Page 17 of Heart Cradle (The Melrathen Saga #1)

The war chamber smelled of fae brandy and wood smoke.

Thick banners hung along the walls, deep violet and forest green, the crest of Melrathen, a black dragon curled around a gold heart, was dulled by centuries of smoke and age.

The vaulted ceiling loomed above, carved with ancient runes that shimmered faintly in the firelight, old magic pressed deep into the bones of the keep.

At the room’s heart stood a massive oak table, its surface gouged and worn from centuries of battle plans, promised oaths, and desperate victories.

Maps were pinned across it, their corners curling from heat and time, weighed down by knives, tarnished tokens and runed medallions.

Above the table, a projected map pulsed, an illusion woven by magicers.

Rivers of green and blue light traced the lands of Melrathen and beyond, its edges shifting as scouts fed new intelligence into the ancient system.

Borders glowed like fresh wounds, fortress markers pulsed with warded magic.

It cast a strange, ghostly glow across the grim faces gathered there.

The fire in the hearth snapped and roared, throwing restless shadows high onto the stone walls.

The flames spat and hissed like they too could feel the tension bleeding into the room.

Eiran stood with his back to the fire, arms folded tight across his chest, jaw clenched so hard it hurt.

The firelight caught in his dark hair, throwing molten highlights across his sharp profile.

His body thrummed with barely contained fury, a blade drawn too tight against its sheath.

The ache in his chest had sharpened into agony.

Over a week has passed since she’d been taken and the bond had snapped taut with silence.

Every heartbeat drove the blade deeper and every day apart carved a little more of him away.

Still, he waited and endured, because if he didn’t, he would burn the whole world to the ground.

Across the chamber, Taelin paced the floor, his long stride restless but controlled.

Commander of Melrathen, Eiran’s father carried his authority like a mantle.

He was tall, broad-shouldered, sharply built, though the silver at his temples and the deepening lines around his eyes bore the weight of centuries.

Tonight, Taelin’s iron composure showed cracks, his jaw was working and his hands flexed restlessly at his sides.

Tension thickened the air between them like smoke, suffocating all within its reach.

Eiran barely registered the others murmuring by the map, Soren adjusting markers, the realm’s head magicer, Yendel, muttering spells to sharpen the projection and Fenric and Calen tracing enemy movements.

None of it mattered, not until she was back.

He could still feel her pain through the remains of their bond.

Taste her fear like acid on his tongue, yet he could do nothing.

The map writhed above the table, green and blue threads twisting with scout updates, each flicker of light, another dead end, each ripple, another fucking failure.

At the table sat King Orilan, long white hair plaited back, gaze sharp as frost beneath a heavy brow.

Beside him, Branfil scribbled notes with ink-stained fingers, muttering to himself.

Normally, the room would echo with laughter, teasing and mischief, Orilan, Soren, Calen, and Fenric rarely let a meeting pass without some foolishness.

Tonight there was only muted snippets of conversation.

Their best scouts had been dispatched, the Shadeborn, ancient creatures of smoke and shadow, able to slip between worlds, had been unleashed.

Even they had returned empty-handed, some hadn’t returned at all.

Either Avelan had hidden her, or they had killed her.

Eiran’s eyes squeezed shut, he would not let himself believe it, but the sick, cold weight in his gut said it was too much like Aeilanna’s vanishing.

“Say it again,” Eiran growled, his voice a low snarl that cut through the silence.

Branfil looked up from his parchment, steady despite the fatigue in his eyes.

Wide-shouldered and built like an ox, Branfil had always been a wall for Eiran to rage against. His kind eyes were shadowed now, his light brown hair dishevelled from hours bent over reports.

Though not brother by blood, Branfil had been one since before Eiran could remember, he was trusted above all others, and he would never lie to Eiran, not now.

“Confirmation came this morning,” Branfil said. “The Chain activated the night before she disappeared. Faint traces of intention and rune magic linger along the coast, we believe that is yours. We also found deposits of blood magic and the magicers have concluded she was taken using that.”

Eiran turned from the fire, eyes dark and burning. “I’ve said this a thousand fucking times, this has to be Avelan. The Pale Court are the only ones brazen enough to use it. Petra revels in blood magic!”

Taelin sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. “It looks that way,” he admitted. “But we have no proof.”

“That is the proof!” Eiran snapped. “You just don’t want to say it aloud. They took her, they took the Chain and you know what that means.”

“I know exactly what it means,” Taelin cut in. “It means we don’t charge in like blind fucking fools.”

“You think this is bait?” Eiran said as he rolled his eyes .

“I think it could be.” His voice was low, grim. “Vargen, Petra, Davmon, the whole damned Pale Court, they know you. They know how you think. They know what the Chain is, and they know your weaknesses.”

Eiran’s fists clenched. “Then let me burn Avelan to the ground.”

“You’ll do no such thing, Eiran,” said Orilan, the king’s voice smooth and final.

