Page 18 of A Thousand Burning Ravens (The Queen Who Bleeds Stars #1)
THE WORLD THEY have entered is the art of dreams. Terraces glisten in the rain, stretch into winding staircases, weaving through trees and upward into layers upon layers of majestic stone structures, built into the cliffsides. From house to house, an ornately carved viaduct bridges the gap between each door front, providing a scenic route through the neighborhood overhead. The buildings are almost all graced with the creeping of lumelith ivy, the leaves illuminated in the moonlight, and Myla remembers her mother telling her how lumelith glows with the tears of the Dryad Gods, guiding lost travelers deeper into the woods.
From simple storefronts to manors and a grandiose ancient palace, the woodland oasis is bustling with life, a life Myla had no idea existed. Ashborn citizens clothed in bright silks, gemstone corsets, embroidered gauntlets, and even sea-glass skirts, move leisurely to and fro. Everything about Valyndor is mesmerizing and beautiful. There is not a dull color to be found—flashes of orange, gold, red, yellow, and blue move from here to there, all illuminated by ornate crystal lanterns dangling overhead from trees. Their glow is magical, casting various hues of color across their path. Myla catches her breath, amazed at the beauty hidden within the forest.
“This is . . . unbelievable.” Myla points to a dome-shaped building, its roof made entirely of stained-glass; the rest of the structure is comprised of brilliant red bricks and tempered ruby tiles. Two great lampposts stand out front, welcoming guests through the oaken double doors, while the cobblestone path circles around either side of the cylinder building. A few paces beyond the perimeter, encircling the entire structure, is a loggia with benches every few yards. From the arches of the loggia, more lumelith drapes, shrouding the open wall romantically.
“What is that?”
“Their library.” Bryar’s eyes twinkle with thrill. “I have never seen a collection of this magnitude; the editions out date Old Falkmere.” He extends a hand, his touch warm as his fingers lace with hers. “Shall we?” Bryar pulls her toward the magnificent library, their boots splashing against the rain drenched path.
Inside, lantern light glints off the spines of gilded books and rippling edges of scrolls. From floor to domed ceiling, ancient texts surround her on all sides. A fragrance, warm, like sweets in a kitchen, wafts through the circular corridor, and golden railings drift downward into a staircase, which disappears in the very center of the room.
This is where Bryar takes her. They spiral downward, a warm golden lantern every dozen or so feet lights their path. The steps are a hickory brown and creak with the slightest distribution of weight.
“What is down here?” Myla asks, wondering what could require being sequestered this far below the main library.
“Answers I did not realize I needed,” Bryar responds, his hand still holding hers firmly.
Myla wonders if it is for practicality—helping her keep her footing—or if he longs to touch her as much as she does him. Considering the fact that she tried to kill him yesterday, she must assume it is the former.
“What answers? You said your mother was Ashborn. Why would your father not tell you?”
“I have not the slightest idea, but there are answers down here regarding the Ashborn’s abilities and how they could play a part in destroying the Blood Stealer.”
Myla stops dead in her tracks, studying his earnest features against the glowing cast of fire. “We need to talk about what happened yesterday.”
His lips purse into a faint grimace, the topic clearly being one he wishes to avoid. “Let us not, Myla.”
“ Let us,” s he insists. “I did unspeakable things.”
“It was not you.”
“Maybe not,” she agrees. “But . . . it was my hands, nonetheless.”
At this, he relinquishes his hold on her, crossing his arms stubbornly. “You can not make me angry with you.”
“I do not want you angry with me. But you should be.”
Bryar shakes his head, forcing out an exasperated sigh. “I am not angry. I am, scared shitless, if you must know.”
“Well, that is reassuring. At least I know you are taking this somewhat seriously.”
He reaches out, reclaiming his hold on her. “Believe me, I knew it was serious when you launched me a hundred feet in the air.” He smirks, rubbing his shoulder for emphasis. “As if you trying to drown yourself did not do the trick already.” He glances at her abdomen. “How are your ribs?”
Myla winces, then squeezes his hand. “They hurt, and I am sorry about hurting you . . .”
