Page 146 of Heart Cradle
He was born for this role, crafted to lead, to always fight from the front. No hesitation or confusion, just movement, so deadly and clean.
Jeipier’s wings shifted as he caught a gust. Beside them, Xelaini loomed, silent now and her attention absolute. Brontis growled low, sparks flaring from his throat. Maeve could feel the pulse of magic building behind them.
Tension.
Purpose.
Rage.
The Avelan camp lay beneath them. Close now, tent rows, crude towers and armoured wagons still unmanned. Fires smouldering low, the enemy still hadn’t stirred. They had no idea.
“Strike fast. Strike clean,” Taelin’s voice again. “No signal left standing.”
“Chain bearer,”Orilan’s voice came through the thread, calm and unshakable.“Light the sky.”
Maeve’s throat tightened as the Chain at her wrist flickered. They had discussed this, but it wasn’t rehearsed. She moved with instinct, raising her hand and the rune she summoned wasn’t just light, it was unerring, illuminated truth. Golden lines spun into the air above the thunder, an ancient glyph of strike-born magic, one of Melrathen’s oldest battle sigils.
It burned, then detonated. The illusions truly dissolved now like silk banners tearing in the wind, and all the sky finally screamed.
Dragons dove in coordinated waves, their roars shaking the clouds. Jeipier braced his wings with an excited yelp as he followed Xelaini into the first strike. Below, tidebeasts shrieked as they banked hard from the south. The veiled drakes of Eldrisil flickered into view mid-dive, illusions dropping just as their riders released threads of binding magic.
Flame struck first, hot and exact, Brontis bathed the front tower in searing black fire, stone and steel melting in moments. Hervour’s violet flame swept across the barracks wall, igniting enchantments and shatteringdefence wards. Jeipier let out a high, spiralling jet of fire that set the nearest armoury tent ablaze.
The screams began, panic spread through the Avelan camp like blood spilled in water. Wards flickered and failed, alarm bells sounded far too late. The enemy scrambled for weapons, for armour, for direction, but Melrathen had already landed.
Eiran and Xelaini hit the central circle like a divine swath of iron and malice. He leapt from the saddle mid-hover, landing in the mud, Avelan’s casters tried to rally around him, they didn’t last ten seconds.
Behind him, Fenric’s dragon Rivakar landed hard, sending a shockwave through the ground. Laren dropped beside him, already loosing arrows towards the northern command wagons.
Maeve and Jeipier struck next, she jumped from the saddle just as he unleashed another blast of fire into the side of a siege wagon. The flames curled around her like a cloak as she landed, blade in hand, the Chain pulsing at her wrist.
Avelan soldiers surged forwards, well-trained, heavily armoured, but they were already a step behind and flailing.
“Jeipier, dive left!”she shouted through the mind-link. He obeyed immediately, smashing into a tower support beam with his shoulder, it crumbled, trapping half a dozen archers beneath the rubble.
“Maeve!” Eiran’s amplified voice over the noise of battle. “North ridge, casters regrouping!”
“I see them!”
Maeve barely had time to think, she let the Chain answer as it moved first, her wrist jerked upward, blade following the pull, no conscious command, just knowing. A golden rune flared into the sky again, then cracked open like a flare. Soundless and immediate, enveloping the Avelan casters on the ridge, who dropped mid-step, blinded by pure, divine magic, their senses overthrown by light and command.
It wasn’t just a strike, it was judgment.
She didn’t have to ask the Chain for help, it had acted on its own, and then it moved. Not just a flicker this time, not just a pull or a whisper of guidance.
It uncoiled, the woven links along her wrist unfurled with sudden, impossible fluidity, spilling outward in ribbons of molten gold, racing up her arms, her shoulders, her chest, across her ribs, back and legs. A momentlater, she wasn’t wearing the Chain on her wrist, armour of golden light wrapped her from throat to toe. It was layered and etched with runes, sigils and writing older than any known language, gleaming with the pulse of her magic, of Melrathen’s magic. The air around her vibrated with it, humming like a blade fresh from the forge.
Her boots struck the earth with new weight, but she felt ethereal, she raised her blade, and the light responded, brightening at the edges like it recognised itself. A soldier hesitated, just for a heartbeat. It was enough, Maeve surged forwards, golden runes sparking as she moved, and cut him down in a single, fluid strike. Her vision sharpened, her limbs moved faster than thought. She didn’t even need to look, her body knew where the next blow was coming from, the armour wasn’t just protecting her. It was leading her. She was being guided there, by something ancient and absolute.
The Chain.
A sword clanged against her shoulder. The golden plating flared, absorbed the blow, and held with not even a scratch. The soldier stared and Maeve drove her blade straight through his chest, spun, and hurled a flare of intention magic at a warded cluster by the barricade. It ignited mid-air, flinging four Avelan guards backwards in a burst of radiant heat, the armour flared brighter, runes spinning across her like a living script.
She heard Jeipier’s awed voice, “Maeve you’re… glowing.”
She didn’t answer, for the first time since this war had begun, she didn’t feel like someone caught in it. She felt like someone made for it, she was no longer fighting with instinct, she was fighting with ancient direction and control. The armour urged Maeve with bearing, every strike was bolstered by some deeper knowledge she couldn’t name. When she ducked a blow, she hadn’t seen coming, she realised it wasn’t reflex.
“Jeipier!”she called, but even he had already moved, diving on a cluster of Avelan warlocks setting up a rune battery near the southern barricades. He roared, fire spilling like a second sunrise, and scattered them with a wingbeat and a blast.
