Page 5 of Unravelled

Seven Years Before

Mira called out, her voice sharp with frustration.

“Torvyn, must I wear this? It’s completely indecent. Father would lose his mind.” She gestured dramatically at the gown hanging before her.

At first glance, it seemed modest enough.

A floor-length black dress with sleeves that ended just below the elbow.

But that illusion quickly fell apart. A daring seam ran up one side, exposing her leg nearly to mid-thigh.

The neckline plunged dangerously low, and the back dipped all the way to the small of her spine, utterly bare.

Outside, the spring breeze drifted in through the open balcony doors, carrying the scent of blooming roses and wet stone from the recent rain. Birds sang somewhere in the garden below, oblivious to her wardrobe crisis.

Crossing her arms, Mira glared at the dress like it had insulted her. “Do you want me to scandalize the entire court?”

Torvyn appeared in the doorway, arms folded, one brow arched in that older-brother way that never failed to grate on her nerves.

“Frankly, I’m more scandalized by your whining. It’s a dress, Mira, not a death sentence.”

Her scowl deepened. “Easy for you to say. You’re not the one being shoved into half a dress and told to look regal.”

“No,” he said dryly, stepping into the room, “I’m just the one who has to track every courtly smile and veiled threat so I can advise Father which allies won’t stab us in the back at dinner.”

She opened her mouth to argue, then let out a breath instead. He moved to stand beside the dress, considering it.

“Look,” he said, his tone softening. “I get it. It’s bold. But today matters. And like it or not, you’ll make a statement just by walking in.”

Mira hesitated, glancing back at the dress as the breeze stirred its hem, making it flutter like a challenge.

“And what statement is that?” she muttered. “Here I am, future political pawn, now with a revealed leg?”

Torvyn chuckled, moving to lean against the edge of her dresser. “No. The statement is, Here I am, look closely. Because Solwynd’s won’t be ignored.”

She fell silent, lips pressing into a thin line.

“And,” he added, that familiar smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth, “if you scandalize the court a little, it will remind them you’re not just another pawn.”

Mira rolled her eyes. “If I have to wear this, every champion had better ask for my favor.”

Torvyn pushed off the dresser with an easy shrug as he headed for the door.

“They will,” he replied.

???

Mira sat next to Torvyn in the Queen’s viewing box, the prime seat for the championship duel. The spring air was warm against her exposed skin. She had twisted her hair back with silver pins, leaving her neck bare to the sunlight.

The championship duel, held every five years, was the most anticipated event of the spring.

Aspiring guards battled for honor and the chance to become a royal guard, while young court members offered their favors.

Being unable to attend and with no heirs of her own, Queen Sarelle had requested Mira and Torvyn sit in her place and bestow two royal favors on her behalf.

Mira’s eyes tracked the champions sparring in the practice ring, their blades clashing and flashing in the bright midday sun.

The championship barred the use of armor.

No protection meant the fighters had to rely entirely on their skill, speed, and precision.

Most of the contenders wore simple tunics and shirts, their movements unencumbered as they danced between strikes and parries.

Leaning closer to Torvyn, "Which one is the Queen’s Champion?” she asked.

Torvyn pointed toward a man moving fluidly across the field.

Mira was only a little younger than him.

He had neatly tied back his hair, a familiarity about him that tugged at the edge of her memory, yet she couldn’t place him.

Shirtless, pants and boots, his every move was swift and precise, each strike and parry carefully planned.

He was a strong, agile fighter who never gave up against his opponent.

“Over there,” Torvyn said. “He was the Queen’s ward until he came of age a few years ago, I think.”

Mira tilted her head. A ward of the queen. No wonder he looked familiar. There were only so many children in the palace that they must have run into each other at some point. She studied his effortless precision. His muscles contracted smoothly as he deflected an especially aggressive blow.

“Impressive,” she murmured, more to herself than to Torvyn. “What’s his name?”

But something diverted Torvyn’s attention. Another contender was approaching the Queens box, a young man, smaller and stockier than the Queen's Champion. His blond hair caught the sunlight as he adjusted his grip on his sword.

“Brahn,” Torvyn said, standing to get a better view.

