Page 86 of A Thousand Burning Ravens

Elsa. A vision of resilience, her best friend stands, very much alive, behind her husband, hands pressed on either side of his head, surging her healing essence through him, allowing his electric light of energy to travel at an inhuman speed directly into Myla’s veins.

Unwilling to meet her end here, with a final cry, she unleashes a blinding burst of rich, unforgettable blue light and energy that engulfs the Blood Stealer in a searing blaze of purification. The scream from her lungs, though the tail end of the Gods, are her own. An angry, victorious bellow commanding all to hear her: I may not have chosen this, and for a while, I may not have stopped it, but I allow it no longer.

The Blood Stealer howls in agony. As his various forms begin to disintegrate, he pivots backward, arms flailing violently, and he is consumed by the pure, unyielding light of the Restorer Magic.

And as the last echoes of his screams fade into the air, a gasp like a wave washes over those of his victims who survive. Most fall into fatigued slumps, while others kneel, weeping with relief. Myla stands, not as a girl, nor a victim, but as a queen who has chosen her own fate. Hair clinging to her face from blood and sweat, her entire body trembling from the shock of magic released from her veins, her eyes trail across the ruin and tragedy caused on this bloody battlefield. Though the sweet relief of victory is potent, Myla feels a nausea churning, the child within heaving and protesting.

Unable to stand any longer, she lowers herself to the ground, pressing her palms flat into the crater caused by her and the child’s efforts. “We did it,” she whispers, silently thanking her baby, and the Gods for their mercy. “You are a resilient little thing,” she says with a slight gasp, gently rubbing her stomach before glancing over her shoulder at the sound of footsteps.

Bryar stands behind her, his face blackened with smoke and blood. “Are you alright?” he pants, his hands brushing her hair out of her eyes as he helps her to her feet, supporting her fatigued body with his own trembling arms.

“Myla, you did it.” Pride washes across his face, and his voice breaks as the realization of victory hits them both. His eyes rim with tears, be it exhaustion, relief, or the release of years of stress, she can see the strong man before her ready to crack.

“No,” she answers, holding her belly. “This one did it . . . we did it.” Pressing a hand to his chest, she points to the sky. “Look, a thousand burning ravens.”

Overhead, the ashes of the battle continue to rise, carried off on a breeze into the golden sunrise. From their vantage point below, it does, indeed, look like a thousand burning ravens flying upward to greet the Gods.

Bryar lets out a shaky sigh, the gleam in his eyes filling more as he watches the remnants of Vesperian’s victims return to the Gods. A silence has befallen the battlefield, death in itself. Turning to inspect the damage to his troops, Bryar holds fast to her hand, turning her to follow him.

A guttural wail breaks the silence, a beast-like scream, which could only be conjured by grief. Myla and Bryar whip around, only to freeze at the scene before them. Grief threatens to crack Elsa wide open as she leans over the convulsing body of Callum. Beside them, Rhyland holds his friend’s hand, tears streaking his dirty face.

Bryar releases Myla, rushing to Callum’s side, his gloved hand immediately pressing the oozing place at his neck where the Blood Stealer’s loosed dagger is lodged—a final attack before Vesperian died.

Callum’s eyes, red and glistening with tears, move slowly from one face to the next, finally landing on Elsa’s. She leans over him with a face hidden partially by her tangled blond hair, her hands on either side of his face, diffusing a healing energy into him. She mutters incoherent words, something akin to an incantation. Carefully, Myla sits beside her, listening for some semblance of a chant she can join in on to amplify its power, when she realizes she is repeating something over and over: “I have a heart, but you hold it, so sometimes I forget to use it.”

Callum struggles, fading in and out of coherency and looking sidelong at Rhyland. His entire body trembles, and a gurgling sound fills his throat. His hand stiffens as he urges Rhyland closer. “T-t-take care . . .” Callum’s voice fails. As he begins to drown in his own blood, he looks back to Elsa, a look of relief washing over him. Even in death, all he wants is her safety.

Understanding, Rhyland places his free hand on Callum’s forehead and inhales deeply, his voice quaking as he speaks, “Do not worry about that, man. I got her, okay?”

