Page 4 of A Thousand Burning Ravens (The Queen Who Bleeds Stars #1)
IT IS AN hour later when Elsa retires, giving Bryar, who stands guard outside the conservatory, a sly smile upon exiting. One he does not acknowledge, his eyes fixed dutifully ahead, hands resting, relaxed but ready, on the hilt of his axe.
The door closes behind her, a healthy divider between she and him. I might need a new personal guard. She thinks back to what Sir Roderick said to her. I can only apologize for it. Crickets chirp just outside and fireflies dance in the trees in the furthest corner of the indoor garden. I can only apologize for it. A trickling of the fountain accompanies the song of crickets, but otherwise, there is a deafening silence. A silence begging to be broken with whispered confessions and bated breath, an inclination so contrary to her commitment as queen. I can only apologize for it. Even Sir Roderick sees the folly in their past. There can be no future.
Instead of succumbing to the temptation of the man outside, she lifts her palm before her, redirecting her energy. “This is where my focus should lie,” she mutters to herself, urging her magic forth. Two years of siphoning her magic to her womb has taken its toll on what used to be a limitless supply. Though she tries, she can not manage to form even a pool of light without relinquishing the hold on her womb. Sparks, like extinguishing stars, speckle her palms, then drift slowly down her forearm until dissipating to nothingness. Another futile attempt.
Dropping her wrist limp at her side, Myla reclines back on the sofa. The sound of soldiers walking past outside the conservatory sends a disruptive clank into her tranquil silence, a memory is sparked.
“Well done,” Sir Roderick exclaims, patting Bryar on the shoulder firmly. His kind eyes graze the distance between he and Myla, smiling at her as she leans panting, sword gripped between her sweaty fists. “You are both exceptional students.” The blademaster takes the swords from each of them, returning the weapons to their places on the rack before gesturing for Myla and Bryar to sit.
Myla does as instructed, grateful to take the weight off her weary thighs, but all too aware of the proximity to Bryar this creates. He sits on the bench beside her, leaning his forearms against his knees as he hunches. She finds satisfaction in the way he swallows air as though he has been kicked in the gut. She has exerted him; he is no longer her superior with the blade. For now, they are equals. Pursing her lips to hide the smirk forming across her face, she turns her attention to Sir Roderick.
“Tomorrow we shall double the time. I believe you are both ready to wield heavier weapons for a longer duration. Our goal this next month is to extend your stamina. There is no telling how long you may find yourself in combat, nor who you might encounter.” Sir Roderick turns to his desk, leaning over a textbook. His students sit in silence, waiting for him to continue. When it becomes clear he has concluded his lesson, Bryar turns to look at Myla, his boyish face alight with curiosity.
“Tell me more about the magic of the Gods.”
Myla shifts slightly, the thud of her heart gaining speed as she realizes she is leaning toward him, rather than away from him as propriety would demand. “The headmaster spoke on it in class yesterday.”
“I know,” Bryar says with a grin. “You told me. That is why I want to hear more. I know you did not tell me everything.”
“I did not have time,” she replies with a slight smile.
“So, tell me now.” His eyes dart to where Sir Roderick is, clearly ignoring their interaction. “Please, I want to know.”
A tinge of guilt threatens to erase the warmth collecting in her middle as she breathes the same air as he. She is privileged to learn so much more than Bryar on account of her status and finances. He is lucky to even be here, learning the art of the sword.
“Alright,” she whispers. “The headmaster says common magic is not gifted on account of status, but that many nobles have only that. Whereas some commoners throughout history have been known to have ethereal magic, or magic of the Gods even. It is not a matter of social standing that determines what tier of magic one receives, but the gamble of the Gods’ will.”
“There is not much of the Gods’ magic left, is there?” he asks, his tone a bit too loud with excitement, catching Sir Roderick’s attention.
“That there is not,” Roderick replies, turning to face his pupils. “Have you not learned of the tiers of magic?”
