Page 25 of A Thousand Burning Ravens (The Queen Who Bleeds Stars #1)

SOMEWHERE, TUCKED WITHIN the darkest parts of the Blood Stealer’s vile castle, a two-day ride from Valyndor, Elsa has fallen victim to Vesperian. Across the room, Rhyland and Bryar strategize, Callum paces in an agonizing trance back and forth across the room.

“To make things worse,” Callum spews, continuing a rant that has not stopped since his arrival, “the road between here and the Seam is crawling with devilish wolves. Massive things.” He points to a bandage around his thigh. “ Fucking massive. ”

“We can handle some wolves,” Bryar says, about to offer solutions when Callum interjects again.

“I had to come back over the Seer’s Mountain to avoid a pack of them—we need to be prepared.”

Rhyland groans and looks at Myla. “Do you want me to make him forget the last few weeks so he will shut the fuck up. ” The latter statement is louder and enunciated, more of a command than a question.

“No,” Bryar insists. “Callum, focus— where did you leave the Raven’s Veil? Is Titonfall ready?”

“I can not focus!” Callum rages. “He has her, and he is hurting her!”

Rhyland now grabs Callum by the collar, pulling him upright, and bellows, “She is alive, man. That is more than you had a month ago! You can still save her! Now, pull it together.”

With raised eyebrows, Bryar watches the exchange and nods at Rhyland in approval, before turning to Callum once more. “Titonfall. The Raven’s Veil. Talk .”

Callum reveals that Titonfall waits for word to march on the Seam, but he has split the forces of the Raven’s Veil between Titonfall and a camp at the base of the mountains in the Seam. Myla and her armies are to meet them on their journey and battle Vesperian, resulting in an attack on Vesperian from both the north and east.

Myla lowers herself to the edge of the hearth in the great hall. A fog of guilt sneaks through every corner of her soul, visions of Elsa manipulated and misused plays over in her mind. “I thought she died,” Myla says finally, drawing the men’s attention her way. “I can not believe, I have sat here thinking she was somewhere with the Gods, to find that all this time I have abandoned her to the brutalities of Vesperian.”

Callum’s pacing resumes, his hands a frenzy of motions, first tangling in his rusty-blond hair, then grabbing at his sword as though the Blood Stealer is already near enough to stab, and finally he launches a volley of angry fireballs through the open ceiling, chasing them with a string of curses.

“She did not recognize me,” he admits, his voice breaking with emotion. “I went in with the Raven’s Veil one night to try and get her, but it was a mess. I could not reach her, and even if I could have,” his voice trails off into a sob, “she is his plaything now.”

“His what?” Myla demands, though she already knows the answer. She feels a painful lump form in her throat, threatening to suffocate her. “We need to go now,” she insists. “There is no reason to wait. We need to get her.” Myla stands, making for the door with every intention of donning her armor and rallying the troops, midnight or not. Anger courses through her veins.

“Wait,” Rhyland interjects. “Your Grace, you can hardly leave the ward without collapsing. We need a plan.” Then under his breath, “Being the voice of reason is exhausting.”

Myla nearly snarls, anger rising like a black monster in her chest, threatening to spill from her limbs in flashes of brutalizing light. “Do I look like I care? If I have to crawl, convulsing and suffocating to where Elsa is, I will. ”

Rhyland sighs, closing his eyes in frustration, as tensions in the room mount. “Myla, you must think of the child. There is no telling what sort of strain the Blood Stealer will put on it at this point.”

Myla slams a flat palm against the stone frame of the hearth, leaning toward the fire and letting its heat fuel hers. At least, she thinks it is heat from the hearth, until she catches the glint of her amulet, flashing red against her breast, and realizes it is Bryar’s power, which she shares in now.

“Everyone out,” she insists, pointing toward the double doors. Callum and Rhyland need no further command; they leave at once, but Bryar hesitates, walking toward her.

“You will not help Elsa by doing something rash.”

“Please, Bryar,” she says, sucking in a deep breath. “I just need a moment to think.”

Wordlessly, and with an understanding nod, he leaves, closing the doors behind him. Something intuitive takes hold of her and she plunges her hand into the flames of the hearth, unbothered by the searing heat, and retrieves a smoldering length of charcoal. Similar to the runes in the woods outside the monastery, Myla’s hand scrawls symbols onto the stone flooring. Only this time, she recognizes the symbols, for her mother taught them to her.

