Page 15 of A Thousand Burning Ravens (The Queen Who Bleeds Stars #1)

THE BLACK GLOVED hand descends, one icy finger after another, curling around her throat. Myla’s eyes snap open and horror implodes within, as she sets disoriented eyes on the sharp features of Vesperian. Panic crawls through her body, and her hands grapple at his, which are currently putting a stop to her screams. Myla arches her back, trying to break free, but the devil smiles menacingly down on her, forcing her back deeper into the chair.

“You can not escape me, my Ruthless Queen. Wherever you hide, I will find you.” His hands relinquish their grip and snake down her throat, past her breasts and to the dagger at her waist. A nimble fingertip grazes the sharpest point of the blade. Myla opens her mouth to cry out for help, but she is unable to conjure a sound. Her hands, free to fight back, lay pinned at her side by invisible chains. Her head screams out fight, but her body refuses to comply.

Vesperian, wearing a cruel look of satisfaction, moves his hand from the blade, bringing it to her belly. “You did not tell me you have a little antidote of your own here.” His words spew like venom, the threat within them searching for her vulnerabilities.

Myla’s chest constricts, something fiercely maternal springing to life. All at once, she sees herself from overhead, like a storyteller looking down upon its subjects.

With a twitch of his wrist, Vesperian takes complete control of her body in a way he never has. She is lurched to her feet, control of her limbs completely sabotaged.

“You see,” he whispers, leaning in so his hot breath mists her skin. “I can not allow such a powerful child to live. You know it; it is why your pathetic excuse of a lover has hidden you here, and you have so stupidly stayed.”

Myla quivers, every ounce of energy she has bubbling inside, begging her body to move; yet, it betrays her, surrendering entirely to the whims of the Blood Stealer. Her fingers twitch as an impulse to grip the blade takes hold of her. Sweat pebbles on her brow, straining to resist his will. A sob, instantly silenced by a tightness of her throat slips, her protests quieted at his pleasure.

A smile darkens his face, and he crosses his arms over his chest, watching with satisfaction as she retrieves the blade and turns it to point inward, pricking her abdomen.

Myla’s eyes dart around the room, she is overcome with a silent plea for help, for anyone to see her and help. Out of the corner of her eye, she spies Martin, made small by fear and the inability to wield a weapon.

“His aura,” he whispers, pointing a pudgy finger at Vesperian. “It is black.”

Myla rages with anger as this man, someone who swore she was safe here, watches unmoving. Vesperian laughs, a sinister sound vibrating from deep within the blackness of his soul. “Her aura must be black too, watch how she lets this happen,” he taunts, eyes lingering on her whitened knuckles wrapped around the fox dagger. “You do not want this child, admit it. The spawn of a king who could be killed so easily. What a shameful legacy to carry within your sacred temple.”

Myla tries to shake her head, barely managing to mutter a plea. “N- no. Please!” Then, her hands do the unimaginable. A wrenching scream escapes her lips and as she plunges the dagger inside her belly, agony ripples through her body. Blood sprays, soaking through her white shift. A tiny cry of betrayal slips out from within her womb. The frail voice begging to understand, ‘Why, Mother?’

The vile deed done, Vesperian releases his grip on her. Myla stumbles backward, her shriek of horror and pain filling every humble corner of the monastery. “Wake up, Myla,” Vesperian says. “Stop pretending to be something you are not.”

Myla feels a firm shake of her shoulders, and a voice in the distance calls for her. “Myla! Wake up.”

She lunges to her feet, her hands at once moving to her stomach. Vesperian is nowhere in sight, and her stomach is not flayed; there is no blood.

Before her, Bryar stands, gripping her by the shoulders with a furrowed brow. “The . . . he . . . Vesperian was just here,” she chokes, grasping her neck where she could still feel the ghost of his fingers, the burning pain, gone now. “I—he made me kill . . .” Her voice breaks as she grows red with embarrassment. The background coming into focus, a dozen tired monks stand near inspecting the scene, awoken by her night terror.

“It was not real.” Bryar wipes sweaty locks of hair from her brow, his fingers press reassuringly into her shoulders before taking note of the small audience. “There is nothing amiss,” he says a little louder, urging the tired men to return to their beds.

Her trembling slowly subsides, and Myla takes in the man before her, earnestly looking her over for any signs that she may be hurt. Which Myla finds ridiculous as she conducts a more thorough inspection of him. His hair a tousled mess, lightly coated with dust. Blood is dried across his brow, sprayed as though he cut a throat in close quarters.

