Page 5 of Burning Her Beautiful

The nobles reanimate, voices rising. A scandal has been birthed in front of them and they will nurse it greedily.

Some smile, scenting my potential downfall.

Others debate whether this proves new methods or hidden weakness.

Sarivya, draped in violet brocade on a lower tier, touches two fingertips to her lips.

The gesture is too slow to be surprise, too calculated.

She sees an opening in my hesitation and will pry it wider.

I retrieve the kirpan, sliding it into its sheath.

Wax flicks to the floor in tiny droplets.

Then I lift Iliana from the altar. Her corded wrists rest against my chest. Her pulse thrums beneath my palm, not frantic but steady as a war drum.

I catch her scent—warm skin, wild mint from last night’s bath, and something rawer. Survival. It intoxicates.

As we leave, an acolyte scuttles to wipe each crimson sigil clean, erasing the failed rite. I sense Oltyx’s attention fading, retreating back below the skin of the continent. The god is patient. Earth devours millennia. Yet patience will not spare me if I appear faithless.

The doors close behind us, sealing the Sanctum. Only then do I release the breath caged in my lungs. Iliana looks up. “You saved me,” she whispers. “Why?”

I shake my head, unable to let hope kindle where I cannot promise rescue.

“I delayed you. I crave to ruin you myself, not under the altar.” My thumb grazes the cord binding her wrists.

In three nights I must choose again. My ambition demands I obey the king.

My heart, treacherous thing, beats the syllables of her name with every throb.

I want her for myself. Selfishly. It’s idiotic but… this is the only time I’ve felt this way. It’s a novel feeling born of something I don’t understand but it feeds my curiosity.

We move through corridors painted with frescoes of demons carving hearts from serpents, of gods striking bargains in caverns lit by magma rivers. Torchlight wavers over those scenes, making them seem alive. Iliana walks beside me, silent, yet her presence roars inside my skull.

At a junction I dismiss the guards flanking us.

They hesitate but obey. Their footsteps fade, leaving only the distant murmur of court still pouring from the Sanctum.

I guide Iliana into a side hall where tall molded doors open on my private library.

The scent of parchment and cedar fills the air, soothing frayed nerves.

Books line every wall from crimson carpet to vaulted ceiling, spines embossed with glyphs.

A constellation of crystal lamps hangs overhead, each giving mellow amber glow.

I close the doors, draw the latches, engage the sigil lock so no servant may interrupt.

Iliana stands in the center of the space, wrists still bound, ankle chains trailing.

Her gaze sweeps the shelves, lingering on scrolls cased in ivory.

“You keep words captive the way others keep slaves,” she murmurs.

“Knowledge cannot be shackled.” I cross to the sideboard, pour water from a chilled decanter, bring the glass to her. She drinks without protest. Droplets bead on her lower lip. I feel the urge to wipe them away with my thumb and wrestle it down.

When she finishes I uncoil the silver cord from her wrists. Red indentations mar her skin. I know touches that heal but hold back. My magic already reached for her once today. Each time it does I fear chains of a different sort tightening around us both.

“Why lie about fear?” she asks, voice quiet. “You know nothing of my courage.” She rubs at her wrists though she does not shy from me.

“I have seen enough.” I set the cup on a mahogany table inlaid with lapis. “Would the timid bait their captor with insults? Would they hold my gaze beneath the weight of every noble in the Sanctum?”

She lifts a shoulder. “Fear and bravery can share the same bones.”

Her words echo truth I feel in my marrow. “Indeed.” I pace between shelves, fingers brushing spines. “I told the king your heart must be tempered. Now I must prove it.” I turn, face her. “For your sake and mine.”

Her eyes search mine. “What must I do?”

Her trust bruises me. She does not know that the blade will return to her chest in three nights if I cannot craft a miracle.

Yet within that question lies chance. “We play a game,” I say.

“A deception to convince the court you harbor dormant magic. I will train you to feign power. You will not bleed upon that altar. Not yet.”

“And if the act fails?”

“You die.” I meet her honesty with equal. “And the king tears my soul apart.”

She nods once. “Then the stakes are fair.”

A laugh, rougher than I intend, escapes. I rub the palm of my hand over the back of my neck. “I admire your calm.”

“I carry fear,” she admits, “but I refuse to feed it.”

