ã€ŠLuminousã€‹


 Prologue

    The sun had disappeared behind the castle''s hill. Tonight, Crosset prayed, would mark the end of the famine.

    Darkness chased them, swallowing the men in the rear as they wound around leafless trees, batted aside low-hanging branches and sloshed through muddied, half-melted snow. Crossbows and pitchforks jostled on their backs, falling loose from makeshift rope harnesses.

    Bailiff Johnsy''s plan was straightforward¡ªget the boy, and they would get food.

    He didn''t give any directions for everything in between.

    Each man had given up the last of his oil to keep Draken''s lamp alive, and he''d burned most of it leading them in circles. It may be wise to pour what little was left onto kindling and wait out the night, but how many more of their children, women, and elders would succumb to hunger that night?

    No, it all ends tonight.

    The lamplight illuminated a fallen tree on their path. Even sideways, its girth reached Draken''s midriff. Draken sighed in relief at the marker, set his lamp on the log, and prepared for the climb. He''d swung one leg over the curve of the trunk when a commotion broke out behind him.

    "Move it, pig! Or I''ll snap your neckbone in half!"

    The hulking bald man snarled as he gave the leash another vicious tug. The fat little boy at the other end of the rope lurched forward. His muddied face contorted in pain as the leash''s noose cinched tight against his windpipe. Once he''d regained balance and breath, he surfaced with a sneer,

    "Spare me your empty threats. You need me alive to bargain with my father."

    The boy''s eyes gleamed silver with bravado, but he couldn''t staunch the tremors bleeding into his voice. Smirking, the man hunkered down before his hostage,

    "Your body does mighty fine, I say. Skinned, quartered, butchered, diced. Fried in lard scraped from the wall of your belly. First meal in weeks for me boys¡ª"

    "¡ªFirst and last, Krulstaff!"

    Draken marched over as the boy blanched in terror. Krulstaff spun around. Draken told himself to stand firm as he locked eyes with the giant,

    The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

    "Chione ain''t even half done with us. We keep the boy safe in Crosset, his father keeps us fed through winter. That''s the plan!" He explained to his troublesome neighbor for the umpteenth time. Krulstaff rolled his eyes at the Heights.

    "Why don''t you give me that, Armorheim?" He spat, his spade-like hand swiping for the lamp. "Unlike your son-of-a-whore in Meriton, me sons are dying while we muck around in this blithering forest!"

    Blood drained from Draken''s wind-battered cheeks. He snatched Krulstaff by the collar,

    "Don''t you dare¡ª!"

    The other men hauled Draken off Krulstaff before he retaliated.

    "He''s got a point, Draken," huffed Brodel the Butcher. His free arm hooked firmly around Draken''s, he indicated the sniffling boy with his pig-butchering knife, "Dun need him awake. We''ll move faster with this manure sack on our backs than oozing down here."

    Draken glanced at Brodel, swallowing his anger as he remembered all that was at stake. Heaving a frustrated sigh, he gestured carelessly at the boy,

    "Cuff him one on the noggin¡ªwith the handle, mind! And give Krulstaff the blade if he dun''t shut it about me son."

    After one last glare at the seething Krulstaff, he barked at the remaining men, "Move out!"

    Before Brodel even took one step towards their squealing captive, the sharp crack of a breaking branch tore through the silence. The men turned as one to the wall of trees. Crossbows raised and pointed, they slowly retreated¡ªthen an arrow sprung from Krulstaff''s bow.

    "For the love of¡ª!"

    The scream of a young girl drowned out Draken''s feverish curse. He knew that scream!

    "Meya? That you, lass?"

    Draken dashed in to see to the poor thing, but a gust of wind sent him flying backward as something barreled past, crashing through the trees to land before them.

    A blinding flash of white, then the shroud of night swallowed the forest whole. The moon hadn''t risen. Their lamp was lost. The only pinpricks of light were two disembodied, glowing green eyes hanging in mid-air above their heads.

    The eyes darted in unseen sockets, glaring at each man spread out below as though the being saw them clear as day, then blinked out as it issued a roar of rage and pain.

    The ground shook. Trees shuddered. Startled birds fled into the night. Out of the black, a fan of orange flames blasted toward them. The kidnappers flattened themselves to the snowdrift for dear life as bone-melting heat scorched the tips of their hair.

    The inferno collided with the trees behind. Dying branches burst into flames, flooding the clearing with light, but the sight that greeted the men had them wishing to be cast back into the dark¡ª

    A reptilian creature armored in gleaming metallic scales. Trees trampled like hay under gigantic silver claws. Acid-green eyes blazed above a long, narrow muzzle. Tendrils of smoke trickling out between silver fangs.

    Its claws carved deep welts into the earth as it spread its leathery wings wide. It dashed forth, snatching the stunned young boy between its talons and soaring off towards the west, trailing the boy''s pathetic screams as it disappeared into the night sky.

 The Ice Pillory

    In Latakia, the saying goes, there are two days in every man''s life he dreads the most.

    One is the day his wife gives birth.

    The other, no less feared, is the day the babe opens its eyes.

    And they are glowing green.

    In the little manor of Crosset, only one man alive had lived that terrifying tale.

    His name was Mirram Hild, the Farmer.

    Once sure his wife and the babe would live, Farmer Hild went about his business as usual, like the stoic chap he was. He never sought to understand why his seed had produced the only Greeneye in Crosset in this generation. He never voiced his fears for the endless misfortune Greeneye children were known to condemn people in their vicinity to. He simply worked the fields, dawn till dusk, six days a week, to feed the wee babe and her three older siblings.

    He made love to his wife every weekend. She went on to bear him three more children, prompting Farmer Hild to work even harder. He considered his life normal, save for the occasional abnormal day that came with raising a lass with glowing green eyes.

    One such day began as an ordinary one in mid-April, seven years after the Crosset Famine. Farmer Hild stood before the clerk''s table, tucked under the shadow of Crosset Castle''s town gate, flanked by his best friend, Draken Armorheim, also the Farmer.

    They''d been queuing for three hours in the tender spring sun for their turn with the clerk. All the while, castle guards standing sentinel whispered to each other out of the corner of their mouths. Passing castle workers nudged each other and shot furtive glances at Mirram and Draken, gossiping behind their hands.

    Mirram could read their lips without looking.

    The Greeneye''s father! That him? They say he prayed to Chione for another son. That''s why Freda cursed him! Have you seen those cursed eyes? Simply monstrous! Yada yada yada.

    Draken was also the butt of many a local joke.

    You know what they say, dun choose Draken Armorheim to watch your sheep. He had fat little Lord Hadrian on a leash, and he let the boy escape!

    Mirram and Draken tried not to think that was the reason they were such good friends.

    The young clerk, at least, seemed too beleaguered to care¡ªhis long golden ponytail lank with sweat, his gray-green silk cloak bundled up and wedged to his chair to cushion his spine. With one hand, he propped up his heavy head. With the other, he jotted down the date and time in his enormous ledger.

    "Name and business, whichever of you will go first."

    Draken nudged Mirram''s shoulder. Mirram edged a half-step forth.

    "Mirram Hild, sir. Me son Myron''s joined a guild. He''ll leave me house next week."

    Mirram produced a folded piece of parchment from his trouser pocket and smoothed it on the clerk''s wooden table¡ªhis son''s letter of apprenticeship from Yorfus of the blacksmith guild.

    The clerk perked up. He stared at Mirram as if he''d just passed the most brazen round of wind in Lord Crosset''s court. Ink dripped from the tip of his aloft peacock quill.

    "What''s your name, again?"

    "Mirram Hild, sir."

    "Mirram Hild¡ªas in, the father of Meya Hild?"

    I do have six other children, you know.

    Mirram refrained from rolling his eyes with much difficulty. For Freda''s sake, what was the problem with these people? He''d produced six perfectly mundane children, yet they still wouldn''t stop pointing at that one with glowing green eyes!

    Mirram heaved a sigh and grinned through his grimace.

    "Yes, sir, unfortunately."

    He offered a joke. The clerk raised his eyebrows, puckered his lips, dipped a few dramatic nods, then flourished his hand at the ledger.

    "And you''re here to update your family registry?"

    "Yes, sir, I''d like to move out me son Myron. Figured I get to knock a few latts off me taxes fer that?" Mirram agreed with enthusiasm. With luck, he could hurry back and catch up on some last-minute work in the fields without further discussion of his infamous offspring.

    The clerk gawked some more, then shook his head. He recorded Mirram''s testament in beautiful, connecting letters, a grin of amusement on his lips.

    "Forgive my surprise, my dear chap. Didn''t expect to see a man here settling his taxes while his daughter''s on trial. You must despise the lass."

    He picked up Myron''s letter, scouring it for signs of tampering. Now it was Mirram''s turn to freeze. He glanced at Draken¡ªhe seemed just as confused¡ªthen spun back, grasping the table edge.

    "Sir, me daughter? Which one? What for?"

    The clerk looked up. For the first time, his expression morphed from derision to genuine concern. Quill and letter fell from his hands as he gawked at Mirram,

    "Goodly Freda. You haven''t heard?"

    Harried footsteps pounded on the flagstones towards them, overtaken by a strident scream.

    Unauthorized usage: this tale is on Amazon without the author''s consent. Report any sightings.

    "Farmer Hild! Where''s Farmer Hild?"

    A red-faced young woman sprinted up the snaking line, black ponytail swinging, darting eyes scanning every mustachioed face. All the men shook their heads. At long last, her sweaty hand latched onto Mirram''s hairy arm.

    "The Ice! They''re putting her in the Ice!" She gasped, panting, clutching a stitch in her side.

    "What ice? Who? What are you talking about, Jezia?" Draken demanded. Jezia''s blue eyes were wide with horror.

    "Meya! They''re putting her in the Ice Pillory!"

    Meya.

    The world around Mirram seemed to have ceased to exist. Barely feeling his feet, he dashed back across the bridge, Draken and Jezia hurrying in his wake.

    <hr>

    The Trench was a strip of barren, sunken land on the other side of the moat. By the time Mirram, Draken and Jezia arrived, a ring of spectators had filled the lip of its pit. The gallows leered over them, its empty noose swaying gently in the breeze.

    The stench from the mound of fermenting waste beside the castle''s wall floated across the moat, hanging yellow over the bobbing heads of what looked to be the whole town''s busybodies.

    Amidst the jostling, jeering, fist-shaking peasants, Mirram caught sight of a familiar portly man, Jason Boszel the Merchant. He was teetering on tippy-toes, craning his neck.

    "Dad!" Jezia yelled as they hurtled in. Jason whirled around, then scampered towards them.

    "Finally! Where in the three lands have you been?" Jason grabbed Mirram''s shoulder and ushered him forth, "Damn warden''s not taking new coins! Hurry!"

    Jason plunged into the crowd, dragging Mirram and Draken behind him. The three men emerged to the front, their feet skidding to a lurching halt.

    Two youngsters knelt beside the gallows'' base, surrounded by torture devices wooden and metal, pebbles and remnants of rotten produce. One a boy, the other a girl. Both not a day above seventeen.

    Pebbles, oozing tomatoes and moldy potatoes pelted them as they sat, hanging by their wrists from pillories hunkering above their heads.

    The girl''s pillory, instead of wood, was a single block of clear, bluish ice¡ªthe infamous Ice Pillory of Crosset.

    "Deke! Meya!"

    Draken cried as he sprinted toward his only son.

    Deke whipped around at his father''s voice. He was a stocky lad with a long, freckled face and shiny hay-colored hair. He creaked an apologetic smile as the warden with a bushy mustache waddled in to block Draken''s path with his truncheon. One arm over his forehead to shield his skull from the barrage of rocks and rotten vegetables, the ale-bellied man yelled,

    "One more stinkin'' tomato while I''m down ''ere, and there''ll be Fyr to pay!"

    Seeing the truncheon waving high in the air, the restless villagers behaved one by one, albeit with a lot of grumbling. Mirram turned to the girl in the Ice Pillory, his fourth yet most troublesome offspring, Meya.

    The girl looked ordinary enough, with red-gold hair in two fraying braids that soaked up the dripping ice for her threadbare woolen dress. A smatter of freckles paraded across the flat terrain where the bridge of her nose should have been.

    Her eyes, however, were a vivid, unnatural green that gave out an eerie glow of their own, like a cat''s eyes at night, and betrayed a similar lack of emotion as she stared back at him.

    "What in the three lands have you done this time?" said Mirram coldly.

    "There you are, Hild!"

    A barking voice cut across before Meya could reply. Mirram spun around to find a bald head gliding toward him across a sea of brown hair. The man pushed his way to the front with menace in each clomp. His suntanned skin was stretched taut over bulging muscles scored by popping veins.

    "Been wanting to have a chat about what your Greeneye devil did to me boy here!"

    The man jerked a thumb at his son with a snarl. Mirram craned his neck to see. Trailing a step behind, half-hidden by his father, was a scowling lad a couple of years older than Meya. He was the spitting image of his father, except for his bleeding lips and a swollen, purplish bruise over his right eye.

    "Really, Grogan? You wanna chat about Gregor''s knack of getting his arse stuffed by people half his size?"

    Deke called. The crowd roared with laughter. Gregor shot a dour glare at him, then the back of his father''s shiny head, shaking with rage and embarrassment.

    "Quiet, Deke!" Draken snapped. He turned to Meya. She''d remained silent but seemed to be relishing the strife, "Meya, what happened, lass?"

    "Wage fraud and undue violence." The warden piped in. Having gleaned all he needed from his little roll of parchment, he tucked it back in his belt.

    "Wench struck a deal with the other farmers. She''d slip the fields she worked into their share. Once they got their pay in the regular rate of ten latts per field, they''d pay her back nine latts, and keep one latt as fee. In case you can''t count, that''s twice the Greeneye rate."

    Draken massaged his forehead. The warden nodded at the skulking Gregor,

    "Wench been at it for three whole moons. Brave young Gregor Krulstaff here finally caught wind of it. Told the landlord. Got himself a nice roughing up for his trouble."

    "Not before the snitch got his share, he didnae." said a familiar, cold voice. Mirram shot Meya a silencing glare. She spared him a glance, then sneered at Gregor, who trembled with fury.

    "He was in it from the start. Then he got greedy. Wants to double the fee. I said no, and he tattled. Saw him sniveling behind the landlord and I just thought, if I''m gunna get the pillory anyway, might as well earn it."

    The crowd''s furor swallowed the rest of Meya''s tirade. Pebbles and mudballs sailed through the air, this time with insults thrown in.

    "Chop ''em ''ands off! That''d stop ye wreaking havoc fer a bit ''fore they grow back!" Brodel the Butcher brandished his blood-crusted knife.

    "She tainted the wheat! What if there''s another famine?" A housewife wailed.

    "You''ve outstayed yer welcome in this town, devil!" A fisherman snarled.

    "Monster!" A huntsman concurred, pointing with his bow, while his wife shrieked,

    "Me little boy would be here today if not for your famine, you demonspawn!"

    Meya accepted their complaints in turn. Her face remained vacant, but her eyes glistened with tears. Draken cursed under his breath,

    "Warden, this is madness¡ªThe Ice? For fraud? The lass is seventeen, for Freda''s sake!" He yelled over the hubbub as he shielded his head with his arms.

    The warden grimaced, though that might have been his response to the juicy splat of the half-tomato sliding down his cheek.

    "My dear chap, do you think us so heartless? Wench asked for the Ice!"

    "What?" Draken cried, eyes bulging. He spun around to Meya, "Are you out of your mind, lass?"

    "Tis a warm day, Farmer Armorheim." Meya grinned, wincing as a gust of cool, dry wind lambasted the clearing. Growling, Draken returned to the warden,

    "What will it take to free them early?"

    "Two old silvers. Each. No haggling." The warden obliged with a smirk.

    Grinding his teeth, Draken snatched his purse. He churned among the bronze for the grayish-white gleam of the silver ten-latt-coin or the copper five-latt, even as he knew he''d find none. Not the old ones.

    A roughened palm carrying two old silver faces entered his sightline. He looked up and found Mirram''s solemn brown eyes.

    "Take this. Free your son."

    "What about Meya?"

    Mirram forced the coins into Draken''s slack fingers.

    "Take it. He''s here because of her."

    "I''ll leave when she leaves, Farmer Hild!" Deke shouted.

    "Mirram, her hands will rot! And that''s if they didn''t get to her first!" Draken cried, a trembling finger jabbing toward the hysterical crowd.

    Still, Mirram didn''t waver.

    A dull thump sounded from behind. The crowd fell quiet. Draken whipped around to find Meya lying flat on her back. Her hands had slid free of the Ice Pillory after a mere quarter-hour. A feat that should''ve been impossible, warm day or not, without breaking your thumbs or asking someone to chop off your hands to end the torture.

    Meya picked herself up, wiped her dripping hands on her dress, then dusted off the dirt. As the crowd gaped in silence, hands clutching mud raised in mid-throw, she turned to the warden.

    "I''m free to go, I believe?"

    The warden nodded, his eyes darting between the still-solid Ice Pillory and Meya''s hands. Her freedom secured, Meya turned to Draken with a toothy grin.

    "Like I said. ''Tis a warm day."

 Meya

    After her stint in the Ice Pillory, Meya''s punishment was to donate her wages from the last three months to the manor''s coffers.

    Since all that gold had long transformed into her flesh, Meya would have to work without pay for three months instead.

    After a fierce round of yelling their heads off, Dad and Farmer Armorheim returned to the castle to settle their taxes. It fell upon Jason to make sure Meya and Deke went straight home without causing more trouble.

    High noon had risen by the time they made it back to the village. The dirt road was empty save for flocks of sparrows and pigeons pecking for seeds in clumps of spiky grass along the wayside, and the occasional pile of sunbaked horse dung swarming with flies.

    "Say, Jason, how come you''re here today? ''Tisn''t bazaar day, is it?" asked Meya as she massaged her hands¡ªafter almost freezing in the ice, they now stung and burned. Jason sighed as he handed Jezia his waterskin, looking careworn.

    "The king''s overseer is here. He summoned all merchants trading in Crosset to gather at the castle and discuss the coinage shortage."

    "The what what?" Meya gawked, having never heard of those words in her almost seventeen years. She winced as Jezia doused her hands with water.

    "We''re running out of metal. That''s why the treasury issued these lighter coins. Precious metals are more expensive. They''re even thinking of scrapping money altogether." The merchant cocked his balding head, his voice lowered,

    "They''re still hushing it, but ore ships haven''t returned from Everglen since last month."

    "You''re kidding! What happened?" Deke joined in. Jezia leaned in and whispered,

    "That''s the problem. Nobody knows. The king''s sent several ships to investigate. They''ve all disappeared without a trace, too."

    Meya frowned as she navigated the bumpy lane strewn with potholes. Mining had been banned in Latakia for two centuries. According to one High Priest Uriel IV, the goddess Freda suddenly realized digging too deep a hole would allow the evil she''d sealed underground, the demoness Chione, to emerge and wreak havoc upon the land. She conveyed her enlightenment to Uriel in a vision during his daily prayers.

    Why the omniscient goddess hadn''t divined the obvious centuries sooner wasn''t a harmless sentiment to ponder aloud, as Meya discovered at the tender age of six for the price of a lump on the head. Since the Ban, Latakia had been ferrying ships across the sea to a barren land ironically called Everglen to carry ores back.

    "Great. Just when Myron got his letter, too." Meya rolled her eyes and puffed a moody breath. After all the butter Myron piled on Yorfus the Blacksmith for an apprenticeship, those ore ships just had to sink. Typical Freda. "Will you two be fine? What''s gunna happen if we dun have coins?"

    Jezia looked to Jason. He heaved a deep sigh, looking gloomy.

    "Country towns like Crosset could survive without trade, I reckon. But for the cities and merchants like us, our only hope is lifting the Ban."

    "King Alden''s fought to lift it since he took the throne, but the Anti-Miners on his Council are too powerful. They say Baron Hadrian''s behind them. The king couldn''t ever get enough votes to overturn it."

    "Ain''t he s''posed to be all-powerful?" Deke frowned. Jason chuckled.

    "Takes more than one head to run a kingdom."

    "Can''t we make money out of some other stuff?" said Meya. At the sight of Jason''s raised eyebrow, she added, "Say, I dunno...seashells, shiny pebbles, wooden chips...?"

    Out of examples, Meya shrugged. Jason''s eyes twinkled in affectionate amusement. He gestured at the pink-with-brown-patches piglet Deke was leading along on a leash.

    "Say I want to buy your Hanna for fifty snail shells. Would you accept?"

    Meya glanced at Hanna, puckered her lips, then shrugged again,

    "Well, if everyone else was trading with snail shells and I could buy a new piglet with it, I s''pose I''d accept."

    "Really? You don''t seem too happy about it." Jason observed with a shrewd, glinting look. Meya blew out a breath of annoyance,

    "Of course I''m not! I''m selling me pet for fifty snail shells. What am I supposed to do with them? Grind them up and mix them with flour?"

    Jezia and Deke guffawed. Jason nodded,

    "Exactly, Meya. Anybody can pick up a snail shell. And nobody has a use for them. It''s not the same with gold, silver, or copper. Or diamonds, rubies, sapphires and emeralds. Everyone in Latakia agreed these things are rare and precious. That''s how they became tradable."

    Jason trailed away as Meya''s house came into view. The Hild cottage did justice to its seven-generation history of poverty. Its grayish daub walls decorated with cracks like cobwebs fell away in places to reveal crisscrossing wattle. The thatched hay roof was dabbed with mildew. A crooked, soot-black metal pipe stuck out like an old feather on a straw hat¡ªtheir chimney. The steady trickle of pale gray smoke meant Morel, Meya''s second sister, was busy preparing dinner.

