Page 22 of A Thousand Burning Ravens

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.”

BLACK CANDLES ARE lit at uneven heights overhead, some hanging from the ceiling, others from sconces on the wall. The lighting is darker than Myla would prefer for a celebration, but considering the nature of the party, she supposes it is fitting. Long tables have been brought in and line both sides of the long throne room. Courtiers and visiting lords and ladies sit, mingling uneasily. An air of pretense fills the room as her subjects seem to act on cue, unsure of their moves but knowing they must comply. Black furs have been thrown across both thrones as padding and warmth, for the evening has grown cold.

“Her Majesty, The Dowager Queen!”

Someone forgot to tell the master of ceremonies that I am not going by that anymore . . . Myla is announced but a scoff quickly follows, and she can see, already reclined in his throne, is Vesperian. He is dressed in black leather. His forearms exposed where his tunic is rolled, revealing crimson red tattoos in the shapes of bodies, covering the majority of his arms.

“I think dowager is a title we should retire. Do you not agree, my Queen?”

I suppose Vesperian will do it.

Myla tips her chin upward, walking slowly toward him, certain the look on his face is one of sinful lust at her soft, exposed skin, which no doubt glints in the candlelight.

But it is not his gaze that thrills her.

Bryar’s is the look she must pretend once more not to see. How beautifully he wears his jealousy and admiration.

“What should I be called then?” Myla asks coyly as she ascends the steps to her throne, allowing one last flicker of a glance in Bryar’s direction before settling on Vesperian’s lap.

“Something that includes Shayd, do you not agree?” he replies, a large hand squeezing the thickest part of her thigh in greeting.

Myla pauses, running familiar hands through his hair. “For that to hold any weight, I would have to be your wife first.”