Page 30 of Unravelled

A familiar figure caught her eye. Draped in sapphire silk, fanning herself lazily, was Lady Elandra.

She lounged alone beneath a cluster of citrus trees at the edge of the eastern garden.

The trees arched gracefully overhead, their branches heavy with golden fruit, casting dappled shadows across the stone benches and soft moss beneath.

Mira made her approach, slipping into the seat across from her just as Elandra’s sharp eyes flicked up in recognition.

"Speaking of tragedy," she began, her voice lowering to a conspiratorial whisper as she leaned in, plucking a grape from the silver dish before her.

"I hear the Crowned Betrothed is still catatonic.

Not a word from him. The council is growing restless, but he delays, day after day.

" Elandra clicked her tongue in disdain.

"How can a kingdom survive with a king who’s lost his will to rule? "

Mira’s fingers tightened. Her gaze drifted toward the distant fountains, where the water caught the lantern light in fractured ribbons of gold and silver.

Elandra continued, "I heard it from a reliable source. You know, they’re facing down the barrel of an uprising.

The people are restless, starving, and the Kharadors aren’t helping matters.

The advisors have begged him to take action, but he’s paralyzed.

" She shook her head, her fan waving gently in frustration. "It’s a mess, really."

Mira spoke without fully meaning to, her voice low, thoughtful. “The people in those towns… they’re desperate. The hunger, the fear. They need something to believe in. Something that gives them hope, or else…” She caught herself, the final words catching in her throat.

Elendra’s eyes glinted with interest, her curiosity piqued.she purred. “Or else... what? Revolution? Fire in the streets? A charming little coup?”

Mira gave a soft, breathy laugh, too smooth, too quick. “Oh, ignore me. Too much wine...”

She collected a glass from the table and sipped, letting the sweetness mask the bitterness on her tongue. But Elendra wasn’t so easily led astray.

“Mira...” she murmured, the name stretched with quiet reprimand. “You forget who you’re speaking to.” Elendra’s gaze didn’t waver. She already knew there was more. She always did. Then, with a conspirator’s smile, her voice lowered, smooth as velvet over a knife. “I’ll make you a trade.”

Mira arched a brow, wary. “I’ll tell you what Lord Asric actually wants for that degree he’s withholding.” Elendra let the words hang between them, lazily watching Mira’s reaction. “A detail that not even your darling Tharion has pried from him yet.”

Mira’s heart ticked up, but her expression didn’t falter.

But beneath the silk of her gown and the practiced stillness of her face, guilt curled sharp and persistent.

If she could fix this, if she could help him, even in this small way, maybe it would make her betrayal quieter.

Maybe it would be enough to prove, if only to herself, that the way Ren had looked at her, like she was still wanted, still seen, was a mistake.

“And in return?” she asked, tone even. Elendra smiled like a cat. “You finish your sentence.”

Mira blinked.

“You said, ‘or else…’ ” Elendra repeated, tilting her head. “Finish the thought.” Mira hesitated. For a breath, two, three.

Quietly, “Or else they’ll turn to someone else. Someone who promises change.” The words tasted like rust. She didn’t name the resistance, not directly. But it hung there, plain and sharp in the silence that followed. Elendra’s fan resumed its lazy flutter, but her gaze sharpened. Just slightly.

“There you go darling,” she said softly, “I was wondering when you’d stop pretending you didn't see what was right in front of you.”

Mira didn’t respond. Couldn’t. The admission felt heavier now that it had shape. Confusion twisted through her. If Elendra had already known of the uprising, then what had she paid her with? What had she truly given away?

Elendra leaned in, her voice velvet-smooth. “Lord Asric wants support in tonight’s council session. That’s all. A simple show of loyalty.”

Mira’s eyes narrowed slightly. “And what does he get out of that?” Elendra’s fan paused mid-motion, then folded with a soft snap.

She smiled, but it no longer reached her eyes. “Now, Mira,” she said, voice low and almost amused, “that wasn’t part of our deal.” She tilted her head. “You offered a truth. I offered you a secret. Don’t spoil this beautiful moment by asking for more than you're owed.”

She’d knew enough ofAsric to know he never moved without layers, always smiling on the surface while his true intentions burrowed deeper.

