Page 39 of Burning Her Beautiful
“Light feet, always.” I touch her wrist, pulse steady beneath skin. In that brief contact solace flows both ways.
She steps closer, resting her forehead against my chest for a fleeting instant. “May the storm favor us,” she whispers, then slips out before longing chains me to her side.
The tribunal amphitheaterbuzzes under sun-blazed glass when I arrive. Hundreds of nobles fill crescent benches, voices weaving dissent and curiosity. At the center dais standsasilver post adorned with ceremonial manacles—today replaced by Sarivya’s custom collar, gaudy with ruby inlays. They expect spectacle. I swallow bile.
Iliana enters from the northern arch, garnet sunlight catching the copper vines at her cuffs. She walks with unhurried grace, every step a strike of defiance. Whispers follow her like trailing ribbons. She ascends the steps to the collar, stops at my side, and meets my eyes. In that gaze we anchor.
Chancellor Velyth stands at his podium. “Per decree of the king, the mortal Iliana submits to formal regulation.” He gestures for the collar.
I lift it, feeling the subtle thrash of resonance crystals waiting for her hum. Iliana tilts her head. The room falls into a breathless hush as I secure the clasp around her neck. Metal clicks. A faint chime rings—our hidden signal that the crystals engaged.
Gasps ripple. Noble faces lean forward like wolves at a gate. Velyth raises the staff. “Let the mortal hum for reading.”
Iliana inhales.Asingle low note emerges, soft yet clear. Crystals hum in response but remain dormant to untrained ears. I sense their echo thrumming up the collar into my runes.It istime to break the leash.
I unfurl chaotic strands from my brand, channel them through coat runes into the ambient crystal network. I weave the shatter pattern around the collar. Sweat beads at my temple from the focus.Asplit second later I clamp the energy, twisting frequency into the mirrored pulse Iliana tested last night.
She lifts her voice an octave. The collar vibrates, ruby stones flickering. Spectators lean away. Withafinal twist I release the energy. The collar explodes outward, shards of harmless copper raining like metallic petals. Light flares around Iliana’s throat and dies, leaving only a faint red mark across her skin—a mark we inked with dye earlier to mimic a burn.
Chaos erupts. Nobles leap to their feet, half in awe, half in terror. Velyth slams his staff, voice booming over the noise. “Order!”
Guards rush forward, but I raise a hand. “Malfunction,” I announce, my tone iron. “Proof that forced shackles cannot hold harmonics they do not understand.”
Several half-blood nobles cheer, the sound swelling. The council divides in real time; I see fear turn to admiration in eyes once wary.
Iliana steps forward, unburned, voice ringing. “No collar forged in arrogance will bind the rightful breath of any soul. May this bealesson—notathreat.”
Her words echo across stone, settling into hearts. Silence swallows the chamber. Even my pulse stills in stunned pride.
Velyth inclines his head, eyes gleaming. “Motion to rescind mortal collar regulation,” he declares.
Half-blood nobles raise hands. Within heartbeats, majority support rises. The motion passes, banners shifting colors to indicate decree.
Sarivya’s factions stand frozen, defeat etched across their faces. Their moment of humiliation blossoms likemyvines once did—dark, inevitable, beautiful.
But victory tastes stale. The king’s summons tightens around my thoughts. I step back, whispers swirling as attendees surge around Iliana offering support or wary respect. Garrik intercepts me, shadowing every movement.
“You leave now?” he asks.
“Before gossip outruns truth,” I answer. I watch Iliana laugh softly with Yalira, tension melting from her shoulders. A single look passes between us, promise for later. I turn and stride from the chamber, Garrik in tow.
The Sanctumof Chains lies beneath the royal palace—a cathedral carved from basalt so dark it swallows torchlight. Every step down the spiral cuts warmth from the air until breath frosts. My boots echo off iron-bound doors etched with runes older than our dynasty.
Two sentries unlock the final gate. The throne room beyond is empty save for Asmodeus upon his obsidian seat. He wears nocrown—his horns suffice—but his silver eyes catch torch-flame and build it into blaze. I kneel, fist to chest.
“Rise, Varok,” he says, voice smooth. “Your theater delights the court.”
I stand. The rune on my chest flares.
“Delight is double-edged, Majesty,” I reply.
“Indeed.” He gestures. Chains on the walls stir, a resonant tremor traveling through stone. “Explain why my general spends magic shielding a mortal when he should crush dissent.”
“My magic guided the court toward unity today.”
“Unity?” He barks a hollow laugh. “Unity gained by undermining fear. Fear keeps kingdoms upright. You craft wonder instead and expect obedience.”
“The people obey what inspires, not merely what terrifies.”
