Page 25 of Burning Her Beautiful

ILIANA

A shaft of pale sunlight grazes my cheek, coaxing me from dreams in which storm clouds part over Galmoleth to reveal fields of emerald vines.

The bed remains impossibly warm, scented with cedar and smoke, but memory rushes back—the quiet tenderness of last night, Varok’s whispered promise, the scrap of parchment he tucked beside my pillow.

I roll onto my back, fingers brushing the note.

Meet me at sunset.

Just four words, yet the ink hums through every vein.

I slide from the bed, feet sinking into the thick wool rug.

Outside the window, the city already stirs in anticipation of the eclipse festival: banners ripple from balconies, market chimes clang, and echoes of laughter drift in on the high wind.

All of it feels brittle—the calm crust before an earthquake.

Today I carry plans for sabotage, nets of resonance, and now the knowledge that someone loves me enough to tremble in my arms.

I bathe quickly in lukewarm water, scrubbing away the scent of shared heat but leaving faint traces of his sandalwood oil at my wrists.

Lys’s green tunic waits on a hanger. When I slip it over my head, the copper-vine embroidery hugs my waist as though reminding me of root systems hidden beneath marble.

I braid my hair into a practical coil, weave the copper filament through, and secure it with a wooden pin shaped like a crescent moon—the symbol of tonight’s eclipse.

Then I fasten my leather belt, tucking a coil of thin wire, a locksmith’s hook, and a folded parchment of emergency frequencies inside.

Ready.

The corridor outside my chamber thrums with activity.

Nobles sweep past in embroidered cloaks; children dart between their feet, chasing paper kites shaped like shadow-wings.

I descend the servants’ stair to the laundry annex, where Sael greets me with ink on her cheeks and excitement in her mismatched eyes.

“The gear-jam worked,” she announces, tugging me behind a vat. “Overseers sent for mechanics from the lower tiers. Dye flow stays halted until dusk at least.”

“Perfect,” I reply. “Any retaliation?”

“Just frantic cursing.” She grins. “Rumor claims you hexed the gears.”

“Let rumor grow wild.”

She presses a small parcel into my hand—six resonance stakes wrapped in linen. “The miners finished these at dawn. Jonn’s hooks are already delivered to the stables.”

I hide the stakes inside my cloak. “You should rest after shift change.”

She shakes her head. “Not until I hear you’re safe.”

I clasp her shoulder, gratitude too deep for words, then head toward the outer courtyard where stable grooms ready the sky-lizards for their nightly patrol rotation. Alrik spots me and lifts two fingers—a signal that the first part of the distraction will begin at third bell.

Time ticks forward like a tense drum.

Late morning finds me weaving through the half-blood promenade, checking ventilation grates for clear lines.

Copper pipes glint under vendor awnings, ready to ferry the hum once the stakes activate.

I make small talk with jewelers, sample honey-glazed nuts, and slip coded phrases into conversation, assuring allies that everything proceeds.

At a fountain near the promenade’s center, I pause to fill a waterskin. Children toss copper coins into the blue depths, wishing for sky-fireworks tonight. Their laughter momentarily eases the knot in my stomach.

I turn to leave—and the world tilts.

A flicker of movement high on a colonnade catches my eye: a cloaked figure raising the miniature arbalest, the glint of steel aimed directly at my heart. I freeze, my pulse lunging to my throat. Crowd noise blurs. Training whispers inside my skull—move, drop, shout—but my limbs feel mud-thick.

Then everything explodes at once.

A piercing whistle tears the air. A shadow blurs before me—Varok, horns gleaming, coat flaring.

Time slows. He shoves me sideways, an avalanche of muscle and rune-lit power.

We hit the pavement hard; the breath punches from my lungs.

Stone shatters where I stood as the quarrel embeds itself, sizzling with toxin.

Screams erupt. Vendors topple stalls in panic, rainbow silks billowing like wounded birds. Varok rolls to shield me, his body a living fortress. I drag my next breath, lungs burning, and scramble to kneel. My shoulder protests—scraped but whole.

Above, the assassin reloads. Varok’s eyes flash molten silver.

