slowly, then tilts his face to the stars. “Tell me what I must do to prove I do not wish to remake you.”

“When the council roars for blood,” I answer, “choose mercy even if it costs prestige. Let your strength bloom in restraint.”

He considers, then nods. “Tomorrow, if Sarivya’s allies call for punishment, I will deny them.”

“Not deny,” I correct gently. “Offer them a better dream.”

A faint smile curves his mouth. “Your dream.”

“Our dream,” I amend. “A sky where vines and crystals grow unshackled and collars remain memory.”

He shifts, placing one hand atop mine where it rests on limestone. “Then we will plant that dream. But tonight”—he rises smoothly—“you asked for space, and I honor that request.” He extends a hand to help me stand. “Come, I will escort you to your chamber, then return to draft mercy.”

As he lifts me, warmth flares up my arm.

I ground myself, breathing slow. Boundaries, Iliana.

You chose them. I withdraw my hand once I find my footing.

His mouth tightens, but he nods. We walk side by side through the darkened gardens.

Petals close for the night, yet under our steps they glow faint, as if unconsciously attuned to the path we carve.

At my door he pauses, not crossing the threshold. “Rest,” he says, voice husky yet held in check. “Tomorrow we face thunder awake.”

I place a palm on his chest, feeling the rune’s heat. “Thank you for letting me breathe.”

“Thank you,” he answers, “for teaching me breathing is not weakness.”

He leaves; the corridor swallows his silhouette. Alone, I lean against the wooden panel, heart throbbing like a tame animal testing cage bars. Last night’s pleasure still hums beneath my skin, but tonight clarity reigns. I vow to hold him close to purpose, not suffocate us in want.

I light a single lamp and open my notebook, recording new codes devised with Sael. My pen scratches steady while thoughts flutter. I catalogue resource caches, list half-blood families likely to vote with Yalira. Each sentence grounds me, forging anchor lines to the woman I was before chains.

Hours later I set the quill aside, flex cramped fingers.

Moonlight spills through the balcony doors, carving silver stripes across the floorboards.

I step outside, letting the night air cool the fever behind my eyes.

Far below, the lower tiers shimmer with scattered lights.

Somewhere Lys sleeps, Sael hums, Jonn tempers iron. Their trust steadies my resolve.

Desire may spark rebellion, but loyalty and strategy will keep flames controlled.

I will love Varok if love can stand alongside freedom, not in place of it.

Tomorrow I will test that truth. For now I fold my arms over the railing and hum the miner song into the wind, sending the note through crystal veins to every heart listening in the dark.

The sky does not answer, yet in the hush I feel countless breaths catch, then release.

Hope drifts between us on invisible threads, braiding a network no collar can latch.

I stay until the hum dies on my lips and dawn paints faint blushes in the east. Only then do I slip into bed, clasping the wilted blossom in my fist.

Boundaries may blur; storms may break stone. Still, I lay my head on the pillow certain of one vow—my roots dig deeper than any net of power, and I will not be uprooted again.