Page 22 of Burning Her Beautiful

VAROK

I pace the length of my war room long before dawn, boots striking restless patterns into a marble floor already worn by generations of scheming lords.

Maps and ledgers lie open on every table, but my eyes refuse to settle on any single set of figures.

Numbers skew when sleep eludes the mind, and I have not closed my eyes since Iliana walked from the terrace hours ago.

She thinks I have the strength to shoulder what comes next.

I pray to every forgotten god that she is right.

A copper lamp flickers, drawing long shadows across the walls where pennants once hung in glory and now gather dust. I lean against the casement and stare at the dim lights of Galmoleth’s lower tiers—tiny sparks beneath a sea of cloud.

Thunder grumbles far below, yet closer storms brew in council chambers and whispered alcoves, seeded by yesterday’s spectacle.

Sarivya’s allies bleed influence, but they do not retreat.

Instead they coil tighter, serpents ready to strike at whatever weakness they discover—especially if that weakness has a heartbeat and stands in my shadow.

A knock disrupts the silence. Garrik enters without waiting for permission, strands of copper hair escaping their binding. If the world knew how little patience he retains for protocol, they would quake more.

“Emissaries from Houses Dath and Kyreth wait in the anteroom,” he says. “They demand clarification on your ‘falsified proof.’ Kyreth’s steward called it theatrical slander.”

“Kyreth enjoys drama until it guts their trade routes,” I mutter. “Tell them the ledgers have moved to the Royal Archive for audit. They may submit formal requests.”

“That will delay them days,” Garrik observes.

“Time I need to weave stronger nets.” I pinch the bridge of my nose. “What of the collar smith?”

“Secured.” He crosses the room and sets a small iron clasp on the desk. The hinge glints with harmless copper runes. “Poison glyphs replaced with resonance crystals tuned to her hum. One twist from either side shatters it outward.”

I test the clasp, feeling the faint vibration of dormant power. Relief nudges worry aside for a breath. “Well done. Station four guards in rotation outside the smith’s quarters until the tribunal. Sarivya’s remnants will look for him.”

Garrik inclines his head, but the tension pulling at his mouth remains. “You have not addressed Asmodeus’s summons.”

My blood runs colder than the window glass. “When?”

“The message arrived an hour after midnight.” He slides a scroll across the desk. “He expects you in the Sanctum of Chains after the tribunal—private audience.”

I roll the scroll open. The king’s seal glows faintly red—burning wax enchanted to track my acceptance. No response yet, but it warms beneath my fingertips, sensing hesitation. Asmodeus rarely calls an officer to that sanctum unless a lesson awaits. My brand throbs in anticipation of pain.

“Send acknowledgment,” I say. My voice remains even, though the room tilts. Consequences come fast.

Garrik bows, worry tightening his eyes. “And if you do not return intact?”

“You lead the guard. Protect Iliana, secure reforms, and complete the transition plan.” I force steadiness into every word. “Galmoleth survives without me.”

“Your faith in me dishonors your worth,” he snaps.

I almost smile. “You have always hated compliments.”

He stiffens, then clears his throat. “Very well. I will comply.”

He leaves, and silence crashes back, heavier than before. I circle the desk, dragging a fingertip across inked routes that represent lifetimes. All of this could collapse with one wrong breath.

Footsteps approach again, softer, familiar. Iliana steps through the open doorway carrying a covered tray. She wears the forest-green tunic Lys tailored, copper-vine embroidery catching lamplight. She glances at the maps, then at my face.

“Breakfast,” she says, lifting the lid. Steam carries the aroma of spiced oats, fresh figs, and strong tea. Even the scent eases the ache behind my eyes.

“You should be resting,” I say, though gratitude threads the words.

“So should you.” She sets the tray down, pouring tea into two porcelain cups. “We survive today on steady hands, not empty stomachs.”

I take a cup, sip, and taste more than leaves—nutty undertones that soothe nerves. She watches, gauging each swallow.

“I heard about Asmodeus,” she says quietly.

“Word travels quickly through whisper pipes,” I reply, trying for lightness. She does not smile.

“If he punishes you, this entire structure we build could topple.”

“I am aware.”

“Then let me petition to accompany?—”

“No.” My tone bares more panic than intended. I temper it. “He summoned me alone. Bringing you would signal defiance.”

She lifts her chin. “Or solidarity.”

