Page 65 of Heart Cradle (The Melrathen Saga #1)

The great hall at Elanthir Keep roared with life.

The long feasting table groaned under the weight of honeyed meats, glazed fruits, steaming breads, and wines enchanted to bubble and shimmer.

Golden goblets clinked, voices lifted, and the warmth of celebration spilled through the air like sunlight breaking through storm clouds.

Fenric, planted firmly beside Laren, looked utterly bewitched, hypnotised even.

His attention fixed on her like she might vanish if he blinked.

Laren, of course, knew exactly what she was doing and was draped, because it couldn’t reasonably be called dressed, in a gown that was more suggestion than substance.

Just two panels of sheer blush-pink fabric, artfully layered to preserve barely enough modesty, secured at the shoulders with delicate golden clasps and slit high along both her dark bronze legs.

Her hair now pinned loosely at her temples, the rest tumbling freely down her back.

Every movement revealed flashes of toned thigh, glimpses of soft skin, and just enough curve to send Fenric straight to ruin and he didn’t even pretend to look away.

Laren, heir of Velthamar and Elenwe’s stepdaughter, leaned into him with a smirk that could have sparked wildfires, curling one leg under her, fingers idly tracing the rim of her goblet.

She was radiant, reckless and completely, unapologetically, herself.

Taelin looked furious, as if he were biting his tongue hard enough to draw blood, but Laren just sipped her drink with the air of someone entirely at ease with both chaos and consequences.

Elenwe, further down the table, gave her stepdaughter a single, glacial look over the rim of her wineglass, equal parts is this necessary?

and gods help whoever touches her . She beheld the scene with a curious fondness that barely softened the sharpness of her gaze.

She rarely smiled, but her eyes lingered on Laren more than once with something that sat between approval and restraint.

Though not her blood daughter, Elenwe had raised Laren from a young age after marrying her father, and had forged her in steel.

Laren bore the intelligence and chaos of Velthamar's bloodline, but it was Elenwe’s influence that had taught her control, precision and just how far charm could carry a blade.

The Velthamar house, known for its cold intellect, strategic cruelty, and mastery of war-magic, had long been one of Melrathen’s most powerful noble lines.

Elenwe controlled affairs with an iron hand beneath velvet gloves, even more so after the death of her husband.

She had kept the eastern provinces stable for decades, outmanoeuvring rival houses and foreign spies alike.

Though she rarely involved herself in council drama, when she spoke, even her older brother Orilan listened .

“So there we are,” Laren was saying, “me, ankle-deep in mud, trying to convince three very drunk dwarves that their donkey wasn’t cursed by a dryad.”

“You’re making that up,” Fenric said, eyes wide.

“I wish I was, it was a bloody disaster.”

Everyone burst out laughing, even Orilan, who shook his head fondly. “Velthamar breeds them wild,” he said.

Elenwe gave him a pointed look over her goblet. “Better than breeding them dull, Ori” she returned, sipping elegantly.

Maeve found herself grinning despite the hollow ache in her chest. It was joy, actual honest joy. The weight of Davmon’s death and the Chain still pressed at her ribs, but tonight, this moment, felt like the first breath after drowning.

Branfil had brought out a lute at one point, fingers nimble even as he refused to sing. “Not unless you want the drinks to curdle,” he warned.

Nolenne, red-eyed and quiet, was nestled close beside Aeilanna, their hands brushing now and then, a quiet current of affection under the chaos, she refused to hide in their rooms, she needed her family.

Soren and Calen were trying to see who could balance the most goblets on their heads and Eiran was pretending not to watch them with longing.

Taelin stood, tapping the side of his glass. “A moment,” he called, and the noise gradually faded.

He looked at each of them, voice steady.

“Thanks to the intelligence we gained”, he glanced briefly at Maeve, “we’ve begun mobilising.

King Orilan, Princess Elenwe, and I have dispatched wards across the borders.

Eldrisil, Armathen, and the Storm Coasts have pledged support.

Troops are moving and Melrathen is not alone. ”

A cheer broke out. Calen whooped loudest, Fenric slammed his hand on the table, and even Elenwe permitted herself a smile.

Taelin raised a hand, “one more thing.” He looked down briefly. “The reason it took a little longer than expected to return from Eldrisil is because my dear Hayvalaine was feeling unwell.”

Hayvalaine, seated beside him, gave a theatrical sigh. “Here we go. ”

Taelin beamed before almost shouting, “a healer confirmed it, we are expecting our seventh child.”

