Page 4 of Burning Her Beautiful

VAROK

T he thunder gods drum restless fingers across Galmoleth’s iron sky as I lead Iliana through the vaulted arcade that curls toward the Sanctum of Oltyx.

Storm light flashes through the clerestory slits, painting her bronze skin in argent ripples, and every time lightning catches the defiant lift of her chin, something inside my chest shifts out of place.

I keep my hand on her elbow, neither restraining nor letting go, as if my pulse needs the anchor of her warmth.

We reach the Sanctum doors. Two slabs of basalt rise twice my height, each carved in relief of writhing serpents whose tongues hold spheres of crimson crystal.

When the crystals flare the doors yawn inward, spilling a rich glow across the threshold.

Incense thick with clove and charred cedar coils in lazy veils, sliding over my tongue with a taste like memory.

Inside, the chamber widens into an oval amphitheater, ranked with tiers where nobles in raven robes already wait, their faces half hidden behind masks of hammered obsidian.

The hush is so deep I hear the scratch of chalk as acolytes refresh sigils round the altar, the soft gasp of a matron fanning herself when the incense catches her throat, the faint metallic jingle of Iliana’s anklets where the links kiss her skin.

At the chamber’s heart stands the altar block: a single span of pale marble streaked lavender by ancient veins of crystal.

On its polished surface lies a silk cushion of deepest garnet upon which ritual instruments rest—curved kirpan blade, pair of silver forceps, iron bowl hammered so thin the candles beneath glow through it.

Above the altar, suspended by chains, hangs a huge chunk of raw onyx.

With every thunderclap the stone hums, resonating with the storm caged outside like some giant heart that has not yet decided whom to favor.

King?Asmodeus reclines on a ceremonial chair of volcanic glass atop the highest tier, flanked by two matrons in violet.

A court scribe kneels at his feet, stylus poised to record every breath.

The king inclines his regal head when I escort Iliana across the expanse of painted floor, the sigils beneath us glimmering crimson in answer to each step.

Their glow climbs my boots, licking at my calves like welcoming flame.

Acolytes trail behind, lifting the hem of Iliana’s pale shift so it does not drag through chalk.

They view her as an offering, yet some part of me rebels, hating even the chalk dust that would dare mark her skin.

We halt below the altar. Iliana remains silent beside me.

Her hair has been brushed until it spills over her shoulders as sleek as raven silk, though wind tumbled the shorter curls around her cheeks during the walk.

Her eyes hold stormlight, bright and alive.

No one would believe she was dragged here in chains days ago.

She looks like a queen nobody has crowned.

Asmodeus lifts one hand in languid greeting.

“All is prepared, Dominus Varok. Let the Summoning commence.” His voice rolls down the tiers, rich enough to steal breath from the lungs of lesser demons.

Several matrons press jeweled fingers to their throats.

Anticipation trembles through the amphitheater like the bowstring of an infinite number of arrows.

I bow, but my eyes stay on Iliana. The yearning that seized me the moment I first saw her now prowls my veins, restless and hungry. I lift her hand, guiding her fingers to brush the cool marble edge. “Lie down,” I murmur low enough that only she hears. “Trust me.”

Her lashes flicker. Trust you, they seem to echo, yet still she steps forward.

With controlled grace she eases onto the altar, spine straight, calves aligned, palms closing over her stomach rather than splayed in submission.

I watch the curve of her breast rise with each steady breath, the faint pulse at her throat, and know I am witnessing bravery woven from iron.

An acolyte kneels to bind her wrists with silver cord, soft enough not to bruise, strong enough that tradition is satisfied.

I wave him back before he can secure her ankles.

The matron gasps at the breach of protocol, but I ignore her.

I want Iliana able to move should wind or will bid her.

The cord binding her hands glistens, catching candlelight like water nesting in spider silk. She flexes her fingers once and stills.

I lift the kirpan. Its edge shimmers with runic acid I etched myself, a promise that if it kisses flesh it will drink until sated. The weight feels unfamiliar, as though the metal senses my unrest. Across the marble my reflection swims in the blade’s belly: silver eyes blurred by tremor.

A low chant begins among the acolytes. Voices braid together, rising and falling in a cadence older than the first demon footstep upon Galmoleth.

