Page 8 of Unravelled

Mira’s hand lingered on the last page, her gaze fixed on the image of Bharas kneeling on the shore, one hand resting on the edge of a boat.

The illustration showed his heart as a blazing flame, illuminating the surrounding night.

In the background, a shadowy figure stood on the hill.

Her face turned toward him as he departed.

Ren touched the book, thumb trailing over the woman, “Why didn’t he stay for her? Shouldn’t love be the right choice?”

“That’s why he’s my favorite." Her voice held a weight as she confessed. "Because he didn’t just give up a crown or a place. He gave up his entire life, the person he loved. All for something greater than himself.”

A deeply thoughtful silence settled between them.

As if some ancient presence had subtly altered the atmosphere.

Ren looked up at her, it wasn’t his usual smirk or the teasing grin he so often wore.

It was a real, warm, unguarded smile. As though she had pulled something genuine from him without even trying.

He leaned back and tilted his head. “For someone with so many hidden memories, you’re surprisingly sentimental.” She rolled her eyes and he continued, “But he’s not my favorite.”

She tilted her head in interest, “Who is yours then?”.

“Myrran,” he breathed.

She raised an eyebrow, surprised. “The Seer?”

Ren brushed a hand through his hair, that effortlessly casual gesture he always seemed to make when he knew he had an audience.

It made him seem confident, almost careless, but Mira was starting to see through him.

The way his fingers lingered just a moment too long, the slight shift in his posture.

He was nervous. He hid it well, but not well enough to fool her.

“Myrran wasn’t a fighter, a leader, or a builder.

" His voice was low and thoughtful, "She was a dreamer. Looking beyond what was, to what could be. And while the others focused on the storms, the stars, the ships… Myrran saw something else entirely. She saw the world they were sailing toward before we knew it existed.”

He reached for the book lying between them, his fingers brushing lightly against hers. The touch was brief, barely more than a whisper of contact, but it sent a jolt through her, sudden and sharp. Her heart skipped. She froze.

Across from her, Ren said nothing. If he’d noticed, he gave no sign.

He opened the book to a page worn thin at the edges, the paper soft from countless turnings.

With care, he turned it, revealing an illustration, still vibrant despite the age of the book, of Myrran standing at the bow of a ship, arms outstretched into the darkness, her white hair streaming behind her like silk caught in the wind. He slid the book closer to her.

“Some called her foolish,” he continued, his eyes lingering on the image.

“Said her head was too full of fantasies. But Myrran didn’t care.

She didn’t just believe in the dream of a new land.

She made everyone else believe in it too.

Myrran had this way of reaching people. She’d look at you, and you’d swear she could see everything you were hiding.

Every fear, every doubt and somehow, she’d make you feel like all of it didn’t matter.

Like you could still be something more.”

Mira glanced up at him. He was caught somewhere between the story and this moment. There was a softness in his expression, an attentiveness in his eyes that felt dangerously close to affection.

Her fingers drifted along the edge of the book’s cover, the motion slow, thoughtful. She wasn’t entirely focused on the story. It was the weight of his focus. The quiet hush of his eyes on hers.

Ren whispered, “You know how it ends, right?”

Mira nodded, whispering back “Tell me anyway,” something inside her needed to hear Ren tell her.

“She was the first to step onto the new land,” Ren said, his voice barely a whisper. Mira looked down at the illustration of ships listing in the shallows. Waves crashing against jagged rocks, and Myrran standing barefoot in the sand, her staff anchored in the earth like a promise.

Ren's breath fanned her face as he narrated the image, “The storm had taken Lyren, but she stepped onto that shore like it was exactly as she’d always seen it. She planted her staff in the ground, turned back to the people who had followed her through the darkness, and smiled. She told them this was home. That they were going to be alright.” Mira met his eyes.

“And then she was gone.” Ren flipped the pages without looking away, slowly, revealing the image. Myrran lay encased in a glass coffin, surrounded by the ancestors who had made it to the new land. Their faces were solemn, grief stricken. One little girl stood in the back, eyes clouded with white.

“It had all taken its toll,” he whispered.

“The Storms, the journey, the weight of keeping them together when everything was falling apart. She gave too much of herself, and she knew it.” Ren paused.

“But she didn’t stop. Not until she gave them what they needed.

” He glanced at the image. “Not until she passed on her gift. Only then… did she let go. ”

For a moment, the library felt impossibly quiet, the weight of his words settling between them.

“She broke hearts without meaning to,” he said, his voice barely a whisper. “The way she made them believe in something bigger than themselves. Something beautiful. Something impossible.”

His gaze never left her, the space between them seeming to shrink with every breath.For a heartbeat, the world stilled. Her pulse fluttered, sharp and unexpected, as something cracked in her chest. A memory not fully formed, just the edge of one.

???

The scent of parchment. Afternoon light painting the shelves in gold. And then, heat. The warmth of hands at her waist, steady and sure. The solid press of her back against aged wood, the faint scent of cedar rising from the shelves. Her fingers had curled into the fabric, anchoring herself.

???

Her breath caught. The edges lingered hot in her chest, but it wasn’t whole.

It felt stretched, distorted. But the emotion wrapped around her all the same: want, tension, anticipation.

Ren brushed his nose against hers. Mira didn’t move.

His breath brushed her face, warm, fleeting, and her heart lurched.

Her lips parted, unsure whether to breathe or speak or fall.

His hand lifted, slow and steady, hovering just above the curve of her neck.

Not touching. Not yet. But she could feel the warmth of it.

The door creaked open suddenly. Mira jerked back, the moment shattering in an instant. Heat rushed to her face as she turned toward the sound, breath caught somewhere between her ribs and her throat. She hadn’t even realized how far she’d leaned in.

Torvyn’s voice filled the quiet space, casual and utterly oblivious. “Mira! Sorry to keep you.”

Ren’s hand hovered in the air, suspended in the space where she had been.

Slowly, his fingers curled into a fist, as if catching something that had already slipped through.

He looked down at the table, his expression unreadable.

He leaned back into his chair slowly, his movements measured, though his shoulders sank slightly.

Mira looked away, busying herself with the book on her lap.

Her ears barely registered the words Torvyn was saying.

Still, she could feel it, Ren’s gaze lingering on her, silent and steady.

Just for a moment longer. Then he pushed himself up from the chair, the easygoing facade sliding back into place.

“Well, don’t let us keep you waiting, Torvyn,” he said lightly.

“Mira and I were just keeping ourselves entertained.” A reflex.

A shield. He reached for the book they’d been sharing, tucking it under his arm as he straightened.

“Enjoy your conversation,” he added, flashing a quick grin that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

Mira’s lips parted, as if to say something, but the words caught in her throat. She watched him leave, his footsteps soft against the library’s stone floor, until the door closed behind him.