Page 21 of A Thousand Burning Ravens (The Queen Who Bleeds Stars #1)

MYLA PASSES THE days into weeks, scouring the Ashborn library. For the first several days, she finds nothing worthwhile, tales of their history and a few notes on the peaceable preferences of the Ashborn. Her goal has been to keep her whereabouts as simple as possible to avoid unnecessarily interacting with Bryar. It has become near impossible to pass through the dining hall without discussions of him babbling between young Ashborn women, let alone surviving dinner itself. His reputation as a valiant warrior grows, as does the enamor revolving around him. A strange, handsome man, now one of their own.

Myla thinks they need to spend more time in the library to occupy their minds with something else.

In the mornings, Myla leaves the palace hours before Bryar does, accompanied instead by a few Ashborn guards appointed to her by Ivan, and does not return until well after his lessons. Her schedule has proved successful as it has been four days since she came face-to-face with him beyond his trailing her to and from her room in the evenings to stand at his post while she sleeps.

Ultimately, she aims to make their severing as painless as possible. She has convinced herself her presence is a distraction to him and his new path; in reality she knows it is a matter of willpower. Should she speak to him again, she knows she would cave. She would chase every irrational need to be with him, abandoning her throne and responsibilities.

No. Studying and looking for any tools that may aid in defeating the Blood Stealer is the safest way to pass time.

About a month into her excavation of the library, Myla finds a thick text bound in pale leather, with fine lines burned in a breathtaking depiction of two phoenixes entangled. Something suggestive about the illustration causes Myla to swallow hard, her breathing growing heavy. “Well,” she mutters flatly. “A phoenix sex book—fascinating.”

With a thud, she flips it open.

The first page draws her in and for the next twelve hours, she stays curled in a pile of cushions, the pages lit by lantern light. The book speaks on the sacred unity of an Ashborn marriage, the burning of two souls into the Gods’ Book of Sacred Warriors, resulting in the infinite draw of energy from one to the other. It is a union only documented between Ashborns.

Myla finds herself scouring the book, along with dozens of others, looking for some mention of an Ashborn and human match, as though finding that answer might justify her and Bryar’s union.

After eight weeks of spending nearly every day in the library, avoiding Bryar as much as possible, and watching her belly expand, a young Ashborn woman enters, absently scanning the books. Myla watches her from her cocoon of cushions, packed heavily to support her aching back today.

The woman wears a purple silk dress, her belly also bulging with pregnancy, presumably more advanced than Myla. As she waddles, she leans backwards to offset the weight at her front. When she sees Myla slumped into her pile of soft pillows, she giggles.

“You have the right idea, stranger.” She moves slowly toward Myla. “I have not seen much of you around since your arrival.” She leans forward, her wings tucking at her back tightly as she extends a hand to help Myla up. “I am Lenore.”

Hesitantly, Myla accepts her hand, ignoring the tragic image of them both toppling over into a pile of bellies and flailing limbs. “I am Myla,” she greets the beautiful woman before her.

“Ah,” Lenore sighs, “the Queen Who Bleeds Stars. Yes, Myla is less of a mouthful. I will go with that.”

Myla grins at her new friend, then gestures toward her round belly. “When do you expect your little one?”

“I expected the fledgling last week. I suppose this one will come on its own sweet time.” A resignation washes over Lenore. “I know better than to give birth a timeline of my own.”

“Is it your first?”

Lenore howls in laughter, shaking her head. “I have enough fledglings to consider myself the commander of a small army. Eight young ones, not counting this one.” She nods at Myla. “When will yours arrive?”

“If my timing is correct, in about two months.”

Lenore nods toward the door. “I am famished, and nothing like a wholesome meal to bring on one’s pains. Join me?”

Myla follows her out into the dreary day, rain thudding like hysterical tears of the Gods upon the ground. Her soldiers flank either side, clearly less than keen to follow two pregnant women slowly across town.

“Is this your first?” Lenore asks as soon as she has adjusted a drooping hood over her feathered head.

“Yes.”

