Page 27 of A Thousand Burning Ravens (The Queen Who Bleeds Stars #1)

MEANDERING UP THE cobblestone street, carrying a basket of baked goods and a single Ashborn feather, as is tradition in Valyndor, is Lenore, arm linked with Elsa. Together, they walk to greet a new life.

News of the birth of the child with misty blue eyes has spread like wildfire, sparking excitement among those who have grown fond of Myla, as well as those who do not know a thing about her; she has birthed a new Restorer.

It is a miracle none thought possible.

Within the palace, a pure light bathes the room in liquid gold, a hue of orange diffused on the pillars of the balcony, which catch the brilliance of the winter sky. Beige linen curtains, draped from ceiling to floor, billow gently in the breeze, a privacy wall between Myla’s place in bed, and the balcony where Bryar stands, back to her, cradling a small bundle. It is tranquil here, despite the excitement building outside.

Myla shivers, cold from the breeze, and blinks slowly, her eyes adjusting from what feels like a long sleep. Her body aches, and there is no telling if the soreness is from the difficult delivery she endured, or the still-healing bruises and wounds inflicted on the battlefield weeks ago.

From across the room, she hears Bryar humming an unfamiliar song; slow and sweet. He rocks back and forth slowly, eyes fixed on the infant in his arms. There is a reverence in the way he holds the tiny child so close, so tight to him. As though he may never let go. To him, there is but one place his gaze belongs, and it is on the child he has sworn to protect.

“Bryar,” she whispers, causing him to turn. “Tell me she is ok. I want to meet my daughter.” Hands extended from where she lies, Myla awaits the feeling of the warm, new infant in her arms. A yearning to be reunited with the soul she has strived tirelessly to meet face-to-face fills her chest, and every second he stands opposite her, holding the child, feels like torture.

Bryar looks to her, his face stretched in the purest smile she has ever seen him wear. One slow step at a time, careful not to disturb the baby, he makes his way to her bedside. “I am afraid you can not do that,” he answers, revealing a tiny head full of brown curls.

“What?” she questions, alarmed by what he could possibly mean. “Why?”

“Because,” Bryar answers, with a sly grin, “you do not have a daughter. You have a son.”

A warmth of tears, joyful and overwhelming, rise to the brim of her eyelids, instantly spilling down her cheeks. “A son ?”

“Yes,” Bryar says, sitting on the edge of the bed beside her,

leaning in to kiss her forehead. “A boy, as strong as his mother.”

He places a palm on the boy’s head and leans into whisper, “I know you have been waiting to meet her, so here she is.” As though responding, like he and Bryar have an understanding already, a sweet coo peeps from the tiny pink lips, parted in a sleepy haze.

It is in this moment; Myla is certain the five senses are not enough. No amount of holding him, kissing him, smelling him, nor studying his tiny features and hearing his coos will ever be enough to match the unfiltered rawness of the love she feels. “He is so beautiful,” she says, tracing the tip of his button nose with a delicate finger. “How long have I been asleep? I do not remember . . .”

Bryar smooths curls of brown from her forehead, smiling gently. “Not long. Only a day. The end was . . . treacherous, and you lost a lot of blood. You passed out as soon as he was born, but . . . do not worry,” he assures. “I did not leave his side for a second.” At this, Bryar looks to the baby. “I never will.”

“If you say anything else of the sort,” Myla says, attempting to steady the shake of her voice. “I shall keep crying, and he is going to think I am weak.”

“Never.” Bryar insists. “Nobody could ever think that.”

“See,” Myla whispers, smelling deeply the sweet fragrance of the boy’s soft skin. “I have picked a wonderful father for you. He is going to be your very favorite person.”

Bryar’s jaw tenses and a light fills his eyes, tears flickering therein. “The greatest honor,” he says, stretching himself into a lying position next to her. “I can not wait to see who he becomes.”

Myla leans her head on her husband’s shoulder, eyes heavy with a need for more sleep. “What shall we call him?”

“You have not chosen a name?”

“No,” she confesses, an idea sparking within. “I have had three years with this child already. I have grown him, spoken to him, held him within me while we slept. I have had a lot of him already—he is fused from the very matter which makes me. I want you to give him a name. Let him have a part of you.”

Bryar takes a deep breath and reaches to where the boy is cradled. Taking him gently from his mother and holding him close, Bryar speaks. “I knew a man . . . someone who would have made you laugh and made you feel safe. If you ever questioned who you were or where you belonged, he would have made sure you went to sleep reassured of your place in this world and your purpose in it. His name was Caspian, and I think he would have liked it if you had his name, too.”

Myla smiles, nodding in agreement as images of Bryar’s broad-shouldered, wide-smiling, infectious-laughing father fill her mind’s eye. “Caspian . . . what an honor to have that name.”

“A name fit for a King.”

“A name fit for our son ,” Myla whispers, turning to kiss her captain. “Now let us get him a castle.”

The End.