Page 20 of Burning Her Beautiful

ILIANA

T he echo of polished boots fades into distant corridors as the nobles depart the resonance gallery, yet the taste of scrutiny still coats my tongue.

Dozens of eyes mocked, weighed, and measured every breath I took during Varok’s demonstration, and I feel each lingering stare like the ghost of a slap.

My shoulders ache from holding perfect posture, and my jaw from the practiced half-smile that promised confidence while hiding the tremors beneath my skin.

I stand beside the central pillar a moment longer, pressing my palm to the cooling crystal.

Its surface no longer glows, but a faint thrum remains, as though it remembers the river of power that coursed through it minutes ago.

A steward waits to escort me to a reception chamber where refreshments and veiled interrogations surely await, yet I lift one hand, bidding a silent request for privacy.

The steward bows and retreats, leaving me alone amid marble still reverberating with gossip.

My heart pounds. I draw a breath, steadying the racing beat.

The demonstration succeeded; Sarivya stumbled, her decree suspended, but the cost sits heavy in my lungs.

I inspect the room that witnessed my every note.

No scorch marks blacken the floor, no crystals lie shattered, yet I am aware of unseen fractures—hairline cracks within alliances, shifts in currents that carry both freedom and danger.

I trace one such fissure inside my chest, where defiance and attraction meet in uneasy embrace.

A memory flashes—Varok’s eyes locked on mine across the distance, his subtle nod guiding me to release the final note.

Even from afar I felt the invisible thread between us tightening, an unspoken vow.

He risked a blood rune to lend strength while masking its origin, and danced along treason’s edge for my sake.

Admiration ignites warm embers below my ribs, joined instantly by guilt.

Each time he wields deception to protect me, another layer of his carefully honed armor cracks, and with each saved moment, the noose around him—and therefore around us—tightens.

I force a slow exhale and straighten, refusing to crumble under possibilities.

My feet carry me toward a side door rarely used by nobles.

Varok promised space, and I intend to honor that promise, yet I need to breathe air free of whispered rumors before I face the next chess move.

The passage opens onto a narrow terrace half hidden behind climbing ivy.

The noon sun pierces the cloud bank, painting ripples of gold across the railing.

I step into the brightness, lungs savoring the crisp wind scented with distant pine.

Below, on the lower tiers, servants bustle like ants—flashes of white aprons, glints of copper buckets.

I spot Lys leading two maids across a courtyard, heads bent in animated conversation.

The sight steadies me more than the sunlight.

They sacrifice sleep and safety to share coded hums for our network; their courage leaves no room for self-pity.

I lift my face to the wind and hum a single phrase—the new frequency Sael suggested.

The stainless whistle threads through the air, seeking copper nodes inside the palace walls.

If the line works, miners in the deepest tunnels will hear within minutes.

I imagine their surprised smiles and feel an answering spark of hope.

“Beautiful pitch,” a voice murmurs.

My pulse stutters. I whirl to find Yalira stepping onto the terrace, lavender skin glowing beneath a parasol of translucent silk. Her eyes gleam topaz-bright, but caution tempers her smile.

“I should have known you would claim this hidden ledge,” she says, closing the parasol. “You have the scent of the wind in your hair.”

“Apologies, Matron,” I reply, smoothing my cloak. “I needed a breath.”

“No apology necessary. After the scrutiny you endured, dragon’s wings could not beat out the stale stink of politics.” She moves beside me, resting manicured hands on the rail. “They devoured every tremor of your voice, yet you never flinched.”

“I flinched inside.” The admission slips free before pride clamps it.

“That makes your poise more impressive.” She glances toward the gallery doors. “You know, of course, that whispers claim your song pulls Varok’s strings. They cannot grasp how a mortal might hold her own power.”

I rub my thumb over the copper strand at my temple. “Let them whisper. Each rumor blunts the next blade.”

Yalira eyes me sidelong. “Your strength reminds me of cracked ice—resilient yet dangerous should anyone misstep.” She lifts the parasol again. “I will see you at the strategy council tonight. Do not let the vipers steer your heart.”

I nod, uncertain whether her compliment bears a warning. She sweeps away, silk rustling.

Left alone, I replay her words. Cracked ice threatens both walker and water. I promised myself to remain an anchor, not an edge. With renewed focus I retrace my steps back through hidden corridors, avoiding clusters of nobles now drifting toward pavilions for midday gossip.

