Page 57 of Unravelled

Danlea’s fingers, cool and steady, brushed gently against Mira’s temple. The touch was light, yet it pulled her from the soft edges of sleep with the precision of purpose.

“It’s time,” the Queen murmured, her voice a low ripple across the stillness.

Mira stirred, the lingering haze of dreams slipping from her shoulders as her eyes fluttered open.

The room was dimly lit, kissed by the silvery glow of early evening that seeped through the narrow cracks in the curtains.

She was wrapped in a soft blanket. The dregs of cold tea in a delicate cup rested on the table beside her.

She hadn’t meant to sleep. But now, waking slowly, Mira realized the tea was what had drawn her under, warm, quiet, and carefully laced.

For once, there had been no dreams. No nightmares clawing at the edges of her mind.

Just silence. Rest. She blinked up at the low light, her voice still hoarse with sleep.

Danlea’s hand lingered for a breath longer. Grounding. Comforting.

Another presence shifted nearby, one she had not registered before.

From the far side of the room, where the curtain had been drawn back slightly, Cleric Perrin stepped into view.

She wore her ceremonial veil, sheer and dignified, embroidered in silver sigils that caught the candlelight.

Her white robes moved in soft folds, her hands folded in front of her.

“You rested well,” Perrin said, her voice quiet but assured. “It was needed.”

Mira sat up more fully, her gaze flicking between the two women. “How long have I?” she asked, her voice low, sharp at the edges.

“Long enough,” Perrin replied gently.

Mira’s jaw clenched. “You gave me something,” She swung her legs out from under her body, the sudden movement making her dizzy. “Without asking.”

Neither woman answered right away. Danlea’s eyes remained on the fire, unreadable.

“It was not to harm you, just to help you rest” Perrin said softly.

The silence that followed was thick, but not ashamed. Not apologetic. Danlea didn’t move.

Mira's eyes narrowed slightly. “How did you know I was here?”

“Your bonded called for me,” Perrin replied, her tone soft and sincere. "He was concerned about your sleepwalking."

Danlea gestured toward the washroom with a slight tilt of her head. There was no command in it, only understanding. An invitation. A moment to center. Mira rose, her limbs stiff, and made her way to the adjoining chamber.

Inside, warmth enveloped her. The soft scent of dried lavender and lemon balm hung in the air. Lamps flickered gently. As she lowered herself into the steaming bath, Mira let the water draw out the tension in her limbs. Her thoughts were quiet.

She considered the secrets she’d uncovered, the memories beginning to take shape, and the revelation that the truth she had once believed now fractured.

Losing her memory had been as much a political maneuver as it had been an act of protection.

Sarelle had taken them, not out of cruelty, but out of desperation.

To protect Ren. But protect him from what?

When she emerged, a robe lay draped across the vanity. She slipped the plush fabric over her skin with deliberate care. Her reflection in the mirror, illuminated by the silver light.

A gentle knock sounded at the door. Before she could answer, Perrin stepped inside without waiting, already holding a steaming cup of tea in her hands. Wordlessly, she crossed the room and set it down beside the combs and powder on the vanity.

“You have questions,” she said simply.

Mira gave a small nod, toward the cup, not Perrin.

“Will this one make me sleep too?” Her voice was calm, but there was steel threaded through it.

Danlea crossed the room and stood behind Mira, fingers already combing through her hair.

“Tonight marks a turning,” Danlea said softly, her fingers steady as she worked. Danlea’s hands never faltered. She began to gently curl Mira’s hair with steam and quiet reverence.

“What do you remember?” Danlea asked. "Of you moments that were hidden from you? "

Mira tensed under Danlea’s touch. Her guiding hands, the gentle positioning, it all made her feel managed, like a child dressed for ceremony she didn’t ask to attend. She nearly pulled away.

But Danlea’s presence was steady, unhurried. There was no force behind her actions, only care. A quiet rhythm that spoke of patience, of purpose. Like water smoothing stone. Mira’s breath eased.

“Fragments,” Mira whispered. “Like the dream of someone else’s life.”

Perrin stepped forward. “They’re yours. Memory doesn’t always return as a storm. Sometimes it comes like mist.”

Mira's gaze flicked to the mirror, her reflection watching back, wary and worn but not afraid.

Danlea picked up the porcelain cup and held it out. Mira took it but didn’t drink. "You can drink or not. One offers a clarity, the other shelter. But both carry cost."

