Page 23 of A Thousand Burning Ravens (The Queen Who Bleeds Stars #1)
“WE WILL NOT let anyone see this,” Bryar whispers discreetly, drawing a rune on the back of her neck with charcoal. “It will likely feel overwhelming, stepping outside the ward. Should you find you are losing control, try and give me a warning. If I activate this rune, it will incapacitate you. We will explain it away as something to do with the pregnancy.”
Myla nods gratefully, rubbing her hands together nervously before her. “Thank you,” she answers. “I do not know what to expect out there.”
“With the army?”
“Yes.”
He turns her to face him, pressing firm hands into her shoulders. “They did not risk their heads abandoning their posts to march for two weeks in miserable conditions to throw pitchforks at you, Myla. They came here because they believe in you.”
“Right,” she laughs breathlessly, ignoring the pit in her stomach. “I feel like people keep misplacing their trust in me. I never seem to know what to do with it anymore.”
“That is not true,” Bryar says assuredly, strapping a breastplate to her chest, along with shoulder guards and gauntlets. “You are just afraid, and that is to be expected. But you are not alone. Are you ready?”
“Yes,” Myla answers, catching a glimpse of herself in the arched windows before the entryway. She looks fierce. “I am ready.”
The night is late now and, in the distance, in a clearing beyond the forest that conceals Valyndor, hundreds of small fires flicker, no doubt warming the soldiers’ meals and drinks.
Flanked by Bryar and Rhyland, and behind them, Ivan and Imogene, Myla walks briskly toward the exit, not daring to show anyone in procession how afraid she is to step outside the ward. Each step closer to the perimeter brings her closer to what could be her undoing, right before an army of forty thousand soldiers who have marched on good faith to come defend her. I will not let them down.
Ahead, the clearing looms into clear view, its entrance a pale yellow beneath the moonlight, contrasting against the black of the forest shrouding it. A few steps more and she stands at the edge. One step more, and she will remove herself from the protection of the ward. Behind her, Bryar and Rhyland shift, no doubt exchanging wary glances, wondering if their queen will falter.
Myla sucks in as much air as her lungs can house, holding her breath a few seconds before slowly exhaling, centering herself with as much determination as possible, and banishing all memories of nearly dying out here two months ago.
“Okay,” she whispers, taking a step forward.
With a force unlike any she has ever experienced, her body aches. Her spine feels heavier, a need to double over tempting her to turn around and return to the palace. The air, which had only moments go felt pleasant is now hot, sending nauseating flashes of warmth to her head.
“Come now, Myla,” Rhyland says confidently. “Show that asshole how little he truly controls you.” Bryar chuckles alongside him, a discreet hand brushing the back of her elbow in support.
“Yeah,” Myla agrees, swallowing hard beneath the pain growing from her joints and expanding rapidly across the rest of her
body. “No control, right?”
Bryar leads her up the side of a slight slope, giving her a vantage point over the majority of the massive encampment, which stretches across the clearing and beyond, into the woods of the other side. Standing tall, arms folded over her belly, Myla allows her gaze to glide over the moonlight’s glint on the heads of thousands of men here to support her. If this does not merit confidence, surely nothing can.
“Attention!” Bryar’s deep voice shouts, commanding every soldier to rise from their places beside their fires to stand straight, facing her. The clatter of armor against armor is nearly deafening, followed at once by an eerie silence as they listen. “Queen Myla Alerys of Falkmere.” He draws attention to her, then steps out of view, leaving her the sole focus.
For a brief moment, Myla fears her words will fail her, as she feels like nothing she says can convey the depth of her gratitude to their loyalty. Alas, a spark inside her seems to banish the pain and fear, replacing it with the need to reassure her men that she has every intention of doing right by them, honoring their sacrifices, and rewarding them greatly. They have not come in vain; a gift from the Gods, Lenore might call it.
With a quivering breath in, she speaks. “You have traveled on the wings of faith,” she begins, her voice stronger than she expects. “Faith that you would find me here, awaiting you with answers. So, answers you will get.”
