Page 39 of Burning Her Beautiful

Evening descends in ribbons of indigo. Varok and I walk hand-in-hand through the Moon-lit Market, where stalls shine with lanterns shaped like sea-shells.

Children chase each other around the fountain, trailing ribbons of glow-ink.

Drummers strike upbeat rhythms; flute trills weave through laughter.

We stop before a dais where bards recite news.

I step onto the platform, signaling hush.

“Citizens of Galmoleth,” I begin. “You granted me voice when I first tamed the storm for our safety. Today I borrow that voice once more to share a new promise.” I place my palm over my abdomen. “Guardian Consul Varok and I expect our first child next spring.”

Cheers burst like fireworks—clapping, whistles, joyful cries.

Sael, perched on a cart roof, whoops loudest. I scan the crowd, capturing faces lit with delight rather than envy.

Progress measured again: The mixed-blood guardian of the city and a human-born singer welcome a child, and the crowd responds with hope.

Varok raises his arms; an aurora unfurls overhead in soft ribbons of teal and rose, reflecting in upturned faces. Gasps mingle with applause. I lean against him, watching the lights sway like gentle banners.

After the celebration, we withdraw to a riverside balcony. Torches flicker. Water murmurs secrets below.

“Do you ever fear failing them?” I ask quietly. “Child. City. Everything.”

“Fear is a compass,” he answers. “It guides us toward diligence. Yet I believe in us. Together we rewrote the sky.”

I turn, studying features softened by torchlight: the once-ruthless jaw eased by contentment, eyes still sharp but kind. “You changed so much,” I murmur.

“So did you,” he counters. “Neither change dims essence; it brightens it.”

I brush my lips to his. The kiss tastes of the nutmeg pastry we sampled earlier. He deepens it briefly, then rests his palm on my back.

The future stretches unknown, but not bleak. Houses still negotiate territory; old grudges simmer beneath cordial trade. Yet the council’s foundation is sturdier than past empires built solely on fear, and inside me life sparks a new song that will inherit a world crafted from mingled courage.

Back in our chambers, I sit at a mahogany desk and open a fresh journal. The quill hovers briefly before ink touches the page. Moonlight streams through an arched window, silvering the sheets. I write:

I was once property, then rebel, then envoy; now I am architect of dawns yet uncharted.

My heart carries thunder and lullaby in equal measure, and both are needed for the child who will one day ask what freedom costs.

I will answer: courage, compassion, and the persistent belief that two souls, once adversaries, can stand side by side and teach a city to sing.

Varok enters, folding his robe over a chair. He glances at my writing, then gestures to the empty seat beside the desk. “May I add a verse?”

I slide the quill into his grasp. He writes beneath my words:

And I will answer: freedom costs vigilance, humility, and the willingness to weather storms with open arms. I learned this from the dawn-singer who turned my fury into purpose.

He signs with a lightning glyph. I add a music rune. Together we close the journal, binding our vow.

Night wind rustles curtains. I snuff the candle, leaving only moonlight. We move to the balcony, gazing at a quiet city luminous with evenly spaced watch-lamps—symbols of safety, not surveillance. The river flows, constant and steady, whispering a lullaby that lulls every fear.

I place Varok’s hand over the tiny miracle once more. He listens, eyes closed. When he opens them, star reflections glitter there.

“Name?” he asks.

“Too soon,” I laugh. “We will wait to know the heart.”

“The heart I already know,” he says. “It beats like ours—born of thunder and melody.”

We remain until the chill bites, then retreat inside. He stokes the hearth; flames dance, casting a warm glow across our shared future.

Lying in bed, sheets crisp, I drift between wakefulness and dream.

Visions rise: our child running along the cliff path, laughing as gentle lightning flickers safely in small palms; miners’ children studying astronomy in a glass observatory funded by reclaimed war taxes; senators debating vigorously yet ending sessions with a shared meal; a city whose banners no longer rank its citizens but celebrate their crafts.

I do not pretend struggle ends. We will falter, mourn losses, and confront those who cling to rusted hierarchies.

Yet love forged in a tempest anchors us.

Our partnership radiates outward, lighting corridors where darkness once squatted unnoticed.

And there is always the river—patient and tireless—carving new channels with every season.

Sleep claims me at last, yet even as consciousness fades, I hold gratitude close: for Varok’s transforming devotion, for my own resilience discovered through song, for the child who will carry our legacy forward, and for a city ready to greet sunrise without fear of shadow.

Outside the window, the first blush of dawn edges the horizon. Within me another dawn blooms.

I close my eyes and whisper a promise to the unborn life, to the husband dozing at my side, and to the world shifting toward grace: “We will keep the sky open.”