Page 2 of A Thousand Burning Ravens (The Queen Who Bleeds Stars #1)

“THE DOWAGER QUEEN .” She is announced, and it is a fucking joke if not downright insulting. Calling her a dowager is how they all get away with owning her every move, even though she is very much the ruling monarch. Willing or not. With an agitated sigh, Myla enters her conservatory, the place she has taken to holding council. The room is a dome of glass with old vines meandering upward. Lanterns hang from the ceiling at different heights, gently illuminating the room from the night sky. An abundance of lovingly grown plants, herbs, and fruit trees flourish in the large room. A thick, green and gold ornate rug cushions the stone flooring beneath their feet, a kindness in the colder months. When the conservatory is not being used for gore and warfare strategies, it is an astoundingly peaceful place. When ugly old men in ugly sagging tunics are not there, it may just be her favorite room in the entire palace.

With an air of bristled defiance, she had told her confidants that the Council Room was a dismal place, but the truth was, it simply smelled like her decapitated husband. She felt as if the room exhaled his very essence each time she stepped inside. She would be so ambushed by memories and guilt that focusing on making vital decisions for the sake of the kingdom was futile. But a strong queen would never admit her heart was sabotaging her head, so she simply said the conservatory was a more cheerful place to plot murder.

“Be seated.” She issues the command with less patience than intended, her nerves simmering just beneath the surface. Across from her, the grim face of her father inspects her for weakness, no doubt adding to the tally of times she has seemed ‘un-queenly’ in the recent months. A sense of failing before she has even begun picks at her, and she wills the disgust on her face to retreat.

With an outward breath and a subtle grasp of the thick satin of her skirt, she checks her tone before speaking again. “What news is there from the farmlands?”

A gray and grizzly-looking man, with a scar interrupting the otherwise thick growth of beard, speaks. “Our emissary has yet to return, Your Grace. I fear we have had no word.”

“Another loss,” she mumbles, dragging a heavy finger across the shiny surface of the oak table beneath them. A tremor within her, like a sounding alarm, threatens to disrupt her pretense of composure as Lord Heron delivers the grievous news. It is subtle at first, a twitching in her hands followed by her fingers curling around the hilt of the dagger concealed beneath her skirts. News of the defeat, delivered by the imbecile across from her, makes her want to plant the dagger in his neck.

Myla swallows and forces her shaking hands to withstand the overpowering urge, clamping her fingers tight around the edge of the table instead. Now is not the time for an . . . episode. Now is the time to ignore this almost instinctual need to relocate to the Seam, the point beyond the black mountains where the Blood Stealer amasses his army and hoards his strength.

Men have been going missing for months now, no doubt sheep added to the Blood Stealer’s flock. Of all the faces gathered around the table, hers is the most concerned. An unbecoming feature on one who is supposed to have the answers. What would Caius do? A silly thought. If Caius were here, this would not be an issue. His death is the cause of it all. Bastard.

“Your Grace?” Heron probes. “Shall I send operatives to assess the situation and report back directly?” A sharp tilt of her chin is all that is need for him to leave the room to execute his plan. The rest of the council is seated, awaiting instructions. After two years of ruling in her husband’s stead, Myla feels this should come easier—the questions and solutions ought to materialize within her. And yet, with her waning supply of power and energy, nothing is easy. At all times, there are eyes on her, looking to her to deliver them from the consuming chaos of the Blood Stealer. A feat she feels unprepared to do.

“Council is adjourned for today,” she blurts, to the dismay of all. “I fear we shall find no solutions, and I need to have some private conversations before moving forward.” All at once, her scowling council disperses, leaving only she and her father in the room.

“What are you doing?” he fumes, his gray-peppered beard failing to hide the scowl contorting his mouth.

“I am taking a break,” she snaps, slamming the conservatory door behind the final councilman, closing them in for what feels like a long overdue tiff.

“Queens do not take breaks, Myla.”

“This one does,” she retorts, perching herself on the edge of the comfortable sofa. “We have lived and breathed strategy to no end for a week, Father. I will have no more of it until tomorrow.”