    Out front, Meya''s big sister Marin ambled about with a reed broom, scraping at fallen leaves glued to the ground, sodden from yesterday''s drizzle. She was a willowy woman on the cusp of her twenties, with shining copper hair and bright blue eyes. What little of her skin poking from her sleeves was porcelain white, unblemished by a single freckle.

    Young men peeked out of oiled parchment tacked over their windows, savoring the precious moments before the reigning May Queen was locked up for the night, like a diamond in a chest.

    "Yeah, diamonds are precious. Like Marin." drawled Meya, crunching footsteps halting just beyond the distracted Marin''s earshot, "As opposed to yours truly, the Queen of Swine Dung."

    Jezia grimaced. Deke chuckled as he scratched his head. Jason''s beady black eyes narrowed.

    "Meya," He said, his voice somber. Meya turned around, eyebrows raised. "In Fyr''s Lake, tis not wealth, nor beauty, nor wit, nor high blood, but your deeds that are weighed."

    Meya avoided his eyes, a bitter smile on her lips.

    "Freda''s teachings aren''t to guide the living. They''re to fool the dying and forgotten." She muttered. Jason tilted his head with a smile.

    Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

    "Perhaps, and also to remind every father of a daughter." Meya blinked, puzzled. Jason grasped her shoulders, pinning her with his willful, melancholy gaze.

    "Mirram cares about you, Meya. Much more than gold. Much more than your mother''s Song. And he''ll prove it to you when you need it most. You don''t have to put yourself through this."

    Jason''s voice disappeared in his throat. His meaty hands cradled hers, his eyes roaming over her bruise-red, swollen, trembling fingers with genuine sorrow. Even as her heart pained, Meya huffed a breath of derision,

    "He left me to rot in the Ice and I got out on me own, Jason. Either there''d never be a day I''d need him most, or no need of me would be enough for him."

    "It''s not the same, lass. You don''t need help with the Ice. Why, you could bake bread with these scorching hands!"

    Jason shook his head. Meya shrugged. Just another weird thing to add to her list, next to glowing eyes, never getting colds, and fingers growing back after being chopped off while dicing carrots. The Hilds didn''t eat stew that frightful night, and Meya was never asked to help with dinner again.

    For the general populace, the Ice Pillory meant black, frostbitten hands that must be axed off. For Meya, it meant the chance of swift freedom. Meya requested it, knowing that otherwise, Farmer Armorheim would bribe the warden to free her, even if Dad wouldn''t bother.

    "I can''t bake. Heat from me hands ruins the dough."

    She jested, voice as flat as her empty face. Jason shook his head,

    "Someday, lass. Someday." The old merchant patted her shoulder, then gestured with his chin, "Well, hop along. We''re here ''til next Monday. Don''t forget to drop by."

    He slung an arm around Jezia, who gave a tiny wave. Meya wondered what Dad''s hand felt like on her shoulder. Well, when he wasn''t crushing her collarbone in his grasp after catching wind of some wicked shenanigan.

    Grinning, she raised her hand, and Deke slapped it.

    "See you at work."

    He left the leather ring at the end of Hanna''s leash in her palm. Meya gripped it tight as she watched her friends on their way. When their retreating silhouettes had vanished behind the dip of the hill, Meya took a deep breath and ventured towards her house. Marin perked up at the sound of her footsteps.

    "Meya! You''re back so early!" She chirped, her face aglow with delight.

    "Hope that''s still legal," muttered Meya under her breath as she swept past her sister into the garden. After leaving Hanna in her pen, she pushed open their termite-infested back door.

    "Is the pig well tied up?"

    Mum''s husky voice reached her as her big toe crossed into the house. She was bent over the hearth hole in the middle of the room, stirring the dinner stew. Morel sat beside her, chopping vegetables.

    Meya breathed a sigh of relief. News hadn''t reached these three yet. She closed the door and strode in, answering with all the liveliness she could muster,

    "Yep, tight as the noose ''round Bailiff Johnsy''s ne¡ªoof!"

    A basket flew out of nowhere and slammed into her chest, knocking the wind out of her.

    "Parsnips!" Morel barked. She''d win the annual plate-throwing contest for sure, if only she''d deigned to sign up. On any fine day, Meya would''ve chucked the basket back and demanded she walk three steps to hand it over politely, but this was no fine day.

    "Oh...right." Meya gathered herself, then headed back to the door.

    "And I want it in ten minutes, so dun go chasing some shiny beetle into the woods, doofus!"

    "Aye, milady," Meya grunted. She shuffled out to the vegetable patch, gathered her dress, then hunkered down to yank out some tubers, tossing them into the wicker basket. Then, she pressed the basket over a water basin to rinse the dirt.

    After she''d half-thrown, half-slid the basket before Morel, earning herself a glare, Meya was about to go out and kill time with Hanna, when Mum stopped her with her hoarse, damaged voice,

    "Have you seen Mistral?"

    Meya swallowed the bitter lump in her throat with difficulty. Mum and Morel seldom left the house or joined the village''s gossip rings. Still, Meya had hoped, after seventeen years with her, Mum would''ve sensed something off.

    "No. Still weaving with Silma, probably. She''s teaching her new patterns today."

    Mum bobbed her head as she stirred,

    "And Marcus and Myron? And Maro?"

    "Working the fields,"...of course! Where else d''you expect they''d be? Meriton?

    Meya itched to add. If only Mum''s ladle didn''t look so deadly swirling in the boiling stew.

    "Hm-hmm. Seen your father on the way here?"

    "No, sorry," Meya lied. She hadn''t seen Dad on the way¡ªshe parted with him before she set off. Mum didn''t seem to suspect foul play. She scooped up a ladleful of brown stew and let it plop back down, studying its texture.

    "Hmm." A hum escaped her pursed lips. She turned to Morel, who was reaching for an onion, "Leave the onions for later, Morel honey. Your father would take some time."

    Mum had finished her business with Meya. Meya bit back a sigh and turned to leave.

    "Meya, wait."

    Meya spun around. Mum had peeled her eyes from the stew to look at her. Meya was taken aback.

    "I''m fine, thanks." She grinned. Mum blinked, puzzled.

    "I can see that. I was going to ask if you''ve brought the chicken back yet."

    Meya''s grin froze on her face. Oh, that. Avoiding Mum''s gaze, she gestured at the door.

    "Ah, no. Er, I''ll get to it." She whirled away, hoping to hide her burning cheeks.

    "Take a copper for Old Horth." Mum pointed her chin towards the money tin on the shelf. Meya noticed a block of Morel''s fruitcake sitting next to it.

    "How about this instead? Jason said coins are getting short." She held it up for Mum to see.

    "Really?" Mum looked up, mildly interested. She cocked her head, "Well, take the cake, then. You fine with it, Morel dear?"

    Morel shrugged.

    "What can I say? Shepherd Horth loves me cooking." She smirked, not one for modesty. Mum mussed up her golden hair.

    "So does every shepherd in the pasture."

    Morel tittered. Mum joined in. They''d forgotten Meya, so Meya quietly let her smile sag, and her shoulders hunch. Mum accepted her lies without protest, no matter how suspicious she''d strived to be. She''d always ask Meya about her siblings, and the livestock and vegetables she was in charge of. If she wouldn''t ask about her to her face, Meya hoped, perhaps she''d ask the others, at least.

    Meya grabbed her ragged black cloak as she retreated outside. Stowing Morel''s cake in one of its pockets, she swung the gate into the garden again.

    The chicken coop was empty. Every morning before heading to the fields, Meya would herd the chicken onto a wheelbarrow and trundle them to the communal pasture outside the village, where they would forage among the livestock of other villagers under the shepherds'' watchful eyes.

    Hanna, in her pen, had settled in for a snooze. Meya unlatched her door and bent down to muss up her head. She grunted and opened one bleary eye.

    "Sorry, Hanna. Wanna go with me to the pasture?"

    Both of Hanna''s eyes snapped open. Oinking, wagging her tail, she scrambled up and waddled along. The round wooden nametag swung on her collar as she followed Meya down the meandering dirt lane towards the grasslands spreading beyond the rolling green wheat fields. Myron had carved letters on the tag, spelling Hanna. At least, Meya thought that was the case¡ªshe couldn''t read.

    Back home, in the hole in the dirt floor where Meya kept her belongings, she''d collected ten tags bearing names of piglets she''d raised since the start of spring, only to send them to the slaughterhouse by the eve of winter. All parts of the pig were useful. Their tags were the only remains she could save.

    They could afford to raise one pig at a time, so Meya couldn''t help treating her annual piglet like a pet, albeit one you must butcher and eat. Meya never touched their meat, though, no matter how much her stomach ached in winter.

    A gust of wind blew over bleats and moos from the communal pasture, reminding Meya of creamy fresh milk and rich sheep cheese and butter. They couldn''t keep flocks of sheep or cattle. Luckily, the Armorheims insisted on giving their poorer neighbors a daily pail of milk.

    At the chirp of a robin streaking by overhead, Meya tilted her head back, following his journey across the sky. It was the clear, light blue of early spring, with wispy clouds that edged toward the horizon on the wings of the cool breeze.

    She wondered where the little robin was going. Perhaps if he flew high enough, he could see if there was a deity, the goddess Freda, up there, like it said in the Holy Scriptures.

    She wondered why Freda made her a girl. And a Greeneye, too. Meya could do much more to help her family, if she were a boy with beautiful blue or brown eyes that didn''t glow like a pair of cursed fireflies from a haunted forest.

    At least she wouldn''t have to resort to wage fraud to earn gold for her dowry and end up losing it to a hefty fine. She could dream of becoming a merchant like Marcus. She could take up an apprenticeship like Myron. She could be useful. The way she was now, she was wasting the family''s bread.

    Looking at Hanna, Meya couldn''t help wondering if it would be that different with her neck on the butcher''s board instead of Hanna''s this winter, except that Hanna''s meat would probably taste better than hers.

 Banished

    Walking home from the communal pasture took much longer than expected when one was Meya Hild.

    The reason? Two words: Marinia Hild.

    It was often said all seven Hild children were remarkable in some way. In Marin''s case, it was beauty. Such was her beauty that the manor''s young men created an unofficial category for her, one higher than Gold: Diamond, meaning she could marry any man in Crosset without paying him a single bronze coin.

    Being the only Greeneye in Crosset, Meya also had her unofficial category: Dung. It didn''t help that she often reeked of pig droppings, either. The lowest class defined by the law was Pebble.

    Either way, she must work hard to save a large dowry. Who cared if hard work in scorching daylight made you look less desirable? Dung, at least, stank less and didn''t squish underfoot once laid out to bake in the sun.

    Marin should be able to marry early if it wasn''t for Dad. Like most pretty maidens, Marin wasn''t allowed to work outdoors, forced to spend her days inside the house, helping Mum with light housework. If her skin were any fairer, Meya swore she could have scraped lead white off it and sold the powder to wealthy women in Meriton.

    It was difficult for young lads of marriageable age to gain purchase on Marin. The solution? Two words: Meya Hild.

    Every evening, Meya would saunter through the village, trundling a wheelbarrow full of hens, trailing a pig on a leash, receiving letters, flowers, jewelry and food to pass to Marin. For a fee, of course. Perhaps once them knuckleheads had learned to stop calling her attention with "Oi, Dung!", she''d deign to do it for free.

    The inflow of young men trickled to a stop a minute''s walk from Hild Cottage. Dad had armed himself with a sickle tied to a broom handle, sharpened at the ready for gutting. Suitors knew to give the house a wide berth.

    Meya put Hanna and the chicken back in their homes, left the wheelbarrow beside the coop, heaved up the bulging sack, then trudged to the door.

    The instant she entered, a confused din of greetings befell her from the family crowded around the pot hanging over the fire in the hearth.

    "Have you latched the coop door?" Mum asked, as always, worrying about every wee thing in the three lands except Meya''s wellbeing.

    "You alright, Meya?" Maro made no move to hide his concern, which was why Maro would always be her favorite brother.

    "Any bullies at the pasture today?" Marin demanded. Meya guessed she would''ve gotten along with Marin, too, had her skin not been so white it glowed in the firelight.

    "Where''s your collar?" Morel, on the other hand, couldn''t give less damn.

    "Is it true you kicked Gregor Krulstaff in the crotch?" Marcus abandoned his bowl and darted over.

    "What''s that you got there?" Myron pointed to her sack.

    "Show me your hands!" Mistral squealed, eyes sparkling with delight.

    Dad made no move to acknowledge Meya''s return. Only when Mum made to hand her a bread bowl did he growl between mouthfuls of bread and vegetable stew,

    "No dinner, Alanna."

    "Please, Dad. She was just trying to help out." Marcus pleaded.

    "Quiet, Marcus."

    Dad had already told them about the Ice Pillory. Just as well. It saved Meya the trouble. After a deep breath, Meya rattled off answers to their questions,

    "Yes, Mum, no sneaky tom would get his paws on a single feather tonight. Mistral, here are me hands. Still intact. Maro, I''m fine, how kind of you to ask. Marin, yes, some tyke pushed me in front of a horse cart. Morel, where I keep me collar is none of your business. Marcus, no, I didnae kick his crotch¡ª''twas his arse. And Myron, this here¡ª"

    Meya lifted the sack from her back and displayed it,

    "¡ªcontains the tokens of appreciation from the men of Crosset to our beautiful Marin."

    Meya set down the bundle and untied the rope. Its four corners fell away, revealing an ensemble of spring flowers, cookie pots, lurid red envelopes, and crates filled with honey pies. All her siblings scrambled in except Morel.

    "Goodly Freda, why so many?" Marcus cried. Myron admired the artwork on the cookie pots. Mistral rubbed her cheek against an embroidered handkerchief. Meya snickered,

    "May Fest approaches! So, who will you choose for the May Dance, Diamond Girl?"

    Marin blushed a deep scarlet. Personally, Meya didn''t give that big a fart on whom Marin''s pity would fall this year, but the more intel she could sell along with her gift-ferrying services, the more gold she could demand.

    "Why d''you ask, Dung Curl? She won''t be taking any of your admirers, anyway, seeing as you never had any," said Morel.

    "Morel!" Her other five siblings yelled as one.

    "Morel! Take that back." Mum raised her voice, sounding as if she had a permanent head cold. Meya had prepared for war, but the painful tug in her heart persuaded her to sue for peace.

    "''Tis fine, Mum. Everyone calls me dung-something these days. ''Tisn''t gonna make Morel a bigger stinkbug than she already is." She couldn''t resist a jab, still.

    "Meya!" Mum snapped at Meya instead. Meya eked out a sheepish grin. Well, that backfired.

    Dad was anxious to finish his last meal of the day in peace,

    "Perish it, you two. Or I''ll take your bowl away until tomorrow night. Yes, Morel! Even if you did cook dinner!"

    Morel flapped her lips like a trout gasping for breath. Meya''s cheeks ballooned like a full waterskin as she stifled her laughter. Dad could withhold her meals for a week¡ªshe''d survive on the money she earned ferrying gifts to Marin. The weeks leading up to May Day were the time to exploit. Not that anybody knew what she was up to.

    Marin studied the tottering pile of gifts then pushed it toward her younger siblings.

    "Meya, I can''t eat all these. You guys take some. You need all the food you can get since you work so hard. Please, Dad? Just this once? It''s almost May Fest."

    Marin served Dad her most pleading gaze. Dad would always have Marin give the free food to the church''s daily charity tent. Accepting the gifts when you had no intention to marry the men was disgraceful, he reasoned.

    Dad could resist Marin''s googly eyes. Most of the time. She resembled Mum too much. Sighing, he nodded.

    "Very well, take one for each of you. Meya, you are to have none." Dad added, freezing Marcus and Myron in mid-cheer, then shook a warning finger, "Remember their names and thank them tomorrow."

    The five youngsters mumbled their Yes, Dads, and each selected one gift from the pile, shooting Meya apologetic glances that promised they would share whatever they chose.

    They looked so forlorn, Meya itched to wink back, but she couldn''t have Dad''s hawk-like glare catching on to her secret.

    This novel''s true home is a different platform. Support the author by finding it there.

    "Take your pick. I''ve already eaten." Meya lied, wishing her stomach would stop growling as fumes from Morel''s stew wafted over. She settled down in the corner beside the door, "Jason treated me at the tavern. He knew Dad''s not gunna give me dinner."

    Meya shone a triumphant smirk at Dad. Dad''s eyes dropped even lower in temperature, chilling the air in the cramped cottage.

    "Take that attitude to Hadrian Castle, and you''ll have your tongue ripped out through your teeth, Meya."

    Meya took a moment to process what Dad had said.

    "Hadrian Castle? What d''you mean?"

    Meya glanced at the others, then back to Dad. Everyone looked just as surprised.

    "Lord Crosset''s daughter, Lady Arinel, is getting married to Lord Coris of Hadrian. She''ll move out to live in Hadrian. Lord Crosset is recruiting young maidens of character to accompany and serve her there. He summoned for me."

    "So that''s what took you so long today?" Meya gawked. Young maidens of character, he''d said. And Dad chose her? Dad had never chosen Meya for anything. Nobody of a sane mind would. Unless she was the last resort or there was a catch.

    "But I''m a Greeneye. The Lady won''t want me anywhere within a stone''s throw of her!"

    "That won''t be a problem, since you''ll be wearing your collar."

    There it is. The catch.

    Anger and frustration simmered in her bowels. Meya clenched her fists and tamped them down. She must keep her calm, or Dad might change his mind. He had four daughters to choose from.

    Meya hated the collar. It was the only thing she would never forgive Jason for. One fine day, seven years ago, Jason had brought Dad an iridescent metal band he''d received from a dying Greeneye in Noxx.

    The band was made from Lattis, a metal discovered two hundred years ago in an iron mine in Rutgarth. A few years later, the whole mountain face was melted, the mine sealed by a dragon attack from the neighboring Nostra empire. Since then, all mining had been banned. Lattis weapons and trinkets circling in the market now were all secondhand.

    The Lattis band would dim the glow from the Greeneyes'' green eyes and lower their body heat, allowing them to blend in.

    That the collar looked no different from a dog''s wasn''t the source of Meya''s chagrin¡ªthe side effects were. The collar''s freezing cold burned against her skin. The thing even seemed to emanate an invisible heavy aura that weighed down her limbs and fogged up her brain.

    Meya would forget it at home whenever she could get away with it or chuck it on the levee as soon as she''d gotten to the fields. How could she work otherwise? Besides, being the only Greeneye in Crosset, the whole manor knew her face. Not to mention that was after they''d noticed her fat red-gold head sailing towards them from a feather''s flight away. Glowing eyes or not, it didn''t help with the pranks, the name-calling or the shunning.

    She''d tossed it in the fire at Yorfus'' smithy. Spooked cows in the communal pasture to stampede over it. Drowned it in a bucket of vitriol. Nothing left the tiniest dent on it. Yet, there must be a way to destroy it somehow. How else could it have been molded in the first place? The secret must have been burnt to a crisp along with those miners in Rutgarth.

    Meya wanted the job. With Jezia as a best friend, it was impossible not to long to see the lands outside her hometown for once, if only she didn''t have to strap on that loathsome neck manacle. Why was Dad going to such trouble to get her the job?

    "Why not Morel, then? She''s the best at cooking and cleaning, isn''t she?" Meya narrowed her eyes.

    "What, me?" Morel almost jumped into the hearth. She scrambled over to Dad, hands joined as if in prayer, "No, Dad! Please dun send me! Hadrian''s so far away!"

    "I''m not sending you, Morel. You''re needed here." Dad sighed. Morel looked faint with relief. Meya''s heart gave a painful lurch.

    "And I''m not, you''re saying?"

    Dad spun around, alarmed.

    "No, Meya, listen¡ª"

    "No need. I understand."

    Meya pushed down the surge of desperation, her face empty but for a nonchalant smile.

    " ''Tis the Ice Pillory. The Liar''s Bridle. The Fest Trail. The Famine. The Song of May Day. But you must know, Dad¡ªthose were all me."

    "Meya, how many times do I have to tell you? You have nothing to do with my Song!"

    Mum glared at Dad. Meya longed to see his reaction but couldn''t bring herself to look.

    "That''s very kind of you, Mum, but what I''m trying to say is¡ªall those times, I messed up. I chose to do the stupid thing. Me eyes have nothing to do with anything."

    "They have, as far as Latakia is concerned." A furrow appeared between Dad''s eyebrows. Meya gnashed her teeth in frustration.

    "I can''t do nothing properly with that thing ''round me neck. You''re only making sure I''ll mess up."

    "That Greeneye in Noxx lived a perfectly normal life. You just have to get used to it."

    "I''m telling you, Dad, I hate it!"

    Meya sprang up. Dad also blew his long-overdue top. He slammed his bowl on the floor. Lukewarm soup and lumpy vegetables splattered Mum''s dress. She gasped and scampered back. The children tensed in fearful anticipation.

    "Then maybe it''s time you learn to do what you hate for once!"

    Dad snapped, his face blotchy red. Meya gaped as his voice thundered around the house.

    "Haven''t you heard what the folks were shouting back there in the trench? They were calling for your banishment! Crosset no longer tolerates you! Lord Crosset struck me a deal. You leave, we get your fine back. And I accepted!"

    Accepted?

    The word echoed in the deafening silence of Meya''s world. She saw Jason''s smile. His soothing voice asked her not to give up on Dad. If only he were here. If only he could see how difficult that was.

    "So, you''re selling me off for three months of wages?" Meya found her voice cowering in the void enveloping her heart. Dad''s brown eyes remained cold as they had always been. Even so, she whispered in disbelief, "Is that all I''m worth to¡ªto you, Dad?"

    Dad turned away, ignoring horrified looks from around the house. Tears fell from Mum''s bulging eyes. Mistral looked confused¡ªMyron had cupped his hands over her ears. Even Morel had shed her aloof fa?ade and was blinking at Dad.

