Page 62 of A Thousand Burning Ravens

Myla smiles weakly, caressing her belly absently before nodding in thanks. “I do not need to hide it, but I would rather not struggle to make a dress fit. Please, have them altered.”

Felicity bobs a curtsy and leaves with many of the dresses; a few simple and flowing ones remaining.

An hour later, after mustering every ounce of composure she has, Myla meanders through the halls. Every wall is adorned in art and expensive trophies of war or travel. The halls all graced with open-air balconies, which offer expansive views of the forest, the mountains, and beyond. From one vantage point in particular, Myla spies a thunderous waterfall cascading down the sheer side of the mountain, and she imagines bathing at its base.

After some exploring, she finds her way to the feast hall. Jovial laughter, shouts, and upbeat music reverberate through the palace; Myla discovers that Ashborn celebrations are boisterous events.

The room is crescent shaped around two thrones centered, providing an easy view of the entire hall. Heavy tapestries hang at even intervals, stretching thirty feet upward from floor to ceiling. Pictured on each are depictions of the Gods and their efforts in war, love, and justice. They tell stories, ones Myla could lose herself in. Thin chains fixed above each tapestry travel the length of the ceiling, meeting just overhead the thrones, serving as a suspense for vibrant lanterns which bring a warm glow to the room.

On either side of the thrones grow large trees, hot with autumn colors and branching out through the ceiling to touch the night sky. It appears as though some sort of mechanical ceiling opens and closes around the trunks, allowing for closure in poor weather.

Bryar sits at a table near the king and queen. To Myla’s surprise, the majority of those sitting at the table with him are young Ashborn women, each aglow in their own way, beautiful, smiling, and certainly not carrying the weight of war on their shoulders.

Myla sucks in a deep breath, brushing aside any feelings of jealousy. This is good for him, she tells herself. No holding him back. But those words are more pretty lies she tells herself, to numb the pain searing through her middle. Pretty lies like those she and her father built together to make her journey down the aisle more convincing.

Myla eyes an empty seat at a table across the room and considers giving Bryar a wide birth. She is suddenly self-conscious in her choice of dress; it screams ‘look at me, the woman that was on you hours ago,’ not ‘I am a confident queen, who did not just spend the last several hours crying over a man.’

Annoyed and tingling with unruly emotions, Myla graciously accepts a hot mug of herbal tea from a small Ashborn child who carries a simmering pot through the room.

“Fuck this,” she whispers to herself, taking stock of her reflection in the windows. It screams ‘look at me, a ruthless queen who is not stopped by matters of the heart.’ Before thoughts of embarrassment or pain stay her feet, she takes several confident steps to stand before the thrones, bobbing a deep curtsy. The room grows hushed as she stands before their king and queen, all in company watching. Someone behind whispers, “It is her. The Queen Who Bleeds Stars, look.”

Only now, does Myla realize that her emotions take form, speckling her skin in an array of magnificent starlight. Her hands seem to sparkle as light spills from her pores.

“Your Grace,” she acknowledges both Imogene and Ivan before standing tall once more, as the blademaster once told her to. Well aware that all eyes are on her, she squares her shoulders and tilts her chin. “What a beautiful assembly.” Myla gestures to the surrounding room, ignoring the heat on her neck where Bryar stares. “I thank you for the honor of experiencing life as an Ashborn.”

“It is you who honors us,” Imogene responds, gesturing to an empty seat behind her. Myla turns to sit, steadying her breath as her gaze passes over Bryar sitting across from her.

Observing the busy to and fro of party goers, paired with the lively music, is a sufficient distraction from the man before her. Myla watches unruly children soar overhead, scolded by their parents; young men and women flirt, banter, and sing. The occasional intoxicated Ashborn launches fireballs out the open ceiling, giving Myla something to awe over as the sparks scatter into blackness.

