Page 63 of Heart Cradle (The Melrathen Saga #1)

Maeve, Nolenne, Calen, and Fenric gathered in a quiet, dimly lit chamber tucked deep within Elanthir Keep’s eastern wing. The air smelled faintly of smoke, and their voices were low, like something lurked above them.

“Absolutely no force,” Maeve said softly, her fingers curled loosely around another steaming mug of coffee. “Just trust me.”

She looked to Nolenne, who stood stiff-backed against the wall, arms folded tight across her chest. “Your younger brother was Varen?” Maeve asked gently.

Nolenne gave a single nod, “He was thirteen.”

Maeve smiled, holding the weight of that answer in silence and together, they descended.

The dungeon air was damp, thick with waste, sweat and the tang of old blood.

A torch flickered weakly outside Davmon’s cell.

Inside, he sat slumped against the wall, arms crudely bandaged where his hands had once been.

His complexion had turned a sickly, bone-grey and his breath rasped in the dark and sweat slicked his matted hair.

When he looked up and saw them, he gave a bloody, toothless grin. A ghastly thing, all gums and defiance.

“Look what you’ve done, dear… sister. You stupid, traitorous whore,” he rasped, laughter cracking in his throat.

Nolenne stood stock still, breathing deep, then stepped forwards at last. Her voice was pure, honed steel. “You call me sister now? After everything?”

“I’ve always been your brother,” Davmon said with a twisted smile. “Even when you left me.”

“I didn’t leave,” she snapped. “I escaped. You stayed, you chose to serve him.”

“I survived,” he hissed.

Nolenne’s breath caught, and her lips trembled before she held them in a tight line. “You killed and lied for him. You corrupted yourself for the Pale Court.”

“And you didn’t?” he spat. “Don’t pretend your hands are clean, Nell. ”

She closed the space between them until only the bars separated them. He was the only person to have ever called her Nell, and it struck her hard.

Her voice dropped. “My hands are bloody, yes. But I never gave myself to him, I never broke.”

Davmon’s expression twisted, full of rage and sorrow and something that looked like betrayal. “Do you remember that night,” he said, voice quiet and dangerous, “just after the war? You were barely more than a child. You ran from the outer barracks in the dead of night.”

Nolenne gave a shuddering breath. “You left me alone.”

He took a step forwards, chains clinking like punctuation. “When you were caught, Jenveld sent you to the prison instead of the gallows because I begged… I bargained for your life. I did vile… hideous things for your life.”

Nolenne recoiled, a hollow ringing in her ears.

She had always told herself she was lucky to have escaped execution.

She had believed it, too, that her first attempt, as a terrified teenager, had been a blessing.

That the guards had been merciful. That being exiled to the depths of Avelan’s prison fortress was fate sparing her, but now she heard the truth in his voice.

Begged. Bargained. Vile, hideous things.

Her stomach turned, but Maeve stepped forwards, cutting the tension. “Can I help you feel more comfortable?”

Davmon bared his teeth. “Sure. A glass of wine and two hands, you filthy human cunt.”

Maeve didn’t flinch, and murmured, “I’m a filthy fae cunt now, Commander.”

“Get fucked!” Davmon snarled.

Fenric stepped forwards, dagger in hand and rage in his face. Maeve motioned for him to stop. She closed her eyes, summoned her intention, and conjured a goblet of wine. Deep crimson shimmered within crystal, and she stepped forwards placing it gently within reach.

“The hands I can’t do,” she said, quiet but steady. “But Melrathen is always generous with wine.”

Davmon spat at her, the glob hit the floor. She looked to Nolenne, unphased. “Will you help him drink? ”

There was a pause, then Nolenne stepped forwards, taking the goblet, and lifting it carefully to his lips. He drank like a parched man, gulping until it was gone.

“Brandy now.” he croaked.

Maeve refilled the glass without hesitation.

Amber brandy sloshed and he stared at Maeve while draining the glass.

The door creaked open then as Cira stepped in, her silver hair swept back in a loose plait, a male servant following closely behind.

Her eyes swept the room, pausing briefly on Maeve, she gave a silent nod and then Cira moved to Davmon’s side, knelt beside him, and placed her hand against his chest. “I’ll do what I can.

I can’t give what was taken, but I can sort the rest,” she said softly. “Hold still, dear.”

Magic bloomed quietly, warm golden light pulsed around Davmon’s ruined wrists.

His breathing eased, infection receding and his skin regained the faintest hint of colour.

The servant helped him change into clean clothes and gently wiped away the filth from his face and neck.

