Page 47 of Heart Cradle (The Melrathen Saga #1)
They descended into hell. The smoke hit first, thick and choking, clawing down Maeve’s throat as Jeipier banked low. Her eyes watered instantly, vision smearing with ash, stinging wind and the bright blaze of firelight.
Below them, Haleth was not a village, it was a ruin.
Flames swallowed rooftops whole. Blackened beams jutted like broken ribs through the skeletons of houses and the air shimmered with heat.
Screams tore upward, some human, some not, and amid it all, dark figures moved with grim purpose, setting torch to timber and blade to flesh.
Jeipier shuddered beneath her, unsure. Maeve gripped the saddle tighter, heart thundering as they followed Eiran and Xelaini into a spiralling dive. “ We’ll be fine, we have each other .” She reassured him.
They landed hard, the ground exploding in a grey cloud beneath Jeipier’s claws. Maeve half-slid from the saddle, stumbling as her boots met scorched ground, her foot crunched on something and she looked down. It was a charred doll, with one eye missing.
Eiran was beside her instantly, sword already drawn, eyes scanning the carnage through ashlight. His calm was brittle and strained around the edges. “Maeve, stay close to me.”
She nodded, she couldn’t talk her mouth was too dry.
There were bodies in the street, not just burned, but twisted, seared by something that went beyond fire.
Her stomach turned, this wasn’t just an attack, this was a warning.
Children screamed from somewhere nearby, the sound sharp and panicked, followed by a woman’s cry, abruptly cut short.
Maeve turned in a slow circle, the smoke closing in and her senses began to fragment.
She could feel the heat singeing her skin, the chaos crashed into her like waves.
People ran, some crawled, while others didn’t move at all.
Panic was trying to coax her into submission, but she was fighting it, concentrating on her breathing.
Eiran grabbed her hand tight. “Maeve, breathe.”
She met his eyes as she gritted her teeth and forced herself to move. “I’m okay,” she lied.
They moved fast, dodging debris and cutting through the screams, the sky above was grey with smoke and the unnatural flicker of magic. A building exploded behind them, heat washing over her back like a slap .
From the flames, a figure stepped out, tall, cloaked, dragging a blade that bled black light. Eiran shifted in front of her instantly. “Get back.”
Maeve didn’t move, she couldn’t. The figure raised its head, and smiled.
Not cruel or mocking, just calm with the certainty that it already knew how this would end.
Pain tore through Maeve’s body like fire, sharp and sudden, as if something prehistoric and wrong had reached inside and twisted.
Not just her bones, but her being… her soul.
Every nerve screamed and her heart stuttered from the utter violation.
Her vision blurred at the edges, knees giving out with a gasp, legs folding and the ground rushed up to meet her, cold and unyielding beneath her palms. Every breath came jagged, searing down her throat.
Her ribs felt too tight, her spine hot with pressure.
The Chain on her wrist pulsed wild and erratic, like it didn’t know whether to shield her or recoil.
The figure moved towards them with measured speed, no hesitation, just quick, even strides, crisp as a metronome.
So controlled and inevitable, each step the sound of fate sharpening its teeth on her fear.
Maeve tried to stand but she couldn’t. Her muscles trembled, her magic fluttered inside her like a bird caught in net.
She turned her head towards Eiran, barely managing to breath his name.
Still, the figure came closer.
Eiran fell beside her, one hand flying to his head with a strangled cry. “What the fuck is going on?” he gasped, staggering. “Xelaini, what is this?!”
Nothing.
Xelaini didn’t answer, she circled overhead, keening in a pitch that shook the air.
Jeipier shrieked in panic, wings thrashing, hovering just above the flaming village, sensing Maeve’s distress.
Maeve clutched at her chest as pain radiated outward, molten and relentless.
The Chain pulsed, then dimmed. It was as if her soul was being ripped from her body and she collapsed, writhing.
Eiran tried to reach her, fighting through whatever magic also clawed at his mind, but he couldn’t loosen its hold, couldn’t think, couldn’t move fast enough, his body wouldn’t obey.
The cloaked figure loomed over her now, a flicker of something shimmered along the blade it raised.
“NO!” Eiran roared.
The sword came down and Maeve’s scream was silent.
The blade struck deep, straight through her chest, and Eiran’s mind split open, dissolved.
Every memory he had of her, crashed into him like a wave of arrows.
He felt her life rip from the world like a torn page and the pain in his skull vanished in an instant.
Jeipier dived like a falling star, jaws clamping around the cloaked figure mid-turn, with a furious snarl, and shook him like a rag doll, bones cracking under the force.
