Page 79 of Unravelled

The room had thinned, nobles filing out in pairs and whispers, but Mira remained seated, spine straight despite the ache creeping into her shoulders. Her temples pulsed with the slow, steady throb of exhaustion.

Across the room, Ren stood in quiet conversation with Brenna Helmard, nodding once at something she said. But Mira saw it, the way his gaze flicked to her, just once, brief and apologetic. The unspoken words were all in that glance.

I’m sorry.

But they both knew. After Asric’s accusations, after the weight of her brother’s death had been turned into a political weapon, any perceived closeness between Regent and her would cost them. No words, no gesture but she knew he understood.

It's okay.

They would be careful. Distant, if they had to be. And still, even across a room, they could read each other this clearly. Mira felt a quiet, steady gratitude for that. For the kind of understanding that didn’t need words.

?? ?

By the time Mira stepped out into the gardens, the last light of the sun clung stubbornly to the horizon, casting the sky in shades of burning amber and deepening indigo. The air was cool, crisp with the scent of damp earth and fallen leaves, thick with the quiet promise of an encroaching winter.

She walked along the winding path, her boots brushing through the golden and russet leaves that had gatheredalong the edges. The trees stood half-bare, their skeletal branches reaching toward the darkening sky, clutching at the remnants of a summer now lost to autumn’s slow decay.

A wind stirred through her, sending leaves spiraling to the ground, their rustling the only sound beyond the distant murmurs of the palace.

The palace itself still glittered behind her, its lanterns burning, reflecting off the polished marble walls and gilded spires.

A monument to power, standing untouched while the world beyond its gates withered and starved. Mira turned away.

Ahead, past the final ring of the gardens, the graveyard loomed in the fading light.

Her steps slowed as she approached her family’s crypt.

It was a simple structure, unadorned, built of smooth gray stone.

No grand carvings, no towering statues, only a single crest above the arch.

The sigil of House Solwynd, its once-sharp engravings now barely catching the dim candle light flickering from within.

The door stood slightly ajar, the scent of melting wax drifting into the cool night air.

The acolytes had left it open for her as was their customs. Open for three days for anyone wishing to pay their respects to the ascended. She stepped inside.

The chamber was quiet. The candles burned low in their sconces. Their glow cast flickering patterns along the stone walls. The walls were lined with stone recesses, each marked with a name. Her father. Her mother. And now... Torvyn.

His name was freshly carved, the stone still rough beneath her fingertips as she traced the letters. He had meant safety, guidance, home. Mira's hand trembled as it hovered there, her fingers curling slowly into a fist.

The pressure behind her eyes broke, silent tears spilling down her cheeks, sliding along her jaw. She didn’t wipe them away. There was no one to see, no one left to care.

A draft slipped through the crypt, stirring the candle flames, making them tremble.

A shiver ran down her spine. It was the ache of emptiness.

Of being the last one standing. The last one breathing.

They were all gone. She had outlived them.

Mira pressed her forehead to the stone, her breath hitching. She had never felt so alone.

A movement behind her. Mira spun around, her hand hovered where the hilt of her dagger would have been.

"Torvyn deserved better than this." Brahn's voice echoed through the crypt like smoke .

Slowly, she turned. He stood in the doorway, half-draped in the flickering gold of candlelight, half-swallowed by the dark.

His cloak was creased with travel, the collar still damp.

But it was the sling that caught her eye.

His right arm, tightly bound and cradled to his chest. He stepped forward slowly, deliberately, Brahn’s expression didn’t change.

“Your aim,” he said, tone dry, “was better than I gave you credit for.”

She snapped back at him. “You're lucky you dodged.” His eyes flicked to her then.

She turned away, back to the inscription on the wall. Torvyn’s name. Rough in the stone.

Brahn stepped inside, the scrape of his boot against stone far too calm for what he was. “This is what they’ve done,” he said quietly, “to all of us.”

“No.” Mira’s voice cracked. “This is what you did.” she whispered.The crypt went still. She turned to face him again, eyes burning. “He’s dead. My brother. And I don’t care how you dress it up, how righteous you make it sound, he died protecting you.”

Brahn didn’t move. Didn’t blink. Just stood there, the flicker of candlelight throwing harsh shadows across his face.

“Did you ever try to stop him?” she spat. “Or did you just let him worship you?” Her voice cracked, breath coming hard now, uneven. Grief swelled behind her ribs, sharp and burning.

Mira hissed. “You blame the council, their golden halls, their hunger for control, but what about you? You let him believe in you. You let him think this kingdom could only be saved through blood. And when his ambition got in the way, when it stopped being about hope and became about victory, did you ever fight him? When did you protect him?”

Brahn’s face remained still, unreadable, but something in his eyes faltered. Just slightly. Brahn exhaled, slow and tight. “He believed in the cause, Mira. You don’t get to strip that from him.”

She laughed, sharp, bitter. “I don’t want to strip anything from him. I want him here. I want him breathing. I want him alive!” she yelled.

Silence fell again. The candles guttered, and the shadows lengthened. For a moment, neither of them moved. Then Brahn shifted, his voice quieter this time, almost gentle. “You forget what he is to me.”

