Page 88 of Heart Cradle (The Melrathen Saga #1)
The first horn sounded before the sun touched the horizon, it echoed through the stone walls of Maelinar Ridge, deep and undeniable.
Maeve stood in the dark inner courtyard, breath white in the predawn air, her hand clenched tight around the buckle of her flight straps.
Her pulse hammered behind her ribs, steady, insistent and louder than the horn that had just sounded.
Every breath she took felt too loud, too sharp, like her body hadn’t caught up to what was coming.
Behind her, Jeipier shifted with nervous energy, claws scraping shallow grooves into the stone. His wings flexed and retracted in restless pulses, the leathery membranes catching the torchlight in dull flashes. He didn’t speak, he didn’t need to. Every part of him was braced for flight.
Around them, the keep surged with motion.
It was still dark but large floating faelights illuminated the controlled chaos on the ground.
Shouted orders echoed from every corner.
Armour clattered, as blades were checked, re-checked, strapped tight to backs and hips.
Fae moved fast but not frantically, this wasn’t panic, it was practiced precision.
The quiet discipline of people who knew exactly what kind of hell they were about to walk into.
Archers sorted quivers, casters lined up behind them, runes already glowing faintly on palms and wrists.
Bladeshields stood shoulder-to-shoulder in thick formation, silent and stone-faced.
Warhealers moved between them all with glowing satchels and white-marked lilac cloaks, murmuring incantations, checking sigils and tracing protection glyphs on exposed skin.
Flags snapped overhead as realm crests were raised into position, each one stark against the black sky.
The mountain-ringed hammer of Armathen. The spiral crest of Eldrisil.
The veiled branch of Edhenvale. The tide-crest of the Storm Coasts, and at the centre of the courtyard, above it all.
Melrathen’s standard, the dragon-wreathed heart, rippling gold and emerald in the wind.
From the northern gate came more resonant calls of war horns, deep and layered, like mountains shifting.
The ground trembled under the hooves of the Fayean horn-striders, Ghaul’s warriors from the Glimmerhold.
Towering half-beasts, all spiral antlers, luminous inked skin, and jewel-dusted horns.
They moved in formation with effortless, terrifying grace.
At their head rode Ghaul himself, gleaming and grinning, one elegant hand in a mocking salute towards the high banners.
“On time and under the influence,” Fenric muttered, watching from the courtyard with something like admiration. “That’s a proper fucking entrance.”
Above them, the sky was already alive. Dragons circled overhead like a storm system waiting to break.
Vast shapes of muscle, scale and breathless magic, blightscales with jagged wings and acidic shine, emberwicks that glowed like hearth coals, frostmarrows pale as bone and thunderwings with crackling air trailing behind them.
They flew in shifting patterns, some banking low over the battlements, others perched in place, tails lashing, ready.
There was none of the usual draconic posturing, just the kind of readiness that said death was coming, and they would meet it first.
Eiran appeared, checking the saddle on Xelaini with grim efficiency. His face was relaxed, but Maeve could feel the frenzied emotions simmering beneath, the way his magic coiled tight around his bones like it was waiting to be unleashed.
“You ready?” he asked, without looking up.
“No,” she said honestly. “Shitting myself.”
Eiran smiled, faint and fierce. “Then you’re ready enough, love.”
Branfil mounted Tharein with the ease of a seasoned flier, issuing quiet orders to a nearby relay team.
Fenric tossed Laren a satchel of disruption runes, and she caught them without looking.
Aeilanna and Nolenne mounted in perfect sync, Solirra and Hervour standing shoulder to shoulder like twin demons ready to pounce.
Calen’s absence was a weight none of them spoke aloud, they all felt it, Soren in particular. Who walked silently towards Brontis, his axe slung across his back, eyes unreadable.
Maeve climbed into Jeipier’s saddle, fingers tightening on the leather straps. He shifted beneath her, trembling, not from fear, but from sheer readiness.
“We’re really doing this,” he whispered into her mind.
“Yes Jei,” she replied, her voice steadier than she felt. “ We are and it will be fine.”
Taelin stood at the front of the launch ridge, armour glinting like polished onyx flecked with golden etchings. He raised one arm, and the wind stilled .
“Melrathen,” he called, his voice like cracked stone, amplified by intention, “and all who stand beside her, this is the moment. The Avelan legions gather beneath us like rotting fruit, ordered to cause destruction by Vargen and his Pale Court. We will strike before the light hits their tents. To burn and to shield!”
The second horn blew, and the sky came alive.
Dragons leapt from every perch, wings exploding outward in arcs of power.
The wind howled as the entirety of the thunder took to the air, hundreds upon hundreds of dragons in synchronised ascent.
Riders clung tight, weapons drawn and magic primed.
Jeipier launched with a shout of joy and a jolt of wind beneath Maeve’s boots.
They soared into formation, Eiran just ahead on Xelaini, Fenric and Laren, both on Rivakar to her right, Nolenne and Aeilanna flanking left.
Behind them came the second wave, screivens carrying heavier units and support casters, and behind them, the storm-breakers, sea riders, archmages and highflame units.
Within thirty minutes they would meet their fate, and they all prayed the gods were with them.