Page 6 of A Thousand Burning Ravens (The Queen Who Bleeds Stars #1)

POUNDING AT THE door, much like inside her chest, causes a trembling in Myla’s core. Her limbs feel feeble against the stress of anticipation. Timidly, Fern opens the door to the face of Maverick. The tall and fearsome man pushes past her young lady-in-waiting and stops nearly toe to toe with Myla.

“You have let the dark one himself through our defenses and into our home?” he bellows, gripping her wrist as though she is an insolent child. “Have you learned nothing about the duties of a wise queen? Have you listened to anything I have tried to teach you in the last six years?”

Myla’s nostrils flare in rage and her body tingles with a need to eviscerate her father on the spot. “How dare you barge in here, trample over my maid, and speak to me in this manner?” She turns her back, facing her mirror as though he is invisible, adjusting her appearance one last time.

“I have no choice but to chase you all over this palace, cleaning up your messes!”

“What messes, Father? Name one thing I am at true fault for beyond not kowtowing to your minuscule fixations?” Myla’s voice is raised now, sounding the alarm to the captain posted at her door.

Red faced and enraged, Maverick’s hand raises, ready to strike his daughter for her insolence. Bryar steps through the door in time to halt his swing, his hand clamping tight around the angry man’s wrist. Eyes boring into the blacks of her father’s, Myla brushes past him, certain to force him out of her way with a sharp nudge of the shoulder before eyeing her captain. “Have him removed,” she hisses, and without further instruction, Bryar drags Maverick away from Myla.

Concern on his face, Bryar looks over his shoulder to where she stands, seeking permission to speak.

“What is it?” she asks.

“Your presence is requested in the throne room, Your Grace,” he says, his head bowed. Eight more guards now stand behind him, ready to escort her right into the mouth of the enemy.

Caius had custom armor made for Myla as a wedding gift. She had never needed use of it, so it sat on display in their private armory. Today, she dons it, along with her crown, sharp and spindling points reaching several inches above her head. A chill cascades down her body. The bodice of the war-plate is cold, virgin metal with no battle experience to warm it. Delicate etchings of wild things—such as foxes and ermine—and foliage twist across the breasts and belly of the armor. A feminine touch.

As she walks, surrounded by her guards, her height is no longer a matter of how tall she naturally stands, but the way she carries herself, a towering symbol of infallible strength equally matched by feminine demure. Ornate black shoulder guards resembling crouching ravens cover her shoulders, transitioning smoothly into bracers and a chainmail top. With each step, the rustle of her chainmail skirt, shrouded in a deep green satin, announces to all that their queen passes.

Fearful eyes line the halls, looking to her for solutions. Prayers muttered as she passes, prickle her ears to listen. Whispers of “May the Gods be with you, Your Grace” are echoed over and over. Servants and children alike watch with horrified faces as she passes. A comforting nod from her evokes sad smiles.

They think you are going to die today; what a lovely bode of support .

Everything moves in slow motion and a million thoughts pass through her mind the closer to the throne room she gets. Tension hangs in the air unlike anything she has felt since Caius was killed. Whereas his assassination was a blow to all, leaving a reverberation of shock looming over the kingdom for weeks, the very breath she and her court breathe now stings with the promise of deadly poison. A sentiment promised in the way her body trembles uncontrollably. He is here, and he wants me to feel him.

“Her Majesty, Queen Myla Alerys of Falkmere, the Dowager Queen!” She is announced with a confident shout as the giant, iron doors of the throne room swing open, making way for her and the guards beside her.

Knelt in suspicious reverence before her throne, back to it and face turned downward in her direction, is a shockingly handsome man, who Myla swears is dripping black venom from his pores. Flanking either side of him are two massive wolves. Their coarse fur is as black as ink, and they stand partially crouched. The scruff of fur behind their sharp shoulder blades stands on end and they watch her approach with vigilance. They seem to communicate with their master, snarling in response as he orders them to lie down with a simple wave of his hand. Though she can not see it, she feels it. She can feel his pull deep within her. Negotiations have already begun.

Hair darker than ink is pulled back into a twist at the nape of his neck, a few stray locks falling around his forehead. Black stud earrings pierce his pointed ears, a dead giveaway to his Fae background. A long scar travels from the upper left of his brow down to his chin. His dark eyebrows are furrowed as he looks directly through her into her soul, searching for secrets perhaps. Or is he sniffing out fear to feed upon, like the wolves which stand guard beside him?

Whatever it is, Myla refuses to satisfy the hunger. Her face is unreadable as she walks directly past him without so much as a glance and twists fluidly to sit on her throne, the green of her cloak, a stark contrast against the black of her armor, ruffles like a train at her ankles.

“Blood Stealer.” She hisses his name making it clear she has little taste for it on her tongue. “To what do I owe this intrusion ?”

With the effortless unfurling of a snake, he stands, his hands raised slightly in protest at his side and his massive black cloak shrouding the majority of his being. “Come now, darling, surely you have heard it is not nice to call names.”

A charming and charismatic smile steals across his face. To many, it might appear dashing, alluring even. To Myla, it is unnerving. There is a loss of vitality forming within her, a sickening feeling of inhibitions lulling and impulses spiraling out of control. A need to fall into his arms takes over as she grows lightheaded, struggling to stay composed.

“Allow me to introduce myself formally,” he continues, taking account of the dozens of guards flanking her left and her right, one of them being Bryar, hand on hilt. “Lord Vesperian Shayd, at your service, Your Grace.” The words at your service are hummed like an ancient vow, one Myla has unwillingly partaken in.

The only sound behind her is an unwelcome snicker from Elsa and an almost inaudible whisper of, “I would like him to be at my service.” Gods, I really need to talk to her about her inappropriate timing. Myla ignores the lewd joke, speaking clearly.

“And what are you doing here, Lord Vesperian?” She steadies her voice and lackadaisically relaxes her fingers across the hilt of the fox dagger which she has sheathed at her waist. “For your coming unannounced is a gross lack of decorum.”

The Blood Stealer smiles, flashing a row of straight, white teeth behind deep-red lips. “I should imagine you have been expecting me for some time now. Have you not felt the call?” Myla bristles, and the entirety of the room falls silent with questions and confusion. He continues, throwing Myla’s stomach into a lurch. “Your blood tasted delicious.” He does not get one step closer before Bryar and twenty other guards have drawn their weapons. Myla holds up a hand, commanding a pause as the Blood Stealer ceases his advance.

