Page 3 of A Thousand Burning Ravens (The Queen Who Bleeds Stars #1)

WATCHING MEN AMASS into carefully aligned units, forming a deep blue blanket across the courtyard, the inner bailey, the outer bailey, and beyond the drawbridge into town perimeters, is intimidating no matter how many times one sees it. Tens of thousands of troops, not an inch out of line, ready to march with a single word. Lethal dignity fills the very air Myla breathes as she watches Bryar shout commands, his soldiers respond in maneuvers they have clearly practiced countless times.

It was always Caius’s custom to host a military inspection every year before the Oath Ceremony. A grand affair. Dignitaries and political figures, aspiring lords and ladies alike, all descend upon Falkmere to swear fealty to the reigning monarch, as well as to take awe in the impressive military force. Really, as Caius once put it, it is a pissing competition. No one would dare to stand against her when her army is on display like a giant heaving beast against the surface of the earth, ready to strike at her command. It sends chills through her just looking at it. I have built and maintained this, and they still have the nerve to call me a Dowager.

Now, Myla carries on her late husband’s tradition. This is the second time she will hold her breath as Caius’s subjects commit themselves through blood oaths to her. Last year, when all but two of his supporters came to uphold their oath, Myla was humbled with both gratefulness and a sense of unworthiness. This year, despite the quivering within her body, she is determined to present herself as a queen worthy of every drop of blood. Feasting, drinking, and dueling are to take place for a week. Myla wonders how she will find the energy to host into the early hours, then turn around and present various military officials with medals and favors on two or three hours of sleep.

“Your Grace.” A page hands Myla the reigns to her saddled mare, a beautiful, raven-black beast who has been a faithful friend since childhood.

She will spend the next two hours riding the perimeter of her army in the company of several council members—her father included—as well as the Lord and Lady of the Riverlands, while they discuss lumber trade deals.

As the small group exits the courtyard, beginning their visual assessment of the troops, Myla is keenly aware of Bryar and twelve of his best soldiers taking up the rear once they have passed the drawbridge. How he can shift so effortlessly from the casual man she sparred with earlier, to this version, a lethal head of military with thousands of soldiers looking up to him, is beyond her.

He is clad head to toe in heavy, crucible steel armor that has seen many battles. A battle axe is strapped securely to his back. He, along with the rest of the army, wears a heavy cloak in the Queen’s Blue. Caius had said it was the color of her eyes. On his breastplate is the crest of a raven perched atop a downward pointing broadsword. Myla’s symbol as queen.

When her mother sat beside her father during betrothal negotiations, she spoke words Myla will never forget: “ My daughter is as cunning as a raven. She should be treated as such .” Caius took her words to heart and distributed the symbol of the raven throughout the entirety of the kingdom. It was a romantic and fierce gesture, the motive for which is not lost on her now. Nothing quite like showering a woman in attention to distract her from what is truly happening . . .

Myla returns to the palace, with a few moments to spare, before feasting begins. Fern helps her right her hair and smooth the wrinkles in her bodice caused by the tight riding habit. Once alone, she reaches to the very back of her vanity drawer to retrieve a vial of opaque liquid; a tonic her brew mage concocted to help sustain her magic during longer days.

Myla decants a healthy splash into her afternoon tea and sips. Her view of the gardens below is usually uneventful, but today . . . with a giggle, she gawks wide-eyed. Her guests are enjoying themselves already. Two young ladies, foolishly assuming that the hedges shield them from voyeurs, are tangled in each other’s reckless embrace. One appears to be from the western region of the realm, perhaps near Titonfall. The tattoo of a mountain range down her back, paired with the heavy boots she has discarded, are a giveaway. Myla can not make out where her partner hails from, and without inspecting an indecent amount, she is unable to, and thus she returns inside her chambers.

She must gather every drop of strength and control she can muster before she stands in a room full of hundreds of men and women. It would be a shame to slaughter them all at the whim of the Blood Stealer.

Too soon, Myla enters the throne room. Pillars fifty feet tall line the edge of the room, a dozen to her left and another dozen to her right. Each pillar is the circumference of at least three men. Caius’s great-grandfather was a collector of books, so when he had this room designed, he was adamant the pillars would have ornate shelving carved into them. Now, decades later, the throne room is home to over ten thousand books.