Myla gasps, taking note of a bandage wrapped around his shoulder. “What happened to you?”

Rhyland and Callum stand nearby, moving in slow, stiff motions as they shrug out of their armor. Each of them is battered and covered in ash. Rhyland coughs intently.

“What happened out there?” Myla demands.

Bryar reaches over his shoulder with a cringe, trying to loosen his breastplate. Myla intercepts his hand, unlinking the fastenings and listening as he speaks.

“The Raven’s Veil scouts, as you know. Ever since you.. . since he got ahold of you, I have them keeping a closer eye on any territories the Blood Stealer may have a heavier hold on.” He winces as Myla peels the breastplate off him, sticky with blood. Myla’s eyes widen, and she peeks beneath the bandage, her stomach quelling at the sight. “He has wolves under his control, and a month or so back, a few of my men reported a pack traveling toward the Seer’s lair.”

Myla swallows hard, realization dawning. “That is why you did not want me to go?”

He nods, unbuckling his belt so a heavy blade falls from his waist. He grunts in relief as weight sheds. Martin and Ethstan, both now wide awake, appear bearing plates of warmed breads and meats. “We were apprehended on the journey back last night.”

Callum cracks a weak smile. “Bryar blasted the shit out of them. I thought he was going to burn the mountain down.”

Rhyland cackles between swigs of wine, nodding in agreement. “I have never seen a crater form in the earth like that. Now we have survived it . . . I will admit it was impressive.”

“You have never done much sight-seeing beyond the various bedrooms you visit,” Callum adds, rolling his eyes.

“Just because I am an equal opportunist, does not mean I do not have life experiences beyond those,” Rhyland retorts “I just do not tell you everything.”

“You tell me enough.”

With a shake of her head, Myla looks to Bryar for clarification, surprised to see he is not enjoying his friends’ banter in the least. Their exchanges normally liven him up.

“Survived the wolves ?” she clarifies.

“No,” Bryar answers gruffly, choking on ash. “Survived the crater.”

“The earth looked like it split in half,” Callum adds. “There was this moment when the rubble on the precipice of it started sliding in—it was an avalanche—”

“Yeah,” Rhyland interjects, doubled over and leaning against his thighs for support. “And we were sliding in!”

Myla’s breath catches in her throat, her eyes bouncing from one man to the next as they tell the tale as though it is something to be proud of and not a near death experience.

“The rocks falling a hundred feet down were red-hot with flames, and I thought I was falling into hell,” Bryar confesses, seeming to conclude the conversation with the riveting statement.

Rhyland and Callum exchange humored glances and Rhyland leans in. “You can not mean to tell me you are going to leave out the best part.”

Bryar wipes an exhausted hand across his face, and he shakes his head, dismissing their enthusiastic retelling. “I do not see any of it as a good story to share.”

“Gods . . .” Ryland rolls his eyes and turns back to Myla. “It was spectacular. ”

“What was?” Myla probes, feeling annoyed by the banter leaving her piecing the entire story together with the small tidbits they offer.

“He was,” Callum added flatly, nodding toward his captain with reverence. “I have never seen anything like it in my life.” He continues, setting an empty tumbler on the table, “There were no less than fifty of these wolves, and they were not regular wolves.” At this, all three men nodded in agreement, Rhyland emphasizing they were more monster than wolf.

Callum nods in agreement. “They were possessed. They were massive. Swords were pointless. So, we started running, but—”

“That was also pointless,” Rhyland interjects with a shiver.

“So,” Callum resumes, “Bryar just turns around—that is when he got bit—and this . . . this explosion erupts from every inch of him, blasting the wolves into the sky.”

“Yeah,” Rhyland speaks again sarcastically, “and our feet out from underneath us.”

He begrudgingly rubs his hips, to which Bryar retorts, “But you are alive.”

In unison, Callum and Rhyland blurt: “Barely.”

Myla smiles slightly, despite the anxiety building in her chest as the details of the journey become more and more grim. Callum goes on to explain the force of the blast split their corner of the mountain completely off. At first, it seemed as though Bryar had only created a deep crevasse. But as the seconds passed, the mountain moaned beneath the weight of its shifting side, and the earth began swallowing the rubble, caving the side of the mountain in deeper, an ‘avalanche into the abyss’, as Rhyland dramatically described it.

Myla feels a shiver of awe as Callum leans closer to her, his eyes alight in amazement. “I swear to the gods, there is no human explanation for what happened, Myla. He was not just emitting fire—he was fire. And the blast he loosed, it was God-like.”