Unconcerned, Vesperian glances slowly from the soldiers back to Myla. “It made me wonder...how the rest of you tastes.” A devilish grin creeps across his face and does not waver, even when Lord Maverick barks protest to the gross address of his daughter.

“Mind your tongue! You speak to your queen!”

“Mind my tongue? Yes, I intend to,” he agrees with a suggestive smile. “My queen. One whom I have allowed to live here in peace, undisturbed. Surely, my darling, it has not gone unnoticed, how I have not forced you to do anything?” A wolf beside him flexes, rolling its huge head back to nuzzle his master. Vesperian runs a palm fondly over the large head which reaches past his hips.

Myla stays silent, eyes studying the commanding figure, which is so different in appearance than he was the night he killed Caius. He takes a different form in battle, it would appear.

No one dares speak. No one moves. The energy in the room is balanced on the trembling shoulders of Myla who struggles to master the urge to run. Finally, she works up the courage to respond.

“Again, Lord Vesperian, I ask: why are you here?”

Lord Vesperian straightens even taller than before. His eyes wavering to none, fixed solely upon her. He speaks to her as though he is not in a room full of fifty men and women. “When you have lain in bed at night these past two years and felt me calling to you, tell me, did you touch yourself? For it was I who gave you that urge.”

An intense heat to her right threatens to boil the throne room in a river of molten lava, and in her peripheral, Bryar seems to be emanating his rage in waves of heat and smoke, the spectacle catching the attention of her court.

“Did you even know that was me calling you? I have wished not to dominate you but to plant in you a seed of longing. Together, I believe we can bring unity to the realm . . . and the tension between us.”

At this, Myla scoffs, standing with a fury that threatens to level the room. For the first time in years, her fingertips spontaneously tingle and a ringing in the back of her head signals the slow leak of magic trickling forth. “You speak to me like your whore?” she demands, taking a threatening step toward him, her eyes burning with rage.

Lord Vesperian lowers his head in what could be mistaken as a respectful bow but is nothing short of mockery. “The opposite, Your Grace. I wish to speak to you as a wife and my co-ruler of this realm.” Wicked intentions reflect within his eyes, his message clear: marry me and we shall be allies. Deny me my wish, and I will flatten you. He has come to claim her and fulfill his prophecy.

Dread washes over Myla in an instant, and the space in her chest where her heart should beat feels still. Any semblance of composure hangs on by a thread, and the shift of the room is born of both discomfort and betrayal. The truth has been revealed, Myla watches the faces of her subjects and her council members contort with anger and distrust.

Yes, witness my shame. Here it is, the scandal I have hid so well for so long. Your Queen has betrayed you. Embarrassed and angry in one, Myla diverts her attention from the looks of horror, to the evil incarnate before her. Their feelings will have to wait .

“You propose marriage? To what end?” The very impression of entertaining his proposal sends a handful of lords and ladies, Maverick especially, into a fit of protesting, a lunging mass of anger moving a few steps forward with alarm, stopped only by the drawn weapons of her guards. A few, Bryar included, summon balls of magic which levitate in their palms, ready to stop those who may feel justified in crossing her.

“You are a powerful woman,” Vesperian attempts a compliment, which is sorely lacking in authenticity. “I am a powerful man, yet I have chosen not to use the full extent of that power on you. Surely that allows me some sense of decorum which you suggest is grossly lacking. Should we marry and rule here together, I offer you more power than you could possibly imagine building on your own. I offer you protection.”

The Blood Stealer consumes her body with his eyes, a slow glance first up and then back down, pausing at the space between her legs as though she is a meal offered up before him. “I offer you the gift of your own free will. Marry me, and I will release you from our sacred blood tie.”

The tension which previously threatened to unravel the dignity of her court snaps with his declaration. An unmanageable crowd of both angry and concerned courtiers scream profanity, pleas, and threats her way, ceasing only when she raises a hand to demand silence. Her fingers themselves feel heavy above her head and the blood behind her eyes threatens to drain, potentially leaving her an exhausted weight of flesh on the ground. The rustle of a gown to her left brings comfort and strength, a reminder that despite the teeming crowd before her, Elsa stands nearby. Myla can feel a vibration growing between them, Elsa’s gift of healing giving her a wave of strength.

“Your proposal is most unexpected,” Myla corrects her voice, softening and drawing from an untapped reserve of sensuality. She allows her eyelashes to droop ever so slightly over her eyes, their deep blues devouring the Blood Stealer with deception. One slow step at a time, she descends the perch where her throne sits, inching closer to the devil of a man before her. “I will admit,” she whispers as she stands close by, his ear a mere inch from her lips. “I am intrigued.”

She lures him in with a syrupy-sweet guile, her fingers brushing lightly across her collarbone and a smile threatens to wipe the smug look from his face, born from a sense of accomplishment. What a fucking fool.

“ And which part intrigues you most?” he asks. “The promise to bring you power and freedom or . . . the promise to taste you.”

Ignoring the filthy advance, Myla offers her hand, which he accepts, pressing his lips intimately against it.

“A queen is wise to weigh . . . all the benefits. I must beg of you a day.”

“A day?” he nearly growls, pacified only when she presses a finger to his lips in silence, slowly tracing downward toward his broad chest.

“Surely, you see how I must explain this to my subjects,” she gestures with her eyes toward the seething courtiers behind them. “I never told them what . . . was between us.” She straightens the collar of his black leather vest, matching his familiarity.

The phrasing of her last statement seems to satiate him, suggesting she is a willing participant and not a victim, twists something in his dark mind.

“A day then,” he agrees loudly, looking past her shoulder to where the ground at Bryar’s feet smolders, a black smoke coiling around him. “Perhaps you should do something about your overzealous guard; he seems to be ruining the finish on your flooring.”

Myla conjures a modest giggle, not daring to look back lest her countenance waver. Vesperian leans in, pressing a familiar kiss to her cheek, his hand lingering on the small of her back long enough that Myla fears he may be able to feel the tremble beneath it. Then at last, he turns back, flanked by dazed guards. Their faces are all confusion, looks of being somewhere with no recollection of how.

