Page 24 of A Thousand Burning Ravens (The Queen Who Bleeds Stars #1)
“WHAT WAS THAT ?” Bryar whispers, voice heavy with concern as they walk away from Ivan inspecting Imogene for serious wounds.
“ That was the beginning of an alliance,” Myla hisses, pressing a flat palm against her stomach, breathing through a brief surge of pain. “It seems the little one does not appreciate my efforts on her behalf.”
Bryar shuts the door of their chambers behind him, latching it closed, visibly stepping into problem solving mode. “Are you sure it was an alliance? Did you just start a war between us and the Ashborn?” His eyebrows are raised on his forehead and his posture is tense, ready to turn right around and go fight somebody.
“No,” Myla’s laughter sounds like long-withheld gusts of stress breaking free. “She challenged me, and I showed her I was not to be questioned.”
Bryar purses his lips, deep in thought, pacing over to the balcony window which overlooks the front terrace, scoping for any signs of guards coming to collect them.
“She . . . also gave me the impression of knowing exactly who your mother was.”
Bryar turns, stunned. “What did she say?”
“Only that your mother brought shame to Valyndor and your father died with many secrets.”
Bryar shakes his head dismissively. “That sounds speculative. Anyone could say that.”
“I am not so sure,” Myla disagrees, but his body language screams an unwillingness to investigate further, so she drops the topic.
“So, what is your plan now?” Bryar asks after a moment.
Myla checks her reflection in the mirror, straightening her crown and the curls over her shoulders before advancing toward the door. “I am going to finish my conversation.”
“Myla,” he objects from behind, as she barges out into the corridor with purpose. “Stop. This is not necessary. We do not need an Ashborn marriage to—”
Myla turns to face him, her features sharp and fierce with determination. “We do not need it. But I will not leave here without their alliance. The only reason they will not join our cause is because they have gravely underestimated me, and I have no intention of allowing that any longer. Ashborn marriage or no, I will not walk away without their commitment to stand beside us in battle.”
With a nervous sigh, Bryar follows her once more, the clank of his armor echoing through the halls and announcing their approach well before they come toe-to-toe with Ivan and Imogene, who presses a wet rag to her ears.
“Your Grace,” Imogene says flatly, a begrudged acknowledgment of the queen before her. “It seems we have much to discuss.”
Myla tips her chin, not daring to lower her eyes, lest she give the impression that she intends to concede in the least. “It seems we do.”
Everyone is dismissed. Not a single guard, man, nor servant can be found, and Myla is received inside Imogene’s personal sitting room, a warm reception area, full of plump chairs one could lose themselves inside. Arched windows face the forest with benches built into their frames. They are adorned in tasseled pillows and heavy red velvet curtains billowing at their edges. A fire crackles in the hearth, casting an orange hue on moody art which hangs on the walls, nearly every inch covered in beautiful paintings. Above her door hangs a majestic pair of metal wings, glinting in the light, scuffed with the scars of past battles.
Imogene sits, curling her feet beneath her. “Let us talk, Myla. Woman to woman.”
Myla sits across from her, noticing the table cluttered in ink sketches. “Are they yours?” she asks, motioning to the art.
Imogene nods. “I enjoy drawing what I see.”
Myla inspects the half-finished drawings, admiring the attention to detail. “I do not wish to be enemies,” Myla says at last. “I feel we are very alike, you and I.”
Imogene runs her tongue over her teeth with a hiss of wind seething between them. “A detail I seemed to overlook. How uncharacteristic of me,” she admits, her eyes fixated on Myla. “Surely, you must see that breaking with tradition will cause an uproar.”
“Will it?” Myla challenges. “Or will it show your people, you are a just queen who rules with reason, willing to change to meet the needs of all her people. What will it say to your people when you show a half-blood the same respect you offer them? I believe it will earn you a greater level of trust.”
“Trust, perhaps,” Imogene agrees. “But what of order? If I bless your union, what is to stop others from mating outside of the Ashborn race?”
Myla’s eyes narrow. “As far as I am aware, yours is the only race in the realm that keeps to themselves. Perhaps it is time to change that. It does not say much about your trust in your own people’s power if it can be so easily threatened by other equally powerful kinds.”
Imogene inhales deeply, absently stroking a feather tucked behind her ear. “What do I gain from this proposal of yours?”
“My word that, should the Ashborn ever need the help of Falkmere, you shall have it,” Myla assures.
“You do not sit on the throne, Myla.”
“No,” Myla counters, “but I carry a powerful heir nonetheless, and I come with a powerful army who will continue to follow me when they see the eyes of the Restorer in my child.”
Imogene takes a deep breath, nodding slowly, her eyes fixed on Myla’s stomach. “How can you be sure your child will be a Restorer?”
“Her father was a Restorer.”
“Who died, nearly three years ago.”
“My magic can do incredible things,” Myla replies casually. “Question my child’s legitimacy as much as you like. When she is born, her eyes will glow in rings of blue mist, just like her father’s.”
