Page 16 of A Thousand Burning Ravens (The Queen Who Bleeds Stars #1)

MORNING WELCOMES THEM with a deep autumn glow. The sun casts a shimmer off the back of the mountain, illuminating yellows, and oranges through the trees. Callum and Rhyland are preparing horses, kindly donated by the monks, as Myla and Bryar leave their room.

“I am afraid there are many here who will miss you when you leave,” Martin says, nodding specifically toward Ethstan who sits, slightly slumped, in his space at the breakfast table. Myla manages a half smile of acknowledgment before moving to sit beside her silent friend.

“When I pass back through, what are the chances you will be speaking again?” Of course, there is no response but a slight smile and an old hand atop hers. “I am going somewhere I have never been before. I am afraid,” she confesses, her voice low enough so only he can hear. “But, I will go see it anyway, so I might return here and tell you all about it—perhaps I shall take you with me, if you ever decide you would like to see new parts of the realm.”

Ethstan nods approvingly, his old eyes glistening with hope, and gestures toward the door as if to say, ‘get on with it.’ Standing, she presses a kiss to the monk’s cheek and steps outside.

“How far will we ride today?” Rhyland inquires, firmly fastening the straps of his saddle and sliding his sword inside its sheath.

“ You will ride all the way back to Falkmere.” Bryar transitions into captain mode, giving instructions which send Rhyland to assess the situation in Falkmere, and Callum to move a company of the Raven’s Veil into Titonfall. “Once you have moved them into Titonfall, I need you to take a smaller company and scout out the Seam, gather information on this antidote, and return back to us with any answers.”

“Why Titonfall?” Callum asks, cinching the straps of his saddlebag with a grunt.

“If there is to be a fight, I want to attack him from both sides.”

“And when I have gathered information regarding Falkmere?” Rhyland asks, clearly at unease. Myla does not blame him; she would much rather make for wild and unknown places than return back to the destruction and political upheaval that will no doubt greet him in Falkmere.

“If there is anything you can do to help, do so. I trust your judgment. But if the Blood Stealer lives, and is still presiding over the palace, join Callum and send word my way.”

“Which is . . .?”

Bryar clears his throat before he answers, “Valyndor,” quickly as though he hopes to avoid any further discussion. Unfortunately, his comrades are cunning, and a grin claims Rhyland’s face.

“That is brilliant. They will know how to help you.”

Both men move to shake hands with Bryar and they exchange brief goodbyes before mounting their horses.

Rhyland sets off east, while Callum rides ahead of them, his path moving southwest toward the black mountains and the darkness they hold there. Meanwhile, Myla, astride a chestnut brown mare, follows Bryar west.

Myla has never been west. She has heard stories of the wildness, which seems to multiply the closer to the Seam one gets, but seeing it for herself has never been in the forefront of her mind. Especially over the past two years, her logical brain, when disassociating from her impulses, is very keen on staying away from the Seam. Now, they will ride past it. Granted, Bryar plans to add an extra day to their journey in order to give it a wide berth. Nevertheless, on opposite ends of the realm, she feels the pull. Closer proximity to Vesperian’s stronghold will no doubt feel different.

For hours, their progress is slow as they maneuver the horses through dense forest. Myla does not mind; it affords her time to truly take in the beauty of the woodland terrain. Small creeks jutting off the river to the sea meander through the woodlands. Ebonbark trees, with trunks so wide in circumference five men could not circle them, rise from the earth like the towers of Falkmere palace. Their bark is darker than the trees nearer to Falkmere. If one has deep cuts, the sap of an Ebonbark tree is known to heal at a quicker rate than other natural remedies. Lichen drapes from their branches, resembling wild curtains, gently billowing in the breeze. Ahead, Bryar cuts a thicket of hanging Thornveil ivy aside to pass between two larger trees. The barbs of the ivy are sharp and known to ensnare prey, and certainly cut through flesh with ease. Blanketing the forest floor are Nymrien plants, a type of fern known to be used by the old Gods as a divination tool. Lavinia used to tell Myla that runes would appear on the fronds of the ferns when used in certain spells.

