Page 38 of Burning Her Beautiful

M orning breaks in slow golden bands across Galmoleth, painting every tower and parapet in a soft blush.

I stand barefoot on the highest veranda of the river-side palace, my toes warmed by sun-soaked marble and my palms cupped around a pewter mug that steams with spiced bergamot.

Below me the waterfall thunders, carrying dawn’s light into a rainbow arc before plunging into mist. The city hums to life beneath that spectrum: street vendors raise striped awnings, bell forges coax low notes from newly tuned iron, and ferry pilots shout playful boasts as they race the currents.

When I breathe in, I taste bread yeast, cedar smoke, and something sweet that reminds me of the modest courtyard bakery I once scrubbed for scraps.

The memory no longer burns; instead, it glows, forging a link between the girl I was and the woman I have become.

A small flutter beneath my navel answers the sunlight.

It is not a kick—far too early—yet it is a hush of awareness, as though the child already stretches tiny limbs inside me, testing the limits of safety.

I smooth my hand across the curve that is not visible yet but pulses with its own promise.

The knowledge arrived two cycles ago, confirmed first by Yalira’s quiet magic and then by Lys’s jubilant tears.

We have shared it with no one else, holding the secret like a spark in cupped hands until the time ripens.

Today, after the council’s first session under the new charter, I will tell Varok.

Even now his presence drifts through the bond-marks shimmering faint silver at my wrist, an ever-present tide that steadies me.

Footsteps approach—measured and soft. I turn as Sael steps from the archway, a chart case slung across her back and her curls catching errant beams of light. She pauses, blinking at my unbound hair whipping in the wind.

“I told the scribes you would be ready in half a bell,” she reports, her voice bright. “I hope that is so, because they are sharpening quills as if preparing for battle.”

“They always do,” I remind her, smiling. “Ink is their only acceptable weapon now.”

She grins, producing a folded parchment. “Draft agenda. The debate on mine-workers’ representation has moved to the second item. The vote for inter-caste marriage protections stands first. You will want to study the revised phrasing.”

I accept the paper, scanning crisp lines. Every clause bears months of argument, yet the words thrum with living possibility rather than brittle law. “Thank you. Did you sleep?”

“Four hours,” she answers, shrugging. “Plenty.” She turns to leave, then glances back. “You look… radiant. New soap?” Her gaze flicks toward my hand resting protectively across my belly, but she asks nothing. Loyalty runs deeper than curiosity. With a wink she disappears in a brisk stride.

Radiant. The compliment lingers. I dress quickly: a sky-silk blouse in soft turquoise, charcoal trousers stitched with lightning thread, and the sash of dawn gradient that has become the symbol of reform.

I fasten the resonance-stone pendant above my heart; its pulse echoes mine.

When I descend the spiral stair, the guards at the bottom nod with genuine respect instead of rehearsed fear. Change lives in those subtle gestures.

Varok waits in the circular library where council packets are collated.

He stands at the window, silhouette proud, shoulders draped in a slate-gray coat trimmed with copper, a torque of sky-iron resting against his throat.

His horns gleam from recent polish, yet his posture radiates ease rather than menace.

Although he studies a ledger, he looks up the instant I step inside.

The way his eyes warm still unravels my breath.

“Envoy,” he greets, though my title has shifted to Chancellor now. Habit dies slowly.

“Captain,” I counter, though his own designation transformed into Guardian Consul the day the charter passed. Our game of affectionate misnomers continues to amuse us.

He closes the ledger and crosses the room in three strides. When he reaches me, he refrains from any public caress, instead brushing two fingers along my bond-mark. Energy sparks a pleasant tingle.

“Dreamless night?” he asks.

“Full of dreams, none troubling,” I reply. “Yours?”

“I dreamt the river flowed upward and carved new channels through the sky.” He tilts his head. “Interpret that as you will.”

“I interpret everything with optimism today.” I slip the parchment from Sael into a pocket. “Are you ready for storms of rhetoric?”

“I command lightning. Words will not scorch us,” he says, though his smile tempers the bravado. He offers his elbow. I take it, my heart fluttering again for reasons beyond affection—anchored now in that living proof beneath my ribcage.

The Hall of Resonant Voices gleams after its recent renovation.