“You will do as you are told!” he bellows, his words threatening to crack the glass overhead. Red lines his eyelids—whether anger or exhaustion, Myla does not care to know. He is always angry at her; he always has been.

The door opens to her Captain of the Guard rushing in at the commotion, hand on the hilt of his axe. Myla holds a hand up, stopping him before he enters further. “I am fine, thank you.” The guard retreats, leaving them alone once more, and Myla turns her attention to her father, an iron ferocity etched into the creases of her face.

“You are the one who made me a queen, Father. If you wanted to control me, you should have thought about that before giving me the power to ignore you.” Without giving the bewildered man a chance to respond, she waves a dismissive hand his way. “You are excused. And Father?” Her words stop him, just before he storms from the room. “Send for my friends.”

With a roll of his eyes and an exaggerated huff, he leaves, no doubt begrudged at her replacing the council of the men he has chosen for her with her trusted friends.

As soon as the door closes behind him, Myla turns on her heel and makes for a more secluded part of the indoor garden. A small path winds to the furthest corner, heavily shrouded in overgrowth. There, Myla’s altar sits. Small offerings lay at the feet of the Goddess. Today, Myla places a jar sealed with wax there and closes her eyes. She begs the Goddess to give her strength, and patience. She then moves to the sofa, where she sits, awaiting her friends’ arrival.

“Myla?” The first of the group arrives not ten minutes later. The young queen watches as concern fills her friend’s eyes. Elsa assesses the situation, watching as Myla sits, dignified but slight in stature, on the velvet green sofa tucked beside the window. Fatigue engulfs her like an unwelcome blanket, an appearance she struggles to hide more and more—one she has been suffocating beneath for two years.

“Well . . .” Elsa whispers, sitting in the space beside her. “The fucker has nothing better to do than taunt you from afar today, does he?” Her eyes, though sincere, spark with a rebellious resistance only Elsa can conjure. Nevertheless, her pale-blue irises are rimmed with the glisten of tears at the sight of her friend and queen, bearing it all with an unshakable indifference.

With a bolstering breath, Myla smiles and responds. “I feel his pull almost daily now,” she admits, a calloused inflection almost dismissing the statement itself. “I only wish I could return the favor and taunt him from afar.” She smiles reassuringly as the door opens and another enters, dread emanating from his entire being.

It is the captain, no doubt still enraged by her father’s display, not ten minutes ago. He stays silent and stands nearby, maintaining the role of bodyguard. His is a commanding presence—locks like warm, inky waves tumble across his forehead and the immaculate dress of Captain of the Guards, always evoking respect.

“My . . . my power is trickling from my veins. I wake up and it is spent already. What I am not expending myself to protect us, he is taking. I have impulses, and fighting them daily is exhausting.”

The door opens one last time, admitting Callum and Rhyland, the former taking a seat beside Elsa, discreetly grabbing her hand. It is Rhyland who speaks next, an exhausted swoop of his hand brushing a stray hair from his bronzed face. “You are carrying something much heavier than just a war, Your Grace. There must be answers and solutions that do not always involve you taking the brunt of it all.”

“Tell that to the room full of council members I just dismissed.” Myla laughs, pressing a palm to her forehead in exasperation.

“Allocate, that is all we are saying,” Callum adds.

Elsa nods in agreement and continues to listen as the man beside her offers solutions. “I will go to Titonfall and inquire about our progress there. It is time I check in anyway, see if we are any closer to infiltrating the Seam. At the very least, we will have more information on how his strength is growing. It is better to know than to wonder.”

“In the meantime,” Elsa adds gently, side eyeing both men as though to rally their support, “is it time to consider letting the child come?” Myla bristles, leaping to her feet. Her friends exchange weary glances, and it is clear Elsa regrets raising the topic.

“How do you expect me to allow my child to be born into this?” Myla gestures around them, to the palace and beyond; to the hundreds of miles Caius’s mere breath protected, and death doomed. “I can not protect anyone, let alone a child. I will not risk our final living Restorer to relieve my own suffering.”

The captain nods in agreement, cautiously shifting from his role as her personal guard to that of an old friend, speaking finally, “while bringing forth the child may seem logical, I fear we can not overlook his, or her, lineage. As Caius’s heir, this child is already in grave danger . . . should anyone find out.”

