Page 83 of Unravelled

The grand hall buzzed with conversation, silverware clinking against fine porcelain, wine flowing freely into goblets of gold and crystal.

But Mira hardly heard any of it. She ate in silence, her posture composed, her gaze flickering between the plates before her and the subtle movements of the court.

The King of Kharador sat at the head of the hall, speaking in low tones to those bold enough to address him.

His presence, even at a distance, swallowed the room whole.

Mira forced herself to eat. Every bite tasted like dust.

She was aware of the of Tharion’s stare since she had rejoined him.

When the food was served, He simply picked up his utensils and began eating, jaw tight, every movement stiff and controlled.

Mira chewed slowly, watching him from the corner of her eye.

Beneath that carefully constructed mask, he was barely holding himself together.

She swallowed the next bite, setting down her fork before looking directly at him.

Tharion did not look at her. "What were you thinking?" His voice was quiet but sharp. "Do you know what you just did?"

Mira tooksip from her glass, unbothered. “Yes"

Tharion’s grip tightened around his fork. "You provoked a warlord."

Mira exhaled slowly, setting her goblet back down. "I held my own."

Tharion finally turned to face her, his eyes flashing with barely restrained emotion. "You made yourself a piece on his board, Mira. And I don’t think you realize just how dangerous that is."

Mira sighed. “I do realise.”

Tharion shook his head, scoffing softly. His voice dropped lower, barely more than a whisper. “Why would you bait him like that?”

Mira stared at Tharion, "Because I didn't have a choice."

Tharion stiffened. A beat of silence. She set the glass down, her fingers trailing lightly over the stem before she leaned in just enough that their conversation remained private.

"Asric knows who has been in my room." Her voice was smooth, but the weight beneath it was heavy.

Her gaze flicking toward Asric, who sat at a distance, engaged in idle conversation, or pretending to be. Mira turned back to Tharion.

He swallowed, before he forced himself to pick up his utensils again."Why is it always you paying the price?"

Mira exhaled as she speared a piece of food onto her fork, bringing it to her lips with deliberate ease, as if they weren’t discussing treachery in hushed tones over a diplomatic feast. She chewed slowly, unhurried.

"I need to collect something from the King.

.. carefully..." She set down her fork, fingers resting lightly against the polished wood of the table.

"Like I collected the letter from Asric. "

Tharion’s fingers tightened on his knife. “Mira, ”

Before Tharion could say another word, Ren’s voice rang through the hall. "Honored guests, your attention, please."

The room stilled. Mira turned her head as the court’s announcer stepped forward, his voice carrying over the hum of quiet conversations, cutting through the tension that had settled thick in the air.

"As is tradition in Kharador, our esteemed guest, His Majesty, will now select a partner for the opening dance." Ren announced.

A murmur swept through the gathered nobles, anticipation, anxiety, calculated excitement. Mira’s fingers curled subtly against the table. Tharion’s knife clinked against his plate as he set it down a little too hard, his knuckles still white with tension.

Across the hall, Ren stood unnervingly still, his jaw set in rigid control.

The King of Kharador leaned back in his seat, languid, unrushed.

Amused. His gaze swept across the room, lingering on the expectant faces of the court, His eyes found Mira.

A slow, knowing look. A challenge left unspoken.

She held his gaze, refusing to shift, refusing to acknowledge the pulse of unease curling in her stomach.

Then, just as tension gripped the room too tightly, he exhaled.

"The youngest daughter of the Vaeloria Family" he bellowed.

The kings declaration fell into the silence like a dropped coin.

The court stilled, a flicker of surprise darting through the gathered nobles.

Mira turned her head as Nerra’s breath hitched, her bright brown eyes widening in shock.

The King had chosen her. A murmur rippled through the court, hushed whispers traded behind raised goblets and veiled glances.

Nerra was not the daughter of a high-ranking lord. Not the polished court beauty or the calculated political match. He said nothing more, simply watching as Nerra stiffened, her hands pressing against the table before she finally rose. A quiet breath. Then, she stepped forward toward the dais.

He stood, and approached the floor. The music that begun was a deep, resonant drumbeat rippled through the hall, steady and commanding.

