Page 88 of Heart Cradle
Maeve snorted.“That was tactical.”
“You tripped over your own foot.”Smoke curled from his nose.
“You’ve tripped over your own wing,”she sent firmly.
“At least we get up fast. That’s what counts.”He rested the side of his head lightly against her shoulder for a beat.“We’re learning. I can feel it.”
That made her pause.“Yeah?”Maeve’s lips twitched.“That’s good.”
“Well done my small and flammable fae.” Jeipier thought, while breathing hot air over her.
She rolled her eyes and reached for the saddle strap.“Let’s get it over with before Soren tries to make me spar again.”
“I like him. He’s like father, very shouty.”
Maeve climbed up with a sigh.“They’re basically brothers, you would.”
“And he reminds me of you.”
She thumped his shoulder once.“That’s uncalled for.”
“True, though.”
Solirra and Brontis landed moments later, completing their team. Maeve’s saddle was already secured, a sleek black design etched with glowing runes, responsive to her touch, enchanted for balance, protection, and power. It moulded perfectly to her posture, anchoring her without restriction. Hervour’s saddle was similar, dark leather, black metalwork and plum-toned accents gleaming in the sun, nearly invisible against her scales. Nolenne mounted carefully, wide-eyed but composed. Aeilanna gave a nod. “Let’s fly.”
They launched as one, wings tearing through the sky in coordinated bursts. Maeve’s heart raced as Jeipier soared higher, the enchanted saddle keeping her steady, adjusting subtly with every shift of her weight. Solirra banked wide and took up rear guard. Brontis surged ahead, power incarnate, calling the first formation through mind-talk.“V-pattern. Hervour on right. Jeipier, left flank.”
The dragons moved as one, the eldest setting the pace, the rest matching him effortlessly. Riders gave minimal cues, mostly coordination passed through the dragons themselves. Maeve leaned into Jeipier’s rhythm, exhilarated by the wind, the speed and the weightlessness that came withtrust. They drilled through formations first, spirals, banks and high dives. Then evasive manoeuvres and battle tactics. Practicing shield curves, ramming dives and dodges under simulated projectile fire. The dragons’ telepathy made it seamless, and the saddles absorbed impact shock with glowing pulses of runes. Hervour and Nolenne adapted fast, Maeve watched them fall into sync like they’d been paired for years. After a few hours, they finally returned to the stable’s courtyard. Maeve dismounted slowly, legs trembling but heart pounding with triumph.
Jeipier nuzzled her neck, smug and proud. “We work well together, Chainling.”
“Please, Jei, no more Chainling,” Maeve said aloud, glassy-eyed. “Seriously.”
He gave a deliberate pause, tail flicking once. “But it suits you,”he said into her mind, voice tinged with mischief.“You’re small, shiny and magically temperamental… ”
“And you’re definitely going to trip over a rock if you don’t look where you’re going,”she shot back with a thought.
“That was one time.”Jeipier huffed, but the affection in his voice softened.“I’ll think of something else.”
“Thank you. You did promise.”Maeve’s thought quietly.“And… I’m glad I have you. Really.”
His response was a warm pulse of feeling, firelight and steady ground.“Really.”
Soren was already pouring water from a fresh pitcher. “You two did well,” he said, handing Maeve a cup. “Fast learners. I’m impressed, ladies.”
Nolenne gave a tired grin. “So is Hervour, she thinks we’re pros.”
“I agree,” Aeilanna said, brushing dust from her arms. “Tomorrow we review, then build into formation strategy. The next few weeks will be brutal, but promising.”
Maeve looked out across the field, the wind tugging at her sweat-damp hair, and tightened her grip on the cool cup in her hand. Her body ached, her heart raced but her bond with Jeipier thrummed like a chord in her chest. She was learning, she was rising and she wasn’t doing it alone.
Chapter Forty-One – Servants of The Pale Court
The small cell reeked of blood, damp, and fear. Dank stone walls pressed in tight, the air barely breathable. In the centre, manacled to the floor with iron cuffs etched in suppression runes, the prisoner slumped, barely conscious. His face was a swollen mass of bruises and dried blood. His robes, once black and sharp-edged with Avelan stitching, now hung in filthy tatters. His body trembled, part pain, part memory of his dragon flight.
Eiran stood in the doorway, still and silent.
The prisoner looked up, eyes bloodshot. “Please,” he rasped. “Just… just kill me. You… you d-don’t understand. If I go b-back, if t-the Pale Court… if Petra thinks. They a-always know, and what… they do to traitors makes death a kindness.”
