Page 37 of Unravelled

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.

“You didn’t tell her?” she huffed, though there was no heat in it. “Stars above, I raised this one like he was mine, and he just tosses me into the sea like a forgotten rag!”

“I didn’t toss you,” Tharion muttered, but there was the faintest hint of a smile behind the words.

Miller turned her gaze back to Mira, warm and full of memory.

“From the time he was thirteen,” she said proudly, “I was his guardian, his teacher, and, when needed, his jailer.” She shot Tharion a look, and he had the good sense to glance away.

“The late Queen asked me to school him and the prince.” Mira took in Millers face before a spark of recognition .

“You were chasing them through the gardens that day.”Mira said, softly.

Miller blinked, then laughed, loud and full-bodied. “Oh, that could have been any day! Navigators help me. Those boys nearly gave me heart failure on a weekly basis. Constantly slipping past special tutors, hiding in trees, blaming each other for every stolen pastry and broken vase.”

Tharion stiffened slightly in his chair, and Mira didn’t miss it. She watched him for a moment, but Miller either didn’t notice or chose not to comment.

“They were tricky boys,” she said fondly. “Ren with his smart mouth, Tharion with his quiet schemes. One would distract you while the other vanished entirely. I don’t think I ever won a full day with both of them in the classroom.”

Mira smiled, letting the image settle. A younger Tharion with windblown hair and a spark in his eye, a wild Ren close behind. It fit.

“So then why are you in Seacliffe?” she asked. “How did you come to be all the way out here?”

Miller sat back, wiping her hands on her apron. “This was always home for me,” she said simply. “I was born on this coast. And once the boys grew up, once they didn’t need me anymore, I came back." Miller stood and gathered her bowl.

"This place doesn’t change much. Salt still stings, wind still howls, and the sea always has something to say.” She paused, her eyes growing distant for a breath. “But they will always be my boys. No matter how tall they get or how many swords they carry.”

Miller turned back to Tharion, narrowing her eyes slightly. “And you, lad, need to visit more. I shouldn’t have to hear about your goings-on through gossip and grain shipments.”

Tharion raised a brow. “You hear gossip through grain shipments?”

Miller huffed. “I hear everything through something. You’d be surprised at what people say when they think no one’s listening.”

Mira grinned. It was the first genuine smile she’d had in days. “You and Lady Elendra would get along.”

“Oh my stars, don’t curse me, girl.” Miller barked a laugh.

“I’ve had my fill of court spiders.” Miller moved to begin washing her bowl.

The warmth of the kitchen wrapped tighter, not from the fire but from the space itself.

Familiar. Lived in. Mira's fingers tapped at the edge of the table. She wasn’t meant to be here, not really.

But for a fleeting moment, it felt like the place had been meant for someone like he r

The kitchen door swung open with a gust of wind. Torvyn stepped inside, his boots thudding solidly against the floorboards. His usual formality was there, proper and polished, but his eyes scanned the room with a different urgency.

“Mira.” Her name landed like an anchor. His voice was steady, but beneath it, just faintly, was relief.

Then his gaze shifted past her. He stilled. A pause. His brow furrowed, lips parting slightly. “Miller?”

She turned, drying her hands on her apron as she took in the tall figure in her doorway. “So you’re Torvyn,” she said, voice pitched with surprise. “Well, I'll be... I’ve heard plenty about you.”

Torvyn laughed, already striding forward, offering both hands like an old friend. “I’m guessing none of it is good. Brahn has a big mouth.”

Miller grinned and took his hands, sizing him up in one sweeping glance. “Mostly good. Some embellishments, I’m sure. You’ve grown taller than your father ever was, and broader too. I am sure he would be proud.”

Torvyn’s expression faltered for just a breath. “Thank you,” he breathed. “That means a lot.”

Miller studied him a moment longer, then gave a firm nod. “Well, it’s about time I met you. I raised that one,” she jerked her chin toward Tharion, “and chased Ren across half the court. I knew your name, just never crossed paths before.”

“A Navigators small miracle,” Torvyn chuckled. “I’m sure I would’ve gotten myself into more trouble.”

“You still might,” Miller said, swatting his arm. “Especially if you keep showing up at my door without warning.”