Page 4 of A Thousand Burning Ravens

A silence falls between them. With Bryar unwilling to enlist the help of the Raven’s Veil, and Myla unwilling to bear the child, solutions feel slim to none.

The crackle of her hearth mixed with the fading tension draws Myla back into the earlier comfort. With time, she glances back at Bryar who, for the moment, is entranced with the flames. For one who wields flames so beautifully, he never seems to lack amazement in the smallest of them. Even a bedroom hearth. Maybe he knows something about them she does not.

“Perhaps you could catch him unaware and send him to face the Gods in a fiery blaze,” she speaks finally, visualizing the masterful destruction of their foe at the hands of the powerful man before her. It is a satisfying vision.

The corners of his mouth turn upward in a faint smile. “I fear the Gods would judge me, for I would thoroughly enjoy that,” he answers.

“I do not believe that the Gods have never delivered vengeful justice and enjoyed it. They would understand the sentiment.”

Changing the subject, Bryar shifts in his seat to face her squarely. “When this is all finished, what will you do?”

“If I live to see it, Gods willing, I think I will just be grateful to still be alive. I am not sure how to plan life after this. Once I defeat the Blood Stealer, I have an entirely different foe in my father.”

“You will live to see it, and your father will learn to submit to your reign.”

“Always the optimist,” Myla teases. “Careful. You are reminding me of a much younger version of yourself.”

“If you recall, we promised one another we would always see that version of each other.” He gazes at her in a way he has not for many years. A way he has not dared to, since she was betrothed to Caius. A red-hot glow begins to emanate from his being, a response she has seen many times before. His emotions churn beneath the surface. “And,” he adds, not wavering in gaze for a second, “you will live to see it, you will be happy, your child will be safe. I will not allow anything less than that.”

A weight settles on Myla’s belly, a feeling she has not experienced in many years, and has unsuccessfully tried to ignore with Bryar, since the day she met him. Something they are teetering dangerously close to the edge of with this early morning dalliance. Averting her gaze, she nods resolutely, her voice taking a cooler tone than before, a sign the conversation is over. “As captain of my guard, I should hope that is where your commitment lies.”

A fleeting look of amusement crosses his face, and he stands to take his leave. “I shall be just outside, should you need me, Your Grace.”

“Wait,” Myla insists, turning to walk toward her dressing room. “Will you train with me this morning?”

His expression is blank and his eyes briefly twitch toward the door. “Sparring?” There is an instant tension in the room with the word spar. It used to mean many things to them, not always the act of swordplay.

“Mm-hmm,” she replies modestly, assuming an air of obliviousness. “Without use of my magic, I fear I may be at a disadvantage as of late. I should stay in practice.”

Sparring is innocent. Training with her Captain of the Guard is equally so.

To those who do not know their history.

“Yes, Your Grace.” The captain’s nod is stiff as he turns to leave. “I shall wait for you in the arena.”

Before long, Myla has donned a slim-fitting pair of trousers with straps and buckles up the thigh intended to hold daggers and vials. Paired with a form-fitting leather vest over a billowing white tunic, and a tall pair of black boots, she is fit to out-maneuver the captain. Or at least try. She has not been able to out-maneuver him since they were teenagers.

Nevertheless, she arrives at the arena flanked by two perplexed guards, no doubt questioning why the queen is sparring with their captain and not one of her ladies, such as Elsa, who is Myla’s usual sparring partner, but now joins only to watch.

Light barely peeks over the tallest point of the mountain which casts its shadow over New Falkmere. It is a mere golden streak of light, meandering over the darkened clouds and trailing overhead where the opaque moon still hangs in the sky, slowly fading with dawn’s light. In the center of the arena, the captain already lunges at a wooden dummy, swinging a heavy broad sword over his head. He has discarded his long cloak and heavy armor and stands now in his base uniform of black trousers with a fitted, leather jerkin.

He spins in a forceful lunge, warming his muscles to the exertion and in turn, meets her gaze. For the briefest of moments, her mind plays tricks on her and his chiseled features soften. His curls fall a little looser and the stress lines on his forehead fade. The stubble on his jawline disappears and his green eyes brighten with the loss of a decade of grief. He is no longer a twenty-nine-year-old man. He is an eighteen-year-old boy, and she has just walked into the blademaster’s for practice.

Her belly flutters, but she forces a stoic expression, crossing the arena with dignity and no outward signs of nostalgia.

“Places,” she piques, twitching an eyebrow and pursing her lips together.

The captain does as instructed, and teeters slightly from foot to foot before finding his balance and bending slightly at the knee, ready for her attack.

Myla also finds her center of balance but wavers slightly, worried what might occur when the shock of their metals meet. She stands a breath away from him, a proximity she has intentionally avoided for a long time.

Never mind that. This is ridiculous. Myla lunges, her fore-foot burying itself in the dirt a few inches from where he stands. Dust from the sudden skirmish is disrupted and the sharp clank of steel on steel reverberates off the stands around them. Bryar deflects her attack, sidestepping expertly, his blade now lowered at his side. He does not advance as he used to, catching her off guard or knocking her to the ground. He waits for her attack- waits for her instruction like a proper Queen’s Guard.

Oh, I am your Queen now, so you can not fight me properly? Flushed with immediate frustration, Myla glares at him. “Have you lost your love for the fight, Captain?” she growls, lunging at him again. This time with more aggression. Her fists tighten around the handle of the blade and every muscle in her arms engage, ready to lower the blade with as much force as she can muster.

He chuckles slightly, raising his blade to block her attack. The weapon jars violently in his grasp, the shock from her assault clearly far more than he anticipated. With a startled grunt, he staggers back before finding his footing. This time, he leans into her and their blades lock. Using his gauntlet as a shield between his flesh and the blade, he braces his weapon as she swings at him again with a frustrated grunt. Bryar now slides his blade in a downward thrust, breaking their lock and Myla stumbles backward.

“Do you concede the battle, Your Grace?” His tone is anything but formal. It is teasing and familiar, and sends an unwarranted smile across her face.