Page 60 of Heart Cradle (The Melrathen Saga #1)

Brontis came screaming down like a meteor, dark and massive, wings jagged like lightning forks, veins of electric blue pulsing along his frame.

He tucked tight in freefall, then flared wide at the last second in a dramatic spiral.

The resulting pressure wave rattled the entire formation and Brontis hovered above them with brutal ease and let out a low, thunderous rumble of satisfaction.

“Brontis,” Aeilanna snapped. “That was spectacular even for you.”

“He’s showing off,” Xelaini said flatly. “Because I’m watching.”

“Always, Stormheart” Brontis crooned.

“You nearly fucking killed me,” Soren growled . “I saw my life flash before my eyes.”

“Oh stop, it was mostly poor decisions, females and wine anyway.” Brontis said.

“At least you’re consistent,” Calen quipped.

“That wasn’t funny,” Soren muttered.

“It was a little funny,” Maeve offered, grinning. “You sounded like a strangled goose.”

“You’re all arseholes,” Soren declared. “I’d rather be in there with Davmon. I’m done. ”

Brontis rumbled again and spiralled lazily above the rest, trailing wind like a banner.

“You always like to make an entrance,” Xelaini murmured, smooth as warm honey.

“Only for you, Stormheart,” Brontis replied. “You move like a blade, and I’m the gale that wants to be cut. Deeply… slowly… painfully.”

Maeve blinked. “Oh… they’re flirting.”

“I need to un-hear that. Rivakar, close your ears,” Fenric said flatly to his dragon.

“That is their foreplay,” Rivakar said with what sounded like an internal grimace. “Very… poetic, dangerous foreplay.”

“MY ACTUAL PARENTS,” Jeipier cried, diving dramatically. “I AM BUT A CHILD. I DO NOT DESERVE THIS.”

“You are our legacy,” Brontis declared, smug. “Born of fire, forged in longing. From two beings of great strength and fortitude.”

“I’m going to fly into a lake,” Jeipier muttered . “And live there. Alone.”

Branfil’s voice cut cleanly through the chaos. “Formation, left wing. Let’s give the cliffs a proper show before we descend.”

And just like that, they moved, eight dragons and their bonded riders sweeping low across the valley. The wind roared, the link pulsed warm and alive, and Maeve felt it in her chest.

“Still intimidated?” Xelaini asked, her voice a quiet hum at the back of Maeve’s mind.

Maeve smiled. “No,” she said. “Just grateful.”

?????

The leathers Eiran had gifted her fit like second skin, stitched with gold-threaded fae patterns and lined with glowing runes and sigils.

Reinforced at her ribs, spine, and thighs, the stitching gleamed faintly in the right light, their enchantments humming low whenever her adrenaline surged.

Over her left breast, the Melrathen crest was embroidered in gold.

Every time she walked past Eiran on her way to the training ring, he gave her that same look, a mix of admiration and hunger, usually muttering something about how she looked.

She rolled her eyes, of course, but smiled every time, her core tightening and hips swaying in response .

Sometimes he met her in one of the halls before drills and kissed her like they had all the time in the world. Slow and totally overwhelming. His hands running down her sides before letting her go with a hushed, “Come back in those leathers, so I tear them off with my teeth.”

By afternoon, the rhythm shifted. Her body sore, spirit sharpened, Maeve climbed the south tower steps for magicer training. There, she trained under Aeilanna’s steady guidance as a spellweaver, alongside two fae magicers who had served the realm longer than many had drawn breath.

Yendel, silver-haired and broad-shouldered, moved with the deliberate grace of a man who had long since mastered patience.

His voice was deep and gravel-worn, and he had a way of teaching that left room for silence.

He didn’t rush, didn’t lecture, just simply watched, then offered a single sentence that cut straight to the truth.

Maeve found herself listening to him more than anyone.

There was something in his presence, rooted, still and quietly vast. Like stone warmed by sun and Maeve found comfort in his presence in a way she hadn’t expected.

There was something subtly paternal, in the way he tilted his head when she spoke, or corrected her grip with a touch so gentle it barely stirred the air.

She found herself looking for him each afternoon, caught off guard by how deeply she valued his approval.

When her hands trembled after a spell backfired, it was Yendel who stilled them.

