Page 52 of A Thousand Burning Ravens

“Do you see?” she asks breathlessly before glancing to Bryar, no answer needed. He is transfixed. Something in his countenance has changed from a determined traveler on a mission, to someone seeking answers they have never thought to ask before.

As the creature swoops down off the cliff, disappearing into the trees, Bryar turns and the sunlight glints off the sword at his side. Dread pools in Myla’s stomach as a vile feeling builds within her, this time with no intention of harming herself, but a need to kill him. Swift as lightening, Myla reaches to her waist, pulling her dagger free. The motion, though fluid, is no match for a trained soldier. Alarmed, Bryar ducks as her blade slashes the air where his throat was with a menacing whoosh.

“Gods-dammit!” he hisses, stumbling backwards to lunge out of her reach.

“I am sorry!” Myla barely manages to speak, her throat tightening once again around her words, stifling her cries for help. All the while, her body betraying her with a ferocity she has never been trained in.

It is reckless. Nothing in her technique resembles the discipline which Sir Roderick took pains to instill in her. This is a violent frenzy. It is mindless. Mindless, like the feeble attacks of Vesperian’s soldiers.

Across from her, Bryar expertly sidesteps her attempts, his focus unwavering. With every assault, he out-maneuvers her. A frustration, not her own, grows within, until her magic tingles, begging to be released. Vesperian knows she will not best a trained captain this way, but her magic, even at its most spastic, is deadly. It only takes one accurate strike of her light and Bryar could easily be dead.

“Bryar!” she shrieks, the blade falling from her hand, replaced by a subtle light. Stars of gold flecks speckle her skin, until they collect at her fingertips, ready to shoot with lethal precision at her target.

“You have to find a way to make it stop,” he says, clearly trying to calm his voice. “Myla, please try.”

“I am trying!” she growls, feeling her body begin that terrible quivering of resistance against an impossible force. “You need to run.”

He shakes his head. “Not without—”

He is interrupted by a blast of light, which sends soil and foliage flying out from underneath his footing. With a grunt, Bryar is splayed across the ground, barely rolling out of the way before another blast drills a hole where he had been. His features flush with anger and flames begin to crawl across his skin. They are small at first, a flame on his shoulder, a few at his fingers, then they grow. They encompass him, scorching the grass surrounding him and summoning an eerie, honey-red glow in his eyes. As if a ring of fire dances around his pupil.

In this moment, a look of deep, unfiltered fear stretches across his face. “It is happening again,” he panics, holding his arms away from his body as though they are traitors. The flames dance and lap off his body violently now, like a fire to a watch beacon, a response to the panic and anger simmering within him.

Myla’s ribs scream in agony as she twists to face him, her arms loosing a string of light meant to entangle him. Inwardly, her pain rages fiercer, fear for Bryar’s life pulsing through her. Another volley of blinding light launches toward his face, deflected by a violent stream of flames, channeled from his palms. The dueling energies meet in the space between them, billowing, one against the other. Myla calls upon her light, darkness forms overhead, the particles of sun drifting and collecting inside her until there is no longer daylight around them.

“Leave me! I command it!” Myla heaves the words with all her effort, their force unmatched by the next wave of light. A shocked Bryar is flung high into the air, as the deadly blow releases Myla from the invisible hold. She feels her limbs lighten, belonging to herself again, just in time to see his ascent, slowly reversing into a fall. His body rolls midair as he plummets at a fatal speed toward the ground beneath him.

“No!” she shrieks, frantically digging her fingernails into her neck as she grips at herself, at anything, willing someone or something to help him. Just as she considers loosing a strand of light to try and catch him, an explosion of flames engulfs his body, swirling around him in a blazing inferno, one that ought to kill anyone, even a fire wielder. The light of his flames grows, as does the heat. Even from below, Myla’s skin crawls in a rush of sweat. It feels as if the sun itself is colliding with earth. It looks as if the sun is colliding with earth.

He is not ten feet from contact with the earth, when his body splits open from behind, fire spewing forth in the shape of wings lurching him upward, away from the ground.

Gasping, Myla loses her footing and stumbles backward, eyes wide and mouth ajar in total awe. He is no longer a King’s Guard; he is an ancient creature, magnificent and long forgotten by all, she presumes, but the Ashborn.

In this moment, as though summoned, beings emerge—some on foot, others by wing—from inside the forest, surrounding her in an impenetrable formation. They bear no weapons, which Myla finds more intimidating than if they surrounded her with spears or bows.

Bryar crashes a few feet from her, disturbing a great deal of dust, with an oomph. A few of the Ashborn chuckle, watching as he pushes to his feet, clearly aching and, even more so, clearly stunned.

The Ashborn are tall, and have a commanding and regal presence. They have a honeyed-amber glaze to their eyes, with a translucent and bird-like sharpness. Where their eyebrows ought to be is the start of a magnificently colored plumage, which fades into an even mixture of feather and vibrant hair, dancing in the breeze. Some have warm orange hair, others auburn red, and a few have platinum gold, but all of them match the autumn landscape and the fire that is their birthright. They have no need of cloaks. Magnificent wings of orange, gold, and crimson do the job, mostly shielding fine clothing, also the colors of fire.

One Ashborn in particular catches Myla’s eyes. He is taller than the rest, and amid the plumes of his brow is a sapphire-blue crown. He appears both youthful and elderly at once; his being exudes wisdom.

“The first landing is always the worst,” he jokes, looking to a woman bearing a similar crown; his queen, presumably. She assesses Bryar, golden eyes glinting with humor.

Both she and Bryar stand, temporarily frozen in shock, before Myla finds the wherewithal to speak like a queen.

“Please, forgive the intrusion,” she says, with a respectful tilt of her chin. “We have come seeking aid.”

The woman chirps a mocking laugh before gesturing with a delicate hand to the carnage around them. “You obliterate my forest clearing, then ask for help?”

Bryar, having collected his wits, bows deeply. “I fear we are in dire need of help,” he gestures toward Myla. “The Spirit Mother sent us here. She said you could help us.”

The Ashborn man’s brow creases, the red feathers bunching at his hairline. “The Spirit Mother sent you? On what account?” His voice holds suspicion now. “Who are you?”

Myla nearly blurts her title until she realizes they could not care less who she is—all eyes are on him. Myla finds it oddly refreshing, though suddenly, she too would like answers regarding him.

“I am Sir Bryar Monroe, Captain of the Queen’s Guard, and this is my Queen, Myla Alerys of Falkmere.” It is now the Ashborn leaders cast a more speculative gaze her way, assessing her from top to bottom before the woman speaks.

“And tell me, Sir Bryar, why is your queen trying to kill you?”