I shake my head, forcing calm. “He would interpret it as leverage and crush it. You stay here. Your presence at the tribunal must remain focal.”

Her gaze tightens, but she nods. She stirs her own cup, then sets the spoon down with a clink that echoes finality. “Then promise me you walk lightly.”

“Light feet, always.” I touch her wrist, pulse steady beneath skin. In that brief contact solace flows both ways.

She steps closer, resting her forehead against my chest for a fleeting instant. “May the storm favor us,” she whispers, then slips out before longing chains me to her side.

The tribunal amphitheater buzzes under sun-blazed glass when I arrive.

Hundreds of nobles fill crescent benches, voices weaving dissent and curiosity.

At the center dais stands a silver post adorned with ceremonial manacles—today replaced by Sarivya’s custom collar, gaudy with ruby inlays. They expect spectacle. I swallow bile.

Iliana enters from the northern arch, garnet sunlight catching the copper vines at her cuffs. She walks with unhurried grace, every step a strike of defiance. Whispers follow her like trailing ribbons. She ascends the steps to the collar, stops at my side, and meets my eyes. In that gaze we anchor.

Chancellor Velyth stands at his podium. “Per decree of the king, the mortal Iliana submits to formal regulation.” He gestures for the collar.

I lift it, feeling the subtle thrash of resonance crystals waiting for her hum. Iliana tilts her head. The room falls into a breathless hush as I secure the clasp around her neck. Metal clicks. A faint chime rings—our hidden signal that the crystals engaged.

Gasps ripple. Noble faces lean forward like wolves at a gate. Velyth raises the staff. “Let the mortal hum for reading.”

Iliana inhales. A single low note emerges, soft yet clear. Crystals hum in response but remain dormant to untrained ears. I sense their echo thrumming up the collar into my runes. It is time to break the leash.

I unfurl chaotic strands from my brand, channel them through coat runes into the ambient crystal network.

I weave the shatter pattern around the collar.

Sweat beads at my temple from the focus.

A split second later I clamp the energy, twisting frequency into the mirrored pulse Iliana tested last night.

She lifts her voice an octave. The collar vibrates, ruby stones flickering.

Spectators lean away. With a final twist I release the energy.

The collar explodes outward, shards of harmless copper raining like metallic petals.

Light flares around Iliana’s throat and dies, leaving only a faint red mark across her skin—a mark we inked with dye earlier to mimic a burn.

Chaos erupts. Nobles leap to their feet, half in awe, half in terror. Velyth slams his staff, voice booming over the noise. “Order!”

Guards rush forward, but I raise a hand. “Malfunction,” I announce, my tone iron. “Proof that forced shackles cannot hold harmonics they do not understand.”

Several half-blood nobles cheer, the sound swelling. The council divides in real time; I see fear turn to admiration in eyes once wary.

Iliana steps forward, unburned, voice ringing. “No collar forged in arrogance will bind the rightful breath of any soul. May this be a lesson—not a threat.”

Her words echo across stone, settling into hearts. Silence swallows the chamber. Even my pulse stills in stunned pride.

Velyth inclines his head, eyes gleaming. “Motion to rescind mortal collar regulation,” he declares.

Half-blood nobles raise hands. Within heartbeats, majority support rises. The motion passes, banners shifting colors to indicate decree.

Sarivya’s factions stand frozen, defeat etched across their faces. Their moment of humiliation blossoms like my vines once did—dark, inevitable, beautiful.

But victory tastes stale. The king’s summons tightens around my thoughts. I step back, whispers swirling as attendees surge around Iliana offering support or wary respect. Garrik intercepts me, shadowing every movement.

“You leave now?” he asks.

“Before gossip outruns truth,” I answer. I watch Iliana laugh softly with Yalira, tension melting from her shoulders. A single look passes between us, promise for later. I turn and stride from the chamber, Garrik in tow.

The Sanctum of Chains lies beneath the royal palace—a cathedral carved from basalt so dark it swallows torchlight. Every step down the spiral cuts warmth from the air until breath frosts. My boots echo off iron-bound doors etched with runes older than our dynasty.

Two sentries unlock the final gate. The throne room beyond is empty save for Asmodeus upon his obsidian seat. He wears no crown—his horns suffice—but his silver eyes catch torch-flame and build it into blaze. I kneel, fist to chest.