Appearing in an opening which offers an impressive view, Myla catches her breath, astonished by the treacherous landscape before her. The forest thins and gives way to a wasteland of ruins. Though trees and plant life still flourish, the growth is new and sprouts sporadically wherever the rubble of the flattened city allows. What used to be a stone roof is now cracked down the middle and mostly sunken into the earth. A row of pillars lays toppled, one over the other, being slowly consumed by the leafy claws of nature. Walls, bridges, arches, and towers alike, all in crumbled ruins, scattered across the earth as far as she can see. As though the ground beneath stretched open hungry jaws in an attempt to swallow the city whole.

“Is this safe for the horses?” Myla asks, taking in the sharp claws of rocks cleaving from the earth. One wrong step and she would be sitting on two halves of one horse.

Bryar draws his horse in with a hushed ‘whoa,’ assessing the situation before dismounting. “We will walk them through here,” he answers, looking at the road before them grimly.

Myla dismounts and begins leading her mare by the reins, maneuvering across the jagged maze of black and gray, a few paces behind Bryar. “How far does this stretch, do you know?” she asks, trying to see an end in sight, to no avail. Even looking down from an incline, the bleak wasteland carries on out of sight.

“I do not,” he answers simply.

They cover ground at a miserably slow rate, and Myla begins to curse her skirts, treading over the hems often. The deeper they submerge themselves within the ruins, the grimmer the landscape becomes. Bones protrude from between stone structures, the story of countless people caught in the wrong place at the wrong time.

A crumbling wall here, an archway there, a skeleton at her feet. They pass an abandoned shelter, appearing to have been built more recently, most likely by a traveler like themselves. Myla takes in a deep breath and sidesteps a crevasse in the stone beneath her feet. “This is horrible,” she mutters, dragging her free hand absently across the rivets of a cockeyed pillar.

Bryar nods in agreement. “We are on the outskirts of Old Falkmere. If we turned northeast and traveled that way for a few days, we would find the old palace.”

“I did not realize how expansive the territories of Old Falkmere were. The city alone is the size of New Falkmere’s territory,” Myla remarks, thinking maps do not do the size of Myrnith, in general, any justice.

“We act like New Falkmere will go down in history as the greatest territory to have been reigned over. Most people do not realize we have already lost that battle by a long shot.” He smiles halfheartedly at her. “Sorry to be the bearer of bad news.”

Myla shrugs. “I missed the part of queen-training where I was supposed to care about such things.”

Bryar chuckles slightly, glancing over his shoulder to watch that she and her horse maneuver around a difficult pile of rubble without harm. “I am sure your heir will make up for whatever ambitions of conquering you lack.”

“I suppose she will not have much of a choice, will she?” Myla thinks what a shame it is to be born a queen. Her life is laid out before her already, and she does not even know what a queen is.

“I suppose not,” Bryar agrees.

Memories of a mage who could pierce the crust of the earth with molten rocks from beneath the surface drift through Myla’s brain in illustrations she recalls from a history book. He flattened most of the Old Falkmere Palace in mere seconds when the ground beneath it split open, making way for massive boulders, shattering the foundations of the palace and city. Legends told in pubs, or by cruel nannies before bed, state that if one examines the ruins closely, you can still find sprays of blood from where people were impaled in the process. Upon closer examination, Myla finds this to be true and shivers.

“You sent Rhyland back to Falkmere . . . not Callum.” Myla says, after about a mile of silence.

Bryar glances back at her with a grim nod. “Callum is better at damage control than Rhyland, but . . . I could not bring myself to send him there to clean up the mess she died in.”

Myla bites her bottom lip, nodding. “You were right to do it that way, then. Let us just hope Rhyland does not start another war.” He has a certain sort of impulsivity which has served him well over the years. But in positions of authority, Myla wonders how that trait will function.

Bryar chuckles. “What is one more battle thrown on our plate?”

Myla smiles at his attempt at a joke, not daring to admit she is already weary.

“You know,” Myla announces, “I do not feel like a queen anymore.”

“Why is that?” Bryar asks, urging his horse to scale a small ledge. Myla mimics his path and accepts a hand up before answering.

“I guess the crown just seems to be fading from who I am, the further I get from Falkmere.” She smiles slightly, hoping he can not hear how out of breath she is as she speaks. “You also have a way of making me feel like I am just a woman.”

“I guess it helps I knew you for far longer as just a girl than as a queen,” he responds. They both stop, each panting from the exertion. “I would rather you not feel like just a woman with me, though.”

