Page 25 of A Thousand Burning Ravens

And that is the most terrifying realization she could possibly come to.

The three girls drift to sleep on the comfortable plumes of Myla’s bed. Despite the uncertainty hanging thick in the air, Myla finds peace in sleep. So, when she is awoken to a knock on the door and Elsa shaking her awake, nothing short of disoriented can describe her being, as Vesperian’s voice coos from the other side of her door.

“She is my fiancé; I will see her.”

Myla’s skin prickles and she flies out of bed, sending a prayer to the Gods that Bryar watches his tongue.

“She is asleep.” Bryar’s retort is barely audible, though the defiant inflection is unmistakable.

“Shit,” Myla hisses, allowing Fern to pull a dressing gown over her for modesty before she flings the door open, attempting to erase all signs of annoyance from her face.

“Lord Sha— Vesperian . . .” She greets him with a slight smile, ignoring the reddening of Bryar’s axe as his hand sears the metal.

“You have a most dedicated bodyguard,” he hums, his piercing eyes dissecting Bryar with suspicion. “You might consider giving him different instructions when it comes to me.”

Myla tenses as her words say the exact opposite of what she feels and wants. “It is alright, Captain Monroe, allow Lord Vesperian to pass.”

Bryar steps aside dutifully, though the glower he burns into Vesperian’s back as he passes is murderous, sending a brief thrill through Myla. Vesperian is about to close the door when he sees Elsa and Fern in company. He smirks, gesturing to the door. “You are both dismissed. I should like a private moment with my fiancé.” Myla glances briefly at the watchful wolves trailing behind Vesperian. They are unnerving and she wishes she could think of a reason for them to not be allowed in her chambers.

Both girls exchange anxious glances, briefly looking to Myla for final instructions. With a nod of encouragement, sure to keep a pleasant smile on her face, she glances at Elsa.

“Return in ten minutes. I would like to dress for the day.”

The latch falls in place with a loud clink as the door shuts behind her ladies, and Myla feels more vulnerable than ever. Vesperian stands with his back to her, watching the flames in her hearth lap at one another. He is already dressed and his hair combed neatly, though the stubble along his jawline shows this morning. He wears a loose black tunic tucked into form-fitting trousers. The sleeves are rolled, exposing tattooed, sculpted forearms.

“I trust you slept well?” he asks, turning now to face her with a sinister look etched in his dark features. Dangerously handsome or not, standing alone with him is a terrifying and unwelcome way to wake up, and truly highlights the ‘dangerous’ element in the equation. Questions and concerns in equal proportion pulse through Myla’s mind while the unexpected proximity to him is an assault on her already tapering energy source. The wave of overwhelming senses is an immediate onslaught, forcing her to sit. She is careful to do so slowly so as not to reveal her fatigue.

“It is an unexpected pleasure,” she says methodically, ensuring that every syllable can be mistaken as an invitation. It is vital he sees her as unfazed. Her fear is his feast, so she will starve him. “What, or whom, do I have to thank for your presence so early?”

Vesperian sits on the chaise beside her, a hand toying with the material draped over her knees. “I believe negotiations and a marriage contract must be drawn up today. I wanted to pay you the respect of discussing it all privately before we sit before both Councils.”

His statement is threatening. Discussing things privately removes the logic and input of her Council members. Not that she needs it for this scheme, but in any regular situation, this interaction would be unheard of. One more show of defiance in the Blood Stealer’s score book. “What a splendid idea,” she responds, taking his hand in her own. “I am eager to plan our reign together.”

His smile is fleeting and lacks genuine depth. This is where his agenda comes into play. This is where her ruse succeeds or fails. Sweat forms behind her knees, and she must consciously choose to keep her legs still beneath the mounting nerves.

His next words are alarming. “I believe it is essential to our cause that in addition to a wedding ceremony, there must also be a coronation for myself.”

Myla shivers and the pulse in her neck rises as he watches her response intently. “I was thinking the same thing,” she agrees beautifully, caressing his fingers between hers in a manner that could be mistaken as loving. “If our people are to unite, so must we. If our people are to respect us both, we must be seen as the rightful monarchs, together. Most importantly, we must bring the rule of this realm beneath one banner.”

His expression screams lust for power, the tilt of his chin, the way his dark hair falls into his eyes as he smolders, pleased at his success. Everything about him, from the scars to the fragrance, the silk of his voice, even the very air tremors around him, it is all masterful deceit. A more trusting woman might be fooled by his refined looks and even tone. “Dominion of the entire realm, I approve . . . half of your Council will move to my palace, while a half of mine will relocate here. A king regent will be established on my behalf there as well, so my agendas may be enforced while I live here with you.”

If Myla accepts all of his conditions without proposing any of her own, it will raise suspicion, so she interjects, “I believe a queen regent must also be established within your palace. I must be seen to have power and representation in the Seam as well.”

Myla envisions the Seam. She has never been, but the illustrations in her textbooks were enough to send chills through her. A barren wasteland engulfed in a choking haze and guarded by unnaturally large wolves. Much like the ones he now commands here.

Vesperian nods. “I acquiesce . . . though, there is the matter of your large army, as well as whose banners we will unite under. There must be but one royal seal and one army, lest our unity be questioned.”

“These are all cosmetic changes you propose,” Myla answers sweetly. “I can not say I care one way or the other. What of my army, though?”

His eyes fixate on hers and darkness manifests physically, exuding from his very pores until the room feels like an abyss closing in on Myla. His power manipulates her energy, suddenly draining any will to resist or argue further propositions, she feels inclined to agree to whatever he may suggest.

“It is customary for my soldiers to swear blood oaths to me,” he says in a hypnotic voice. Myla knows very well what he proposes. The blood oaths her subjects swear to her are quite different from his. She does not consume their blood, feed off their power, or control their actions and impulses.

Which is precisely what he wishes to do to her army of thousands upon thousands of troops.

“The day after our wedding, I will begin accepting blood oaths. Your army is substantial, and I believe it will take many weeks to carry out. It is exhausting business. Those who have yet to give their blood oaths will be detained until it is their turn so we have no deserters.”

Accepting blood oaths. He means stealing them. Myla stands slowly, moving toward a decanter of wine and pouring it with a trembling hand which she prays he does not see. She offers him a glass and swallows hers swiftly before responding. “Of course. That is most logical. I should expect the same gesture from your soldiers, however. They will kneel before me and swear fealty.”