Page 91 of Unravelled

Mira

The moments before.

Beneath the midday sun the altar chamber held its breath. High, arched windows spilled light in softened ribbons across the marble floor, where dust motes drifted like golden embers caught in a silent wind.

The air was thick with incense, the sharp burn of cedar and myrrh layered over the scent of wax, parchment, and stone steeped in centuries of prayer.

Mira stepped forward slowly. The altar loomed ahead, shimmering in the candlelight. Painted visages of the Navigators watched from above, their faces faded with time, yet their gaze unyielding. Unblinking.

Behind her, the great wooden doors groaned closed with a final, echoing weight.

Sealed in. With him. Caelric stood at the altar.

He looked unchanged, ever-composed. Hands resting lightly on sacred scripture.

Every movement precise, deliberate. But there was something different today. Not sorrow. Not authority. Finality.

He had asked for her. That alone was strange enough. He never summoned her. Ren had never told him. Neither the Queen nor the Crowned Betrothed had known of their bond. She stepped forward with measured calm, spine held straight.

“You summoned me, Your Majesty,” she said. Her voice was clear, cool.

Caelric inclined his head, the barest acknowledgment. “I did.”

Without another word, he turned from the altar and moved through a side archway. Mira hesitated only a moment, before she followed him into the adjoining study.

The shift in atmosphere was immediate. Gone was the sanctity of the altar hall.

This space felt lived in. Private. Dusty shelves groaned beneath the weight of ancient tomes.

A single window let in filtered light, illuminating a large mahogany desk cluttered with parchment, glass bottles of ink, and Mira stopped short.

At the center of the desk lay a book. Thick. Bound in cracked leather, its silver etchings dulled with age. The Scriptum Navigare. Her breath hitched. She had seen copies before. Tamed versions. Interpreted, softened, revised by generations of clerics and nobles.

But looked like an original. Unaltered. Her fingers twitched with the urge to touch it. Caelric approached the desk slowly, his fingertips brushing the edge of the open page.

“I found this first edition when I was still a boy,” he said, almost to himself as he opened the cover. “Apprenticing in Kharador. I thought I knew what it meant to be chosen. To be faithful.”

He traced the ancient script with a kind of reverence. “I did not.”

Mira swallowed, stepping closer, her gaze skimming the delicate script. The text was illuminated with gold-inked lettering, decorated with detailed illustrations of each Navigator, figures woven with celestial light and mortal flesh, their gifts etched into the pages in intricate detail.

The Gift of Myrran. To know the shape of what will come is to bear the sorrow of all that must be.

An illustration showed a veiled woman beneath a night sky, her hands outstretched toward the constellations, golden threads of fate wrapping around her wrists.

The Gift of Kharad. A voice can cut sharper than any blade. A word, once spoken, can never be undone.

Next to it, a figure stood before a kneeling army, his lips parting, his words shaping the tide of battle itself.

The Gift of Drala. Some are meant to choose not only for themselves, but for the many.

A crowned ruler stood before two diverging roads, shadowy figures waiting for judgment, hands reaching toward the unknown.

The Gift of Bharas. The Heartfire devours and all fire demands sacrifice.

An image of Bharas kneeling. His heart was depicted as a blazing flame, illuminating the night around him, burning the world.

Mira frowned. Her eyes flicked to Caelric. He nodded once, tapping the text lightly with a single finger. She read it aloud.

"It is documented that the gifts of the Navigators favor unbroken bloodlines, yet no gift is without sacrifice. The cost must be paid before the previous bearer’s final breath. "

A weight settled deep in Mira’s chest. She turned another page, scanning the dense script. She lifted her gaze. Sharp now. Calculating. Mira froze. These gifts weren't metaphorical. They were real. Dangerous. Ancient.

Her breath caught as her eyes met Caelric’s. And in that stillness, she saw, buried beneath his composed exterior, behind the coolness of his gaze, heartfire. Banked, but burning. Controlled, but not dormant. He had hidden it. She had never noticed. No one had. Not until now.

Mira understood the danger she was in. Her blood turned cold. This wasn’t some scholarly indulgence or idle remembrance of power. He had called her here. Alone. With the doors sealed behind her. And he had to know.The bond. The truth she and Ren had kept buried, he had unearthed it.

Standing here, unguarded and unarmed, Mira was suddenly very aware of just how much she didn’t know about the man before her.

Her voice was barely above a whisper. “You inherited this.”

