Page 72 of A Thousand Burning Ravens

“Ashborn marriages are powerful. I saw you reading in the library, so I do not believe I need to expand on it. You already know. But what would happen if you stopped refusing the gift the Gods offer you—the captain? From what you have just told me; it seems he has waited very patiently for you.

“I love my husband, but I can not say he would have done the same—few would. The unconditional loyalty you two share is unheard of. Perhaps, you take a leap of faith and see what the Gods do with it. Worst case scenario, you have lost the throne, but you have a husband you can count on for the rest of your life. Best case scenario . . . you have a husband you can count on, who helps you win back your throne, and you have lots of really hot castle sex after an invigorating day of ruling together.”

Myla bellows in laughter, pressing a palm to her flushed forehead. “Oh . . . Elsa would have loved you.”

Lenore grins. “Based on how you speak of her, I believe I would have loved her too. I believe she also might have told you; it is time to decide which part of your story you will choose for yourself, and which part you will give to the will of the Gods to decide. You are a queen, Myla. Do not walk around here as anything less.”

Myla’s trek back to the palace is a slow one. Lenore’s words echoing in her mind, pushing her to a place where she knows a decision must be made, and quickly. She smiles at she and Lenore’s departing conversation.

“Lenore, what makes castle sex different than regular sex?”

Lenore had shrugged, a coy smile curling her lips. “I suppose the kind that does not require silence . . .” She glanced at the trail of fledglings plowing through her house, a look of desperation washing over her. “The kind where one is not afraid of their fledglings overhearing . . . or monks for that matter.” Her face squished into a delightful laugh. “We are going to have to discuss that later. I do not know how I feel about it.”

Myla departed with lighter steps than she arrived, but now, as she makes her way back toward Valyndor Palace, she is acutely aware of the choices looming before her. Rhyland will be arriving soon, if he has not already, and the choices regarding where men are sent and what attacks are made in the next few days will be greatly determined by what choice she makes in her personal life. Should she choose to stay the course, with eyes only for her child’s throne, her plan of attack will likely be more assertive than should she choose to follow her heart.

Ashborn soldiers congregate before the palace steps, discussions of the approaching army passing, heated, between one soldier and the next. They make way for her to pass, eyeing her in a different light, perhaps wondering if she has played a weak queen and is truly here to infiltrate them from the inside.

“What say you, Queen Who Bleeds Stars?” A market-goer carrying a basket on his hip eyes her wearily now. “Do you truly believe your armies can infiltrate such a mighty stronghold?”

Myla eyes her contester, straightening beneath the scrutiny of those watching. “I would not dream of trying,” she replies as she pushes past them. “You grossly misjudge me.” With nothing more to say, she enters the palace.

Something in the air around her shifts. Regardless of what anyone thinks or says about her; forty thousand men march her way. Forty thousand men prepared to die for their oaths. Forty thousand men who looked upon her father and defied him.

That kind of loyalty can not be fabricated.

Felicity helps Myla dress in a fresh, formidable gown, her hair cascading down her shoulders and her sharp crown retrieved from its resting place in Bryar’s saddle bag. When her soldiers arrive, Myla intends to stand before them looking undefeated. No longer does she intend to be perceived as weak or dismissible. Decisions have been made, and she intends to live by them, rule by them, and enforce them by whatever means necessary.

The silk black dress she wears hugs her body like a sheath, her belly on display and unmistakable: the queen carries her heir. Convincing them on the matter of the child’s father might prove challenging, but looking in the mirror and seeing a growing strength glare back at her, Myla decides she does not care. They can accept her words, or they can question them.

How men perceive her is no longer her problem.

“You look . . . magnificent,” Felicity awes, her round eyes wide in amazement. “Whatever you plan tonight, good luck.” With that, Felicity leaves her to stare at herself.

As soon as the door latches shut, Myla lowers herself slowly onto her knees, pressing her palms flat onto the cold stone flooring beneath her. Her eyes fall closed, and she envisions the Spirit Mother before her in the woods outside the monastery. “Please,” she pleads, her fingertips delving into the stones as if she can dig her way to where the Goddess lives. “Help me choose what is right, not only for myself, but my child. And if you can spare it, grant me the same unwavering strength you lead with.” Across her mind’s eye, the vision of a raven flying fast toward a trio of moons, before exploding into a flock of burning embers and feathers, flashes. Myla takes a deep breath, feeling in her bones that the Goddess smiles on her now.

As she leaves her chambers, Myla can not help take notice of the side-eyed, lingering looks from the guards and Ashborn courtiers. It confirms for her that she appears as strong and beautiful as she hoped she might.

Moving down the hall toward the entrance of the palace, the deep voices of men shift from a jumble of inaudible chatter to coherent sentences, and she sees the familiar face of Rhyland.

“Your Grace!” he says warmly, bowing informally before stepping toward her in an embrace. “You look well.” He glances down at her belly, his eyes wide. “I will admit, after two years of you saying it was there but seeing no proof, I am glad to . . . well, see the proof.”

Myla laughs, placing a grateful hand on her friend’s shoulder. “I am so glad to see you.” Her face sobers slightly. “Tell me, how are our troops?”

He nods slowly, inspecting her countenance. “They are ready to see their queen. The journey has been long and miserable. They need your encouragement. They are unsure of what they even march toward, but I assured them, their queen is worth the risk—” He is about to say more when his eyes dance and, with a courteous nod, he moves past her.

Myla turns in time to see Rhyland and Bryar in a firm embrace, not just fellow soldiers, but lifelong friends. There is relief between them, and Myla whispers a silent ‘thank you’ to the Gods for returning another friend to them in such uncertainty.

When Bryar catches sight of her, his somber demeanor shifts to a swell of pride. As he approaches, his eyes linger a bit too long on her belly and even longer on her crown.

“Your Grace,” he whispers, kneeling before her in a reverent bow. “Your army awaits your commands.”

“WE WILL NOT let anyone see this,” Bryar whispers discreetly, drawing a rune on the back of her neck with charcoal. “It will likely feel overwhelming, stepping outside the ward. Should you find you are losing control, try and give me a warning. If I activate this rune, it will incapacitate you. We will explain it away as something to do with the pregnancy.”

Myla nods gratefully, rubbing her hands together nervously before her. “Thank you,” she answers. “I do not know what to expect out there.”

“With the army?”

“Yes.”