Page 3 of Burning Her Beautiful

ILIANA

T he door thuds shut behind Varok, and the sigil embedded in its bronze surface dulls from ruby to ash gray.

Only then do my knees weaken. I ease onto the pile of silk cushions near the hearth, palms flat on either side of my hips, breath rushing in great, ragged pulls that taste of clove smoke and fading thunder.

The chamber remains hushed except for the crackle of resinous wood on the grate.

No guards watch from the threshold, no shackles weight my limbs, yet chains linger in the mind far longer than iron dares.

I tighten my fingers against the cushion’s brocade, chase each tremor back into the marrow where fear hides.

He left me unbound because he believes walls and sigils suffice.

Perhaps he is right. Still, each curved line of chalk and shimmering rune reminds me that in this floating citadel ruled by monsters, stone itself takes orders.

I inhale until my ribs ache, then split the breath with a low hum.

Three notes. Mother taught me the tune when I was five summers old, told me its rhythm would steady plow horses during planting.

Tonight it steadies me. On the exhale the memory of her laugh wraps around my shoulders, warm despite the years.

I rise and drift to the balcony. Beyond the archway, slate clouds churn beneath Galmoleth’s rocky crust. Lightning veins the distance, illuminating pillars of basalt that spear upward from the lower continent like the teeth of some colossal leviathan.

The drop must scale thousands of feet before storm vapor swallows you whole.

One careless lean and gravity will claim a quicker end than any demon knife.

I close my eyes. Another breath. Weight lifts from my chest by increments. When I open them I stand taller, anchored.

My gaze flicks to the door. Locked by power I cannot parse.

Yet locks invite challenge. I cross the room, skim callused fingers over the sigil.

It feels cool now, beaten metal tinny beneath my nails.

No latch, no seam. Escape dreams wilt. I turn away before frustration sours into despair and pace the room’s perimeter instead, noting everything.

Shelves crammed with obsidian boxes no larger than a fist, a low cedar chest heavy with bronze fastenings, a washstand carved from mottled jade.

In a corner a tall mirror leans against polished basalt. I pause before it.

My reflection startles. Lamplight smudges bruises into dusty violets beneath my eyes.

Wind and grime have tangled my waist-length hair into knotted ropes.

I lift a curl; it springs back stubborn as a vine.

Beneath the plain linen shift my shoulders square, though exhaustion drags at them.

Mother would tell me that is the posture of survivors.

Father would tease that my chin can shear granite.

I adjust that chin, straighten, and study the faint red marks circling wrists.

They sting, but pain anchors. Pain reminds.

When Varok touched me earlier—when warmth pooled through his fingertips and closed broken skin—something bright and terrifying ignited in my chest. Not gratitude alone. Certainly not trust. Something wilder. It thrums again now, a stubborn ember refusing ash. I turn away from the mirror.

The hum leaves my throat, widens into the chorus of the old plains song my brother loved.

I pick up the tune while shrugging from the shift.

Steam still veils the bath. I slide beneath water fragrant with mint until warmth laps at my clavicles and the heat coaxes every taut muscle into surrender. Yet my mind refuses rest.

The raid blazes back, unbidden. Pine-scented night air whipping about me, lanterns fizzing out under demon magic, red bolts splitting tents like parchment.

I recall the oak staff in my hands, the way its splinters pierced my palms when I swung at the horn-helmed brute who dragged Lys from her bedroll.

I still taste blood where he struck my mouth.

They bound us before dawn, marched us down ravines where the sun never reached.

When the path turned upward into cloud I understood the legends held truth.

Humans stolen for Galmoleth rarely returned, and those few carried hollowness where spirit once lived.

Yet my spirit still writhes, angry and bright. Maybe that is why Varok’s gaze stirred something. Monsters sense kindred flame.

I scrub peach-scented soap over arms, rinse until water clouds.

When I rise, droplets race down olive skin, catching light like quicksilver.

A fresh garment waits on a stand—soft doeskin trousers and a tunic the hue of moonlit copper.

