Page 47 of Unravelled
The room pulsed with tension. Asric remained standing, defiant, his proposal echoing in the charged silence. Ren hadn’t moved, but his gaze had sharpened, fixed on the older man with quiet fire.
From the far end of the table, a chair creaked. Tharion stood. He had said little throughout the meeting, choosing to watch, to measure. But now his voice rang clear, steady as stone.
“This debate serves no purpose if it ends in argument.” The murmurs faded. Even Asric turned his head. Tharion’s gaze moved over the room, calm, composed, utterly unreadable.
“The king cannot speak. The realm is leaderless, and we are out of time. Two paths have been placed before us tonight.” He looked to Ren, then to Asric, giving each man the full weight of his gaze.
“Then let you do what this council was made to do.Vote.” A ripple of unease ran through the room. Tharion continued, voice firmer now. “Do not vote for speeches. Not for bloodlines. Vote for the regent that is best for Bharalyn. One voice to lead. One plan to follow.”
Tension pressed down on the room like a storm barely held at bay. Sharp, suffocating, and heavy with consequence.
For a heartbeat, no one moved.
Then Lady Brenna exhaled and raised her hand. “Ren,” she said clearly, her eyes never leaving him.
Lord Garran followed. “Ren.”
Across the table, Lord Veylin leaned back, lips pursed, then nodded once. “Asric.”
A pause. Then Lord Harwin. “Asric.”
The room shifted. Two to Ren. Two to Asric. Lord Davin hesitated. His gaze flicked toward Asric, then to Tharion, as if searching for a safer choice that didn’t exist.
His fingers tapped once against the table. “Asric,” he said.
Three to two. A silence settled like ash. Mira, watching from the shadows above, felt the air catch in her lungs.
Softly, unexpectedly, Lady Nyla raised her hand. “Ren.”
Three to three. All eyes turned to the last man at the table. The invited guest. Tharion. He sat motionless, gaze fixed on the space between the two men across from him.
This was why Brahn had been delayed, to force a deadlock. Tharion raised his head. His voice was low, deliberate. “Ren.”
Four to three. The words struck the room like a final chime in a cathedral. Ren had won.
Above, Mira’s knees nearly buckled. Her throat tightened, not from relief, but from the sudden, bone-deep understanding of what had almost happened. If she hadn’t taken the letter… If Asric had still held the threat over Tharion’s vote. Tharion wouldn’t have been free to cast his vote. She had saved him. From being used. From being made a weapon in someone else’s hand.
Silence lingered in the observatory like smoke after lightning. The vote had been cast. The regent had been chosen. Ren sat still for a moment, as though letting the weight of the decision settle into his bones.
After a moment he rose. Not abruptly. Not triumphantly. He rose like the tide, inevitable, steady, undeniable. His hands rested once more on the table, and when he spoke, his voice carried not just across the chamber, but into something deeper. The heart of the room. The heart of the realm.
“Our king can no longer rule. Whether he wakes or not, our work for the kingdom does not stop. The people do not stop needing. The enemies at our gates do not wait.”
He glanced across the table. At Brenna, at Garran, at Tharion. “We reinforce the borders. Quietly. Without fanfare. We send supplies to the outer villages, not soldiers. Not yet. Let the people feel protected before they feel watched.” He turned to Asric, who met his gaze with cold, begrudging silence.
“And we listen. To the unrest. To the leaders behind it. We do not crush what we do not yet understand. We learn their names. Their fears. Their reasons. And then we decide who among them can be turned and who must be stopped.” A breath passed between the gathered lords and ladies. The beginning of something. The edge of unity.
Ren’s voice lowered, but it grew no less steady. “There will be no purges. No open executions. No fear-driven show of force. This kingdom doesn’t need a hand that crushes it needs one that holds.” He exhaled, gaze lowering slightly. “We do not restore order through terror. We restore it through truth. And through presence. The crown cannot be a myth while the realm is bleeding.”
She watched as the council shifted, no longer locked in indecision but moving now, slowly, into purpose. Voices rose, quieter this time, layered with strategy rather than argument. They leaned over maps. Marked supply lines. Named outposts. Ren stood among them. His shoulders squared beneath the mantle he had taken, listening as much as he spoke. Steering, not ruling.
Mira watched it all, the shape of ruling power as it reformed under Ren. This was what she had risked everything for. Not just a seat claimed, but the movement that followed. The ripple. The moment after a fire that might become warmth instead of ruin. All of it born from her instinct. From a dance and a letter. From a single breath held between two people in the dark.
As the hours wore on, the voices below grew more tired. Ren lifted a hand, and the murmurs faded as if pulled by a thread. “That’s enough for tonight,” he said, voice firm. “We have a course. You have your orders. The rest... can wait until morning.”
No one argued. Chairs scraped quietly across the stone. Scrolls were gathered, glances exchanged. Even now, with the firelight flickering low and the weight of history hanging thick in the air, the council bowed to the quiet command in Ren’s voice.
“Tharion…stay” That caught a few looks, but none dared linger long enough to question it.