Myla had discovered the pregnancy a week before Caius died. It was a week of joy and dreaming, a week where he was entirely pleased with her—she had finally done what was the duty of every queen. The days felt more effortless, a feeling which was quickly snuffed. The wreckage left behind in the wake of his murder was tumultuous, and Myla decided then, she would not allow her child to be born into uncertainty, nor would she announce the pregnancy at all.

For the last two years, she has been expelling much of her magic keeping her pregnancy dormant. A task she does not plan to reverse until she has made the realm safe, and as a result, her child safe. The sacrifices of motherhood, so one would say.

“But,” Callum hesitates, “how will you have the energy to sever ties with the Blood Stealer if all your energy is going to this?” He gestures to her belly, still slender and keeping her secret well hidden. “You can not do both.”

“So, it seems,” Myla huffs. “I can not sever ties with him anyway. How can I allow my child to be born when I, myself, am a threat to it? At any given moment, the Blood Stealer could instruct me to annihilate my kingdom from within, and I would be but a pawn at the mercy of his whims! What would you have me do? I am at a standstill.”

A chilling silence falls upon the group. The usual conclusion to a conversation they have had many times over the last two years. A sense of hopelessness once more brings noise to the quiet, induced by dead ends and unanswered questions.

“My recommendation, Your Grace,” Captain Bryar speaks again, “we continue to say nothing of this. Not to a single soul.” He gestures to their friends, satisfied only by their understanding nods of compliance. “Should this information fall into the wrong hands, it could mark the end of Caius’s lineage. It would certainly be death for you.” He looks directly at Myla, looking for confirmation that she is listening. The straightening of her shoulders and the slow breath she takes, followed by a nod, is answer enough. They will continue to keep her secrets and seek answers to questions they can not ask.

It is before dawn when Myla’s eyes flutter open. Earlier than she usually rises, a warmth deep within calls her from her slumber. Something contrary to the fatigue and anxiety which usually keeps her abed past sunrise. At first, she is pleased by the unusual surge of energy, then with a groan, falls back into her pillows. A lazy hand lifts and with ease, she summons a trickle of light from her palms. Shit.

She presses a palm to her stomach and visualizes her magic pooling deep within her womb, creating a shield where the child will be suspended, yet again. The magic untethered overnight as it has done so many times before. In the safety and relaxation of sleep, her weary body instinctually reclaims its flow of magic, releasing the grip on her womb, and she is forced to exert that much more energy to place a hold on the growth. Today will be exhausting; she can feel it in her bones already.

Myla stands, untangling her legs from the thin material of her white nightgown, and makes her way to the balcony jutting out from her bedchamber. The palace and the town beyond are peaceful at this hour. Precious few are awake, and those who are move with purpose. No reason to dally at this hour. The palace guards patrol diligently below, several in view in the gardens alone. A few younger soldiers, it would seem, pass playful shots of magic back and forth. One guard launches a gust of air toward the other, deflected as the recipient of the assault crosses his arms, forming a translucent shield about his body. The sight is a relief; Myla knows her home is well protected, though she must speak to Bryar about the unnecessary expenditure of magic.

The moon glistens off hundreds of rooftops while torch and lantern light casts swaying shadows. White peonies are illuminated, and strands of light dance on the ripples of the water in the canals. It is beautiful. The ivy sneaking up the sides of the terracotta palace walls, hiding the wear from weather and cracks of settling, reminds Myla that this building has stood hundreds of years, and shall stand hundreds more. The palace is not simply old, it is ancient.

Which is an irony to many of the locals who live within New Falkmere. The true Ancient Palace is located in Old Falkmere where the ruins of the first palace sink slowly into the earth and foliage.

The New Falkmere palace sits perched upon a jetty of cliffside, waterfalls tumbling and etching paths in the rocks downward. If one is not looking directly at the palace in daytime, it may be easy to miss, for it is overgrown with creeping ivy, moss, and wisteria. Faded stone peeks out here and there, but the most noticeable part of the palace is the drum tower at the forefront, its crenellations—an unusual pattern against the natural backdrop of the forest—surround it. Many windows and balconies offer a view out, and when the night is black, lights spill forth, creating a magical glow.

