Page 23 of Burning Her Beautiful

ILIANA

S unrise leaks through the high transom of my chamber, tinting the ceiling fresco in peach and coral.

I watch the light climb the wall while I lace my boots, every tug grounding me in purpose.

My pulse still thrums with yesterday’s victory, yet dawn delivers fresh weight: rumors swirl about the collar’s detonation, Varok faces the king’s eclipse trial tomorrow, and I must convince hundreds of frightened humans that hope is not a candle doomed to gutter at the first hint of wind.

When I tighten the final knot, I slip the copper-wired crystal behind my ear and draw up Lys’s forest-green hood.

The tunic she labored over rests against my skin like a promise stitched in thread.

I inhale once—steady—and slip into the servant corridor before any noble steward can redirect me toward breakfast banter.

My breath leaves small clouds in the cool passage, and each echo of my steps feels conspiratorial: this wing still sleeps, unaware of the current running beneath its floors.

Two flights down, the hallway widens into the laundry concourse.

Steam eddies from iron grates, curling around ankles and hiding faces—exactly as we planned.

Sael meets me near a wall vent, fingers stained blue from indigo vats.

She hums three beats low, one high—a coded alert that watchers linger near the central cauldrons.

I answer with two high notes—yes, I heard.

Only after we duck into a supply niche do we speak aloud.

“The miners sent fresh schematics,” she whispers, unfurling a soot-smudged scrap. “They can anchor six resonance stakes beneath the grand promenade before nightfall. We need a distraction to mask the drilling.”

“I have one,” I say, picturing Varok’s old logistical charts. “The royal stables rotate sky lizards at dusk. If we release two at once, handlers will chase them.”

Her brows lift—a silent question of courage. I smile grimly; courage is fuel now, no longer choice. She folds the map away, brushing damp fringe from her forehead. “The moment they finish, we weave the hum through the copper lines.”

“Do it.” I squeeze her arm, then step back into the steam. Voices echo through the haze, gathering at the starch tables. Time to harvest new allies.

I dodge between linen heaps until I spot Jonn hefting a crate of iron shackles toward the scrap furnace. His shoulders ripple beneath a singed tunic, scars crisscrossing his biceps like tangled rope. He dumps the crate with a grunt, metal clanging, then notices me. A wary grin splits his beard.

“They still forge chains even after yesterday’s show,” he mutters, toeing a cuff with disdain. “Old habits cling.”

“For now,” I reply, crouching beside the pile. “Could these be refashioned into frame hooks for the sky-lizard harnesses?”

He raises thick brows. “Aye, but we’d need twenty at least.”

“Lys recruits tailors; they’ll unravel silk cords to bind the hooks. Deliver at third bell.”

He strokes his beard, then nods once—pledge sealed. The furnace sparks as he feeds cuffs to the coals, hammer clanging in rhythm with the new breath of rebellion.

I leave the concourse, heart lighter. Each cog turns, every small risk layering into a shield for tomorrow’s eclipse. Yet behind every plan a pang stirs—fear that Varok’s path and mine might diverge if the king twists the outcome. I smother the doubt for now; there is no luxury for second-guessing.

Mid-morning sunlight dazzles off mosaic floors in the half-blood market district, where artisans set up stalls of enamelware and rune-etched jewelry.

Many half-blood nobles who once clutched their cloaks at the sight of humans now scan the crowd with new wariness, as if suspecting anyone might carry secret symphonies.

I walk among them, anonymous beneath my hood, listening.

“Did you see the way the collar burst?” one merchant murmurs to a customer, fingers shaking over abacus beads. “Brilliance or fraud?”

“Both,” the buyer answers softly. “Fraud requires brilliance.” They share uneasy laughter.

The exchange stings; our triumph still bears the label of trickery.

Yet I catch admiration beneath the skepticism—seeds already sprouting.

Nearby, a little boy with lavender skin and human-brown curls hums the miner scale while spinning a wooden top.

His mother hushes him, but pride glimmers.

Hope spreads even through uncertain soil.

I move on, turning into a narrow alley behind dye vendors. Yalira’s carriage waits at the end, horses snorting plumes into the crisp air. The matron herself exits a side door, veil trailing, ledger in hand. When she spots me, she lifts the veil’s edge, summoning.

Inside, velvet muffles street noise. Yalira passes the ledger across. “The financial council convenes at high sun. Sarivya’s assets stand frozen, but three sponsors attempt to purchase her debt.”

“Let me guess: Kyreth, Dath, and Volund,” I reply, scanning columns of numbers.

She smiles thinly. “You keep informed.”

“Varok needs these lines halted. If sponsors revive her treasury, tomorrow’s spectacle may breed fresh tempests.”

Yalira taps the ledger. “I plan to expose their underpaid human-labor figures. Yet the council loves profit. I could use a nudge.”

I consider. “The laundry concourse is about to ‘lose’ shipments of premium dye. Without that product, merchants panic; the council reconsiders liquidity.” Sabotage skirts open rebellion, but Yalira meets my gaze, respect sharpening.

“Make it so,” she says. “And Iliana—walk carefully. Sharp tides swallow bold swimmers.”

“I know,” I murmur, exiting the carriage with the ledger tucked inside my cloak.

Back inside the service corridors, I convene a hasty council of slaves in a disused storeroom. Lys, Sael, Jonn, the groom Alrik, and two recently freed half-blood pages cluster around a cracked slate table, maps spread wide.

“We must delay the premium-dye loads,” I explain, pointing to the route. “This barrel chokes the line between lower vats and the hoist. Sael, can you jam the gears?”

“Easily,” she says. “But overseers hold rune keys to restart flow.”