Along the highest point of the ceiling, chandeliers mounted from the beaks of raven gargoyles illuminate the massive room. The ceiling itself was painted the Queen’s Blue four years ago, yet another reminder that Caius intended Myla to rule equally alongside him, at the forefront of his peoples’ minds. Or that is what he wanted it to look like.

At the furthest end of the hall sit two thrones. Both in the shape of ravens, partially outstretched wings forming the backs and armrests of the thrones. The council suggested, about six months prior, it was time to remove Caius’s throne. They believed its presence somehow made her appear weak and still grieving, as though she were in denial. Myla promptly dismissed the suggestion. What she did not want to tell them was she is not ready to accept that she bears this responsibility alone.

She now sits tall on her throne, to the left of Caius’s, watching guests trickle in at a steady pace. Her sharp eyes miss nothing, the disheveled couple slipping in as discreetly as they can manage, parting ways without a word. Lords and tenants alike, wearing their finest tunics, all there to swear fealty. Her father parting the crowd like he himself is king and they are an ocean of nuisances, stooping before her throne with a reverent bow.

“I am glad to see you will at least respect my rule when there are people watching, Father,” she hums, not bothering to whisper for his sake. Her eyes continue to take in the room, barely glancing at the man before her. It is an intentional disregard; one she hopes will humble him. He remains knelt, unable to move without her permission. Myla’s lips turn in a satisfied smile and after a minute or so, she lazily flicks her wrist, allowing him to stand.

“Tonight, of all nights, daughter, you should know I respect your rule.” He seats himself at a table near her, close enough to hear any conversations she might have throughout the night.

The room fills rapidly. Sounds of conversation mixed with that of bards telling the tales of kings past and wars sooner forgotten, barely tap the fog of her mind. Another side effect, courtesy of the Blood Stealer. There was a time when Myla was not as much of an observer, but knowledge is power, she has heard repeatedly, and so she watches, despite the ever-present grip of tension her foe has on her.

Seated at a long table to her left is a gathering of lords and ladies, as well as many of Myla’s Council members. Lord and Lady Valen of Titonfall raise chalices of sweet wine to one another and Lord Valen leans to whisper, making his wife emit a deep and genuine belly laugh. On the opposite side of the room, important military officials, Bryar included, sit wearing solemn faces. Discussing assault tactics, no doubt, Myla thinks to herself.

As she takes in the faces of those gathered this evening to swear fealty, Myla is grateful to see so many. This year alone, they attempted to storm the Seam with hopes of weakening the Blood Stealer. Their army was flattened with a devastating loss of two thousand men. Since then, Bryar’s special forces, the Raven’s Veil, have been in and out of the Seam countless times, collecting information and undertaking stealthy attacks on smaller targets. He has more recently forbidden any killing behind enemy lines, after men began succumbing to the Blood Stealer more frequently during skirmishes.

Despite the tumultuous happenings of the last half a year, all of last year’s subjects have returned. That is what happens when they do not know their queen is on standby until the Blood Stealer summons her . The morbid thought sends a shiver down her spine.

When Caius sat safely on the throne, and his Restorer abilities were keeping the Blood Stealer subdued to his own territory, it was simple to keep the plague of the Blood Stealer at bay. Anyone found to be under his influence was brought directly to the King, who would cleanse the victims with Restorer’s Magic. Now, without that solution, anyone found to be under the Blood Stealer’s influence is executed on the spot, so as to slow his powerful growth. Myla wonders who among her trusted officials would be the first to raise a hand against her, should they discover her secret.

Across the room, the door swings open to another familiar face, though older than the last time she saw him. His chin length hair and gray stubble beard are well groomed and the decorative blade at his side still gleaming. Wearing a fine black tunic with silver details at the wrists and neck, he strides in, oozing the humble confidence she has known from him for a decade now. Myla stands, a thrill in her heart dismissing every instinct to remain the dignified queen. Descending the steps from her throne, Myla parts the crowd and stops just feet away from her old friend.

“Sir Roderick.” She tempers the excitement in her voice, though the gleam in her eyes betrays her.

The older gentleman smiles back, bowing with the utmost reverence, a glimmer of pride in his eyes. “Your Grace,” he replies, waiting for her motion to stand upright. “It has been many years. I heard of your . . . status change, and thought to myself: what an honor to have taught the future queen to defend herself.”

