Page 35 of Burning Her Beautiful
Silence returns once he leaves. I pour the sapphires back into the pouch, each stone clicking like a guilty heartbeat. The walls feel closer, heavy with my own decisions. Sarivya falls, yet the void she leaves draws darker threats. I realize with brutal clarity that every victory sharpens the knife against Iliana’s throat.
I step onto the balcony, letting wind lash my hair free. Clouds roll turbulent below; lightning flickers, illuminating distant ravines. Power hums under my skin, but tonight it feels less like armor—more like chains I forged myself. I picture Iliana’s face lit by crystal fire, remember her whispered plea for restraint. Can I wield strength without becoming the tyrant we fight?
I grip the railing until my knuckles turn pale. Tomorrow may demand yet another show, another weave of half-truths. But tonight I allow the wind to cool the fevered rush in my veins. I vow to choose mercy before spectacle, truth before manipulation—if only to prove myself worthy of the woman who hums storms into being.
Thunder answers, distant, as if taking note.
12
ILIANA
The echo of polished boots fades into distant corridors as the nobles depart the resonance gallery, yet the taste of scrutiny still coats my tongue. Dozens of eyes mocked, weighed, and measured every breath I took during Varok’s demonstration, and I feel each lingering stare like the ghost of a slap. My shoulders ache from holding perfect posture, and my jaw from the practiced half-smile that promised confidence while hiding the tremors beneath my skin.
I stand beside the central pillar a moment longer, pressing my palm to the cooling crystal. Its surface no longer glows, but a faint thrum remains, as though it remembers the river of power that coursed through it minutes ago. A steward waits to escort me to a reception chamber where refreshments and veiled interrogations surely await, yet I lift one hand, bidding a silent request for privacy. The steward bows and retreats, leaving me alone amid marble still reverberating with gossip.
My heart pounds. I draw a breath, steadying the racing beat. The demonstration succeeded; Sarivya stumbled, her decree suspended, but the cost sits heavy in my lungs. I inspect the room that witnessed my every note. No scorch marks blackenthe floor, no crystals lie shattered, yet I am aware of unseen fractures—hairline cracks within alliances, shifts in currents that carry both freedom and danger. I trace one such fissure inside my chest, where defiance and attraction meet in uneasy embrace.
A memory flashes—Varok’s eyes locked on mine across the distance, his subtle nod guiding me to release the final note. Even from afar I felt the invisible thread between us tightening, an unspoken vow. He risked a blood rune to lend strength while masking its origin, and danced along treason’s edge for my sake. Admiration ignites warm embers below my ribs, joined instantly by guilt. Each time he wields deception to protect me, another layer of his carefully honed armor cracks, and with each saved moment, the noose around him—and therefore around us—tightens.
I force a slow exhale and straighten, refusing to crumble under possibilities. My feet carry me toward a side door rarely used by nobles. Varok promised space, and I intend to honor that promise, yet I need to breathe air free of whispered rumors before I face the next chess move. The passage opens onto a narrow terrace half hidden behind climbing ivy. The noon sun pierces the cloud bank, painting ripples of gold across the railing. I step into the brightness, lungs savoring the crisp wind scented with distant pine.
Below, on the lower tiers, servants bustle like ants—flashes of white aprons, glints of copper buckets. I spot Lys leading two maids across a courtyard, heads bent in animated conversation. The sight steadies me more than the sunlight. They sacrifice sleep and safety to share coded hums for our network; their courage leaves no room for self-pity.
I lift my face to the wind and hum a single phrase—the new frequency Sael suggested. The stainless whistle threads through the air, seeking copper nodes inside the palace walls. If the lineworks, miners in the deepest tunnels will hear within minutes. I imagine their surprised smiles and feel an answering spark of hope.
“Beautiful pitch,” a voice murmurs.
My pulse stutters. I whirl to find Yalira stepping onto the terrace, lavender skin glowing beneath a parasol of translucent silk. Her eyes gleam topaz-bright, but caution tempers her smile.
“I should have known you would claim this hidden ledge,” she says, closing the parasol. “You have the scent of the wind in your hair.”
“Apologies, Matron,” I reply, smoothing my cloak. “I needed a breath.”
“No apology necessary. After the scrutiny you endured, dragon’s wings could not beat out the stale stink of politics.” She moves beside me, resting manicured hands on the rail. “They devoured every tremor of your voice, yet you never flinched.”
“I flinched inside.” The admission slips free before pride clamps it.
“That makes your poise more impressive.” She glances toward the gallery doors. “You know, of course, that whispers claim your song pulls Varok’s strings. They cannot grasp how a mortal might hold her own power.”
I rub my thumb over the copper strand at my temple. “Let them whisper. Each rumor blunts the next blade.”
Yalira eyes me sidelong. “Your strength reminds me of cracked ice—resilient yet dangerous should anyone misstep.” She lifts the parasol again. “I will see you at the strategy council tonight. Do not let the vipers steer your heart.”
I nod, uncertain whether her compliment bears a warning. She sweeps away, silk rustling.
Left alone, I replay her words. Cracked ice threatens both walker and water. I promised myself to remain an anchor, not an edge. With renewed focus I retrace my steps back throughhidden corridors, avoiding clusters of nobles now drifting toward pavilions for midday gossip.
By early afternoon,sunlight slants across the high windows of the sewing workshop where Sael and two other humans sort bolts of cloth for upcoming banquets. I duck into the doorway, exchanging silent greetings. The air smells of linen starch and nutmeg. Sael glances over her shoulder, mischief alight.
“Your note reached the mines,” she whispers around a mouthful of pins. “Echo jumped stone within nine breaths. The miners tapped back gratitude.”
Relief washes over me. “Excellent. Continue mapping the air ducts.”
She nods, returning to her task. Before I leave, Jonn slips from a side alcove—stealth surprising for a hulking chain maker. He presses a slender metal hook into my palm—two prongs bent precisely.
“For door locks on the upper clerical floors,” he murmurs. “Half-bloods may need an exit if Velinth allies riot.”
I tuck it into my belt. “Thank you.” In his soot-smeared face I read flickers of pride, fear, and a cautious hope stronger than iron.
