Page 81 of A Thousand Burning Ravens

Myla flinches as a blast of hot flame launches itself from Imogene’s palms, bathing her and Bryar together in a glowing flash of orange and yellow, before slowly fading to blue. The flame, which should melt her skin from her bones, feels like nothing more than a warm summer breeze, and a light pulses from her amulet, Bryar’s magic protecting her already. In turn, light spills from her body, millions of stars spiraling in the vortex of their magic, blinding all but Myla and her husband.

Within seconds, the swirling energy returns to its owners, and the room takes on its natural lighting again.

“May the Ashborn Flame protect you both, and may your marriage be a legendary one,” Ivan says, standing beside his wife. “Now kiss your queen, and sign this contract so we can begin feasting.” His voice is laced with a hint of humor as he retrieves the quill, dipping it in ink readied for their signatures.

Bryar pulls Myla by the waist, bringing her as close as her round stomach will allow, and smiles into a kiss. “I love you, wife,” he says, as though the words themselves are a sacrament to the Gods. “Now, let us put a stop to that son of a bitch, so I can finally worship you in peace.”

“Perhaps, winning this war will be our wedding gift to one another,” she hums in response, allowing her lips to linger against his a little longer.

“I can think of more pleasant ways to celebrate,” Bryar retorts before leaning in to offer something filthy and exhilarating, sending a rush of red to her cheeks.

“Promise?” Myla whispers in his ear.

Her probing is met with a sly grin and a tip of his sharp chin, “I promise.”

Myla has barely finished her signature on the contract when the great double doors of the busy hall fling open, revealing Callum in a cloud of ash. He looks older, somehow. His hair is a mess, his eyes are heavy, and his armor is marked with new dents and scratches. He stands before them now, covered in a heavy layer of dust and soot from days of traveling through the Seam. His shoulders heave as he angrily throws two Ashborn guards off him. Both guards grunt in disgust, dutifully reaching to seize him, shouting commands of, “Stop in the name of the king.”

They are about to detain him once more when Myla twists to face them head-on. “Let him be!” she insists, her tone not to be defied. “He is with me.”

Concerned, Bryar maneuvers past her, followed closely by Rhyland.

Before either can ask any questions or make sense of his distress, a quivering plea for help brings Myla’s heart to a screeching halt. “Vesperian has Elsa.”

SOMEWHERE, TUCKED WITHIN the darkest parts of the Blood Stealer’s vile castle, a two-day ride from Valyndor, Elsa has fallen victim to Vesperian. Across the room, Rhyland and Bryar strategize, Callum paces in an agonizing trance back and forth across the room.

“To make things worse,” Callum spews, continuing a rant that has not stopped since his arrival, “the road between here and the Seam is crawling with devilish wolves. Massive things.” He points to a bandage around his thigh. “Fucking massive.”

“We can handle some wolves,” Bryar says, about to offer solutions when Callum interjects again.

“I had to come back over the Seer’s Mountain to avoid a pack of them—we need to be prepared.”

Rhyland groans and looks at Myla. “Do you want me to make him forget the last few weeks so he will shut the fuck up.” The latter statement is louder and enunciated, more of a command than a question.

“No,” Bryar insists. “Callum, focus—where did you leave the Raven’s Veil? Is Titonfall ready?”

“I can not focus!” Callum rages. “He has her, and he is hurting her!”

Rhyland now grabs Callum by the collar, pulling him upright, and bellows, “She is alive, man. That is more than you had a month ago! You can still save her! Now, pull it together.”

With raised eyebrows, Bryar watches the exchange and nods at Rhyland in approval, before turning to Callum once more. “Titonfall. The Raven’s Veil. Talk.”

Callum reveals that Titonfall waits for word to march on the Seam, but he has split the forces of the Raven’s Veil between Titonfall and a camp at the base of the mountains in the Seam. Myla and her armies are to meet them on their journey and battle Vesperian, resulting in an attack on Vesperian from both the north and east.

Myla lowers herself to the edge of the hearth in the great hall. A fog of guilt sneaks through every corner of her soul, visions of Elsa manipulated and misused plays over in her mind. “I thought she died,” Myla says finally, drawing the men’s attention her way. “I can not believe, I have sat here thinking she was somewhere with the Gods, to find that all this time I have abandoned her to the brutalities of Vesperian.”

Callum’s pacing resumes, his hands a frenzy of motions, first tangling in his rusty-blond hair, then grabbing at his sword as though the Blood Stealer is already near enough to stab, and finally he launches a volley of angry fireballs through the open ceiling, chasing them with a string of curses.

“She did not recognize me,” he admits, his voice breaking with emotion. “I went in with the Raven’s Veil one night to try and get her, but it was a mess. I could not reach her, and even if I could have,” his voice trails off into a sob, “she is his plaything now.”

“His what?” Myla demands, though she already knows the answer. She feels a painful lump form in her throat, threatening to suffocate her. “We need to go now,” she insists. “There is no reason to wait. We need to get her.” Myla stands, making for the door with every intention of donning her armor and rallying the troops, midnight or not. Anger courses through her veins.

“Wait,” Rhyland interjects. “Your Grace, you can hardly leave the ward without collapsing. We need a plan.” Then under his breath, “Being the voice of reason is exhausting.”

Myla nearly snarls, anger rising like a black monster in her chest, threatening to spill from her limbs in flashes of brutalizing light. “Do I look like I care? If I have to crawl, convulsing and suffocating to where Elsa is, I will.”

Rhyland sighs, closing his eyes in frustration, as tensions in the room mount. “Myla, you must think of the child. There is no telling what sort of strain the Blood Stealer will put on it at this point.”

Myla slams a flat palm against the stone frame of the hearth, leaning toward the fire and letting its heat fuel hers. At least, she thinks it is heat from the hearth, until she catches the glint of her amulet, flashing red against her breast, and realizes it is Bryar’s power, which she shares in now.