“You and your husband must be ecstatic,” she remarks absently, her gait slow and lumbering.

“I am afraid the father has passed,” Myla confesses. “But I am. Ecstatic, that is.”

Lenore cringes, pressing a palm to her forehead. “Oh Gods, I forgot. I am sorry. I overheard some of the younger girls discussing who you are and where you are from exactly. What a terrible go of it you have had.” Her words carry a weight of empathy—not as weak as sympathy, but a strength of character and camaraderie Myla has not experienced since Elsa. The face of her friend conjures in her mind, storming the barricades of her heart, a place she has reinforced as of late.

“We must all earn our place among the Gods,” Myla responds, falling easily back into the rigid coolness of indifference which has been her solidarity for years.

“Must we?” Lenore challenges, beckoning her toward a bustling pub. The lax energy exuded from the place feels strange and nostalgic. She has not stepped foot in a tavern in years. She was with Bryar, Rhyland, Elsa, and Callum the last time. It was a night they would fondly dub the ‘Night of Degenerates’ for years to come. Mostly, because it was the night Callum lost his virginity to Elsa.

Who knows who Elsa lost hers to. It is the one secret she never shared with Myla, or anyone for that matter.

They enter and are greeted by a bustling crowd of drinking and meat-fat Ashborns who lounge, enjoying a midday break from their busy agendas. After instructing her guards to wait near the front, Myla follows Lenore to a quiet table at the back of the pub, where they order warm tea and soup.

“What do you mean, you feel we must all earn our place among the Gods?” she asks finally once they sip their beverages, warding off the chill of the autumn day.

“Well, that every trial gets us closer to the Gods. Just as the Gods suffered, so must we.”

Lenore smiles, rubbing her heaving stomach reverently. “The Ashborn believe there is a little bit of the Gods in each of us. To get closer to them, we must look inward. What do you see when you look inside yourself?”

Momentarily taken aback by the forward question, Myla stares at the rippling tea in her hands, watching the lights refract across its surface. Finally, she meets the steady gaze of her new friend and responds. “I see that I am angry.”

“Ah,” Lenore tilts her head in understanding, pacing her response with a long swallow of her drink. “Anger—an emotion the Gods work well with. Dare I ask why you are angry?”

Myla places her mug on the table with an unsteady hand, tracing the rim to distract her from the genuine aura emanating off Lenore. “I am angry because I underestimated myself, which allowed powerful men to, in turn, underestimate me.”

Lenore shivers, drawing her wings around her broad shoulders for warmth. “Then, you must apologize to the version of yourself that you wronged, and you must do everything in your power to right those injustices. For her, and for you, and for every version of you which is to come.”

Myla smiles to shield the sigh that aches to lurch from her lungs. “Yes, but how?”

Lenore leans forward, bracing her arched back with her elbows propped on the table, clearly uncomfortable. “You must ask what the worst thing you have done to yourself is and determine to reverse it.”

Myla looks down at her rounding belly. “I do not think I can un-marry the king of Falkmere.”

Lenore grins. “Considering he is dead; it seems you are not married to him any longer.”

Myla resists the urge to smile, lest he see her in the life beyond and convince the Gods to smite her. “I suppose so. That does not undo the damage the marriage brought initially.” Her mind drifts to the hurts Bryar hinted at, the way he grieved, alone with no one to confide in.

As if reading her mind, Lenore speaks, her voice all sincerity now. “You know, Myla, the Ashborn do not marry for convenience. Our kind has a history of lasting unities, with happiness for both parties, because those parties choose it. Not their kings, queens, or fathers.”

Myla inhales deeply, her chest rising like a defensive wall against the probing. “It is not that simple for me, Lenore.”

“On the basis of love, it should always be simple. Choose it, and everything else can fall into place as it does.”

Their eyes lock, Lenore’s brows arched with a knowing that should come only with age and wisdom, yet she wears it, etched in her sharp features.

Myla speaks, not averting her gaze. “What do you see when you look within yourself?”

