Page 46 of Unravelled

Seacliffe, the room heavy with perfume and pretense, and Ren stepping through the door.

No hesitation. No questions. His hand would settle low at her back, fingers spreading with the kind of ease that suggested long-held intimacy, the kind that didn’t need explanation.

Then he’d lean in, slow and deliberate, mouth brushing the edge of her ear, lips close enough to graze but never quite touch.

Ren wasn’t just claiming her. He was offering the illusion of a challenge.

She’s not yours yet, it whispered. But maybe she could be, if you were bold enough to take her.

Mira knew she shouldn’t toy with him like this, but she couldn’t help it. Her voice was low, almost a purr. “I wonder… how would you have played the part, Ren? Kissed me like I was yours?”

His jaw clenched. "I wanted to see you in that shadowlace," The words hung between them, electric and heavy and painfully honest. "undoing it, piece by piece, with my teeth."

Mira's breath caught, sharp and quiet. Heat licked up her spine, pooling somewhere low and molten. The image he painted struck with brutal precision, too vivid, too real, and she felt her grip on control fray at the edges. There was no manipulation here, no staged seduction. Just Ren.

He leaned in, close enough that his breath stirred the curve of her neck, and whispered against her ear. “I wanted him to watch. To see what it looked like when you weren’t pretending.”

Her eyes fluttered shut for a heartbeat. She could taste the want in his voice. Rough and aching and it curled around her like smoke. Whatever game they’d started, it was no longer clear who held the reins.

Her breath caught, trembling in her chest like a secret she’d tried too long to bury. Every inch of her ached to close the distance. To give in. To let it all burn. But she didn’t have the chance.

Ren stepped back, not far, but enough. Enough to draw breath between them.

Enough to reclaim the space before either of them crossed a line that couldn’t be uncrossed.

He exhaled. A slow, deliberate release. The heat didn’t vanish, but it cooled.

Contained now, drawn back like a blade into its sheath.

“You were right Mira, we can’t keep circling.” he said, voice thick but steady. Mira opened her mouth, but he held up a hand, not in anger, but finality. His jaw was tight, but not cruel.

“But you need to know something, Mira.” His voice dipped, rough with the weight of it. “You’re it for me. And if the memory of these moments, of you, is all I ever get, I’ll take it. Gladly.” He paused, the fire still there, but tempered now. “But I won’t chase you..but you need to choose.”

For a heartbeat, she couldn’t breathe. The ache in Ren’s voice, the truth in his eyes.

It tugged at something deep and ancient inside her.

But then she thought of Tharion. Of the bond between them.

Real, rooted, chosen. Even if the memories still sat just out of reach, she had seen a spark of him in Seacliffe.

The man he used to be. The one who had once held her heart with quiet strength.

And despite everything, he had stayed. Suffered.

Waited. They deserved the chance to rebuild what they had lost.

“I'm sorry Ren, I...” she said, her voice barely above a whisper, but unwavering.

Ren gave a slight shake of his head, just enough to stop her. “You don’t owe me anything. I knew what this was.” A pause. His eyes burned, but the fire wasn’t wild anymore. Just steady. Focused. Her heart twisted as she looked up at Ren.

“You love him,” he said. Not a question. A truth he was making peace with. Something shattered in Ren’s eyes, but then he blinked, and what was left was resolve.

“And so you should,” he added, softer. "If I were Tharion, I’d want you to choose me too...”

Her lips parted, the beginning of a question she didn’t know how to ask. But with one last look at her, he turned and walked away.

She stood there for a long moment after he left. Not moving. Not breathing, really. The air still hummed with the echo of his words, and something deep in her chest ached, sharp and silent. Her heart felt bruised. Like pressure pressed into a soft place she hadn’t protected.

???

She slipped in to the altar, the crowd of attendants parted slightly as Cleric Perrin stood at the center. Her robe dragging over the floor as she moved to the raised step where offerings were once laid.

“She’s coming herself,” Perrin announced, her voice low but clear. “The Queen of Myrdathis has agreed to meet with the advisory council and newly appointed Regent one week from today.”

