Page 43 of Heart Cradle
Taelin’s jaw tensed, but he fell silent, stepping back without another word and Orilan motioned them forwards. “Come, let us return inside. You’ve walked too many roads to get here.”
They climbed the steps as a unified group, winding through vast corridors lined with tapestries and enchanted faelight sconces. The walls whispered in fae tongue, chronicling generations. Maeve felt it all, the history, the weight of legacy, and the tightening band of anxiety in her chest.
They arrived at a large drawing room. Dark green walls glowed with warmth, gilded mirrors reflecting flickering firelight. A hearth roared at the centre, casting golden hues on plush seating arranged in a wide semi-circle. Polished wood, velvet cushions, and an unmistakable air of comfort, this wasn’t the throne room. It was something more intimate, more authentic. Servants entered cheerfully, making small talk with the family before placing drinks of deep red wine, cool fruit water and spiced fae spirits onto a small ebony table, before vanishing like smoke.
Once seated, Eiran offered a clear and concise account of what had happened since Lisbon. Maeve’s capture, their pursuit, the escape, the Chain’s response to her touch, the wilds and the bonding. When he finished, Taelin leaned forwards, his tone brittle. “The Chain, it must be returned to the Keep’s vault.”
Eiran’s reply was immediate, calm and resolute. “I cannot do that, Father. The Chain belongs to Maeve. It has… connected with her.”
Taelin rose slowly from his chair, posture tight with disbelief and fury, lurching towards the mates, shouting, “it was never meant to do that. The Chain was never intended to be worn, it was meant to be returned to the vault.”
“Enough.” Orilan’s voice thundered through the chamber as he stood, powerful and swift. “You will not raise your voice in this room and you will not insult your realm’s future queen.”
Maeve felt Eiran tense beside her and Orilan turned, addressing the room, his gaze sharp. “Maeve is bonded to my grandson by magic and choice. The Chain has recognised her and that is more than we can say for half the royals who’ve graced this Keep. She is ours now, and you will show her the reverence due to a future ruler of Melrathen.”
Taelin’s face paled and slowly, he bowed his head the weight of shame. “I apologise, Lady Maeve. Truly.”
Maeve nodded, still stunned.
Orilan clapped his hands once. “Good, now that we’ve cleared that mess…” He grinned at Maeve again. “Tell me, granddaughter. Are you always this good at stirring my court into chaos?”
At that moment, the drawing room door creaked open just wide enough to admit a silver-haired servant in a deep forest-green waistcoat, the subtle gold embroidery along the hem glinting in the firelight. “Your Majesty,” he said, bowing his head towards the King. “Dinner is served.”
The warmth of the fire and the comfort of cushioned chairs were quickly forgotten as the aroma of roasted meats, herbs, and sweet fruit drifted in through the open door like a gentle lure. Eiran stood first, offering a hand to Maeve. “Prepare yourself,” he said with a glint in his eye. “The fae take their evening meals very seriously.”
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The hallway was dimly lit and the scent of dinner growing richer with every step. As they approached the grand double doors of the dining hall, another servant swung them open in perfect synchronicity.
Inside, the space was a feast for every sense. The long, dark wooden table gleamed beneath a silk runner of Melrathian colours, dark green and deep purple, and shimmering crystal. Above, three chandeliers bathed the room in warm light, making the silverware sparkle and thedelicate porcelain gleam. Fae candles flickered between tall vases of roses and ivy, their scent mingling with the food.
Dishes lined the table in elegant abundance. Platters of spiced lamb and wild boar, glazed root vegetables roasted with honey and herbs, buttered greens with toasted almonds, and bowls of fragrant rice studded with dried fruit and slivers of orange zest. A silver tureen of creamy chestnut soup sat steaming at the centre, alongside braided loaves of warm bread and golden wheels of soft cheese oozing gently onto wooden boards. Bowls of jewel-toned berries, figs, and sugared nuts promised a decadent finish.