Silence fills the space between them, Imogene visibly mulling over Myla’s proposal. At last, she stands, her plumage casting severe shadows across her face. “As one queen to another, I choose to believe your intentions are pure. However, our alliance will be made official with a betrothal. Your first child with the captain, will wed Ashborn royalty.”
Myla tenses, her convictions challenged, as she imagines telling her future child who they will marry. Giving up her child’s right to choose. Myla weighs the consequences. If she does not form an alliance here today, she and Bryar will not be granted an Ashborn marriage, and they will not face the Blood Stealer with as much force as they could if she does agree to Imogene’s terms. Given the circumstances, it is likely Myla, Bryar, and the child inside her would not make it far anyway. Not to mention the forty thousand men encamped outside Valyndor as they speak, ready to sacrifice their lives to her cause. A sacrifice she can not take lightly. A good queen—at least the kind of queen she wants to be—would do everything in her power to ensure her people are given the best chance at life possible.
With a resolving breath, Myla nods, reaching out to shake Imogene’s hand. “I accept your terms.”
An alliance contract is drawn up by nightfall. Myla insists on a few dozen of her soldiers being welcomed into Valyndor to witness the beginning of the Falkmere and Ashborn union, so they might return to the encampment and tell the others what has happened: a tale of hope. A place for Bryar’s signature is also included, per Myla’s request, as it includes his future child.
As they make their way to the great hall where they will sign the contract, Myla wills her breath to steady.
“Are we making a mistake?” she asks, looking to Bryar for a word of confidence. “Signing our future child up for the same fate I endured?”
Bryar’s jaw tenses as he glances sidelong at her. “Perhaps,” he admits. “I do not see how we have an alternative. Defeating the Blood Stealer with the Ashborn will be challenging enough. Without them, I do not foresee it happening at all.”
Myla stops before the entry to the great hall and looks down at her shimmering skirts, smoothing the wrinkles of the deep green material over her belly. “Very well.”
Bryar clears his throat, peering past her into the hall. “I must admit, this is not exactly my area of expertise,” he says in a low whisper. “I am used to standing behind you, watching your back.”
“Now you will stand beside me,” she replies curtly, linking her arm with his. “Where you have always belonged.”
The room is fuller than Myla has seen it in the ten weeks they have been here. Ashborn courtiers and guards, Falkmere soldiers, fledglings and adults alike, stand lining the path leading to the table where Ivan and Imogene sit, blue sapphire crowns a breathtaking contrast to their fiery hair and plumage. With Bryar in step beside her, seen now as her equal, not her guard—much to the surprise of the men he has trained for battle—they approach.
The two couples exchange bows of formality, before Ivan addresses the crowd of onlookers, eager to understand the meaning of the meeting called to order.
“It is with great honor that House Ashborn joins in allegiance with House Alerys,” Ivan announces, his voice booming with conviction. “To mark the beginning of our unity, my Queen, Imogene, shall bestow the blessing of an Ashborn marriage bond upon Queen Myla Alerys and Sir Bryar Monroe of Falkmere.”
There is a ripple of murmurs which overtake the room, looks of both shock and delusion in equal measure pass over the faces of the onlookers. At this, Myla straightens and faces the room, locking her eyes with one Falkmere soldier after another, holding their attention firm.
“You wonder what has occurred that allows the marriage of a queen’s guard to the queen herself.” Some chuckles quiver awkwardly through the room, silenced by a severe look. “ I have occurred,” she insists, her words growing in strength with passion. “I will no longer perpetuate a system which says this is as good as it gets.” She gestures to her soldiers.
“For many of you, achieving the rank of knight has been a struggle—an honor your fathers before would never have dreamed of. So, to see Sir Bryar stand beside me tonight as my equal, may very well feel an insult to your efforts. I ask that you take it as it is intended, a symbol of hope for your own future and that of your children.
“And I ask that when we march in to battle in the coming days, you will look at your fellow comrades, the Ashborn, and you will see no longer a separate army and a separate people, but you will see your own kind, and the kind belonging to your queen’s husband. I ask you to defend them as you would your fellow brothers-in-arms.
“In those most desperate moments, unity is the only way we will defeat the Blood Stealer and live to see a morning in the Seam where the sun does not rise a blood red.” Myla’s words are met with a roar of approval, not only from her soldiers, but Ashborn as well. Turning back, she watches as both Ivan and Imogene sign the contract, before turning it to face she and Bryar.
“Before you sign,” Imogene says, moving from around the table. “There is another matter we must see to.” She motions to someone in the back of the room and with a screech of resistance, the roof overhead recedes, pulled by a lever until the night sky shines above, welcoming a cool breeze into the otherwise stifling room.
“I believe it is best that you sign this contract not as the queen’s guard, but as her husband,” Imogene says to Bryar, holding out a closed hand before unfurling her fingers to reveal two amulets of twisted gold in the shape of a fiery bird rising, each bird bearing only one wing. Within the intricate folds of the wings, carnelian and polished rubies glint.
