Page 77 of Unravelled

“Or they were separate entities,” Varian argued, his voice heavy with authority. “Two blades striking at once, but not necessarily at the same target.”

The voices crashed over her like waves against stone. Mira sat still, her body rigid, but inside she felt unmoored, untethered. Grief throbbed beneath her skin, sharp and raw, fraying the edges of her composure with every breath.

The sounds of the council grew louder, each voice rising to meet another, sharp with accusation, bloated with certainty.

“Torvyn Solwynd’s death was the greatest loss of the night.” Lord Asric, regarded her carefully, as if measuring her response before he spoke again. “His death marks the loss of not only a noble son,” he continued, voice slow, deliberate, “but of a key figure in our court.”

Mira’s throat burned. Torvyn. Gone. Her last memory of him flashed before her. His body falling to the blood-stained marble. His hands reaching for nothing. Her stomach twisted, bile rising in her throat, but she forced it down.

Forced herself to breathe. Forced herself to keep her expression unreadable. The council watched her, waiting. Waiting to see if she would break. She wouldn’t. Mira straightened, shoulders squared, her voice steady despite the weight pressing against her chest.

“What matters now,” she said, “is not debating what was lost, but deciding how we move forward.”

As Mira’s words settled into the room, a brief hush fell.

Lord Asric stood. The movement was slow, deliberate, his hands clasped behind his back as he turned toward the gathered councilors.

He did not look at Mira, not at first. His gaze swept across the chamber, catching each face with quiet precision. A performance, perfectly measured.

"And yet," he said at last, "some losses are… conveniently timed." Mira stiffened. Asric tilted his head, voice calm but laced with steel. "Lady Solwynd speaks of moving forward. Of unity. But we must ask, forward to where? And under whose direction ?

"You were there, but you were not on the steps with the court. You did not fall. And you were seen after the battle, escorted by the Regent himself."

The word "Regent" landed like a blow. A few councilors shifted in their seats. Others narrowed their eyes. Mira didn’t move. Asric’s lips curled, almost a smile as he addressed the council.

"We have all seen the closeness between them earlier this very meeting.

That is no longer speculation. It is a fact.

And while I would not presume to suggest impropriety…

" he trailed off, letting the implication hang in the air like a dagger balanced on its point.

"It does raise questions. Of trust. Of allegiance. "

Mira opened her mouth, but Asric raised a hand, the picture of patience.

"Of timing," he continued smoothly. "Of who benefited from the death of Torvyn Solwynd. A man who once stood in her way. A man who knew her better than any of us. A brother." That word. It sliced through the air like a blade.

"She stood to gain," Asric said simply. "And now, she the attention of the most powerful person in this room."

The council erupted. Some shouted objections, others spoke in hushed tones to their neighbors. The weight of suspicion rolled like thunder through the chamber. Ren stood then, sharp and sudden.

"Enough." His voice echoed through the hall like a command.

All eyes turned to him, Asric’s smile only deepened. And Mira realized, with sick clarity, that this was his game. Planting seeds of doubt, forcing them to bloom in public view. And if she wasn’t careful, if Ren wasn’t, those roots would twist themselves into something far worse that just doubt.

Ren’s jaw was tight, his posture rigid as he faced the council, his gaze hard but composed. “Lady Solwynd suffered a loss,” he said, each word deliberate, unwavering. “I comforted her. As I would any member of this court who had just lost their only living family.”

He let that settle, then added, “It is not impropriety. It is duty. My duty, as Regent, is to protect this kingdom and all who serve it. Including any of you.”

Asric did not flinch, but the gleam in his eyes sharpened, almost amused. The seeds had been sown. Now he would wait to see which ones would take root.

Mira rose slowly to her feet. “My brother is dead,” her voice quiet but clear as a bell “And yet, instead of addressing why, you’re trying to turn suspicion onto me.

Instead of asking why this kingdom is tearing itself apart,primed for occupation by other kingdoms, you stand there, picking apart every word, searching for some excuse to blame me instead of facing the truth. ”

A hush fell over the chamber. Mira’s eyes swept the room, meeting every gaze that dared to linger. She didn’t beg for belief. She didn’t ask. She simply stood, unflinching, the weight of her grief worn like armor.

Asric tilted his head slightly, a faint smirk curling at the edges of his mouth. “It’s tragic really. That grief cannot serve as evidence.”

Ren’s hand clenched at his side, but he didn’t move.

A voice rose. “I can provide the evidence.” The words settled with unnatural weight.

Danlea stood, her silver robes brushing the stone floor, her palms open, the light glinting off the fine rings circling her fingers. The room turned to her.

“My gift allows me to see the shape of truth within one's mind,” she said calmly. “And if the council wishes it, I will see what she saw when her brother fell. When her choices were made. Not twisted. Not filtered through fear or jealousy. But as they were.”

Danlea eyes met Asric’s. “And I am happy to do so with any consenting party.”

She descended from her seat, bare feet silent against the marble. The sunlight in the observatory seemed to lean toward her, the shadows curling away from her touch, as if the very room recognized her presence, her gentleness.

“Mira,” she said softly, her voice woven with warmth, as if calling her from somewhere far away. "Do you consent?"

Mira nodded. Danlea’s movements were slow, deliberate. She stopped in the middle of the observatory, close enough that Mira could see the intricate embroidery of stars along her collar, the delicate stitching that seemed to shimmer with its own light. She beckoned Mira to her.

Mira’s feet moved, the marble cool beneath her soles, the silence of the observatory pressing in like held breath. Every eye in the chamber followed her, but none of them mattered. Not Asric with his sharpened smiles. Not the council with their thrones and judgment. Only Danlea.

“You’ve been through so much” she murmured.

Her voice was a balm to Mira’s frayed nerves, a warmth that seeped through the cracks of her composure.

“They ask so much of you.” Danlea whispered.

Mira’s vision blurred, and she didn’t know if it was from exhaustion, grief or the sudden, aching comfort in the Queen’s tone. Mira swallowed, her throat tight, something fragile lodged deep in her chest. Danlea’s fingers brushed a stray lock of hair from Mira’s face.

“Look at me,” she asked, and Mira obeyed.

Milky white eyes met hers, and the room seemed to exhale. The light softened shadows that had seemed sharp now blurred, their edges melting into the stone.

Danlea’s gaze was not merely sight, it was a soft pull, a current leading not to drowning but to something else. Mira felt herself drawn into it, the ground slipping away, her body weightless.

There was no fear. Only quiet. Only peace. Her 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.

The Queen’s face remained the only anchor, her expression filled with understanding, with an unspoken promise.

Mira’s knees buckled.