Silence settled, soft as snowfall. Mira stared down at the cup, steam curling like breath into the air.

“I’m tired of being protected,” she said at last. “I want to know what I am being protected from.”

Danlea met her eyes in the mirror. “Then drink. Knowing that this is a choice freely made.”

Mira drank. The tea was hot and bitter, and she coughed once, the taste unfamiliar, grounding. She heard Perrin’s voice echo around the room. “It will open the way.”

Danlea’s eyes were clouded and pale, but deeper than sight. The room seemed to still, the air softening, shadows melting into stone.

Mira's pulse slowed, the thunder in her ears fading to a soft rhythm, like the lull of waves against the shore. Her limbs felt light, as if the burdens of truth and lies, of rebellion and loyalty, had been lifted from her shoulders.

Danlea's face remained the only anchor, her expression filled with understanding, with an unspoken promise. Mira’s balance wavered. But it was not a violent collapse. She sank back into someone's hands. Gentle, careful, cradling her as she was lowered.

???

A vast nothingness that pressed against her skin seeped into her bones. She drifted within it, weightless and unmoored. The world was not solid here. It breathed, shifting like mist caught in the wind.

Shapes emerged.

At first, faint smudges against the black, little more than whispers of color and light. Then, clarity. A hall. The Great Hall. But not as she remembered it. The towering banners of Bharalyn, once rich with gold and deep crimson, were torn, their fabric curling like dying embers.

Dark veins, like creeping vines, cracked the polished marble floors, once mirrors of the heavens. The air smelled of smoke and something older, something wrong. At the center of it all, the throne. Mira knew, before she even saw him.

Brahn. He sat there, draped in midnight blue and silver, a crown glinting atop golden hair, his posture as relaxed as a man who had always known he would win.

The throne fit him too well, as if it had been shaped for him long before he ever reached for it.

His hands rested on the armrests, fingers tapping a slow, patient rhythm.

A king in waiting. A king who had already claimed his prize. The sight of him sent a wave of nausea through Mira, an aching, twisting sickness that clawed at her insides. This wasn’t how it was supposed to be.

She took a step forward and the world rippled.

A woman stood before her. A queen. Sarelle.

Her dark hair was a river of moonlight, her eyes piercing.

Tears streaked her face, though she held herself with the stillness of someone who had long since learned not to tremble.

She stood in a chamber that felt eerily familiar.

The scent of aged paper, candle wax, and something sweet, pear maybe, filled the air.

Sarelle’s lips moved, but the sound was distant, blurred by time, as though the moment was struggling to reach her.

Mira leaned forward, straining, then another voice.

Ren. She turned. He stood behind her. A younger Ren, not more than seventeen.

He looked softer, his dark hair falling over his brow, his eyes uncertain.

His hands were clenched into fists at his sides, fire curling around his wrists like bindings.

Sarelle reached out, her fingers brushing his cheek. He flinched. Not in fear. In grief.

“Blood of my blood.”

The words sent a shiver through her, sinking into her bones, nestling into the hollow spaces of her memory. Sarelle’s touch was not that of a queen. It was my mother's. Mira’s breath caught in her throat. Truth coiled in the pit of her stomach like a snake awakening from slumber.

The moment fractured.

Fire spread and burned through, folding over itself.

Heat of the room melted into something, cooler.

The floor beneath Mira’s feet faded, replaced by a surface that seemed to glow from within, like moonlight captured beneath glass.

The fire dissipated to mist and pulled back, revealing a familiar figure standing at the center of this dreamscape.

Queen Danlea. The mist cleared to show her stood beneath a canopy of stars, her dark gown woven with threads of twilight.

The veil over her eyes was gone, revealing soft, silver irises that held no blindness. Her expression was calm, lips curved in a gentle smile, and her presence washed over Mira like a warm breeze, a stark contrast to the jagged edges of the previous vision.

“You are safe, Mira,” Danlea said, her voice a melody.

Mira’s thoughts spun, confusionknotting with the remnants of fear. Danlea moved closer, her bare feet silent against the light-filled ground.

“The strongest among my kingdom can share our visions. And what you saw now is what I saw when I looked at the succession of your kingdom.” Danlea’s expression saddened, shadows passing over her features.

“The usurper stands upon the precipice of a throne not meant for him. But what you have seen is not an ultimate future, but a thread of what may come.”