Page 68 of Unravelled
“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...”
???
Mira blinked and the garden unfolded around her in perfect, aching clarity
Finally, after several paces, Mira broke the silence. “I’m sorry.”
Tharion’s stride didn’t falter, but his breath did. He exhaled, slow and measured, like he was choosing his words with care.
“Me too,” Tharion admitted, no anger in it.
Mira nodded, swallowing against the tightness in her throat. An ache that had been lodged there for months, maybe longer.
“I don’t want to force this with you anymore.” Mira admitted, eyes downcast.
Tharion’s jaw clenched, a flicker of something crossing his face, regret, grief, resignation. She squeezed his hand.
The quiet stretched between them. It wasn’t peaceful. It was the kind that came when something was crumbling, when two people had already let go but hadn’t dared to say the words yet.
The wind rustled the orange and yellowing leaves above them, the decaying scent of leaves and rain hanging thick in the air. It felt like mourning.
Mira slowed her steps, turning slightly toward him, studying his face. She remembered the features she had once memorized through shared laughter and stolen moments of joy. The crinkle at the corner of his eyes, the way his lips quirked into an almost-boyish grin.
But now, they were unreadable. His gaze remained fixed ahead, his lips pressed into a firm line, as if looking at her would be too much. As if acknowledging what was missing between them would make it real.
She hesitated, but the question was already forming on her lips. “What was your Emberbane desire last night?”
Tharion’s stride faltered. A muscle in his jaw jumped. His fingers curled at his sides, his shoulders tightening as though bracing for impact. His breath shallow, but he didn’t answer. The silence stretched between them, raw and unrelenting.
Mira inhaled sharply, the truth sinking like a stone in her chest. "It wasn't me,"
He stiffened, his entire body locking up. The air between them turned brittle, sharp enough to cut. She swallowed, her voice quieter now but no less certain.
"And you weren't mine." The words landed softly, yet their weight pressed down on the space between them. The silence stretched, thin and delicate, as if a single breath could shatter it.
Tharion's eyes found hers, steady despite the tremor in her chest. Tharion’s throat bobbed.
She thought, for a fleeting moment, that he might deny it.
That he might force a smile, tell her she was wrong, ease the jagged edges of what they both already knew.
But he didn’t. He just stood there. Silent.
Mira nodded once, "It’s okay," she murmured, holding his hand with both of hers. "You don’t have to tell me."
Tharion exhaled sharply, running a hand down his face before dropping his gaze to the ground. The silence stretched between them, a thin, frayed thread threatening to snap. Tharion's breath misted in the cold air, each exhale shallow and uneven.
Mira held his hand, her grip firm yet gentle, as if her touch alone could bridge the widening chasm between them.
Mira let go of his hand slowly, her fingers trailing over his knuckles until there was nothing but the autumn air between them.
Her arms wrapped around herself, as if she could hold the pieces of her heart.
Her voice broke the quiet, a fragile whisper that barely rose above the soft rustle of leaves. “I know you care,” she said gently, each word measured, careful. “But…this isn't good...for either of us.”
Tharion stilled, his broad frame quiet against the gold-and-crimson blur of the autumn garden. Leaves drifted slowly through the air, catching on his shoulders and hair like they, too, weren’t sure where to land.
“I don’t feel like this is what you want.
What either of us want...” she added, voice quieter now.
There was no accusation. Only the soft ache of truth, of something slipping quietly apart beneath a sky.
The admission gutted her, made her feel exposed in a way she hadn't expected.
But it also lifted something deep inside, a weight loosening in her chest, even as it broke her.
Tharion stood, staring at the ground. After what felt like an eternity, he exhaled again, slower this time. His shoulders sagged, and when he lifted his gaze, there was a weight in his eyes that made her heart clench.
“I agree, Mira." he murmured, his voice hoarse and rough around the edges. "I'm sorry..."
In that single admission, Mira realized she had been waiting for something that would never come.
She had braced herself for the truth, told herself she was ready, that she needed to hear it.
But the reality of his words, the finality of them, slipped beneath her skin, sharp and unyielding.
It was not a clean break, not a swift release, but a slow and aching of everything she had held together.
The sharp edges of his confession pressed against wounds she had spent months trying to ignore, pushing deeper into the soft, bruised parts of her heart.
But, underneath the hurt, there was something else. Relief. For both of them. It crept in quiet and unbidden, like breath after being held too long. She saw it in the softening of his features, in the way he no longer looked at her like she was his duty.
There was peace in the honesty. In the release.
But even as that freedom settled in her bones, Mira mourned.
Not just the bond, but the version of them she had clung to.
That love had once been waiting in the space between them.
