Page 29 of Unravelled

The Festival of the Final Sun was in full swing, the air thick with the scent of citrus trees and blooming tahla flowers.

Lanterns lined the marble pathways, casting soft, flickering gold across silk gowns and embroidered coats.

Laughter and music wove together in the air like thread, a string quartet playing beneath a canopy of night-blooming vines, their notes floating gently through the garden like something sacred.

Mira and Tharion arrived just as the final lanterns were being lit.

They stepped into the glow together, side by side, the picture of bonded elegance, but beneath the surface, the weight between them told a different story.

His hand rested lightly at the small of her back.

Familiar. Practiced. It was an echo of what had been, not a tether.

His gaze swept the crowd in constant motion, always assessing, always searching.

Even now, even injured, he patrolled. Mira didn’t speak.

She knew better than to ask if he saw threats where there were none.

Around them, the celebration unfolded with curated ease.

Courtiers raised glasses of spiced wine.

Attendants passed trays of sugared fruits and golden honey cakes.

Children danced with woven circlets of stars in their hair.

The world glowed as if the kingdom itself had remembered how to hope just for one night.

A hush fell as the lanterns were released. One by one, small paper suns floated into the dark sky, their warm light lifting into the sky with soft sighs of parchment and flame. Hundreds of them, each inscribed with prayers and promises, rising like a constellation reborn.

Mira tilted her head, watching the sky bloom with light.

It should have felt beautiful. It used to.

But tonight, she felt like the only thing not captivated by the sight.

Her feet rooted to stone, her heart pulled taut with guilt and memories she couldn’t touch.

Beside her, Tharion watched, too, though his expression remained unreadable, carved in shadow and restraint.

A silver bell chimed across the garden, clear and bright.

It rang once, a signal to the crowd. A chance.

The festival’s oldest tradition. If you caught a lantern before it rose beyond reach, it was said your hope whispered into the flame would come true.

A game. As the bell’s echo faded into the night, children scrambled from the edge of the crowd, laughter peeling through the quiet awe.

Their hands stretched skyward, chasing the drifting lights with a wild devotion only youth possessed.

Mira didn’t move. She stood in the lantern-glow, her fingers curled loosely at her side.

Harwen darted past her, dark braid swinging as she ran barefoot across the marble.

She leapt for a low-sailing lantern, laughing as it rose just out of reach.

Mira watched, envy prickling somewhere deep and quiet.

Not for Harwen, but for the lantern. For the weightlessness of it, the effortless glow.

For the way it floated, unburdened, while she remained tethered to the ground.

She glanced at Tharion. He hadn’t moved either.

His arms remained crossed behind his back, his stance too formal, too stiff.

He wasn’t watching the lanterns. He was watching the edges again, the walls, the shadows, the guards posted in the dark.

Even in this celebration, he was never truly present with her.

Mira’s gaze shifted skyward. Her heart felt heavier than it should in a moment, so full of beauty.

A soft flutter of wind brushed her cheek, and something flickered in her periphery.

She turned just in time to see a lantern break from the cluster just above, its flame flickering unsteadily, tugged low by breeze.

It drifted down like a falling star. Closer.

Slower landing in her open palms. A ripple of delighted surprise moved through the crowd, followed by a smattering of applause. Mira blinked down at it, stunned.

The paper was warm and thin beneath her fingers.

She hesitated for only a breath before turning, her eyes scanning the crowd until she spotted a child near the hedge wide-eyed, frozen with awe, tiny hands half-raised as if willing the lantern to change its mind and return.

Mira stepped toward her, gently kneeling as the girl’s mother gasped softly.

She leaned in, smiled, and extended the lantern.

The little girl squealed, voice high and breathless.

“Really? For me?” Mira nodded once, her voice quiet but warm.

“It found its way to me… but I think it was meant for you.” The child cradled the lantern like it was something sacred, then turned and darted back to her mother, who lifted her high into the air so she could release it again.

The lantern caught the breeze and soared upward, brighter than before.

More applause followed. Laughter. Joy. Mira felt none of it.

She stood slowly, her expression serene.

But inside, guilt was ripping her apart.