Demon gargoyles that once snarled from the cornice have been replaced by figures holding musical instruments and farm tools—tributes to craft and harmony.

Rows of tiered seats teem with delegates dressed in a riot of color, each textile representing a region rather than a rank.

Murmurs ripple as Varok and I enter. Some rise in respect; others remain seated yet incline their heads.

Progress does not quell dissent entirely, but it guides it toward conversation rather than daggers.

King Asmodeus presides from a new dais inset with mother-of-pearl.

His crown rests upon a side table, worn only for ceremonial judgments.

Today he wears a plain circlet etched with star-patterns, a quiet concession to changing times.

When he calls the session to order, the hall quiets enough to hear the fountain water trickling behind the acoustic screens.

The first motion—marriage equality across all bloodlines—moves quickly.

A majority raise carved crystal rods in favor; only a scattering of rods glow crimson in protest, and those senators offer no speeches.

The approval sets precedent for later measures, including parental rights and educational access.

When the mine-workers’ clause arises, debate grows spirited.

Varok listens, silent but alert, his presence urging civility.

I respond to concerns with the figures Sael prepared and weave story alongside numbers: a tale of subterranean tunnels echoing with song as men and women labor; a promise that those voices can travel up the shafts and reshape the sky.

My words carry, and when the vote tallies, the resolution passes by a comfortable margin.

Applause erupts—less thunderous than the wedding cheers, yet seeded with deeper satisfaction. Brick by brick, we rebuild.

After the session adjourns, delegates gather around long tables in the atrium, sipping chicory.

I spot Senator Tovor—once our chief opponent—conversing politely with a half-blood merchant about a joint ironworks cooperative.

The sight lifts the corners of my mouth.

It is more difficult to hate someone who sits beside you charting profit.

Varok surfaces at my elbow. “Ready for escape?” he asks.

“Desperately.” We weave through clusters of conversation, offering brief nods but declining extended dialogue on the grounds of urgent scheduling.

Outside, midday sunlight glints on the river.

We follow a path that threads through an herb garden where bees dance among lavender spikes.

Circling around the greenhouse, we step into a private courtyard enclosed by sandstone walls painted with dawn lilies.

He lifts a brow. “Hiding?”

“Planning privacy.” I guide us to a bench beneath a sweetfrond tree. Petals flutter down between us.

I draw a slow breath; my pulse quickens with a mixture of joy and nerves. He senses the shift and lays a hand on my knee.

“Iliana?”

I take his palm and place it over my abdomen. “There is a new heartbeat beginning.”

For one silent moment he stares, unreadable. Then his eyes widen, silver flecks brightening. “Truly?” He curls his fingers, gentle, as if afraid to press too hard. Tears gather in the corners of his eyes, though he blinks them away. “Dawn-singer, you carry our stormlet?”

“Our harmony,” I correct, tears blurring petals. “Confirmed by Yalira—twice. Five weeks.”

His shoulders rise with a deep inhale, then he releases a breath that quakes. He sinks to his knees on the paving stones, pressing his forehead against my belly. His horns brush the fabric but touch reverently. He whispers blessings in an ancient dialect. My own tears slip, caught in my hairline.

He stands and draws me up. Arms encircle me without squeezing—protective yet not stifling. We breathe together until our heartbeats sync. Finally he steps back, wiping away stray moisture with his thumb.

“Announce when you choose,” he says. “Not before you are ready.”

“I am ready if you are.”

“I would shout from the battlements,” he admits, grin crooked. “But I accept a measured reveal.”

“We could declare it at tonight’s Moon-lit Market,” I suggest. “Public enough, yet warm.” The night festival has reopened since our charter victory; artisans trade by lantern-glow under strings of lights.

“Perfect.” He kisses my brow. “May I prepare a sky display?”

“No lightning.” I arch a brow. “A soft aurora will suffice.”

He chuckles. “Then an aurora you shall have.”

The afternoon unfolds in soft tasks: reviewing scholarship grants for miner families, meeting with Oltyx’s acolytes about renovating the temple to blend demon and human artistry.

They present a miniature mosaic depicting an open hand releasing a dove; I approve, requesting the addition of a river-swirl motif.

Progress tastes sweet, though it is never free of the tang of effort.