Page 34 of Unravelled

The sun bore down like a judgment. Mira knelt in the dry earth of the courtyard garden, sweat slipping down her spine beneath her coarse linen shift.

The soil was stubborn, cracked and sun-baked, clinging to the roots she tried to coax freely.

Her palms were raw, the edges of her nails dark with grit.

Every breath tasted of heat and dust and crushed rosemary.

The days had turned stifling after the solstice, as if summer, sensing its own decline, was making one last, desperate display of heat.

The air hung thick, pressing down on the palace like an unseen weight.

Around her, others worked in silence, sleeves rolled, heads bowed.

No conversation, only the scrape of metal tines and the occasional snap of a broken root.

She wiped her brow with the back of her wrist, squinting toward the courtyard wall where the shadows stretched short. The air shimmered above the stones. Her knees ached. Her shoulders burned. Still, she stayed hunched over the stubborn patch of weeds, fingers aching.

“Mira.” Perrin’s voice was always kind, but it carried across the garden with authority. Mira looked up, blinking against the light. Perrin stood just inside the archway, her hands folded, her white robes catching the sun like polished bone.

She didn’t step into the garden. She never did. As if she knew Mira needed the space more than the company. Perrin tilted her head, eyes searching Mira’s face in that calm, unreadable way that always made Mira feel like she was being gently held rather than judged.

“You’re to move to the western guest rooms,” Perrin said. “Just after midday.” Mira’s brow furrowed.

“Why?” There was a pause. Perrin studied her a moment longer.

“You’ve earned a reprieve out of the heat,” Perrin replied.

Less than an hour later, Mira roamed the western halls.

Inside, at least, there was shade. The thick stone walls held the cool of earlier hours, offering a breath of relief from the sun’s relentless press outside.

An unnatural quiet hung in the air of this corridor, compared to the rest of the palace.

A kind of stillness that pressed against her ribs and made her footsteps sound too loud.

These rooms were rarely used. Set aside for visiting clerics, dignitaries, or those important enough to warrant privacy. But today, they belonged to no one. The doors stood closed, the air untouched. Mira paused before the first door before pushing it open slowly, the hinges sighing in protest.

Inside, a modest bed lay stripped of linens, a film of dust softening the corners of the furniture.

The curtains hung stiff and untouched, their folds heavy with weeks of disuse.

She moved without speaking, without hurrying.

She tugged the curtains free and tied them back to let the light in, shook out the folded linens from the shelf by the door, and smoothed them over the mattress with practiced care.

Dust danced in the sunlight as she swept the sill with a damp rag.

The second room was much the same. A half-burned candle still sat in a brass holder beside the bed, its wax warped from heat.

Mira replaced it with a fresh one from the satchel Perrin had left for her.

Window, sheets, basin, floor. Then the third.

And the fourth. It became a rhythm, not unlike the garden, but cooler, quieter, less rooted in ache. Her muscles remembered the motions.

The sixth door was stuck when she tried to open it. Mira pushed harder, the wood groaning before it gave. The room beyond was dim, the curtains drawn, the scent of ash and worn leather was thicker here than in any of the others. And something else. Cedar...

Her breath caught as she glanced over the room. Tharion lay curled on the bed, one arm thrown over his brow, the other resting against the hilt of the blade still sheathed at his hip. His tunic was creased, his hair mussed with sleep.

This room wasn’t waiting for a visitor. It already one.

This was where he’d been sleeping. Not in their rooms. Here.

Mira was frozen. She just stood in the doorway, the familiar ache rising in her chest as the scent of him wrapped around her, cedar and smoke, like the remnants of a fire left burning too long. Familiar. And distant. And aching.

He stirred. His eyes opened, unfocused for a breath, and then locked onto her. He didn’t sit up. Didn’t speak right away. Only looked at her like she was the ghost in the room. Mira swallowed. Her fingers tightened around the linen bundle still pressed to her chest.

“I didn’t know you were sleeping here,” she whispered.

Tharion exhaled slowly, rubbing a hand across his face as he sat up. Mira didn’t move from the doorway. She let the silence stretch. He sat fully now, planting his feet on the cool stone floor, elbows resting on his knees. He didn’t look at her. Just stared down.

“I needed some space,” Tharion said finally. It was barely a sentence.Mira’s sighed.

His gaze flicked toward her. “It wasn’t about you.”

She smiled sadly. “It never is.”