A curse.

A ruinous promise of death upon her enemies.

I am still here, Spirit Mother. Help me end this. Myla lifts her face to the sky, letting her fingertips grasp at the moon until she sees light travel down her arms, through her body, and into the stones beneath her, setting the runes aglow. They flash momentarily before disappearing from the floor

Her curse is given to the Gods, to do with as they see fit.

Myla watches the stars and temporarily considers visiting Lenore for more of her wonderful advice, when a thought strikes her. Something Lenore said resurfaces in her memories. “If you could channel your child’s magic, do you suppose that might help with your Blood Stealer issue?” Recalling she and Lenore’s conversation, Myla places a palm on her stomach, willing their spirits to unite as one

“Alright, little one,” she whispers. “I need you to be strong. I . . . I need you . I know as your mother, I should not be asking for your help, and I promise I will not make a habit of it. But it turns out you are a powerful little thing, and your people need you.” The request is met with silence. Unlike other times, when her magic is summoned, there is no tingling, no rush of energy. It is still in her womb save the kicking of the child within, no doubt peeved by the prodding and demanding of favors.

Myla groans, willing her pulse to steady before trying again, this time with both hands caressing her stomach, bringing a warmth upward from her womb to her hands. Every molecule of her body seems to vibrate in response, and with the surge of a blue light flashing through her abdomen, Myla nearly believes it has worked. Until she lifts her hands, looking for the blue haze Caius used to show her. When he did it, it was a marvelous, purifying swirl of blue mist, stunting to the Blood Stealer and healing to those infected by them, banishing the blood oath from their veins. Now, her hands fall short, no sign of healing blue, no rescue for her.

Standing, Myla leaves the great hall in a slow trudge, discouragement making her limbs heavy. Two guards that watched her from a distance fall to her left and right, following as she makes her way up the corridor, through the spiral stairs, and to her chamber.

Inside, Bryar sits reclined on one of the cushioned ledges beside the balcony, watching the Ashborn guards patrol back and forth outside the palace. Hearing her latch the door behind, he looks sidelong at her, his own features weary with too many problems and no solutions in sight.

“Are you better?” he asks, willing his voice to sound less discouraged than he feels.

Myla sighs and sits next to him, her breathing labored beneath the weight of the child nestled near her lungs. “No,” she admits. “Lenore told me of channeling a child’s magic from within the womb. Needless to say, it did not work for me.”

His brow furrows and his gaze returns to outside, to the patrolling soldiers. After a moment of silent consideration, he speaks, “What if we tried together? Did not she say it was an Ashborn custom?”

“Yes,” Myla confesses. “But this child is not of you. I am not sure it will help in this case.”

With a halfhearted shrug, Bryar leans forward, moving her hands to her stomach again and placing his atop them. “At least we can say we tried.”

Reluctantly, Myla agrees. “Okay. Let us try.”

Dawn breaks, its warm glow diffused through rising clouds of dust, disturbed by nine legions of soldiers—six of Myla’s and three of the Ashborn’s—marching toward the Seam. It is a surreal feeling to go from two years of surviving what feels like the impossible, to six months of waiting, biding your time and problem solving, to this moment. Myla wonders where along the way she became the kind of woman to lead an army of nearly sixty-thousand soldiers to fight on her behalf, especially when twenty of those lived in peace before her arrival. Looking to her left, where Bryar rides magnificently clad from head to toe in a full outfit of the Queen’s Guard, she is certain much of it has to do with him. Visions of the night before tease her memory, and she is filled with hope. This is what an equal partnership feels like.

The Blood Stealer is a two-day ride for a small group of travelers. A traversing army of this size will take four, a detail which aggravates Myla and Callum equally. Between here and there, the terrain will wilt, slowly crumbling from the majestic and lush mountains, which the Ashborn call home, to an ominous trail of dead trees, slate cliffsides sliding underfoot, and, according to Callum, a pack of possessed wolves guarding a shallow mass grave; a resting place for the victims of Vesperian who have wilted and perished beneath his rule.

