Page 73 of A Thousand Burning Ravens

He turns her to face him, pressing firm hands into her shoulders. “They did not risk their heads abandoning their posts to march for two weeks in miserable conditions to throw pitchforks at you, Myla. They came here because they believe in you.”

“Right,” she laughs breathlessly, ignoring the pit in her stomach. “I feel like people keep misplacing their trust in me. I never seem to know what to do with it anymore.”

“That is not true,” Bryar says assuredly, strapping a breastplate to her chest, along with shoulder guards and gauntlets. “You are just afraid, and that is to be expected. But you are not alone. Are you ready?”

“Yes,” Myla answers, catching a glimpse of herself in the arched windows before the entryway. She looks fierce. “I am ready.”

The night is late now and, in the distance, in a clearing beyond the forest that conceals Valyndor, hundreds of small fires flicker, no doubt warming the soldiers’ meals and drinks.

Flanked by Bryar and Rhyland, and behind them, Ivan and Imogene, Myla walks briskly toward the exit, not daring to show anyone in procession how afraid she is to step outside the ward. Each step closer to the perimeter brings her closer to what could be her undoing, right before an army of forty thousand soldiers who have marched on good faith to come defend her. I will not let them down.

Ahead, the clearing looms into clear view, its entrance a pale yellow beneath the moonlight, contrasting against the black of the forest shrouding it. A few steps more and she stands at the edge. One step more, and she will remove herself from the protection of the ward. Behind her, Bryar and Rhyland shift, no doubt exchanging wary glances, wondering if their queen will falter.

Myla sucks in as much air as her lungs can house, holding her breath a few seconds before slowly exhaling, centering herself with as much determination as possible, and banishing all memories of nearly dying out here two months ago.

“Okay,” she whispers, taking a step forward.

With a force unlike any she has ever experienced, her body aches. Her spine feels heavier, a need to double over tempting her to turn around and return to the palace. The air, which had only moments go felt pleasant is now hot, sending nauseating flashes of warmth to her head.

“Come now, Myla,” Rhyland says confidently. “Show that asshole how little he truly controls you.” Bryar chuckles alongside him, a discreet hand brushing the back of her elbow in support.

“Yeah,” Myla agrees, swallowing hard beneath the pain growing from her joints and expanding rapidly across the rest of her

body. “No control, right?”

Bryar leads her up the side of a slight slope, giving her a vantage point over the majority of the massive encampment, which stretches across the clearing and beyond, into the woods of the other side. Standing tall, arms folded over her belly, Myla allows her gaze to glide over the moonlight’s glint on the heads of thousands of men here to support her. If this does not merit confidence, surely nothing can.

“Attention!” Bryar’s deep voice shouts, commanding every soldier to rise from their places beside their fires to stand straight, facing her. The clatter of armor against armor is nearly deafening, followed at once by an eerie silence as they listen. “Queen Myla Alerys of Falkmere.” He draws attention to her, then steps out of view, leaving her the sole focus.

For a brief moment, Myla fears her words will fail her, as she feels like nothing she says can convey the depth of her gratitude to their loyalty. Alas, a spark inside her seems to banish the pain and fear, replacing it with the need to reassure her men that she has every intention of doing right by them, honoring their sacrifices, and rewarding them greatly. They have not come in vain; a gift from the Gods, Lenore might call it.

With a quivering breath in, she speaks. “You have traveled on the wings of faith,” she begins, her voice stronger than she expects. “Faith that you would find me here, awaiting you with answers. So, answers you will get.”

With confidence, her voice grows to a shout, hoping to invigorate the ocean of warriors before her. “Tonight, we find ourselves on the precipice of a battle, which I believe the Gods will see to victory. For too long, the Blood Stealer has cursed our realm and brought our people to their knees. I do not know a single soul untouched by him, be it personally or through a loved one. It is time for his reign of terror to come to an end!”

A shout of approval erupts, silenced only when she lifts a hand in the air prompting it. “We have faced a grave defeat, and we have lost those we love. I stand here today, humbled by your presence, your resilience, and your loyalty. I thank you all for sacrificing all that you have to come to me in my time of need. Your efforts will not go unrewarded.”

A tremble of pain trickles through her veins, a hot sweat collecting on her brow. Myla ignores it, clenching her fists for leverage against the increasing discomfort. “I carry within myself, the heir of your beloved King Caius. For too long, his blood has lived in my womb, frozen in time. I feared what might happen to the child—the only Restorer left—should I allow it to enter this world.

“I understand my absence has surely been alarming, I hope you see now that it has been for the life and safety of our future king or queen.”

At first, grumbles of confusion ripple through the crowd, soon replaced with invigorated roars of excitement, and renewed hope when Rhyland raises a fist to the sky and screams, “Long live the heir!”

“Rest tonight,” Myla commands once the roar subsides. “Rally your courage and prepare. Soon we fight.” Myla feels there is so much more she could and should say to these road-weary men, but the tightness of her chest, and the insatiable urge to fall on the swords of the men before her, cuts her speech short. Quietly, she turns to Bryar. “I need to get back in the ward. Now.”

Without a word, Bryar takes her arm, leading her quickly back toward the tree line. As a suffocating tightness seizes her chest, Myla realizes she does not remember walking such a great distance. Lifting her skirts, she takes longer strides, begging the Goddess to send her even a drop more strength. A mere minute passes, agonizing waves of pain coursing through her body, as the need to shut down and cease to exist overwhelms her nervous system.

When at last she stumbles into the safety of the ward, Myla releases her grip on Bryar, ignoring the watchful eyes of the Ashborn king and queen, and continues walking onward on her own.

Rhyland and Bryar catch up to her, Rhyland making some playful remark about the speed of pregnant women. Myla ignores it, her senses not yet ready to receive any level of humor. The trio walks back to the palace in silence, but instead of entering, Myla sits upon the steps, overlooking the tranquility of the various paths leading into the darkness of the woods. She now knows, one path leads to the heart of the city, the wealthy manors and shops above, another to the training arena, and the third to the residential district where Lenore lives.

She allows the stillness of the night to soothe her pounding heart, bringing it to a place of equal stillness. The black vignette, which previously threatened to close around her vision, fades away, leaving her with a clear view of her comrades watching her, waiting for her to speak. Looking at Imogene and Ivan, Myla offers the sincerest smile she can conjure, considering her aching body. “I am indebted to you. Thank you for offering my troops a safe place to rest.”

Imogene nods graciously. “There was a time, many centuries ago, when your kind offered aid to the Ashborn. It is the least we can do.”

When the king and queen have retired, Rhyland and Bryar sit next to her. “Tell me.” She looks to Rhyland. “Who are the captives you spoke of in your letter?”

He shakes his head. “I could not tell you, Your Grace. Townsfolk reported seeing the Blood Stealer leave with a slew of hooded captives dragging behind. I sent Callum to scout out the situation.”