Page 43 of Unravelled
Mira’s eyes narrowed slightly. “And what does he get out of that?” Elendra’s fan paused mid-motion, then folded with a soft snap.
She smiled, but it no longer reached her eyes. “Now, Mira,” she said, voice low and almost amused, “that wasn’t part of our deal.” She tilted her head. “You offered a truth. I offered you a secret. Don’t spoil this beautiful moment by asking for more than you're owed.”
She’d knew enough ofAsric to know he never moved without layers, always smiling on the surface while his true intentions burrowed deeper. And Tharion… He’d never back something he didn’t believe in. Not willingly. He would though, to get the decree, Mira was sure of it. The one that could secure Tharion’s logistics and bring relief to the outer townships. Asric was probably holding it even now, waiting. Watching. Waiting for another piece would fall into place.
But maybe… Maybe she could find it. Get to it before Tharion was forced into something. If she was clever enough and if she moved quietly she could. A rustle of silk and the gentle clinking of crystal snapped her attention back. Elendra’s flock had returned, handmaidens in feathered silks and embroidered veils, bearing silver trays laden with spiced fruits, candied almonds, chilled wine and delicate pastries shaped like petals. They drifted around their lady like orbiting moons, placing the offerings on the low marble table with rehearsed elegance. Elendra plucked a glazed fig from the tray, bit into it with casual grace.
"Ah, speaking of strategic moves, looks like the bastard prince is making quite the effort to repair his political standing tonight." Elendra’s lips curved, sharp with amusement. "Shame he doesn’t treat his romantic reputation with the same care." She tipped her chin toward the dance circle.
Mira turned in her seat, her gaze following Elendra’s eyes. Ren. Smiling effortlessly in the middle of a waltz, his hand resting lightly on the waist of a woman wrapped in silver silk. His movements were fluid, confident, too smooth to be careless. The woman laughed, her voice light and clear, head tilted back as if the entire world had narrowed to just him.
Mira’s stomach dropped. But the way his hand rested at the small of the woman’s bare back, the way he looked utterly unbothered, completely present, sent a sharp pulse of jealousy through her chest. No hesitation or guilt. No trace of what had passed between them in the shadows. Maybe he’d accepted that it had meant nothing.
Guilt bloomed immediately. She had no right to feel this way. She was bound by rite and blood and memory. Even if that memory was now a ghost.
Whatever had happened with Ren, whatever she had let happen, it was a betrayal of something sacred. Of Tharion. Her throat tightened, and instinctively, her gaze swept the crowd, searching. Needing to see Tharion. To remind herself of what she owed him.
She spotted him at the far edge of the garden, half-shadowed by the golden curve of a column. His posture was stiff. He stood with one hand clenched behind his back, the other gesturing tightly as he spoke. Even from this distance, she could see the strain in his expression, the quiet fury just beneath the surface, the way his arm moved too fast, too low. It wasn’t the conversation of a man enjoying a celebration. It was war, disguised as diplomacy. And he was fighting it alone. Her guilt twisted deeper.
Mira inhaled slowly, the edges of her corset pressing against the sharp rise of breath. She had stood at the center of too many moments like this. Waiting for someone else to act. Not tonight. Her gaze swept the garden until it found who she needed. Lord Asric.
He stood near the wine terrace, surrounded by a crescent of admirers, his laugh low and indulgent, fingers glittering with rings that caught the flickering lantern light. He was exactly where he thrived. At the center of attention, cloaked in charm, posturing as generous while quietly maneuvering for power. Silver hair swept back from sharp features. His allure hadn’t faded with time, it had sharpened. His name lingered in court whispers, both as a strategist and a lover. Tonight, Mira had heard those murmurs louder than usual speculation about the woman who had just left him. A lover scorned. A vacancy to be filled. She could use that.
Mira rose from her seat with purpose, her gown whispering against the marble as she crossed the floor. Asric turned toward her, interest already stirring in his eyes.
“Well, Lady Solwynd,” he said, bowing just enough to be courteous, never humble. “I hadn’t expected the pleasure of your company tonight.” She offered a honeyed smile.
