Page 115 of Unravelled
Mira stepped into the celestial observatory, her head high, her shoulders squared despite the weight pressing against her ribs. The vast stained-glass windows shimmered with the morning light, casting shifting patterns of color across the polished marble floor.
The last time she had been here, she had stood on the upper landing, concealed in the darkness, listening as the council debated war. That night, Torvyn’s chair had also sat empty. Now, it belonged to her.
Mira barely had time to steel herself before she felt Ren’s presence beside her. He met her just inside, his gaze sweeping over her as if ensuring she was whole, steady. Saying nothing, he extended his arm to her in quiet solidarity.
She hesitated for only a breath before placing her hand in the crook of his elbow. The moment they stepped forward, the hum of voices quieted. Eyes turned to her, watching, measuring. Some were blank, impassive. Others held the weight of expectation. A few, skepticism. She didn’t waver. Ren walked her to her seat.
To her right sat Lady Brenna Helmard. Her silver hair was twisted into a sleek coil at the nape of her neck, her deep emerald gown embroidered with the silver falcon of her house. She regarded Mira with quiet kindness.
To her left sat Lord Varian, an older man draped in deep blue robes, his red hair neatly combed back. There was a weight to his presence, not unkind, but patient, as if waiting to see whether Mira would rise to the role now set before her. His ringed fingers tapped idly against the polished wood, his gaze steady beneath bushy brows.
Ren pulled her chair out for her, his movements fluid, practiced, as if the act had been ingrained in him since childhood. Mira hesitated for only a fraction of a second before lowering herself into the seat, her spine straight.
She folded her hands in her lap, pressing them lightly against the fabric of her dress, forcing herself to remain composed. Ren took his place on the throne. A bell chimed. A single, resounding note that echoed through the observatory, scattering silence like shattered glass.
All rose in unison. Mira followed suit, her movements controlled, careful. The weight of tradition pressed against the room as the great doors at the far end opened, their gilded frames catching the early light.
The Crowned Betrothed entered. At his side, Danlea supported him, her presence a stark contrast to the hollow shell she guided forward.
He moved slowly, his steps dragging, his expression void of recognition. His gaze drifted across the room but landed on nothing, his eyes unfocused, seeing but not seeing. Mira felt the air in the room shift.
No one spoke. No one dared to move. Queen Danlea led him to the throne beside Ren with a grace that was both deliberate and delicate, as if the very act of guiding him was something sacred. She was gentle, her hand firm but warm as she helped him settle into the seat that had once been meant for a ruler, now occupied by a man who barely seemed to exist. There was no resistance, no sign of acknowledgment from the Crowned Betrothed as he sat. Only emptiness.
Once he was placed, Queen Danlea lowered herself into the chair on the other side of Ren, her posture poised, composed. A heavy silence filled the observatory, She did not rush to speak. Instead, she took a measured breath, her silver eyes sweeping over the gathered councilors, lingering just a fraction longer on Mira.
“Last night’s attack was no mere skirmish.” Danlea’s tone was even, but there was a steel edge beneath the words. “It was calculated. Coordinated. Our enemies struck in unison, and they did so with the knowledge of our defenses.”
A murmur rippled through the room, uneasy and weighted. Lord Asric,leaned forward.
“Then the question is, who was the true orchestrator?” His voice was clipped, eyes sharp as he scanned the council. “Was it Kharador? Or was it the rebels?”
The debate ignited at once.
“The resistance does not have the skill for an attack of this scale,” Lord Varian interjected, his deep voice level despite the tension. “The force that breached the palace was trained, disciplined. That is not the hallmark of an unorganized rebellion.”
“Then explain the uniforms” Brenna said coolly. “The insurgents bore no insignia, no unified colors. That does not scream Kharador to me.”
“Perhaps because they did not need to,” another countered. “Perhaps Kharador sought to disguise their involvement by scattering their men among the rebellion.”
A storm of voices filled the air, each councilor offering their own interpretation, each suggestion growing more urgent, more cutting.
“Or they were separate entities,” Varian argued, his voice heavy with authority. “Two blades striking at once, but not necessarily at the same target.”
The voices crashed over her like waves against stone. Mira sat still, her body rigid, but inside she felt unmoored, untethered. Grief throbbed beneath her skin, sharp and raw, fraying the edges of her composure with every breath.
The sounds of the council grew louder, each voice rising to meet another, sharp with accusation, bloated with certainty.
“Torvyn Solwynd’s death was the greatest loss of the night.” Lord Asric, regarded her carefully, as if measuring her response before he spoke again. “His death marks the loss of not only a noble son,” he continued, voice slow, deliberate, “but of a key figure in our court.”
Mira’s throat burned. Torvyn. Gone. Her last memory of him flashed before her. His body falling to the blood-stained marble. His hands reaching for nothing. Her stomach twisted, bile rising in her throat, but she forced it down.
Forced herself to breathe. Forced herself to keep her expression unreadable. The council watched her, waiting. Waiting to see if she would break. She wouldn’t. Mira straightened, shoulders squared, her voice steady despite the weight pressing against her chest.
“What matters now,” she said, “is not debating what was lost, but deciding how we move forward.”
As Mira’s words settled into the room, a brief hush fell.Lord Asric stood. The movement was slow, deliberate, his hands clasped behind his back as he turned toward the gathered councilors. He did not look at Mira, not at first. His gaze swept across the chamber, catching each face with quiet precision. A performance, perfectly measured.
"And yet," he said at last, "some losses are… conveniently timed." Mira stiffened. Asric tilted his head, voice calm but laced with steel. "Lady Solwynd speaks of moving forward. Of unity. But we must ask, forward to where? And under whose direction?
