Page 75 of Heart Cradle (The Melrathen Saga #1)

The bells of the high temple tolled at dawn, resonant across the sleeping stone of Moraveth.

Their sound carried, drifting over terracotta rooftops and mismatched buildings, slipping through window arches and blooming balconies, brushing rose-vined terraces and crooked chimneys, ringing down garden stairways and painted courtyards.

Moraveth was old, but not uniform, grown over time like a song rewritten by generations.

Pale stone domes sat beside colourful towers, ivy tangled with roses and gold runes and sigils gleamed faintly from tiled mosaics.

By mid-morning, the temple was full. Inside, over a thousand fae had gathered, nobles, warriors, realm leaders, and allies.

Thousands more waited outside, shoulder to shoulder in the plaza, dressed in ceremonial colours, plum, gold and forest green.

Flowers were woven into hair and gleaming charms pinned to cloaks.

The air pulsed with quiet magic and expectation.

The temple itself was vast and open to the sky.

Its sweeping arches reached like spines towards the heavens, carved from pale stone veined with silver that caught the sunlight in long, delicate streaks.

Floating golden runes drifted in slow spirals above the altar, living words of old unions, still whispering their oaths to the magic that made the place sacred and from the upper balconies, music cascaded with harps, flutes, and a single, tender voice.

Eiran stood at the centre, framed in sunlit gold.

Branfil, Soren, Calen, and Fenric flanked him in ceremonial garb.

Melrathen colours embroidered with golden thread, curling spellwork, constellations and battle sigils.

The brothers formed a silent wall of devotion behind him, but Eiran stood alone.

His posture was proud, but his hands clasped behind his back, flexed now and then with barely concealed nerves.

The Arkhavari stood opposite him, draped in robes of layered white and gold. Their presence carried the gravity of centuries, eyes faintly aglow with sigils that shimmered across the surface like ripples on still water.

The great doors opened, and a hush fell over the crowd.

Maeve stepped into the light, she wore a trailing gown of deep forest green, stitched from layered gossamer that shifted like mist when she moved, light as breath, yet threaded with power.

Fine golden embroidery climbed the sheer outer layers in curling vines and starlit constellations, catching the light with spellthread.

The fabric shimmered faintly with magic, as though dusk and starlight had been woven directly into the seams. Around her wrist, the Chain shifted and shimmered, pulsing in time with her, but not just her breath, her intention and certainty.

The closer she walked to the centre, the more it responded.

Threads of light flickering faintly along its links, as though it were tasting the magic in the air and answering.

In her hands, she carried a bouquet of Velira blooms, Ashvine stalks, and Gleamroot, a blend of moonlit silver, magical gold, and violet glow, chosen for protection, clarity, and truth, but even they seemed dim beside the Chain.

Yendel walked beside her, his magicer’s robes bore the black and silver sigil of his craft, but his expression was gentle, almost fatherly.

He gave her arm a final squeeze as they reached the stairs.

Behind them came Aeilanna, Nolenne, Hettae, and Laren, regal in deep violet gowns trimmed in gold, carrying bouquets that echoed Maeve’s. They walked like queens and warriors both, each of them radiant.

Maeve only had eyes for Eiran and he looked like he’d forgotten how to breathe.

She ascended alone, her steps silent on the stone, and took Eiran’s hand without hesitation, golden runes flared softly above them.

The Arkhavari raised their hands. Their voice was calm, but it filled the temple like light.

“Today we speak what is already true. A bond formed by soul, forged by trial and chosen by will. Not a requirement. Not a rite of passage. A blessing. A gods-marked joining of two who were never meant to walk apart.”

The music softened.

“Kneel,” the Arkhavari said, “not in submission, but in devotion, to the choice you make freely.”

Maeve and Eiran knelt together, hands clasped.

The Chain sparked gently, and light gathered at their feet like gold mist curling across the floor.

The Arkhavari uncorked a vial of amber oil.

