Page 156 of Heart Cradle
Yendel, ever thoughtful, added, “Or perhaps the Chain has always been like this, and no bearer before her was ever been enough to draw it out.”
Callix ran a hand through his curls. “If she can do this now… gods. What happens if it keeps growing?”
“Then we prepare for the day she outpaces every weapon the Fae Lands has ever known,” Orilan said quietly. “And pray she stays ours.”
“She will.” Eiran said full of pride.
Above them, Maeve and Jeipier twisted into a final arc, runes trailing like banners behind them, and began to descend. They landed with barely a gust, Jeipier’s claws kissing the earth in a graceful crouch, his woolly tail, now spiked with armour, curling behind him like a frayed ribbon spun from flame.
Maeve remained seated for a moment, chest rising and falling beneath the armour’s soft golden glow. The Chain still shimmered across her frame, no longer blazing, but alive, etched in faintly spinning runes that moved like breath. Jeipier’s plating pulsed with the same script, draped like flowing chainmail over his limbs and chest. Runes still floating around them and the others.
Yendel stepped forwards, eyes wide, scanning the armour with methodical care. His fingers danced as he traced runes and sigils mid-air. “This is not fae-forged,” he murmured. “This is, something older. Look at the continuity, this script is forming complete, shifting lines. As if it’s, still writing. It looks as if it’s been formed by the gods.”
Callix circled Jeipier, practically vibrating. “It’s like chainmail but seamless, look at this, woven so fine it looks solid, and the floating runes, gods, they’re trailing as if she’s still moving.”
Vaelwyn didn’t speak, she simply stepped close, placed one palm flat against the plating on Jeipier’s armoured leg, and closed her eyes. Her lips moved in silence.
Eiran stepped forwards and reached up, offering his hand to Maeve. She took it without hesitation, and he helped her down gently. Her boots hit the earth with the faintest clang of metal still lingering in the soles, he kissed her deeply.
Orilan approached last, hands behind his back.
“Well,” he said dryly, “if you’re not the most terrifying glow-worm I’ve ever seen.”
Maeve snorted, eyes rolling. “Royal approval at last.”
He stepped closer, placing both hands on her shoulders. The joke slipped away from his face. “You are important… precious, very precious but don’t let anyone coddle you, not even him.” He nodded towards Eiran, who raised an eyebrow in response. “You’re not meant to be soft. You’re meant to be brilliant, dangerous… reckless, even.”
His hands tightened just slightly. “So fight hard, Maeve. Be the fucking storm. Let the Chain follow you, not you it.”
Then, without waiting, he kissed her on each cheek and turned on his heel. The group stood in stunned silence as he strode back towards the keep.
Callix let out a breath. “That was very rousing, incredibly regal.”
Eiran looked down at Maeve, fingers brushing the edge of her gauntlet. “That was your coronation.”
Epilogue – Let Her Glow
Blackspire rose like a blade from the frozen heart of Avelan, set deep in the mountain of the realm’s northernmost range, the palace was hewn from black stone that drank the light with jagged towers and twisted spires thrusting into the sky like broken spears. Snow never settled on it’s surfaces. The heat of the dark magic within kept the stone warm to the touch, but the air around it remained bitter and dry, scoured by relentless winds.
Even in the height of summer, Blackspire stood buried in winter. Sheets of ice clung to the surrounding cliffs, and a constant veil of frost coiled in the air, thickening the silence. The landscape around it was stark, no trees, no birdsong, only wind, white and the endless groan of working mines.
Inside, despite the magic, it was no warmer. The corridors were long and sharp-edged, lit by cold flame sconces that burned grim and blue. Iron doors, dark banners, and bone-inlaid stone adorned the halls. The throne room itself was carved into the mountain’s inner face, with towering windows of obsidian glass that showed nothing but snow. The deeper one walked into Blackspire, the more the magic thickened, a greasy presence that hummed low, like something ancient was still breathing beneath the stone. Blackspire was not made to be beautiful, it was made to endure, to withstand, and like its master, it had never once bowed to light.
The war chamber stank of burnt, rancid oil, heat bleeding through the stone like poison. Vargen stood with his back to the fire, watching it’s reflection dance across the black floor. His pale skin aglow, he was bare-armed wearing black leathers, muscle cut hard along his frame and black hair fell over one shoulder like a long dash of spilled ink. His green eyes gleamed, sharp, unblinking and utterly without mercy.
He was beautiful in the way the tide was, always there, always pulling, and still capable of drowning you before you realise you’re in too deep. That’s what Aeilanna had thought, once. When they were betrothed, before she saw the truth. He’d spoken her name like it was already his, held her hand like he was sealing a promise. Then he vanished her from the world, declared her dead, held her in stone, and had her beaten and magic pulled from her. He never touched her himself, but he’d watched, and when she screamed and begged, he’d listened.
Behind him, flames cracked like bones, his niece Petra and the three warlords who formed part of his Pale Court waited.
Petra sat unbothered, staring at the back of her uncle, the man the world feared, cursed, and whispered about like a plague in fae skin. But to her, he was simply Uncle. The only one who had ever held her as a child, taught her the language of knives and diplomacy in equal breath, and made her heir not out of duty, but belief. He had only ever treated her well. Lavished her with knowledge and gifts, not out of sentiment, but a kind of obsessive pride. Where others saw a monster, Petra saw the man who had shaped her, meticulously and relentlessly, into something the world would never be ready for.
Her beauty was the kind that didn’t beg attention, but commanded silence. Hair black as crow-feather fell in a curtain down her back, always immaculate, always still unless she willed it to move. Her skin was moon-pale, almost luminous in shadow, not frail, but sharp, like polished bone or the edge of a glass dagger. Her eyes were the true warning, the colour of candlelight passing through smoke, flickering silver and grey and unreadable.
The others sat, awkwardly, as if awaiting sentencing. Gorrath, orc-blooded and blunt-fanged, with shoulders like siege towers and burn scars lacing his throat. He was brutal, known for cruelty, malice and hate. Vrel, hybrid-born, folded wings like velvet death, bat-tiger grace and yellow eyes that never blinked. His presence alone brought fear and despair. Opposite them Maldrin, the necromancer, sat thin as wire, face veiled, fingers always stained with blood and grime. His magic whispered through bone, spreading loathing wherever he travelled.
They’d been summoned for answers, and none had any.
“I’m told that she wears it constantly,” Petra said flatly. “Day and night, it glows and thrums. The Chain does not leave her wrist.”