“Rise, Varok,” he says, voice smooth. “Your theater delights the court.”

I stand. The rune on my chest flares.

“Delight is double-edged, Majesty,” I reply.

“Indeed.” He gestures. Chains on the walls stir, a resonant tremor traveling through stone. “Explain why my general spends magic shielding a mortal when he should crush dissent.”

“My magic guided the court toward unity today.”

“Unity?” He barks a hollow laugh. “Unity gained by undermining fear. Fear keeps kingdoms upright. You craft wonder instead and expect obedience.”

“The people obey what inspires, not merely what terrifies.”

He leans forward, elbows on knees. “Your tongue charms marble, yet I sense cracks.” His gaze pierces. “Do you love the mortal?”

I breathe once. “Yes.”

The truth shakes the air like struck glass. Asmodeus’s grin widens. “Love erodes knives.” He rises. “Show me if steel remains.”

Chains slither toward me like serpents. I brace. The rune burns as one chain winds around my wrist, another around my ankle. Pain lances, siphoning energy. Vision dims at the edges, yet I hold steady.

Asmodeus stops inches away, towering presence radiating cold. “A tool that forgets its maker warrants reshaping.” He grips the chain, yanks. Agony arcs through nerves. I bite my cheek—not to stay silent but to keep from cursing him with Iliana’s name.

Minutes stretch. The brand on my heart sears under pressure. I endure until numbness settles. At last he releases his hold. Chains loosen, slither back.

“You believe devotion grants strength,” he says, voice almost pitying. “We will test that soon.”

My pulse pounds in my ears. “She is not weakness,” I breathe.

“Then let her prove it. Galmoleth hosts an eclipse in two nights—the festival of shadows. Present her to the city and have her quell the tempest conjured by old gods. If she fails, your brand will finish you.” He flicks his wrist and the chains retreat fully. “Leave.”

I bow, stagger out. Torches blur as I climb stairs. Garrik waits at the top, concern etched deep. I wave off his reaching hand until balance returns.

“We prepare for the eclipse,” I whisper, voice raw. “The king demands proof beyond terror.”

Garrik’s jaw works. “We improvise?”

“We transcend.” I push hair from my sweat-damp brow. “Summon Iliana and Yalira. The city will witness either a miracle or a massacre.”

Night cloaks the tower by the time Iliana enters my chamber. She wears a traveling cloak, fresh dust on her boots—likely from her network rounds. When she sees my pallor, worry overtakes greeting.

“He hurt you.”

“Not beyond mending.” I pour two cups of dark liquor from the decanter and hand her one. “He demands performance during the eclipse. You must calm the storm front at its peak.”

She sips, processing. “A public stage again.”

“Wider. The entire city.” My voice cracks. She reaches instinctively, palms cupping my face. The warmth of her skin dispels chilled echoes.

“We can craft resonance nets in sky,” she murmurs, thinking faster than breath. “Use floating crystals to bend lightning arcs.”

Hope flickers. “Possibility exists, but the margin slims.”

“We widen it,” she says. “Together, with every ally we have.”

Her certainty burrows through fear. I exhale shakily and pull her into my arms. She wraps around me, heartbeats syncing. For the first time I allow my head to rest on her shoulder—not as a shield but as a weary man seeking harbor. Fingers thread my hair, gentle strokes that hush roaring doubts.

“You are not alone,” she whispers.

“I feel alone often.”

“Then feel me.”

I clutch her tighter. Walls fade until only her breath remains. In that silence vulnerability blooms. Tears, rare as rain in upper Galmoleth, burn my eyes. I blink them away, yet one escapes. She brushes it aside with her thumb, reverent.

“We will face the eclipse,” she says. “You will not break.”

“I fear for you,” I confess.

“Fear sharpens care,” she answers. “But trust guides action.”

I hesitate, let trust root deeper. “Stay tonight,” I ask, voice hoarse.

“No storms in your chamber,” she counters softly. “Only rest.”

She leads me to bed, where we lie clothed yet entwined. Her heartbeat drums lullaby against my ear. Dread still coils, but hope weaves through it like gold thread, binding cracked edges.

As sleep finally claims me, I dream of cracked marble yielding to vines that climb toward a blood-red moon.

Iliana stands among them, arms raised, voice turning thunder gentle.

I stand at her side—no chains, no collar—only her hand in mine, forging new constellations across a sky that once belonged solely to kings.