“Should I detect anything amiss when I return,” he says with a swift twist back to face her. “I shall use you to annihilate your entire kingdom.” The threat is spoken with a fond smile, sickeningly sweet in spite of the message therein, and it is in this moment, Myla visualizes what it might be like to call upon the Gods and reduce her court to a pulp. The intrusion is not an imagination of her own making, but Vesperian’s warning. He will use her to kill them all; the message is quite clear.

When the doors close behind him, Elsa rushes to Myla’s side, offering a hand.

“Your Grace?” Lord Sorrin spews, clearly speaking for the rest of the courtiers. “What is the meaning of this!”

“Surely you do not mean to align yourself with that vile monster!” Lord Heron bellows.

Lady Reacher scoffs, the next to speak out. “The laws are clear! Anyone found to be under the Blood Stealer’s influence is to be put to death.” Her declaration is met with far too many shouts of agreement and nodding heads.

Myla snaps around, facing the woman head-on and taking note of the room full of men ready to oppose her. “It would be most unwise to threaten me while speaking of laws, as threatening your queen is also punishable by death.”

She turns to sit and something on the back of her neck prickles, a sense of disgust. She sees their faces both grim and confident in defiance with eyes like heartless beasts, shredding her for sport. There is nothing that suggests these men have ever respected her nor submitted to her rule. In spite of the years she has given to their wellbeing, ensuring fair and just treatment of all, and nurturing the financial health of New Falkmere, they are, all of them, vultures. Likely awaiting this moment for years.

“We do not question a queen; we question a widow—a dowager! ” Lord Heron speaks again, his hand reaching for his blade with alarming confidence.

“Surely,” she hisses, turning to face the room squarely, “you do not mean to unsheathe that weapon in my presence, Lord Heron.” It is no question; it is a command which he hesitantly abides. To draw a weapon in the presence of their queen is a death sentence of itself. It seems none in the room are law-abiding citizens this day.

Lord Sorrin, however, is not so easily intimidated. He takes a bold step forward, turning to address his fellow lords and ladies. “I fear we must draw blades!” he encourages the crowd. “It seems our leader, one whom we swore fealty to not two days ago, has deceived us!” Ringing in her ears, screams of magic, those in the room seconds away from summoning theirs. “Will we stand by and allow this woman to lay claim to a throne, once so revered and held sacred by King Caius, when she herself has disrespected it and lied to us!” he shouts, raising his arm high, rallying the mob forming for him.

Bryar pushes past her, leading the Queen’s Guard to form a barrier between her and the angry body of courtiers before her. “I command you in the name of the queen: stand down!” His axe is held ready to swing and flames form at his fingertips, slowly engulfing the hilt. A wall of impenetrable magic forms, a harmonious continuation of each guard’s magic and a barrier between herself and those rioting on the other side.

“We will not stand down when this so-called queen has sat on that throne for the past two years, a mistress to the Blood Stealer!” Sorrin spews.

Horror washes over Myla, followed quickly with boiling and insatiable rage. A burden she has carried in solitude for years is now twisted as the grossest of betrayals, and it is serving as an excuse for these men, who have always been uncertain of her, to speak of her as though she is not there. To speak of her as though she is a choice and an easy problem to eliminate.

Slowly glancing from Elsa at her left to Bryar on her right, hoping and grateful to see loyalty in their eyes, she swallows hard and presses a finger to her temple. They doubt you. They doubt your convictions. They doubt you will enforce your reign. They doubt that you are loyal to them and this throne.

They would not dare contest a man.

A palpable tremor ripples through the air, an unsettling wave that sends shivers down the spines of all who see it. The source is Myla, a force of magic long dormant, now stirring with a dreadful fury, fueled by the anger of injustice. All fatigue and weakness melts away at the mercy of her righteous anger, and her magic flows unbridled.

The heat radiating from Bryar is a seething cauldron, his own magic bubbling violently beneath the surface, ready to erupt while Elsa stands close, her hands radiating a glow of energy meant for Myla. Both Callum and Rhyland have moved to her side as well, Callum’s palms raised in flame and Rhyland rolling his shoulders, ready to swing his blade. Here they all are, shoulder to shoulder, as they so often used to be. Only now, it is their lives at risk, not simple propriety.

“You dare to plot against me?” Myla hisses, her voice a chilling blend of calm and menacing as she draws from the courage of her friends alongside her. “In my own throne room, as I stand here before you?”

It begins slowly at first. The way the light in the room seems to separate into individual grains, traveling in currents to where she stands, replaced by an unnatural darkness. Her web of veins adjoins in a hypnotic spark of starlight traveling across the skin of her arm until a searing light pools at her fingertips, pulsating with a malevolent energy seeming to warp the very air around her. As her tension and power swell, the light blinds and illuminates her form, like a dark goddess of wrath.

The years of watching them whisper behind her back, while applauding her directly, pulls a vile hatred from the depths of her heart. To have leaned so heavily on people who swore to protect her, to follow her, only to watch their backs turn the second she is forced to prove herself to them, is nothing short of an insult. Directly before her, the very image of anger and disappointment, is her father, his own fist closed around a blade.

It is in this moment, Myla realizes she is not only fighting a battle against the Blood Stealer, but a larger one right here between herself and her father.

If they want it, any of them, they will have to take it.

“Stand down now and leave with your lives,” Myla commands, taking a threatening step in her father’s direction, though her eyes pass over the faces of her council as well. The message is clear: they have crossed a line, and there is no forgiveness for that.

“Stand down and leave Falkmere in the hands of a traitor?” Maverick laughs, clearly not concerned by the brewing of his daughter’s magic.

“Tell me,” Myla retorts, “when have I ever betrayed Falkmere? Am I not here? Have I not listened to your guidance and made good decisions for our kingdom?”

Sorrin yells, clearly trying to start a riot, “You let the Blood Stealer walk right in—”

“And I will stop him! The question is, will you help me?”

“Not like this,” Maverick says, his hand now flying to the hilt of his blade.

The palace walls tremble, vibrating with the power building in her voice, a sound that twists and contorts, becoming shrill and deafening.

