Page 77 of Heart Cradle (The Melrathen Saga #1)

Smoke still curled from the southern gate after the battle ended, rising like a slow exhale into the bruised afternoon sky.

Maeve stood in the fractured plaza, helping to clear rubble and lift the wounded.

Her leathers were scorched at the collar, her skin marked with soot and dried blood.

The Chain still pulsed faintly around her wrist, no longer burning but warm and constant, like a heartbeat she hadn’t realised was hers.

Jeipier crouched nearby, his chest rising and falling as he blew small, controlled gusts of fire over the skeld remains.

The dragons had taken to burning them quickly, as Yendel had advised and the thunder moved with grim coordination, dragging bodies into organised piles, guarding the perimeter, their eyes sharp in every direction.

The unpaired dragons followed Xelaini’s lead, and it was clear they needed no spoken commands.

When Xelaini tilted her head, the rest adjusted, when she growled, they stilled.

Maeve helped a healer lift a young soldier into a sling, he had been crushed by a falling column.

“He’s stable,” the healer muttered, sweat gleaming on his brow. “But we need more hands by the eastern tents.”

Eiran joined them, tossing a waterskin to Maeve. “No civilian casualties,” he said softly. “Father’s orders held. There was panic, but no crushes, no trampled. Just shock.”

Maeve exhaled. “Thank fuck, that’s something.”

“You did more than something, love.” He touched her shoulder. ”You stopped it.”

She didn’t answer, she just looked towards the high temple, now standing silent high above the city, petals still scattered on the steps, half-wilted and windblown.

?????

By evening, the wounded were tended, the fires extinguished, and the corrupted bodies burned to ash, the scent of fire lingered like cloying incense .

Inside Elanthir Keep, the royal circle and the heads of the allied realms gathered in the great hall. The long table was laid for council rather than feast, no wine or music, just cups, low faelight, and serious faces.

Maeve sat beside Eiran, her hand wrapped in his beneath the table.

Orilan stood at the head, his long silver hair loose.

Across from him sat Hayvalaine, her posture sharp despite the exhaustion in her eyes.

Elenwe of Velthamar leaned back in her chair, silent and calculating, while the Veralis of Eldrisil, Hayvalaine’s father, sat narrow-eyed and tapping a finger slowly against his cup.

Taelin stood beside the map table, pointing to updated glyphs projected in the air above it. “The breach was targeted. The skeld were guided, they weren’t feral. They had formation and intent this time. They collapsed several buildings to cause injuries before attempting to multiply.”

“They had a commander,” Maeve said. “It wasn’t a fae, not anymore, but it was leading them. It could have been a hybrid. It seemed more present than the others.”

Orilan turned to her. “And you destroyed it?”

She nodded once. “The Chain told me where it was, and when to strike. It… ended all of them when I hit the rune.”

There was a weighted silence, before Yendel stepped forwards from the shadows near the hearth, his voice calm.

“The Chain has never been worn before,” he said. “It was forged as a memory holder, an anchor for truthful mafic. For generations it was kept in the pouch, inside the vault as a relic.”

He looked at Maeve.

“I believe, that now it has seen battle, shared memory and invoked protection, it’s power will grow. And with that so will yours, Maeve. The more you trust it, the more it will trust you.”

Maeve blinked. “It feels like… it wants something from me.”

Yendel nodded. “All true magic does, especially the old kind. It will not give without payment.”

Orilan studied her for a long moment. Then, quietly. “You have once again saved us, saved Melrathen.”

She met his eyes. “I didn’t do it alone.”

“No,” Orilan said. “But you stood where no one else could, you acted. ”

The others murmured their agreement. Hayvalaine reached for Maeve’s hand and Elenwe offered a nod, not warm, but respectful.

The tension broke slightly when the Veralis leaned forwards, eyebrows raised. “I must say, your thunder is formidable, Orilan. Coordinated, ruthless, and quick to the air. That formation they fell into, who commands them?”

“Xelaini,” Eiran said to his maternal grandfather.

“Ahh, the Nyxshade. A rare one.”

Taelin muttered. “Last of her kind.”

Orilan straightened, his tone changed, subtly stern.

“Speaking of dragons, I must address one final matter before we allow ourselves… reprieve.” His gaze turned sharp. “Laren.”

