Page 123 of Unravelled
Asric’s grin widened, full of triumph. “Good.”
He turned, bowed with mock grace, and began to stroll through the garden. But just before he disappeared behind the hedge, he glanced back. “Oh, and Mira?” he called softly. “Try not to get caught.”
37
Dark, somber elegance filled the great hall. Long tables draped in heavy black cloth in accordance with Kharadorian traditions stretched from wall to wall. Candles flickered in their wrought-iron holders, their glow casting elongated shadows along the towering stone columns. A rich, smoky incense curled through the air , a reminder of the foreign customs now taking root beneath Bharalyn’s roof.
Asric had provided a soft, pink creation that clung to Mira's frame. The fabric shimmered under the dim candlelight. Asric had dressed her as the picture of innocence, a flower in full bloom, unassuming, untouched by deceit. A perfect illusion. One that would ensure no one ever suspected what she was about to do.
The murmurs of nobles and Myrdathis soldiers filled the space, a low hum of conversation as they awaited the King’s arrival. Across the hall, the dais loomed, elevated above the gathering, a stage for those who held true power in the kingdom. At the center of it sat The Crowned Betrothed, dressed in the deep, regal blue of Bharalyn’s court. On either side, stood Ren and Danlea.
Danlea, poised and composed, wore a gown of shadowed emerald, a deep, near-black green trimmed with silver. A crown of delicate iron adorned her head, the filigree twisting into sharp, elegant points, an unyielding reminder of her rule. Though she exuded the quiet grace of a queen, her eyes were keen, watchful, assessing every face in the crowd, every shifting movement across the hall.
Ren was every inch a prince. Clad in deep black and gold. His high-collared cape was edged with intricate embroidery, detailing the ancient sigils of Bharalyn. His dark hair was carefully tied back at the nape, loose strands falling just enough to soften the sharp lines of his face. His shoulders were squared, his expression unreadable, but Mira knew better. She saw the tension in his stance, the controlled grip of his hands.
Next to her, Tharion stood in stark contrast, dressed in the crisp uniform of the royal guard. She hadn't seen him in a royal guard attire since they had bonded. Deep blue fabric hugged his frame, the silver fastenings gleaming under the dim lighting. A heavy belt, adorned with his rank’s insignia, sat firmly at his waist, his posture rigid, prepared, as if even in this hall of decorum, he was ready for battle.
Mira’s gaze flickered between them, each a piece of the grand spectacle unfolding before the court. A foreign queen, a secret prince, a lost ruler, and a warrior. And yet, beneath the polished facade, tension lay thick in the air.
The great doors slammed open with a force that sent a hush rippling through the hall. The flames of the candelabras flickered, shadows leaping against the stone walls as heavy boots echoed against the polished floor. The King of Kharador had arrived. Violence clung to him like a second skin, exuding from every measured step. He was tall and broad, built from battles. His presence was a tangible force that sent a chill creeping down Mira’s spine. A man who had earned his kingdom's obediance through blood, and steel. Through sheer, unyielding power.
The King of Kharador strode forward, his midnight-black armor seemed to gleam like living storm. His steps rung across the hall. Heavy with the weight of a man who had marched across battlefields and crushed empires beneath his heel. A beard framed his face, but it was not unruly, like everything else about him.
The flickering candlelight danced across his armor, catching on the jagged scars etched into the dark metal. Scars that told a history of violence, of battles neither this court nor its nobles could begin to understand. There were no embellishments of peace, no ceremonial robes. He had come dressed for war.
A hush fell over the great hall as he approached the dais, his presence swallowing the room whole. He stopped at the foot of the raised dais, his gaze sweeping over those gathered before him, assessing, measuring, as if already deciding who among them was worth his time. Then, he smiled. It was not a warm expression, nor a pleasant one. It was the slow, deliberate smile of a man who knew the fear he commanded. Who knew that no matter how finely the court dressed, how well-rehearsed their greetings, they all stood at the mercy of his whims.
