Page 9 of Unravelled

As Mira stood and stepped into Torvyn's office, the last light of day spilled through the narrow windows, painting long slashes of amber across the stone floor. Shadows crept along the walls, stretching with the setting sun.

Torvyn stood by the desk, striking the flint with quiet precision.

A small flame bloomed to life in the brass oil lamp beside the open ledger, casting a soft glow that flickered across the room.

The polished wood caught the light unevenly, broken by stacks of parchment and half-rolled scrolls.

The lamp’s light danced across his face as he straightened, the weight of the day settling on the slope of his shoulders.

The encounter with Ren still clung to her like perfume, light and dangerous. It had unearthed a memory of Tharion that had been intoxicating. A ghost of a feeling she’d once known. Guilt and longing pulsed through her in equal measure.

Nothing had actually happened between her and Ren. And nothing would. Mira straightened, exhaling slowly as she pushed the lingering warmth of the moment aside. Her heart settled. Her mind cleared.

Mira leaned against the edge of the desk, arms crossed, her expression cool but her voice teasing. “Why aren’t you off with your bonded, basking in blissful domestic peace?”

Torvyn looked up from the scattered papers, a corner of his mouth lifting. “And leave you to talk circles around every advisor here? Not likely.” Mira’s smile faded.

She straightened slightly. “Torvyn.” A beat. “How bad are things in the villages?”

His reply was a slow exhale. Shoulders sagged. A weight he’d been carrying too long. “Worse than I’ve seen in years.” he admitted.

She tilted her head, eyes narrowing. “How bad?” He hesitated.

A flicker passed over his face, there and gone before he met her gaze.

“The Kharador soldiers have stripped them bare. Grain. Livestock. Tools. Everything. Families won’t survive the winter, let alone see the next harvest.” He paused, his jaw tightening.

“And the ones who tried to fight back?” Her stomach clenched.

“ They’re being made examples of,” he said flatly.

“Publicly. Heads on pikes. One in every village square along the border. The message is clear.

He didn’t need to finish. She already knew. Mira’s hands curled into fists at her sides. “How many?”

His voice lowered. “Most of the border villages. They’re starving, Mira. Dying. And no one is coming to help.”

The silence between them chilled the air. Finally, she straightened, voice sharpening. “We can’t let this continue.”

Torvyn tilted his head. There was something in his eyes, part wariness, part admiration. “No, we can’t,” he said. “But tell me, little storm, what do you think we can do?”

The words hit her with more force than she expected.

Little storm. It had been her father’s name for her.

Spoken with exasperated fondness when she’d thrown tantrums unexpectedly fierce for her small frame.

Or when she challenged rules with the force of someone twice her age.

The pet name had always come with a look, half pride, half warning.

She hadn’t heard it in years. Her chin lifted, resolving stitching itself back into her spine.

“Tharion said they need supplies,” Mira said quickly. “Food. Shelter. If the advisors knew they could help,”

Torvyn gave a snort. “They’ll offer sympathy and nothing else. They’re very generous with their pity. Not so much with grain or resources.”

“There has to be something. Can you convince the Crowned Betrothed to meet with them?” Mira's tone sharpened, a plea.

“Convince him?” he echoed, brow arching. “Do you think anything can convince Caelric in his current state? Mira, he doesn’t even speak anymore. He hasn’t left his chambers in days. They’re moving him around like furniture.” Mira looked down. She didn’t have an answer.

Torvyn's voice lowered, gentle but firm, the way only an older brother could manage. “The people don’t need more kind words, Mira. They need someone who gives a damn. Someone who’ll actually do something.” A pause. “You know that. I know you do.”

Her gaze flicked to his, questioning. “What exactly are you saying Torvyn?”

He spoke slowly, choosing his words, “Sometimes, the only way to fight corruption and abuse of power at this scale… is to dismantle it.”

Mira stiffened. "You already know about the rebellion.” she whispered “You're involved..."

He didn’t confirm it. He didn’t have to. “I know as well as you, that a letter to Caelric won’t save anyone,” he said.

She pressed her lips into a line, her voice softer now. “He’s hurting, Torvyn. Losing the Queen, it broke something in him.”

“Mira,” he said, and this time it was a little sharper. “There's no more time. People are dying, right now. And your compassion for them?” he said, almost sadly. “It’s surprising considering what they did to you.” A beat. “To our father.”

