Page 26 of A Thousand Burning Ravens (The Queen Who Bleeds Stars #1)
AS THE BLOOD Stealer reels from the force of Myla’s scream, Bryar spirals downward, a haze of ash and smoke trailing behind him, his body plummeting into Vesperian in a tangle of muscle and magic. The Fae God and the captain grapple at one another, each clawing for a stronger bearing on the other. Bryar no longer wields fire magic alone; there is something more to it. A rage, a force, a power which can only be seen as a gift directly from the Gods. It is her magic pulsing through him. Two more Ashborn warriors follow suit behind him, slamming their bodies into Vesperian as he lies sprawled on the ground.
“Archers!” the Blood Stealer screams angrily. His command sends sizzling black arrows into the sky, dozens of them landing with sickening thunks into the soaring bodies of the Ashborn above. The winged people nosedive to the ground, their lifeless bodies joining the thousands beneath them.
Bryar extends flexed arms, sending another volley of searing flames to lick at Vesperian’s shadowy form, and Myla lunges in his direction, taking advantage of his turned back, a second too late.
From the Blood Stealer’s palms, his razor-sharp wraith explodes, a screaming carried with it, replaying the agony of its recent victims and waging terror on the army around it. The black creature bobs and weaves through limbs of fighting soldiers, dodging some entirely, while cutting and killing others, before it lodges itself like a weighted punch, right into her middle, sending her sprawling, and the child within her kicking in defiance.
“Myla!” Callum screams, pulling Rhyland to his feet from an assault, before they both rush to her side.
“I do not want to kill you,” Vesperian hisses, striding toward her with confidence. “You could bring me so much power. Submitting is still an option.”
The wind knocked out of her, gasping for breath and unable to find it beneath the weight of her armor, Myla forces herself upright, willing herself not to be distracted by the bodies of her men slumping to the ground at an alarming rate. Her friends help her to her feet and Rhyland hands her the heavy broadsword that was thrown from her hand during the impact.
“ Never,” Myla screams. From the earth beneath her boot, something grabs at her, and she realizes the ground is heaving, bodies buried beneath it clawing their way to the surface. In a panic, she wonders how deep into the earth he has victims buried. Slashing at the hand which pokes from the ground, Myla sidesteps the attack and twists, desperate to get eyes back on Vesperian, whose voice hums an eerie threat from Gods-know-where.
“ I will live another ten centuries. You are not the last remarkable woman who will cross my path. If I must kill you and wait for another, I will.” His voice normalizes once more. “Right here, my Ruthless Queen,” he hums from behind her. Spinning on her heel, Myla extends her blade, ready to lodge it in his throat, but misses by a hair when he dissolves into a cloud of black mist, materializing a few steps to the right. Now, Matteo and Margot join him, appearing and disappearing as he does. Myla’s mouth dries as she realizes they are all one: the wolves, the wraith, and Vesperian. He is in every place at once, snarling with teeth like razors, taunting her, again in the form of a charismatic man, and decapitating on a whim, as he travels in the form of a shadow.
It is a push-and-pull battle for what feels like hours. Drenched in sweat, her long hair clinging to her face, Myla tugs at her power, summoning that rope of light and launching it nimbly at Vesperian’s throat. It holds, and the demon lets out a shriek of agony as the light burns away his flesh, melting a grotesque indent around his neck. Bursting from the wound, summoned to the spot, his wraith shatters her light into a million shards, splintering in all directions. It is a deadly recoil, and every sharp spear of light is aimed at her own men.
Watching the mayhem in slow motion, Myla closes her eyes, willing the shards to return to her, to feed her energy once more, rather than embedding themselves in those around them. The light stills midair as she commands it, her hands extended as though she calls to dutiful children, then with a sickening warp of power, the motion is reversed in a rush of energy, which brings her to a full standing position. The light reabsorbs into her pores. To her left, Callum bores his feet into the ground, bracing against a wolf who snaps hungrily at his face. From behind, Rhyland swings his blade, hacking the deadly beast in half, brutally.
Crashing into the heaving surface of the earth, Bryar and a dozen other Ashborn warriors, their king and queen included, loose an assault of vengeful flames, boring holes into the ground at Vesperian’s feet, until it caves in around him completely. Splintered bones, of the dead beneath, slice at his skin, dislodged by the powerful blast. The Blood Stealer writhes and screeches in agony, his dark energy flickering and faltering in the face of Bryar’s fiery assault. Myla sees the lapse in power and falls to her knees, pressing her hands into the ground, ignoring the dead fingers wrapping around her wrists.
