Page 43 of Unravelled
The morning sun broke through the lingering mist in beams, casting a golden glow over the cliff side paths below Seacliffe.
The tide had drawn back just far enough to reveal a stretch of black-stone pools and salt-slicked rock.
Each pool held tiny reflections of the sky, glimmering mirrors nestled in stone.
Mira adjusted the shawl over her shoulders as the wind swept up from the sea. The temperature had dropped overnight. Not enough to bite, but enough to make her skin prickle. Summer had ended. Autumn had crept in on swift silent feet, brushing the air with its cooler breath.
She inhaled deeply, filling her lungs with the scent of salt and seaweed and something deeper, older, the damp, briny smell of earth meeting the ocean.
Below the cliffs, she spotted movement. Tharion crouched near one of the larger tide pools, fingers skimming just above the surface.
Not touching. Just observing. She made her way down the narrow path toward him, boots crunching softly over worn stone and sea-glass fragments.
The closer she got, the more the noise of Seacliffe faded.
Tharion didn’t look up as she approached, but his voice carried over the soft hiss of waves.“This was my favorite place,” he said. “When I was a boy.”
Mira stopped beside him, letting her eyes fall to the tide pool. Tiny fish darted between shadows. A crab scuttled backward into a crack in the rock. Water shimmered, touched by gold. “Ren hated the cold,” Tharion continued, “but he came anyway. I’d stay out here for hours. Just... watching.”
He shifted slightly to the side, making room for her. She knelt next to him, her shawl slipping down her arm as she reached to trace the edge of a barnacled stone. “Still remember what most of these are called,” he said, quieter now.
They moved from one rock pool to the next, unhurried.
Mira pointed out the faint glimmer of a sea snail clinging to stone.
Tharion nodded. She found a starfish in another pool, pale pink and curled tight.
For a moment, they just watched it, the sea lapping gently in and out around their boots.
There was peace here, not perfect, not complete, but real.
Mira glanced over at him. The lines in his brow had softened.
He wasn’t smiling, exactly. But he looked… lighter.
“We should come back here more often,” she said, voice soft, breaking the stillness.
Tharion didn’t hesitate. “Yeah,” he said. “We should.”
A familiar voice echoed from above. “Mira!” Torvyn’s shout carried over the wind, roughened by the sea air.
She turned to see him standing farther up the bluff, hands cupped around his mouth, his silhouette framed against the pale sky. He waved an arm, motioning them up the path. Tharion exhaled through his nose, just shy of a laugh.
“That would be your brother,” he muttered, already heading up the path.
Mira moved to follow, but something caught her eye, a gleam of color hidden beneath a tangle of sea grapes at the edge of a tide pool.
She crouched, brushing the slippery greenery aside.
There, half-buried in wet sand and stone, was a piece of sea glass.
Not the pale green she usually found, but a deep, striking blue.
The blue of ocean depths. It was just larger than her palm, smooth to the touch, and as she lifted it into the light, it shimmered faintly, just for a moment, as if it had caught something more than just the sun.
Mira blinked. The shimmer faded. Just glass again. But she held it for a long second before slipping it into the folds of her shawl. She turned, climbing after Tharion toward the sound of her brother’s voice, the wind tugging at her cloak.
???
Brahn and Torvyn walked together, their voices low but firm, deep in conversation.
Brahn’s stride was measured, steady, arms crossed over his chest as he listened.
Torvyn gestured with sharp precision, speaking in the clipped tones of a man who had long since run out of patience for bureaucracy.
Mira caught only fragments. Trade disputes.
Fragile alliances. The upcoming council session.
She wasn’t listening. Not really. Her eyes were on the streets.
Worn, uneven stone. People thinner than they should be, wrapped in patched clothes that had seen too many winters.
Children sat on doorsteps, their eyes curious.
A woman sold dried fish and bread from a near-empty stall.
Seacliffe had been built to endure. That didn’t mean it wasn’t struggling.
Tharion stepped quietly into place beside her, his gaze moving with hers.
He saw it too. The poverty. The quiet strain.
After a long moment, he spoke. “Seacliffe wasn’t built to thrive.”
Mira turned to him. “What do you mean?”
Tharion slid his hands into the pockets. “This place was never meant to be a jewel of the kingdom. It was a stronghold first, a city second. A last line of defense carved into the cliffs.”
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.