Bryar shrugs, glancing down at his boots before shaking his head. “I know of it. My father simply does not tell me as much as I want to know.” Through a few comments of this sort, Myla has come to realize Bryar’s father, a well-meaning man, seems to be restricting the world of magic from his son. To what purpose, she has yet to learn.
Roderick gnaws at his lower lip, deep in thought. “I have not much time before my next lessons begin, but I shall answer your questions now, as long as you both are sworn to secrecy. If the headmaster knew I was giving out additional lessons for free, he would find a replacement for me.” A severe look passes across his kind features, warranting nods of agreement from both of them. “Alright,” he continues. “What do you want to know?”
Bryar briefly looks to Myla, excitement written on his face. With a nod of encouragement from her, he speaks. “I want to know why magic has anything to do with the king not marrying.”
A stillness fills the room, Bryar’s bold question clearly catching Roderick off guard. Myla’s brows furrow, and she too, turns to the blademaster, curious about the answer to this question she herself has never considered.
Clearing his throat, Roderick nods, beginning to pace the circular stone room as though he walks on unstable ground. Perhaps with this question, he does. “His Grace is said to be a part of a much larger prophesy, spoken by the Seer on the mountain when he was born.”
“What prophesy?” Myla blurts, asking what she and Bryar both clearly think.
“Well,” Roderick says, kneeling before the two of them, “a prophesy to eradicate the Blood Stealer.” Silence settles over the trio, the blademaster observing his students’ perplexed expressions before continuing. “You see, the Blood Stealer went undetected for centuries as he built his strength off the magic of mortal men. By the time our kind realized he was here and troublesome, it was too late for any simple solutions. He had consumed the blood of far too many—”
“But where did he come from?” Bryar interrupts.
“Oh, that is simple,” Myla retorts, surprised he does not know. “He is a fallen Dark Fae God.”
Roderick nods in affirmation. “Precisely, Lady Alerys. And when he fell from the graces of his fellow Gods, he took to the mortal world, quietly consuming us one by one. Now, we know the only magic which has ever been known to weaken him is that of a Restorer, although we found it could not kill him entirely.”
“Why?” Bryar challenges, his dark brows pushed together.
“Because it is the only equivalent magic to still be found in our realm. Magic of the Gods, channeled directly from the palms of the Gods above and down through the veins of our king. However, it does not overpower the magic of the Fae Gods. In any case,” Roderick redirects the conversation back to their original topic, “His Grace is the only being left known to channel the magic of the Gods. Therefore, he is the only one capable of stunting the Blood Stealer.
“When His Grace was born, the Seer prophesied that in our lifetime, a bride with the magic of the Gods would be found for him, and together they would bring forth a child of incomparable abilities. The existence of that child would be the end of the Blood Stealer. For this very reason, the Institute of Mystic Arts exists. Why do you think the King himself attends every single aptitude test? He is waiting for the day his bride reveals herself.”
Myla scowls, thinking of the poor girls walking in here with hopes for their future, not realizing they are all on display to the king, a mere fulfillment of prophesy. “You mean the day someone accepts the King’s ransom and turns a poor girl in? Is that all?” Her stomach sours at the thought, aware that deep within, she is likely one of very few girls who do not see the honor in this prophesy, but the prison.
Roderick answers with a deflated sigh. “The Seer spoke of this woman’s abilities and how she would not only be a potential vessel for the King’s heir, but should the Blood Stealer entice her, she could secure his line of darkness instead. It is said that once this woman be revealed, she is at greater risk of calling the Blood Stealer’s attention to herself, for she will decide the fate of our realm. Will we be ruled by the light magic of the Old Gods or will be we ruled by the dark magic of the fallen Fae God?”
Roderick concludes his lessons by encouraging them to understand as much of their history as possible before sending them on their way. Together, the two scale the spiral staircase leading up to the main floor of the Institute before either of them speaks.
“He says you should understand as much of our history as possible,” Myla whispers to Bryar as students pass them in the halls. “He says that to you like he did not just have to give you a lesson behind the headmaster’s back. It is not fair that having enough coin is what determines what parts of our history you can or can not know.”