“I forgive you.” He nearly leans in to kiss her and then stops himself, a fleeting expression of hesitance passing. Myla is about to ask why, but he speaks. “But that thing that happened, when I was airborne.”
“Yeah, about that,” Myla agrees, trying to ignore her wounded pride. Her mind lingering on the topic of why the fuck is he acting so unusual. It is not far-fetched to assume he feels in over his head when it comes to her, so she focuses on more pressing topics. “I would ask what that was, but it seems obvious. Did you know?”
“I did not,” he answers, as they begin the final turn of their descent. “I had no idea. It does explain how out of control I have felt lately.”
“But, why now?” Myla asks.
“That is what I asked. Their scrollwarden says similar accounts have been reported in times of dire need.” He nods back at her. “Like when you first channeled the Voice of the Gods.”
Dire need, she thinks. Like the stress of keeping an unhinged queen alive, or comforting your best friend through the death of his girlfriend. Or the brutal and relentless job of protecting an entire realm from an invincible foe. Dire need. More like disastrously impossible responsibilities.
“So, your circumstances have pushed you into boiling over like a volcano?” Myla surmises. “Sounds like you need Alaric to make you something for that.”
He smiles halfheartedly. “My father never talked about my mother; this is why. I have been called a half-blood no less than ten times in the last twenty-four hours. Apparently, it is a bad thing.”
“So why were you not raised here, with people who could guide you?”
Bryar shrugs. “According to a man in the palace last night, I am considered a disgrace to their kind. They referred to my mother and father’s dalliance as my mother ‘scraping the bottom of the barrel’.”
“That is ridiculous!” Myla says aghast. “Your father was a good man.” She fiercely defends the man she watched raise Bryar with every tool he could find; every deep pool of wisdom known to man, Bryar’s father had scoured. There was not a single thing that man would not have done for his son. To refer to him as ‘bottom of the barrel’ was nothing short of treachery in Myla’s eyes. By the look on his face, Myla can see his thoughts race similarly to hers. Something she has learned as queen is when to fuel the fire and when to let it burn naturally. Right now, she chooses to let the fire die entirely. He has enough of it, without her adding to the beast.
“So, where are we left?”
“Well,” he answers hopefully, walking directly to a nearby shelf to scan for a text. “They say I must prove myself in some test. If I pass, they will allow me to train with them and learn to control it, summon it at will.”
Summon it at will. It sounds frightening. It sounds fierce. It sounds exactly like what she would need, were she to defeat the Blood Stealer. Chills rush down Myla’s spine. “It would have been easier, had the Spirit Mother just told us what you are.”
“Not really,” Bryar disagrees absently as he flips from page to page in a hefty brown book. “We would have had to make the journey nonetheless. Here—” He jabs a finger at an illustration on the page. It depicts a slight and slivering looking man, and at his feet is a pool of blood, seeming to drip from his fingertips. Behind him, mindless minions gather, awaiting instructions. A Blood Stealer. His face is twisted in agony as a winged woman above him, flanked by a score more of her kind, obliterate him in a bath of lava-hot fire.
“This does not stand to reason,” Myla whispers, tracing the exquisite depiction with a light finger. “If the Ashborn can defeat Vesperian, why have they not?”
Bryar’s eyebrows arch cunningly. “There is a caveat.” He directs her to a small line near the end of the page. “It says here that in the absence of a Restorer, an Ashborn, when aided by the essence of a Restorer, might be strong enough to conquer the Blood Stealer, or the essence of a Restorer channeled alongside an Ashborn bond. I have no clue what that means, but maybe we can continue to read and find out more.”
A voice from behind startles Myla. A scrollwarden approaches, shaking her head discouragingly as she walks by. “Do not put too much stock in those scripts.” Her old voice sounds like a quiver, barely released from her lungs. “Those are theoretical; nothing has been tested, nor set in stone.” She leaves them, abandoning them to more questions and frustration.
Myla stares blankly at the page, the crackling of flame drowning out any cohesive thoughts. “I do not understand. Essence? As in, you need to carry some of Caius’s ashes?”
