Page 94 of Heart Cradle (The Melrathen Saga #1)

Blackspire rose like a blade from the frozen heart of Avelan, set deep in the mountain of the realm’s northernmost range, the palace was hewn from black stone that drank the light with jagged towers and twisted spires thrusting into the sky like broken spears.

Snow never settled on it’s surfaces. The heat of the dark magic within kept the stone warm to the touch, but the air around it remained bitter and dry, scoured by relentless winds.

Even in the height of summer, Blackspire stood buried in winter. Sheets of ice clung to the surrounding cliffs, and a constant veil of frost coiled in the air, thickening the silence. The landscape around it was stark, no trees, no birdsong, only wind, white and the endless groan of working mines.

Inside, despite the magic, it was no warmer.

The corridors were long and sharp-edged, lit by cold flame sconces that burned grim and blue.

Iron doors, dark banners, and bone-inlaid stone adorned the halls.

The throne room itself was carved into the mountain’s inner face, with towering windows of obsidian glass that showed nothing but snow.

The deeper one walked into Blackspire, the more the magic thickened, a greasy presence that hummed low, like something ancient was still breathing beneath the stone.

Blackspire was not made to be beautiful, it was made to endure, to withstand, and like its master, it had never once bowed to light.

The war chamber stank of burnt, rancid oil, heat bleeding through the stone like poison.

Vargen stood with his back to the fire, watching it’s reflection dance across the black floor.

His pale skin aglow, he was bare-armed wearing black leathers, muscle cut hard along his frame and black hair fell over one shoulder like a long dash of spilled ink.

His green eyes gleamed, sharp, unblinking and utterly without mercy.

He was beautiful in the way the tide was, always there, always pulling, and still capable of drowning you before you realise you’re in too deep.

That’s what Aeilanna had thought, once. When they were betrothed, before she saw the truth.

He’d spoken her name like it was already his, held her hand like he was sealing a promise.

Then he vanished her from the world, declared her dead, held her in stone, and had her beaten and magic pulled from her.

He never touched her himself, but he’d watched, and when she screamed and begged, he’d listened.

Behind him, flames cracked like bones, his niece Petra and the three warlords who formed part of his Pale Court waited .

Petra sat unbothered, staring at the back of her uncle, the man the world feared, cursed, and whispered about like a plague in fae skin.

But to her, he was simply Uncle. The only one who had ever held her as a child, taught her the language of knives and diplomacy in equal breath, and made her heir not out of duty, but belief.

He had only ever treated her well. Lavished her with knowledge and gifts, not out of sentiment, but a kind of obsessive pride.

Where others saw a monster, Petra saw the man who had shaped her, meticulously and relentlessly, into something the world would never be ready for.

Her beauty was the kind that didn’t beg attention, but commanded silence.

Hair black as crow-feather fell in a curtain down her back, always immaculate, always still unless she willed it to move.

Her skin was moon-pale, almost luminous in shadow, not frail, but sharp, like polished bone or the edge of a glass dagger.

Her eyes were the true warning, the colour of candlelight passing through smoke, flickering silver and grey and unreadable.

The others sat, awkwardly, as if awaiting sentencing.

Gorrath, orc-blooded and blunt-fanged, with shoulders like siege towers and burn scars lacing his throat.

He was brutal, known for cruelty, malice and hate.

Vrel, hybrid-born, folded wings like velvet death, bat-tiger grace and yellow eyes that never blinked.

His presence alone brought fear and despair.

Opposite them Maldrin, the necromancer, sat thin as wire, face veiled, fingers always stained with blood and grime.

His magic whispered through bone, spreading loathing wherever he travelled.

They’d been summoned for answers, and none had any.

“I’m told that she wears it constantly,” Petra said flatly. “Day and night, it glows and thrums. The Chain does not leave her wrist.”

Maldrin shifted. “That’s not... that’s not how it worked before. They always had it stored in a vault”

“No.” Vargen’s voice was glass-smooth. “Before, it was a relic. A symbol, now it’s a living fucking extension of her.”

Gorrath snorted. “Maybe it’s binding her, leashing her.”

Vrel tilted his head. “Or choosing her.”

“She’s human,” Gorrath growled. “It’s a fae artefact, the thing shouldn’t even respond to her, hopefully it kills her.”

“Yes, she shouldn’t still be alive,” Maldrin muttered. “And yet...”

Vargen moved away from the fire. “Most of the scouts are gone,” he said. “Skelds have no fucking impact. Jenveld is missing. Forty-five thousand soldiers, obliterated. The meeting area has been cleansed, not even a scorch mark.”

“No trace?” Petra asked.

“None,” Maldrin said. “Branched wards, intent-magic wipe. They’ve copied our techniques from the villages.”

Gorrath grunted. “Fuck, it must be the Spellweaver.”

“Is it?” Vargen asked, voice dangerous. “Or is it the royals and those bloody dragons!”

Vrel’s claws tapped once. Twice. “The Chain is active. It doesn’t pulse as before, it’s holding. Constantly.”

“Feeding her?” Maldrin asked. “Or following her?”

“We should have struck Elanthir,” Gorrath muttered. “When we still had Davmon. When we still had a chance to break them.”

Petra’s eyes turned to ice. “Davmon is dead.”

“No proof of that,” Maldrin said quickly. “Just silence, maybe he’s being held.”

“Maybe he ran like his sister, that cunt should’ve been Chained when we had her. You should’ve bound Aeilanna too.” Gorrath spat. “Made the treaty binding, been gifted a dragon. Killed your way to the throne, kept Melrathen from slipping…”

He didn’t finish.

Vargen moved. One hand shot out, smooth and unhurried, pressing flat over Gorrath’s mouth.

Magic poured from his palm, black, tar-like, pulsing slow and thick like blood that had curdled in the dark.

Gorrath stiffened. His back arched and his eyes bulged wide, whites swallowed by spreading black as the magic burrowed into his skull.

Veins swelled around them, fat and unnatural.

His throat swelled, fingers clawed uselessly at Vargen’s wrist, nails cracking and skin blistering at the edges.

Vargen leaned in, voice soft, intimate. “I will not be corrected by a filthy fucking creature like you.”

The orc gurgled against the magic, blood foamed between his teeth.

When Vargen finally released him, Gorrath dropped, gasping, his face blistered and streaked with black.

He staggered, eyes still swollen, sightless, but trying to breathe.

Gorrath was coughing smoke and barely made it two paces before Vargen seized him by the collar throwing him to the floor .

“Correct yourself Orc, now!” Vargen growled.

Gorrath breathed. “Get fucked!“

Vargen snarled and then threw Gorrath into the fire and his scream tore the chamber open, the others did not react and the flames did the rest. When Vargen turned back, his voice was quiet. Even. “Anyone else with insight into my political failings?”

Maldrin bowed his head, Petra smiled and Vrel lowered his wings.

After a beat, Petra said softly, “If she wears it constantly, we don’t know it’s capabilities. She already ended the skeld.”

Maldrin added, “We knew the Chain could guide, but to tie like this… to stay…”

“She’s not just a bearer,” Vrel murmured. “She could be a conduit, maybe becoming something else.”

Vargen stood still, letting the heat of the burning body brush his spine. He smiled, slow and sharp. “Let her glow, let her shine. The brighter the flame, the more glorious the guttering dark.”