Page 33 of Unravelled

He paused, letting his words sink in, then added, “Give me command, and within a fortnight, you’ll have peace. Not the soft kind, but the kind that lasts.” For a moment, no one spoke.

The room pulsed with tension. Asric remained standing, defiant, his proposal echoing in the charged silence. Ren hadn’t moved, but his gaze had sharpened, fixed on the older man with quiet fire.

From the far end of the table, a chair creaked. Tharion stood. He had said little throughout the meeting, choosing to watch, to measure. But now his voice rang clear, steady as stone.

“This debate serves no purpose if it ends in argument.” The murmurs faded. Even Asric turned his head. Tharion’s gaze moved over the room, calm, composed, utterly unreadable.

“The king cannot speak. The realm is leaderless, and we are out of time. Two paths have been placed before us tonight.” He looked to Ren, then to Asric, giving each man the full weight of his gaze.

“Then let you do what this council was made to do.Vote.” A ripple of unease ran through the room. Tharion continued, voice firmer now. “Do not vote for speeches. Not for bloodlines. Vote for the regent that is best for Bharalyn. One voice to lead. One plan to follow.”

Tension pressed down on the room like a storm barely held at bay. Sharp, suffocating, and heavy with consequence.

For a heartbeat, no one moved.

Then Lady Brenna exhaled and raised her hand. “Ren,” she said clearly, her eyes never leaving him.

Lord Garran followed. “Ren.”

Across the table, Lord Veylin leaned back, lips pursed, then nodded once. “Asric.”

A pause. Then Lord Harwin. “Asric.”

The room shifted. Two to Ren. Two to Asric. Lord Davin hesitated. His gaze flicked toward Asric, then to Tharion, as if searching for a safer choice that didn’t exist.

His fingers tapped once against the table. “Asric,” he said.

Three to two. A silence settled like ash. Mira, watching from the shadows above, felt the air catch in her lungs.

Softly, unexpectedly, Lady Nyla raised her hand. “Ren. ”

Three to three. All eyes turned to the last man at the table. The invited guest. Tharion. He sat motionless, gaze fixed on the space between the two men across from him.

This was why Brahn had been delayed, to force a deadlock. Tharion raised his head. His voice was low, deliberate. “Ren.”

Four to three. The words struck the room like a final chime in a cathedral. Ren had won.

Above, Mira’s knees nearly buckled. Her throat tightened, not from relief, but from the sudden, bone-deep understanding of what had almost happened.

If she hadn’t taken the letter… If Asric had still held the threat over Tharion’s vote.

Tharion wouldn’t have been free to cast his vote.

She had saved him. From being used. From being made a weapon in someone else’s hand.

Silence lingered in the observatory like smoke after lightning. The vote had been cast. The regent had been chosen. Ren sat still for a moment, as though letting the weight of the decision settle into his bones.

After a moment he rose. Not abruptly. Not triumphantly. He rose like the tide, inevitable, steady, undeniable. His hands rested once more on the table, and when he spoke, his voice carried not just across the chamber, but into something deeper. The heart of the room. The heart of the realm.

“Our king can no longer rule. Whether he wakes or not, our work for the kingdom does not stop. The people do not stop needing. The enemies at our gates do not wait.”

He glanced across the table. At Brenna, at Garran, at Tharion.

“We reinforce the borders. Quietly. Without fanfare. We send supplies to the outer villages, not soldiers. Not yet. Let the people feel protected before they feel watched.” He turned to Asric, who met his gaze with cold, begrudging silence.

“And we listen. To the unrest. To the leaders behind it. We do not crush what we do not yet understand. We learn their names. Their fears. Their reasons. And then we decide who among them can be turned and who must be stopped.” A breath passed between the gathered lords and ladies.

The beginning of something. The edge of unity.

Ren’s voice lowered, but it grew no less steady.

“There will be no purges. No open executions. No fear-driven show of force. This kingdom doesn’t need a hand that crushes it needs one that holds.

