Page 14 of A Thousand Burning Ravens

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.”