With confidence, her voice grows to a shout, hoping to invigorate the ocean of warriors before her. “Tonight, we find ourselves on the precipice of a battle, which I believe the Gods will see to victory. For too long, the Blood Stealer has cursed our realm and brought our people to their knees. I do not know a single soul untouched by him, be it personally or through a loved one. It is time for his reign of terror to come to an end!”
A shout of approval erupts, silenced only when she lifts a hand in the air prompting it. “We have faced a grave defeat, and we have lost those we love. I stand here today, humbled by your presence, your resilience, and your loyalty. I thank you all for sacrificing all that you have to come to me in my time of need. Your efforts will not go unrewarded.”
A tremble of pain trickles through her veins, a hot sweat collecting on her brow. Myla ignores it, clenching her fists for leverage against the increasing discomfort. “I carry within myself, the heir of your beloved King Caius. For too long, his blood has lived in my womb, frozen in time. I feared what might happen to the child—the only Restorer left—should I allow it to enter this world.
“I understand my absence has surely been alarming, I hope you see now that it has been for the life and safety of our future king or queen.”
At first, grumbles of confusion ripple through the crowd, soon replaced with invigorated roars of excitement, and renewed hope when Rhyland raises a fist to the sky and screams, “Long live the heir!”
“Rest tonight,” Myla commands once the roar subsides. “Rally your courage and prepare. Soon we fight.” Myla feels there is so much more she could and should say to these road-weary men, but the tightness of her chest, and the insatiable urge to fall on the swords of the men before her, cuts her speech short. Quietly, she turns to Bryar. “I need to get back in the ward. Now.”
Without a word, Bryar takes her arm, leading her quickly back toward the tree line. As a suffocating tightness seizes her chest, Myla realizes she does not remember walking such a great distance. Lifting her skirts, she takes longer strides, begging the Goddess to send her even a drop more strength. A mere minute passes, agonizing waves of pain coursing through her body, as the need to shut down and cease to exist overwhelms her nervous system.
When at last she stumbles into the safety of the ward, Myla releases her grip on Bryar, ignoring the watchful eyes of the Ashborn king and queen, and continues walking onward on her own.
Rhyland and Bryar catch up to her, Rhyland making some playful remark about the speed of pregnant women. Myla ignores it, her senses not yet ready to receive any level of humor. The trio walks back to the palace in silence, but instead of entering, Myla sits upon the steps, overlooking the tranquility of the various paths leading into the darkness of the woods. She now knows, one path leads to the heart of the city, the wealthy manors and shops above, another to the training arena, and the third to the residential district where Lenore lives.
She allows the stillness of the night to soothe her pounding heart, bringing it to a place of equal stillness. The black vignette, which previously threatened to close around her vision, fades away, leaving her with a clear view of her comrades watching her, waiting for her to speak. Looking at Imogene and Ivan, Myla offers the sincerest smile she can conjure, considering her aching body. “I am indebted to you. Thank you for offering my troops a safe place to rest.”
Imogene nods graciously. “There was a time, many centuries ago, when your kind offered aid to the Ashborn. It is the least we can do.”
When the king and queen have retired, Rhyland and Bryar sit next to her. “Tell me.” She looks to Rhyland. “Who are the captives you spoke of in your letter?”
He shakes his head. “I could not tell you, Your Grace. Townsfolk reported seeing the Blood Stealer leave with a slew of hooded captives dragging behind. I sent Callum to scout out the situation.”
“Good,” Myla praises. “He will get answers, without starting another war.” Her eyes sparkle slightly as she glances at the younger man, hinting at his impulsive disposition. “You have done well. Thank you.”
Rhyland shrugs, his face flushed with exhaustion and the red beneath his eyes a combination of sleeplessness and dirt buildup. “It is what friends do, Myla.” He stands to leave, patting Bryar on the shoulder in a silent goodnight.
Alone, the space between she and Bryar seems smaller now. What was two feet of distance before, feels like maybe two inches now. His proximity to her is a stark reminder that, unless something changes, there will be a great distance between them soon. Two to three weeks of travel, to be exact.
The notion sinks into the depressions of her stomach, bringing a different sort of urgency to her attention. The kind that Lenore might call a sign from the Gods. A call for her to make a decision.
