Page 6 of A Thousand Burning Ravens

Seated at a long table to her left is a gathering of lords and ladies, as well as many of Myla’s Council members. Lord and Lady Valen of Titonfall raise chalices of sweet wine to one another and Lord Valen leans to whisper, making his wife emit a deep and genuine belly laugh. On the opposite side of the room, important military officials, Bryar included, sit wearing solemn faces. Discussing assault tactics, no doubt, Myla thinks to herself.

As she takes in the faces of those gathered this evening to swear fealty, Myla is grateful to see so many. This year alone, they attempted to storm the Seam with hopes of weakening the Blood Stealer. Their army was flattened with a devastating loss of two thousand men. Since then, Bryar’s special forces, the Raven’s Veil, have been in and out of the Seam countless times, collecting information and undertaking stealthy attacks on smaller targets. He has more recently forbidden any killing behind enemy lines, after men began succumbing to the Blood Stealer more frequently during skirmishes.

Despite the tumultuous happenings of the last half a year, all of last year’s subjects have returned. That is what happens when they do not know their queen is on standby until the Blood Stealer summons her. The morbid thought sends a shiver down her spine.

When Caius sat safely on the throne, and his Restorer abilities were keeping the Blood Stealer subdued to his own territory, it was simple to keep the plague of the Blood Stealer at bay. Anyone found to be under his influence was brought directly to the King, who would cleanse the victims with Restorer’s Magic. Now, without that solution, anyone found to be under the Blood Stealer’s influence is executed on the spot, so as to slow his powerful growth. Myla wonders who among her trusted officials would be the first to raise a hand against her, should they discover her secret.

Across the room, the door swings open to another familiar face, though older than the last time she saw him. His chin length hair and gray stubble beard are well groomed and the decorative blade at his side still gleaming. Wearing a fine black tunic with silver details at the wrists and neck, he strides in, oozing the humble confidence she has known from him for a decade now. Myla stands, a thrill in her heart dismissing every instinct to remain the dignified queen. Descending the steps from her throne, Myla parts the crowd and stops just feet away from her old friend.

“Sir Roderick.” She tempers the excitement in her voice, though the gleam in her eyes betrays her.

The older gentleman smiles back, bowing with the utmost reverence, a glimmer of pride in his eyes. “Your Grace,” he replies, waiting for her motion to stand upright. “It has been many years. I heard of your . . . status change, and thought to myself: what an honor to have taught the future queen to defend herself.”

“I am so pleased to see you,” Myla replies, taking Sir Roderick’s hand. “I insist you sit near me. I should like to speak with you more this evening. I am afraid I have business to attend right now.”

He smiles with a nod of understanding. “I see another friend.” He nods toward Bryar, who watches with a visible swell of joy. “I will sit by him for the ceremony, and I shall speak to you after.”

Myla returns to her throne, a loneliness sinking over her. Every single person is here on duty, something she is so grateful for. However, at each table, friends sit with friends, while she sits alone. Bryar and Sir Roderick shake hands firmly and exchange a brief hug. Old banter seems to ensue without delay, and Myla diverts her gaze, lest someone notice her jealousy, her longing to sit with them and feel as though she belongs, the way she used to.

As the sun sinks beneath the horizon, casting an eerie twilight over the grand hall of the palace, Myla stands, her movement commanding silence to fall throughout the room, her presence both regal and foreboding. It escapes not a single soul how beautiful she looks. As all eyes settle upon her, she appears tall and resilient, a young woman deserving of the attention she receives. In the flickering candlelight, her flowing brown hair is highlighted and cascades in soft waves down her back, framing her delicate, yet strong face with high cheekbones and a set jawline. She carries a stoic roughness in her eyes, put there by years of treading water. They are a deep, icy-blue. They suck you in like a whirlpool in an angry ocean of unspoken thoughts you would like to know, but never will.

Still wearing the dress she chose this morning; she is certain she made the right choice. A hunter-green gown hugs her form, an elegant and precise tease, the fabric shimmering subtly as she moves, reminiscent of the dense forests surrounding her realm. The gown’s intricate embroidery features meandering vines and various creatures, a nod to the unpredictability of nature, as well as the strength of a queen who is equally at home in her court and the untamed wilderness, though the latter is not commonly known.

As she moves, the fabric whispers against her skin, and the modest neckline of her dress validates her seriousness. A piercing black crown, crusted in smoky quartz and obsidian, jets upward in six slender spindles, and black peonies are arranged between the points, giving her a feminine ferocity. Looking over her throne room, across the faces of those called to her attention, a look that seems to say, “you can not hurt me, for I have died and come back again,” whispers across her stoic features.

The air is heavy with the scent of roasted meats and spiced wine. The flickering candlelight creates shadows that dance ominously across the stone walls. Tonight is not merely a feast, but a ritual steeped in ancient tradition: the oath-swearing ceremony, where loyalty is proven with blood.

With a raised chin, Myla examines her people, the magnificent and menacing slant of her eyes taking in every detail, preparing herself for at least two hours of standing, listening to oath after oath.

Lords and ladies, clad in their finest silks and velvets, approach the dais with trepidation, their eyes flickering with a mix of reverence and awe. Each vassal bears a token of their loyalty—a jeweled bangle, a sleek chalice, or some simple, yet significant trinket. As they kneel before her, the air thickens with tension, and their voices rise in a haunting chant, pledging their fealty with a reverence that sends shivers down the spine. One by one, they prick their palms with the cold steel, allowing a single drop of blood to fall onto the altar, a crimson symbol of their commitment to the crown, and the price of loyalty in Myla’s realm.

As she accepts each offering, her hand is steady on their shoulder, her gaze piercing their souls, binding them, not just by a spoken oath, but by the magic spilled from their veins onto the altar before her.

Elsa stands before her now, jaw set firmly, hand unshaken. She pierces the soft flesh of her palm, slicing through scars from many years of oaths, allowing blood to spill upon the altar. Ever a faithful friend and loyal subject, Elsa kneels at Myla’s feet, expressing devotion and commitment of the sincerest kind.

Behind her stands Bryar. His increasing proximity, paired with the purpose of the evening, brings heat to her cheeks. Nothing like a man spilling his own blood for you, after spending the last several years pretending his affections were only for the crown.

Resisting the urge to smile as he steps forward, Myla lowers her chin in the same reverent nod she has shared with the last eighty-five people. Yet, this nod feels different. The way her stomach twists, as he flays open his own palm to bleed for her, feels different. The grimace of slight pain, matched equally with eyes that scream, “I would not have this any other way,” speaks in a different language to her than any of the other oaths before.

It reminds her of a night they shared many years ago, his words haunting her as he kneels before her now. I would burn this lifetime and every other lifetime to the ground. I would watch my life caught in a fire, all for you. When his lips part and the oath drops from his tongue like a sacred vow, only they two know, something else in her stirs.

“This Raven Throne, where loyalty binds,

I kneel here; our fates entwined.

With sacred vows, spilled blood we share,

If death is true, I pledge this prayer.

In darkest times to stand as one,

My body, your shield ‘til my breath is gone.

By dagger’s point lest I be disgraced,

I swear allegiance in this sacred place.

For every drop that stains the ground,