Page 96 of Unravelled
“I’ll be fine.” He offered a half-smile, but it didn’t reach his eyes.
Her fingers itched to reach out, to brush against the mark on his skin, to offer some comfort, but she held herself still. She wasn’t sure if he would accept it, or if she even had the right to offer it. Instead, she extended her hand, palm up, the simple gesture a quiet bridge over the chasm between them.
“Walk with me?” A beat of silence stretched between them.
With a slow nod, he tightened the last strap of his bracer, rolling his shoulders, and took her hand. Together, they stepped out into the open air.
The gardens stretched before them, a wild contrast to the barracks' rigid order. Sunlight streamed through the leaves, creating dappled shadows on the stone paths below. rainstorm gentle breeze carried the scents of rain-soaked earth and roses from last night’s storm.
They walked in silence. Not tense, but thick with apprehension, like the hush before a storm neither of them wanted to name. The crunch of gravel beneath their boots was the only sound between them for a long while, both of them lost in their own thoughts.
A memory stirred. Unbidden, insistent, pulling Mira back to what they had been, and the fragile, shifting shape of what they were now.
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The training ring lay half-buried beneath a thin crust of snow, the frost-cracked earth beneath Mira’s boots as hard as stone. Each breath hung in the air, a cloud of white against the slate-gray sky. The winter chill gnawed through her layers, but she hardly felt it, not when the dagger in her hand was cold steel and the hulking figure across the ring wore a grin that didn’t quite reach his eyes.
Tharion stood with his arms crossed, a mountain draped in worn leather and frost-kissed furs. His brown hair was a tangle of strands, and his breath plumed around him, a pale cloud that drifted away too quickly. He moved slowly, purposefully, the snow crunching beneath his heavy boots as if he were careful not to break the world beneath him.
“Are you going to keep staring me down, or actually take a swing?” His voice was a rumbling challenge, a warm ember against the encroaching cold.
Mira rolled her shoulders, the weight of the dagger familiar, the smooth hilt worn by years of practice. Nothing too big, he’d told her once, back when the snow was fresh, and the sky wasn’t so heavy.
“You’ve got to learn to slip the blade in, not just shoot an arrow through their head.”
She slid her boot against the snow, finding her stance. “I’m just waiting for you to blink,” she shot back, her breath puffing out in small, white clouds.
“Oh, she has teeth.” Tharion raised his own dagger, the blade looking almost comically small in his massive hand. He twirled it with surprising finesse, the metal catching the dull winter light. “Come on, then. Show me.”
She moved, quick as a hare, her feet a soft whisper against the frozen ground. She closed the distance between them, dagger low, her body a coil of potential energy. Tharion’s eyes tracked her, sharp and bright, but there was something else there too, a shadow behind the light, a weight that neither of them spoke of.
She feigned left, her dagger darting toward his side, but he pivoted smoothly, his large frame a wall of muscle and fur. He caught her wrist, twisting just enough to make her drop the blade, and in the same fluid motion, he pulled her off balance. She hit the snow with a soft thud, the cold biting through her clothes, the impact rattling something loose inside her.
“Too slow,” he said, his tone more fond than mocking. Mira huffed, her breath scattering snowflakes.
“You’re like a damn tree,” she muttered, “and I’m supposed to chop you down with a toothpick.”
Tharion’s laughter was a warm, rolling sound, but it faded too quickly. He crouched beside her, the snow crunching under his weight.
“Then stop swinging like a lumberjack.” He held out her dagger, the blade nestled in his massive palm. “Fight smarter. You’re quick, use it. Get in close, under their guard.”
She took the dagger, the cold metal grounding her. “And if I can’t get close?”
“Then you make me come to you.” He stood, offering her a hand. She took it, her small fingers engulfed in his, and he hauled her to her feet with ease. “Lead me where you want. You’re not here to overpower, you’re here to out think.”
Mira dusted the snow from her clothes, her cheeks burning from more than the cold. “Fine,” she said, setting her stance again. “One more round.”
He moved back into position, dagger at the ready. They circled each other, boots crunching on the frostbitten ground. Tharion’s strikes were quick and controlled, his broad frame moving with a grace that belied his size. Mira darted around him, slipping through his defenses with a mix of speed and intuition. Their blades clashed, the metal ringing in the winter air, and each exchange held a blend of challenge and camaraderie, but also something more, something unspoken.
Mira feinted left, drawing his guard high, and then dropped low, sweeping her leg out to catch his ankle. Tharion’s balance wavered, and with a twist and a push, she drove him back. His boots slid over the ice-packed ground, and he landed hard on his back, snow puffing up around him. Tharion grinned up at her, his expression caught somewhere between amusement and something else, something almost wistful.
Before she could react, his hands shot up, large and calloused. He gripped her waist, rolling sharply to the side. Snow and sky blurred together, and a surprised yelp escaped her lips as the world flipped. The next thing she knew, her back hit the snow, the cold biting through her layers, and
Tharion was next to her, his dagger resting gently against her collarbone. Mira let out a breathless laugh, her cheeks flushed from the cold and the tumble. He pulled back, offering her a hand, and she took it, their fingers cold and tight. He pulled her to her feet, snow clinging to their clothes.
He threw his arm around her shoulders, guiding her back toward the keep. “Come on...”
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