Page 34 of Burning Her Beautiful

ILIANA

M orning breaks over Galmoleth like a soft ribbon of rose-gold satin, and for the first time since I arrived in this city of marble and fire, the air does not taste of fear.

It tastes of new parchment drying in the courtyard sun, of bread ovens set alight for a festival rather than for rations, of honeysuckle that climbs the south wall—now left unmuzzled by smoke.

I stand on the balcony outside our shared tower chamber and let the breeze carry these scents through my hair.

Far below, masons work swift magic, chiseling old demon runes from the eastern gate and replacing them with intertwined sigils that echo the glyph Oltyx sealed across my collarbone: twin spirals, one angled like a horn, the other curved like a human ear.

I shift the gauzy robe about my shoulders and glance inside.

Varok still sleeps, sprawled across the bed in tangled sheets, an arm flung toward the place my body occupied hours ago.

The glow of dawn limns the ridges of his shoulders, the curve of a black horn, and the faint silver traceries Oltyx’s blessing burned along his spine.

The sight draws a smile that warms my entire chest. I watch his breathing—slow and even—and thank every unseen deity for this peace.

A polite cough drifts from the doorway. Lys hovers with a tray balanced on her palms. “Envoy,” she says, though her grin softens the honorific. “Stewed fig and barley cakes. And an official summons.” She nudges a folded parchment with her elbow before setting the tray on the vanity.

I pad across the polished wood. “Thank you.” I break the seal—a swirling constellation stamped into white wax, the mark of the Celestial Chorus. A frisson races through me. The letter is brief:

Your presence is requested at the tenth bell in the Dawn Atrium for ratification of the charter amendments and the first convocation of the Bridge Assembly.

Oltyx’s signature sparkles beneath, drawn in dust of crushed sapphire. I trace it once, then tuck the parchment into my sash. The simple action no longer fills me with terror; instead, I feel the weighty steadiness of purpose.

Lys pours tea flavored with clove and starflower. “The whole city is still buzzing,” she whispers. “Stall-owners are giving away sweetbread shaped like wings. Children chase each other, shouting Bridgeborn! Bridgeborn! ”

My cheeks warm. “They will tire of the word soon.”

“Perhaps,” she says, eyes gleaming. “But not of you.”

Footsteps disturb the sheets behind us. Varok stretches, muscles rippling beneath scars and fresh silver lines. He slides off the bed, wraps a linen cloth around his hips, and crosses to kiss my temple. “Morning already?” he rumbles, voice husky with sleep.

“It is.” I hand him a cup. “Oltyx requests our attendance at the tenth bell.”

His brows lift. “The Herald wastes no time.” He sips, then turns to Lys. “Thank you.”

She dips a curtsey. “I’ll fetch Captain Garrik for escort and ensure the dress stewards arrive.”

She exits, leaving quiet broken only by sparrow song. Varok leans on the window rail. “You tremble.” His thumb brushes the inside of my wrist, soothing. “Still wary?”

“Not wary—merely ready.” I breathe deep. “For years I sang without an audience, hoping sound might loosen shackles. Now people listen, laws shift, and sometimes I fear one wrong note will undo the entire melody.”

He cups my chin. “Songs survive mis-phrased bars. They endure because the heart behind them stays true—yours does.” He draws me close. “And if notes stumble, I’ll lend thunder to steady the beat.”

Warmth spreads through my limbs. “Then help me choose the proper garment.” I laugh, turning to a wardrobe where Yalira’s tailors slid bolts of cloth last night.

We sift through fabrics: river-blue silk stitched with amber cranes, pearl linen that echoes the moon-wash of my new glyphs, and crimson velvet cut in sweeping lines that mimic sunrise cresting fortress walls.

I choose the crimson, pairing it with a wide gray sash of Varok’s guard.

He ties it, hands lingering at my waist. “Perfect,” he murmurs.

Dressing completed, we cross corridors toward the Dawn Atrium. Guards, nobles, and servants bow or nod, but without their previous wariness. Respect glints in their eyes, eagerness to see what shape our new world will take.

We enter the atrium. Light pours through the crystalline ceiling, refracting rainbows across the pale-stone floor.

Rows of benches circle a sculpted dais; human artisans share space with horned aristocrats, half-blood scholars, and foreign diplomats who arrived before the gates even reopened.

At the center stands a wide marble table etched with the charter’s final text.

