Page 10 of A Thousand Burning Ravens

“I currently have nine hundred troops deployed along the perimeter of New Falkmere,” Bryar replies, his voice resolute.

“Can we allocate another five hundred?” she inquires, her mind racing through the logistics.

Bryar nods firmly. “Your Grace, we have an additional thousand available. We have been fortifying our defenses, in preparation for this very reason, over the past two years.”

“Well done,” she praises, careful not to make direct eye contact lest they see right through her formal tone. “Please arrange for five hundred more troops to be dispatched to the city borders and fortify the palace defenses immediately,” Myla commands, her eyes narrowing with determination.

Sorrin interjects, his tone authoritative. “Your Grace, I recommend we also distribute our forces to the outlying villages, perhaps we send troops to protect the monks, should he pass through that way?”

Though, it is unlikely the monks will be disturbed, Myla nods in agreement before she glances at Bryar to confirm he understands her orders. “Execute the plan, but instruct our forces not to engage in combat unless provoked. There is no need for more unnecessary bloodshed,” she commands. Bryar acknowledges with a brief bow and swiftly exits the room, instructing the guards stationed outside to remain with her in his absence, ensuring her safety as the preparations unfold.

As the evening wanes into early morning, the atmosphere within the conservatory-turned-war-room grows increasingly tense, a palpable weight settling over the assembled officers as they begin outlining defensive strategies. Myla, though outwardly composed, feels a tempest of emotions swirling within her—fear, dread, and a gnawing anxiety that the Blood Stealer might not only come for the realm, but for her specifically. The prophesy also warns that he may want me for other purposes . . . This is what she expects. It is a wonder he has allowed her to continue in any sense of normality after Caius died.

The looming question in the back of her head remains: why wait this long? Memories of whispered tales and fearful glances surface in her mind, reminders of the devastation that followed in the wake of Caius’s murder. The Seam grew in strength and the raiding of smaller villages peaked for several months as the Blood Stealer continued his rampage. It was only after Bryar led an army to intercept him at Titonfall that the marauding slowed. Bryar had flattened much of the Blood Stealer’s army with fire alone.

It is unlikely his fire will have the same effect this time, but Myla can not help but hope that between herself and the more gifted in her court, something will prove effective.

As plans are formulated for repositioning troops and reinforcing fortifications, she struggles to focus, her thoughts drifting to the implications of the upcoming conflict. The Blood Stealer has been known to dispatch his blood-thirsty wraith and claim control of hundreds of victims in mere minutes. Should he be coming to Falkmere with the intent to battle, without the Restorer’s magic, they are as good as dead—or puppets. Though she hates to give the order, Myla instructs for any recently deceased citizens of New Falkmere to be burned so the Blood Stealer can not reanimate them while he is here, as he has been known to do.

The officers debate logistics and troop movements, discussing the best placement for archers and infantry, while Myla’s heart races at the thought of the enemy’s approach. She imagines the chaos that might ensue if the Blood Stealer breaches the palace walls, and the devastation it could bring to her people—and her. Each mention of strategy raises her pulse to a deafening pound, like battering rams on the palace gates, she fights to keep her composure, knowing her role as leader requires unwavering and selfless strength.

Caius used to tell her that Falkmere was made of two castles, the one they reigned in and the one that was the mind and body of the monarch; a fortress as impenetrable and well-guarded as the dwelling itself. Determined to uphold this philosophy, Myla steadies her breathing, answering questions and giving instructions with a pretense of ease.

As discussions turn to the potential for a flanking maneuver and the necessity of proving a fallback position, Myla’s mind races with strategies of her own—not just for the defense of the realm, but for her own child’s survival. Will he sense the power of the child growing inside her? She resolves to stand her ground, to fight not only for her people but also for her child. As the shadows lengthen and the reality of impending confrontation looms ever closer, Myla is eerily aware she has been cornered into a situation which will demand that she choose: her people or her child.

The Blood Stealer, a fallen Dark Fae God, prowls through the shadows, a sinister figure and a friend to darkness. His presence is both chilling and magnetic, an eerie call to sacrifice one’s blood to his cause. His skin, pale as moonlight, starkly contrasts the deep crimson of the blood staining his hands and lips, remnants of his most recent claims. Eyes like obsidian pools glint with an unsettling hunger, betraying a predatory intelligence that infiltrates the very souls of those who dare meet his gaze. He moves with a silky grace, each step calculated, as if the very ground beneath him trembles in recognition of the malevolence he embodies.

