Page 27 of Heart Cradle (The Melrathen Saga #1)
The world folded as the transport stone activated, casting brilliant threads of light over the group.
When the glow settled and the sensation of weightlessness faded, Maeve opened her eyes to a sight she could never have imagined.
Elanthir Keep loomed before them, vast and commanding, carved into the very spine of Moraveth like a crown set into stone, tangible, immense, and unapologetically powerful.
The structure rose in layers, grounded in deep grey stone that shimmered faintly with seams of gold, amethyst and sapphire, catching the dying light and throwing fractured colour across the courtyard and manicured gardens below.
Golden runes pulsed faintly along the walls, woven into the structure like breath into a body.
Turrets twisted high above, spiring into the darkening sky like braided columns of silver, each one crowned with battlements or lantern-lit balconies.
From some, waterfalls spilled in narrow, purposeful streams, tumbling into clear, stone-edged pools that fed into narrow channels winding through the gardens.
A wide skybridge stretched above them, arcing from one high tower to another, its underside carved with sigils and ancient script that shimmered when viewed from the corner of the eye.
The sky above, stirred with more of the winged silhouettes wheeling in slow circles high above the tallest spires.
Maeve squinted, but the shapes were too distant to make out.
Elanthir Keep was a stronghold, a palace and a sanctum.
Not a relic, but a living seat of power, and as Maeve stood before it, shoulders squared and heartbeat kicking in her chest, she couldn’t shake the feeling that the Keep was sizing her up right back.
The wide stone steps leading to the Keep’s arched entrance were lined with guards in shimmering obsidian armour and flanked by twin statues of long-dead fae queens.
Their faces were stern, noble, and unyielding, carved not to comfort, but to remember.
Standing at the base, waiting, were three figures Maeve recognised from Eiran’s careful descriptions.
King Orilan stood at the forefront. Broad-shouldered, ancient, and commanding, he radiated raw power and fierce intelligence. His long white hair, some plaited while some flowed loose around his shoulders, and his violet eyes twinkled with mischief, even as they measured her sharply .
To his left stood Eiran’s father, Commander Taelin.
Darkly dressed and steeled in every line of his body.
His expression was carved from marble, sharp and unreadable.
He stood tall, broad, with almost black hair that was silvering at the temples and beautiful striking blue eyes.
It was as if she were looking at an older version of her mate.
At the sight of Aeilanna, Princess Hayvalaine broke.
A strangled cry escaped her as she surged forwards, golden hair and plum skirts billowing behind her, all regal composure stripped away in a heartbeat.
There was no grace to it, only raw, painful need.
Aeilanna matched her step for step, tears streaming freely, and they collided in a fierce, wordless embrace.
Hayvalaine cupped her daughter’s face in trembling hands, sobbing silently as she pressed frantic kisses to her brow, her cheeks, her hair, touching every part of her as if to reassure herself she was real.
She held Aeilanna like a lifeline, like something pulled back from the edge of the world.
Taelin was slower to move, standing just behind his bound, frozen in the moment.
Those blue eyes, so like Eiran’s, locked on Aeilanna, wide and stunned, filled with a storm of grief and hope and disbelief.
He looked younger, instantly unarmoured, then as if released from a hold, he stepped forwards.
Aeilanna turned towards him, her hand still tangled with her mother’s, and for a heartbeat they just looked at each other, father and daughter, soldier and ghost. He gathered her into his arms with a hoarse exhale, wrapping her between him and Hayvalaine, enfolding her in their shared warmth and trembling.
Behind them, Orilan stood still, but there was something elemental in the violet of his gaze.
The King of Melrathen did not run, did not cry, but his eyes never left Aeilanna.
Slowly, with the sanctity of one laying a blessing, he approached.
His hand came to rest on the back of her head, and he leaned in, pressing his forehead to hers.
"Welcome home, my dearest, dearest girl," he murmured, voice quiet and thick with the weight of time lost.
The four of them stood there, bound by love, by survival, by the shattering and the mending of time. Maeve stood to the side with the others, watching, throat tight and tears prickling behind her eyes.
“Well,” King Orilan said, breaking the silence with a booming voice and a crooked grin, “the brothers return with my lost granddaughter, and a mate-bonded pair who reek of joy and sex.”