    Meya understood then¡ªDad had no choice. With Myron starting his apprenticeship and Meya paying her fine, three breadwinners would feed eight mouths.

    Meya turned to Mistral. Her tapered, beautiful fingers could weave a bobbin through hundreds of threads. What would those fingers look like after months of tilling and plowing? Could she feel the texture of silk again through all the warts and thickened skin?

    Biting back tears, Meya drew in a deep breath,

    "When do I leave?"

    "Day after tomorrow." Dad grunted. Meya blanched. She didn''t expect it to be that soon. She might not have a chance to say farewell to the few people who didn''t mind having her around that much.

    What if something happened to her? People would fall ill and die. Run into thugs and bandits and thieves. Get stranded in the middle of nowhere and starve to death. What if she never saw Crosset again?

    "Who''ll look after Hanna?" She asked. Dad snorted.

    "Dun you worry. As if we''d let our winter food starve."

    Maro shot Dad a reproachful glower. Meya''s heart sank lower. She wouldn''t be there to keep Hanna company on her way to the butcher''s board.

    Meya felt like she''d put on her collar¡ªher head blank and sluggish, her limbs leaden. She wrung her brain dry for some ingenious solution, anything to get them out of this plight of her own making. Nothing came.

    "I''d better get started on saying me farewells, then."

    Meya pushed open the door, walking into the gathering night. The sun had disappeared behind the hill where Crosset Castle stood, black spires shooting up against a backdrop of star-spangled ultramarine sky. She hated its lord, yet it had never looked more beautiful.

    Oil lamps flickered along the road. Yellow lights shone through oil paper tacked over cottage windows. Cold winds batted Meya as she traipsed down the sloping dirt road.

    Meya balanced expertly on the levee, wading through seas of purplish wheat swishing under the faint light of the half moon. She ventured into the forest, past the old oak where she''d knock down acorns for her piglets in autumn, to the hollow trunk of a dead tree.

    Meya knelt on the damp earth and caressed the ground. She raked back the loose soil with a small pointed stone, unearthing a drawstring cloth bag. It had once been off-white but was now brown from its time in the earth.

    Her back against the wall of the hollow, Meya loosened the drawstring and rummaged through the trinkets. She found it¡ªa wooden tub that rested snugly on her palm.

    Meya unscrewed the top and brought out the small, jagged stone by touch. The stone was cold and rough. She pressed it against her heart as she sang, her voice whispering in the wind.

    It was a little song she wrote herself, sung in a voice that belonged to Mum.

    I''m here to sing a song I own.

    I wish to hear the world sing along.

    I''ll sing my heart for all who''ll heed.

    So lend your ears to the wind as it blows.

    Mum once traveled the region as a famous songstress before she married Dad and settled down. She would sing at the May Fest every year, and people would travel from as far as Easthaven to hear the Song of May Day.

    Then came a rainy May Day seventeen years ago. Mum was in so much pain giving birth to Meya she screamed until her throat gave out. The Song of May Day was no more.

    Many who believed the Song lived still in Meya called her The Song Thief. Others blamed Meya''s Greeneye misfortune for ridding Latakia of the Song of May Day.

    They were right, although they would never know. Meya had never sung in front of a single soul. Though it was torture suppressing her Song, she was terrified of what people might do to her and most terrified of what Dad might do to her. Nobody knew she could sing except for robins, thrushes, and a boy from the past she only vaguely remembered.

    He was a visitor from another manor. He had stumbled upon her singing in the pigsty, alone on May Day as she usually was. Her family and the whole village were at the festival, witnessing Marin receiving another May Queen crown.

    Perhaps as payment, the boy had given her the small stone encrusted with shards of raw emerald that were the color of her eyes, along with gentle words she would repeat to herself whenever she needed a kind voice to usher her on.

    "You''re worth more than a pig. Or simply your mother''s Song, Meya. Don''t ever think otherwise."

    I''m Meya, Meya.

    I''m born on May''s Eve.

    As my father grieves for my mother''s Song.

    Oh Meya, they say

    What good is a lass,

    As unruly and poor as Meya Hild.

    <hr>

 Lady Arinel

    The sun peeked from behind the mountains at the horizon. The black dark of Crosset faded to a dull gray. Dewdrops clung to the blades of lush grass dotting the hillside.

    The freezing cold stone of the Keep wall burned on Meya''s back. She straightened with a jolt, wiggling her thumb away from Myron''s as he lunged in to pin it down. Although May Fest was just around the corner and marked the beginning of spring, the cold of winter hadn''t left the manor for good. It would creep back in during the nights after sundown and slink away by the dawn before sunrise.

    It felt like half a day had passed since Meya and her whole family, including Hanna, had trudged from their cottage to the castle and joined the congregation of peasant families in front of the Keep.

    Meya counted nine young women around her age. Judging from their tattered woolen dresses, they were only a little better off than Meya and were the newly hired maids. Ten young men in gray-green uniforms stood among them, swords hanging in scabbards from simple brown belts. Those were probably the guards.

    An old man who seemed to be the butler, an old lady who seemed to be the head maid, and another middle-aged man who seemed to be the head guard stood beside the Keep''s towering double doors, watching over them, all dressed in the same dull gray-green and flanked by castle guards in gray-green.

    Every noble clan had its color. Crosset''s color was the grayish Crosset Green, which reminded Meya of tree lichen and bread mold.

    At least she''d be wearing Hadrian''s color, Hadrian Red, for work. Some say it was the color of boiling blood.

    After two hours of miserable chitchat masked with excitement and whatever silly game one could play with one''s little brothers with bare hands, Lady Arinel and Lord Crosset finally emerged from the Keep.

    Meya released Myron''s thumb from under hers, eyes wide. It felt like her heart had cut itself from its bonds and joined her churning bowels below.

    She''d tempered a tiny hope that some complication would arise and the journey would be postponed, as was typical of arrangements concerning important people. But nothing of the sort happened. It was time.

    Meya longed to hug Hanna, but Mum wouldn''t let her approach Lady Arinel smelling of pig. So, she grudgingly settled for a long pat and a nose kiss.

    Marcus and Myron let her ruffle their hair. Marin kissed her on the cheek. Mistral threw herself into Meya''s embrace and squeezed the air out of her lungs. Morel even managed a stiff hug and an awkward pat on her back. Mum''s hug was a few breaths longer than the usual split-second¡ª Meya''s body was too hot for anyone to embrace her comfortably. As always, Maro held on the longest.

    "Take care, little sis." He whispered. Meya nodded, not trusting herself to speak lest the tears burning in her eyes spill.

    "Stay safe. Don''t make any trouble for the Lady. Come home next Fest in one piece. Think you can do that?"

    Meya creaked out a wry grin. She''d try, but, knowing her luck, she couldn''t promise anything.

    A long shadow swept over them. Meya turned around only to find Dad, his lips pursed, his eyebrows tied in a troubled frown. Maro''s strong arms slid away against her silent wishes.

    The author''s tale has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

    After all that had been said and done, it took her every last drop of courage to remain standing, staring down at Dad''s boots, and not bolt away in shame.

    Dad tidied up the unruly strands of hair on her crown.

    "You take care of yourself," He grunted, his eyes stubbornly fixed on Meya''s hair in embarrassment. Meya sniffed. A rebellious teardrop rolled down her cheek.

    "Thanks, Dad," she whispered. Dad gave her a few more affectionate pats. Following his gaze, Meya found the other nine maids milling about beside the cobbled path, unsure who should be first in line. She took a deep breath and one last look at her family, then ventured off to join them.

    <hr>

    In her seventeen years, Meya had only once seen Lady Arinel. That was seven years ago, the autumn before the Famine. Lord Crosset had Meya locked in the Liar''s Bridle, chained at the Town Square and whipped for working in the fields¡ªCrosset didn''t allow women to work the fields back then.

    Meya sneaked glances as she gathered her dress and knelt beside the ninth maid, a fellow redhead. The Lady looked to be around her age. Her oval face was porcelain white, decorated with healthy tinges of pink. Her freefalling golden locks blanketed her Crosset Green silk-and-lace dress down to the bosom. Her eyes were a shade of blue striking and chilling cold as the Ice Pillory Meya had escaped. She had inherited the fabled Crosset eyes.

    "Arinel, these women will accompany and serve you in Hadrian."

    Lord Crosset croaked in his tired, gravelly voice. His green silk tunic hung limply from his thin old shoulders. An anxious glint darted about his eyes as he watched his daughter.

    Arinel stood flanked by a strict-looking, plump old chaperone and a young maid with a heavy wooden mask covering half her face. She studied her ten new subjects, cold, emotionless eyes sweeping over the throng, pausing at each of them in turn.

    Meya avoided her eyes when her turn came, pulling her shabby old cloak to cover her just as shabby dress when she felt the heat of Arinel''s glare lingering on it.

    "Thank you, Father, but I believe Hadrian already has enough peasants in the scullery," said Arinel, her voice cold. The chaperone shared startled looks with the masked maid, and Meya understood why Lord Crosset had looked so worried.

    Noble ladies from powerful families would have younger noblewomen accompanying them as maids of honor. Arinel probably wasn''t thrilled at the prospect of showing up to her wedding with a string of peasant girls.

    Lord Crosset had fallen from favor with the king because of his inept handling of the Famine. Still, if he couldn''t even attract proper attendants for his daughter, maybe he was even worse off than Meya had thought.

    If so, why would Lord Coris Hadrian want to marry Lady Arinel? Hadrian was now the most powerful clan in the central west. Was there a catch somewhere? Was Coris unbearably ugly, deformed, crippled? Was that why no one looked thrilled their Lady was marrying into a powerful family?

    That aside, this could be good for Meya. If Lady Arinel rejected them all, she wouldn''t have to go to Hadrian! Better yet, Lord Crosset might hire them to work in Crosset Castle, so they wouldn''t blab about this embarrassing spectacle and destroy his nonexistent reputation.

    The maids around Meya shivered and fidgeted. The guards stole quick glances at each other, but no one let out a whisper.

    "They are to be your maids of honor, Arinel. Handpicked from our oldest, most respectable farmer and artisan clans. The Gretgorns and the Hilds didn''t help kidnap your betrothed back in the Famine. Now it''s time to honor their virtue. They''ll look no different from us once they''ve been groomed."

    Lord Crosset corrected her. Meya jumped at the mention of her family. Other than her case, she''d thought they''d picked any girl bold enough to leave for a faraway town.

    Though tired and weary as ever, there was a note of finality to Lord Crosset''s voice. Arinel met her father''s pale eyes. With a deep sigh, she lifted her skirts and shuffled to her white, gold-gilded carriage, her chaperone and favorite maid following in her wake.

    When Arinel passed her, Meya saw resignation and defeat in those sharp blue eyes. The same despair she felt, forced to leave behind everything she knew. No matter the circumstances that led to this journey, Arinel, like Meya, wasn''t given a choice.

 Ambush

    The small entourage of ten guards and two horse-drawn carriages¡ªone ornately decorated belonging to the Lady and her closest servants and a larger, plainer one for supplies¡ªtraveled on narrow roads paved through dense pine forests and vast grasslands.

    From what little Meya knew of her country, there were quite a few manors dotting the long road from Crosset to Hadrian. Far at the horizon, she''d sometimes spot castles with villages and wheat fields surrounding their walls. However, the head guard avoided all these settlements, sticking to the dreary wilderness and the wisdom of the river. They stopped only to refill water, ask for directions at inns, and when daylight receded, making the journey swift but excruciatingly dull.

    The sun was setting on the sixth day of their journey as they ventured on foot through a patch of forest between Manors Clardarth and Hadrian. The guards wanted to breach the woods and cross into Hadrian before setting up camp for the night. Everyone hurried along on tired feet.

    Meya stopped. Sounds of movement came from the forest on both sides of the road. Meya had taken enough trips into the woods to feed her piglets or hunt for honey. That wasn''t wind or animal hoof on leaves¡ªit was human feet.

    "Get moving, lass! We need to get through this before sundown!"

    The guard helming the supplies carriage hollered. Meya opened her mouth to warn him, but all hell broke loose.

    Black masses shot forth from the wall of trees like boulders from a catapult. Gleams of silver pierced the dimming light with reverberating clangs. The guards had unsheathed their swords to fend off enemy blades, forming a ragged circle around Lady Arinel''s carriage.

    The maids were left to fend for themselves. Some froze and screamed. Others fought for safety in the supplies carriage, which was too filled with supplies to fit them all.

    Fortunate for once, Meya was standing behind the carriage. With one vicious, practiced tug, she unclasped the collar from her neck and tossed it aside. The fog in her brain lifted. Strength returned to her muscles. She dove for the space between the wheels and flattened her belly on the cold earth.

    The air echoed with the sickening sound of metal splitting flesh, usually limited to the vicinity of Brodel''s butcher stall. Blood sprayed and spattered on the ground, calling more shrieks.

    Meya''s heartbeat thundered in her ears as she panted hard for breath. Cold fear coursed through her veins, threatening to freeze her limbs. On one side of the carriage was the forest. Her best chance of survival was to make a break for it while they were busy fighting, run the rest of the way into Hadrian or double back to Clardarth. With luck, she''d stumble upon a patrol guard or fellow peasant who''d lead her to safety.

    Two pairs of feet danced between the wheels, blocking her passage. Meya gritted her teeth in desperation. She peered through the other side. Through the gap between the wagon wheels, she counted roughly twenty bandits. Two guards were spread-eagled on the ground, dead. Some bandits were dragging screaming maids out of the carriage.

    Meya turned back. The supplies guard and his bandit were still blocking her way out. If only one of them would die or something already, she could finally get out of there.

    Meya turned to the battle on the left, then back to the forest on the right, to the left, then back again. She stuffed her fist in her mouth to stifle a scream. As if to grant her wish, the lone guard dropped dead, his blood-spattered face obstructing her view. His lifeless eyes bore into hers, unseeing. Meya scrambled back, then froze at the merciless voice thundering from the midst of the bloodbath.

    "Surrender now. Or we kill you all."

    The ultimatum came from a bandit who seemed to be the largest and the most scarred of them all. The five remaining guards stood united around Lady Arinel''s carriage, panting, bloodstained swords raised. Five of their friends were dead on the ground. The bandits dragged over the nine maids to join them, swords and knives held at their necks.

    Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

    Stay safe. Don''t make any trouble for the Lady. Come home next Fest in one piece.

    Meya fumed at her rotten luck. With all the strength she could muster, she pushed the guard''s corpse out of her way and scrambled out. Even without the collar, she didn''t trust her legs enough yet to stand, more or less rolling off the road into the banks of the forest, landing upon the carpet of fallen leaves with a flump.

    "There''s one under there!"

    A bandit yelled. Meya had no time to care. She picked herself up and dashed off. Something cut through the air and chafed her cheek. She banked sideways and lost her balance, falling flat on her face and getting a good mouthful of leaves and dirt.

    Ah, crap.

    A hot trail of blood trickled down her cheek to her lips. A rough hand grabbed the back of her tunic, choking her. Meya stood on unsteady feet as she fought to pull her collar away from her neck. The bandit took no notice as he dragged her sputtering, staggering back to the road, then tossed her into the other maids, who sent up a fresh round of screams.

    The head bandit walked back to his place amid his minions. His sweaty, suntanned face was riddled with white scars. He surveyed his captives one by one.

    "Your Lady Arinel will be married to Lord Hadrian. As per Latakian tradition, the bride must bring with her assets of value according to her pricing category as dowry. We need to know the contents of her dowry, and its whereabouts."

    He spoke slowly and clearly with a foreign accent. His voice, soft and calm, clashed with his roughened exterior. A heavy silence everyone dreaded being the one to break descended as the five remaining guards glanced at each other, then looked to their leader.

    The head guard gave a soundless yet enormous gulp¡ªMeya could tell from the bulge rolling down his neck. As sweat trickled down his pallid cheek, he returned his fearful gaze to the bandit''s leader.

    "We don''t have the dowry with us," he shook his head. Meya saw the truth in his eyes. "We don''t know of the Lords'' deal. How much it''s worth. Whether it''s to be handed before, during or after the wedding. It might even be at the betrothal. That was six years ago!"

    His yell of desperation petered into a whimper when the head bandit snatched him by the front of his uniform.

    "Am I supposed to care when it is handed?" His voice was colder than a midwinter lake, "Unless you want Lady Crosset to join her sisters, I suggest you learn what and where it is very soon."

    "I swear by Freda, we don''t carry any treasure! We know nothing about the dowry!" The guard shouted, his voice trembling as hard as his body. "You won''t get anything even if you kill us! You''d have to give us more time if you want Lord Crosset to prepare a ransom!"

    "I have made myself very clear. I do not want a ransom. Nor a dowry. I want Lady Arinel''s dowry." The bandit repeated. He set the guard down to sputter and cough, then turned to his subordinates,

    "It seems Lord Crosset exercised more caution than we had expected. If they really do not have it with them, we might have to improvise." He said serenely, then turned to his nonplussed hostages,

    "Yesterday, we met another entourage which seemed to be carrying Lady Crosset to her wedding, travelling on the usual route. As it turned out, they were decoys. So, we gave them what they signed up for by sending them to the waiting arms of your goddess Freda. Then, we searched them inside out. Literally. There was no dowry."

    That nonchalant revelation stole the air from the clearing. Strength left Meya as she realized how much of a close shave it was. Was this the reason Lord Crosset hired peasants to accompany his daughter? If she''d been assigned to that other group¡ª

    The thought numbed her, but she''d meet the same fate unless they found that dowry quick. Whatever it was, it must have been priceless and dangerous enough. Perhaps something the Hadrians wanted so much that they agreed to accept powerless, dowerless Arinel as their bride. Maybe that was why the bandits were so particular in their ransom demand.

    Satisfied by the fear in the air, the head bandit turned back to the guard.

    "You may or may not have the dowry with or within one of you. There are only two ways we can be sure. Either you hand it to us and we go on our way. Or we cut you all open to retrieve it, then we go on our way."

    "Please. No. We really don''t have it." The guard stammered. Every eye turned to the silent white carriage. Their only hope. Lady Arinel would know best about her marriage, wouldn''t she?

    Still, no one dared demand the Lady show herself and negotiate. One breath. Two breaths. Not a sound escaped the carriage.

    For Freda''s sake, weren''t nobles supposed to protect commoners? Why in Fyr''s name was she still hiding like a snail in its shell?

    Meya reached for the carriage door in desperation, but her stupid, loyal peers pulled her away. Their loyalty was rewarded when the head bandit marched in, yanked one of the girls up by her red hair and dragged her shrieking and struggling away from her friends'' flailing arms.

    "I''m told spilling innards is an effective means of persuasion. You left me no choice but to experiment."

    With that understating remark, the bandit raised his sword high. The girl screamed for her life. The guards charged in as the other maids panicked. Meya''s eyes grew wide in terror as the blade lowered.

    For Freda''s sake! Just how important was that dowry? How many of them would have to die before Arinel relented? Who was to say Meya herself wouldn''t be one of them? Wouldn''t someone do something? Couldn''t she do something?

    "Wait! I have a plan!"

 The Name Deal

    "Wait! I have a plan!"

    The bandit held his sword. Thirty pairs of eyes pooled upon her. Meya tried in vain to stifle her shivers as she stared into those cold, ruthless eyes.

    "You¡ªyou want nothing but the dowry, right?" She held up her hands, a sign of compromise, "We dun know where it is. We really dun''t, but please dun kill us yet. We''ll help you find it."

    For a moment that seemed to stretch forever, the bandit locked his emotionless eyes with Meya, the tip of his sword hovering inches from the redheaded maid''s bowels. Meya saw the calculations in his eyes. She willed hers to show nothing but confidence in her offer, even as she thought up each sentence as she went,

    "We''re only a day away from Hadrian Castle. And we have¡ª" Meya cast a reluctant glance at the bloody corpses, "five¡ªvacancies in our entourage. We''ll take you into the castle disguised as our guards. That way, you can search every nook and cranny. If ''tis handed over at the wedding, you''ll be there to see."

    Another sickening pause, then the bandit lowered his sword and loosened his fist. The redheaded girl collapsed, coughing and sputtering. The other maids pulled her back into their enclave. They fell into each other''s embraces, rocking with hushed sobs.

    Eyes still on Meya, the bandit covered the distance between them with one stride and crouched on one knee. He drove his curved sword into the ground beside Meya, sending her jolting.

    "Young maiden, are you suggesting five of us infiltrate Hadrian Castle and surround ourselves with Hadrian''s men while we turn over every brick, instead of forcing the truth out of your Lady here and now?"

    Turn over every brick? Meya frowned as she cowered. So, it wasn''t gold or land. Must be something small. Something unusual. Something specific. Were they regular thieves? Or did someone hire them to steal something in particular?

    "If Lady Arinel knew, she would''ve said something long since. What''s more important here than her life? You''re right, we may or may not have it. If you kill us and find it, then that''s that. If you dun, then you''ve lost the one lead you''re never meant to have. You just said you''ll improvise, right?"

    Meya fired out anything and everything that came to mind, caring nothing for coherence or meaning,

    "If you can''t find the dowry with us, you''ll have to infiltrate Hadrian Castle anyway. You found one decoy. How can you be sure there isn''t more? If I was Lord Crosset and the dowry was that dangerous, why send it with me daughter? I''d send out ten fake Lady Arinels and send the real thing with the pony post. What if it''s already reached the castle? What if you kill us now and the Hadrians grow suspicious? Your best option is to go with us."

    Meya barely felt her lips. The bandit pored into her glowing green eyes, so she pleaded through them. Had she been less desperate, Meya would know to avoid calling any attention to her eyes in such a delicate negotiation. But somehow, the bandit wasn''t put off by her eyes. Rather, he seemed...sympathetic?

    Meya peered into the bandit''s eyes¡ªdark, emerald green. The same color as her dimmed eyes when she put her collar on. Could it be?