As Maeve stepped inside and found her seat, her stomach fluttered, not from nerves, but from sheer delight. It was the kind of meal described in fairy tales, the kind she’d never imagined herself walking into. One of the servers moved to her side. “Would you like wine, Lady Maeve?” he asked, lifting a crystal decanter filled with deep red liquid that caught the candlelight like garnet fire.
She nodded, though unease pricked at her, at being served, of hearing her name spoken with title. Eiran took his place opposite her at the table, watching her with quiet amusement as she tried and failed not to look overwhelmed.
“I warned you,” he said with a smirk. “But I suspect you’ll survive.”
They ate, they drank, they laughed and Eiran watched her, not hungrily or possessively, just quietly, as if still trying to memorise her. Maeve laughed at something Orilan said, head tilted, eyes bright, and Eiran felt the sound of it like a thread tugging through his chest. Light, pure, and singing, so startlingly real it nearly hurt. She was nervous, he could tell and she glanced a little too often at Taelin, sat a little too straight and her shoulders held just a breath too high. However, she appeared to be pushing past it, meeting his family with grace, dry wit and that stubborn, impossible strength she wore like a second skin and it seemed they loved her for it. He saw it in the way Aeilanna reached for her hand mid-laugh, in the way his mother kept sliding dishes closer to her without asking.
He’d never heard her laugh like she was now, not the cautious, sidelong chuckle from Lisbon. This was something else, caused by Orilan, so probably something lewd and debauched. Her reaction was whole and unarmoured. Bubbling up from somewhere deep and golden, like light cracking through stone. Maeve didn’t even seem to realise it was happening, that she was already being pulled in and claimed, not by duty or magic, but by love.
With that thought, Eiran’s chest tightened with feeling, he’d imagined this moment a hundred ways, on cold nights, when he feared he’d never find a soul to spark his own. He had thought of her, radiant, clever and brave, but he hadn’t expected this, hadn’t expected Maeve. Not her fierce heart, her quiet sorrow or the way she softened when no one was looking, only to harden again in a blink, like softness was a weapon she didn’t know how to wield safely.
Maeve smiled again, this time at Hayvalaine, and Eiran saw the exact moment his mother found love for her, for finding her daughter, for being her son’s mate. Gods help him, he had fallen too. She was talking now, answering a question about her detective work, gesturing gently with her hands, her soft accent curling around each word in a way that made the room lean in closer. He didn’t hear a word. He was too busy watching her lips, the curve of her cheek, the way her freckles caught fire, the gentle tilt of her mouth and she had no idea how extraordinary she was, none.
She glanced up sensing his gaze, but he didn’t look away, didn’t soften it or smile. He let her see everything, the raging squall she’d stirred in him from the moment she’d stepped into his life. The utterly undisputable chaos she had caused in his mind and the tender salve she administered to his soul. Whatever it sparked in her, it hit fast, her breath catching like surprise and then she smiled, just for him. And in that moment, Eiran knew, if she asked, he would kneel in the ashes of empires. He would defeat the gods, become ruin and sanctuary both. Whatever she needed, he would become it, he would do it all without hesitation. But for now, he stayed still, let her laugh, let her shine.
She belonged here, he’d always known. But now he felt it, in his pulse, in his magic, in his fucking marrow. Like she was a truth the stars had whispered into the world, and now he was finally listening. He watched as she lifted a honeyed fig tart to her lips, her smile curving as Orilan leaned in with something probably mischievous and half-true and her hair colour caught sparks from the chandeliers, glinting wildly.
Home,he thought.She’s home.
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Orilan was grave and measured as he said. “There only remains one matter to discuss this evening.”
All heads turned towards the King as he stood. Eiran straightened instinctively, something tight flickering in his chest and the room quieted entirely and Orilan’s eyes settled on Maeve with the kind of depth only centuries could forge. “The official binding ceremony of Maeve and Eiran.”
