Page 143 of Unravelled
Mira trembled beneath him, the fire building, cresting, threatening to consume them both. And when she broke, when her body tensed and shattered and fell into blissful, euphoric ruin, she dragged him with her. Ren followed her into oblivion, their bond pulsing, locking, sealing, a final, irrevocable promise etched into their very being.
As the waves of pleasure rippled through them, as their bodies melted together in the aftermath, he gathered her against his chest, pressing a slow, lazy kiss to her temple.
He could still feel her. Not just the warmth of her skin, not just the sweet, sated hum of her breathing, but her. Her love. Her contentment.
It was a truth he felt in his bones, quiet, undeniable. That she was made for him, and he for her.
43
Mira
The moments before.
Beneath the midday sun the altar chamber held its breath. High, arched windows spilled light in softened ribbons across the marble floor, where dust motes drifted like golden embers caught in a silent wind.
The air was thick with incense, the sharp burn of cedar and myrrh layered over the scent of wax, parchment, and stone steeped in centuries of prayer.
Mira stepped forward slowly. The altar loomed ahead, shimmering in the candlelight. Painted visages of the Navigators watched from above, their faces faded with time, yet their gaze unyielding. Unblinking.
Behind her, the great wooden doors groaned closed with a final, echoing weight. Sealed in. With him. Caelric stood at the altar. He looked unchanged, ever-composed. Hands resting lightly on sacred scripture. Every movement precise, deliberate. But there was something different today. Not sorrow. Not authority. Finality.
He had asked for her. That alone was strange enough. He never summoned her. Ren had never told him. Neither the Queen nor the Crowned Betrothed had known of their bond. She stepped forward with measured calm, spine held straight.
“You summoned me, Your Majesty,” she said. Her voice was clear, cool.
Caelric inclined his head, the barest acknowledgment. “I did.”
Without another word, he turned from the altar and moved through a side archway. Mira hesitated only a moment, before she followed him into the adjoining study.
The shift in atmosphere was immediate. Gone was the sanctity of the altar hall. This space felt lived in. Private. Dusty shelves groaned beneath the weight of ancient tomes. A single window let in filtered light, illuminating a large mahogany desk cluttered with parchment, glass bottles of ink, and Mira stopped short.
At the center of the desk lay a book. Thick. Bound in cracked leather, its silver etchings dulled with age. The Scriptum Navigare. Her breath hitched. She had seencopies before. Tamed versions. Interpreted, softened, revised by generations of clerics and nobles.
But looked like an original. Unaltered. Her fingers twitched with the urge to touch it. Caelric approached the desk slowly, his fingertips brushing the edge of the open page.
“I found this first edition when I was still a boy,” he said, almost to himself as he opened the cover. “Apprenticing in Kharador. I thought I knew what it meant to be chosen. To be faithful.”
He traced the ancient script with a kind of reverence. “I did not.”
Mira swallowed, stepping closer, her gaze skimming the delicate script. The text was illuminated with gold-inked lettering, decorated with detailed illustrations of each Navigator, figures woven with celestial light and mortal flesh, their gifts etched into the pages in intricate detail.
The Gift of Myrran. To know the shape of what will come is to bear the sorrow of all that must be.
An illustration showed a veiled woman beneath a night sky, her hands outstretched toward the constellations, golden threads of fate wrapping around her wrists.
The Gift of Kharad. A voice can cut sharper than any blade. A word, once spoken, can never be undone.
Next to it, a figure stood before a kneeling army, his lips parting, his words shaping the tide of battle itself.
The Gift of Drala. Some are meant to choose not only for themselves, but for the many.
A crowned ruler stood before two diverging roads, shadowy figures waiting for judgment, hands reaching toward the unknown.
The Gift of Bharas. The Heartfire devours and all fire demands sacrifice.
An image of Bharas kneeling. His heart was depicted as a blazing flame, illuminating the night around him, burning the world.
Mira frowned. Her eyes flicked to Caelric. He nodded once, tapping the text lightly with a single finger. She read it aloud.