He winced, the sound hitting somewhere he hadn’t armored. She knew it wasn’t meant to be cruel. It was just the truth. That was the pattern, wasn’t it?

She took a step into the room, then stopped herself, hovering in the half-light.

“You didn’t even tell me,” she said, voice low, trembling at the edges. “I wouldn’t have minded... I just...” Her throat tightened. “I thought I would have been the first person you’d tell.”

Tharion didn’t flinch, but his silence was louder than anything he could’ve said. “I didn’t think it would matter,” he muttered.

That hurt more than any outburst. He hadn’t just hidden this from her, he hadn’t even considered her. Something hot flared beneath the sadness. Anger, sharp and sudden.

“You didn’t think it would matter?” she repeated, voice tighter now, cracking under the weight of restraint. “I come back to an empty room every night and I’m supposed to, what? Pretend you’re on patrol? That this...”

she gestured faintly to the bed, the tucked-away life, “That I don't matter?”

“Mira, that's not it...” he answered, the words clipped.

The hurt settled in her chest like stones in water.

Mira drew a breath and steadied her voice.

Mira stood still for a breath. Then stepped into the room.

The door eased shut behind her with a soft click.

Tharion still sat on the bed, head bowed, hands braced on his knees. She stopped just in front of him.

“Then why?” she asked, quietly. “I don't understand Tharion?” He didn’t look up.

She hesitated, then knelt before him, her fingers brushing lightly against his cheek, coaxing him to meet her gaze.

When he didn’t pull away, she leaned in tentative, searching for a kiss.

But his hand came up, firm against her shoulder, halting her just before their mouths could meet.

“Don’t,” he said, voice raw, barely audible.

He finally looked at her then, and the regret in his eyes was almost worse than anger. He released her and the space between them felt wider than ever.

A murmur of voices, hushed with purpose, drifted through the stone hall beyond. They both looked to the door .

“But they want assurance. They want something, someone, to stand behind.” Torvyn. She knew his voice. Steady. Measured. But there was something different in it now. Something careful.

Her brow furrowed. The second voice answered, smooth as silk, carrying a touch of amusement beneath something far colder.

“It's all planned for the Veiled Night,” said Lord Asric. Torvyn and Asric? She held her breath, straining.

“That’s too late,” Torvyn replied, still even, still composed. Then came Asric’s chuckle, soft, deliberate. A sound that didn’t belong in the back corridors.

“Patience,” he said. “A well-placed distraction at the right moment holds more weight than a blackmailed decision.”

The Veiled Night celebration was the darkest night of the year.

No moon. Just masks, music, and revelry.

A perfect place to vanish. Or strike. She stood and crept forward a step, heart pounding.

Tharion’s hand closed around her wrist. Not rough.

But firm. Deliberate. Mira looked down at him, startled.

“Don’t,” he murmured, eyes locked on hers. Low. Calm. A warning.

Her mind raced. Torvyn had always been the careful one, deliberate, principled. A man who measured twice before daring to speak once. He believed in structure, in steady hands, in the quiet strength of doing what was right, even when it earned him nothing.

But now he was whispering with Asric. Asric, who wanted the regency? Asric, who wore power like perfume and wielded it like a blade. It made no sense. Not with the uprising already sneaking its way through the kingdom.

Their voices drifted down the corridor, low and urgent, until they disappeared further into the wing. Mira stood frozen, her stomach coiling tight. Her thoughts screamed at her that this was wrong, that she had to know what it meant.

Tharion moved, quick and sure, stepping in front of the doorway before she could reach it, planting himself there. “Mira don’t.”

She spoke firmly, her eyes sharp. “You can’t stop me.”

“You’re not thinking clearly. If Torvyn’s with Asric, this is far bigger than either of us thought.”

“Exactly! We need to know what they are doing.” she shot back, stepping sideways.

“That's the problem...” He shifted, keeping himself between her and the door. “We don’t understand what they’re capable of.”

She snapped, suddenly sharp. “I can handle myself Tharion ”

“That’s not what I’m...”

“You’re trying to protect me,” she said, softer, but no less fierce. “And I’m telling you, I don't need you to.”

Tharion’s eyes searched hers, desperate to find the right words.

“You always rush in,” Mira continued, “That if you movefast enough, you can protect everyone”

Tharion’s voice dropped, hoarse. “I’m trying to keep you alive.”