Page 27 of Burning Her Beautiful

ILIANA

S pring sunlight pours over Galmoleth in bright cascades, an almost impossible warmth after the eclipse’s strange twilight.

Crows circle high above the palace spires, black wings flashing silver at the edges, and their caws mingle with the steady clap of craftsmen hammering new banners onto balcony rails.

Gold-and-copper cloth blazes between white columns, and the city starts to breathe with tentative hope, like a patient just released from fever.

I watch the bustle from the wide window of my borrowed sitting room, fingers tapping the carved-stone sill in a quiet rhythm.

Yesterday Varok’s declaration rocked the court; today Matron Yalira plans to tip the entire chessboard.

A soft knock draws me from the view. Sael slips inside—cheeks pink, curls plastered to her brow from the climb up countless stairs. She presses a coded note into my palm, then leans back on her heels, catching her breath.

“Stable diversion succeeded,” she reports. “We lured two sky-lizards across the western quarter; the handlers are still chasing them.”

“Excellent,” I say, smoothing the parchment across my lap. Inside, Yalira’s elegant script confirms the midday stage for her revelation and grants me a speaking moment directly after. My pulse stutters—opportunity feels both gift and burden.

Sael wipes a smudge of oil from her cheek. “Are you sure the city will believe her? Nobles cling to lineage like armor.”

“Truth has its own gravity,” I reply, meeting her tired eyes. “When Yalira casts it upon them, even polished armor will bend.”

Sael’s smile tilts sharp. “Then I’d better return to the tunnels before the breathing stops.”

“Stay safe,” I say, clasping her shoulder. She taps two fingers to her brow in an informal salute and vanishes into the corridor maze.

Left alone, I breathe deep, centering. Sunlight glints on the pendant Varok gifted me—the resonance stone cut from that broken collar.

I rub the gem once, a habit now, then rise to dress.

The emerald tunic feels familiar, yet today I add a sash of royal crimson trimmed in slate gray—the colors of the Sky Harmony Guard that Varok now leads.

The fabric rests snug across my ribs, a silent tie to him while I step into uncharted territory.

When I emerge, Lys waits with a steaming mug of ginger tea. She eyes the sash, her gaze soft. “They cannot ignore you dressed as both storm and sunrise,” she says.

I laugh. “I would settle for them not tossing me into a dungeon.”

“Not after yesterday,” she scoffs, handing me the mug. “Half the city calls you Dawn-Singer now.”

The title warms me more than the tea. Dawn. Beginning. Fitting for what must unfold.

We wind through corridors toward the council rotunda, our soft steps swallowed by echoing marble.

Murals depicting demon victories sprawl overhead—armor-clad generals wielding spears of lightning, conquered kingdoms kneeling under boots.

I carry the weight of that history yet stride taller; that past no longer writes our future alone.

Near the grand bronze doors, Varok waits in a new uniform: a charcoal-leather coat trimmed in copper thread, runes worked into shoulder plates that gleam brighter than any medal.

He still dwarfs the nobles, horns catching torchlight, yet a fresh calm molds his posture.

Guards salute as he approaches me. His eyes travel the sash—pride flickers.

“Ready?” he asks simply.

“Yes.”

He offers his arm. I slide mine through, grateful for silent strength. Together we enter the rotunda’s vast circle.

A hush falls over tiered benches. Demon senators in scarlet robes, half-blood envoys shimmering in silver, and human trade delegates clutching newly issued passes—all pivot to watch us cross the mosaic floor toward the dais.

King Asmodeus is not yet present; his gilded throne looms empty near the high arch.

Murmurs scuttle: There they are . . . lovers, rebels, saviors, traitors.

We ascend side stairs. Varok guides me to a carved seat reserved for sky-guard captains. I pause, squeeze his hand, then step toward the podium placed center stage for Yalira’s address.

She enters moments later. Gasps ripple. The Matron’s lavender complexion glows beneath a silk gown dyed storm-violet, but her headdress—once a towering crown of lacquered horns—has been replaced by a simple circlet of silver vine, revealing her ears.

Pointed tips mark demon lineage, yet faint human roundness appears at the outer edges.

She has hidden them beneath ornate bone pieces for decades.

Silence thickens as she reaches the podium. She surveys the gallery with gold-flecked eyes, shoulders squared. When she speaks, each word lands like a steady drum.

