Page 69 of Heart Cradle (The Melrathen Saga #1)

The fire’s glow cast long, flickering shadows across the carved stonework of Orilan’s study.

Every line of the room spoke of old power.

Deep bookshelves lined with leather-bound histories, tall windows now veiled in night, and the lingering scent of ink, parchment and oiled steel.

A map of the Fae Lands rested on the central table, weighted at its corners by dragon-forged tokens, each one etched with the crests of realms, provinces, and houses.

Outside, Moraveth once again slept beneath a blanket of stars, but within the study, sleep was a foreign concept.

Orilan sat reclined in his high-backed chair, one ankle crossed over the other, the firelight playing across the white in his hair and the polished glass in his hand.

Dark fae whiskey glinted like molten amber, catching sparks from the flames.

Taelin, sat upright and rigid beside him, sharp-edged and unreadable in the dimness.

Across the hearth, Eiran leaned forwards in his chair, elbows on his knees, jaw set like stone.

Orilan spoke first. His voice was calm, but it carried the cold steel of command.

“Reports place Avelan units within spitting distance of the Galthorn border. Not just scouts anymore. Whole companies, some bearing banners.”

Taelin gave a slow nod. “We confirmed the crest this afternoon.”

Eiran frowned. “The snake?”

Taelin didn’t look at him, his gaze was fixed on the fire. “A fucking hideous thing. Coiled around a broken crown, its scales looked freshly painted. This isn’t subterfuge any longer, it’s becoming spectacle.”

Eiran’s hands curled into fists. “He wants us to know he’s close.”

Orilan’s fingers tapped once against his glass. “Vargen’s always been more beast than king, but even beasts know patience when hunting.”

Eiran pushed to his feet, pacing once across the thick rug. “So what’s his plan? Rattle our gates until we flinch, or draw us into a trap on open ground?”

Taelin’s reply was quiet, controlled. “He wants a reaction. A bastard declaration. If we strike first, he can paint us as the aggressors. Rally the fringe territories. He wants to fracture us.”

Orilan gave a slow, considering nod, eyes never leaving the map. “We can’t strike first. ”

Eiran turned to him sharply. “You want us to wait? While his forces mass at our borders. While our villages grow nervous and whispers of war bloom like rot.”

Taelin’s voice didn’t rise. “I want us to act intelligently. Not impulsively, Eiran.”

“You mean politically.” Eiran sneered.

“I mean strategically.” Taelin finally looked at him. Their eyes met, so alike but of different elements, fire and frost. “If Vargen’s making a show of force, he’s either bluffing or ready. Either way, we will not waste lives chasing spectres.”

Orilan gestured to the tokens on the map. “We reinforce the Galthorn ridge. Quietly mobilise supply lines and increase screiven and dragon rotations along the border.”

“They’re already circling nightly,” Eiran said, still pacing. “They saw torch lines in the northern woods two nights ago. Much too disciplined for bandits.”

Orilan’s fingers flexed. “Then we watch closer. Tighten our hold on the northern wards. Have the magicers double-check the illusion barriers and insist the Runekeepers contribute. If Vargen means to cross into Melrathen, he will find we are not unprepared.”

He leaned forwards now, and the fire caught in his eyes, the strategist of old, emerging with the quiet menace of a drawn bow. “Caution is not weakness. Neither is resolve blunted by fear. If war comes, it will be because he made it so, not because we stumbled into it.”

A beat of silence, then another.

Eiran exhaled slowly, dragging a hand through his dark hair.

His mind flicked briefly to Maeve, her steady strength, her mate bond, her gilded-tie to the realm.

He thought of the others too, Fenric’s smile dulled by worry, Laren’s arrows finding marks in the backs of Avelans and Soren laughing too loudly to cover his fear.

They are ready.

Orilan raised his glass, the motion was simple, but in it lay a cutting edge. “To sharp eyes,” he said. “And sharper patience.”

Taelin and Eiran lifted their whiskey murmuring, “to burn and to shield.”