    "What is your name, young maiden?" The bandit finally asked. Meya blinked,

    "Meya Hild."

    She went with honesty. Everyone here had seen her eyes with no collar on, anyway. Lying would be pointless at best and disastrous at worst.

    The bandit frowned as if trying to recall something, then he seemed to give it up and nodded. His expression remained neutral, something that couldn''t be said of any Crossetian upon hearing her name. Despite herself, Meya felt an unwitting drop of camaraderie towards the murderous bandit.

    "Your argument is solid, Meya Hild, but you haven''t figured out how I can be sure you won''t betray us to the Hadrians once we''re there."

    Meya wrung her brain. The bandit was relenting, but having a jagged-edged, bloodstained sword sticking in front of your face wouldn''t speed things up, no matter how desperately one wanted it to.

    "You could poison them and withhold the antidote, Gillian. That''ll make sure they''ll cooperate with us ''til the end," suggested a thin, rat-faced bandit on Gillian¡ªwas that his name?¡ªthe head bandit''s right-hand side.

    Meya internally saluted Rat-Face. Brilliant suggestion, but she must make sure the playing field was level. As Gillian raised his eyebrows at his subordinate, Meya nodded her support,

    "Right. A slow poison, kills in a week or something. We''ll give you ours, too. For obvious reasons. Then, after the job''s done, we arrange an antidote drop."

    Gillian smirked. Feeling sure of how the negotiation was proceeding, Meya returned to her companions,

    "I dun like having to work with them, or having me days numbered, too. But I can''t think of any other way." She met eyes with the guards and maids one by one, "Since it''s your lives as well, you all better say something, too."

    The maids glanced at each other, then turned as one to the guards, who again threw responsibility to their leader. The head guard looked at Meya, his expression a rough mix of fear, uncertainty, and thankfulness. He settled on a resigned nod.

    "I''m at my wit''s end as well. So long as it keeps our Lady alive, I''m in, little lass."

    At his tired go-ahead, Meya turned back to Gillian. He stood with arms crossed, patiently waiting.

    "Trunt, you heard her. Do we have anything of the sort?"

    A stocky bandit skulking near the maids perked up at the sound of his name, cocked his head in thought, then answered eagerly,

    "Dun think so, commander. But we can stop by Old Angus''s on the way. Sure he''ll have somethin'' that does the job."

    "Then we go with Dockar''s plan." Gillian nodded in satisfaction, then turned to his hostages.

    "Very well, Crossetians. It seems you''ll live for another few days thanks to little Meya Hild." He carelessly indicated Meya with his sword, spattering a few drops of blood on her face, then swung it towards the five dead guards,

    The author''s tale has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

    "Do what you must for the dead, but make it swift and bring us clean uniforms. First light tomorrow, we move out."

    As Gillian ordered his men to set up camp, the guards toddled uncertainly towards their departed comrades.

    Muffled noises issued from the white carriage. It must have been going on for a while, but no one noticed due to the high-stakes negotiations unfolding before them.

    "Lady, no you mustn''t¡ªit''s dangerous!"

    "Let go of me¡ªI said, let go!"

    After a final screech, the carriage door burst open, revealing the young Lady of Crosset, flanked by her two trusted servants. Though sheltered from the battle outside, she was red-faced and panting, her golden curls tangled and lopsided. The nurse and the masked maid were in similar shape. There must have been another fight going on inside.

    "Lady Arinel!"

    The maids gasped in fright as the Lady swept down the steps. Some shot furtive glances at Meya. They''d forgotten about the Lady and went ahead with the bargain without her consent. From the look in her flaring blue eyes, she wasn''t too impressed with the outcome, either.

    "I am the one who must open my betrothed''s home to these lowlifes. Have you forgotten?" Arinel snapped, cold fire spitting from every word, eyes scouring the clearing for the insolent maid who volunteered her whole entourage for a castle heist,

    "Do you not consider it necessary to consult my opinion beforehand?"

    "My lady, we¡ª" The head guard rushed in to pacify his charge. Meya stood up, declaring herself the culprit and calling Arinel''s glare to her.

    Meya wasn''t sure what had driven her to do so. Perhaps it was the fear that Arinel would derail their fragile pact, that the bandits would revert to their initial plan, slaughter them all, then root through their corpses. Perhaps she couldn''t trust the head guard to handle Arinel. Maybe she was insulted that Arinel had watched from the sidelines then came gliding in by the end just to speak her mind. Whatever it was, she trembled just to keep it in check.

    "Thank Freda you''re finally out for some fresh air, milady."

    Meya greeted through gritted teeth as Arinel''s eyes slanted to her, injecting an extra dose of venom into that last word.

    "Before we hear your opinion, would you care to heed the voices of the living whether they still want to die in the rotten name of Crosset?"

    She''d barely finished when Arinel slapped her bleeding cheek so forcefully it sent her staggering. She spun around in confusion and anger. Arinel lowered her hand, panting.

    "How dare you." Her whisper trembled with fury, "How¡ªdare¡ªyou!"

    "If even you dun know where that dowry is, tell us what else we can do." Meya rolled her lips, drinking the blood trickling into her mouth, shouting, "You''re our Lady, for Freda''s sake. Do something!"

    Arinel stared, her lips so tightly pursed they became lines.

    "I choose death." She faltered back, "Do whatever you want. I''d rather rot in this forest than breathe shame upon the name of Crosset."

    "Milady, no!"

    The old nurse threw herself at her beloved charge in despair. Arinel looked like she had been cursed into stone. She stood rigid and pale, staring resolutely ahead. Meya gawked, dumbfounded for a beat, before anger consumed her. Her heart thundering, she clenched her hands into fists,

    "You choose death, you say?" She cocked her head, "Typical of you blue-blooded folk. You dun give two farts, do you, what will become of us long as you got off easy?"

    Arinel pursed her lips, confirming with silence. Meya gnashed her teeth,

    "These men died so you can live. And you say you choose death?"

    She jabbed her finger at the bloody corpses in the arms of the living guards. The healthy blush drained off Arinel''s cheeks, leaving only snowy white. She gaped at the dead men and met eyes with the remaining guards, some with silent tears streaming down their cheeks.

    "They''re...are they...dead?"

    Her voice was barely a whisper, but the head guard heard her nevertheless and nodded sympathetically.

    Arinel stumbled back to the carriage stairs, sinking in horror, her eyes far away and unseeing. Meya rolled her eyes at the darkening sky.

    Great. Now she was in shock. There was no rattling an answer out of her for a while. A while they did not have. Worse, she might choose to die out of guilt once she came to.

    Out of sheer desperation and annoyance, Meya heaved a dramatic sigh and declared,

    "Fine. I''ll be Lady Arinel meself."

    A solid silence undercut by the shrill song of early crickets followed, broken by cries of astonishment from the head guard and the old nurse,

    "What?"

    Meya spared them a glance, then returned to Arinel. The Lady remained wordless, but the prospect of Meya assuming her identity seemed to have knocked her back to reality. At her glare of incredulity, Meya shrugged,

    "There''s no need to worry. If we fail, I''ll confess to me crimes. Your family''s honor will be preserved. You can die rest assured." She added drily, then shrugged again, "Me dad''s got six decent children back home. I''m sure he can spare one Greeneye."

    Meya kept up her bravado, even as the bitter taste of her own words seeped onto her tongue. Arinel blinked as she digested it.

    "And...what if you succeed?" She narrowed her eyes.

    "Then I''ll just go on being Lady Crosset. Ain''t that the reward I deserve?" Meya braved another shrug, striving to look as insulting and aggravating as she dared. Arinel was too distracted to take offense¡ªher eyes grew even wider.

    "You''ll marry Lord Coris in my place and be me for the rest of your life?"

    Meya almost jolted. Chione''s Ninnies! How could she have forgotten? The sole purpose of this ill-fated journey was for Arinel to get married! But she couldn''t stop now¡ªArinel must believe she was going through with it.

    "Of course." Meya tilted her head as if it was the most obvious thing in the three lands, "You chose to die, but your name''s still useful. You threw away a name thousands would kill to have. I''d be the biggest fool to leave it here."

    Arinel bit her lips, then rose to her feet, glaring at Meya with cold fury in her eyes. Meya couldn''t resist a grin. Good. She was getting roiled up.

    "I''d even say it''s me right. After all, I came up with the plan, not you. Everyone alive here is alive thanks to yours truly, not you. I protected the people of Crosset, while you hid behind the corpses of your people. Dun''t that make me worthier of being Lady Crosset than you?"

    Anger disappeared from Arinel''s eyes, replaced with something Meya hadn''t expected¡ªguilt and shame. Even as Meya called her bluff, she started to believe in it.

    Meya did something she had never done before. She''d done something useful for others¡ªand they appreciated it. For once in her life, she had succeeded¡ªor at least, didn''t fail that spectacularly.

    "I spent me life fattening pigs for me family. Since they can''t eat me, I have to make meself useful some other way. And I need your name for that."

    Silence fell amidst a clash of ice blue against glowing acid green. Arinel surveyed Meya in thought for an excruciating moment, then her lips finally moved,

    "Glowing green eyes. You''re Meya Hild, aren''t you?"

    Meya blinked, taken aback by the unexpected question and Arinel''s incredible calm. Frowning, she eked out a reluctant nod. Meya didn''t like revealing her name to a fellow Crossetian for obvious reasons. Arinel unfurled a slight smile.

    "My name is Arinel Crosset. You take it, and I take yours. Until the day you''re worth more than a pig, and I''m worthy of carrying my name."

    It was a moment before Meya registered all Arinel had said.

    "What?" Meya croaked, eyes bulging. Arinel nodded,

    "Seeing as you''re so confident you can make more out of my name than myself, I''ll let you borrow it. Keep it forever if you must. I hope you use it well."

    "Lady!" The nurse cried, but Arinel was unwavering, her eyes never leaving Meya''s.

    "I have been humbled by shame, but I shall not let any insolent peasant girl insult me twice."

    Arinel reached for her necklace and tugged, snapping the brittle chain. She tossed the silvery emerald-studded crest into Meya''s hand. As Meya stared, mouth agape in disbelief, Arinel pulled off her jewelry one by one, depositing them in her overflowing hands.

    All she''d meant to do was persuade Arinel to cooperate. Never in her wildest dreams did Meya expect Arinel to take her bluff word for word and throw away her name in favor of Meya''s stupid, worthless (not to mention infamous) peasant girl''s name.

    Though it may have been for the Lady''s safety, for the first time, Meya felt something akin to respect for the proud, noble Lady before her, but it was soon engulfed by fear for herself.

    She was becoming a lady. And she was marrying a lord, not just as a mistress, but a fully-fledged, lawfully-wedded wife.

    And, no matter the outcome of this heist, regardless of whether her life would end in less than a week or twenty years, she''d be spending a large part of it as Lady Arinel Crosset.

 Metal and Blood

    Arinel''s heavy green fur-lined cloak joined the tottering pile of glinting accessories on Meya''s arms. The Lady was left wearing only her traveling attire, a simple white long-sleeved blouse tucked into Crosset Green trousers, cinched with a darker green leather belt. Meya wondered if the noble folk ever felt tired wearing the same color palette every day.

    One''s dress was a mark of one''s status, but it was obvious swapping clothes wouldn''t make her Lady Arinel. As the masked maid, Haselle, pointed out just as Arinel tossed her peridot-studded, snow-fern-shaped collar brooch on top of the pile,

    "My lady, I admire your resolve, but I don''t see how this could work. I''m sure we can do something with her hair, but her eyes will be a dead giveaway."

    Haselle glanced at said eyes, which also called everyone''s attention toward them. Meya saw her chance to back out, but Arinel''s old nurse spoke before she could,

    "She''s hoodwinked us all the way here, hasn''t she? She probably has her methods of hiding that monstrous light." The nurse, Gretella, glared at Meya out of the corner of her eye in distaste. Shrewd old bat, Meya cursed internally.

    Sighing, she beckoned Haselle over with her head and heaved Arinel''s belongings onto her arms. She trudged to the back of the supplies wagon and bent down to retrieve her collar, now hanging in two halves joined with a hinge, muttering under her breath. As if drinking poison and working with bandits to infiltrate a castle wasn''t bad enough, she had to do it wearing the danged collar, too.

    Meya strode back to the throng, clamping the ice-cold collar around her neck. The eyes pooled upon her filled with wonder and awe as her senses dull, her brain slowed, and her limbs weighed as if she was swimming through a pool of concentrated slime.

    The head guard felt her forehead with his hand. He didn''t jerk it away with a grimace as one would when burned by a scorching fever.

    "I can wear this, but I assure you¡ª''tis not gunna work." Meya sighed, "Lattis makes me slow and weak. I''m gunna need every morsel of me brain to convince Lord Coris I''m his betrothed. With this on, I wouldn''t even be able to braid me hair."

    "It''s all in your head, lass. You look perfectly fine." Insisted the head guard, whose name was Sir Jerald Bayne. Meya growled in her throat in frustration. She eyed Gillian, who should care most about the success of this deluded scheme. He studied her for a moment, then motioned with his chin for her to follow and strode towards the forest.

    Meya tilted her head, puzzled, but Gillian had disappeared into the tangled trees. Should she follow? On the one hand, she was sure he was a Greeneye, just like her, and she was dying to talk more. On the other hand, he was a bandit who had just murdered five guards. The remaining guards hadn''t even finished digging the mass grave.

    Meya glanced at the men digging a hole for the bloody corpses, whose faces were covered with white handkerchiefs, then spun around at the feel of a cold hand on her shoulder. It was Sir Jerald. His other hand was on his sword''s pommel. The blood on the blade was still shining wet.

    "I''ll be right behind you, lass."

    Meya shot him a look of thanks, then ventured after Gillian into the privacy of the trees. The sun had set, and darkness was falling fast. They followed the sound of Gillian''s heavy footfalls crunching on leaves and earth. When it quieted, Jerald nodded reassuringly, and Meya emerged alone into a small clearing under a circular hole in the canopy.

    Unauthorized use of content: if you find this story on Amazon, report the violation.

    Gillian was on his knees, a wooden bowl on the ground before him and a knife blade digging into his bloody palm. As Meya gawked, he squeezed his hand to hasten the flow.

    "You''re a woman of small build. That collar is too much Lattis for you. You keep wearing that much on your person, and you''ll die young."

    He reached out a gloved hand. Meya undid the clasp on her collar with numb fingers, handing the metal band over as if in a trance, her eyes bulging,

    "D-die young, you say?" Her voice came out a strangled rasp. Gillian set the collar on a flat stone, then rummaged in his pocket, pulling out a length of clean white cloth.

    "And I''d reckoned with your intellect, you would''ve figured it out long since." He wound the cloth over his bloody palm, tied it tight, then covered it with the leather glove, "Lattis is poison to the likes of us."

    Meya''s mouth fell open. All this was so new, so eye-opening, so assuring. Her whole life, she''d been the only Greeneye she knew. Nobody could give her any advice. No other Greeneye was around to let her know she was part of a group, even a group of freaks. Nobody believed she didn''t imagine the cold, the heaviness of the Lattis collar. Then along came this man who helped her out with her lifelong difficulty. It was a bummer that he was a murderous bandit, though¡ªtypical Freda.

    Meya watched, enraptured, as Gillian dipped the knife into the blood and touched it on the Lattis band. The blade sunk like a hot knife through butter, slicing off a small square from the edge of the collar.

    It hit Meya then,

    "And only our blood can destroy it?"

    Gillian nodded. He picked up the Lattis piece and sanded off the sharp corners with his bloodstained knife.

    "And vice versa."

    Meya raised her eyebrows, hooked with curiosity. Gillian continued as if he could read her mind, still sanding the Lattis piece.

    "Blood of a Greeneye is the only known method of refining Lattis. Lattis melts readily in it. If you were stabbed by a Lattis blade or pierced by a Lattis arrow, particles of it would mix with your blood and travel throughout your body, and it could kill you if left inside long enough."

    Kill you? Strength left Meya''s legs. All this time, she''d strapped the loathsome metal band over the biggest artery on her neck, not knowing one cut could kill her as surely as wolfsbane.

    Gulping with difficulty through her constricted throat, Meya looked on as Gillian punched a small hole through the now rounded Lattis piece with a thin twig dipped in his blood.

    "How did you know all this?"

    "I live among my kind." Gillian looked up, eyebrows raised, "Considering the villagers and the lady recognized you, you''re probably the only one in this area?"

    Gillian''s eyes, cold and unreadable as ever, contained a gleam of understanding. Meya found herself reluctantly trusting him more and more,

    "I guess." She shrugged, "There was one in Noxx but he died five years ago. He gave me that."

    Meya gestured at the bloodstained collar lying abandoned on the stone slab. For the first time, Gillian seemed interested.

    "Do you know his name?"

    Meya frowned as she tried to remember.

    "Think it was Marsant?"

    Gillian struck the same face as when Meya told him her name. At last, he nodded without a word. He handed the Lattis coin to Meya, and she felt no different as her fingers brushed its icy surface. She took out her necklace, slid the end of the thong through the hole, then tied it back around her neck.

    Gillian rose to his feet, collecting the bowl, the knife and the Lattis band. Meya reached out to retrieve what was hers.

    "Say, once this heist is over, can you take me to them? The Greeneyes you live with?" Gillian turned around, his hand still pouring the contents of the bowl onto the undergrowth. "They''re in Latakia, right? You dun sound like a Latakian."

    The falling darkness shrouded Gillian''s eyes. Then, for the first time, he unfurled a smile bursting with a determination that bordered on fanatic.

    "If we find that dowry, then we can be anywhere you want to be. Latakia. Nostra. Everglen. Take your pick."

    With that, he strode into the trees, leaving Meya to rush after him, hoping he wouldn''t notice Jerald hiding just out of earshot.

 Coris Hadrian

    Are we really going through with this?

    Even with her glowing eyes taken care of, Meya wasn''t at ease. As Gillian and four of his bandits shaved, bathed and suited up in the Crosset guard uniform, as she herself was scrubbed and cleaned by nine maids who also had her hair bleached and curled, making her resemble Arinel as humanly (or Greeneye-ly?) possible, as Gretella and Haselle tutored her in the ways of a noble lady, which included mundane matters like how to walk properly, eat properly, talk properly, all the way to¡ªto put it politely, please one''s husband in the bedchambers. Properly.

    Now that the small entourage had crossed the border into Hadrian and was being led by its red-clad guards up the hill to the castle, the question became a constant ringing in her head.

    Really? Are we seriously even considering this? Really?

    Sitting in her velvet-lined seat, surrounded by little round comfy pillows (all moldy green), measuring the hill''s incline with her behind, Meya clenched her fists and struggled to calm her failing nerves.

    Any minute now, she''d step out to the Hadrian sun in Arinel''s green silk dress, greet her husband-to-be¡ªLord Coris Hadrian¡ªand his family, enter a wedding ceremony with him, and¡ªOh, Goodly Freda, please him in the bedchambers.

    Meya resisted the temptation to yank out her hair. Her head was sore enough from the trials it had been through with the bleach, the dye, the curling and the braiding. Her face felt like she had dipped it in bread flour, with all the powder heaped on to cover her freckles and suntanned skin.

    She''d have to be unbelievably lucky for Lord Coris to be stupid enough to believe this Arinel was born with golden curls and porcelain white, unblemished skin, and not a disguise to ensure he would accept her on her wedding day.

    What frightened Meya most, however, was the bedchamber part. Meya knew she was coming of age, but marriage had been further from her mind than Everglen until now.

    Ever since the Famine ended, peasant girls in Crosset usually worked the fields until halfway into their twenties before they finally married. Unlike pretty Marin, who could marry any man her father approved without paying the groom a single copper coin, other girls must earn their dowry.

    Suntanned, freckle-faced, flat-nosed, mud-smudged, pig-smelling as she was, Meya didn''t dare dream of marriage. She was saving up more to buy herself land to build a humble spinster-sized cottage after Dad had died and left everything to Maro. Yet, here she was, about to marry a nobleman. A nobleman, for Freda''s sake! She should be celebrating her luck, but she shivered in fear.

    She''d never known him, never even seen even his portrait. What if he turned out to be a sadistic lunatic? Lord Crosset used dozens of peasants as decoys to make sure his daughter arrived safely for her wedding. Who was to say Coris Hadrian wouldn''t be the same? What would happen if her cover was ever blown?

    Still, it''s better than dying in the forest. And after all, since you were the one who came up with the plan, you should be the one to carry it out!

    Though reasonable, the realization wasn''t consoling. Unable to bottle up her insecurities any longer, Meya raised her gaze to the now brown-haired girl sitting on the carriage floor before her.

    "Lady Arinel?"

    Arinel''s cold blue eyes rose as if to answer a challenge. After the scathing remarks they exchanged, Meya wasn''t sure how to carry herself before the proud Lady.

    "Lord Coris. What''s he like? Is he kind? Is he handsome?"

    Meya eked out a timid conversation opener as she fidgeted with the cloth of her dress. The condescending look in Arinel''s eyes vanished, replaced with warm understanding. She averted her eyes,

    "The only time we talked was when Baron Hadrian visited to ask my hand for Coris. I was eight and Coris was nine. Our fathers left us to play together while they negotiated the terms."

    Arinel''s eyes wandered as she rifled through her memories, then narrowed in distaste.

    "He was fat, spoiled, and a bully. Worst of all, he''s smart. A prodigy, in fact. A year from that day, he''d command the Siege of Cristoria, and win. He''s ruthless and cunning, but it''d better serve his interests to have you believe he''s harmless and bumbling. Never underestimate Coris Hadrian."

    Arinel pinned Meya with her icy glare, as her heart sank deeper into a rising well of dread. Arinel surely couldn''t be happier she was no longer the lucky bride of this precocious monster.