“Citizens of Galmoleth. For three hundred years our city has thrived on order enforced by blood hierarchy. Yesterday proved blood alone cannot shield us.” She pauses. The hush could swallow a heartbeat. “I stand before you as Matron of House Yalira . . . and as the daughter of a human father.”

The rotunda lurches with disbelieving cries. Some leap to their feet—outraged or awestruck. A senator’s cane clatters down marble steps. Yalira lifts her palm, requesting stillness.

“My mixed heritage never diminished my loyalty,” she continues. “Instead it honed empathy that guided trade prosperity and famine relief. Yet the law deems my bloodline impure. I unveil this truth today to condemn such a hollow measure.”

She reaches behind her neck, unfastens the gown’s clasp, and lets the fabric fall to reveal a brand on her collarbone—half demon rune, half human script interwoven, the old scar faint. “My house thrived because unity, not purity, built its foundation.”

Her voice remains calm, but the hall quakes with reverberations of shattered dogma. I feel the resonance stone pulse at my throat, echoing her courage.

Yalira turns toward me. “Iliana, step forward.”

I cross the dais, sandals whispering. She presents a scroll of crimson wax, its fresh seal impressed with the Yalira crest now encircled by intertwined crowns.

“I petition the council to recognize Iliana Eryndor as envoy extraordinary, empowered to draft a new charter of caste equality,” she states.

Shock resets the room. The human delegates exchange stunned glances. Demon senators hiss under their breath. Half-blood envoys lean forward, hunger for change lighting their features.

I accept the scroll, fingertips steady despite the storm inside. “I am honored,” I say, raising my voice, “but this charter must be inked by voices across every tier, not mine alone.”

Murmurs follow—some supportive, some skeptical. Senator Tovor, his horns gilded in gold laminate, stands. “Ridiculous. Bloodlines ensure order. Strip them away and chaos follows.”

“Chaos already arrived,” I reply, stepping farther into the open circle. “Assassins within your ranks fired on festival crowds. Storm nearly devoured the city. Who calmed it? A union of talents across caste lines.”

He sneers. “An anomaly.”

“Or a harbinger,” I counter, letting quiet conviction carry. “Lightning once belonged only to demons; yesterday it answered a human song. The world changes whether the council wills it or not.”

Tovor’s face reddens. Before he retorts, the doors at the rear bang open. King Asmodeus enters, flanked by honor guards carrying onyx pikes. He strides to the throne yet remains standing.

The hall drops to its knees. I bow my head, then straighten quickly, scroll still raised. Asmodeus’s gaze pins me—then Yalira, then Varok. Curiosity stirs behind molten-silver eyes.

“Proceed,” he commands.

Yalira repeats her petition. As she speaks, I study the king. Yesterday he watched me calm the sky, then accepted Varok’s demotion without outward fury. Today curiosity outweighs wrath; he loves games, and new pieces have just entered the board.

Asmodeus lifts a ring-clad hand once Yalira finishes. “The council will deliberate. Until then, Iliana shall serve as provisional envoy under my oversight.” He slides his eyes to Tovor. “Objections?”

Tovor’s throat bobs. “No, Majesty.”

The resolution passes by royal edict. Gasps again. My knees nearly buckle under the sudden mantle, but I plant my feet.

As we withdraw to the wings, Varok intercepts, warmth and worry mingling in his eyes. “Envoy extraordinary,” he murmurs, mouth quirking.

“The title tastes heavy,” I breathe.

“Let me shoulder some weight.” He squeezes my elbow—a covert gesture shielding us from observing scribes.

Yalira joins, folding her arms. Sweat beads along her hairline, but satisfaction rides her smile. “Stage set,” she murmurs. “Now draft the charter before they bury the motion in procedure.”

“I will start tonight,” I promise.

Afternoon light slants through library windows as I spread maps, census ledgers, and Sael’s tunnel schematics across a massive oak table. Varok perches on the edge, sharpening a quill with meticulous care. Garrik stands guard at the door, posture relaxed yet watchful.

“Yalira’s disclosure cut deeper than a blade,” Varok observes, eyes scanning lists. “Noble houses scramble for alliances.”

“Good,” I answer, scribbling names of potential reform supporters. “Momentum thrives on uncertainty.”

He sets the quill down, studying me. “You move with new authority.”

