Page 99 of Unravelled
“I don’t understand.” Her voice was softer now, the stillness of the chamber wrapping tightly around her, as though it were bracing too.
Perrin studied her. For a heartbeat, Mira saw something in the cleric’s expression that looked almost like sadness. Or reverence. Or both.
“I have a feeling the next chapter of our kingdom will require all of your attention.” she said murmured.
The words struck a chord deep within Mira. The memory of Danlea’s vision surged forward. The boat of stars. The golden knot of threads. The glowing convergence that pulsed like a second heartbeat beneath her skin. She wasn’t just being released. She was being prepared.
Perrin reached out, touching two fingers lightly to Mira’s temple. The gesture was familiar now, but this time it felt final. Sacred.
“Go with clarity and walk in purpose.” Mira stood still, the air suddenly charged around her like the breath before a storm.
Emotion swelled in her chest. Relief, apprehension, purpose. All pulling in different directions. She looked up at the altar one last time. The candles were lit. The offerings cleared. The floor swept.
There was no need for her here.
27
The heavy oak doors of the library loomed before her. Mira’s hand curled around the worn iron handle, cool beneath her fingers, and she paused, not out of hesitation, but to savor the moment.
For the first time since her punishment, the day was hers. No duty to shoulder. Her relegation was over. She pushed open the door. The hinges groaned, but even that sound felt comforting now, familiar. The scent of old parchment and ink greeted her like an old friend. Her heart swelled in her chest. She hadn’t realized how much she’d missed this, the hush of the library, the stillness. A quiet invitation to lose herself in stories, just for the joy of it.
The mid-morning light filtered through the high arched windows, turning the dust motes into flecks of gold. They floated lazily in the air, caught in sunbeams like suspended stars. Mira stepped inside, letting the door swing quietly shut behind her.
She didn’t rush. Her feet knew the way, guiding her down familiar aisles, past towering shelves and ancient spines. Her fingers trailed along the books as she passed, touching each one like a small blessing.
Ren would be deep in council matters. That whole hall would be knotted with politics and tension. And Tharion... Tharion needed his own space after their confessions. Just as she did. Mira knew she couldn’t hold the weight of that closeness right now, not when her heart was still mending from the truths they had finally spoken. No, the library was all she needed.
She rounded a corner into the back alcove, her favorite. The oldest texts lived here, wrapped in leather and time, their pages softened by generations of hands. Mira’s breath deepened, and something inside her settled.
She scanned the shelf until her gaze caught on a familiar title, Legends of the Navigators. Her pulse leapt. The same book Ren had shown her, back when everything between them had been uncertain and delicate. The one with soft illustrations and myth drawn with reverence, not certainty.
Her fingers brushed the spine, but the leather was too smooth. The gold leaf, too sharp. She pulled it from the shelf and opened it carefully. The pages were uniform, pristine. A newer edition. Not the one he’d shown her.
Still, she lowered herself onto the cushioned window seat, cradling the book in her lap. It wasn’t the one she remembered, but it was close. Sunlight streamed in, warming the side of her face. Mira tilted her head back and closed her eyes for a moment, breathing in the silence.
Mira opened the book slowly, the spine creaking faintly in her hands. The parchment was smooth, untouched, the ink still crisp. She flipped past the prologue, past the familiar names she’d seen a dozen times before. The illustrations were gone, replaced by precise columns of text.
Each legend felt flattened, its wildness trimmed away, its edges dulled by order and clarity. The silence of the library seemed to echo with it, the absence of wonder humming too loud in the stillness. And then, tucked between the lines of catalogued myths and navigators, she saw a title.
Lyren of the Tide-Worn Shore.
They say he was born beneath storm light, his first breath drawn as thunder broke, waves striking stone like a war drum's call, salt on his skin before air touched his lungs.
He was not loud, not the strongest. But stillness lived in his bones, His hands knew sail and tiller, his voice rarely used, but when it rose, it carried the hush of deep waters, a calm that felt like knowing.
They fled in silence across black waves, leaving smoke and chains behind. The boats, unsteady. The stars above watched, but the sea below grew restless. The wind soured. The currents turned. Rain fell sharp as teeth, and the sea demanded something. Not possessions. Not gold. A deeper sacrifice.
The boats began to struggle. Oars snapped. The horizon vanished in mist. Despair crept in with every rising swell.
Until Lyren rose. He stood upon the railing, his figure small against the dark sky and rising waves. The seas had named its price.
Lyren, born against the waves and storms, was taken in payment. Dragged down by the ocean's cold, closing hand.
He drowned so others might continue. His name was not lost, but kept in the mouths of the ancestors. A lullaby beneath the waves.
Mira sat in the pool of quiet sunlight, the book still open on her lap. The final lines of Lyren’s story echoing softly in her mind.
Lyren had given himself over not with fury or fight, but with quiet resolve. He had been taken into the sea knowing it would kill him, knowing that his voice would be carried beneath the surface so others might rise. It was a story passed down to remind them not just of sacrifice, but of grace. Of power that lived in surrender.