Beyond the winding garden paths, a wide, open grassy expanse stretched beneath the stars, its surface smooth and meticulously maintained for the evening’s festivities.

At its center, couples twirled and stepped in elegant formation, their silken garments catching the lantern light as they moved in time with the music.

Around the edges, clusters of guests gathered, some watching with keen interest, others murmuring behind their jeweled goblets.

A few lingered just at the boundary, waiting for the right moment to step onto the dance floor, while others, content to observe, exchanged quiet gossip and knowing glances beneath the golden glow of the festival lights.

Tharion exhaled sharply, his gaze settling on a group of advisors at the far end of the pavilion. A messenger approached, speaking in hushed tones, and Mira caught the flicker of the conversation.

“Lord Asric still hasn’t delivered the requisition for Emreth. We need the ledger by morning to prepare the supply routes.”

Tharion’s jaw tensed. “He had it signed three days ago.”

“Yes,” the steward glanced nervously at Mira, “But he’s… withholding. He said it was a matter best handled with a personal touch.”

“Of course he did,” Tharion muttered under his breath. He turned slightly, catching Mira’s eye. “I’ll only be a moment.” Before she could reply, he was already striding across the grass with clipped precision, the movement born of too many battles and not enough patience.

Mira let out a slow breath and turned her gaze back to the dance floor.

The night was just beginning. She moved through the celebration with practiced ease, the weight of silk clinging to her body like a second skin.

Moving through the revelry, she let the noise wash over her, laughter spilling from wine-flushed lips, the chiming of crystal goblets, the murmur of hushed conversations woven between the music.

Every gathering like this was a stage, performative. She caught snatches as she passed.

"I swear, the guest quarters get smaller every year, "

"What about Hallen’s Reach? That’s close enough, isn’t it?"

"Will the Crowned Betrothed make an appearance tonight?"

"Did you hear? Lord Asric’s looking for a new lover,"

Then, something sharper, cutting through the usual courtly gossip. "Ren defended the convoy himself, can you believe it?"

Mira stopped. Not abruptly, not noticeably.

Just enough to appear she had been caught by the flow of the celebration, her movements languid, effortless.

She drifted toward the carved stone railing beside a lantern-lit archway, tilting her head as if admiring the glow of the floating lights in the fountain beyond. She listened.

“Surprising, isn’t it?” a voice mused, rich and contemplative. “For all his reputation, he didn’t hesitate.”

She recognized the speaker instantly. Cleric Perrin.

She stood amid a small cluster of nobles and officials, her pristine robes untouched by the warmth of the evening.

The ceremonial silverwork embroidered into her sleeves shimmered faintly in the lantern light, casting subtle sigils across her silhouette.

Her headdress, sheer and celestial, crowned her with quiet reverence.

Her expression was mild. Measured. She spoke, as she always did, with careful precision, every word designed to seed itself in the minds of those who mattered most.

A woman scoffed lightly. “A bastard prince playing hero?”

Another noble chuckled into his drink. “He has a talent for spectacle.”

Perrin only smiled. “Perhaps. But he didn’t have to be in Anyerit. And yet, he was.”

Mira’s fingers traced the along the railing.

It was subtle, but she could hear it in their voices, the shift, the curiosity laced with something close to respect.

The way they were speaking of him as something other than reckless, selfish, untamed.

Ren had spent his life standing just outside the lines they had drawn for him.

And now, it seemed, the lines were blurring.

Suddenly, she was back in Anyerit. The wind whipping against her face, the scent of sweat and steel thick in the air. Ren in front of her. They had fought with no hesitation, no space between them. His voice, sharp and commanding, his body a shield against the worst of it.

Then, another voice hushed, insistent. “And Tharion? I heard he was injured. Shot through the shoulder?”

Cleric Perrin, ever composed, offered a quiet, diplomatic smile. “He returned with the convoy.”

Mira’s jaw tensed. Why let Ren take the credit? He had planned with Ren to return the convoy. He had bled for for their survival. And yet, here in the gardens where praise echoed, it was Ren’s name on their lips, not his. Tharion had never cared for praise. But this felt different.