Then Cira returned with a covered bowl and a thick slice of dark bread.

“Let’s get something in you,” she said, and began to feed him slowly, small spoonful’s of leek and barley soup, rich with steam. Davmon grunted, but ate.

After a few bites, he muttered, “not bad.”

Cira arched a brow. “High praise indeed.”

Davmon gave a broken chuckle. “First hot food in weeks, I thought I’d forgotten what flavour was.”

He swallowed another mouthful and looked at Nolenne. “You always made the soup when we were little, with mushrooms and too much pepper.”

Nolenne blinked fast. “You liked it that way.”

He gave a half-smile, bitter and soft all at once. “I did, I did like it that way.”

He licked a crumb from his lip, then went quiet for a beat. “I used to hate mushrooms. You told me they were lucky, said if I ate enough, I’d get bloody wings.”

Nolenne’s throat bobbed. “You were a nightmare about it, used to flick them at the poor cat.”

“She scratched me all the fucking time, little bitch deserved it. ”

They both let out breathy, broken laughs. Davmon looked down at the bowl. “I dreamt about that house. Mother baking bread. The smell of the fire. Your humming. It’s the only thing that felt real. Of Mother and Father, with us three.”

“Then why did you stay?” Nolenne said, eyes glistening with unspent tears.

“Because I thought if I was loyal enough, if I climbed high enough, he’d let me leave.” He looked at her, hollow. “I thought I could take you home like a…prize.”

Nolenne let out a heavy sigh. “I didn’t need rescuing, Dav. I needed you to remember who we were.”

His voice cracked. “I missed you every day, even when you hated me.”

“You think I didn’t miss you too?”

Silence folded around them, thick and unforgiving, broken only by Maeve conjuring more brandy.

“Princess Maeve,” Cira said, as she raised the goblet to his mouth. “You’re becoming rather proficient, well done, dear girl.”

Maeve smiled faintly. The words should have comforted her but the pit in her stomach only deepened, she turned to Davmon fully. “I know what you did,” Maeve began, voice almost a whisper.

“I know you were forced to fight Varen. You were fifteen, he was thirteen and she was nine.” She pointed to Nolenne. “All three children lost that day.”

Something in his face flickered.

“I know what happened to your parents,” she continued. “They were executed for refusing to give you up. Your mother raped next to your dead father. I know who stood witness. I know what they made you do.”

He growled. “Lies. They’re all liars, they told you that to make me look weak. To make us all look weak!”

“No,” she said, stepping closer. “They told me because they remembered… because they regret. Maybe they wanted someone to forgive them.” She paused, smoothing her leathers. “Let me help you, Davmon.”

The Chain pulsed then, whispering only to Maeve. She cleared her throat as if in response to it before saying “The Chain wants me to see your memories. ”

He stared at her, something trembling beneath the hate in his eyes. “Will it hurt?” he whispered.

“I don’t know,” Maeve said.

He turned to Nolenne. “Will you stay?”

Her voice cracked. “Of course.”

On instinct Maeve reached forwards and gently placed her palms on his temples.

The Chain around her wrist shimmered, then blazed white-hot.

There was a moment of clarity when Maeve could see everything he could, but Davmon gasped, spine arching violently.

His mouth opened in a soundless scream and then he collapsed, limp and still.

Cira was at his side in an instant, fingers pressing to his throat, then his chest. She looked up, eyes grave. “He’s gone.”

Nolenne let out a low, choked cry and lurched forwards and Maeve staggered back.

“I didn’t mean to,” she whispered. “The Chain told me. It whispered, I removed his memories. All of them, but… it… I killed him. I didn’t mean to. I’m sorry…”

Nolenne stumbled towards her, Calen moved on instinct to shield Maeve, but Nolenne didn’t strike.

She fell into Maeve’s arms and clung to her, sobbing.

“I know you didn’t, I know you wouldn’t.

Thank you…thank you for making it fast, for letting him feel clean, fed and warm. With me. I am the only one left now.”

Maeve held her, frozen at first, then her arms tightened.

“I’m sorry, sweetheart.” Fenric placed a hand on Nolenne’s back. “He knew you were there.”

They stood together, the quiet pulsing around them like a second heartbeat. Davmon’s face had smoothed in death, he looked younger and lighter. The war had finally let him go and he was free from the jaws of Vargen, Petra and the entire Pale Court.

Calen turned gently to Nolenne. “Nol… how are your people laid to rest?”

“Cremation,” she said, voice raw. “I’ll ask Hervour.”

“Of course,” Fenric murmured, his hand still resting gently on her. “Let him return to flame.”