Page 70 of Unravelled
Perrin’s attention shifted to Mira. “And you?”
Mira gave a measured nod. “The rites were performed without error. The wrap was successful. The Queen seemed… satisfied.”
Perrin studied her for a moment, then nodded. Well done, both of you” With the briefest of gestures, she motioned for Nerra. “You’re to assist the kitchens this morning,” she said, voice low but clear. “Check the spice stores. Some of the imported stock has turned, and we can'timport any additionals.”
“Yes, Cleric,” Nerra replied quickly.
Perrin gave a brief smile, almost approving, then turned to Mira. “You, Mira, will begin cataloguing the oldestof our texts. The archives need restructuring, and I expect you to find the errors no one else has bothered to correct.”
Mira inclined her head. “Of course, Cleric.”
“Off with you then,” Perrin said, already turning back to her prayers, her robes trailing across the floor.
Mira and Nerra exchanged a glance. Nerra offered a small, grateful smile before slipping from the sanctum toward the kitchens. Mira lingered only a second longer before making her way to the library, the scent of incense still clinging to her skin.
???
Mira spent the rest of her day in the library, the cool, dusty air a welcome contrast to the heat of her thoughts. The high shelves loomed over her, their spines worn and gilded, a forest of stories and secrets.
She moved between them with quiet steps, her fingers grazing the leather-bound tomes, but her mind was miles away. Mira tried to focus on the pages in front of her, but the words blurred, slipping through her thoughts like mist. She searched for the book Ren had once shown her, the one filled with myths and visions of the Navigators, but it remained elusive, tucked away or spirited into some deeper corner.
The sound of light footsteps interrupted her thoughts.
“I got sent to the kitchens first,” Harwen said, brushing flour from her sleeve. “Apparently I’m terrible at slicing turnips.”
Mira let out a quiet breath of laughter. "Seems you’re better suited to ink than knives, then.”
Harwen’s smile lingered for a moment, then faded. She glanced around the dim library, taking in the towering shelves, the thin sunlight filtering through the tall windows. They fell into companionable silence for a while, sorting scrolls, cataloguing spines, documenting fading names with careful and precise lettering.
After a time, Harwen spoke again, her voice quieter, more deliberate. “My sister lives near the southern cliffs. Just beyond Seacliffe.”
Mira looked up. Harwen didn’t meet her gaze. She kept her eyes on the stack of books between them, her fingers absently smoothing a crease in the parchment.
“She’s got two little ones. Bright-eyed, always hungry, always laughing. Their father... he didn’t come home from the water last spring.” Mira’s heart ached for Harwen's family.
“I told her I’d found work. Said I was hired on as a governess to a merchant family.” Harwen’s mouth curled, wry and tired. “Safe. Quiet. She thinks I’m somewhere warm, teaching arithmetic by a fire with a cat in my lap.” She hesitated, then added softly, “But it was Brahn who brought me here.”
Mira stilled. Harwen’s voice remained steady, but there was something fierce beneath it now. “I wanted to do more. To fight for something better than scraps. For them. For my nephews. I thought… maybe here, I could help shape the world they’ll grow up in.”
Mira caught Harwen's eye. “You did what you could, Harwen. That’s more than most and sometimes, that’s exactly what starts the change.”
18
The altar chamber was not as she remembered it. It pulsed with wrongness, a thick, humming silence beneath a sky that was not a sky at all. The windows were tall and arched, but outside, there was no light, only a wall of shifting gray, as if the world had been erased. Dust hung in the air like ash, unmoving, as though even time had forgotten how to pass.
The murals above had changed. The Navigators were smeared beyond recognition, eyes gouged out, mouths frozen mid-scream. One raised a hand. She wasn’t alone. The door had closed behind her, not with sound, but with a sensation. Like bone splintering in water.
She turned, but there was no door anymore, only stone. Ahead, a figure stood at the altar, tall and unmoving, cloaked in shadow. His face was obscured, a blur of familiarity.
"You came," he said. The words were not spoken. They arrived in her head, heavy and cold.
She tried to speak, but her tongue was heavy with soot. He raised a hand. She followed. Down a corridor that bent where it shouldn’t. The walls throbbed with power.
Books lined the shelves, whispering in languages she did not know, their spines shifting each time she tried to read them. Her name rippled across a thousand covers.
A pedestal waited in the center. The book atop it was bound in blackened leather, stitched shut with gold thread. A heartbeat-like pulse throbbed in its spine. The thread unraveled. Pages opened of their own accord.
"You will restore this," the voice echoed in her head. "Don’t"she whispered, though she didn’t know when she’d started crying.
