Page 96 of Heart Cradle
“Don’t apologise.” Maeve snorted. “I’m learning nothing in this Keep waits.”
Branfil offered a faint smile. “You’ll meet the seamstress tomorrow, after magic training with Yendel. She’s old enough to remember Orilan’s coronation and twice as blunt. Move careful with that one.”
Maeve blinked at the scroll. “These are… all outfit pieces?”
“Yes,” Branfil said, folding his arms. “You’ll need a ceremonial gown, several formal options, and more battle attire tailored to your new fae form. We’re also including cloaks, and enchanted under… ”
Maeve held up a hand. “I’ve already heard about the warded knickers, thank you.”
“Essential item,” Eiran called from the other room. “You want your assets spell-proof.”
Branfil didn’t miss a beat. “Nothing more tragic than a cursed arse cheek.”
Maeve choked on a laugh, just as a knock sounded again and a servant entered with platters of food. Roasted chicken, spiced vegetables, warm bread, fruit dessert, and cold drinks laid out with light conversation. Aeilanna arrived just as the food was being arranged, her usual plaits windswept but posture relaxed. She offered Maeve a knowing smile before settling near the fire. Nolenne came in behind her, immediately stealing a piece of candied fig. “I flew for hours today,” she said. “I’m eating the sweet first.”
Soren and Calen sauntered in mid-argument, something about who had better footwork, while Fenric trailed behind, already sipping something dark and clearly alcoholic. Eiran emerged, finally dressed, and crossed to the table. Maeve shifted easily into his lap, her back pressed to his chest, one arm curling around his. It felt familiar, like all the sharp edges had softened just a little.
The room filled with voices and laughter. “So,” Calen said, snagging a slice of meat, “does Maeve get to pick the colour of her binding gown, or is it still determined by ancestral visions, moonlight and unicorn shit?”
“Royal tradition,” Branfil said, deadpan. “It’s based on her aura’s third harmonic.”
“Don’t let him fool you,” Fenric cut in. “They just want to see how good she looks in gold.”
“She looks good in everything,” Eiran murmured into her ear. “Especially nothing.”
The table erupted in laughter, Maeve elbowed him and slid off his lap with exaggerated dignity.
“Truly poetic,” Nolenne said, raising a glass. “You could be a bard.”
“He tried,” Calen said. “Once. For three days. It ended with a broken harp and a crying wood nymph.”
“Fuck off, Calen!” Eiran laughed.
Maeve laughed until her ribs ached. The banter flowed, jokes on jokes, jabs tossed like coins, more food disappearing by the minute. Eiran was warm beside her, his hand resting at her waist, argument forgotten and his body relaxing for the first time all day.
“Feels like the Cottage again,” she said instead. “Like we’re all just… here. Together. A little broken, very ridiculous, but somehow still whole.”
Eiran kissed her temple. “Oh, definitely ridiculous, love.”
Fenric raised his glass. “Speak for yourselves. I am elegance personified.”
Soren snorted. “You were so drunk last week you cried at the moon and told it you missed her.”
Fenric faltered, just for a breath, then lifted his chin. “I do. She’s bright, unreachable and probably never thinks of me at all.”
Chapter Forty-Three – The Quietest Weapon
The days at Elanthir Keep began early, long before sunlight had fully claimed the spires. The air was sharp with dawn and crisp as new parchment, and the training ring echoed with the rhythm of blades and barked commands before breakfast ever touched the table. Maeve rose with the others, shrugging into her black fighting leathers and plaiting her hair back with practised ease. Her body still ached from the previous day, but it was the kind of ache that promised strength.
Each morning, Soren and Nolenne put her through the gauntlet. No coddling, no slow starts. Soren had her drilling footwork before her muscles had warmed, striking wooden posts to build precision and speed. Nolenne sparred with her as an equal, brutal, fast and unrelenting. They taught her to pivot on instinct, to use her opponent’s force against them, to strike with purpose instead of panic. She trained with her chosen blade, learning to trust her reflexes and read intent before movement.
There were bruises, many and a small scar beginning to form along the side of her left hand, a clean slice earned during a poorly timed parry. She wore it like a badge, just one to add to the others. Cira had offered to remove them all and she had declined. Not yet, maybe never, they were becoming part of her. She thought of them less with each day, as if her healing diminished their existence.
Her background with the police, midnight running and self-defensive classes gave her a solid foundation, but what she was learning now was something else entirely. It was more fluid, and far more feral, more fae. This wasn’t about subduing a suspect or preserving a crime scene. This was survival, it was in preparation for war. And Maeve, gritty and determined, rose to meet it with everything she had.
One morning, the air was still blue with early light when Maeve stepped into the courtyard, pulling her gloves tighter against her wrists. Soren was already there, leaning against a pillar.
“Early.” He said without looking at her.