And Tharion… He’d never back something he didn’t believe in.

Not willingly. He would though, to get the decree, Mira was sure of it.

The one that could secure Tharion’s logistics and bring relief to the outer townships.

Asric was probably holding it even now, waiting.

Watching. Waiting for another piece would fall into place.

But maybe… Maybe she could find it. Get to it before Tharion was forced into something.

If she was clever enough and if she moved quietly she could.

A rustle of silk and the gentle clinking of crystal snapped her attention back.

Elendra’s flock had returned, handmaidens in feathered silks and embroidered veils, bearing silver trays laden with spiced fruits, candied almonds, chilled wine and delicate pastries shaped like petals.

They drifted around their lady like orbiting moons, placing the offerings on the low marble table with rehearsed elegance.

Elendra plucked a glazed fig from the tray, bit into it with casual grace.

"Ah, speaking of strategic moves, looks like the bastard prince is making quite the effort to repair his political standing tonight." Elendra’s lips curved, sharp with amusement. "Shame he doesn’t treat his romantic reputation with the same care." She tipped her chin toward the dance circle.

Mira turned in her seat, her gaze following Elendra’s eyes.

Ren. Smiling effortlessly in the middle of a waltz, his hand resting lightly on the waist of a woman wrapped in silver silk.

His movements were fluid, confident, too smooth to be careless.

The woman laughed, her voice light and clear, head tilted back as if the entire world had narrowed to just him.

Mira’s stomach dropped. But the way his hand rested at the small of the woman’s bare back, the way he looked utterly unbothered, completely present, sent a sharp pulse of jealousy through her chest. No hesitation or guilt.

No trace of what had passed between them in the shadows.

Maybe he’d accepted that it had meant nothing.

Guilt bloomed immediately. She had no right to feel this way. She was bound by rite and blood and memory. Even if that memory was now a ghost.

Whatever had happened with Ren, whatever she had let happen, it was a betrayal of something sacred. Of Tharion. Her throat tightened, and instinctively, her gaze swept the crowd, searching. Needing to see Tharion. To remind herself of what she owed him.

She spotted him at the far edge of the garden, half-shadowed by the golden curve of a column.

His posture was stiff. He stood with one hand clenched behind his back, the other gesturing tightly as he spoke.

Even from this distance, she could see the strain in his expression, the quiet fury just beneath the surface, the way his arm moved too fast, too low.

It wasn’t the conversation of a man enjoying a celebration.

It was war, disguised as diplomacy. And he was fighting it alone. Her guilt twisted deeper.

Mira inhaled slowly, the edges of her corset pressing against the sharp rise of breath. She had stood at the center of too many moments like this. Waiting for someone else to act. Not tonight. Her gaze swept the garden until it found who she needed. Lord Asric.

He stood near the wine terrace, surrounded by a crescent of admirers, his laugh low and indulgent, fingers glittering with rings that caught the flickering lantern light.

He was exactly where he thrived. At the center of attention, cloaked in charm, posturing as generous while quietly maneuvering for power.

Silver hair swept back from sharp features.

His allure hadn’t faded with time, it had sharpened.

His name lingered in court whispers, both as a strategist and a lover.

Tonight, Mira had heard those murmurs louder than usual speculation about the woman who had just left him.

A lover scorned. A vacancy to be filled. She could use that.

Mira rose from her seat with purpose, her gown whispering against the marble as she crossed the floor. Asric turned toward her, interest already stirring in his eyes.

“Well, Lady Solwynd,” he said, bowing just enough to be courteous, never humble. “I hadn’t expected the pleasure of your company tonight.” She offered a honeyed smile.

“I like to keep people guessing, my lord.” Her voice was low, warm, intimate enough to pique interest, not scandal. “I’ve heard some interesting rumors.”

His eyes sharpened. “Rumors, you say? I enjoy a good story. Especially the unexpected kind.”

Her fingers brushed his arm, light as a breath. He focused entirely on her now. “Then perhaps,” she murmured, “you’d like to write one with me tonight.” She let the suggestion hang, then tilted her head with playful boldness. “Dance with me?”

Asric’s smile deepened, indulgent and intrigued. “I’d be delighted.”