Page 25 of Heart Cradle (The Melrathen Saga #1)

The living space was alive with warmth, the fire crackling in the hearth, the smell of herbs, meat stew and bread lingering in the air, and the low hum of conversation punctuated by the occasional burst of laughter.

When Maeve and Eiran walked in hand in hand, the room fell into a brief hush.

They were both still glowing faintly from the bath, their hair damp, clothes soft and loose.

Maeve’s cheeks were pink from more than just the heat, there was a sheen to her lips and a light in her eyes that hadn’t been there before.

Eiran looked smug in the way only a man who’d just solidified a soul-deep bond with his mate could.

Calen was the first to throw back his head, howling like a wolf, fist thudding the table.

“And there he is! Our prince has finally sealed the deal!” Soren joined in with a low whistle and a cheeky grin.

“Took you long enough. Thought we were going to have to start leaving scented candles and privacy wards.” Fenric, ever the worst of the trio, cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted, “Did the walls survive, or should we check for structural damage?”

Maeve froze for just a heartbeat, mortified, eyes wide.

Then Branfil, seated in a high-backed chair, lifted a hand and snapped, “Boys.” His voice was firm, but there was no mistaking the mirth dancing in his eyes.

“You will stop acting like court fools or I will find a use for you all that involves scrolls, quills and your father.”

The three men mumbled in mock remorse, slouching in unison. Eiran only laughed, loud, full and genuine. “You’re just jealous,” he said, tugging Maeve gently towards the long table. “It’s not every day a prince mates a goddess.”

Maeve, still flustered let a crooked smile curl her lips. “You mean it’s not every day your prince is a goddess.”

That earned a fresh round of laughter, even Branfil chuckled behind his mug. Aeilanna, lounging near the hearth with her legs tucked under her, looked over with a sly smile. “So I take it the bond sealed, then?”

Maeve gave her a knowing glance and a soft, contented smile. “If the light show and minor earthquake were any indication… yes. ”

Nolenne raised a brow, holding a quill. “It explains why the wards lit up like a solstice tree. You two are lucky we didn’t come rushing in thinking a rift opened.”

“I wouldn’t have minded,” Soren muttered. “Might’ve been educational.”

Eiran threw a cushion at his head, which Soren dodged with a laugh.

They sat, Maeve between Eiran and Aeilanna, warm and finally at ease.

The talk meandered, as it did with family, quiet updates for Aeilanna, jokes tossed like coins across the room.

Debates about whether wolves or gravemires were faster, and brief silences that felt like rest, not awkwardness.

Maeve listened, leaning against Eiran’s arm, her fingers tangled with his.

Every so often he looked down at her like he couldn’t quite believe she was there and every time, she met his gaze like she knew exactly why she was.

Nolenne lifted her head from the scroll she’d been half-studying, half-ignoring, and said mildly, “Is the stew ready, or shall we all waste away in this joyous moment of domesticity?”

Before the last syllable left her lips, the boys sprang into action.

“Why yes, Lady Nolenne!” Calen declared with a dramatic bow, nearly tripping over the rug. “Your humble servants have indeed prepared a meal fit for royalty, such as yourself…”

“Let us feast, drink, and pretend Fenric didn’t nearly poison us twice trying to ‘enhance the flavour’.” Soren added, striding towards the kitchen with a flourish.

Fenric now grasping a ladle like a weapon. “I’ll have you know those were creative spices and I’ll fucking stand by them!”

They all followed the scent of the meal into the adjoining kitchen, where a large cast-iron pot simmered away on the hearth, its contents bubbling lazily.

The stew was thick, earthy with root vegetables, dried meat that had been cooked down until it fell apart, and herbs Maeve didn’t know the names of but could smell all the way from the archway.

But the bread, oh, the bread. Golden crusted, still warm, a little cracked from the oven’s heat and clearly brushed with butter while it was hot.

Maeve tore off a hunk and the steam curled upward, rich, sweet and yeasty.

They filled mismatched bowls and plates and carried everything back into the living space, settling in with mugs of wine and honeyed water. As they ate, the room filled with the sound of spoons tapping, lips smacking, and the occasional satisfied groan of appreciation .