Two Ashborn ladies sit beside Bryar, one on either side, and Myla wills herself to tune out their meandering conversation. What is impossible to tune out is the way he clearly tries to avoid her gaze, yet fails each and every time they cast a glance around the room. Now, his deep green eyes lock with hers.

A battle of ocean against forest.

Myla lifts her chin, her gaze seeming to unravel him. It is an exchange that does not quite seem to make sense. Given how they parted a few hours prior, there is no reason for either to stare as they do now, full of something akin to rage. Yet here they are, fanning the flame. Daring to defy the agreement already. Silently, they search one another’s eyes for answers, as if unearthing something new will void the words spoken only hours ago.

On closer examination, Myla’s mouth dries, taking in just how good he looks. His hair falls tousled into his face, the shadow of a freshly shaven beard casts sharp angles across his jaw, and a casual black tunic is unfastened three buttons down; the sleeves pushed over his elbows, exposing trained arms and the fresh tattoos. It is a feverish sight, one spoiled when Ivan stands to speak, breaking the trance.

The king exudes a regal confidence which commands the attention of the room, and the music fades to silence. “We welcome a newcomer.” Ivan gestures to Bryar. “I trust he is to be given the warmest of Ashborn welcomes.” The crowd applauds, and Myla rolls her eyes at the bashful smiles flashing him from all directions.

Apparently being a half-blood is not such a bad thing anymore. Myla glowers at the flock of young women around him. His discomfort is blatant, a detail they seem to miss entirely.

“We welcome also to our court, Queen Myla Alerys. We are honored by your presence,” Imogene adds, almost as an afterthought. Myla’s lips purse and her eyes squint, scrutinizing the queen before her. That would never slide in Falkmere . . .

“Sir Bryar,” Imogene speaks again. “It is the Ashborn way to shield our kind, to keep our power strong and pure. We are, however, deeply impressed with the strength of body and character you show, for that is the true Ashborn way. Should you choose to accept our offer to train with us, we will welcome you permanently. You shall have a home, and in time, with effort and loyalty, a title.” Ivan smiles with the charisma only a laid-back king dishing out women and titles could have.

He takes note of the female attention Bryar is receiving, whispers something to his wife, then speaks once more. “Phaenna.” He gestures to one of the ladies, her beautiful red hair cascading down her back, which is bare save a delicate ribbon at her neck, holding the top of her dress in place. “I appoint you Bryar’s personal companion for the party. I trust you will see to his every need this evening.”

Myla does not like the tone with which the girl is given permission to sink her proverbial claws into Bryar. They are not just offering him a place to hone his newfound magic in peace; they are offering him a new life entirely.

She glances at him, not surprised to find his face unreadable beneath the courteous smile. The music resumes, and Bryar is summoned to speak with the king and queen, Phaenna trailing beside him, pleased as a newborn colt to be appointed to the handsome newcomer’s side. Her fingers graze the inside of his arm as she latches onto him.

Gods, Myla hisses inwardly. She needs a new profession. Court harlot looks bad on her. Immediately regretting the all-too-human and not at all queenly thought, Myla bites her lip and wonders what they could possibly be saying. Judging by the intrigued look on Bryar’s face, it is an offer unlike any he has received before.

Unwilling to watch the spectacle any further, Myla loses herself once more in a sweet of hot tea and observing. She moves across the room to recline on a cushioned bench, blissfully tucked away in the corner of the room. Her eyes watch the night sky above as stars drift slowly across her view, occasionally interrupted by a shooting star or a plume of ash from the playful mayhem below. Her tea and quiet nook seem like a brilliant antidote to the ache in her heart, until Imogene stands before her, extending a hand.

“Join me?” she asks. Her voluptuous body on display, the hot-red gown she wears hugging all the right places, a pleasing visual that Myla takes note of for half a second too long before responding.

“I—yes. Of course. Forgive me.” She stands, immediately triggering a nauseous twisting in her stomach. The child plans to put up a fight this evening. Myla had heard her mother speak of morning sickness. It seems her child prefers to cause disturbances in the evening.