Page 40 of Burning Her Beautiful
He leans forward, elbows on knees. “Your tongue charms marble, yet I sense cracks.” His gaze pierces. “Do you love the mortal?”
I breathe once. “Yes.”
The truth shakes the air like struck glass. Asmodeus’s grin widens. “Love erodes knives.” He rises. “Show me if steel remains.”
Chains slither toward me like serpents. I brace. The rune burns as one chain winds around my wrist, another around my ankle. Pain lances, siphoning energy. Vision dims at the edges, yet I hold steady.
Asmodeus stops inches away, towering presence radiating cold. “A tool that forgets its maker warrants reshaping.” He grips the chain, yanks. Agony arcs through nerves. I bite my cheek—not to stay silent but to keep from cursing him with Iliana’s name.
Minutes stretch. The brand on my heart sears under pressure. I endure until numbness settles. At last he releases his hold. Chains loosen, slither back.
“You believe devotion grants strength,” he says, voice almost pitying. “We will test that soon.”
My pulse pounds in my ears. “She is not weakness,” I breathe.
“Then let her prove it. Galmoleth hosts an eclipse in two nights—the festival of shadows. Present her to the city and have her quell the tempest conjured by old gods. If she fails, your brand will finish you.” He flicks his wrist and the chains retreat fully. “Leave.”
I bow, stagger out. Torches blur as I climb stairs. Garrik waits at the top, concern etched deep. I wave off his reaching hand until balance returns.
“We prepare for the eclipse,” I whisper, voice raw. “The king demands proof beyond terror.”
Garrik’s jaw works. “We improvise?”
“We transcend.” I push hair from my sweat-damp brow. “Summon Iliana and Yalira. The city will witnesseithera miracle or a massacre.”
Night cloaksthe tower by the time Iliana enters my chamber. She wears a traveling cloak, fresh dust on her boots—likely from her network rounds. When she sees my pallor, worry overtakes greeting.
“He hurt you.”
“Not beyond mending.” I pour two cups of dark liquor from the decanter and hand her one. “He demands performance during the eclipse. You must calm the storm front at its peak.”
She sips, processing. “A public stage again.”
“Wider. The entire city.” My voice cracks. She reaches instinctively, palms cupping my face. The warmth of her skin dispels chilled echoes.
“We can craft resonance nets in sky,” she murmurs, thinking faster than breath. “Use floating crystals to bend lightning arcs.”
Hope flickers. “Possibility exists, but the margin slims.”
“We widen it,” she says. “Together, with every ally we have.”
Her certainty burrows through fear. I exhale shakily and pull her into my arms. She wraps around me, heartbeats syncing. For the first time I allow my head to rest on her shoulder—not as a shield but as a weary man seeking harbor. Fingers thread my hair, gentle strokes that hush roaring doubts.
“You are not alone,” she whispers.
“I feel alone often.”
“Then feel me.”
I clutch her tighter. Walls fade until only her breath remains. In that silence vulnerability blooms. Tears, rare as rain in upper Galmoleth, burn my eyes. I blink them away, yet one escapes. She brushes it aside with her thumb, reverent.
“We will face the eclipse,” she says. “You will not break.”
“I fear for you,” I confess.
“Fear sharpens care,” she answers. “But trust guides action.”
I hesitate, let trust root deeper. “Stay tonight,” I ask, voice hoarse.
