Page 10 of Heart Cradle
“There are species unlike humans. I am fae, there are others in my world. My realm is called Melrathen,” he began, voice softer now. “In the old tongue, it means Heart Cradle. It’s the central realm of the Fae Lands and it used to be the lifeblood of magic across the world. Balanced, strong… alive.”
“And now?”
“It’s beginning to fade,” he admitted. “Since the Chain was lost, the realm’s magic has somewhat thinned. We’re seeing it in the land, the creatures and the fae themselves. Births are becoming rare, magic sometimes falters. Things that once responded with the lightest touch of thought now sometimes demand blood and bone.”
Maeve frowned, her fingers brushing the Chain absentmindedly. “This thing was that important?”
“Not a thing, love,” he said. “It’s called the Chain. It’s woven with intention. It carried the vows of my ancestors, the promise to protect the realm and all those beyond it. It didn’t just contain magic, it helped shape it. Keep it honest, true. It doesn’t matter which realm it is kept but it must be kept in the Fae Lands to do all of that.”
They were losing the sun behind the high-arched buildings, leaving the narrow street cool and muted in its wake. The heat of the main square still clung to their clothes, but the shade there was gentle. They paused infront of the same café she'd stumbled into that morning, when everything had felt different, before magical dynasties, sacred artifacts and mate bonds.
Maeve dropped into the nearest chair like her spine had simply failed. She didn’t so much sit as collapse gracefully, if grace could be defined by the sound of a long, slow exhale and a muttered, “fuck this day.”
The waiter approached with the same too-bright smile he'd worn earlier, like he hadn't noticed the shift in the planet's gravitational pull since then. Maeve gave him a flat, deadpan stare, he blinked and she ordered two black coffees. Eiran settled into the seat across from her with infuriating composure, as though he hadn’t just casually admitted he was in line to a magical kingdom rapidly circling the drain. His posture was perfect, sleeves rolled precisely and, not a single hair out of place. Maeve wanted to shake him, or kiss him, maybe both.
He looked at her with that unreadable expression of his, equal parts amused and concerned. “Well,” he said, “at least now you know why I don’t get invited to many diplomatic brunches.”
Maeve rubbed her temple. “Eiran, you told me your entire country might be on fire.”
He tilted his head. “Realm, and it’s not on fire, just… strategically smouldering.”
She groaned and let her head knock against the back of the chair. The waiter returned with their coffees, and they lapsed into silence, the kind shared only by people who had run out of adrenaline and sarcasm in the same hour. Birds called in the distance, the scent of the sea, coffee and sun-warmed stone drifted through the narrow street.
“How exactly did ‘the Chain’ end up in a street seller’s stall in Portugal?”
His jaw tensed. “I don’t know, is the honest answer. During the war, we tried to end the conflict with Avelan, another realm, by arranging a marriage. My sister was betrothed to their ruler, Vargen. But the night before the agreement was meant to be sealed, everything fell apart. We fought, the Chain vanished and my sister disappeared. The war ended in fire and death. Nobody won.”
Maeve stilled. “I’m sorry.”
He just nodded. “We haven’t spoken her name in a long time.”
Maeve wrapped her hands around the coffee cup, stilling herself with the heat. The day was hot but she felt cold all the way to her bones, to her soul. “And your family?” she asked. “You said they rule?”
Eiran’s expression warmed. “My grandfather is King Orilan. Towering, stubborn, and terrifying in a quiet sort of way. My mother, Hayvalaine, is the light in any room, don’t let that distract you from the fact she could disarm a court full of nobles with a single sentence. And my father, Taelin… let’s just say reasonably terrifying runs in the family.”
Maeve lifted a brow. “Do you have any other siblings?”
That made him grin, full teeth, full mischief. “Four brothers. All younger, obviously. Though not by much. The younger three look like me. I know, lucky bastards.”
“That sounds lovely,” Maeve said. “To have so many.”
Eiran feigned exasperation. “Hmm, they’re annoying in their own uniquely committed ways.”
“Doesn’t sound like you at all.” Maeve sipped her coffee, watching him over the rim. “Go on.”
“Branfil’s just under a year younger. His mother died when he was a baby and my father promised to raise him after his own was killed in a border skirmish. Bran’s the most mature of us. Completely unstoppable, built like a rhino and has the same temperament, too.”
Maeve didn’t answer right away. Just watched him, this beautiful, ridiculous man, with something unreadable in her eyes.
“Soren’s the eldest of my brothers through blood,” Eiran continued, resting his chin on his hand. “Tactical. Quiet, most of the time. Absolutely feral warrior, could outfight a tiger. Always ten steps ahead, unless emotions are involved, then he will balls it up spectacularly. He has the energy of a brooding poet and courts like one too.”
Maeve smirked. “Sounds intense.”
“Oh, he is,” Eiran said dryly. “Then there’s Calen. Middle brother. Rogue to the bone. He’s got a grin that always gets him out of trouble and five knives hidden in places that defy logic and, he’s quick as a whip. I’m also fairly sure he lies recreationally. Tragically romantic too, would woo a gravemire if it smiled first.”
Maeve huffed a laugh. “Charming!”
“I’ll take that as a warning.” Eiran gave her a sidelong look, that shifted into a lopsided grin. “And then there’s Fenric. Youngest. Loudest. Chaos wrapped in charm and about as subtle as a lightning strike. He once leapt off a balcony because someone said he couldn’t land it, and he did.Shattered his ankle, grinned the whole way down like he’d just invented flight.”