Myla pictures herself among them, wondering if they met their end in the same delirium she suffered when the Ashborn took her in. Images far worse than her own decay tell of Elsa’s fate should they fail, and she too be thrown into an unmarked grave, left to decompose next to other such victims. Myla shivers, drawing her Queen’s Blue cloak tight around her shoulders.

When he returned from scouting Falkmere, Rhyland brought back her raven armor. A smithy in Valyndor worked through the night to expand the armor, making room for her stomach. Even in her rounded state, when Myla saw her own reflection, a queen, a warrior, and a mother in one, she knew she would watch Vesperian’s body implode beneath the force of her magic, or she would die trying; she would not return with anything less than victory, for her child’s sake.

“Too long,” Bryar had said with his hands on her stomach. “This child has existed in the form of a question, a worry. Let her arrive in peace and safety. Let us fight to give her that.”

As they ride onward, watching the scenery change slowly, this is Myla’s prayer to the Gods and Goddesses. Her hand fidgets with the raven brooch holding her cloak tight around her neck, wondering what Caius might say if he knew the armor he had commissioned for her would be worn in a battle caused by his death.

Ugly words loom in the back of her mind, pricking her conscious. Blood Stealer or not, after three years of suffering . . . I am glad you are dead. A lump catches in her throat, and she wonders if wishing death on a man who hurt you when no one was looking is a cowardice the Gods will punish on the battlefield.

Not fighting back is as good as being a willing participant. Her mother’s words ring in her head, memories of the one and only time she confided in anyone. The morning after a particularly violent encounter in the name of making the next Restorer, Myla had crawled into her mother’s bed before the sun had risen, her cheeks swollen with tears, hips bruised with vicious and hungry fingertips. She told her mother of the encounter, explaining that she was so scared and startled that her body simply conceded the fight.

Lavinia died shortly after, and Myla continued to concede the fight.

Not this time. Myla tells herself, watching a smoldering landscape come into view, a clear change in territories. She refuses to falter this time. She will soon face a man who wishes to ruin her; this time, she will fight back. This time, she will scream, even if she dies screaming. All will hear it and know she did not lie down and let it happen. For herself, for her child, and for her people, she will be sure no one can say she did not try. Be the talons.

“How do you feel?” Bryar interrupts her thoughts, his gaze trailing the length of her, as though checking for any signs of weakness or resistance. He looks tired, as though he has been on horseback for three days, not three hours.

Wrapping the reins around her gloved hand, Myla shrugs. “I have felt nothing yet,” she assures him. “That is not to say I will not. There used to be entire weeks where I would feel nothing.”

Unconvinced, Bryar leans toward her with an uncomfortable grunt, maneuvering his horse closer. “Let me see your amulet.”

Curious now as to what he suspects, Myla reaches to the nape of her neck, loosening the amulet from its trapping beneath her breastplate until it has wiggled free, revealing itself. It glows a fierce amber. Oh. She looks to Bryar, his exhaustion making sense now. She is not fine—she is sucking his magic right out of him, and were they not bonded by the Ashborn Flame, she would not be riding alongside her army.

“Bryar,” she whispers pressing her hand to the amulet with a tinge of guilt washing over her. “Are you okay?”

He nods with certainty, then touches his own amulet. “I am alright. One obstacle at a time, my love, we are figuring this out.”

They spend the evening camped at the foot of a cavernous mountain. Stalagmites reach up from its base, and a sharp overcropping suggests there was once more to it than currently remains. As late afternoon drifts restlessly into the inky darkness of nightfall, the stench of death seems to grow stronger.

Rising over the top of the mountain, fast traveling stars begin rolling down its sides, ominously drifting closer, until Myla can make out what they really are: the orbs she and Bryar saw when they traveled to Valyndor months ago.

“Look.” She points from their place beside a fire. Bryar watches curiously, an arm closing around her protectively as they move closer. The orbs drift, lonely and wanting, through the encampment. “This must have something to do with Vesperian.”

“Yes,” Bryar agrees, hushing a group of his men who appear startled. “Gather your wits,” he whispers a low command to them. “I believe these beings are just as afraid as we are.” He leans toward Myla now, holding a wooden bowl in his large palm. The contents are inky black, charcoal crushed and mixed with a small amount of water. Bryar dips his index finger in the war paint and raises a hand to her face. Line after line, he draws protective runes and sigils across her cheeks and forehead. When her face is sufficiently covered in menacing black designs, she takes the bowl and draws the same symbols onto him.

