Page 151 of Heart Cradle
Melrathian and Eldrisilian’s sky scouts rose again, smaller screivens and veiled drakes darting between smouldering watchtowers and ash-laced trees. Eiran gathered himself and began barking commands to the magicers. Caster teams moved in methodically, laying fresh runes of silence, concealment, and removal. Blood was cleaned from stone, corpses were stacked in veiled trenches. Evidence was scoured, bodies removed, and enchantments scrubbed.
The battlefield would vanish. There would be no trace of this ambush, only an echo in the wind, a ghost story in Avelan camps. One more legion gone.
No survivors and no sign of how.
Chapter Sixty-Nine – My Son
The healers had whispered that the damage wasn’t mortal, that Draeven had kept Taelin alive and Orilan had stepped out of the room, face carved in steel and found them waiting. Eiran was there first. Blood-crusted still, with Maeve at his shoulder. Fenric and Laren, Aeilanna, Nolenne, Soren and Branfil, all of them holding the silence like a fragile thing.
“He lives,” Orilan said. Nothing more, just that.
The effect was instant. Eiran staggered a step backward like he'd been struck, jaw slack, eyes blinking hard and fast. Maeve’s breath caught audibly, her hand flying to her mouth. Laren gave a sharp sob and gripped Fenric’s arm. Branfil made a sound too broken to be named and turned away, grasping Fenric’s other arm. Aeilanna just dropped to her knees and wept, and Soren didn’t speak, he simply stepped forward and pressed his forehead to his grandfather’s shoulder. The sound of their relief stripped the strength from Orilan’s spine, stole the cold from his voice and left only the man beneath the crown. He didn’t cry, but something deep inside him cracked, quietly. Because in their grief, he had held them. In their rage, he had led them. But in their relief, in the sudden, overwhelming wave of hope, he felt the full weight of what it had nearly cost.
He went back to Taelin's side when they dispersed. The fire had burned low hours ago. Someone had added a log and stoked it, but Orilan hadn’t noticed who. He hadn’t moved since he had arrived and he sat like stone in the chair beside the bed, hand wrapped gently around his son’s, fingers broad and steady despite the tremor in his grip.
Taelin had not stirred. There was no bond between them, no magic, just blood and love, and that made this harder, because Orilan had no flicker to tell him his son lived. Only the breath, so faint, rising and falling beneath the crisp white linen.
He’d been with Aeilira, Taelin’s mother, when she had died, holding her hand. The birthing chamber had been quiet, but not peaceful. There had been too much blood, too many worried glances between the healers and the air had tasted of copper and panic. Cira was only an apprentice then, her and her mistress unable to staunch the blood. Orilan had knelt at Aeilira’s side and had pleaded with the gods, offered them anything, even his life for hers, but they did not answer. He clutched her hand in his, not as a king, but as a bound male who could feel his world slipping and she had smiled through the pain and the fear.
“He’s finally here,” she whispered, voice hoarse with wonder. “He’s perfect.”
The head healer, Ventra, had placed the infant in her arms. So small and swaddled tight. His cries were already quieting, stilled by her warmth and his mother’s heartbeat.
She run her thumb across his cheek. “He has your mouth,” she said. “And my eyes.”
Orilan had choked on tears and pressed his lips to her forehead. “You’ll be fine, just breathe. We’ve got him, we’ve got time.”
But she had known, she’d known the moment her breath began to slow. “You’ll raise him,” she said softly. “With love, not duty. Make him strong but let him feel. Let him cry and don’t be hard Ori, please.”
Her fingers had tightened around his, as Taelin was taken to the wet nurse. “Let him laugh.”
He had nodded, barely able to breathe. “I swear it Lira, but please stay, please…”
“Ori,” she added, a flicker of her old fire dancing one last time in her eyes. “Don’t let the crown raise him. You must.”
He laid another kiss to her forehead and nodded. Then she’d exhaled one last breath, and her hand went slack in his. Orilan, King of Melrathen, ruler of the central realm, had broken like a man with nothing. He had wept, had let Ventra and Cira see him fall apart, let the gods see him curse the sky. He had stood and taken his crying newborn son in his arms, with tears still hot on his cheeks, and held him against his chest and whispered, again and again. “You’re safe. I’ve got you, my son.”
He promised Aeilira that he would be loved, cherished and taught honour, not just expectation. He had done just that. Not as a king, but as a father, he fed him as an infant and he’d walked the halls of Elanthir with a baby cradled in his arms, holding court with a sleeping bundle beneath his cloak.
Taelin was given Draeven when he was three, he was so proud, and he asked Virekhal to guard him in the thunder. When he was six, they’d flown together for the first time, both dragons diving, both father and son whooping. When Taelin was ten, Orilan had sat cross-legged on the floor to build model a fortress from river stones, Taelin explaining the intricacies of fortress sieges. When he cried at thirteen over a skinned elbow, Orilan never told him to harden, he knelt and held him saying, “You do not have to be rock to be strong.”
Orilan had watched his son become a soldier, a father, a leader of men, but it was the quiet moments he remembered most. Not the battles where their swords sang in harmony, or the war councils where Taelin spoke with cold strategy. It was the moments in between, when Taelin held Eiran for the first time, hands large but trembling. Orilan had stood in the doorway, unseen and watched as his son whispered to the newborn in a voice so soft it moved like breath. “You're safe, little one. I've got you.”
He had watched him take an arrow in the shoulder defending an Arkhavari and refusing help, barking at the healer not to waste magic.He’d watched him fall in love, quickly, head-first, while rejected political matches and had never once teased the way Taelin’s voice softened when Hayvalaine entered a room. He had watched Taelin spar with all six of his children and laugh when he lost. They’d ridden into battle side by side more than he could count, the thunder roaring overhead. Taelin never asked for protection, but Orilan had always kept him in view, just in case.
Once, after a long campaign, they'd sat by the river that cut through the southern hills. Taelin passed him a flask, already half-laughing. “We did it,” he said, the stars above them reflecting in the water. “Still breathing, that’s got to count for something.”
Orilan had taken a sip and replied, “Speak for yourself. You fight like a lunatic.”
Taelin grinned. “And yet, we’re still alive.”
“Barely.”
“Better than the alternative.” Taelin said, while tilting his head.
They'd sat there for hours, shoulder to shoulder, not as king and commander, but simply as men who had survived the world together. He had raised his son with love, and now he sat in silence, heart fracturing like spring ice.
“You should have stayed back you silly fucker!” he said, voice low. “You knew Calen is still recovering, you knew Hayvalaine is pregnant. You knew how much you mean to us, and still you ran to the front. I need you!”
