Page 54 of A Thousand Burning Ravens

“This is . . . unbelievable.” Myla points to a dome-shaped building, its roof made entirely of stained-glass; the rest of the structure is comprised of brilliant red bricks and tempered ruby tiles. Two great lampposts stand out front, welcoming guests through the oaken double doors, while the cobblestone path circles around either side of the cylinder building. A few paces beyond the perimeter, encircling the entire structure, is a loggia with benches every few yards. From the arches of the loggia, more lumelith drapes, shrouding the open wall romantically.

“What is that?”

“Their library.” Bryar’s eyes twinkle with thrill. “I have never seen a collection of this magnitude; the editions out date Old Falkmere.” He extends a hand, his touch warm as his fingers lace with hers. “Shall we?” Bryar pulls her toward the magnificent library, their boots splashing against the rain drenched path.

Inside, lantern light glints off the spines of gilded books and rippling edges of scrolls. From floor to domed ceiling, ancient texts surround her on all sides. A fragrance, warm, like sweets in a kitchen, wafts through the circular corridor, and golden railings drift downward into a staircase, which disappears in the very center of the room.

This is where Bryar takes her. They spiral downward, a warm golden lantern every dozen or so feet lights their path. The steps are a hickory brown and creak with the slightest distribution of weight.

“What is down here?” Myla asks, wondering what could require being sequestered this far below the main library.

“Answers I did not realize I needed,” Bryar responds, his hand still holding hers firmly.

Myla wonders if it is for practicality—helping her keep her footing—or if he longs to touch her as much as she does him. Considering the fact that she tried to kill him yesterday, she must assume it is the former.

“What answers? You said your mother was Ashborn. Why would your father not tell you?”

“I have not the slightest idea, but there are answers down here regarding the Ashborn’s abilities and how they could play a part in destroying the Blood Stealer.”

Myla stops dead in her tracks, studying his earnest features against the glowing cast of fire. “We need to talk about what happened yesterday.”

His lips purse into a faint grimace, the topic clearly being one he wishes to avoid. “Let us not, Myla.”

“Let us,” she insists. “I did unspeakable things.”

“It was not you.”

“Maybe not,” she agrees. “But . . . it was my hands, nonetheless.”

At this, he relinquishes his hold on her, crossing his arms stubbornly. “You can not make me angry with you.”

“I do not want you angry with me. But you should be.”

Bryar shakes his head, forcing out an exasperated sigh. “I am not angry. I am, scared shitless, if you must know.”

“Well, that is reassuring. At least I know you are taking this somewhat seriously.”

He reaches out, reclaiming his hold on her. “Believe me, I knew it was serious when you launched me a hundred feet in the air.” He smirks, rubbing his shoulder for emphasis. “As if you trying to drown yourself did not do the trick already.” He glances at her abdomen. “How are your ribs?”

Myla winces, then squeezes his hand. “They hurt, and I am sorry about hurting you . . .”

“I forgive you.” He nearly leans in to kiss her and then stops himself, a fleeting expression of hesitance passing. Myla is about to ask why, but he speaks. “But that thing that happened, when I was airborne.”

“Yeah, about that,” Myla agrees, trying to ignore her wounded pride. Her mind lingering on the topic of why the fuck is he acting so unusual. It is not far-fetched to assume he feels in over his head when it comes to her, so she focuses on more pressing topics. “I would ask what that was, but it seems obvious. Did you know?”

“I did not,” he answers, as they begin the final turn of their descent. “I had no idea. It does explain how out of control I have felt lately.”

“But, why now?” Myla asks.

“That is what I asked. Their scrollwarden says similar accounts have been reported in times of dire need.” He nods back at her. “Like when you first channeled the Voice of the Gods.”

Dire need, she thinks. Like the stress of keeping an unhinged queen alive, or comforting your best friend through the death of his girlfriend. Or the brutal and relentless job of protecting an entire realm from an invincible foe. Dire need. More like disastrously impossible responsibilities.

“So, your circumstances have pushed you into boiling over like a volcano?” Myla surmises. “Sounds like you need Alaric to make you something for that.”

He smiles halfheartedly. “My father never talked about my mother; this is why. I have been called a half-blood no less than ten times in the last twenty-four hours. Apparently, it is a bad thing.”

“So why were you not raised here, with people who could guide you?”