Like the night in the pergola, the orbs drift by for the rest of the night, the number endless. There is something devastating and eerie about them, and the sad song they carry with them. For the next three nights, Myla will sleep extraordinarily little. Though her body is exhausted, her mind races, trapped with the knowledge that this may very well be the end. Not only for her and the child she now longs to meet, but for so many around her. In all of the times she watched Caius send troops off to settle some dispute over territories and borders, or fight on his behalf, she never heard him voice concern, nor guilt, for the lives lost. He would say that immense success rides on the back of great loss; he was proud to have men willing to die for him.

All Myla feels is fear. Fear that her fight is not worth the death of even one of these soldiers, who all seem so ready to meet their fate on her battlefield. The burden of responsibility Caius used to carry effortlessly; she struggles beneath. She thinks of the families waiting for their return. If the Blood Stealer is defeated, how will she face victory knowing some of those families will not watch their soldier march home?

The feeling perpetuates as night waxes into morning, and just before sunrise, the shallow grave appears. Scarce at first, a bleached bone here, a rusted sword there. Then all at once, a disturbing sight of body upon contorted body stacked, barely covered in dirt.

But no wolves in sight.

Rising from their bodies, some quickly, others struggling to wiggle free, are the orbs that have haunted their nights. The song is louder here, the words inaudible but nonetheless, conveying a grievous injustice and a need for vindication. As if they are asking her to kill the bastard who has them trapped in this Gods-forsaken place.

Myla stumbles from her horse, bringing the company to a halt. “We have to do something,” she demands, a wave of nausea rising in her. Somewhere behind her, someone vomits at the sight and smell of decay.

Bryar takes her elbow, pulling her back toward her horse. “There is nothing you can do, not until the Blood Stealer is dead,” he says quietly, consoling her with a gentle touch in the center of her back. “What we need to do is figure out how we will get an entire army through this. It stretches for miles, and we will only make it through if we keep our wits.”

A black mist, barely noticeable at first, begins to coil from the mouths and eyes of the dead, a silky voice speaking through the corpses, distorted and yet all so familiar. “ Oh, you will not ,” it coos. So confident, so certain of itself in the face of her army.

“Fuck!” Rhyland shrieks and leaps into the air as one of the dead seizes his ankle, trying to pull him to the ground with a strength that should belong to no one, the dead especially. He swings at the arm, slicing it off entirely. Blackened blood sprays and oozes, sizzling on the unholy ground.

“Callum—you bastard , you mentioned a mass grave; you did not mention its occupants would fight back!” Rhyland looks to Bryar for direction, and finds his captain equally perplexed, slamming the heel of his boot down upon a twitching corpse beneath him.

“Callum mentioned nothing of corpses fighting back,” he growls, angrily looking at Callum.

“They did not do that when I passed through!” Callum defends, horror washing over his face.

Ashborn by the hundreds take flight, launching themselves far from the grappling hands of the dead. Legions of soldiers, Titonfall and the Raven’s Veil included, who were previously marching in tight formations, now bleed together in frenzied panic as the ground beneath them rolls and lulls with the heaving of living corpses.

“It is a trap!” Lord Valen of Titonfall shouts from atop of horse, looking specifically upon his wife in warning. “We should never have brought our men here.”

Horses lose their composure, panicked whinnies begin to echo far behind her, as a wave of concern washes over the legions. Though they try to await Myla’s command, the black mist grows sizably, traveling through their legs, creating the illusion of an inky river, swallowing her army whole within minutes.

A member of the Raven’s Veil, dressed in black battle leathers, face entirely shrouded in a cowled hood, rushes to Bryar’s side. “Sir, this is madness. We must retreat.”

Bryar flashes his subordinate a burning glare. “There is nowhere to retreat to, Tamsyn,” he warns. “The Gods have brought us here for a reason, and here is where we will fight for them, or fight to meet them.” Myla’s husband turns to face her now, making no effort to hide his fear. “Remember the last night in Valyndor?”

She nods, her trembling hands reaching for the sword at her hip, gripping the raven hilt. “Yes.” Before her, corpses struggle to their feet, animated by some vile force.