Brahn tilted his head up. “Torvyn,” his voice carrying easily over the noise of the crowd, “would you care to bestow upon me a royal favor?” Torvyn beamed, leaning over the railing.

“I’ve seen you fight, Brahn. You’re going to need it.” With a flick of his wrist, Torvyn tossed a blue flower tied with a golden ribbon down to the young man.

Brahn caught it effortlessly, his grin widening as he tucked it securely into the waist of his pants. Mira observed the exchange. She saw the way Brahn’s confidence softened slightly under Torvyn’s smile.

She’d been watching the two of them for a while now, and their connection ran deeper than just friendship, and yet, they still danced at the edges, like naming it might break the spell.

“Lady Solwynd,” a deep, smooth voice interrupted, “would you care to give me a royal favor?”

She turned to see the Queen’s Champion himself, standing just below the royal box. His eyes locked with hers. His stance was confident and calm. Mira rose to her feet, meeting his gaze with a smile.

“Do you really need my favor, Champion? From what I’ve seen, you’re doing just fine without it.” He smiled back,

“True,” he said smoothly, “but even the most practised champions need luck.”

“Wait!” The shout rang out from the sparring field, sharp and commanding enough to turn heads.

Mira looked toward the source of the voice.

A young man standing tall amidst the other contenders.

His clothes were simple yet well-tailored.

A simple tunic and pants paired with polished boots.

But it wasn’t his attire that held her attention.

It was his eyes, bright green and burning with an intensity that seemed to pierce straight through her.

She hadn’t seen him since that day in the tree.

He was no longer the boy Mira remembered.

His frame carried a strength and confidence.

Sweat beaded on his brow, matting his dark hair to his forehead as he advanced toward the Queen’s box.

The glint of steel from his sword caught the light with every deliberate stride, his presence commanding silence.

He called up to her again, his voice clear and laced with daring confidence.

“Lady Solwynd, grant me your favor?” The boldness of his words sent a ripple of murmurs through the crowd, but Mira remained composed, tilting her head slightly as she studied him. His challenge piqued her curiosity.

“Be careful what you ask for, champion. Are you sure it wouldn’t curse you instead?” His green eyes sparked in challenge.

“Grant me the disadvantage, then.” Mira’s heart skipped. She leaned back, her fingers brushing against the blue flower tied with a golden ribbon in her hand. Her mind raced. Should she do as she was expected and offer the favor to the Queen’s Champion, or defy expectations and choose the newcomer?

She glanced at Torvyn, his wide eyes silently urging her to make the smart choice. Her gaze shifted to the Queen’s Champion. He stood poised and calm, his expression unreadable as he awaited her choice.

“If this is truly a curse,” she said, her voice carrying over the crowd, “then I’ll be helping you by bestowing it on another champion.

” The Queen’s champion gave a slight bow, graceful and polite, before stepping back without protest. Mira’s attention turned to the newcomer as her decision settled in her chest. “I will bestow my curse on you, champion.” She declared, holding the flower aloft.

As she prepared to throw it, the young man suddenly scaled the side of the royal box with surprising ease, his boots landing softly on the edge.

Gasps and whispers rippled through the onlookers as he leaned over the railing to be face-to-face with her.

Mira held the blue tahla tree flower between them, her fingers brushing his as he took it.

The crowd moved on, their energy shifting to the next spectacle, oblivious to the moment.

For a moment, he lingered his hand against hers, and then, in a swift movement, he dipped his head close to hers.

His lips brushed lightly against the edge of her jaw.

Mira’s breath caught, her heart racing as he pulled back slightly.

To anyone watching, it would have seemed like nothing more than a whispered exchange.

“I am sure this won’t be the last time you curse me”, he murmured, his voice below, tucking the flower securely into his belt.

?? ?

Mira stirred as the soft glow of dawn filtered through the window, coaxing her from sleep.

Blinking slowly, she tried to cling to the remnants of her dream, a memory of the first time she met Tharion.

A smile tugged at her lips as she closed her eyes, hoping to recapture the fleeting moment.

But the persistent knocking at her door shattered the peace.

Sighing, she slipped out of bed and hurriedly pulled on her robes. Tharion hadn’t stayed here in months. His side of the bed remained untouched, made up with careful precision. When she opened the door, she found Nerra standing there, her youthful energy barely restrained.