Page 19 of A Thousand Burning Ravens (The Queen Who Bleeds Stars #1)

STEAM RISES FROM the tub of water where Bryar is reclined. Myla had asked that two baths be prepared for him, the first to wash the grime off, and the second to soak in and ease his muscles.

She sits and watches from across the room, silently observing as his jaw grinds back and forth, his mind clearly racing, though his closed eyes could be deceiving. She wonders what it must feel like to be him over the last several weeks. Years, really. In the last hour, a darkness has washed over him; something is gnawing at him.

“Bryar,” she says gently, almost hesitant to disturb the tranquility of the room.

He responds by cocking one lazy eye open and looking her way. “Hmm?”

“Are you thinking about what Ivan said? His offer?”

He nods, his sharp jawline catching the glint from the hearth. “I can not help but wonder if this is what the Seer wanted us to find. If I refine my magic, could it help defeat the Blood Stealer?”

Myla slips gracefully off the edge of the bed and makes her way across the room, crouching beside him. Her hands grasp gently at his on the rim of the tub, his curling around hers in response.

“I think it would be a disservice to you not to try. You spent so many years honing human skills and ignoring these. I think it is time you make way for new abilities.”

“So, you want to stay here? For a time that is?” he asks, turning his face to hers, his eyes searching for any signs of hesitancy.

Myla nods slowly. “It would give me time to pass the pregnancy in peace. We would not have to worry about me trying to kill anyone, the child or myself included.”

He smiles halfheartedly before facing forward again, his eyes seeming to scan the air overhead for answers. “Ivan said something I have to agree with.”

“What is that?”

A devious smile stretches across his handsome features. “He said there is something erotic about watching your woman flatten her foe.” He looks to her, his eyes full of hunger. “You have had some rather impressive moments in the last several weeks. They were erotic for sure, even if one of them was trying to kill me .”

Myla blushes, pushing his hand off hers. “Do not flirt with me. I respect your boundaries, but toying with me makes keeping off of you too difficult.”

Bryar leans forward, the heat of the bath rising off his skin and moistening her face. There is an odd look there, a mixture of longing, yes, but something deeper. Something confused.

“Yes,” he says, “but that was before Ivan said you could be here, safe, for as long as you like. That was before I had more answers about myself. And that was before you were sitting here, looking at me the way you are.”

Myla’s lips part, tempted to lean inward and lay claim to his mouth. She resists and instead, reaches to her bodice, unlacing the front. The dress slips off, followed shortly by her corset. Bryar watches her undress, scanning unabashedly up and down her body. At last, she stands in an ankle length white shift. She lifts a leg over the side of the tub, stepping in to join him, straddling her thighs on either side of his hips until she has settled down upon him. He is already hard between her thighs, throbbing and aching for entry.

“Perhaps you should help me bathe before the party tonight?” she whispers, arms draped over his shoulders and lips teasing against his.

Strong hands travel down her back, past her hips, and grope her backside, pulling her closer against him. “I will not miss an inch.”

“ Promise ?” she coos, leaning in to kiss his neck.

He smiles, his teeth nipping at her bottom lip. “I promise.”

Steam rises around them as his body heat rapidly increases, warming the water significantly. Their mouths move against each other in a hypnotic slow dance of kisses, tongues rolling against each other, evoking moans, and gasps. It is not quick or passionate, rather a slow stoke of the flames, each gesture intentional.

“You did not last very long,” Myla giggles between his kisses as they travel across her throat. “I thought it would take a lot longer for you to change your mind.”

He bites the soft skin of her shoulder gently, a little punishment for her statement. “Are you complaining?” His hands slide between her thighs, finding a space even wetter than the bath.

Myla exhales, relieved by his touch and slowly shakes her head, her face turning upward as she melts completely in pleasure. “No. Not at all,” she breathes. “Ivan was wrong.”

“Do not bring him into this,” Bryar commands, pushing his fingers inside her.

