Page 65 of Burning Her Beautiful
“Better that than emptiness,” I laugh.
As the sun leans west, we stroll the market reopened to both banks. Stalls display woven bracelets, copper lamps shaped like winged serpents, and jars of sweet cream. Vendors greet us not with reverence alone but with familiarity, offering samples. We try everything. Varok coughs at spicy pepper jam, and I feed him honey to cool his tongue; laughter ripples through the crowd.
Before the temple steps, an elder half-blood woman stops us, pressing a small wooden box into my palms. “My father carved this during the plague,” she says. “He believed someday the heart could beat free.” She opens the lid; inside rests a whistle shaped like a swallow. “Today I hear its song.” Tears shimmer. I thank her, promising to play it at the festival.
Night arrives swiftly. We dine with Yalira on a terrace over the river. She recounts meetings with the guilds, her humor wry but hopeful. Copper lamps float on the water, each representing a pledge to the new charter. Thousands sparkle—stars sailing beneath bridges. I lean on the balustrade, Varok’s arm around me, and watch them drift.
He murmurs, “Look how far your voice carries.”
“Ours,” I correct.
Stars burn overhead; lanterns flicker below. And between, we stand—sentinel and dawn-singer, a bridge of bone and hope.
When we retire to the tower, stewards have left a gift on the table: a draft of a marriage accord blending demon rites with human customs. Two rings, crafted from thunder-stone streaked with river glass, lie nested within the scroll. Varok lifts one—its weight solid. He slips it onto my finger. The stone pulses faintly, echoing the glyph’s glow. I slide the twin band over his. Our fingers entwine, the rings chiming softly when they meet.
He lifts me, carrying me to a bed strewn with fresh lilies. Petals brush skin like promises. We lie together, exploring a vow already sealed. His whispers mix with my sighs—rhythms slow, reverent. No hunger to claim, only desire to honor. When sleep finally claims us, our hands remain clasped, rings warm between our palms.
I dream of a choir massed on cliffs, song soaring into heavens where Oltyx watches with a tranquil smile. Lightning arcs across the distant sky, but instead of fear the people below cheer—knowing it speaks a language they now learn.
I wake at first light, nestled against Varok. I rise, pull a shawl around my shoulders, and walk the balcony. The city hums quiet, waiting. Dawn edges the rooftops. I realize my heart beats not harder but steadier; strength no longer something I grasp—it simply exists within my ribs like a second pulse.
Varok joins me, wrapping arms around me from behind. “Already planning the day?”
“Already welcoming it.” I lean back. “We still face challenges, but they feel . . . navigable.”
He rests his chin atop my head. “With you, I’ll cross any gulf.”
Below, the first carpenters shout greetings across the lane, starting work on a school that will teach mixed children river science and mountain lore. Bells toll gently—no warning. I smile, lifting the hand bearing my ring. Sun glints, scattering red-and-blue sparks across my skin.
I close my eyes, breathe deep. The journey from captive to envoy has carved valleys in my soul, but each valley now fills with light. Fear still whispers at the edges, yet courage responds with a stronger chorus.
I turn to Varok. “Let us walk the breakfast gardens—then review the festival schedule.”
He chuckles. “Ever moving forward.”
“Always,” I reply. “Because dawn never waits.”
We descend the spiral stair. Footfalls echo—steady, paired. We are no longer prisoner and warden, nor savior and saved, but partners forging the day. And I know—with certainty as sure as sunrise over spired rooftops—that whatever storms gather beyond the horizon, we will meet them singing, thunder at our backs, and dawn in our hearts.
23
VAROK
Lightning crawls inside the thick dawn clouds while I stand on the basalt platform overlooking the cataract where Iliana first sang the storm to rest. The wind carries the scents of rain, iron, and distant jasmine from the terraces below. Hundreds gather on the cliff-side amphitheater, but their murmurs recede beneath the steady roar of the river. All other sounds feel hollow beside the thunder that drums within my ribs.
I adjust the high collar of my charcoal ceremonial coat; copper thread worked into swirling runes catches quick flickers of gray light. My palms sweat despite the morning chill, and I remind myself that the fear of battle has never shaken me—yet the fear of not deserving her still does. I draw a breath until my lungs ache. Garrik, standing at my right, leans close.
“She will arrive, Captain,” he says in a quiet voice. The new charter stripped away our ranks, yet our friendship remains.
“I know.” I force calm.
He studies the boiling sky. “Oltyx promised spectacle. The storm obeys your bond now,” he remarks, a half-smile tugging his scarred mouth. “Better than fireworks.”
Laughter chases away a measure of tension. “You served under me when I crushed a rebellion with magma walls. Did nerves twist then?”
“I trusted tactics,” he answers. “This is the heart—a harder battlefield.”
True. I scan the benches: house banners hang lowered beneath the multi-hued flag we designed together. Demon nobles in opalescent armor, human craftsmen in embroidered linens, and half-blood envoys wearing silver-ivy circlets wait side by side. All eyes expect the moment thunder meets the dawn-singer.
