Page 26 of Burning Her Beautiful

VAROK

T he eclipse rises like an omen—a bruised disc swallowing the sun one deliberate bite at a time.

I stand on the grand rampart that wraps the top of Galmoleth’s royal amphitheater, wind whipping my coat, bow gripped tight in my gloved hand.

Thousands fill the terraces below—citizens, half-blood nobles, foreign envoys invited for celestial spectacle, and spies who will carry tales to distant courts by dawn.

Their faces tilt upward, a sea of pale ovals under the darkening light.

They have come for wonder, yet fear swims beneath their skin.

They remember yesterday’s assassin and the lightning I hurled in answer.

Behind me, engineers fuss with the rotating platform that will raise Iliana into the sky when the moon covers the sun’s final sliver.

From that height she will hum the stabilizing sequence, and our hidden resonance stakes will unfurl a web of gentle current to tame the storm front that threatens to form where hot and cold winds collide.

Without that net, lightning could strike the packed terraces, and the king would claim her failure as proof that humans cannot be trusted with power.

My brand still itches from that unspoken promise.

I flex my fingers around the signal-shaft arrow, its copper fletching catching the dying light.

In minutes I must fire this into the cloud deck.

It will burst into seven filaments tuned to her pendant’s crystal.

If my aim wavers, the network fails and lives burn.

Yet my hands shake from more than the weight of responsibility.

I cannot stop replaying the sight of her almost dying, the arbalest bolt hissing past where her heart beat.

The terror that ripped through me felt rawer than any battlefield wound.

I do not hide that terror now; it becomes steel in my spine, clarity in my purpose.

If the king, the court, or the gods themselves question my devotion, they will see it flood this city today—bright and undeniable.

Chancellor Velyth appears at my side, panting slightly from the stair climb. He glances at my bow. “You understand the order of cues?”

I nod. “When her second note rises, I release the shaft. The stakes harmonize and bend the front south.”

“Good. Ensure you stand centered when you fire; the entire council box watches.”

I almost smile at his understated warning. “Let them.”

He dips his head and steps back to let me focus.

I tug the collar of my coat, thought briefly fluttering to Iliana in the preparation tower below.

Yalira and Lys adjust her cloak—midnight green lined with copper thread that echoes the vines on her tunic.

Sael pins her hair with the moon-shaped comb.

I wish I could stand there, brush a kiss to her knuckles.

Instead I swallow the ache and ready for war masked as ceremony.

The king’s herald strides to the balcony dais, voice booming through crystal horns. “People of Galmoleth, behold the union of sun and moon, herald of cycles, test of harmony. Today our Dominus Varok and the gifted song-bearer Iliana will guide the sky so that your hearts be eased.”

Applause rolls—hesitant at first, then stronger. I scan faces for dissent. Sarivya’s former allies cluster near the east steps, cloaks black, eyes bright with resentment. The assassin’s death did not deter them; their new plan likely grows in shadow. My jaw clenches.

A hush falls as Iliana steps onto the platform in the tower aperture. Even from this distance my pulse quickens. Her cloak billows, pendant crystal glowing pale jade. She meets my gaze across the gulf, and rampart, crowd, and king fade for one stretched heartbeat. She nods once. We are ready.

The platform begins to rise, gears whining. She ascends above rooftops, silhouetted against the waning sun. Gasps ripple. She opens her arms and the cloak spreads like wings.

She begins to hum.

The first note is low and resonant, vibrating the stone beneath my boots. The crowd quiets. I draw the signal shaft, notch it, and set my feet shoulder-width. The second note rises, threaded with a tremor of tension.

I exhale, draw back, sight into the thickening cloud shelf. The moon veils three-quarters of the sun; strange dusk floods the city. I release.

The arrow arcs silver through air, a comet of intent. At its peak, it blossoms into seven strands that hiss outward, invisible filaments felt rather than seen. My runes flare, guiding energy to anchors hidden in the city walls. A muffled boom rings as the web ignites.

Iliana’s voice lifts to a third, brighter note. Clouds ripple above, lightning flickering yet bending sideways—reined like startled stallions. A collective sigh rises from the terraces.

