Page 42 of Heart Cradle
The sun had now begun its slow descent, casting a golden sheen across the fields beyond the Cottage. The light caught on the wild grasses and pale-dusted leaves, making the entire landscape glow as if the earth itself exuded magic. Maeve sat on a weathered stone bench on the front porch nestled between Eiran and Branfil. The bench faced the open valley, where wind stirred the meadow and birds wheeled lazily above. Behind them, the others prepared for their imminent departure, checking gear, ensuring the protective spells around the transportation stone pulsed steady and strong. Maeve barely noticed the hum of magic or the low murmur of conversation.
She couldn’t breathe properly. It had crept up on her slowly at first, just a tightness in her chest, an unease curled low in her belly, and then it built with each heartbeat. The thought of stepping into the capital, of standing before the King and Eiran’s mother and father, it pressed down on her like a weight too heavy to carry.
Maeve’s hands clenched in her lap, nails biting into her palms, something she had done since a child, with it only getting worse recently. Her breaths came too fast and too shallow, making her vision swim and the horizon tilt ever so slightly.
Thoughts bunching and catching within her, making her feel more dizzy, more aware and less in control.
What if I say something wrong? What if they hate me? What if they think I’m just some fluke, a mistake? What if they separate Eiran and I? What if Eiran realises?
Eiran’s hand covered hers, strong, warm and steady, not saying a word, he just shifted closer, thigh against hers, fingers sliding into the tight fist of her hand until he could gently pry it open. He brought her palm to his lips and kissed it once, then pressed it flat against his chest, right over his heart and Maeve felt the anchoring beat.
Branfil, on her other side, gave her a sidelong glance and then looked away, respectfully quiet as Eiran still said nothing. Just held her hand there and leaned his head on hers, his breath in her hair. The wind brushed against them, cool and gentle, and Maeve blinked fast, letting the rising panic ebb as the steady thrum of his being, rooted her again. When she finally drew a long breath, her lungs burned like she’d been holding it for hours. Eiran turned his head slightly, just enough to whisper against her temple, “You don’t need to worry about rulers and their courts. You already have the only crown that matters, my heart.”
Maeve gave a soft, uneven laugh. “That was ridiculously fucking cheesy.”
“Worked, though,” he murmured.
Chapter Eighteen – The God’s Don’t Give Twice
The world folded as the transport stone activated, casting brilliant threads of light over the group. When the glow settled and the sensation of weightlessness faded, Maeve opened her eyes to a sight she could never have imagined. Elanthir Keep loomed before them, vast and commanding, carved into the very spine of Moraveth like a crown set into stone, tangible, immense, and unapologetically powerful. The structure rose in layers, grounded in deep grey stone that shimmered faintly with seams of gold, amethyst and sapphire, catching the dying light and throwing fractured colour across the courtyard and manicured gardens below. Golden runes pulsed faintly along the walls, woven into the structure like breath into a body.
Turrets twisted high above, spiring into the darkening sky like braided columns of silver, each one crowned with battlements or lantern-lit balconies. From some, waterfalls spilled in narrow, purposeful streams, tumbling into clear, stone-edged pools that fed into narrow channels winding through the gardens. A wide skybridge stretched above them, arcing from one high tower to another, its underside carved with sigils and ancient script that shimmered when viewed from the corner of the eye.
The sky above, stirred with more of the winged silhouettes wheeling in slow circles high above the tallest spires. Maeve squinted, but the shapes were too distant to make out. Elanthir Keep was a stronghold, a palace and a sanctum. Not a relic, but a living seat of power, and as Maeve stood before it, shoulders squared and heartbeat kicking in her chest, she couldn’t shake the feeling that the Keep was sizing her up right back.
The wide stone steps leading to the Keep’s arched entrance were lined with guards in shimmering obsidian armour and flanked by twin statues of long-dead fae queens. Their faces were stern, noble, and unyielding, carved not to comfort, but to remember. Standing at the base, waiting, were three figures Maeve recognised from Eiran’s careful descriptions.
King Orilan stood at the forefront. Broad-shouldered, ancient, and commanding, he radiated raw power and fierce intelligence. His long white hair, some plaited while some flowed loose around his shoulders, and his violet eyes twinkled with mischief, even as they measured her sharply.
To his left stood Eiran’s father, Commander Taelin. Darkly dressed and steeled in every line of his body. His expression was carved from marble, sharp and unreadable. He stood tall, broad, with almost black hair that was silvering at the temples and beautiful striking blue eyes. It was as if she were looking at an older version of her mate.
At the sight of Aeilanna, Princess Hayvalaine broke. A strangled cry escaped her as she surged forwards, golden hair and plum skirts billowing behind her, all regal composure stripped away in a heartbeat. There was no grace to it, only raw, painful need. Aeilanna matched her step for step, tears streaming freely, and they collided in a fierce, wordless embrace. Hayvalaine cupped her daughter’s face in trembling hands, sobbing silently as she pressed frantic kisses to her brow, her cheeks, her hair, touching every part of her as if to reassure herself she was real. She held Aeilanna like a lifeline, like something pulled back from the edge of the world. Taelin was slower to move, standing just behind his bound, frozen in the moment. Those blue eyes, so like Eiran’s, locked on Aeilanna, wide and stunned, filled with a storm of grief and hope and disbelief. He looked younger, instantly unarmoured, then as if released from a hold, he stepped forwards. Aeilanna turned towards him, her hand still tangled with her mother’s, and for a heartbeat they just looked at each other, father and daughter, soldier and ghost. He gathered her into his arms with a hoarse exhale, wrapping her between him and Hayvalaine, enfolding her in their shared warmth and trembling.
Behind them, Orilan stood still, but there was something elemental in the violet of his gaze. The King of Melrathen did not run, did not cry, but his eyes never left Aeilanna. Slowly, with the sanctity of one laying a blessing, he approached. His hand came to rest on the back of her head, and he leaned in, pressing his forehead to hers.
"Welcome home, my dearest, dearest girl," he murmured, voice quiet and thick with the weight of time lost.
The four of them stood there, bound by love, by survival, by the shattering and the mending of time. Maeve stood to the side with the others, watching, throat tight and tears prickling behind her eyes.
“Well,” King Orilan said, breaking the silence with a booming voice and a crooked grin, “the brothers return with my lost granddaughter, and a mate-bonded pair who reek of joy and sex.”
His gaze fell on Maeve and Eiran, still hand in hand, and he offered an elegant, courtly bow. “Lady Maeve of Earth, welcome home.”
Maeve flushed scarlet and the boys behind her, Calen, Soren, and Fenric, hollered with laughter and Branfil sighed, quiet but unmistakably fond. “Honestly, you’re meant to be the king.”
Orilan turned just slightly, his gaze twinkling. “And you’re meant to be my quiet one, yet here we are.”
Branfil snorted. “If I didn’t speak, you’d never hear the truth.”
“And if I didn’t ignore you half the time,” Orilan said mildly, “I’d never get anything done.”
They shared a glance then, sharp, full of history, but threaded with love. Branfil’s voice gentled. “It’s good she’s home.”
Orilan nodded, the lines at the corners of his violet eyes softening. “I’m glad you all are.”
Taelin’s voice cut through the levity like a blade. “Where is the Chain?”
Orilan straightened at once, voice hardening. “You forget yourself, son. Let them breathe.”