Oltyx materializes beside the dais, form less blinding today, edges softened to spare mortal eyes. The Herald nods as we step forward. “Welcome, Voices of the Bridge.” The title sends a quiet ripple through the hall. “Required signatures will anchor this law in both mortal and celestial record.”

Varok and I take quills dipped in shimmering ink.

My hand flows across the parchment, signing in precise strokes.

The glyph on my collarbone pulses in harmony.

Varok adds his name; Yalira, Asmodeus—then even Tovor, his signature small but present—follow, sealing the commitment.

The Herald lays a palm over the signatures; light settles like frost, then fades.

A murmur builds—hopeful, awed. Oltyx lifts wings once. “Let Galmoleth breathe new air,” the Herald proclaims. With that, the celestial presence dissolves into motes of light that ascend past the crystal roof, winking out among the clouds.

I release a breath. Applause swells—not thunderous, but steady and genuine. Faces tilt upward, not to statues of kings but to dawn itself.

After the convocation, crowds spill into the gardens, where pavilions host an open council for grievances once trapped in lower tiers.

I wander between clusters with Varok at my side, listening to proposals: improved aqueducts for the river quarter, integrated militia patrols, apprenticeship cross-caste programs. I jot notes and direct scribes.

A small boy, no older than eight, tugs the hem of my dress. His dark eyes glow with shy wonder. “Are you truly Bridgeborn?” he asks.

I kneel. “I’m Iliana. And you?”

“Rin.” He shifts, revealing a crutch carved from driftwood. “Mama says the new law means I can train as a glass-blower even though I was born in the tunnel district.”

A lump thickens my throat. I touch his shoulder. “Your mama speaks true. If you love glass, you’ll shape light itself.” From my pocket I slip the pendant’s broken chain—now beadless. I coil it around his wrist. “A reminder of the sky you will craft.”

His grin outshines the sun. He darts off, crutch tapping stone with determined cadence. I stand, blinking moisture from my eyes.

Varok presses a knuckle beneath my chin, lifting until our eyes meet. “You give pieces of yourself to everyone.”

“Only scraps I no longer need,” I whisper.

“Your heart remains generous.”

We complete the circuit and then slip away to a courtyard fountain. Lilies float, their perfume mild. Varok traces the water with a fingertip. “A ceremony for our union must come soon. Not for politics—for us.”

Heat blooms in my cheeks. “Soon,” I echo. “But something humbler than a marble cathedral—perhaps the cliff above the river where our song first rose?”

He chuckles. “You choose the view; I’ll bring the vows.”

Laughter dances between us, light and free.

The day progresses with relentless meetings.

At sunset I retreat to a study to draft decrees.

Candle-light warms the pages. Varok enters with a tray of roasted roots and citrus stew.

We eat, discussing patrol schedules and festival plans.

Conversation drifts to trivial joys: new harp strings for me, fresh training pikes for recruits, a stray cat that has adopted the tower stables.

Night deepens. I set my quill down, stretching my spine.

Varok lifts me from the chair and carries me to a cushioned window seat.

The city below glows with lanterns, like constellations migrated to earth.

Drifts of choral song waft up—harmonies we taught the river folk blending with horn trills of temple acolytes.

I lay my head on his chest. His heartbeat thrums steady, an anchor. “Earlier, fear whispered I might lose myself inside these titles,” I admit. “Yet each time I speak, I feel more myself.”

“Because the titles rise from who you already were,” he says. “Not the reverse.”

I glide fingers along the silver runes on his arm. “And you, captain who once refused the crown for truth?”

“I feel lighter without the weight of false obedience.” He kisses my hair. “You wrote freedom into my marrow.”

We sit in quiet until the bells mark midnight.

He stands, offering a hand. “Bed.” His smile holds a gentle command.

I follow, stepping out of my shoes and slipping off my robe.

We lie beneath the linen sheet. He pulls me close, the nape of my neck cradled by his palm.

I study the lines of his face: a strong jaw, a scar beneath the left brow, lashes dark against moonlit skin.

Awe rises—how far we have traveled from that dungeon corridor where he forced bread to my lips, pretending indifference to the flicker in his eyes.

He brushes a thumb along the glyph on my collarbone. “Does it ache?”

“No. It hums.”

“Sing for me, then,” he whispers.

I part my lips, releasing a low lullaby my mother taught in orchard summers. Notes weave softness. His eyes close, breath slowing. I trail fingers through his hair, marveling at tenderness once hidden by armor. The song fades into hush.

He opens his eyes again, voice rough. “Tomorrow the world begins a new ledger. Let us fill the first page with promise.”

“What promise?”