    "No wonder you''re so eager to give me your name." Meya hissed through gritted teeth. Arinel answered with calm, unreadable eyes. Meya swore she saw the shadow of a gratified smirk in there, but to keep face, she could only shrug as if undaunted,

    "Well, guess I''ll find out soon enough if times have changed our Lord Coris at all. When''s the wedding, by the way?"

    "Tomorrow."

    One of the carriage''s wheels rolled over a bump in the road. Caught unawares, Meya toppled headfirst out of her seat. Throwing her hand out to the carriage wall to regain her balance, Meya gaped at the serene Lady.

    "Tomorrow?" She cried, "And you only thought to tell me now?"

    "You didn''t ask." said Arinel flatly, as if she couldn''t care less how much trauma the belated notice would inflict upon her maid-turned-mistress. Before Meya could scream her guts out, the carriage screeched to a halt, sending Meya rolling off her seat again. Curse stupid Sir Bayne at the reins.

    "Her Grace, the honorable Lady Arinel of Crosset." announced Sir Bayne. Arinel shoved Meya against the backrest just before the door swung open. Meya was tempted to shake off the bump on the back of her head, but a hand had already reached out to her from the host.

    Meya''s eyes followed the proffered hand up the arm to the young man''s smiling face. He was perhaps a few years younger than her¡ªhis waifish frame was barely an inch taller than Meya''s. His dark brown hair was lank and dull even under the late morning sunshine, clashing horribly with the gleaming stripes of colorful silk on his tunic. Its baggy sleeves made him seem even thinner. He had sharp, beautiful silvery eyes and a well-proportioned face that might have been handsome. If only his yellowish, sickly pale skin weren''t stretched like a drying cowhide over his cheekbones.

    The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement.

    Oh, Goodly Freda. Poor lad looked ill and underfed. He was definitely not Lord Coris but his fifteen-year-old younger brother. Arinel told her his name was Lord Zier.

    Meya had heard tales of sibling rivalry among noblemen, but why would Baron Hadrian fatten his heir like a pig for winter and leave his spare to starve?

    As questions and disbelief swirled in her head, Meya took Lord Zier''s clammy, spiderlike hand and clambered into the morning light.

    The first sight that greeted her wasn''t the people gathered in welcome but the imposing, impressive stone fortress adorned with crimson flags fluttering in the light breeze. Warm-looking torch fires flickered behind colorful stained-glass windows dotting the grim gray. The green lawn she was standing on spread as far as her eyes could see into manicured flower courtyards, fountains, a fruit orchard, a stone-paved training arena, all contained in a four-foot-thick wall and a moat twice as wide.

    Meya shivered as the cold and weight of the stones she must challenge bore down upon her, then turned instead to study the castle''s inhabitants. A family of three stood in the middle, flanked by maids and guards clad in red. They must be the remaining Hadrians.

    The tall, broad-chested middle-aged man with wavy golden hair flowing to his shoulders and a mustache was probably Baron Kellis. The brown-haired woman with a kind smile and sharp gray eyes was probably his wife, Baroness Sylvia.

    And finally, the tall, burly, healthy-looking young man with shiny brown hair, sparkling blue eyes and a broad, cheerful smile must be the Hadrian heir, Lord Coris. Her¡ªArinel''s¡ªhusband-to-be.

    Meya admired the young man as Lord Zier led her by the hand to his family. Puberty worked wonders on the notorious young heir. He was certainly not overweight, nor did his excited grin betray evil or ill temperament.

    And my, isn''t he a hunk!

    Meya was sorely tempted to gloat at her unfortunate Lady, but she could only smile daintily at her new family. Once Lord Zier had stopped before the Baron, Meya curtsied as gracefully as she could, the way Gretella had taught her. Behind her, her subjects followed suit.

    "Welcome to Hadrian, Lady Arinel. We are honored to receive you. How was your journey?"

    Baron Kellis stepped forth with a warm smile, closing the gap. Despite the training and the warning she had received, Meya was stunned. Never had she been in such proximity to the lord of the manor or his family, much less being directly addressed. Fortunately, a small foot kicking the back of her leg brought her back to her senses just in time.

    "Me¡ªMy journey was¡ªsmooth, my lord. Thank you¡ªso much¡ªfor your concern."

    Meya managed a jittery reply, barely suppressing her peasant accent. Her smile sagged at the sight of the Baron''s raising eyebrows. To ward off his suspicions, she turned to the other Hadrians,

    "Baroness Sylvia."

    The regal woman replied with a gracious smile as Meya curtsied for her. However, her radiant smile morphed into an expression of pure terror when Meya next addressed the young man standing beside the Baroness with complete confidence,

    "Lord Coris."

    Coris''s mouth fell open into a perfect, comical O. Unfortunately, in her haste, Meya had already turned to the lad who led her from her carriage,

    "Lord Zier."

    Zier was still smiling, but his smile seemed to have been the first one frozen in place. Done with the formalities, Meya allowed herself a soft sigh. However, when she turned back to the Baron, she almost jumped in fright. His blue eyes had become terrifyingly icy as he stared at the boy next to Meya. The Baroness looked almost in tears as she glanced back and forth between her poor sickly son and her devilish husband. The servants cowered in fright.

    Lord Coris, on the other hand, was acting odd. He was mouthing in desperation, looking like a trout out of water. His finger jabbed the air in his brother''s direction, then at his left ring finger.

    Meya frowned as she tried and failed to decipher his code. Chilling cold trickled down her back. She must have messed something up spectacularly, right?

    "Pleasure is ours, Lady Crosset. I''m Coris Hadrian."

    Meya turned slowly towards the new voice issuing from her right, dread curling in her stomach as realization sank in.

    Yes, there was no mistaking it. The lad who had spoken was the one standing next to her, the same one who had held her hand and led her over to Baron Hadrian. The sickly, pale, wraith-like short-stack had just introduced himself as Coris Hadrian.

    Oh, Goodly Freda, save my skull.

    Stupid, stupid, stupid! Of course your betrothed must be the one to receive you at your carriage''s door, idiot lass! How could you possibly think his brother would have done it, you biggest dolt in the three lands?

    Swearing feverishly inside her head, Meya stood rigid with fear and embarrassment. Lord Coris proceeded to heap praise upon her blank head as if he hadn''t noticed.

    "So long have I awaited the arrival of my betrothed. You are a sight of the Heights to behold, my lady."

    As he babbled with calculated fluster, Coris squeezed her hand, hard enough for the pain to snap Meya back to her senses.

    "L¡ªLord Coris?" Meya breathed. Coris gave her an encouraging smile and the slightest nod.

    "I¡ªI have waited so long for you as well, my lord. You are just as charming and noble as the rumors foretold, too."

    Meya barely knew what she was blabbering, but Lord Coris smiled gently. There wasn''t a trace of fury or malice in his eyes. If Arinel''s story was to be believed, it was miraculous how a few years could transform the devil into a living, albeit sickly, embodiment of sainthood.

    His smile was kind, understanding and forgiving. It was the kind of tolerance she seldom received from her father. Meya couldn''t tear her eyes away from those beautiful silvery eyes. At the same time, guilt and uncertainty lurked at the edges of her reverie. Would there be a nobleman this decent? Though she was relieved Coris didn''t appear to be the nightmare Arinel had foretold, half of her hoped he''d give her ammunition to justify looting his castle.

    They stared, neither willing to break apart, until a barking, joyous laugh rent the silence, breaking the enchantment.

    Meya blinked, returning to reality as if waking from a deep sleep. The young couple whipped around to Baron Hadrian. He was clapping and grinning ear to ear, immense satisfaction painted across his handsome features.

    "I see you two have become acquainted. Very well. Coris! Lead the Lady and her entourage to their quarters. After a good rest, we shall hold a feast to celebrate this wondrous union."

    The Baron held out his elbow for the Baroness to cling to, then turned and marched towards the wooden double doors, his younger son and subjects following in his wake. Coris squeezed Meya''s hand again, signaling her to walk. Heaving a relieved sigh, Meya made sure everyone else was staring ahead before whispering out of the corner of her mouth,

    "Lord Coris, I''m terribly sorry. That was foolish of me."

    Meya chanced a furtive glance at the thin boy. Coris was still smiling as ever, but there was something strange this time.

    "Ah, please don''t trouble yourself, my lady. After all, it''s an understandable mistake, but if it means my brother looks stronger than I do, then I''m happier than anything."

    Meya frowned at his cryptic reply. However, Coris seemed content with it. He smiled at the ground, a melancholic smile that didn''t reach his eyes.

    As much as it niggled her, Meya didn''t have the time and capacity to unravel Coris'' mystery. Half of the guards walking behind her were murderous bandits who had proven themselves capable of killing any number of lives for their goal. Flowing in her veins was a poison that would end her life in a month unless she exchanged the unknown dowry for the antidote. Yet, surrounding her was an unyielding stone fortress of the mightiest clan in the central west, and she hadn''t the slightest idea what or where that dowry was. Could she make it out alive?

    As cold fear engulfed her body at the realization her days were numbered, the unnatural cold of Coris'' hand embraced hers. A mysterious voice from the past came rushing back¡ª

    You are worth more than a pig. Or simply your mother''s song, Meya. Don''t ever think otherwise.

    Meya bit her lips as she reminisced those words from the boy who had given her the raw emerald stone. Her resolve hardened and crystallized like the verdant gemstone itself.

    No, she couldn''t die yet. Not before she found him again. And, this time, she would show him he was right. The next time they met, she''d be worth much, much more than a pig.

 Dining with the Family

    Trouble ensued the moment Meya''s entourage set foot into the guest quarters.

    Meya''s ten guards had been sent to join the Hadrian guards and take up duties in various parts of the castle, and the chamberlain, Sir Rondell, had taken over the arrangements in the Lady''s quarters.

    None of the maids they brought from Crosset were noble or experienced, so Sir Rondell decided they''d join the other peasant girls in the scullery. Gretella wouldn''t have objected, if not for the fact that her beloved lady was now among those peasants.

    Gretella argued Arinel and Haselle were Meya''s favorite maids of honor. Still, Sir Rondell insisted that as Meya was now a Hadrian, he would select proper maids of honor for her on behalf of Baroness Sylvia. However, he did relent and allowed Gretella, Arinel and Haselle to prepare Meya for the wedding, and let Gretella remain as Meya''s attendant.

    After some rest, a change of clothes, and another lecture from Arinel and Gretella, Meya was taken to her second nightmare.

    The Dinner Table.

    <hr>

    When Baron Kellis said he''d throw a feast, it was a feast in the literal sense that awaited Meya when she entered the Great Hall.

    The Hadrians and noble guests were seated at the long table at the end of the Hall, while their staff and lesser guests dined at the long tables in the middle of the room.

    Servants buzzed about, laying down dish upon dish of extravagant cuisine. There was a roasted stuffed peacock complete with shimmering tail feathers as decoration, a two-foot-long broiled fish straight from the Southern sea, dripping with batter, beef and pork slabs peppered with droplets of grease and blood served on a bed of baked fruits and vegetables, plates of pungent cheese, meat pies, berry pastries and vividly colored fruit jellies. There was even a miniature Hadrian Castle sculpted out of sugar.

    "So, Lady Arinel, how are you finding our home so far?"

    Once servants had finished laying down the enormous platters on their end of the table, Baroness Sylvia opened the conversation while Baron Kellis heaped broiled fish onto her plate.

    Meya sat across from the couple, between Lord Coris and Lord Zier. Coris had also begun plying food onto her plate. After a nod and a sweet smile of thanks, she answered the Baroness with a honeyed smile,

    "More like not finding, my lady. It''d be some time before I learned my way around here."

    Meya laid down her knife and took a sip of grape juice from her brass goblet, her other sweaty hand gripping the fork as her eyes traveled, studying the others as they dug in. Liquid was the only food she had the slightest idea how to eat right now.

    The Baroness laughed.

    "You have the Hadrian men to blame for that." She shot her husband a look of frustrated amusement, "This castle was built to thwart heists. By Freda, the number of hidden doors and rooms they''ve added over the generations, and the number of times I got lost trying to find the way to the scullery!"

    She smiled at Head Cook Apollon, who bowed from where he stood at the head of the table. "Needless to say, I didn''t get to enjoy midnight snack."

    Meya giggled. Who would''ve thought the Baroness enjoyed sneaking out for a late-night finger dip of overnight meat sauce?

    "Makes you wonder how many Hadrinians they''ve accidentally trapped over the years¡ªOh, it''s alright, Lord Coris. Please eat."

    She covered her plate with a hasty grin as Coris made to add roasted peacock onto the tottering pile. Coris froze, then smiled.

    "Please, just Coris." He pulled up a side plate and deposited the meat on it instead. Meya frowned. It was a question niggling her since she''d first heard of his name,

    "Would you mind? I''ve been wondering¡ªIsn''t Coris a lady''s name?"

    It was an impertinent question¡ªMum would have pinched her arm if she were around. Yet, Coris didn''t seem to mind. He chuckled, silvery eyes glinting in the firelight.

    "I get that a lot." He shrugged, then tilted his head at his parents, "Father calls me Coris. Mother prefers Lexi. When they''re furious with me, I''m Corien Alexis. Tempest and defender of Hadrian. Needless to say, I do my damnedest to infuriate them."

    Meya guffawed along with those who had heard as Baroness Sylvia reached over to pinch her son''s meatless arm.

    "Say, what is the meaning of my name?" She mused.

    Of course, Meya wasn''t talking about her name. She''d received her true name from Friar Tumney, taken straight from the Glennian Runes. It looked beautiful and exotic, written in Latakian letters, but it sounded nothing like one would expect.

    It was believed Chione would possess Greeneyes using their true names. So, christening them with names so tricky even the Greeneyes themselves couldn''t pronounce or spell was considered a smart move.

    Meya''s full name was May-lah Ahn-ya...or some thingy of the sort. This gave free headaches to everyone¡ªMeya herself, her siblings, her parents, peasants, craftsmen, merchants, noblemen¡ªall the way to scribes and castle clerks. In other words, the most literate professions in Crosset! And, of course, Friar Tumney, who was often requested to explain it in vain (and also Chione, hopefully).

    According to the friar, it meant queen of May and heavenly glow. Sardonic, considering Meya''s status as the most abominated component of May Fest, and her unholy glowing eyes. From a young age, she went by the simple and meaningless Meya, instead.

    This tale has been unlawfully obtained from Royal Road. If you discover it on Amazon, kindly report it.

    Coris laid down his soup spoon and touched his chin, eyes unfocused.

    "I''d guess Arinel is derived from arinn, which denotes light in ancient runes. And Annetta is from anitha, grace. So, to conclude, you are the light of grace."

    Meya almost spewed the blue mash she''d just inserted into her mouth. Goodly Freda, that was even worse than heavenly glow.

    "Is the gravy too peppery?" The Baroness gawked as Meya thumped her chest and chugged down grape juice, while Coris patted her back. Her eyes widened,

    "That reminds me. If you have any allergies or dislikes, do let me know. Well, anything but vegetables." She added just when Meya was about to let her hatred of pickles and tomatoes be known, then turned sharply to her youngest son, who was scarfing down a chopped-beef steak.

    "Eat your blue mash, Zier. They hold the indigo from Freda''s Lake."

    The Baroness turned and beckoned for the Head Cook. Zier scowled behind her back, muttering just loud enough for Meya to hear,

    "I don''t care if it''s water from Freda''s Lake, this gunk both look and smell ugh."

    He stabbed his fork sullenly into the blue goo. Meya nudged his foot under the table. When he turned around, she flicked her tomato with her fork, and Zier understood the signal.

    After a glance to make sure Coris was busy sipping soup, and the Baroness deep in discussion with the Cook, he scooped the whole pile of mash onto Meya''s plate and swiped the tomatoes back to his own.

    The silent Baron Kellis finally joined the conversation,

    "Speaking of blue vegetables, I''ve just heard from Norena Safyre the other day. Her dyers are experimenting with everything from blue potatoes to blueberries to reproduce the Safyre Blue."

    "Have they got any luck so far?" The Baroness looked half-amused, half-sympathetic. The Baron shook his head. Zier shrugged, swallowing a mouthful of juicy tomato,

    "That''s what happens when your family''s dye recipe hinges on lapis lazuli carted across two lands and an ocean."

    "Zier," said a hissing voice from Meya''s left. Meya turned to find Coris glaring at Zier. "We have a Hyacinth here, in case you''ve forgotten."

    He motioned at the tapestried wall before them, where a line of young maids of honor, squires and pages stood at the ready, hands clasped at their middle.

    Meya had no idea which one was the Hyacinth heir Coris was talking about. Zier knew but couldn''t be bothered to spare a round of wind,

    "Well, it''s true! You know the rules for designating a clan color: One, only your clan can procure it. Two, you can guarantee stable, sustainable supply."

    He laid down his utensils and counted on his fingers. Coris'' eyes lowered in temperature,

    "Zier, the Safyres and the Hyacinths hailed from opposite sides of the Blue Mountains, hence their names and their choice of crushed lapis lazuli as their dye. Their ancestors wouldn''t have expected mining to be banned and ore ships from Everglen to disappear centuries later, would they?"

    "But, at the least¡ª" Zier argued.

    "Boys?" The Baroness drawled, the end of her voice rising with her eyebrows. The quarreling brothers zipped their mouths at once. The Baroness pointed her chin at Meya, squeezed between them, while the Baron scolded.

    "Coris, when you become Baron, you must lead and guide an entire town of commoners. How can you hope to reassure them in times of crisis, if you can''t carry an amicable talk with your brother over dinner?"

    The Baron''s voice wasn''t so low. The whole table fell silent as the eyes of visiting lords and ladies pooled upon their host in bewilderment. Coris sighed and dipped his head, his pale face tinged pink,

    "I''m sorry, Father. I shouldn''t have been so patronizing."

    The Baron nodded in approval, then resumed eating as if he didn''t have another son to discipline. Zier huffed a breath of annoyance and stabbed moodily at his steak.

    "So, what''s your opinion on Hadrian Red, Arinel?" The Baroness deftly changed the topic, "Girls usually don''t like how bright it is, you see. They fear it makes them look wider."

    Meya glanced at her Hadrian Red gown and grinned,

    "My lady, I''ve lived in a castle swarming with folks draped in sheets of tree mold for seventeen years. I''d say this lighten things up somewhat."

    The Baron and Baroness burst out laughing in unison. Coris chuckled. Moody Zier even managed a grin. Meya was emboldened by the sight.

    "Don''t you ever wish to wear other colors? Like commoners do?"

    "I do, actually. I''d like meself some Crosset Green. Or Graye Gray, even. A whole day training, then I retire to a bedroom plastered with crimson. A lad can''t catch a breather," Zier shook his head in amusement.

    "What''s Hadrian Red made of, by the way?" Meya asked.

    "Now it''s the Hadrian Rose, but in the old days, we''d grind red crystals from the mines near the western volcanoes, before we found out it was poisonous." said the Baron.

    "Red crystals¡ªlike rubies?" Meya leaned in, eyes sparkling. The Baron nodded with a laugh,

    "Realgar. They are just beautiful, but a deadly poison as it turned out. We have samples in the Gallery. Encased in glass, of course. Coris can show you around, if you like."

    He cocked his head at Coris, who looked up and smiled at Meya.

    Meya was beside herself with relief and excitement. Who''d think talking with nobility would be¡ªenjoyable? She felt as if she''d talked more with the Hadrians over dinner than her own family in a week.

    "That''d be splendid!" Her voice was breathy with excitement, "Don''t you just love staring at shiny things?"

    "Don''t we all do?" agreed the Baroness as she caressed the centerpiece ruby on her silver necklace. The Baron clasped her hand, his gaze wistful.

    "Sadly, this beauty would be your last for a while, Sylvia. Least ''til the ships return."

    "Agh, I''m sure we ladies have enough jewels to last a few years. You worry about your iron, my lord."

    Sylvia waved it aside with a giggle. Coris perked up, eyes wide and alert. Kellis patted his wife''s hand with a chiding smile,

    "Now, Sylvia. It won''t do to trouble the young ones with heavy matters over dinner. And right before their wedding day, too! They''ll need all the sleep they can get."

    The Baroness glanced at Coris, then promptly resumed discussing jewelry. Coris blew a quiet sigh as he returned to his cold soup, his expression gloomy. Zier wasn''t paying the slightest attention¡ªjoking with a young nobleman sitting to his right.

    The conversation around the long table fell away into an incomprehensible buzz as Meya delved into her thoughts. Dinner with the Hadrians was as much an experience as a mystery.

    The whole table was shrouded in the aroma of numerous spices and herbs Meya didn''t know, fuming from the costly and exotic dishes Meya had never in her life laid eyes on. Still, Lord Coris adhered to his soup bowl. Now and then, he''d fork a piece of boiled carrot from the stew into his mouth and chew carefully. Like Meya, who had a distaste for fermented goods, he drank only grape juice.

    It could be that he was recovering from an upset stomach, and so refrained from hearty food. However, his pale countenance and frail build suggested his sickness wasn''t temporary. Then there were his cryptic remarks in the morning. This might be the catch Meya had been wondering about.

    And what about iron couldn''t be discussed in front of Coris? Meya reckoned they were talking about the metal shortage Jason had told her back in Crosset. Apart from a shortage in money coins, the Everglen ships'' disappearance also affected the supply of everything from jewelry to cloth dyes and iron.

    What would happen to Latakia if the ships never returned? What would happen if there were no metals and minerals from overseas, but mining was still banned? Even as a lowly peasant girl, Meya couldn''t help being concerned.

    Coris seemed to have his own opinion about the situation. Perhaps they could discuss once she could have him on his own, but that would have to wait until after this castle heist business was over.

 The Wedding

    After the lengthy dinner, Meya returned to her guest quarters to rehearse her vows with Gretella, Arinel and Haselle. They then tucked her in bed early.

