Page 19 of Burning Her Beautiful

VAROK

T he gong of the seventh bell vibrates through the stone like a restless heart.

I stand before the mirror in my strategy chamber, fastening the final clasp of a charcoal coat that molds to my torso as if poured there.

The fabric carries etched runic threads that have thrummed all night while I refined their weave.

Garrik waits by the doorway, arms folded, his keen eyes tracing every motion.

He offers neither compliment nor critique; he knows silence steadies the knot in my gut better than any endorsement.

I flex my fingers. Sparks answer under the skin, hungry to break free.

They cannot—not yet. Today the court must see precision, not raw power.

Strength delivered with a surgeon’s touch convinces even the most skittish ally.

I roll my shoulders once, releasing the last hint of stiffness from what little passed for sleep.

Visions of Iliana’s face kept invading my dreams—her eyes shining with both fire and caution as she hummed into the wind.

I push the memory aside and face my lieutenant.

“Report,” I say.

“Sarivya’s decree will enter the floor at mid-morning. She has spent the sunrise weaving support in the basilica courtyard.” Garrik’s tone carries crafted neutrality, but his fingers drum the pommel of his dagger. “Half-blood nobles drift between fear and fury. They want guidance.”

“They will have it.” I grab the jade folio from my desk—evidence forged by Iliana’s hand and disguised as merchant ledgers. “Yalira waits outside the amphitheater. When I signal, she releases this into the current.”

Garrik tilts his head. “And if Sarivya counters with fresh poison?”

“I convert her venom to spectacle.” The confidence in my voice tastes thin. I swallow, refusing to let frailty surface. “Is Iliana ready?”

“She prepares in the resonance gallery. The cloak you sent fits, yet she still chooses the plain belt.” He almost smiles. “She keeps anchors close.”

“Good. Anchors keep storms from raging beyond control.” I sweep past him. He falls into step on my left.

Corridors pulse with the anxious chatter of courtiers.

Vibrant pennants hang limp in the still air, their embroidered crests dulled by the murky sunrise.

As we pass, whispers ripple—tongues tasting rumor of today’s vote and any excuse to watch a demon stumble.

I keep my gaze forward, drawing calm from the steady cadence of bootsteps.

We reach the entrance of the resonance gallery, a long hall lined with crystal pillars that once amplified hymnals to the heavens.

Today it acts as both rehearsal space and potential stage for disaster.

Iliana stands near the center column, her back turned, adjusting the fall of her dusky-purple cloak.

She wears fitted trousers beneath, ready to move if this goes poorly.

A single copper filament threads her braid, catching stray light.

I dismiss Garrik with a nod. When the doors hush closed behind him, Iliana turns. Her lips quirk in greeting, but tension radiates along her shoulders.

“Your eyes are shadowed,” she murmurs. “Long night?”

“Long week.” I move closer, brushing aside a curl that has escaped her braid. “You remember the pathways?”

Her chin lifts. “The crystals anchor to three harmonics. I will hum only the lowest pitch; your runes will weave the rest.”

She recites it with a calm I envy. I take her hands, pressing them to my chest so she feels the pounding truth beneath my ribs. “If Sarivya presses, I may need to escalate. The display will remain threads and mirrors. No harm will reach you.”

She studies me. “Mirrors cannot hide forever. Are you certain this is the right path?”

“Right? I no longer know the shape of that word.” I exhale. “It is the path that keeps you free today. Tomorrow we forge a better one.”

She squeezes my fingers once, then steps back, letting responsibility settle across my shoulders.

Marble tiers rise in a half-circle around the council floor, packed edge to edge with nobles in layered silks and gleaming armor. Murmurs echo like bees in a stone hive. I walk the aisle alone until I reach the central plinth. Each heartbeat thunders, yet my face betrays only cool detachment.

Chancellor Velyth stands at his lectern, scroll unfurled.

He clears his throat and begins reciting docket items, but attention already drifts to Sarivya, who reclines on a chaise beside her retinue.

She has chosen crimson today, a deliberate echo of blood.

At her feet kneels a human attendant holding a silver tray of obsidian flowers—nightshade again, a threat hidden behind perfume.

