Page 53 of Heart Cradle (The Melrathen Saga #1)

The dining room in Elanthir Keep was warm with mid-morning sun, pouring through the tall arched windows and glinting off gold-threaded banners.

The air smelled of soap, coffee and fresh bread, it was homey, rich, and faintly ceremonial, as if the Keep itself knew what was coming.

The table was crowded with familiar comforts: platters of fluffy scrambled eggs, glistening berries, herbed butter, flaky pastries, and a dark roast so smooth Maeve had seriously considered pledging her undying loyalty to it.

She sat between Eiran and Branfil, across from Soren, who was already halfway through his second plate and in the process of negotiating a third with his stomach.

Conversation was light, mercifully so. Maeve leaned into it, letting herself breathe for the first time that morning.

For a few rare, stolen minutes, it almost felt like a normal day.

That illusion shattered the moment the messenger entered.

He carried a sealed letter, grasped in one hand.

The wax was dark green, imprinted with the royal crest of Melrathen and beneath it, the ancient motto curled in script.

To Burn and to Shield.

Eiran sat up straighter taking the letter with a tight smile. “It’s from Father,” he said, recognising the handwriting, voice sharp with sudden clarity.

That pulled everyone’s attention like a thread snapping tight. “Well read it then, knobhead.” Fenric said through a mouthful of bread.

Eiran ignored the comment and broke the seal cleanly, and unfolded the page.

His eyes moved quickly, scanning. His mouth drew into a thin line before reading aloud.

“To Prince Eiran, I write from Eldrisil. Your grandfather, your mother, and I have travelled here to meet with your grandfather Veralis and the Council. Our intent is to secure open support against The Pale Court’s increasing aggression, and ahead of the possibility of war. ”

Soren was the first to break the hush that had fallen over the table. “They didn’t tell you they were leaving?”

Eiran shook his head once, sharp. “No, which means it they didn’t want anyone intercepting the plan. ”

He glanced towards Branfil, who nodded slightly in confirmation, rather than surprise.

Eiran looked back at the page and continued.

“Branfil is to begin organising the binding ceremony. It will be held four weeks from today. Invitations are to be sent to all allied and neutral realms. Avelan must also receive theirs. Let them decline publicly, or not at all.”

Calen cleared his throat. “We’re sending an invitation to Vargen and Petra?”

Eiran gave a dry huff, but his gaze stayed on the letter. “Apparently.”

Maeve blinked. “Who’s Petra?”

“Vargen’s niece. Absolutely ruthless and will likely kill any of us on sight but she is… divine.” Soren said.

“Hmm, thank you for that most sincere synopsis Soren.” Branfil leaned back slightly, folding his hands over his stomach. “They’ll receive an invite, symbolism matters. Especially now, the Chain reappearing, your mate bond. If Avelan refuses to attend, they openly refuse peace.”

Eiran continued reading aloud, “Maeve is to continue training daily. Combat and flight drills with Prince Soren. Magical instruction under Princess Aeilanna and the Keep’s appointed magicers.

She is to be battle-ready.” He glanced sideways at her with one brow raised.

“Flight training starts today, love. Jeipier needs to learn formation and tactical manoeuvres, and so do you.”

Maeve sipped her coffee with steady hands. “Got it.”

Eiran moved to the final portion. “You will assist your brothers in interrogating the prisoners captured from the southern skirmishes. Work with Prince Fenric and Prince Calen, prioritise extraction of strategic information. We expect a fully detailed report upon our return, if not before.”

Fenric blew a lock of hair from his eyes, “They left you in charge of interrogations?”

Eiran folded the letter and set it down with deliberate care. “Looks that way, knobhead.”

Branfil cleared his throat, already rising. “I’ll begin preparations today. Invitations will go out before tomorrow’s eve.”

Before anyone could respond, the heavy beat of wings against stone echoed from outside, followed by the sharp metallic click of dragon claws on marble.

The doors swung open and Nolenne and Aeilanna strode in, still in travel leathers, boots dusty and hair wind-tossed, cloaks smelling of flight, fire and high altitudes.

“We just got back,” Nolenne said, stretching as she approached the table. “Whatever’s going on, I’m guessing it can’t wait.”

Branfil, ever the strategist, didn’t miss a beat. “We’ve got four weeks,” he said. “And a possible war to prepare for.”

Aeilanna stripped off her gloves and took the seat beside Nolenne. Her eyes swept the table, a long plait of dark hair draped over her shoulder. She lingered just a second longer on Maeve. “Any injuries?” she asked quietly.

Maeve set her cup down and met her gaze. “I’ll explain later.”

Aeilanna held her stare for a breath, then nodded once.

“You’re paired now, Maeve.” Soren said. “Jeipier will follow your instincts, but he’s still young. Baby dragons in battle? Not the best, you’ll need to be sharper than he is.”

Nolenne reached for a pastry and bit into it. “I’m joining combat training,” she said, voice muffled but firm.

Aeilanna glanced at her partner with a touch of fond exasperation before adding, “I’m in, too. For all of it. Training, spellwork, whatever’s needed. I’ll join the magicers, can’t have a spellweaver left wanting.”

Maeve looked between them, Nolenne’s easy intensity, Aeilanna’s quiet steel, and felt something catch in her throat. Something warm, tight and fierce. “Thanks,” she said softly. “I’d like that.”

The table settled again, but it wasn’t restful. Not quite, every glance felt like strategy, every breath, a countdown. They had four weeks, to train a bonded pair into a unit. Four weeks to prepare for war. Four weeks to draw a line around ceremony and ask the world to choose a side.

?????

Jeipier stirred in the high terrace roost, wings tucked close, the cool stone beneath him barely enough to ground the heat thrumming in his chest. Something had altered. He could feel it, like a wind rising from nowhere, not weather though, but magic.

Maeve.

His paired .

Her heartbeat had always pulsed like a soft drum in the back of his mind, steady as starlight.

But now it quickened, sharpened. It tasted of flint and resolve and he loved it.

He rose, stretching his wings wide, letting the morning sun warm the shimmer of his ember-banded scales.

His claws clicked lightly on the marble as he paced to the edge of the terrace, gaze sweeping over the Keep and the distant fields beyond.

Training for war.

He understood the press of purpose behind her silence.

The weight she carried without complaint.

The fear she never named and beneath it all, bright, wild and unshakable, he felt her fire, their shared fire.

He could feel her now. In the dining hall below, surrounded by family.

She wasn’t afraid, not really, but she was bracing.

Preparing to become something larger than she’d ever imagined and, that meant he had to prepare too.

The others thought him young. Too small, too soft.

Too new. Let them think it. His wings would carry her, his flame would shield her.

He would hold.

Jeipier closed his eyes and sent a pulse of thought towards her. “I’m ready when you are.”