This is ecstasy. She finishes her thought, her hands finding his length, hard and aching to be touched. He throbs within her grasp, a deep moan escaping his lips as she rubs up and down slowly, teasing him with gentle touches. Water sloshes around them, rippling off the sides of the tub with their intensifying motions. Myla aches for more, and every second he is not inside her is a devastating one.

Myla rolls her hips, writhing with anticipation against his solid body. Bryar’s hands dig into her thighs, and he lifts her body, urging her closer, before thrusting. He is as hard as steel and her body tightens around him, quivering in satisfaction. Just as she is certain he is there to stay, a wicked smile moves across his handsome features, and he lifts her once more, partially removing himself.

Myla groans miserably and leans down to nip at him, penance for the famine he puts her through.

“Denying your queen? I could punish you for that.”

His strong arms tighten and resist as she fights to lower herself around him again. “Punish me how? Do not leave out any details,” he teases and with a chuckle, his hips move forward, slamming himself deeper into her until she is fully seated around his hard length.

Myla can not seem to think now. As he teases, bringing her just to the edge of satisfaction before pulling away again, she is driven mad with the need to be bent over the tub.

“I shall stand up now and finish the job myself if you do not give me what I want,” she hisses breathlessly, nearly squealing as he plunges deeper, throbbing against a sensitive wall of nerves inside her.

“You know you could not do the job half as well as I can,” Bryar taunts, repeating the motion again and again until she is on the brink of igniting.

Then, something at his fingertip’s fizzles and Myla yelps in pain as he sears her. She is inclined to giggle and keep going, but Bryar pushes her off of him.

“Myla, stop I—”

Myla freezes, slightly horrified. “It is alright,” she insists. “What happened?” She swallows hard, meeting his tense gaze. “Are you ok?” She looks at the wound on his ribcage and then steps out of the bath.

Bryar stands, drying himself quickly before stepping into his trousers. He then turns to face her. His features are unreadable, stone-cold stoicism with a hint of suppressed deflation as he looks down at his hands, which seem to still burn with passion. With an angry sigh, he dries his hair in a towel and pulls a tunic over his head before speaking. “Do you know what today is?”

His question stops her in her tracks, her brain frantically sifting through any important dates that pop into her head, trying to understand what could be causing his sudden rush of anxiety.

“No, Bryar,” she responds uncomfortably, wrapping her arms around her chest. “I do not know what today is.”

He nods slowly, biting his lower lip in frustration. “Myla. Today is the day, six years ago, that I watched you walk down the aisle to Caius.”

Myla flinches, the memory hitting her like a wall. She briefly wonders how she could have forgotten, but that question is quickly replaced by another. “And that is causing this? This response?”

He shakes his head. “Not exactly. I have tried to ignore the gnawing for hours now, and the thought I can not shake is this: when I help you win your kingdom back, and everything goes back to normal, where does that leave me? Does it leave me just your captain again, and the man you welcome to your bed under the cover of night? Am I to return to the barracks and lie to my friends when they ask where I was, because I can not even tell them that I am in love with the queen? Will I inevitably be pushed to the side when you remarry a titled man? Will I stand guard by your chambers then still? While I want to ignore it all and just enjoy simplicity with you here, for now, I am afraid we are setting ourselves up to repeat history.”

Stunned, Myla stands silent and dripping wet on the floor, her wet hair clinging to her face. Raw emotions bared naked in the space between them, Myla finds her words tangled together in the mess of questions she feels unequipped to handle. She opens her mouth to speak but no answer arrives, only confusion. Confusion and hurt.

“I can not do it again, Myla.” His eyes narrow and lines form across his brow in hopelessness. “Do you know what the guard on duty who stood by your door the night of your wedding came downstairs and told us at breakfast?”

Myla swallows hard, dreading his answer. Her eyes glisten with tears, hoping he will not say it aloud, but knowing their silence and dancing around the topic for years has led to this moment. She has known at some point, he would say something. Men like Bryar always say something.