The Voice of The Gods, a force which Myla has repressed for years, now claws at her lungs, begging for reprieve. The muscles in her neck tighten around the urge to release the deadly scream. Myla’s body tenses with the need to temper the violence brewing inside her, already evoking a response of terror from her court. “Stand down now, lest you face the consequences of defiance,” she commands, watching as her words only fan the flames of treachery. “Have I been so complacent as to make my own Council believe they can defy me?” The quaking of her lungs deepens now and her voice contorts to something that is not her own, but the Old Gods’ above. The pillars quake, books falling from their high shelves, tumbling to the ground, a few knocking the people below them senseless.

Lords and ladies alike collapse to their knees, shrieking in agony as terror stretches across their faces. Some cover their ears, desperate to block out the cacophony of her fury, while others shield their eyes from the blinding light radiating from her body. Lord Sorrin, trembling and fallen, tries to meet her gaze but recoils in horror, shaking his head fiercely. A trickle of blood travels from his ear to his jawline, blending in with his dark beard.

“No—no, I—” He raises his hand in what appears to be a remorseful surrender, but a glint of malice flickers in his eyes. In a heartbeat, his outstretched palm seeks to command the very weapon at Myla’s waist. Myla has only ever seen him use his ability to seize anything with the flick of a wrist in relaxed settings such as a dining flute, or a quill in the council room. The fox dagger trembles loose from its sheath, but it is futile.

In an instant, the scorching, blinding light at Myla’s fingertips is drawn back into her being, radiating from every pore like a million living stars. Her eyes, once a comforting blue, morph into a blinding white, more searing than the sun itself. With a swift, deliberate motion, she raises her hand, and that light snakes like a noose around Lord Sorrin’s throat, snapping his neck with a sickening crack.

A scream erupts from the crowd, a raw, primal sound that echoes off the palace walls. As weapons are rapidly sheathed, the sight of their usually quiet and gentle leader now transformed into a figure of dread leaves her subjects trembling in fear. Many retreat toward the door, their courage evaporating, while a few, consumed by a twisted loyalty, prepare to follow Sorrin into death.

Myla conjures another wave of energy, the air thick with tension. A guttural battle cry pierces the atmosphere, accompanied by a heat that slithers around her like a snake. From behind, she feels the shocking sensation of an inferno unleashed and a fiery blast igniting the back of the throne room. Myla turns just in time to see a charred figure, arm raised with a sword overhead, consumed in a small hell by Bryar’s hand. The flames lick hungrily at the air, still engulfing the burnt body. A threat bellows from his lungs, his palms still molten red and ready to send more to face the justice of the Gods in the afterlife.

“Those in the great hereafter will not suffer the company of men who died as cowards!” he bellows, commanding men and women alike to stand down. The room stills, and fear is as potent as the smell of charred flesh.

Myla stands now not just as the Falkmere queen, but as the embodiment of a gravely underestimated woman, her magic a reminder of the dark tempest living within her, ready to rain destruction upon those foolish enough to oppose her wrath; something her council seems to have forgotten.

“I am your queen and I was chosen to be so for a reason. But I command no one to serve me,” Myla speaks once more, her voice returning to normal. Those who are still in the throne room quiver on their knees, few daring to look upon her. “Any who do not wish to honor their oaths further will be allowed to take their soldiers and leave. You will be met with no harm. But you are grossly mistaken if you believe that my quiet these two years past are an indicator of complacency. Leave with your honor but do not stay and believe I will abide any treason beneath my rule.”

A unanimous tilt of heads as men and women alike, surrendering to her rule passes over the room. Callum approaches Maverick, ripping the blade from his hands and Rhyland shoves the begrudged man to his knees in forced submission. Bryar whispers behind her to a few of his men to have the bodies removed and returned to their families, while Elsa, following Rhyland’s lead, passes through the crowd, pushing stragglers to their knees and forcing a few heads lower before she herself also lowers into a kneel. Unnecessary, Elsa. But I like the gesture.

Myla takes a trembling breath and speaks once more, a final statement. “I see your fear. Know that I have felt it too, for a long time. Know that I have remained true to my commitments and true to you, in spite of this affliction. Should I be unable to resist the Blood Stealer, I will willingly relinquish my claim to this throne. I have no intention of unifying myself with that man. Bear in mind, will you, though I do not wield Restorer magic, I am his equal in potency. I shall not succumb to him easily.”

Her words are strong and unwavering as she addresses her subjects, ignoring the near-visible rage which ripples around the stiff frame of her father. “Let this here,” she gestures to the devastation surrounding them, “serve as a reminder of what I can and will do, should any dare to threaten me.” At this, she does make eye contact with the man, not breaking it until he lowers his, in submission. “I am still the queen you swore oaths to, and I will answer to dowager no longer. Make your decision.”

With nothing left to say, Myla descends the steps of the throne room, the crowd parting for her as she passes through, no longer seen as a shadow quivering in the background in the wake of her husband’s death, but a queen to fear, in her own right.

Once again, evening wanes and Myla finds herself standing in the conservatory, surrounded by the rest of her council along with Bryar, Elsa, Callum, and Rhyland who, when he is not flirting with every man and woman who crosses his path or running the household, is the map maker of Falkmere but specifically, the Raven’s Veil. His talent in penmanship, illustrations, and having an eye for the memory of landscapes, has served many missions well in the past years.

He holds in his hands an unfurled map, “The Raven’s Veil is amassed here.” He jabs a gloved finger toward a plot on the map. “If necessary, Callum could have them here in two days.”

“Two days is not fast enough,” Lord Heron interjects. “The Blood Stealer is expected tomorrow afternoon.”

“If I may,” Elsa speaks up, “is there any sense in fooling the Blood Stealer?”

“How so?” Myla asks, curiosity piqued.

“When he returns tomorrow, Your Grace will agree to the marriage.” Her proposition is met with tension, as well as a slight increase in temperature as Bryar’s disapproval mounts. Maverick moves to speak but Elsa rolls her eyes at him before continuing. “Once he is appeased, he swore to release you from your oath. Perhaps, once he is well enough convinced you are comfortable in your alliance, you can cut his throat while he sleeps or slip poison into his glass.” The final statement has a coy edge to it; Elsa has always been one to play dirty if that is what it took. In most cases, Myla has admired that. In this case, it makes her uneasy.

“You suggest I climb into bed with the Blood Stealer and poison him,” Myla objects, absently chewing her nails as the stress amounts. “Poison will not kill him.”

