Page 16 of A Thousand Burning Ravens

It begins slowly at first. The way the light in the room seems to separate into individual grains, traveling in currents to where she stands, replaced by an unnatural darkness. Her web of veins adjoins in a hypnotic spark of starlight traveling across the skin of her arm until a searing light pools at her fingertips, pulsating with a malevolent energy seeming to warp the very air around her. As her tension and power swell, the light blinds and illuminates her form, like a dark goddess of wrath.

The years of watching them whisper behind her back, while applauding her directly, pulls a vile hatred from the depths of her heart. To have leaned so heavily on people who swore to protect her, to follow her, only to watch their backs turn the second she is forced to prove herself to them, is nothing short of an insult. Directly before her, the very image of anger and disappointment, is her father, his own fist closed around a blade.

It is in this moment, Myla realizes she is not only fighting a battle against the Blood Stealer, but a larger one right here between herself and her father.

If they want it, any of them, they will have to take it.

“Stand down now and leave with your lives,” Myla commands, taking a threatening step in her father’s direction, though her eyes pass over the faces of her council as well. The message is clear: they have crossed a line, and there is no forgiveness for that.

“Stand down and leave Falkmere in the hands of a traitor?” Maverick laughs, clearly not concerned by the brewing of his daughter’s magic.

“Tell me,” Myla retorts, “when have I ever betrayed Falkmere? Am I not here? Have I not listened to your guidance and made good decisions for our kingdom?”

Sorrin yells, clearly trying to start a riot, “You let the Blood Stealer walk right in—”

“And I will stop him! The question is, will you help me?”

“Not like this,” Maverick says, his hand now flying to the hilt of his blade.

The palace walls tremble, vibrating with the power building in her voice, a sound that twists and contorts, becoming shrill and deafening.

The Voice of The Gods, a force which Myla has repressed for years, now claws at her lungs, begging for reprieve. The muscles in her neck tighten around the urge to release the deadly scream. Myla’s body tenses with the need to temper the violence brewing inside her, already evoking a response of terror from her court. “Stand down now, lest you face the consequences of defiance,” she commands, watching as her words only fan the flames of treachery. “Have I been so complacent as to make my own Council believe they can defy me?” The quaking of her lungs deepens now and her voice contorts to something that is not her own, but the Old Gods’ above. The pillars quake, books falling from their high shelves, tumbling to the ground, a few knocking the people below them senseless.

Lords and ladies alike collapse to their knees, shrieking in agony as terror stretches across their faces. Some cover their ears, desperate to block out the cacophony of her fury, while others shield their eyes from the blinding light radiating from her body. Lord Sorrin, trembling and fallen, tries to meet her gaze but recoils in horror, shaking his head fiercely. A trickle of blood travels from his ear to his jawline, blending in with his dark beard.

“No—no, I—” He raises his hand in what appears to be a remorseful surrender, but a glint of malice flickers in his eyes. In a heartbeat, his outstretched palm seeks to command the very weapon at Myla’s waist. Myla has only ever seen him use his ability to seize anything with the flick of a wrist in relaxed settings such as a dining flute, or a quill in the council room. The fox dagger trembles loose from its sheath, but it is futile.

In an instant, the scorching, blinding light at Myla’s fingertips is drawn back into her being, radiating from every pore like a million living stars. Her eyes, once a comforting blue, morph into a blinding white, more searing than the sun itself. With a swift, deliberate motion, she raises her hand, and that light snakes like a noose around Lord Sorrin’s throat, snapping his neck with a sickening crack.

A scream erupts from the crowd, a raw, primal sound that echoes off the palace walls. As weapons are rapidly sheathed, the sight of their usually quiet and gentle leader now transformed into a figure of dread leaves her subjects trembling in fear. Many retreat toward the door, their courage evaporating, while a few, consumed by a twisted loyalty, prepare to follow Sorrin into death.

