Page 5 of A Thousand Burning Ravens (The Queen Who Bleeds Stars #1)

AS HE GROWS closer, Myla can feel the supernatural pull, an urge pulsing through her veins to surrender her throne, surrender her palace, and run to him. A darkness lying in wait, always torturing the back of her mind, taunting her with the knowledge that he is imminent. He is coming to either kill her or claim her body. Either way, his approach means only one thing for her: this child is in great danger.

Those around her are also in great danger. Myla wakes from a fitful sleep with the urge to kill. Soldiers posted around her, the target of her violent intentions. The Blood Stealer seems to plot against her already, wanting her unprotected and easily accessible.

Soldiers line within the palace grounds and beyond into the streets of the city. Everywhere you turn, the flash of Queen’s Blue is moving back and forth. It is no secret war is brewing; that has been clear for a long time.

Though it is midday now, Myla would not know. From the moment she rose, she has been in the Archives Sanctum, accompanied by the scrollwarden, searching for any clues for defeating the Blood Stealer. Though Myla conceals her secret from the scrollwarden, the elderly woman can still prove useful in pulling any texts from the shelves that contain information on their foe. Myla now flips through the texts, desperate for something to stand out as an obvious solution.

Without Caius’s magic, there seems to be no way to break the blood oaths which have already been stolen. If they try to kill him without breaking the blood oaths, they will have him and his rapidly growing army to contend with, no doubt adding to it with every wounded soldier.

Myla has heard rumors the Blood Stealer has been known to engage in small skirmishes, but rather than killing his victims, he will only wound them, consume their blood, and expand his army by several dozen at a time. Soldiers have been known to change sides mid-battle, which is why Myla insists there shall be no battling if it can be helped.

I have resisted his call; perhaps we could find a way to implore his army to resist as well , she considers absently, flipping pages back and forth as though the answer will appear before her with encouragement. “I have heard of some victims in the past being able to withstand his attempts at control. How was that achieved—can we replicate it?” Myla asks, hoping to learn more of her own situation, as well as find a possible solution.

The scrollwarden, an ancient-looking woman with crow’s feet at the corners of her eyes, shakes her head resolutely. “In the past he has been known to claim more powerful victims. There were those who were fortunate to have a more potent magic in their veins, who seemed to withstand him a little. The victims he recruits tend to have minor magic abilities and thus, no power capable of withstanding him at all. An intentional selection, I presume.”

“So, one’s ability to resist is merely a privilege of ability?”

The scrollwarden nods, a grim expression flashing across her wrinkled features. “Indeed, Your Grace. What an unjust system, is it not?”

He must be allowing me to live in some semblance of normalcy so I will thank him for his lenience when he arrives. Myla lets out an exasperated sigh, picturing the Blood Stealer attempting to win her over on account of not fully controlling her.

Well, he will not hear a ‘thank you’ from me.

“I need to meet with the brewmage. Perhaps he can brew something to help reinforce the weaker wielders.”

“The magic you seek can not be manufactured,” the scrollwarden warns. “You can not fabricate a gift from the Gods.”

“Perhaps not, but none will thank me for not trying, not even the Gods,” Myla responds absently while flipping through piles of records. The history is vague. Though stories of the malicious and beastly magical bloodline are sparse, those she can find prove unhelpful. Every record leading to the same dead end: one must wield Restorer’s magic to unharness victims of the blood oath and defeat the stealer himself.

“Keep searching,” Myla instructs with a grateful nod. “I must look elsewhere.” She climbs the steep stairs leading out of the Archives Sanctum to the back of the throne room, where servants are polishing the floor and dusting bookshelves. Tall wooden ladders leaning against the pillars support people higher up, tending to the harder-to-reach books.

“Rhyland,” she calls to the young man who leans against one of the pillars, flirting with a guard.

He bows briefly, then straightens as she approaches. “Your Grace.” With a bashful whisper, he looks sidelong at her. “ That did not go well. I really wish my morals did not keep me from wiping his memory.”

