Page 32 of Burning Her Beautiful

VAROK

D awn paints the battlements copper as I stand on the outer terrace of the royal keep.

The wind carries the last strains of the river singers’ hymn, notes that lifted Iliana and me through the night, but the harmony fades now beneath the weight of the drums pulsing from the Grand Court below.

Those drums call every noble, every petitioner, and every sworn sword to assembly. The king demands judgment.

I roll my shoulders, easing leather across fresh bruises earned at the volcanic rim.

The heat of yesterday still ghosts beneath the skin, a reminder of the fault we calmed and the fragile charter we won.

Today’s test will not be molten rock; today the threat sits upon a throne of gold and obsidian, holding the power to strip everything we built with a single spoken command.

Bootsteps sound behind me. I turn as Iliana approaches, cloak swirling around an emerald dress.

The moonlit tenderness of last night still echoes in her eyes, yet a veil of determination settles over that softness.

The resonance stone at her throat pulses with faint blue light, reacting to the drums as if keeping time with an unspoken promise.

She stops close, slipping her fingers through mine. “Your jaw is tight,” she murmurs. “Breathe, or you will bite through it before we reach the hall.”

The corner of my mouth rises. “If biting steel could sway the council, I would gladly gnaw every column in the rotunda.”

She squeezes my hand. “We will not bend them by force this morning. We will bend them by truth.”

Her steadiness fills my chest with embers of courage.

I press my lips to her knuckles, tasting the faint salt of the night’s labor, spent scribbling charter amendments.

Then we walk side by side past crimson banners and polished helms that line the stair.

Guards bow, eyes flicking between the human envoy and the demon commander who claims her as equal.

Uncertainty rides their brows, but no one speaks.

The king demanded silence until verdict.

We reach the bronze doors where Garrik waits.

His scale mail catches dawn light, casting ripples across the steps.

He bows, then sets a hand on my shoulder.

“Stormborn,” he says, using the old training name spoken only among brothers.

“Remember who shares the sky with you.” Behind him stand thirty soldiers in mixed armor—demon plates and human leathers blended, crests of the Sky Harmony Guard freshly stitched.

They are my answer to the old divisions, and they hold formation because they believe more in us than in fear.

I nod gratitude, then push through the doors into the Grand Court.

Marble columns rise like trunks of ancient trees, capped with gold leaves that glitter in the high windows.

The floor is a mosaic of winged figures circling a thunderbolt, their eyes gemstones that throw colored sparks when sunlight touches them.

Tiered rows overflow with senators, merchant lords, guildmasters, and foreign observers.

At the far end sits the throne of Asmodeus, taller than any mortal chair, its back carved with serpents devouring their own tails.

The king leans forward, fingertips pressed together, watching the tide of spectators part for Iliana and me.

An attendant slams a staff once. “Captain Varok of the Sky Harmony Guard and Envoy Iliana Eryndor present themselves.”

We halt at the front of the dais. Iliana’s hand leaves mine as protocol requires, but my skin still tingles where her warmth lingered.

Asmodeus rises. His crown of barbed platinum throws reflections like shards. “The council meets to judge charges brought by Senator Tovor of High House Malvyr,” he announces. “Charges of treasonous collusion, unlawful meddling in blood law, and attempted subversion of royal will.”

Shouts ripple from the benches: anger, support, jeers. Asmodeus lifts one gloved hand. Silence takes hold.

“Tovor, speak.”

The senator stands three tiers back, robes of hammered gold rustling like coins.

Horns tipped with crystal gleam. He points an accusing finger at us.

“Weeks of chaos trace straight to that woman.” His tone drips contempt.

“A human slave turned envoy who manipulates our captain through carnal spell. She wields magic dangerous to our realm and weakens demon ranks by blurring caste lines. Remove her, and remove the rot.”

He sweeps his cloak aside. “Furthermore, Captain Varok defied the crown in forging an unsanctioned militia, risking civil strife. I request dissolution of their bond and exile for the human.”

Boos and cheers clash until Asmodeus slams his scepter to the floor. The crash booms overhead like thunder. Quiet falls.

I step forward, heart drumming yet voice steady.

“Majesty, council—I own every decision and welcome judgment. But speak truth: Iliana’s song calmed the sky and saved thousands.

Her counsel forged a charter that shields your poorest wards.

If these acts threaten Galmoleth, then the city no longer values life. ”

Tovor laughs, high and bitter. “Pretty speech. Yet you forget divine decree: blood of demons alone may touch storm-fire. She touched more than storm-fire. She stole it.”

