Page 24 of Burning Her Beautiful
I whisper vow against her skin. “I will end Sarivya, bind the council, shield you from every blade—even if kingdom burns.” Words taste like fate written.
Iliana’s eyes shine, but she shakes head. “We save kingdom while saving ourselves. Burning solves nothing.”
“Then we rewrite laws.” I rise, lift her with me. She stands on toes, rests forehead against my chest. Thunder thrums outside; inside my heart drums answer.
Obsession, ambition, loyalty—currents collide. Yet her presence turns chaos into clear path: protect, transform, survive together. The risk no longer deters; it defines the only future I can stomach.
I hold her until candle dies. In darkness, decisions sharpen like knives.
Tomorrow I start by ripping Sarivya’s support from under her, root by poisoned root. After that, perhaps rewrite collar laws, one decree at a time. I will trade fear for awe, blood for blossoms, if only to keep this woman humming storms beside me.
Because the truth I dared not speak to Asmodeus roars inside my skull now: I do not merely want her heart beating. I need its rhythm to guide my own.
8
ILIANA
Grey dawn drifts through the library’s high windows, softening the rigid angles of shelves crammed with varicolored tomes. The pale light glances off the runic globes that hover near the ceiling, casting wavering halos across the floor. I sit alone at the long oak table where Varok and I spent half the night tracing sabotage sigils, my elbows propped on an atlas the size of a breadboard. A thin wisp of steam curls from the teacup balanced in my palms, jasmine and sweet citrus coaxing warmth into my bones.
The hush feels impossible after the whirlwind of yesterday—council accusations, Sarivya’s poisoned bud, Varok’s fierce defense. He left hours ago to pry up the matron’s schemes by their roots. The moment he stepped into the corridor I felt the room tilt, as if he carried half the gravity with him. I remind myself that absence is an ally this morning; I need unguarded moments to weave the next threads of revolt.
I close the atlas and dress quickly, trading my charcoal-smudged tunic for a slate-blue linen gown that drapes to mid-calf. The fabric is plain enough to blend with servants yet sturdy enough to endure steam and soap. I knot a narrowbelt at my waist and tug the leather-bound notebook Varok gave me into its loops. The crystal shard that once served as a stolen trinket now feels like a talisman; I slide it behind my ear where it hides among dark waves. One last breath, and I step into the corridor, trusting intuition to guide each choice.
Garrik waits outside the archway, leaning against a jasper column with arms folded. His crimson skin gleams beneath torchlight, and the polished hilts of twin daggers rise above his shoulders like silver crescents. He lifts an eyebrow in greeting.
“Morning patrol switches in two turns,” he says without preamble. “If you want to walk the lower halls unseen, now is the gap.”
“How fortunate,” I reply. “I was just thinking of a laundry basket full of secrets that needs sorting.”
Amusement flashes across his amber eyes. He straightens, tilting his head to indicate the stairwell. “Follow, and keep hood low.”
We descend spiral flights that smell of iron and damp stone until warm mist kisses our faces. Beyond a wrought-iron gate, the washhouses sprawl in a maze of steaming cauldrons and churning water wheels. Human workers bend over vats, their voices muffled beneath the hiss of the pipes overhead. I pull my cloak tighter and slip into the bustle while Garrik melts into a shadowed alcove, watchful but unobtrusive.
A familiar laugh bubbles across the din, and my heart leaps before I even spot its owner. Lys sits on an overturned crate, mending a satin hem with nimble fingers. Her short golden hair, bound by a rag, shines like burnished straw beneath lantern light. She hums a jaunty tune that somehow lifts the damp gloom surrounding us.
“You are still turning noble rags into finery,” I call, weaving between piles of wet linen.
Lys’s head snaps up. Blue eyes widen, then fill with tears she refuses to let fall. She drops the needle and rushes forward, wrapping her arms around me with enough force to make breath hitch. The scent of lavender starch clings to her sleeves.
“I heard every rumor.” Her voice trembles. “They said you were alive but collared in silk, dancing at demon banquets.”
“I doubt anyone danced,” I murmur into her hair. We pull apart, and she studies me from head to toe, cataloguing bruises and changes. She wipes away moisture with the back of her hand, then exhales shakily.
“Are you safe?”
“For now,” I answer. “But I need more than safety. Walk with me.”
We wind through the steam, speaking softly. Lys tells me two humans were sold to Sarivya’s kitchens last week, and an elderly cook was whipped for spilling silverwort sauce on a lord’s boots. Her stories carve fresh trenches of anger under my ribs. When she finishes, I guide her toward a narrow sluice channel where water funnels into a grate, the noise masking our words.
“We can change this,” I say, voice steady. “I am planting something, but I need roots in every wing of the palace.”
She tips her head, suspicion mingling with hope. “What kind of planting?”
“Information,” I explain, outlining a simple code of hums that can travel through pipes and wall-stones. “I learned from a miner that resonant crystals carry these frequencies. If we pass messages along the laundry shafts, guards will never hear.”
Lys’s gaze turns fierce. “Teach me, and I will teach the maids.”
I squeeze her fingers, then slip a torn scrap of parchment into her palm—a sliver bearing Varok’s personal seal. “Show this if anyone questions your presence outside assigned halls.”