Myla grins, shaking her head in a pretend state of judgment. “You need to stop searching for love among the guards.”

Rhyland flashes her a condescending smile. “Says the woman hopelessly in love with a guard herself.”

“I am not . . . in any case,” she quietly replies with a smile. “I remember a time when you claimed to love him as well.”

Rhyland grovels. “Remind me to wipe that memory too . . .”

“You have been saying that for ten years,” Myla answers with a laugh. “I think you enjoy giving me your secrets.” Myla looks to the cleaners overhead and with a more serious and formal tone, she addresses him. “See to it these people have harnesses. We do not need a repeat of last time.”

Last year, when one young idiot was cleaning the top of the bookshelves, a flighty housekeeper did not notice as she backed into his ladder, knocking him fifty feet to the granite floor beneath. She spent the day mopping his blood and fragments of his skull up, Myla had insisted on safety harnesses being worn from then on out.

Rhyland, abashed at the oversight, bows once more and demands the workers bring themselves down at once. He then glances over his shoulder at her and whispers, “Also, who says anything about looking for love, Your Grace? Perhaps I would settle for a friend these days.”

The words rest uneasy where they land with Myla. There used to be an effortless bond between herself and her friends. Now there is a barrier which seems to have pushed the wedge of duty between all of them, to an extent.

Now, more than ever, she wishes they could all find their way back to that effortless place. Problems were easier to solve back then.

Shaking off the nostalgia, Myla passes quickly through the throne room and makes her way across the palace, past the barracks, and into the Alchemy Chamber where the brewmage leans manically over a thick, leather-bound book. His pale hair is pointing in complete disorder, and three vials are suspended in the air to his right, bobbing up and down with the motion of liquid bubbling within.

The brewmage is a young man, younger than many of the lords and ladies of the realm have dared to employ. But Myla, having questioned the loyalty of Caius’s original brewmage, made it her goal to employ a trustworthy one.

It had taken many weeks of tracing lineage and reading applications before Myla had selected Alaric. Though he was young, he had graduated the Institute of Mystic Arts with brilliant scores on all fronts and came highly recommended by his tutors. Myla had met with a large string of brewmages who all seemed qualified, but Alaric was the one she connected with. He is the only one outside of her friend circle she has dared share her secret with. Mostly on account of necessity.

Myla, taking in her surroundings, is at once enveloped by the earthy aroma of herbs and the faint sweetness of blooming flowers. Sunlight filters through a large, circular window, illuminating the room with a warm glow and casting intricate shadows against stone walls, adorned with climbing ivy and hanging moss. Statues of the Gods line the walls, telling stories from eons before their existence. Brightly colored tinctures also line the walls, each labeled with handwritten notes in flowing script, detailing their uses and effects.

Around the chamber, shelves made from ancient wood are filled with glass jars of vibrant colors, each having dried herbs, roots, and flowers—chamomile, lavender, and sage among them. A large wooden table sits at the center, its surface cluttered with pestle and mortar, dried leaves, an assortment of crystals that sparkle like dew in the morning light, and a large, leather-bound grimoire. It has been left open, its pages filled with sketches of plants and notes on their magical properties, inviting Myla to explore the secrets of green witchcraft that lie within.

In one corner, a small herb garden thrives, pots overflowing with greenery and delicate blooms, leaves glistening from a recent watering. A gentle breeze wafts through an open window, carrying the scent of wildflowers from outside making the delicate wind chimes—crafted from bone and glass—tinkle softly in harmony. Across the room, a bubbling cauldron sits atop a fire pit, steam rising in wispy spirals, infused with the rich scent of simmering potions.

Everywhere she looks, the symbiosis of nature and magic is palpable, creating a serene yet vibrant atmosphere that speaks of ancient wisdom and the art of herbal alchemy. All of it is new since she banished the earlier brewmage. Alaric has brought the alchemy chamber to life.