Strings followed, low and slow, winding into a melody both unfamiliar and intoxicating.

A Kharadorian rhythm, slower than Bharalyn’s waltzes, heavier, grounded, but no less elegant.

At the center of the hall, the King of Kharador turned to face Nerra.

For a heartbeat, she hesitated. The weight of the court’s attention pressed down on her, the murmurs, the silent assessments of those who had expected someone else, someone of greater standing.

When he offered his hand again, she took it. A beat.

The King led with absolute control, each step measured, precise, effortlessly commanding the space around him. His midnight-black armor, though heavy, did not hinder him. On the polished stone floor, beneath flickering candlelight, he made dancing look like a battle.

Nerra followed. Though her steps were smaller, more careful, there was no trembling, no awkward faltering.

She was light on her feet, her body quick to adjust, her movements unpolished yet talented.

The King spun Nerra once, not with the careful gentleness of a nobleman, but with the ease of a warrior handling a blade, firm, deliberate.

She let out a quiet gasp but did not stumble.

The King’s lips twitched, a flicker of amusement.

The court continued to watch, hushed, transfixed.

The dance, at first, seemed simple. A glide, a step, a turn.

But it was not the dance of Bharalyn, graceful and refined, meant for courtly flirtation.

The music swelled, the tempo building as they moved across the floor, the space around them widening, clearing as if the room itself understood that this was no ordinary performance.

Mira caught Asric watching too, his eyes alight with interest.

Ren had not moved. Tharion’s grip on his knife had not loosened.

The final notes struck, a slow, pulsing finish, the echoes of the drumbeat lingering in the vast chamber.

And in one last, deliberate motion, the King of Kharador released Nerra’s hand.

For a moment, the world seemed to hold still.

Then, the King gave her a single, approving nod.

A ripple of tension broke. The court exhaled.

Without ceremony, without even a glance at the court now buzzing behind him, the War King reached out and curled an arm around Nerra’s waist. It was not a gentle gesture.

It was a claim. A declaration. A sharp gasp slipped from Nerra’s lips as he pulled her flush against him.

Firm, unyielding. Her body stiffened, startled by the suddenness, the boldness, but the King didn’t stop.

He said nothing. He simply turned and began to walk.

One step. Then another. His arm never leaving her.

Nerra, wide-eyed and breathless, stumbled at first, caught off-guard by the possessive grip, by the weight of every eye following them.

Her eyes darted around desperately. He led her forward.

Up the dais. Straight toward the throne. To his lap.

Mira stood frozen. So did the court. Silence rippled outward, broken only by the rhythmic echo of the King’s boots striking the marble. The moment was heavy, slow. Deliberate. Not just a dance. Not even a choice. It was a demonstration.

Danlea stepped forward from her seat, calm as always, but her expression unreadable.

She did not shout. She did not panic. But there was urgency in the way her steps carried her.

Ren mirrored her. Neither of them looked toward the court.

They were locked on the King, on Nerra, who had not yet pulled away, who had not yet spoken.

Mira strained to hear, but whatever words passed between the rulers were lost to the crackling of the flames in the room.

Danlea stepped in close. Her presence brushed the War King’s shoulder, hovered near Nerra like a silent guardian.

Her hand did not touch, but Mira could see it poised, watchful. Ready.

Ren said something then, low and sharp. The King did not respond at first, but Mira saw the shift in his posture.

The slight turn of his head. No one else dared move.

The War King gave a single nod, brief, imperious as if Danlea’s presence, Ren’s protest, the gaze of an entire court, were nothing but wind at his back. He sat, pulling Nerra with him.

Nerra did not move. She remained where he had placed her, perched on the edge of the throne, half on his lap, half beside him. Her posture was stiff, her hands curled into the folds of her gown, but the King’s arm remained draped around her waist like a shackle.

The court rippled with the tension of it.

A murmur passed through the gathered nobles, uncertain, disbelieving.

Ren’s expression was carved from ice and fire, his jaw locked so tightly the muscle twitched.

His eyes, usually tempered even in council, burned.

Mira had seen him angry in sessions before, sharp, decisive, cutting.