Then chaos enters.

From the east stair, a figure in guard livery draws a crossbow and fires at the tower gears.

The bolt thuds into the brass mechanism; sparks skitter; gears jam.

The platform lurches. Iliana stumbles, cloak whipping.

Another rogue guard leaps onto the rampart walkway near me, brandishing a curved blade.

My heart detonates with protective fury.

He charges, blade aimed at my ribs. I parry with the bow, wood cracking. I yank a dagger from my belt and slam the hilt into his jaw. He reels. I pivot, kick him over the battlement. He tumbles; his scream cuts short. Crowd screams echo.

I pivot again to the tower. The platform judders; gears shriek metal agony. Iliana grips the rail, maintaining her hum though the note wavers. Lightning above flicks unpredictable.

“Sappers to the tower gears!” I bellow at royal engineers, but many duck—cowards. I sprint along the rampart, leaping a gap to an adjacent rooftop, boots skidding on clay tiles. Wind knifes across my face.

Below, half-blood nobles attempt order. King Asmodeus rises in his royal box atop the dais, expression carved from stone, eyes smoldering. He will view this as Iliana’s failing, regardless of sabotage. My chest burns.

I reach a maintenance ladder and race down, three rungs at a time. At the tower base, rogue guards block access, blades out. They wear Velinth insignia on their bracers. Two crossbows level at my heart.

“Step aside or die,” I warn.

They hesitate only a breath. Bolts fly. I dive, roll, feel one shaft pass inches from my ear.

I surge forward, bring the dagger across the first guard’s thigh, severing the tendon.

He crumples. The second guard swings. I catch his wrist, twist until bone snaps.

He howls. I ram a knee into his stomach; he spits blood.

Iliana’s hum falters—audible even here. Lightning stabs the ground outside the amphitheater; thunder shakes windows.

I slam my heel into the door. Hinges rip free. Inside, a gear teeters—metal teeth grind, locked by the bolt lodged deep. I leap onto the platform base and grab the wheel. “Hold your breath,” I call upward.

She sees me through the slats, nods, voice hitching.

With one free hand I grip the bolt, pry with the dagger tip.

Metal squeals but refuses. Adrenaline surges; I channel raw force through the runes into my fingers.

Heat builds; metal softens. I wrench. Bolt snaps. Gears unlock; the platform stabilizes.

Iliana’s note steadies, climbs into a pure tone. Lightning obeys, sheathing itself into glowing whorls above.

Relief crashes. Yet something inside me snaps too. I climb the ladder onto the platform, ignoring protocol. Crowd gasps at the breach of ceremony. I stride to her, pull her against my chest with one arm while the other raises my blade toward the sky.

“Touch her again and Galmoleth burns,” I roar, my voice amplified by the resonance stones hidden in the dais days ago. It booms across every tier, echoing like the wrath of gods.

Silence swallows the amphitheater. Even thunder hushes. My declaration reverberates: not a commander’s order, but a lover’s vow—raw and dangerous.

Across the plaza, Asmodeus stands, arms crossed. His gaze pins me—fury, calculation, intrigue. I do not yield. I place a kiss on Iliana’s brow before tens of thousands. Murmurs swell into shocked clamor.

Iliana does not flinch. She places a hand over my heart, the pendant glowing bright. She turns to the crowd, voice clear although she does not shout.

“We protect this city together,” she states. “Storm bows to harmony, not division.”

The resonance stones carry her calm deeper than my threat. The crowd listens, breaths synchronizing.

Above, the moon finishes its conquest. The sun becomes a ring of fire; darkness settles.

Stars blink in midday. Iliana hums a final chord.

The lightning web contracts, becoming a luminous aurora dancing over rooftops.

Awe replaces fear. Someone begins to applaud.

It spreads like ripples, rising to a thunderous roar.

She lowers her arms, sagging slightly. I hold her steady. Tears glimmer on her lashes—joy, relief, sorrow at the necessity of such display.

As applause booms, I face the king’s box and bow—not in subservience, but in open challenge: recognition of his power, yet a declaration of my own. The king inclines his head a mere fraction, lips curled, message unreadable.