“He told us: ‘I do not think the new queen had a good first night.’ I could hardly hide the horror on my face, Myla. All these men, who had no idea we had a history before you arrived at the palace, looking at me, wondering why I threw a tumbler of ale across the room!” His shoulders shake suddenly and his voice breaks with the following words: “I stood guard by your door night after night, as was my duty, and I listened to you cry as he raped you, and no amount of asking Elsa to talk to you could drag the truth from you.”

There it is.

The word she has avoided.

The one she has renamed as betrayal or duty. Myla lets out a sob, covering her mouth and shaking her head fiercely. “Do not say that word, Bryar. Do not say that word! That is not what happened.”

He steps closer, his eyes gleaming with tears and his mouth set in a firm line, fighting a rush of emotions. “Why will you not talk about it? Why will you not admit what really happened? You spend so much time defending his memory, but I knew the whole time. And I would be lying if I said I did not sigh a breath of relief the day he died because I knew he was done hurting you.

“Elsa felt the same way, you know. I once had to stop her from slipping poison into the king’s nightcap.”

His hands close around her shoulders, pulling her shaking body against his. “I can not do that ever again, Myla. If you tell me, at the end of this, you will return to that palace, and I will simply be your lover again—I can not continue like this. It is not fair to you, and it is not fair to me. I would rather love you from a distance than lose myself in a half-truth.”

Myla looks up at him, raising a hand to his face to wipe a tear with her thumb. “I will not remarry, Bryar. I may not be able to marry you; that would start an entirely different war. But I will not marry anyone. I will always be only yours.”

Her hand lingers and brushes against the stubble of his cheek. Words she has ached to tell him for years finally fall from her lips. “I love you.”

Words which have been absent in the space between them for so long, though quenching, fix nothing.

The room stills and for an agonizing stretch of time, Bryar holding her against him in what feels like a final embrace. “I love you.” His following words are soft whispers, as though he is afraid of what damage they will do if spoken at full volume. “Myla . . . I am not content to live half a life anymore. I wish I still had that in me, but I feel there is more to my life than supporting yours in secret. I will always be your greatest advocate. I will always be the person watching you succeed and smiling when you do, because to me, that is happiness. But I will not do it in shadows, afraid of someone seeing me smile too much when you are near, afraid that my eyes will linger too long on a woman who is not mine and that will be noticed.” He swallows, his throat bobbing as he puts his emotions away.

“I will help you win this war. I promised to keep you alive and see this through until the end, but when it is all done, when I have seen you restored to your throne, I will resign as your Captain of the Queen’s Guard, and I will be coming to seek my full potential here.”

Myla stiffens, pulling away from him slowly, not daring to meet his gaze for the blinding tears that drip freely down her cheeks, burning what feels like eternal trails of grief into her skin. Instead, she wipes the tears with her palms, breathing deeply to steady her pulse.

“I never talked about what Caius did, because I thought if I did not say the words aloud, then it would stay tucked neatly behind closed doors. It would not be real. Because those are the only times I ever felt unsafe with him, and in truth, I understood where his desperation came from. I could rationalize it away, until I convinced myself what he did was not truly wrong. I could even smile at him when we were not in his bedroom. The Caius who wanted an heir was a different person than the Caius who walked the gardens or shared a meal with me. He was good to me in daylight. He made me feel like I had a friend in him, until it was time for bed . . . time to make an heir.

“I did not want to be seen as the poor girl forced to marry a cruel king, Bryar. I had already lost so much; my own self-respect was too much to sacrifice because he was desperate. ” She touches her belly, thankful something good and pure and innocent will come of his abuse.

“If this is your final choice, Bryar, I respect it, and I will love you from afar, as you will me. But I will not spend another day holding you back.” She meets his gaze now, a trembling across her body screaming at her to say anything but this. “You have stood in this space with me long enough now. It is time for you to live for you .”

Myla presses her lips closed in finality and turns her back, allowing him to exit the room without a further word before she erupts in a shudder of sobs. Sobs for the life she feels her father robbed her from with Bryar, and sobs for the life she experienced within the palace.

