Page 119 of Unravelled
All but two. Lord Asric’s arms remained folded, his jaw tight with disapproval. Lord Edric hesitated but ultimately kept his hand down, glancing between Ren and the others.
Ren’s eyes met Asric’s. “Dissent is your right,” he said evenly. “But the council has spoken.”
The Queen nodded once. “Then it is decided.”
???
Council matters had dragged on until dusk, the weight of debate around supplies and allocations pressing down on Mira.
The room had thinned, nobles filing out in pairs and whispers, but Mira remained seated, spine straight despite the ache creeping into her shoulders. Her temples pulsed with the slow, steady throb of exhaustion.
Across the room, Ren stood in quiet conversation with Brenna Helmard, nodding once at something she said. But Mira saw it, the way his gaze flicked to her, just once, brief and apologetic. The unspoken words were all in that glance.
I’m sorry.
But they both knew. After Asric’s accusations, after the weight of her brother’s death had been turned into a political weapon, any perceived closeness between Regent and her would cost them. No words, no gesture but she knew he understood.
It's okay.
They would be careful. Distant, if they had to be. And still, even across a room, they could read each other this clearly. Mira felt a quiet, steady gratitude for that. For the kind of understanding that didn’t need words.
???
By the time Mira stepped out into the gardens, the last light of the sun clung stubbornly to the horizon, casting the sky in shades of burning amber and deepening indigo. The air was cool, crisp with the scent of damp earth and fallen leaves, thick with the quiet promise of an encroaching winter.
She walked along the winding path, her boots brushing through the golden and russet leaves that had gatheredalong the edges. The trees stood half-bare, their skeletal branches reaching toward the darkening sky, clutching at the remnants of a summer now lost to autumn’s slow decay.
A wind stirred through her, sending leaves spiraling to the ground, their rustling the only sound beyond the distant murmurs of the palace. The palace itself still glittered behind her, its lanterns burning, reflecting off the polished marble walls and gilded spires. A monument to power, standing untouched while the world beyond its gates withered and starved. Mira turned away.
Ahead, past the final ring of the gardens, the graveyard loomed in the fading light. Her steps slowed as she approached her family’s crypt. It was a simple structure, unadorned, built of smooth gray stone. No grand carvings, no towering statues, only a single crest above the arch. The sigil of House Solwynd, its once-sharp engravings now barely catching the dim candle light flickering from within. The door stood slightly ajar, the scent of melting wax drifting into the cool night air. The acolytes had left it open for her as was their customs. Open for three days for anyone wishing to pay their respects to the ascended. She stepped inside.
The chamber was quiet. The candles burned low in their sconces. Their glow cast flickering patterns along the stone walls. The walls were lined with stone recesses, each marked with a name. Her father. Her mother. And now... Torvyn.
His name was freshly carved, the stone still rough beneath her fingertips as she traced the letters. He had meant safety, guidance, home. Mira's hand trembled as it hovered there, her fingers curling slowly into a fist.
The pressure behind her eyes broke, silent tears spilling down her cheeks, sliding along her jaw. She didn’t wipe them away. There was no one to see, no one left to care.
A draft slipped through the crypt, stirring the candle flames, making them tremble. A shiver ran down her spine. It was the ache of emptiness. Of being the last one standing. The last one breathing. They were all gone. She had outlived them.Mira pressed her forehead to the stone, her breath hitching. She had never felt so alone.
A movement behind her. Mira spun around, her hand hovered where the hilt of her dagger would have been.
"Torvyn deserved better than this." Brahn's voice echoed through the crypt like smoke.
Slowly, she turned. He stood in the doorway, half-draped in the flickering gold of candlelight, half-swallowed by the dark. His cloak was creased with travel, the collar still damp. But it was the sling that caught her eye. His right arm, tightly bound and cradled to his chest. He stepped forward slowly, deliberately, Brahn’s expression didn’t change.
“Your aim,” he said, tone dry, “was better than I gave you credit for.”
She snapped back at him. “You're lucky you dodged.” His eyes flicked to her then.
She turned away, back to the inscription on the wall. Torvyn’s name. Rough in the stone.
Brahn stepped inside, the scrape of his boot against stone far too calm for what he was. “This is what they’ve done,” he said quietly, “to all of us.”
“No.” Mira’s voice cracked. “This is what you did.” she whispered.The crypt went still. She turned to face him again, eyes burning. “He’s dead. My brother. And I don’t care how you dress it up, how righteous you make it sound, he died protecting you.”
Brahn didn’t move. Didn’t blink. Just stood there, the flicker of candlelight throwing harsh shadows across his face.
“Did you ever try to stop him?” she spat. “Or did you just let him worship you?” Her voice cracked, breath coming hard now, uneven. Grief swelled behind her ribs, sharp and burning.
