Page 53 of Unravelled
Stable hands moved forward to take the horses as the convoy came to a stop, their movements quick but silent. The Seacliffe Under Guard stood at attention along the walls, their simple tabards marked with the crest of Seacliffe. A roaring sea serpent coiled around a blade.
Mira stepped down from the carriage, her boots scuffing against stone worn smooth by centuries of footsteps. She lifted her gaze, following the fortress as it climbed deeper into the cliff side, its upper levels exposed to the sky, the wind whistling through narrow towers and high parapets.
The Royal Guard had already begun unpacking the supplies from the convoy, their movements precise, methodical, as they lifted crates from wagons and checked theirinventory. The murmurs of their work blended into the steady sounds of waves crashing below. Tharion was already speaking with a Seacliffe Under Guard. His posture relaxed but his voice low and clipped with authority. The lieutenant, a grizzled, broad-shouldered man, listened intently, nodding along, his sharp eyes flicking between Tharion and the newly arrived convoy. Mira moved through the courtyard, weaving between guards and attendants, unloading the last of the supplies. A voice came bright and sharp from the open kitchen path.
“Well, Navigators above, Tharion! Is that you?” A woman bustled toward him with a linen apron tied at the waist and flour dusting her sleeves. She moved like someone who hadn’t stopped working since sunrise and had no plans to stop now. Sunlight caught in the streaks of silver braided through her hair.
“Miller,” Tharion greeted her, his smile bright and genuine.
“It’s good to see you.” She exclaimed. She reached him in a few quick strides and pulled him down into a firm hug around the shoulders, the kind that left no room for protest and no need for one.
Tharion held her back, his arms wrapping around her with something almost reverent. A breath left him, low and quiet, and his shoulders, always squared, always braced, finally dropped. For just a moment, he wasn’t a steward. Not a soldier. Not bonded. Just a boy grown too fast, in the arms of someone he obviously trusted. Miller patted his back twice before pulling away, studying him with eyes that saw far too much.
“You look thinner,” she muttered, inspecting his face. “And tired.”
“I’m always tired,” he said with a half-smile, like it was a joke he’d told too many times to laugh at anymore.
Mira watched the exchange, her brows slightly furrowed. She had never seen him react like that to her. Even though it was clearly a maternal relationship, Tharion was still capable of warmth, of affection, just not with her. With her, he was a wall, impenetrable, unwavering. Always steady, always distant.
Miller's eyes flicked toward the carriage, sharp and expectant. “And where’s your bonded? I was told she’d be coming too.”
Tharion hesitated. “She’s here,” he murmured. Miller's gaze barely touched on Tharion before flicking toward Mira. Miller squinted, then blinked. Then she gasped.
“Oh, by the stars, Tharion, she is beautiful.” Miller was already crossing the short distance, apron fluttering behind her, arms half-lifted like she might embrace Mira, but didn’t want to startle her.
Mira instinctively stepped back, just a fraction. Her posture tightened, chin lifting, the way it always did when she felt eyes on her for too long. Her fingers brushed over the crease in her travel-wrinkled dress, then dropped to her sides.
“I’m Mira,” she said, her voice clear but careful. Like stepping onto a floor she wasn’t sure would hold.
Miller let out a soft, reverent laugh. “Welcome, Mira.” Her voice dipped into something warmer. “Any bonded of Tharion is more than welcome here.” Mira blinked. The words caught her off guard. They were kindness. Uncomplicated. Immediate. Undeserved. She nodded, unsure what to say. Mira cast a glance at Tharion, who merely watched her with that infuriating mix of sadness and regret.
Miller's eyes flicked from one to the other, catching the space between them like a thread pulled too tight. But she didn’t comment. She just clapped her hands once and smiled like she hadn’t seen a thing.
“Well,” she said, turning briskly, “Come in, both of you. The bread’s still warm and I’m not reheating stew twice in one sitting.” She didn’t wait for agreement, just turned and strode up the kitchen path.
Tharion, still watching Mira, lifted a hand in a quiet gesture, motioning her forward. She didn’t speak, just walked. Past him. Toward the open door and the scent of rosemary and wood smoke. He followed close behind, boots quiet on the stone path.
???
The kitchen was nothing like the ones in the palace. It was narrow, long, and well-worn. Built for function, not display. Salt-stained floorboards groaned underfoot, softened by years of feet and spilled water. The wide stone counters bore the marks of knives and cleavers. Mira could see faint grooves from years of brining fish, cleaning shell-cracked crabs, and pressing herbs into oil. Nets hung near the ceiling, coiled and drying, with bunches of rosemary and sea fennel dangled beside them. Their scent rich and sharp in the warm air. Hooks along the far wall held knives of every size and purpose, their handles smoothed from use. A wide basin, stained with sea minerals, sat beneath a window that looked out toward the dusk-brushed cliffs.
Mira paused just past the threshold. The fire in the hearth crackled with a lazy confidence, its light dancing across shelves lined with battered tin containers, jars filled with thick salt and dried citrus peels. A pot of stew rested on a over the heat, its lid askew just enough for steam to curl out, rich with thyme and slow-cooked root vegetables.
Miller was already halfway across the room, muttering to herself as she pulled thick slices of bread from a cloth-covered basket and fetched chipped ceramic bowls from a top shelf. She didn’t look back to see if they were following. Mira hesitated again, her fingers brushing over the door frame before she stepped inside fully. The air was warmer here, thicker. She could still feel Tharion behind her, close enough to sense, not close enough to reach. The invisible space between them followed her into the room like a second shadow.
Miller looked over her shoulder. “Sit, girl,” she chided, “Don’t make me ask you twice.”
Mira nodded and moved toward the heavy wooden table that ran down the middle of the room. She slid into one of the mismatched chairs, her hands folding in her lap as she took in the room. Sun-warped wood, a string of garlic near the door, a cat asleep on a sack of flour in the corner. It was not her world.
Tharion sat across from her. Of course not beside her. He offered no words, just a small, tired exhale as he settled into the chair, shoulders taut as bowstrings. Mira didn’t meet his gaze. She couldn’t. Not yet. Miller set two bowls down with a practiced clatter, followed by a hunk of bread, a block of herb butter, and two iron spoons so old the engraving had worn away. Then, at last, she sat too, her own bowl steaming, her apron finally stilled.
Mira broke the silence first, her spoon pausing just above the bowl. “So... how do you know Tharion?”
Miller glanced up mid-chew, eyes twinkling as she swallowed. She turned to Tharion, lips curving wickedly.
“She doesn’t know?” Tharion sighed like a man who knew exactly what was coming.
“Miller,” she smacked his arm with the back of her hand, mock offense blooming across her face.