Without standing, he extends one arm; lightning arcs from his palm, slicing the marble column where the attacker crouches.

Stone explodes, sending the figure crashing to a lower balcony.

Guards sprint, and Varok is faster—he vaults up a decorative arch, claws sparking, landing beside the crumpled body.

Another bolt crackles, and the assassin lies still, arbalest smoking.

Stunned silence ripples through the plaza. Citizens stare at the demon commander breathing hard atop the ruin, runes pulsing angry crimson. In that moment I see more than fury—I see raw terror that he nearly lost me, a fear laid bare before the entire district.

He leaps down, kneels beside me, hands gentle yet trembling. “Are you hurt?” His voice rasps.

“Bruised—nothing more.” I touch his cheek where a faint scorch mark curls from the lightning rebound. “You?”

“Only burnt pride for letting the threat get near.” He pulls me tight against his chest. I feel his heart hammer faster than battle drums. For the first time, I sense his power reined by emotion rather than command—vulnerability draped over armor.

Guards encircle us, weapons drawn, but Varok waves them back, eyes fixed on mine. “They aimed to break me through you. They failed.”

“They will try again,” I whisper.

“Let them,” he growls, but the menace wars with worry.

A hush falls as Chancellor Velyth pushes through, flanked by scribes. He assesses the wreckage, then bows slightly to Varok. “Dominus, the council will investigate this outrage. The assassin wears the House Velinth insignia.”

Murmurs surge—Sarivya’s emblem blatant on the cloak, evidence she still wields loyal killers despite frozen assets.

Velyth’s gaze flicks to me. “Lady Iliana, we regret this trauma.”

Lady. The title stings sweet and strange. “I live thanks to Dominus’s vigilance,” I answer steadily, standing though my knees shake.

Varok rises beside me, a towering presence of silence. The crowd parts as he escorts me through debris toward an archway leading to a secluded garden. His hand never leaves the small of my back.

Once hidden by cypress trees, he stops and turns, anguish storming across his face. “I swore to keep you safe. My oath faltered within hours.”

“You saved me.” I cup his cheeks, thumbs tracing ash smudges. “You cannot stop every arrow before it flies.”

He closes his eyes, leaning into my touch. “When I saw that bolt—something inside me ripped open. Not rage alone—fear, bone-deep. I have fought wars without batting a lash, yet one quarrel aimed at you unmade me.”

Tears prick my eyes, sudden and fierce. “And when you leapt between us, I saw the depth of your care clearer than any vow.”

He opens his eyes, vulnerability shimmering silver. “I would tear down kingdoms for you. But tearing is easy; protecting is harder. I need to be more than a blade.”

“You are,” I whisper, pressing my forehead to his. “You are heart and hearth to me. This morning when I woke, I felt it, but now I know—without question.”

The confession lands like sunrise after endless night.

He exhales, arms sliding around my waist, pulling me so close I feel the shake still ebbing through his frame.

Our lips meet—no heat of lust, but a slow, anchoring kiss that steadies frayed nerves.

I taste salt, perhaps from my tears or his.

The world narrows to shared breath, shared promise.

Footsteps crunch along the gravel. A Garrik appears, stopping at a polite distance. “Dominus, patrols secure the perimeter. Assassin confirmed Velinth retainer. Council drafts arrest orders for remaining conspirators.”

Varok doesn’t release me but nods. “Double Iliana’s guard. Trusted men only.”

Garrik’s eyes lighten with understanding. “Already done.”

He leaves, and we linger beneath the cypress whisper. Finally Varok guides me along a winding path toward the healer’s annex, insisting on inspection. The healer finds bruises, a shallow cut—nothing dire. Varok stays through bandaging, one massive hand wrapped around mine.

When the healer dismisses us, Varok speaks quietly. “You should rest until sunset. My chambers hold fewer eyes.”

The thought of his sanctuary soothes nerves, yet duties tug. “I need to meet Sael—confirm final stake placement.”

“I will escort you,” he states, brooking no argument.

I laugh softly. “Then our enemies will shake at the sight of us.”

“Good.” A shadow of a smile curves his mouth.

