Page 39 of Heart Cradle (The Melrathen Saga #1)

Chapter Twenty-Seven – Remember the Steps

Their bedchamber no longer felt like a sanctuary and what was once a private space, quiet, cloaked in dark fabrics, filled with books, and warmed by laughter and touch, had changed.

It had become the centre of a kingdom’s unrest. Maps lay curled open across the low tables, letters marked with wax crests lay cracked and forgotten.

The fireplace was constantly stoked, though no one sat close to it.

And always, at the heart of it all, Maeve lay still.

Cira had said it would be a week before she woke.

Her transformation had begun the moment her fae essence surfaced, bones reshaping and blood rewritten by magic.

On her wrist, the Chain pulsed with a soft light, faint but visible to all who entered the room, a quiet reminder to everyone that she was no longer what she’d once been.

Eiran hadn’t left her side, so now, the strategy came to him.

Branfil crossed the room and lifted a leather-bound folder from the bed beside Maeve’s hip.

The Melrathen crest was stamped into the cover, a dragon coiled around a heart, its wings curved and tail alert and gold ink catching the lamplight.

Branfil rested a hand on Eiran’s shoulder, a gesture of brotherly reassurance, then he turned and walked back towards the gathered group.

Tonight, the chamber buzzed with subdued tension.

Orilan had come in person, eyes bright and presence unmistakable.

Taelin was at his shoulder, every line in his face drawn tight.

Calen stood behind them, flanked by Soren and Fenric, both quiet but simmering.

Hayvalaine, Aeilanna and Nolenne had taken seats near the carved hearth.

Eiran rose and followed Branfil to the table, still able to watch Maeve.

There had been more death on the northern border, Melrathen scouts had their throats slit, there were no traces of magic, tracks or witnesses.

“Avelan,” Taelin said grimly, “doesn’t need to sign its crimes.”

“True,” Orilan replied. “They like for brutality and fear to do the talking.”

Soren gave a gruff grunt, “They’ve always preferred whispers to war, unless they think they’ve already won. ”

“We knew this would escalate,” Nolenne said. “The escape humiliated them.”

“Careful,” Orilan said dryly, “or you’ll start sounding as if their pride is our problem.”

It was Taelin who spoke next, voice quieter. “They may not know what she is…not truly, but they knew she mattered. They may have sensed it.”

“They thought she was a lover,” Soren added. “A human trinket clutched too tightly by our infatuated brother.”

“I think they thought taking her would rile Eiran,” Fenric said. “Instead, it woke her… it woke us all.”

“She was their prisoner,” Eiran said, finally speaking, his voice holding no tremor. “Her escape didn’t provoke them. Their taking of her did. Do not mistake consequence for cause.”

Branfil gave a slow nod beside him. “Vargen doesn’t know about the Chain, he doesn’t know she bears it.”

“Yet.” Calen muttered.

“He thinks she’s mortal,” Nolenne said. “That’s his blindness. His mistake.”

Eiran adjusted. “And that blindness,” he murmured, eyes fixed on Maeve’s still form, “will cost him everything.”

Orilan’s expression shifted. “Then we let him keep believing it. Let him think she’s still only what he saw. A human lover. An insult. Let him think we are still without the Chain, still searching.”

“And when he finds out?” Aeilanna asked.

“Then he’ll want her,” Branfil said. “Not just for cruelty, but also for control.”

“He’ll come,” Hayvalaine grimaced. “The Pale Court’s magicers will notice the change in balance.”

“Then,” Eiran said, “he’ll find he’s already too late.”

Orilan’s gaze lingered on his grandson, unreadable. “She was never the threat he expected, but she may be the one he deserves. ”

Taelin’s voice was low, threaded with the wariness of a war leader who’d seen too many battlefields turn on arrogance. “We assume too much of Vargen’s ignorance.”

Calen frowned. “You think he knows?”

“I think he suspects,” Taelin replied. “And suspicion is a powerful thing in the hands of a desperate man. The whole Pale Court is fucking desperate.”

“Desperate and vicious,” Fenric muttered. “A wonderful combination, especially when you factor Davmon and Petra too.”

“Yes, and I don’t like being blind in the dark,” Taelin continued. “Not when there’s blood at the borders and my daughter just reappeared after two hundred years, beaten and emaciated.”

“Ahh, but a future Queen is asleep in my grandson’s bed,” Orilan added cheerfully, sipping from the glass of wine he had conjured out of nowhere. “Frankly, I’m struggling to see the downside.”

Taelin gave him a long-suffering look. “We are on the brink of war, Father.”

“Then we must stock the best wine,” Orilan said, gesturing towards Maeve. “She’ll wake into chaos either way, may as well let her miss the boring build-up.”

