Page 57 of A Thousand Burning Ravens

Myla stands abruptly, holding up a hand in protest. “And if he is not?”

Bryar appears less concerned than she, but turns to Ivan for an answer as well. “I imagine it will look similar to that puddle of slop and flesh you mentioned,” he surmises.

“Those not of Ashborn blood can not survive becoming one with someone who is,” Imogene coos, raising a hand to play with a flame between her fingers.

At this, Bryar, bearing a perplexed expression, is the one to protest. “I am sorry—can you expand on what becoming one entails?”

Myla nods fervently, refraining from demanding immediate clarification, at the risk of appearing tactless.

Imogene drapes herself across her husband’s lap in spite of the space beside him, wrapping a slender arm round his neck and tracing a delicate tattoo beneath his ear. She seems unconcerned, but obliges an answer. “It is not what you think.” Myla feels herself take a little sigh of relief. “But one could venture to say it feels more invasive.”

Bryar, who is losing patience with the cryptic nature of their conversation, rubs his hands together vigorously before fastening the straps of his gauntlets. “Whatever it is, let us just get it over with.” His chin bobs downward, as though insisting the Ashborn Queen step forward and get on with it.

“What—” Myla objects with a violent shake of her head.

“Absolutely not. Death is at risk here.”

“Seems to be a common theme,” Bryar puffs with a comical sidelong glance in her way, completely dismissing her objection. “But we need answers.”

Given no time to respond, Myla is joined by two Ashborn guards, also wearing the same sapphire armor and chainmail. Their bodies glint beneath the lanterns as they escort her out of proximity. As she passes, Ivan says something about the test being too hot for a mortal human to be within the vicinity of trial. There is little use in arguing; the falcon-like men at her sides propel her out, only stopping once they have reached a steep incline of stairs.

“If you wish to watch, these will take you to our observatory, which overlooks the throne.”

Heated, and heart thudding with anticipation, Myla hurries up the stairs, taking note of how breathless she is once she reaches the top. From her vantage point, she is unable to hear the words, but Imogene stands over Bryar, who is on his knees and shirtless before her.

It would be hot, if it was not a potentially lethal ceremony, she thinks to herself, watching as Imogene sprinkles something in a circular motion around the both of them. Her mouth moves and from what Myla can make out, she is chanting the same words repeatedly, until the circle comes to life, smoke beginning to coil and seep from the earth. Imogene’s face lifts skyward, and her wingspan stretches to capacity in both directions.

Bryar lets out a deep cough as the smoke envelopes them, but Imogene seems untouched. The spark begins at the tips of her wings—what were previously feathers burn out, replaced by lapping flames in the shape of wings. Myla expects the flames to stop at her back, but they continue, stretching across her body until she is no longer anything resembling human. What was it Callum had said?

'I swear to the Gods, there is no human explanation for what happened, Myla. He was not just . . . emitting fire. He was fire.’

Imogene is no longer just emitting fire; she is fire. Her features change from human to falcon-like, and she levitates above the ground, an ashy blaze rumbling the ground beneath her as the flames lick at Bryar’s body.

Myla resists the impulse to run back down the stairs and demand he put a stop to this. The muscles along his arms gleam with sweat, his head dipped against the heat and his dark hair sticking to his forehead. Tensed at the abdomen, he appears to struggle with remaining upright, a visible force accompanying the blast of heat emanating from the queen. He looks fucking miserable.

What happens next is inexplicable and leaves Myla stunned, her mouth agape with disbelief: Imogene presses a hand to his chest and, as though he is merely a pool of water, she falls into him, those same flames now spilling from Bryar’s pores. Along his arms, the tattoos look as though they may boil and melt from his skin. A crimson red surfaces across his entire body, and the illusion of flames forming feathers is evident, even from this distance.

He collapses on all fours, his body strained beneath the visible pressure, and he cries out—be it in rage or pain, Myla can not tell—but, the response at once ejects Imogene from his body, spitting her out, like vermin. His body continues to sizzle on edge, and like the day before in the field, she watches as what looks like a puncture wound forms, and his back nearly splits, making way for a magnificent outreach of wings ablaze. While they were purely red and orange yesterday, there is a flicker of blue in his flames now.

Gasps to her left and right alert her to other Ashborn who have gathered to watch the spectacle. Some nod in admiration and approval, while others appear perplexed. They must be the sort calling him a half-blood.

Myla turns her attention back to the scene below, her heart pounding in her throat. Imogene soars above him now, each flap of her wings sending a pulse of heat in every direction. Like a fireball, she plummets downward toward him.

She is attacking him! Myla lurches forward to see where Bryar now stands, an inferno, angry and ready for the assault. They collide, Imogene slamming his body into the cliffside behind him, and a violent burst of ash and blue sparks swirl in every direction. The usual sounds of a battle are warped with what can only be described as falcon-like screams—not just from Imogene, but Bryar as well.

As the flames continue to eat away at his human flesh, the agony on his face melts into an all-consuming anger, and he appears reborn as a falcon or—no . . .

“A phoenix,” she whispers.

The muscle in her jaw relaxes, as Myla realizes he is no longer struggling, his pain now replaced with passion. He pushes himself to his feet, the pieces of him that still appear human, his legs and torso, ripple with heat and strength combined. When Imogene descends with another onslaught of fire and force, Bryar stands still, legs placed firmly apart for takeoff. When she is mere feet from him, he launches himself in flight, and when the space Imogene intended on colliding with is no longer there, she crashes into the cliff, face first.

Myla is certain this ought to be the end of the test, but Ivan’s body burns aglow now, and the amulet at his chest throbs more energetically than before. The fire is not a wild inferno like that of Bryar and Imogene’s. It is an energy source, one Imogene begins to draw from; her body’s light amplifying off the river of revitalizing flame, which trickles through the natural grooves of the stone flooring to where she is. Myla watches, amazed as husband fuels wife, the most holy of unities, resulting in a force not to be contended.

An Ashborn bond, she thinks, recalling the book in the library.

Imogene reels briefly from the attack, but with goddess-like speed takes back to the air, plummeting in a flash of color down on Bryar who, unsuspecting, is knocked to the ground. He lays sprawled, chest heaving with exertion, and seconds from pulling himself to his feet, Imogene is on him again, drilling a hole of fire in his belly.

With a deep yelp of pain, he rolls out of the way, sending a fiery blast at her feet, knocking her down beside him. He throws himself atop her, his features disappearing behind the mirage of heat radiating from them both.