Page 2 of Burning Her Beautiful
“Do you know who stands before you?”
“Varok, Soz’garoth mage and hound of the king,” she replies. Her voice is soft but unwavering, accent lilting in a way I cannot place—surface plains perhaps. “I know death wears many masks. Yours is merely painted in shadow.”
Murmurs skitter along the gallery. Insolence so bold is unheard of. I should strike her down, display her tongue aswarning. Instead I feel a grin bloom, slow and dangerous, across my mouth.
“To face death with poetry,” I muse aloud, “is either bravery… or madness.”
“Perhaps both,” she says.
The chain handler jerks her collar, snarling for silence. She winces yet keeps her eyes on me, daring me to do worse.
I turn, cloak sweeping behind, and ascend the dais steps to stand before Asmodeus once more. My voice carries, smooth and certain. “I have found the sacrifice that will please Oltyx. There is none more fitting than this one.”
Gasps. A ripple of surprise flickers in Asmodeus’s gaze. “The defiant girl?” he drawls, intrigued. “She risks tainting the rite with her stubbornness.”
“All the better,” I reply. “Stronger hearts beat hotter. Oltyx favors strength.”
The king considers, drumming razor claws on the throne arm. “Very well.” He lifts his hand. The guards unlatch Iliana from the column of slaves. They prod her forward. She stumbles once, then regains her footing, chin tipped high.
When she reaches the base of the dais I step down, towering over her. Up close she smells faintly of crushed rosemary and fear—an intoxicating blend. I draw a curved witch-steel knife from my belt, present the flat of the blade so her reflection swims across the silvered surface.
“Look at your fate,” I order.
She does, but she also looks past the metal, straight into my eyes. A challenge leaps between us like live current. My heart stutters. The urge to trace the line of her throat with my thumb—possessively, not violently—flashes across my thoughts. It should disgust me. It thrills me instead.
I close my fingers around her elbow. The touch is shockingly intimate despite the iron restraint. Rune-glow crawls under myskin, whisperingclaim, claim, claim. The court’s chatter recedes as I guide her toward the shadowed passage leading to my private wing.
Behind us, the remaining slaves are herded out. Nobles disperse, voices bright with speculation. The king’s laughter echoes, low and pleased. He sees political advantage in my choice; I see something far more dangerous. My steps quicken.
Iliana matches my pace despite her chains. The corridor narrows, torches casting restless scarlet over basalt walls. Every few strides she tilts her head, studying tapestries depicting ancient demon victories, as though memorizing routes of escape. Admirable. Futile.
“You are calm for a mortal walking to her death,” I remark.
“If my death feeds your god, then at least I will be digested alongside tyrants.”
Her words slice far closer than she knows. “You believe me a tyrant?”
“If you have to ask,” she murmurs, “then you already know.”
I laugh, a sound that startles even me with its warmth. “Careful. Flattery sways me more than condemnation.”
“I was not flattering you.”
Honesty. Sharp as a blade honed on bone. I unlock a heavy iron door and usher her inside. The chamber beyond is dim, lit by glowing quartz veins that thread through crimson stone. Pillars of black glass rise toward a vaulted ceiling. A wide marble table—my ritual slab—dominates the center. At the far wall a balcony opens onto the violet storm clouds roiling around the floating continent’s edge. Gusts swirl in, tugging her curls into wild ribbons.
She stands in the middle, chains dragging, eyes sweeping the space. The faintest tremor betrays her composure. I stalk a slow circle, studying her posture, the graceful slope of her shoulders, the proud line of her neck. No visible brand marks her owner;perhaps a newly captured rebel runner. The absence of scars infuriates me. It means no one else has broken her yet.
Mine, the rune whispers.
I lift the shackles’ locking pin with a tiny gesture; the metal falls away. She jolts, rubbing her wrists, wary. I sheath my knife.
“You free me?” she asks.
“Not quite.” A humorless smile tugs at my mouth. “Chains are unnecessary. This room is sigil-sealed to my command. If you attempt to leave, the doorway will turn to solid stone.” I glide to a sideboard and pour obsidian wine into two shallow cups. “Drink.”
“Poison?”
I tilt my head. “Trust issues, Iliana? Let me ease them.” I swallow from one cup, then offer the other.
