Page 59 of Heart Cradle (The Melrathen Saga #1)

The days at Elanthir Keep began early, long before sunlight had fully claimed the spires.

The air was sharp with dawn and crisp as new parchment, and the training ring echoed with the rhythm of blades and barked commands before breakfast ever touched the table.

Maeve rose with the others, shrugging into her black fighting leathers and plaiting her hair back with practised ease.

Her body still ached from the previous day, but it was the kind of ache that promised strength.

Each morning, Soren and Nolenne put her through the gauntlet.

No coddling, no slow starts. Soren had her drilling footwork before her muscles had warmed, striking wooden posts to build precision and speed.

Nolenne sparred with her as an equal, brutal, fast and unrelenting.

They taught her to pivot on instinct, to use her opponent’s force against them, to strike with purpose instead of panic.

She trained with her chosen blade, learning to trust her reflexes and read intent before movement.

There were bruises, many and a small scar beginning to form along the side of her left hand, a clean slice earned during a poorly timed parry.

She wore it like a badge, just one to add to the others.

Cira had offered to remove them all and she had declined.

Not yet, maybe never, they were becoming part of her.

She thought of them less with each day, as if her healing diminished their existence.

Her background with the police, midnight running and self-defensive classes gave her a solid foundation, but what she was learning now was something else entirely.

It was more fluid, and far more feral, more fae.

This wasn’t about subduing a suspect or preserving a crime scene.

This was survival, it was in preparation for war.

And Maeve, gritty and determined, rose to meet it with everything she had.

One morning, the air was still blue with early light when Maeve stepped into the courtyard, pulling her gloves tighter against her wrists. Soren was already there, leaning against a pillar.

“Early.” He said without looking at her.

Maeve smirked faintly. “So are you.”

He nodded to his sister. “Didn’t sleep much. ”

Aeilanna stood away from her brother and said nothing.

Her gaze was fixed eastward, beyond the city walls to the ridge that loomed against the paling sky.

Both hands were lifted and palms open, as delicate ribbons of golden magic coiled and twisted around her fingers alive and restless.

Maeve moved to stand beside her, drawn into the stillness, the charge in the air prickling at her skin.

“He’s after one of us,” Aeilanna exhaled, slow and careful. “Vargen.”

“He doesn’t waste energy on coincidence,” Soren added.

Nolenne’s voice came from behind them, unexpectedly. “It’s not me.”

They turned, watching her stand near the edge of the steps, arms folded, face unreadable in the rising light. “I was never anyone,” she said, her voice was steady, but there was a hollowness to it. “Not to that realm, no title and no weight. He wouldn’t move armies for me.”

Maeve opened her mouth, but it was Aeilanna who answered. Her voice was razor-thin, a thread pulled too tight. “He doesn’t know about the Chain, he wants me.”

Soren moved his weight from one foot to the other, fists clenched as he looked at his sister’s back.

“He mustn’t ever have me again!” Aeilanna said, dropping her hands to her side. “Whatever he wants, whatever he thinks I still am to him, he cannot have it… he will not have me.”

Her hands trembled before she clasped them behind her back, but Nolenne was already there.

Wrapping her arms around Aeilanna from behind, pulling her in tight, an embrace that was both shield and oath.

One hand splayed over Aeilanna’s heart, the other curling protectively at her hip as she held her fiercely.

“He won’t, my darling,” Nolenne said, her voice quiet and shaking with the force of it.

“Not while I live. I have stood between you and hell before, and I will do it again.”

Aelianna bowed her head, silent tears dropping to her robes.

“I swear to you, through blood, and on bone. On everything I am, I will tear the Fae Lands apart before I let him near you again. I’ll rip his soul from his body and feed his head to the dogs.

” Nolenne dipped her head, kissed her temple, soft and sealing.

“You’re mine to protect, and I will not fail you again. ”

Aeilanna’s breath caught and she leaned into the touch like it was the only steady thing in the world.

???? ?

Maeve looked forwards to flight training most. She loved being with Jeipier, loved the rush of air, the challenge of control and mostly the widening sense of sky above and beneath her.

Their bond deepened with each ride. She could mind-talk without effort now, and even when they were apart within Moraveth, she could still talk to him, still feel him, he was her steady ember of warmth, always burning nearby.

Soren and Aeilanna had taken Maeve and Nolenne under their wings, literally and figuratively, guiding them through tight turns, combat spirals, and high-speed dives that had once made Maeve’s stomach flip.

