Page 143 of Heart Cradle
Taelin raised his cup, eyes dancing. “To every fool who helped us.”
“Mostly me,” Ghaul muttered.
Soren finally snorted, but beneath the laughter, the weight of what came before and next sat heavy. It was also etched in every other tensed jaw, the glint of sharpened weapons stacked near the door, and the quiet glances towards the healer’s hall where Calen slept, still unconscious.
They would fight at dawn, and no one intended to come back with the matter unfinished.
General Kareth leant forwards, elbows braced on the table. “As charming as all this is, some of us still have a war to plan. My scouts say Avelan’s legions are still split by their own supply wagons. If we strike before first light, we catch the second wake in their cots.”
“Or hungover,” Fenric said. “Which I deeply respect.”
“Minimal casualties if we’re quick,” Elenwe said from further down the table. “Our illusion casters are preparing a shadow veil. The thunder flies under cover until the last moment.”
“We still have the edge,” Branfil added. “Their relay and regional transport network is crippled. They’re deaf east of the stone hills, they don’t know we’ll be there.”
Rinya leaned back. “I’ll have my tide-riders loop from the riverside. Cause some chaos on the flanks, maybe set a few tents on fire for good luck.”
“You’re volunteering for the loud and messy job?” Maeve asked.
“Always,” Rinya said. “The prettier jobs are taken by the… males.”
“Xelaini will take point on the hammer,” Eiran added. “The thunder will fall behind her.”
Aeilanna tapped her knuckles on the table. “And Solirra and Hervour will lead the side strikes, we’re already synced.”
Orilan nodded once. “Dawn strike. Three wings. Silent until it isn’t. We crush the outer lines, trap the core. There will be no way out.”
Maeve stared at the flickering projection, golden runes forming into sweeping paths of attack, one was already marked.Orilan’s gaze swept the room. “You’ve all done what you were brought here to do. The snakes have been scattered, now we must stomp the nest.”
There were nods, some solemn, some sharp and Fenric raised his goblet again. “To Calen, and all the bastards who’ll pay for his blood.”
Soren lifted his mug, eyes burning. “To making them choke on it.”
They all drank, and the wine burned down Maeve’s throat as she set the cup down, hand trembling slightly.
Eiran leaned in, his voice barely a whisper. “Talk to me love.”
She didn’t look at him. Just kept watching the map. “I’ve killed before,” she murmured. “At the prison, the southern gate, the other skirmishes. But this... this is different.”
He waited.
“It’s not desperation,” she continued. “It’s premeditated. We’re planning who to kill and where to make the bodies fall. And I get it, I do.But it feels too clean, too much like playing God.”
Eiran reached beneath the table and took her hand, lacing their fingers together, always trying to ground her.
“And it feels like a goodbye,” Maeve whispered. “I don’t want it to, but it does.”
His voice was low and rough. “It’s not.”
“Eiran, you don’t know that.” One tear trailing down her cheek.
“No, but I believe it and that has to be enough right now.”
She finally looked at him. “Promise me,” she said. “Promise me you’ll choose us. Every time.”
He kissed the back of her hand. “Always, love.”
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