Page 50 of A Thousand Burning Ravens

“What the fuck, Myla!” Bryar screams, on the verge of chastising when he feels her body resisting his rescue.

“Please, do not let me go!” Adrenaline squeezes the words from her lungs like gravel, while her body thrashes against his, scrambling to return to its watery grave.

Bryar’s hands lock like irons around her arms, and he drags her to the bank, his face twisted with panic, assessing the slightness of her frame within the layers of dripping fabric. “Stop fighting me!” he demands, now wrapping his arms tight around her to combat her vicious attempts to break free.

Shivering and confused, Myla wills her body to calm, but it does not. It thrashes, fighting to return to the river. “I can not!” she manages.

All at once, his face shifts to understanding, and he mutters an angry ‘fuck this’ under his breath. Though she fights him, it is more of a nuisance than a real struggle against his war-trained body. He manages to twist one of her arms into a position which locks her in place, sending a burning tightness through her joints. Meanwhile, he unfastens his belt and loops it around her, lashing her arms at her side, making it easier to throw her over his shoulder and move her as far from the edge of the water as possible.

The sensations fade at an agonizingly slow rate, all the while Bryar sits, back braced against a tree and both arms holding her in place. Somewhere in the chaos of her writhing, she hears him whisper, “It will be alright, just breathe.”

Her full body convulsions subside to slight flinches until she releases the tension, Vesperian letting go. For now.

“Is it over?” Bryar finally pants, not releasing until she mutters a fatigued ‘yes’.

At once, he unbinds her, moving to stand before her. “We need to get you out of these wet clothes.” He fumbles with the clasp of her cloak. “Can you undress? I need to start a fire.”

Numb, both physically and emotionally, Myla nods and wills her aching body to move, but her ribs scream against the motion. “Shit,” she confesses. “I think I broke my ribs.”

Frustration washes his features, and Bryar stands, neglecting a pile of kindling. “Relax,” he commands, and she listens, her arms dropping at her side.

Myla never imagined standing naked in the woods in autumn would be warming, but the shedding of her drenched layers removes an element of cold. Bryar is quick to wrap his cloak around her for warmth while he digs for a change of trousers and a white tunic from his saddle bag. “Wear these while we dry your dress.”

MYLA STANDS, WEARING men’s clothing, beside a raging fire, its warmth sending needles of pain across her body. Bryar wraps a firm brace of bandages around her ribs, before helping her sit on a fallen log, and taking up a crouching position across from her. He has no need to change, nor warm himself. Myla watches as he summons his magic, ripples of heat rising off his body, send steam into the frigid air around him. Soon enough, his clothes are dry, and his armor looks hot to the touch. Meanwhile, she sits shivering by the fire, hair wet and clinging to her face.

“What . . . happened?” he asks, eyes searching hers earnestly.

Myla bites her lower lip, mind bouncing from fear to anger to full panic, as she wonders if her child survived the incident. “I do not know,” Myla lies, not wanting to relive what Vesperian’s invasions feel like.

Bryar flashes her a glacial expression, as cold as the river, before pressing the matter. “It was him, was it not?”

Fighting a new wave of tears, Myla swallows hard, her silence all the answer he needs. Bryar stands angrily, tossing his gloves to the ground. “This has to end,” he blurts, looking to her with kindness this time. “Are you ok?”

The question tips her resolve, spilling her emotional cup. “No,” she hisses, through tears of anger. “I just went for a walk that ended in me trying to kill myself. My body is starting to do things my brain does not want it to! And now, it is doing things that could harm my baby.” Her words are a flood, muting every natural sound around them, until all she can hear are her fears spewed and on display. “I dreamed he made me drive a dagger into my womb. Until this point, those awful things only happened in my dreams, I took comfort in that. But now? Bryar, I do not know when or how he will strike again, only that he surely will. So, no, I am not, okay.”

Bryar moves around the raging fire to sit beside her, pulling her into his arms, his embrace a silent reassurance. “Alright,” he says confidently. “We will ride one horse from here out, and I will keep watch while you sleep, so you can not hurt yourself. I promised to keep you alive, and I mean to see that through. I have you; do you hear me?”

She nods into his chest, taking a deep, calming breath. “We need to do something soon . . . I am a threat to the baby.”

“I know,” he answers, voice full of concern. “Let us just get to the Ashborn. According to the Seer, our next steps should take us there.”

Myla does not feel herself. The hours fade into a bitterly frosty night, thankfully warded off by the rage of the blazing fire which Bryar keeps fed. Though the stars overhead sparkle gloriously in the sky, and the tree line creates an interesting pattern against the hues of midnight blue, her earlier sense of awe has vanished.

With a frustrated huff, Myla peels off her boots and stands, wiggling her toes deep into the cold earth. Closing her eyes, she presses two flat palms to her chest, and feels her breath come in steady waves. Moments pass and the quivering in her veins seems to still. “I am still here,” she whispers comfortingly to the Spirit Mother. “Help me keep it that way.” Tears fall freely, freezing against her cheeks.

“You look like someone I used to know.” His voice is thick with a need for sleep, and Myla realizes the hour is late. Myla opens her eyes, catching the outline of Bryar, illuminated from behind the glow of the fire.

“Used to know?” she asks, rubbing her hands together and savoring the feel of dirt between them.

“It appears, I still do,” he amends. “I just did not know she still worshiped the old Goddesses.” He moves to stand before her, his deep green eyes studying her.

Myla breaches the small space between them, to takes his hand, wanting nothing more than to fall against his solid frame and feel his warmth. “I never stopped. It was simply, more discreet.”

Bryar releases one hand to slip around her waist, holding her close. “Your tears . . .”

Myla nods, managing a small smile. “I fear there will be many more. I am scared for myself, the awful things happening to me, and . . . well, Elsa is worth an ocean of them.”

Bryar presses a thumb to her swollen cheek and kisses her forehead. “I told you; I would not let anything happen to you; you will survive this. Dry your tears; between you and Callum, I fear the world might flood.”