Page 6 of Unravelled
For a heartbeat, he didn’t move. The water lapped gently between them, quiet and echoing. His gaze lingered, just long enough for her to feel the weight of everything he wasn’t saying. Everything he couldn’t. Tharion turned. The motion was slow, careful. The water broke around him in soft splashes, trailing behind his retreat.
She didn’t follow. She didn’t breathe. Each step sent ripples radiating toward her, cool and soundless, as if the space between them had widened into something vast and permanent. He stepped out of the water, out of her reach. The echo of dripping water followed him, the wet sound of his footsteps fading against stone. Until there was nothing. Only the soft ripple of water around her.
2
Seven Years Before
Mira called out, her voice sharp with frustration.
“Torvyn, must I wear this? It’s completely indecent. Father would lose his mind.” She gestured dramatically at the gown hanging before her.
At first glance, it seemed modest enough. A floor-length black dress with sleeves that ended just below the elbow. But that illusion quickly fell apart. A daring seam ran up one side, exposing her leg nearly to mid-thigh. The neckline plunged dangerously low, and the back dipped all the way to the small of her spine, utterly bare.
Outside, the spring breeze drifted in through the open balcony doors, carrying the scent of blooming roses and wet stone from the recent rain. Birds sang somewhere in the garden below, oblivious to her wardrobe crisis.
Crossing her arms, Mira glared at the dress like it had insulted her. “Do you want me to scandalize the entire court?”
Torvyn appeared in the doorway, arms folded, one brow arched in that older-brother way that never failed to grate on her nerves.
“Frankly, I’m more scandalized by your whining. It’s a dress, Mira, not a death sentence.”
Her scowl deepened. “Easy for you to say. You’re not the one being shoved into half a dress and told to look regal.”
“No,” he said dryly, stepping into the room, “I’m just the one who has to track every courtly smile and veiled threat so I can advise Father which allies won’t stab us in the back at dinner.”
She opened her mouth to argue, then let out a breath instead. He moved to stand beside the dress, considering it.
“Look,” he said, his tone softening. “I get it. It’s bold. But today matters. And like it or not, you’ll make a statement just by walking in.”
Mira hesitated, glancing back at the dress as the breeze stirred its hem, making it flutter like a challenge.
“And what statement is that?” she muttered. “Here I am, future political pawn, now with a revealed leg?”
Torvyn chuckled, moving to lean against the edge of her dresser. “No. The statement is, Here I am, look closely. Because Solwynd’s won’t be ignored.”
She fell silent, lips pressing into a thin line.
“And,” he added, that familiar smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth, “if you scandalize the court a little, it will remind them you’re not just another pawn.”
Mira rolled her eyes. “If I have to wear this, every champion had better ask for my favor.”
Torvyn pushed off the dresser with an easy shrug as he headed for the door.
“They will,” he replied.
???
Mira sat next to Torvyn in the Queen’s viewing box, the prime seat for the championship duel. The spring air was warm against her exposed skin. She had twisted her hair back with silver pins, leaving her neck bare to the sunlight.
The championship duel, held every five years, was the most anticipated event of the spring. Aspiring guards battled for honor and the chance to become a royal guard, while young court members offered their favors. Being unable to attend and with no heirs of her own, Queen Sarelle had requested Mira and Torvyn sit in her place and bestow two royal favors on her behalf.
Mira’s eyes tracked the champions sparring in the practice ring, their blades clashing and flashing in the bright midday sun. The championship barred the use of armor. No protection meant the fighters had to rely entirely on their skill, speed, and precision. Most of the contenders wore simple tunics and shirts, their movements unencumbered as they danced between strikes and parries.
Leaning closer to Torvyn, "Which one is the Queen’s Champion?” she asked.
Torvyn pointed toward a man moving fluidly across the field. Mira was only a little younger than him. He had neatly tied back his hair, a familiarity about him that tugged at the edge of her memory, yet she couldn’t place him. Shirtless, pants andboots, his every move was swift and precise, each strike and parry carefully planned. He was a strong, agile fighter who never gave up against his opponent.
“Over there,” Torvyn said. “He was the Queen’s ward until he came of age a few years ago, I think.”