His gaze fell on Maeve and Eiran, still hand in hand, and he offered an elegant, courtly bow. “Lady Maeve of Earth, welcome home. ”
Maeve flushed scarlet and the boys behind her, Calen, Soren, and Fenric, hollered with laughter and Branfil sighed, quiet but unmistakably fond. “Honestly, you’re meant to be the king.”
Orilan turned just slightly, his gaze twinkling. “And you’re meant to be my quiet one, yet here we are.”
Branfil snorted. “If I didn’t speak, you’d never hear the truth.”
“And if I didn’t ignore you half the time,” Orilan said mildly, “I’d never get anything done.”
They shared a glance then, sharp, full of history, but threaded with love. Branfil’s voice gentled. “It’s good she’s home.”
Orilan nodded, the lines at the corners of his violet eyes softening. “I’m glad you all are.”
Taelin’s voice cut through the levity like a blade. “Where is the Chain?”
Orilan straightened at once, voice hardening. “You forget yourself, son. Let them breathe.”
Taelin’s jaw tensed, but he fell silent, stepping back without another word and Orilan motioned them forwards. “Come, let us return inside. You’ve walked too many roads to get here.”
They climbed the steps as a unified group, winding through vast corridors lined with tapestries and enchanted faelight sconces. The walls whispered in fae tongue, chronicling generations. Maeve felt it all, the history, the weight of legacy, and the tightening band of anxiety in her chest.
They arrived at a large drawing room. Dark green walls glowed with warmth, gilded mirrors reflecting flickering firelight.
A hearth roared at the centre, casting golden hues on plush seating arranged in a wide semi-circle.
Polished wood, velvet cushions, and an unmistakable air of comfort, this wasn’t the throne room.
It was something more intimate, more authentic.
Servants entered cheerfully, making small talk with the family before placing drinks of deep red wine, cool fruit water and spiced fae spirits onto a small ebony table, before vanishing like smoke.
Once seated, Eiran offered a clear and concise account of what had happened since Lisbon.
Maeve’s capture, their pursuit, the escape, the Chain’s response to her touch, the wilds and the bonding.
When he finished, Taelin leaned forwards, his tone brittle.
“The Chain, it must be returned to the Keep’s vault. ”
Eiran’s reply was immediate, calm and resolute. “I cannot do that, Father. The Chain belongs to Maeve. It has… connected with her.”
Taelin rose slowly from his chair, posture tight with disbelief and fury, lurching towards the mates, shouting, “it was never meant to do that. The Chain was never intended to be worn, it was meant to be returned to the vault.”
“Enough.” Orilan’s voice thundered through the chamber as he stood, powerful and swift. “You will not raise your voice in this room and you will not insult your realm’s future queen.”
Maeve felt Eiran tense beside her and Orilan turned, addressing the room, his gaze sharp.
“Maeve is bonded to my grandson by magic and choice. The Chain has recognised her and that is more than we can say for half the royals who’ve graced this Keep.
She is ours now, and you will show her the reverence due to a future ruler of Melrathen. ”
Taelin’s face paled and slowly, he bowed his head the weight of shame. “I apologise, Lady Maeve. Truly.”
Maeve nodded, still stunned.
Orilan clapped his hands once. “Good, now that we’ve cleared that mess…” He grinned at Maeve again. “Tell me, granddaughter. Are you always this good at stirring my court into chaos?”
At that moment, the drawing room door creaked open just wide enough to admit a silver-haired servant in a deep forest-green waistcoat, the subtle gold embroidery along the hem glinting in the firelight. “Your Majesty,” he said, bowing his head towards the King. “Dinner is served.”
The warmth of the fire and the comfort of cushioned chairs were quickly forgotten as the aroma of roasted meats, herbs, and sweet fruit drifted in through the open door like a gentle lure.
Eiran stood first, offering a hand to Maeve.
“Prepare yourself,” he said with a glint in his eye.
“The fae take their evening meals very seriously.”
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The hallway was dimly lit and the scent of dinner growing richer with every step. As they approached the grand double doors of the dining hall, another servant swung them open in perfect synchronicity.
Inside, the space was a feast for every sense.
The long, dark wooden table gleamed beneath a silk runner of Melrathian colours, dark green and deep purple, and shimmering crystal.
Above, three chandeliers bathed the room in warm light, making the silverware sparkle and the delicate porcelain gleam.
Fae candles flickered between tall vases of roses and ivy, their scent mingling with the food.