“Now!” Already covered in sweat and blood, Bryar yells. The amulet flashes, blinding at his chest, every ounce of energy he has channeling to her as he presses his palms into the dirt next to her. A river of magic forms between them, trickling over the corpses and mounds of earth. Focusing, begging the Gods for mercy, Myla visualizes the methods they have practiced together every night since their marriage.
Slow and subtle at first, a tingling in her body tells her she is on the right track. From her fingertips, a shimmer of translucent blue rises, and the corpses beneath the surface of the earth cease to struggle; orbs fly from their bodies in reprieve, their curse broken.
“Good,” Bryar whispers, as he clamors to her side, a hand on hers, surging energy through her.
Myla’s focus wavers as Vesperian pulls himself from the wreckage caused by Bryar. Callum and Rhyland rush bravely in his direction, though they have little to contest him with.
“ Ignore him, ” Bryar urges, hoping any amount of Restorer magic summoned will help. His weary glance in his friends’ direction is unmistakable and he shouts in a panic for backup, bidding a wave of soldiers to join them.
Myla forms a small ball of blue between her palms. Shaking and dripping sweat, she raises the stream of energy overhead, trying to strike the Blood Stealer with it. It is not enough. Though it lands on his chest, sending a foul, burning odor into the already overwhelming stench of battle, the assault merely brings their foe to his knees. The energy he pulls from his subjects is enough to revive him, but doing so cripples his nearby forces in the process. Several hundred of his army fall unmoving to the ground, replaced shortly by living armies and mad wolves spilling in, summoned, no doubt by the irresistible call of Vesperian. Battle cries and hungry howling deafens all.
All around Myla, trails of fire sizzle across pools of blood. Overhead, Ashborn wage war with fire, sending balls of furious flames down upon clusters of their enemies. All manner of injuries and fatal wounds flash before her eyes, a sight horrible and sickening. A few yards behind the Blood Stealer, Rhyland and Callum stand back-to-back, each struggling against their own foes. They fight as one, as friends who have had each other’s backs since boyhood.
With a body heavy from exertion, Bryar takes to the sky again and unleashes another wave of blue flame, Myla’s cue to summon the magic of the Restorer while he distracts Vesperian. As the black wraith hurdles in his direction, Bryar’s assault does not last a fraction of the time it did before, and he lands with a crashing thud near her, slow to stand now. Both their amulets flash, each of them exchanging power and energy, neither of them tipping the scale for the other.
“This is not working,” he yells over the calamity of battle. A flash of horror passes across his face as he yanks her to the ground to dodge the swing of a mace, his sword stopping it midair. Another thrust overhead and he has decapitated the wielder. Her husband expends another massive wave of energy from his exhausted body, a ripple of flames pouring from his palms as he incinerates a wall of corpses rushing toward them.
Taking note of the onslaughts which continue to bar them from focusing on Vesperian, Rhyland and Callum make their way closer, along with several other soldiers. Their bodies form a wall at Myla and Bryar’s backs.
“I know,” she responds breathlessly, bracing her body against his as a surge of light breaks free of her body, bleeding white across the entire battlefield. Holding the wave of magic, she watches as Bryar rips his amulet off, tucking it into his boot. No . . .
Her energy expands within her, though horror threatens to distract her as she sees Bryar struggling to summon his own magic, let alone stand upright. He heaves with labored breath and his body is frigid with straining. Those soft green eyes find hers, but they are not soft any longer. They are angry and they are scared. “Again!” he bellows to her, loosing a wave of weakened flames in Vesperian’s direction. The inferno engulfs the Blood Stealer, and Myla places her palms to the earth, grounding herself and her child, once more conjuring the blue mist.
As the battle reaches its climax, the Blood Stealer siphoning another surge of energy; instead of feeling the drain like so many around her, Myla feels a birth of power unlike anything she has ever experienced before. It is vindicating. It is the fulfillment of old prophesies and promises. It is everything she has always known she could be, materializing in a desperate attempt to save the thousands of people here fighting for her.
