Page 48 of A Thousand Burning Ravens

“I suppose not,” Bryar agrees.

Memories of a mage who could pierce the crust of the earth with molten rocks from beneath the surface drift through Myla’s brain in illustrations she recalls from a history book. He flattened most of the Old Falkmere Palace in mere seconds when the ground beneath it split open, making way for massive boulders, shattering the foundations of the palace and city. Legends told in pubs, or by cruel nannies before bed, state that if one examines the ruins closely, you can still find sprays of blood from where people were impaled in the process. Upon closer examination, Myla finds this to be true and shivers.

“You sent Rhyland back to Falkmere . . . not Callum.” Myla says, after about a mile of silence.

Bryar glances back at her with a grim nod. “Callum is better at damage control than Rhyland, but . . . I could not bring myself to send him there to clean up the mess she died in.”

Myla bites her bottom lip, nodding. “You were right to do it that way, then. Let us just hope Rhyland does not start another war.” He has a certain sort of impulsivity which has served him well over the years. But in positions of authority, Myla wonders how that trait will function.

Bryar chuckles. “What is one more battle thrown on our plate?”

Myla smiles at his attempt at a joke, not daring to admit she is already weary.

“You know,” Myla announces, “I do not feel like a queen anymore.”

“Why is that?” Bryar asks, urging his horse to scale a small ledge. Myla mimics his path and accepts a hand up before answering.

“I guess the crown just seems to be fading from who I am, the further I get from Falkmere.” She smiles slightly, hoping he can not hear how out of breath she is as she speaks. “You also have a way of making me feel like I am just a woman.”

“I guess it helps I knew you for far longer as just a girl than as a queen,” he responds. They both stop, each panting from the exertion. “I would rather you not feel like just a woman with me, though.”

“No, it is a good thing,” Myla assures, glancing past him to the never-ending stretch of rock and ruin. “I suppose maybe it is more that the time I have been away from Falkmere has allowed me to remember little parts of myself I used to appreciate—you are helping me see them again.” Breathlessly, she steps over what appears to be a fossilized horse, cringing at the reminders of war beneath her feet. “Now, how far will we go today?”

Bryar turns to examine the path ahead of them, concern moving across his face. “I would rather not stop here tonight. Any manner of creature might call this home.” Myla shivers as he mumbles a defeated ‘but’ and proceeds to state the obvious: the slow-moving path stretches for miles. A century of rubble has settled in place, some clattering to the ground and blocking potential paths. Weaving through the mess, while navigating in the correct direction, is time consuming. Myla begins to imagine they will spend days here. Then, an idea pricks the back of her mind.

Clearing her throat, hesitant to even mention it, Myla gives him a warming smile. “That thing you did to the mountain. Suppose you could do it on a smaller—much smaller scale. Could you clear us a path?”

Unimpressed and wordless, Bryar stares at her. His brows drooping almost comically over his green eyes. He does not need to respond. His face says it all. You are fucking kidding me, right?

“Listen, it is just that the entire point of going to Valyndor is so you can hone these skills. There is no harm in practicing.”

“I am not looking to hone them, Myla. I am looking to control them. In any case, the harm is the attention it would draw.” He pauses. “And that is not the only reason we go to Valyndor. You must try and form an alliance with the Ashborn, if we have any hope of defeating the Blood Stealer. I doubt the raven ever made it to them. Surely, they would have responded to Falkmere’s aid if it had.” With an air of finality, he turns back toward the rocks. There is no room for argument. With a sigh, Myla lifts the hem of her skirt, tying it in a knot which bobs at her knees, and follows Bryar onward.

It is past midnight when they finally stop. It is here, Myla realizes, that a difference in strength will show itself. In the way of magic, up until this point, that is, Myla has surpassed Bryar in every way. However, in sheer stamina, Bryar is every bit a warrior. He seems untouched by the many miles of road they have left behind them.

He has selected what appears to be an old pergola as their stopping place for the night. It is the first shelter they have found to be mostly covered on all sides in miles. Myla imagines it was once a lovely hideaway, but now it is piled deep in rubble, only a small opening allowing entry.

Bryar climbs in first, ensuring it is clear, before extending a hand to help her in.

“No fire,” he instructs, retrieving thick woolen cloaks from their saddle bags. “We will have to make do with these.”

Myla shrouds herself in one of the cloaks, watching anxiously as he leaves their shelter to tie the horses. It is pitch-black within the pergola, and Myla must strain to see anything. No fire for warmth, no fire for light. She looks at her hands, imagining summoning a small glow before shoving them beneath her armpits for warmth. No light for light. Bryar returns, the scuff of his boots kicking up dust.

“Get some sleep,” he instructs, sitting next to her. His tone is unusually aloof, a characteristic he seems to have brought back down the mountain with him, causing Myla to pause. Disgruntled, aching, and not in the mood to dissect whatever foul mood he is stuck in, Myla lowers herself to the ground, ignoring the small voice in the back of her head which says it would be much softer to lie against him as opposed to the rugged earth.

Myla wakes to regret her decision. Her body feels as stiff as a board when Bryar gently nudges her awake. Opening her eyes to find it is still dark, Myla swats at his hand, pleading for another hour of sleep. As the words reach her lips, she finds his hand clamped over her mouth.

“Quiet,” he whispers, “and look.” Her gaze follows where his gloved finger points to something eerie: orbs of light flickering in various points across the rubble city, and nothing accompanying them to indicate life nearby. Yet, something has to be causing this.

Myla leans forward, quietly scanning the darkness for any sign of life. Nothing satisfies her curiosity, and both she and Bryar sit in silence. They watch the orbs drift past, like a parade of souls departing, each projecting a different light; some small, some large, each unique in its own way. Myla strains, certain she can hear a sad song in the distance, reminding her of that which was sung beside Caius’s pyre. Flame wielders, Bryar included, had set the pyre ablaze while a chorus of haunting melodies were sung, serenading him into the next life. This moment feels similar.

“What is this?” she whispers, wondering if Bryar has met with anything like this in any of his adventuring. He shakes his head, equally awestruck, and together, they watch the ethereal lights drift by, by the thousands, until they are hushed away by daybreak. Their proximity to The Seam makes the hue of the sun a blood red, washing the terrain in a crimson tint.

“I have read nearly every text on lore and the fantastical that my father’s and Caius’s libraries held, save one or two,” Myla declares later, still fixated on the scene as they continue their journey. “And I have never read of such a thing.” Burned in her mind’s eye, the bobbing orbs of light against the magnificent night sky may be one of the most magical things she has ever beheld.

“Perhaps it was in the one or two that you did not read,” Bryar teases. “I will add it to the list of things we will ask the Ashborn.”

“Now would be a wonderful time for the Spirit Mother to spontaneously appear,” Myla adds. “She seems like someone who would know about them.”