She cries for the hundreds of times Elsa would fix her hair the morning after, asking how she slept, and she would lie, noting the pinch of Elsa’s nose as she would turn away. For the times she would ask Fern to leave the tinted cream behind and she would dab a bit onto her wrists, covering the little bruises.

'Why will you not talk about it? Why will you not admit what really happened? You spend so much time defending his memory, but I knew the whole time.’

Myla shudders, wishing she had the heart to ask him why he never talked to her about it before. But she already knows the answer. Bryar has never been a man to probe or insert himself where he has not been invited, especially when that probing would have opened so many doors they both needed to keep shut. Or when that probing would have called her integrity into question. He sat in an impossible situation, carrying grief of his own in silence.

Myla strips out of her wet shift finally after drying her eyes, and lies down on her bed, watching the gleam of the firelight cast eerie shadows on the walls. As she falls asleep, Myla pictures the moments of her youth which lead to this place, and she wonders: can the worst day of your life save your life?

The large double doors of the throne room swing open, two guards heaving them out of her way. She trembles, fingers wrapped around an exquisite bouquet of white hydrangeas and peonies. Beside her, Maverick Alerys stands, beaming. His gray speckled beard bobbing as he says something, words she can not make out above the thudding of her heart.

This dreaded moment has loomed in the near future, taunting her, yet seeming like a reality she would somehow escape. Now that it has arrived, decorated with crowds of smiling people and a man at the end of the aisle she does not wish to marry, a sickness seizes her, freezing her limbs in place.

She has not escaped it, and no one will help her now.

“Father, I—”

Maverick interrupts her, his words of encouragement a far cry from the warning within his eyes. “I am so proud of you, Myla. Everything we have worked so hard for has led to this moment. You will change the face of the Kingdom. The Alerys name will be written in history.” His lips twist in the phantom of a smile and something lurks beneath the surface. Unspoken words that say ‘do not make this difficult; we have come too far for you to falter now.’

So, instead of speaking up in one last plea for help, Myla forces the building tears back, smiles understandingly, and steps through the doors with the crescendo of the string quartet. To Caius’s right, slightly behind him, ever the dutiful King’s Guard, stands Bryar, his eyes fixed on something in the distance and lips pressed into a firm, expressionless line.

He does not look at her, and for that, she is grateful.

But she keeps her eyes fixed on him. His face is the only stabilizing force in the room. He is the only reason she does not crumple to the floor right here for everyone to watch her shame.

Then, his lips twitch and his fist tightens around his axe. His green eyes flicker to where hers are, and for a moment, they find solace in their quiet understanding.

He nods and those soft, green eyes seem to say ‘well, this is bullshit, is it not?’

Myla’s heart shatters.

The resolve she has finely formulated with deep breaths and lies of ‘this is ok’, seems to fracture. Tears form once more, and the pounding of her heart begins to sound like an angry battering ram on wood, or an urgent knock at a door—

Myla gasps, sitting upright in her bed, thankful for the sudden realization she is not reliving that horrible day.

“Queen Alerys,” a timid voice questions from the other side of the door. “Her Grace has sent me to help you prepare for the party. May I come in?”

“A moment,” Myla responds, flustered as she crawls off the bed, pulling the now dry shift over her head. She opens the door and a young woman—a girl, really—enters. Her golden and feathered head barely reaches Myla’s shoulders. “Thank you,” Myla says, examining the girl, who begins laying an armload of clothing on the bed.

“I am Felicity,” she says, her auburn lashes lowering with a bow. “I am to care for you while you are here. I have brought an assortment of clothes at the Queen’s command. Shall we pick one for this evening?”

Myla wants to insist she is not attending; the idea of seeing Bryar is too painful. Queens do not hide in their chambers. She corrects her train of thought, passing a brief glance over the options of dress before her.

Not wishing to miss an opportunity to form alliances, she merely nods and begins sifting until she selects a breathtaking, blush dress. I would not dare to show up looking as bad as I feel, what would that say of me as a queen?

