Page 30 of A Thousand Burning Ravens

He does not look her way, though her eyes are fixed only on him, and Vesperian’s on her.

The six Seam warriors close around Bryar slowly at first. Slow enough that with every step, their calf-length chainmail sounds like gentle chimes in the wind. The crimson of their tunics stands out against Bryar’s pure black ensemble, but his is the only coherent expression. His green eyes dart from one foe to the next, assessing which to lunge at first.

He makes his choice and the battle ensues. It is mayhem. The way lifeless soldiers lunge and are met with a deafening ring of metal. Bryar’s arms heave overhead and with an angry snarl, he lowers his blade into the undefended back of an opponent. There is a crack, followed by a short, agonizing scream as the soldier is flayed open from behind.

Myla winces as bone shatters and blood gushes in rivers from the body, creating a slippery surface beneath Bryar’s boots. He dislodges the blade from the man’s spine in time to parry an attack from another soldier. It is a flash of steel and blood.

To Vesperian, it becomes obvious rather quickly that his men are no match for her lethally-trained captain.

So, he pushes Myla off his lap and stands, urging another rush of soldiers to join the fight. Myla watches, wanting nothing more than to see him summon his flames and melt their foes. But she knows he will do no such thing.

Though he puts up a fight for the sake of convincing Vesperian, he plans to die for her. Myla knows what he looks like when he is slowly conceding a battle. Their years of training together amounted to a time when she could not best him. But from time to time, he would let her win. Just as he begins to allow them to win.

One soldier, whose face she can not see behind his black helmet, swings a heavy broad sword just slowly enough that Bryar should catch it. In every other circumstance, he would.

This time, he does not. It slices into his shoulder. And as a second flash of blades threaten to fall on him, he responds too slowly.

He wants her to remain silent, to let him fall on the sword for her, and to claim her cure. That is his goal.

Perhaps a stronger queen would allow it. The solution to her problem could cost only one life.

But to her, it is a life too dear.

Myla feels a shriek explode from her lungs, and as quickly as it began, her plot to defeat the Blood Stealer ends, replaced with a desperate need to stop the fall of the blade, even if her ruse is revealed.

The moment seems to pass in miserable slow motion. Though it is early in the day, night descends upon the throne room. The power of the Blood Stealer summoning darkness itself, black particles falling from the night sky to shroud them in an inky fog. The darkness sucked from every shadow within the palace walls, collecting there in the throne room. Guards spill into the throne room, wearing panicked and helpless expressions and shouts from somewhere beyond sound an alarm, all within the palace instantly alerted to the impending disaster. The Blood Stealer’s wolves leap at an unsuspecting guard and sink their beastly teeth into his throat, silencing a gargled cry. They proceed to feast on the warm flesh of the guard.

“The Queen and the Blood Stealer will battle.” “Send help.” “Run.” Words bleed together. Courtiers with minor magic seem to flee while those with major magic rush in, all halting behind Bryar, a standstill before them pausing any advancements.

Myla begs her magic forth, and yet something, like a cork blocking her supply, stops its rise. Her veins feel flaccid, and her screams are empty, no rage magic following. It feels as though now, when she needs them most, the Gods abandon her.

A ringing douses out all other sounds save that of Vesperian’s laughs. Ringing and a demon’s laugh is all she hears. This is the same way she responded when he came to kill her husband, panic dousing the fire of her magic. Somewhere between the tears and the wraith’s swirling vortex, she sees the faces of her court, of Elsa, and of Bryar, now with a pile of corpses at his feet. Blood spills from his arm and he watches her with pleading eyes, though he knows his plan has also failed.

Her father pushes between them, eyes wide with something that should be fear but is not. He wants me to die, so he can have my throne.

Callum, Elsa, and Rhyland now group together, each holding a weapon to stave off attacks as they come. They are screaming something, those words falling on deaf ears. She can not even hear the way her soldiers now clash against the Blood Stealer and blood flows through her throne room like an undammed river. Sprays of it pelt the walls and the books and even herself. Wake up. She urges herself, clenching her eyes shut and visualizing the birth of her magic. But something else penetrates her mind’s eye. An orb in the womb of the earth. Small and flickering. Something holds it in place, veins of magic like the roots of a tree. “It is time to wake up,” she whispers, her eyes opening to see confusion written on the face of the Blood Stealer. His brow furrows and then arches in an annoyed roll of his eyes.