The entrance is protected by a gatehouse, which gives way to a magnificent arched door with intricate cuttings of a raven perched on a sword adorning its rim. On either side, stretching along the wall, lining a pleasant pathway, is a row of blind arcades. The ornate decorative arches are kept clear of foliage, so the ravens’ torches within them may burn free from obstruction. From the gatehouse, framed by two small watch towers, is a curved stone bridge, closing the sizable crevice of earth which separates the palace from the rest of the city. The tumultuous thundering of the falls below casts a mist, almost constantly shrouding the palace.

Her hands move to her belly, a place they are familiar with resting now. “If I have any say in the matter, this will all be yours, and you shall rule it well.” With a gentle pat, Myla moves to her dressing room and dons a robe before ringing for her lady-in-waiting. The slip of a girl hurries in within minutes.

“Good morning, Fern,” Myla says. “I would like my tea, please. And send for Captain Monroe.”

Upon delivering the tea, and Bryar, Fern is dismissed, visibly mortified to be leaving her queen alone with a man. Myla smiles to herself, trying not to embarrass the girl further with a departing statement such as “ You know I have been alone with men before; this one is no exception. ” Myla holds her tongue instead, and offers Bryar a cup of tea.

“Your Grace,” he remarks with a reserved smile once the door shuts behind Fern. “How can I be of assistance? Is something amiss?” His dark eyes are still heavy with sleep, and Myla feels a tinge of guilt for waking him on his night off. His usual post is outside her door, but twice a week, he sleeps through the night, undisturbed.

“No,” Myla lies, hiding her fatigue well. “It is only a small matter.” Before Bryar can reply, she continues, “I was hoping we could discuss the soldiers. I just saw a few down below in the gardens. Playing. With magic. That is energy we can not afford to expel so needlessly.”

His broad chest rises as he inhales deeply. His jaw is set firmly. “I will address it, Your Grace.” It is likely one of fifty things he might address in a day, as her captain.

Satisfied, Myla nods before speaking again. “I believe it is time we send the Raven’s Veil into the Seam again, or ... perhaps the Ashborn should be summoned.”

With a less formal tone this time, Bryar is quick to answer. “Caius would never forgive me if I got you tangled up in any of that. Bringing the Raven’s Veil into the situation will take our standstill and turn it into battlefields within days, Myla. I do not see how they can truly help right now.” Myla. He knows better. “Your Grace, ” he corrects. “As for the Ashborn, they have not been known to mingle in the matters of Falkmere for centuries.”

“Caius would know that I am a lost cause already if something does not change quickly,” Myla replies, trying to keep her voice steady and unconcerned, a tone which does not quite fit the words accompanying it. “And the Ashborn are going to find the matters of Falkmere on their doorstep if they do not pick a side soon.”

His gaze locks with hers and she thinks he almost reaches for her hand, then hesitates. “You are not a lost cause,” he replies simply. “The Ashborn may be, but you are not.”

Myla smiles, hiding the doubt behind a sip of her tea. “Were Caius still here, he could have broken my Blood Bond. Without him, there is no way. We must kill the Blood Stealer or . . .” She does not finish. They both know it ends in her unwillingly betraying her family, her friends, and her kingdom. The traitorous mistress to the Blood Stealer, and mother to his wicked offspring.

“The child is Caius’s,” Bryar objects. “If you allowed it to be born, it would carry the gift, as every Restorer has before . . . you remember what Sir Roderick told us. The child you carry is likely immortal, if the prophesy is true.”

“Yes, but to wield it, to know to wield it, this child would need to be much older. I do not care what Sir Roderick told us; I believe that was all just a story. Not an actual prophesy. In any case, this child’s chances of surviving to young adulthood in the current political climate are slim to none. In every case but this one, I will choose my kingdom. I will not, however, sacrifice my child, or risk its life in hopes that it is immortal.”

A silence falls between them. With Bryar unwilling to enlist the help of the Raven’s Veil, and Myla unwilling to bear the child, solutions feel slim to none.

