Page 36 of Burning Her Beautiful

VAROK

L ightning crawls inside the thick dawn clouds while I stand on the basalt platform overlooking the cataract where Iliana first sang the storm to rest. The wind carries the scents of rain, iron, and distant jasmine from the terraces below.

Hundreds gather on the cliff-side amphitheater, but their murmurs recede beneath the steady roar of the river.

All other sounds feel hollow beside the thunder that drums within my ribs.

I adjust the high collar of my charcoal ceremonial coat; copper thread worked into swirling runes catches quick flickers of gray light.

My palms sweat despite the morning chill, and I remind myself that the fear of battle has never shaken me—yet the fear of not deserving her still does.

I draw a breath until my lungs ache. Garrik, standing at my right, leans close.

“She will arrive, Captain,” he says in a quiet voice. The new charter stripped away our ranks, yet our friendship remains.

“I know.” I force calm.

He studies the boiling sky. “Oltyx promised spectacle. The storm obeys your bond now,” he remarks, a half-smile tugging his scarred mouth. “Better than fireworks.”

Laughter chases away a measure of tension. “You served under me when I crushed a rebellion with magma walls. Did nerves twist then?”

“I trusted tactics,” he answers. “This is the heart—a harder battlefield.”

True. I scan the benches: house banners hang lowered beneath the multi-hued flag we designed together.

Demon nobles in opalescent armor, human craftsmen in embroidered linens, and half-blood envoys wearing silver-ivy circlets wait side by side.

All eyes expect the moment thunder meets the dawn-singer.

Flutes release soft, minor notes; drumbeats echo my heartbeat.

The procession begins. Sael and Lys emerge first, bearing a long ribbon dyed in gradient—from night indigo to sunrise pink—the symbol of the bridge.

The audience hushes as they stretch the ribbon across the dais, anchoring each end to marble pillars.

And then she appears.

Iliana walks the stone aisle, steps unhurried, posture regal.

Her gown flows like liquid garnet infused with ash-gray, the bodice shaped by spiral stitching that mirrors the glyph on her collarbone.

The skirt parts at each stride, revealing trousers stitched with lightning thread—a nod to the guard uniform.

Around her shoulders drapes a thin cloak woven from sky-silk, translucent and shimmering with faint blues.

Hair falls in loose waves, scattered with quartz pins that glint whenever the hidden sun manages to break through the storm roof.

She carries no bouquet, only a small bell of river glass; its ring is silent for now.

When her eyes meet mine, the storm above stills as though inhaling. I hear nothing but my own pulse. She smiles, and the hardest walls inside me crumble like brittle stone.

Yalira—robed in lavender and storm-violet—steps forward to officiate. Behind her stands King Asmodeus, his crown muted, his stance surprisingly open. On the opposite side, Oltyx materializes in toned-down brilliance, wings folded and features softened for mortal sight. Each figure bears witness.

Iliana stops before me. Wind lifts the cloak’s edges, wrapping us in a private tunnel of air. She tilts her chin. “You waited.”

“For you I could wait beyond eternity,” I reply, my voice steadier than I feel as I offer my hands.

She places the bell in one. “When I ring this, the past ends.”

I nod. Garrik hands me twin rings of thunder-stone and river glass; their weight grounds me. Yalira raises her palms.

“Galmoleth, behold two souls once divided by blood and chain, now joined by choice,” her voice carries effortlessly. “Let their vow be forged not from dominance, nor from debt, but from founded respect.”

She gestures for me to speak first. I glance at the gathering, then back to Iliana. Words rise like the tide.

“I stood upon this cliff during war games, dreaming only of conquest. Today I kneel before the woman who taught me mercy. You sang the storm still, yet you stirred the tempest in my heart. I vow to honor the melody of your freedom, even when it challenges my thunder. I vow to guard your dreams as fiercely as my own honor. And I vow to lift my voice beside yours until harmony banishes every night that dares return.”

Without cue, the clouds rumble soft approval. Iliana lifts her gaze to the sky and then searches my face.

“My chains once clanged louder than hope,” she begins, voice clear.

“You shattered them not with keys, but with faith I never granted myself. I vow to question you when the path fogs, to steady you when rage drums too loudly, and to celebrate each quiet triumph with both song and silence. I vow that no storm will rise without our shared command.”

Tears shimmer in her eyes, glistening on her lashes before the wind dries them.