“No, it is a good thing,” Myla assures, glancing past him to the never-ending stretch of rock and ruin. “I suppose maybe it is more that the time I have been away from Falkmere has allowed me to remember little parts of myself I used to appreciate—you are helping me see them again.” Breathlessly, she steps over what appears to be a fossilized horse, cringing at the reminders of war beneath her feet. “Now, how far will we go today?”

Bryar turns to examine the path ahead of them, concern moving across his face. “I would rather not stop here tonight. Any manner of creature might call this home.” Myla shivers as he mumbles a defeated ‘but’ and proceeds to state the obvious: the slow-moving path stretches for miles. A century of rubble has settled in place, some clattering to the ground and blocking potential paths. Weaving through the mess, while navigating in the correct direction, is time consuming. Myla begins to imagine they will spend days here. Then, an idea pricks the back of her mind.

Clearing her throat, hesitant to even mention it, Myla gives him a warming smile. “That thing you did to the mountain. Suppose you could do it on a smaller— much smaller scale. Could you clear us a path?”

Unimpressed and wordless, Bryar stares at her. His brows drooping almost comically over his green eyes. He does not need to respond. His face says it all. You are fucking kidding me, right?

“Listen, it is just that the entire point of going to Valyndor is so you can hone these skills. There is no harm in practicing.”

“I am not looking to hone them, Myla. I am looking to control them. In any case, the harm is the attention it would draw.” He pauses. “And that is not the only reason we go to Valyndor. You must try and form an alliance with the Ashborn, if we have any hope of defeating the Blood Stealer. I doubt the raven ever made it to them. Surely, they would have responded to Falkmere’s aid if it had.” With an air of finality, he turns back toward the rocks. There is no room for argument. With a sigh, Myla lifts the hem of her skirt, tying it in a knot which bobs at her knees, and follows Bryar onward.

It is past midnight when they finally stop. It is here, Myla realizes, that a difference in strength will show itself. In the way of magic, up until this point, that is, Myla has surpassed Bryar in every way. However, in sheer stamina, Bryar is every bit a warrior. He seems untouched by the many miles of road they have left behind them.

He has selected what appears to be an old pergola as their stopping place for the night. It is the first shelter they have found to be mostly covered on all sides in miles. Myla imagines it was once a lovely hideaway, but now it is piled deep in rubble, only a small opening allowing entry.

Bryar climbs in first, ensuring it is clear, before extending a hand to help her in.

“No fire,” he instructs, retrieving thick woolen cloaks from their saddle bags. “We will have to make do with these.”

Myla shrouds herself in one of the cloaks, watching anxiously as he leaves their shelter to tie the horses. It is pitch-black within the pergola, and Myla must strain to see anything. No fire for warmth, no fire for light. She looks at her hands, imagining summoning a small glow before shoving them beneath her armpits for warmth. No light for light. Bryar returns, the scuff of his boots kicking up dust.

“Get some sleep,” he instructs, sitting next to her. His tone is unusually aloof, a characteristic he seems to have brought back down the mountain with him, causing Myla to pause. Disgruntled, aching, and not in the mood to dissect whatever foul mood he is stuck in, Myla lowers herself to the ground, ignoring the small voice in the back of her head which says it would be much softer to lie against him as opposed to the rugged earth.

Myla wakes to regret her decision. Her body feels as stiff as a board when Bryar gently nudges her awake. Opening her eyes to find it is still dark, Myla swats at his hand, pleading for another hour of sleep. As the words reach her lips, she finds his hand clamped over her mouth.

“Quiet,” he whispers, “and look.” Her gaze follows where his gloved finger points to something eerie: orbs of light flickering in various points across the rubble city, and nothing accompanying them to indicate life nearby. Yet, something has to be causing this.

Myla leans forward, quietly scanning the darkness for any sign of life. Nothing satisfies her curiosity, and both she and Bryar sit in silence. They watch the orbs drift past, like a parade of souls departing, each projecting a different light; some small, some large, each unique in its own way. Myla strains, certain she can hear a sad song in the distance, reminding her of that which was sung beside Caius’s pyre. Flame wielders, Bryar included, had set the pyre ablaze while a chorus of haunting melodies were sung, serenading him into the next life. This moment feels similar.