Mira remembered standing in the center of the great hall, trembling, not from fear, but from fury.

Her fists had clenched at her sides, her chin lifted in quiet defiance, even as the sentence was passed.

Their father, once the Queen’s most trusted advisor had been named the scapegoat.

Punished for his lack of supervision of his kin.

He had accepted it without protest. Exile.

He had gone gladly to protect what remained of their family’s standing.

To shield Torvyn’s future. To preserve Mira’s.

She remembered the moment he passed her on his way out, silent, composed.

The whole court watching, the Queen silent on her throne.

He had paused only for a breath, placing his hand gently against her cheek.

No words. Just that. And that memory… Queen Sarelle had left untouched.

“Just because they hurt us, Torvyn… doesn’t mean we have to become like them. We can still choose compassion.”

Torvyn let out a low, almost disbelieving laugh.

“You think this is about us?” he spoke slowly, softer but the edge was still there.

Buried beneath the warmth of his voice. “Mira.” Her name was a sigh, gentle, fond, familiar.

“You’ve always had a good heart. You want to believe the world can be better.

That people will choose mercy if you show it first. But those people out there?

The ones starving? Dying?” He looked up now, his gaze steady, serious, almost sad.

“They don’t need hope or compassion. They need help. Real help. Food. Shelter. Protection.”

He let the words settle. Her chest tightened.

“You’re not wrong to want compassion, Mira,” he added, voice low.

“But sometimes? The most compassionate choice… is to stop giving it to the people who’ve already taken everything.

” He paused, Come with me to Anyerit in a few days,” he asked.

“See it for yourself. And then decide if you still believe the Crowned Betrothed and council deserves your compassion more than them.” His words pressed on something deeper in Mira than guilt. It felt like duty.

Mira’s gaze drifted toward the window, where the palace banners stirred in the soft hush of evening.

Gold and ivory, embroidered with the symbols of the court.

So familiar they felt like part of her skin.

These walls contained everything she had ever known, every rule, every duty, and every truth she’d been raised to believe.

Torvyn wasn’t pushing her out the door. He was standing beside it, waiting. Asking.

Her voice was quiet when it came. Measured. But not uncertain. “If Cleric Perrin approves … I’ll come.”

Torvyn’s brow lifted, just slightly, surprise flickering there, quickly masked by something warmer. Pride.

???

As Mira stepped back into the library, the door closing softly behind her, a thought lingered in the back of her mind.

She hadn’t seen pride on Torvyn’s face since before she was bonded.

Mira turned the corner into the attendant's wing at a brisk pace and nearly collided with a solid figure rounding the same bend.

She skidded to a halt just in time, her shoulder grazing his as they both jerked back in surprise.

Brahn let out a soft grunt, catching himself against the wall to steady his balance.

“Brahn!” Mira gasped, reaching for him instinctively. “I’m so sorry, are you alright?”

“I’ve had worse,” he said lightly, brushing off the front of his chef's apron with one hand. “Though I think you’ve gotten stronger since the last time you ran me down.”

She gave a small smile, embarrassed. “That wasn’t exactly a graceful entrance, was it?”

“No, it was not,” he replied, a touch of warmth in his voice, though his expression remained mostly neutral.

Her gaze flicked past him toward the kitchen door. “Is Tharion inside?” He nodded, stepping aside, giving her room to pass.

The scent of stew met her as she stepped into the kitchen, warm, familiar, spiced with rosemary and salt. Tharion sat at the far end of the kitchens at a small rounded table. He sat hunched over a steaming bowl, his dark hair damp at the ends, likely from the barracks wash.

Mira approached slowly. “Didn’t know the kitchens were open for private service.”

He glanced up, spoon halfway to his mouth. “They’re not.” He gestured toward the bowl. “One apprentice slipped me a helping.”

Mira sank into the seat across from him. “So now I’m out of stew,” she said, half-teasing.

“You didn’t cook it,” he said without looking at her.

“Neither did you.” That earned the barest twitch of a smile from him, but it didn’t last. He went back to eating, silent and methodical.

Mira rested her elbow on the table, tracing a worn knot in the wood with her fingertip. The silence between them was familiar, heavy but familiar. She swallowed. “Torvyn asked me to go with him to Anyerit in a couple of days.”