Bryar holds off the Blood Stealer with inhuman ability in spite of his weakened state; a feat only described as a force of circumstance. Before her, he stands, his body the only shield between herself and Vesperian. His sword swings with deadly intent, aimed for the skull of his foe, stopped short by a flash of the Blood Stealer’s own blade. Overhead, arrows sizzle and volleys of flame fall from the sky like rain. Wolves howl and snarl, while screams of death stab, small defeats, time and time again. Muscle against muscle, set jaws and gritting teeth, the captain and the Blood Stealer lean into one other, neither willing to surrender. One slip of a blade could result in Bryar’s neck being severed. Unrelenting, Bryar lets out an angry growl and pushes harder against Vesperian, a slip of the villain’s heel giving Bryar the edge needed to step back and swing his weapon again. Their deadly blades flash and clank against one another, Bryar holding the Blood Stealer off for now, a feat Myla knows he can not sustain in his declining condition.
“Are you prepared to die?” Vesperian bellows, his black wraith at work once more, launching Bryar to his back. “How many years have you sat back and been the pawn of a woman who would not choose you?” Vesperian plans to weaken Bryar’s mind as well as his body. This is the moment—any longer and they will lose any edge they have.
Myla squeezes her eyes shut, a tremble of fear passing through her body. Her eyes burn as the warpaint seeps into her eyes, and Myla realizes it is not the result of sweat, but tears. Placing a hand on her swollen belly, she feels the will of the child seeping into her bloodstream. She chills with a power that is not her own. In a moment of clarity, Myla turns her eyes upwards toward the mountains, a red haze creating harmony with the blood on the ground beneath her. I beg of you, she whispers a prayer, give me another chance to lead these people well. Give me another chance to love. Give this child a chance to live.
At first, the sensation might be confused with the tightening of the throat felt before tears break free. Awaiting the answer of the Gods, a burning pain scorches her throat, and she realizes this is their answer. The Restorer’s blue glow begins like a sliver of veins, starting at her belly and trailing up her body to her throat. Drawing from every drop of energy around and within her, her child’s magic is condensed at her core, ready to be unleashed from her lungs, in tandem with the Voice of the Gods.
Her body straightens, Sir Roderick’s instruction to always stand tall encouraging her to face this final battle with a dignity most have not believed her capable of. Both hands pressed against her belly, an urge to lift her face to the sky takes over, and Myla surrenders to the will of the Gods. Her body takes form as a powerful vessel for their righteous scourging of the Blood Stealer, and she channels the Restorer Magic in a magnificent marriage of blue light and white fire, all carried from her lungs on the vengeful voices of the Gods above. The same Gods who saw fit to put her on this earth. The Gods who saw fit to give her this gift because they knew she carried a strength others might not see. The Gods who saw fit to set her feet on this path. They are the same Gods she feels with her now as the ground beneath her melts, and the corpses even deeper below turn to ash, glowing embers of black drifting upwards.
With a sickening blow to the abdomen, Bryar is launched backward, Myla’s magic faltering momentarily, but a familiar voice, the voice of the Spirit Mother, urges her to remain calm and focused. Vesperian strides toward her swiftly, black mist expelled from his body with every step, his essence slicing any soldiers near him with deadly precision. To his left and right, bodies slump over dead until he stands before her, looking down in mockery.
His voice is louder than the deafening bellows pouring from her like an undammed river. “If you continue to fight like this ,” he scoffs, kneeling to her level, “I might begin to wonder if you even want to win.” Despite the earth trembling at her fingertips and Ashborn warriors landing because of the quake, Vesperian seems only mildly uncomfortable, flinching as she pulses a wave of light at his throat again. Through gritting teeth, he speaks. “Maybe you even want this—to look like you tried, so no one can blame you when you must join forces with me. A brilliant ruse really, my Ruthless Queen.”
Myla screams, though the Voice of the Gods powers her, it is a cry of the most hateful rage. To her right, Bryar crouches, panting and unable to rise as his energy bleeds out, his life source pouring entirely into her. Hot tears of anger and fear run freely down her cheeks, and no amount of death around her seems to drown out the voice inside, the voice of the Spirit Mother begging her to dig deeper. Titonfall soldiers, the Raven’s Veil, Ashborn warriors, and Falkmere soldiers alike clash violently against their enemy, fighting side-by-side, and dying in devastating waves.
Drawing upon the Goddess’s strength and purity to fuel her final, desperate attack, Myla rises to her feet, the round of her belly illuminated and reflecting the hot, unruly fires dancing in every direction around her. “If I have to die screaming,” Myla speaks with conviction, lifting her arms overhead to draw from the energy of those around her, as well as the strength of her child within, “I will; if only to meet my death with every single soul here knowing, I did not go willingly.”