I dress, grateful that he offered practical attire rather than filmy gowns favored by demon courtiers.

I braid damp hair into a sleek rope, then thread a short piece of ribbon I find tucked beside a brush. Tiny victories.

A silver tray rests on a low table near the hearth: sliced starfruit, wedges of pale cheese, dark bread still warm.

A steaming bowl of stew gives off a scent that makes my stomach roar despite wariness.

Hunger wears many masks; tonight it chooses negotiation.

I tear a hunk of bread, sniff. No bitterness hints at poison.

The cheese smells sharp, wholesome. I dip the bread into stew, taste honey and chili and smoked root.

Appetite wins. I eat in measured bites until the bowl empties, wipe the last drop with bread, and lean back against cushions.

Warmth blooms behind my sternum. Strength returns.

The door sigil flares brighter. My pulse leaps before hinges creak inward.

Varok strides through, cloak swirling like blood-black silk.

Lamplight skims over him, catching runes that pulse along his arms in muted scarlet.

He carries a second silver tray balanced on one palm.

Roasted fowl, bowl of pomegranate seeds, dark wine in two shallow cups.

He sets the tray on the table where the empty bowl rests, gaze dropping to its spotless interior.

“You have eaten.” Satisfaction threads the words, though his tone remains quiet.

“I suspected the food was not drugged,” I answer, meeting his eyes. “If you wish me strong for tomorrow’s spectacle, safety serves you.”

“That it does.” He lifts the cup nearest him, sips. “Still, I planned to ensure compliance.”

“Force-feeding would dent your image,” I note, tone light. “Though perhaps bolts of chaos magic are typical seasoning here.”

A flicker of amusement glints before he masks it. “Bolts bruise the flavor. I prefer persuasion.” He offers the second cup. “Wine. Sip slowly, it burns.”

I accept. The liquid pours down my throat like molten rubies, sweet at first, then spiced heat that races to fingertips.

I set the cup aside and brace elbows on my knees, studying him.

He stands near the hearth, head tilted, horns glossy as river stones.

His eyes, molten silver at this distance, remain unreadable.

Yet something churns beneath that surface—tension, curiosity, perhaps a shred of confusion he hides even from himself.

“You eat nothing?” I ask.

“I will later.”

“Afraid I might sharpen a bone and strike?”

“Bones are blunt compared to some implements in this palace.” He gestures to the chair opposite the hearth. “Sit. We discuss tomorrow’s sequence.”

I stay on cushions. “I prefer to stand.” Defiance rings harsher than intended. I lift my chin. “A stolen goat may graze but remains tethered.”

He regards me for a breath, then nods. “Stand, then. Tomorrow Asmodeus presents you before the Sanctum of Oltyx. You will wear a shift of white, no jewelry, no metal. You will kneel at the foot of the altar until commanded.”

“Commanded to die,” I murmur.

“Commanded to submit.” He steps closer. “There is difference, though often measured in heartbeats.”

His proximity charges the air. The fire behind him paints highlights along the carved slope of horns, the harsh line of jaw, the hollow at his throat where shadows gather.

Scars on his shoulders catch light. My gaze follows one scar that trails from collarbone to bicep, a pale ribbon against crimson skin.

I imagine how he earned it, picture swords clashing under black skies.

The thought should frighten. Instead intrigue threads its way through caution.

He exhales, as if my scrutiny burns. “Eat more,” he orders, pushing the bowl of seeds forward. “Fasting drains the heart. I want it strong.”

I pluck three seeds, let juice burst on my tongue, sticky and tart. We share silence while storm wind whooshes beyond the balcony arch. The hush between us feels less like pause, more like a drawn bow.

He drags a second cushion closer, sits cross-legged, boots braced on the rug’s fringe. Firelight gilds runes on his arms to ember gold. “Tell me of the raid,” he says. “I need knowledge of your strength.”

“This conversation profits you alone.”

“A blacksmith tests ore before forging.” He inclines his head. “Speak, Iliana.”

My name on his lips comes softer than I expect, yet the demand remains.

