Page 61 of Burning Her Beautiful
Tovor stammers, “This spectacle cannot?—”
Oltyx turns a fraction. The senator’s voice freezes mid-word, throat seized by invisible awe.
“Song met thunder,” Oltyx continues, “and neither was consumed. Instead, new harmony arose. Such balance pleases the Accord.” The Herald reaches toward Iliana. Light spills, bathing her in pale gold. The resonance stone at her throat shatters with a crystalline ring, fragments swirling before melting into a streak that flows into her skin. Glyphs bloom across her collarbone, glowing sigils of unknown script.
Oltyx withdraws. “Iliana Eryndor, bearer of dawn-song, I grant you the favor of the Celestial Chorus. Your voice shall carry through tempest and terror; no mortal law may silence it. Guard this gift with humility.”
Iliana’s eyes brim yet remain fierce. “I will honor it,” she whispers.
The Herald faces me. “Captain Varok, you protected a seed of change despite threat to self. Such courage echoes deep. Stand as sentinel of the bridge between bloods. Let no fear break the span.”
Light seals around my heart, warm yet weighty. I feel the runes on my arms ignite, glowing brighter before settling.
Oltyx lifts massive wings. “Judgment is rendered. These two stand under celestial protection. Any who move against them move against the Accord.”
With a rush of wind and a scatter of sparks, the figure dissolves—torches blazing bright again. Silence reigns, thick and stunned.
Asmodeus straightens, his mask of power slipping before quick recovery. His eyes flick to the shattered stone dust on the dais, then to the council. He raises his voice—smooth, yet threaded with awe. “Higher order has spoken. Charges are void.”
Tovor collapses back into his seat, face drained. Ripples of discussion spread, yet no one dares raise objection.
I turn to Iliana. She sways; I catch her, an arm wrapping around her waist. The glyphs on her skin fade to faint silver, still visible like moonlight through water.
Relief floods my veins so fiercely my knees threaten to buckle. “Are you hurt?” I ask.
She smiles through tears. “No. I feel . . . full, as if every breath carries a note of sky.”
Asmodeus descends the dais—a rare action displaying humility. He stops before us, gaze searching. “The Accord seldom intervenes. You earned a miracle.” He inclines his head. “Galmoleth must adapt. I will announce a royal decree cementing the equality charter effective immediately. Those who resist will do so outside protection.”
He casts a sharp look at Tovor. The senator lowers his eyes.
I bow. “Thank you, Majesty.”
Iliana mirrors the movement. When we rise, Asmodeus surprises me with a faint smile. “Lead well, Captain. Your story rewrites books I thought finished.” He returns to the throne.
The crowd breaks into murmured celebration, some into stunned reflection. Garrik bursts through the doorway, a grin splitting his face as he surveys our safety. Behind him Sael and Lys push forward, eyes shining.
Iliana and I descend the dais steps. Supporters surge, but the guard buffer maintains space. She grips my hand, expression dazed yet radiant.
We exit onto a balcony overlooking the inner courtyard. The sun climbs higher, gilding flagstones. Below, citizens gather, drawn by rumors of divine light. They peer up, hope bright in every face.
Iliana steps to the balustrade. Her voice rings clear, carrying farther than mortal lungs should reach. “People of Galmoleth, chains fall today not by decree alone but by hearts that refuse silence. Walk beside your neighbor—horned or round-eared—and build the dawn together.”
The crowd erupts in cheers; a wave of sound rolls up the walls, washing over us. I look at her silhouette against the sun, hair haloed, and pride nearly breaks my chest. I once believed desire made me weak. Now I see desire tempered by respect forges indomitable will.
She turns, cheeks wet with tears she does not hide. I wipe one away with my thumb. “Divine favor suits you,” I tease softly.
“It feels heavy,” she admits.
“Then I will shoulder the half that drags.” I kiss her forehead, lingering.
Behind, bells burst into joyous peal—first from the palace tower, then the cathedral, then the harbor. Their echo chases clouds beyond the horizon.
Across the courtyard, Tovor slips through an arch, cloak drawn tight. He will plot, as will others, but open war becomes perilous under the Accord. Our fight shifts from survival to stewardship.
Iliana leans into my arms. “We did not win everything today, but we won the chance to try.”
“Chance is more than rebels usually receive,” I reply.