A lazy smile creases her tormentor’s face and he unsheathes a menacing little dagger. “What a pity.”
Energy courses through her veins like liquid fire, filling her with a divine power that transcends the mortal realm. Several feet away, Rhyland to his left and Callum to his right, Bryar is guarded by his comrades, each bringing a halt to assailants as they fly like rabid animals toward the group. But most shockingly . . .
Elsa . A vision of resilience, her best friend stands, very much alive, behind her husband, hands pressed on either side of his head, surging her healing essence through him, allowing his electric light of energy to travel at an inhuman speed directly into Myla’s veins.
Unwilling to meet her end here, with a final cry, she unleashes a blinding burst of rich, unforgettable blue light and energy that engulfs the Blood Stealer in a searing blaze of purification. The scream from her lungs, though the tail end of the Gods, are her own. An angry, victorious bellow commanding all to hear her: I may not have chosen this, and for a while, I may not have stopped it, but I allow it no longer.
The Blood Stealer howls in agony. As his various forms begin to disintegrate, he pivots backward, arms flailing violently, and he is consumed by the pure, unyielding light of the Restorer Magic.
And as the last echoes of his screams fade into the air, a gasp like a wave washes over those of his victims who survive. Most fall into fatigued slumps, while others kneel, weeping with relief. Myla stands, not as a girl, nor a victim, but as a queen who has chosen her own fate. Hair clinging to her face from blood and sweat, her entire body trembling from the shock of magic released from her veins, her eyes trail across the ruin and tragedy caused on this bloody battlefield. Though the sweet relief of victory is potent, Myla feels a nausea churning, the child within heaving and protesting.
Unable to stand any longer, she lowers herself to the ground, pressing her palms flat into the crater caused by her and the child’s efforts. “We did it,” she whispers, silently thanking her baby, and the Gods for their mercy. “You are a resilient little thing,” she says with a slight gasp, gently rubbing her stomach before glancing over her shoulder at the sound of footsteps.
Bryar stands behind her, his face blackened with smoke and blood. “Are you alright?” he pants, his hands brushing her hair out of her eyes as he helps her to her feet, supporting her fatigued body with his own trembling arms.
“Myla, you did it.” Pride washes across his face, and his voice breaks as the realization of victory hits them both. His eyes rim with tears, be it exhaustion, relief, or the release of years of stress, she can see the strong man before her ready to crack.
“No,” she answers, holding her belly. “This one did it . . . we did it .” Pressing a hand to his chest, she points to the sky. “Look, a thousand burning ravens .”
Overhead, the ashes of the battle continue to rise, carried off on a breeze into the golden sunrise. From their vantage point below, it does, indeed, look like a thousand burning ravens flying upward to greet the Gods.
Bryar lets out a shaky sigh, the gleam in his eyes filling more as he watches the remnants of Vesperian’s victims return to the Gods. A silence has befallen the battlefield, death in itself. Turning to inspect the damage to his troops, Bryar holds fast to her hand, turning her to follow him.
A guttural wail breaks the silence, a beast-like scream, which could only be conjured by grief. Myla and Bryar whip around, only to freeze at the scene before them. Grief threatens to crack Elsa wide open as she leans over the convulsing body of Callum. Beside them, Rhyland holds his friend’s hand, tears streaking his dirty face.
Bryar releases Myla, rushing to Callum’s side, his gloved hand immediately pressing the oozing place at his neck where the Blood Stealer’s loosed dagger is lodged—a final attack before Vesperian died.
Callum’s eyes, red and glistening with tears, move slowly from one face to the next, finally landing on Elsa’s. She leans over him with a face hidden partially by her tangled blond hair, her hands on either side of his face, diffusing a healing energy into him. She mutters incoherent words, something akin to an incantation. Carefully, Myla sits beside her, listening for some semblance of a chant she can join in on to amplify its power, when she realizes she is repeating something over and over: “ I have a heart, but you hold it, so sometimes I forget to use it.”
Callum struggles, fading in and out of coherency and looking sidelong at Rhyland. His entire body trembles, and a gurgling sound fills his throat. His hand stiffens as he urges Rhyland closer. “ T-t-take care . . .” Callum’s voice fails. As he begins to drown in his own blood, he looks back to Elsa, a look of relief washing over him. Even in death, all he wants is her safety.