“We weaken him first, ok? Do not attempt any channeling until he is weakened. —C ircle up ! Shields!” The latter command is bellowed, the scattering troops begin to fall into formation, moving as one, until Myla finds herself surrounded by the massive, armored bodies of well-trained men. In every direction, as far as she can see, red from the bloody sunrise gleams off the black helmets of the thousands of soldiers prepared to die.

Overhead, shrieking like hungry birds of prey, the Ashborn circle, embers scattering from their wings with every swoop, falling to the ground like dying stars. Ivan and Imogene spiral into a graceful land, their vibrant blue armor contrasted by the blackened landscape. “There is no point trying to retreat to more solid ground,” Ivan says grimly. “Vesperian’s grave stretches across the entire valley, even into the sides of the mountain.”

“We fight here,” Myla concludes. “May the Gods watch over you both.” The king and queen take flight once more, their instructions overhead barely audible, but Myla watches as their warriors ignite, ready for battle.

The venomous black mist rises, waist deep now, and with it, thousands of corpses in various stages of decay. Where the wasteland before was silent, screeches akin to protests, like metal grinding on metal, now fall from the lips of the dead. Myla wonders if it is the souls—something she thought died when a body did—begging to be released from their oaths.

The sensation is slow and slithering, like a snake creeping in to leak its poison into her veins. “He is here,” Myla says forebodingly, her muscles tensing. Judging by the sweat pooling on Bryar’s forehead, he can feel it too. A light from beneath the neck of his breastplate pulses, the amulet seeming to already be at full capacity, pulling energy from her to revitalize him. She feels weak and sick, and the battle has yet to begin. Pressing her hands to her rounded belly, she whispers a silent prayer to the Spirit Mother, visualizing her child grown and healthy and strong.

“How did you carry this for so long?” Bryar asks, through gritted teeth as they press their backs together, eyes vigilantly scanning and waiting for Vesperian to show himself and release his army upon them.

“It was not always like this.” Her eyes frantically dart from soldier to soldier, ensuring those she can see appear focused and ready. They stand shoulder to shoulder, most remarkably still and alert, though some wear a childlike fear in their eyes. Fear for things they have never seen before, things they did not believe existed. The heaving of decomposing corpses from the earth, begging to crawl over one another, is a sight none should witness, not in a nightmare and certainly not in reality. “Bryar,” she nearly whimpers over her shoulder, amazed by his composure. “I am scared.”

A hand grasps hers and squeezes tight. “Me, too,” he answers. “Remember, ‘ nothing will scare you more than what you do not know. So, pretend you know it, until you are not scared anymore’, ” Quoting his father, Bryar swings violently as a premature corpse lunges from the ground toward him, cutting it down.

“What kind of black magic is this?” Rhyland hisses, dodging from the front line as another corpse plummets toward him. “And why me ?” He shudders as Callum’s blade buries itself in the back of its skull.

“Because you have the most meat on you,” Callum jokes, yanking on the back of Rhyland’s man-bun. “You would be a feast for like five of them.”

“It is muscle, Gods-dammit.” Rhyland defends, winding up with an anxious shrug of his shoulders, before finishing the corpse off with a swing to the neck. Soldiers on either side of Callum and Rhyland also swing their blades, a few laughing at how easily they fall. A deep voice behind her suggests that, should all the corpses succumb so easily, this battle will be over in a half hour.

Bryar chuckles in response, shaking his head, and Myla marvels at how these men are cracking jokes right before mass slaughtering occurs. It must be a soldier thing.

Now in full standing positions with eyes of hollow black, Vesperian’s animated army forms rows before them, swaying slightly, their bodies humming that sad song. Glowing beneath the surface of their chests, orbs bob, trying to free themselves. Their souls are begging to be freed . . . their bodies betray them, even in death. It is disturbing, and Myla can feel not only herself, but those around her grow anxious, awaiting the storm.

“Is it not beautiful?” Vesperian’s voice echoes. Heads turn as those surrounding her look for the Blood Stealer’s location, to no avail. He does not materialize yet, Myla realizes, listening to his voice channel through the mouths of his army, a few at a time to disorient them from his true location. “My army is loyal, even in death.” He continues, his voice, soft as honey, dripping like poison into the ears of any who will listen. He feeds off their fears—as the trembling of the army grows, so does the power of his voice.

