Page 46 of A Thousand Burning Ravens

“She came to you?”

“Yes, and she told me something odd. She said we had to ‘follow the fire’ if we are to succeed.”

Bryar nearly laughs and drops his head into his hands, his arms leaning entirely on his knees. The arch of his back is stiff with exhaustion and his muscles look strained as though his body has yet to relax. “I am not going toward any fires, Myla. What does that even mean?”

Myla shakes her head and cautiously places a hand on his leg, worried he is near a snapping point. “I do not know. She also said you would not know what she meant at first, but that you would figure it out.”

Again, he chuckles, sitting straight now. “Why is my path always one of fire?”

“Because it is who you are, and colossal amounts of it or not, I am proud of you,” she whispers, moving to hold his hand. “Tell me why you are so upset . . . is it fear?”

He begins with a resolute shake of his head, which hesitantly turns into a nod. “I suppose, yes. But also, no,” he admits, sighing heavily as he turns to face her. “I told you last week that I felt out of control. This is not just out of control, though,” he says, his words flooding out with an exasperated sigh. “Myla, I think . . . I think I ceased to be human for a moment. I did not feel like myself, and Callum and Rhyland almost died. We all almost died. Not because of the wolves, but because of me.”

Myla stops him. “Bryar, you must be realistic right now. It sounds like the wolves would have killed you all if they were not stopped. You stopped them. How you accomplished that is a mere detail.”

“Yes,” Bryar agrees, his voice taking on a tone of frustration. “And I almost sent half of the mountain sliding down to crush whoever and whatever was beneath it—that is no mere detail.”

“But you stopped it,” Myla insists, holding his hand tighter.

“I stopped it by becoming a monster. It was not fear that woke up whatever it was. It was anger.”

“You have a lot to be angry about, Bryar. It is ok.”

He nods and releases her hand to stand, braving the pain of moving his arm to put the wet linens to hang in front of the hearth.

“Tell me what you were dreaming of when I came back. You were convulsing on the chair.”

She shivers, drawing blankets off the bed to cover her shoulders. “I was there, by the fire. I woke up, or thought I was awake. Vesperian was choking me, and then he took control of me again.” Myla grazes over the details, not looking to replay the horrors over again. “He made me stab my own stomach to kill her.”

Bryar is stunned, his eyes wide and a grimace forming across his face. “That is horrible—but he does not know you are with child, does he?”

“No,” Myla responds firmly. “I never told him.”

With a deep, shaky sigh, Bryar comes and sits beside her on the bed, leaning back against the headboard. “If I can do again what I did on that mountain yesterday . . . Myla, I might be able to stop Vesperian.”

Myla gasps, looking sidelong at him. “What?”

“He may be powerful but his bones crush like anyone else’s. I just need to figure out how I did it, so I can bring a mountain down on him.”

A smile teases the corner of Myla’s mouth, and though she knows now is not the moment, she can not help but think to herself: That is hot. Bryar senses the flirtatious smile on her face and shakes his head, pretending not to be entertained. Myla bites her lip to right her face and then looks back at him, her eyes searching his as though all her answers lie there.

“So, how do we get answers about your magic? We can not go back to Falkmere, so the Institute of Mystic Arts is out the question.”

Bryar agrees. “Myla, I have no idea where to go for this. It is nothing like the sort of magic they teach at the Institute. It is more akin to—” His voice trails off, and he slowly sits upright, startled eyes fixed on her.

“What?” Myla demands, mirroring his pose to be eye level with him, her pulse jerking ominously as the expression on his face reflects something reminiscent of an internal awakening. “Bryar,” she insists. The words of the Goddess echo in her brain, reminding her that he would not know at first what ‘follow the fire’ meant, but he would shortly. “Do you know what we are supposed to do?”

His jaw grinds back and forth, and he nods slowly, his eyes glazed over as he stares past her, deep in thought. Moments pass before he finally speaks. “It reminds me of the Ashborn.”

They are silent, both digesting the realization, Bryar in horror and Myla in silent awe. He can not be Ashborn, he looks nothing like them. Callum had told her earlier that he was not emitting fire, he was fire. Myla cautiously poses her question, watching his features shift in dismay as she does. “Do you think they can help you because they are masters at wielding fire, or because you think you may be one of them?”

Bryar chuckles, but there is no humor inflected. “I do not think I am one of them. You know what people say about my mother.”

“Just because people say it does not make it true. People make up all kinds of stories in the absence of facts,” Myla retorts. “Regardless, if Valyndor is where we need to go, then we will leave at dawn.”

“It is a long journey, Myla. I do not like the idea of leaving you here again, but I worry about the toll this might take.”

Myla stands and cups his face between her hands, assuring he listens. “I am not fragile, Bryar, and neither is this child. This time, I am coming.”