Page 63 of A Thousand Burning Ravens

“You look unwell,” Imogene remarks, linking her arm with Myla’s. “Shall we take the air?” How kind, Myla thinks, accepting the offer and ignoring the voice inside her which asks why is this woman so contrary? Frigid one moment and thoughtful the next. It is not lost on her that another queen might have allowed Myla to sit in the corner while her husband laid claim to Bryar. This queen may house some empathy after all.

“Felicity reported back to me,” Imogene says once they stand outside. “It seems you are expecting?” She glances at the roundness of Myla’s belly, just barely passable as bloating. “How far along are you?”

“I believe about five months,” Myla replies, knowing that after two years of suppressing the pregnancy and letting it slip from time to time, she has lost track slightly.

Imogene hovers a hand over Myla’s belly, not making contact, but a warm vibration grows between her skin and Imogene’s hand. “The child is strong.”

“How do you know?” Myla asks, curiosity piqued.

“The vibrations—the flow of blood—there is nothing weak reverberating off this child. But I do not sense Ashborn blood.”

Myla’s brow furrows. “Of course not, why would there be?”

Imogene’s face hints at a coy smile but is quickly corrected. “I made an assumption is all.”

“No.” Myla shakes her head. “This child is the rightful inheritor of New Falkmere. The late King Caius is her father.”

“He passed a while back though,” Imogene questions, her head tilting in curiosity.

“Yes,” Myla answers. “The conflict with the Blood Stealer has been treacherous,” she explains. “I did not want my child to be born into such an uncertain situation. So, I siphoned my magic into freezing her growth until the right time.”

A look of admiration passes over Imogene’s face. “A mother is willing to do many things for her child.”

“Yes,” Myla agrees. “My child will have Restorer’s blood, you see. That makes her existence even more dangerous and equally crucial.”

“You keep saying ‘her’,” the queen remarks. “I remember my own fledgling growing within me. I knew he was a boy well before his birth.”

“And you were right?”

“I was.” Imogene points to a trail leading into the forest, lit by torches every so often. “The captain will train in the arena at the end of the trail. His practice begins tomorrow.”

“So, he agreed to your offer?”

“He did,” Imogene states, clearly pleased. “He is strong, for a half-blood; it would behoove us to have him on our side . . . reintegrating his power back into the Ashborn bloodlines.”

Myla takes a slow, deep breath. She could have guessed when Imogene invited her to talk, this is where the conversation might lead. “I am sure Captain Monroe will make the best decision for himself,” she answers, hoping her expression and tone come off as an indifferent queen.

Imogene side-eyes her. Apparently, the statement did not have the desired effect, for she continues, a little more blatant this time. “When he begins his training tomorrow, it would be best if you were not there to distract him.”

Myla turns to face Imogene. Host or not, Myla refuses to be instructed as though she, too, is not a queen. “Do not think that I fail to see the truth beneath your scheme,” she whispers, stepping closer to the feathered woman before her. “I know very well that you do not offer Captain Monroe a place here because you admire him. You offer him a place here because you fear him.”

THE SUN HAS barely risen in the sky when Myla finds herself standing at the mouth of the trail, pacing back and forth. Imogene delivered her message with such audacity that Myla has spent all night seething in defiance. Who is she to tell me I can or can not watch him train. She has known him all of a few days. I have known him for over ten years.

“What are you doing?” Bryar startles her from behind, his eyebrows pushed together in confusion.

She opens her mouth to speak, some excuse lingering just out of reach. Instead, the truth spills out. “Imogene said I ought to leave you to train . . . without me as a distraction. I am mad that she told me I should not, so . . . here I am.”

Bryar chuckles and brushes past her, no stranger to her stubborn inability to follow instructions. Thus, he motions for her to follow with a brief tug on her sleeve. “Come on, then, you can laugh as I get my ass handed to me.”

“How did you know,” Myla banters hesitantly, “I did not want to miss that.” Together they walk in silence for a few moments, this sort of awkwardness only comparable to their brief interactions following her wedding to Caius.

Finally, Bryar speaks. “I think this will be a good place for me, Myla. If I do well in my training, I can hold an equivalent position here in a few years.”

“Yes,” Myla agrees gently, careful not to speak with too much confidence should he mistake her tone for acceptance. Nothing inside her likes what is happening. It is a breakdown that really should have happened years ago, but it did not. Now it is, it stings differently than it might have prior to becoming queen.

“Tell me about Phaenna. She seems like an interesting woman.”

Bryar flashes her an annoyed look. He has never been one for conflict, and right now, that is all that seems to find them. “There is nothing to tell. They are putting a few potential mates on display, that is all.”