Page 40 of Heart Cradle (The Melrathen Saga #1)

The fire had burned low in the hearth, casting long flickers of light and shadow over the stonework and fabric of the bedchamber walls.

Tomes lay open on every surface, half-rolled scrolls, books with broken spines and ancient bindings cracked and collapsing.

A cluster of pages floated mid-air, suspended by a flickering rune-based charm that Eiran had barely maintained.

He stood hunched over the main desk, hair a dishevelled crown and eyes bloodshot from lack of sleep.

He turned another brittle page with a little too much force, the corner tearing free.

“Fuck, it’s useless,” he growled. “All of it. These scholars wrote about everything except the one bloody thing I need.”

Branfil, reclining on the couch near the hearth, exhaled a lazy spiral of grey-blue smoke from his pipe.

The scent was calming, aniseed, pine, and something faintly floral.

Fae leaf blend from the northern glades.

“Well,” he said, tilting his head, “we do have an entry from six centuries ago claiming a human turned into a water lily for a week after kissing a dryad, but I doubt it’s helpful. ”

Eiran glared at him.

Branfil smiled around the pipe. “Too soon?”

“It’s the fifth day,” Eiran muttered, voice low, raw. “She hasn’t stirred, not a fucking twitch. No movement, just… nothing.”

He slammed one book shut with a thud, and the magic flickering around the floating pages stuttered, the texts slumping to the desk in a heap. Eiran pressed his palms to his eyes. “I can’t… I don’t know what else to do.”

Branfil sat up a little straighter, setting the pipe down on a smooth stone dish. “You’re doing exactly what you need to do, you’re staying. That’s all that matters.”

“It’s not enough.”

“You think clawing through dusty archives and pacing holes in the rug isn’t enough?” Branfil scoffed. “You look like a ghost with a stick up its arse. When was the last time you ate something other than my fucking patience? ”

Eiran threw him a dry look. “Nolenne had something sent up earlier and also, was that ghost remark supposed to help, you giant prick?”

Branfil grinned. “It was supposed to stop you tearing your own hair out, half your head looks like a wild nest.”

Eiran slumped into the chair opposite, hand dragging through his tangled curls. “What if she doesn’t come back?”

“Oh, Eiran. She will.”

“You don’t know that.”

“Yes, I do. Cira said a week, and it’s only been five days.” Branfil’s expression softened. “And from what I know of her, if anyone’s stubborn enough to fight their way back, it’s her.”

Eiran didn’t reply, his eyes drifted across the room to where Maeve lay motionless, bathed in silver light from the balcony’s open curtains. Branfil used magic to refill both their glasses with dark fae brandy and slid one across to Eiran.

“To Maeve,” he said quietly.

Eiran’s jaw clenched, he took the glass and drank it in one.

Branfil did the same after saying, “and to the poor bastard who tries to keep up with her once she wakes up. Gods help him.”

At that, a faint spark flickered behind Eiran’s eyes. “That poor bastard is me.”

Branfil gave a theatrical sigh. “You were so fucking promising once.”

Eiran threw his head back and laughed, an actual, gut-deep laugh that echoed through the chamber like something cracked open. It was loud and sudden and utterly wild with relief, aided by the brandy, no doubt. He gripped the arm of the chair as if steadying himself, breathless from the release.

Branfil grinned. “You needed that.”

But then, so soft, barely there. “Eiran?”

Eiran’s laughter died instantly, snatched from his throat. His spine snapped straight, eyes wide. “Did you hear, ?”

Maeve made another noise, unformed, but unmistakable .

He was across the room before Branfil could blink, vaulting over discarded books and half toppling chairs, knees hitting the floor beside the bed. Maeve stirred, her brow furrowing as if coming out of a long, tangled dream. Her voice rough as dry leaves. “Eiran?”

“I’m here,” he choked, grabbing her hand. “I’m here, love.”

Her fingers twitched, trying to curl around his.

Her eyes blinked open, unfocused at first, then slowly sharpening, hazel flickering with confusion…

then recognition and he broke with relief.

A sharp sound escaped him, tears welled hot and fast, spilling down his cheeks.

He crushed her to him, careful of her frailty, arms wrapped around her shoulders, her hair, her back.

Holding her like she might vanish again if he didn’t anchor her.

“I thought I lost you,” he breathed into her neck. “Maeve, fuck, I thought…”

She was dazed, still trying to piece things together, but her arms lifted with effort and wrapped around him.

Trembling, but there. Branfil had frozen in place, eyes wide in disbelief, then whirled and bolted for the door, shouting down the corridor for Cira and Yendel.

Eiran held Maeve as if the entire realm could crash down around them and he wouldn’t care.

She was here.

Awake.

Her voice was barely above a whisper. “You look like shit.”

“You’ve been unconscious for five days, and that’s your first observation?” Eiran laughed through the tears, forehead pressed to hers. “Don’t ever leave me again, Maeve. I mean it. I’ll chain you to my side if I have to.”

She smiled faintly. “Always so dramatic… very on brand.”