Soren said quietly, “When she wakes, she’ll be surrounded by strangers with too many expectations.”

Calen nodded. “She’ll need time, is all.”

Fenric added, “I’m praying I don't say the wrong thing. I don’t fancy being stabbed. Well…by her, hmm, maybe.”

Taelin sighed. “This is serious, Fen. For the love of the gods, will you all stop fucking around? We are on the brink of war. Our scouts are dying.”

“Oh, son,” Orilan drawled, placing a hand over his chest. “You wound us. We’re perfectly serious.

Bran’s been heavily sighing, Soren’s been brooding, Calen hasn’t smiled in an hour, and Fenric made a valid point, first time in at least a decade.

That’s practically a war council, and you are the Commander. ”

Eiran didn’t smile, but the edge of his mouth twitched, but Taelin pressed on, ignoring them all. “If Avelan is orchestrating tension, stirring the realms into aggression, then they’re moving towards something. I fear Maeve’s arrival is more than coincidence.”

Branfil spoke gently. “You think he anticipated it?”

“No,” Taelin replied. “I think he fears it, and fear like his doesn’t sit idle. It acts, very fucking recklessly.”

Eiran’s gaze didn’t leave Maeve’s face. “Then let him act. The longer he sees her as small, the louder her truth will ring when it crashes through his walls.”

Orilan’s tone turned, sharp beneath the wit. “That truth, lad, may ignite more than just Avelan’s fury. It may shatter our alliances, divide our court and summon old ghosts from the cracks.”

“Then we hold,” Eiran said simply. “And we wait for her.”

“Gods help us,” Fenric muttered, “we’re waiting on the woman with the scariest glare I’ve ever seen.”

Orilan smiled slowly, eyes gleaming. “And may the gods help Vargen when that glare turns towards him.”

“I’d like to see her try to get past your hair first,” Fenric pointed towards Calen. “Honestly, do you oil it, or does it just gleam from sheer ego?”

“Don’t mock excellence, you little shithead,” Calen replied smoothly, lifting his glass in salute.

Orilan rolled his eyes. “By the stars, you’d think we were in a salon, not a war council.”

“It’s not a war council,” Branfil said, ever the peacemaker. “Yet.”

“That ‘yet’ is doing a lot of heavy lifting,” Soren muttered. “We’ve got dead scouts, missing patrols, border skirmishes, and now rumours of raiders moving south. Sounds like someone’s warming up the drums.”

“Avelan has always pushed at the edge,” Taelin said, rubbing a hand down his jaw. “But this… it feels coordinated. Pointed, far too pointed. Vargen has always been a cunning bastard, but this feels tipped with poison.”

“Because it is,” Eiran said, quietly but with weight. “Vargen’s trying to provoke us into a response. Force our hand and portray us as the aggressors. ”

“Or distract us,” Orilan added, tapping a finger against the arm of his chair. “While he stirs something nastier behind the curtain, perhaps. He is also one for theatrical trickery and melodrama, the whole court is.”

“Wouldn’t be the first time,” Fenric muttered.

The door creaked open and a guard stepped in, flanked by a wind-beaten messenger with a torn satchel and flushed cheeks.

He dropped to one knee, out of breath. “A message, Your Majesty. Urgent, incredibly urgent. A patrol of screivens from the Vale outpost report a village lost to fire. Smoke seen rising for miles, no word from survivors yet. It lies well within our borders.”

The warmth drained from the room and Eiran stood slowly, eyes flint-sharp. “Which village?”

“West of the Thorn River,” the messenger replied. “Known as Delvain.”

Taelin exhaled sharply. “That’s nearly a day’s march inside our lands.”

Orilan’s voice was tight. “Then they’ve crossed the line.”

He rose from his seat with the kind of quiet authority that filled every corner of the room.

“Send word to the Council and to all high command posts. Let no one say they were caught unaware,” he said to the messenger.

“Dispatch healers, guards, and thunder and screiven patrols, several, to Delvain immediately. If there are survivors, we shall support them. If there are enemies, we shall send a message of our own.”

“Screivens?” Nolenne asked.

“They’re large creatures that have been bred to serve as flying beasts for Melrathen patrols. They’re probably twice the size of a horse and made of black feather, claw, and spite. Hostile, belligerent, and terribly loyal. Have you not seen them?” asked Aeilanna.

“Yes, but we called them Hell Beasts.”

“Wonderful name! I like it, much improved. I’m glad they’ve made the right impression,” Orilan chuckled, taking a large gulp.

Taelin pushed to his feet. “Well, it looks as though Vargen wants to dance.” He gave a humourless smile while grabbing his sword hilt. “Let’s hope he remembers the last time we taught him the steps. ”