Page 111 of Unravelled
Mira barely registered Perrin stepping back, her presence no less commanding for its stillness. She nodded to someone outside Mira’s field of vision.
“Tharion.” Ren called his name softly, and for a moment, nothing happened.
Mira turned to look. Then a shudder. Tharion was kneeling his back to Torvyn. But his sword lay discarded at his side, forgotten. His chest rose and fell in uneven, ragged breaths. He did not move.
His grief had rooted him to the spot, as if stepping away would make it real.
Mira’s voice barely found her. “Tharion...”. His breath hitched and turned to look at her. Tears carved silent tracks through the blood and grime on his face.
He blinked, his gaze flickering from Torvyn’s still face to hers, as if seeing her for the first time. He exhaled, slowly, carefully and moved. Ren shifted. Mira felt the strength of his arms tighten briefly before he gently eased her from his lap, his movements slow, tender.
He set her beside him with care, as if afraid she might splinter apart if handled too roughly. Then, with a quiet breath, Ren shuffled forward. Tharion approached Torvyn’s body and sank to his knees opposite Ren, his head bowed.
They worked in silence, with rags soaked in warm water, wiping the blood from his face. Every motion was an impossible kindness for a man who had attacked their home. Cleric Perrin knelt again at Torvyn’s head, whispering words in an ancient language. The language of the Navigators, old and reverent. The same words spoken over those lost to sea, to time, to war.
Mira could barely breathe through it. When the rites were done, Perrin raised her gaze, her face shadowed with the weight of the moment.
“Where is his final resting place?” The question shattered something inside her.
Mira closed her eyes, as her tears fell. Torvyn had been many things, a brother, a traitor, leader. But Mira has no doubt, he would rest where he belonged. In their family crypt.
“With our mother.” The words left her lips like a vow.
As the silence settled once more, Ren stepped back and stood at her side. She felt the brush of his hand against hers, grounding.
A moment later, Tharion joined them. Together, the three of them stood, shoulder to shoulder.
Perrin nodded once, solemn. Only the rustle of fabric, the careful gathering of limbs. Mira watched Perrin's acolytes filed in. And as they lifted him, something inside Mira shattered.
Her chest clenched with unbearable pain, and the sobs tore from her throat, raw and unrelenting. Tears streamed down her face as Torvyn was carried away, each step a cruel echo, toward the place where he would rest forever.
33
One moment, she had been standing in the empty space where Torvyn had been. The next, she was here, walking through the door, stepping into the quiet warmth of Ren’s quarters.
She didn’t remember climbing the stairs. Didn’t remember the halls passing by. The door clicked shut behind them, sealing them in the stillness. None of them spoke.
Tharion stood stiffly just inside the threshold, his posture carved from stone. His fingers twitched at his sides like he wanted to reach for something, but there was nothing left to hold. Nothing left to fight.
Mira felt it in herself, too. The exhaustion that went deeper than her bones, the weight of grief pressing down like a tide with no shore.
Ren said nothing. He guided Mira forward, his touch careful, as if she might break apart beneath it. But she was already broken. She barely noticed when he led her toward the bathing chamber, her feet moving without thought.
She caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror as she passed. Blood. Her leathers were stiff with it, darkened, dried, clinging to her skin like a second layer. Her arms, her hands, stained. Some of it was hers. But most of it, most of it was Torvyn’s.
Her stomach twisted. A wave of nausea swelled in her chest. She swayed on her feet, her vision tilting. Ren snaked a hand around her. Steadying her before she could collapse. Mira barely registered his touch, barely felt the way he braced her against him, keeping her upright.
Steam curled from the deep bathing pool sunk into the floor, swirling like mist in the dim candlelight. The water rippled with the heat, dark and inviting, the scent of oils hanging in the air, clinging to the stone.
Ren's hands found the buckles of her leathers first, fingers gentle as they worked. Unbuckling. Peeling away. Mira didn’t move to help him. Didn’t stop him, either. Just stood there, motionless, as the layers fell away, piece by piece, the last remnants of battle stripped from her.
Her tunic clung to her skin, damp with sweat and blood. Ren hesitated, looking up at her. She nodded. Carefully, he tugged the fabric over her head. Slow. Deliberate. She barely felt the warm air hit her skin. Ren’s breath hitched.
The bruises had already begun to bloom, deep purples and sickly yellows, painted across her ribs, her arms, her shoulders. A dark map of the fight she had survived.
But Ren's focus landed on something else. The stab wound. Just beneath her ribs, an angry slash of red, the edges inflamed and tender. Ren’s jaw tightened.
His fingers hovered over it, careful, assessing. Mira didn'treact, she barely felt the sting of his touch. Her body was too worn, too hollowed out for fresh pain.