I breathe through the pull in my chest, then share.

I recount the demon warriors emerging from pines, the smell of cracked sap, the cries of my companions, Lys’s terrified whisper, “Run.” I describe how the leader blasted our fire to ash with a single gesture, how another demon struck me when I tried to protect Lys.

I speak of the march into canyons glowing with ghost light and the rise into storm cloud.

His face remains composed, but his fingers curl against knee leather when I mention the slap, the chain that cut Lys’s ankles. The gesture vanishes quickly, yet I mark it. He listens until words thin.

“You fought,” he comments.

“Briefly.”

“Few mortals dare,” he says, as though summarizing a ledger. Yet admiration flickers.

“I dared because I had nothing left to lose.”

“Now you do,” he counters, gaze boring into mine.

I swallow. “I will not beg.”

He leans forward. “Begging bores me. Stand tall or fall. I value spirit.” His words hum across the space, stirring embers of pride and something hotter.

A pause stretches while the fire spits resin. He rises smoothly, sets my empty wine cup beside its twin. “You will rest now. Dawn approaches.”

I stand as well. “You came to watch me eat and relive nightmares.”

“No.” He stops a breath away. Our heights near equal; his horns tip past my hairline, yet he inclines slightly so we regard each other eye level. “I came to measure your will. Tomorrow you face a god’s gaze. Weak will shatters.”

I struggle not to lean back. “If I shatter, the blame belongs to the hammer.”

“True.” His lips curve, faint, almost rueful. The flicker of softness unnerves me more than menace. “Yet I suspect you are temperate steel.”

We stand within reach, neither moving. My heartbeat shifts tempo. The scent of him—smoke, cedar, some underlying metallic tang—wraps around senses. His chest rises, slow and deep, as though drawing me in through scent alone.

He speaks on next exhale, voice husk low. “Go to the balcony.”

The order surprises me. I obey, partly curiosity, partly the tug of intuition that the storm holds answers.

When night wind catches my braid it slaps damp strands against neck.

He follows, stopping beside me at the railing.

The abyss below seethes with cloud rivers lit by intermittent lightning.

He grips the stone ledge, forearms tensing.

“Many fear the drop,” he says.

“Only fools do not.”

“Step onto the rail.”

I flinch. “You jest.”

“I will not let you fall.” He extends one hand, palm up. “Trust, Iliana.”

I search his face. Shadows pool under brows, but his eyes gleam sincere. I climb, knees trembling. One bare foot meets chilled stone, then the other. Wind buffets. His fingers encircle my wrist, steady. When lightning flashes, runes glow through his grip, illuminating our joined skin.

“Close your eyes,” he says.

I do. He instructs me to breathe slow, to taste ozone on each inhale. Wind roars, cloak snapping behind me, braid whipping. My balance wavers but his hold anchors. “Feel the storm,” he murmurs. “It lives yet does not destroy you. That is power of will.”

Heat coils upward from my stomach to chest, across collarbones, then blooms behind closed lids as golden swirl. I stand taller. He guides me down, stepping off the rail onto balcony tiles. My feet touch stone, knees steady now.

I open eyes. He watches, expression unreadable. “You did not flinch,” he says softly. “Hold that strength tomorrow.”

I nod once, throat thick. “Thank you.”

His thumb traces over the pulse point at my wrist before letting go. “Rest.” He leads me back inside, gestures toward the bed of cushions. I sink, still humming with storm energy. He crosses to the door. At the threshold he pauses.

“One more thing.” He turns halfway, hair pulled back into a warrior’s knot, horns gleaming. “If fear whispers,” he says, “hum.” A faint smile touches his mouth. “I like the sound.”

Doors seal.

I sit long minutes watching fire devour cedar logs. Sleep creeps in eventually. I curl on my side, braid coiled beneath cheek, whisper thanks to every spark of fate that hid me from the knife tonight. Yet danger looms. I know this.

Still, when dreams finally steal me, I feel the rough heat of a crimson palm on my wrist and the taste of lightning on wind, and neither is entirely unwelcome.