Page 116 of Heart Cradle
Fenric and Laren spent more time together, sometimes spotted on the upper walkways mid-tryst, sometimes vanishing for hours and returning flushed and rumpled. No one commented after Calen joked about it once and was nearly stabbed.
One evening, they joined Eiran and Maeve at a tavern tucked beneath the ivy-wrapped arches of the merchant square. The place was already rowdy, full of off-duty guards, spell runners, and a few foreign emissaries nursing spiced mead.
Laren was nearly thrown out after climbing onto a table during a bard’s set and performing what could generously be called a dance. When the tavern keeper stormed over, she pointed at a towering Fayean horn-strider in the corner, easily eight feet tall, with spiral antlers and luminous tattooed skin, and declared, “I was just trying to make eye contact, that big bastard’s been dodging me all night.”
Fenric looked at her like she’d invented trouble. “That’s my girl,” he said to no one in particular.
The horn-strider bought the next round and Laren won the drinking game. He introduced himself with a sweeping bow as Ghaul of the Glimmerhold, and ended up staying at their table most of the night. He was charming in a slightly menacing way, light blue skin, jewel-dusted horns, and a laugh like splintering wood. He flirted shamelessly with everyone, especially Fenric, who only grinned and looped an arm around Laren’s shoulders like a man daring the gods.
“Are all Velthamar females this feral?” Ghaul asked at one point, watching Laren flip a dagger into a beam above their table and catch it without blinking.
“No,” Eiran replied dryly, “just the interesting ones.”
Laren grinned, then leaned in to whisper something in Ghaul’s ear that made him visibly shiver. What she said remained a mystery, Maeve refused to ask.
Later, a barfight broke out over a spilled drink and an insult about someone’s father. Laren and Fenric didn’t start it, but they absolutely finished it. Laren vaulted over a bench and tackled a drunken sailor from the Storm Isles, while Fenric disarmed two brawlers using the sailor’s own carved wooden leg which had somehow come off in the scuffle. By the timethe city watch arrived, Ghaul was calmly playing cards with a group of soot-furred spell runners and Fenric and Laren were tangled together in the corner, bruised and breathless, grinning like wolves. Laren’s hair was a mess, her lip bloodied and Fenric’s shirt was missing entirely.
The next morning, Taelin entered the war room with the grim expression of a man who had already had to read the letter twice. He held out a parchment sealed in iridescent blues and silvers.
“It’s from my old friend Ghaul,” he said, tone flat. “Apparently, last night made an impression.”
He cleared his throat and read aloud, “On behalf of the Eldrisilian Glimmerhold, I hereby pledge the strength of the Fayean horn-striders to your cause. Fifteen thousand of us ruthless, big barbarian bastards. Yours in grace and mildly inebriated diplomacy, Ghaul of the Glimmerhold. P.S. Fuck Vargen.”
Taelin locked eyes with Laren and said, without emotion, “I don’t want to know.”
“Told you she’d start recruiting by accident,” Branfil said without looking up.
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Nolenne trained constantly and Hervour shadowed her like a living shield. But beneath every strike, every perfect parry, there was a quiet, weighted sorrow. Only Aeilanna saw her weep, but everyone felt it in the stillness after drills and in the way she stared too long at the horizon. She didn’t speak of Davmon, not aloud, but she carried the truth of him like a scar inside her. The brother who had once protected her when she fled, barefoot and burning with shame. He’d guarded her even then, even as she left him behind. In the end, she’d been forced to watch him die, just as she had the rest of her family.
Aeilanna knew better than to offer platitudes. She trained beside her, blade to blade, sorrow to sorrow, but her quiet devotion extended beyond the daylight hours. At night, when the torment rose sharp and bitter, she curled around Nolenne in silence. She used her spellweaver magic to not remove the pain, but to dull it, to quiet the jagged edge of guilt, and soften the ache of grief just enough for Nolenne to breathe again. She touched her face like it was still sacred, whispered her name like a song and held her through the storm.
Love, for them, had always been forged in fire, and now it endured in embers.
Elsewhere, Aeilanna, Fenric and Hayvalaine spent long hours coordinating magical logistics, ward expansions, transport routes and healing supply chains. With Aeilanna’s spellweaving, they reinforced citywide protection sigils, stabilised long-distance transport stones, and enchanted field medics for rapid recovery deployment. The Runekeepers worked in tandem, carving layered protections into the realm’s stonework and etching defensive sigils into armour, gates, and sky-sentry platforms.
Branfil worked directly with Orilan on provisioning and the defences of the outer realms, managing trade lines, siege reserves, and diplomatic messaging to allied borders.
Soren and Calen, as usual, were everywhere at once. Training, patrolling, arguing with Taelin, and organising mock combat tournaments for the younger soldiers, which, somehow, boosted morale and injuries in equal measure.
The Keep itself changed, more guests arrived. Noble houses aligned with Melrathen began sending representatives, courtiers, advisors, and military leaders from Eldrisil, Armathen, the Storm Coasts, Edhenvale and the Velthamar line took residence in temporary wings. The dragons of the thunder, unpaired but loyal, flew regular defensive patrols now, their presence a clear deterrent to any enemy watching from afar. No one but Melrathian royals rode upon a dragon. None ever would, that tradition held firm. But the thunder answered to Xelaini, and she answered only to Virekhal, the King’s formidable Frostbound dragon. He would not leave Orilan’s side for long, but when he took flight over the capital, the city fell quiet, he was seen as an omen.
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Through it all, the binding ceremony loomed. The Keep’s staff began preparations in the second week. Seamstresses came and went. Moonflowers were planted in the southern garden. Crystalline lanterns were suspended from the great hall ceiling. Three days before the ceremony, Hayvalaine took Maeve aside. The conversation was private and no one knew what was said.
The realm was preparing to watch the future king bind his mate, not just in love, but in chosen power. In a union blessed by the gods, a sacred rite that would set the tone for Melrathen’s future. The fact that she had come from beyond the Fae Lands and still choose to stand beside him was something even their enemies whispered about.
Chapter Fifty-Three – The Night Before
The corridors weren’t silent, but close to it. Each step clipped against the stone, too loud in the hush, it felt like even walking wrong might give her away. Maeve’s palms were damp, not quite panic, she didn’t suffer as once had, just the old instinct twitching beneath the surface. The one that had once made her want to disappear, to vanish into her own skin and run, not from danger, but from herself. She hadn’t felt that way in a while, not fully. Something had changed, maybe it was the training, the magic or Jeipier’s steady warmth in her mind. Maybe it was Eiran. Or maybe just the fact that Elanthir Keep was nothing like London.
Still, she’d worn trousers tonight. Tailored dark blue velvet, cut to her shape but strong, paired with a flowing black blouse and low heels. The seamstress had disapproved, called it inappropriate for a high-profile diplomatic event, but Maeve hadn’t been able to stomach a dress. Not tonight, not when the hall ahead held every realm leader, every commander, every pair of eyes. The trousers soothed her, they gave her the option, however ridiculous, of bolting if she needed to.
Eiran walked beside her, his suit a dark indigo so deep it almost disappeared into the shadows. No embellishments, just clean lines. It matched her, intentionally or not, and the effect made her chest ache. He looked like midnight distilled into a man. He was so calm, so certain and so beautiful, yet he reached for her hand, as if he required the contact.
“Are you breathing?” he asked softly.