“You leave me jilted . . . unsatisfied . . . then have the audacity to challenge me, on my doorstep? I will have retribution.”

Wasting no time, Myla reaches within, drawing from every power reserve she can tap into to call on her magic. As it has done so many times before, but never in such a time of need, particles of light are sucked from the atmosphere, summoning midnight so her body can refract the stars. Her flash of light is the only battle cry necessary. In an instant, a violent clattering of weapon against bone, and the cracking and spraying of blood begins. Dead claw their way over those slower than themselves to bury their rusted weapons in the flesh of the living, screams of fear and pain erupting all around.

Myla is seized almost instantly, a creature behind her grabbing at her shoulders in an effort to pull her down. She spins on her heel, drawing from her waist a large broad sword. Her fingers tighten around the hilt as it swings, coming into contact with the skull of her attacker before the poor soul has time to lunge her way.

A swarm of bodies close in around her; some still look alive. Myla concludes these beings have been dead only a day or so. Ashen, but not yet shredded fibers of skin, tendons, and bone. A corpse with stringy red hair, matted in mud and covering most of the face, stumbles toward her at an alarmingly quick rate. Its blade swings overhead, lowering violently upon hers as she parries the blow.

A piercing, forlorn cry disrupts the already chaotic battlefield. Howls. Followed shortly by the agonizing scream of a soldier, who is quickly relieved of his jugular. Myla flinches, spinning around as a hungry snarl sounds somewhere behind her. A wolf prowls near, hunched and ready to leap. Its haunches are raised and it sways with the heat waves launching off the bodies of catapulting Ashborn. Just as it moves to hurdle into her, a blast of red flame pounds the earth where the creature stands, engulfing it in a personal hell. The wolf yelps and cries in pain, before silencing entirely.

Though Myla can not see Vesperian, she can feel him. As she fells corpse after corpse, her body feels shaky and weak. He sucks the energy from her, while she weakens herself further by fighting his army.

To her left, Bryar’s arms expand, gauntlets of fire traveling up them, while wings unfurl from his back. He takes flight. The blast of heat from his body shrivels weaker corpses, they furl to the ground like dead plants. Their space on the battlefield is quickly replaced as living soldiers from Vesperian’s army spill forth, following the impulses of their master to slaughter and destroy. Though their eyes seem lifeless, their bodies are very much alive, proving a more difficult foe to kill than the hunks of animated flesh rising from the earth.

It feels as though she has slain a hundred living dead when Myla finally sets her sight on Vesperian. His voice stabilizes into one cohesive stream, the body of its owner spat out of the mist, disillusioned at first, before taking on his true form within the circle of defense formed around Myla.

“This is adorable,” Vesperian laughs, watching with delight as those around him, Myla included, scatter in any direction that is away from him, startled by his sudden appearance.

As he takes his place on the smoldering battlefield before her, she realizes he has warped from the handsome villain who infiltrated her palace all those months ago.

Before her stands the true form of the Blood Stealer: a grotesque figure who wears the shadows of his victims and an ancient, malicious need to fulfill prophecy. His form is twisted and hunched, his skin ashen and pallid, stretched taut over sinewy muscles that ripple with unnatural strength. His eyes empty and soulless, twin voids that devour the light from around them, leaving only a cold, chilling darkness in their wake.

The time has come. Every moment in the last three years, which Myla has feared and pondered and made herself small to avoid, has led up to this: an unavoidable moment, one in which she is certain she will die, trying to reclaim all the pieces of herself which he has stolen from her. Or perhaps, it is the pieces her father and Caius stole from her. Or the pieces the members of her Council stole every time they looked upon her with doubt. Whatever pieces she hopes to reclaim, she knows they will be found on this battlefield. She will take them back for herself, or she will die for them. But she will not leave this place without them.

Her magic tenses within her, ready to be loosed. A primal, otherworldly scream reverberates through the air, like a thunderclap, and Myla unleashes a wave of energy that deafens both soldiers and Blood Stealer alike. All around her, soldiers collapse, grasping their heads in pain. The ground shakes beneath their feet, sending them stumbling and disoriented, while the winds howl and whip around them with an almost sentient malevolence. Several shield wielders loose their magic, hazy purple buffers shielding their comrades from her inferno of rage. It is not just her own energy she conjures, but the Gods’