In her peripheral, Bryar sits, forearms perched on his knees, supporting his arched frame as he watches the lantern light flicker across the trees before them. His jaw moves forward and backwards as though he is chewing his thoughts to a pulp. Myla waits, watching, studying the shadows cast across his features and where his toned body ebbs and flows. Things she should not be looking at, yet she does. She wonders what goes through his mind—is it thoughts of his future? His place here in Valyndor? Not daring to disrupt the contented still between them, she merely sits, waiting for him to speak.
It is a long while before he does.
“You were a queen tonight,” he says finally. “You were not Caius’s widow. You were not your father’s daughter. You were just you. A queen who cares.”
Myla reaches above her head, pulling her crown off and twirling it between her palms. “I could not face them as anything less.”
“But you could have,” he disagrees, “and you did not. For that, I am proud of you.”
She allows herself to look his way, swearing not to slip into the abyss of his endlessly searching eyes. Soft green eyes, like the wildest parts of the forest. Eyes that invite her to melt into the softness and discover the version of herself he so fondly sees.
The version of herself that must be true, for he does not lie.
“I have not felt like a queen in a long time. I confess, I do not exactly know what it is to be a queen without Caius or my father. I was not prepared for how naked I would feel, wearing a crown alone.”
Bryar kicks a small pebble with the toe of his black boot, the grinding of rock on rock a disruption to the peace of the crickets and wind. “When I told my father I planned to join the King’s Guard, he said, ‘Son, nothing will scare you more than what you do not know. So, pretend you know it until you are not scared anymore,’ and I have lived by those words. I believe joining the King’s Guard has been far less terrifying than being the queen.” He smiles at her. “I think you have done well, with what you have been given.”
“It is time to do more, though,” Myla adds, daring to inch her fingers near where his rest on his thigh. Though not a surprise, Myla is relieved when his hand closes around hers instinctually. “I am going to ask something I know I do not have a right to.”
He turns his attention completely to her, nodding in ready. “You can ask me anything.”
Myla takes a deep breath, ready for the pain that might come from the answer. “At breakfast, Phaenna insinuated that something had occurred between you two.”
Eyes squinting in confusion, he tilts his head. “Phaenna?”
“Yes,” Myla elaborates. “She made it seem as though you shared a moment . . . perhaps an intimate one. I know I have no business asking about your private life anymore, but I feel as though I need to be prepared if you are moving on.”
Bryar’s eyebrows press together in disgust. “If by shared moment, you mean she was disappointed when I rejected her, and so she threw herself on one of the soldiers instead, then yes. A moment occurred. But that would be the extent of it.”
Myla releases a sigh of relief she had not realized she was holding on to, her head lowering slightly, hiding the faint smile stealing across her face. Thank the Gods.
“For the record,” Bryar adds, his hand still tightly around hers, “I did not remain alone and celibate for five years just to trip over the first woman a king sends my way. I have eyes only for you, Myla Alerys, and I always will.”
Hesitant, slow at first, Myla leans close, testing the breath between them, longing to remove all restraints and kiss him. He does not move, his eyes fixed on the fullness of her lips as they loiter mere inches from his.
“I do not know how this works,” she whispers, “but I know I once told you I would give everything up for a life with you. I meant it then, and I mean it now.”
His voice aches as he leans closer, “I will tell you how this works. You may be queen, but you are still mine.” Bryar closes the gap, his lips warm against hers. His hand finds the back of her neck, drawing her in for a long-awaited kiss, slow and savoring, the kind that apologizes and makes up in one breath.
If kisses could heal wounds, every single one of hers, past and present, would vanish.
“Yes,” she agrees breathlessly. “I am yours.”
Felicity has just left. The moon casts brilliant rays of light across Myla’s bed as she lies, hands on her stomach, watching the shadow of the curtains dancing across the ceiling, warmed by the glow of the fire. Her mind races with thoughts of all the evening has held. From her army, a mere stone’s throw away, to the kiss she and Bryar shared. Here she lies, a woman, well advanced in pregnancy, certain she has never been more aroused by anything than that kiss. Myla smiles at the notion, allowing her eyes to fall closed, heavy with a need for peaceful sleep, when a knock sounds at her door.
