Page 31 of A Thousand Burning Ravens

The black of he and his wraith appear to constrict inward until there is nothing left, and all at once, the black is ejected. Sharp spears of inky mist pivot in every direction, lodging themselves in a dozen victims before dissolving and recovering mere inches before Myla in the shape of a man once more.

Trembling with a violent flush of power, Myla’s magic seethes to the surface, deadly rays ready to be loosed, when Vesperian reaches out with a gloved hand, as cold as frost, and seizes her throat. His eyes flash a look of finality. His free hand lifts to eye level now and the wraith condenses into a single swirling orb, threatening to reach out and impale her.

“You could have had it all, my Ruthless Raven Queen.” His words are a mere echo of a human, carrying more of his demon’s voice as he delivers her final rites, accompanied by the mournful and threatening howls of Margot and Matteo. “I shall henceforth consider this the greatest tragedy; to see a masterpiece such as yourself lose herself and sacrifice her greatness, for the likes of her captain.”

His hand tightens and a fog threatens to claim her mind. There is movement, flashes of light, billowing smoke, and the heat of flames. The ground trembles and her logical brain tells her that her court and Council wage valiantly behind her, though fear within whispers. It is the demons below. They are waiting to welcome you into their belly. Somewhere, Myla senses sound—shouting, but nothing audible reaches her ears, which seem to be weighted in a dark magic, urging her to surrender. A foul force binds her arms to her side, unable to conjure her magic and with her throat constricted, she can not call upon the voice of the Gods to channel through her.

“Be sure to tell that joke of a husband hello when you see him,” Vesperian whispers, toying with the shape of the wraith between his fingers. “It would be wise to leave out the part where you are fucking the guard who let him die.”

Fury builds, a will to defy all, to defy the vile creature before her, to defy her acceptance of death, and to defy the dark Gods themselves.

Most importantly, to defy that she has anything to apologize to any man for.

Searing heat gathers at her throat where the Gods’ voices batter and, in spite of the tension between Vesperian’s fist and her neck, Myla’s mouth falls open. A crack of thunder, an ominous cry of a thousand angry voices demand her release.

From the core of her lungs, the Gods command fear and submission of every living thing across Myrnith. Even the Blood Stealer himself is flung backward briefly, the wraith retreating within him. A horrified look is quickly replaced by shock and something sadistic: thrill.

Vesperian moves to stand, but in ancient tongue, a young female from within the tangled chaos of the crowd compels the black chandelier overhead to snap loose of the chains suspending it. The Blood Stealer lurches backward, barely missing the sharp spikes of iron, which instead shriek violently on the tile. It is enough of a distraction for Myla to feel herself yanked into the dark corridor behind the thrones.

“Run!” Bryar demands, his hand tight on her arm. Myla glances backward to see an entirely different beast of fury forming around Vesperian. The wraith contorts, angry to be defied. Within the swirling of the blackness, visions wash in and out, opaque against the dark magic. Sight of destruction and death, the screams of his victims replaying, fuel for the monster as it grows larger and larger, intending to consume every being in its wake.

“Bryar, no!” Myla pleads, trying to jerk her arm free of his iron grasp. “Look!”

Blue chunks of ceiling fall, crushing and crippling those beneath it. A row of Council members stand shoulder to shoulder, their arms extended creating a wall of energy, flame, and any other power they can call upon to hold off Vesperian. She knows every name, every face. She can see them clearly and hear their voices as they swear oaths to her. Oaths to honor, to serve, to protect. Myla realizes they are merely stalling him for her escape. Anyone in that throne room is surely damned, any remaining are there of their own free will, a sacrifice for her life.

At the furthest end of the throne room, Callum, Rhyland, and Elsa stand together still. Elsa’s eyes meet hers and she mouths one word: “Go.”

Tears swell in her eyes as Bryar, visibly distraught, drags her by the waist toward the dungeons.

“Stop fighting me,” Bryar growls angrily, yanking her into an embrasure alcove. “I swear to the Gods, I will knock you senseless and carry you out of here myself if I have to, Myla!”

“They are dying!” she sobs, trying to turn back. Frantically and out of breath, she pleads and shrieks. “Elsa is in there, Bryar! Elsa and Rhyland and Callum—” Panic threatens to claim her being as visions of her friends sliced in half tease her imagination.

“Fuck, Myla! Do not let them die in vain then!” It is not a request. As the sound of mayhem and murder pierce the air, accompanied by the shaking of the ground beneath them, Myla is thrown over Bryar’s shoulder and carried out of the palace.

MYLA’S MOTHER USED to tell her heartbreak was the worst emotion a human body could endure, that it left its mark in deeper ways than scars ever could. Having felt heartbreak on multiple counts, Myla disagrees now. She now knows, guilt is a far worse feeling. Guilt, and heartbreak paired, however, is a bitter coupling.

A sob catches in her throat. They have been traveling for an hour, the rocky terrain and towering mass of trees engulfing them into the nothingness of the land. Every bit of her wants to turn back and meet the morning, dead alongside her people, her best friends, and even her father.

Unfortunately, Bryar is well-versed in the stupidity that propels grieving people, and he trudges behind her, watchful of her every move. Turning back is impossible with him as her escort. In any other situation, being his prisoner would seem exhilarating. Tonight, it feels like a betrayal.

Myla thinks back to a few hours ago. Imagine, you thought you could win this. Visions of her father, being so fucking useless, plague her. Though, he is most likely dead now, the terrifying realization that she does not care weighs heavily. His face when he heard Vesperian refer to Bryar as her lover. It was not the topic a father watching his daughter face her death should have focused on. I have always been his steppingstone. Of course, my death would not affect him. I already cleared his path into the throne room. I made him a queen’s father.

“We need to stop and find shelter soon.” Bryar breaks the silence and her dark train of thought, increasing his stride to move alongside her. His hand finds hers, helping Myla up a steep incline. “Let us make for the cliffside.”

Myla follows in silence, ignoring the ache in her feet as well as the cramping in her stomach. “You mean Druid’s Cave.” A place all-too familiar. She shivers, sidestepping a fallen tree blanketed in richly colored moss.

The sun has hidden its face behind the mountains, and fireflies have set the forest aglow. It is peaceful, considering the circumstances for their journey, but not even the magic of the forest can move Myla’s mind from the cold that must be settling over her palace as she moves further away. Her throne room, where subjects pledged fealty to her a week ago, now their crypt. Bitter tears sting her red eyelids as visions of Elsa lying dead on the cold tile sabotage her mind. She remains trapped in this tortured thought until Bryar stops her.

They stand, partially shrouded in a thick mist at the base of the mountains, an ancient location the druids visit for their Wheel of the Year sabbats. Myla used to visit here with her mother often, before her father was made a member of the Council. Witchcraft was not frowned upon, but a king’s Council member certainly could not have a wife and daughter who were known to mingle with the old pagans. Their visits to Druid’s Cave became less frequent, and always under the cover of darkness, after his promotion to society.

Standing here now, the earth feels solid and familiar. Sacred ground for sacred purposes, and she, an unworthy visitor.

“The cave you brought me to.” Bryar points ahead at the gaping mouth of the pitch-black cave. “It seemed more welcoming the last time we were here.”

Myla brushes past him, briefly taking note of the tatters his cloak is in before trudging past. “I suppose that is what hiding like cowards does. The last time we were here was for a celebration, not because we abandoned our friends and family to death.”

Bryar seizes her hand, stopping her with a small lurch. “You are not a coward.” His eyes catch in the moonlight, reflecting earnestly. “You are brave. He would have killed you if you had stayed.”