Lenore’s smile broadens, stretching infectiously from ear to ear. She appears as though she is about to respond with some answer of depth when she clutches her belly, a fierce gasp seizing her. “I see a fledgling that wants to get the fuck out! ” Lenore stands, doubling over the table with a primal moan. Myla is temporarily frozen in shock, watching the woman before her grit her teeth together.

“Shit! Oh, Gods-dammit!” Myla mutters to herself, momentarily considering using the cloth linens to sop up the puddle pooling at Lenore’s feet. She thinks better of it and offers Lenore an arm, the both of them making their way toward the door, where Myla’s guards move to support Lenore. “Do you live near?” Myla asks.

Lenore shakes her head, letting out a humming noise Myla can only assume means she is focused. “No,” the Ashborn woman answers finally, her body relaxing. “You must take me to the healer. She is only a few minutes away. Head back toward the palace.”

A walk that should only take three or so minutes takes them ten with Lenore having to stop and pant her way through contractions. At last, they reach a small doorway tucked within the arch of a stone exterior. A sign hangs over the door, crudely written words read “apothecary” and Myla knows they have arrived when one good wail from Lenore sends a middle-aged woman barreling out the front. Her feathers droop slightly, perhaps with age. Wrinkles frame her eyes and a few at the corners of her mouth.

“Lenore!” she chides, motioning for Myla’s guards to help her get Lenore inside. “How long has this been going on?”

Lenore attempts to answer but a grueling moan stops her, her stomach visibly tensing beneath another powerful contraction, so Myla answers. “About fifteen minutes.” They guide Lenore inside, and Myla dismisses the guards to wait for her under the archway outside.

The healer rolls her shoulders backward and dips her hands in a steaming bucket, readying herself to deliver the child. “Lenore,” she implores the woman to listen. “How are you most comfortable?”

Without responding, Lenore lowers herself to the carpet before the hearth, leaning on all fours, her back arched as waves of agony transform her from a woman to a wild animal coordinated with nature.

“That will do,” the Healer states, gathering an armful of clean linens. “Please,” she looks to Myla, “wash your hands and help me. The fledgling is not far off.”

Myla shivers. It is such an intimate moment, and she feels as though she does not belong. Nevertheless, with the incessant moaning of Lenore and the way the healer moves the Ashborn’s skirt above her waist, Myla knows there is not a second to waste on deliberating. Myla washes her hands and lays linens near the fire to warm for the babe before moving to Lenore’s shoulders. Instinctually, she places a hand over the woman’s and whispers encouragingly, “I guess little one has decided now is a good time.”

Lenore grins in spite of the pain and nods, sending a droplet of sweat down her brow, which Myla is quick to wipe away with a damp rag. “The Gods smile on me this day, Myla. My fledgling is to be welcomed by the Queen Who Bleeds Stars, what good fortune—” her words are jarringly interrupted by a sharp wail.

“Lenore,” the Healer’s voice takes on a soothing tone, cooing her instructions while motioning for Myla to join her, “it is time to push.”

Only thirty minutes before, Myla was having a conversation with this woman over a cup of tea. Now she is sitting on the receiving end of her fledgling’s delivery, watching a midwife deeply massage the base of Lenore’s spine to relieve pressure.

The next ten minutes are surreal, both emotional and enlightening. Myla watches the child enter the world, going directly from her mother’s belly to her breast. Tears of pain and joy alike run down Lenore’s cheeks as she lays back on a stack of pillows before the comforting fire. Watching the new mother effortlessly console her wailing newborn, Myla finds comfort in what is to come.

The sun has long since set when Myla leaves the apothecary. The Healer, Gertrude, spent the last several hours attending to Lenore and her new fledgling, until Lenore’s husband was brought down off the cliffside from guard duty to take her and his new daughter home.

The evening air carries a sense of hope, drifting in with the chilly breeze which tumbles red and orange leaves along the glistening cobblestone path. The rain continues to fall from the sky in sheets of icy cold, and Myla cringes, considering the ten-minute walk she has back to the palace. She starts down the path, admiring the way the lights of the manors and shops overhead brings a majestic glow on the ancient trees, illuminating their leaves for all to admire in spite of the darkness.