Myla looks to Bryar who seems completely disassociated from the conversation, his eyes fixed on the untouched meal before him.

Callum speaks, his words whispered now as though what he says next is a dark secret that should not be revealed. “There was this unbearably hot wave rushing off of him as he . . . stopped the avalanche. He stopped it. With fire. It melted the rocks and evaporated the snow. The entire side of that mountain is a slab of granite now.”

Myla’s eyes widen, wondering how that much power could come from one man.

Bryar stands suddenly, walking away. Myla moves to follow, but Rhyland stops her.

“Something about this has him out of sorts.” Both men look to each other, nodding in agreement. “He has not said a word all day. We have tried telling him that it was legendary . But he thinks it was a monstrosity.”

Callum interjects. “The only monstrous part was hiking out of that fucking gash in the side of the mountain. It took six hours to get out of it. He broke the Gods-damned mountain, and we had to claw our way out.”

Rhyland shakes his head, fiercely agreeing. “We were so deep inside the mountain at that point, I could not see the sun. And the heat—”

“Fuck the heat,” Callum interrupts, nearly spitting the words. “I never want to be warm again. Take me somewhere eternally freezing and leave me there. I will die a cheerful icicle.”

Myla sits dazed, looking over her shoulder to where Bryar stands. He looks out the window, absently chewing his thumb. His demeanor entirely rigid and numb. Myla presumes he must be in a state of shock. Deciding to give him a moment with his thoughts, she turns back to where her exhausted friends sit.

“What of the Seer? What did she say?”

Both men look defeated now, each exchanging wary gazes.

“We did not see her,” Callum confesses, smiling gratefully at Ethstan, who refills his tumbler. “And quite frankly, I do not think he did either.”

Myla is about to demand an explanation as hopeless sickening forms in her belly, but Rhyland speaks before she has any time for questions.

“We hiked four days up the side of that horrible mountain, only for Bryar to turn a dark corner and pop his head back around and tell us he saw her and it was time to go.” He holds up his hand, five fingers splayed. “Five seconds, Myla. I lost sight of that fucker for five seconds, and he had the audacity to tell me he saw the Seer already. Thing is . . . I turned the corner after him, and it was a dead end. No Seer. No where else to go.”

Myla’s brows turn in, forming a confused frown. “So, neither of you saw the Seer?” They both shake their heads and Callum shrugs, speaking with a mouthful of food. “He swears he did though.” They both turn to their meals, devouring the remainder of their plates in silence.

Thinking back to the day before, when she summoned the Spirit Mother, Myla recalls how the earth shook and the way smoke drifted from the back side of the mountain. Myla wonders if Bryar’s destruction of the mountain was the rumble she felt when she accidentally summoned the Goddess, not the Goddess arriving herself.

Myla has no sense of time at this point. It feels like hours since she woke from her horrific dream to find Bryar had returned, but as she looks past Bryar’s rigid shoulders, she sees it is still an inky black outside.

The bite marks gouging deep into Bryar’s shoulder are red and gnarled. His body tenses with each dab of the cloth, but he is silent, and for some reason, Myla is not sure what to say. She had envisioned an uncomfortable hike to the Seer and an uneventful gait back down the mountain. This is nothing like anything she could have ever fathomed, and it clearly weighs heavily on him.

Gentle strokes of the warm cloth begin to rub away the layers of blood and ash coating him from the neck up. The steaming water in the basin turns dark quickly, and a tinge of guilt probes at her, wondering how she could have been angry at him when he knew what was in store for them, and he chose to leave her behind and risk her wrath instead.

Wordlessly, Myla coats the wounds in a balm of crushed comfrey and calendula with beeswax before re-bandaging his shoulder in fresh linens. Once he is mended and dressed in fresh clothes, he turns to Myla, his tone stoic, bearing no hints of distress, a pretense Myla sees through.

“I am afraid I do not have clear answers from the Seer,” he confesses, sitting next to her, fidgeting with a belt he has yet to put on. “She said everything you need to overcome this is already within you, but that we will see ‘ a thousand burning ravens’ as you defeat him.”

Myla tilts her head, wondering if she heard him right and she can not help but wonder what kind of nonsense ‘ a thousand burning ravens’ is.

“The Spirit Mother came to see me,” Myla says, much to Bryar’s shock. He looks directly at her now, his face set firmly.

“She came to you?”

“Yes, and she told me something odd. She said we had to ‘ follow the fire’ if we are to succeed.”