    She''d barely drifted off to a troubled dream when she was woken up by a gaggle of harried maids. They led her stumbling and yawning through the darkness into a wooden bathtub filled with milk and perfumed with rose petals, then proceeded to scrub a layer of skin off her.

    Meya was too sleepy for modesty. By the time she was awake enough, she found herself sitting before a rectangular slab of glass about a head taller than her.

    Trapped within it was a wide-eyed, freckle-faced girl sitting on the same chair Meya was sitting on. A storm of maids bustled around her like overgrown bees, gathering her hair, decorating her face with color and powder.

    "It''s called a mirror," hissed Arinel as she tugged a comb through Meya''s damp, tangled hair. Meya snapped her gaping mouth shut, remembering Hadrian maids were also present.

    Jason once told her mirrors were glass painted with silver on one side. For obvious reasons, her family didn''t own one.

    Once the last strand of hair had been coiled and the last spot of freckle covered, the maids bowed and retreated from the room. Only Gretella, Arinel and Haselle were left standing by Meya.

    "Stand up. Turn around."

    Gretella commanded. Haselle helped Meya up from her seat, then stepped back as she twirled round and round. Meya had only meant to twirl once, but the smooth caress of silk on her legs, as her dress danced with her, was intoxicating¡ªuntil her flower crown flew off her head and smacked Haselle full in the face.

    "Enough¡ªenough!" Gretella waved in exasperation as Haselle giggled and fixed the crown back on a sheepishly smiling Meya''s head. The old nurse turned to consult the water clock on the far wall with a huff, haughty as ever,

    "Very well. We still have time for you to...familiarize yourself with the mirror. We''ll give you a call when it''s time."

    With that, the three women glided away. The heavy wooden door swung shut behind them, leaving Meya alone with her reflection.

    Meya ran her fingers through the long golden locks reaching to her waists, and gave them a playful toss. She raised her long blue silk tunic just enough for the hems to leave the floor, then twisted left and right, studying her figure.

    The golden and silvery patterns sewn onto her blue dress shimmered in the morning light filtered through the stained-glass windows. The delicate white veil trailing from her crown of orange blossoms was lopsided, so she adjusted it.

    Meya''s lips twitched into a wan smile as she admired her reflection. For the first time in her life, she felt beautiful enough to walk alongside her sisters.

    If only her family could see her now. She''d so love to see the look on Morel''s face when she heard about the lavish feasts, flowing silk dresses and warm milk baths Meya was enjoying. Not to mention marrying a Lord. Not just any Lord either¡ªthe Hadrian heir, no less!

    Meya''s savage glee was short-lived, however. Would Dad approve of what she did? He''d never agreed with anything she came up with. He''d frown at how she manipulated Arinel and usurped her identity, but what would he rather she have done? Nothing? She might not even be alive, for all she knew.

    Though Meya told herself she was just trying to coax Arinel into cooperating, deep down, she had meant to become the Lady herself. Well, why not? She could do better, much better, with Arinel''s name than the Lady herself. It was the chance of a lifetime. To live the life thousands could only dream of.

    And, if she survived, more opportunities would come for her to make a name for herself. A day would come when she would strike it big and cart home wagonloads of gold and show Dad that she could succeed. That she could be useful like the others, even as a Greeneye.

    Until then, she must live as Arinel Crosset. She must find the dowry. Find it and live.

    And yet, Meya frowned, uneasy. Meya had always been prone to jealousy. She had little love for the noble and the rich, but now that she had experienced one such family up close, the Hadrians were pleasant, merry and...normal. And, as far as she knew, they were respected by their happy people for their fair and able rule. They had done nothing to deserve her punishment.

    And, should something go awry, there was no telling how many more lives¡ªthe servants and the guards¡ªwould be lost. Wouldn''t it be better to tell the Hadrians the truth and ask for the dowry?

    Meya considered it, then shook her head.

    No, she couldn''t take risks. Would the Hadrians choose that dowry over the lives of twenty Crossetians, sit by and let them die? And even if the Hadrians decided to fight it out with the bandits, they might kill themselves without giving Meya the antidote as revenge.

    Even if the Hadrians managed to save both them and the dowry, there was no telling what they would do to them for conniving with bandits without Arinel''s consent. The bandits were bound to the pact by poison¡ªthe Hadrians had no stakes in this.

    This is the only way. Stick to the plan. You must not be distracted.

    After one last look in the mirror, Meya threw down her veil and swept towards the door.

    <hr>

    As expected of the heir''s marriage, the whole manor turned up to celebrate. The moment Meya set foot outside the castle''s front gate, both hands clasped around a bouquet of herbs and wildflowers, she and Lord Coris were showered with cries of congratulations and flower petals from the crowd lined up on both sides of the sloping road.

    The author''s content has been appropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

    The late morning sun beat down from a perfect spring sky. A red cloth trail on the ground led the elaborate procession of the hosts and visiting noblemen and women, merchants, minstrels, jugglers, acrobats, guards, maids and castle servants down the hill into the village, past the town square and the market, all the way to the cathedral.

    The high priest stood waiting in his best robes of white trimmed with gold, holding the church''s most handsome copy of the Holy Scriptures in his arms.

    After the bride and groom had ascended the rough stone steps and taken their place before him, the priest gave them both a gracious smile and a bow, which the couple returned. The watching crowd fell into a solid silence as the priest heaved open the Scriptures'' gold-gilded cover. He cleared his throat and began his speech,

    "People of Hadrian, we gather here today, once again, to witness a union which will bring forth joy, prosperity and hope."

    The priest''s ringing voice was hoarse and cracked by age but heavy with his years and powerful yet gentle. His eyes weren''t on the Scripture¡ªthey swept across the clearing to study the couple and the people gathered to see their union.

    "In the eyes of gracious Freda, there is no greater celebration than the creation of life. Thus, there is no power greater or more terrible in life than that which brought about its creation¡ªlove."

    "Such power is devious, elusive, enticing and beguiling. Scores of men may claim they have experienced or witnessed love, but a lifetime may not be sufficient for even the most brilliant, learned mind to understand love''s one and only true form. Yet, a split-second in the most trying of times may be all it takes for an innocent soul to exhibit true love. The greatest and only love Freda guards with all her might. A love that could not be bought by wealth, coerced by power, explained by wisdom, nor weathered by time."

    Lord Coris listened calmly. Meya shifted and fidgeted with her bouquet. All but the most naive fool would also feel uneasy at the sound of those words. Nothing was further removed from true love than this arranged marriage. Not to mention the little-known fact that the bride wasn''t even the real one.

    The priest, however, went on with unrelenting passion,

    "Wrinkled and learned I may seem, I remain powerless and humbled before love. I have insisted over the years, ''tis beyond me to bless these young souls. Only time will tell. Only Freda herself shall determine whether it is a love worthy of her protection¡ªor guile deserving of Fyr''s damnation. I pray for your union to be one of pure and unconditional love, for your vows to be devoted and honest. Only then, will you find Freda''s divine blessing of eternal happiness awaiting you at the end of your trials."

    A heavy, sacred silence blanketed the crowd. Meya averted her eyes in shame as the priest studied her and Coris. A chill swept down her spine, even with the warm spring sun shining overhead.

    Meya never did like priests. Even when you weren''t a devout worshipper, you''d feel some fear anyway with all their threats of eternal damnation from evoking the wrath of goodly Freda in some trivial manner.

    The priest sighed softly and bowed his head to consult the Scriptures. He looked at once decades older, tired and miserable. It was as if, for decades, he had stood there delivering the same words of hope he once believed in, joining countless couples and blessing them, only to see them fall apart. It seemed he already saw where they were headed. Meya felt sorry for the old soul.

    The priest cleared his throat, signaling the bride and groom to turn and face one another,

    "Corien Alexis Hadrian, do you swear to take this woman as your wife? To love, protect and honor her, be it in health or sickness. To remain solely honest to her until death do you part?"

    "I, Corien Alexis Hadrian, shall take you, Arinel Annetta Crosset, as my wife. For better or for worse. Through joy and through grief. In health and in sickness. I shall love and cherish you until death do us part. I swear to the divine grace of the goddess Freda."

    Lord Coris recited, slow and confident, not stumbling once, his silvery eyes boring straight into hers. Meya''s hands trembled under the crushing weight of reality. She heard the priest''s voice as if from far away.

    "Arinel Annetta Crosset. Do you swear to take this man as your husband? To obey, serve and honor him, be it in health or sickness. To remain solely devoted to him until death do you part?"

    "I¡ª"

    I pray for your vows to be devoted and honest. Only then will you find Freda''s divine blessing of eternal happiness awaiting you both at the end of your trials."

    Meya faltered as the priest''s damning blessing echoed at the back of her brain. She gulped moisture down her parched throat, feeling the eyes of hundreds upon her. Coris frowned, and panic coursed through her. She avoided his eyes and tried to speak, but her lips had transformed to lead.

    The crowd murmured and fidgeted. Meya''s spine grew colder and colder. She jolted as a cold hand clasped around hers and squeezed it. She looked up and found beautiful silvery eyes. Still, the sincere kindness within only made her tremble harder. She looked away again.

    Eternal happiness or whatever, you are the one to decide. Not Freda''s blessing. And it''s not as if you''re swearing with your own name. It won''t be binding.

    Meya gritted her teeth to calm her failing nerves, then forced out a jittery, hearty voice,

    "I, Arinel Annetta Crosset, shall take you, Corien Alexis Hadrian, as my husband. For better or for worse. Through joy and through grief. In health and in sickness. I shall love and obey you until death do us part. I swear to the divine grace of the goddess Freda."

    Meya let out a small sigh and let her spine curve. She didn''t dare meet Coris'' eyes. Meya had been a liar and lawbreaker all her life, but deceiving people who have done you no wrong was never easy. Yet, should she waver now, it might be the last thing she ever did.

    The onlookers seemed to accept her insincere vow¡ªthe murmurs died to be replaced with sighs of relief. The priest delivered his verdict in his ringing voice,

    "May the blessing of Freda be upon you both, and may you remain united by her hands forevermore. My lord, you may now kiss your bride."

    The old man shone Coris a benign smile. Meya froze, eyes wide in horror.

    She''d never lip-kissed anyone before. What if she bungled it and Coris decided he didn''t like her? What if her breath stank?

    As Meya stood rigid in dread, Coris drew back her veil. He leaned in, a hint of uncertainty in his gray eyes. Meya closed her eyes, waiting for the impact, praying nothing would go awry.

    Soft, dry, joltingly cold lips brushed hers in a brief feather-light kiss. A torrential downpour of cheers and applause rained upon them from the circle of onlookers.

    Meya opened her eyes. Coris straightened, his gaunt face graced with a gentle smile as always, as flower petals showered them. The cold of the kiss danced upon Meya''s lips, and her cheeks burned. Pale tinges of pink blossomed on Coris'' cheeks. He ran his fingers over his mouth, then jerked them away, his smile sagging.

    "Cold?" Meya whispered.

    Coris grew a shade paler, and Meya felt like biting her irrepressible tongue. For the first time, his confident, calm silvery eyes flitted about restlessly. An inexplicable feeling rushed into Meya''s heart, and she decided with the barest of hesitation. She leaned in and captured his cold, lifeless lips with hers.

    She didn''t imagine it. Coris'' lips were just as cold as his hands. His lips seared, but she held on, warming them with heat from her own. When the chill receded, a strange sweetness sent tingles through her body. Everything around her¡ªthe crowd, the cheers, the birds¡ªhad fallen silent.

    It was a moment as brief as a breath yet as long as a lifetime. Meya''s head felt blank and light. All she registered was the feel of Coris'' lips moving upon hers, the cold of his hands on her waists, the faint perfume of roses from his hair, the sour reek of acid and blood in his breath.

    They drew away to catch their breaths. A drop of water clung to Meya''s cheek, but it wasn''t hers.

    Coris smiled. He caressed her lips with his thumb, touched it on his lips in turn, then whispered with a laugh,

    "It''s warm now."

 The Choice

    Baron Hadrian announced three nights of feasts to celebrate his heir''s marriage. The castle gates were thrown open, beckoning the people of Hadrian to free food and entertainment. All castle troops were mobilized to vet visitors, safeguard important guests and maintain order in the vast courtyard.

    Being the least experienced, the ten Crosset guards were to continue patrolling the keep. With guards focused on the grounds and walls to prevent harm from the outside, the bandits had a rare opening to scour the castle for whatever they were looking for. Meanwhile, the Crosset maids, including Arinel, had been set to work in the scullery.

    The church bells tolled midnight. Time for the bride and groom to embark on their most important quest. Age-old tradition decreed newlyweds first be chased by a hoard of drunken guests round and round the Great Hall, then up the spiral staircase to their quarters. As wives'' tales had it, the bride''s garters were a good-luck charm of sorts. Likely the sort that had to do with the bedchambers.

    Thanks to Meya''s speed and Coris''s lightweight frame, the couple dodged the lunging hands, slammed the door and bolt it before any pervert could get a hold of Meya''s dress.

    Panting and cursing under her breath, Meya slumped against the wood and slid to the floor. Coris staggered off, sinking onto the edge of his enormous bed, which threw up a comfy poof.

    Meya surveyed the room. She could probably fit her whole house in here with some wriggle room. The roaring fireplace painted the bare whitewashed walls warm vermillion. The air was light and fresh¡ªa chimney rose from the fireplace to the ceiling, capturing smoke.

    The stained-glass windows were thrown wide open, letting the breeze tease the curtains. The naked floor was unblemished¡ªheavy carpets must have protected it from the elements in winter. Shelves bursting with leatherbound books lined the walls, interrupted by paintings of picturesque sceneries and handsome, fierce-looking hounds.

    Coris was provided his own heavy wooden study desk laden with thick tomes and scrolls of paper. His armor, sword, shield, bow, quiver and riding gear hung from a stand, shrouded by a thin red veil. The veil wasn''t dusty. Yet a still, almost sacred air hung over the vicinity, as if it had been years since it was disturbed by more than a few ceremonial flicks of the feather duster.

    Meya''s eyes settled last upon the large white bed with its thick red-and-silver blankets. She shivered at the thought of what was bound to happen soon upon it.

    "Lady Arinel?"

    Meya jolted. She turned to Lord Coris and eked out a meek smile. She was a lowly peasant girl, after all. It felt weird having a nobleman address her as Lady and all that.

    "Just Me¡ªI mean, Arinel is fine, my lord."

    Coris raised his eyebrows. Meya smiled even as cold fear froze her bowels as if she''d tipped a bucket of ice water down her throat. At last, Coris nodded.

    "Arinel," He continued in a rush, "Forgive me, but I must know. Are you still¡ªa virgin?"

    Meya''s eyes bulged as blood rushed to her cheeks. Her hands trembled in embarrassment and fury.

    Ugh, men! How could he demand a girl answer such a private question? Especially his wife on her wedding day? If he''d been a peasant boy, she would''ve beaten the fluff out of him, but as things were, Meya had little choice but to oblige.

    "Y-yes..."

    Coris heaved a deep sigh as if he had foreseen her answer, blushing faintly himself. He stared straight into her eyes, solemn like she had never seen,

    "If so, we need to talk."

    Meya fidgeted under his scrutiny. She bit her lips and forced her eyes in place.

    "You must have noticed I have frail health." Coris squeezed his trembling hands together. His face and voice betrayed no emotion, "I don''t expect to live much longer. Zier will succeed Father as Baron Hadri¡ª"

    Coris broke off, overwhelmed by a bout of hacking coughs. He bent double, his hand clamped over his mouth, jolting with each crippling round.

    Meya dashed to the bedside cabinet and rushed back to Coris with a gobletful of water. He managed a nod of thanks, then took a long drink. He handed the goblet back with a sigh. Though Meya was still trembling, Coris continued as if nothing had happened, his voice now hoarse and cracking,

    "So, I am giving you a choice. If you choose to consummate our marriage, you will be widowed in a few years¡ªor months. However, you will become Lady Hadrian and, after my death, Zier will provide the best care for you for the rest of your life. If you choose not to, after my death, you can have the marriage annulled on grounds of nonconsummation. Then, you can return to Crosset, start anew with a worthier husband."

    Meya''s heart thundered in panic. She dithered when it should''ve been an easy choice. Yes¡ªshe wanted to be Lady Arinel, she must shoulder all the name entailed. No¡ªwith the bandits on the prowl, anything could happen. She musn''t do something permanent as losing her virginity.

    She rose to return the goblet to the nightstand, more to stall for time than out of actual necessity.

    "There''s no need to rush. Think it over carefully," Coris concluded quietly. Meya spun around, but he was no longer paying her attention. He picked up nightclothes chambermaids had laid out on the bed and changed for bedtime.

    Meya frowned at his bare back. The more she knew him, the more he perplexed her. He was different from what she''d expected of the rich and the noble. He was dying soon, yet he seemed reluctant to take what was rightfully his, even when it was within his grasp.

    "What about you, Lord Coris. What do you want?" Coris turned around at her call, eyebrows raised. Meya hesitated on the proper wording,

    "Have you ever¡ªshagged a girl?"

    Coris gaped at her as if she''d just emerged through a wall into his room, his cheeks flushing pink.

    "Sh-sh-shag?" He stammered.

    Oh, Fyr. Nobles don''t use shag? What do they use, then?

    Cursing and praying to Freda inside her head to keep her cover, Meya steered the discussion well away from dangerous waters,

    "You asked if I''m a virgin! Why can''t I ask if you''ve shagged a girl before?"

    The author''s narrative has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

    Coris gawked, blinking in bewilderment. At last, he surrendered with a sigh and a nod of resignation.

    "No, I haven''t." He mumbled shamefully. Meya stared in disbelief. He was eighteen and Lord Hadrian. He could''ve taken any woman he wanted. How could he remain chaste for so long?

    "And you''re happy to die that way?" Meya traipsed towards him, eyes narrowed in intrigue, "You don''t want to know what it''s like?"

    "It''s not a question of what I want, but what I should do." Coris shrugged, a frown undercutting his serious expression,

    "No matter what we choose tonight, I won''t be living with it for more than a few years. But you still have a future, a lifetime ahead of you. I''m dying. I have no right to take your life away from you or decide it for you. Even as our fathers insist I do."

    Coris unfurled an empty smile, then hung his head and played with his fingers. Meya could, at last, make sense of his thinking process, somewhat.

    I am giving you a choice.

    It was puzzling, something too noble for Meya to grasp or imitate. Usually, when people learned they were about to die, they wouldn''t waste time and thought on anything else, would they? They took what they could and made the most out of it. Then along came this fellow, denying opportunities to give others a choice, putting their needs above his own. Was it because he was about to die soon, and it wasn''t worth wasting resources on him?

    Amidst her disbelief and bafflement, Meya regarded the frail young man with slight respect.

    "Well, I want to know what you want, too," she insisted, "Forget about dying for a moment. D''you want to lie with me?"

    Coris blinked in surprise, then creaked out a melancholy smile.

    "I couldn''t remember the last time I was asked what I want." He whispered.

    "And I couldn''t remember the last time I was given a choice." Meya shook her head, frowning,

    "You''re the first. You of all people. You''re dying. And you still have the galls to care about my life after you?"

    "When it comes to death, Arinel, it''s not what we take along, but what we leave behind for those who live on. Freda blessed me with the knowledge of my impending death. It''s my duty to settle my affairs before I depart," Coris preached in that same serene, enlightened manner.

    "What if I don''t care?" Meya brushed it aside in frustration, "Me? I want to experience everything for once in my life¡ªIf I get the chance. I want to know what it''s like to lie with a man before I die. And I don''t mind doing it now."

    Meya barely knew what she was saying. All she knew was this melancholy idiot exasperated her as much as he intrigued her, that she needed to get her point across and snap him out of his morbid thoughts. She barely realized she was literally asking a boy to shag her.

    Oh, Freda. Imagine the look on Dad''s face if he ever caught wind of this.

    But there was no other way, no time better than now. No one would ever desire Meya Hild the Greeneye, but as beautiful, human Lady Arinel Crosset, she might be blessed with the slightest chance.

    In the presence of others, Meya would shrug it off with a laugh or a shudder of derision, but she''d always known how much she craved to experience what her beautiful, sweet sisters may have taken for granted, what the old priest was rambling about this morning.

    To be loved.

    "Please, Arinel. I know you''re offended, but please think about this." Coris begged, "You''ve always hated me¡ª"

    "¡ªBut now I don''t." Meya cut across, her voice fierce, "You''ve changed. For the better. And I want to help if I can."

    Of course, Meya couldn''t have known what Coris had been like, but he seemed to have come a long way from that obnoxious image Arinel painted of him. He appeared to be a kind, selfless man. With his status, he could do great things for lowly people like her. It was a shame for him to die so soon. And he was accepting it so simply?

    "You''re Coris Hadrian, for Freda''s sake! You''re a prodigy! You''re rich! You''re powerful! Why are you giving up so easily when you have everything to lose? Why are you deciding your death day? Why do you let it stop you from living? Shouldn''t it be the opposite? Shouldn''t you try to live while you still can?"

    Panting, Meya glared at the bewildered young man.

    "Do you want to lie with me, Lord Coris?" She whispered.

    Those miserable, lifeless silvery eyes glanced up to meet hers. A small fire sputtered to life, flickering within. He reached out a trembling hand to caress her cheek.

    "Yes, I do." He confessed in a voice just as soft.

    This is it. No turning back.

    Meya settled down, straddling his thin legs as she stared into his mesmerizing eyes. She let out an unwitting gasp when his cold hands grasped her hips, and Coris let go. Realizing her misstep, she reassured him by edging closer, gripping his shoulders to steady herself. For a long time, they stared, unsure of what to do next or who should take the first plunge.

    How did Mum and Dad go about this again?