“What is this?” she whispers, wondering if Bryar has met with anything like this in any of his adventuring. He shakes his head, equally awestruck, and together, they watch the ethereal lights drift by, by the thousands, until they are hushed away by daybreak. Their proximity to The Seam makes the hue of the sun a blood red, washing the terrain in a crimson tint.

“I have read nearly every text on lore and the fantastical that my father’s and Caius’s libraries held, save one or two,” Myla declares later, still fixated on the scene as they continue their journey. “And I have never read of such a thing.” Burned in her mind’s eye, the bobbing orbs of light against the magnificent night sky may be one of the most magical things she has ever beheld.

“Perhaps it was in the one or two that you did not read,” Bryar teases. “I will add it to the list of things we will ask the Ashborn.”

“Now would be a wonderful time for the Spirit Mother to spontaneously appear,” Myla adds. “She seems like someone who would know about them.”

“You speak of the lights as if they are living.”

Myla purses her lips in thought and shifts the reins, so she stands on the side of the horse closest to Bryar. “I think they are.”

He flashes her a perplexed look. “Really?”

“They had energy within them, could you not feel it?”

He seems to reflect, his brows furrowed in deep thought. “Well, I suppose they did not seem inanimate by any means.”

“See,” Myla insists, “there was something to them . . . something that felt lonely.”

The hint of a smile teases the corner of his mouth. “Surrounded by a thousand others just like them?”

Myla ignores the twinge of annoyance stabbing at her chest. “You can be surrounded by endless streams of people and still feel lonely. Believe me,” she adds bitterly. “I would know.”

Thoughtful remorse blankets his demeanor. “I know. I do not know why I said that.”

“You have not been the same since you got back from that mountain,” Myla says softly. “I wish you had not gone.”

His jaw clenches followed by a growled string of words. “I went for you. Believe me, I wish I had not gone either. It felt useless.”

It is Myla’s turn to feel remorseful. “I am sorry—” she fumbles over an apology, feeling torn between sorry and seething. “I just feel like you left something up there, and I can not put my finger on what it is.”

“Myla.” He stops dead in his tracks, turning to face her. His expression is unlike any he is ever worn when addressing her. It is alarming. “Can we just...not talk about this?” He points toward the path before them, his heavy chainmail clanking in the process. “Can we just...walk and get this over with?”

Get this over with. She plays the words over in her head as they walk on in silence, wondering what exactly could prompt the shortness toward her. A thought she would mull over for the next two hours until he speaks again, this time using a less aggressive tone.

“I see the end!” He points toward the horizon, their line of sight impaired by the glare of sunlight overhead. Myla squints, shielding her eyes with a hand, gratitude washing over her as the terrain slowly evens, and the ruins become more scattered, making way for quicker travel.

“We can ride the horses again in a few miles,” Bryar announces. “We will make good ground today.”

Finally able to ride and pass the miles with galloping horses beneath them, the scenery changes rapidly. At first, they pass through more barren wasteland, nothing but dusty ruins and young foliage. The dreariness, in time, transforms into a hillside scape, earth’s green carpeting slowly evolving into a forest growing from the marshes.

In all her years, Myla has never seen a world so diverse, so spectacularly watched over by the gnawing teeth of mountains to her left. There is a chill in the air and a freshness of breath. It is wild, untamed, and less touched by civilization. While the ground beneath her feet is green and the trees all blaze with autumn colors, as her eyes travel the great height of the mountains, all she can see is snow and ice and billowing clouds. A long, skinny fox jets across their path, stopping briefly to blink its beady eyes in their direction, before dipping into a thicket of willows. Myla smiles, wondering where it is off to. How simple the life of a fox must be.

She wants to ask Bryar if he has been somewhere so wild before, but his face is unreadable, and the only words coming from his lips are prompts for the horses to drink and rest. Instead, she checks that he has the horses under control, and she walks downstream, balancing from rock to rock and enjoying the babbling of water over boulders.

Across the way, a deer dips into the forest, turning briefly to watch them, taking stock of the possible threat they pose. Myla wishes she could tell the beast she is a friend, but the spotted doe disappears as quickly as she appeared.

A bed of willows ahead catches sunlight on their thin, ice coated reeds. Behind, in the distance, the black mountains pierce the brilliant blue of the sky, a sight Myla promptly ignores. Without taking note of distance nor time, Myla immerses herself in her senses, experiencing everything nature has to offer her, until she has walked far out of eyesight and earshot of the captain.