Bryar nearly laughs and drops his head into his hands, his arms leaning entirely on his knees. The arch of his back is stiff with exhaustion and his muscles look strained as though his body has yet to relax. “I am not going toward any fires, Myla. What does that even mean? ”

Myla shakes her head and cautiously places a hand on his leg, worried he is near a snapping point. “I do not know. She also said you would not know what she meant at first, but that you would figure it out.”

Again, he chuckles, sitting straight now. “Why is my path always one of fire?”

“Because it is who you are, and colossal amounts of it or not, I am proud of you,” she whispers, moving to hold his hand. “Tell me why you are so upset . . . is it fear?”

He begins with a resolute shake of his head, which hesitantly turns into a nod. “I suppose, yes. But also, no,” he admits, sighing heavily as he turns to face her. “I told you last week that I felt out of control. This is not just out of control, though,” he says, his words flooding out with an exasperated sigh. “Myla, I think . . . I think I ceased to be human for a moment. I did not feel like myself, and Callum and Rhyland almost died. We all almost died. Not because of the wolves, but because of me .”

Myla stops him. “Bryar, you must be realistic right now. It sounds like the wolves would have killed you all if they were not stopped. You stopped them. How you accomplished that is a mere detail.”

“Yes,” Bryar agrees, his voice taking on a tone of frustration. “And I almost sent half of the mountain sliding down to crush whoever and whatever was beneath it— that is no mere detail.”

“But you stopped it,” Myla insists, holding his hand tighter.

“I stopped it by becoming a monster. It was not fear that woke up whatever it was. It was anger.”

“You have a lot to be angry about, Bryar. It is ok.”

He nods and releases her hand to stand, braving the pain of moving his arm to put the wet linens to hang in front of the hearth.

“Tell me what you were dreaming of when I came back. You were convulsing on the chair.”

She shivers, drawing blankets off the bed to cover her shoulders. “I was there, by the fire. I woke up, or thought I was awake. Vesperian was choking me, and then he took control of me again.” Myla grazes over the details, not looking to replay the horrors over again. “He made me stab my own stomach to kill her.”

Bryar is stunned, his eyes wide and a grimace forming across his face. “That is horrible—but he does not know you are with child, does he?”

“No,” Myla responds firmly. “I never told him.”

With a deep, shaky sigh, Bryar comes and sits beside her on the bed, leaning back against the headboard. “If I can do again what I did on that mountain yesterday . . . Myla, I might be able to stop Vesperian.”

Myla gasps, looking sidelong at him. “What?”

“He may be powerful but his bones crush like anyone else’s. I just need to figure out how I did it, so I can bring a mountain down on him.”

A smile teases the corner of Myla’s mouth, and though she knows now is not the moment, she can not help but think to herself: That is hot. Bryar senses the flirtatious smile on her face and shakes his head, pretending not to be entertained. Myla bites her lip to right her face and then looks back at him, her eyes searching his as though all her answers lie there.

“So, how do we get answers about your magic? We can not go back to Falkmere, so the Institute of Mystic Arts is out the question.”

Bryar agrees. “Myla, I have no idea where to go for this. It is nothing like the sort of magic they teach at the Institute. It is more akin to—” His voice trails off, and he slowly sits upright, startled eyes fixed on her.

“What?” Myla demands, mirroring his pose to be eye level with him, her pulse jerking ominously as the expression on his face reflects something reminiscent of an internal awakening. “ Bryar,” she insists. The words of the Goddess echo in her brain, reminding her that he would not know at first what ‘ follow the fire’ meant, but he would shortly. “Do you know what we are supposed to do?”

His jaw grinds back and forth, and he nods slowly, his eyes glazed over as he stares past her, deep in thought. Moments pass before he finally speaks. “It reminds me of the Ashborn.”

They are silent, both digesting the realization, Bryar in horror and Myla in silent awe. He can not be Ashborn, he looks nothing like them. Callum had told her earlier that he was not emitting fire, he was fire. Myla cautiously poses her question, watching his features shift in dismay as she does. “Do you think they can help you because they are masters at wielding fire, or because you think you may be one of them?”

Bryar chuckles, but there is no humor inflected. “I do not think I am one of them. You know what people say about my mother.”

“Just because people say it does not make it true. People make up all kinds of stories in the absence of facts,” Myla retorts. “Regardless, if Valyndor is where we need to go, then we will leave at dawn.”

“It is a long journey, Myla. I do not like the idea of leaving you here again, but I worry about the toll this might take.”

Myla stands and cups his face between her hands, assuring he listens. “I am not fragile, Bryar, and neither is this child. This time, I am coming.”