Sitting upright, she is lured from her bed by the disturbance of a second knock. On the other side of the door, Bryar’s muffled voice whispers, asking for admittance. She moves across the room, and swings the door bar over to allow him in.
“Is everything alright?” she asks, surprised to see him in her room for the first time in months.
“Yes,” he nods earnestly. “If now is not a good time, I will come back in the morning?” He takes note of her hair in a loose braid over her shoulder and her eyes heavy.
“No,” Myla shakes her head reassuringly. “Come in.” She bars the door behind her, then moves to the chest at the foot of her bed, drawing a loose shawl around her body, self-conscious of the ways she has changed since he last saw her so bare.
“My mind has been racing since we spoke earlier,” he admits, standing cautiously on the opposite side of the room from her.
Myla sits on the edge of the bed, watching his countenance shift, teetering on the edge of baring his soul, and saying nothing at all.
With a breath of confidence, he takes a few steps closer. “You said you do not know how this works, between you and me. What I know is, they say men move on quicker than women. That love has an end. Maybe that is true for other men, but for me, I have not moved on at all. I have not taken a single step forward from that place I was left standing six years ago. Maybe it was foolish; sometimes it felt like sitting next to a grave, willing a corpse to open its eyes and speak again. Nonetheless, I have stayed here in this place, loyal to you alone. You say the girl I love does not exist anymore, but when I separate you from your fears, I see she is still there.
“I have wondered if I might regret saying something, because when I look at what I am asking you to choose, it is preposterous. But I know I will regret it for the rest of my life, and I think you will too . . . if I do not ask you to marry me. So . . .” Like a man, falling to his knees in a final plea, begging for his life, he kneels before her, grasping both of her hands in his, his eyes searching hers, ready to receive whatever he finds reflected in them. “Myla, please say you will be my wife, and we can figure everything else out together?”
Of all the questions Myla has ever been asked, this is the only one that has ever made her feel light, as though her heart has detached from her body entirely and is carried away on a dreamy wind. “It is not too late, after everything?” she asks, holding desperately to his hands, her eyes blurring with tears.
“My love,” he confesses with a gust of nervous laughter, “call me a fool, but my deathbed would not be too late for us.”
Myla nods fiercely, not caring that the shawl has fallen away, or that stray hairs now cling to her tear dampened cheeks. She does not care that she is defying the rules of men, nor that she is trampling the consecrated ground of her father’s carefully laid foundation for her.
For once, she picks herself.
“Then, yes,” she answers with certainty, falling forward into his arms. “I will be your wife. And regarding everything else . . . I can safely tell my daughter there are worse fates than not being queen. If there is no clear path back to the throne . . . then I shall consider her a lucky little girl, and we see what else the Gods have planned for her.”
Bryar’s arms coil tightly around her. “We will let her choose her own life, as is her right.”
Daylight finds them in a tangle of bedsheets, groggy from a night of sleeplessness, but content.
“I must admit, I am surprised,” Myla whispers, as though a louder voice may break the euphoric spell they linger in. Her fingers trace the gold of his tattoos, enamored at how they shine.
“What of?” Bryar asks, looking sidelong at her nestled in the crook of his arm.
She flashes a coy smile. “That you found the courage
to conquer me in my . . . mountainous state.”
Bryar wears a lazy half smile as he rolls onto his stomach to face her, drawing a line down the curve of her nose. “I assure you, my love, I have conquered much larger mountains as of late, none so appealing as yours.”
With a gasp, imitating insult, she jabs a finger into his finely conditioned abdomen, “When do you have to leave for training?”
He sits up with a groan, squinting with one eye open toward the curtained window. “Something tells me I am late already.”
Bryar stands and retrieves his clothes from the foot of the bed, much to Myla’s chagrin. She is, however, diligent to enjoy every inch of exposed skin until he is fully clothed, at which point, she falls back onto the pillows. Lazily, she looks up at the tapestries displayed on the ceiling, listening to Bryar give account of when and where he will be, assuring her of his return later in the day, and hinting at promises of more ‘conquering’.
Britches on and tying the laces of his tunic, he turns to her. “What will you do today?” he asks, draping her discarded shift on the foot of the bed.
