Page 7 of A Thousand Burning Ravens (The Queen Who Bleeds Stars #1)

THE SUN HAS barely risen when Elsa returns, and Bryar is already gone. Myla sits on the edge of her bed, her knees pulled to her chest, eyelids hot with tears.

“I did not expect to find you crying this morning,” Elsa gasps, sitting beside her friend. “Whatever is the matter? Was he not as good as you remember?”

Myla laughs unbecomingly, swiping tears from her cheeks with the backs of her hands. “Though, it may be rather unbelievable to hear, that did not happen last night.”

Elsa nods, a look of understanding passing across her delicate features. “Oh, I would be crying too, in that case.”

“Oh, Elsa.” Myla finds herself lost between laughter and tears. “No. I am unraveling. Can you not see? I should not be feeling everything so deeply. I should be up, dressed already, and finding the strength to fool the Blood Stealer. Instead, I am crying in bed because I can not see Bryar standing with me through this. What kind of queen faces the potential annihilation of her kingdom with tears for a man?”

“Queen or not, you are still a woman. A woman who has endured unkindness at the hands of a man.”

Myla flinches a knowing look passing between them, before she averts her gaze from that of her friend.

“If I were sitting in your position right now, I would cry for the loss of the safest man I have ever known, and it would not make me less of a queen. Nor does it you. Might I also add, you have spent five years not crying when the rest of us would have. You are overdue, my dear.” Elsa pulls her to her feet and together they move to her dressing room. “Any man able to stand by and watch his woman be married to another who misuses her day in and day out for three years can handle a couple days of this,” she says finally, confidence in her voice.

“How can you be so sure?” Myla asks, bracing herself as Elsa cinches her corset.

“I just am,” she replies. “I love you, and so I must tell you, these next days will be hard, and if you want them to work, you can not be distracted by Bryar’s feelings. He will be hurt, but he can handle it.” She hesitates, pressing a calming hand to Myla’s back. The energy seeping from her palm into the queen’s body is a healing balm, soothing Myla’s nerves.

Wishing to move on from the conversation, Myla selects a fierce black dress and allows Elsa to help her into it. The collar is chin high, an intricate lace design which jets in a sharp point to her naval, exposing the shadow of her breasts. Black silk sleeves clasp at her wrists and the skirt cascades over her hips, gathering at her feet like a black pool, the sleek material exposing her curves. Black embroidery across the dress depicts flying ravens. Sharp black boots give her height, and Elsa finishes the look with dark eyeliner and red lipstick, a ‘look that could kill,’ or so she describes it.

“Now, your crown.” The black points embedded with obsidian, smoky quartz, and peonies catch the light, demanding attention.

Myla and Elsa stand together, gazing at her reflection, neither one quite ready to depart the safety of her room. “I have to ask,” Elsa says, her voice barely above a murmur. “What is your plan?” She swallows hard and moves Myla to face her. “The Blood Stealer seems the kind of man who will have no respect for rules.”

“I know that,” Myla answers. “I am prepared for the most awful of things, Elsa. I do not really care what happens to me, so long as this all ends with the Blood Stealer dead.”

“Yes, but . . . should I find him in here, what do you want me to do?”

Myla swallows hard and looks down to the clasps at her wrists. “Exactly what you did last night when you found Bryar in here. Act like it is nothing. And leave.”

Elsa’s blue eyes shimmer with tears but are chased away by a stoic nod. “I am behind you.”

Myla enters the throne room, her eyes casting briefly across Caius’s throne. She gestures for a few soldiers to join her beside it. “Store this in the treasury and have the older one brought in.” Their faces are written with shock, no doubt in disbelief she is having the throne removed after so long, but still, they are quick to heed her instruction.

The palace is buzzing with gasps and murmurs of disapproval when Lord Heron enters the throne room, a servant dragging a cart of bodies behind him. Lord Sorrin’s mangled and ashen corpse lies contorted on top; hollow eyes rolled to the back of his head. Myla feels a lump form in her throat. Of course, having a Council member hanging behind her throne will sell her story better. Nonetheless, it feels callous.

“Your Grace.” Lord Heron bows. It is not lost on her how his demeanor seems more submissive this morning. In fact, the eyes of her courtiers more swiftly fall to the floor in reverence than they ever have in the past two years. “Perhaps I can persuade you to remove yourself while I oversee this unpleasant task?”