Elsa shrugs, a smile twitching at her lips despite the glowering of everyone else in the room and the scoffed protests of the council. “We all have our crosses to bear, Your Grace. At least yours always seems to come with outrageously handsome men. Poison might not but a slit throat will.”

Bryar clears his throat. “Permission to speak, Your Grace?” Myla finds him interjecting at this exact moment jolting. She already knows that he will contest anything that requires her sharing another man’s bed. This is a fucking cross to bear.

“Granted,” Myla remarks, matching the formal tone.

“The Monk’s monastery is half a day’s ride from here. It would be a good place to take refuge. The Blood Stealer can not marry you if you are not here when he returns.”

“And when he does arrive to find me gone,” Myla argues, “imagine what he will do to those who remain.” All, including Bryar, nod in agreement, though the latter seems more invested than a Captain of the Guard ought to be. Fortunately, Myla is the only one paying him attention, so the sentiment goes unnoticed.

“We have enough forces,” Maverick interjects, ignoring the glare Myla passes his way. Though he stood down, it is not lost on her that her father was ready to kill her. “I believe it is time to face this beast and bring an end to him once and for all.” His words are calm and calculated.

With piercing eyes, Myla stares fiery holes into his forehead. “Without Restorer’s magic? Careful, Father, if I did not know any better, I would think you wanted him to kill me. That would be a large steppingstone for you.” She turns away to face Elsa. “I do not like your idea, Elsa.” Myla speaks with a firm conviction which does not in any way accurately reflect how she feels inwardly. Her hands tremble as she laces her fingers together resolutely. “But I fear there may be logic to it.” She dares not meet Bryar’s gaze as she speaks, lest her resolve should falter.

“Excellent,” Lord Heron adds sarcastically. “But what of the army he will no doubt bring with him? Are we expected to welcome them into our halls?” He turns to Bryar, whose chin is upturned stoically, and his expression is unreadable. “What say you?”

Long trained in the art of watching Myla walk into bedrooms with other men, Bryar seems to have found his composure, or perhaps his ability to disassociate is shining through. Regardless, with all eyes on him, none are the wiser to the deeper emotional objection he currently experiences.

“His troops are no better than the undead. They are a nuisance, but in their dazed state, no logic accompanies their motives. The kitchen maid could kill them with a fork. I will move my small, local force of the Raven’s Veil into the palace with the assignment of discreetly picking off his soldiers when possible.”

Myla cringes disconcertingly, troubled to think of innocent people being killed. Regardless, it seems this will all end in tremendous bloodshed. “Please, make those preparations at once,” she instructs, knowing it is best that the following conversation happens without his presence.

With a bow, he is gone, and a silence fills the room, all in attendance waiting for her to speak again. For a moment, Myla loses herself in the atmosphere. Her eyes flitting from plant to plant, light particles reflecting off stone, the way the lanterns bring out the greens and reds in the room, a red she fears will resemble her flayed body, should this plan go amiss. “For this ruse to be convincing, I must become unrecognizable to you,” she says, low at first, then gaining confidence. “I wish for my actions to be so convincing that you are all alarmed. I need to know that no matter how questionable my devotion to him becomes, I have you all at my back.”

Solemn nods bob across each head in the room, an understanding of what must be done, bringing forth a deep sense of grief and sacrifice. Even on the face of Maverick, Myla finds a grim solemnness. She continues, not wishing the moment to last any longer than necessary. “Lord Elias.” Myla looks to a younger gentleman. “I task you with hiring gravediggers to acquire a dozen or so fresh corpses.”

Elsa gasps. “Myla—I . . . Your Grace. Why?”

“I can not imagine that if I were to seriously look at my courtiers, and tell them I was happily aligning myself with the Blood Stealer, that there would be no bloodshed. It must appear as though there was a quarrel over the matter, and my court is in submission after I demonstrated what would happen to any more who defied me. The throne room is already a mess. We shall hang the corpses from the pillars of the throne room, and when he returns, he will ask about it.”

Myla’s stomach violently churns, a tug within her, a reminder from the Blood Stealer no doubt, a twinge that says “ I am thinking of you. Are you thinking of me? ” Angrily, she grips the sides of the long couch to her right, waiting for the wave to pass, before speaking again. “See to it, Lord Elias,” she commands gently, watching as the man reluctantly removes himself.

“Elsa, find Fern and Alaric. Meet me in my chambers in half an hour.” She turns to her father with a dismissive wave of her hand. “You, leave.”

With the last of her companions out of the room, unable to object nor be privy to her instructions, and Maverick none the wiser to something he would no doubt take advantage of, Myla takes a final deep breath and looks to the rest of her council. “Should my plan fail, and you sense the Blood Stealer is truly controlling me, I know I can count on the remainder of you to stop me.” Her words thicken the air of the room. Lady Rivenna, Lord Elias’s wife, speaks to clarify, though the suggestion is lost on none of them.

“Stop you . . . Your Grace?”

“Kill me,” Myla speaks clearly with a confident tilt of her jaw, so there is no confusion. “I will not be his puppet; my powers being used against my own people. Should he claim my impulses completely and you find I am a threat, kill me.”

Fern and Elsa are given strict instructions on remaining unreadable, should they find themselves in the presence of the Blood Stealer while tending Myla’s needs. With a convincing environment being of the essence, Myla is certain her fickle courtiers would perform fine. It is those closest to her she is afraid might give away their ploy. With Alaric currently brewing her an extra supply of energy revitalizing tonic, there is one person left to speak with, and Myla fears this will be the hardest conversation.

A knock sounds at her door. With Fern and Elsa intentionally dismissed, Myla answers the door herself. Bryar stands, hands relaxed on the hilt of the axe at his side. “You sent for me, Your Grace?”

Breaking her rule of no-contact, she takes his hand and ushers him in, closing the door firmly behind them. “Take off your armor and sit,” she instructs. “You are off duty tonight.”

“Of all nights, Your Grace,” he answers, “I can not rest this one.”

“Please, Captain,” she begs, the furrow in her brow softening. “I do not wish to face this when there lives a rift between you and I.” Hesitantly, and aware she is crossing many of the boundaries put in place for herself, Myla reaches to unclasp his cloak. Bryar stiffens at her proximity, his eyes looking resolutely past her, his breath catching. Careful not to touch him directly, she frees the cloak and sets in on the chaise before her hearth. “We must speak. Please sit with me a while.”