“Okay,” Maeve said, licking stew from her spoon, “Whoever made the bread deserves a medal, a statue or a crown.”

Across the room, Branfil didn’t look up from his bowl. “It was me.”

Maeve blinked. “Wait, really?”

Eiran leaned over and stage-whispered, “Don’t sound so surprised. He’s very sensitive about his baking.”

“I am not bloody sensitive,” Branfil grumbled.

“You almost cried the last time we ran out of yeast here,” Calen chimed in helpfully.

“That was because you used it all trying to brew your stupid fermented peach disaster,” Branfil snapped.

“I liked the peach disaster,” Soren said dreamily. “It tasted like summer and bad decisions.”

“It made you throw up by the training ring,” Fenric reminded him.

Maeve laughed and tore off another piece of bread. “Well, sensitive or not, this is divine, thank you.”

A blush crept up Branfil’s neck and he gave a small smile before returning to his meal.

Aeilanna sat with one arm draped behind Nolenne, who was quietly focused on pulling apart a piece of bread.

A splash of sauce had smudged on Nolenne’s chin, and without a word, Aeilanna leaned over and wiped it gently away with her thumb.

It was such a simple, tender gesture that Maeve smiled without meaning to.

“How long have you two been…” she waved her spoon vaguely, “…you know.”

Aeilanna quirked a brow.

“Over a century.” Nolenne chuckled, leaning into her with a soft kiss on the cheek. “But we’re not counting.”

“Oh, speak for yourself,” Aeilanna teased. “I count every year she hasn’t abandoned me.”

Nolenne rolled her eyes with clear affection, and they both returned to their bowls.

On the opposite side of the room, the boys had descended into a full-blown argument.

“I still think I should hold the Chain,” Calen declared, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

“I’ve got fucking excellent instincts, and incredibly strong pockets. ”

“You’d bloody lose it in a bet before sunrise,” Fenric said, nudging him with his elbow.

Soren raised his hand lazily. “I just want to look at it again. It hums, like it’s singing to itself. It’s kind of sexy.”

Maeve raised a brow. “Sorry to ruin your dreams, boys, but I have it.”

They all turned to her as she gave a half-smile, reaching down and pulling the small pouch from where it had been tucked into her belt. She placed it gently in Eiran’s open palm, “and now he does.”

Eiran closed his fingers around the dark green velvet pouch, the light catching on the delicate gold embroidery as if it were responding to his touch. The room went quiet for a beat, something special passing through the air.

“Well,” Calen said, sitting back with a huff, “that’s not as fun as an arm-wrestle for it.”

“You’d lose,” Branfil muttered.

“Not the point, dickhead!” Calen countered.

Eiran leaned towards her ear, murmuring low enough that only she heard. “I’d say they’re all very nearly due for a swim in the sheep trough.”

Maeve smiled sweetly. “Can I help push?”

Their laughter had barely died down when Branfil cleared his throat, once again guiding the room back towards purpose. “We’ll need to leave, tomorrow or the morning after at a push.”

Eiran nodded beside her, suddenly all prince again. “Elanthir Keep?” he asked, his voice steady.

Branfil inclined his head. “Moraveth will be expecting you. The capital isn’t exactly subtle about its expectations, and our grandfather… he’ll want to see the Chain.”

Maeve straightened slightly. “You mean King Orilan.”

Branfil nodded again. “He needs to know it’s been found. The artifact has been missing for years, its return will change everything. Not just for Melrathen, but for the entire balance of the Fae Lands.”

“And what do I do?” Maeve asked, trying to sound casual. “Smile and nod? ”

“You walk beside Eiran, show them you,” Aeilanna said gently. “That’s all that’s needed.”

“Maybe don’t punch or stab anyone either,” Fenric added.

“I make no promises,” Maeve answered playfully.

Eiran’s fingers brushed over hers beneath the table, just a graze, but enough. Branfil reached for his mug. “Right, now that that’s settled, let’s try not to burn anything down before we leave.”

“Who, me?” Calen asked innocently.

“Yes, you!” Bran barked with an eye roll, not looking up from his wine.