    Meya rested her forehead against his and closed her eyes.

    "Promise me. That I''ll be your first¡ªand your last." She whispered.

    Coris was silent, but his cold breath tickled her chin. He leaned forward until their lips caressed.

    "I promise." He murmured.

    Coris kissed her once again, much more passionately and fiercely than the first time, and Meya held on as his cold, lifeless lips sent chills rushing through her body. She bit back gasps, and swallowed her embarrassment as his soft, cold hands pushed her dress off her shoulders, and his lips left hers to caress her breasts.

    He eased her down on the bed, studying every freckle, blemish and unsightly fold of skin as Meya held her breath and steeled for the disgust that never came. He blinked when he spotted the sunken old scar on her left arm. She told him she''d received it from a viper. He frowned in thought, then silently pressed his lips to it as if hoping it would heal.

    As she reached up and undressed him, he took note of her wiry shoulders and veined hands, honed from a life of grueling labor, then hung his head in shame as she exposed his whey-colored skin, his rows of protruding ribs, his sunken belly. She complimented the beautiful gray eyes he''d inherited from his mother. Blushing, he admitted they were his personal favorite as well.

    They progressed from sight to touch to taste. His hands dithered on which part of her to savor first, linger upon, and rouse. He gauged her reaction to the sensations¡ªseductive kisses, playful nips, ravenous suckling. Every of her unwitting jolt of pleasure was met with a string of breathless apologies, him having mistaken it for a flinch of pain. Yet, he became less tense with every reassuring stroke of his hair and coy giggle. Beneath his wise and serene facade, he was just as fumbling yet curious as she was, and the realization comforted them both. In this moment, they were no different.

    She shed tears as he slipped deep inside her, just as much from the pain as the knowledge that she had now ventured past the point of no return. Coris held and rocked her as she mourned, murmuring unnecessary apologies. As they moved together, the searing pain subsided and morphed into an aching, intoxicating bliss like she had never known.

    Tremors shook Coris''s spare frame as he fell limp atop her with a long sigh. Meya patted his shivering back as she grudgingly abandoned her push to the summit. Yet, witnessing his pure joy, knowing she had contributed to it, was heartwarming.

    <hr>

    Coris succumbed to exhaustion and was out cold hardly a minute after his grand conquest, snoring as he nestled his head full of itchy, messy brown hair on her bosom. Meya, however, lay awake in the night, wide green eyes staring at the window, which opened to a starry twilight sky. Her heaving chest and fevered breaths mellowed as her body recovered from the intense thrill. However, her heart was still restless with uneasiness.

    According to the plan, the bandits will search the castle and its inhabitants for the dowry on their own for up to one month. Meya and the Crossetians'' job was to stay out of their way and cooperate when required. If the month was almost over and the dowry wasn''t found, the bandits would give them the antidote and go on their way.

    Although Meya herself had helped Gillian come up with this scheme, the longer she held the young lord slumbering defenselessly in her arms, the more it troubled her to betray him. Yet, she couldn''t bring herself to push him away.

    He was so cold, so frail, so thin. And yet, he had been so fair and kind. Perhaps she could trust him with her secret? Could he be relied on to help her and everyone survive this? Would he turn out different from Lord Crosset, who hadn''t batted an eyelid as he ordered dozens of his people to their deaths as decoys?

    Perhaps she wasn''t making the wrong move when she offered him her virginity. It was a gesture of goodwill. The start of a mutually beneficial relationship. Shameful, yes, but if it saved everyone in the entourage, it was a small price to pay. No one would say anything bad of it.

    Hugging Coris close, Meya squeezed her eyes shut as she wracked her brain for a new plan, consoling herself it was just a trade. A business exchange. Nothing more. And if she could drive Dad up the castle wall with this latest shenanigan, that was a bonus.

    As stubborn and hardened as she was, Meya would take a long time to accept that from the moment Coris Hadrian offered her a choice, she had offered him her heart in return without any means to recover it.

 The Axel

    Meya woke to the twitter of morning birds, the warmth of sunshine filtering through the gap in the curtains, and the softness of the duck feather-stuffed four-poster bed. The air smelled fresh and clean. She drew in a deep breath, savoring its scent.

    This is heaven. Pure heaven. After sixteen years sleeping on moldy hay sheets in a one-room cottage crammed with nine, echoing with Dad''s snores. Still, Meya preferred the snores to the alternative, which involved her mother and one of the things children weren''t allowed to do.

    Speaking of which...

    Meya giggled as she buried her burning cheeks into the bouncy pillow. Still, it wasn''t long before her senses sharpened enough to register the lack of human presence by her side and the hair-raising, violent coughs disturbing the morning peace.

    "Coris!"

    Meya bolted up with a cry. Coris was bent double on the bed edge, spewing his throat down a chamber pot. After a moment of useless fretting, Meya scampered to his side, one arm holding the pot, the other running down his bony back.

    After an excruciating minute, Coris calmed. When he surfaced, Meya noticed with horror the red speck in the fluid flowing from his lips.

    Swallowing her panic, Meya handed Coris a goblet of water. Once he''d rinsed, she gave him a towel to wipe his face, then eased him to bed and pulled up the blanket.

    Coris opened his eyes blearily. Seeing her shock, he gave her a consoling smile.

    "Sorry. It happens all the time after I overexerted." His benign grin turned sly as his gaze swept over her, "Must''ve had too much fun with your body last night."

    Meya felt like all the blood in her system had pooled on her face. She covered her chest with one hand and socked him hard on his arm with the other.

    "Ow!" Surely it wasn''t that painful, but from how Coris was moaning, the servants would think she''d butchered his manhood or something.

    "Good grief, lady! Do you not see how sick I was?" Coris lovingly cradled the sore spot on his arm. Meya shrugged at the sight of those reproachful silvery eyes,

    "I did, but I needed proof."

    Pouting, Coris slithered under his blanket as he griped for her to hear,

    "Isn''t Lady Arinel supposed to be calm, obedient and gentle?"

    "And isn''t Lord Coris supposed to be fat, spoiled and obnoxious?" Meya retorted, eyebrows raised, as her heart skipped a beat. Coris froze, then nodded,

    "Yes. I was fat and spoiled." His face fell as he mumbled in shame, "And obnoxious. Horridly obnoxious."

    So Arinel was telling the truth? Meya laid down and snuggled close to Coris'' cold chest. As his faint heartbeats drummed against her cheek, she could no longer suppress her curiosity.

    "Isn''t there a way to make you healthy again?"

    Coris met her pleading eyes, then sighed and wrapped her in his arms.

    "I''m afraid there isn''t. My bowels are scarred beyond repair."

    His brusque explanation conjured gruesome images in Meya''s head. She shuddered,

    "What in the three lands happened to you?"

    Coris shifted back so they lay face-to-face. He held her gaze for a long, silent moment, his expression one of careful calculation rather than hesitance, then his eyes traveled to the Lattis coin on her necklace.

    "Have you ever heard of The Axel?" He fingered it pensively. Meya shook her head, eyes glued and unblinking. Even though he had asked, Coris frowned at her as if he''d expected a yes.

    Ah, crap. Is it supposed to be common knowledge among the nobility?

    Meya ignored the chill trickling down her spine, staring at Coris with big, round eyes filled with curiosity. At last, Coris nodded,

    "It''s a treasure that has been in our clan for over two hundred years, from when our ancestor, Maxus Hadrian, was knighted. Some believe it''s the reason the Wynn kings had always treated us Hadrians with respect, at times even fear. But now that the Wynns had been overthrown, no one would know the true reason why, except the incumbent Baron Hadrian. Still, that has never discouraged our rivals from trying to seize it at all costs."

    Meya''s hand curled into a fist on the pillow. There was no solid proof yet, but this might be what the bandits are after. And to think a casual conversation about Coris'' frail health somehow led her straight to it. To think, after one night together, the Hadrian heir was sitting there, telling her everything about his clan''s most coveted possession as if they were discussing the weather.

    What was he thinking? Was he really this stupid? Did he trust her that much?

    Never underestimate Coris Hadrian, Arinel had said. Coris would have an ulterior motive for this, wouldn''t he?

    "Six years ago, there was a heist. The first one since I could remember." said Coris in his calm, airy voice, "Being the heir, having proven my hand in the Siege of Cristoria, I was put in charge of The Axel''s protection as part of my training. I couldn''t stand losing The Axel and my father''s favor, so I put it in my mouth and fled down the secret passageway in my room."

    Meya gaped at the ridiculous story. Coris shrugged,

    "Prodigy I may be, I was twelve. A young mind is susceptible to the venom of praise and expectation." He admitted with a wry grin, "I thought I was safe. As it turned out, a couple of mercenaries stumbled upon the tunnel''s exit and was standing guard. I was so startled, I swallowed The Axel whole."

    "You swallowed it?" Meya cried as her brain lit up. If this Axel were what Gillian was after, it would explain why he seemed so dead set on gutting his victims.

    "I love food. I''m used to swallowing everything in my mouth," said Coris blandly with a tilt of his head, "Fortunately, some guards arrived, and I was saved in the nick of time, but some of the mercenaries managed to escape."

    Meya shivered as she gathered her pillow to her chest. She could guess where the story was heading.

    "Father wasn''t taking any chances. The Axel must be taken out as soon as possible."

    "But¡ªit''s not that big a deal, is it? You could just wait for your body to¡ªget rid of it. Naturally."

    Meya struggled for the right word. Though she''d slept with Coris, seen him in his birthday suit, witnessed him eating, the fact that he also must expel his stuff still felt surreal. He was a nobleman¡ªputting all these men decked out in lavish, resplendent robes together with toilet imagery was disconcerting.

    "That''s the catch, it wouldn''t come out no matter how long we waited." Coris shook his head,

    "Surgery is banned. So, the healers gave me laxatives. Stomach massages. Prayers. Everything they could think of. Nothing was effective. In the end, Father summoned a famous healer from Meriton. He gave me a cure that made me vomit. Over and over."

    Meya slapped her hand over her gasping mouth. Coris'' eyes were lifeless as his low, emotionless voice,

    "It was bitter. It smelled acrid, with a taste to match. I actually felt it traveling down my throat, my gullet, into my bowels, then back up again. It burned like acid and fire combined. Drinking water was torture, but it did what it was meant to. I vomited The Axel on the third night."

    Meya couldn''t imagine the agony of such an ordeal. Stunned silent for once, she shook her head, eyes wide and unblinking,

    "That was no cure." She whispered.

    Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on the original website.

    "It wasn''t." Coris agreed, his voice freezing cold. He stared ahead, eyes unseeing as the past tormented him, "The healer was of fine repute¡ªwe all trusted him. I was ashamed of my blunder. I felt I had to atone, so I endured the treatment. It wasn''t until I coughed blood that we all realized something was amiss. Whoever sent the mercenaries seized the real healer, sent a double to weaken me and steal The Axel. He was hung, drawn and quartered, but my future died long before him."

    Coris raised his eyes and pored into hers. Meya looked away in shame. She could turn out no different from that mercenary healer. She might also end up chasing after the treasure this boy sacrificed his life to protect.

    "I''d take that twofold, just so Mother wouldn''t cry," Coris whispered, his voice shaking now. Meya took his hand in hers, warming it. "She sobbed day and night, cursing herself for not noticing her own child was in pain...but I wasn''t exactly a child, was I?"

    Coris unfurled a sardonic smile, his eyes downcast, as Meya frowned. What in the three lands did he mean by that?

    "Of course you were! You''re just good at lying and your mother wasn''t trying to catch you." She argued from direct experience. Coris snickered softly, but Meya was still matter-of-fact as she edged closer,

    "You should''ve told them from the start it was hurting you. Your father would''ve called the whole thing off right away. You''re his son, for Freda''s sake!"

    "I am, but even I wouldn''t be too sure of that," Coris cocked his head with a smile so nonchalant it unnerved her,

    "I''m Father''s son and heir, but The Axel is everything to Hadrian. Had Father ever suspected the healer? Would he stop him even if I were to die, if The Axel wasn''t recovered? Even I can''t tell. No one but Father knows what would happen to us, to our people, should The Axel fall into wrong hands. I''m replaceable. I''m a small price to pay. The choice lies with Father alone."

    I am giving you a choice.

    Was this why he insisted on giving her the right to decide? Because so much of his life had been decided by his duty to The Axel?

    Meya gritted her teeth against the sheer stupidity, the utter pointlessness that wasted a life so privileged she could only dream of. Not to mention the lives of dozens of guards and peasants in their entourage. For what? A lump of something no one knew for sure what it was, what it did?

    Why was she so disturbed by his plight when it had nothing to do with her? Why did the mere thought of stealing The Axel now repulse her so much, when it was her only path to survival? Coris was in storytelling mode. She should exploit it, wheedle The Axel''s new hiding place out of him, but she couldn''t bring herself to.

    "All this for one stupid Axel?" Meya hissed, disgust dripping from every word. Coris had slipped on his calm, saintly mask, smiling wanly.

    "It''s alright. We still have Zier."

    Those reassuring words, it seemed, were meant for himself as much as her. Was he hoping Zier would be his replacement as heir? He was happier than anything, he said, but how did he actually feel? Was he also fooling her, the way he fooled his poor mother?

    Coris slipped under his blanket, signaling the end of his talk.

    "I don''t think I''ll be able to go down for breakfast." He murmured, then stifled a yawn, "Now, if my parents ask, we haven''t consummated the marriage, understood? I''ll take care of the bedsheets."

    Meya raised the blanket. Seeing droplets of virgin blood spattered on the white linen, she felt both embarrassed and sad. Coris had taken her virginity, but seeing proof with her eyes rammed home the enormity of what she''d done. She couldn''t even do it under her own name, couldn''t even tell a single soul about it, and now Coris was asking her to destroy all proof of it.

    Coris sat up and gathered her frozen body into his arms.

    "I''m sorry. I couldn''t bear to take your future just yet." He murmured into her shoulder. He retrieved something from a drawer in the nightstand, then clasped her hands in his.

    "Don''t worry. This is proof of what we did last night."

    Meya gasped when his hand left hers. The brooch glinted in the dim morning light, its base made of silver shaped into a Hadrian Rose, embedded with a solitaire ruby. Mistletoe vines of peridot bound the rose, pregnant with shimmering mother-of-pearl berries. It was the most beautiful piece of handicraft Meya had ever laid eyes on, although she wasn''t sure she''d ever have the chance to wear it in the open.

    After their first night, the man would give his wife a trinket to thank her for becoming his, and as proof of the consummation. Coris seemed to have appreciated her efforts to pleasure him last night, at least.

    "Thank you, Lord Coris."

    Meya whispered, hands trembling. Coris gave her a slow, deep kiss, before succumbing to the bed''s embrace. He beamed her a sleepy smile, closed his eyes and was out cold within two breaths. His bare chest rose and fell as if to a steady, imaginary beat. Meya was left alone as harsh reality crept back in, engulfing her.

    So, what now?

    Meya closed her hand over the brooch, her eyes to the sight of the snoozing young man. Drip, drip went the water clock. Time was closing in. At the first opening, Gillian would want to talk to her and learn what information she had gleaned. She must make her decision then.

    Meya bit her lips against the pressure. She''d been up most of the night dithering over which side she should choose. Though she''d offered Gillian help to loot Hadrian Castle for the dowry¡ªwhich could turn out to be The Axel¡ªher newfound conscience was overriding her survival instincts.

    Coris had talked of his own accord, and she''d let slip every opening she could use to coax out more information. He''d known her for but a day, yet he''d trusted her enough to confide in her. He''d once been selfish and spoiled, but ultimately, he''d chosen the future of Hadrian''s people over his own. Not to mention the Hadrians had saved Meya and the people of Crosset from the Famine, too.

    From the looks of it, Coris did have a heart behind those ribs. If he trusted her, perhaps she could trust him, too? It was better than entrusting her life to bandits who had already killed five of her comrades without shedding so much as a drop of sweat.

    But, Gillian¡ªhe was a Greeneye like her. He had told her things she ought to know about her kind, had helped her with the troublesome collar. He''d even promised to take her to meet his fellow Greeneyes, sort of.

    Speaking of which, what did he mean when he said the dowry would let Greeneyes live anywhere? Was he doing all this to carve out a better life for Greeneyes like her?

    But why? What made Gillian so unhappy with the status quo? Besides being the village pariah, Meya''s life as a Greeneye wasn''t that bad. As Meya insisted time and again to Dad, most of her misfortunes were brought upon her by her own choices, not her eyes.

    Sure, it would be delightful if she could walk through the village without being pelted with eggs and insults and tripped into mud puddles, but it wasn''t as if her life would improve much without her glowing eyes.

    The trouble with Meya was, despite all appearances, she was spoiled and self-centered. She refused to do things she didn''t like, or that seemed irrational to her. She hated the responsibility women would take up to support their families¡ªhousework, cooking, handiwork and weaving. And, in trying to avoid her duty, she landed herself into all manners of trouble.

    For instance, working in the fields back when Crosset law still forbade women from working, because it would anger Freda and cause a famine¡ªand actually causing a famine. It was as if Freda had a point to prove. The Famine resulted in one hanged bailiff, one disgraced Lord, and a nobleman kidnapped and almost ransomed for food.

    Come to think of it, Lord Crosset did mention that Arinel''s betrothed was the one who was kidnapped.

    So, indirectly, she caused Coris'' kidnapping?

    Meya beamed the snoozing Coris a silent apology. Farmer Armorheim led the kidnapping squad back then, under Bailiff Johnsy''s orders. He said Coris had narrowly escaped.

    When asked how a chubby little boy managed to slip free of a dozen grown men armed with crossbows and pitchforks, however, Draken would fall silent and avoid Meya''s large, glowing green eyes. Then, he would simply shrug and continue that after he escaped, Coris generously asked Baron Kellis to share food and help Crosset survive the winter.

    But how? What happened? Why wouldn''t Draken tell?

    Meya shook herself out of it. She could decipher Coris'' mysterious escape later. Once she''d gotten rid of this poison.

    Meya glanced at her chest. Underneath the fair skin over her heart was a thin, tapering oval patch, like a petal-shaped birthmark.

    Yesterday, before entering Hadrian, they stopped by to see Old Angus, Trunt''s Greeneye friend. Apothecarist by day and Poisoner by night, he had everyone in the entourage drink water with a single black seed in it. The seed of the Moonflower, he called it.

    The parasitic flower would bloom in the body of the host, one petal at a time, for one moon cycle. Once it had fully bloomed, it would secrete a poison that would kill its host. It was a Nostran army poison. Mercenary type. Angus told her all this because there was little chance of her finding an antidote here in Latakia.

    On the other hand, Arinel chose the poisonous Snow Fern spores for Gillian and his men. The Snow Fern was the Crosset Clan''s symbol, and the Crosset Green dye was derived from its crushed spores. As the Snow Fern could only be grown up north in Icemeet and imported to Crosset, finding a cure in the central-west would be near impossible. The secret to collecting and neutralizing the spores for use in clothing also lay with the Crosset Clan''s dyer alone.

    But, back to the present¡ªwho should Meya choose? She liked Coris. Very much, indeed. He was a kind, gentle, amusing lad. And she loathed the thought of betraying him. But Gillian was a Greeneye, the first one she had ever known, and she didn''t want to betray him as well.

    Still, she couldn''t stomach Gillian''s style of operating. Was it necessary to kill all those people? Being a fellow Greeneye didn''t stop Gillian poisoning her along with the others in the entourage, either.

    Perhaps the best Meya could do was give Coris a heads-up, whatever Gillian planned to do, and leave it to their smart brains to duke it out. Make it a fair duel, but how could she warn Coris without alerting Gillian?

    Meya shot a wary eye at the door. The easiest option would be to shake Coris awake and confess it all to him here, but she could never be sure if one of the bandits weren''t standing out there with his ear on the keyhole, listening to her every word.

    No, she needed to communicate soundlessly. With ink and paper and letters. Then slip the message to Coris without the bandits knowing.

    She couldn''t read or write. She must sneak out and find someone who could, and find a means to deliver him the message. How could she pull this off?

    Meya scanned the room. Books, shelves, desk, armor, fireplace, clock, wardrobe, paintings¡ª

    Her scouring eyes chanced upon the largest painting at the center of the opposite wall, the portrait of a handsome white greyhound draped in a Hadrian Red cloak pinned with numerous medallions. A golden coin hung from its collar, engraved with letters Meya couldn''t read. A scroll of paper sticking out of the thick leather strip lit a spark in her brain.

    I put it in my mouth and went down the secret passageway in my room.

    Meya lit a distinguished candle then tiptoed around the room. She hugged the walls, her eyes on the flickering flame. After about a quarter hour, she saw the smoke yearning towards the gap behind a painting of a stone arch leading away to an abandoned, overgrown garden. Despite the stress looming over her head pressing down heavier by the minute, Meya creaked a devious grin.

    Now to find the one person who could write her a letter.

 The Warning

    Ceremonial knocks came from the door before the visitor made his merry way in without waiting for the host''s permission.

    "Wake up, Brother. The sun''s singeing a new hole through your arse." Zier called as he set a small table laden with a food tray by the bed, "I brought breakfast, so giddy up."

    Coris didn''t wiggle a toe as he yawned,

    "I''m not hungry. Go ahead, I know you want it."

    Shaking his head, Zier opened the lids on the bowls and plates.

    "No deal. Mother demanded I sit on you until you finish every last drop of soup before I can proceed with my life."

    Coris moaned. Rolling his eyes, Zier pounced onto the bed, flattening his brother, who sent up a muffled oof.

    "Get up and eat, bone-bags! You grow any thinner and people will think Father''s starving you!" He hollered into Coris'' ear.

    "Alright, gerroff me. I''m up, I''m up."