There is an alluring glisten in the water and the way the current begins to violently crash, this part of the river picking up in speed and intensity. A sudden insatiable need to lie in the water, to soak in it—to drown in it—washes over her. A sensation that drives fear to her core.

“No,” Myla says between gritted teeth, though her feet move against her will. “ No!” she insists again, trying to resist the uncontrollable propelling of her body. She stumbles forward, her feet splashing into the water, and gasps at the shocking cold sending an aching through her.

Bryar is nowhere to be seen; she has walked too far. With the thundering of the river, he would not hear her scream even if she could, which she can not, though her throat tenses with effort. Somewhere, Vesperian sits, bored and burning with the need to torment her.

Myla realizes these past years, the little twinges of need and desire to appease him have been child’s play. Somewhere in the back of her mind, she wondered why so many fell victim to him when suppressing those impulses had only been a matter of focus and mental strength.

Foolish thoughts , she realizes in a flash as she stumbles face first into the shallow water. Ice envelops her, stiffening her limbs and halting her breath with a smack. Something hard jabs her ribcage. Her mind, a jumble of panic, begs her to sit up and move toward the banks, while her body crawls through the rigid water, slipping painfully over the smoothed boulders, seeking a deeper water to die in.

A sob manages to slip from her lips as the water grows deeper and deeper until she is submerged. All that is left to do is lie down and take a deep breath. Hot tears leave her eyes to float away in the icy cold water, never reaching her freezing cheeks; her body trembles as the cold of the water paralyzes her limbs. Myla’s only thought is of the poor child inside her, wondering why its mother’s body is suddenly cold and tensing around what should be a warm, comforting oasis.

Like a newly sharpened blade, the cut of the icy water against her neck, then her chin, and finally her face, pulls her down until the light above merely ripples like a kaleidoscope, waving goodbye to her.

Fuck you, Vesperian. What a lovely final thought. Myla pictures him drowning next to her, his lungs aching like hers do. An overwhelming need to breathe tempts her, whispering, ‘Take a breath right now; it is ok.’

She is ready to comply when the light overhead takes on an irregular pattern, disturbed by something crashing into the water. Not something, someone.

“What the fuck, Myla!” Bryar screams, on the verge of chastising when he feels her body resisting his rescue.

“Please, do not let me go!” Adrenaline squeezes the words from her lungs like gravel, while her body thrashes against his, scrambling to return to its watery grave.

Bryar’s hands lock like irons around her arms, and he drags her to the bank, his face twisted with panic, assessing the slightness of her frame within the layers of dripping fabric. “Stop fighting me!” he demands, now wrapping his arms tight around her to combat her vicious attempts to break free.

Shivering and confused, Myla wills her body to calm, but it does not. It thrashes, fighting to return to the river. “I can not!” she manages.

All at once, his face shifts to understanding, and he mutters an angry ‘ fuck this’ under his breath. Though she fights him, it is more of a nuisance than a real struggle against his war-trained body. He manages to twist one of her arms into a position which locks her in place, sending a burning tightness through her joints. Meanwhile, he unfastens his belt and loops it around her, lashing her arms at her side, making it easier to throw her over his shoulder and move her as far from the edge of the water as possible.

The sensations fade at an agonizingly slow rate, all the while Bryar sits, back braced against a tree and both arms holding her in place. Somewhere in the chaos of her writhing, she hears him whisper, “It will be alright, just breathe.”

Her full body convulsions subside to slight flinches until she releases the tension, Vesperian letting go. For now.

“Is it over?” Bryar finally pants, not releasing until she mutters a fatigued ‘yes’.

At once, he unbinds her, moving to stand before her. “We need to get you out of these wet clothes.” He fumbles with the clasp of her cloak. “Can you undress? I need to start a fire.”

Numb, both physically and emotionally, Myla nods and wills her aching body to move, but her ribs scream against the motion. “Shit,” she confesses. “I think I broke my ribs.”

Frustration washes his features, and Bryar stands, neglecting a pile of kindling. “Relax,” he commands, and she listens, her arms dropping at her side.

Myla never imagined standing naked in the woods in autumn would be warming, but the shedding of her drenched layers removes an element of cold. Bryar is quick to wrap his cloak around her for warmth while he digs for a change of trousers and a white tunic from his saddle bag. “Wear these while we dry your dress.”