Page 55 of Heart Cradle (The Melrathen Saga #1)

The small cell reeked of blood, damp, and fear.

Dank stone walls pressed in tight, the air barely breathable.

In the centre, manacled to the floor with iron cuffs etched in suppression runes, the prisoner slumped, barely conscious.

His face was a swollen mass of bruises and dried blood.

His robes, once black and sharp-edged with Avelan stitching, now hung in filthy tatters.

His body trembled, part pain, part memory of his dragon flight.

Eiran stood in the doorway, still and silent.

The prisoner looked up, eyes bloodshot. “Please,” he rasped. “Just… just kill me. You… you d-don’t understand. If I go b-back, if t-the Pale Court… if Petra thinks. They a-always know, and what… they do to traitors makes death a kindness.”

Eiran stepped inside, the cell door clanged shut behind him.

“Do you know,” he said quietly, each word measured, “that you nearly killed my mate?”

The prisoner whimpered, lowering his head. “I didn’t know… who she was. I was just told… ”

Eiran crouched, bringing them eye level. His voice remained calm. “Then tell me now. If you want death, earn it with truth. What magic did you use? What did you do to us all in Haleth?”

The man twitched, flinching at the memory. “It wasn’t mine,” he muttered. “It was… given to me. A necromancer… one of them, willed… it to me. Said I w-wouldn’t need training. Just… obedience.”

Eiran’s jaw tightened. “What was the spell?”

“I don’t know the n-name,” the prisoner whispered. “And I… I can’t speak of the caster. There’s a b-binding… in blood. Every time I try to… to say his name, I’m wracked with pain.”

“Fuck your loyalty,” Eiran snapped.

The prisoner coughed, blood flecking his teeth. “You think we want this?” he rasped, fury fuelling resolve. “None of us c-chose Vargen. Avelan… it’s shackled. The Pale Court keeps us s-starving. Scared. Indentured from birth. You serve, or you vanish… that’s the choice.”

Eiran’s eyes narrowed.

“They withhold food… magics rationed. Even air feels… b-borrowed.” He sagged against the wall, wrists raw against the suppression cuffs. “We survive despite h-him.”

“Try,” Eiran said coldly.

The man opened his mouth, and gagged. A fine line of blood ran from his nose. “I told you,” he gasped. “Kill a-any female fighting… fighting with the Melrathen royals. No names or d-descriptions. Just… any.”

Eiran surged to his feet, voice a snarl. “Any female? You nearly carved my mate in half and you shattered our fucking minds before you drove the blade in.”

“I didn’t know!” the prisoner cried, hunched and broken. “They didn’t tell m-me who… they never have!”

Silence fell, then came a whisper from the prisoner.

“Do you k-know what they had to do to… conjure that magic? They… brought my daughters and my w-wife. They… they killed them in front of me. Said if I didn’t take the magic, if I didn’t use it, they’d raise them as something else and make me w-watch.

I have n-no one left.” He sobbed, “send m-me to my girls… please.”

Eiran didn’t speak. He’d begun circling, footsteps soft on stone, pausing behind the man.

“Do you have anyone left?” he asked, voice unreadable.

The prisoner shook his head. “No one.”

Eiran drew a dagger from his belt, slow and silent. “Then you may join them,” he said, slitting the man’s throat in one clean motion.

The body slumped forwards with a soft thud. Eiran stood over him for a long moment. Then he turned, blood dripping from the blade, and left the cell without a sound.

The main interrogation chamber was cold, low-lit.

Stone floors stained darker in places where blood had long since dried into the cracks.

Shackles hung unused on the back wall. A table in the centre overflowed with parchment, prisoner files, half-emptied mugs of water, and the lingering stench of despair .

Eiran stepped through the iron door, wiping his blade clean on a bloodied cloth before sheathing it. Blood soaked the front of his leathers, some dried, some fresh. His jaw was set, breathing controlled, but his eyes burned.

Calen stood with arms crossed and his usual quiet warmth had cooled to frost. Fenric leaned against the far wall, one boot braced against stone, idly flipping a dagger in his fingers. No smirk, just a simmering, controlled ferocity.

“He talked,” Eiran said.

Calen cocked his head. “Sounded like it.”

Eiran didn’t rise to the bait. “Pain magic. Necromancer work, direct to the brain. He didn’t need to cast it. Just… will it forwards.”

“Willed pain,” Fenric muttered. “Horrifying… very Pale Court.”

“Blood-binding,” Eiran said. “He couldn’t name who gave it to him. Couldn’t even describe the necromancer without bleeding.”

Calen’s face hardened. “So he was bound to silence. Who was the target?”