Bryar shrugs, smiling down at her. “I know more today than I did yesterday. I can not complain.”
Myla’s eyes lower, and she finds herself absently chewing her nails, nervous to speak should they be heard. With a discreet gesture, she encourages him a step closer before whispering, “Yes, well I can.” Her blue eyes narrow, a seed planting itself in her mind. “I can meet in the afternoons, just before supper. I shall teach you everything I learn. Meet me tomorrow, and I shall bring my notes from all of my classes so far. You can keep them for a few days to catch up, we will begin meeting every day next week.”
It is not a suggestion, and Bryar knows it. Myla will not take ‘no’ for an answer. If she is to be educated, then so is he.
Myla could lose herself in memory, an indulgence she allows more regularly than she cares to admit. For the past is where her happiness lives. Tonight is no exception. The memory threatens to lure her down the more secret paths of what her and Bryar’s meetings would become.
That is, until six Council members and Myla’s flushed father come pouring into the room. Their faces are a mix of ashen concern and rage.
“Forgive the late disruption,” Lord Sorrin offers hoarsely, though it is clear he is not sorry at all. His voice is cold as the officers form a strategic standing circle around him. He unfurls a detailed map of the realm, the parchment crisp under the tension of the moment, and decisively points to a location fifty miles west of the palace with a pudgy finger. “Here, just before Titonfall. The Raven’s Veil reports the Blood Stealer, accompanied by a small army, is advancing toward us. We have a strict timeline of forty-eight hours before they reach the palace gates.”
A visceral jolt of shock courses through Myla. Thoughts of her own blood staining these floors, dripping down the Fae God’s chin within the week, flash unwelcome through her mind’s eye. Gathering her resolve, she steadies her voice, projecting confidence amid the turmoil. “A small army, you say. What are their estimated numbers?”
Sorrin casts a glance to his right, where Lady Jameson stands, visibly fatigued and road-weary from travel, yet composed. “My scouts estimate the hostile forces to comprise approximately two hundred combatants.”
Turning to Bryar, Myla furrows her brow, urgency lacing her tone. “What is the status of our border defenses?”
“I currently have nine hundred troops deployed along the perimeter of New Falkmere,” Bryar replies, his voice resolute.
“Can we allocate another five hundred?” she inquires, her mind racing through the logistics.
Bryar nods firmly. “Your Grace, we have an additional thousand available. We have been fortifying our defenses, in preparation for this very reason, over the past two years.”
“Well done,” she praises, careful not to make direct eye contact lest they see right through her formal tone. “Please arrange for five hundred more troops to be dispatched to the city borders and fortify the palace defenses immediately,” Myla commands, her eyes narrowing with determination.
Sorrin interjects, his tone authoritative. “Your Grace, I recommend we also distribute our forces to the outlying villages, perhaps we send troops to protect the monks, should he pass through that way?”
Though, it is unlikely the monks will be disturbed, Myla nods in agreement before she glances at Bryar to confirm he understands her orders. “Execute the plan, but instruct our forces not to engage in combat unless provoked. There is no need for more unnecessary bloodshed,” she commands. Bryar acknowledges with a brief bow and swiftly exits the room, instructing the guards stationed outside to remain with her in his absence, ensuring her safety as the preparations unfold.
As the evening wanes into early morning, the atmosphere within the conservatory-turned-war-room grows increasingly tense, a palpable weight settling over the assembled officers as they begin outlining defensive strategies. Myla, though outwardly composed, feels a tempest of emotions swirling within her—fear, dread, and a gnawing anxiety that the Blood Stealer might not only come for the realm, but for her specifically. The prophesy also warns that he may want me for other purposes . . . This is what she expects. It is a wonder he has allowed her to continue in any sense of normality after Caius died.
The looming question in the back of her head remains: why wait this long? Memories of whispered tales and fearful glances surface in her mind, reminders of the devastation that followed in the wake of Caius’s murder. The Seam grew in strength and the raiding of smaller villages peaked for several months as the Blood Stealer continued his rampage. It was only after Bryar led an army to intercept him at Titonfall that the marauding slowed. Bryar had flattened much of the Blood Stealer’s army with fire alone.
