Page 11 of Unravelled
Mira nodded, whispering back “Tell me anyway,” something inside her needed to hear Ren tell her.
“She was the first to step onto the new land,” Ren said, his voice barely a whisper. Mira looked down at the illustration of ships listing in the shallows. Waves crashing against jagged rocks, and Myrran standing barefoot in the sand, her staff anchored in the earth like a promise.
Ren's breath fanned her face as he narrated the image, “The storm had taken Lyren, but she stepped onto that shore like it was exactly as she’d always seen it. She planted her staff in the ground, turned back to the people who had followed her through the darkness, and smiled. She told them this was home. That they were going to be alright.” Mira met his eyes.
“And then she was gone.” Ren flipped the pages without looking away, slowly, revealing the image. Myrran lay encased in a glass coffin, surrounded by the ancestors who had made it to the new land. Their faces were solemn, grief stricken. One little girl stood in the back, eyes clouded with white.
“It had all taken its toll,” he whispered. “The Storms, the journey, the weight of keeping them together when everything was falling apart. She gave too much of herself, and she knew it.” Ren paused. “But she didn’t stop. Not until she gave them what they needed.” He glanced at the image. “Not until she passed on her gift. Only then… did she let go.”
For a moment, the library felt impossibly quiet, the weight of his words settling between them.
“She broke hearts without meaning to,” he said, his voice barely a whisper. “The way she made them believe in something bigger than themselves. Something beautiful. Something impossible.”
His gaze never left her, the space between them seeming to shrink with every breath.For a heartbeat, the world stilled. Her pulse fluttered, sharp and unexpected, as something cracked in her chest. A memory not fully formed, just the edge of one.
???
The scent of parchment. Afternoon light painting the shelves in gold. And then, heat. The warmth of hands at her waist, steady and sure. The solid press of her back against aged wood, the faint scent of cedar rising from the shelves. Her fingers had curled into the fabric, anchoring herself.
???
Her breath caught. The edges lingered hot in her chest, but it wasn’t whole. It felt stretched, distorted. But the emotion wrapped around her all the same: want, tension, anticipation. Ren brushed his nose against hers. Mira didn’t move. His breath brushed her face, warm, fleeting, and her heart lurched. Her lips parted, unsure whether to breathe or speak or fall. His hand lifted, slow and steady, hovering just above the curve of her neck. Not touching. Not yet. But she could feel the warmth of it.
The door creaked open suddenly. Mira jerked back, the moment shattering in an instant. Heat rushed to her face as she turned toward the sound, breath caught somewhere between her ribs and her throat. She hadn’t even realized how far she’d leaned in.
Torvyn’s voice filled the quiet space, casual and utterly oblivious. “Mira! Sorry to keep you.”
Ren’s hand hovered in the air, suspended in the space where she had been. Slowly, his fingers curled into a fist, as if catching something that had already slipped through. He looked down at the table, his expression unreadable. He leaned back into his chair slowly, his movements measured, though his shoulders sank slightly.
Mira looked away, busying herself with the book on her lap. Her ears barely registered the words Torvyn was saying. Still, she could feel it, Ren’s gazelingering on her, silent and steady. Just for a moment longer. Then he pushed himself up from the chair, the easygoing facade sliding back into place.
“Well, don’t let us keep you waiting, Torvyn,” he said lightly. “Mira and I were just keeping ourselves entertained.” A reflex. A shield. He reached for the book they’d been sharing, tucking it under his arm as he straightened. “Enjoy your conversation,” he added, flashing a quick grin that didn’t quite reach his eyes.
Mira’s lips parted, as if to say something, but the words caught in her throat. She watched him leave, his footsteps soft against the library’s stone floor, until the door closed behind him.
4
As Mira stood and stepped into Torvyn's office, the last light of day spilled through the narrow windows, painting long slashes of amber across the stone floor. Shadows crept along the walls, stretching with the setting sun.
Torvyn stood by the desk, striking the flint with quiet precision. A small flame bloomed to life in the brass oil lamp beside the open ledger, casting a soft glow that flickered across the room. The polished wood caught the light unevenly, broken by stacks of parchment and half-rolled scrolls. The lamp’s light danced across his face as he straightened, the weight of the day settling on the slope of his shoulders.
The encounter with Ren still clung to her like perfume, light and dangerous. It had unearthed a memory of Tharion that had been intoxicating. A ghost of a feeling she’d once known. Guilt and longing pulsed through her in equal measure.
Nothing had actually happened between her and Ren. And nothing would. Mira straightened, exhaling slowly as she pushed the lingering warmth of the moment aside. Her heart settled. Her mind cleared.
Mira leaned against the edge of the desk, arms crossed, her expression cool but her voice teasing. “Why aren’t you off with your bonded, basking in blissful domestic peace?”
Torvyn looked up from the scattered papers, a corner of his mouth lifting. “And leave you to talk circles around every advisor here? Not likely.” Mira’s smile faded.
She straightened slightly. “Torvyn.” A beat. “How bad are things in the villages?”
His reply was a slow exhale. Shoulders sagged. A weight he’d been carrying too long. “Worse than I’ve seen in years.” he admitted.
She tilted her head, eyes narrowing. “How bad?” He hesitated.
A flicker passed over his face, there and gone before he met her gaze. “The Kharador soldiers have stripped them bare. Grain. Livestock. Tools. Everything. Families won’t survive the winter, let alone see the next harvest.” He paused, his jaw tightening. “And the ones who tried to fight back?” Her stomach clenched. “They’re being made examples of,” he said flatly. “Publicly. Heads on pikes. One in every village square along the border. The message is clear.
He didn’t need to finish. She already knew. Mira’s hands curled into fists at her sides. “How many?”
