Page 79 of A Thousand Burning Ravens

Bryar purses his lips, deep in thought, pacing over to the balcony window which overlooks the front terrace, scoping for any signs of guards coming to collect them.

“She . . . also gave me the impression of knowing exactly who your mother was.”

Bryar turns, stunned. “What did she say?”

“Only that your mother brought shame to Valyndor and your father died with many secrets.”

Bryar shakes his head dismissively. “That sounds speculative. Anyone could say that.”

“I am not so sure,” Myla disagrees, but his body language screams an unwillingness to investigate further, so she drops the topic.

“So, what is your plan now?” Bryar asks after a moment.

Myla checks her reflection in the mirror, straightening her crown and the curls over her shoulders before advancing toward the door. “I am going to finish my conversation.”

“Myla,” he objects from behind, as she barges out into the corridor with purpose. “Stop. This is not necessary. We do not need an Ashborn marriage to—”

Myla turns to face him, her features sharp and fierce with determination. “We do not need it. But I will not leave here without their alliance. The only reason they will not join our cause is because they have gravely underestimated me, and I have no intention of allowing that any longer. Ashborn marriage or no, I will not walk away without their commitment to stand beside us in battle.”

With a nervous sigh, Bryar follows her once more, the clank of his armor echoing through the halls and announcing their approach well before they come toe-to-toe with Ivan and Imogene, who presses a wet rag to her ears.

“Your Grace,” Imogene says flatly, a begrudged acknowledgment of the queen before her. “It seems we have much to discuss.”

Myla tips her chin, not daring to lower her eyes, lest she give the impression that she intends to concede in the least. “It seems we do.”

Everyone is dismissed. Not a single guard, man, nor servant can be found, and Myla is received inside Imogene’s personal sitting room, a warm reception area, full of plump chairs one could lose themselves inside. Arched windows face the forest with benches built into their frames. They are adorned in tasseled pillows and heavy red velvet curtains billowing at their edges. A fire crackles in the hearth, casting an orange hue on moody art which hangs on the walls, nearly every inch covered in beautiful paintings. Above her door hangs a majestic pair of metal wings, glinting in the light, scuffed with the scars of past battles.

Imogene sits, curling her feet beneath her. “Let us talk, Myla. Woman to woman.”

Myla sits across from her, noticing the table cluttered in ink sketches. “Are they yours?” she asks, motioning to the art.

Imogene nods. “I enjoy drawing what I see.”

Myla inspects the half-finished drawings, admiring the attention to detail. “I do not wish to be enemies,” Myla says at last. “I feel we are very alike, you and I.”

Imogene runs her tongue over her teeth with a hiss of wind seething between them. “A detail I seemed to overlook. How uncharacteristic of me,” she admits, her eyes fixated on Myla. “Surely, you must see that breaking with tradition will cause an uproar.”

“Will it?” Myla challenges. “Or will it show your people, you are a just queen who rules with reason, willing to change to meet the needs of all her people. What will it say to your people when you show a half-blood the same respect you offer them? I believe it will earn you a greater level of trust.”

“Trust, perhaps,” Imogene agrees. “But what of order? If I bless your union, what is to stop others from mating outside of the Ashborn race?”

Myla’s eyes narrow. “As far as I am aware, yours is the only race in the realm that keeps to themselves. Perhaps it is time to change that. It does not say much about your trust in your own people’s power if it can be so easily threatened by other equally powerful kinds.”

Imogene inhales deeply, absently stroking a feather tucked behind her ear. “What do I gain from this proposal of yours?”

“My word that, should the Ashborn ever need the help of Falkmere, you shall have it,” Myla assures.

“You do not sit on the throne, Myla.”

“No,” Myla counters, “but I carry a powerful heir nonetheless, and I come with a powerful army who will continue to follow me when they see the eyes of the Restorer in my child.”

Imogene takes a deep breath, nodding slowly, her eyes fixed on Myla’s stomach. “How can you be sure your child will be a Restorer?”

“Her father was a Restorer.”

“Who died, nearly three years ago.”

“My magic can do incredible things,” Myla replies casually. “Question my child’s legitimacy as much as you like. When she is born, her eyes will glow in rings of blue mist, just like her father’s.”