By early afternoon, sunlight slants across the high windows of the sewing workshop where Sael and two other humans sort bolts of cloth for upcoming banquets.

I duck into the doorway, exchanging silent greetings.

The air smells of linen starch and nutmeg.

Sael glances over her shoulder, mischief alight.

“Your note reached the mines,” she whispers around a mouthful of pins. “Echo jumped stone within nine breaths. The miners tapped back gratitude.”

Relief washes over me. “Excellent. Continue mapping the air ducts.”

She nods, returning to her task. Before I leave, Jonn slips from a side alcove—stealth surprising for a hulking chain maker. He presses a slender metal hook into my palm—two prongs bent precisely.

“For door locks on the upper clerical floors,” he murmurs. “Half-bloods may need an exit if Velinth allies riot.”

I tuck it into my belt. “Thank you.” In his soot-smeared face I read flickers of pride, fear, and a cautious hope stronger than iron.

Twilight drapes the corridors in lavender shadows by the time I reach Varok’s strategy chamber.

He indicated we would meet here, but the thick oak doors remain closed.

Garrik leans against a column across the hall, arms folded in what looks like patience, though one foot taps a subtle rhythm betraying impatience.

“He is detained with the Chancellor,” Garrik explains, nodding toward the door. “I was about to fetch you for a separate briefing.”

We step into a side library lined with parchment scrolls whose titles I cannot decipher. A single desk lamp casts amber pools on a stack of ledgers.

“Three factions loyal to Sarivya pledge vengeance,” Garrik says in a low voice. “Two command house guards, the third finances hired blades.”

“Numbers?”

“Maybe thirty trained swords. More if coin flows.”

“Targets?”

“You and Varok.” His tone remains clinical, but the hand near his dagger tightens. “They plan public humiliation before a lethal strike, likely at tomorrow’s tribunal when the evidence is formally registered.”

Heat chills in my veins, an alchemy of anger and dread. “Public humiliation how?”

“Rumor claims they will parade you in a collar forged by Sarivya’s artisans—display the ‘rogue sorceress’ before stripping Varok of rank.”

My pulse stammers, yet I force a steady breath. “And their plan to subdue him?”

“Poison runes baked into the collar’s clasp. If he breaks it, chaos feedback sings into his brand.” Garrik slams a scroll flat. “Ingenious and vile.”

A tremor travels from my shoulders downward, but I ground my feet and lift my chin. “Then we must craft counter-ingenuity.” Resolve crystallizes like winter glass. “We let them attempt their humiliation… only we control the ending.”

Garrik’s brows lift. “Explain.”

I lean over the small table, tracing lines on Gediron parchment, conjuring strategy as I speak.

“We intercept the craftsman forging the collar. Replace the poison runes with dormant crystals tuned to our frequency. When they clasp it publicly, Varok channels energy to shatter the collar outward—a harmless burst that appears destructive only to the conspirators. He emerges unscathed, and their plot backfires.”

Garrik scrutinizes my sketch, lips pursing. “Risk mounts. One fault and the rune arcs back.”

“Risk is lesser than surrendering spectacle to them.”

A moment passes before he nods. “I will locate the smith tonight.” He rolls the parchment shut. “Varok may resist using you as bait.”

“Varok will understand the necessity,” I say, though my stomach tightens.

Garrik strides out to marshal spies. I follow toward the central stair but divert into an alcove overlooking the terrace where we met at dawn. Varok stands there now, alone, his gaze lost in violet dusk. I hesitate, but the weight of knowledge pushes me forward.

My footsteps echo softly across the mosaic tiles. He turns, eyebrows lifting at my approach. The gloom paints warm amber across his skin, lighting the runes that never quite rest.

“I thought you would be with Chancellor Velyth,” I say.

“Discussion ended early.” He studies my expression. “You carry a storm in your eyes.”

“Storm brings warning.” I glance at the view before facing him. “Your enemies craft a new collar meant to shame me and break you.” I relay Garrik’s intelligence, voice steady though my pulse thrums.

When I finish, silence stretches, taut as drawn wire. Varok’s jaw tightens, the veins along his neck pulsing.

“I will not permit them to touch you,” he says at last, each word hammered from steel.

I touch his arm. “Listen before you decide. We can bend their collar into a trap.”

I explain the plan, including my part as willing bait. His eyes narrow as the strategy unfolds, yet rage flickers in the silver depths. When I finish, he steps back, pacing three strides before whirling.