Her voice holds no tremor. Only resolution. In that moment admiration slides into deeper territory. Desire, yes, but more than the heat that tightens my abdomen. Respect. Perhaps even a shade of awe. I have met generals who break under less pressure.

I move to the reading dais, where a mosaic of obsidian and jasper depicts Oltyx rising through stone. “Sit.” She obeys, sinking onto the cushioned seat. The chain at her ankle jingles, but she arranges the hem of her shift with dignity.

I draw chalk from a crystal box, then kneel before her. Her eyes widen slightly. “What are you?—”

“Sketching destiny.” I smile faintly. “Or forging an illusion. Hold out your arms.”

I chalk sigils along her forearms, lines of power that appear to float above skin.

Each curve hums faintly but carries no true danger.

When finished I add a single mark above her heart, a spiral similar to the brand on my chest though far gentler.

As I draw it I feel her breath warm my cheek.

My pulse trips. I finish quickly and step back.

“When nobles see these glow,” I explain, “they will believe the god inside you awakens.”

She peers at the marks. “How will they glow?”

“My chaos will dance across them.” I keep the explanation simple. She does not need to know that mingling my power with any mortal might invite arcane repercussions. “For the effect to convince, you must appear to summon it.”

She arcs a brow. “You want me to act?”

“Indeed.”

Her lips tilt, almost amused. “Tell me how.”

I pull a slender silver rod from my belt. “When I raise this,” I say, “close your eyes, breathe deep, envision stone shifting beneath ocean waves. The sigils will flare. You must then open your eyes as if awakened by the vision.”

“That seems…exaggerated.”

“Court thrives on drama. We will provide.” I hold her gaze until she sighs. “Very well.”

We practice. Over and again she closes her eyes, breathes, waits for my cue.

My chaos threads through the chalk, making the marks smolder violet-gold.

Each time she opens her eyes they shine with honest wonder that takes me by surprise.

No trained actress could replicate it. Though the power is mine, her spirit lends it raw resonance.

At one point she sways, so I catch her elbows. Our faces hover inches apart. The scent of her skin stirs heat low in my belly. Her throat works in a silent swallow. I release her too quickly and cross the room, feigning interest in a scroll.

By the third repetition her stance strengthens.

She lifts chin, shoulders back, as though she truly channels deep earth.

Watching her I taste the edge of temptation.

If I could teach her to wield real magic in three nights, everything might change.

Yet such miracles belong in legends written by gods with kinder hearts than mine.

Night deepens outside the clerestory. Lamps dim.

I stop the lesson, summon a servant to bring supper.

Iliana eats while scanning spines nearest her, asking about the titles of treatises on mineral spirits and fault magics.

Her curiosity brightens the library. Torchlight catches the chalk on her arms so it flickers softly, as if the sigils remember power.

When plates are cleared I escort her back toward her chambers. We walk in companionable silence. The corridor outside her door stands empty. I pause before the sigil lock. She faces me, fingers twisting the fabric at her hip—first sign of nerves all evening.

“I will guard your rest,” I promise. “You are safe here.” A truth for tonight at least.

She nods. Eyes linger on my face. “Thank you for sparing me.”

“I spared myself.” The confession slips out. Lightning flares beyond the slit window, lighting her smile—small, fragile, yet dazzling as sunrise. My chest constricts.

“I should sleep,” she says, voice hushed.

“Yes.” I step back. “Rest. Tomorrow we create legends.”

She disappears inside. The door seals. I stand there until the rune fades cool beneath my palm, willing the walls to keep her safe.

Only when I walk away do I let the storm inside me surge. Three nights. I have gambled with gods and kings before, but never with my own soul. Now I must forge a miracle from chalk, courage, and the reckless desire that threatens to devour us both.

If I fail, her heart stops beating. If I succeed, mine may belong to her long before she realizes. Either path could unmake me, yet I feel no regret. Some storms exist to break the sky so a new world can be born.

In the silence of my tower I set the kirpan on my worktable.

Candle flame flickers along its cruel curve.

I stare at the blade and see my reflection again, silver eyes shadowed by conflict.

Then I draw a cloth over the steel, burying its hunger in darkness, and turn to my books, seeking the line between devotion and rebellion where salvation might hide.