Felicity helps her into the gown, lacing it tightly until her silhouette is sleek, tucked neatly into the form-fitting gown. The neckline scoops just beneath her collarbone, a tulle front providing a tease of what is beneath, reaching a scandalous point between her full breasts. Long sleeves of tulle bunch at the wrists, draping around her elbows gracefully with a delicate design of rubies swirling up her forearms. This same pattern of rubies trickles down the skirt, sparse at first and then increasing in frequency until they pool at the hem of her dress like a glittering red rain.

Felicity runs a brush through her hair, smoothing the tangles formed from the bath, then pulls loose waves over each shoulder, simple and natural. After a hint of rouge is applied to her cheeks, Felicity nods with approval.

“Is it to your liking, Your Grace?”

Myla nods. “I will not embarrass myself, at least.”

Felicity eyes the dress around her middle before speaking hesitantly. “Shall I take any of the form-fitting dresses and have them altered, Your Grace?”

Myla glances at her reflection, and for the first time, she notices change. From tender breasts to a swelling in her stomach, it is evident: the child within grows.

“It is obvious?” she asks.

Felicity shrugs slightly. “Only to the trained eye. But I could have the dresses taken out a few inches to give you time to hide it longer, should you need to.”

Myla smiles weakly, caressing her belly absently before nodding in thanks. “I do not need to hide it, but I would rather not struggle to make a dress fit. Please, have them altered.”

Felicity bobs a curtsy and leaves with many of the dresses; a few simple and flowing ones remaining.

An hour later, after mustering every ounce of composure she has, Myla meanders through the halls. Every wall is adorned in art and expensive trophies of war or travel. The halls all graced with open-air balconies, which offer expansive views of the forest, the mountains, and beyond. From one vantage point in particular, Myla spies a thunderous waterfall cascading down the sheer side of the mountain, and she imagines bathing at its base.

After some exploring, she finds her way to the feast hall. Jovial laughter, shouts, and upbeat music reverberate through the palace; Myla discovers that Ashborn celebrations are boisterous events.

The room is crescent shaped around two thrones centered, providing an easy view of the entire hall. Heavy tapestries hang at even intervals, stretching thirty feet upward from floor to ceiling. Pictured on each are depictions of the Gods and their efforts in war, love, and justice. They tell stories, ones Myla could lose herself in. Thin chains fixed above each tapestry travel the length of the ceiling, meeting just overhead the thrones, serving as a suspense for vibrant lanterns which bring a warm glow to the room.

On either side of the thrones grow large trees, hot with autumn colors and branching out through the ceiling to touch the night sky. It appears as though some sort of mechanical ceiling opens and closes around the trunks, allowing for closure in poor weather.

Bryar sits at a table near the king and queen. To Myla’s surprise, the majority of those sitting at the table with him are young Ashborn women, each aglow in their own way, beautiful, smiling, and certainly not carrying the weight of war on their shoulders.

Myla sucks in a deep breath, brushing aside any feelings of jealousy. This is good for him, she tells herself. No holding him back . But those words are more pretty lies she tells herself, to numb the pain searing through her middle. Pretty lies like those she and her father built together to make her journey down the aisle more convincing.

Myla eyes an empty seat at a table across the room and considers giving Bryar a wide birth. She is suddenly self-conscious in her choice of dress; it screams ‘look at me, the woman that was on you hours ago,’ not ‘I am a confident queen, who did not just spend the last several hours crying over a man.’

Annoyed and tingling with unruly emotions, Myla graciously accepts a hot mug of herbal tea from a small Ashborn child who carries a simmering pot through the room.

“Fuck this,” she whispers to herself, taking stock of her reflection in the windows. It screams ‘look at me, a ruthless queen who is not stopped by matters of the heart.’ Before thoughts of embarrassment or pain stay her feet, she takes several confident steps to stand before the thrones, bobbing a deep curtsy. The room grows hushed as she stands before their king and queen, all in company watching. Someone behind whispers, “It is her. The Queen Who Bleeds Stars, look.”