“Yes,” he said, without flinching She hesitated,searching his face.

Her voice came softer still, but sharper, edged with the need to know. “From who?”

He looked at her, quiet. Then, deliberately, “Would you like to guess?”

The blood drained from her face. “…Your father?”

Caelric's laugh was low and without warmth. “No.”

Mira felt the unease rise. It curled through her chest like smoke. “I took it from my bonded's father,” he said, softly.

“For her.” She blinked. “The Queen?”

Caelric nodded once. “She was meant to inherit. But we had just lost our first child. A daughter. She wasn’t strong enough.”

Mira swallowed hard and looked away, “So you took it. To spare her.”

He nodded. "It was not without protest. But I promised I would ensure Bharas's gift would return to their bloodline"

The weight of it all pressed down on her. Her thoughts spun, tracing backward, re-threading the tapestry. A pattern began to form.

Her voice cracked as she spoke. “Then that’s why Ren felt me. Before our bond. Bharas’s blood runs through him.”

The words lingered between them. The way Ren had looked at her from the start.

The way he reached for her, even before they knew what they were.

The way he loved, not gently, not cautiously, but with the kind of fire that consumed.

Ren carried that same flame. That same impossible depth. Caelric said nothing.

Mira stepped back, her pulse a thunder in her ears. “You want him to inherit Bharas' gift,” she said. “But he can’t. Not without…” Her voice faltered. “Not without sacrifice,” she whispered.

Caelric gently closed the book. The sound was deafening.

“I had hoped,” he said quietly, “to be on my deathbed.” Mira’s stomach turned. “I am ensuring his birthright.”

“Why are you telling me this?” Caelric stepped closer. His expression was unreadable.

“Because I had hoped you would understand. That you would see what must be done. That you would accept it.”

Her eyes sharpened. “I won't submit” Somethingflickered in his expression. Not cruelty. Not coldness. But conviction. Immovable. Mira understood. He would go through with it with or without her permission

She stared at him, eyes burning. “Don’t.”

“I cannot,” he said before Caelric lunged.

Fire. A blinding, searing pain behind her eyes, deep in her mind. Her knees buckled as her world fractured. She felt Ren’s voice. His laughter. Their whispered vows under moonlight. All of it was torn away.

The last thing she heard before the dark swallowed her whole was Caelric’s voice.

“Forgive me.” And then, silence.

???

Ren

The clang of steel rang through the courtyard, sharp and rhythmic, the crisp morning air thick with the scent of sun-warmed stone and sweat. Ren barely felt the weight of his blade as he landed a strike, twisting at the last second before countering with a precise, punishing jab.

Ren scoffed, shaking the tension from his shoulders. “Still got your head full of Brahn, have you?”

Tharion grunted, stepping back just enough to bare his teeth “Careful, Ren. Too soon, even for you."

Ren’s smirk faded. The space between them stilled. No more jabs, no more bravado, just a glance that held the weight of grief within Tharion but not spoken aloud.Tharion nodded once, wordless, but clear. Attack me again.

Ren lunged again. A test. A challenge. Their swords met in a flurry of movement, quick, brutal, familiar. The tempo of the fight was second nature, a comfort. A distraction. Tharion welcomed it, sinking into the fluid exchange of blade and instinct, letting the world fade away.

Pain ripped through Ren. A jagged, brutal tear through the bond, like being ripped open from the inside out. Ren's breath vanished. His knees buckled. His sword slipped from his grasp, the metal clattering against stone, but he didn’t hear it.

A scream tore through his mind. Mira. Fear.

Pain. Agony. It slammed into him, raw and unrelenting, a force so overwhelming it stole the strength from his limbs.

His vision blurred, his pulse roaring, his entire body locking up beneath the weight of it.

Someone called his name. Distant. Muffled. Meaningless.

Ren ran. His boots pounded against stone, his heart slamming against his ribs like it was trying to break free. The pain sharpened. Wilder. Sharper. A pull. A violent, sickening tug. Like a thread being torn from his chest.

Then, nothing. A muted, distant echo of what had once been fire. A whisper of her, so faint it barely existed. His breath tore from his throat in a ragged, panicked gasp.

His legs burned, but he didn't stop. Wouldn't stop. Stone blurred past him as he sprinted through the castle corridors, barely aware of the startled guards, the whispers, the eyes turning toward him in confusion. He couldn’t feel his hands. Couldn’t hear anything over the sound of his own racing pulse.