Page 109 of Unravelled
Mira was frozen. Her body wouldn’t move. Wouldn’t breathe. Wouldn’t blink. All she could do was watch.
The blade withdrew from Torvyn’s body. Slow. Merciless. Slick with his blood, gleaming as if proud of what it had done. Torvyn's knees buckled. The strength drained from him as his body gave out. He crumpled. His hands grasped at nothing, reaching for something, for someone, before they fell limp against the stone.
A sound ripped from her chest, raw and impossible, tearing through the battlefield. A scream. A sound that didn’t just come from her voice, but from her soul. Ragged. Violent. Shattering. It ripped through the hall, cut through the clash of steel, the roars of war, the dying gasps of men.
For just a moment, the battle paused. Warriors turned. Soldiers hesitated. Because they felt it too. Felt the sound crawl under their skin, felt the weight of it press down on their bones, twisting through their marrow. A scream of loss. A scream of grief. A scream that did not just mourn the man who had fallen, but mourned the brother she thought had.
Mira moved before she could think. She let loose, her hands steady despite the shaking in her chest. She loosed an arrow. And another. And another. Torvyn’s murderer staggered back, forced to parry the relentless onslaught of her arrows.
She moved forward, swift and deadly, her body cutting through the throng of people. Her breath tore through her lungs as she pushed past fallen bodies, boots slipping in blood-slick dust.
She needed to be there. To see him. To make sure he wasn’t alone. Torvyn. Her brother. The one she had fought with. Cursed at. Clung to. The one she had hatedin this moment and never stopped loving.
She was almost there. Just a few more steps. A few more breaths. Her knees hit the blood-soaked stone, hands grasping, desperate, searching, but there was nothing to find.
Torvyn’s body lay still. Lifeless. The warmth already fading from his skin, the blood pooling around him in thick, glistening rivers. Her hands trembled as shetouched his face, as if she could shake him from this, as if she could live back into him.
He was gone. She was too late. Her fingers curled into his tunic, into the red fabric, as if holding him tighter could tether him back to her. Her chest heaved, a sob, a shudder, a sound ripped from the deepest part of her.
He had died alone.
???
Mira wasn’t sure how long she stayed there. Seconds. Minutes. A lifetime. The world around her blurred, faded into something distant and unreal. The battle raged on.
Somewhere, warriors fought and died. Somewhere, steel clashed, boots thundered, voices shouted commands. But here, at this moment, there was only Torvyn. Only the weight of him in her arms. Only the way his body did not stir, the way his chest did not rise, did not fall. His body would never move again.
Someone gave an order. His forces hesitated, only for a breath. Then they moved. Quick. Silent. Like ghosts vanishing into the mist. They peeled away from the fight, breaking into the tunnels, slipping from the palace like they had never been there at all.
She didn’t listen to the last of the retreating footsteps. She only held on to what was left of her brother. Her hands pressed against his head, his face, his chest. She just needed a moment longer with him. But there was nothing left to hold on to. Mira lay her head down on his chest. Willing. Begging. For his heart to beat. For him to wake up. But the silence was deafening.
???
Time slipped. There was only the weight of Torvyn’s chest beneath her head and the unbearable stillness where his breath should have been.
Someone reached for her. Hands. Holding her. Pulling her from Torvyn. Anchoring. Arms wrapped around her, firm but careful. She fought anyway. Wild. Desperate.
She kicked, lashed out, trying to wrench herself free, her breath coming in ragged sobs. But the grip didn’t falter. A second set of hands warmer, surer, pressed against her shoulders, meant to comfort, meant to hold her together when she was already shattering.
A voice, low, urgent. She didn’t hear it. Didn’t care. She twisted violently, a sob tearing from her throat, raw and shattered, clawing, desperate. Back to Torvyn. Her feet scraped against stone slick with blood as she dug her heels in, her chest heaving, fingers reaching, reaching. But they held her too tight. Not in restraint, but in something like protection. As if keeping her from him now would somehow hurt her less.
A voice. Sharp. Cold. The arms around her tensed. A choked gasp broke from her lips as the hands held her too tight. Footsteps. More voices. She only knew the warmth of her brother was already fading. Torvyn was still on the floor. Still bleeding.
With a violent jerk, she threw her head back, felt the sickening crack of bone against bone as her skull collided with the person behind her. A sharp gasp of pain, the hands on her loosened. She wrenched herself free, stumbling, nearly falling, but she didn’t stop. Didn’t think. Didn’t breathe.
She crawled to him, hands shaking as she reached for him.
"Torvyn..." His name was a whisper, a prayer, a plea, but there was no answer.
She curled against him. Holding on. As if she could keep him from slipping further away. As if, by sheer will, she could bring him back.
The voices around her blurred into noise. Distant. Meaningless. Arguing. Shouting. More hands reaching for her. She shrugged them off, her breath ragged, her hands clawing at Torvyn’s tunic, fingers twisting in the fabric.
A shadow shifted above her. A face. Tharion. Mira blinked, her vision swimming, her chest aching, tearing. He was covered in blood and sweat, his tunic torn,his chest heaving. He yelled something. His lips moved, his voice urgent, his eyes soft, pained, pleading. She didn’t hear him. Didn’t care. She closed her eyes.
???
A whisper. Something slipping through her, curling into the hollowness inside her. She opened her eyes. Ren.
