Page 5 of A Thousand Burning Ravens

“Never.”

The flashing of blade against blade catches the sunlight over and over again, met with grunts and shrieking metal as they push against one another. Their weapons move in unison, swinging in what becomes a familiar pattern of attack and block, time and again. It is the sort of harmonious brawl that begins to look like a dance. A dance that could only flow so effortlessly with the years of practice they once had together. On the sidelines, arms crossed, Elsa watches with a slight smile hanging from the corner of her mouth.

Myla pivots against another assault and twirls with the blade fully extended. Her blade makes contact with his and they both pause, muscles burning with exertion. Panting and pressing into the lock as hard as she can, Myla blows a wisp of hair from her face and takes note of how close their faces are. Shoulders and forearms pushed against one another; she can smell him.

The all-too-familiar scent teases her with more memories.

“Your Grace,” he whispers, his voice trembling between gritted teeth. “You do not seem as out of practice as I thought you might be.”

Boring a disgruntled glare into his green eyes, Myla pushes harder against his sturdy frame. “There was a time when you could not best me, if you recall.”

“I recall many things,” he admits, bracing against her added pressure. The blades slip slightly, sending another shriek of cold steel into the air.

“And yet here you are, barely holding me back.” Myla flinches at the coyness in her own voice, but does not allow her stone expression to change at all.

“Maybe I do not want to hold you back.” His resistance lessens and the release of his muscles against hers, still engaged, causes her to lunge forward, smacking flush into him. Briefly, Myla finds a firm arm around her waist. To anyone watching, it could be excused as him ensuring his Queen does not suffer a fall. But to her, the hot pressure of his fingertips in her side is unmistakable.

With a slight gasp, Myla steps back immediately, her side still warm from his touch. “That will do for today, Captain,” she says. Her voice, traitorous and trembling, does not carry the severity of a queen. Instead, it is soft and pliable and startled.

Myla hands him her blade, averting her gaze from his, and turns to join Elsa. She is grateful they have stopped, for a quivering in her hands begins to takeover, and all she can think about is using her blade to actually kill Bryar. Courtesy of the Blood Stealer, she thinks, clamping her hands together.

Her friend’s shimmering blue eyes dart between captain and queen, before she leans in and whispers, “I am not so sure that was swordplay.” She links her arm with Myla’s. “It looked more like foreplay.”

WATCHING MEN AMASS into carefully aligned units, forming a deep blue blanket across the courtyard, the inner bailey, the outer bailey, and beyond the drawbridge into town perimeters, is intimidating no matter how many times one sees it. Tens of thousands of troops, not an inch out of line, ready to march with a single word. Lethal dignity fills the very air Myla breathes as she watches Bryar shout commands, his soldiers respond in maneuvers they have clearly practiced countless times.

It was always Caius’s custom to host a military inspection every year before the Oath Ceremony. A grand affair. Dignitaries and political figures, aspiring lords and ladies alike, all descend upon Falkmere to swear fealty to the reigning monarch, as well as to take awe in the impressive military force. Really, as Caius once put it, it is a pissing competition. No one would dare to stand against her when her army is on display like a giant heaving beast against the surface of the earth, ready to strike at her command. It sends chills through her just looking at it. I have built and maintained this, and they still have the nerve to call me a Dowager.

Now, Myla carries on her late husband’s tradition. This is the second time she will hold her breath as Caius’s subjects commit themselves through blood oaths to her. Last year, when all but two of his supporters came to uphold their oath, Myla was humbled with both gratefulness and a sense of unworthiness. This year, despite the quivering within her body, she is determined to present herself as a queen worthy of every drop of blood. Feasting, drinking, and dueling are to take place for a week. Myla wonders how she will find the energy to host into the early hours, then turn around and present various military officials with medals and favors on two or three hours of sleep.

“Your Grace.” A page hands Myla the reigns to her saddled mare, a beautiful, raven-black beast who has been a faithful friend since childhood.

She will spend the next two hours riding the perimeter of her army in the company of several council members—her father included—as well as the Lord and Lady of the Riverlands, while they discuss lumber trade deals.