We descend as sunlight creeps back, gold washing the city in renewed light. At the base, engineers and scribes babble analysis, but they part like water around us. Garrik appears, eyes wide.

“That declaration…” he whispers.

“I meant every word.” I squeeze Iliana’s hand.

“Political ripples already.” He gestures to nobles whispering, some frightened, others exhilarated. “You tipped scales.”

“So be it.”

An hour later we stand in the council rotunda, summoned for an emergency session. Velvet drapes mute the chatter; tension hangs sharp enough to bleed. Asmodeus enters, horns scraping the arch. Courtiers bow. He ascends the throne yet remains standing.

“Dominus Varok,” he begins, voice low yet carrying. “You saved lives this day, but you fractured decorum. Why?”

I step forward. “Because the city must understand the bond that safeguards it. Assassins target Iliana to break me. Concealing my attachment grants them advantage. Now all know that harm to her invites my wrath.”

Gasps. Pens scratch furiously.

Asmodeus studies me, then Iliana. “A demon general laying heart bare for a mortal… unprecedented.” He circles the word as if tasting rare spice. “What demands does this devotion levy on my crown?”

“Only space to let freedom flourish,” I answer. “Humans and half-bloods now trust the throne’s strength when it is tempered by compassion.”

He tilts his head. “Compassion alone does not fill coffers.”

“Unity does. Taxes flow when citizens believe in leadership.” I hold his gaze.

A flicker of amusement. “Very well. I will consider.” He gestures to Sarivya’s allies under guard. “Meanwhile, the council finds House Velinth guilty of treasonous acts. Assets seized; members confined pending trial.”

A cheer rises among half-blood delegates. Asmodeus lifts one hand. Silence.

“Dominus Varok, you remain general. Yet your heart tethers you. Choose: renounce your bond, or accept a reduction of military command to guard-captaincy, freeing heirs of noble houses from suspicion of favoritism.”

I feel Iliana tense. I meet her eyes, see worry there.

“I choose reduction,” I declare without hesitation. Gasps again, louder. “My strength is no lesser outside court ranks.”

Asmodeus nods, perhaps expecting defiance. “Then so be it. Captain Varok will head the new Sky Harmony Guard—its sole mandate: protect the city from celestial threats and from those who exploit fear. Report to me after reorganization.”

He sits. Session over. The crowd erupts into overlapping conversations—some applaud, some sneer—yet energy of change hums.

Iliana squeezes my hand, eyes shining. We exit the rotunda through a side passage, Garrik trailing.

“You relinquished half your power,” he says quietly.

“I gained purpose,” I reply. “And clarity.”

Dusk settles. We stand on the balcony overlooking lantern-lit avenues where citizens dance beneath banners painted with stylized lightning bound by vines. Children sing fragments of Iliana’s hum. Hope spreads.

Iliana leans against the stone rail, breeze lifting curls. I step behind her, wrap my arms around her waist. She sighs, resting back against my chest.

“You surrendered rank for me,” she whispers.

“I surrendered rank for us,” I correct. “And for a future where power wields compassion.”

She turns, sliding her hands up my chest. “Your vulnerability today shifted hearts—mine included.”

I kiss her softly, deepening when she opens her lips. Wind chills, but our heat rises.

When we break, she places her palm over the brand. “Captain of the Sky Harmony Guard,” she says in playful lilt.

“Better title than general without joy.”

“Then we build harmony.”

Below, bells toll the evening prayer. She rests her head against me.

I watch lights flicker across the tiered city and feel weight lift.

I have laid my heart open to public gaze and accepted the consequence.

Political vultures circle, yet their talons cannot pierce truth forged in storm and tenderness.

“Tomorrow,” I murmur, “we draft the guard charter—human, half-blood, demon recruits.”

She smiles against my neck. “Equality born in lightning.”

Stars ignite overhead. The moon, having tasted the sun, now drifts white as peace. I hold Iliana, vow blazing anew. I am no longer a weapon for the throne; I am a shield for love—whether the kingdom bends or breaks beneath it.