Page 105 of Unravelled
He stepped aside with the gravity of a herald making a proclamation. And through the haze of golden torchlight, Brahn emerged onto the dais. Draped in deep blue robes trimmed in gold. The fabric whispered behind him, echoing the colors of Bharalyn’s banners, but twisted, made new, a mockery of royal legacy recast in his image. A crown rested on his brow, dark iron, heavy and bare. Not delicate, not regal, but brutal. A crown made for conquest.
The vision she saw struck Mira in a flash, vivid, undeniable. The shattered throne room. The torn banners. Smoke curling through cracked marble. And now here Brahn was, in the shape of that nightmare.
Brahn stood tall, his shoulders squared, his chin lifted. His expression was proud, until his gaze swept the crowd and landed on her. He smiled. A slow, deliberate. Not joy. Not triumph. Certainty.
The crowd's cheer increased. Stomping feet and raised fists thundered through the chamber. They chanted Brahn's name, echoing around the stone pillars. Mira’s stomach twisted.
This was never about justice. Never about liberation. It had always been a coup, careful and precise, engineered to place Brahn on the throne of Bharalyn. Not to raise the people up from poverty. But to rule them.
Mira didn't bother being quiet, she just ran. The roar of the crowd in the great hall rang in her ears, but it was drowned out by a deeper, more urgent sound, the pounding against the wooden door.
The great doors swung open with a resounding boom, the force rattling through the marble floors. Soldiers and townsmen stormed inside, their banners whipping in the chaos, their armour already wet with the blood of those who had fallen outside.
And in an instant, the hall was in battle.
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Mira barely had time to duck as a blade whistled past her head, slicing through the air where her throat had been moments before. She pivoted sharply, bringing up her dagger just in time to deflect the strike. The impact rattled up her arm, steel screeching against steel.
She held her ground, shoving back hard enough to send her attacker stumbling. The next blow came before she could even catch her breath. A soldier barreled into her from the side, forcing her to twist at the last second, her feet sliding on the blood-slicked stone. She used their momentum, guiding them past her with a sharp step and redirecting them into another combatant.
There was no pause. No moment to breathe. Steel clashed in a violent symphony, echoing through the marble corridors like thunder. She looked like a Kharadorian. When the palace doors had opened, she was on wrong side of the fight.
There was no time for explanation, no time to shout above the carnage. Only the glint of weapons and the blunt force of survival. So she fought, not to kill. To disarm or wound.
Another came at her from behind. She ducked low, turned, avoiding their dagger. Bodies slammed into one another, armor scraping, swords ringing against shields.
Ren’s forces fought with desperation. The ambush had stripped them of coordination, leaving only instinct and desperation. Outnumbered but unyielding, their movements sharp. They weren’t trained for a battle like this.
Torvyn’s forces retaliated with ruthless efficiency. Mira twisted, barely avoiding a wild swing from a soldier in Kharadorian leathers. She dropped low, rolling beneath his arm, knocking his balance off with a sharp elbow to his ribs. He grunted in pain, staggering sideways into another fighter, and Mira used the distraction to keep moving. Her bow remained in her hands, its weight solid, grounding.
Another soldier lunged. Mira barely got her bow up in time, blocking the incoming blow with the wood. The force sent her skidding backward, boots struggling for grip on the marble. She adjusted her hold, swinging the bow outward, clipping the man’s shoulder just hard enough to send him reeling back.
Another strike, this time from behind. She grunted andspun, catching a charging soldier off-guard, grabbing the front of his armor and yanking him down into her knee. The air left his lungs in a ragged gasp, but he didn’t go down. Another hand grabbed her wrist, trying to wrench her dagger away. Mira yanked free, twisting under the grip, her body moving on muscle memory alone.
She ducked a sword, shoved past a pair of clashing soldiers, barely avoiding the press of bodies that threatened to swallow her whole.
The heat of the battle stretched the seconds into eternity. She lost count of how many times she dodged, parried, deflected. She had no sense of where the battle began or where it would end. There was no way to tell who was who.
Someone shoved her backwards, her spine hitting a pillar hard enough to knock the breath from her lungs. She ducked just in time, an axe cleaving into the stone where her neck had been. The force cracked through the air, and Mira rolled away, coming back up to face yet another opponent.
She did not kill. She couldn't. She didn’t know if the person swinging at her had once been an ally, a friend, someone she had trusted. Didn’t know if the soldier in front of her now had once stood at Ren’s side, or Torvyn's.
She could only fight to survive. She stole a glance toward the dais, heart hammering, just in time to see Brahn standing above the carnage, watching it unfold like a man admiring his own masterpiece. Mira’s stomach turned. The battle raged on, but Brahn did not move.
Torvyn was still there, blade drawn, protecting his bonded. Mira’s hands tightened around her weapons. A blur of movement in her periphery, a towering figure, coming fast.
She barely had time to pivot before a heavy arm crashed toward her, the sheer force of the strike rattling up her arms as she threw her bow up to block. She slammed her free hand against his chest and shoved, using his own momentum against him as she twisted herself loose. He stumbled back a step but and recovered to slowly.
Mira saw the opening and took it. She twisted low, planting her weight before hooking her leg behind his and yanking. He toppled. It happened so fast, his armor crashed against the stone with a brutal impact, the wind knocked from his lungs. Mira surged forward,
"Mira...?"
Her breath caught. The voice. Familiar. Rough. Desperate. Her heart stopped. Tharion. Mira froze, her pulse hammering as she looked down, at the man beneath her.
Battered, breathing hard, eyes searching hers. Tharion. Not just another soldier. Not just an enemy in the chaos. Tharion. Her friend. Mira’s grip loosened on her dagger.
She hesitated only a breath before reaching down, grabbing his wrist in a firm, unwavering grip. Tharion took it. In a flash, he was on his feet, already pivoting to block an incoming strike. Mira moved with him, their bodies falling into rhythm, the muscle memory of training together taking over.
