Page 42 of Unravelled
Then, something sharper, cutting through the usual courtly gossip. "Ren defended the convoy himself, can you believe it?"
Mira stopped. Not abruptly, not noticeably. Just enough to appear she had been caught by the flow of the celebration, her movements languid, effortless. She drifted toward the carved stone railing beside a lantern-lit archway, tilting her head as if admiring the glow of the floating lights in the fountain beyond. She listened.
“Surprising, isn’t it?” a voice mused, rich and contemplative. “For all his reputation, he didn’t hesitate.”
She recognized the speaker instantly. Cleric Perrin. She stood amid a small cluster of nobles and officials, her pristine robes untouched by the warmth of the evening. The ceremonial silverwork embroidered into her sleeves shimmered faintly in the lantern light, casting subtle sigils across her silhouette. Her headdress, sheer and celestial, crowned her with quiet reverence. Her expression was mild. Measured. She spoke, as she always did, with careful precision, every word designed to seed itself in the minds of those who mattered most.
A woman scoffed lightly. “A bastard prince playing hero?”
Another noble chuckled into his drink. “He has a talent for spectacle.”
Perrin only smiled. “Perhaps. But he didn’t have to be in Anyerit. And yet, he was.”
Mira’s fingers traced the along the railing. It was subtle, but she could hear it in their voices, the shift, the curiosity laced with something close to respect. The way they were speaking of him as something other than reckless, selfish, untamed. Ren had spent his life standing just outside the lines they had drawn for him. And now, it seemed, the lines were blurring.
Suddenly, she was back in Anyerit. The wind whipping against her face, the scent of sweat and steel thick in the air. Ren in front of her. They had fought with no hesitation, no space between them. His voice, sharp and commanding, his body a shield against the worst of it.
Then, another voice hushed, insistent. “And Tharion? I heard he was injured. Shot through the shoulder?”
Cleric Perrin, ever composed, offered a quiet, diplomatic smile. “He returned with the convoy.”
Mira’s jaw tensed. Why let Ren take the credit? He had planned with Ren to return the convoy. He had bled for for their survival. And yet, here in the gardens where praise echoed, it was Ren’s name on their lips, not his. Tharion had never cared for praise. But this felt different.
A familiar figure caught her eye. Draped in sapphire silk, fanning herself lazily, was Lady Elandra. She lounged alone beneath a cluster of citrus trees at the edge of the eastern garden. The trees arched gracefully overhead, their branches heavy with golden fruit, casting dappled shadows across the stone benches and soft moss beneath. Mira made her approach, slipping into the seat across from her just as Elandra’s sharp eyes flicked up in recognition.
"Speaking of tragedy," she began, her voice lowering to a conspiratorial whisper as she leaned in, plucking a grape from the silver dish before her. "I hear the Crowned Betrothed is still catatonic. Not a word from him. The council is growing restless,but he delays, day after day." Elandra clicked her tongue in disdain. "How can a kingdom survive with a king who’s lost his will to rule?"
Mira’s fingers tightened. Her gaze drifted toward the distant fountains, where the water caught the lantern light in fractured ribbons of gold and silver.
Elandra continued, "I heard it from a reliable source. You know, they’re facing down the barrel of an uprising. The people are restless, starving, and the Kharadors aren’t helping matters. The advisors have begged him to take action, but he’s paralyzed." She shook her head, her fan waving gently in frustration. "It’s a mess, really."
Mira spoke without fully meaning to, her voice low, thoughtful. “The people in those towns… they’re desperate. The hunger, the fear. They need something to believe in. Something that gives them hope, or else…” She caught herself, the final words catching in her throat.
Elendra’s eyes glinted with interest, her curiosity piqued.she purred. “Or else... what? Revolution? Fire in the streets? A charming little coup?”
Mira gave a soft, breathy laugh, too smooth, too quick. “Oh, ignore me. Too much wine...”
She collected a glass from the table and sipped, letting the sweetness mask the bitterness on her tongue. But Elendra wasn’t so easily led astray.
“Mira...” she murmured, the name stretched with quiet reprimand. “You forget who you’re speaking to.” Elendra’s gaze didn’t waver. She already knew there was more. She always did. Then, with a conspirator’s smile, her voice lowered, smooth as velvet over a knife. “I’ll make you a trade.”
Mira arched a brow, wary. “I’ll tell you what Lord Asric actually wants for that degree he’s withholding.” Elendra let the words hang between them, lazily watching Mira’s reaction. “A detail that not even your darling Tharion has pried from him yet.”
Mira’s heart ticked up, but her expression didn’t falter. But beneath the silk of her gown and the practiced stillness of her face, guilt curled sharp and persistent. If she could fix this, if she could help him, even in this small way, maybe it would make her betrayal quieter. Maybe it would be enough to prove, if only to herself, that the way Ren had looked at her, like she was still wanted, still seen, was a mistake.
“And in return?” she asked, tone even. Elendra smiled like a cat. “You finish your sentence.”
Mira blinked.
“You said, ‘or else…’ ” Elendra repeated, tilting her head. “Finish the thought.” Mira hesitated. For a breath, two, three.
Quietly, “Or else they’ll turn to someone else. Someone who promises change.” The words tasted like rust. She didn’t name the resistance, not directly. But it hung there, plain and sharp in the silence that followed. Elendra’s fan resumed its lazy flutter, but her gaze sharpened. Just slightly.
“There you go darling,” she said softly, “I was wondering when you’d stop pretending you didn't see what was right in front of you.”
Mira didn’t respond. Couldn’t. The admission felt heavier now that it had shape. Confusion twisted through her. If Elendra had already known of the uprising, then what had she paid her with? What had she truly given away?
Elendra leaned in, her voice velvet-smooth. “Lord Asric wants support in tonight’s council session. That’s all. A simple show of loyalty.”