Bryar accepts a glass of mulled wine and sits, his face unreadable but the energy buzzing around him alive with turmoil. “I have done as you ask. Assassins will be at their posts throughout the palace within the hour.”

Myla smiles gratefully and sits next to him, aware the space between them is but a few inches, closer than she has allowed in years. “What I will ask of you is too much. I have not been blind to your lo—your loyalty, these past years, and I am no fool to think they have been easy on you,” she speaks gently, careful to keep her hands occupied in her lap to avoid unnecessary contact that she is certain would break her resolve. Deep green eyes like the forest at midday, gaze back at her, unreadable. “I must convince him that I am truly amenable to his alliance. There must be no question of it. If he doubts for a second, we will all fail, and I believe the consequences will be devastating.”

“And what of leaving, Myla ?” he snaps, his anger finally boiling over. Her name on his lips is electrifying, sending a shock through them both, yet he does not recoil from his argument. “We had a plan.”

“Yes,” Myla pleads, not at all surprised by the bitterness vibrating from his being. “Surely, you see I can not leave now.”

“I see leaving might be conflicting, but I thought it would be an easy choice when faced with the alternative. It was one thing to know you were taking Caius’s bed. You had no choice in the matter, but this?” He points to her bed a mere ten feet away. “You will be welcoming your husband’s murderer into your bed to touch your body?”

Myla swallows hard as tears blind her. “Captain Monroe, my body has not been my own for a long time. First, it was Caius’s, and then there was a child within me—one I do want to protect still! And then . . . then the Blood Stealer laid claim to it through that fucking blood oath.” Her words spill out in an emotional unburdening, anger and grief alike married together. “Whether he has my body in my bed, or has my body through my uncontrolled actions, he has had my body for two years, and I want him to have it no more. If I must share his bed to convince him of my loyalty, so that I may kill him while he sleeps, so be it!”

Bryar stands and pushes his palms into his temple, eyes closed and what appears to be an internal battle taking place. “And if he does not keep his word? If you have tried all this, and he still does not release you from your oath?”

“Then, I will try to kill him in spite of it and hope I am strong enough to resist any urges not to kill him.”

Bryar clenches his jaw as he moves to leave the room, before he turns on his heel to return, standing directly before her. His hands closing around her face, earnestly drawing her attention to something deep within him. He speaks with fervor, leaving no question of how he feels unanswered. “I hate this, Myla. Believe me when I say, I know none of this has anything to do with me, and that constantly seems to be a consequence of station. I am tired of being forced to sit back and watch the woman I have faithfully loved for ten years be passed off as another man’s pawn. I would have defied your father and taken you from court five years ago, had that been a possibility, but I want to be with someone who is not already married to duty with no regard for herself!” He releases her, heaving an inward breath before grabbing his cloak to leave. “I respect you and have always admired your commitment to your people. But that commitment must end when it compromises your wellbeing and your sense of self.”

His voice lowers and he speaks with confidence, his eyes fixed on hers. “When you married the king, I swore to protect, my heart broke, but I knew we both acted from a place of duty and loyalty. And when your husband, my king, died, I grieved with and for you—for the uncertainty you felt. And as you suffer now, I suffer with you, for my heart has always been your heart.

“As my queen, you can command me to leave now, to go wage your wars and kill who you wish, even to watch you throw yourself away for the sake of this kingdom. I will faithfully ensure that you live to see the other side of this. Not, because I am sworn to the crown, but because I still love you. But I will not stand in this room any longer and accept the insult of your soft words as you try to pass them off as compassion .”

A wave of both hurt and anger wash over Myla as she watches him head for the door. Angrily, she throws her wine glass to the floor, disregarding the shattering glass and the spray of red in every direction, an ironic visual representation of their imploding relationship. “Are you so damn arrogant to assume this is easy for me? You are acting like a victim right now, while I am trying to right wrongs!”

“I am no victim, Your Grace . I stand here willingly. But you are about to make yourself one, and I will be left having to clean up the mess.”

“Well, if you are so sick of protecting me, of cleaning up after me, then go protect someone else,” Myla hisses, taking several steps toward him, uncharacteristically angry. Bryar faces her squarely, his jaw set, fumes of smoke beginning to permeate the room, as his own anger amounts and heat boils in his fists.

“You say that as if I did not just swear a fucking oath to you two nights ago, Myla! I am the idiot who just . . . follows you around, hoping that one day you will see me again!”

“I do see you!” Myla nearly screams, planting her hands in his chest, pushing him further from her. He stumbles backwards knocking her washbasin off its pedestal. Painted glass shatters, adding to the carnage on the floor.

“Then say my name,” he challenges. “Stop calling me Captain, like it somehow erases our history.”

Myla freezes, sucking her bottom lip inward and digging her teeth into it. His name, something she tries to keep out of her mouth, out of her head, and most importantly, out of her heart.

“ Say it.”

“I can not.”

“What are you so afraid of?” he asks, his head shaking as though he is looking down on a child who has once again disappointed him. “Are you afraid you will remember what we used to be?”

Her voice trembles as she speaks. “I am not afraid of remembering—I did not forget. I have never forgotten that before him . . . there was you.” Her voice breaks, though anger still presides over the room, in spite of her words. “And for a while, the grief and guilt of his death held me back from you. Then, when that was gone, it was only fear. Fear of adding this to the long list of things I already can not control.” She hisses the last word, taking several steps backwards, moving away from him. A futile attempt, as he only follows her, closing the small space between them. “This is something we have never been able to control, something that we barely harnessed when I was married to Caius, and beyond. But now . . . now I am afraid. Afraid of how sad I have become, afraid that if I spend whatever days of my life I have left fighting against something that has always been such a source of joy and safety, that I will have nothing to smile upon while I lie on my death bed.” Myla presses a hand to his chest, another barrier between them, a silent warning, as if to say: stay back if you do not want to be hurt again . “It is for those reasons, and so many more . . . Bryar . . . that I have to protect us and—”

Bryar stops her mid-sentence with a firm kiss, his tongue slipping through her parted lips to press against hers as they share the same air. The passion dissipates their anger. His touch, foreign yet still familiar, is a gentle reminder of the safety she once held so dear. All thoughts of arguing are snuffed and replaced with a need to prove something to one another. To prove they do not still care and yet, in the same breath, they do. To prove that everything will be alright, though it feels as if it will not. The way their bodies move against each other, reminiscent of a battle, each hungry with desire and unwilling to surrender their stance on the matter.