“So, it is to be the captain and the queen. Lovers dying pitiful deaths today.” His words are hissed, a contortion of his regular voice, and Myla wonders who speaks now, he or the wraith. Maverick’s eyes widen as he glances from Myla to Bryar, a sense of realization washing his features, changing quickly from shock to rage. Perhaps he is thinking back to the evening his daughter confessed she was no longer a virgin, complicating her betrothal to the king. Myla feels a tinge of deep-seated betrayal and anger growing into something nastier. In this moment, of everything that could bring anger upon him, that is what does it.

Echoes of her friend’s words pierce the veil which seems to deafen her, and she barely makes out Elsa’s words: “Use all of your magic.”

And just like that, the magic roots suspending that orb in her womb retreat, dissipating into her veins, her entire body flashing, like a volt of energy has flared from within. The sensation is sickening as the child in her womb quickens, no longer hanging in a time continuum, waiting to be. Myla once more reaches within her depths, calling upon light, and righteous rage.

The Blood Stealer repositions at this, his gnarled hands lunge backward, about to lose the wraith on her, when her voice cracks, a booming, thunderous command. A primal scream boiling within her throat and flooding beyond into something terrible. Rubble from the ceiling shakes loose, cracking down upon them, and her body is engulfed in a blinding flash of light which launches in sharp fragments toward Vesperian.

In a trained, fluid motion, he disintegrates into a million black wisps, joining with the wraith in a whirlpool of abysmal shadow and chaos, reappearing behind her. Something hard slams into her back, knocking the wind out of her and catapulting her body several feet away. The cold tile smacks into her cheek and somewhere beneath the screams and shouts, Myla hears gasps as well, followed at once by the shuddering of summoned magic in mass amounts. The atmosphere begins to crumble beneath the pressure of the conjuring.

Assertive, Bryar bellows orders to his knights and somewhere in her periphery, she watches as rows of blue surround her at his command. “Protect the queen!” A futile effort, she is certain.

Myla pushes herself to her feet, turning in time to see her council and various courtiers forming a wall with their bodies, hands extended as flashes of magic overpower the senses. Bricks are compelled to wiggle loose from the walls as one wielder’s mind causes a chaotic flurry of heavy and sharp objects to hurdle in the Blood Stealer’s direction. Another conjures clairvoyant magic to anticipate Vesperian’s next moves, intercepting a teleportation in Myla’s direction.

It is a violent and catastrophic cacophony, disorder laying waste to the usually regal throne room. Books of all size and variant colors tumble from different heights, streaking the black veil with vibrancy as they are used as weapons, thrown to and fro at their targets. Myla is overwhelmed with urgency to be in all places at once. Before her, Bryar is in a half-kneeling position. His cloak is singed and in tatters and a soot collects on his already black armor as fire magic rages from his being in the direction of two dozen of Vesperian’s dazed soldiers. Their bodies sear like cold meat to a hot iron. The screams are sickening, even more so than the stench.

Elsa crouches over the convulsing body of a courtier, a young man with fair hair. His identity is not easily detectable as a gaping wound has split his face in half. Elsa’s skin is tinted a healer’s lavender. In spite of the chaos around her, she stays calm, trying to heal the man seizing upon her lap, no doubt begging for his life. Myla cringes, knowing it is futile. Soldiers cloaked in the Queen’s Blue spill in from every direction, blades, and magic flashing furiously.

The greatest need lies at the feet of the Blood Stealer. Carnage piled beneath and behind him as he moves with a swiftness unmatched by any. Blood sprays from the helpless bodies of his victims, caught off guard as they slash at the air before him where he stood, only to be assaulted by him from behind. His methods are the strategy of a coward, though in efficiency, she can not argue he has the upper hand.

Vesperian faces away from her, caught in the crossfire of Lord Heron and one of Bryar’s assassins’ magic. It is ripples of blue, interrupted by a violent fire which blasts a small crater into the tile flooring. Myla catches her breath, thinking for a moment he may be subdued as she loses sight of him in the mayhem.