Lys lifts her wrist, revealing slender picks hidden in her cuff seam. “Keys mean nothing when locks crumble.” She winks.

Tasks finalized, we break. Alrik lingers, hands worry-worn. “Iliana,” he begins, voice low, “whispers claim you share Varok’s bed. They wonder where your loyalty lies.”

Heat floods my cheeks. “My loyalty stays with freedom.”

“Yet freedom demands distance from chains—including gilded ones,” he presses, not unkind.

I steady my breath. “Distance is a luxury we cannot afford. Influence gained from proximity weaves threads you cannot yet see. Trust me: the tapestry will hold.”

His shoulders relax a fraction. “Then we trust.” He nods and departs.

Alone, I sink onto a crate, fingers trembling. Every rumor tests my rope-bridge between worlds. I love Varok—that truth has roots too deep to ignore—yet love cannot eclipse responsibility. I grip the pendant at my throat, grounding myself.

Footsteps approach. I rise as Garrik steps into the doorway, military bearing crisp in every stride.

“Dominus requests your presence at the archery terrace,” he states.

“Now?”

“Midday.” His gaze flicks to my dusty boots. “Dress warm; the winds shift.”

He leaves. I recall Varok’s bruises last night, the chain burns hidden by his collar. A swell of protectiveness surges. Tightening my cloak, I head toward the terrace.

The archery terrace juts from the fortress wall, open to a sheer drop. Target banners flutter against snow-touched peaks across the chasm. Varok stands at the rail, coat flapping like dark wings. He holds a short recurved bow, but no arrow is nocked.

When I step onto the stone, the wind whips my hood back. He turns, eyes rimmed with fatigue yet shining at my arrival.

“I needed air and thought of you,” he says.

“Air I can grant,” I reply, joining him.

He passes the bow. “Draw.”

I raise a brow but comply, setting an arrow onto the string. The pull strains my shoulders; the bow sings when I release, the shaft piercing the outer ring of a target fifty paces away.

“Adequate,” he says, lips hinting at humor.

He nocks another arrow, this one barbed with copper filaments. “Signal shaft,” he explains. “Tomorrow night I will fire these above the eclipse crowd. The filaments will open conduits to your resonance nets.”

My heart beats faster. “A spectacle of light and sound.”

“Or pandemonium.” He lowers the bow. “If the nets fail, the king will unleash the chains again.”

“They will hold,” I insist.

Silence stretches. At last he speaks, voice almost shy. “When Asmodeus asked if I love you, I answered yes. He will use that confession against us.”

I rest a hand on his arm, feeling tension beneath the cloth. “Love becomes liability only if hidden. Let them see it.”

He exhales, astonished. “You would claim a public bond?”

“When freed slaves and half-blood nobles unite, they need a symbol—not a collar, not a decree—something living that proves power and compassion coexist.” My voice softens. “We embody that, if we choose.”

He presses his forehead to mine, wind stilled around us. “Then after the eclipse, we announce the alliance.”

I close my eyes. Fear and hope intertwine. “After the eclipse.”

A horn blares from the lower ramparts: shift change. We step apart, yet the invisible tether remains.

“I return to the gallery,” I say.

“Garrik will escort you after the tasks.”

We share small smiles. I head back through the castle, mind juggling logistics and heart-songs.

Evening descends under violet clouds bruising the sky.

Sael’s sabotage halts the dye shaft; frantic overseers chase phantom malfunctions while Yalira secures council dismissal of Sarivya’s sponsors.

Progress tastes sweet. Yet in the concourse tension thickens—slaves whisper of tomorrow’s eclipse, fearing divine wrath and royal punishment alike.

I climb onto a soap crate, cloak swirling, voice rising louder than the clanging vats.

“Storms approach,” I declare, “but we now shape the wind. Tomorrow the sky will darken, yet beneath it we stand unbound. Varok fights on the council floor, but vines sprout only because you tend the seeds. Do not shrink when shadows fall; raise your hum—the low note, the minor third, whatever frequency you carry. When our net hums, the sky answers.”

Eyes widen—some doubtful, others shining. Jonn thumps a fist to his chest; Sael hums softly, joined by Lys. The tune spreads, a living current sparking hope.

An overseer’s shout breaks the moment, but workers scatter efficiently, routines intact. The overseer glares, yet finds no fault: vats still churn. Under that noise the hum persists like a heartbeat.

Night cloaks Galmoleth. I slip into Varok’s library through the secret passage behind a tapestry. He sits at the desk, face illuminated by a rune-lit globe, parchment litter mapping lightning arcs. When he looks up, weariness melts.

“Dye shipment delayed,” I report.

He leans back, folding his hands. “You wield sabotage like a surgeon.”

“We wield,” I correct. “Slaves, miners, half-blood allies. You risk the crown’s ire; we risk chains. Equal stakes.”

“Equal,” he echoes, standing. He lifts my hand, brushing knuckles. “You glow with stormfire.”

I laugh softly. “Stormfire demands rest. We both should sleep.”

He gestures to the couch beside the hearth. Flames crackle gentle warmth. We sit, shoulders touching. Silence deepens but feels safe. He unlaces gauntlets, revealing faint remnants of chain burns. I trace one mark lightly. He closes his eyes, breath hitching.

“We will outrun his chains,” I whisper.

“We will break them,” he amends, voice husky.

I rest my head on his shoulder, inhaling cedar and ink. My eyes droop, but before sleep overtakes, I murmur, “Whatever tomorrow brings, we share the burden.”

His arm encircles my waist. “Together,” he promises.

In the glow of the coals, hope breathes with us. Plans stand ready, hearts aligned. Eclipse looms—but beneath its shadow, roots burrow fierce and deep, waiting to push stone aside in a bloom of lightning-touched petals.