” He exhaled, gaze lowering slightly. “We do not restore order through terror. We restore it through truth. And through presence. The crown cannot be a myth while the realm is bleeding. ”

She watched as the council shifted, no longer locked in indecision but moving now, slowly, into purpose.

Voices rose, quieter this time, layered with strategy rather than argument.

They leaned over maps. Marked supply lines.

Named outposts. Ren stood among them. His shoulders squared beneath the mantle he had taken, listening as much as he spoke. Steering, not ruling.

Mira watched it all, the shape of ruling power as it reformed under Ren.

This was what she had risked everything for.

Not just a seat claimed, but the movement that followed.

The ripple. The moment after a fire that might become warmth instead of ruin.

All of it born from her instinct. From a dance and a letter.

From a single breath held between two people in the dark.

As the hours wore on, the voices below grew more tired. Ren lifted a hand, and the murmurs faded as if pulled by a thread. “That’s enough for tonight,” he said, voice firm. “We have a course. You have your orders. The rest... can wait until morning.”

No one argued. Chairs scraped quietly across the stone. Scrolls were gathered, glances exchanged. Even now, with the firelight flickering low and the weight of history hanging thick in the air, the council bowed to the quiet command in Ren’s voice.

“Tharion…stay” That caught a few looks, but none dared linger long enough to question it.

One by one, the advisors filed out, leaving only the echo of their boots and the hush of fading tension. The great doors closed with a soft, final sound. Ren didn’t speak for a moment. His hands rested lightly on the table’s edge, as he looked up, not at Tharion. But at the gallery above.

"You can come down now,” a half-smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “They’re gone.”

Mira stepped down the spiral stairs and out from the shadows. The air below felt different, heavier, now that the council was gone. Only the soft crackle of fire and the distant creak of banners overhead remained.

Tharion watched her with the faintest furrow between his brows, but he said nothing more.

Not yet. Ren stood at the head of the table, where the king’s seal still pressed faintly into the candlelit wax before him.

Ren didn’t look tired. He looked alive, sharp, grounded, present in a way she’d never seen in him before. Then he turned to her fully.

“What do you think?” The words were simple. Unadorned. She hesitated, just a breath. He was asking her. Not as a courtesy. Not as an afterthought. As an equal. She stepped closer, her arms loose at her sides.

“You’ve bought yourself time,” she said, voice quiet but sure. “And a narrow path forward.” Ren nodded once, waiting. “But that room was full of knives, Ren.” Her eyes flicked to Tharion, then back. “You’ll need more than strategy. You’ll need loyalty. From people who owe you nothing.”

He didn’t flinch. “The decisions that are coming won’t leave room for fence-sitting,” he said. “And you’re both tied to the resistance, so that makes things tricky.”

Mira stiffened. “How did you know?”

“Clever work leaves a trace. Few could’ve taken down that travelling convoy and vanished." Ren’s mouth curved into a smile. "And then there was Tharion’s injury, followed by his sudden absence. It wasn’t hard to put the pieces together.”

Mira didn’t deny it. She didn’t need to. “I’m not here to punish you for it,” Ren went on. “I actually need you carry the word back.” He looked between them now, nothing about his posture defensive. Just honest.

"Not orders. No threats. I want to show them we are trying.” Ren’s voice softened slightly, not losing its edge, but gaining weight. “Tell them we’ve named no enemies. That there are no executions coming in the night. That we want to listen to them.” He paused.

“But tell them I will fight. If I must. I will not let this kingdom fall apart while we argue over its ashes.” Mira met his gaze. She saw not just a man seeking power to rule but one choosing it with the people and kingdom at his core.

???

Mira pushed open the heavy wooden door, stepping into the lingering warmth of the castle’s kitchen. The scent of roasted herbs and baked roots clung to the air, mingling with the fading smoke of the hearth.