She had built her future out of that hope, sketched dreams around a love that had never quite arrived.
Her breath shuddered, and she forced herself to nod, to acknowledge the truth, even as it cracked her open.
“I know,” she whispered, barely more than a breath. “I think… we’ve both known for a while.” A single tear slipped down her cheek, but she didn’t move to wipe it away. She let it fall. Let it be a mark of everything they had been, and everything they couldn’t be anymore.
Mira drew in a slow breath, the cool air brushing her lungs like a reminder that there was still more to say. She couldn't lie to him again.
“There’s something else,” she murmured, her voice barely more than a tremor. Tharion looked up at her again, his eyes tired but open, waiting.
“I was with Ren last night.” The words didn’t come sharp or defensive. Just quiet. Steady. “It wasn’t the Emberbane. It wasn't an impulse. It was a choice. My choice.”
Tharion didn’t flinch. Didn’t look surprised. His eyes searched hers, and for a long moment, he said nothing. Mira pressed on, needing him to understand. Not to approve, but to know.
“I need to be honest with you. You deserve that. We both do.” She swallowed. “And I need you to know I still care about you. I don’t want to lose you completely. Not as a friend.” She look down at the ground. "But if that's not what you want I would understand."
A wind stirred through the trees, scattering a shower of golden leaves between them.
“I want you to be happy, Tharion,” she said, softer now. “Truly. Even if it’s not with me.”
His shoulders rose and fell with a slow breath, and then, quietly, unexpectedly, he smiled. It was small and weary, but it was real.
She blinked. “You’re not upset?”
He shook his head. “How could I be? He’s my brother in arms, Mira. And you…” He met her eyes again, and there was no bitterness there. Just warmth, and maybe something like relief. “You deserve someone who sees you. Who chooses you.” his small smile widened"I’m glad you chose him.”
Emotion swelled in her throat, and she had no words for the gratitude that settled like sunlight in her chest. She stepped forward, and Tharion opened his arms without hesitation. She folded into his embrace, her hands pressing gently against his back as she rested her cheek against his chest.
His heartbeat was steady, a quiet rhythm that anchored her to the moment. He rested his chin lightly atop her head, his breath brushing through her hair as he exhaled.
They stood there, bound not by the promises they couldn’t keep, but by the friendship they could still hold on to. For all the love she had lost, for all the dreams that had crumbled between them, Tharion was still him. Still the boy who had always stood by her side.
For the moment, they simply stood in the autumn light, surrounded by falling leaves and the echo of something that had ended. Tharion pulled back just enough to meet her eyes, a smile ghosting across his lips, tired, knowing.
“Well,” he said, voice low and edged with something that wasn’t quite amusing, “ I guess Ren’s your problem now.”
Mira huffed a soft laugh, the sound catching in her throat. “I think he’d say the same about me.”
Tharion’s smile turned lopsided, a flash of old warmth in the autumn light. “He would never.”
She touched his arm briefly, grounding the moment, then stepped back. “Perrin will think I celebrated too much last night if I don't show up soon."
He gave a half-hearted mock bow. Mira smiled as she turned away.
???
The altar chamber were quiet, still recovering in the night's celebrations. The soft amber glow of sunlight spilled in through the high stained-glass windows. Dust motes danced in the slanted light, drifting lazily between the shafts of color that fell across the smooth stone floor.
Mira’s steps echoed softly as she approached the altar she had attended each morning since her relegation began. The ritual had become more than penance. It had become a rhythm. She had grown familiar with the hush of the chamber, the weight of its stillness, the sacred ache it asked her to carry.
Cleric Perrin was already there. She stood at the base of the altar in full ceremonial robes, her veil removed, hair catching the morning light. Her hands were folded, her expression unreadable but calm, as always. Mira slowed, unease curling in her chest like a whispered warning.
“I thought I’d begin before the morning prayers,” Mira said. Her voice was quieter than she meant it to be.
Perrin turned to her fully. “That is unnecessary.”
Mira’s brow furrowed. Something shifted in her chest.
“You’ve been released from relegation.” Perrin stated.
The words hit her like a bell in the silence, sharp and soft all at once.
Mira blinked, unsure she’d heard correctly. “What?”
“You’ve done what was asked of you. And more.” Perrin stepped closer, her voice low and certain “Your duties for me are complete. You’ve given your silence, your service, your time. You are no longer relegated Lady Solwynd. You may return to the activities your station demands of you.”
For a moment, Mira didn’t move. Didn’t speak. She had carried the weight of her relegation and had woven itself into her bones. To be freed from it felt untethering. Like stepping onto a ship just as the moorings were cut.
“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.