“My chains fell the moment the storm obeyed me,” I say, meeting his gaze. “Your faith forged the key.”

He reaches across parchment to clasp my hand. We share a silent moment before returning to tasks.

Hours pass in ink scrawl, page flipping, messenger pigeons dispatched. At dusk Lys brings food—honeyed figs, cheese rounds, crusty bread. We eat at the table, still debating clause verbiage.

Mid-bite a messenger bursts in, breathless. “Matron Yalira requests your presence at the river amphitheater. Urgent.”

Varok sets the bread down, muscles tightening. Garrik signals two guards. I rise, stacking papers. “Coming.”

The river amphitheater lies in the lower tier, carved into the cliff along a rushing cataract. Lanterns line terraces, but the crowd appears smaller—mostly half-blood artisans and human workers. Yalira stands on the central stage, silhouette lit by torches. When we reach her, she beckons us close.

“Senator Tovor plots an emergency vote to strip my title,” she says quietly. “He claims impurity violates the charter. We must preempt.”

“By rallying the populace,” I realize.

“Tonight,” she confirms. “Your song carries weight.”

Varok glances at the crowd, then at me. I step onto the stage with Yalira, heart thundering. She addresses the gathering first, recounting her heritage and the council’s defiance. Murmurs of outrage shift to solidarity; whistles of support rise.

When she gestures to me, I inhale, letting the river’s roar settle my nerves. “Galmoleth stands at a crossroads,” I call. “Do we measure worth by ancient ink on lineage scrolls, or by how we lift one another when lightning falls?”

Torches flicker in the updraft, reflecting in a hundred eyes.

I unfasten my cloak clasp, letting copper vines catch the firelight.

“My blood is human, yet the sky answered my voice because I honored harmony. Yalira’s blood is blended, yet her wisdom fed hungry districts.

Varok wields thunder, but sets it aside to shield the weak.

These truths speak louder than pedigree. ”

A cheer swells. I lift both palms. “Tomorrow the council debates the equality charter. They will watch who stands with us. Let song travel tonight—from workshops, from mines, from kitchens—until marble walls tremble.”

Someone begins the miner-scale hum. Others join. A wave of resonance flows across the amphitheater, through pipes, and into distant alleys. My pendant glows brighter, the stone resonating with collective hope.

I let vibrations wash through bone, knit sinew, renew resolve. When the song fades, I see tears on faces once hardened by labor. Hope glitters like starlight on water.

Varok steps beside me, resting his hand low on my back—silent approval. Garrik announces safe routes home; guard escorts form a protective ring.

On a walkway above the amphitheater, I spot Senator Tovor watching, jaw tight. He withdraws hastily. Fear? Perhaps. But change rarely marches unopposed.

Night deepens. Back in the library, candles sputter as we anchor charter clauses to legal precedent, weaving language both precise and poetic. Varok copies the final articles in immaculate script. Yalira stamps each with her new crest.

At dawn’s first blush, we tie the scrolls with blue ribbon and dispatch couriers to every council seat. Varok leans back, shoulders rolling. He looks at me across the littered table—ink smears, crumb-strewn plates, maps askew.

“You rewrote the city’s heartbeat,” he murmurs.

“We rewrote it,” I correct, sliding my fingers over his. “But the final chords are still ahead.”

His thumb strokes my knuckle. “Whatever storm they send, I will meet it at your side.”

I squeeze his hand, gaze drifting to the window where sunrise paints clouds rose and gold.

Yesterday I woke a slave. Today I rise an envoy shaping law.

Tomorrow I may stand a target again, yet I no longer move alone, nor in shadow.

Yalira’s courage lights the path, Varok’s devotion fortifies it, and the city itself hums an anthem of rebirth.

A knock interrupts reflection. Garrik enters, face bright. “Council convenes at the tenth bell. Your charter tops the agenda.”

I inhale a steady breath, rising. “Then let’s greet history.”

Varok falls into step as we leave the library, parchment bundle cradled like a fragile dawn.

The palace corridors buzz, but fear no longer lives in my bones; anticipation does.

Each stride echoes evolution—Iliana the captive, Iliana the storm-tamer, and now Iliana the law-bearer.

The pendant warms against my sternum, pulse in sync with my heart.

As we approach the assembly doors, Varok whispers, “Whatever the verdict, our story continues.”

I smile, pushing the doors inward. “Together we will write every chapter.”