“I would like to check on Lenore,” she says, beginning to dress. “I will meet with Rhyland as well. I want to go back over the details of what is happening in Falkmere. Then, I will meet with the queen, Imogene.”
Bryar looks over his shoulder at her, blindly fastening the straps of his breastplate. “What for?”
“To arrange a proper Ashborn marriage,” she answers matter-of-factly, looking at him with a confident smile. “I see no point in wasting time. We have wasted enough already.”
Bryar clasps his cloak and walks to her side of the bed, pressing a gentle kiss onto her forehead. “You will find no argument here. Let me know what she says.”
Before the day grows busy, flanked by two of her newly arrived guards, Myla arrives at Lenore’s house bearing a basket of breakfast scones and hard-boiled eggs, a small feast which her fledglings turn to crumbs in no time. They are now outside, where Myla left her guards, taunting the armor-clad men and begging for shoulder rides, much to Myla’s amusement. Watching from the window above, she sees her guards engaged in a fierce pinecone war with the fledglings. She can not help but wonder if the simplicity of this day is a relief, compared to the past few months.
Having saved Lenore a plate, Myla places it near where her friend sits along with a steaming cup of tea. From the bottom of the basket, she reveals a vial of ointment she obtained from Gertrude on her way here. “She says this will help with healing.”
Lenore smiles thankfully. “I have birthed nine fledglings now, and this is the first time I have had someone look in on me. I will be sure to return the favor, when your time comes.”
“It is not a favor,” Myla says softly, smiling at her friend. “It is friendship. Though, I must admit I have been lonely for a long time. It might even be selfish, my being here.”
“Selfish or not,” Lenore emphasizes, “thank you for making these days easier.” The Ashborn woman looks her up and down, a sly smile stealing across her face. “You look different. What has changed?”
“I listened to you, ” Myla replies, hiding her flushed cheeks behind a long sip of tea.
“Which parts?” Lenore probes.
“. . . all of them, it would seem.”
“Myla!” Lenore says aghast. “You have been inside my home for thirty minutes and have failed to tell me that you are no longer as neglected as old Falkmere!”
Myla nearly spews a mouthful of tea, barely managing to swallow the hot liquid before joining Lenore in a brief fit of laughter. “Do not make me regret confiding in you.”
“No,” Lenore forces a pretend expression of solemnness. “It is just . . . first monks, then trees, and now, well . . .” She gestures to Myla’s round stomach. “Pregnancy is a whole other stroke. You have peculiar inclinations, not to mention that man of yours.”
“Desperate times,” Myla defends, reaching for half a breakfast scone abandoned by the youngest fledgling. “I am famished this morning.”
“I imagine you are,” Lenore teases. “So, what will you do now?”
Myla sighs, chewing the rest of the scone before responding. “Try to find a way to convince forty thousand men to follow me once I marry a man only slightly higher in rank than them. Then, if I am successful there, I will beg the Gods to smile upon me, as I do the same assembling a new Council.”
“The army will be easier to coax than a council,” Lenore says, frankly. “Men fighting for something often cling to any semblance of hope, especially if it points to their kind making something of themselves. The Council, however, will be threatened. You must remain strong.”
Myla nods, playing with a fray in the hem of her wrist cuff. “Like you told me yesterday, I have to decide which parts of my story I will choose for myself, and which parts I will give to the Gods.”
“I think you have chosen well,” Lenore encourages. “I was hoping this is what you would do.”
Myla spends an hour and a half with Lenore. When she leaves, the clutter left behind by her fledglings is cleared, the dishes are put up, and the newest addition is bathed. Myla promises to come again in the morning, then returns to the palace to seek out Rhyland. Though it is later in the day than Myla usually takes breakfast, she joins Rhyland for a plate full of cured meat and biscuits, noting again the rapid increase in her appetite.
“How was the condition of the palace?” she asks, watching as Rhyland eats like a half-starved man.
“Well,” he mumbles with a mouthful of biscuit. Swallowing hard, he washes down the food with a long sip of warm ale. “I would say the worst of it is in the throne room, but the Imposter King seems to be making quick work of it. Everything else, though a bit dirty and scuffed up from what looks to be magic play, is alright.”
