Page 6 of Burning Her Beautiful

ILIANA

S leep remains stubbornly out of reach. Candle stubs gutter low in sconces, smearing gold across walls carved with winged beasts, yet no true warmth touches me.

I sit cross-legged on the pile of cushions, bare toes curled against thick wool, and watch the slow pulse of the rune that seals my door.

Its heartbeat matches the thunder rumbling far below the floating continent, as if stone and storm conspire to remind every captive soul that escape requires more than courage.

Somewhere in Varok’s tower a bell tolls three measured notes.

Demon hours mark the cycle of high winds, not sun, and I have begun to learn their rhythm.

This is the hour when servants douse torches in lesser corridors, when noble revels shift from formal to dangerous, when scholars retire to dream up darker theories.

It is also the hour when the quiet deepens enough that secrets think they can breathe.

I push to my feet and pad across the carpet.

The cloak Varok left draped over a chair covers me from shoulder to ankle—black wool lined with blood-red silk that whispers each time I move.

It still carries his scent, smoke and cedar, and the faint metallic tang that always seems suspended in the air around him.

I draw the fabric closer, banish the warmth that stirs in my chest, and turn focus to practical matters.

First, the balcony. Wind has eased since dusk, trading its teeth for a steady sigh that threads through every crack in the stone balustrade.

Lightning flares far beneath, revealing murky rivers of cloud and dark spires jutting from Galmoleth’s underbelly.

I test the height of the archway, fingers searching for hidden levers or seams. Only flawless basalt answers.

The rail remains slick with stray mist. Even if I dared climb again, my options remain drop or surrender.

Back inside I circle the bedchamber perimeter, tapping every panel, pressing against carved vines in the wainscoting.

When a segment near the fireplace gives a whisper of hollow feedback, hope flares.

I kneel, tracing the design—a serpent swallowing its own tail.

The motif repeats along the entire frieze, but only this one section rings hollow. I search for a catch and find none.

I rise, scan shelves weighed down with ivory boxes.

Inside one I discover bundles of charcoal sticks, soft parchment sheets trimmed with silver thread.

Another holds a cluster of iridescent stones—focal crystals Varok uses to channel chaos.

I tuck a single sliver the shape of a tear into my braid, careful not to nick scalp.

A weapon? Maybe. Or a key if I learn how to coax its energy.

The hollow panel still teases. I lift the iron poker from the hearth and pry gently at the edge.

The carved serpent refuses to budge. A rueful breath escapes.

Patience, my mother would say. Stone tells its story only when the chisel listens.

I run my palm over the serpent’s head and retreat for now.

A low chime echoes beyond the door. Moments later the rune brightens from ash to ruby, and the latch clicks.

No knock precedes Varok’s entrance. He strides in, cloak billowing around powerful strides, and the room seems to shrink.

The library lesson ended hours ago, yet evidence of our practice lingers: chalk spills across a low table, the sigil rod rests beside an extinguished lamp, and faint violet trails still ghost along my forearms where lines of fake power once glowed.

He halts mid-step, gaze sweeping the chamber. His eyes land on my bare feet, climb my borrowed cloak, then flick to the poker still clutched loosely in my grip. Amusement edges his mouth. “Planning rebellion with a hearth tool?”

“Improvisation,” I answer. “A virtue on the surface.”

“Useful here as well.” He approaches the table, runs one fingertip through the chalk dust. Tiny sparks flit up from the contact, dancing toward his skin before fading. “You have not slept.”

“Neither have you.”

He lifts his shoulders. “Rest is luxury. Not habit.” His gaze seeks mine, intent yet not aggressive. The lamps set facets of silver aglow in those metallic irises. He looks less a demon lord and more a sleepless scholar, though the runes beneath his skin pulse with undiminished threat.

I lower the poker but do not set it down. “Does the king plan to visit before dawn?”

“No. He has retired to weigh petitions.” Varok clasps his hands behind his back, attention sharpening. “You explore, yet the room remains unbreached. Tell me what you have learned.”

Blunt request. “Walls hold no seams,” I say. “Door sigil requires your command. Balcony leads to death quicker than your blade. The fireplace vent narrows after six feet, then angles downward. I doubt lungs can withstand the smoke.”

He nods, unsurprised. “Anything else?”

“The wainscoting near the hearth rings hollow.”

