Page 123 of Heart Cradle
Maeve blinked. “It feels like… it wants something from me.”
Yendel nodded. “All true magic does, especially the old kind. It will not give without payment.”
Orilan studied her for a long moment. Then, quietly. “You have once again saved us, saved Melrathen.”
She met his eyes. “I didn’t do it alone.”
“No,” Orilan said. “But you stood where no one else could, you acted.”
The others murmured their agreement. Hayvalaine reached for Maeve’s hand and Elenwe offered a nod, not warm, but respectful.
The tension broke slightly when the Veralis leaned forwards, eyebrows raised. “I must say, your thunder is formidable, Orilan. Coordinated, ruthless, and quick to the air. That formation they fell into, who commands them?”
“Xelaini,” Eiran said to his maternal grandfather.
“Ahh, the Nyxshade. A rare one.”
Taelin muttered. “Last of her kind.”
Orilan straightened, his tone changed, subtly stern.
“Speaking of dragons, I must address one final matter before we allow ourselves… reprieve.” His gaze turned sharp. “Laren.”
Fenric sat up a little straighter. Laren, seated beside Aeilanna with a cup of honeyed water and wine between her fingers, didn’t flinch, but her expression tightened just enough, posture lifting and jaw setting. Orilan’s voice was calm, not cruel, but certainly pointed. “You mounted an unpaired dragon without invitation. That is a deeply honoured law in Melrathen. One not taken lightly… some have died for much less.”
Laren inclined her head. “I understand, Uncle. However I don’t regret it.” Her voice was steady. “If it pleases the crown, I would like to formally pair with the dragon, and remain in Moraveth, permanently.”
Gasps rippled softly, Elenwe turned to her daughter, brow raised, but not disapprovingly, almost with amusement.
Orilan was quiet for a beat, then barked a laugh. “You say it now, but the dragon asked before you did.”
Elenwe cracked a smile.
Laren blinked. “What?”
“She chose you,” Orilan said simply. “Two weeks ago. She came to Virekhal very calmly, and said, ‘That one. The one who smells like honey and personality. She is mine.’ Do you think she would have let you mount her else?”
“What’s her name?” Hayvalaine asked.
“Iskarra,” Calen answered, smiling. “It means ‘strike in silence.’ She’s a Shadowglide. Quiet as snow fall, and utterly ruthless in the air.”
“Well,” Laren said, smirking. “At least she has taste.”
Fenric clasped her hand, lifting it gently and pressing a kiss to her knuckles. “As do I.”
“It doesn’t sound like you’ll be very similar.” Branfil pouted. “You never bloody shut up.”
Taelin rose from his seat, lifting his goblet. “Enough council. Enough fire and war. We were meant to be celebrating a binding today.” He looked to Maeve and Eiran. “You still deserve your joy.”
With that servants entered with trays, wine, fruits, cheese, meats and warm bread. Plates were passed, goblets filled. The lanterns brightened, music began to drift in from the side halls and the royal circle relaxed. Calen and Soren were already shouting across the table, halfway through their third argument of the night.
“I killed twelve,” Calen announced, raising a cup like he was toasting his own ego.
“Bollocks, did you! You’re a fucking liar, Cal.” Soren barked.
Laren almost snorted wine through her nose. “Please, I had more kills than both of you combined, and I didn’t even break a sweat. You little princeling babies.”
Fenric leaned into her space, elbow on the table, lazy grin curling. “That’s because you’re perfect, and I would never dodge one of your arrows.”
