Page 2 of A Thousand Burning Ravens

Defeat hangs heavy in the air around Bryar. “So, we do nothing then?”

“You do as you have always done. Forsake not your convictions, and in the hopeless months to come, do not be divided. But most importantly, though you say you are short on it, have hope.”

Bryar’s journey back to his comrades is a fitful one, his consciousness plagued by the memory of his queen. The moment which set his feet upon this treacherous mountain path. Only to return to the queen and tell her she already has everything she needs inside her. It is laughable. Nevertheless, it is what he has been given, so they better damn well find an effective way to use it.

“THE DOWAGER QUEEN.” She is announced, and it is a fucking joke if not downright insulting. Calling her a dowager is how they all get away with owning her every move, even though she is very much the ruling monarch. Willing or not. With an agitated sigh, Myla enters her conservatory, the place she has taken to holding council. The room is a dome of glass with old vines meandering upward. Lanterns hang from the ceiling at different heights, gently illuminating the room from the night sky. An abundance of lovingly grown plants, herbs, and fruit trees flourish in the large room. A thick, green and gold ornate rug cushions the stone flooring beneath their feet, a kindness in the colder months. When the conservatory is not being used for gore and warfare strategies, it is an astoundingly peaceful place. When ugly old men in ugly sagging tunics are not there, it may just be her favorite room in the entire palace.

With an air of bristled defiance, she had told her confidants that the Council Room was a dismal place, but the truth was, it simply smelled like her decapitated husband. She felt as if the room exhaled his very essence each time she stepped inside. She would be so ambushed by memories and guilt that focusing on making vital decisions for the sake of the kingdom was futile. But a strong queen would never admit her heart was sabotaging her head, so she simply said the conservatory was a more cheerful place to plot murder.

“Be seated.” She issues the command with less patience than intended, her nerves simmering just beneath the surface. Across from her, the grim face of her father inspects her for weakness, no doubt adding to the tally of times she has seemed ‘un-queenly’ in the recent months. A sense of failing before she has even begun picks at her, and she wills the disgust on her face to retreat.

With an outward breath and a subtle grasp of the thick satin of her skirt, she checks her tone before speaking again. “What news is there from the farmlands?”

A gray and grizzly-looking man, with a scar interrupting the otherwise thick growth of beard, speaks. “Our emissary has yet to return, Your Grace. I fear we have had no word.”

“Another loss,” she mumbles, dragging a heavy finger across the shiny surface of the oak table beneath them. A tremor within her, like a sounding alarm, threatens to disrupt her pretense of composure as Lord Heron delivers the grievous news. It is subtle at first, a twitching in her hands followed by her fingers curling around the hilt of the dagger concealed beneath her skirts. News of the defeat, delivered by the imbecile across from her, makes her want to plant the dagger in his neck.

Myla swallows and forces her shaking hands to withstand the overpowering urge, clamping her fingers tight around the edge of the table instead. Now is not the time for an . . . episode. Now is the time to ignore this almost instinctual need to relocate to the Seam, the point beyond the black mountains where the Blood Stealer amasses his army and hoards his strength.

Men have been going missing for months now, no doubt sheep added to the Blood Stealer’s flock. Of all the faces gathered around the table, hers is the most concerned. An unbecoming feature on one who is supposed to have the answers. What would Caius do? A silly thought. If Caius were here, this would not be an issue. His death is the cause of it all. Bastard.

“Your Grace?” Heron probes. “Shall I send operatives to assess the situation and report back directly?” A sharp tilt of her chin is all that is need for him to leave the room to execute his plan. The rest of the council is seated, awaiting instructions. After two years of ruling in her husband’s stead, Myla feels this should come easier—the questions and solutions ought to materialize within her. And yet, with her waning supply of power and energy, nothing is easy. At all times, there are eyes on her, looking to her to deliver them from the consuming chaos of the Blood Stealer. A feat she feels unprepared to do.