Bryar looks at her, disgusted. “Gods, Myla. That is morbid.”
“ Well!”
“No,” he enunciates the no while pointing to her belly, visibly shrugging off the discouragement of the old Ashborn woman. “You carry a Restorer. Is that not essence enough?”
Myla slumps into the chair behind her. “I am not letting you carry my infant into battle, Bryar. Though I trust you implicitly, that is an excellent way for both of you to die.”
Bryar chuckles and sits next to her. “No. I mean you. You must be there, with the baby inside you.”
“And, when I am standing on the battlefield, aiming to kill him, and he turns me against my own? Are you prepared to kill me to save our people?”
Bryar’s face stiffens, darkness swallowing his being. “We have to try something.”
“In other words, no ?”
“What do you want me to say?” he asks, holding up both hands helplessly. A spark of rigid defiance flashes across his face. “You want me to look at you, and tell you I am going to kill you, like your Council members agreed to? They are fucking power-hungry cowards; your death would not cause them to lose a single night of sleep. Your death, to me, would be my death. And I will not agree to that. I will do whatever I can to help you, but that does not include killing you. That is a solution I would not live with.”
Myla balls her fists, both thankful for his commitment to her and also angered that he does not see the greater need beyond her own life. “I want you to tell me you will do what is necessary, Bryar. We wait until the child is born. Essence can be anything—nails, hair, saliva. We will make a potion from it that you can drink, or douse your blade in. We will go in to battle together, and if we can not defeat him, you will kill me. That is final! I will not exist as my own child’s greatest threat.”
Bryar stands now, slamming the book shut. “I will do no such thing!” Heat seeps from his pores now, and a red glow edges the surface of his skin, anger fighting to be released.
“Fine,” Myla retorts, eyes ablaze. “I guess I will just have to fall on my own gods-damned sword then.” And she walks away, leaving him to glare angrily at the book before him.
Not halfway up the stairs, she hears a clamoring of steps behind her, Bryar taking them two at a time.
“Myla, wait.”
She turns to face him, her arms drawn around her middle, trying to ward off the nausea. Be it the child or the conversation, something has soured her stomach.
“I do not see us agreeing on this, Bryar. I do not want to fight with you. We never have, and I do not understand why we are fighting now.”
With a pant, he runs a tousled hand though his hair, righting a few stray locks. “We are not fighting,” he corrects. “We are simply disagreeing, and I do not want us to let a disagreement escalate into a fight so . . . let us talk this through.”
Myla grinds her teeth, annoyed. “Bryar, we very clearly have problems.”
“What makes you say that?” he asks, perturbed.
“I do not know, Bryar! Maybe it is the fact that you have avoided talking in situations where you would normally be an open book to me. Or maybe, it is the way you have been short-tempered and aloof with me at the strangest of times before you are warm again? Or when you almost kissed me on the stairs, but for some infernal reason, you stopped yourself. Now, Bryar, you tell me why I might think that?”
A somber look falls over him, and his eyes grow greener with sincerity. “Myla, none of that should be taken as a reflection of how I feel toward you, nor toward us .”
Bewildered, Myla’s shoulders slump. “Then how am I supposed take it? After all the time we spent apart, I have never felt more unsure of us, when I should feel unified.”
Nodding in concurrence, Bryar takes a step closer to her. “Myla, you and I—neither one of us, are in control. I think yesterday was proof of that.” They exchange brief smirks of acknowledgment, before he continues. “What happened on the mountain shook me, if I am honest. I have never felt so powerless to my own abilities. I have never doubted myself, as I do now. Meanwhile, you . . .” His voice trails off, no need to elaborate on what they both already know. “Anyway, I do not see how the idea of you and I in close proximity is safe. Not that I do not want you near me every second of the day. But I am afraid of what could happen should we both implode at the same time. In fact, we nearly found out yesterday.”
Though she is inclined to argue with him, anything to convince him his distance is pointless, she simply responds with a quick kiss on the cheek. “So, what you are saying is you still enjoy me, even after I tried to kill you?”