When Velyth finishes preliminaries, he gestures to her. “Matron Sarivya of House Velinth petitions first voice.”

She rises with languid grace, though venom shines in her smile.

“Honored council, I stand for integrity. Recent events have sown doubt about Dominus Varok’s control over unregistered sorcery.

” Her gaze flicks toward Iliana, seated quietly with Yalira on an upper tier.

“If this mortal commands power that bypasses our registers, we must witness it in a neutral setting. Demonstrations in closed rooms no longer suffice.”

Whispers bloom like mold. Velyth turns to me. “Dominus?”

I incline my head. “I welcome transparency. The resonance gallery awaits. The pillars record every arcane pulse. A test there will leave no room for speculation.”

Sarivya’s brows arch, as if surprised by my concession. She recovers, claps slender hands. “Let the court adjourn to the gallery.”

Figures rise, rustling silks and clinking chainmail. I descend the dais, pulse racing faster. Risk multiplies with each spectator—but the larger the crowd, the harder it becomes for Sarivya to twist the story afterward.

The gallery hums with layered conversations when we enter.

I position Iliana near the central pillar, while scribes unroll parchment to record spectral readings.

Matron Yalira stands behind a cluster of half-blood nobles, ready to launch our forged documents if this charade cracks.

Garrik watches from a side arch, fingers drumming, eyes tracking each guard.

Chancellor Velyth’s voice cuts through the noise. “The mortal will perform her alleged hum. Dominus Varok will remain at a distance to prevent channel manipulation.”

A knot forms in my stomach. Separation strips my runes from her hum’s path.

I planned to stand close enough to lace her note with controlled power.

Now I must improvise. I step back until I reach the evaluation dais, forty paces away.

The runes woven into my coat may catch her resonance even across that gap—if I feed them blood.

I bite my thumb, letting a drop bead along the sigil at my wrist, hidden by my sleeve. The rune flares faintly, accepting the pact.

Iliana meets my gaze—steady, sure. She closes her eyes, draws a breath, and releases the first low tone.

It vibrates through the crystal, a soft rumble felt more than heard.

The pillar brightens, but only modestly.

A second note threads upward, layering complexity.

My runes drink it like rain. I channel a thread of chaos energy down the column’s spine, subtle enough to mask its origin.

Light blooms brighter; gasps ripple through the audience.

Sarivya steps forward, jewel eyes narrowing.

She senses tampering yet cannot pinpoint the source.

She lifts her hand, perhaps to protest. Before she speaks, I twist the energy again, splitting it into seven whisper-thin strands that race through each pillar.

On cue, the columns ignite in a ring of emerald fire reflecting the color of Iliana’s cloak.

The audience erupts in astonished applause. Engineers scribble frantic measurements down parchment. I see a mix of wonder and dread on every face. Iliana holds the final tone until my nod signals release. As the echo fades, the crystals dim, leaving faint after-images floating behind eyelids.

Chancellor Velyth clears his throat. “The resonance registers stable output, with no destructive spikes. The court recognizes the mortal’s gift as controlled under Dominus Varok’s guidance.”

Applause swells again. Sarivya’s smile wavers, slipping at the edges. She bows theatrically, but her eyes burn. The trap springs when Yalira strides forward, scroll in hand.

“Honored peers,” she calls, voice rippling.

“House Velinth speaks of regulation, yet its coffers swell with untaxed sapphire imports.” She unrolls the ledger; scribes scurry to copy.

“Here lies record of contraband shipments and payments to smugglers who supplied banned nightshade.” She flicks a glance at the tray by Sarivya’s attendant.

Gasps turn to shouts. Half-blood nobles surge, demanding explanations. Velyth signals guards. In moments, both the ledger and the nightshade blossoms are carried to auditors. Sarivya’s poised mask fractures, then shatters in silent fury.

I step from the dais. Every eye pivots to track me. I find Iliana, still standing beside the central pillar, hands clasped before her as though nothing extraordinary just happened. Our gazes lock. Pride and gratitude flood through me, fierce enough to banish lingering fear.

Chancellor Velyth raises his staff of office. “Until further investigation, House Velinth’s motion regarding collars is suspended. The decree is tabled.”