When she grew frustrated with her pace, he reminded her that power did not honour the impatient.

One late afternoon, they sat side by side overlooking the practice ring, the stone beneath them still warm from the sun. Maeve was catching her breath after a shielding drill that had nearly flattened her, fingers twitching with fading magic, her limbs heavy but alive.

She didn’t look at him when she spoke. “Can I ask you something?”

Yendel gave a soft hum of assent.

She watched the faint shimmer still curling off her skin. “This bond I have with Eiran... it’s like it’s in everything. Under everything. Sometimes it coils so tightly around me I feel like I can’t breathe for how much I feel. It’s terrifying and so…big.” She glanced at him.

Yendel was quiet for a long time, so long that Maeve thought perhaps she’d said too much, but then he nodded. “My mate was a healer,” he said softly. “Brilliant and fierce. We were together for over four centuries.”

Maeve’s breath hitched. “You were mated? ”

He nodded again, slower this time. “Yes. It took me over a century to speak of her after the war. She was killed in the final siege, I have only just begun to learn to live in peace.”

She turned to him fully now, stunned. “I didn’t know... I haven’t met anyone else who’s been… who is… ”

He stopped her gently with a hand over hers.

“No apologies,” he said. “You must know, you deserve to understand what it means. A mate bond is ferocious in its binding, wrapping itself around you until you feel there’s nothing left for anyone else, not even yourself. But that’s not the way of it, not if you want to survive it.”

Maeve was silent, listening with all she had.

“You must find the balance, Maeve. You must advocate for yourself within the bond. Pour into yourself just as much as you pour into him and, he must do the same for you. Otherwise, even the strongest thread will fray.”

He looked out towards the far mountains, eyes distant but firm. “Mates are a blessing from the gods. But like all blessings, they must be honoured, tended… nurtured. If not, you risk losing more than just each other.”

Maeve looked down at her hands, bruised and chalk-stained knuckles, and felt the truth of his words settle into her bones.

She didn’t answer, but she held his hand.

She trusted him so fiercely, and somewhere between the runes and the sunlight, Yendel had become more than a teacher, he was her compass.

Hettae, by contrast, was an anchor in a sharper way.

Scarred across her jaw and temple, she walked with a slight limp, her short gold hair, always tidy, she smelled faintly of rosemary, and her glances often held dry amusement even when she said nothing.

They spoke often, not of small things but of their lives, of their experiences in a world designed to try them, always testing.

Hettae never offered comfort, only clarity, and Maeve found that, more and more, she preferred it.

She liked her, and slowly she was beginning to realise the feeling was mutual.

One late afternoon after a long training session, Hettae had told her she’d been found half-dead on the rocks just outside Armathen as a small child.

Burned, bloodied, and alone. No shipwreck, no name and no memory.

The Storm Coast folk believed she’d been a stowaway on a pirate vessel, tossed into the sea when she was caught.

Hettae didn’t argue, she only said that whatever happened, her mind had buried it deep enough that no magic or memory work had ever unearthed it.

Hettae said that she’d shown signs of strong magic early on and was sent to Eldmire as a teen, then moved to Elanthir when Yendel needed a new apprentice, that was over fifty years ago and Maeve had listened in silence, something tight in her chest. Not because Hettae asked for sympathy, she never did, but because it explained the way she was, like someone who expected pain and chose to keep moving anyway.

Hettae had mentioned she was seeing one of the messengers, a tall, ink-stained fae named Rhalie. They were talking about binding she said, without much ceremony but with a steady kind of certainty. “We’re not soft with each other,” she added, “but it works, she loves me and I her.”

It was the first time Maeve had heard affection in her voice and something unspoken settled between them after that.

A quiet sense of sisterhood, not forged by blood or magic, but by the shared understanding of females who’d clawed their way through pain, terror and loneliness and kept going.

Maeve started seeking Hettae out more, not for comfort.

Just to be near someone who’d made peace with her past, even if it never gave her answers.

Aeilanna called Maeve’s power wildfire, unruly, bright, and dangerous if left unchecked.

Under their combined guidance, she began to understand that fae magic wasn’t about strength, but stillness.

Idea, intention and choice. She taught her to draw from within, not from panic or emotion, but decision.