He does not match her humor. On the contrary, his face is genuine as he speaks. “I do not simply enjoy you, Myla. I crave you. I can not even say it is as simple as love. No—this is complicated and messy, but I choose it, because choosing it, is choosing you . You could try to kill me time and again, and I would simply take out my own heart and ask what you want of it, for it is already yours.” He speaks despite the shake in his voice, his hands limp at his side as though giving her these words is giving her everything he has left.
“Truthfully, I would burn this lifetime, and every other lifetime, to the ground. For you. I do not hesitate with you for a lack of love, Myla. I hesitate because of love, and I would like us both to live long enough to know a day together that is not tumultuous. The truth is, you could kill me, and I would claw my way out of the grave to find you again.”
Myla closes the gap between them, a hand grazing the new tattoos on his forearms, feeling the pulse in her neck thud with greater intensity the further up his arm she navigates, until her hands rest on his neck. “I would rather ask the Gods’ forgiveness, should we annihilate the ground beneath us, than know another day without your touch.”
His hands move to her wrists, lightly grazing the burns left by his own hand, then he draws her chin upwards to meet his gaze. “You will never be without me again. But, the next time I have you, all of you, I do not want to worry how I might burn you, or you might accidentally . . . lose control.”
Myla bobs her head, understanding. “I imagine it would be terribly indecent to fight for your life naked—suppose I killed you before I came to my senses and had to dress your dead body before anyone saw you.”
Chuckling, Bryar takes her hand, and they begin up the stairs once more. “You would do that for me?”
“If I killed you? It is the least I could do.”
The Ashborn throne room is different from Myla’s in Falkmere. It is not a room at all. Rather, it is a semicircular ring of stone chairs facing a magnificent, wider-than-usual throne, carved into the body of a massive, petrified tree. The canopy of the trees merges overhead, leaving little sky above to be seen. Hanging at different heights, like those seen just outside the palace, are vibrant and warm lanterns illuminating the dark space above as night progresses.
Bryar and Myla both approach the throne where the Ashborn King sits, stoic and dignified. His wings are tucked neatly behind him, vibrant and starkly contrasted by the sapphire-blue armor he dons. He has deep-red hair, highlighted with streaks of silver. His nose, sharp and angled, is set between severe, soul-searching eyes. He wears a large sapphire amulet that pulses against his chest, Myla notices a matching one over the breast of the woman beside him.
“I trust you are feeling better, Queen Myla Alerys,” he addresses Myla, as she and Bryar bow respectfully.
“I am, thanks to your hospitality,” Myla responds, hoping to reestablish any dignity lost the day before. “I am in your debt, Your Grace.”
“Please, as my guests, I insist you call me Ivan.” The latter is spoken chivalrously, and Ivan the Ashborn king stands, his immense height not lost on Myla. As he approaches, the feathered crown growing from his brow bobs in the breeze, catching the glint of the lanterns. The way light seems to exude from his being, not tangibly, but the illusion of it, is magical.
He extends a hand, leading Myla to a comfortable chaise to the right of his throne. She is left to sit with a warm glass of wine as Ivan turns to Bryar. “Your display yesterday was both impressive and alarming. I must admit, many of my people are skeptical, and even more feel threatened.”
“How do I threaten them?” Bryar challenges, his lips upturned in defiance. “I simply defended myself.”
“Yes,” Ivan says. “About that. We will be discussing your queen’s ailment next. For now, you threaten them because you are not like them. But you are also not like your kind either. You are somewhere in between. For the Ashborn, that is a disgrace; a ripple in our current of power.”
Myla bites her lip, struggling and failing to remain silent. “Perhaps, your people could be less narrow minded.”
Ivan turns to her. “Your Grace, this has nothing to do with anything more than magic. Your . . . captain here, is a perfect example of what happens when our powers go unrefined. They implode.”
He turns to Bryar, once again addressing him. “You are lucky to be alive. I am surprised you have not set fire to your own veins.”
Bryar takes a deep breath, briefly glancing down at the raised and irritated tattoos on his arms, not yet healed from when they were seared into his skin. “I feel like I have.”
“Believe me,” Ivan assures, glancing at his own tattoos. “I have seen someone absorb the fire rather than expel it. They were nothing but a puddle of slop and flesh by the time the flames died down.”
