Page 19 of Burning Her Beautiful
“Easy,” he murmurs. “She means no harm.”
I beckon the girl. She hesitates, then steps near. Her collar bruises her neck. “I was told to bring fresh napkins to the pavilion,” she whispers.
“There.” Garrik points. She hurries away.
“That collar,” I say when she disappears, “who decides humans must wear them?”
He exhales. “Custom older than I.” He frowns at my glare. “I punish none, Iliana. I simply navigate currents.”
I grip edge of pond. “Currents can change.”
He gives a curt nod. “Understood.” He offers hand to help me stand. His grip is warm, firm. “Come. We return before the council ends.”
Back in my suite I pace, mind spinning future strategies. The servant Sael returns with afternoon fruit. I ask her quietly how many humans are on this floor. She hesitates but answers—twelve, mostly personal attendants. I scribble names she shares with hesitant pride. Seeds planted.
Evening approaches. Varok’s seal arrives again, this time requesting my presence at the sanctuary balcony for resonant testing. I change into lightweight tunic and leggings for mobility, braid hair tight with crystal shard glinting. Garrik escorts me to a towering observatory dome where Varok waits among swirling glyphs chalked on marble.
He greets me with small smile that tilts heart. Together we test my concept: I hum into stone, Varok channels chaos through crystals embedded in floor. The sound magnifies, rippling across dome walls like rolling thunder, yet gentle. My voice becomes river, echoing on every surface. The resonance thrills, but I wobble under vibration. Varok steadies me, hand on spine—warmth soothing. Admiration lights his face. “Your idea, your success.”
Our eyes lock. Pulse quickens. He clears throat, steps back, but that glimpse of pure pride carves soft space in chest.
Hours pass in refining hum-charges. We laugh twice when echoes shatter vases unintentionally. Each laugh draws us closer, cracks earlier walls. At last we stand side by side, sweaty, exhilarated.
“I did not manipulate you today,” he says softly.
“No,” I answer. “You collaborated.”
He lifts my hand, brushes knuckles with lips. Gentle. “Then we continue as co-architects.”
Heat floods cheeks. I squeeze his fingers, then release. “Until tomorrow,” I whisper.
He turns to leave, pauses. “Sleep, Iliana. I need you strong.”
“I will try.”
Door closes, but warmth lingers. I collapse onto couch, heart racing. Today I teased a demon lord, earned respect from his lieutenant, planted hope in servants’ hearts, and saw vulnerability flicker behind silver eyes. Defiance still burns, but empathy now intertwines, green shoots curling along edges of resistance.
I braid those feelings into my hair with the crystal shard, binding them tight. Tomorrow tactics may shift, yet tonight I allow myself to feel the tremor of attraction. Not surrender. Not yet. But the path ahead no longer seems lit by fear alone. Possibility glimmers, fragile yet fiercely bright.
I blow out candles, slide beneath soft covers, and hum the planting song. Stone resonates faintly, perhaps remembering our new craft. Somewhere in the tower Varok stands at a window, perhaps hearing the echo and knowing it is meant for him.
Storms still loom. Chains still clink. But seeds have been sown in cracks of marble, and I intend to nurture every one until vines rise again—this time not as spectacle but as roots of change.
7
VAROK
Dawn slinks over Galmoleth like a wary animal, streaking the cloud bank beneath our floating continent with bruised lavender. I stand at the highest parapet of the Soz’garoth spire, cloak snapping around my calves, hands braced on chilled merlon stone. Below me the palace sprawls in layered terraces—balconies festooned with last night’s enchanted vines, domes of translucent crystal catching first light like spun sugar. A pretty veneer. Inside those walls, rot whispers beneath every polished tile.
Behind me, the iron door to the watch stair groans open. Garrik’s boots crunch frost-slick flagstones. He stops an arm’s length away, gives a slight bow more respectful than formal.
“Council assembles within the hour,” he says. “Rumors reached them before sunrise.”
Predictable. “Which version spreads fastest?”
“That Iliana is a sorceress who bewitched you,” he answers. “Sarivya promotes a sweeter tale: you have been bewitched by a sorceress you created to hide your waning strength.”
I bark a grim laugh that evaporates in the wind. “She seeds both sides, so whichever bears fruit she claims.”