Myla clasps her hands before her and shakes her head resolutely. “No,” she answers, ignoring Bryar’s entrance as he delivers swift instruction to his men. Rows of soldiers pass through the room, a few falling into formation behind her throne, others relocating to various places in the palace. “I have delivered this dreadful sentence; I shall suffer to see it enforced.”

So, she does, watching with solemn anticipation as pale-faced servants hoist the bodies, hanging three behind her throne and five on each side of the room approaching it. Somewhere within, the last pieces of her girlish innocence seem to wither and die with this dreadful act. She begins to wonder if there will come a time when she will regret the choices she makes now. She reminds herself that they are made in the name of survival. But at what point is surviving no longer worth it?

The completed task is a bleak sight, even the strongest of stomachs would lurch to see it. Accompanied by the foul stench of death and the rubble from yesterday’s fight, Myla stands at the head of the room. She looks to be the queen of death itself; it delivers a frightful sense of darkening. On an average day, the sound of bards and the scent of warm wine would fill this space. Her courtiers would converse at ease. Now faces, heavy with the fear that they may be the next bodies to adorn the walls, dip in and out of the shadows. Of course, this is the desired effect. For her plan to work, Myla needs her subjects to be afraid. It must appear as though she has lain ruin to her own household in the face of defiance and changed its course to align with the Blood Stealer.

It is midday when the thundering of hooves can be heard from beyond the palace gates. Myla steadies her pulse with an extra draught, swallowing it quickly until the warmth of the alcohol seeps into her bloodstream. Her head feels lighter and the dancing lights of the black candles begin to blur together. Dulling her senses ever so slightly feels like the best way to betray herself without resistance. Not that Vesperian would restrain from doing that himself anyway. Asshole.

Mere moments pass before the Blood Stealer enters the throne room. His powers demand more of her than yesterday, for the pull in her chest nearly convinces her she is not pretending, this ruse now feels real. Look at him, so handsome. So . . . alluring. The swing in his step makes it look like he is dancing across the floor, coming to sweep me up and carry me away. Snap out of it. Do not be an idiot. He killed my husband. He is killing me. He would want to kill my child if he knew about it. I do not want him. He wants me to want him. Myla allows a stream of defensive affirmations to flood her mind, centering her train of thought against the attack that is his poisonous aphrodisiac.

A hush claims the court as he walks with slow determination toward her, flanked once more by his wolves and an entourage of dazed guards. Those who watch from their huddled corners exchange fearful glances with one another as they make themselves small. It is as though they avoid being seen to avoid being used. He does not bow. Instead, his eyes devour her from afar, not ceasing in their consumption the closer he gets. He seems to not even notice the bodies and ruin around him, a sight he must be well accustomed to.

“Your Grace,” he says at last, stopping only when he stands directly before her, looking down at where she sits. She has leaned intentionally into her throne, relaxed by all appearances, watching him from beneath her thick lashes. “You look ravishing.”

She allows an easy smile to tease the corners of her lips before standing. Reaching out, she pushes him to his knees, forcing him to look up with a finger tipping his chin. “Lord Shayd, I see you left your manners outside.” Her voice is coy and flirtatious, a sentiment which sparks delight in his darkening eyes.

“Vesperian to you, Your Grace,” he replies, dark eyes casting downward in reverence.

“Then I must ask you to call me Myla,” she answers, urging him to his feet by the collar of his jacket, certain to pull him a step closer so they share the same breath. “I have considered your proposal.”

Vesperian stands tall, his hands resting casually on the hilt of the blade at his hip. “And what have you to say in response?” Only now do his eyes wander to the bodies hanging behind her. A glint of pleasure passes across his face, and Myla hopes that means he is taking the message in the manner it is intended.

Oozing confidence and a faint breath of sensuality, Myla answers, her voice low so only he can hear. “You asked me a question yesterday . . . of the most intimate nature. Do you recall?”

His eyes dart to the space between her legs and with a lick of his lips, he nods. “How could I forget. The question plagues me nightly.”

At this response, Myla feels herself wavering, tortured by what she must say next. This would be a great time to feel your dark pull, Vesperian. You really need to work on your timing and not make me do all the heavy lifting. The pull on her remains silent, as if he were giving her a choice. One of many lies to come from him.