It is unlikely his fire will have the same effect this time, but Myla can not help but hope that between herself and the more gifted in her court, something will prove effective.
As plans are formulated for repositioning troops and reinforcing fortifications, she struggles to focus, her thoughts drifting to the implications of the upcoming conflict. The Blood Stealer has been known to dispatch his blood-thirsty wraith and claim control of hundreds of victims in mere minutes. Should he be coming to Falkmere with the intent to battle, without the Restorer’s magic, they are as good as dead—or puppets. Though she hates to give the order, Myla instructs for any recently deceased citizens of New Falkmere to be burned so the Blood Stealer can not reanimate them while he is here, as he has been known to do.
The officers debate logistics and troop movements, discussing the best placement for archers and infantry, while Myla’s heart races at the thought of the enemy’s approach. She imagines the chaos that might ensue if the Blood Stealer breaches the palace walls, and the devastation it could bring to her people—and her. Each mention of strategy raises her pulse to a deafening pound, like battering rams on the palace gates, she fights to keep her composure, knowing her role as leader requires unwavering and selfless strength.
Caius used to tell her that Falkmere was made of two castles, the one they reigned in and the one that was the mind and body of the monarch; a fortress as impenetrable and well-guarded as the dwelling itself. Determined to uphold this philosophy, Myla steadies her breathing, answering questions and giving instructions with a pretense of ease.
As discussions turn to the potential for a flanking maneuver and the necessity of proving a fallback position, Myla’s mind races with strategies of her own—not just for the defense of the realm, but for her own child’s survival. Will he sense the power of the child growing inside her? She resolves to stand her ground, to fight not only for her people but also for her child. As the shadows lengthen and the reality of impending confrontation looms ever closer, Myla is eerily aware she has been cornered into a situation which will demand that she choose: her people or her child.
The Blood Stealer, a fallen Dark Fae God, prowls through the shadows, a sinister figure and a friend to darkness. His presence is both chilling and magnetic, an eerie call to sacrifice one’s blood to his cause. His skin, pale as moonlight, starkly contrasts the deep crimson of the blood staining his hands and lips, remnants of his most recent claims. Eyes like obsidian pools glint with an unsettling hunger, betraying a predatory intelligence that infiltrates the very souls of those who dare meet his gaze. He moves with a silky grace, each step calculated, as if the very ground beneath him trembles in recognition of the malevolence he embodies.
Around him, the air thickens with an aura of dread, a palpable reminder of the countless blood oaths he has consumed in his relentless pursuit of power. The Blood Stealer feeds not just on blood, but on the latent magic coursing through the veins of his victims, drawing forth their essence to amplify his dark abilities. With each drop he drains, he binds their will to his, transforming them into unwilling thralls, mere shadows of their former selves, compelled to serve his insatiable appetite for dominion until he has drained them of life and their body fails them, inevitably resulting in death. Sometimes self-inflicted.
Myla chews her thumbnail, envisioning the devastation left in the wake of the demon she knows marches toward her now. Is he coming to kill her, or claim her? As of right now, Myla is the only woman in the realm known to have the magic of the Gods on her side. If the prophecy Sir Roderick taught she and Bryar years ago is true, that means the Blood Stealer may want her for her womb. Gods, just let him kill me, she thinks sarcastically.
“You need to rest.” Elsa appears around five in the morning, dressed for the day and bearing a cup of mulled wine. “You are no good to anyone worn, ragged, and weary.” Elsa presses palms to Myla’s shoulders, releasing a syrupy warmth of calm healing into her veins.
Myla smiles at her friend, accepting the drink. “Yes. You are right. I think I shall retire for a few hours. If I am needed, please come wake me. Will you send Fern in to help me undress?”
Fifteen minutes later, after a heavy dose of restorative tonic and the warmth of the mulled wine in her belly, Myla sinks into the feathered folds of her bed.