Myla shudders, releasing a gasp of realization, she is unraveling her carefully woven defenses. She parts their lips to look up into his eyes, fear strikes deep inside in her soul when she sees the depths of his desire inside, she sees it painted across his face, sees it embedded deep within his being. She reaches out to touch his broad chest, longing to fall into him, to find that safe space they spent so many years hidden in. The barrier of armor between their skin is suddenly torturous, as the years of carefully constructed restraints crumble with the slightest breath of permission. The flickering candlelight casts a warm glow over his chiseled features, highlighting the anticipation of something so long awaited in his gaze.

These once-familiar expressions, gentle touches, and private rendezvous were something they never felt the need to resist—the natural innocence of adolescence never caused them to question it. Bryar had touched and lain with Myla, the nobleman’s rebellious daughter. But Myla the queen, of an entire realm, is a new territory to explore. Their connection burns hot, a forbidden ember that has been left smoldering to die for years, waiting for the day she would give it oxygen, give it the slightest permission to spark.

As their eyes lock in a silent exchange of longing, Bryar’s hands slide down Myla’s sides. The brush of his fingertips, nearly mistaken as accidental, the whisper of a touch sending shivers down her spine. She leans in closer, her lips dangerously close to brushing against his once more in a tantalizingly slow dance of desire. He need only bridge the gap, then that passion which she imagines frequently, that passion which she has replayed in her head many times from years ago, is sure to be uncaged.

“We should not be doing this,” Bryar whispers, voice thick with both yearning and apprehension. He presses his brow to hers, his breath heavy with the disappointment that can only come from self-denial. “If you knew how I have missed you,” he continues, his strong fingers tangling deep into her hair, gently pulling her closer. “I do not want to do this if it is something you will regret and I will loath later.”

But Myla only responds with a soft, breathless moan, her fingers tangling in his hair, all of her self-imposed rules and emotional barriers crumple to her feet. “I have many regrets in my life, but I never have and never could regret you .”

That is all the encouragement he needs. Those mere inches no longer exist. All of the years of yearning for one another and missing one another begin to unravel the second his mouth finds hers. A shudder of respite and pent-up longing is released between them. The taste of him is intoxicating, a heady blend of longing and passion with a touch of kerosene that ignites the fire deep within her. A longing that has lain dormant and undisturbed, cracks wide open, and Myla is reminded how exceedingly small she feels in his embrace. Overcome by a sense of urgency, and an ache growing between her thighs, Myla presses her hips to his, irritated by the thick belt and chainmail padding the sensitive space between them.

As their lips meet in a desperate kiss, the captain’s hands move over her body with a reverence born only from years of unrequited worship. “You are the queen,” he breathes against her skin. His lips find a soft spot on her neck as his words plead for reason amid their heated tryst. But she only responds with a soft moan, her hands fumbling with the fastenings of his uniform as they both give in to the undeniable pull between them.

“I was a girl to you well before I was a queen. Do not forget who it was that made me a woman.” As the layers of clothing begin to fall away, revealing his muscular chest as well as new scars, Myla’s breath catches in her throat. A mangled twist of skin slashes across his right side, the tense ripples of his abdomen causing it to rise and fall, silvery in the firelight.

Every inch of him is a masterpiece, a testament to his strength and his long-suffering dedication to the crown. Her crown. She leans down to press lingering kisses along his jawline, trailing a path of heat and desire down his neck and across his collarbone. Bryar’s hands roam over her body, his touch igniting a symphony of sensations that reverberate through her very core. It is as though he is swearing an entirely different sort of oath to her now.

The room is filled with the sound of their ragged breaths and the soft rustle of fabric as they surrender to one other. Amid the vulnerability is a palpable understanding that they are crossing a line which can not be uncrossed. A space they have both safeguarded and resisted reopening is now cracking wide open into something sure to be catastrophic. It is a moment of pure, unadulterated desire, a fleeting escape from the constraints of duty and honor that always rip them in separate directions.

Bryar’s hand begins to trail up the space between her rib cage, fingers grazing the curve beneath her breast. A trained finger slides between the material of her neckline. Confident in his advances, his nimble fingers inch closer to the fastenings at the nape of her neck, ready to disrobe her entirely—and the dress falls to the floor, leaving only her dressing gown and corset. The act sends an unexpected cold sweat through her body as a memory—like a nightmare—invades her mind, causing her to flinch.

Bryar steps back, alarmed. “Are you alright?” He searches her for any sign of pain but finds it only in her eyes. “Should I go?”

Myla takes a deep breath, gazing at the man before her. The safe man. The man who has never hurt her, the man she has longed for for years. He is not the cause of her nightmares. Shaking her head, she pulls him close once more. “Please, do not leave me.”

With little time to think, Myla finds herself splayed across her bed with Bryar caressing her arms above her head, his mouth attentively pressing kisses to the space where her neck and shoulders meet. All thoughts of their argument slip away as the warmth of his body, hard against hers, brings a sense of weighted comfort in the midst of conflict.

“Bryar, stop,” she breathes with absolutely no conviction.

He loosens his grip on her wrists and lifts his face to hers. “Do you want me to stop?”

He would stop, if she asked, and that knowledge alone prompts an enthusiastic, “Absolutely not.” Myla shakes her head and revokes her statement, lifting her lips to meet his, her breath hitching as his free hand travels down her abdomen and past to where he can firmly grasp a handful of her gown, drawing it slowly upwards. Bare fingers against the inside of her thigh send shivers through her as he draws slow, seductive designs against her sensitive skin, inching closer and closer to that space between her legs. A blaze heats his fingertips, fueled by his innermost desires running away with him. The sensation both scorches and chills, igniting a desperate craving for relief.