“I am so pleased to see you,” Myla replies, taking Sir Roderick’s hand. “I insist you sit near me. I should like to speak with you more this evening. I am afraid I have business to attend right now.”

He smiles with a nod of understanding. “I see another friend.” He nods toward Bryar, who watches with a visible swell of joy. “I will sit by him for the ceremony, and I shall speak to you after.”

Myla returns to her throne, a loneliness sinking over her. Every single person is here on duty, something she is so grateful for. However, at each table, friends sit with friends, while she sits alone. Bryar and Sir Roderick shake hands firmly and exchange a brief hug. Old banter seems to ensue without delay, and Myla diverts her gaze, lest someone notice her jealousy, her longing to sit with them and feel as though she belongs, the way she used to.

As the sun sinks beneath the horizon, casting an eerie twilight over the grand hall of the palace, Myla stands, her movement commanding silence to fall throughout the room, her presence both regal and foreboding. It escapes not a single soul how beautiful she looks. As all eyes settle upon her, she appears tall and resilient, a young woman deserving of the attention she receives. In the flickering candlelight, her flowing brown hair is highlighted and cascades in soft waves down her back, framing her delicate, yet strong face with high cheekbones and a set jawline. She carries a stoic roughness in her eyes, put there by years of treading water. They are a deep, icy-blue. They suck you in like a whirlpool in an angry ocean of unspoken thoughts you would like to know, but never will.

Still wearing the dress she chose this morning; she is certain she made the right choice. A hunter-green gown hugs her form, an elegant and precise tease, the fabric shimmering subtly as she moves, reminiscent of the dense forests surrounding her realm. The gown’s intricate embroidery features meandering vines and various creatures, a nod to the unpredictability of nature, as well as the strength of a queen who is equally at home in her court and the untamed wilderness, though the latter is not commonly known.

As she moves, the fabric whispers against her skin, and the modest neckline of her dress validates her seriousness. A piercing black crown, crusted in smoky quartz and obsidian, jets upward in six slender spindles, and black peonies are arranged between the points, giving her a feminine ferocity. Looking over her throne room, across the faces of those called to her attention, a look that seems to say, “you can not hurt me, for I have died and come back again,” whispers across her stoic features.

The air is heavy with the scent of roasted meats and spiced wine. The flickering candlelight creates shadows that dance ominously across the stone walls. Tonight is not merely a feast, but a ritual steeped in ancient tradition: the oath-swearing ceremony, where loyalty is proven with blood.

With a raised chin, Myla examines her people, the magnificent and menacing slant of her eyes taking in every detail, preparing herself for at least two hours of standing, listening to oath after oath.

Lords and ladies, clad in their finest silks and velvets, approach the dais with trepidation, their eyes flickering with a mix of reverence and awe. Each vassal bears a token of their loyalty—a jeweled bangle, a sleek chalice, or some simple, yet significant trinket. As they kneel before her, the air thickens with tension, and their voices rise in a haunting chant, pledging their fealty with a reverence that sends shivers down the spine. One by one, they prick their palms with the cold steel, allowing a single drop of blood to fall onto the altar, a crimson symbol of their commitment to the crown, and the price of loyalty in Myla’s realm.

As she accepts each offering, her hand is steady on their shoulder, her gaze piercing their souls, binding them, not just by a spoken oath, but by the magic spilled from their veins onto the altar before her.

Elsa stands before her now, jaw set firmly, hand unshaken. She pierces the soft flesh of her palm, slicing through scars from many years of oaths, allowing blood to spill upon the altar. Ever a faithful friend and loyal subject, Elsa kneels at Myla’s feet, expressing devotion and commitment of the sincerest kind.

Behind her stands Bryar. His increasing proximity, paired with the purpose of the evening, brings heat to her cheeks. Nothing like a man spilling his own blood for you, after spending the last several years pretending his affections were only for the crown.

Resisting the urge to smile as he steps forward, Myla lowers her chin in the same reverent nod she has shared with the last eighty-five people. Yet, this nod feels different. The way her stomach twists, as he flays open his own palm to bleed for her, feels different. The grimace of slight pain, matched equally with eyes that scream, “I would not have this any other way,” speaks in a different language to her than any of the other oaths before.

It reminds her of a night they shared many years ago, his words haunting her as he kneels before her now. I would burn this lifetime and every other lifetime to the ground. I would watch my life caught in a fire, all for you. When his lips part and the oath drops from his tongue like a sacred vow, only they two know, something else in her stirs.