A murmur of unease spreads. Even supporters shift, recalling myths that lightning is a gift from upper-plane demons alone.

Iliana steps to my side, chin held high. “Lightning answered harmony, not theft. The storm felt pain of chained voices and sought balance.”

Her words float clear yet forceful, but fear of the unknown ripples through the crowd. I sense momentum slipping.

Asmodeus raises his hand. “Debate yields nothing new. We move to sentence.”

Cold gravity sinks in. I tighten my stance, ready to challenge, but protocol shackles any protest. Asmodeus inhales to speak.

Before sound emerges, the hall darkens. Torches gutter as unseen wind sweeps the aisles. The gem-eyes in the mosaic floor kindle bright as suns, casting multicolored beams upward. An electric tingle climbs my skin.

A voice, neither male nor female, ripples through air like chimes struck underwater: “Hold judgment.”

Every throat snaps shut. The light above the throne condenses into a figure cloaked in argent mist. Wings of white flame unfurl, their feather-tips dripping stardust. Eyes burn sapphire.

Awe slams me to my knees before choice registers.

Iliana gasps but remains upright, legs wobbling.

She grips my shoulder while bowing her head.

The being hovers inches above the dais. Asmodeus bows deeply—his crown nearly scraping marble. His voice shakes. “Oltyx, Herald of the Accord. We are honored.”

So this is Oltyx, envoy of the celestial court, seldom seen since the dawn of demon rule. Legends claim Oltyx enforces balance between realms, answering when power tilts too far.

Oltyx surveys the hall, gaze both gentle and piercing. When those eyes settle on Iliana they brighten, as if seeing through every barrier.

“Rise,” Oltyx commands. We obey, though legs tremble.

“I have watched storms gather within these walls,” the Herald intones. “I have heard cries of chain and lash, of class and creed. And I have witnessed two hearts weave a path across the divide.” Oltyx lifts a hand; a luminous thread appears, shimmering from Iliana’s chest to mine. Gasps erupt.

Tovor stammers, “This spectacle cannot?—”

Oltyx turns a fraction. The senator’s voice freezes mid-word, throat seized by invisible awe.

“Song met thunder,” Oltyx continues, “and neither was consumed. Instead, new harmony arose. Such balance pleases the Accord.” The Herald reaches toward Iliana.

Light spills, bathing her in pale gold. The resonance stone at her throat shatters with a crystalline ring, fragments swirling before melting into a streak that flows into her skin.

Glyphs bloom across her collarbone, glowing sigils of unknown script.

Oltyx withdraws. “Iliana Eryndor, bearer of dawn-song, I grant you the favor of the Celestial Chorus. Your voice shall carry through tempest and terror; no mortal law may silence it. Guard this gift with humility.”

Iliana’s eyes brim yet remain fierce. “I will honor it,” she whispers.

The Herald faces me. “Captain Varok, you protected a seed of change despite threat to self. Such courage echoes deep. Stand as sentinel of the bridge between bloods. Let no fear break the span.”

Light seals around my heart, warm yet weighty. I feel the runes on my arms ignite, glowing brighter before settling.

Oltyx lifts massive wings. “Judgment is rendered. These two stand under celestial protection. Any who move against them move against the Accord.”

With a rush of wind and a scatter of sparks, the figure dissolves—torches blazing bright again. Silence reigns, thick and stunned.

Asmodeus straightens, his mask of power slipping before quick recovery. His eyes flick to the shattered stone dust on the dais, then to the council. He raises his voice—smooth, yet threaded with awe. “Higher order has spoken. Charges are void.”

Tovor collapses back into his seat, face drained. Ripples of discussion spread, yet no one dares raise objection.

I turn to Iliana. She sways; I catch her, an arm wrapping around her waist. The glyphs on her skin fade to faint silver, still visible like moonlight through water.

Relief floods my veins so fiercely my knees threaten to buckle. “Are you hurt?” I ask.

She smiles through tears. “No. I feel . . . full, as if every breath carries a note of sky.”

Asmodeus descends the dais—a rare action displaying humility.

He stops before us, gaze searching. “The Accord seldom intervenes. You earned a miracle.” He inclines his head.

“Galmoleth must adapt. I will announce a royal decree cementing the equality charter effective immediately. Those who resist will do so outside protection.”

He casts a sharp look at Tovor. The senator lowers his eyes.