The crackle of her hearth mixed with the fading tension draws Myla back into the earlier comfort. With time, she glances back at Bryar who, for the moment, is entranced with the flames. For one who wields flames so beautifully, he never seems to lack amazement in the smallest of them. Even a bedroom hearth. Maybe he knows something about them she does not.

“Perhaps you could catch him unaware and send him to face the Gods in a fiery blaze,” she speaks finally, visualizing the masterful destruction of their foe at the hands of the powerful man before her. It is a satisfying vision.

The corners of his mouth turn upward in a faint smile. “I fear the Gods would judge me, for I would thoroughly enjoy that,” he answers.

“I do not believe that the Gods have never delivered vengeful justice and enjoyed it. They would understand the sentiment.”

Changing the subject, Bryar shifts in his seat to face her squarely. “When this is all finished, what will you do?”

“If I live to see it, Gods willing, I think I will just be grateful to still be alive. I am not sure how to plan life after this. Once I defeat the Blood Stealer, I have an entirely different foe in my father.”

“You will live to see it, and your father will learn to submit to your reign.”

“Always the optimist,” Myla teases. “Careful. You are reminding me of a much younger version of yourself.”

“If you recall, we promised one another we would always see that version of each other.” He gazes at her in a way he has not for many years. A way he has not dared to, since she was betrothed to Caius. A red-hot glow begins to emanate from his being, a response she has seen many times before. His emotions churn beneath the surface. “And,” he adds, not wavering in gaze for a second, “you will live to see it, you will be happy, your child will be safe. I will not allow anything less than that.”

A weight settles on Myla’s belly, a feeling she has not experienced in many years, and has unsuccessfully tried to ignore with Bryar, since the day she met him. Something they are teetering dangerously close to the edge of with this early morning dalliance. Averting her gaze, she nods resolutely, her voice taking a cooler tone than before, a sign the conversation is over. “As captain of my guard, I should hope that is where your commitment lies.”

A fleeting look of amusement crosses his face, and he stands to take his leave. “I shall be just outside, should you need me, Your Grace.”

“Wait,” Myla insists, turning to walk toward her dressing room. “Will you train with me this morning?”

His expression is blank and his eyes briefly twitch toward the door. “Sparring?” There is an instant tension in the room with the word spar. It used to mean many things to them, not always the act of swordplay.

“Mm-hmm,” she replies modestly, assuming an air of obliviousness. “Without use of my magic, I fear I may be at a disadvantage as of late. I should stay in practice.”

Sparring is innocent. Training with her Captain of the Guard is equally so.

To those who do not know their history.

“Yes, Your Grace.” The captain’s nod is stiff as he turns to leave. “I shall wait for you in the arena.”

Before long, Myla has donned a slim-fitting pair of trousers with straps and buckles up the thigh intended to hold daggers and vials. Paired with a form-fitting leather vest over a billowing white tunic, and a tall pair of black boots, she is fit to out-maneuver the captain. Or at least try. She has not been able to out-maneuver him since they were teenagers.

Nevertheless, she arrives at the arena flanked by two perplexed guards, no doubt questioning why the queen is sparring with their captain and not one of her ladies, such as Elsa, who is Myla’s usual sparring partner, but now joins only to watch.

Light barely peeks over the tallest point of the mountain which casts its shadow over New Falkmere. It is a mere golden streak of light, meandering over the darkened clouds and trailing overhead where the opaque moon still hangs in the sky, slowly fading with dawn’s light. In the center of the arena, the captain already lunges at a wooden dummy, swinging a heavy broad sword over his head. He has discarded his long cloak and heavy armor and stands now in his base uniform of black trousers with a fitted, leather jerkin.

He spins in a forceful lunge, warming his muscles to the exertion and in turn, meets her gaze. For the briefest of moments, her mind plays tricks on her and his chiseled features soften. His curls fall a little looser and the stress lines on his forehead fade. The stubble on his jawline disappears and his green eyes brighten with the loss of a decade of grief. He is no longer a twenty-nine-year-old man. He is an eighteen-year-old boy, and she has just walked into the blademaster’s for practice.

