Page 106 of Heart Cradle
Eiran stepped closer, his hand brushing her back. His voice was quiet. “We didn’t know the Chain could kill someone like that?”
There was something haunted in Maeve’s eyes now, something shadowed by more than magic as she grimaced, stroking the Chain with her thumb like it was a wound. “It… urged me. I thought I could just take, not end. But... I killed him.”
Laren leaned against the wall like she owned it, legs crossed, wicked intent radiating off her. Her battle leathers clung like a second skin. She twirled a loose light-brown curl around one finger, purely for Fenric’s benefit. Her gold and onyx eyes glittered like a brewing storm. “That Chain’s more than a decoration, isn’t it?” she asked, voice edged with teasing.
“She’s…in touch with it,” Fenric said. “And it listens to her.”
“Well,” Laren purred, “remind me never to piss you off, Princess Maeve.”
Maeve was caught off guard. She didn’t know her but she guessed it was Laren who was now giving her a fierce little smile, half challenge, half admiration. Fenric, for his part, looked utterly undone. He stared at her like she had hung the stars, gaze dragged from her storm-bright eyes to the curve of her smirking mouth, then lower, lingering where her leathers fitted to her figure, like armour meant for sin. He didn’t blink, he might’ve forgotten how.
Laren tilted her head, curl still coiled around her finger, and gave him a look so wicked it could’ve been bottled as a weapon, then she winked, slow and deliberate. Maeve swore she saw Fenric sway and then Laren turned back to the group like nothing had happened at all, but the corner of her mouth tugged up, smug and satisfied and Fenric exhaled like he’d been holding his breath for a year.
Calen elbowed him out of his trance. “Get it together, Fen.”
“Impossible,” Fenric whispered back. “She’s sex, danger, and lust wrapped in leather.”
Laren beamed and Hayvalaine covered a smile with her hand, even Elenwe’s eyes twitched with restrained amusement, but the levity was brief as Orilan stood slowly and crossed the room to Maeve. She braced herself for reprimand, but instead, he took her into his arms, folding her gently into his warmth.
“Maeve, you saved my life, and our realm. You did what was necessary, even if it wasn’t clean. Don’t carry guilt for something that was inevitable, even if you thought it wasn’t.” He leaned down and kissed hercheek and the simple gesture nearly undid her. “I’m grateful, so very grateful, dear, dear granddaughter.”
Maeve had taken another life and in doing so she had saved countless. She let out a long breath. Her shoulders dropped and tension loosened as Eiran stepped beside her again, quiet and anchoring. As the war council began to plan their next steps, sharpening wards, dispatching scouts and redrawing the map of Melrathen’s fragile future, Maeve stood a little taller, tired, haunted but unbroken.
Chapter Forty-Seven – Fae-Fire
The great hall at Elanthir Keep roared with life. The long feasting table groaned under the weight of honeyed meats, glazed fruits, steaming breads, and wines enchanted to bubble and shimmer. Golden goblets clinked, voices lifted, and the warmth of celebration spilled through the air like sunlight breaking through storm clouds.
Fenric, planted firmly beside Laren, looked utterly bewitched, hypnotised even. His attention fixed on her like she might vanish if he blinked. Laren, of course, knew exactly what she was doing and was draped, because it couldn’t reasonably be called dressed, in a gown that was more suggestion than substance. Just two panels of sheer blush-pink fabric, artfully layered to preserve barely enough modesty, secured at the shoulders with delicate golden clasps and slit high along both her dark bronze legs. Her hair now pinned loosely at her temples, the rest tumbling freely down her back. Every movement revealed flashes of toned thigh, glimpses of soft skin, and just enough curve to send Fenric straight to ruin and he didn’t even pretend to look away. Laren, heir of Velthamar and Elenwe’s stepdaughter, leaned into him with a smirk that could have sparked wildfires, curling one leg under her, fingers idly tracing the rim of her goblet. She was radiant, reckless and completely, unapologetically, herself.
Taelin looked furious, as if he were biting his tongue hard enough to draw blood, but Laren just sipped her drink with the air of someone entirely at ease with both chaos and consequences. Elenwe, further down the table, gave her stepdaughter a single, glacial look over the rim of her wineglass, equal partsis this necessary?andgods help whoever touches her. She beheld the scene with a curious fondness that barely softened the sharpness of her gaze. She rarely smiled, but her eyes lingered on Laren more than once with something that sat between approval and restraint. Though not her blood daughter, Elenwe had raised Laren from a young age after marrying her father, and had forged her in steel. Laren bore the intelligence and chaos of Velthamar's bloodline, but it was Elenwe’s influence that had taught her control, precision and just how far charm could carry a blade.
The Velthamar house, known for its cold intellect, strategic cruelty, and mastery of war-magic, had long been one of Melrathen’s most powerful noble lines. Elenwe controlled affairs with an iron hand beneath velvet gloves, even more so after the death of her husband. She had kept the eastern provinces stable for decades, outmanoeuvring rival houses and foreign spies alike. Though she rarely involved herself in council drama, when she spoke, even her older brother Orilan listened.
“So there we are,” Laren was saying, “me, ankle-deep in mud, trying to convince three very drunk dwarves that their donkey wasn’t cursed by a dryad.”
“You’re making that up,” Fenric said, eyes wide.
“I wish I was, it was a bloody disaster.”
Everyone burst out laughing, even Orilan, who shook his head fondly. “Velthamar breeds them wild,” he said.
Elenwe gave him a pointed look over her goblet. “Better than breeding them dull, Ori” she returned, sipping elegantly.
Maeve found herself grinning despite the hollow ache in her chest. It was joy, actual honest joy. The weight of Davmon’s death and the Chain still pressed at her ribs, but tonight, this moment, felt like the first breath after drowning.
Branfil had brought out a lute at one point, fingers nimble even as he refused to sing. “Not unless you want the drinks to curdle,” he warned.
Nolenne, red-eyed and quiet, was nestled close beside Aeilanna, their hands brushing now and then, a quiet current of affection under the chaos, she refused to hide in their rooms, she needed her family.
Soren and Calen were trying to see who could balance the most goblets on their heads and Eiran was pretending not to watch them with longing.
Taelin stood, tapping the side of his glass. “A moment,” he called, and the noise gradually faded.
He looked at each of them, voice steady. “Thanks to the intelligence we gained”, he glanced briefly at Maeve, “we’ve begun mobilising. King Orilan, Princess Elenwe, and I have dispatched wards across the borders. Eldrisil, Armathen, and the Storm Coasts have pledged support. Troops are moving and Melrathen is not alone.”
A cheer broke out. Calen whooped loudest, Fenric slammed his hand on the table, and even Elenwe permitted herself a smile.
Taelin raised a hand, “one more thing.” He looked down briefly. “The reason it took a little longer than expected to return from Eldrisil is because my dear Hayvalaine was feeling unwell.”