Understanding, Rhyland places his free hand on Callum’s forehead and inhales deeply, his voice quaking as he speaks, “Do not worry about that, man. I got her, okay?”
“Do not talk like that!” Elsa hisses, denial etching lines of agony across her face. Desperately, she looks down at Callum as though she is missing some key factor in saving his life. “Should I try taking the dagger out?” Elsa’s voice quivers, panic hiding just behind the futile attempt to remain calm. Her hands produce exhausted flickers of magic before the lights extinguish, a testament to her own fatigue.
“Darling,” Myla whispers as she struggles against her own tears, seizing one of her friend’s hands. “No . . .”
Bryar slowly retracts his hands from the wound at Callum’s neck, allowing the blood to flow freely. A look of numb shock washes over him and is quickly replaced with something different. Anger. Grief. Disbelief. “This can not be . . .” he pants, looking to Rhyland, who reflects his same expression. A slow and wheezing release slips through Callum’s parted lips; his hand, once tight, around Rhyland’s now falls limp, and his eyelids drop closed.
“No!” Elsa shrieks, her thread of composure snapping. “ Come back .” It is not a request but a command, and her hands fly to the place the dagger is protruding. With a swift pull, she dislodges it, sending a spray of freed blood across her face. She replaces the weapon with her cupped hands, attempting to staunch the flow with her magic.
“I lied to you,” she wails. “I thought if I let you think he had me, you would let me stay to find the antidote! You can not die with a lie between us! Come back.” Sobs fall from her uncontrolled as she curses, willing her energy to bring him back in spite of the sticky blood oozing between her fingers.
“You can not die,” she repeats. “I love you.” Her voice is a mere whimper, a weak period at the end of a sad story, add the ‘ I love you’ standing in the place of a dissatisfying ‘the end’.
With one last burst of healing energy briefly illuminating the gouge at his neck, Rhyland moves behind Elsa, gently pulling her back.
“He is gone; do not give his soul a reason to linger in this sadness. Let him go with the Gods. They will feast in his honor.”
Huddled over their friend’s body, they break together, cries of grief creating the saddest choir to send him off. A glowing at his center rises to the surface, gently slipping from the skin at his chest, an orb drifting upward, carrying with it the same lonely song Myla had heard sung all the nights before. As the orb ascends, joining the others, the earth seems to sigh, and one by one, the souls flicker in and out of sight, until none are left to be seen. With Vesperian’s death, they are released to seek out the afterlife in peace.
Heads bow in honor of the lives lost. Weary soldiers, Falkmere, Titonfall, the Raven’s Veil, and Ashborn alike, some wounded, others broken, but none unscathed, stand silent, watching ashes continue to drift upward from the battlefield, wings like ravens fluttering as the Gods above nod in approval. Dazed and confused, crowds of people who do not remember arriving at the battle, nor much of their time in the Blood Stealer’s service, examine their surroundings. Many, far from warriors, look at their bloodied bodies and the carnage beneath their feet, letting out shrieks of horror.
“They need you,” Bryar whispers, resting a hand on her shaking shoulder. “They need you to tell them it will be ok.”
Myla sucks in a deep breath, wipes the tears from her face, and stands. The weight of her armor feels heavy on her exhausted body and that of the child’s, but she finds strength nonetheless to pull herself on top of her horse, eyes traveling across the wreckage and tragedy of the battlefield.
“I know you are afraid,” she begins, her clear voice drawing the attention of those who have survived, most slumped in piles of exhaustion. “You have woken from a nightmare into something worse than what you were experiencing yesterday. For reality is oftentimes more terrible than the illusions we find ourselves stuck in. I have felt the weight and the ruin of the Blood Stealer for many years now, as have we all.
“I ask you now: dry your tears, and take the hand of the person beside you. It is our responsibility to heal this land, as well as our hearts, to wash away the blood and debris left behind by a monster that no longer terrorizes us, and never will again.” A heaviness falls away from her words as soldiers and citizens alike link hands, forming one powerful body.
“Let us never again find ourselves in a situation where we are not in control of ourselves or our future. May we never fall victim to the idea that we are compliant with something happening to us simply because nobody can see us fighting back. I know your fight. I felt it within myself, and I honor it.”
Her voice trembles as the words spill forth. “And for the lives we have lost, the souls we grieve, and the pieces of ourselves we may never get back, we see you, and we will continue living and breathing, so the wind of our breath may carry you to where you belong: with the Gods.”