Page 73 of Heart Cradle (The Melrathen Saga #1)

The corridors weren’t silent, but close to it.

Each step clipped against the stone, too loud in the hush, it felt like even walking wrong might give her away.

Maeve’s palms were damp, not quite panic, she didn’t suffer as once had, just the old instinct twitching beneath the surface.

The one that had once made her want to disappear, to vanish into her own skin and run, not from danger, but from herself.

She hadn’t felt that way in a while, not fully.

Something had changed, maybe it was the training, the magic or Jeipier’s steady warmth in her mind.

Maybe it was Eiran. Or maybe just the fact that Elanthir Keep was nothing like London.

Still, she’d worn trousers tonight. Tailored dark blue velvet, cut to her shape but strong, paired with a flowing black blouse and low heels.

The seamstress had disapproved, called it inappropriate for a high-profile diplomatic event, but Maeve hadn’t been able to stomach a dress.

Not tonight, not when the hall ahead held every realm leader, every commander, every pair of eyes.

The trousers soothed her, they gave her the option, however ridiculous, of bolting if she needed to.

Eiran walked beside her, his suit a dark indigo so deep it almost disappeared into the shadows.

No embellishments, just clean lines. It matched her, intentionally or not, and the effect made her chest ache.

He looked like midnight distilled into a man.

He was so calm, so certain and so beautiful, yet he reached for her hand, as if he required the contact.

“Are you breathing?” he asked softly.

She tried to glare at him, but her lips twitched. “Sort of.”

His face, pure warmth. “So beautiful.”

They walked in step for a moment. The sconces along the walls flickered with faelight. The stone danced with floating runes, marks of protection and old magic designed for additional security. “I thought I’d feel more ready,” she murmured.

“You are,” he said. “Readiness isn’t calm. Sometimes it’s standing exactly where you’re supposed to be while your heart tries to climb out of your throat.”

“Dramatic. Cheesy. Who knew?!”

“Comes with the territory.” He bumped her shoulder lightly. “Fae prince, occasional drip. ”

She laughed, the sound catching against the nerves in her chest.

Ahead, the corridor opened into the high walk that overlooked the southern gardens. Evening light filtered in through the archways, low and burnished. The scent of moonflowers carried on the wind, soft and dizzying.

Eiran slowed. “The dragons were calling you Chainling again earlier. During patrol.”

Maeve groaned. “I know, I heard them. All of them.”

“They don’t mean it unkindly.”

“I get that. It’s just... eerie when twelve minds whisper it at once.”

“You should’ve heard what Brontis called Calen and Venleo after they flew too close to the cliffs last week.”

Maeve raised a brow. “What were they, the Flying Idiots?”

Eiran grinned. “More like ‘Captain Cliff-Fuck and his loyal flying dipshit’. Soren almost fell off from laughing.”

“Shit, and I thought mine was bad.” She exhaled, the breath tugging something looser in her chest. “Still. I need to say something, I don’t want to be named after an object. Not even that one.”

“Then ask them again,” Eiran said gently. “They’ll listen.”

“I will.” She hesitated, then added, “And thank you. For not calling me that, not even as a joke.”

He pressed a kiss to her knuckles. “You’re not a Chainling. You’re my mate. That’s it.”

They kept walking, the high arch narrowed ahead, leading to the great hall.

Music murmured just beyond, soft strings and a slow drumbeat.

People were already inside and Maeve slowed, Eiran didn’t pull her forwards.

“Sometimes I still think about Lisbon,” she said, eyes fixed on the warm glow beneath the doors.

“How I saw you and didn’t know why my whole chest opened.

How I felt the weight of the world, and then there was you. ”

“Now who’s the drip?” Eiran’s voice dropped, rough with the memory. “You glared at me like I’d ruined your life.”

“You probably had, I just didn’t know it yet.” She smirked. “You were wearing that white shirt.”

His grin turned wry. “Tight enough that it should’ve been illegal? ”

She nodded. “You stood in front of me like you were a Bond villain.”

“You tilted your head like you were about to arrest me.”

“Hmm, I’d like to see you in cuffs actually.” She said before they both chuckled at the memory.

Maeve asked. “What do you think it is? The Chain. Why it found me? Why it feels like more than just an artefact?”

Eiran looked at her then, studied her. “I think it’s a guide, and I think it chose you because it knew you’d listen when others wouldn’t.”

She swallowed. “Do you ever worry it’s too much?”