His brows lift, intrigued. He kneels, presses the serpent carving. A panel slides aside, revealing a niche the size of a small cupboard. Inside rests a shallow black box bound by bands of pale metal. He exhales a soft hum. “I forgot this vault exists.”

I lean closer. “What lies within?”

“A memory,” he answers, voice almost gentle. He does not open the box. Instead he pushes the panel back into place and stands. “Your curiosity rivals mine.” Attention flicks to the sliver of crystal woven into my braid. “You stole a shard.”

“You left temptation in plain sight.” I straighten. “It gleams. I collect small, sharp things.”

He steps forward, fingers lifting to brush the shard. I brace, but the touch never lands; his hand hovers a breath away from my braid, then falls. “Keep it,” he says quietly. “If it empowers, use it.”

The permission unsettles. Despots crave control; Varok offers a weapon. Why? I swallow questions. “Your turn,” I say. “What have you learned since the Sanctum?”

His expression cools, lines around his mouth tensing. “Sarivya scents weakness,” he admits. “Tonight she lobbied half the high council to press for my removal as ritual master.”

“Because you spared me.”

“Because I hesitated,” he says, accepting the brand without protest. “Demons equate hesitation with rot.” He steps toward the hearth, stirs embers. “In political games, one exploits rot until the structure collapses or is rebuilt stronger.”

“Which path do you choose?”

His gaze snaps back, alive with dark resolve. “Rebuild.” The single word vibrates with intent. A flicker of pride stirs in my chest, swiftly followed by caution. Building something new might crush those trapped beneath the scaffolding.

The fire pops, scattering sparks that swirl between us before fading. Varok draws breath. “You explored the room. Explore me now.”

I blink. “I beg your pardon.”

“I require your perspective.” He moves to the low table and gestures for me to sit opposite.

I obey, cloak pooling around my legs. He pours tea from a silver vessel into two cups.

The brew releases steam scented with cinnamon and bark.

He waits until I sip before he speaks. “My failure in the Sanctum offered my enemies leverage. I must regain control without drawing suspicion to our ruse. You observe court from a unique perch—one both low and dangerously visible.” He studies me over the rim of his cup. “Tell me how they will strike next.”

The request feels genuine. I set my cup aside, gather thoughts. “Sarivya craves spectacle,” I say. “She will not challenge you in a closed chamber; she’ll engineer a scene where her accusation lands like an arrow before witnesses.”

“Yet she loves to watch others fire first, so blame cannot tie directly to her,” he adds.

“Precisely,” I continue. “She will stoke gossip that you weaken under mortal influence, perhaps spread rumor that your magic falters.”

He grimaces. “Already begun.”

“Then you counter.” I lean forward, heartbeat quickening with the thrill of strategy. “Prove strength not through cruelty but unpredictability. Host a public demonstration of control that does not involve blood. If you can bend stone or summon stormlight without harming anyone, fear will renew.”

“Fear returns easily.” His voice darkens. “Respect is rarer.”

“Then conjure awe, not dread,” I insist. “Reveal power laced with restraint. They will wonder which leash holds you.”

Varok considers, fingers drumming the porcelain cup. “A show of discipline,” he murmurs. “Yes. I could shift the palace’s hanging gardens mid-banquet. Let the vines bloom out of season.”

“Beauty forged from chaos,” I say. “They will not know whether to cheer or tremble.”

He lifts his head, silver gaze alight. “Clever storm.” The nickname sends warmth cascading through nerves. I quash it before it shows.

He sets cups aside and rises. I follow. He approaches shelves where scrolls line the cedar wood in long neat rows.

Selecting one, he unrolls it on the table.

Architectural sketches of tiered terraces and irrigation sigils cover the parchment.

He taps a spiral near the top level. “These locks hold the soil in place. Loosen them and vines will pour skyward.”

“How do we ensure no guest tumbles off the ledge?”

He glances up. “We? You intend to stand beside me?”

I lift chin. “You asked for insight. I will not hide when the plan unfurls.”

A slow smile curves his mouth, erasing years of iron from his features. “Then we shore the rails with a net of consciousness. I weave a barrier of air.” He traces lines in the air above the scroll; sparks trail from his fingertip.

I nod, adrenaline already humming. I sense the unspoken: tomorrow’s spectacle buys us time, yet also highlights how closely our fates now twine.

Silence settles. He rolls the scroll, replaces it. When he turns back I catch a new softness in his expression, as though I have shifted from burden to accomplice. It unsettles and thrills in equal measure.