“Bharalyn,” he rumbled, his voice deep, with a thick Kharadorian accent carried through the hall like distant thunder. “I have been given a true Khadradorian welcome in your halls, and so I extend my thanks in return." He touched his chest in mock appreciation.
"A warrior king’s appreciation.” His gaze flickered toward Danlea, then to Ren, darkness glinting behind his eyes. “May we treat each other as allies, so long as we remember that alliances are built not on words, but on strength.”
A ripple of uneasy murmurs skated through the gathered nobles, though none dared voice it aloud. The king exhaled, stretching his arms slightly as if shrugging off the weight of war itself.
“It is tradition in Kharador that upon entering the court of another, one does not dance as a guest until they have first been among those they would call their equals." He let the words hang. “And so, I will know you. One by one.” His sharp,assessing gaze raked over the gathered court. “Each of you will be presented.” His smirk deepened. “And I will choose one among you for the pleasure of my company”
The air in the room shifted. A test. An invitation and a trap all at once. Mira swallowed, her fingers curling. The king would make his choice, a game played not with steel, but with power, with influence. And whoever he selected would hold his attention, if only for the evening. It was a game this court knew how to play. And yet, she felt the weight of it pressing against her chest. Across the hall, she caught Asric’s eye. He was watching her. Not the king. Her. A slow, knowing smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth, his head tilting slightly. This is what he had intended.
The silence that followed the King of Kharador’s declaration was broken by the sound of marching boots. His army was filing in. The heavy doors swung open once more, and a flood of armored figures strode inside, disciplined, unyielding, moving as one. Their presence was not that of honored guests, nor merely an escort. They were an occupation disguised as civility.
Mira stiffened. Danlea's eyes narrowed and Ren’s jaw clenched. He didn’t move, didn’t speak, but tension rolled off him like heat. Kharadorian weapons gleamed under the dim candlelight, polished but unadorned, practical, made for battle rather than ceremony. Each soldier was clad in dark leathers and reinforced armor, their expressions cold, their presence a stark contrast to the silks and gilded embellishments of Bharalyn’s court. They lined the edges of the great hall, positioning themselves strategically, as if marking who among them could be cut down first should this negotiation turn to bloodshed.
The War King moved with slow, deliberate steps, he ascended the dais, his boots thudding against the polished wood. He approached the throne of Bharalyn, the empty throne of Queen Sarelle. He paused. Before turning to Caelric. And without hesitation, he kicked his throne. Not enough to topple. Just enough to make his message clear.
“Shall I sit here then?” He mused looking at Sarelle's throne. But it wasn’t a question.
Danlea did not flinch. Not a flicker of emotion crossed her face, not a single gasp left her lips. She merely lifted her chin slightly, her milky eyes unreadable. With the same measured calm, she turned to the attendants at her side and gave a single nod.
Another throne was brought forth. It was smaller than the empty Queen’s, but not by much, a twin in design, its placement beside it an unmistakable statement. A symbol of shared status. An answer to the king’s challenge. But still, he said nothing. The hall held its breath as he stared at it, his expression unreadable, his hands resting at his sides, calm, still, but poised like a predator considering themoment before it struck. Then, after a long, suffocating silence, he sat in the visiting throne.
Ren stood beside Caleric. Silent, composed, but Mira saw the storm behind his stillness. His shoulders had not dropped. His fists had not loosened. He had not relaxed for even a second. Danlea remained poised. She had not spoken, had not reacted. Even with the King’s blatant challenge, she had neither welcomed him nor denied him. Instead, she let him take up space, let him position himself, but they did not acknowledge him.
The king tilted his head slightly, finally breaking the silence. “Now,” he mused, his voice low, contemplative. “Begin.”
The moment the King of Kharador spoke, the tension in the hall shifted, not released, but redirected. The nobles who had held their breath now whispered behind raised hands, a murmur of unease rippling through the hall.
Mira watched as the King’s sharp eyes flicked toward Danlea, taking her in. A slow, knowing smirk curled at the edge of his lips. She was not bending. And he knew it.
Then, as if bored of the waiting, the King exhaled heavily, turning to Ren. “Present them.”
