Page 17 of A Thousand Burning Ravens (The Queen Who Bleeds Stars #1)

MYLA STANDS, WEARING men’s clothing, beside a raging fire, its warmth sending needles of pain across her body. Bryar wraps a firm brace of bandages around her ribs, before helping her sit on a fallen log, and taking up a crouching position across from her. He has no need to change, nor warm himself. Myla watches as he summons his magic, ripples of heat rising off his body, send steam into the frigid air around him. Soon enough, his clothes are dry, and his armor looks hot to the touch. Meanwhile, she sits shivering by the fire, hair wet and clinging to her face.

“What . . . happened?” he asks, eyes searching hers earnestly.

Myla bites her lower lip, mind bouncing from fear to anger to full panic, as she wonders if her child survived the incident. “I do not know,” Myla lies, not wanting to relive what Vesperian’s invasions feel like.

Bryar flashes her a glacial expression, as cold as the river, before pressing the matter. “It was him, was it not?”

Fighting a new wave of tears, Myla swallows hard, her silence all the answer he needs. Bryar stands angrily, tossing his gloves to the ground. “This has to end,” he blurts, looking to her with kindness this time. “Are you ok?”

The question tips her resolve, spilling her emotional cup. “No,” she hisses, through tears of anger. “I just went for a walk that ended in me trying to kill myself. My body is starting to do things my brain does not want it to! And now, it is doing things that could harm my baby.” Her words are a flood, muting every natural sound around them, until all she can hear are her fears spewed and on display. “I dreamed he made me drive a dagger into my womb. Until this point, those awful things only happened in my dreams, I took comfort in that. But now ? Bryar, I do not know when or how he will strike again, only that he surely will. So, no, I am not, okay .”

Bryar moves around the raging fire to sit beside her, pulling her into his arms, his embrace a silent reassurance. “Alright,” he says confidently. “We will ride one horse from here out, and I will keep watch while you sleep, so you can not hurt yourself. I promised to keep you alive, and I mean to see that through. I have you; do you hear me?”

She nods into his chest, taking a deep, calming breath. “We need to do something soon . . . I am a threat to the baby.”

“I know,” he answers, voice full of concern. “Let us just get to the Ashborn. According to the Seer, our next steps should take us there.”

Myla does not feel herself. The hours fade into a bitterly frosty night, thankfully warded off by the rage of the blazing fire which Bryar keeps fed. Though the stars overhead sparkle gloriously in the sky, and the tree line creates an interesting pattern against the hues of midnight blue, her earlier sense of awe has vanished.

With a frustrated huff, Myla peels off her boots and stands, wiggling her toes deep into the cold earth. Closing her eyes, she presses two flat palms to her chest, and feels her breath come in steady waves. Moments pass and the quivering in her veins seems to still. “I am still here,” she whispers comfortingly to the Spirit Mother. “Help me keep it that way.” Tears fall freely, freezing against her cheeks.

“You look like someone I used to know.” His voice is thick with a need for sleep, and Myla realizes the hour is late. Myla opens her eyes, catching the outline of Bryar, illuminated from behind the glow of the fire.

“ Used to know?” she asks, rubbing her hands together and savoring the feel of dirt between them.

“It appears, I still do,” he amends. “I just did not know she still worshiped the old Goddesses.” He moves to stand before her, his deep green eyes studying her.

Myla breaches the small space between them, to takes his hand, wanting nothing more than to fall against his solid frame and feel his warmth. “I never stopped. It was simply, more discreet.”

Bryar releases one hand to slip around her waist, holding her close. “Your tears . . .”

Myla nods, managing a small smile. “I fear there will be many more. I am scared for myself, the awful things happening to me, and . . . well, Elsa is worth an ocean of them.”

Bryar presses a thumb to her swollen cheek and kisses her forehead. “I told you; I would not let anything happen to you; you will survive this. Dry your tears; between you and Callum, I fear the world might flood.”

“I suppose it is a good thing I taught you how to swim all those years ago, then,” Myla teases. Bryar laughs and his gentle hand shifts, digging fingers into a sensitive spot above her hips, evoking a brief squealed protest.

“We agreed not to talk about that ,” he whispers. “Suppose bandits were to hear.”

“I would be more concerned about the presence of bandits, than of them hearing that you did not know how to swim twelve years ago,” she teases in return, her hand pressed against his neck. “It seems we taught each other a great deal of things. Do you remember the night we first . . .” Her words drift off, innuendo sufficiently ending her question for her.