Myla notices black runes lay scattered, divination having occurred recently.

“What do the Gods tell us?” she asks, levitating a finger above the energetic runes, not daring to touch them.

“Your Grace!” he quips, hastily bowing before handing her one of the bobbing vials. “I have replenished your tonic!” He glances to the runes, his red cheeks flushing, “And they say we are royally fucked.”

Nodding to the vials, Myla rolls the one he handed her between her fingers. “I am grateful.” She smiles and tucks the tonic into her bodice. “Royally fucked is no news to me. Perhaps next year they will say something different.” She pauses, flipping a rune over now, hoping to erase their messages. “I am afraid I must disrupt whatever it is you work on.”

“Your will is my command,” Alaric replies, waiting for her to elaborate on her needs. He fidgets, eyes darting to and fro with distraction. Myla has always noticed he lacks the ability to be still, always moving, always driven with purpose and a need to accomplish every task before the day’s end.

“Do you suppose there is a way to replicate or manufacture, you might say . . . the Restorer’s magic?”

His shoulders sag slightly, and he reaches out to retrieve the other two vials, slow and careful in his answer. “If it were as simple as making specific kinds of magic, I believe we would have conquered this already. Sadly, the best I can do for you, Your Grace, I have already done.”

“I was afraid you would say that,” Myla replies. “I am on the hunt for solutions. I am afraid it will not be a matter of defeating the Blood Stealer, but of putting up a good fight,” Myla admits with trepidation, the reality of the situation weighing heavy. “Could you perhaps brew something that amplifies my magic or increases its longevity more than the one you have already made me? I do not wish to die easily and be the laughter in a bard’s retelling when this is all over with.”

Alaric chews his lower lip, eyes darting from herbs to vials and the books on his wall. “Might I beg Your Grace to give me a few hours? I will try what you ask, but I will need time to reference several manuscripts. I am afraid the strength in the tonic I have made already was a feat. I doubt we have access to the ingredients needed to make a stronger one.”

With a nod, Myla hesitates and asks a final question. “How long do you suppose it would take one to train in dark magic before being able to stand against the forces of the Blood Stealer? He has so many tied to him.”

Alaric grins. “Against the rabble? You have nothing to fear.” He hesitates. “But, once dark magic is introduced into your being, it is challenging to rid yourself of it. You already carry burdens you should not, Your Grace. Perhaps it is bold of me to say, but I would not muddy the pond with dark magic.”

His response, while reassuring, does not settle well with Myla. The majority of the Blood Stealer’s army are victims, certainly not there willingly. The concept of killing them with a flick of her wrist feels like a cheap and unnecessary death. Myla drums her fingers aimlessly on the apothecary table, taking one last glance at the runes before leaving. Royally fucked.

Having left the Alchemy lab with little to go off, Myla was on her way to her chambers for a brief rest when her father had intercepted her, insisting there was more she should be doing. There is always more. When he had promised her in marriage to Caius, he told her of the pleasantries and privileges she would enjoy as queen. As he belittled her today, she found herself spewing, “Where are my pleasantries and privileges if I can not simply walk to my own chamber without being berated by you? ”

Since her mother died shortly after her marriage, the relationship between Myla and her father has grown substantially more tense. Her mother always served as a buffer between Maverick and his daughter. Now, with no buffer at all, they are like sharp daggers grinding against one another, each desperate for the deeper cut.

As a result of this bitter encounter, she has retreated to the gardens, and at last, Myla finds herself seated on a stone bench, hidden behind the ancient, draped limbs of a weeping willow at the furthest end of the garden. The grass beneath is trodden from years of visiting. Here, Myla leans back, her eyes falling closed, and the sound of a babbling brook behind her is nature’s lullaby. In the distance, the sound of soldiers training, a sound that should be comforting, is merely another reminder of impending doom.