Eiran turned sharply and the old king leaned forwards, firelight glinting off the silver plaits of his hair. “Your rage is justified,” Orilan said. “But rage without control is how wars are lost. You will not go after her.”

“What?” Eiran’s voice cracked. “You would have me sit here while she suffers? While she’s fucking imprisoned, gods know where, because of us? You know the bond will kill me too, don’t you? I don’t care, but you might.”

Orilan didn’t flinch. “I would have you lead, Eiran, not fall. If you’re captured, Melrathen falls with you.”

“She doesn’t even know,” he said quietly. “About the bond, about me, she thinks she’s alone.”

Orilan’s voice softened. “Tonight, we will bring her home.”

“How?” Taelin raised a brow. “You’re suggesting what I think you are?”

“I am,” Orilan said. “We put aside the Chain, the politics. What matters is the girl and Eiran. Not the relic, not the realm. Them.”

Branfil lifted his head, eyes sharpening. “A covert mission?”

“Exactly,” said the king. “No banners or dragons. Just swift silence. The three youngest will go and get her.”

The three brothers straightened, Calen gave a solemn nod, Soren cracked his knuckles and Fenric muttered, “about time someone let us out.”

Eiran looked at them, voice rough. “Find her, whatever it takes.”

“You’ll owe me the best damn drink in the realm.” Soren said, managing a smile.

“I’ll bring her back myself if I have to drag her by the hair,” Calen muttered.

“Don’t,” Eiran growled. “She’ll punch you if you try. ”

“Mated females don’t like touchy-touchy,” Fenric added with a wink.

Taelin’s voice cut through. “And if it’s an ambush?”

Orilan’s eyes glittered. “Then they will handle it, and if not, Melrathen will be ready.”

Eiran turned back to the map, fingers trembling as he traced the sweep of forest south of the border.

Yendel, ever methodical, adjusted the living map with a precise flick of his fingers, the green and blue threads shimmered.

He didn’t speak, just watched the pulse of the projection, lips pressed tight and Branfil returned to his scrolls, brow furrowed.

His quill scratched faintly, the only sound in the chamber.

He was already recalculating possibilities, gaze flicking to Eiran, unreadable.

“I can’t wait,” Eiran said softly. “I can’t wait any longer.”

Taelin had pulled the three youngest aside, voice firm. Soren stood straight-backed and attentive, Calen tilted slightly sideways with a smirk he was trying to suppress, and Fenric looked half like he might salute and half like he might fall asleep.

“You’re not children,” Taelin muttered, “but gods know you test my faith and my fucking patience. You go in, you get her, and you get out. No theatrics, and Fenric, if I hear one whisper of you trying to summon that storm rune indoors again…”

“I didn’t summon it indoors,” Fenric interrupted mildly. “Just... close to the wall. The wind did the rest.”

Taelin pinched the bridge of his nose, muttering, “Gods fucking save me from these hellers. I asked for girls and got a feral pack of barghests.”

Calen snorted. “Barghests are untameable, vicious little bastards.”

Orilan gave him a dry look. “Yes, the comparison still holds.”

Fenric glanced at Soren, then smirked. “Well, to be fair, Soren does look stunning in a dress.”

Branfil cleared his throat. “There’s something bothering me.”

Eiran turned. “What Bran?”

“The Chain,” Branfil said. “It hasn’t flared again since the night she vanished.”

“So?” Taelin muttered .

“If Avelan had it,” Branfil said slowly, “they’d flaunt it, try to handle it. Bargain with it, but they haven’t. Not a whisper, no activation signs.”

Eiran’s heart slammed in his chest.

“They’re supressing it.” Branfil said. “Or they don’t know she has it.”

Eiran straightened, energy crackling through him. “Then they’re unaware and we still have time.”

“We do,” Branfil said. “And we have an advantage.”

“You’re bonded, she’s your mate.” Branfil met Eiran’s gaze. “Which means you can find her.”

Taelin scoffed. “That’s not a strategy, that’s a fucking wish.”

“It’s not,” Eiran said. “The bond is real. Stronger than I expected. I can feel she’s alive and if I’m close, I can find her. I did in Lisbon.”

Branfil stepped forwards. “We’ll go with the boys.”

Taelin thundered. “Absolutely not!”

Branfil didn’t blink. “If we send just the boys, we might find her. If Eiran and I go, we will.”

“I will not risk the heir of this realm for a human!” Taelin roared.

“She is not just a human,” Eiran snarled. “She is my mate, she is ours.”

Taelin’s fists curled. “She is fucking human, she is not one of us!”

“I’ll remind you that your mother was once a human,” came the quiet, terrible voice of Orilan. “I loved her, as I have loved no other. And you, Taelin, are proof of what our worlds can create together. All five of them will go.”

One by one, Eiran, Branfil, Soren, Calen, and Fenric stepped forwards and dropped to one knee. “To Burn and To Sheild,” they said in unison.

Eiran bowed his head last, but his second vow was silent, and blood-deep.

I will find you, Maeve, even if it kills me.