Her belly flutters, but she forces a stoic expression, crossing the arena with dignity and no outward signs of nostalgia.

“Places,” she piques, twitching an eyebrow and pursing her lips together.

The captain does as instructed, and teeters slightly from foot to foot before finding his balance and bending slightly at the knee, ready for her attack.

Myla also finds her center of balance but wavers slightly, worried what might occur when the shock of their metals meet. She stands a breath away from him, a proximity she has intentionally avoided for a long time.

Never mind that. This is ridiculous. Myla lunges, her fore-foot burying itself in the dirt a few inches from where he stands. Dust from the sudden skirmish is disrupted and the sharp clank of steel on steel reverberates off the stands around them. Bryar deflects her attack, sidestepping expertly, his blade now lowered at his side. He does not advance as he used to, catching her off guard or knocking her to the ground. He waits for her attack- waits for her instruction like a proper Queen’s Guard.

Oh, I am your Queen now, so you can not fight me properly? Flushed with immediate frustration, Myla glares at him. “Have you lost your love for the fight, Captain?” she growls, lunging at him again. This time with more aggression. Her fists tighten around the handle of the blade and every muscle in her arms engage, ready to lower the blade with as much force as she can muster.

He chuckles slightly, raising his blade to block her attack. The weapon jars violently in his grasp, the shock from her assault clearly far more than he anticipated. With a startled grunt, he staggers back before finding his footing. This time, he leans into her and their blades lock. Using his gauntlet as a shield between his flesh and the blade, he braces his weapon as she swings at him again with a frustrated grunt. Bryar now slides his blade in a downward thrust, breaking their lock and Myla stumbles backward.

“Do you concede the battle, Your Grace?” His tone is anything but formal. It is teasing and familiar, and sends an unwarranted smile across her face.

“Never.”

The flashing of blade against blade catches the sunlight over and over again, met with grunts and shrieking metal as they push against one another. Their weapons move in unison, swinging in what becomes a familiar pattern of attack and block, time and again. It is the sort of harmonious brawl that begins to look like a dance. A dance that could only flow so effortlessly with the years of practice they once had together. On the sidelines, arms crossed, Elsa watches with a slight smile hanging from the corner of her mouth.

Myla pivots against another assault and twirls with the blade fully extended. Her blade makes contact with his and they both pause, muscles burning with exertion. Panting and pressing into the lock as hard as she can, Myla blows a wisp of hair from her face and takes note of how close their faces are. Shoulders and forearms pushed against one another; she can smell him.

The all-too-familiar scent teases her with more memories.

“Your Grace,” he whispers, his voice trembling between gritted teeth. “You do not seem as out of practice as I thought you might be.”

Boring a disgruntled glare into his green eyes, Myla pushes harder against his sturdy frame. “There was a time when you could not best me, if you recall.”

“I recall many things,” he admits, bracing against her added pressure. The blades slip slightly, sending another shriek of cold steel into the air.

“And yet here you are, barely holding me back.” Myla flinches at the coyness in her own voice, but does not allow her stone expression to change at all.

“Maybe I do not want to hold you back.” His resistance lessens and the release of his muscles against hers, still engaged, causes her to lunge forward, smacking flush into him. Briefly, Myla finds a firm arm around her waist. To anyone watching, it could be excused as him ensuring his Queen does not suffer a fall. But to her, the hot pressure of his fingertips in her side is unmistakable.

With a slight gasp, Myla steps back immediately, her side still warm from his touch. “That will do for today, Captain,” she says. Her voice, traitorous and trembling, does not carry the severity of a queen. Instead, it is soft and pliable and startled.

Myla hands him her blade, averting her gaze from his, and turns to join Elsa. She is grateful they have stopped, for a quivering in her hands begins to takeover, and all she can think about is using her blade to actually kill Bryar. Courtesy of the Blood Stealer, she thinks, clamping her hands together.

Her friend’s shimmering blue eyes dart between captain and queen, before she leans in and whispers, “I am not so sure that was swordplay.” She links her arm with Myla’s. “It looked more like foreplay.”