Gasps stirred the circle. Mira stiffened. Myrdathis. Their queens did not travel. They sent dreams. Declarations. Seers. Never the Queen herself.

“The wisdom of the Seers has shaped our kingdoms for generations,” Perrin continued. “And Queen Danlea brings more than that. She brings a vision of what is coming for our kingdom”.

The word sent a shiver down Mira’s spine. She exhaled, slowly, letting the chill settle. She didn’t notice the hush until it folded into silence again.

"Mira," Perrin’s voice called her back. “You and Nerra will prepare the Queen’s chambers. Come with me.”

Mira's legs moved before her thoughts caught up.

Nerra joined her silently, though Mira noticed the quick flash of surprise, maybe even excitement.

They followed the cleric through a narrow arch into the rear sanctum of the altar room.

The ceilings dropped low, heavy with soot and time.

The scent of rosemary clung to the air, mixing with old smoke and something almost sweet beneath it, like blood long dried.

As they stepped into the quiet of the chamber, Perrin paused and turned to face them, her expression sharper now, edged with warning.

“You must both be respectful,” she said, her voice low, each word weighted. “No girlish squeals, no whispered speculation, no foolish excitement. You are not meeting a court beauty. You are serving a sovereign who walks with visions of the future.”

“Yes, Cleric,” Nerra replied quickly, ducking her head.

Mira didn’t miss the slight grimace that followed.

The rebuke had struck home. Perrin’s eyes lingered on her a moment longer before continuing forward, the rustle of her robes brushing the stone floor like a whisper of wind through old trees.

Mira caught Nerra’s eyes, a small shrug of embarrassment in her expression.

Mira only offered a slight nod in return.

The sanctum was lined with tomes and glass jars, all aged and labeled in delicate script. A single iron candle flickered in the far sconce, casting uneasy shadows that stretched like fingers across the floor.

“You are to speak of none of this,” Perrin said quietly.

“The Queen’s needs are... private.” Mira’s mouth was dry.

She only nodded. Perrin’s eyes sharpened.

“Her chamber in the western wing must be completely blacked out. Every crack is sealed. Every curtain is heavy. No sunlight.” Mira’s brow pinched.

But she said nothing. “There is a salve. Crushed leaves on a wrap over the eyes. The wrap must be placed with care. No deviations. No questions.”

Beside her, Nerra murmured agreement. Mira managed the same. But her thoughts were already tangled. Why complete darkness? Why the eyes?

Perrin moved to the back table and gestured.

“Watch carefully.” They did. Mira’s fingers memorized each motion.

The slow crush of dried leaves, the spiral of oil folded into them, the careful smear across the cloth.

She watched Nerra apply the wrap to her, the way the ointment stung first, then spread its warmth like a hush beneath her skin.

When it was her turn, her fingers trembled.

She steadied them, but her mind wandered.

To this Queen, cloaked in secrecy and shadows, asking to be tended by night, veiled in a chamber with no light.

Mira jumped at Perrin stern voice. “That oil is spiraling the wrong direction. Again.”

Mira obeyed.

?? ?

The week that followed Perrin’s instructions passed in a blur of heavy fabric and quiet tension.

Mira’s days became a pattern of muted steps and measured movements, of sealing away every stray thread of light from the Queen’s appointed chamber.

She layered thick black drapes over the narrow windows until the sun could no longer touch the stone.

Nerra stitched dark cloth into every seam, wedging it into the cracks where the sun might still sneak through.

By the third day, the room felt more like a tomb than a place meant for sleep.

Cool, hushed, airless. Like it was holding its breath.

Each morning, she and Nerra repeated the ritual with the ointment and the tonic.

The routine grew precise, quiet. Mira found comfort in the rhythm, the grinding of dried herbs into fine powder, the slow pour of warmed oil, the careful wrapping of cloth across closed eyes.

They remained silent, not out of reluctance, but because it felt like the respectful thing to do.

Even in privacy, it felt as if something in the room listened.

Even after the final salve had been smoothed and the Queen’s chambers sealed in shadow.

But it was the moments in-between her work that weighed on Mira most. The empty corridors, the long walks back to her quarters, the absence of notes from Brahn.