She is strolling slowly, allowing the rain to drench her to the bone, when a familiar voice calls to her from behind.

“Myla! You are going to catch a chill.” Bryar catches up to her, yanking a cloak off his shoulders to drape over hers while flashing the guards behind her a look that could kill. “What has you out at this hour?”

Her heart catches in her throat. Not expecting to see him and trying so hard these past weeks to avoid him, it feels as though they are back in her palace, painstakingly dodging one another to spare themselves this exact sort of moment.

Myla takes a trembling breath inward, before answering coolly. “I was at the healers.”

“Are you well?” He quickly looks her over for signs of illness or injury before turning to face the guards. His words seethe like venom, and he stands toe to toe with them. “I am going to have both of your heads for not looking after her properly! It is freezing out here, and I see neither of you have done a damn thing to keep Her Grace warm or dry.” He gestures to her rounded stomach. “Can you not see she is with child?”

“Sir—” A guard moves to speak but Bryar tips his head threateningly, as if their next words will determine if they are thrashed or note.

“Take pride in your job, sir,” Bryar warns. “I do not know what kind of oath you swore in Valyndor, but any guards assigned to the Queen of Falkmere are duty bound to ensure she is well at all times.”

“Leave them be,” Myla interjects with a sigh.

Bryar flashes them a final, icy glare, no doubt ready to have them punished for their failings. In any other situation, she would be enjoying the spectacle of the protective and angry man before her. Tonight, it feels like more of an insult. Pulling the cloak around her stomach, Myla offers them a weak smile. “They were only obeying my orders.”

“You ordered them to let you freeze?”

“Enough, Bryar.”

“But you are well?” he probes.

Ignoring the longing in his eyes, she turns her attention to the ground before her. “I am perfectly fine. A new friend of mine delivered her child today. I helped.”

“You helped?” he repeats, astonished. “That is remarkable.”

“It was,” she agrees. “Perhaps, I would have enjoyed it more were that experience not looming in my near future.”

“You will be alright,” he assures, as he begins leading her back to the palace. His expression is unreadable, but the tensing of his jaw is a dead giveaway: he is enjoying this even less than she.

Myla squares her shoulders, biting down on the words that beg to spill forth, the confessions bottling up inside her. She yearns to expose her rawest feelings in hopes he will find a safe place inside himself to keep them. Instead, she nods, words failing entirely.

They walk in silence, their footsteps sending sprays of rainwater in every direction when her footing slips beneath her. Bryar’s arms slip around her waist, intercepting the fall. His furnace-like heat a stark contrast to the icy cold of the rain absorbing into her skin. Bryar helps her straighten, finding her footing well before he moves to unravel from her. His hands linger, pressed to her back, their faces close. Myla watches as his throat tightens. It seems she is not the only one swallowing words.

“Let us get you back,” he says finally, offering her a stabilizing arm. “We will have your maid draw you a bath.” At the mention of bathing, Myla’s mind sabotages all decency, flashing memories of the scandalously exhilarating touches exchanged. That is, before they ended their relationship entirely. She wants to agree to a bath on the condition he joins her and satisfies the beast of longing that has tortured her dreams for weeks. She also wants to say, ‘you can not tell me what to do; you are not my husband’. But even then, she knows, husband or not, she makes a terrible listener and maybe that is why she is in this situation to begin with. Maybe the rebellious inclinations she has fed since her marriage to Caius have caused her to lose her ability to compromise. Whatever seems to be her problem, it will not be solved tonight, and saying something, anything, to him will only confuse their already foggy situation.

So, she stays silent, willing her fingers not to grip his arm too tightly and feed the sickness raging in her heart as the palace fades into view. They will be inside soon, and she will be alone in her room once more, hating herself for not saying what she wants to.

“Rhyland is expected to return tomorrow. He sent word to me last week with news of Falkmere. We should have breakfast together in the morning, so I may brief you.”