Only now, does Myla realize that her emotions take form, speckling her skin in an array of magnificent starlight. Her hands seem to sparkle as light spills from her pores.

“Your Grace,” she acknowledges both Imogene and Ivan before standing tall once more, as the blademaster once told her to. Well aware that all eyes are on her, she squares her shoulders and tilts her chin. “What a beautiful assembly.” Myla gestures to the surrounding room, ignoring the heat on her neck where Bryar stares. “I thank you for the honor of experiencing life as an Ashborn.”

“It is you who honors us,” Imogene responds, gesturing to an empty seat behind her. Myla turns to sit, steadying her breath as her gaze passes over Bryar sitting across from her.

Observing the busy to and fro of party goers, paired with the lively music, is a sufficient distraction from the man before her. Myla watches unruly children soar overhead, scolded by their parents; young men and women flirt, banter, and sing. The occasional intoxicated Ashborn launches fireballs out the open ceiling, giving Myla something to awe over as the sparks scatter into blackness.

Two Ashborn ladies sit beside Bryar, one on either side, and Myla wills herself to tune out their meandering conversation. What is impossible to tune out is the way he clearly tries to avoid her gaze, yet fails each and every time they cast a glance around the room. Now, his deep green eyes lock with hers.

A battle of ocean against forest.

Myla lifts her chin, her gaze seeming to unravel him. It is an exchange that does not quite seem to make sense. Given how they parted a few hours prior, there is no reason for either to stare as they do now, full of something akin to rage. Yet here they are, fanning the flame. Daring to defy the agreement already. Silently, they search one another’s eyes for answers, as if unearthing something new will void the words spoken only hours ago.

On closer examination, Myla’s mouth dries, taking in just how good he looks. His hair falls tousled into his face, the shadow of a freshly shaven beard casts sharp angles across his jaw, and a casual black tunic is unfastened three buttons down; the sleeves pushed over his elbows, exposing trained arms and the fresh tattoos. It is a feverish sight, one spoiled when Ivan stands to speak, breaking the trance.

The king exudes a regal confidence which commands the attention of the room, and the music fades to silence. “We welcome a newcomer.” Ivan gestures to Bryar. “I trust he is to be given the warmest of Ashborn welcomes.” The crowd applauds, and Myla rolls her eyes at the bashful smiles flashing him from all directions.

Apparently being a half-blood is not such a bad thing anymore. Myla glowers at the flock of young women around him. His discomfort is blatant, a detail they seem to miss entirely.

“We welcome also to our court, Queen Myla Alerys. We are honored by your presence,” Imogene adds, almost as an afterthought. Myla’s lips purse and her eyes squint, scrutinizing the queen before her. That would never slide in Falkmere . . .

“Sir Bryar,” Imogene speaks again. “It is the Ashborn way to shield our kind, to keep our power strong and pure. We are, however, deeply impressed with the strength of body and character you show, for that is the true Ashborn way. Should you choose to accept our offer to train with us, we will welcome you permanently. You shall have a home, and in time, with effort and loyalty, a title.” Ivan smiles with the charisma only a laid-back king dishing out women and titles could have.

He takes note of the female attention Bryar is receiving, whispers something to his wife, then speaks once more. “Phaenna.” He gestures to one of the ladies, her beautiful red hair cascading down her back, which is bare save a delicate ribbon at her neck, holding the top of her dress in place. “I appoint you Bryar’s personal companion for the party. I trust you will see to his every need this evening.”

Myla does not like the tone with which the girl is given permission to sink her proverbial claws into Bryar. They are not just offering him a place to hone his newfound magic in peace; they are offering him a new life entirely.

She glances at him, not surprised to find his face unreadable beneath the courteous smile. The music resumes, and Bryar is summoned to speak with the king and queen, Phaenna trailing beside him, pleased as a newborn colt to be appointed to the handsome newcomer’s side. Her fingers graze the inside of his arm as she latches onto him.

