Page 102 of Unravelled
Don't die.
Something flickered across his face. Then, his attention shifted, his regency settling over him as he turned back to the assembled royal guard. A hush fell over the steps Ren’s voice rose, his presence commanding.
“We fight for each other. For our families. For the streets where we were raised, for the rivers that carved this kingdom long before these walls ever stood. We fight for the people who have waited, too long, for someone to protect them.”
The crowd shifted. This was not just another speech, this was a call to something deeper.
Ren’s jaw tightened. “We fight because this is our home. And we will not let it be stolen.”
A roar went up from the gathered soldiers, fists slamming against breastplates, boots stomping against the stone. Mira pulled her gaze from Ren and surveyed the scene around her.
The royal guard stood in formation, their armor catching the last light of the setting sun, their weapons gleaming with sharpened edges. Among them were soldiers and townsmen, their expressions a mixture of hardened resolve and barely concealed fear. Some clutched their swords with white-knuckled grips, others adjusted their armor with practiced efficiency.
Mira’s eyes lifted to the palace itself, to the towering spires that speared into the sky. From here, she could see the tallest of them, its narrow balcony jutting over the edge of the palace roof, overlooking the city below. It was the perfect vantage point.
She turned to Tharion. “I’ll see more from up there.”
She nodded toward the spire, already making her calculations. A high position meant she could direct shots with her bow, call out enemy movements before they reached the gates. It was a risk, but a necessary one. Tharion followed her gaze, his expression unreadable for a moment. Then he let out a quiet exhale and nodded his head.
“Guess I'll watch my own back.” He clapped a firm hand on her shoulder, his grip warm and familiar.
His voice softened, but the weight of his words remained. “Be careful, Mira.” She nodded, stepping away, already moving toward the palace entrance.
Mira took the stairs two at a time, her breath steady despite the adrenaline coursing through her veins. The weight of her crossbow pressed against her back, familiarand grounding, as she climbed higher and higher, away from the growing tide of soldiers preparing for a fight.
The halls of the palace were eerily quiet. The muffled clamor from the courtyard below seemed distant, a world away from the silent corridors she moved through now. The towering stone walls stretched high above her, bathed in the fading light of the evening.
She passed through the grand library, her footsteps barely a whisper against the polished marble floor. Shelves loomed around her, stretching to the ceiling, filled with books that had survived generations of rulers, histories written and rewritten with each shifting power. Mira reached the arched opening that led to the balcony. A gust of wind rushed past her, cold against her skin, whipping her auburn hair around her face as she stepped forward, bracing herself against the stone railing.
The vantage point was perfect. From here, she could see everything. The winding path that led to the palace gates, the distant tree line that rimmed the outer town, and the vast, open land beyond it, quiet but heavy with anticipation. Mira moved with ease, below the stone ledge of the balcony.
She unslung her crossbow, the wooden grip warm and familiar beneath her fingers, and pulled an arrow from her quiver. The act steadied her. She placed the arrow, the hum of tension running through her arms like a heartbeat. Something shifted. It was subtle, against the wind. She froze.
Across the balcony, half-obscured by the curve of the balcony, she saw him. Another archer. Cloaked, crouched, too focused on the horizon to notice her. His gaze flicked sideways and met hers. His reaction was instant. He fired. The arrow hissed past her cheek, close enough that she felt its breath against her skin. Her own crossbow jerked from her hands, knocked aside by the impact of the shot. The weapon clattered to the floor, spinning uselessly out of reach. Mira launched forward.
They collided with the force of two storms meeting. Her momentum knocked him back into the stone. He grunted, twisted, and tried to recover, his elbow catching her side hard, but she was faster.
They grappled, limbs tangling, her knee catching his thigh. He rolled and slammed her against the ground, fingers searching for his blade, but her elbow found his jaw, snapping his head to the side. She drove her fist into the side of his head, just beneath the ear. His eyes rolled back and his body crumpled.
Mira shoved him off her, and stood over him. Her chest heaving, every nerve alight. She did not hesitate, retrieving her crossbow and checked the ledge again, scanning for others. There were none. But the presence of one was concerning enough.
She crouched low beside the fallen archer, catching her breath. His hood had fallen away in the scuffle, revealing a young face, barely more than a boy.Mira’s eyes moved down his frame, to the rough stitching on his shoulder, the mismatched pieces of leather and wool that made up his armor. Patchwork. Not palace guard. Not Kharadorian.
She didn’t recognize him. Not his face, not the worn crest sewn into the side of his collar, faded but unmistakable. Her stomach turned, cold and uncertain. The resistance. But why would they be here now? Why would they send a boy so young?
The scent of smoke cut into her thoughts. Sharp. Bitter. She turned toward the horizon. The sun had dipped low, casting a golden haze across the landscape. The smoke didn't blur with that glow. It rose thick and purposeful, curling skyward in dark columns from just beyond the treeline.
Mira narrowed her eyes. Something was wrong. She had read about battle fires. How Khadrador used them to drive enemies from the brush, to signal movement across terrain. To scare their opponents. But this wasn’t the frantic curl of confusion. It was controlled. Staged.
Her fingers clenched tighter around the crossbow. The placement was central, deliberate. It wasn’t the remnants of a razed village or a warning fire. It was a beacon. A bonfire.
Her breath caught in her throat as realization slammed into her like a physical force. A distraction. Mira jerked forward, gripping the railing. Her pulse roared in her ears as her gaze snapped back to the courtyard below.
Ren. He stood among the ranks of soldiers, his presence commanding, his dark blue cloak shifting in the wind. His voice rang out as he gave orders. Mira felt her heart scream at him. Unaware, unaware. Mira leaned over the balcony, the wind stealing the breath from her lungs before she could speak.
Ren whipped his head to her, his sharp eyes locking onto hers in an instant. Confusion flickered across his face, a split-second hesitation, just as archers atop the gates and palace walls loosed a deadly volley. Chaos erupted in an instant.
The first wave of arrows struck true, piercing through armor, finding their marks before the soldiers below even registered what was happening. The palace guard reeled, caught in the open, their formation crumbling under the ambush.