The room exploded and Maeve didn’t even realise she was laughing until Eiran kissed her temple. Hayvalaine raised her glass with a grin, Orilan stood and clapped Taelin on the back, shouting something about how this one had better look like him.

Fenric bellowed, “Give it a good name… Fenric Junior!”

“If I ever name anything after you, it’ll be a particularly untrainable goat.” Taelin offered to his youngest son.

Maeve continued to laugh, but as the joy enveloped her, a sudden cold weight settled in her gut and she froze mid-sip. She and Eiran had had a lot of sex, repeatedly, enthusiastically, with no contraception, no potions, no runes, no… anything.

Eiran looked at her instantly. “What is it?” Eiran murmured, catching her emotion through the bond.

She forced a smile, too tight. “I…can we go for a walk?”

He was on his feet before she finished the sentence. He offered his hand silently, and she took it. They left the hall behind, slipping into the open air of Moraveth’s night. A cool breeze kissed her cheeks and the sky shimmered with silver stars and the moon riding high.

Maeve’s dress was a deep slate blue, simple in shape but finely made, with soft silver stitching at the cuffs and neckline.

The sleeves were sheer and loose at the arms, the fabric light enough to move with every breeze.

The gown skimmed her frame without clinging.

Her pale skin stood out against the darker fabric, and the freckles across her shoulders were visible in the moonlight.

Hazel hair left down for once, long and loosely curled, brushing her back and catching now and then on the wind.

Eiran glanced at her as they walked through the gardens.

“Is it Davmon?” he asked softly. “What’s troubling you, love? ”

Maeve hesitated. “Yes. No…. I mean, yes, it was awful, but it had to be done. It was necessary, and better than the bottom pit. It was needed, for Melrathen. For… for our family.”

Eiran’s eyes softened with pride. “Then what is it?”

She bit her lip. “I just realised something. We’ve been… together. A lot and we haven’t been using anything. And I… ”

Eiran laugh interrupted her rambling, a deep, wine-soaked laugh that startled birds from a nearby tree .

She stared at him. “It’s not funny.”

“It is,” he said, wiping his eyes. “Oh, Maeve. You’re full fae now, remember?”

She blinked. “So?”

“So to conceive, both fae have to intend it. Magic listens to will, no accidents or surprises.” He grinned.

“And as much as I’d love a little Eiran running around with your attitude and my eyebrows, I know we’re not there just yet.

We’ve only known each other for a few weeks and besides, I’m far too selfish. ”

She sagged with relief. “Good. Not that I don’t want children. I do. One day, but right now I just want… us. Peace. Time to travel. Time to breathe. Time at the Cottage. No awakenings. No near deaths. No war.”

He threaded his fingers with hers. “Then that’s what we shall do.”

?????

They’d wandered deep into a grove, their hands still intertwined, breath warm from laughter.

The trees around them glowed faintly with the colour of lavender in the moonlight, their bark slick with sap and shining like pearl.

The leaves above caught starlight like delicate glass, rustling in a breeze that carried the scent of night-blooming flowers and with what Maeve thought was old magic.

In the centre of the grove stood an incredibly large tree, its roots curling up from the mossy earth like sculpted limbs.

It loomed like a cathedral, everything about this place felt older than time, enchanted and private, like it had been waiting just for them.

Eiran slowed beside the great tree, turning to her with a wicked smile.

A flick of his hand produced two small glasses and a slender bottle filled with deep violet liquid that glittered like liquid amethyst. He sank onto a root with lazy elegance, patting the spot beside him.

Maeve sat, heart still pounding from everything, laughter, joy and the dangerous closeness of what they were becoming.

“What’s this?” she asked as he filled her glass, the wine catching the light as it poured.

“It’s called Virellin, but its known as Fae-Fire.” Eiran said, lounging back like a satisfied cat. “Enchanted berry wine from Eldrisil. Tastes like love, carnal regret, and the worst idea you’ll ever enjoy.”

She took a sip, and moaned softly, letting the taste bloom across her tongue. “Oh fuck.” Drinking the lot. “That’s dangerously good. ”

He watched her with fire in his eyes. “It also heightens sensation and increases libido,” he added, voice casual but heated.

Maeve choked, “Eira!”

“What?” He raised both hands in mock innocence. “Just being thorough, not that we’ve ever needed help in that department.”