“And what sort of attitude does my father’s army have toward him?” she asks, gnawing nervously at her bottom lip. “Could they be swayed to join our cause?”
He shakes his head, looking as perplexed as she. “I am afraid I do not know,” Rhyland admits. “I have yet to send scouts in to get a read on the political climate.”
Phaenna walks in, her eyes lingering a little too long on Myla with a look of disgust.
Myla fixes her gaze on the young woman, silently accepting the challenge. The Ashborn sits at a separate table, being the first to break the gaze.
Clearing her throat, Myla looks back to Rhyland, who watches the exchange curiously. “Send scouts,” she insists, not bothering to answer his unasked question. “It will be good to know what we are dealing with. When do we expect Callum’s return?”
“Within a week,” Rhyland answers, eyes still flickering inquisitively to where Phaenna sits. “What was that?” he asks, unable to resist the question any longer.
“ That, ” Myla responds, “is the woman our lovely hosts practically force-fed Bryar when we arrived.”
Unimpressed, Rhyland’s eyebrows arch. “She does realize she is looking at a queen, right?” Myla looks back at Phaenna, finding her gaze hot and challenging.
“Let it be, Rhyland,” Myla says in a low command. “She is not worth my time.”
“Oh,” Rhyland agrees, “absolutely not. But she is well worth mine.” He stands, walking across the room until he is toe to toe with Phaenna, her sharp eyes piercing holes into his.
Myla stands, absently adjusting the black buttons on the cuffs of her sleeve, before approaching the two, arriving in time to hear the end of Rhyland’s short and sweet threat.
“. . . I have traveled through hell and shit alike to get here, and I am not in a mood to watch my queen snubbed. You would do well to control your face in her presence.
“Come,” Myla says calmly, not bothered to meet Phaenna’s impetuous gaze, “we have better things to do right now.”
Phaenna stands, crossing her arms. “You realize it is an insult to the Ashborn kind for him to entertain a life with you.” It is not a question, it is a statement, one she delivers with conviction.
Myla glances over her shoulder, looking down on the girl with indifference. “If you are so concerned about the purity of the Ashborn bloodline, then you have already contradicted yourself with your interest in him . Get your convictions straight, and then come talk to me. Otherwise, I will not waste my time listening to you make a fool of yourself.” Myla walks away, leaving Phaenna to marinate in her self-inflicted humiliation.
Rhyland is close behind, a brief snort indicating he is incredibly satisfied with the outcome of the conversation.
“ Your Grace ,” he says stunned, a grin on his face. “I think you just made a grown woman cry.”
“Grown women do not behave like that ,” Myla remarks. “I made a child cry.”
“Despicable,” Rhyland teases, catching up with her fast pace. “Myla,” he pleads breathlessly. “For a pregnant woman, you walk really fast. Where are we going?”
“ I am going to visit, Queen Imogene,” Myla corrects, stopping to face him. “I need you to report back to Bryar, and be sure the troops are to his standards. Tell him, I would like scouts sent to Falkmere and to figure out how he would like to accomplish that.”
“I should report to him now? While he is training?”
“Yes,” Myla answers. “We have no time to waste. He will be done shortly. You can wait there for him to be done.”
Rhyland leaves and Myla motions to the guards behind her to follow her outside. It is unusually sunny, the leaves overhead looking like red, yellow, and orange stained-glass windows to the heavens. She follows the trail which initially leads to the city, jutting off to the left, then down a narrower trail, which brings her to Ivan and Imogene’s throne.
Imogene sits, a young fledgling on her lap. The child gazes up at her, laughing with a bunched-up nose at something the queen says. When Imogene sees Myla, she gently slides the child from her lap, sending him off to play.
Myla bows before approaching. “Was that your son?”
Imogene nods, a soft smile stealing over her normally stoic features. “He has returned from a fledgling expedition and looks forward to showing his father and I all he learned.”
Myla watches as the child disappears into the woods. “Do all fledglings go on this expedition?”
Imogene shakes her head. “Only those who will sit on the throne.” Her attention passes briefly over Myla who stands, arms folded before her in waiting. “You have come with something specific on your mind. What is it?”
