Page 78 of A Thousand Burning Ravens

Imogene wears a disgusted scowl. “I know his mother brought shame upon this court, and I know his father died with many secrets that are not mine to tell.”

Myla shivers and her eyes narrow in contempt. “Does he know that you know this?”

“Why would I distract his learning with unimportant details?” Imogene rationalizes.

“He has spent his whole life searching for his mother,” Myla retorts angrily. “He deserves to know the truth!”

“Says a queen who knows nothing of duty,” Imogene hisses.

“You underestimate me, and you insult my rule,” Myla growls, her forehead nearly pressed against Imogene’s, a demand for attention. “I arrived here weak, yes. But throughout my duration here, I have not been received with the respect owed to a queen. Had you showed up on my doorstep, wounded and in need of refuge, in no way would you have been left invisible and dishonored in my halls. Your court ought to be ashamed of their reception of the Queen of Falkmere.”

Imogene’s nostrils flare, her skin red where Myla holds fast to her face, releasing her only when Imogene’s guards’ approach, eager to aid their queen. Imogene waves them away, a ferocity in her eyes. “If you want to be respected, Myla of Falkmere, you must demand it.”

“No,” Myla retorts with a whip of her head. “I believe respect is earned and reciprocated.”

Imogene watches as Myla paces back and forth, her intense glare never once wavering. After what feels like several minutes, the Ashborn queen speaks. “I have seen nothing from you that suggests you are anything more than a scared little girl, thrown into a role you should never have been given. You speak of power, yet I have not seen it; hardly any infamy follows you. You speak of earning respect, yet you allow yourself to be trampled over. I am unimpressed with you, and I am disinclined to perform an Ashborn marriage on someone so unworthy of their mate.”

It is not the unrestrained insults that tip Myla over the edge, nor is it the suggestion she, as a queen and a well-rounded woman, is somehow undeserving of Bryar. It is the way she speaks, so similar to the way the men of her Council used to, as though she is an uneducated child in need of enlightenment.

It begins as a warmth in her throat, a buildup of magic materializing into waves of fury. Light drips from her fingertips, sizzling on the chilled stones beneath her, ready to unify in one flash of electric shock. The Ashborn queen takes note of the simmering power, a brief eye roll dismissing Myla entirely.

Imogene, back turned, is none the wiser, her words continuing to cast judgment until the final statement unleashes a beast she is unprepared for. “Go home to Falkmere, and ask the new king how you might best serve him. It seems that is where you belo—”

Without warning, two guards come barreling into the space between Myla and Imogene, flames balled at their fists. Before they can make it three strides closer, Myla loses her light, binding them in a tangled mess together, suspended by a rope of magic to the trees overhead. Particles of light by the millions hang suspended in the air around them, ringing and casting a blinding glow in every direction.

Imogene’s eyes flair, a brief moment of shock passing through her before she steps backward, fixing in a crouched position, her hands pressed together, summoning her own flames of fury.

From Myla’s lungs, unrestrained and fueled with hatred, the Voice of the Gods raises from her throat in a deafening bellow, which causes the earth beneath them to tremble, a deep crack forming beneath Imogene’s throne. A light engulfs Myla, bright enough to stun the Ashborn queen to her knees, arms shielding her face from blindness as the light extends well beyond the circular opening. The flicker of magic Imogene managed before Myla’s display dies between her palms, her energy distributing throughout her body to act as a shield.

“How dare you treat me as though I am less of a queen than you.” Myla’s words are distorted, carrying with them the voices of the Gods and Goddesses speaking in harmony.

Imogene screams, covering her ears and squeezing her eyes shut. A trickle of blood runs down her cheek as her eardrums rupture.

“Do not be so naive as to underestimate me, I will have either your allegiance, or your submission.”

The Ashborn queen, tall and regal only minutes ago, is curled on the ground, her knees to her chest and her arms cupping her head to ease the sensation of her brain splitting in half. Myla wills her magic back within herself, casting a glance at the crack, which is nearly wide enough to swallow the throne within. Ivan and two dozen guards’ approach with frenzied shouts, but Imogene holds up a hand, ordering their halt. Her amulet strobes violently now, calling to Ivan for help. His amulet blinks in response and at once, Imogene appears less distressed. Her husband carries the burden with her.

“May I offer you a hand, Your Grace?” Myla hisses, extending a hand down to the queen, who struggles to rise. It is not a nicety. It is not an offer of friendship; it is a final warning. One which Imogene inspects with fearful eyes before accepting.

Once standing, she looks from Myla to Ivan, and then to Bryar, who comes running into the destroyed space, a look of horror on his face.

His first response is to reach for the sword at his waist. Rhyland is behind him, flanked by several of Myla’s guards, who refrain from drawing their weapons at her command.

“Do you need assistance, Your Grace?” Bryar asks, standing a few strides behind her.

“No,” Myla assures, her eyes never wavering from Imogene’s. “It was a misunderstanding, was it not?”

Imogene lifts her chin, small bruises specking it from Myla’s fingertips, and blood staining the yellow collar of her dress.

“Indeed,” she agrees, a look of admiration slowly replacing the fear and anger. “I see now that I underestimated you . . . The Queen Who Bleeds Stars.” She glances down at the crack separating them and steps over it. “Let us have no more rifts between us.”

“WHAT WAS THAT?” Bryar whispers, voice heavy with concern as they walk away from Ivan inspecting Imogene for serious wounds.

“That was the beginning of an alliance,” Myla hisses, pressing a flat palm against her stomach, breathing through a brief surge of pain. “It seems the little one does not appreciate my efforts on her behalf.”

Bryar shuts the door of their chambers behind him, latching it closed, visibly stepping into problem solving mode. “Are you sure it was an alliance? Did you just start a war between us and the Ashborn?” His eyebrows are raised on his forehead and his posture is tense, ready to turn right around and go fight somebody.

“No,” Myla’s laughter sounds like long-withheld gusts of stress breaking free. “She challenged me, and I showed her I was not to be questioned.”