“Council is adjourned for today,” she blurts, to the dismay of all. “I fear we shall find no solutions, and I need to have some private conversations before moving forward.” All at once, her scowling council disperses, leaving only she and her father in the room.

“What are you doing?” he fumes, his gray-peppered beard failing to hide the scowl contorting his mouth.

“I am taking a break,” she snaps, slamming the conservatory door behind the final councilman, closing them in for what feels like a long overdue tiff.

“Queens do not take breaks, Myla.”

“This one does,” she retorts, perching herself on the edge of the comfortable sofa. “We have lived and breathed strategy to no end for a week, Father. I will have no more of it until tomorrow.”

“You will do as you are told!” he bellows, his words threatening to crack the glass overhead. Red lines his eyelids—whether anger or exhaustion, Myla does not care to know. He is always angry at her; he always has been.

The door opens to her Captain of the Guard rushing in at the commotion, hand on the hilt of his axe. Myla holds a hand up, stopping him before he enters further. “I am fine, thank you.” The guard retreats, leaving them alone once more, and Myla turns her attention to her father, an iron ferocity etched into the creases of her face.

“You are the one who made me a queen, Father. If you wanted to control me, you should have thought about that before giving me the power to ignore you.” Without giving the bewildered man a chance to respond, she waves a dismissive hand his way. “You are excused. And Father?” Her words stop him, just before he storms from the room. “Send for my friends.”

With a roll of his eyes and an exaggerated huff, he leaves, no doubt begrudged at her replacing the council of the men he has chosen for her with her trusted friends.

As soon as the door closes behind him, Myla turns on her heel and makes for a more secluded part of the indoor garden. A small path winds to the furthest corner, heavily shrouded in overgrowth. There, Myla’s altar sits. Small offerings lay at the feet of the Goddess. Today, Myla places a jar sealed with wax there and closes her eyes. She begs the Goddess to give her strength, and patience. She then moves to the sofa, where she sits, awaiting her friends’ arrival.

“Myla?” The first of the group arrives not ten minutes later. The young queen watches as concern fills her friend’s eyes. Elsa assesses the situation, watching as Myla sits, dignified but slight in stature, on the velvet green sofa tucked beside the window. Fatigue engulfs her like an unwelcome blanket, an appearance she struggles to hide more and more—one she has been suffocating beneath for two years.

“Well . . .” Elsa whispers, sitting in the space beside her. “The fucker has nothing better to do than taunt you from afar today, does he?” Her eyes, though sincere, spark with a rebellious resistance only Elsa can conjure. Nevertheless, her pale-blue irises are rimmed with the glisten of tears at the sight of her friend and queen, bearing it all with an unshakable indifference.

With a bolstering breath, Myla smiles and responds. “I feel his pull almost daily now,” she admits, a calloused inflection almost dismissing the statement itself. “I only wish I could return the favor and taunt him from afar.” She smiles reassuringly as the door opens and another enters, dread emanating from his entire being.

It is the captain, no doubt still enraged by her father’s display, not ten minutes ago. He stays silent and stands nearby, maintaining the role of bodyguard. His is a commanding presence—locks like warm, inky waves tumble across his forehead and the immaculate dress of Captain of the Guards, always evoking respect.

“My . . . my power is trickling from my veins. I wake up and it is spent already. What I am not expending myself to protect us, he is taking. I have impulses, and fighting them daily is exhausting.”

The door opens one last time, admitting Callum and Rhyland, the former taking a seat beside Elsa, discreetly grabbing her hand. It is Rhyland who speaks next, an exhausted swoop of his hand brushing a stray hair from his bronzed face. “You are carrying something much heavier than just a war, Your Grace. There must be answers and solutions that do not always involve you taking the brunt of it all.”

“Tell that to the room full of council members I just dismissed.” Myla laughs, pressing a palm to her forehead in exasperation.

“Allocate, that is all we are saying,” Callum adds.