As the small group exits the courtyard, beginning their visual assessment of the troops, Myla is keenly aware of Bryar and twelve of his best soldiers taking up the rear once they have passed the drawbridge. How he can shift so effortlessly from the casual man she sparred with earlier, to this version, a lethal head of military with thousands of soldiers looking up to him, is beyond her.

He is clad head to toe in heavy, crucible steel armor that has seen many battles. A battle axe is strapped securely to his back. He, along with the rest of the army, wears a heavy cloak in the Queen’s Blue. Caius had said it was the color of her eyes. On his breastplate is the crest of a raven perched atop a downward pointing broadsword. Myla’s symbol as queen.

When her mother sat beside her father during betrothal negotiations, she spoke words Myla will never forget: “My daughter is as cunning as a raven. She should be treated as such.” Caius took her words to heart and distributed the symbol of the raven throughout the entirety of the kingdom. It was a romantic and fierce gesture, the motive for which is not lost on her now. Nothing quite like showering a woman in attention to distract her from what is truly happening . . .

Myla returns to the palace, with a few moments to spare, before feasting begins. Fern helps her right her hair and smooth the wrinkles in her bodice caused by the tight riding habit. Once alone, she reaches to the very back of her vanity drawer to retrieve a vial of opaque liquid; a tonic her brew mage concocted to help sustain her magic during longer days.

Myla decants a healthy splash into her afternoon tea and sips. Her view of the gardens below is usually uneventful, but today . . . with a giggle, she gawks wide-eyed. Her guests are enjoying themselves already. Two young ladies, foolishly assuming that the hedges shield them from voyeurs, are tangled in each other’s reckless embrace. One appears to be from the western region of the realm, perhaps near Titonfall. The tattoo of a mountain range down her back, paired with the heavy boots she has discarded, are a giveaway. Myla can not make out where her partner hails from, and without inspecting an indecent amount, she is unable to, and thus she returns inside her chambers.

She must gather every drop of strength and control she can muster before she stands in a room full of hundreds of men and women. It would be a shame to slaughter them all at the whim of the Blood Stealer.

Too soon, Myla enters the throne room. Pillars fifty feet tall line the edge of the room, a dozen to her left and another dozen to her right. Each pillar is the circumference of at least three men. Caius’s great-grandfather was a collector of books, so when he had this room designed, he was adamant the pillars would have ornate shelving carved into them. Now, decades later, the throne room is home to over ten thousand books.

Along the highest point of the ceiling, chandeliers mounted from the beaks of raven gargoyles illuminate the massive room. The ceiling itself was painted the Queen’s Blue four years ago, yet another reminder that Caius intended Myla to rule equally alongside him, at the forefront of his peoples’ minds. Or that is what he wanted it to look like.

At the furthest end of the hall sit two thrones. Both in the shape of ravens, partially outstretched wings forming the backs and armrests of the thrones. The council suggested, about six months prior, it was time to remove Caius’s throne. They believed its presence somehow made her appear weak and still grieving, as though she were in denial. Myla promptly dismissed the suggestion. What she did not want to tell them was she is not ready to accept that she bears this responsibility alone.

She now sits tall on her throne, to the left of Caius’s, watching guests trickle in at a steady pace. Her sharp eyes miss nothing, the disheveled couple slipping in as discreetly as they can manage, parting ways without a word. Lords and tenants alike, wearing their finest tunics, all there to swear fealty. Her father parting the crowd like he himself is king and they are an ocean of nuisances, stooping before her throne with a reverent bow.

“I am glad to see you will at least respect my rule when there are people watching, Father,” she hums, not bothering to whisper for his sake. Her eyes continue to take in the room, barely glancing at the man before her. It is an intentional disregard; one she hopes will humble him. He remains knelt, unable to move without her permission. Myla’s lips turn in a satisfied smile and after a minute or so, she lazily flicks her wrist, allowing him to stand.

“Tonight, of all nights, daughter, you should know I respect your rule.” He seats himself at a table near her, close enough to hear any conversations she might have throughout the night.

The room fills rapidly. Sounds of conversation mixed with that of bards telling the tales of kings past and wars sooner forgotten, barely tap the fog of her mind. Another side effect, courtesy of the Blood Stealer. There was a time when Myla was not as much of an observer, but knowledge is power, she has heard repeatedly, and so she watches, despite the ever-present grip of tension her foe has on her.