Myla takes a step closer, and postures confidently, knowing her request may not be kindly received. After a moment of deliberation, she chooses her words wisely. “I have read much on Ashborn customs in my time here. Marriages of an Ashborn must be approved and conducted by their queen.”
Imogene’s lips purse. “That is correct.”
Myla tips her chin slightly in acknowledgment. “Bryar and I will marry,” she states, leaving no room for negotiation. “I would like to honor his heritage by joining together in an Ashborn marriage, and I know that can only happen with your blessing.”
Imogene’s eyebrows arch and she appears unimpressed. “In the history of Ashborn marriages, never have we conducted one between a half-blood and a human. I was willing to marry him to a full-blooded Ashborn—a reintegration of sorts. I do not believe his marriage to you would be well received by those who have honored our unified power source for centuries.”
Myla bites down on the reprimand that nips at her tongue, staying cool instead. “In all respect,” she challenges, “Bryar is the most powerful Ashborn, half-blood or not, within this kingdom. It is why you and Ivan accepted him so willingly. I know it. You know it. We both know that something in his parentage makes him powerful, and I can only assume it is his mother. Her magic must have been similar to . . . say . . . yours. ” She pauses; her fierce eyes boring into the stone-cold features of the queen before her. “What you do not know yet, is that I am someone you want as an ally.”
“Why?” Imogene laughs, standing now to level with Myla. “How would the Ashborn benefit from an alliance with you?”
Myla watches the queen pace slow circles around her, looking for chips in her armor, any sign of weakness. Myla intends to give her none.
“Because,” she responds, “I am the only being left in the realm who channels the Voice of the Gods.”
Imogene’s eyes widen slightly before she checks her expression, returning to a stiff blanket of neutrality. “Why have you not used it on the Blood Stealer then?” she challenges, trying to sniff out a lie. “Would the Voice of the Gods not stop a Blood Stealer?” Naturally, she would not know. The Voice of the Gods has not been heard in centuries.
Myla shakes her head. “It stuns him; it does not break his blood oaths.”
“So, what you are saying,” Imogene coos, her words heavily drenched in mockery, “is that you need us.”
Myla tips her chin upward, eyeing the belligerent queen from the corner of her eye. “I do, and I am not ashamed to say it.”
Imogene laughs, a light tinkling in the breeze. “It seems we bring far more to the table than you do.”
A familiar rage sparks in her chest and her fingertips tingle, the sudden urge to entangle Imogene in a twist of blinding light, insatiable. “Let me ask you,” Myla nearly spits between her teeth, “why do you think an army of forty thousand men just marched for weeks to camp on your doorstep in hopes that I would be here with answers?”
“Because they are fools, all of them.” Imogene does not miss a beat, the words nearly dripping from her tongue. “And clearly lead by a man blind with love. Like his parents before him.”
Myla spins to face Imogene, her hand swift in its grip on her chin, forcing them to stand, queen glaring at queen.
“What do you know of Bryar’s parents?”
Imogene wears a disgusted scowl. “I know his mother brought shame upon this court, and I know his father died with many secrets that are not mine to tell.”
Myla shivers and her eyes narrow in contempt. “Does he know that you know this?”
“Why would I distract his learning with unimportant details?” Imogene rationalizes.
“He has spent his whole life searching for his mother,” Myla retorts angrily. “He deserves to know the truth!”
“Says a queen who knows nothing of duty,” Imogene hisses.
“You underestimate me, and you insult my rule,” Myla growls, her forehead nearly pressed against Imogene’s, a demand for attention. “I arrived here weak, yes. But throughout my duration here, I have not been received with the respect owed to a queen. Had you showed up on my doorstep, wounded and in need of refuge, in no way would you have been left invisible and dishonored in my halls. Your court ought to be ashamed of their reception of the Queen of Falkmere.”
Imogene’s nostrils flare, her skin red where Myla holds fast to her face, releasing her only when Imogene’s guards’ approach, eager to aid their queen. Imogene waves them away, a ferocity in her eyes. “If you want to be respected, Myla of Falkmere, you must demand it.”