They marked Eiran’s brow, then Maeve’s. “This is oil of the Everbranch. It anoints not your bodies, but your intentions.”

A second vial was lifted, blue-green and luminous as sea glass. “These are Waters of Witness. Poured from the spring beneath this temple, tears of the gods, touched by spells older than Melrathen. They do not see the surface, they only see the truth.”

They anointed Maeve and Eiran’s wrists, just beneath the Chain. The skin tingled with magic, like a spark of cold static.

“Rise. ”

They stood, as more golden light rose in a spiral around them, weightless and warm and the Arkhavari stepped back, their voice softer now. “If you wish to speak your vows, let them be heard, have them be carried in this temple and to our gods.”

Maeve turned first. Her voice trembled only slightly, but her eyes never left Eiran’s.

“I found you in the quiet, after ruin. I choose you now, in the fire before war. I do not vow perfection, only presence. I do not promise peace, only that I will walk beside you until it comes. You are the place my soul rests, you are my noise, my tether and my home. I have only ever known true love with you and I have only ever known true safety with you.”

The runes above their heads stilled.

Eiran reached for her hands, his voice was steady, but his eyes burned.

“My mate, and now my bound. I say your name and mean mine. I hear your name and know mine. I do not bind you to me, I free you with me. In every lifetime, I would find you. In every world, I would choose you. You are not my crown, and I am not your shadow. You are the life in my blood and the air in my chest. I was made for many things, but I was shaped by the gods to only ever want you, to only ever need you and to only ever love you.”

The Chain flared again softly between their joined hands.

Maeve felt it stir. Not just glow but move, a gentle lick of warmth brushing up the inside of her wrist. She didn’t look, she couldn’t, her eyes were locked on Eiran’s, willing herself not to cry.

By the time she glanced down, it looked as it always had, still and familiar.

The runes above them stirred again, now curling in gold and a warmth built in the air by magic stirred.

The Arkhavari bowed their head. “Let your shared vow be spoken.”

Together, their voices rose, low and sure, braided as one, “I choose you, not as an escape, but as an anchor, not to complete me, but to walk beside me. In shadow and in flame, in silence and in storm, I will not turn from you. I will not forget you. I will not let you fall alone. I will be your fire and I will be your armour. We exist to burn and to shield each other.”

“It is now time for your offerings,” said the Arkhavari.

Eiran turned first and from his jacket, he drew a small black box. Inside sat a ring, delicately wrought in interwoven lines of gold, to mirror the Chain, inlaid with dark stones, amethyst, garnet and emerald. Maeve inhaled softly as he slipped it onto her finger and the Chain pulsed in response .

The runes above flared brighter as Maeve reached forwards with her own gift.

A simple gold signet, unadorned but for a single dark violet crystal, the painstone that had once saved her life.

When Eiran saw it, his composure cracked, his breath leaving him entirely. “I wanted you to have it. It is yours.”

She slid the ring onto his hand. A warm pulse surged through them both, up their arms, across their shoulders and down their spines. Maeve touched his chest, her fingers over his heart. “It is yours,” she whispered. “As am I.”

The Arkhavari lifted their hands once more, while saying, “Let this be seen. Let this be carried. Let this be remembered.”

The golden runes above their heads spun faster, then stilled. One glowing sigil emerged, Unity.

From the high arches above, the thunder watched, Jeipier gave a low, delighted chuff and Xelaini, still and majestic, lowered her head just slightly. Maeve, blinking past the light thought, just for a moment, that there was a shimmer of a tear in one of the Nyxshade’s immense eyes.

The Arkhavari spoke one final time, voice radiant with magic and solemnity. “Before fire and sky, this bond is made sacred, not by magic, but by choice, not by power, but by true intention.”

A final surge of golden light encircled Maeve and Eiran.

It flared once, warm and pure, then sealed itself into them.

The runes then dimmed, and the temple erupted in celebration.

Music soared, flower petals and gold dust rained from above.

Outside, the waiting crowds cheered, and the thunder of wings swept over the sky in a synchronised salute.