Eiran’s gaze dropped to the table. “Any female fighting with us. No names. No faces. Just the order to disable and then kill.”

Fenric let out a low breath through his teeth. “Aeilanna. Nolenne. Maeve. Mother. Take your pick.”

“What else did he say?” Calen asked.

“That Avelan is starving,” Eiran replied.

“The people are scared. Controlled. The Pale Court are totally at Vargen’s behest, and they burn villages as warnings, ration food and runes.

They murder families in front of soldiers to break them.

The one I questioned, his wife and daughters were executed in front of him.

They said if he didn’t take the magic, they’d raise them as something else, so he took it. ”

Calen rubbed his stubble, nodding slowly. “We’ve heard the same. The other prisoners cracked and gave us tactics, unit structure, magical signatures and they admitted to masking spells.”

“Advanced ones,” Fenric added. “Enough to make their attacks look like ours. Like we’re the aggressors… wankers.”

“They’re trying to get Armathen and the Storm Coasts to turn on us,” Calen said. “Hit neutral zones, twist the truth and send a few survivors limping back with a sob story. ”

“So we’re fighting shadows and lies while the world watches us burn.” Eiran leaned on the table, knuckles white. “Fabulous.”

“And the worst part,” Fenric said, flicking the dagger into the air and catching it with ease, “it seems to be working.”

Calen turned to Eiran. “You did the right thing. He wanted death, he knew what would happen if we sent him back.”

“I didn’t do it for him,” Eiran said coldly.

Fenric exhaled through his nose. “Well, that’s not the most terrifying thing you’ve ever said.”

Eiran pushed away from the table. “We use what we’ve learned. Dismantle every lie, every spell and every order. Piece by piece.”

Now, only one prisoner remained, Davmon, commander of the Avelan armies.

The heavy iron door groaned open, hinges protesting the cold, and two guards dragged Davmon inside.

They’d saved him for last, deliberately.

Let him sit and listen to the screams of his comrades.

Let him stew in silence and shame while their secrets spilled like blood on the floor.

Let him imagine what waited for him in this room.

Davmon looked worse than when he was last seen.

Red hair tangled, skin pale and blotched with bruises.

His once-proud shoulders hunched beneath the weight of iron shackles etched in suppressive runes.

They still glowed faintly at his wrists and ankles, dampening every trace of power.

His steps were slow, fumbling, but not limping.

His eyes scanned the room, warily. They stopped on Eiran and narrowed.

A flicker of something else, uncertainty perhaps, or old guilt, crossed his face before he lifted his chin in forced arrogance.

“You’re wasting your fucking time,” Davmon rasped, voice hoarse and hollow.

“I won’t talk to any of you little royal bastards. ”

Eiran took a step forwards, intimidating, like a storm deciding where to strike. “I don’t need you to talk,” he said calmly. “I just need you to listen.”

He stopped a few feet away, watching Davmon the way a predator watches something already dying.

No anger in his tone, just final certainty.

Calen moved to flank the prisoner, his presence a quiet but undeniable pressure and Fenric peeled off the wall and began to circle behind, another predator, herding his prey.

“Do you know who I am?” Eiran asked, voice low.

Davmon didn’t respond .

“I am Eiran of Melrathen. Son of Taelin and Hayvalaine. Grandson of King Orilan and King Veralis.” He let the words fall like weights, measured and heavy.

“Mate to the Chain-Bearer, the one your people tried to slaughter. Brother of Aeilanna, the spellweaver you held for centuries, the one Vargen tortured.”

Davmon’s jaw twitched, but remained silent.

“It seems, Commander Davmon, your plans are turning to shit.” Eiran stepped closer. “You don’t just answer to me, you answer to every soul your… king tried to silence.”

“And to everyone he failed to,” Fenric added, voice quiet, laced with venom.

Davmon spat blood on the floor. “I don’t betray my realm.”

“No,” Calen said. “But you betrayed your sister first, didn’t you, Davvy Boy?”

That struck true and Davmon flinched. The crack was visible, although he tried to hide it behind scorn. “Don’t address your betters like that, cunt!” He laughed wildly. “Nolenne made her choice. She is weak, always was. She turned her back on her duty, her people, on everything.”

Fenric snorted softly, drawing his attention. “You know what’s funny?” he said. “We’ve spent all day hearing how your people live. The fear. The starvation. The Pale Court burning families to prove a point.”

Davmon’s jaw clenched again.

“Mothers assaulted in front of their families, parents executed while their children watch. Runes rationed like water during a drought, villages disappearing overnight. Sounds familiar, doesn’t it?”

His eyes flickered, just for a moment, but enough.