He scrutinizes their surroundings briefly before meeting her gaze. “It was a lot like tonight. We were in the woods, and you had just finished one of your rituals. I thought it was enthralling.”

Myla presses herself closer. “You were mystified. ”

He laughs, though it is more akin to a hungry growl, as his face lowers to hers, their mouths brushing together. Bryar pauses, his lips now barely grazing hers, and his words an ignition of flame. “Should we recreate it?”

She sighs a breathy laugh against his mouth with a playful nip, mimicking a younger version of herself. “Out here? For all to see?”

His hand gropes her trousers at the back of her thighs, holding her close against him, and he mutters against her lips. “Just the Gods and the trees.” His mouth closes firmly over hers.

There is an urgency to their movements, a screaming passion and a need for fulfillment. Myla is pressed against the massive tree as Bryar’s hand slides up her thigh, pulling her leg around his waist to brace her body against his. Her senses are overwhelmed with the fragrance of Ebonbark trees, wet soil, and the earthiness of dried river water on Bryar, each scent working as an aphrodisiac. Her breath catches in her lungs as she frantically yanks on the ties of his trousers. He wraps one arm beneath her and his other hand braces against the tree trunk.

“These damned trousers,” she hisses, her words interrupted by the mingling of his tongue with hers. With a final yank, Myla unfastens his front, making way for her searching fingers. She does not have to search far at all; his length is hard and ready in her hand as he works at the fastenings of her pants. At last, they loosen and fall past her hips with a satisfied sigh from Bryar.

It is euphoric, the way her body shudders in acceptance as he pushes inside her. Myla wraps her arms around his neck and brings her other leg to his waist, linking them at the ankles behind him.

Fully supported by his sturdy frame, she relies on his strength to move her upward and back down again, pulling himself in and out of her. Completely different than the sacrament made at the monastery, this is feverish and animalistic. A tension coils between her thighs, she squeezes tight around him, ready to snap. Myla holds her breath, amplifying the sensation and is nearly tipped over the edge as his teeth find the soft skin beneath her ear. Her fingers grip his thick curls, holding him close, savoring every thrust and the ecstasy they bring.

Bryar’s lips explore lower, his arms lifting her high enough to press kisses to the exposed ridges of her breasts beneath the loose tunic which has slipped off her shoulder. His lips create a trail of fire across her chest, which continues down to her core. Crashing together in a panting, sweating tangle, like a colossal wave, they finish in unison. This time, there are no thin walls nor monks present to stifle their gasps and moans for. Only the Gods and the trees to hear how she cries out her ecstasy.

It is only once the pleasant pulsing between her thighs subsides that Myla realizes the bark against her bare ass is sharp and pointed. Meanwhile, a lurching in her stomach propels her into a frenzy.

“Put me down,” she pants, nearly pushing him away. Startled, he backs away, holding her elbow as she finds her footing just in time to vomit against the tree they just christened. Startled, Bryar steps toward her, swiping her hair away from her face in one swift motion.

The sickness in her belly leaves her weak and leaning against the tree, unable to subdue the heaving deep inside. Moments of silence pass as Bryar stands behind her, holding her steady and comforting her with silent, gentle pats. After what feels like an eternity of illness churning within, she stands, anxiously facing him and grateful it is too dark for him to see the red-hot embarrassment building on her cheeks.

“Well,” he quips matter-of-factly, “I can not say that is good for a man’s ego.”

Myla laughs, still holding her upset belly, and sits on the forest floor, giving her weak legs a chance to recover from both exhausting experiences which have occurred in the last ten minutes. “I would say we failed the reenactment.”

“Miserably,” Bryar agrees. “In any case, it was not a tree last time,” he adds coyly, expertly navigating the conversation away from her untimely encore. “It was a steep incline, with far too many insects.” Bryar points a teasing finger at her belly. “When she arrives, we ought to tell the princess to time her tantrums better.”

Myla falls asleep leaning against Bryar. There is no use asking him to sleep as well; he watches over her until dawn. Not even praying to the Spirit Mother and spontaneous sex can rid Myla of the feeling of a voyeur lurking inside her, violating her autonomy from afar. As she readies for another day of travel, she pictures the Blood Stealer, perched atop her throne, surrounded by the ruins of her palace, a dirty boot propped on the bodies of her dead subjects. All while playing her like a puppeteer to pass his time.

His grip is deep and bearing now, rather than a fleeting impulse, it feels like he is occupying her, like he is her. Unrelenting tension seems to coil in her chest, constricting her breath, an unyielding reminder, he is not just toying with her anymore. He wills her to surrender. If she would only submit to him, the battle would be over.