“You should not be here alone,” a familiar voice chides. Myla does not open her eyes; she does not need to to know who stands before her. His presence, the sound of his voice and weight of his steps advancing is an immediate reminder of the last time they took to the willow tree as a hiding place. Myla’s father had just signed a betrothal agreement with Caius. At the time, Myla was fearful and heartbroken. She knew Caius was a good and kind king but had no way of knowing how he might serve as a husband. And she knew he was not Bryar.

As the marriage outlines were drawn up, Myla had watched with glistening eyes as Bryar stood, resolute in his role as the king’s guard, behind his master, unwavering. His jaw set in a firm clench, Myla believed he was balling his fists and biting down on his own tongue to refrain from objecting.

Once Myla was dismissed and Bryar could escape unnoticed, they met beneath the willow tree. It was there they had lain together for the last time, promising for both their sakes, as well as that of the kingdom, they would forsake each other forever. There would be no more secret rendezvous. They would no longer exchange warm gazes across the room. Under no circumstances would they compromise her position as queen nor his as the King’s Guard.

So, he has become a phantom to her, someone she sees and pretends not to. Now here he is again, where she has hidden so many times in the last five years, wondering if he ever did the same. Daydreaming of their concluding moments here.

“How did you find me?”

“You are predictable, and consistent, fortunately for me. What kind of Queen’s Guard lets his queen wander unattended.” The latter is spoken as a sort of chastisement disguised as concern. He hates when she wanders off without him or at least someone. Myla opens her eyes to see him turn dutifully, back to her, watching the grounds before them. The branches of the weeping willow skew her view of him slightly, but she can make out the way his shoulders heave in a worn-out sigh and his hands rest heavily on the axe at his side. She laughs slightly, and he turns to look at her between the branches, eyebrows raising in question.

“What is so funny?”

“You. Carrying that axe.”

“Why is that?” he asks.

“Because we all know it is purely decorative. You do not need it.”

“No,” Bryar agrees. “Unless I get fatigued in battle and can not channel magic.”

Myla purses her lips, picturing the one and only time that has ever happened to him. Caius’s death weighs heavily on all, but Bryar holds the grief of the soldiers who died trying to save their king. The battle which ensued once the palace had been breached was a devastating one, and Bryar fought honorably. Myla will never forget him walking into the throne room where she sat sobbing over Caius’s body. He was covered in blood from head to toe. A long slash to his ribs and the remnants of human tissue on his axe were proof enough of the way he fought to save his king and soldiers.

“I visited the brewmage,” Myla says to shift the topic. “His runes say we are royally fucked.”

Bryar smirks and cautiously steps within the enclosure of the tree. “It is nothing you can not handle, Your Grace.” He stares at the ground between them, an invisible barrier keeping that distance greater than either of them would like. “What if I asked you to go to your family’s estate and wait somewhere less obvious until we have more answers. Until we have a better plan?”

Myla shakes her head, standing as if she has been stuck with something sharp. “You want me to run away? You, who is the least cowardly person I know, is asking me to be a coward?”

Bryar shakes his head in fierce contradiction. “No, Myla. I am asking you to stay out of harm’s way, until we know how you can best protect yourself, and the child.”

Myla shakes her head. “I will not leave. I swore to protect this kingdom, and that is what I plan to do, even if it kills me.”

An irritated growl escapes Bryar, and he reaches out to grab her arms, his brows furrowed and concern drawing a sharp line in his jaw. His touch, though an angry one, is electric, and Myla feels a surge of passion rush through her being. He has not laid a hand on her in years.

“ If Myla?”

Myla. Not ‘Your Grace.’ Myla.

“You say if like we have some plan just seconds away from falling into place. You say if like your death is not a real possibility!”

Attempting unsuccessfully to jerk free of his grasp, Myla glowers at the man before her. “ You say if as though I have not been living this very real possibility for two fucking years! I am exhausted, and I want it over with, Captain Monroe . Whatever that looks like, I can not continue like this. Let it kill me; see how much I care.”