Brief me. He wants to have breakfast, as queen and captain, so he can brief me. “Yes. I have been worried; it will be good to get some answers and make a plan. I will see you in the morning.” She releases her grip on his arm and quickens her pace, trying to leave him behind before her resolve vanishes entirely.

“Myla—” he calls after her, a few quickened steps bringing him to her side once more. Myla internally curses the pressure forming between her legs, causing her to walk slower than she would like.

“When I said I needed to train alone, I did not realize it meant we would . . . drift so far from one another.”

Myla stops, her back to him and her eyes closed, a sense of rage simmering and threatening to boil over. Careful to check her words and tone, she speaks. “I know. Surely you see how space is what we both need to move on from this. Soon, Gods willing, I will be returning to Falkmere, and you shall remain here. It is best that I do not greet my child, and a kingdom looking to me for leadership, with a broken heart.”

He grabs her arm gently, moving her to face him. A gentle hand tips her chin upwards. Defiance or grief, whatever it is, she keeps her eyes closed, unwilling to meet his gaze lest she should find it as full of pain and yearning as hers.

“Look at me,” he utters the command under his breath.

Reluctantly, Myla’s eyes flutter open to find steam rising from his shoulders as the rain thunders down upon him. She is grateful for the rain which hides the tears pooling at her eyelids. “Please do not say anything confusing.”

“I do not know what to say,” he admits, his green eyes piercing deep within her. There is something boyish in his expression, no inhibitions, nothing of the fierce warrior lingers. Just a sad boy, who has carried his wounds into manhood and does not know where to lay them to rest. “But I know this should not be confusing.”

“You are right,” she agrees. “If the Gods willed this, it would not be confusing. Our love should not feel more impossible than the war raging around us.”

His hand lingers, grazing the skin along her jawline. “It is not our love that is not simple.” He releases her, taking what feels like a restraining step back, his warmth leaving with him. “If distance is what you need, then I will give you that. But do not fool yourself into thinking we are the problem.”

“Who is the problem, then?” Myla feels her words lash off her tongue, landing sharply. “What would you have me do?”

“I would have you make a selfish decision for once. Pick yourself.”

“So, you want me to walk away from my child’s birthright now?” she questions, unfastening his cloak from around her and shoving it into his arms. “It is all I have to give this child, Bryar. My parents are both dead—am I to simply take her to my family’s estate and hope nobody chases after the king’s heir? You do realize that this is no longer just about me? The child inside me is counting on me to make the absolute best choice I can for her. Throwing her into hiding at birth and keeping her from her kingdom is not what is best for her.”

Bryar shrugs, an unconvinced bob of his head nearly dismissing her words. “I do not want you to do anything that does not feel right for you and that baby.” He nods toward her stomach. “But sometimes what feels right to you and what you think everyone else expects from you may be different answers entirely.”

“So, what do you want?” Myla asks, hoping he has a less indirect answer.

“I want to marry you.” His body squares and is steeped in a confidence even the guards behind them seem unprepared to face. Myla hears them shift uncomfortably behind her.

Fuck. It does not get any less indirect than that. Myla stares mouth agape, listening as he speaks with confidence.

“I want to marry you, and I want to raise that child with you, and I want you to be happy . Do you think after all this time I actually give a fuck what any of your subjects want from you? They have had plenty of you, and now, I want you back. ”

Myla grinds her bottom lip between her teeth, the pounding in her chest drowning out the splattering rain drops upon the ground. “No buts?”

“There will never be any ‘buts’ about you or the baby, Myla. That is what I will always want, so long as I do not have to do it in secret.” He steps closer now, moving wet locks of hair from her face. “You once asked me to hold on to her—to keep the girl you were tucked away safely in my memories. I did not just keep her in my memories.” He presses a flat palm to his heart. “Who you were before all of this, she is still right here where you left her, and I really want her to come back to me.”

Myla ignores the stinging in her nose and grinds her teeth together until the sensation passes. Not daring to look at him lest he crack her resolve, she lies. “That girl does not exist anymore, Bryar. You need to let her go.”