She musters every ounce of courage inside and steps closer to him, tracing a gloved finger gently along his jawline until it finds his lips. Her finger grazes across them, separating them to gain access inside, she brushes the tip of his tongue, making certain her eyes flicker there in mock intrigue. In her peripheral, a tense Bryar stands, staring straight ahead, appearing as an unfazed and dutiful soldier to the crown.

“Two years ago, you rescued me from a most dull arrangement. In the many nights following, I have felt your pull.” She lowers her eyes and speaks the unspeakable. “Thoughts of your power have plagued me nightly. Thought of our power . . . together. So yes, I did touch myself as I thought of you. A man with such gifts, claiming what he wants, myself included; how could I not want what we might create together, what we might own together. A union to be feared after too many years of being underestimated.” Myla removes the finger and releases her grip on his chin before she takes one step back, her perfume wafting and the sway of her body carrying his attention. “Do you see how they look at me? They do not see a queen. They see a widow. My father.” She nods to where Maverick stands, his stern expression the very picture of disapproval. “You see, he created a life for me which I did not like at all. I should like to return the favor.” Myla cringes inwardly as the latter is whispered, exposing more truth than she intended. Another impulse, courtesy of the Blood Stealer before her.

Vesperian, handsome as he may be, reeks of lust and power. His words are repulsive, but promising to her cause. “Am I to assume this is you accepting my proposal?” he nearly growls, primal like a starved beast, stepping forward as though to claim her right here for all to see. Everything about him is refined, from his well-manicured hair and nails, to the precise lines of stubble along his cheeks and jaw. His eyebrows are set in a relaxed line across his brow while the eyes beneath them tell ancient stories. At a glance, he could seem cocky and boyish, but up close and intimate as he is now, she can see it. This man is centuries old, and carries knowledge and guile that she could never hope to hold for herself. He is power. He is an apex predator, ready to strike should his attempts to claim her falter.

Louder now so all may hear, she speaks. “It would be an honor to align myself with you and bring unity to our people and territories. I accept your proposal, Lord Vesperian.” Those in the crowd who are not privy to her plan seem to quiver in the wake of her acceptance. Eyes dart back and forth, searching for others who seem equally stunned. The courtiers need not look far before finding their bewilderment reflected in the eyes of their peers. The gore hanging behind her throne seems to be the only repellent which staunches any potential resistance. Gasps of shock and fear fall into something even more terrifying: silence.

When Caius had proposed to her publicly, all a ceremonial nicety as the official proposal was nothing more than him shaking hands with her father, and she had accepted, he had kissed her hand and thanked her for the consideration. Myla is not sure what she had expected, but as Vesperian steps closer, his hand snaking down the small of her back, she is momentarily stunned. Unwilling to waver now, she checks herself, pressing close to him, unresisting when he meets his lips with hers, his tongue delving inside her mouth. She matches his advancement, her fingers wrapping around his collar to hold him close, and in turn, kissing him back. It feels like the deepest of betrayals, knowing the man her heart beats for is mere steps away. Myla reminds herself that not only is this just the beginning of her sacrifices, but these sacrifices are for her people, and Bryar is one of those whom she hopes to save by suffering this.

Vesperian marks his territory before all. The gesture can not be mistaken as anything less than claiming her for all to see. Myla allows it, mindful to seem open to the encounter. When he pulls away, his face brimming with lust, Myla is grateful to not taste the bourbon and blood on him any longer.

“My Lady,” he speaks, tipping her chin upward with a threatening finger. “I am besotted.” He casts a glance over the room, taking note of the eyes sinking into him and then to the bodies overhead. “It seems I missed a show.”

Myla laughs lightly before slumping into her throne. “Your proposal was not welcomed by all.” A young page offers her and Lord Vesperian a glass of wine each, which they both accept; Myla takes a long sip before speaking again. “I squashed any sign of resistance and made sure the survivors were well aware of what might happen should they defy me.” The words are lackluster and seem to care little of the souls belonging to the corpses. “Do you think I got the message across?” The question is quipped like a small joke between the two of them and followed up by an insensitive giggle. Myla is repulsed with herself.

