Page 7 of A Thousand Burning Ravens

A vow unbreakable, forever bound.”

With his oath is complete, he gently places a black curved dagger upon the altar, his gift to her. The hilt is exquisite, fashioned into a leaping fox. The tail is the butt of the hilt, intended to curl around the wielder’s fist, and the hungry mouth of the fox being where the blade appears, sharp and menacing. He made this . . .

Silence claims the room, waiting for Myla to accept his oath. Eyes locked, the space between their breath is thick. Myla fears any closer and they might implode into a visceral inferno. Nonetheless, with a trembling hand, she gestures for him to stand. It is just a kiss. She bolsters within and leans to press her lips to his cheek. To the room of onlookers, Myla is merely accepting one more oath. Between Bryar and her, it is clear in the way the air catches at her lips and her hand instinctively brushes his as she leans closer, this is more than just a vow of fealty. It is a reminder.

When the final vow is uttered, a heavy silence envelops the hall before erupting into applause, the sound reverberating like thunder, a testament to the loyalty forged in the blood of every man and woman in the room. Blood drips from the altar now, trickling down the steps leading to her throne.

In this moment, standing at the head of the room with every single eye on her, responsibility weighs heavy.

They look to her for answers she does not have.

Feasting has commenced when Sir Roderick approaches the throne, kneeling before her, his fist wrapped around a white cloth staunching the flow of blood from his palm.

“As promised, Your Grace, here I am.”

Myla laughs at the formality, something she is used to from all but her old blademaster. “Come.” She gestures for him to stand at her right and observe the room with her. “What do you see?” she asks, as he takes his place.

Sir Roderick scopes the room, no doubt attempting to predict the next moves of those he studies. It is in his blood to know where people are going next. “I see potential,” he says finally, eyes fixed on one table in specific, full of military officials saluting to something. “I see hope.” His gaze shifts to room in general, before turning back to her. “But I also see fear . . . for you have the fate of the realm crushing you.”

She shivers, eyes flickering to the space behind him, not wishing to meet the inquisitive gaze of one who knows her so well. “You see a great many things, in so little time,” she responds stoically. “Did you know all those years ago, that it would be me?”

He sighs, and Myla watches his hands fold before him resolutely. “I had my suspicions after your display in the garden. But of course, we all knew without a doubt after your aptitude test.” He passes a sorrowful gaze her way. “I must admit, as your instructor, it both broke my heart and thrilled me at once. I watched one reality crumble and another take form. I knew if anyone could do it, it would be you.”

Myla scoffs, gesturing to her court. “And you still think that?”

Without hesitation, Roderick answers, “I do.” After a moment of silence, he grins. “I wonder at the humor of the Gods.”

“Why is that?”

“They saw fit to tangle the threads of your fate with his.” He nods toward Bryar. “First in my training arena and now here.” He gestures to the great throne room. “In this palace, where so much power limits even the threads of fate.”

Myla’s stomach twists and she has half a mind to reprimand him for speaking so freely. Instead, she leans into the familiarity which has always been the nature between them.

“You turned a blind eye to much all those years ago.”

His beard twitches as his jaw clenches, a smile subdued. “I mind my own business.”

“But you did not,” she corrects.

“I suppose not. I did not see what everyone else saw. He was not just a blacksmith’s son, and you were so much more than a nobleman’s daughter. The rebel in me wanted to give you both a safe haven to be so much more than what others allowed.” He tenses now, glancing from her to where Bryar sits, intently watching the exchange. “I can see now what a mistake that was, and I can only apologize for allowing false hope to grow where there would only be ruin and hurt.”

“How are you feeling?” Elsa asks as she curls into the cushions of the green sofa. She looks like one of the delicate creatures you would expect to find in the conservatory. Perhaps a vision of the ancient fae.

“Gods, I feel like I stood for three hours while countless lords, ladies, and military officials swore their lives to my cause . . . wait,” Myla giggles. “Yep, that is exactly how I feel.” Her body aches, but a budding sense of contentment dulls the discomfort.

Elsa rolls her eyes, followed quickly with a playful smile. “Yes, but how did it feel?”

“Different than last year,” Myla allows, a subtle nod of acknowledgment to Elsa’s underlying question. “Much different.”

“That is what I thought,” Elsa chirps excitedly. “You looked to be enjoying yourself this time. Last year was just . . .”

“I was scared,” Myla admits. She stood up there last year with a trembling body and a soul filled with doubt. Memories from the year prior, when Caius had been slaughtered before his entire court, were all that ran through her mind as they pledged to her.

The Blood Stealer had descended on his black wraith, fueled by the magic of thirty thousand unwilling donors. Visions of the handsome, yet vicious, man known as the Blood Stealer maneuvering his razor-sharp wraith like a puppeteer across her husband’s throat, will forever be etched in her memory. His inky eyes, hooded by deep-black brows and a thirst for blood, insatiable.

As Myla had reached for the hand of her dying husband, the wraith left a cut along her wrist, carrying her blood directly to the Blood Stealer. Leaving her cure lying in a pool of his own blood, dead. He took the life of such a powerful man in a fleeting moment and left Myla in a situation far worse than death: a situation which teased death but refused to deliver on the promise.

Myla is jolted back into reality, her eyes instinctively graze the scar on her wrist, the one that did not kill her but certainly took her life. No. That was not the day that killed me. Maybe, it was just the day that marked the end of what killed me . . .