Page 124 of Unravelled
The command rolled through the room like a slow-building storm. At once, an attendant at the far end of the hall stepped forward, a scroll tucked beneath one arm. The man’s hands trembled slightly to present the scroll to the Regent.
“As is custom,” Ren announced, his voice clear “each member of the court will be presented before His Majesty.” He paused then, just slightly too long, his jaw tensing as his gaze flicked toward the Kharadorian king.
“In accordance with Kharadorian tradition, the King may choose whom he will honor with the first dance.” His words were composed, his posture impeccably formal.Mira saw the barely concealed flicker of distaste behind his eyes.
This was not a tradition he welcomed. Not a gesture he offered willingly. But he offered it nonetheless, because the game had begun. This was not just a dance. It was a choice. An elevation. Mira’s stomach twisted. She wasn't sure of this was a symbol of favor in Kharador, or ownership.
Rens voice rang through the hall, clear and measured. “House Veylan.” A noble lord and his wife approached with careful steps, offering low bows. It was a performance. A tradition played out for generations, now sharpened under foreign eyes.
“House Ralthorne.” Another family stepped forward, flanked by children taught to stand like heirs.
Ren continued, voice steady. “House Asric.”
Asric rose from his seat with a lazy confidence, alone but not unadorned. A younger cousin Mira didn't recognise followed in his wake. Polished and overdressed. His bow to the dais was shallow, almost mocking. Ren didn’t react. But she saw the flicker in his eyes. Felt the disdain.
Ren’s voice shifted, just barely. “House Solwynd.”
Mira stood. Alone. The sound of her name echoed differently than the others. Not as a legacy, not as a dynasty. As a memory. As a loss. She stepped forward, her footsteps measured, her chin lifted, though the weight in her chest made it hard to breathe. No father. No brother. No House left but herself. The hush that fell was not reverence. It was recognition of absence. Behind her, she felt the burn of stares. Pity. Expectation. She could feel Ren’s eyes on her even as he remained composed. Even as he said nothing. But the energy beneath his stillness was a live wire, burning, ready to ignite.
She didn’t look toward him, but she felt him like a tether, his panic a whisper against her skin.
Be careful. Don’t provoke him. Don’t make yourself a target.
Mira stepped into place before the War King, her shoulders squared. And she bowed, alone, unflinching. The King studied her with the kind of calculated amusement that made her skin tighten. Mira could feel the weight of his gaze, assessing, testing. A beast deciding whether the creature before it was prey or something else entirely. She did not falter. The moment stretched between them, thick with expectation.
And then he spoke, his voice slow and deep, like gravel dragged through smoke. “House Solwynd.” He let the name settle on his tongue, tasting it, drawing it out as if it were something foreign to him. “You stand alone.”
Mira lifted her chin, offering him a practiced, lazy smile. “That tends to happen when one’s family is dead, Your Majesty.”
The court shifted uneasily, an invisible ripple of discomfort sweeping through the gathered nobility. The King, however, did not react. Or rather, not in the way they expected.
A low chuckle rumbled from his chest, dark and slow, a sound that never quite reached his eyes. “And yet, here you are.”
Mira tilted her head slightly, a flicker of deliberate mischief in her expression. “Here I am,” she echoed, voice smooth, teasing.
A muscle twitched in Ren’s jaw. The King hummed, leaning forward slightly, interest sharpening. “And does standing there frighten you?”
Mira let her lips part, then pressed them together as if in mock consideration. Finally, she let out a soft, breathy laugh. “Should it?”
A beat of silence. His eyes narrowed. He was too experienced, too sharp to miss the details, the precision of her bow, the steadiness of her hands, the solitude of her approach. She had come alone, yes, but not unarmed. Not unknowing. And he saw it now. Whatever mask she wore, whatever part she was meant to play, he recognized the truth beneath it.
Mira knew the instant he pierced through the performance. The King’s gaze darkened, not in anger, but in interest. A predator scenting something unexpected. Something that might yet bite back. The King rose. Slowly. Purposefully. The weight of his movement shifted the room. The attendants froze. The nobles sat rigid, breath caught. Even the candles seemed to still.
Ren’s fear hit her like a wave. She didn’t turn to him, didn’t dare, but she felt it surge. No longer just concern, but panic, thick and wild and desperate. All Mira could do to keep her breath steady, her hands loose at her sides.
He descended the steps of the dais one by one, each footfall echoing through the marble chamber like the roll of distant thunder.Mira didn’t move. He stopped before her, too close for comfort, close enough that she could see the fine threads of silver in his beard, the faint glint of a blade at his side. His presence was overwhelming, consuming, like smoke creeping under every door.
He looked at her, but said nothing. Mira held his gaze. The King exhaled through his nose, shaking his head slightly, as if amused, as if indulging himself.
“What is it you really want to say to me Noble Solwynd?” The smile froze on Mira’s lips. Her pulse quickened, but she forced herself to hold his gaze.
If she answered wrong, it would not be Ren who suffered. It would be Bharalyn. This was a warlord in a king’s armor. He was waiting. Testing her. She could feel a pulse beating like a drum in her head.
She murmured, her voice quieter now, smoother, softer. “Do you want the truth?” A sharp intake of breath, not hers. She wasn’t sure if it was Ren or Tharion.
The King of Kharador studied her, his gaze sharp, unblinking. He did not seem like a man accustomed to being asked questions. Mira did not look away. Her pulse thundered beneath her skin, but she kept her stance carefully relaxed, her chin lifted, her expression curious.
The King’s lips curled slightly at the edges. Not quite a smirk. Not quite a smile. “Yes.” The single word was quiet, almost contemplative, yet it rolled through the hall like distant thunder. An invitation. A demand. A challenge.