Gods, Myla hisses inwardly. She needs a new profession. Court harlot looks bad on her. Immediately regretting the all-too-human and not at all queenly thought, Myla bites her lip and wonders what they could possibly be saying. Judging by the intrigued look on Bryar’s face, it is an offer unlike any he has received before.

Unwilling to watch the spectacle any further, Myla loses herself once more in a sweet of hot tea and observing. She moves across the room to recline on a cushioned bench, blissfully tucked away in the corner of the room. Her eyes watch the night sky above as stars drift slowly across her view, occasionally interrupted by a shooting star or a plume of ash from the playful mayhem below. Her tea and quiet nook seem like a brilliant antidote to the ache in her heart, until Imogene stands before her, extending a hand.

“Join me?” she asks. Her voluptuous body on display, the hot-red gown she wears hugging all the right places, a pleasing visual that Myla takes note of for half a second too long before responding.

“I—yes. Of course. Forgive me.” She stands, immediately triggering a nauseous twisting in her stomach. The child plans to put up a fight this evening. Myla had heard her mother speak of morning sickness. It seems her child prefers to cause disturbances in the evening.

“You look unwell,” Imogene remarks, linking her arm with Myla’s. “Shall we take the air?” How kind , Myla thinks, accepting the offer and ignoring the voice inside her which asks why is this woman so contrary? Frigid one moment and thoughtful the next. It is not lost on her that another queen might have allowed Myla to sit in the corner while her husband laid claim to Bryar. This queen may house some empathy after all.

“Felicity reported back to me,” Imogene says once they stand outside. “It seems you are expecting?” She glances at the roundness of Myla’s belly, just barely passable as bloating. “How far along are you?”

“I believe about five months,” Myla replies, knowing that after two years of suppressing the pregnancy and letting it slip from time to time, she has lost track slightly.

Imogene hovers a hand over Myla’s belly, not making contact, but a warm vibration grows between her skin and Imogene’s hand. “The child is strong.”

“How do you know?” Myla asks, curiosity piqued.

“The vibrations—the flow of blood—there is nothing weak reverberating off this child. But I do not sense Ashborn blood.”

Myla’s brow furrows. “Of course not, why would there be?”

Imogene’s face hints at a coy smile but is quickly corrected. “I made an assumption is all.”

“No.” Myla shakes her head. “This child is the rightful inheritor of New Falkmere. The late King Caius is her father.”

“He passed a while back though,” Imogene questions, her head tilting in curiosity.

“Yes,” Myla answers. “The conflict with the Blood Stealer has been treacherous,” she explains. “I did not want my child to be born into such an uncertain situation. So, I siphoned my magic into freezing her growth until the right time.”

A look of admiration passes over Imogene’s face. “A mother is willing to do many things for her child.”

“Yes,” Myla agrees. “My child will have Restorer’s blood, you see. That makes her existence even more dangerous and equally crucial.”

“You keep saying ‘her’,” the queen remarks. “I remember my own fledgling growing within me. I knew he was a boy well before his birth.”

“And you were right?”

“I was.” Imogene points to a trail leading into the forest, lit by torches every so often. “The captain will train in the arena at the end of the trail. His practice begins tomorrow.”

“So, he agreed to your offer?”

“He did,” Imogene states, clearly pleased. “He is strong, for a half-blood; it would behoove us to have him on our side . . . reintegrating his power back into the Ashborn bloodlines.”

Myla takes a slow, deep breath. She could have guessed when Imogene invited her to talk, this is where the conversation might lead. “I am sure Captain Monroe will make the best decision for himself,” she answers, hoping her expression and tone come off as an indifferent queen.

Imogene side-eyes her. Apparently, the statement did not have the desired effect, for she continues, a little more blatant this time. “When he begins his training tomorrow, it would be best if you were not there to distract him.”

Myla turns to face Imogene. Host or not, Myla refuses to be instructed as though she, too, is not a queen. “Do not think that I fail to see the truth beneath your scheme,” she whispers, stepping closer to the feathered woman before her. “I know very well that you do not offer Captain Monroe a place here because you admire him. You offer him a place here because you fear him.”