They sing of stone hungering for blood, of earth longing for hearts drumming with life.

The onyx boulder over us vibrates in response.

Thin threads of reddish dust slide from its bottom and drift around my shoulders, marking me as chosen conduit.

I raise the knife above Iliana’s chest. Candlelight flickers between us.

Her eyes lift to mine. They are wide but not pleading.

They blaze like spring leaves lit from behind by dawn.

That silent fire strikes a fault line through my control.

I am Varok, Soz’garoth mage, feared and revered, yet my hand trembles.

I lower my gaze to the pale curve of her collarbone where the silk shift parts.

Veins shimmer beneath warm bronze skin. The central sigil painted on the marble—a spiral design that channels earth’s power—begins to glow an eager garnet.

Blood must fall onto that coil. Every Summoning I have ever performed demanded it.

The law of Oltyx offers no exception. Without the sacrifice, the god may not grant his boons. My king’s favor depends on this.

Yet as I watch Iliana’s chest rise, a thought surfaces with brutal clarity: if I carve out her heart, I will carve out mine as well. Something tethered to her indomitable spirit has sunk hooks into my own, and rupturing that bond will unmake more than a mortal body.

A second passes. Two. I feel the weight of hundreds of eyes.

Nobles shift behind masks. The king leans forward, talons drumming.

Shadow ripples across the onyx slab, shaping the faint outline of something massive waiting on the threshold of reality.

Oltyx is close enough to smell blood already spilled by memory. He hungers.

I bring the blade down—stop scant inches above her sternum.

My arm throbs, muscles locked against unseen chains.

Sweat beads on my brow. Iliana meets my stare.

In her eyes I read no condemnation, only fierce acceptance of the path she believes I have chosen.

That acceptance ignites a roar within me louder than thunder.

I cannot do this.

The realization crashes through mind and marrow, leaving cracks.

With a hiss I jerk the blade away before the edge can even slice the air above her skin.

The sudden movement startles every witness.

The chanting falters. The glow of the central sigil sputters, confused, but does not die.

I pivot, lift the blade high, and drive its tip through the candle by Iliana’s shoulder.

Wax sprays. Flame gutters out. The knife stands quivering, embedded harmlessly in dripping paraffin rather than flesh.

Gasps shatter what remains of the chant. Ripples of alarm sweep the tiers. I feel them like cold water against fevered skin. I step between Iliana and every eye, facing the king. My cloak snaps around my boots as storm gusts surge through the oculus overhead.

“Your Majesty,” I say, voice calm though my pulse riots, “this offering is not ready. Her spirit has not yet been tested. Oltyx would reject an unfired blade.”

A hush as absolute as death follows.

Asmodeus rises. Lightning claws at stained-glass behind him, framing his silhouette in hellish crimson. “You question the preparations?” His voice slices like glass dragged across bone.

I bow my head a fraction. “I protect your interests. A flawed sacrifice could cast doubt on your devotion.” I risk another glance at Iliana. She watches me, unfathomable, eyes gleaming with what might be shock or newfound weapon.

The king descends three steps, scaled cloak whispering. “Explain the flaw.” His tone dares me to lie. Around us magic tenses, eager to crush falsehood.

I let the truth spill, sculpted into careful shape. “She has tasted only fear these past nights. Fear taints blood. Oltyx craves hearts tempered by courage. If we force her now, the god may take offense.”

Whispers bloom like fungus on rotten wood. Some nobles nod, others scoff. The matrons lean together debating the nuance of sacrifice rites. The acolytes hold breath, uncertain whether to resume the chant.

Asmodeus studies Iliana. Perhaps he sees the bold line of her jaw, the way her bound hands relax rather than strain, proof of the courage I claim. Perhaps he sees only a human delaying his glory. I tighten my shields, bracing for the heat of his gaze.

“It is your responsibility,” he says at length, “to temper the blade.” His lips curl, revealing elongated cuspids. “You have three nights. On the fourth, the solstice ends at moon’s peak. If the heart still beats within her by that moment, yours will replace it.”

The verdict slams through me with the chill of obsidian submerged in snowmelt. I incline my head. “I accept the charge.”

“Then remove her,” he growls. He turns away, cloak swirling, and returns to his throne, dismissing us both as if we are pawns swept from a board.