Page 62 of Heart Cradle
It was a bridge between her and the dragon, between magic and will, between what had been and what might be. She didn’t speak, she didn’t have to. Jeipier tucked his head beside her again, wings shifting slightly as if to shelter her from whatever storm might still come. Maeve, for the first time in that long, strange floating place, felt something like peace.
She moved again, being pushed to standing and then she heard laughing. Branfil, no older than six, running barefoot through dew-drenched grass, chasing something gleaming and fast. A dragon, tiny, awkward, no bigger than a goat. Its brown wings flapped too hard for its size, tail knocking over flowerpots. Branfil giggled, the sound high and wild, all belly and joy. The dragon, Tharein, even then, screeched in protest as Branfil tackled him into a pile of leaves.
“He likes you,” came a voice from nearby, Taelin. Younger here and so much like Eiran. His hair was longer and windswept as he crouched at the edge of the clearing, a gentle smile on his face. “Even the hatchlings know a good heart when they see one.”
Branfil beamed, cheeks pink from play. “Do you think… do you think my father would’ve liked him?”
“He would have loved Tharein,” Taelin’s smile didn’t falter, but his eyes shimmered. “And he would’ve been proud of you, I know I am.”
Branfil threw himself forwards and hugged him tight, sticky with leaves and dragon breath. Taelin closed his eyes, arms wrapping around the boy without hesitation. “You will always have a place here, Bran,” he said, voice thick with feeling. “Not just as a ward, but as a son. One of mine.”
The vision glowed around the edges, golden and warm, her heart ached again.
A sad, slow chuckle. “Of course I’ll need to ask my mate. I’m not that bloody foolish.” Eiran’s voice again. Tired. “She’s strong. She’ll wake. She has to, she must.”
But still Maeve floated, present and not.
Eiran, he was the thread that never frayed. She saw him in flashes, cradling her in Lisbon, his eyes burning with fury at some council meeting, laughing on Xelaini’s back and whispering her name in his sleep. He wasn’t just a presence, he was hers. Even here, even now and somewhere in the space between memory and magic, something else stirred.
The Chain, again. She felt it on her wrist, hot and cold in turns. It pulsed with power, it was watching, a silent companion and a second heartbeat. A quiet song beneath her skin. It shimmered, and she caught a glimpse of herself, not as she was, but as she could be. Bathed in light, runes and sigils carved across her skin, eyes bright with knowing. A warrior. A Queen. A woman who had walked through every fire and emerged alive, with ash in her teeth and stars in her bones. She wasn’t afraid of it, she knew it was part of her now. Maeve drifted higher, the memories slowed, the scenes became whispers.
She saw Elanthir Keep from above, felt the wind in her hair and the shift of Jeipier’s muscles beneath her legs. She felt joy ripple through her, sharp and pure, but then it faded into mist again, and she was translucent once more. Like a ghost inside her own skin, solid but intangible.
Then for the first time, she spoke independently. Not with voice, but with will.
I want to go back.
She didn’t shout it, she chose it and the Chain pulsed once in reply. A deep, warm thud, the world cracked and the haze split open. Light spilled through and her body remembered breath, remembered gravity and her fingers twitched. She wasn’t ready to open her eyes, but she was close, she was close to leaving.
Chapter Twenty-Seven – Remember the Steps
Their bedchamber no longer felt like a sanctuary and what was once a private space, quiet, cloaked in dark fabrics, filled with books, and warmed by laughter and touch, had changed. It had become the centre of a kingdom’s unrest. Maps lay curled open across the low tables, letters marked with wax crests lay cracked and forgotten. The fireplace was constantly stoked, though no one sat close to it. And always, at the heart of it all, Maeve lay still.
Cira had said it would be a week before she woke. Her transformation had begun the moment her fae essence surfaced, bones reshaping and blood rewritten by magic. On her wrist, the Chain pulsed with a soft light, faint but visible to all who entered the room, a quiet reminder to everyone that she was no longer what she’d once been. Eiran hadn’t left her side, so now, the strategy came to him.
Branfil crossed the room and lifted a leather-bound folder from the bed beside Maeve’s hip. The Melrathen crest was stamped into the cover, a dragon coiled around a heart, its wings curved and tail alert and gold ink catching the lamplight. Branfil rested a hand on Eiran’s shoulder, a gesture of brotherly reassurance, then he turned and walked back towards the gathered group.
Tonight, the chamber buzzed with subdued tension. Orilan had come in person, eyes bright and presence unmistakable. Taelin was at his shoulder, every line in his face drawn tight. Calen stood behind them, flanked by Soren and Fenric, both quiet but simmering. Hayvalaine, Aeilanna and Nolenne had taken seats near the carved hearth. Eiran rose and followed Branfil to the table, still able to watch Maeve. There had been more death on the northern border, Melrathen scouts had their throats slit, there were no traces of magic, tracks or witnesses.
“Avelan,” Taelin said grimly, “doesn’t need to sign its crimes.”
“True,” Orilan replied. “They like for brutality and fear to do the talking.”
Soren gave a gruff grunt, “They’ve always preferred whispers to war, unless they think they’ve already won.”
“We knew this would escalate,” Nolenne said. “The escape humiliated them.”
“Careful,” Orilan said dryly, “or you’ll start sounding as if their pride is our problem.”
It was Taelin who spoke next, voice quieter. “They may not know what she is…not truly, but they knew she mattered. They may have sensed it.”
“They thought she was a lover,” Soren added. “A human trinket clutched too tightly by our infatuated brother.”
“I think they thought taking her would rile Eiran,” Fenric said. “Instead, it woke her… it woke us all.”
“She was their prisoner,” Eiran said, finally speaking, his voice holding no tremor. “Her escape didn’t provoke them. Their taking of her did. Do not mistake consequence for cause.”
Branfil gave a slow nod beside him. “Vargen doesn’t know about the Chain, he doesn’t know she bears it.”
