Page 16 of Unravelled
A pulse of guilt beat beneath her ribs, because part of her knew she wasn’t just talking to him. This anger, this outrage, it wasn’t only for Ren. It was for herself, too. Because she’d let herself feel it, even if only for a moment.
Ren tilted his head, and something filled in his gaze. It curled in his eyes like smoke, wrapped tight around the edges of everything he wasn’t saying. Regret. Desire. Longing. The ache of knowing this was wrong, but wanting anyway. His face shifted, more serious now than she’d ever seen him.
"Let me be clear," he said, his voice steady but low, each word deliberate. "Whatever you think of me, of Tharion, of our brotherhood. This is not a game. You are not a game.” His gaze burned through her and she tore her eyes away.
Searching outside the carriage window to where Tharion rode beside them. His figure was rigid, as always. His dark cloak trailing behind him, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword.
Her fingers curled against her lap, her nails pressing into her palms. "What happened changes nothing,” she said finally, her voice barely above a whisper, “I love him” though she wasn’t entirely sure if she was saying it to him, or herself.
Ren didn’t reply immediately. He leaned back in his seat. His expression shifted. It was raw, quiet, and genuinely him. For a moment, he just looked at her, like he could see past every layer she tried to shield herself with. He sighed, “I know Mira,” he said, his eyes dropping to the floor. “I know.”
Neither of them spoke again after that. The road stretched on in uneasy quiet, the rattle of the carriage wheels their only company. By the time they crested the ridge, the sun had slipped behind a veil of cloud, and the air had cooled.
???
They arrived at a town that was barely standing. Houses were reduced to crumbling walls, their foundations exposed to the grey sky. People gathered quietly in the few places where roofs still held, their faces gaunt and hollowed with exhaustion. Fires had been lit not in hearths, but wherever there was dry wood, corners of broken rooms, patches of clear ground, even in the streets. The air was thick with smoke and the sharp tang of ash.
As the carriage rolled to a stop, Ren was the first to rise. His movements were composed, but Mira could see the tension in his jaw.Outside, Tharion stood beside the carriage, his broad frame soot-smudged from travel, arms crossed as he took in Ren’s appearance with a scrutinizing gaze.
"You made it," Tharion said with a grunt, his voice roughened by travel and wear. "Thought maybe court life had made you too soft for the road." His words were edged with dry amusement. The kind of jab that came from years of brotherhood, all bark and no bite.
Ren grinned, stepping down and clapping a hand to Tharion’s shoulder, a gesture so familiar it came without thought. "Please. I’ve been cramped in that carriage so long I might never ride again."
Tharion snorted, the corner of his mouth twitching upward. "That’s what happens when you get comfortable."
Their exchange was effortless, the rhythm of old friends who’d traded bruises and stories under too many skies to count. Mira watched them, a tight twist curling in her chest.
"You wound me," Ren said, mock-offended, bumping his shoulder lightly against Tharion’s. "I’ll have you know I was perfectly capable of riding."
"You didn’t want to. Typical of a spoilt court boy." Tharion muttered as he turned toward the carriage, already reaching for Mira’s hand.
Mira was already there, waiting at the threshold, the scent of smoke and ash drifting in around her like a warning. Tharion’s hand appeared in her view steady and gloved.
“Careful,” he said simply, his voice softer. She placed her hand in his, and he guided her down. No ceremony, no flourish, just the same quiet strength he’d always offered her. As her boots touched the cracked dirt road, her gaze flicked up to meet his, and for a heartbeat, they simply looked at one another. Mira’s fingers lingered a moment too long in his before she let go.
When she turned to look back, Ren was gone. He’d already slipped into the convoy, swallowed by movement and noise. Like he’d never been there at all.
Mira’s boots crunched over the rubble as they made their way through the remains of the town square. Tharion followed behind her. Mira didn’t need to look back to know he was there. She could feel his presence, like a weight that followed her steps. She scanned the scene, the huddled groups of survivors, the makeshift tents fashioned from ripped cloth and splintered wood, the faint cries of children mingling with the moans of the injured. A large canvas tent stood near the edge of the square, marked with a crude red cross painted on its side.
Inside, the cries of pain were louder. Mira rolled up her sleeves as she approached. The moment she stepped into the tent, the smell of blood and sweat hit her. A harried woman, her hands coated in grime, glanced up from tending to a man with a splinted leg. She looked at Mira with suspicion, her eyes darting to Tharion.
Recognition flickered across her features, followed by a palpable wave of relief at his presence.
“Tharion?” Her voice cracked, half disbelief, half relief.
He stepped forward, giving her a nod. “Ena, we came as fast as we could.” She stood slowly, wiping her hands on a blood-streaked apron, her breath catching as she truly took him in. Tharion’s jaw tightened. “I brought what I could. Grain, water, blankets, salve."
Ena looked toward the filled stretchers, “It won’t be enough,” she muttered. Not unkindly, just tired. “But it’s something.”
Mira looked around the tent, the crowded stretchers, the bloody linens, the desperate eyes of those waiting for help, and her shoulders sank.
“I know it’s not enough,” Tharion said quietly, his voice heavy. “I’m sorry.”
Ena shook her head, stepping past him to check on another patient. “It’s more than we’ve had in days.” Then, almost gently, without turning back, “And you being here… that counts, too.”
“What can I do?” Mira asked.
Ena looked at Mira and hesitated, then nodded. "There’s more than enough work. If you can sew, clean, or carry. Take your pick."