“Do not talk like that!” Elsa hisses, denial etching lines of agony across her face. Desperately, she looks down at Callum as though she is missing some key factor in saving his life. “Should I try taking the dagger out?” Elsa’s voice quivers, panic hiding just behind the futile attempt to remain calm. Her hands produce exhausted flickers of magic before the lights extinguish, a testament to her own fatigue.

“Darling,” Myla whispers as she struggles against her own tears, seizing one of her friend’s hands. “No . . .”

Bryar slowly retracts his hands from the wound at Callum’s neck, allowing the blood to flow freely. A look of numb shock washes over him and is quickly replaced with something different. Anger. Grief. Disbelief. “This can not be . . .” he pants, looking to Rhyland, who reflects his same expression. A slow and wheezing release slips through Callum’s parted lips; his hand, once tight, around Rhyland’s now falls limp, and his eyelids drop closed.

“No!” Elsa shrieks, her thread of composure snapping. “Come back.” It is not a request but a command, and her hands fly to the place the dagger is protruding. With a swift pull, she dislodges it, sending a spray of freed blood across her face. She replaces the weapon with her cupped hands, attempting to staunch the flow with her magic.

“I lied to you,” she wails. “I thought if I let you think he had me, you would let me stay to find the antidote! You can not die with a lie between us! Come back.” Sobs fall from her uncontrolled as she curses, willing her energy to bring him back in spite of the sticky blood oozing between her fingers.

“You can not die,” she repeats. “I love you.” Her voice is a mere whimper, a weak period at the end of a sad story, add the ‘I love you’ standing in the place of a dissatisfying ‘the end’.

With one last burst of healing energy briefly illuminating the gouge at his neck, Rhyland moves behind Elsa, gently pulling her back.

“He is gone; do not give his soul a reason to linger in this sadness. Let him go with the Gods. They will feast in his honor.”

Huddled over their friend’s body, they break together, cries of grief creating the saddest choir to send him off. A glowing at his center rises to the surface, gently slipping from the skin at his chest, an orb drifting upward, carrying with it the same lonely song Myla had heard sung all the nights before. As the orb ascends, joining the others, the earth seems to sigh, and one by one, the souls flicker in and out of sight, until none are left to be seen. With Vesperian’s death, they are released to seek out the afterlife in peace.

Heads bow in honor of the lives lost. Weary soldiers, Falkmere, Titonfall, the Raven’s Veil, and Ashborn alike, some wounded, others broken, but none unscathed, stand silent, watching ashes continue to drift upward from the battlefield, wings like ravens fluttering as the Gods above nod in approval. Dazed and confused, crowds of people who do not remember arriving at the battle, nor much of their time in the Blood Stealer’s service, examine their surroundings. Many, far from warriors, look at their bloodied bodies and the carnage beneath their feet, letting out shrieks of horror.

“They need you,” Bryar whispers, resting a hand on her shaking shoulder. “They need you to tell them it will be ok.”

Myla sucks in a deep breath, wipes the tears from her face, and stands. The weight of her armor feels heavy on her exhausted body and that of the child’s, but she finds strength nonetheless to pull herself on top of her horse, eyes traveling across the wreckage and tragedy of the battlefield.

“I know you are afraid,” she begins, her clear voice drawing the attention of those who have survived, most slumped in piles of exhaustion. “You have woken from a nightmare into something worse than what you were experiencing yesterday. For reality is oftentimes more terrible than the illusions we find ourselves stuck in. I have felt the weight and the ruin of the Blood Stealer for many years now, as have we all.

“I ask you now: dry your tears, and take the hand of the person beside you. It is our responsibility to heal this land, as well as our hearts, to wash away the blood and debris left behind by a monster that no longer terrorizes us, and never will again.” A heaviness falls away from her words as soldiers and citizens alike link hands, forming one powerful body.

“Let us never again find ourselves in a situation where we are not in control of ourselves or our future. May we never fall victim to the idea that we are compliant with something happening to us simply because nobody can see us fighting back. I know your fight. I felt it within myself, and I honor it.”