Page 71 of A Thousand Burning Ravens

Lenore laughs lightly. “I can not have a queen waiting on me in my home.”

“Please,” Myla insists. “Allow me to be here, as a friend.”

Lenore nods, understanding quite well. “I see you have brought food; I am sure they would love you forever if you gave them some.”

Myla spends the next hour ensuring Lenore’s fledglings have eaten and are free of sticky fingers before they run off again to play. Her second to youngest, a red-haired boy, informs her his mother’s tea is running low, so Myla leaves briefly to buy some more, returning with enough to last Lenore a few weeks. After tidying the main room, Myla sits again, sharing in some of the tea.

“You asked me yesterday what I see when I look within myself,” Lenore speaks. “I see decisions. Some good, some bad. But all of them have led me here.” She nods down at the child in her arms. “I do not regret anything that has brought me here. Someday you will like what you see when you look inside yourself, and I hope you do not regret any choices that lead you to that place.”

“Lenore,” Myla responds hopelessly, her voice wearies with too many unanswered questions, “I do not recognize myself anymore. If I had faced these trials six years ago, I know exactly how I would have responded.”

“So, what changed?” Lenore asks inquisitively.

“I think . . . I changed.”

“You are supposed to change, but what has made you uncertain?” she probes, shushing the baby in her arms with a gentle stroke across the forehead.

“Responsibilities,” Myla admits. “I did not have the sort of responsibilities I have now to get in the way of my decision making.”

Lenore shakes her head, sighing heavily. “I can think of very few responsibilities a woman of your station might have thrown upon her that should stand in the way of what you want. You are a queen, Myla. You have the power to say no. You can stand in a room full of men and say no—why do you not?”

“Because they would not accept it.”

“They would not accept it, or they would not like it?”

Myla smirks, letting out a slow breath as the baby inside her shifts uncomfortably. “Both, I suppose.”

“So, what choice is so controversial that you fear their anger of it?”

Myla blurts the response before she considers how it might make her look to admit that love is what afflicts her. “Marrying my captain, rather than some eligible nobleman for the advancement of the kingdom.”

Lenore snorts, bits of tea dribbling from her mouth, back into her cup. “I swear to the Gods,” she says with a girlish grin. “If you pick a room full of ugly, pudgy men’s feelings over that . . . fine specimen of a warrior, you are doing women everywhere a gross disservice.”

Myla allows a moment of laughter before responding practically. “I do not know how to defeat the Blood Stealer, I do not know how to reclaim my kingdom, from my father, at that. I do not know how to raise a child. Lenore, I am a walking disaster of a queen in the eyes of my people. Imagine, I resurface with intentions of marrying my bodyguard?”

Lenore’s eyebrows raise. “I think I need some more context here.”

Over the next few hours, Myla shares her story, explaining to Lenore all the complexities that have led to her being in Valyndor. Sparing no details, Myla is sure to include her and Bryar’s history, finding it a relief to share the burden with someone who seems to care, genuinely care, for her as a person, not as a queen or a pawn.

For a while, Lenore is silent, visibly mulling over the meaty content Myla has shared before speaking. “If you could channel your child’s magic, do you suppose that might help with your Blood Stealer issue?”

It takes Myla a few seconds to register Lenore’s words. When she does, questions flood her mind too quickly to ask in a cohesive manner, so all she manages is, “What?”

Lenore nods, touching Myla’s arm reassuringly. “The Ashborn can channel their children’s magic from the womb. It is how we determine if they have an inclination for good or evil, so we might course correct at birth.”

Myla shakes her head, still confused. “How does this help me, Lenore? I am not Ashborn.”

Lenore hesitates. “I believe your struggles stem because you are refusing the gift of the Gods. You believe your loneliness, your suffering, is the only way to stay on the right path. The Gods have more in store for you, should you accept.”

Myla hides the aggravation bubbling within, wondering what Lenore could possibly be getting at. “Lenore,” she probes with a sigh, “I do not think I understand what you are saying. Speak plainly, please.”

A reluctance washes over Lenore before she flashes a brief smile. “I will speak to you as a friend, no reservations, but truly consider what I say before dismissing it.”

Myla nods in agreement, resting a tense hand on her belly. “Alright, I will consider it.”

“You are not Ashborn. On your own, you can not channel your child’s magic. But you love a man who is Ashborn. A man who has already told you he would marry you if he could.”

Myla’s skin crawls with goosebumps, the message Lenore sends clarifying.