Myla feels bile rise in her throat and she resists the urge to turn away. “So, what exactly do you want with him then?”
“I could ask you the same,” Ivan retorts with a hint of annoyance, clearly wishing to dismiss her demands for answers. “I want to ensure you truly are Ashborn.”
Glowering, Myla straightens her spine, sitting upright despite the ache in her back. Ivan forgets he addresses one of her subjects. Captain, lover, subject; they are all relevant to her, and Ivan’s interrogation seems to only emphasize the impurities he sees.
“How do you do that?” she demands before Bryar can speak, her sharp eyes narrowing on the king.
Ivan glances at his wife as she stands. She too has traded her billowy dress for a set of sapphire armor. Hers wears differently, however. There are finer etchings across the neck of the breastplate and down the bosom. Delicate chainmail clinks with every step she takes, and the sapphire circlet on her forehead gleams with a fresh polish.
“Imogene will test you. It will be uncomfortable, but if you are of Ashborn descent, it would not kill you.” He speaks directly to Bryar, a brief glance at Myla to pass it off as a response for her as well.
Myla stands abruptly, holding up a hand in protest. “And if he is not?”
Bryar appears less concerned than she, but turns to Ivan for an answer as well. “I imagine it will look similar to that puddle of slop and flesh you mentioned,” he surmises.
“Those not of Ashborn blood can not survive becoming one with someone who is,” Imogene coos, raising a hand to play with a flame between her fingers.
At this, Bryar, bearing a perplexed expression, is the one to protest. “I am sorry—can you expand on what becoming one entails?”
Myla nods fervently, refraining from demanding immediate clarification, at the risk of appearing tactless.
Imogene drapes herself across her husband’s lap in spite of the space beside him, wrapping a slender arm round his neck and tracing a delicate tattoo beneath his ear. She seems unconcerned, but obliges an answer. “It is not what you think.” Myla feels herself take a little sigh of relief. “But one could venture to say it feels more invasive.”
Bryar, who is losing patience with the cryptic nature of their conversation, rubs his hands together vigorously before fastening the straps of his gauntlets. “Whatever it is, let us just get it over with.” His chin bobs downward, as though insisting the Ashborn Queen step forward and get on with it.
“What—” Myla objects with a violent shake of her head.
“Absolutely not. Death is at risk here.”
“Seems to be a common theme,” Bryar puffs with a comical sidelong glance in her way, completely dismissing her objection. “But we need answers.”
Given no time to respond, Myla is joined by two Ashborn guards, also wearing the same sapphire armor and chainmail. Their bodies glint beneath the lanterns as they escort her out of proximity. As she passes, Ivan says something about the test being too hot for a mortal human to be within the vicinity of trial. There is little use in arguing; the falcon-like men at her sides propel her out, only stopping once they have reached a steep incline of stairs.
“If you wish to watch, these will take you to our observatory, which overlooks the throne.”
Heated, and heart thudding with anticipation, Myla hurries up the stairs, taking note of how breathless she is once she reaches the top. From her vantage point, she is unable to hear the words, but Imogene stands over Bryar, who is on his knees and shirtless before her.
It would be hot, if it was not a potentially lethal ceremony , she thinks to herself, watching as Imogene sprinkles something in a circular motion around the both of them. Her mouth moves and from what Myla can make out, she is chanting the same words repeatedly, until the circle comes to life, smoke beginning to coil and seep from the earth. Imogene’s face lifts skyward, and her wingspan stretches to capacity in both directions.
Bryar lets out a deep cough as the smoke envelopes them, but Imogene seems untouched. The spark begins at the tips of her wings—what were previously feathers burn out, replaced by lapping flames in the shape of wings. Myla expects the flames to stop at her back, but they continue, stretching across her body until she is no longer anything resembling human. What was it Callum had said?
'I swear to the Gods, there is no human explanation for what happened, Myla. He was not just . . . emitting fire. He was fire.’
