Page 67 of Unravelled
“The wisdom of the Seers has shaped our kingdoms for generations,” Perrin continued. “And Queen Danlea brings more than that. She brings a vision of what is coming for our kingdom”.
The word sent a shiver down Mira’s spine. She exhaled, slowly, letting the chill settle. She didn’t notice the hush until it folded into silence again.
"Mira," Perrin’s voice called her back. “You and Nerra will prepare the Queen’s chambers. Come with me.”
Mira's legs moved before her thoughts caught up. Nerra joined her silently, though Mira noticed the quick flash of surprise, maybe even excitement. They followed the cleric through a narrow arch into the rear sanctum of the altar room. The ceilings dropped low, heavy with soot and time. The scent of rosemary clung to the air, mixing with old smoke and something almost sweet beneath it, like blood long dried.
As they stepped into the quiet of the chamber, Perrin paused and turned to face them, her expression sharper now, edged with warning.
“You must both be respectful,” she said, her voice low, each word weighted. “No girlish squeals, no whispered speculation, no foolish excitement. You are not meeting a court beauty. You are serving a sovereign who walks with visions of the future.”
“Yes, Cleric,” Nerra replied quickly, ducking her head. Mira didn’t miss the slight grimace that followed. The rebuke had struck home. Perrin’s eyes lingered on her a moment longer before continuing forward, the rustle of her robes brushing the stone floor like a whisper of wind through old trees. Mira caught Nerra’s eyes, a small shrug of embarrassment in her expression. Mira only offered a slight nod in return.
The sanctum was lined with tomes and glass jars, all aged and labeled in delicate script. A single iron candle flickered in the far sconce, casting uneasy shadows that stretched like fingers across the floor.
“You are to speak of none of this,” Perrin said quietly. “The Queen’s needs are... private.” Mira’s mouth was dry. She only nodded. Perrin’s eyes sharpened. “Her chamber in the western wing must be completely blacked out. Every crack is sealed. Every curtain is heavy. No sunlight.” Mira’s brow pinched. But she said nothing. “There is a salve. Crushed leaves on a wrap over the eyes. The wrap must be placed with care. No deviations. No questions.”
Beside her, Nerra murmured agreement. Mira managed the same. But her thoughts were already tangled. Why complete darkness? Why the eyes?
Perrin moved to the back table and gestured. “Watch carefully.” They did. Mira’s fingers memorized each motion. The slow crush of dried leaves, the spiral of oil folded into them, the careful smear across the cloth. She watched Nerra apply the wrap to her, the way the ointment stung first, then spread its warmth like a hush beneath her skin. When it was her turn, her fingers trembled. She steadied them, but her mind wandered. To this Queen, cloaked in secrecy and shadows, asking to be tended by night, veiled in a chamber with no light.
Mira jumped at Perrin stern voice. “That oil is spiraling the wrong direction. Again.”
Mira obeyed.
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The week that followed Perrin’s instructions passed in a blur of heavy fabric and quiet tension. Mira’s days became a pattern of muted steps and measured movements, of sealing away every stray thread of light from the Queen’s appointed chamber. She layered thick black drapes over the narrow windows until the sun could no longer touch the stone. Nerra stitched dark cloth into every seam, wedging it into the cracks where the sun might still sneak through. By the third day, the room felt more like a tomb than a place meant for sleep. Cool, hushed, airless. Like it was holding its breath.
Each morning, she and Nerra repeated the ritual with the ointment and the tonic. The routine grew precise, quiet. Mira found comfort in the rhythm, the grinding of dried herbs into fine powder, the slow pour of warmed oil, the careful wrapping of cloth across closed eyes. They remained silent, not out of reluctance, but because it felt like the respectful thing to do. Even in privacy, it felt as if something in the room listened. Even after the final salve had been smoothed and the Queen’s chambers sealed in shadow. But it was the moments in-between her work that weighed on Mira most. The empty corridors, the long walks back to her quarters, the absence of notes from Brahn.
