Page 55 of Unravelled

Mira rushed through the palace’scorridors. Her steps were fast and uneven, like she wasn’t fully connected to the floor beneath her. She should have returned to her quarters, shut the door. But the thought of silence, true silence, was too much. Too sharp. Too final.

Her feet turned, familiar with the path even as her mind spun.

She found herself at Torvyn’s door. He had always been her rock, even when everything else was falling apart.

The door creaked open at her touch. Empty.

His cloak was missing, the hearth unlit.

Only the faint scent of rosewood lingered.

She blinked hard against the sting in her eyes and turned.

If he wasn’t here, he was likely in the library.

The library candles burned low in their sconces, soft pools of amber light.

She stepped between them, her fingers grazing the worn spines, letting their presence ground her.

She found Torvyn by the arched window, slouched in a familiar velvet-backed chair, a book resting forgotten on his lap. His eyes were closed, snoring.

“Torvyn,” she said. It came out more breath than word. His eyes flew open and he lifted his head at once. As soon as he saw her, his expression changed, weariness gave way to worry.

“Mira?” He stood quickly, the book sliding to the floor. “What’s wrong?”

She wanted to answer, but her voice caught.

The words didn’t know how to shape what she was feeling.

Instead, she stepped into him. Her fingers clutched the front of his shirt as the tears came, silent and hot.

He pulled her close without hesitation. One arm wrapped tight around her shoulders, the other hand smoothing down her back.

His presence steadied her, but it couldn’t quiet the ache beneath her ribs.

“I’ve got you,” he murmured.

She let herself breathe against him, jaw clenched as her mind spun with too many truths she couldn’t say out loud.

She had trusted him, believed in Tharion.

In them. That was the worst of it. She had trusted his steadiness, his quiet strength.

She had believed in the version of them that chose love over duty.

But he had lied. Over and over. And now all that belief felt like a wound she’d given herself.

Torvyn held her as the sob built low in her chest. She didn’t let it out. She wouldn’t give it that much space, not when she was the one who had let her guard down.

“What happened?” he asked, voice quiet but laced with steel. “Mira, if someone...”

She shook her head, cutting him off. “It’s not like that.” Her voice was raw. “It’s just... I should’ve this seen coming. Things I should’ve known better than to hope for.”Torvyn leaned back enough to see her face, his brows drawn in concern.

“I thought I could trust them,” she whispered. Torvyn said nothing, just pulled her closer, arms tightening around her.

A bitter breath escaped her. “I feel so stupid...”

He didn’t flinch. “You feel stupid because of who you trusted,” he said softly. “But trust isn’t a mistake, Mira. They just weren’t worthy of it.”

She swallowed hard. “I should’ve seen it. He had no interest in me. I just didn’t want to believe it.”

Torvyn brushed a thumb beneath her eye, wiping away a tear. “Sometimes we see what we need to. And sometimes people are better at hiding than we think.”

Her gaze dropped to the floor. Torvyn was quiet for a long moment. Mira just leaned into the warmth of him, grateful for the steadiness she had never questioned. His comfort didn’t erase the hurt, but it gave it a place to rest.

“Stay here tonight, Brahn is away tonight, so I was going to stay here anyway” he said. “You don’t have to be alone.” She nodded, her throat too tight to speak.

He guided her to the settee and draped a blanket around her shoulders, then moved to fetch another for himself. He settled beside her. A fire somewhere nearby crackled softly. The silence between them was thick, but gentle. Safe.

Mira curled deeper into the blanket and beside her, Torvyn read in silence. The steady rustle of pages the only sound. She leaned into him, her head resting against his shoulder. He didn’t stop reading, but she felt the subtle shift as he adjusted to hold her weight as she fell asleep.

???

Mira sat on the cold stone bench outside Queen Danlea’s chambers, her hands folded in her lap as she stared straight ahead. The air was still, caught in that breathless space between night and dawn. A faint chill pressed through the thin fabric of her dress, raising goosebumps along her arms.

She had tried to sleep, tried to close her eyes and find peace, but dreams came fractured and strange, threaded with voices that didn’t belong to her and accusations that echoed long after she jolted awake.

Quietly, she left the library, leaving Torvyn sleeping, his hand on an open book.

She hadn’t woken him. Only whispered a silent apology and crept into the night-dimmed halls, her footsteps barely a murmur on the stone.