Imogene is no longer just emitting fire; she is fire. Her features change from human to falcon-like, and she levitates above the ground, an ashy blaze rumbling the ground beneath her as the flames lick at Bryar’s body.
Myla resists the impulse to run back down the stairs and demand he put a stop to this. The muscles along his arms gleam with sweat, his head dipped against the heat and his dark hair sticking to his forehead. Tensed at the abdomen, he appears to struggle with remaining upright, a visible force accompanying the blast of heat emanating from the queen. He looks fucking miserable .
What happens next is inexplicable and leaves Myla stunned, her mouth agape with disbelief: Imogene presses a hand to his chest and, as though he is merely a pool of water, she falls into him, those same flames now spilling from Bryar’s pores. Along his arms, the tattoos look as though they may boil and melt from his skin. A crimson red surfaces across his entire body, and the illusion of flames forming feathers is evident, even from this distance.
He collapses on all fours, his body strained beneath the visible pressure, and he cries out—be it in rage or pain, Myla can not tell—but, the response at once ejects Imogene from his body, spitting her out, like vermin. His body continues to sizzle on edge, and like the day before in the field, she watches as what looks like a puncture wound forms, and his back nearly splits, making way for a magnificent outreach of wings ablaze. While they were purely red and orange yesterday, there is a flicker of blue in his flames now.
Gasps to her left and right alert her to other Ashborn who have gathered to watch the spectacle. Some nod in admiration and approval, while others appear perplexed. They must be the sort calling him a half-blood.
Myla turns her attention back to the scene below, her heart pounding in her throat. Imogene soars above him now, each flap of her wings sending a pulse of heat in every direction. Like a fireball, she plummets downward toward him.
She is attacking him! Myla lurches forward to see where Bryar now stands, an inferno, angry and ready for the assault. They collide, Imogene slamming his body into the cliffside behind him, and a violent burst of ash and blue sparks swirl in every direction. The usual sounds of a battle are warped with what can only be described as falcon-like screams—not just from Imogene, but Bryar as well.
As the flames continue to eat away at his human flesh, the agony on his face melts into an all-consuming anger, and he appears reborn as a falcon or—no . . .
“A phoenix,” she whispers.
The muscle in her jaw relaxes, as Myla realizes he is no longer struggling, his pain now replaced with passion. He pushes himself to his feet, the pieces of him that still appear human, his legs and torso, ripple with heat and strength combined. When Imogene descends with another onslaught of fire and force, Bryar stands still, legs placed firmly apart for takeoff. When she is mere feet from him, he launches himself in flight, and when the space Imogene intended on colliding with is no longer there, she crashes into the cliff, face first.
Myla is certain this ought to be the end of the test, but Ivan’s body burns aglow now, and the amulet at his chest throbs more energetically than before. The fire is not a wild inferno like that of Bryar and Imogene’s. It is an energy source, one Imogene begins to draw from; her body’s light amplifying off the river of revitalizing flame, which trickles through the natural grooves of the stone flooring to where she is. Myla watches, amazed as husband fuels wife, the most holy of unities, resulting in a force not to be contended.
An Ashborn bond, s he thinks, recalling the book in the library.
Imogene reels briefly from the attack, but with goddess-like speed takes back to the air, plummeting in a flash of color down on Bryar who, unsuspecting, is knocked to the ground. He lays sprawled, chest heaving with exertion, and seconds from pulling himself to his feet, Imogene is on him again, drilling a hole of fire in his belly.
With a deep yelp of pain, he rolls out of the way, sending a fiery blast at her feet, knocking her down beside him. He throws himself atop her, his features disappearing behind the mirage of heat radiating from them both.
With thighs on either side of her and a blast of fire choking her in place, Imogene seems as though she may be defeated until Ivan doubles over, a wing wrapped around his middle. A sphere of energy thuds from his body, shaking the ground around them up onto the cliffside where Myla watches.
The wave is sucked into Imogene’s body and with a riveting gasp for air, she launches Bryar from her. An explosion of flames sizzles from his body, as he collides with a thicket of trees behind him.
Myla presses a hand to her chest, watching the searing hole in the woods dance with embers, waiting for him to emerge. He does. His flames have rescinded, and his body is covered from head to toe in ash and blood.
