Page 56 of A Thousand Burning Ravens

A somber look falls over him, and his eyes grow greener with sincerity. “Myla, none of that should be taken as a reflection of how I feel toward you, nor toward us.”

Bewildered, Myla’s shoulders slump. “Then how am I supposed take it? After all the time we spent apart, I have never felt more unsure of us, when I should feel unified.”

Nodding in concurrence, Bryar takes a step closer to her. “Myla, you and I—neither one of us, are in control. I think yesterday was proof of that.” They exchange brief smirks of acknowledgment, before he continues. “What happened on the mountain shook me, if I am honest. I have never felt so powerless to my own abilities. I have never doubted myself, as I do now. Meanwhile, you . . .” His voice trails off, no need to elaborate on what they both already know. “Anyway, I do not see how the idea of you and I in close proximity is safe. Not that I do not want you near me every second of the day. But I am afraid of what could happen should we both implode at the same time. In fact, we nearly found out yesterday.”

Though she is inclined to argue with him, anything to convince him his distance is pointless, she simply responds with a quick kiss on the cheek. “So, what you are saying is you still enjoy me, even after I tried to kill you?”

He does not match her humor. On the contrary, his face is genuine as he speaks. “I do not simply enjoy you, Myla. I crave you. I can not even say it is as simple as love. No—this is complicated and messy, but I choose it, because choosing it, is choosing you. You could try to kill me time and again, and I would simply take out my own heart and ask what you want of it, for it is already yours.” He speaks despite the shake in his voice, his hands limp at his side as though giving her these words is giving her everything he has left.

“Truthfully, I would burn this lifetime, and every other lifetime, to the ground. For you. I do not hesitate with you for a lack of love, Myla. I hesitate because of love, and I would like us both to live long enough to know a day together that is not tumultuous. The truth is, you could kill me, and I would claw my way out of the grave to find you again.”

Myla closes the gap between them, a hand grazing the new tattoos on his forearms, feeling the pulse in her neck thud with greater intensity the further up his arm she navigates, until her hands rest on his neck. “I would rather ask the Gods’ forgiveness, should we annihilate the ground beneath us, than know another day without your touch.”

His hands move to her wrists, lightly grazing the burns left by his own hand, then he draws her chin upwards to meet his gaze. “You will never be without me again. But, the next time I have you, all of you, I do not want to worry how I might burn you, or you might accidentally . . . lose control.”

Myla bobs her head, understanding. “I imagine it would be terribly indecent to fight for your life naked—suppose I killed you before I came to my senses and had to dress your dead body before anyone saw you.”

Chuckling, Bryar takes her hand, and they begin up the stairs once more. “You would do that for me?”

“If I killed you? It is the least I could do.”

The Ashborn throne room is different from Myla’s in Falkmere. It is not a room at all. Rather, it is a semicircular ring of stone chairs facing a magnificent, wider-than-usual throne, carved into the body of a massive, petrified tree. The canopy of the trees merges overhead, leaving little sky above to be seen. Hanging at different heights, like those seen just outside the palace, are vibrant and warm lanterns illuminating the dark space above as night progresses.

Bryar and Myla both approach the throne where the Ashborn King sits, stoic and dignified. His wings are tucked neatly behind him, vibrant and starkly contrasted by the sapphire-blue armor he dons. He has deep-red hair, highlighted with streaks of silver. His nose, sharp and angled, is set between severe, soul-searching eyes. He wears a large sapphire amulet that pulses against his chest, Myla notices a matching one over the breast of the woman beside him.

“I trust you are feeling better, Queen Myla Alerys,” he addresses Myla, as she and Bryar bow respectfully.

“I am, thanks to your hospitality,” Myla responds, hoping to reestablish any dignity lost the day before. “I am in your debt, Your Grace.”

“Please, as my guests, I insist you call me Ivan.” The latter is spoken chivalrously, and Ivan the Ashborn king stands, his immense height not lost on Myla. As he approaches, the feathered crown growing from his brow bobs in the breeze, catching the glint of the lanterns. The way light seems to exude from his being, not tangibly, but the illusion of it, is magical.

He extends a hand, leading Myla to a comfortable chaise to the right of his throne. She is left to sit with a warm glass of wine as Ivan turns to Bryar. “Your display yesterday was both impressive and alarming. I must admit, many of my people are skeptical, and even more feel threatened.”

“How do I threaten them?” Bryar challenges, his lips upturned in defiance. “I simply defended myself.”

“Yes,” Ivan says. “About that. We will be discussing your queen’s ailment next. For now, you threaten them because you are not like them. But you are also not like your kind either. You are somewhere in between. For the Ashborn, that is a disgrace; a ripple in our current of power.”

Myla bites her lip, struggling and failing to remain silent. “Perhaps, your people could be less narrow minded.”

Ivan turns to her. “Your Grace, this has nothing to do with anything more than magic. Your . . . captain here, is a perfect example of what happens when our powers go unrefined. They implode.”

He turns to Bryar, once again addressing him. “You are lucky to be alive. I am surprised you have not set fire to your own veins.”

Bryar takes a deep breath, briefly glancing down at the raised and irritated tattoos on his arms, not yet healed from when they were seared into his skin. “I feel like I have.”

“Believe me,” Ivan assures, glancing at his own tattoos. “I have seen someone absorb the fire rather than expel it. They were nothing but a puddle of slop and flesh by the time the flames died down.”

Myla feels bile rise in her throat and she resists the urge to turn away. “So, what exactly do you want with him then?”

“I could ask you the same,” Ivan retorts with a hint of annoyance, clearly wishing to dismiss her demands for answers. “I want to ensure you truly are Ashborn.”

Glowering, Myla straightens her spine, sitting upright despite the ache in her back. Ivan forgets he addresses one of her subjects. Captain, lover, subject; they are all relevant to her, and Ivan’s interrogation seems to only emphasize the impurities he sees.

“How do you do that?” she demands before Bryar can speak, her sharp eyes narrowing on the king.

Ivan glances at his wife as she stands. She too has traded her billowy dress for a set of sapphire armor. Hers wears differently, however. There are finer etchings across the neck of the breastplate and down the bosom. Delicate chainmail clinks with every step she takes, and the sapphire circlet on her forehead gleams with a fresh polish.

“Imogene will test you. It will be uncomfortable, but if you are of Ashborn descent, it would not kill you.” He speaks directly to Bryar, a brief glance at Myla to pass it off as a response for her as well.