Around him, the air thickens with an aura of dread, a palpable reminder of the countless blood oaths he has consumed in his relentless pursuit of power. The Blood Stealer feeds not just on blood, but on the latent magic coursing through the veins of his victims, drawing forth their essence to amplify his dark abilities. With each drop he drains, he binds their will to his, transforming them into unwilling thralls, mere shadows of their former selves, compelled to serve his insatiable appetite for dominion until he has drained them of life and their body fails them, inevitably resulting in death. Sometimes self-inflicted.

Myla chews her thumbnail, envisioning the devastation left in the wake of the demon she knows marches toward her now. Is he coming to kill her, or claim her? As of right now, Myla is the only woman in the realm known to have the magic of the Gods on her side. If the prophecy Sir Roderick taught she and Bryar years ago is true, that means the Blood Stealer may want her for her womb. Gods, just let him kill me, she thinks sarcastically.

“You need to rest.” Elsa appears around five in the morning, dressed for the day and bearing a cup of mulled wine. “You are no good to anyone worn, ragged, and weary.” Elsa presses palms to Myla’s shoulders, releasing a syrupy warmth of calm healing into her veins.

Myla smiles at her friend, accepting the drink. “Yes. You are right. I think I shall retire for a few hours. If I am needed, please come wake me. Will you send Fern in to help me undress?”

Fifteen minutes later, after a heavy dose of restorative tonic and the warmth of the mulled wine in her belly, Myla sinks into the feathered folds of her bed.

AS HE GROWS closer, Myla can feel the supernatural pull, an urge pulsing through her veins to surrender her throne, surrender her palace, and run to him. A darkness lying in wait, always torturing the back of her mind, taunting her with the knowledge that he is imminent. He is coming to either kill her or claim her body. Either way, his approach means only one thing for her: this child is in great danger.

Those around her are also in great danger. Myla wakes from a fitful sleep with the urge to kill. Soldiers posted around her, the target of her violent intentions. The Blood Stealer seems to plot against her already, wanting her unprotected and easily accessible.

Soldiers line within the palace grounds and beyond into the streets of the city. Everywhere you turn, the flash of Queen’s Blue is moving back and forth. It is no secret war is brewing; that has been clear for a long time.

Though it is midday now, Myla would not know. From the moment she rose, she has been in the Archives Sanctum, accompanied by the scrollwarden, searching for any clues for defeating the Blood Stealer. Though Myla conceals her secret from the scrollwarden, the elderly woman can still prove useful in pulling any texts from the shelves that contain information on their foe. Myla now flips through the texts, desperate for something to stand out as an obvious solution.

Without Caius’s magic, there seems to be no way to break the blood oaths which have already been stolen. If they try to kill him without breaking the blood oaths, they will have him and his rapidly growing army to contend with, no doubt adding to it with every wounded soldier.

Myla has heard rumors the Blood Stealer has been known to engage in small skirmishes, but rather than killing his victims, he will only wound them, consume their blood, and expand his army by several dozen at a time. Soldiers have been known to change sides mid-battle, which is why Myla insists there shall be no battling if it can be helped.

I have resisted his call; perhaps we could find a way to implore his army to resist as well, she considers absently, flipping pages back and forth as though the answer will appear before her with encouragement. “I have heard of some victims in the past being able to withstand his attempts at control. How was that achieved—can we replicate it?” Myla asks, hoping to learn more of her own situation, as well as find a possible solution.

The scrollwarden, an ancient-looking woman with crow’s feet at the corners of her eyes, shakes her head resolutely. “In the past he has been known to claim more powerful victims. There were those who were fortunate to have a more potent magic in their veins, who seemed to withstand him a little. The victims he recruits tend to have minor magic abilities and thus, no power capable of withstanding him at all. An intentional selection, I presume.”

“So, one’s ability to resist is merely a privilege of ability?”

The scrollwarden nods, a grim expression flashing across her wrinkled features. “Indeed, Your Grace. What an unjust system, is it not?”

He must be allowing me to live in some semblance of normalcy so I will thank him for his lenience when he arrives. Myla lets out an exasperated sigh, picturing the Blood Stealer attempting to win her over on account of not fully controlling her.