Page 62 of Unravelled
She glanced toward the towering stone walls, the fortress etched into the rock. “A city meant to survive.”
Tharion nodded. “Exactly.” His voice dropped. “Centuries ago, Seacliffe was just an outpost. A place for ships to take shelter in storms. The people here… they’re not here to prosper, Mira.” His gaze swept across the market, across the faces worn thin with endurance. “They’re here to hold the line.”
Mira’s heart clenched. Seacliffe wasn’t simply forgotten. It was expected to suffer. To be the place left behind while the rest of the kingdom moved on. And yet, the people remained. They endured. Her fingers brushed the worn stone of a nearby wall as she walked, letting the texture ground her thoughts.
Ahead, Brahn and Torvyn pressed on, their voices now indistinct. They came to a small, weathered house. Its roof sagged at the corners, stone dark with salt and age. The door was gray and splintered, hanging askew on rusted hinges. A single window, warped and dull, caught the pale sky. Outside stood Miller, shaking out a thin, patched quilt. Dust drifted in the breeze. The house was holding, but only just. Mira’s heart clenched. She had known Seacliffe was struggling. But seeing it affect Miller. It was heartbreaking.
Tharion was already moving before the thought fully formed. “Miller...”
The older woman turned, and her expression softened at once. “Oh hush, boy,” she said, wiping her hands on her apron. “No need to look like that.”
Tharion's gaze took in the sagging roof, the threadbare dress, the thinner frame. “Miller… why didn’t you tell me?” he whispered.
Miller blinked, then gave a soft, dismissive laugh. “Tell you what, lad?” She gestured around them. “This is Seacliffe. This is just how things are.”
“It shouldn’t be. I could send you..” Tharion's offer died in this throat as Miller gave him a long look. Warm. Steady. The kind a mother gives to her naive son. “And what would that do for everyone else?”
Tharion didn’t answer. He looked down, his jaw tightening as he took in the ground beneath their feet, the broken fence, the creeping vines, the dust still clinging to the quilt in Miller’s hands. Then, slowly, his gaze lifted again, meeting hers with a steadiness that hadn’t been there the last time he was in this place.
“I’d do whatever it takes,” he said, voice low. Miller’s lips pressed into something like a smile. Faint. Sad. Proud.
“You always were a stubborn one,” she murmured, folding the quilt over her arm. Tharion didn’t speak, but something shifted in his eyes, grief and love wrapped into one quiet breath.
“And he’s not the only one,” Brahn said, voice firm. “You won’t have to weather this alone anymore.”
Miller gave him a look, grateful, cautious, amused all at once. “Careful, young man. You talk like that and we might start believing you.”
Torvyn lifted his chin. “Good.”
The wind stirred around them, catching the edge of Miller’s quilt and lifting the scent of salt and hearth smoke into the air. She looked between the four of them and something softened in her expression. Not quite surrender, but acceptance. Like she'd seen enough of the world to know when a promise was more than just words.
“Well then,” she said, tucking the quilt under her arm, “you’d better come in.”
he turned without waiting for an answer, pushing open the warped door with her shoulder. It creaked like it hadn’t been used in years, though Mira knew it had. The air inside was thick with the scent of old wood, damp stone, and the faint, lingering warmth of a long-doused fire. The floorboards, warped with age, creaked beneath their feet, and cobwebs clung to the exposed rafters, trembling in the dim light.
Despite its neglect, the house still held a sense of warmth. A patchwork of mismatched rugs covered the worn floor, and a battered wooden table stood at the center of the room, surrounded by chairs that wobbled precariously with every shift. A threadbare quilt was draped over a lumpy armchair near the hearth, where embers smoldered weakly in the soot-blackened fireplace.
But it was the people who made the house feel alive. They were everywhere, grouped near the fire, perched on benches, leaning against the sagging walls. Their faces were a mix of worry and relief, eyes flickering toward them with expectation. Some whispered among themselves, others watched in silence, their expressions unreadable. Whatever had brought them all together, it was clear they had been waiting.
Brahn stepped through the doorway, his presence commanding even in the dim light. He didn’t hesitate, didn’t take a moment to gather his thoughts. He simply began, his voice steady and sure, cutting through the indistinct murmurs in the room.
“This isn’t where our story ends. Not if we refuse to let it.” His dark eyes swept over the gathered faces, his tone as firm as the tide. “We are not just trying to stay afloat, we are fighting to take back what was stolen. To rebuild stronger than before. To prove that what they tried to sink was never theirs to drown.”
Mira stood at the edge of the room, her fingers tightening around the worn wood of the doorframe. She had heard these words before. Not just their meaning, not just the conviction behind them, but these very words. In Anyerit, she had thought she was witnessing a transformation, the moment Brahn stepped into himself, found his voice. But now, watching the way his presence filled the space, how his words moved through the room like a current drawing everyone in, she understood the truth. He hadn’t changed. He hadn’t risen to meet this moment. He was the moment. This wasn’t something he had just become. It was something he had always been. She just hadn’t seen it clearly until now.
“Look around you,” he continued, his voice unwavering. “This is one town, one harbor among many, but the story is the same. The raids come like rising waves, each one pulling more from us, leaving us with less than before. And yet those who claim to rule us sit safe in their gilded halls, letting us weather the storm alone.”
A murmur of agreement rolled through the room, quietly at first but growing, swelling like an oncoming tide.
Brahn’s voice deepened, quiet yet ironclad. “We are not wreckage, scattered and broken. We are not lost sailors clinging to the driftwood of what once was. We are the tide that will rise. We are the storm they should have feared.” His gaze flicked toward the children in the room. His tone softened, but the strength remained. “We fight for them. For the chance to give them a world where the sea is a promise, not a threat. For a tomorrow where they can dream of more than survival.”
The hush in the room was no longer the silence of despair. It was hope, exactly the same and in Anyerit.
Brahn straightened, his presence filling the space as he finished. “This is where we set sail once more, like Bharas did. We will step in the footprints of the navigators before us.” A ripple of murmurs passed through the crowd. “For our freedom.” he murmured, his voice raw with emotion.
The mantra spread, catching like wildfire, sweeping through the room until it became a chorus. Mira exhaled, her chest tightening. She had seen this before. Had felt this before. And yet, even knowing that, even knowing this was not the first time Brahn had stood in a room like this and turned fear into fury, turned despair into purpose, she still felt the pull of it. The pull of hope.
???