Tonights evening meal had long been cleared, but its ghosts remained, red wine stains on counters, a flicker of firelight across hanging pans, the hush of a place that had once been full. The space felt different now. Not just quieter, expectant.

At the long oak table, usually alive with flour-dusted hands and the thrum of knives on cutting boards, Torvyn leaned against the table’s edge.

His fingers tapping with a restless rhythm.

Brahn stood beside him, arms crossed, his posture sharp with restrained energy.

Neither wore the flush of wine or the ease of celebration.

They were untouched by the revelry of the solstice night.

Their tunics remained crisp, their postures rigid.

The celebrations had passed them by completely, overshadowed by duty, by war, by burdens that never lifted.

Mira stepped closer, the parchment in her hand still faintly creased from where Ren had pressed it into her palm.

It wasn’t just a letter, it was the first ripple of the new tide. She placed it between them.

“This is the plan,” she said. Her voice was steady, threaded with the weight of what she’d just seen. “Ren’s first orders as regent.” Torvyn looked down at the paper, shocked. Brahn raised a brow. Not in surprise, but recognition.

“Reinforcements to the eastern border,” she continued.

“Quietly. No banners, no fanfare.” Her gaze flicked to the letter again.

“Food, medicine, repairs. He’s sending aid to the outer districts before the end of summer.

” Brahn unfolded the parchment, scanning it in silence. Torvyn’s fingers stilled.

“And the unrest?” Brahn asked.

Mira didn’t hesitate. “He wants to know their names. Their reasons. No arrests. No executions.” A beat passed. “He wants to listen. First.”

Brahn’s lips twitched, like he wasn’t sure whether to scoff or smirk.

Torvyn’s voice cut in, “You were there. In the observatory?”

Mira met his eyes. “Yes.”

“You weren’t summoned?” Torvyn stared at her, eyes wide, the words escaping in a breathless mix of worry and concern.

“No,” she said.

Brahn made a sound, a soft laugh of disbelief. “This is… unexpected,” he said. “Though not as unexpected as your performance with Lord Asric.”

Mira tilted her head, “Was it convincing?”

“Very,” Brahn said, mouth curling.

“She stole the letter right off him,” Torvyn muttered.

She let the silence hang, let them sit with the fact that she had moved through the highest chamber of power and come out the other side with more than information.

Brahn shook his head. “I think I’m understanding why Torvyn brought you to me.” Mira’s brow furrowed. She glanced down at the parchment still resting between them, at the list of changes Ren had already set into motion. Aid. Reinforcements. Restraint. She looked back up at Brahn.

“But… aren’t we getting what we asked for?” The words slipped out before she could temper them. Na?ve. Honest. The two men stilled. Torvyn’s gaze flicked to ward her, thoughtful. Brahn tilted his head, studying her like he wasn’t sure if she was joking or testing him.

“We’re getting part of what we asked for,” Brahn said at last. “The simple part.” He tapped the letter with one callused finger. “This?” he said. “This is a gesture. Good. Important. But still just a gesture.”

Mira’s eyes narrowed. “It’s a start.”

“It is a start,” Brahn agreed. “But starts don’t win wars. They delay them.”

Torvyn’s voice cut in, softer. “He’s trying, Mira. That’s a good step. But change doesn’t stick because one person sent some supplies. It sticks when the people below have the power to demand it. Again and again.”

Mira let that settle, the words turning over in her mind.

She wanted to believe Ren’s orders would be enough, that this could have been the moment everything shifted.

And maybe, in some small way, it still was.

But looking at Brahn’s unwavering gaze, hearing the quiet certainty in Torvyn’s voice… she saw them differently.

This wasn’t doubt for doubt’s sake. It wasn’t cynicism. They weren’t asking her to stop believing in Ren. They were asking her to understand the stakes if she believed in only him.

She exhaled, low and slow. “So what now?”

Brahn’s smile curved. “Now,” he said, “You wait, while we gather support.”

He folded the parchment again with the same care someone might close a trap. “We’ll let you know when, and where, you’re needed.”