Lord Vesperian grins, his flash of white making it hard to believe he is a consumer of innocent blood. One could mistake his gaze as riveting, intoxicating even. Perhaps that is his strategy. “Consider me impressed, dear. I felt there may be a ruthless queen beneath the quivering widow, and I am deeply pleased to have been right.”

“You, of all people, should understand biding one’s time.” Myla answers, a dual meaning, for she reminds herself this is a temporary arrangement. Her eyes travel slowly to the bit of chest exposed beneath his black tunic. The place she plans to embed a knife. There is a twisting black tattoo—his wraith, she believes. From what she can see of the marking, the wraith is tattooed in a way that gives the impression of impaling Vesperian’s heart. A grim piece of artwork to put on one’s body, even for a fallen Fae God.

“It seems you are my match in that area,” he remarks, sitting in the throne which was brought in earlier. It is magnificent, with etchings of thorns and skulls seeming to tumble from the base. It was Caius’s father’s throne before. Myla would rather Vesperian sit in her father-in-law’s throne than that of her late husband, who died at his hands. She swallows hard, grateful to have removed Caius’s. There is a rush of whispers and murmuring building throughout the room, courtiers in disbelief that Myla should allow this man to sit upon the throne. In any other circumstance, should a betrothed display such disrespect, she would have them removed. Today, she must allow it. More than allow it though, she must punish her courtiers for questioning it. If it is a ruthless queen he wants . . .

Myla stands swiftly, demanding the silence and attention of all in the room. “I see it in your eyes,” she hisses, her fingers pulsating in and out of a clenched fist, magic convulsing in small orbs between them. They respond to her fear now. “You question me. You question him. But you shall not!” She takes a few swift steps forward, her advancement clearly frightening those closest to her. So many familiar faces, who have often looked upon her as a trusted queen, now tremble before her. She has had tea with these people, she has walked the palace gardens with them. Now, she threatens and terrifies them. Better this than death or enslavement.

“Have you seen my new decor?” She waves a dismissive hand toward the dead. “I believe there is room for more, and the bodies of those who defy me would be the most breathtaking additions.”

Lord Vesperian bellows a deep laugh before standing beside her. “No, my love, look upon the sheep. See how they tremble. They will not bleat . . . lest I eat them .” He licks his lips, a thirst visibly forming and that awful black mist of his wraith seeping from his veins.

Chills prick every inch of her body. Of course, he would threaten to rob them of their free will. That is his most potent weapon of choice. Rather than succumb to the vile twisting in her belly, Myla joins him in sadistic laughter, carelessly turning on her heel and returning to her throne, lowering herself weakly into it, his proximity already draining.

By nightfall, the Blood Stealer’s men have descended. At Myla’s command, arrangements for them have been made in the barracks with her soldiers. Myla trusts that Bryar has briefed his men well and none will truly sleep without a peer on watch. The Blood Stealer has been taken to Caius’s old chambers. She could avoid Vesperian sitting on her dead husband’s throne. There is no logical reason she would deny his sleeping in the King’s chamber were she truly aligned with him and planning to make him her king.

Thus, she stands in the heart of a room she has avoided for years, watching the dark man before her direct servants to place his trunks beside the bed. The bed . A fragrance fills her senses, or the memory of a fragrance. Oakmoss. That is what Caius used to smell like. On that particular night, he reeked of it. In his drunken state, his words landed with a harsher sting than usual. Stop it. She diverts her gaze from the bed, ignoring the memory of fingers around her throat, holding her in place. “Just give me an heir, Myla. That is all I ask of you.” With a shudder, Myla turns around entirely, facing away.

“I have ordered a feast in your honor,” she says, smiling sweetly at Vesperian, who tests the mantle with the swipe of his finger, pleased to find no dust. “I must go ready myself, but I look forward to seeing you there.”

“A feast? You indulge me,” he hums threateningly, watching with thirst as she leaves the room.

Walking down her own halls has never felt so threatening. Unfamiliar soldiers patrol, dressed in the crimson red of Vesperian’s house; some alert, others appearing dazed. His banners have already been strung up on the walls alongside hers; a single drop of red, presumably blood, is framed by ornate black detail. Myla interprets them as the curling of his black wraith around the blood of a victim.