She ate with Tharion most nights, just the two of them, tucked away in quiet corners of the palace. The conversation was soft. Comfortable, even. He laughed sometimes, and so did she. There was warmth there. Familiarity. A rebuilding, slow but real. But when the meal was done, when the tea cooled in their cups and her eyes grew heavy, Tharion would thank her, and leave. He never stayed. He hadn’t since the night in Seacliffe. She told herself it was okay. That space was what they needed. That healing wasn’t supposed to feel perfect. But some nights, she didn’t sleep. A quiet war plagued her, between the safety she found with Tharion and the wildfire memory of Ren. When she was with Tharion, she felt themmending. But with Ren, she had burned.
She didn't see Ren. He was buried behind doors now, council rooms thick with maps and murmuring voices. War tables scattered with parchment and ink, always surrounded, always busy. The weight of his Regency clung to him.
She had turned a corner and there he was, mid-conversation with an advisor. So achingly reminiscent of that moment in the hall. His hair was pulled back, slightly tousled from a long morning. The scent of him hit her before he even reached her. A warm, familiar blend of cedar and clean linen, touched with the faintest trace of ink and smoke. Navigators, it made her heart clench. With Ren, it wasn’t echo's of almost memories. It wasn’t imagined.It unmistakably him.
And then he passed her. He didn't even glance in her direction. His eyes moved across the hallway as though she weren’t there. As if she were part of the stone. Mira stood still, the breath tight in her chest, the sunlight warming her face but not her skin.
She told herself it was for the best. That rebuilding with Tharion was her choice. She had made this choice. But Mira felt her heart and chest burst into flame in that moment.
This was what the court meant when they called him a heartbreaker. The way he could walk by her with that same quiet intensity, like she no longer reached him at all. As he disappeared down the corridor, swallowed by gold light and the rustle of robes, the fire bloomed wide in her chest. Even though she had made her choice. somehow, it still felt like she was the one being left behind.
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The evening of the Queen’s arrival settled heavily over the palace, the last light of the sun fading to a deep wash of indigo across the sky. Lanterns had been lit in every corridor, their glow flickering softly against the stone walls. Outside, the wind was cool, the kind that whispered of omens and turning tides. Everyone had gathered in the great hall, pressed close beneath the vaulted ceiling. A sense of anticipation thick in the air.
Mira stood at the front, Tharion beside her, his steady presence anchoring her in place. His hand brushed hers only briefly, a silent reassurance.
At the dais, Ren stood next to the seated Caelric, framed in the golden light of sconces. He slumped in his throne. A silhouette carved in stillness, but beside the Betrothed’s hollow form, Ren radiated life. He wore the formal attire of a blood-borne prince. Deep navy regalia, almost black, with silver thread tracing the lapels and cuffs in patterns that curled like rivers or smoke. His hair was combed back in that familiar wave, softening the stern lines of his face, though the short stubble across his jaw defied the court’s expectation of polished tradition.
Mira’s gaze lingered, helpless to look away. There was no smile on his face, only stillness and a tension she recognized as apprehension. The tower bell rang. A deep and resonant, echoing through the hall. Mira felt it in her bones. The great doors at the end of the hall creaked open.
She appeared in the threshold, bathed in the lantern light. The Queen of Myrdathis. Tall and lithe, she moved with a grace that defied age or time. Her hair spilled down her back in a sheet of white silk, catching the glow of the torches shimmering like starlight. She wore a gown of silver and soft blue, translucent veils drifting aroundher like mist edged with silver so fine it looked like frost. With every step, her robes whispered against the polished floor.
Behind her came only a handful of attendants. No grand entourage, no gilded procession. Just three footmen cloaked in dusk-grey, and one silent woman in a veil of pale blue. That was all. The hall seemed to bend around her as if a thousand had entered. Her presence filled every space, every breath. Like gravity or prophecy. A circlet of silver vines, set with pale stones that didn’t simply reflect light sat atop her head.
Mira watched as she approached. The queen's eyes were what silenced the breath in Mira’s throat. Milky white. Unfocused and yet all-seeing. And in the center of each one, a pinprick of glimmering light, like the last star before dawn. A ripple moved through the crowd. Awe and fear. The Queen passed down the aisle between the lines of attendants and guards, her gaze never faltering, though she looked at no one directly.