Now, they thrilled her. There was power in precision, and she could feel herself growing sharper with every pass and Jeipier responded faster each day.

His movements synced so closely with hers now that she rarely had to ask him to shift, he just did, reacting to her instincts as though they were his own.

Nolenne and Hervour were terrifying in formation just silent, focused and deadly.

They barely spoke on the link while flying, just moved, clean and surgical, like shadows slicing across the sky.

Hervour could vanish into cloud or cliffside with no warning, and the first time Maeve lost sight of them mid-rotation, she nearly screamed as a moment later, they reappeared just above her, completely still, completely calm.

Soren and Brontis, by contrast, were loud.

Instruction came barked over the bond, corrections, insults and the occasional gruff praise shouted like it might hurt to say aloud.

But their skill was undeniable. Brontis had a way of holding a wide curve just long enough to bait an attack pattern, then snapping into a sudden backdraft that sent younger dragons scrambling.

Maeve and Jeipier struggled with that at first, they’d stall in the turbulence, lose speed or veer wide.

Jeipier would mutter curses under his breath every time Brontis pulled one of his showy manoeuvres.

“He does it on purpose,” Jeipier grumbled through thought once. “He knows I’m right behind him.”

“He’s your father,” Maeve reminded him, amused.

“Exactly,” Jeipier said darkly. “It’s a dominance display. Classic elder dragon behaviour, he’s trying to assert aerial superiority.”

But by the fourth day, they were holding steady, cutting cleanly through the wake, even using it to slingshot forwards.

“Nice dive,” Soren sent after one particularly tight loop. “You’re finally not flying like you’re being chased by a bee. ”

“Jeipier still stings,” Maeve replied.

“Emotionally,” Jeipier added. “And occasionally on purpose.”

From above, Brontis let out a low, thunderous bark. “You’re slow because you overthink,” he said to Jeipier. “Let your fire lead, not your nerves. You are an Emberwick for a reason.”

“I’m slow because someone keeps throwing hurricane-force tailwind in my face,” Jeipier snapped.

Brontis didn’t respond immediately. Then, after a pause, “Much better today, less pathetic.”

Maeve blinked. “Was that... a compliment?”

“That was fatherly affection…” Jeipier whispered, clearly scandalised. “I need to lie down.”

By the end of the week, Branfil declared a “mandatory morale break,” which apparently meant dragging everyone up to the high cliffs for what he insisted was a relaxing group flight.

Maeve was not convinced. They were in tight formation again, climbing through updrafts while Xelaini raced overhead like a gods sent scythe, sleek, enormous, and unnervingly silent.

The wind whistled past, sharp as cut glass. “You're clenching,” Jeipier said lightly. “Relax. You’re not going to fall.”

“Easy for you to say,” Maeve muttered. “You have wings. I’m strapped to your spine like a bloody decorative panic attack.”

“And yet, you’re the scary one,” he replied with mock awe.

“What a world we live in,” Maeve said with an eyeroll.

Laughter rattled across the mind-talk, Calen’s loud and unbothered, Fenric’s more knife-edged. Above, Eiran turned in his saddle to glance down at her, grinning with infuriating ease.

“Edible and sarcastic,” he said through his mind. “How do I cope?”

“You cope by keeping both hands on your saddle!” she shot back.

“I’d rather use them to grab your arse in those leathers,” he said, voice maddeningly casual.

Soren made a gagging noise. “Please, gods,” he groaned. “Someone knock him off his dragon, for my morale.”

“Seconded,” said Fenric .

“Thirded,” Calen added. “Preferably into a pine tree. Maybe one with hornets.”

Maeve tried to laugh, but her gaze kept drifting to Xelaini.

The way she moved, every wingbeat, every tilt of her body, was perfectly in sync with Eiran.

They didn’t communicate so much as coexist, unbroken and seamless, the kind of bond you couldn’t replicate.

The kind that had centuries behind it. “Chainling,” came Xelaini’s voice, curling into her mind like mist around moonlight. “Stop that.”

Maeve blinked. “Stop what?”

“The comparison. The worry. You are not late. You are only new. He is yours. And I am his because we must be, for you. For them all. That is our pairing.” A softer note followed, dry with affection. “My eyes are only on Brontis, and speaking of…”

A shriek tore through the link.

“WHAT THE ACTUAL SHIT,” Soren bellowed. “YOU FUCKING STUPID BASTARD, brONTIS!”