“No,” Myla retorts with a whip of her head. “I believe respect is earned and reciprocated.”
Imogene watches as Myla paces back and forth, her intense glare never once wavering. After what feels like several minutes, the Ashborn queen speaks. “I have seen nothing from you that suggests you are anything more than a scared little girl, thrown into a role you should never have been given. You speak of power, yet I have not seen it; hardly any infamy follows you. You speak of earning respect, yet you allow yourself to be trampled over. I am unimpressed with you, and I am disinclined to perform an Ashborn marriage on someone so unworthy of their mate.”
It is not the unrestrained insults that tip Myla over the edge, nor is it the suggestion she, as a queen and a well-rounded woman, is somehow undeserving of Bryar. It is the way she speaks, so similar to the way the men of her Council used to, as though she is an uneducated child in need of enlightenment.
It begins as a warmth in her throat, a buildup of magic materializing into waves of fury. Light drips from her fingertips, sizzling on the chilled stones beneath her, ready to unify in one flash of electric shock. The Ashborn queen takes note of the simmering power, a brief eye roll dismissing Myla entirely.
Imogene, back turned, is none the wiser, her words continuing to cast judgment until the final statement unleashes a beast she is unprepared for. “Go home to Falkmere, and ask the new king how you might best serve him. It seems that is where you belo—”
Without warning, two guards come barreling into the space between Myla and Imogene, flames balled at their fists. Before they can make it three strides closer, Myla loses her light, binding them in a tangled mess together, suspended by a rope of magic to the trees overhead. Particles of light by the millions hang suspended in the air around them, ringing and casting a blinding glow in every direction.
Imogene’s eyes flair, a brief moment of shock passing through her before she steps backward, fixing in a crouched position, her hands pressed together, summoning her own flames of fury.
From Myla’s lungs, unrestrained and fueled with hatred, the Voice of the Gods raises from her throat in a deafening bellow, which causes the earth beneath them to tremble, a deep crack forming beneath Imogene’s throne. A light engulfs Myla, bright enough to stun the Ashborn queen to her knees, arms shielding her face from blindness as the light extends well beyond the circular opening. The flicker of magic Imogene managed before Myla’s display dies between her palms, her energy distributing throughout her body to act as a shield.
“How dare you treat me as though I am less of a queen than you.” Myla’s words are distorted, carrying with them the voices of the Gods and Goddesses speaking in harmony.
Imogene screams, covering her ears and squeezing her eyes shut. A trickle of blood runs down her cheek as her eardrums rupture.
“Do not be so naive as to underestimate me, I will have either your allegiance, or your submission. ”
The Ashborn queen, tall and regal only minutes ago, is curled on the ground, her knees to her chest and her arms cupping her head to ease the sensation of her brain splitting in half. Myla wills her magic back within herself, casting a glance at the crack, which is nearly wide enough to swallow the throne within. Ivan and two dozen guards’ approach with frenzied shouts, but Imogene holds up a hand, ordering their halt. Her amulet strobes violently now, calling to Ivan for help. His amulet blinks in response and at once, Imogene appears less distressed. Her husband carries the burden with her.
“May I offer you a hand, Your Grace?” Myla hisses, extending a hand down to the queen, who struggles to rise. It is not a nicety. It is not an offer of friendship; it is a final warning. One which Imogene inspects with fearful eyes before accepting.
Once standing, she looks from Myla to Ivan, and then to Bryar, who comes running into the destroyed space, a look of horror on his face.
His first response is to reach for the sword at his waist. Rhyland is behind him, flanked by several of Myla’s guards, who refrain from drawing their weapons at her command.
“Do you need assistance, Your Grace?” Bryar asks, standing a few strides behind her.
“No,” Myla assures, her eyes never wavering from Imogene’s. “It was a misunderstanding, was it not?”
Imogene lifts her chin, small bruises specking it from Myla’s fingertips, and blood staining the yellow collar of her dress.
“Indeed,” she agrees, a look of admiration slowly replacing the fear and anger. “I see now that I underestimated you . . . The Queen Who Bleeds Stars .” She glances down at the crack separating them and steps over it. “Let us have no more rifts between us.”