His touch, at last, is euphoric, dismissing every one of her fears and concerns with the intentional brush of his fingers. Immense pleasure building within causes her to attempt an escape from his grasp, but he holds firm, his eyes searching hers as she surrenders to his all-consuming touch. Myla arches her back, pressing as close to him as she can manage, her mouth fixed upon his in a kiss she wishes could last forever.

With shaking thighs and a need to feel more, she arches her body closer to his. “Let me touch you,” she whispers, gasping as his expert fingers vanquish her over and over again.

“No,” he growls a response into her ear. “You may be in charge outside of this room, but here, tonight . . . I am.” The words are thrilling and the need to be at his mercy is overwhelming. Myla resists his restraint no more, fully allowing herself to be submerged in him. When at last his efforts elicit a loud gasp from Myla, her body tensing beneath the throbbing pleasure between her legs, his fingers uncurl from around her wrists and his lips linger on hers for a second longer.

When she regains her breath, still intoxicated by his touch, she nips at his lip and moves to straddle him. “Your turn,” she whispers against his mouth. He shakes his head slowly, moaning beneath the pressure of her teeth.

“Not tonight,” he says, smoothing stray hairs away from her face. “This was for you, not me.” For several minutes Myla lies, steadying her breath, while Bryar is sprawled next to her, his hand holding tightly to hers, both of them afraid to let go.

In spite of the relief brought on in the last ten minutes, Myla can not shake the feeling of doom hanging over her like a storm cloud ready to drown her. No amount of bliss locked away in this room can spare them from the grief that always seems to await them outside.

Reluctant to move away from him, but aware of the rapidly passing time, she stands and begins picking up shards of splintered glass from the floor. Bryar joins her and together they consolidate the sharp pieces into a tightly woven basket, normally intended for laundry. Myla will have Fern dispose of it later. Guilt pulses through her.

“We have never behaved in such a manner,” she says finally, addressing the disaster around them. “I hate this.”

“We have never tried enduring such an impasse,” Bryar responds coolly, fixing the tousled bedding and putting his shirt on. As they pass the next few moments in silence, both knowing their little tryst has solved nothing, Myla turns away from Bryar, trying desperately to hide the shake of her shoulders as she silently sobs into her hand, an overwhelming wave of fear for the following day washing over her. Or perhaps it is fear for the reality of losing him right when she feels he is returning to her.

“Bryar . . . you should not spend any longer holding your breath for me. I do not believe I will be here much longer.”

“It is not too late,” Bryar pleads, standing close behind her now, a firm hand sliding around her middle, pulling her into a hug from behind. Myla allows her head to fall back against his chest. “We can leave now and come up with a plan that does not include giving yourself to that animal.”

She turns to face him, a gentle hand smoothing against the stubble of his cheek. “I can not. I must do something to fix this mess before it consumes Falkmere. I understand this may very well be the final straw for us.” Her voice cracks, and a sob brings pause to her words. Taking a slow and steadying breath, Myla continues. “Please, stay with me tonight. If it is the last time you look on me kindly, I would like to make the most of that time before you loathe me.”

Bryar pulls her into his arms, holding her tightly. His body trembles, and she wonders if it is for anger or grief. Perhaps both. Firelight glints off the tapestries hanging from her walls, and candles dance in the corners. On any other evening, her chamber would feel warm and welcoming. This evening, to Myla, it feels like the prison of a young woman failing at being a queen.

Elsa is sent for, her face unreadable as her eyes bounce back and forth between he and Myla. “How can I be of assistance?” she asks coyly, taking note of the basket of shattered glass. Her eyebrows arc slightly before picking the basket up. “Do I even want to know?”

Myla sighs running a palm across her forehead. “Please help me out of my shift and into a bath, Elsa.”

Elsa smirks. “I will fetch a basin and return shortly to help you.” In another ten minutes, Elsa returns, followed by a few servants bearing heavy buckets of water and another two dragging in a large bathing tub. Elsa dismisses the servants and begins pouring the water in the tub, which is placed before the hearth.

“If you will excuse yourself,” Elsa says gently, still eyeing Bryar who now stands peering out the window. “I will help Her Grace bathe now.” Elsa expects Bryar to remove himself and is surprised when he turns back, stepping close to Myla, and taking the final bucket from Elsa. “I will handle the rest. Goodnight, Elsa.”

A bit of red flushes Elsa’s cheeks, and she looks to Myla for guidance.

“It is ok, Elsa. Please be discreet about this.”

Elsa nods assuredly, placing a quick kiss on her friend’s cheek. “Always, darling. I will come in Fern’s place in the morning.” And then she is gone, sure to close the door firmly behind her.

Rough fingers move her hair over her shoulder, finding the laces at the back of her corset. Bryar fumbles with the ties, clearly not well-versed in undressing a woman.

“Bryar,” Myla whispers, letting a brief sigh of relief escape her lips as the corset loosens, allowing a full breath. “How long has it been since you undressed a woman?” There is a hint of laughter in her voice.

He chuckles slightly before tossing the corset to the floor beside them. “I suppose it would be the last time I undressed you by that tree.”

Stunned, Myla turns to face him, clutching her thin shift to her chest. “You have not—”

“No,” he interrupts, placing a hand in her bath to test the temperature. Waves of heat radiate from his hands until steam rises from the water. “I had no desire to.”

“You mean . . . not at all in the last five years?”

Bryar gazes unabashedly at her, seeming to take no note of her thin shift, only her. “Myla, I never have and never will crave another. It will always only be you. Now, take your clothes off.”

Myla shrugs the shift off and it slips to the floor, leaving her naked before him. Accepting his hand, she steps into the hot bath and sinks her aching body thankfully into its warmth. Bryar pulls up a stool and sits behind her, moving her long hair over the rim so he can brush it. One slow stroke after another, he works through the tangles and curls until the brush passes through it without resistance. At which point, he nudges her to sit upright. Tenderly, he dips a cloth into the soapy water and proceeds to sponge the suds across her back and shoulders.

Myla closes her eyes and leans into his touch, letting a small sigh slip when he presses a line of warm kisses across her shoulder and up her neck until he finds her jawline. She turns to him with a smile, their lips finding each other again.

Though she can sense his yearning, no number of gentle touches or kisses can persuade Bryar to do anything more than sleep. After an hour of lying side by side, talking and lazily kissing one another, Myla drifts into a peaceful sleep, Bryar’s arm draped heavily over her.