Page 12 of A Thousand Burning Ravens

“I was afraid you would say that,” Myla replies. “I am on the hunt for solutions. I am afraid it will not be a matter of defeating the Blood Stealer, but of putting up a good fight,” Myla admits with trepidation, the reality of the situation weighing heavy. “Could you perhaps brew something that amplifies my magic or increases its longevity more than the one you have already made me? I do not wish to die easily and be the laughter in a bard’s retelling when this is all over with.”

Alaric chews his lower lip, eyes darting from herbs to vials and the books on his wall. “Might I beg Your Grace to give me a few hours? I will try what you ask, but I will need time to reference several manuscripts. I am afraid the strength in the tonic I have made already was a feat. I doubt we have access to the ingredients needed to make a stronger one.”

With a nod, Myla hesitates and asks a final question. “How long do you suppose it would take one to train in dark magic before being able to stand against the forces of the Blood Stealer? He has so many tied to him.”

Alaric grins. “Against the rabble? You have nothing to fear.” He hesitates. “But, once dark magic is introduced into your being, it is challenging to rid yourself of it. You already carry burdens you should not, Your Grace. Perhaps it is bold of me to say, but I would not muddy the pond with dark magic.”

His response, while reassuring, does not settle well with Myla. The majority of the Blood Stealer’s army are victims, certainly not there willingly. The concept of killing them with a flick of her wrist feels like a cheap and unnecessary death. Myla drums her fingers aimlessly on the apothecary table, taking one last glance at the runes before leaving. Royally fucked.

Having left the Alchemy lab with little to go off, Myla was on her way to her chambers for a brief rest when her father had intercepted her, insisting there was more she should be doing. There is always more. When he had promised her in marriage to Caius, he told her of the pleasantries and privileges she would enjoy as queen. As he belittled her today, she found herself spewing, “Where are my pleasantries and privileges if I can not simply walk to my own chamber without being berated by you?”

Since her mother died shortly after her marriage, the relationship between Myla and her father has grown substantially more tense. Her mother always served as a buffer between Maverick and his daughter. Now, with no buffer at all, they are like sharp daggers grinding against one another, each desperate for the deeper cut.

As a result of this bitter encounter, she has retreated to the gardens, and at last, Myla finds herself seated on a stone bench, hidden behind the ancient, draped limbs of a weeping willow at the furthest end of the garden. The grass beneath is trodden from years of visiting. Here, Myla leans back, her eyes falling closed, and the sound of a babbling brook behind her is nature’s lullaby. In the distance, the sound of soldiers training, a sound that should be comforting, is merely another reminder of impending doom.

“You should not be here alone,” a familiar voice chides. Myla does not open her eyes; she does not need to to know who stands before her. His presence, the sound of his voice and weight of his steps advancing is an immediate reminder of the last time they took to the willow tree as a hiding place. Myla’s father had just signed a betrothal agreement with Caius. At the time, Myla was fearful and heartbroken. She knew Caius was a good and kind king but had no way of knowing how he might serve as a husband. And she knew he was not Bryar.

As the marriage outlines were drawn up, Myla had watched with glistening eyes as Bryar stood, resolute in his role as the king’s guard, behind his master, unwavering. His jaw set in a firm clench, Myla believed he was balling his fists and biting down on his own tongue to refrain from objecting.

Once Myla was dismissed and Bryar could escape unnoticed, they met beneath the willow tree. It was there they had lain together for the last time, promising for both their sakes, as well as that of the kingdom, they would forsake each other forever. There would be no more secret rendezvous. They would no longer exchange warm gazes across the room. Under no circumstances would they compromise her position as queen nor his as the King’s Guard.

So, he has become a phantom to her, someone she sees and pretends not to. Now here he is again, where she has hidden so many times in the last five years, wondering if he ever did the same. Daydreaming of their concluding moments here.

“How did you find me?”

“You are predictable, and consistent, fortunately for me. What kind of Queen’s Guard lets his queen wander unattended.” The latter is spoken as a sort of chastisement disguised as concern. He hates when she wanders off without him or at least someone. Myla opens her eyes to see him turn dutifully, back to her, watching the grounds before them. The branches of the weeping willow skew her view of him slightly, but she can make out the way his shoulders heave in a worn-out sigh and his hands rest heavily on the axe at his side. She laughs slightly, and he turns to look at her between the branches, eyebrows raising in question.

“What is so funny?”

“You. Carrying that axe.”

“Why is that?” he asks.

“Because we all know it is purely decorative. You do not need it.”

“No,” Bryar agrees. “Unless I get fatigued in battle and can not channel magic.”

Myla purses her lips, picturing the one and only time that has ever happened to him. Caius’s death weighs heavily on all, but Bryar holds the grief of the soldiers who died trying to save their king. The battle which ensued once the palace had been breached was a devastating one, and Bryar fought honorably. Myla will never forget him walking into the throne room where she sat sobbing over Caius’s body. He was covered in blood from head to toe. A long slash to his ribs and the remnants of human tissue on his axe were proof enough of the way he fought to save his king and soldiers.

“I visited the brewmage,” Myla says to shift the topic. “His runes say we are royally fucked.”

Bryar smirks and cautiously steps within the enclosure of the tree. “It is nothing you can not handle, Your Grace.” He stares at the ground between them, an invisible barrier keeping that distance greater than either of them would like. “What if I asked you to go to your family’s estate and wait somewhere less obvious until we have more answers. Until we have a better plan?”

Myla shakes her head, standing as if she has been stuck with something sharp. “You want me to run away? You, who is the least cowardly person I know, is asking me to be a coward?”

Bryar shakes his head in fierce contradiction. “No, Myla. I am asking you to stay out of harm’s way, until we know how you can best protect yourself, and the child.”

Myla shakes her head. “I will not leave. I swore to protect this kingdom, and that is what I plan to do, even if it kills me.”

An irritated growl escapes Bryar, and he reaches out to grab her arms, his brows furrowed and concern drawing a sharp line in his jaw. His touch, though an angry one, is electric, and Myla feels a surge of passion rush through her being. He has not laid a hand on her in years.

“If Myla?”

Myla. Not ‘Your Grace.’ Myla.

“You say if like we have some plan just seconds away from falling into place. You say if like your death is not a real possibility!”

Attempting unsuccessfully to jerk free of his grasp, Myla glowers at the man before her. “You say if as though I have not been living this very real possibility for two fucking years! I am exhausted, and I want it over with, Captain Monroe. Whatever that looks like, I can not continue like this. Let it kill me; see how much I care.”