There will be blood soon, and Myla fears it will be hers.

Bryar insists they travel quicker now, only stopping to rest their remaining horse, then continue. They ride both day and night. Myla siphons her energy deep within her womb, forming a protective barrier, something she realizes she should have done two weeks ago when they left Falkmere. Now, she hopes it cushions the baby from the brutal gait of their travel.

During the previous two years, she has not formed an emotional attachment to the life within for a myriad of reasons, including uncertainty, and the fact the child felt out of reach—more like an idea than an actual being. Now, she can feel the energy, a contrast from hers, an entirely separate life, which she is responsible for. Now, she must protect it against herself for another five or six months, before she can assign it a more reliable caretaker.

At this thought, her mind drifts to the man behind her, stable and loyal. If she can only hold strong long enough to birth the child, she knows he will protect it, like he has protected her, even if, ultimately, they can not save her from Vesperian.

Myla wonders what would become of her child should she succumb; another mindless chunk of flesh in the Blood Stealer’s army. Bryar would take the baby, and raise her far from the conflicts, Myla is sure of it. She makes a mental note to discuss it with him, when they are not riding a thundering horse into a thick, orange and yellow grove of trees.

The vibrant forest reaches upward toward the sky, spectacularly framed on either side by severely pointed mountains which pierce the skyline before disappearing behind fluffy, white clouds. Cliffsides gradually descend and are eventually hidden behind the luscious trees. The cliffs have man-made structures etched into them; beautifully carved belvederes positioned at different intervals of height. Myla assumes they are vantage points, or posts to watch from. The leaves of the trees glow with autumn colors, filtering orange and red patches of sunlight against the gently swaying golden grass blanketing their path. Compared to the way their journey began, surrounded by ruin, this sight strikes Myla as peaceful, safe even.

“Whoa,” Bryar instructs the horse, pulling back on the reins. The panting beast halts. “I think this is it,” he says, dismounting before helping her down.

“I think you are right,” Myla agrees, continuing to take in the scenery with awe. “Look.”

She draws his attention to something perched on the cliffside looking down on them and gasps. It is beautiful— she is beautiful. Even at a distance, the red-hot glow of her wingspan, tucking into itself as she lands gracefully is magnificent.

“Do you see?” she asks breathlessly before glancing to Bryar, no answer needed. He is transfixed. Something in his countenance has changed from a determined traveler on a mission, to someone seeking answers they have never thought to ask before.

As the creature swoops down off the cliff, disappearing into the trees, Bryar turns and the sunlight glints off the sword at his side. Dread pools in Myla’s stomach as a vile feeling builds within her, this time with no intention of harming herself, but a need to kill him. Swift as lightening, Myla reaches to her waist, pulling her dagger free. The motion, though fluid, is no match for a trained soldier. Alarmed, Bryar ducks as her blade slashes the air where his throat was with a menacing whoosh.

“Gods-dammit!” he hisses, stumbling backwards to lunge out of her reach.

“I am sorry!” Myla barely manages to speak, her throat tightening once again around her words, stifling her cries for help. All the while, her body betraying her with a ferocity she has never been trained in.

It is reckless. Nothing in her technique resembles the discipline which Sir Roderick took pains to instill in her. This is a violent frenzy. It is mindless. Mindless, like the feeble attacks of Vesperian’s soldiers.

Across from her, Bryar expertly sidesteps her attempts, his focus unwavering. With every assault, he out-maneuvers her. A frustration, not her own, grows within, until her magic tingles, begging to be released. Vesperian knows she will not best a trained captain this way, but her magic, even at its most spastic, is deadly. It only takes one accurate strike of her light and Bryar could easily be dead.

“Bryar!” she shrieks, the blade falling from her hand, replaced by a subtle light. Stars of gold flecks speckle her skin, until they collect at her fingertips, ready to shoot with lethal precision at her target.

“You have to find a way to make it stop,” he says, clearly trying to calm his voice. “Myla, please try.”

“I am trying!” she growls, feeling her body begin that terrible quivering of resistance against an impossible force. “You need to run.”

He shakes his head. “Not without—”

He is interrupted by a blast of light, which sends soil and foliage flying out from underneath his footing. With a grunt, Bryar is splayed across the ground, barely rolling out of the way before another blast drills a hole where he had been. His features flush with anger and flames begin to crawl across his skin. They are small at first, a flame on his shoulder, a few at his fingers, then they grow. They encompass him, scorching the grass surrounding him and summoning an eerie, honey-red glow in his eyes. As if a ring of fire dances around his pupil.