Now she waited. The door to Danlea’s chambers stood closed before her, ornate and unmoved. When she’d knocked earlier, lightly, uncertainly, there’d been no answer. Mira leaned her head back against the wall. The stone was cool against her head, a small, steadying relief.

She couldn’t stop retracing the past few months, every conversation, every withheld truth.

The lies she’d told Tharion. The truths he’d never given her.

Ren’s lineage, hidden in plain sight. And above it all, the stolen memories, once dismissed as mere consequence, now stood clear in her mind as something else entirely.

Not chance. Not accident. A calculated theft.

The door opened. A sliver of light spilled into the corridor. Queen Danlea stepped into the threshold, framed in the glow of flickering candles. Her silver hair shimmered like frost, and her eyes, milky and unreadable, settled on Mira with calm intent.

“Mira,” she said, her voice gentle and unwavering. “Come in.” Mira rose slowly, her bones aching in a way that had nothing to do with sleep.

“What about Nerra?” she asked, her voice hushed but even.

“She is not needed today,” Danlea replied.

Inside, the room was cloaked in quiet. Candles flickered in their glass bowls, their silver flames muted, casting a gentle luminescence over the room.

Mira stepped in and closed the door behind her, leaning back against the wood as if she needed it to hold her upright.

Her heart beat too loud in her ears. The world was too quiet, too still.

Her eyes adjusted slowly, herbs arranged on table, a small ceremonial blade catching the candlelight.

She moved toward the table, reaching for the herbs.

But before she could touch it, a hand closed over hers.

Cool. Steady. Final. Mira flinched at the touch, drawing her hand back with more force than she intended.

The herbs scattered across the table, spilling into a mess of dried petals and crushed stems.

“There’s no need for that,” Danlea said softly.

“Then what do you want me to do?” Her voice cracked, sharp and brittle. “You asked for help with the preparations?” Danlea didn’t move. Her expression was as still as the candles, but her presence filled the room like a tide.

“I said what I needed to...” she replied, “to ensure you would be here.” Mira blinked, stunned. The anger surged too quickly to catch.

“To bring me here?” she repeated, voice low and shaking. “Why?” She stepped back, her heel catching on the edge of a rug. Mira steadied herself, eyes falling to the floor.

Danlea regarded her, calm and composed, but the stillness in her gaze only stoked the fury burning in Mira’s chest. “There are many paths, Mira,” she whispered. “You chose one lined with thorns. I wanted to make sure you had what you needed for what's ahead.”

Mira let out a sharp, bitter laugh. “Meant to? I needed this?” Her voice cracked as it rose. “You think I needed to be lied to? To be betrayed? To fumble around in the dark?”

Danlea didn’t flinch. Instead, she watched Mira with an unreadable calm, as if waiting for something to pass. It didn’t. The silence stretched until Mira couldn’t bear it any longer.

“Say something,” she snapped, though her voice faltered at the end. “Tell me why.”

Danlea moved to the bed, her pale hair catching in the candlelight like strands of moonlight.

"You needed to grow roots strong enough to hold through the storm. Not for what’s passed, but for what’s still coming.

You’ll need that strength. And you’ll need those who can stand beside you.

” Mira opened her mouth, but the instinctive answer died on her tongue. A hollow ache bloomed in her chest.

Danlea’s voice gentled, barely above a breath. “Mira… you’ve been fighting so long, you don’t know how to stop.” Mira looked away, jaw clenched. But Danlea stepped closer, slow and unthreatening.

“This isn’t another battle. Not here. Not with me.” Mira’s shoulders trembled. Her breath caught.

“I didn’t bring you here to test you,” Danlea said. “I brought you here to rest.” Danlea reached out, brushing a strand of hair behind Mira’s ear. The gesture was light, reverent.

“Rest with me a while longer,” she said.

Mira hesitated, her heart still heavy with betrayal, but she nodded.

She hated how exposed she felt, how easily Danlea’s quiet kindness cracked through the armor she'd built around herself.

Part of her still burned with resentment, a voice in her mind screaming not to let this go so easily, not to forget the lies, the manipulation.

But another part, the one too tired to keep bleeding, ached for the solace Danlea offered .

A single tear traced the curve of her cheek.Danlea’s gaze softened further. She gestured to a nearby chair, draped in forest-green velvet. Mira’s body moved before her mind caught up. She sank into the chair, folding in on herself, her arms hugging her sides as if to hold herself together.