Page 35 of Burning Her Beautiful
“That we’ll argue with honesty, protect without restraint, and love without condition.” He lifts my hand, kissing each fingertip. “I vow this.”
Tears gather. “I vow to question when doubt arises, to steady when storms return, and to celebrate every small victory.” I press my forehead to his. “So vowed.”
We drift into sleep.
I wake before dawn, slipping from his arms to navigate the corridor alone: chorus practice.
In Echo Hall, I stand at the polished-marble center where architecture doubles each word.
I inhale and release a steady tone. My voice meets stone, returns richer, layering until the hall thrums. At the final sustain, the glyph glows.
High windows blaze gold. A new day arrives.
Footsteps echo. Asmodeus enters, cloak trailing. I bow, but he raises a hand. “No bow needed, Envoy.” His smile is thin but genuine. “I come not as king, but as a craftsman of state seeking a teacher. Show me how to wield harmony.”
Shock stills me, but then I nod. I guide him through breathing and resonance. He follows—rigid at first, then loosening. Notes mingle: an old ruler and a new envoy shaping a chord uncomplicated by pride. When the final tone fades, silence feels alive with possibility.
He inclines his head. “Gratitude.”
I smile. “The lesson continues any time.”
He departs. I exhale, heart lifting. If a king can seek guidance, perhaps the path ahead is less jagged.
Later, Varok and I meet Garrik at the training yard where mixed recruits spar. We watch a human girl slip under a demon boy’s strike, wooden staff tapping his knee. Laughter erupts; I cheer, and they grin, pride unhidden.
After drills, teams gather. Varok gestures. “Envoy, share a word.”
I face them. “Harmony is not the absence of clash; it is the willingness to listen until dissonance becomes a chord.” I raise a staff, demonstrating a measure we learned from sky lizards—an arc that deflects without breaking an opponent.
They mimic, creating a rhythm of thuds and cries. Hope plugs my throat.
As the recruits disperse, a courier rushes up with a rolled parchment bound by a purple ribbon—an invitation from House Lumet to host a joint harvest festival led by children from all castes. I grin and hand it to Varok. He kisses my temple. “Your diary will soon burst.”
“Better that than emptiness,” I laugh.
As the sun leans west, we stroll the market reopened to both banks.
Stalls display woven bracelets, copper lamps shaped like winged serpents, and jars of sweet cream.
Vendors greet us not with reverence alone but with familiarity, offering samples.
We try everything. Varok coughs at spicy pepper jam, and I feed him honey to cool his tongue; laughter ripples through the crowd.
Before the temple steps, an elder half-blood woman stops us, pressing a small wooden box into my palms. “My father carved this during the plague,” she says.
“He believed someday the heart could beat free.” She opens the lid; inside rests a whistle shaped like a swallow.
“Today I hear its song.” Tears shimmer. I thank her, promising to play it at the festival.
Night arrives swiftly. We dine with Yalira on a terrace over the river.
She recounts meetings with the guilds, her humor wry but hopeful.
Copper lamps float on the water, each representing a pledge to the new charter.
Thousands sparkle—stars sailing beneath bridges.
I lean on the balustrade, Varok’s arm around me, and watch them drift.
He murmurs, “Look how far your voice carries.”
“Ours,” I correct.
Stars burn overhead; lanterns flicker below. And between, we stand—sentinel and dawn-singer, a bridge of bone and hope.
When we retire to the tower, stewards have left a gift on the table: a draft of a marriage accord blending demon rites with human customs. Two rings, crafted from thunder-stone streaked with river glass, lie nested within the scroll.
Varok lifts one—its weight solid. He slips it onto my finger.
The stone pulses faintly, echoing the glyph’s glow.
I slide the twin band over his. Our fingers entwine, the rings chiming softly when they meet.
He lifts me, carrying me to a bed strewn with fresh lilies.
Petals brush skin like promises. We lie together, exploring a vow already sealed.
His whispers mix with my sighs—rhythms slow, reverent.
No hunger to claim, only desire to honor.
When sleep finally claims us, our hands remain clasped, rings warm between our palms.
I dream of a choir massed on cliffs, song soaring into heavens where Oltyx watches with a tranquil smile. Lightning arcs across the distant sky, but instead of fear the people below cheer—knowing it speaks a language they now learn.
I wake at first light, nestled against Varok.
I rise, pull a shawl around my shoulders, and walk the balcony.
The city hums quiet, waiting. Dawn edges the rooftops.
I realize my heart beats not harder but steadier; strength no longer something I grasp—it simply exists within my ribs like a second pulse.
Varok joins me, wrapping arms around me from behind. “Already planning the day?”
“Already welcoming it.” I lean back. “We still face challenges, but they feel . . . navigable.”
He rests his chin atop my head. “With you, I’ll cross any gulf.”
Below, the first carpenters shout greetings across the lane, starting work on a school that will teach mixed children river science and mountain lore. Bells toll gently—no warning. I smile, lifting the hand bearing my ring. Sun glints, scattering red-and-blue sparks across my skin.
I close my eyes, breathe deep. The journey from captive to envoy has carved valleys in my soul, but each valley now fills with light. Fear still whispers at the edges, yet courage responds with a stronger chorus.
I turn to Varok. “Let us walk the breakfast gardens—then review the festival schedule.”
He chuckles. “Ever moving forward.”
“Always,” I reply. “Because dawn never waits.”
We descend the spiral stair. Footfalls echo—steady, paired.
We are no longer prisoner and warden, nor savior and saved, but partners forging the day.
And I know—with certainty as sure as sunrise over spired rooftops—that whatever storms gather beyond the horizon, we will meet them singing, thunder at our backs, and dawn in our hearts.