“This Raven Throne, where loyalty binds,

I kneel here; our fates entwined.

With sacred vows, spilled blood we share,

If death is true, I pledge this prayer.

In darkest times to stand as one,

My body, your shield ‘til my breath is gone.

By dagger’s point lest I be disgraced,

I swear allegiance in this sacred place.

For every drop that stains the ground,

A vow unbreakable, forever bound.”

With his oath is complete, he gently places a black curved dagger upon the altar, his gift to her. The hilt is exquisite, fashioned into a leaping fox. The tail is the butt of the hilt, intended to curl around the wielder’s fist, and the hungry mouth of the fox being where the blade appears, sharp and menacing. He made this . . .

Silence claims the room, waiting for Myla to accept his oath. Eyes locked, the space between their breath is thick. Myla fears any closer and they might implode into a visceral inferno. Nonetheless, with a trembling hand, she gestures for him to stand. It is just a kiss. She bolsters within and leans to press her lips to his cheek. To the room of onlookers, Myla is merely accepting one more oath. Between Bryar and her, it is clear in the way the air catches at her lips and her hand instinctively brushes his as she leans closer, this is more than just a vow of fealty. It is a reminder.

When the final vow is uttered, a heavy silence envelops the hall before erupting into applause, the sound reverberating like thunder, a testament to the loyalty forged in the blood of every man and woman in the room. Blood drips from the altar now, trickling down the steps leading to her throne.

In this moment, standing at the head of the room with every single eye on her, responsibility weighs heavy.

They look to her for answers she does not have.

Feasting has commenced when Sir Roderick approaches the throne, kneeling before her, his fist wrapped around a white cloth staunching the flow of blood from his palm.

“As promised, Your Grace, here I am.”

Myla laughs at the formality, something she is used to from all but her old blademaster. “Come.” She gestures for him to stand at her right and observe the room with her. “What do you see?” she asks, as he takes his place.

Sir Roderick scopes the room, no doubt attempting to predict the next moves of those he studies. It is in his blood to know where people are going next. “I see potential,” he says finally, eyes fixed on one table in specific, full of military officials saluting to something. “I see hope.” His gaze shifts to room in general, before turning back to her. “But I also see fear . . . for you have the fate of the realm crushing you.”

She shivers, eyes flickering to the space behind him, not wishing to meet the inquisitive gaze of one who knows her so well. “You see a great many things, in so little time,” she responds stoically. “Did you know all those years ago, that it would be me?”

He sighs, and Myla watches his hands fold before him resolutely. “I had my suspicions after your display in the garden. But of course, we all knew without a doubt after your aptitude test.” He passes a sorrowful gaze her way. “I must admit, as your instructor, it both broke my heart and thrilled me at once. I watched one reality crumble and another take form. I knew if anyone could do it, it would be you.”

Myla scoffs, gesturing to her court. “And you still think that?”

Without hesitation, Roderick answers, “I do.” After a moment of silence, he grins. “I wonder at the humor of the Gods.”

“Why is that?”

“They saw fit to tangle the threads of your fate with his.” He nods toward Bryar. “First in my training arena and now here.” He gestures to the great throne room. “In this palace, where so much power limits even the threads of fate.”

Myla’s stomach twists and she has half a mind to reprimand him for speaking so freely. Instead, she leans into the familiarity which has always been the nature between them.

“You turned a blind eye to much all those years ago.”

His beard twitches as his jaw clenches, a smile subdued. “I mind my own business.”

“But you did not,” she corrects.

“I suppose not. I did not see what everyone else saw. He was not just a blacksmith’s son, and you were so much more than a nobleman’s daughter. The rebel in me wanted to give you both a safe haven to be so much more than what others allowed.” He tenses now, glancing from her to where Bryar sits, intently watching the exchange. “I can see now what a mistake that was, and I can only apologize for allowing false hope to grow where there would only be ruin and hurt.”

“How are you feeling?” Elsa asks as she curls into the cushions of the green sofa. She looks like one of the delicate creatures you would expect to find in the conservatory. Perhaps a vision of the ancient fae.

“Gods, I feel like I stood for three hours while countless lords, ladies, and military officials swore their lives to my cause . . . wait ,” Myla giggles. “Yep, that is exactly how I feel.” Her body aches, but a budding sense of contentment dulls the discomfort.