“For you?” he said. “No, never.”

Her throat ached with the steadiness in his voice. The music swelled beyond the doors, voices rose and footsteps approached from a hallway behind them. They stood there for a moment longer, then he said, “What did my mother say to you? That day she pulled you aside.”

Maeve laughed softly. “I was wondering when you’d ask.”

“I’ve been fucking dying to know. Well, what was it then?”

“She offered me a way out,” Maeve said, smiling faintly. “Said if I had any doubt at all, she’d walk me to the stone herself. No judgement, no consequence.”

Eiran blew out a breath and looked at her, jaw tense. “And… do you?”

She squeezed his hand. “No,” she said. “Not ever.”

The doors to the great hall opened before them and scent hit first, spiced wine, charred sea herbs, slow-baked citrus breads, smoke from hearth-pits and skewers.

The perfume of the night-blooming flowers curled through it all, floral, sharp and sweet.

Sound followed, the low thrum of strings, goblets clinking, bursts of laughter, and the occasional bark of teasing from across the room. The noise rose and fell like a tide.

The hall was a marvel, long curved tables gleamed beneath floating lanterns shaped as clustered stars, drifting screivens and gliding dragons.

Dishes from across the allied realms were laid in gleaming rows.

Velvet-leaf dumplings from Eldrisil, stonefire ribs glazed with plum wine from Armathen, ocean-glass oysters misted with salt-frost from the Storm Coasts, moss cakes and fogfruit from Edhenvale, and wild grain rolls with spiced orchard stew from Melrathen itself.

Each plate shimmered with soft enchantments, rune light tracing their edges to keep them fresh and at the correct temperature.

At the centre of the hall stood the high dais, crowned in plum and emerald linen and faelight.

The royal family and realm leaders were already gathered.

Queen Hayvalaine was speaking softly to Orilan, Taelin was mid-argument with Branfil about something that involved scout lines and Aeilanna and Nolenne sharing a quiet joke with their heads bowed close.

Fenric and Laren were already seated, Fenric’s hand high on her thigh, Laren’s smirk daring anyone to comment and Calen caught Maeve’s eye and raised his goblet, while Soren gave her a wide, enthusiastic grin.

Maeve hesitated, so much colour, so many voices and so many eyes. The room was warm and bright, heavy with anticipation but brimming with joy. And still, Eiran’s kept her hand in his. As they approached the dais, the room quieted slightly.

Orilan stood and raised his goblet. “Tonight,” he said, his amplified voice carrying easily across the vast space, “we feast not for war readiness or alliance, but for joy, for the joining of two mates who have changed the course of this realm, not through conquest, but through courage, choice, and the favour of the gods. To my grandson and his mate. May your light endure whatever darkness may come. May love be your anchor for whatever crests the far horizon, and may your union stand unshaken, even as the winds begin to rise.”

The hall erupted into cheers and applause and he raised his cup once more, expression sly. “And should any great-grandchildren arrive before I turn to stone entirely, I’ll consider it a personal triumph.”

As the raucous shouts echoed through the hall, Eiran turned to Maeve, his hand finding her waist. She rose onto her toes just as he bent, and they met in a kiss that was full of all they’d endured to reach this moment.

The hall erupted again, some shouting their approval, others thumping goblets against tables and Eiran pulled out Maeve’s chair, pressing a kiss to her temple as she sat.

“Not a bad speech, I suppose,” Fenric interrupted. “Could’ve used a few more dramatic pauses.”

“Oh, we’re keeping score now?” Calen asked, reaching for a platter of spiced roots. “Didn’t realise we were grading our King.”

“I grade everyone,” Fenric said with a smirk. “You’re an arsehole.”

“Quiet, both of you,” Hayvalaine said fondly, accepting a filled goblet from a servant. “Must you ruin the one heartfelt moment we’ve managed all week? Trust this table to sabotage it without blinking. ”

Fenric glanced at his mother, crossed his eyes in theatrical defiance over his goblet, and drank, utterly unrepentant. Eiran cleared his throat and stepped forwards again, the laughter still echoing faintly as he glanced around the hall. “My mate and I would like to thank you all for coming.”

He turned slightly, offering Maeve his hand. She rose beside him, her fingers threading with his.

“It’s been lovely to meet so many of you,” Maeve said, her voice warm but steady. “To learn about your realms, your customs and to know your kindness. A baptism of fire perhaps, but one I’m immensely grateful for.”