Back in the laundry annex, workers hush at our entrance, awe mingled with relief when they see me alive. Lys darts forward, eyes red. “We heard?—”

“I’m fine.” I hug her, letting emotions tangle for a breath. “Proceed with the third-bell diversion. Varok has arranged extra patrol cover.”

Lys blinks at him, gratitude and caution mingling. He inclines his head—a rare gesture leveled toward a servant. Respect not performative—genuine. I feel hearts shift around us, walls between caste lines thinning.

We tour vent tunnels, verifying stake placement.

Varok crouches in grime without complaint, holding ladders while Jonn drills bolts.

His presence emboldens workers, who trade shy jokes with their former executioner turned guardian.

I watch tension ease from shoulders that spent years hunched.

Change blossoms in these passages—fragile but real.

When tasks end, Sael hums the success phrase; Varok hums the bass answer. The resonance through pipes vibrates my chest—a duet of rebellion and authority harmonized.

Sunset bleeds crimson across spire windows when we return to his chamber. He closes the door, then leans back against it, exhaustion carving lines into his face. The last rays splash across his horns, painting them molten. He meets my gaze, and the room hushes, the day’s chaos settling like snow.

“Thank you,” I say simply.

“For what?”

“For leaping. For lightning. For showing the city what devotion looks like.”

He pushes off the door, steps close. “They saw power—perhaps fear. Devotion? They will see that tonight.”

He reaches into his coat, retrieves a small box of polished ebony. “I meant to wait until after the eclipse, but near-death clarifies timelines.”

Curiosity jolts through me. He opens the box. Inside rests a pendant of intertwined silver vines encircling a shard of crystal pulsing faint green—the exact frequency of my hum.

“It is a resonance stone forged from yesterday’s collar fragments,” he explains. “A symbol that shackles become strength when wielded with love.”

Tears flood my eyes. I lift the pendant; it thrums like a second heartbeat. “It’s beautiful.”

“Wear it tomorrow when you calm the storm. Let them see transformation.”

I nod, voice lost, and fasten the chain around my neck. The stone warms against skin, and in that warmth I feel his trust—fierce and unwavering.

He exhales, relief softening his posture. “Rest now,” he murmurs, guiding me to bed. “I will sit by the window finalizing bow calibrations.”

I catch his hand. “Stay beside me. We breathe the same air.”

He hesitates, vulnerability flickering, then slides onto the mattress. We lie on our backs, shoulders touching. Outside, festival drums echo faintly, but inside the chamber, quiet reigns.

After minutes he speaks. “The assassination attempt changes public tide. Sympathy swells for you; suspicion turns toward Velinth. This will aid reforms.”

“I don’t care for sympathy if it rises on blood,” I whisper.

“Nor do I.” He turns onto his side, propping his head on one hand. “But change often costs wounds. I vow each cut will serve a purpose.”

I trace a pattern on his forearm, rune meeting fingertip. “Your vow becomes mine.”

Our eyes lock—thousands of unspoken fears and hopes passing. Exhaustion claims me, lids heavy. His lips brush my temple. “Sleep, blossom. Tomorrow we bend the sky.”

I drift into dreams where lightning dances in vines and a demon’s hand guides mine along a path none dared carve.

Pre-dawn chill wakes me. Grey light spills over the floor. Varok still lies beside me, arm hooked around my waist, breaths deep. No armor, no weapons—only a man braving vulnerability. I rest my palm on his chest; his brand glows faint amber, peaceful.

The assassination attempt could have stolen this. Realization hits sharp—I love him beyond rebellion’s necessity, beyond gratitude. Love stitched from lightning and gentleness, from risk shared and tenderness discovered. I will not let any throne sever it.

I rise, careful not to wake him, and dress. The pendant’s crystal catches the first sunrise spark. I stand at the window, staring at the horizon where the moon will devour the sun later today. Fear steals breath, but purpose steadies it.

Behind me Varok stirs, murmurs my name. I turn, a soft smile on my lips. “I am ready,” I say.

He sits, hair tousled, answering smile blooming. “Then the sky stands no chance.”

We share quiet laughter. The day of the eclipse begins, and with it a chapter in which devotion, once hidden, steps into the light—unmasked, unchained, and powerful enough to tilt empires.