Elsa rolls her eyes, followed quickly with a playful smile. “Yes, but how did it feel ?”

“Different than last year,” Myla allows, a subtle nod of acknowledgment to Elsa’s underlying question. “Much different.”

“That is what I thought,” Elsa chirps excitedly. “You looked to be enjoying yourself this time. Last year was just . . .”

“I was scared,” Myla admits. She stood up there last year with a trembling body and a soul filled with doubt. Memories from the year prior, when Caius had been slaughtered before his entire court, were all that ran through her mind as they pledged to her.

The Blood Stealer had descended on his black wraith, fueled by the magic of thirty thousand unwilling donors. Visions of the handsome, yet vicious, man known as the Blood Stealer maneuvering his razor-sharp wraith like a puppeteer across her husband’s throat, will forever be etched in her memory. His inky eyes, hooded by deep-black brows and a thirst for blood, insatiable.

As Myla had reached for the hand of her dying husband, the wraith left a cut along her wrist, carrying her blood directly to the Blood Stealer. Leaving her cure lying in a pool of his own blood, dead. He took the life of such a powerful man in a fleeting moment and left Myla in a situation far worse than death: a situation which teased death but refused to deliver on the promise.

Myla is jolted back into reality, her eyes instinctively graze the scar on her wrist, the one that did not kill her but certainly took her life. No. That was not the day that killed me. Maybe, it was just the day that marked the end of what killed me . . .

Elsa clears her throat. “Join the living, darling. There is no point chasing the dead down rabbit holes.” She is right, of course. Elsa, more than anyone, has seen the darkness a woman can lose herself in after such gore and tragedy.

“I saw it, you know.”

“Saw what?” Myla asks for clarification, meeting Elsa’s crystal-clear gaze.

“I saw the look in your eyes, when Bryar swore his oath.”

She takes a sip of her wine, a look of innocence fleeting across her features, as though she has not just pranced into forbidden territory.

Myla squirms beneath the scrutiny of her friend’s gaze. The conversation she has expected for a while, now here, feels daunting and personal. “There is no point in discussing it, Elsa. I am the queen.”

“Yes,” Elsa admits. “An unmarried queen, with no lover. It is the most preposterous thing I have ever heard.” The woman snorts, swallowing another heavy dose of wine. “Hell, if I was queen, husband or not, I would probably be fucking half of Falkmere and asking the king what he planned to do about it.

“Yes, and you would be headless within a fortnight.”

“Not as headless as I would have been, if I had not fucked half of Falkmere . . .”

“Elsa,” Myla gasps, ignoring the flowery innuendo and instead studying the lanterns hanging from the conservatory ceiling, then the stars beyond them. Anything to avoid the direct gaze of her friend. “There are risks to taking lovers, you know.”

“Oh, you mean pregnancy?” Elsa laughs. “Darling, it is a little late to be worried about that.”

“I know,” Myla says firmly, “but the question of legitimacy to Caius.”

“Myla… you have been pregnant for two years, and the only people who know are your immediate friends. It seems to me, that legitimacy will be questioned until the child proves, through their power, who sired them, and you know that. I do not think you are afraid of being questioned. You are afraid of repeating the same hurts. You are afraid of betraying your dead husband.”

Myla stiffens. “It is not that. I know in my heart that to love is no betrayal . . . I am afraid to appear weak, or as though my priorities are not in order.” Which is exactly why this conversation is futile. No amount of friendly coaxing is going to change her mind. Her situation is already precarious without adding a forbidden lover into the equation.

Elsa scoffs. “You ask any man in that hall tonight where on his priority list fucking falls, and it would be priority number two, right beneath loads of power.” She pauses, not daring to meet Myla’s gaze with her coming statement. “Are you afraid of . . . being physically hurt?”

Myla flinches, drawing her attention to the empty bottom of her wine glass. “No, why would I?”

Elsa nods with an annoyed twitch of her eyebrows, “Not ready for that topic? Noted. So, it is having a more responsible priority list than a male monarch. Let us unpack that, shall we?”

Despite Myla’s instinct to argue that it is different for women in power, she merely laughs, grateful Elsa has chosen not to pry. “I think some of them have more power than they do good looks. Fucking might be priority number one.” The girls’ laughter fills the conservatory and lighthearted conversation cleanses the heavy space.