He releases her, running his hands across his face in exasperation. “You might not care, but . . . there are those who do, and will not hear you talking like this. I hear you.” His voice is softer now, though still edged with desperate reasoning. “Consider, you carry the heir. The last being to possess Restorer’s blood. If you die, it dies and hope for a life without the Blood Stealer dies as well. And while it may seem selfish to bring personal feelings into the equation, I do not want to watch you die unnecessarily.” The final plea is spoken cautiously, his hands gripping the hilt of his axe as though he needs something, anything to occupy them, lest he should burn the garden down, in rage and fear.

Myla takes slow, deep breaths, trying to untangle fear from reason to make sense of what should be done. Being pigeonholed into a corner with very few solutions, none of which are good, does not give a queen the appearance of control. Which of course, stands to reason, for she has none at this moment. “Captain, I do not believe I am seen as a queen to be feared. I am followed and respected because I was Caius’s wife. These people do not fear me.”

“I do not see that as a bad thing.”

“It is not,” Myla agrees. “Until I run off into hiding and am a coward on top of it. How will they follow me then?”

Bryar shakes his head fervently. “Being seen as a coward and actually being one are vastly different things. Do you care how they see you more than you care to survive?”

“A queen must care how she is perceived.”

“So, we tell them you are seeking answers from the Gods, and you will return shortly. Assign a regent in your stead. And then we take you somewhere no one will look for you, and I will go to the Seer and get answers for you.”

Myla gasps, resisting the urge to reach out and take his hand. “You can not. I could not allow you to make that journey on my behalf. Many have not returned; I could not bear that.” Regret fills her middle the moment her final statement is made. In an effort to rectify the sentiment, she speaks again. “I see enough men die on account of my rule. I will not see any of those deaths be for hopes or whims.”

“We do not have a choice,” Bryar huffs. “Without some clarity from the Gods, I am afraid of the mess we might make here, following our own judgment.”

Myla knows he is right. Without answers, they are left to gamble and hope they make the right choice. The Gods know already how—or even if—she will defeat the Blood Stealer. “I shall go with you, then. I shall seek these answers for myself. That is not your responsibility.”

He takes a deep breath and nods. It is clear he is relieved, having been successful in his purpose. “Go ready your things, Your Grace. Pack light, and we will leave in an hour.”

Together, they appear from the cover of the willow tree and navigate the garden hedge maze back to the palace where life is more abuzz than when Myla left it an hour ago.

A figure draped in a heavy cloak runs toward Myla, throwing back the hood. Callum is revealed, breathless and flushed with exertion. “Where the hell have you been?” He looks from Bryar to Myla, then rolls his eyes in agitation. “You have maybe fifteen minutes before the Blood Stealer arrives. I nearly killed my horse trying to get here before he did.”

Myla freezes, dread rushing through her. Could this be it? Could this be the moment her fate is decided? “How large is his army? Was the earlier report, correct? I thought he was not set to arrive until tomorrow?”

Callum shakes his head. “Less than two hundred. I do not think he has come to fight. It looks like a peaceful envoy. But he travels much faster than he did according to yesterday’s reports, so make haste. ”

Myla glances at Bryar, her furrowed brow asking the silent question: Could that be? Of course it could be. The answer is simple—he has not come to kill her; his intentions are far less merciful.

“What makes you say it appears to be peaceful?” Bryar clarifies.

It is at this moment Lord Sorrin and Lord Heron join them, both fully armored and clearly ready to stop the threat.

“Because,” Callum answers, side eyeing the new arrivals, “he is leaving much of his army outside the city limits. He did not even progress half of them through our barricade. They are simply . . . making camp. Last I saw, he was approaching with only eight guards.”

“Royally fucked,” Myla growls, turning away to make for her chamber. “Send for Fern and tell her to make haste. We have no time to spare. When the Blood Stealer requests an audience,” Myla turns to face Bryar, her expression stone and unreadable, “you are to let him in.”