Page 106 of Unravelled
They fought like they were one. Where he was strength, she was speed. Where he held the line, she wove through the chaos. Firelight from fallen lanterns danced across the blood-slicked stone, casting long shadows that leapt and twisted with every clash.
The battle lit around them like a storm of sparks and smoke, the flickering glow painting them in gold and scarlet. A soldier lunged at her, sword swinging wide.
Mira ducked, spinning behind Tharion as he blocked the blow, their movements seamless. She used his back as leverage, leaping up and kicking the attacker square in the chest. Tharion didn’t even flinch. He pivoted, catching an axe on his bracers, twisting the weapon from his opponent’s grasp before slamming his fist into their gut.
Another enemy charged, Mira yanked an arrow from her quiver and drove it into the gap in their armor, not a fatal blow, but enough to send them stumbling back. More came. More fell back. They moved together, unstoppable.
Tharion’s sword arced through the air, a blur of steel and precision. Mira ducked under his arm, using his momentum to vault over an incoming attack. Their backs hit for a brief second, grounding each other. Then they kept going. Fighting. Dodging. Blocking. Moving.
Tharion sent a soldier staggering, Mira swept their legs out from under them before they could recover. A strike nearly caught her from behind, Tharion deflected it with brutal efficiency, shoving the attacker away with a sharp twist of his blade. Mira staggered, breath coming in sharp gasps, her muscles screaming from the endless motion.
She tore her eyes away, looking instead at Tharion. He was already looking back. For a single slowed moment, they just stood there. Breathless. Bloody. Knowing. She felt it, the weight of him, of everything that had led them here. They had failed as lovers. Failed as bonded. But not as fighters. And never as friends.
She gave a single, sharp nod. A soldier was on her. She staggered back, just enough to avoid the fatal strike, the edge of the steel skimming her leathers as she brought up her bow to block the next attack.
The soldier lunged. Mira pivoted. Step, shift, counter. Another charged. She sidestepped, knocking them off balance with a sharp elbow, using their weight against them. Then, another attack. This time from behind. Before Mira could react, Tharion was there intercepting the strike meant for her spine with brutal swipe of hid sword.
A clash of steel. A grunt from Tharion as he shoved his opponent back. She moved instinctively. The fighter stumbled, just long enough for Tharion to slam the hilt of his sword into their helmet, sending them sprawling.
But there was no chance to recover. More were coming. Two. Three. Four. Mira twisted, blocking a strike with her bow while Tharion parried two swords at once, his blade a blur of silver. One soldier lunged at her, she pivoted, knocking their arm aside with the solid wood of her bow before Tharion swept in from the side, kicking them hard in the ribs, sending them flying.
Another charged him, Mira was already moving. She grabbed a discarded shield, swinging it up just in time to deflect a strike aimed at Tharion’s side. He used the opening, driving the pommel of his sword into their face. They fought back-to-back, covering each other, moving as one.
A sharp, white-hot pain ripped through her side. A brutal twist of the blade as it cut through leather, through flesh, through muscle. The world blurred. Her knees buckled. Tharion roared. He was there in an instant, shoving the attacker away from her, sending them crashing to the ground.
A sudden, vicious spike of panic tore through her, sharp and suffocating. She had missed the third attacker. Tharion's voice couldn’t penetrate through the haze, hands grabbing her arms, holding her upright. Mira gritted her teeth, blinking hard, forcing herself to stay standing.
The wound wasn’t deep. Not fatal. She’d survive. But the blood was warm, pooling beneath her armor, soaking into her leathers. She met Tharion’s gaze.
They were going to lose. Bharalyn was crumbling. The Kharadors were too precise, too calm. A force of trained warriors cutting through the hall with ruthless efficiency. While her people fought desperately, blindly, trying to keep hold of a kingdom already slipping through their fingers.
Mira turned, gaze sweeping through the chaos, past the bodies, past the screaming,until she found Torvyn. Barely fighting. He stood on the dais, like a man simply waiting for time to catch up with his plan. Every movement measured, every step deliberate. Beside him, Brahn. Lounging on the throne like it had been his all along. Mira’s chest tightened. Her fingers curled around the grip of her crossbow, her knuckles white.
A horn sounded. Deep. Commanding. Not Bharalyn. The sound cut through the chaos, ringing over the clash of steel, over the cries of the dying. The fighting slowed. Just long enough for heads to turn toward the massive doors of the hall. Mira forced herself to look, her vision swimming, heart pounding, legs still unsteady beneath her.
Marching in disciplined ranks, their formation unbroken was an army. Lavender purple flags flying high above them. Myrdathis soldiers were surging into the hall, past the broken doors, through the destroyedgreat hall.
For one brief, terrible second, Mira thought it was over. That Myrdathis had come to take Bharalyn for themselves. That this was a second enemy, coming to finish what the Kharadors had started.
Through the crush of bodies, through the dust and smoke, she saw her. Danlea. Atop a white horse, its silver mane catching the torchlight, its hooves clattering against the stone. Her hair streamed behind her, wild and free, a river of white silk.
She wasn't clad in armor, but in her usual flowing dress, unbothered by the ruin around her. But there was steel in her milky eyes. Power radiated from her, as though the battle itself had bent around her arrival.
The Myrdath soldiers charged forward. Blades met blades. The battle erupted anew, but now, for the first time since the fighting began, Mira saw a shift. Ren’s army fought alongside the Myrdathis, pushing back the Kharadorians who had stormed their home.
Hope slammed into her chest, sharp and disorienting. They weren’t alone. They still had a chance. Mira’s hand tightened around her bow. Tharion exhaled beside her, bracing himself, his sword held ready, his body coiled.
He could hold the line. She had another purpose. She moved. No longer trapped, no longer drowning beneath endless waves of enemies. Mira broke away, her path clear. A single target burned in her vision.Brahn.
She fought to get to him. A soldier lunged, she twisted past. Another came at her, sword high, slashing downward, she ducked, rolling under the strike, the steel barely missing her.
She rose fluidly, bow flashing as she brought it up like a staff, smashing it across a fighter’s chest, sending them stumbling. She kept moving. Step. Shift. Counter. Someone grabbed at her, she wrenched free.
The hall blurred around her, nothing but a rush of movement, of instinct, of breath and muscle memory. Her focus zeroed in on the throne, on the man who had stolen it. Brahn, now fighting alongside Torvyn. Her fingers tightened around her crossbow.
Mira stopped running. She planted her feet. The battlefield raged around her, and she felt Tharion fighting at her back. Screams, metal on metal, bodies falling, dust and blood thick in the air.
To Mira, there was nothing else. Nothing but the crossbow in her hands. Nothing but Brahn, his back to her, unaware. She lifted the bow, her grip steady, her muscles taut.