In this moment, a look of deep, unfiltered fear stretches across his face. “It is happening again,” he panics, holding his arms away from his body as though they are traitors. The flames dance and lap off his body violently now, like a fire to a watch beacon, a response to the panic and anger simmering within him.

Myla’s ribs scream in agony as she twists to face him, her arms loosing a string of light meant to entangle him. Inwardly, her pain rages fiercer, fear for Bryar’s life pulsing through her. Another volley of blinding light launches toward his face, deflected by a violent stream of flames, channeled from his palms. The dueling energies meet in the space between them, billowing, one against the other. Myla calls upon her light, darkness forms overhead, the particles of sun drifting and collecting inside her until there is no longer daylight around them.

“Leave me! I command it!” Myla heaves the words with all her effort, their force unmatched by the next wave of light. A shocked Bryar is flung high into the air, as the deadly blow releases Myla from the invisible hold. She feels her limbs lighten, belonging to herself again, just in time to see his ascent, slowly reversing into a fall. His body rolls midair as he plummets at a fatal speed toward the ground beneath him.

“No!” she shrieks, frantically digging her fingernails into her neck as she grips at herself, at anything, willing someone or something to help him. Just as she considers loosing a strand of light to try and catch him, an explosion of flames engulfs his body, swirling around him in a blazing inferno, one that ought to kill anyone, even a fire wielder. The light of his flames grows, as does the heat. Even from below, Myla’s skin crawls in a rush of sweat. It feels as if the sun itself is colliding with earth. It looks as if the sun is colliding with earth.

He is not ten feet from contact with the earth, when his body splits open from behind, fire spewing forth in the shape of wings lurching him upward, away from the ground.

Gasping, Myla loses her footing and stumbles backward, eyes wide and mouth ajar in total awe. He is no longer a King’s Guard; he is an ancient creature, magnificent and long forgotten by all, she presumes, but the Ashborn.

In this moment, as though summoned, beings emerge—some on foot, others by wing—from inside the forest, surrounding her in an impenetrable formation. They bear no weapons, which Myla finds more intimidating than if they surrounded her with spears or bows.

Bryar crashes a few feet from her, disturbing a great deal of dust, with an oomph. A few of the Ashborn chuckle, watching as he pushes to his feet, clearly aching and, even more so, clearly stunned.

The Ashborn are tall, and have a commanding and regal presence. They have a honeyed-amber glaze to their eyes, with a translucent and bird-like sharpness. Where their eyebrows ought to be is the start of a magnificently colored plumage, which fades into an even mixture of feather and vibrant hair, dancing in the breeze. Some have warm orange hair, others auburn red, and a few have platinum gold, but all of them match the autumn landscape and the fire that is their birthright. They have no need of cloaks. Magnificent wings of orange, gold, and crimson do the job, mostly shielding fine clothing, also the colors of fire.

One Ashborn in particular catches Myla’s eyes. He is taller than the rest, and amid the plumes of his brow is a sapphire-blue crown. He appears both youthful and elderly at once; his being exudes wisdom.

“The first landing is always the worst,” he jokes, looking to a woman bearing a similar crown; his queen, presumably. She assesses Bryar, golden eyes glinting with humor.

Both she and Bryar stand, temporarily frozen in shock, before Myla finds the wherewithal to speak like a queen.

“Please, forgive the intrusion,” she says, with a respectful tilt of her chin. “We have come seeking aid.”

The woman chirps a mocking laugh before gesturing with a delicate hand to the carnage around them. “You obliterate my forest clearing, then ask for help?”

Bryar, having collected his wits, bows deeply. “I fear we are in dire need of help,” he gestures toward Myla. “The Spirit Mother sent us here. She said you could help us.”

The Ashborn man’s brow creases, the red feathers bunching at his hairline. “The Spirit Mother sent you? On what account?” His voice holds suspicion now. “Who are you?”

Myla nearly blurts her title until she realizes they could not care less who she is—all eyes are on him. Myla finds it oddly refreshing, though suddenly, she too would like answers regarding him.

“I am Sir Bryar Monroe, Captain of the Queen’s Guard, and this is my Queen, Myla Alerys of Falkmere.” It is now the Ashborn leaders cast a more speculative gaze her way, assessing her from top to bottom before the woman speaks.

“And tell me, Sir Bryar, why is your queen trying to kill you?”

Bryar chuckles, a nervous response, she realizes, when he takes a deep and shaky breath. “ She is not. The Blood Stealer is, so it seems.”

