Page 7 of Burning Her Beautiful
Whispers bloom like fungus on rotten wood. Some nobles nod, others scoff. The matrons lean together debating thenuance of sacrifice rites. The acolytes hold breath, uncertain whether to resume the chant.
Asmodeus studies Iliana. Perhaps he sees the bold line of her jaw, the way her bound hands relax rather than strain, proof of the courage I claim. Perhaps he sees only a human delaying his glory. I tighten my shields, bracing for the heat of his gaze.
“It is your responsibility,” he says at length, “to temper the blade.” His lips curl, revealing elongated cuspids. “You have three nights. On the fourth, the solstice ends at moon’s peak. If the heart still beats within her by that moment, yours will replace it.”
The verdict slams through me with the chill of obsidian submerged in snowmelt. I incline my head. “I accept the charge.”
“Then remove her,” he growls. He turns away, cloak swirling, and returns to his throne, dismissing us both as if we are pawns swept from a board.
The nobles reanimate, voices rising. A scandal has been birthed in front of them and they will nurse it greedily. Some smile, scenting my potential downfall. Others debate whether this proves new methods or hidden weakness. Sarivya, draped in violet brocade on a lower tier, touches two fingertips to her lips. The gesture is too slow to be surprise, too calculated. She sees an opening in my hesitation and will pry it wider.
I retrieve the kirpan, sliding it into its sheath. Wax flicks to the floor in tiny droplets. Then I lift Iliana from the altar. Her corded wrists rest against my chest. Her pulse thrums beneath my palm, not frantic but steady as a war drum. I catch her scent—warm skin, wild mint from last night’s bath, and something rawer. Survival. It intoxicates.
As we leave, an acolyte scuttles to wipe each crimson sigil clean, erasing the failed rite. I sense Oltyx’s attention fading, retreating back below the skin of the continent. The god ispatient. Earth devours millennia. Yet patience will not spare me if I appear faithless.
The doors close behind us, sealing the Sanctum. Only then do I release the breath caged in my lungs. Iliana looks up. “You saved me,” she whispers. “Why?”
I shake my head, unable to let hope kindle where I cannot promise rescue. “I delayed you. I crave to ruin you myself, not under the altar.” My thumb grazes the cord binding her wrists. In three nights I must choose again. My ambition demands I obey the king. My heart, treacherous thing, beats the syllables of her name with every throb.
I want her for myself. Selfishly. It’s idiotic but… this is the only time I’ve felt this way. It’s a novel feeling born of something I don’t understand but it feeds my curiosity.
We move through corridors painted with frescoes of demons carving hearts from serpents, of gods striking bargains in caverns lit by magma rivers. Torchlight wavers over those scenes, making them seem alive. Iliana walks beside me, silent, yet her presence roars inside my skull.
At a junction I dismiss the guards flanking us. They hesitate but obey. Their footsteps fade, leaving only the distant murmur of court still pouring from the Sanctum. I guide Iliana into a side hall where tall molded doors open on my private library. The scent of parchment and cedar fills the air, soothing frayed nerves. Books line every wall from crimson carpet to vaulted ceiling, spines embossed with glyphs. A constellation of crystal lamps hangs overhead, each giving mellow amber glow.
I close the doors, draw the latches, engage the sigil lock so no servant may interrupt. Iliana stands in the center of the space, wrists still bound, ankle chains trailing. Her gaze sweeps the shelves, lingering on scrolls cased in ivory. “You keep words captive the way others keep slaves,” she murmurs.
“Knowledge cannot be shackled.” I cross to the sideboard, pour water from a chilled decanter, bring the glass to her. She drinks without protest. Droplets bead on her lower lip. I feel the urge to wipe them away with my thumb and wrestle it down.
When she finishes I uncoil the silver cord from her wrists. Red indentations mar her skin. I know touches that heal but hold back. My magic already reached for her once today. Each time it does I fear chains of a different sort tightening around us both.
“Why lie about fear?” she asks, voice quiet. “You know nothing of my courage.” She rubs at her wrists though she does not shy from me.
“I have seen enough.” I set the cup on a mahogany table inlaid with lapis. “Would the timid bait their captor with insults? Would they hold my gaze beneath the weight of every noble in the Sanctum?”
She lifts a shoulder. “Fear and bravery can share the same bones.”
Her words echo truth I feel in my marrow. “Indeed.” I pace between shelves, fingers brushing spines. “I told the king your heart must be tempered. Now I must prove it.” I turn, face her. “For your sake and mine.”
Her eyes search mine. “What must I do?”
Her trust bruises me. She does not know that the blade will return to her chest in three nights if I cannot craft a miracle. Yet within that question lies chance. “We play a game,” I say. “A deception to convince the court you harbor dormant magic. I will train you to feign power. You will not bleed upon that altar. Not yet.”
“And if the act fails?”
“You die.” I meet her honesty with equal. “And the king tears my soul apart.”
She nods once. “Then the stakes are fair.”
A laugh, rougher than I intend, escapes. I rub the palm of my hand over the back of my neck. “I admire your calm.”
“I carry fear,” she admits, “but I refuse to feed it.”
Her voice holds no tremor. Only resolution. In that moment admiration slides into deeper territory. Desire, yes, but more than the heat that tightens my abdomen. Respect. Perhaps even a shade of awe. I have met generals who break under less pressure.
I move to the reading dais, where a mosaic of obsidian and jasper depicts Oltyx rising through stone. “Sit.” She obeys, sinking onto the cushioned seat. The chain at her ankle jingles, but she arranges the hem of her shift with dignity.
I draw chalk from a crystal box, then kneel before her. Her eyes widen slightly. “What are you?—”