Mira flinched. The words hit harder than she expected, cutting through the haze of her fury.

She had. Somewhere between the blame and the grief, she had forgotten.

Not just comrades. Not just allies. Something deeper.

Sacred. Bonded. Her breath caught in her throat, the fire of her anger flickering low as something heavier settled in its place.

Guilt. A slow, sinking ache in her chest.

The sling tugged slightly against his shoulder as he adjusted, wincing. “I still feel it,” he said. “My bond to him didn’t break, Mira. It didn’t fade. It’s still there.”

Brahn exhaled sharply, as if he could force the feeling away. “Every breath. Every heartbeat. It’s not just pain, it’s a siren call. It lures me to the abyss, and there are moments that I wonder if I should stop fighting it. Because if I let go, maybe, just maybe, I’d find him again.”

Mira let her tears fall, jaw trembling. Outside, the wind howled through the trees, rattling the iron gate. Brahn’s voice, when it came again, was quiet. Measured.

“When the King of Kharador arrives, he will bring something that will turn the tides and ensure our victory.”

“I am not one of your uprising Brahn” Mira said. Her voice was barely a whisper, but it cut cleaner than steel.

Brahn’s expression stilled. His voice lost none of its certainty. Brahn sighed, "When the moment comes, you’ll know your loyalty is with us, and as the sister of my bonded, there will always be a place for you... I promised him that” Mira heard Brahn step back into the cold.

For a long moment, she stared at the name carved into stone. A gust of wind surged through the crypt’s entrance, the cold biting at her skin. She exhaled, slow and steady, before turning toward the door.

???

The last traces of sunset were long gone, leaving only the pale glow of the moonlight through the clouds. The wind had picked up, making the trees scrape together with each restless gust. Mira pulled her cloak tighter around herself, her boots crunching against the path.

Tharion stood at the edge of the burial ground, waiting. He leaned against an old stone marker, arms crossed. He said nothing, simply falling into step beside her as she passed him. The palace loomed in the distance, its towers glittering, untouched by the quiet grief of the graveyard.

Finally, Mira spoke. “He hated the cold, you know.” Tharion glanced at her.

“Torvyn.” Mira’s voice was even, but there was something heavy beneath it. “Always complained about the nights.”

Tharion’s expression hardened, “I remember. He used to steal extra blankets from the barracks. Claimed they were for you, but we both knew he was hoarding them.”

“He always had an answer for everything,” she whispered. “Especially when he was in trouble...”

Mira’s expression softened, though her eyes stayed locked on the path ahead.

The lanterns burned steadily along through the palace windows, their golden glow casting elongated shadows as Mira and Tharion approached the doors.

As they entered, warmth of the halls did little to chase away the cold that had settled deep in her bones.

Her gaze drifted, unconsciously. The old tapestry Torvyn used to hide behind during games of chase, the chipped vase he’d once knocked over and sworn her to secrecy about.

Further down, she could see Torvyn dragging her down into the kitchens to steal sweetbread.

She could almost hear his voice again. They reached her quarters.

Mira pushed open the door to her room, stepping inside.

Tharion hesitated, then gestured out the hallway."I’ll be in my room. If you need anything."

She turned slightly, glancing toward it. She nodded. He lingered for a moment longer, then he gave her a short nod and turned away.

Mira closed the door. The silence pressed in even as she changed into a nightdress.

She sat on the edge of the bed, staring at the wall, The cold from the graveyard still clinging to her.

The shadows didn’t move. The fire in the hearth had long since gone out.

She didn’t light another. She couldn’t bring herself to fill the room with light when her chest felt so hollow.

A shift in the air. The faint creak of the window frame. She already knew exactly who it was. Ren slipped through the open window like smoke, silent and sure. His boots barely made a sound as they hit the floor. His cloak damp at the hem from mist. His brow furrowed the moment he saw her.

“You left the window unlatched,” he murmured, stepping closer.

“Did I?” she asked quietly, eyes not leaving the floor. She didn't even remember unlatching the window at all.

Ren stopped a few paces from her. He crouched down,“Mira.”

She blinked slowly, then met his gaze.“Brahn came to the crypt...” Ren stilled. “He tried to turn it on the council." she said, a dry huff escaping her. "And worse, he believes it.”

Ren didn’t speak right away. He rose slowly before sitting beside her.Just close enough that their shoulders touched. “Do you believe him?” he asked quietly.

“No,” she said, then paused. “Not in the way he meant it. He thinks he’s fighting to save them.”

Ren leaned back on his hands, exhaling through his nose. “That’s what makes him dangerous.”

“I know,” Her voice cracked.

Ren was silent again. Then, gently, he reached for her hand, threading his fingers through hers. His palm was warm. They sat like that for a time. Just breath and silence, the kind that didn’t press but settled like a blanket.

Eventually, Ren stood and shrugged off his cloak, the damp fabric hitting the floor with a soft thud. He unlaced his shirt, his movements slow and tired. He didn’t ask. Didn’t need to. He lifted the covers and waited for her.

Mira slid beneath them, letting the cold be chased away by the heat of him. Ren joined her, curling around her back, one arm sliding under her waist. His other hand found hers again beneath the blankets.Slowly, Mira’s eyes drifted closed.