Finally, Ivan stands, motioning to his wife to cease her test of strength. His eyes turn to Bryar, who is knelt on one knee panting, his wings, the last sign of Ashborn, dissolving within his body. Myla realizes they are something he summons, like she does with her magic. They clearly are different from Ivan and Imogene’s; theirs are constants, a physical attribute.
Myla turns and hurries down the stairs, rushing to hear what is said, and more importantly, to inspect Bryar closeup. As she approaches, inaudible words begin to clarify and form sentences.
“It is evident, though deeply concealed within your being, that Ashborn blood runs through your veins,” Ivan speaks, glancing at his panting wife, a slight smirk washing over him. “Though you fought well, it was still as tactless as a fledgling.”
Myla slips into the opening, lingering in the background and watching how Bryar is slumped slightly forward, one hand braced on the ground to keep him from collapsing totally. His shoulders heave with effort, as he sucks in deep breaths of air. She aches to go to him, but something inside her knows this is his moment, one she does not belong in.
“How is it you were unaware of this?” Imogene asks, sitting upon her husband’s lap once more.
Bryar shakes his head, sweat dripping from the curls partially concealing his eyes. Breathlessly, he speaks. “I have always been a fire wielder. But my father never spoke of my mother. I never knew to look for anything more.”
Ivan nods slowly. “You may have heard it spoken of before; Ashborn are not supposed to mate with humans. Can you imagine why?”
Bryar laughs, his tone nearly mocking. “I can only assume it has something to do with whatever you and Her Grace were conjuring together.”
Ivan grins. “It is erotic, really. Watching your woman destroy her foe. But even more so is fueling her fury with your own. You see, when Ashborn marry, their magic becomes one; it pools together. I can draw from her energy, and she can draw from mine. We are one. So, our power is precious to us. When your mother mated with your human father, she compromised the strength the Ashborn built as a whole. Ask yourself why our territories are impenetrable. It is because we are impenetrable.”
Bryar stands now, his frame straightening with defiance. “I did not come here to hear you speak of my father as though he is a lesser man than you.”
Myla’s skin prickles at his audacity. That is erotic, really, she mocks Ivan silently, admiring Bryar’s gumption to speak his truth.
“I do not presume to make assumptions about your father. He clearly did his job well enough, as you stand here with what . . . integrity? Passion for your convictions? These are the premises with which we raise our fledglings.” The Ashborn king and queen exchange glances. There is something hidden within their gaze, something Myla can not put her finger on. But it is unnerving.
“I do, however, believe I can speak for my queen,” Ivan continues, “in saying, we would be delighted to offer you a position among our other trainees. You bear remarkable powers, and with time, we can help you hone them, should you accept.”
Myla stiffens at their offer. They are not doing him a favor. They do not want him taking that power elsewhere .
Bryar nods in appreciation. “I am honored,” he says, glancing briefly back at her. “I must take my queen into consideration, Your Grace. How long will she be protected within your walls?”
Ivan’s eyes flicker to where Myla stands before returning to Bryar. “The Blood Stealer’s tactics have not penetrated our territories in centuries. Your queen will be safe here, if she wishes to stay.”
Myla feels a weight tumble off her shoulders, realizing she can lie in bed this evening and not worry about him haunting her dreams or tugging at her impulses. Everything within her screams at Bryar to accept.
Admirably, he simply says: “I thank you. I will have to discuss both of your offers with her before I give you an answer.”
“Understandably,” Imogene responds, wiping smudges of ash from her brow. “Will you attend a feast this evening? It is in your honor, Ashborn celebrating Ashborn.”
Bryar’s chin bobs and he bows slightly. “Thank you, yes.”
He turns to leave now, making toward her first. As he approaches, she can see the ash buildup on his face and a cut along his abdomen which slowly drips blood.
“Bryar!” she hisses, examining him closely. “Are you alright? That was terrible.”
“I am fine,” he replies with an unconvincing chuckle. “Just a little sore.”
“Let us get you cleaned up,” Myla insists, taking his hand and leading him back to her chambers.