Eiran moved before thought could catch him, hitting the ground hard beside Maeve, taking her into his arms. Blood coated her chest, hot against his skin, her eyes fluttered, lips parted, but no sound came. “No, hold on,” he whispered, hoarse and breaking. “Don’t you dare, don’t you fucking dare”
He turned, eyes blazing, “Jeipier! Xelaini, NOW!”
Jeipier released the mangled figure with a roar, Xelaini swooped down, claws snapping around the unconscious body, careful and deliberate. Not gentle, but not dead, yet.
Eiran ran, fast as he ever had. He didn’t feel his feet hit the ground, didn’t feel anything but the weight in his arms and the blood soaking through his leathers.
“Love, look at me. Maeve, I’m here, see.” Eiran pleaded, urged her.
The village’s transportation stone stood ahead, ancient and humming with power.
Eiran didn’t hesitate, he chanted every prayer, every spell, every damn word that might open the way.
The stone flared, light coiling upward, and he stepped into it just as Xelaini took flight, prisoner in tow.
The world folded in on them and then they were deposited on the edge of Elanthir Keep’s great southern courtyard, cobblestones scorched with old magic and sky trembling with residual power.
Eiran stumbled forwards with Maeve limp in his arms. Blood soaked her tunic, hot, red and endless, but he didn’t stop to think, just ran.
“HELP!” he roared, voice breaking, throat raw. “CIRA! HEALERS! FATHER! SOMEONE! PLEASE HELP US!”
His footsteps thundered through the door, to open halls.
Servants dropped their things and turned, gasping.
Two stable hands sprinted away, yelling for help as his screams echoed through the keep like a death knell.
A door slammed open ahead. Taelin and Branfil emerging on alert and stopped dead in their tracks, Taelin’s face twisted in horror.
He was moving before Eiran reached him, shoving aside fae and furniture alike to make room, arms out and panic splintering every line of his face.
Branfil paled, one hand lifting to his chest as his gaze dropped to the sword, still embedded in Maeve’s chest .
“Gods above,” Branfil breathed. “Eiran, the Chain, it’s changed.”
Eiran didn’t look, he couldn’t, but Branfil was right. The Chain wrapped tight around Maeve’s wrist now, once warm with light, had turned a dull, a tarnished silver. The black stones no longer pulsed, they were as lifeless as her.
They crashed into the healers’ quarters in a blur of doors and shouts. Cira, stood with tightly plaited white hair and sharp eyes, already waiting. “On the bed. Now!” she barked, clearing the way, doing away with any formalities.
Eiran laid Maeve down, hands trembling, blood-slick fingers brushing her cheek. Her eyes fluttered open, barely. “Maeve, stay with me.” His voice cracked. “We’re not done, we’ve hardly begun.”
She tried to speak, lips trembling, but no sound came.
Only a wet rasp as blood welled in her mouth and dripped down her chin.
Her hand twitched towards his, but she was slipping fast. Cira leaned over her, assessing the wound with brutal efficiency.
“The blade is lodged against the lung. If I pull it, she’ll drown in her own blood before I can seal the tissue. ”
Taelin’s fists were clenched so tight they shook. “Then what do we do?”
“You remove the sword with care,” Cira snapped. “With your magic, you’re strongest in precision, Taelin. You draw it out, gently, or she dies. It’s all we can do for her.”
“Okay.” Taelin whispered, voice wrecked. “Just tell me what to do and when to do it.”
“Branfil, vials from the silver rack. Two blue, one black. Now.”
Branfil ran and a second later, the door flew open again. Soren stormed in, wide-eyed and breathless. His eyes landed on Maeve and he froze for half a heartbeat before rushing to Eiran’s side.
Cira moved with purpose, mauve skirts rustling as she crossed the room to her satchel.
Her hands were steady, her expression unreadable but focused.
From a narrow inner pouch, she drew a small red leather-bound box, she removed a dark blue velvet bundle, no larger than a plum.
With great care, she unwrapped it, careful not to touch the contents.
Inside sat a small stone the colour of deep amethyst, etched with tiny yellow gold runes that shimmered faintly with an inner pulse, making the air around it seem to drone.
Taelin’s eyes widened. “Is that… ”
Cira gave a short nod. “Painstone, one use, if misapplied deadly to all around.” She turned back towards Maeve, voice quieter now. “It will staunch the bleeding, but the pain… she will feel every second of the magic burning her blood, scorching her very being, it will be absolute agony.”