“I like to keep people guessing, my lord.” Her voice was low, warm, intimate enough to pique interest, not scandal. “I’ve heard some interesting rumors.”
His eyes sharpened. “Rumors, you say? I enjoy a good story. Especially the unexpected kind.”
Her fingers brushed his arm, light as a breath. He focused entirely on her now. “Then perhaps,” she murmured, “you’d like to write one with me tonight.” She let the suggestion hang, then tilted her head with playful boldness. “Dance with me?”
Asric’s smile deepened, indulgent and intrigued. “I’d be delighted.”
They swept onto the dance floor, the crowd parting around them in a graceful ripple. The music shifted, slow, rich with strings, as if cued for something theatrical. Their bodies moved in perfect synchrony. Mira allowed herself to be led, but only just, every step calculated, every glance a weapon. Her gown whispered against his legs with each turn, a flirtation in the fabric. His hand settled at her waist, firm but respectful, though the heat beneath his touch was unmistakable.
She let her fingertips rest lightly on his shoulder, tracing the subtle seam of his jacket, sending a thrill through her own nerves as much as his. The dance became more than movement, it became a narrative, one crafted from rhythm and restraint, flirtation and fire. Their eyes locked as they turned, and in his gaze, Mira saw understanding.
They were both players. Both predators. Asric dipped her low, his breath ghosting against her ear.
“My former lover is certainly watching us now,” he said, amusement woven through his voice. “But tell me, is it our Undergaurd Steward, whom you’re trying to make jealous?”
Mira’s breath caught. She let the thrill of the moment dance in her eyes, let the intimacy of his question settle like a secret between them. She was performing now, not just for the crowd, but for him. Feeding his ego. Letting him believe he’d peeled back a layer that he’d seen through her. That he’d figured her out. Asric swept her into a turn, their bodies brushing. The music curled around them like smoke.
Mira tilted her head, lips curling. “Never mind who I’m trying to impress,” she whispered. “Let’s give him something to watch.”
Asric chuckled, low and rich, but leaned in, playing his part to perfection. Her fingers traced along his shoulder and down his chest as he spun her again, her touch graceful, effortless. But beneath the folds of his jacket, a subtle shift of fabric.Apiece of parchment. There. The order. Her fingers drifted into his jacket, closing around the letter. Smooth. Folded tight. She moved closer to Asric, letting the moment stretch, their bodies nearly flush. The music peaking, as she slid the letter into the folds of her gown with practiced ease.
He never noticed. Their last turn was slow, deliberate, a punctuation mark at the end of their shared sentence. The music faded. Applause rose like mist around them. They bowed to one another, the tension between them still humming. Lord Asric smiled, pleased, smug, unaware. But Mira’s heart thundered in her chest. The letter was hers now.
Mira stepped away, collecting a goblet of wine from a passing tray. The weight of the letter tucked safely into her gown anchored her more than the drink in her hand. She scanned the crowd with practiced ease, the soft hum of courtly chatter washing over. She lifted the goblet to her lips, savoring the sweet, floral notes of the wine. The warmth of the night pressed gently around her, and for the first time in what felt like hours, she let herself breathe. Because she’d done something that mattered. She’d helped him. Tharion might never know the cost, or the risk, but it didn’t matter. The letter was theirs now.
She felt the eyes on her still, the soft stir of whispers trailing after her and Lord Asric’s performance. But none of them mattered.
A hand closed around her wrist. Not harsh. Not cruel. But firm enough to send a message. Tharion. He didn’t speak. Just pulled her from the edge of the crowd with practiced precision, his grip steady, his pace sure. Her glass slipped from her hand, hitting the marble floor with a sharp crack, shattering into silence-breaking pieces. Heads turned. Conversation faltered.
Mira stumbled once, startled by the suddenness of it, but she didn’t resist. Eyes followed them as he led her past the dancers, past the musicians, past the stares that clung to their backs like static. He didn’t stop until they were past the marble archway. He led her into the shadowed alcove of the garden, quiet, cool, and away from the stage the court had made of them. The air shifted. Lanterns flickered behind the hedges.