Relief sweeps the chamber in waves. Half-blood nobles sag as if a guillotine vanished. Sarivya opens her mouth to object, but Velyth’s staff strikes marble, silencing her.

“Council adjourned,” he states.

Corridors buzz like storm-struck hives as nobles file out. Guards escort Sarivya away under pretense of interview; I glimpse her glare before she vanishes. Garrik approaches with a tight smile.

“Flawless,” he says.

“Seldom that simple,” I mutter, though I allow his praise to settle—brief warmth in cold veins. “Any backlash?”

“Most houses jubilant. Some fear retaliation from Velinth loyalists. We will double night watches.”

“Do.” I clap his shoulder and move toward Iliana. She speaks with Yalira, who folds the now-official evidence scroll with satisfaction. When she sees me approach, she excuses herself, leaving us in a niche of sunlit glass.

Iliana studies my hands. The cut on my thumb still bleeds slowly. She lifts it, pressing the wound between her own fingers, gentle pressure to stanch the flow.

“That was reckless,” she whispers.

“I prefer daring,” I answer.

Her lips twitch. “Perhaps both.” She draws me closer, though the hall still bustles behind us. “Thank you for trusting me with so many eyes watching.”

“You carried every note perfectly.” I lower my forehead to hers, ignoring the scandalized glances of two passing dignitaries. “Your strength steadies mine more than any rune.”

She sighs—a sound part longing, part warning—then steps back. “Rest while you can. Velinth loyalists will regroup.”

“I know,” I say, though exhaustion claws at my spine. “We meet in the strategy chamber at dusk.”

She nods and slips away, cloak swirling. I watch until the crowd swallows her, then exhale. Victory carries sweetness, but beneath it anxiety coils tight. Each triumph binds my fate to hers more publicly. Soon no deception will conceal the depth of my need.

Late-afternoon shadows stretch across the courtyard garden where I sit with Chancellor Velyth. He pours bitter herbal tea, the color of moss, into two cups etched with the royal sigil. His eyes flick to the cut on my thumb.

“Blood in the weave,” he says. “A bold method.”

“Necessity.”

He sips, watching me. “The king will commend your spectacle, yet he will also note how swiftly Sarivya fell once you opposed her.”

“His Majesty desires stability. I delivered it.”

“For now.” Velyth sets the cup down. “Your attachment to the mortal grows more visible. Enemies will strike there next.”

I meet his gaze without flinching. “I am aware.”

“Then steel yourself. Emotion weakens shields.”

I incline my head but say nothing. His warning echoes in my own fear.

Night drapes the tower when Garrik enters my chamber unannounced. He tosses a velvet pouch onto my desk. Small sapphires spill across the maps.

“Confiscated from the Velinth treasury,” he says. “Auditors discovered a deeper ledger. Sarivya will face exile.”

I nod, yet the news fails to lift the stone now lodged in my gut. “And Iliana?”

“Safe, for the moment. However, spies whisper of bounty hunters on the lower tiers.”

My fists clench. “Double her guard—discreetly.”

He pauses. “She will resent captivity.”

I glare. “No chains. Shadow shield only.”

Garrik bows, but his parting words strike like arrows. “You move heavens for her. Ensure she never becomes your sky’s collapse.”

Silence returns once he leaves. I pour the sapphires back into the pouch, each stone clicking like a guilty heartbeat.

The walls feel closer, heavy with my own decisions.

Sarivya falls, yet the void she leaves draws darker threats.

I realize with brutal clarity that every victory sharpens the knife against Iliana’s throat.

I step onto the balcony, letting wind lash my hair free.

Clouds roll turbulent below; lightning flickers, illuminating distant ravines.

Power hums under my skin, but tonight it feels less like armor—more like chains I forged myself.

I picture Iliana’s face lit by crystal fire, remember her whispered plea for restraint.

Can I wield strength without becoming the tyrant we fight?

I grip the railing until my knuckles turn pale.

Tomorrow may demand yet another show, another weave of half-truths.

But tonight I allow the wind to cool the fevered rush in my veins.

I vow to choose mercy before spectacle, truth before manipulation—if only to prove myself worthy of the woman who hums storms into being.

Thunder answers, distant, as if taking note.