Fenric sat up a little straighter. Laren, seated beside Aeilanna with a cup of honeyed water and wine between her fingers, didn’t flinch, but her expression tightened just enough, posture lifting and jaw setting.

Orilan’s voice was calm, not cruel, but certainly pointed.

“You mounted an unpaired dragon without invitation. That is a deeply honoured law in Melrathen. One not taken lightly… some have died for much less.”

Laren inclined her head. “I understand, Uncle. However I don’t regret it.” Her voice was steady. “If it pleases the crown, I would like to formally pair with the dragon, and remain in Moraveth, permanently.”

Gasps rippled softly, Elenwe turned to her daughter, brow raised, but not disapprovingly, almost with amusement.

Orilan was quiet for a beat, then barked a laugh. “You say it now, but the dragon asked before you did.”

Elenwe cracked a smile.

Laren blinked. “What?”

“She chose you,” Orilan said simply. “Two weeks ago. She came to Virekhal very calmly, and said, ‘That one. The one who smells like honey and personality. She is mine.’ Do you think she would have let you mount her else?”

“What’s her name?” Hayvalaine asked.

“Iskarra,” Calen answered, smiling. “It means ‘strike in silence.’ She’s a Shadowglide. Quiet as snow fall, and utterly ruthless in the air. ”

“Well,” Laren said, smirking. “At least she has taste.”

Fenric clasped her hand, lifting it gently and pressing a kiss to her knuckles. “As do I.”

“It doesn’t sound like you’ll be very similar.” Branfil pouted. “You never bloody shut up.”

Taelin rose from his seat, lifting his goblet. “Enough council. Enough fire and war. We were meant to be celebrating a binding today.” He looked to Maeve and Eiran. “You still deserve your joy.”

With that servants entered with trays, wine, fruits, cheese, meats and warm bread.

Plates were passed, goblets filled. The lanterns brightened, music began to drift in from the side halls and the royal circle relaxed.

Calen and Soren were already shouting across the table, halfway through their third argument of the night.

“I killed twelve,” Calen announced, raising a cup like he was toasting his own ego.

“Bollocks, did you! You’re a fucking liar, Cal.” Soren barked.

Laren almost snorted wine through her nose. “Please, I had more kills than both of you combined, and I didn’t even break a sweat. You little princeling babies.”

Fenric leaned into her space, elbow on the table, lazy grin curling. “That’s because you’re perfect, and I would never dodge one of your arrows.”

“Shut up Fen!” Shouted Soren.

But Laren blinked at Fenric, genuinely thrown for half a second. “You say the sweetest shit when you’re drunk.”

“I’m not drunk, I’m just utterly… enchanted.” Fenric said with a smirk.

“Repulsive!” Chimed in Calen.

Then Branfil, always stoic, sensible and strategy-first picked up a bread roll and launched it across the table, nailing Calen in the chest with perfect aim.

“You did not, you big bastard!” Calen whispered.

Branfil shrugged. “You talk too much too.”

Calen stood dramatically. “That girl from the stables... Gwin? ”

Branfil’s cheeks reddened. “Don’t.”

“She told me how friendly you both were. Naughty Bran, not putting his full concentration into this war,” Calen teased with overexaggerated tutting.

Orilan and Taelin exchanged gleeful looks, shoulders shaking with barely contained laughter as Soren made exaggerated kissing noises.

“You little shits!” Branfil roared, and then all hell broke loose.

Bread rolls flew and Branfil got Calen in a headlock while Soren jumped on his back.

They wrestled him down, then began making ridiculous high-pitched noises, pretending to be Gwin.

Branfil rose like a great oak ripping from its roots, dragging both brothers up with him.

“Wankers!” he shouted, half laughing, half furious.

Calen and Soren wrestled him right back, play-fighting in full force.

“ FOR THE STABLES! ” Soren howled, jumping onto a bench.

“ FOR GWIN! ” Calen bellowed, throwing a cup.

Branfil was laughing now, full-throated and red-faced, hurling crackers like throwing stars.

Aeilanna leaned towards Hayvalaine, deadpan. “We should never have given them wine.”

Hayvalaine, smiling like a woman reborn, replied, “We should give them more.”

Maeve sat back beside Eiran, his arm resting over her chair, his eyes soft and bright with amusement.

“You saved a realm today, love,” he murmured, gaze on her. “And still managed to look good doing it. You in those bloody leathers.”

Maeve smirked. “You’re not bad yourself, dragon-boy.”