As though summoned, with the realization of her situation dawning on the Ashborn, that still, small voice tugs inside her, another onslaught threatening to break her. Kill them. Kill them all. Kill him. Kill yourself. Kill someone. It is a relentless string of commands which starts as a subconscious idea and ends with her clutching her own throat, desperate to speak, desperate to breathe.

“Help me,” she whimpers now, feeling as though she can not physically survive another wave. Confusion seizes the Ashborn as Bryar lunges for her. He throws himself on top of her, pinning her hands, which simmer already, at her side.

“What—” the Ashborn queen begins, before her husband brushes past her, looking down at Myla’s convulsing body, unbothered, as though he has seen it before.

“She will die if we do not get her inside. The Blood Stealer is done playing with her.”

“ Die ?” Bryar questions, in disbelief. Myla strains beneath him, choking on something invisible, every muscle inside her tensing, trying to rage against the man pinning her down. A searing heat burns through her wrists as his own struggle to subdue her awakens that deep beast within him. She feels the agonizing burn on her skin, and she sees the way he grimaces as her light fizzles and nips violently at his hands. They are hurting one another.

“Yes!” The Ashborn king responds, crouching beside Bryar, speaking loud enough to be heard over her guttural cries. “He is consuming her. I have seen it happen many times. When he decides he has finished playing with someone, he either controls them or kills them.” He tips a chin toward Myla. “It seems, for this one, he has chosen the latter.”

A pain at her spine grows, claiming every inch of her body, as though on the brink of shattering or crushing in on herself.

Wild with urgency, Bryar looks to the man beside him. “What do I do?”

“Bring her inside!” His wife speaks before he can, and together, Bryar and the Ashborn King restrain her body, while hauling her toward the tree line.

Darkness swells, clouding Myla’s vision. There is no telling if it is the pain, or something else more nefarious, but the blackness lures Myla into something that feels final, veiling the rest of the world from her senses, until she loses consciousness.

Coming to feels euphoric. She is the embodiment of something intangible, someone who should not still walk the earth, yet she does. A warm amber glow peeks through the thin drapes which enclose the bed she now lies in, hiding her from view of those who may pass in and out of the room. Myla sits up, her body aching from the abuse of the past days. Someone shifts beside her and Myla jolts, looking to her left.

Bryar sleeps upright in a chair, pulled close to the edge of the bed. He looks exhausted. His dark hair swoops into a mess of curls against his face, and his beard, no longer just a shadow across his jawline, is longer than she has ever seen it. He wears a casual black tunic, the sleeves are rolled, baring his forearms, upon which are gold-tinted markings.

Myla gasps, reaching out to trace the flame-like designs up his arms. The sensation wakes him, one groggy eye at a time falling open.

“You are awake.” Relief floods his voice, and he sits upright. “Thank the Gods.” His voice breaks with emotion as he leans forward, grabbing her hands to hold tightly.

“Of course, I am awake . . . why would I not be?” Myla asks, perplexed. His expression is haunted, a look that conveys hopelessness. “Oh,” she says with a slight shake of her head. “That bad, huh?”

“Yeah,” he confirms. “That bad. How are you feeling now?”

Myla takes a mental assessment, particularly pertaining to her ribs. “Not great, but . . . not dead, so I will take it. How are you?”

He laughs slightly, standing to pull the drapes back. “I almost burned their grove down, but I am not dead either. So, I will take it. Let us get you up and dressed. There is a lot you would like to see here.”

Myla hesitates, curling her knees to her chest, cringing at the warm light exposing her worn features. “Bryar, I do not want to get up. I do not want to see anything.”

His brow furrows, her hesitancy calling him back to the bed, sitting near her. “Why?”

“I am scared,” she whispers, her lips pursed in an effort to quench her fear. “I can not forgive myself for what happened yesterday, and I can absolutely promise you, it will happen again. You can not be here with me right now.”

Bryar leans close and smiles reassuringly. “Myla, the Blood Stealer can not reach you here.”

She tenses, the words falling on disbelieving ears. “What?” The idea of being untouchable to him feels foreign after so long. “How is that possible?”

“They say they have this territory warded. No dark magic is viable within its walls, including the Blood Stealer’s.”

Myla feels herself slowly unfold, legs relaxing and the tension in her jaw dissolving. The flex of stress within her stomach eases its way out, replaced with warm hesitation. “And, you are sure?” she questions. “How do you know they are genuine?”

At this, his eyebrows arch as he folds his hands, forearms perched on his knees. His eyes linger on the ornate tattoos, drawing her attention back to them.

“Because, I think my mother was one of them.”