Page 48 of Burning Her Beautiful
I catch his hand. “Stay beside me. We breathe the same air.”
He hesitates, vulnerability flickering, then slides onto the mattress. We lie on our backs, shoulders touching. Outside, festival drums echo faintly, but inside the chamber, quiet reigns.
After minutes he speaks. “The assassination attempt changes public tide. Sympathy swells for you; suspicion turns toward Velinth. This will aid reforms.”
“I don’t care for sympathy if it rises on blood,” I whisper.
“Nor do I.” He turns onto his side, propping his head on one hand. “But change often costs wounds. I vow each cut will serve a purpose.”
I trace a pattern on his forearm, rune meeting fingertip. “Your vow becomes mine.”
Our eyes lock—thousands of unspoken fears and hopes passing. Exhaustion claims me, lids heavy. His lips brush my temple. “Sleep, blossom. Tomorrow we bend the sky.”
I drift into dreams where lightning dances in vines and a demon’s hand guides mine along a path none dared carve.
Pre-dawn chill wakes me.Grey light spills over the floor. Varok still lies beside me, arm hooked around my waist, breaths deep. No armor, no weapons—only a man braving vulnerability. I rest my palm on his chest; his brand glows faint amber, peaceful.
The assassination attempt could have stolen this. Realization hits sharp—I love him beyond rebellion’s necessity, beyond gratitude. Love stitched from lightning and gentleness, from risk shared and tenderness discovered. I will not let any throne sever it.
I rise, careful not to wake him, and dress. The pendant’s crystal catches the first sunrise spark. I stand at the window, staring at the horizon where the moon will devour the sun later today. Fear steals breath, but purpose steadies it.
Behind me Varok stirs, murmurs my name. I turn, a soft smile on my lips. “I am ready,” I say.
He sits, hair tousled, answering smile blooming. “Then the sky stands no chance.”
We share quiet laughter. The day of the eclipse begins, and with it a chapter in which devotion, once hidden, steps into the light—unmasked, unchained, and powerful enough to tilt empires.
17
VAROK
The eclipse rises like an omen—a bruised disc swallowing the sun one deliberate bite at a time. I stand on the grand rampart that wraps the top of Galmoleth’s royal amphitheater, wind whipping my coat, bow gripped tight in my gloved hand. Thousands fill the terraces below—citizens, half-blood nobles, foreign envoys invited for celestial spectacle, and spies who will carry tales to distant courts by dawn. Their faces tilt upward, a sea of pale ovals under the darkening light. They have come for wonder, yet fear swims beneath their skin. They remember yesterday’s assassin and the lightning I hurled in answer.
Behind me, engineers fuss with the rotating platform that will raise Iliana into the sky when the moon covers the sun’s final sliver. From that height she will hum the stabilizing sequence, and our hidden resonance stakes will unfurl a web of gentle current to tame the storm front that threatens to form where hot and cold winds collide. Without that net, lightning could strike the packed terraces, and the king would claim her failure as proof that humans cannot be trusted with power. My brand still itches from that unspoken promise.
I flex my fingers around the signal-shaft arrow, its copper fletching catching the dying light. In minutes I must fire this into the cloud deck. It will burst into seven filaments tuned to her pendant’s crystal. If my aim wavers, the network fails and lives burn. Yet my hands shake from more than the weight of responsibility.
I cannot stop replaying the sight of her almost dying, the arbalest bolt hissing past where her heart beat. The terror that ripped through me felt rawer than any battlefield wound. I do not hide that terror now; it becomes steel in my spine, clarity in my purpose. If the king, the court, or the gods themselves question my devotion, they will see it flood this city today—bright and undeniable.
Chancellor Velyth appears at my side, panting slightly from the stair climb. He glances at my bow. “You understand the order of cues?”
I nod. “When her second note rises, I release the shaft. The stakes harmonize and bend the front south.”
“Good. Ensure you stand centered when you fire; the entire council box watches.”
I almost smile at his understated warning. “Let them.”
He dips his head and steps back to let me focus. I tug the collar of my coat, thought briefly fluttering to Iliana in the preparation tower below. Yalira and Lys adjust her cloak—midnight green lined with copper thread that echoes the vines on her tunic. Sael pins her hair with the moon-shaped comb. I wish I could stand there, brush a kiss to her knuckles. Instead I swallow the ache and ready for war masked as ceremony.
The king’s herald strides tothebalcony dais, voice booming through crystal horns. “People of Galmoleth, behold the union of sun and moon, herald of cycles, test of harmony. Today our Dominus Varok and the gifted song-bearer Iliana will guide the sky so that your hearts be eased.”
Applause rolls—hesitant at first, then stronger. I scan faces for dissent. Sarivya’s former allies cluster near the east steps, cloaks black, eyes bright with resentment. The assassin’s death did not deter them; their new plan likely grows in shadow. My jaw clenches.
A hush falls as Iliana steps onto the platform in the tower aperture. Even from this distance my pulse quickens. Her cloak billows, pendant crystal glowing pale jade. She meets my gaze across the gulf, and rampart, crowd, and king fade for one stretched heartbeat. She nods once. We are ready.
The platform begins to rise, gears whining. She ascends above rooftops, silhouetted against the waning sun. Gasps ripple. She opens her arms and the cloak spreads like wings.
She begins to hum.
