Page 86 of Heart Cradle (The Melrathen Saga #1)

They stepped into warm afternoon light, Maeve blinked at the brightness.

Elanthir Keep’s upper courtyard was bathed in the amber wash of mid-afternoon sun, long shadows stretching from the towers, spires and battlements across the flagstones.

Wind stirred the high banners overhead, but something in the air felt wrong.

Branfil murmured beside her. “Home again.”

Maeve wasn’t listening, something twisted inside her, an ache of disappointment. She turned slowly, scanning the courtyard. Eiran wasn’t here, his presence, which usually whirred at the edge of her senses like gravity, was still distant.

She pressed a hand to her chest. “Where is he?”

Yendel had already started towards the door. “The prince should be in with the war council,” he said over his shoulder.

Maeve didn’t move, the bond still felt stretched but not broken. Pulled taut like a rope straining to hold.

“Jeipier” she called through the thread, her mental voice edged with alarm.

“Maeve!” The young dragon’s mind flared in response, bright, panicked. “ I was going to find you. It’s Calen, he’s seriously hurt. Eiran’s gone to Maelinar Ridge, they were flying him in. Soren’s with him, spear wound. It’s bad, very bad.”

Maeve’s stomach bottomed out. “Fuck!”

Jeipier whimpered. “I don’t know everything! Just that Mother met them there. I’m almost at the barracks. I’ll tell you the second I hear more!”

She turned sharply. “Bran.”

“I know,” Branfil said grimly, already striding to her side. “Tharein just told me.”

They didn’t wait, no further words were needed.

They broke into a run towards the transport stone.

Bran grasped Maeve’s bare arm just she slammed her palm against the stone with a thwack and the world folded with light and air.

This time, she didn’t flinch as they emerged into the barracks courtyard, breath caught by the afternoon wind.

The scent of bodies and fire clung to the air, mingling with damp earth and the faint, metallic tang of blood.

Eiran was already there, stood off to the side of the main platform, spine straight, jaw tight and shoulders braced like they might collapse if he relaxed for a moment.

He was still in his ceremonial clothes, but they looked wrecked.

The front of his tunic was creased, sleeves shoved to his elbows, and the edges stained with blood.

He didn’t move, but his eyes snapped to hers like a lifeline.

Maeve strode straight to him, heart hammering, she grabbed his forearm and his skin was ice.

“Where is he?” she asked, breathless.

Eiran’s lips parted, but no sound came at first. His eyes were too wide, too empty.

“Inside,” he said finally, voice shredded and low. “He’s inside.”

“How bad?” Her voice cracked.

“He’s alive,” Eiran said, eyes not leaving hers. “Still with the healers. Mothers with him. They said he should pull through.”

Maeve let out a breath that nearly knocked her sideways. “Fuck. Fuck, okay… that’s good.”

Eiran didn’t relax. “He needs full internal reconstruction,” he went on, voice flat and surgical. “Two ribs shattered and a punctured lung. The spear clipped his spine.”

She cupped his jaw gently. “Eiran.”

“If Soren hadn’t been able to slow the bleed…” he broke off, swallowing hard.

“We’d have lost him,” Soren muttered behind them, his voice like a rusted saw. “I nearly did. I strapped him down and prayed to gods, and Brontis just… he flew like the hells were chasing us.”

Maeve turned and took Soren in. He looked like ruin, blood on his face, clothes and hair. Grief carved into the lines of his mouth. She crossed to him and wrapped her arms around his middle. He went rigid, then collapsed into it with a grunt, burying his face in her shoulder.

“I didn’t know what to do,” he choked. “He just, he wouldn’t stop bleeding.”

“You did everything,” Maeve whispered. “You got him back. ”

Branfil stepped forwards then, placing a hand on Soren’s shoulder. “And he’s still here because of you.”

Soren didn’t answer, just nodded once.

A sharp voice cut across the courtyard. “Good. You’re all here.” Orilan approached from the barracks archway, wrapped in a dark fur-lined mantle. His expression was unreadable, eyes flicking from Branfil, to Eiran, to Soren, to Maeve.

Taelin followed behind, jaw set, eyes sharp, nodding once in greeting and Maeve straightened instinctively.

“Hayvalaine won’t leave the room,” Taelin said.

Orilan stopped before them. “Venleo gave us the report, you moved fast. We’re grateful.”

Soren nodded, eyes on his boots.

Branfil bowed slightly. “We have just returned from the House of the Magicers. The moment we heard, we came.”

“And?” Orilan turned to Maeve now. “What did the Runekeepers say?”

Maeve felt Branfil glance at her, waiting. She stood taller. “The Chain connected to me, as I was near it and felt the bond between me and Eiran. It knew it could get home that way.”

Eiran’s head turned sharply. His expression fractured with emotion, throat moving as he swallowed it back, but Maeve kept going.

“They said I didn’t summon it, it didn’t choose me as such.

Just that it recognised my link to the Fae Lands.

It’s evolving with me, growing with me. It’s not a weapon, it’s a guardian. ”

“It speaks?” Orilan asked, quiet but grave.

“I feel it talk to me sometimes.” Maeve said. “The Runekeepers said... it will protect Melrathen. Even if that means protecting it from me.”

Taelin frowned at that but said nothing. Eiran reached for her hand again and she gripped his tightly.

“Then we trust its choice.” Then Orilan turned towards the map, projected in the air between braziers.

“All three missions were successful,” he said. “The bridge is ash. The relay stones are silent, transport stones are down, and all the scouts are dead. ”

Maeve glanced at Fenric, who gave a cocky little wink despite the shadows in his eyes. Laren stood beside him, one hand on his backside, looking like a deity of war in her tight leathers.

Orilan’s gaze moved to the map. “The Avelan legions are consolidating. Scouts place them near the eastern flats. We will strike before dawn.”

“Good,” Laren said, cracking her neck. “I’m getting bored.”

Branfil smirked faintly, voice dry. “Want me to find you more transport stones to sabotage so you can fly with Fenric again?”

“How did you know?” Laren snorted.

“The whole thunder is talking about it. Bloody dragons won’t stop gossiping.” Taelin shifted, pointedly glaring at Fenric. “Sky sex? Was that really necessary?”