Page 141 of Heart Cradle
“It speaks?” Orilan asked, quiet but grave.
“I feel it talk to me sometimes.” Maeve said. “The Runekeepers said... it will protect Melrathen. Even if that means protecting it from me.”
Taelin frowned at that but said nothing. Eiran reached for her hand again and she gripped his tightly.
“Then we trust its choice.” Then Orilan turned towards the map, projected in the air between braziers.
“All three missions were successful,” he said. “The bridge is ash. The relay stones are silent, transport stones are down, and all the scouts are dead.”
Maeve glanced at Fenric, who gave a cocky little wink despite the shadows in his eyes. Laren stood beside him, one hand on his backside, looking like a deity of war in her tight leathers.
Orilan’s gaze moved to the map. “The Avelan legions are consolidating. Scouts place them near the eastern flats. We will strike before dawn.”
“Good,” Laren said, cracking her neck. “I’m getting bored.”
Branfil smirked faintly, voice dry. “Want me to find you more transport stones to sabotage so you can fly with Fenric again?”
“How did you know?” Laren snorted.
“The whole thunder is talking about it. Bloody dragons won’t stop gossiping.” Taelin shifted, pointedly glaring at Fenric. “Sky sex? Was that really necessary?”
Chapter Sixty-Five – No Farewell
The war hall at Maelinar Ridge wasn’t built for comfort, but tonight it was full. Long tables stretched the length of the chamber, lined with platters of roasted meat, thick bread, and sharp cheese. Bottles of plum wine and dark ale were scattered like fallen weapons between maps and rune-carved tokens, the air smelled of food, sweat, and ale.
Maeve sat with Eiran on one side, Branfil across from them, the rest of the royal circle flanking down. Soren, silent and grim, Aeilanna and Nolenne once again, whispering close at the far end. Laren leaning back, legs spread, wine in hand, grinning like a fox who’d just mauled a chicken, Fenric gazing at her as if he were the chicken. Beside him, Taelin sipped dark liquor and pretended he wasn’t listening.
Jeipier was curled outside the barracks wall, breathing faintly through the bond, a warm presence against the chill rising in Maeve’s bones. Orilan stood at the head of the table, cloaked in black and slate-grey leathers, one hand resting on the corner of a projected map rune that flickered in the firelight. They were reviewing the final strategy, and drinking, a lot. Maeve frowned as Fenric poured himself another heavy splash of wine, then, very theatrically, refilled Laren’s with a wink and a wiggle of his eyebrows.
“I’m sorry.” Maeve said, voice dry, “Are we celebrating or preparing to die?”
“Both,” Fenric said brightly.
Laren chimed in, raising her glass. “To death!”
“You’re all fucking mad,” Maeve muttered.
“It is customary, Princess Maeve,” Fenric said, dragging his hair over one shoulder like he was preparing to be crowned or executed. “We drink before battle.”
Maeve raised a brow. “And what’s the sacred logic behind this tradition?”
Fenric held up his goblet. “Because if I’m going to die horribly tomorrow, I’d like to go down with something warm on my tongue and a beautiful woman on my lap.”
Laren snorted. “You already got one of those midair, didn’t you?”
Maeve blinked. “Wait you actually had sky sex, the dragons weren’t joking?”
“She insisted,” Fenric said proudly, pointing at Laren. “On a fucking dragon, mid-flight.”
“She must have been bored,” Branfil deadpanned.
“Hmmm, I was efficient,” Laren said. “Two birds, one cock.”
Eiran choked on his wine, Taelin winced, and Maeve cackled. “That’s the title of your memoir, surely.”
Orilan didn’t look up from the map. “Some of my best fighting,” he said dryly, “was done with a hangover.”
“You fought the entire Siege of Merroth on plum wine and arrogance,” Taelin muttered.
