Page 53 of A Thousand Burning Ravens

Bryar chuckles, a nervous response, she realizes, when he takes a deep and shaky breath. “She is not. The Blood Stealer is, so it seems.”

As though summoned, with the realization of her situation dawning on the Ashborn, that still, small voice tugs inside her, another onslaught threatening to break her. Kill them. Kill them all. Kill him. Kill yourself. Kill someone. It is a relentless string of commands which starts as a subconscious idea and ends with her clutching her own throat, desperate to speak, desperate to breathe.

“Help me,” she whimpers now, feeling as though she can not physically survive another wave. Confusion seizes the Ashborn as Bryar lunges for her. He throws himself on top of her, pinning her hands, which simmer already, at her side.

“What—” the Ashborn queen begins, before her husband brushes past her, looking down at Myla’s convulsing body, unbothered, as though he has seen it before.

“She will die if we do not get her inside. The Blood Stealer is done playing with her.”

“Die?” Bryar questions, in disbelief. Myla strains beneath him, choking on something invisible, every muscle inside her tensing, trying to rage against the man pinning her down. A searing heat burns through her wrists as his own struggle to subdue her awakens that deep beast within him. She feels the agonizing burn on her skin, and she sees the way he grimaces as her light fizzles and nips violently at his hands. They are hurting one another.

“Yes!” The Ashborn king responds, crouching beside Bryar, speaking loud enough to be heard over her guttural cries. “He is consuming her. I have seen it happen many times. When he decides he has finished playing with someone, he either controls them or kills them.” He tips a chin toward Myla. “It seems, for this one, he has chosen the latter.”

A pain at her spine grows, claiming every inch of her body, as though on the brink of shattering or crushing in on herself.

Wild with urgency, Bryar looks to the man beside him. “What do I do?”

“Bring her inside!” His wife speaks before he can, and together, Bryar and the Ashborn King restrain her body, while hauling her toward the tree line.

Darkness swells, clouding Myla’s vision. There is no telling if it is the pain, or something else more nefarious, but the blackness lures Myla into something that feels final, veiling the rest of the world from her senses, until she loses consciousness.

Coming to feels euphoric. She is the embodiment of something intangible, someone who should not still walk the earth, yet she does. A warm amber glow peeks through the thin drapes which enclose the bed she now lies in, hiding her from view of those who may pass in and out of the room. Myla sits up, her body aching from the abuse of the past days. Someone shifts beside her and Myla jolts, looking to her left.

Bryar sleeps upright in a chair, pulled close to the edge of the bed. He looks exhausted. His dark hair swoops into a mess of curls against his face, and his beard, no longer just a shadow across his jawline, is longer than she has ever seen it. He wears a casual black tunic, the sleeves are rolled, baring his forearms, upon which are gold-tinted markings.

Myla gasps, reaching out to trace the flame-like designs up his arms. The sensation wakes him, one groggy eye at a time falling open.

“You are awake.” Relief floods his voice, and he sits upright. “Thank the Gods.” His voice breaks with emotion as he leans forward, grabbing her hands to hold tightly.

“Of course, I am awake . . . why would I not be?” Myla asks, perplexed. His expression is haunted, a look that conveys hopelessness. “Oh,” she says with a slight shake of her head. “That bad, huh?”

“Yeah,” he confirms. “That bad. How are you feeling now?”

Myla takes a mental assessment, particularly pertaining to her ribs. “Not great, but . . . not dead, so I will take it. How are you?”

He laughs slightly, standing to pull the drapes back. “I almost burned their grove down, but I am not dead either. So, I will take it. Let us get you up and dressed. There is a lot you would like to see here.”

Myla hesitates, curling her knees to her chest, cringing at the warm light exposing her worn features. “Bryar, I do not want to get up. I do not want to see anything.”

His brow furrows, her hesitancy calling him back to the bed, sitting near her. “Why?”

“I am scared,” she whispers, her lips pursed in an effort to quench her fear. “I can not forgive myself for what happened yesterday, and I can absolutely promise you, it will happen again. You can not be here with me right now.”

Bryar leans close and smiles reassuringly. “Myla, the Blood Stealer can not reach you here.”

She tenses, the words falling on disbelieving ears. “What?” The idea of being untouchable to him feels foreign after so long. “How is that possible?”

“They say they have this territory warded. No dark magic is viable within its walls, including the Blood Stealer’s.”

Myla feels herself slowly unfold, legs relaxing and the tension in her jaw dissolving. The flex of stress within her stomach eases its way out, replaced with warm hesitation. “And, you are sure?” she questions. “How do you know they are genuine?”

At this, his eyebrows arch as he folds his hands, forearms perched on his knees. His eyes linger on the ornate tattoos, drawing her attention back to them.

“Because, I think my mother was one of them.”

THE WORLD THEY have entered is the art of dreams. Terraces glisten in the rain, stretch into winding staircases, weaving through trees and upward into layers upon layers of majestic stone structures, built into the cliffsides. From house to house, an ornately carved viaduct bridges the gap between each door front, providing a scenic route through the neighborhood overhead. The buildings are almost all graced with the creeping of lumelith ivy, the leaves illuminated in the moonlight, and Myla remembers her mother telling her how lumelith glows with the tears of the Dryad Gods, guiding lost travelers deeper into the woods.

From simple storefronts to manors and a grandiose ancient palace, the woodland oasis is bustling with life, a life Myla had no idea existed. Ashborn citizens clothed in bright silks, gemstone corsets, embroidered gauntlets, and even sea-glass skirts, move leisurely to and fro. Everything about Valyndor is mesmerizing and beautiful. There is not a dull color to be found—flashes of orange, gold, red, yellow, and blue move from here to there, all illuminated by ornate crystal lanterns dangling overhead from trees. Their glow is magical, casting various hues of color across their path. Myla catches her breath, amazed at the beauty hidden within the forest.