Page 112 of Heart Cradle
“Outer wall breach. Small force, Avelan colours.”Rivakar’s inner voice pulsed with urgency.
Fenric relayed the information to Laren, and she said, “Go!” while knocking her bow.
They dove towards the city that still slept beneath them, blissfully unaware, but at the eastern gate, chaos reigned. A cluster of Avelan soldiers had breached the perimeter, overwhelming the posted guards. Their formation was tight and disciplined. It wasn’t a raid, it felt similar to a test, or perhaps the planned assassination attempt.
“Drop me on the wall,” Laren ordered. “I’ll pin them from above.”
Rivakar obeyed, and she dropped through the air, using magic to lessen the impact before crouching with utter grace. Fenric drew twin daggers etched with runes of impact, shadow and silence. “Don’t be a hero,” he called down.
“I’m not the one who thinks skin is sufficient armour!” she shot back.
He smiled, descending further, and then launched himself from Rivakar’s back, rolling to absorb the impact and disappearing into the haze of battle. The clash was sharp and brutal. Steel clanged, magic flashed, pulses of air, water and fire and shimmering wards igniting in bursts of runes and intention magic. Laren’s arrows found their marks with unerring precision, more runes flaring on contact. Rivakar’s flame rolled over the enemy like a tidal wave of molten dusk, hitting and splitting wards.
“Behind you,”the dragon warned.
Fenric pivoted, catching a blade with one dagger and driving the other into the soldier’s throat. He spun and rejoined Rivakar, who had circled low to block retreat. In under ten minutes, it was over. A dozen Avelan bodies littered the grass, smoke curling from scorched armour and ruined weapons. Laren jogged towards him, sweat-covered and radiant, her bow still in hand.
Before she could speak, wind thundered behind them and three dragons landed, Xelaini, Brontis, and Venleo flanking the devastation in a sudden rush of wings and presence. Eiran leapt down first, sword already in hand, eyes scanning the aftermath with a frantic edge.
“Are you all right?” he barked.
Fenric threw an arm around Laren’s shoulders. “Bit late, little Princeling. We handled it.”
Soren and Calen landed beside Eiran, swords unsheathed, breathing hard. “You could’ve saved us some fun, shithead” Soren muttered, kicking one of the fallen.
Laren rolled her eyes. “You can still help clean up.”
Eiran turned to the approaching city guard, his voice calm but edged with command. “Remove and burn the bodies before the city wakes.”
He turned to the dragons. “Xelaini and Brontis, can you assist with the fire?”
Both rumbled agreement, smoke already curling from their jaws.
Calen looked to Venleo.“Ven, can you help Rivakar back to the stables? His wing’s torn.”
“Of course,”Venleo replied.“He fought well.”
As the guards scrambled to obey and the dragons moved into place, the others began a slow walk back to the keep.
“I don’t like this,” Fenric said. “It was too organised, too precise for a probe.”
“They were testing something,” Laren agreed. “Maybe the dragon response time.”
Calen snorted. “Well, they found it.”
Eiran was quiet, thoughtful. Beside him, Fenric squeezed Laren’s hand. “Next time, let’s skip the sunrise hunting and stick to bedsheets.”
She smirked. “Oh no, next time I’ll be bringing more arrows.”
Chapter Fifty – The Fire That Waits
The fire’s glow cast long, flickering shadows across the carved stonework of Orilan’s study. Every line of the room spoke of old power. Deep bookshelves lined with leather-bound histories, tall windows now veiled in night, and the lingering scent of ink, parchment and oiled steel. A map of the Fae Lands rested on the central table, weighted at its corners by dragon-forged tokens, each one etched with the crests of realms, provinces, and houses.
Outside, Moraveth once again slept beneath a blanket of stars, but within the study, sleep was a foreign concept. Orilan sat reclined in his high-backed chair, one ankle crossed over the other, the firelight playing across the white in his hair and the polished glass in his hand. Dark fae whiskey glinted like molten amber, catching sparks from the flames. Taelin, sat upright and rigid beside him, sharp-edged and unreadable in the dimness. Across the hearth, Eiran leaned forwards in his chair, elbows on his knees, jaw set like stone. Orilan spoke first. His voice was calm, but it carried the cold steel of command. “Reports place Avelan units within spitting distance of the Galthorn border. Not just scouts anymore. Whole companies, some bearing banners.”
Taelin gave a slow nod. “We confirmed the crest this afternoon.”
Eiran frowned. “The snake?”