Myla conjures another wave of energy, the air thick with tension. A guttural battle cry pierces the atmosphere, accompanied by a heat that slithers around her like a snake. From behind, she feels the shocking sensation of an inferno unleashed and a fiery blast igniting the back of the throne room. Myla turns just in time to see a charred figure, arm raised with a sword overhead, consumed in a small hell by Bryar’s hand. The flames lick hungrily at the air, still engulfing the burnt body. A threat bellows from his lungs, his palms still molten red and ready to send more to face the justice of the Gods in the afterlife.

“Those in the great hereafter will not suffer the company of men who died as cowards!” he bellows, commanding men and women alike to stand down. The room stills, and fear is as potent as the smell of charred flesh.

Myla stands now not just as the Falkmere queen, but as the embodiment of a gravely underestimated woman, her magic a reminder of the dark tempest living within her, ready to rain destruction upon those foolish enough to oppose her wrath; something her council seems to have forgotten.

“I am your queen and I was chosen to be so for a reason. But I command no one to serve me,” Myla speaks once more, her voice returning to normal. Those who are still in the throne room quiver on their knees, few daring to look upon her. “Any who do not wish to honor their oaths further will be allowed to take their soldiers and leave. You will be met with no harm. But you are grossly mistaken if you believe that my quiet these two years past are an indicator of complacency. Leave with your honor but do not stay and believe I will abide any treason beneath my rule.”

A unanimous tilt of heads as men and women alike, surrendering to her rule passes over the room. Callum approaches Maverick, ripping the blade from his hands and Rhyland shoves the begrudged man to his knees in forced submission. Bryar whispers behind her to a few of his men to have the bodies removed and returned to their families, while Elsa, following Rhyland’s lead, passes through the crowd, pushing stragglers to their knees and forcing a few heads lower before she herself also lowers into a kneel. Unnecessary, Elsa. But I like the gesture.

Myla takes a trembling breath and speaks once more, a final statement. “I see your fear. Know that I have felt it too, for a long time. Know that I have remained true to my commitments and true to you, in spite of this affliction. Should I be unable to resist the Blood Stealer, I will willingly relinquish my claim to this throne. I have no intention of unifying myself with that man. Bear in mind, will you, though I do not wield Restorer magic, I am his equal in potency. I shall not succumb to him easily.”

Her words are strong and unwavering as she addresses her subjects, ignoring the near-visible rage which ripples around the stiff frame of her father. “Let this here,” she gestures to the devastation surrounding them, “serve as a reminder of what I can and will do, should any dare to threaten me.” At this, she does make eye contact with the man, not breaking it until he lowers his, in submission. “I am still the queen you swore oaths to, and I will answer to dowager no longer. Make your decision.”

With nothing left to say, Myla descends the steps of the throne room, the crowd parting for her as she passes through, no longer seen as a shadow quivering in the background in the wake of her husband’s death, but a queen to fear, in her own right.

Once again, evening wanes and Myla finds herself standing in the conservatory, surrounded by the rest of her council along with Bryar, Elsa, Callum, and Rhyland who, when he is not flirting with every man and woman who crosses his path or running the household, is the map maker of Falkmere but specifically, the Raven’s Veil. His talent in penmanship, illustrations, and having an eye for the memory of landscapes, has served many missions well in the past years.

He holds in his hands an unfurled map, “The Raven’s Veil is amassed here.” He jabs a gloved finger toward a plot on the map. “If necessary, Callum could have them here in two days.”

“Two days is not fast enough,” Lord Heron interjects. “The Blood Stealer is expected tomorrow afternoon.”

“If I may,” Elsa speaks up, “is there any sense in fooling the Blood Stealer?”

“How so?” Myla asks, curiosity piqued.

“When he returns tomorrow, Your Grace will agree to the marriage.” Her proposition is met with tension, as well as a slight increase in temperature as Bryar’s disapproval mounts. Maverick moves to speak but Elsa rolls her eyes at him before continuing. “Once he is appeased, he swore to release you from your oath. Perhaps, once he is well enough convinced you are comfortable in your alliance, you can cut his throat while he sleeps or slip poison into his glass.” The final statement has a coy edge to it; Elsa has always been one to play dirty if that is what it took. In most cases, Myla has admired that. In this case, it makes her uneasy.