Page 56 of Heart Cradle (The Melrathen Saga #1)
“Doesn’t take much to guess what they did to you,” Fenric said, voice deceptively light. “Or to Nolenne. You think tyranny makes you strong? It just makes you predictable, another terrified little pawn who got really good at playing ruthless.”
“Fuck off,” Davmon snapped. “You don’t know anything about me, you stuck-up princeling!”
“I know enough,” Fenric said, his smile returning, sharp and humourless. “You’re not the worst of them. Just one of the ones too scared to stop being useful. ”
A long pause stretched between them. Somewhere in the tunnels, water dripped steadily, each drop slicing through the silence with mechanical, repetitive precision.
Eiran’s voice dropped, ice settling into every word.
“Aeilanna spent over two hundred years in Vargen’s hands.
Your hands, chained, starved and beaten.
Tortured! She was his bride in name, his prisoner in truth.
Do you understand what that does to someone? ”
Davmon didn’t speak, but his posture stiffened, doubt creeping into his spine.
“And Maeve, a mortal woman. Stolen from her world. Imprisoned, escaping with blood on her hands. She is one of us now.” Eiran gestured around them. “Which means this, is mercy.”
Fenric flicked the dagger in his hand, letting the blade catch faelight. It spun once, twice, caught easily between his fingers.
“So here’s your choice… Commander Cunt.” Calen said, softly, almost kindly. “Speak true, or we carve it from you. One piece at a time. Who was Vargen and Petra trying to target?”
Davmon’s breathing quickened. Sweat gathered at his temples, trailing slowly through the grime on his face. The shackles pulsed again with quiet containment. “I want to see her,” he said at last, voice cracking. “I want to see Nolenne.”
Eiran’s eyes narrowed. “You’re not owed that.”
“She’s my fucking sister.”
“She was,” Eiran snapped. “Before you killed her brother and chose Vargen over her.”
“They aren’t planning an assault,” Davmon said. “He’s pulling back. Rebuilding. That’s all.”
Eiran arched a brow. “That’s all? After months of attacks? After masking your movements with forbidden spells? You expect us to believe that’s the full story?”
“He’s repositioning troops. Along the eastern border, no new offensives.”
“So the burned villages? The poisoned wells?” Fenric’s voice was ice. “The soldiers with spell scars that reek of rot and necromancy, just strategy? Just pulling back?”
Davmon faltered. “I don’t… ”
“You tried to kill my mate,” Eiran growled. “One of your soldiers drove a sword through her chest while we knelt in agony, unable to fight. You’re lying. You’re fucking stalling.”
Davmon’s jaw tightened, but the confidence was gone. What remained was desperation, thinly veiled.
“You’ve heard them scream, Davmon. Heard them beg. You know we don’t bluff. Not when it comes to our people.” Eiran’s gaze darkened. “Not when it comes to the ones we love.”
Still, Davmon said nothing more and Calen exhaled slowly, then nodded once to Fenric and the younger brother struck without hesitation.
One brutal punch to the gut folded Davmon forwards with a choked exhale.
The second caught him across the jaw, snapping his head sideways and sending him sprawling to the stone floor.
He fell hard, groaning, the breath torn from his lungs, but Fenric didn’t stop.
He moved with an agile cruelty so unlike his usual sardonic calm that even Eiran flinched.
Fists and boots rained down, precise, punishing, unrelenting.
A kick to the ribs, another to the shoulder.
Then a backhand that cracked across Davmon’s face, opening a thin line of blood.
There was no smirk. No humour, just pure, controlled fury finally breaking loose.
Davmon bent tighter, blood smearing across the floor, but Fenric didn’t ease up. He drove another punch into the man’s side, the sound wet and sickening. It wasn’t until Eiran’s voice cut through, low and iron-hard, “Enough.”, that Fenric finally stepped back, chest heaving, eyes alight with rage.
Davmon writhed, gasping, half-conscious and coughing blood as Eiran glanced down at what was left of the once-proud commander.
“We gave you a chance, Davvy Boy,” Calen said. His voice was resolute.
Eiran turned to the guards. “Chain him up. We’ll be back after lunch.”
The door groaned closed behind them, the sound echoing like a seal being pressed.
They walked in silence, up the narrow corridor towards the light.
The scent of fresh air and distant kitchens slowly overtook the iron tang of the dungeons.
Calen spoke first. “He’s lying. Poorly, but he’s still lying. ”
“He’s playing for time.” Fenric accepted a clean cloth from a waiting aide, wiping his knuckles. “Contradicts himself with every breath. He’s stalling for something. ”
“Or someone,” Eiran said. “Either he’s more loyal than we thought, or more scared of Vargen than he is of us.”
“Both,” Calen muttered.
They passed beneath a carved arch into the brighter main hall.
Sunlight filtered through the high windows.
The scent of honey bread and citrus oil drifted from the kitchens, a disorienting contrast to the darkness they’d left behind and Calen shook his head.
“We’ll try again. Push harder, strip the rest of his defences. ”
Eiran didn’t argue. “We need the truth before Father and Grandfather return, before the ceremony.”
As they neared the stairwell towards the great hall, the three men used magic to change their clothing. Fenric slowed, glancing over his shoulder with a strange, thoughtful look. “If he doesn’t break by tonight,” he said, voice casual but not light, “we may need to bring in Nolenne.”
Eiran clenched his jaw as sunlight spilled across the stairs. Somewhere above, Maeve, Aeilanna, and Nolenne were healing and he could not let the darkness below reach them again.