Page 126 of Unravelled
"The youngest daughter of the Vaeloria Family" he bellowed.
The kings declaration fell into the silence like a dropped coin. The court stilled, a flicker of surprise darting through the gathered nobles. Mira turned her head as Nerra’s breath hitched, her bright brown eyes widening in shock. The King had chosen her. A murmur rippled through the court, hushed whispers traded behind raised goblets and veiled glances.
Nerra was not the daughter of a high-ranking lord. Not the polished court beauty or the calculated political match. He said nothing more, simply watching as Nerra stiffened, her hands pressing against the table before she finally rose. A quiet breath. Then, she stepped forward toward the dais.
He stood, and approached the floor. The music that begun was a deep, resonant drumbeat rippled through the hall, steady and commanding. Strings followed, low and slow, winding into a melody both unfamiliar and intoxicating. A Kharadorian rhythm, slower than Bharalyn’s waltzes, heavier, grounded, but no less elegant.
At the center of the hall, the King of Kharador turned to face Nerra. For a heartbeat, she hesitated. The weight of the court’s attention pressed down on her, the murmurs, the silent assessments of those who had expected someone else, someone of greater standing. When he offered his hand again, she took it. A beat.
The King led with absolute control, each step measured, precise, effortlessly commanding the space around him. His midnight-black armor, though heavy, did not hinder him. On the polished stone floor, beneath flickering candlelight, he made dancing look like a battle.
Nerra followed. Though her steps were smaller, more careful, there was no trembling, no awkward faltering. She was light on her feet, her body quick to adjust, her movements unpolished yet talented. The King spun Nerra once, not with the careful gentleness of a nobleman, but with the ease of a warrior handling a blade, firm, deliberate. She let out a quiet gasp but did not stumble.
The King’s lips twitched, a flicker of amusement. The court continued to watch, hushed, transfixed. The dance, at first, seemed simple. A glide, a step, a turn. But it was not the dance of Bharalyn, graceful and refined, meant for courtly flirtation. The music swelled, the tempo building as they moved across the floor, the space around them widening, clearing as if the room itself understood that this was no ordinary performance. Mira caught Asric watching too, his eyes alight with interest.
Ren had not moved. Tharion’s grip on his knife had not loosened. The final notes struck, a slow, pulsing finish, the echoes of the drumbeat lingering in the vast chamber. And in one last, deliberate motion, the King of Kharador released Nerra’s hand. For a moment, the world seemed to hold still. Then, the King gave her a single, approving nod. A ripple of tension broke. The court exhaled.
Without ceremony, without even a glance at the court now buzzing behind him, the War King reached out and curled an arm around Nerra’s waist. It was not a gentle gesture. It was a claim. A declaration. A sharp gasp slipped from Nerra’s lips as he pulled her flush against him. Firm, unyielding. Her body stiffened, startled by the suddenness, the boldness, but the King didn’t stop.
He said nothing. He simply turned and began to walk. One step. Then another. His arm never leaving her. Nerra, wide-eyed and breathless, stumbled at first, caught off-guard by the possessive grip, by the weight of every eye following them. Her eyes darted around desperately. He led her forward. Up the dais. Straight toward the throne. To his lap.
Mira stood frozen. So did the court. Silence rippled outward, broken only by the rhythmic echo of the King’s boots striking the marble. The moment was heavy, slow. Deliberate. Not just a dance. Not even a choice. It was a demonstration.
Danlea stepped forward from her seat, calm as always, but her expression unreadable. She did not shout. She did not panic. But there was urgency in the way her steps carried her. Ren mirrored her. Neither of them looked toward the court. They were locked on the King, on Nerra, who had not yet pulled away, who had not yet spoken.
Mira strained to hear, but whatever words passed between the rulers were lost to the crackling of the flames in the room. Danlea stepped in close. Her presence brushed the War King’s shoulder, hovered near Nerra like a silent guardian. Her hand did not touch, but Mira could see it poised, watchful. Ready.
Ren said something then, low and sharp. The King did not respond at first, but Mira saw the shift in his posture. The slight turn of his head. No one else dared move. The War King gave a single nod, brief, imperious as if Danlea’s presence, Ren’s protest, the gaze of an entire court, were nothing but wind at his back. He sat, pulling Nerra with him.
Nerra did not move. She remained where he had placed her, perched on the edge of the throne, half on his lap, half beside him. Her posture was stiff, her hands curled into the folds of her gown, but the King’s arm remained draped around her waist like a shackle.
The court rippled with the tension of it. A murmur passed through the gathered nobles, uncertain, disbelieving. Ren’s expression was carved from ice and fire, his jaw locked so tightly the muscle twitched. His eyes, usually tempered even in council, burned. Mira had seen him angry in sessions before, sharp, decisive, cutting.
But this was different. This was fury. A fury barely held in check by protocol and presence. He stood still, not because he lacked the will to move, but because the room itself held its breath around him. Because he knew one wrong step now would be taken as provocation. As a challenge. And still, his hands curled at his sides, and his gaze never left the throne. Never left the War King. Never left Nerra.
The music resumed, the court scrambling to feign normalcy. Some nobles took to the floor, their movements a practiced distraction, though their gazes flickered toward the dais, toward the girl in the warlord’s grasp.
Another presence loomed beside her. “A pity, isn’t it?”
She didn’t startle. She had expected him coming. Asric stood at her side, his signature smile firmly in place, but his eyes were sharp, gleaming with a slight tinge of fear. He had seen everything, the King’s choice, the way the court had shifted, the silent battle of power that had played out before them. And he was already making his next move.
“Dance with me.” It was not a request.
Tharion reacted instantly. “Not happening.” His voice was a low growl, his chair scraping against the floor as he turned toward Asric, shoulders tense.
Mira moved before he could finish. She placed a steadying hand on Tharion’s shoulder, feeling the tight coil of tension beneath her palm. Tharion’s head snapped toward her, his expression a storm of betrayal and warning.
Mira squeezed his shoulder gently, a silent reassurance. This wasn’t about trust. This was about strategy. She turned to Asric. His smirk was already waiting for her, victory flickering in his gaze. He extended his hand, palm up, a courtly invitation wrapped in a demand. Mira hesitated for only a heartbeat. The moment Asric pulled her onto the floor, the dance began, a slow, deliberate waltz.
“You need to find another way.” His voice was low, smooth, but the command beneath it was unmistakable.
Mira’s steps faltered, just for a fraction of a second, before she forced herself back into rhythm. “Excuse me?”
Asric twirled her effortlessly, keeping them moving in time with the music. “The plan has changed.”
She let out a quiet, bitter laugh. “Convenient, considering I was never given a choice in the first place.”
Asric’s fingers tightened around hers, not enough to hurt, but enough to warn.
