Page 20 of A Thousand Burning Ravens

“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.

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.