Yalira presents the rings. I slide the thunder-stone onto Iliana’s finger; the gem pulses in a tiny flash. She slips the twin band onto mine, and electricity hums across my skin. Above us, lightning illuminates the clouds yet holds its strike.

Oltyx steps forward. “Witness divine favor,” the Herald intones.

The celestial presses two fingertips to both our rings.

Light flows like molten silver along our arms, searing new intertwined sigils at our wrists—half lightning, half note.

The burn startles without pain, branding our bond for realms seen and unseen.

Asmodeus lifts a goblet. “By royal assent and celestial sanction, I declare this union sealed.” He raises the goblet skyward. Cheers erupt—voices human and demon blended.

Iliana lifts the bell. It chimes once, delicate yet piercing. Clouds split, revealing a single shaft of sunlight that illuminates only our dais. Rain begins beyond that radius, a curtain shimmering down the ravine, yet the dais remains dry—a circle of covenant.

We turn toward the crowd. I raise Iliana’s hand high. Thunder rolls—not harsh, but triumphant. A roar of applause rises, drowning the river’s voice.

The procession of well-wishers follows. Senators bow. Artisans present tokens—woven bracelets and jars of spiced honey. Children fling garlands of dawn lilies. We accept every gift with thanks.

A feast spreads through the cliff garden where tables curve around ancient oaks.

Dishes from every caste appear: spicy tunnel-root stew, mountain-goat roast rubbed with herbal salt, and sea-pearl dumplings.

Laughter mingles like a brand-new dialect.

I watch Iliana dance with Sael, her skirt swirling while musicians strike a lively reel.

Her joy snares me like the first arrow of sun.

As dusk bleeds copper, Garrik nudges me. “Captain—husband—steal her before exhaustion claims.” He winks.

I find her near the fountain, cheeks flushed and curls escaping pins. I bow in exaggeration. “May I abduct my wife?”

She curtsies. “On the condition your abduction leads to starlight.”

“Starlight guaranteed.” I cloak her shoulders and guide her through a lantern-lit grove to the hidden lift carved into the cliff wall. The mechanism hums, lowering us toward our private shore cavern.

We step onto sand soft as flour. Waves lap, reflecting the crescent moon peeking between clouds.

Torches line a path to an arch of draping silver vines.

Within stands a small pavilion of silk, its bed draped in gauze, petals scattered like ruby constellations.

Candles burn with hints of citrus and cedar.

Iliana laughs breathlessly. “Planned a siege, did you?”

“Strategic preparation,” I admit. “Success is uncertain if comfort is lacking.”

She unties her cloak, letting it cascade. Moonlight paints her gown in wine shadows. Removing the quartz pins, she shakes her hair free. Each movement feels ceremonial yet playful.

I step closer, removing my coat, boots, and bracers—layers falling between night and skin until we stand in simple linens. She lifts her fingertips, tracing the new brand on my wrist. I mirror the gesture; sparks tingle.

I whisper, “Ready?”

“For the first dawn of every new world,” she answers.

We enter the pavilion. Canvas flutters, muting the surf.

She sits on the bed, silk whispering. I kneel, sliding her slippers off and kissing each instep.

She exhales a shaky breath. I hook my fingers under the hem, sliding the gown upward over her knees and thighs.

She lifts her arms; the fabric slips above her head, leaving her in an ivory chemise translucent in candlelight.

Desire surges, but I temper it with reverence. I discard my own shirt and linen trousers. Candle-glow dances across scars and silver runes. She touches the jagged line near my ribs—a legacy of early campaigns. Her voice turns soft. “Battle hardened you, but love softens the edges.”

“Only for you.” I kiss her palm, then press my mouth to the scar on her shoulder left by an assassin’s bolt. “Pain becomes testament.”

She cups my face, pulling me onto the bed.

Cotton sighs under our weight. Our mouths meet—gentle at first, exploring.

Her tongue tastes of honey-wine from the feast. I savor, slowing the pace.

My hands roam her curves, tracing from waist to the subtle swell of her hip.

She arches, fingers threading through my hair.

Night air cools the skin we expose. I slide a chemise strap down her shoulder, kissing a trail along her collarbone and resting over the glyph; it pulses warm. She sighs, eyes half-lidded. “You honor me like a relic.”

“A relic forged from stars.” My voice vibrates against her skin.

I ease fabric over her breasts. Candlelight gilds them in a soft glow. I pause, letting my gaze travel with silent devotion. Her hand guides mine to rest over her heart. The beat quickens beneath my palm. She whispers, “Take, and be taken.”