“It is the Ashborn belief that a husband without his wife can not fly, and a wife without her husband can not either. Marriage customs include the exchange of a token infused with one’s own magic.” She places one amulet in Bryar’s hand and the other in Myla’s. “You must give of yourself today, and every day until death, starting with the sacrifice of some of your power into that amulet.”
Myla pictures the years she has sacrificed her power to her child, how effortless it comes, to share your strength with someone you love. Closing her eyes, she wraps her fingers around the cold metal of the one-winged bird, envisioning the transfer of magic. A cold chill sweep through her veins and a tinge of nausea threatens her composure as a piece of herself separates, infusing with the amulet. The metal grows warm with life.
When she opens her eyes, she watches as Bryar does the same, his hands aglow with a flame she is certain will melt the amulet before he can give it to her. Alas, his hand opens, and the amulet is intact, glistening all the same.
“These amulets will glow only for your intended. Should they fall into the wrong hands, they will be nothing but decorative.”
Imogene places a hand on each of their shoulders, her voice sweet like birdsong. “It is believed that the Ashborn never truly die. Some say, it is our ability to burn and revive; others, myself included, believe it is our loyalty to our people. When you step into an Ashborn marriage bond, it is not to be taken lightly, for the power you will wield as one is unique only to you, and it can not be replicated. You are each other’s life source. The death of one Ashborn mate is the death of the other. You can not fly without each other. Are you prepared to weave your days, your life, your magic, and your fate together, entrusting your wellbeing to the other?”
Imogene looks first to Bryar. “If this is a bond you are willing to give your life for, give your mate the amulet and your magic with it.”
Bryar looks at Myla, not as though he is observing, but seeing . Taking a step closer, the amulet dangles on a fine gold chain as he reaches around her neck, fastening it. “I have been willing to give my life for you since the day I met you,” he whispers in her ear before he moves back, examining the amulet resting on her collarbone.
Imogene now looks to Myla, her eyes flicking to the amulet cupped between Myla’s palms. “What of you, Queen of Falkmere? Shall you give your magic, and potentially your life for your Captain of the Guard?”
“ Oh ,” Myla says with a coy smile, “he is so much more, and I would die a hundred deaths for him.” Myla secures the clasp of the amulet around Bryar’s neck, metal clanking on metal as it meets with his breastplate. Her hand lingers, pressed flat against his chest, their eyes locked as Imogene speaks, completely oblivious to the hushed crowd watching, one face in particular beaming with pride as she hushes her newborn.
“In honor of your marriage, I bestow on you the gift of the Ashborn Flame—a marriage bond which welds your fates and magic together for eternity. May you meet the gates of death side-by-side, and may you feast together with the Gods in the afterlife.”
Myla flinches as a blast of hot flame launches itself from Imogene’s palms, bathing her and Bryar together in a glowing flash of orange and yellow, before slowly fading to blue. The flame, which should melt her skin from her bones, feels like nothing more than a warm summer breeze, and a light pulses from her amulet, Bryar’s magic protecting her already. In turn, light spills from her body, millions of stars spiraling in the vortex of their magic, blinding all but Myla and her husband.
Within seconds, the swirling energy returns to its owners, and the room takes on its natural lighting again.
“May the Ashborn Flame protect you both, and may your marriage be a legendary one,” Ivan says, standing beside his wife. “Now kiss your queen, and sign this contract so we can begin feasting.” His voice is laced with a hint of humor as he retrieves the quill, dipping it in ink readied for their signatures.
Bryar pulls Myla by the waist, bringing her as close as her round stomach will allow, and smiles into a kiss. “I love you, wife,” he says, as though the words themselves are a sacrament to the Gods. “Now, let us put a stop to that son of a bitch, so I can finally worship you in peace .”
“Perhaps, winning this war will be our wedding gift to one another,” she hums in response, allowing her lips to linger against his a little longer.
“I can think of more pleasant ways to celebrate,” Bryar retorts before leaning in to offer something filthy and exhilarating, sending a rush of red to her cheeks.
“Promise?” Myla whispers in his ear.
Her probing is met with a sly grin and a tip of his sharp chin, “I promise.”
Myla has barely finished her signature on the contract when the great double doors of the busy hall fling open, revealing Callum in a cloud of ash. He looks older, somehow. His hair is a mess, his eyes are heavy, and his armor is marked with new dents and scratches. He stands before them now, covered in a heavy layer of dust and soot from days of traveling through the Seam. His shoulders heave as he angrily throws two Ashborn guards off him. Both guards grunt in disgust, dutifully reaching to seize him, shouting commands of, “Stop in the name of the king.”
They are about to detain him once more when Myla twists to face them head-on. “Let him be!” she insists, her tone not to be defied. “He is with me.”
Concerned, Bryar maneuvers past her, followed closely by Rhyland.
Before either can ask any questions or make sense of his distress, a quivering plea for help brings Myla’s heart to a screeching halt. “Vesperian has Elsa.”