There are no safe nooks to carry on a private conversation now. Myla can not even fathom how she might feel safe sleeping tonight, even with Bryar standing post.

Her steps hasten with the rate of her heart, as she hurries down the corridor to her chamber. Shaky hands throw the door open, and she quickly slams it shut behind her, pressing her back to it and taking several, steadying breaths. Elsa already waits within, and at the sound of the doors she appears from the dressing room, her face pale and concerned.

“Oh, thank the Gods you are here,” she says with a relieved sigh. “You were marvelous. Startling, terrifying , and marvelous.” These words are spoken more confidently as she grasps Myla’s hands within her own, holding her friend close. Myla smiles at Elsa despite the turmoil within. Nothing about this feels marvelous.

“I only hope it proves worth it,” she replies, working at unfastening the buttons of her gloves and removing them from her balmy hands to dip her fingers in the warm washbasin. Once finished, she sits before her vanity, allowing Elsa

to fix her hair. Elsa hesitates, her fingers nimbly tucking Myla’s dark hair into an elegant side twist, scooping the curls from the front of her face and leaving the majority of it swirling down her back. “I overheard the Council discussing something. Bryar and I both heard it . . .”

Myla jerks her head swiftly to face Elsa. “What was it?”

“It was of your instructions . . . you told them to kill you, should they doubt you are yourself.” Elsa’s voice inflects with betrayal, though her actions stay on task. Turning Myla’s head foreword, she ties a headdress of raven feathers over the crown of her head, secured by a black ribbon at the nape of her neck. Obsidian and smoky quartz spears, like the ones of her crown, are fixed in the center of the headdress, as well as a few more black peonies for fullness, creating a dark and celestial look. “I want you to know,” Elsa continues firmly, “there is not a fucking chance either of us are going to let that happen, and that is a deal he and I made together so you best believe it. I can not believe you trust a single soul in that room not to take advantage of your request. ”

Myla bites her lower lip to keep the tears at bay. “Elsa, you have to see the logic in it.”

“Your logic is rapidly running out of space for the heart, Myla.” Elsa snaps, her voice an octave higher and her face hard. “You know I support you; this was my idea to begin with, and it is brilliant, but if you believe for a second, we are going to let you disguise suicide as martyrdom, you are a damn fool. Bryar is angry at you.”

“He will have to live with his anger a bit longer and—Elsa! Suicide? Suicide would have been confronting him when he first walked in here yesterday. I am trying to make sure we all survive this!” Her hands fall instinctually to her belly, and Myla takes a steadying breath.

Elsa nods slowly and helps her unclasp the lace collar of the dress she wears, exposing the skin from her chin to her lower ribs. “For self-control.” Elsa slides an onyx gemstone ring in the shape of a moon onto Myla’s forefinger and then a matching necklace around her throat. The perfecting touch, a statement piece, is tied around her waist: a full skirt to layer over the form-fitting one creates depth to her silhouette. The skirt is made entirely of the sleekest black raven feathers, allowing a mesmerizing swish with every step. Myla parts the slit of her first layer and straps the fox dagger to a garter at her thigh.

“There.” Elsa stands back and admires her handiwork. “What did that monster call you? Ruthless?” She smiles, nodding in approval. “A Ruthless Raven Queen. Get revenge for Caius, okay? Get revenge for yourself. But know we will not allow this to end in your death.” Elsa places her hands on either side of Myla’s head, and with the gentlest vibration of her magic, healing energy slips peacefully into her being with the delicate touch that can come only from a healer. Sometimes, Myla doubts if Elsa should be a lady-in-waiting when her true talents lie in the gift of healing and revitalization.

“Thank you,” Myla says, holding her friend’s hand to her cheek. “I do love you so. Please be safe tonight.” Myla stands, taking one last look in the mirror at her violently dark reflection, seeing there, someone who could and would kill anyone for those she loved.

“Elsa?”

“Yes?” Elsa asks, watching Myla attentively.

“What if I am not doing any of this for Caius?”

“Then, I would tell you to get twice the revenge for yourself.”

Myla takes a deep breath in and checks her posture in the mirror, something the blademaster once told her echoing in her mind, a reminder to stand tall.

“This is how you should stand. Sword or no sword in your hand, stand tall, Lady Myla. You have no reason to walk through this world cowering.”