Page 64 of Heart Cradle
“I’d like to see her try to get past your hair first,” Fenric pointed towards Calen. “Honestly, do you oil it, or does it just gleam from sheer ego?”
“Don’t mock excellence, you little shithead,” Calen replied smoothly, lifting his glass in salute.
Orilan rolled his eyes. “By the stars, you’d think we were in a salon, not a war council.”
“It’s not a war council,” Branfil said, ever the peacemaker. “Yet.”
“That ‘yet’ is doing a lot of heavy lifting,” Soren muttered. “We’ve got dead scouts, missing patrols, border skirmishes, and now rumours of raiders moving south. Sounds like someone’s warming up the drums.”
“Avelan has always pushed at the edge,” Taelin said, rubbing a hand down his jaw. “But this… it feels coordinated. Pointed, far too pointed. Vargen has always been a cunning bastard, but this feels tipped with poison.”
“Because it is,” Eiran said, quietly but with weight. “Vargen’s trying to provoke us into a response. Force our hand and portray us as the aggressors.”
“Or distract us,” Orilan added, tapping a finger against the arm of his chair. “While he stirs something nastier behind the curtain, perhaps. He is also one for theatrical trickery and melodrama, the whole court is.”
“Wouldn’t be the first time,” Fenric muttered.
The door creaked open and a guard stepped in, flanked by a wind-beaten messenger with a torn satchel and flushed cheeks. He dropped to one knee, out of breath. “A message, Your Majesty. Urgent, incredibly urgent. A patrol of screivens from the Vale outpost report a village lost to fire. Smoke seen rising for miles, no word from survivors yet. It lies well within our borders.”
The warmth drained from the room and Eiran stood slowly, eyes flint-sharp. “Which village?”
“West of the Thorn River,” the messenger replied. “Known as Delvain.”
Taelin exhaled sharply. “That’s nearly a day’s march inside our lands.”
Orilan’s voice was tight. “Then they’ve crossed the line.”
He rose from his seat with the kind of quiet authority that filled every corner of the room. “Send word to the Council and to all high command posts. Let no one say they were caught unaware,” he said to the messenger. “Dispatch healers, guards, and thunder and screiven patrols, several, to Delvain immediately. If there are survivors, we shall support them. If there are enemies, we shall send a message of our own.”
“Screivens?” Nolenne asked.
“They’re large creatures that have been bred to serve as flying beasts for Melrathen patrols. They’re probably twice the size of a horse and made of black feather, claw, and spite. Hostile, belligerent, and terribly loyal. Have you not seen them?” asked Aeilanna.
“Yes, but we called them Hell Beasts.”
“Wonderful name! I like it, much improved. I’m glad they’ve made the right impression,” Orilan chuckled, taking a large gulp.
Taelin pushed to his feet. “Well, it looks as though Vargen wants to dance.” He gave a humourless smile while grabbing his sword hilt. “Let’s hope he remembers the last time we taught him the steps.”
Chapter Twenty-Eight – Orders from the King
It had been five days and still Maeve hadn’t stirred. Eiran sat slouched in the chair beside her, one hand tangled with hers, his head tilted towards her as though she might whisper his name and make the nightmare end. He hadn’t slept and his once-pristine tunic was creased and half-laced, and the stubble across his jaw made him look more like a vagabond than a prince. A knock at the door pulled him from the drift of his thoughts, but he didn’t answer. A heartbeat later, the door cracked open. Nolenne stepped inside in full travel leathers, charcoal and bronze-toned, battle-ready but elegant in a way only she could manage. Her red plait was tightly woven, the gold dagger glinting at her hip, and the heavier blades now strapped across her back.
She arched a brow. “You look like death, and not the glorious, resurrected kind. Have you slept?”
Eiran didn’t look up immediately. “No.”
“Bathed?”
“Also no.”
“Eaten?”
He gave her a flat look. “Are you here to mother me?”
“I’d make a poor mother,” Nolenne said, strolling in further. “Though I’d at least force-feed you some bread and make you bathe.”
She glanced towards Maeve. Her face softened slightly, just enough to be noticed, before the steel returned.