    Coris peeled himself from the soft, bouncy bed with the speed and willingness of a bandage left too long over a scabbing wound. Zier rolled off and bounded to the floor. Coris noticed a new set of robes Arinel had laid for him on the bed. He pulled on the linen undergarments.

    "By the way, where''s Ari?"

    Zier froze, then unfurled a sly, knowing grin.

    "So, it''s Ari now, eh? Whatever happened to Lady Arinel?"

    Coris blushed. Ignoring Zier, he slipped his legs into the trousers, but alas, Zier was not to be deterred.

    "Arinel said you two haven''t done it, but you weren''t wearing anything. And you look dead pooped." Zier propped his chin on the bed, his grin widening,

    "I know you usually don''t sleep in the nude, and it isn''t summer yet. Thus, I arrived at the inevitable conclusion: CORIS HADRIAN HAS LOST HIS VIRGINI¨D"

    "SHUT UP!"

    Coris flung his shirt at Zier''s face, stuffing his brother''s fat mouth full of silk. Zier snatched off the shirt, revealing his face still full of smiles. Coris yanked him in by the shoulder.

    "Yes, we did it, but don''t you breathe a word of this to anyone, understand? Especially Father and Mother." He hissed through gritted teeth. Zier blinked,

    "Why not? The sooner she''s pregnant the better, isn''t it?" He narrowed his eyes, "You do know they''re going to keep nagging you about it, don''t you?"

    "It''s no use, Zier. The healers all agreed. I''m too weak to sire an heir."

    Coris grabbed the shirt back from Zier, pulled it over his head, then slid down to the floor, fuming as he stirred the steaming soup for it to cool.

    "Father knows, and yet he went through with the marriage. And Arinel insisted we do it anyway. She may not care much about herself, but I do. I must protect her future."

    "But you''ve never slept with anyone before. How can you be so sure you can''t give her a babe?"

    "Even if I could, I don''t want to. Why would I father a child I know I won''t live to care for? It''s cruel for the child and the mother."

    Zier''s face fell. He hung his head, scratching glumly at the reed-thin groove between flagstones. He was hoping Coris would have a son with Arinel, who''d become Baron instead of him. Zier had never wanted the Hadrian seat¡ªhe''d always dreamed of living the spare''s carefree life. It pained Coris to dash his brother''s faint hopes time and again,

    "I''m sorry, Zier. It has to be you."

    "Guess I''m destined for greatness." Zier quipped with a shrug, then his grin returned, "But, seriously, you''ve just had the first fling of your life, and we''re discussing politics and birthrights?"

    Zier raised an insinuating eyebrow. Coris scooped up a spoonful of soup and tested it with the tip of his tongue. Sure it had gone lukewarm and wouldn''t scald his damaged gullet, he sipped the whole mouthful. Zier was having none of it.

    "Come on, Coris! You know your little brother needs to hear your life experience. Details!"

    Zier tugged at his brother''s sleeve. Coris managed to continue eating.

    "Please. How do breasts feel? Was she a virgin? How did it feel when you went inside her? Did she bleed? What noises did she make? Did you do the mouth trick? And did you try out that position Simon was talking abo©`Ow!"

    Coris swatted Zier''s head with his loaf of bread, his face deep crimson. Ignoring the fake whimpers, he cut a slice off the bread and rested it in the soup.

    "Thank you for your concern regarding my married life, little brother. Your questions were not in the least impertinent. Nor do they encroach upon my privacy. Nor do they disrespect my wife."

    Support the author by searching for the original publication of this novel.

    Zier grinned sheepishly.

    "Let''s just say we thoroughly enjoyed it. I shan''t go so far as to say we''re in love, but I can see us becoming good friends. I think she feels the same way. I must admit, I''m rather fond of her. She''s kind, passionate¡ªand strong."

    Coris allowed himself a gentle smile. He remembered how she took his fearsome coughing episodes in stride, tending to him without a word. She convinced him not to consummate the marriage but to lie with her, to let hope and tenderness into this marriage of despair and stone-hearted politics, to do things for himself for once, make the most out of his remaining time.

    Though he felt he was giving in to his selfish desires, he was touched by her kindness and surprised by her determination.

    "Is she like Agnes?" Zier asked. Coris'' smile vanished.

    "Not in the least." He said brusquely. Zier fell silent, knowing he''d crossed a forbidden line. Catching himself, Coris reverted to his soft-spoken persona,

    "But yes, she is a mystery. She''s heaped on a mountain of powder to cover her suntan and freckles. How come? The Crossets have snowy skin that never blemish. And she has those beautiful green eyes like emeralds. You''ve noticed, too, haven''t you?"

    "So?" Still shaken, Zier laughed cautiously at his brother''s dreamy description. However, judging from Coris'' strained expression, the comment wasn''t romantic.

    "That time we went with Father to Crosset to ask for her hand, remember? She donned her veil whenever I approached her, said she''d rather I don''t read her mind," Coris rolled his eyes, grumbling petulantly, then returned to business, "Nevertheless, I''ve seen portraits of her. She has the blue Crosset eyes."

    Zier blinked, dumbstruck. Coris raised his hand and gestured at his neck.

    "She has this pendant around her neck, a coin of some kind of metal, I reckon. It has this rainbow shimmer about it. And she''s...unladylike."

    "How?" Zier asked, more focused on helping himself to Coris'' cooling breakfast while his brother was distracted.

    "How she carries herself. Her speech. Her accent, it bleeds through." Coris rubbed his chin, his eyes narrowed,

    "Then there''s the fact she''s never heard of The Axel. I know she''s a girl born out of wedlock, but you''d think Lord Crosset would''ve at least mentioned it in passing a few times across her seventeen years in the castle."

    Zier gaped in disbelief, then rolled his eyes and slumped hard against the bed.

    "By Freda, brother. Don''t tell me you had all these flying around in your head while you bedded your wife?" Coris chuckled, leaving Zier to massage his throbbing forehead, "Come off it. You think Lord Crosset would send you a maid disguised as Lady Arinel or something?"

    "Of course I do. Just look at my state." Coris gestured at his skin-and-bones physique. Zier stopped smiling. "No father would want his daughter to be widowed young and childless, would he?"

    Coris resumed eating as if he had been discussing the weather, not his up-and-coming death. Zier gritted his teeth, downcast,

    "I''m sorry. This is all my fault." He whispered, his voice strangled.

    "Come now, it''s alright." Coris ruffled his hair. At the mournful look in those blue eyes, he gave him a gentle, hopeful smile, "We still have you."

    "Could you stop saying that already?" Zier snapped. Coris laughed,

    "Sorry. Seems we can''t just keep it light, eh." He cocked his head and tried brightening the mood, "So, can you tell me already where Ari is?"

    "Mother''s showing her around the castle. You know, because she''ll take over Mother''s work one day as Baroness?" Zier unfurled a devious grin, "Father said if you feel up to it, tomorrow you can take Ari for a honeymoon tour of our fief."

    Coris was elbowing his cheeky little brother when something blasted open the door and hurtled toward them. It bowled Coris over, licking every inch of his face with immense vigor.

    "Beau? What are you doing all the way up here?"

    Zier gawked at the enormous white greyhound now flattening Coris, who struggled in vain to escape its suffocating weight.

    "No! Paws off me and no slobber, Beau. Beau! Down, boy, down! I said down!"

    Coris could''ve been yelling orders to a tree. Beau cleaned his face and nuzzled his neck as Zier roared with laughter.

    Coris was so fond of dogs he raised an army of them. Beau, the former war messenger, was one of his favorites. Having been honorably discharged from duty after taking an arrow to the knee in the Siege of Cristoria, the old hound roamed free on the castle grounds. He loved playing in the fields with Coris, but after Coris'' ailing health confined him indoors for most of his time, Beau was always eager to reunite with his master.

    Arinel asked about Beau during breakfast, saying she''d seen his portrait in their room, so Zier had the marshal bring Beau from the kennels to meet his new mistress. As if he''d caught a whiff of his master on her, Beau welcomed her to the family with much enthusiasm. By the time Arinel clambered up to her chair, her face dripping with drool, her hairdo a slopping mess, everyone was laughing so hard, it was nigh impossible to continue eating.

    "Zieren Hadrian! Stop laughing already or so help me Chione I will bury you!"

    At Coris''s scream of displeasure, Zier snapped out of his happy reverie. As he wrestled Beau off his brother, he spotted a scrap of parchment slotted into his collar.

    "Brother, come look. He''s got something!"

    Coris had clambered onto the bed to fetch a towel. He spun around. Once he saw the letter Zier had extracted from Beau''s message compartment, he was back by Zier''s side in a blink.

    Silence fell between the brothers as they read. For all their differences, the boys paled to the same shade of white as they shared a look of dread.

    "The dowry?" Zier whispered fearfully, "I thought there''s no dowry?"

    "There isn''t," Coris''s lips barely moved as he stared unblinking at the mysterious letter, "Seeing as the marriage is grievously unfair to the bride, I asked Father to demand nothing from the Crossets."

    "Then where did all this talk about a dowry come from?"

    "It''s not just any dowry these bandits want. I don''t think they''re simple bandits, either. They''re after something specific that is supposedly in Lady Arinel''s dowry."

    Coris stared into space. Creases deepened between his eyebrows from the sheer weight of the situation.

    "Our enemies must have assumed Klythe stole The Axel to Crosset when he disappeared¡ªwe haven''t had heists since. They likely assume The Axel''s return is a condition of Arinel''s marriage to me, but we know full well both of them have nothing to do with this. We must help Arinel."

    Coris vowed through gritted teeth. Zier grimaced.

    "I know you want to protect her, Brother, but if they''re really after this thing, Arinel''s not our priority here." He leaned close, whispering, "Maybe we should tell Father and let him deal with this?"

    Coris turned away from Zier''s look of desperation. As a Hadrian, his foremost duty was to The Axel¡ªbut Arinel, she trusted him. Once she learned how much he''d sacrificed to keep The Axel safe, she risked her life to warn him and beg for his help. He couldn''t abandon her. Nor could he alert Father when he was living proof of the lengths Father would go to keep The Axel''s secret.

    Arinel had gathered their wedding clothes and hung them from a wooden stand by the bed. Coris caressed her blue silk gown as he wrung his brain for a countermeasure.

    "We''d better not." He said finally, his eyes narrowed, "I have a plan."

 The Dwale

    The real Arinel was late for work. Scullery maids must be ready at dawn to prepare breakfast for the Lord and his family. However, Arinel was exhausted after catering for last night''s feast, so Gretella allowed her poor Lady to sleep in and sent Haselle in her place.

    After scolding her nurse (who was also her grandmother) for spoiling her, Arinel sprinted to the underground kitchen. She was one step away from the door when a mysterious hand reached from the shadows and dragged her down another hallway.

    "Wait¡ªwhere¡ª"

    The being in the bedraggled black cloak pushed open a slab of nondescript wall, slipped past the gap inside, yanked Arinel in then shut the secret door.

    Arinel spun around in solid darkness, prepared for a fight for survival.

    "Who are you? What do you wa¡ª?" A rough, sweaty hand clamped over her mouth.

    "Shh! ''tis me, milady. ''Tis Meya."

    Arinel''s shock morphed into confusion. Meya freed her mouth. The space lit up, revealing gray stone walls flanking a narrow passageway. Meya stood before her, holding a candle on a metal stand.

    "What are you doing here? Aren''t you supposed to be with Coris?" Arinel hissed.

    "He''s gone back to sleep," said Meya as she rummaged in her pocket. Under her raggedy black cloak, she wore a beautiful red silk dress embroidered with the same thick silver yarn braided into her hair. She handed Arinel a scrap of torn parchment and a pencil.

    "Listen, I dun have much time. I need you to write me a letter. Now."

    "What?" Arinel made no move to take them, so Meya pushed them into her hands.

    "Think I know what them bandits are looking for. Gotta warn Coris."

    "Warn him? But aren''t you working for Gillian?" Arinel argued. Meya rolled her eyes at the ceiling with a growl of exasperation.

    "I''ll answer your questions later. Write down what I say, quick!" Steering Lady Crosset by the shoulders, Meya spun Arinel to face the wall. She dictated, raising her candle so its light fell upon the parchment, "From Arinel. Me and me folk¡ª"

    "I and my men¡ª" Arinel corrected as she wrote, sliding the parchment to avoid the groove between bricks, writing as neatly as she could on the craggy surface.

    "Whatever!" Meya hissed in annoyance but complied, "I and my men forced to steal dowry. Bandits disguised as guards. Dun put up fight or hide dowry. We and bandits poisoned each other and need antidote in one month."

    Arinel scribbled quickly while correcting Meya''s childish sentences and peasantlike vocabulary. Meya might not care, but if she wanted to keep her cover, she''d better send a message Coris would believe was written by an educated noblewoman.

    "Very well. Done." Arinel flourished the last letter and inked the last dot. Meya swept the note from under her fingers like a gust of wind.

    "Didnae know nobles write so fast." She noted in her flat, dry voice. She stuffed the note into her generous cleavage, then bolted into the dark, tossing Arinel a harried word of gratitude,

    "Now, get out of here quick. Thanks!"

    By the time Arinel spun around, Meya had vanished, her soft footsteps echoing further and further up the tower, headed towards the Great Hall.

    ?

    Three hours had passed since Arinel''s puzzling run-in with her nemesis. The disgraced Lady had since returned to join Haselle in the kitchen, assisted with breakfast preparations, and sent it off hot and steaming to the dining hall for the Lord and his guests.

    The servants and guards would dine after the Lord''s table had been cleared. After every subject in all parts of the castle had been served their share, the scullery maids would rest and wait to sup on whatever was left.

    The head scullery maid banged her ladle on the enormous metal pot she was stirring. Arinel perked up, snatched her bowl, then scurried to line up with the other girls. Two days ago, she was too proud to leave her seat. How could she beg for food? Like those poor, famished beggars and lepers? Queuing with their bowls before the charity tent, waiting for free servings of gruel?

    By dinner that same day, she was too hungry for pride.

    Being Lady Crosset, she''d always woken up to food brought to her bed on days she was unwell or sitting ready on the table the moment she set foot into the Hall, at the precise same time daily. Now, her mealtimes were delayed by hours. Her stomach growled, burned and writhed when it didn''t receive sustenance at the time it was accustomed to.

    So, this was what it was like to be hungry. The peasants had been through this during the Famine, Meya and her family included. So did the other maids. How many of them had lost relatives then?

    Arinel was only ten in the year of the Crosset Famine. Father was Marquess Crosset, powerful and wealthy enough for Baron Hadrian to choose Arinel for Coris in favor of Lady Agnesia of Graye.

    The Crossets often departed on pilgrimages to their other fiefs and frigid Icemeet, whence they hailed, during which Father would trust Bailiff Johnsy to run the manor, and Johnsy would sell the storehouse grain at low prices to faraway towns, lining his pockets with gold.

    On Arinel''s tenth spring, Meya Hild disguised herself as a boy to work in the Lord''s fields, using a Lattis collar to dim her eyes and pass unnoticed as her little brother Marcus.

    Crosset law forbade women to walk over wheat, fearing their blood would taint the rice, leading to disease and famine. Meya''s crime was punishable by death. Farmer Hild pleaded for her life, saying she may have inherited the Song of May Day. Father relented, sentencing her to the scourge and the Liar''s Bridle instead.

    Arinel witnessed the sentence meted out, the bright red blood trickling through Meya''s lips and dripping down her dress. Meya clung to the stake as she endured the whip''s fury. The bridle''s bit scratched her tongue when she gritted her teeth against the pain. Her green eyes flaring with hatred glowered unblinking at Father. The girl didn''t shed a tear nor let out a whimper.

    Summer arrived at Crosset''s door wet and stormy, and the Crossets fled for cooler weather in the north again. By the time they returned in autumn, swarms of locusts had blanketed the manor. It was a terrible year for crops.

    The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

    What was left of the storehouse grain couldn''t sustain the manor through winter. A famine befell in no time. Neighboring manors were as tight on food as they were and couldn''t send relief.

    Blamed for the famine as the only Greeneye in Crosset, Meya fled for her life into the woods. As Father''s yeomen hunted her, Bailiff Johnsy hatched a treacherous plot. He invited Lord Coris to Crosset to help track down the elusive girl. Using Coris'' hubris against him, he lured the young prodigy into the woods and ordered the peasants to kidnap him, hoping to demand Baron Hadrian send food to Crosset as ransom.

    Under mysterious circumstances, Coris escaped into neighboring Manor Truncale and then back to Hadrian. News of the famine reached King Alden. Furious, he demoted Father to the lowest rank of Lord, hung Bailiff Johnsy, then added Crosset to Baron Hadrian''s demesne.

    With the arrival of spring, every free and able hand must plow and till the fields to feed hungry mouths, so the law was amended to allow women into the fields. However, few women remained after things returned to normalcy. Most were not cut out for grueling farm work, and mothers must mind the house and the children.

    Would you care to heed the voices of the living whether they still want to die in the rotten name of Crosset?

    Shame burned like acid on her face at Meya''s scathing remark, so she slapped the girl to silence her before her fragile mask of aloof dignity shattered to smithereens. Countless lives under her family''s responsibility starved to death because of their lack of oversight, not Meya''s Greeneye curse.

    Arinel winced as she levered each trembling spoonful of the lumpy soup to her mouth. Her fingers were sore and blistered from hard work. They seared when she held the spoon.

    The gruel tasted and smelt awful¡ªleftover vegetables and meat shavings thrown in with oatmeal, boiled in whey and seasoned with the tiniest whiff of salt. The bread was taken from loaves burnt hard as rocks that were unfit for the Lord''s table. She watched the other maids and learned she must let it soak in the gruel before taking a bite, lest she pull out her teeth with it. Yet, the other maids fell on it without fuss.

    After the head maid had left, the young maids scrambled to the pot, jostling each other for seconds and thirds.

    "I''ll get you some more." Haselle whispered then joined the war on food before Arinel could stop her. Sighing, Arinel swallowed her disgust and focused on downing the rest of her gruel.

    Something moved in the corner of her eye. She glanced at the door, then her blood froze. One of the bandits. The hulking, stupid-looking one¡ªTrunt, stood in the dim, torch-lit underground hallway, decked out in a Hadrian Red uniform. He gestured for Arinel to come outside.

    Arinel glanced at the other maids. They were gathered around the pot, arguing over who''d get the ladle first. She picked her way out of the cluttered kitchen.

    Trunt grabbed her arm, pulled her to the same hallway from earlier, then ushered her into the same secret passageway. Arinel knew enough to feign utter surprise when the wall tilted open.

    Trunt was in such a hurry he didn''t bother closing the wall properly. He thrust a cloth pouch into her hand.

    "Put that in today''s dinner."

    "What is it?"

    "Sleepin'' draught, obviously."

    Trunt snapped. Arinel thought fast. Meya and Gillian had planned to use their maids'' station in the kitchens to put the castle''s occupants to sleep by spiking their food if necessary, but Meya had warned Coris about the heist. Perhaps she''d changed tracks and was finding a way to thwart Gillian. Maybe Arinel should try the same.

    "We haven''t started preparing tonight''s meal yet."

    Arinel tensed as Trunt''s raucous laughter rang in the dark.

    "Yer think us so stupid, girl?" His snarl jolted Arinel out of her skin, " ''Course ya gotta have some stew or soup boiled overnight. Put it in something everyone will eat. Got it? Now git!"

    Having sprayed Arinel with his rotten spit, Trunt shoved Arinel back out with such force she pitched headfirst toward the floor. As she found her feet, Trunt''s whispery threat chased after her,

    "And dun ya think of throwin'' it away neither. I''ll be watchin'' ''ere. Put it in righ'' away before them Hadrian maids get back."

    Sighing, Arinel strode back to the scullery. Curiosity beckoned, and she opened the pouch for a peek.

    Inside the bag was a pile of brown powder with a distinctive odor¡ªaconite, one of the deadliest poisons in Latakia. Death wasn''t immediate but certain. A drawn-out, torturous death.

    The bandits had never meant to put everyone to sleep.

    Was there a political motive behind this? If lords of other manors were poisoned to death in Hadrian, there was no question of what would follow. A war on all fronts for Hadrian, at worst. And who was to guarantee Arinel and her men would live to see the day that happened? Gillian clearly wasn''t planning to leave witnesses.

    How in the three lands could she warn Meya? How could she stop this massacre?

    "What''re yer waitin'' for? Move!"

    Arinal tied the pouch with trembling fingers and roused her numb legs to life, dragging her feet as slowly as she dared towards the scullery.

    The other maids had noticed her absence. They stared, puzzled, as Arinel moved as if she was being turned to stone towards the far wall of the kitchen, where three pots wide as her arms outstretched and tall as her chest held simmering meat stew. Shuddering, Arinel closed her eyes and tipped a third of the powder into each.

    Once she had shaken the last dregs into the third vat, she turned to the door where Trunt stood, arms crossed, watching. After a curt nod, he lumbered back to his post. Arinel sank faintly to the grimy floor.

    "What is it, milady?"

    "What did he want?"

    "What did he make you put in there?"

    The maids heaved her up and deposited her on a chair. Arinel took deep breaths, hoping to regain control.

    "Remember the plan? We might have to put everyone in the castle to sleep while we search." The maids nodded. Arinel held up the empty pouch.

    "This is supposed to be the sleeping draught, but it isn''t. It''s aconite."

    Silence fell for a beat, then the girls panicked,

    "By Freda!"

    "They''re going to kill the whole castle!"

    "What shall we do?"

    "Does Meya Hild know?"

    "Is there an antidote?" Haselle asked, hopeful. Arinel heaved a tortured sigh as she shook her head. Haselle''s unmasked cheek paled.

    The room seemed ridden of hope for a moment, then a shaft of light lit up the gloom. Arinel perked up.

    "Is there anything served before the stew?"

    "No, my lady," said Haselle, "Every dish is carried out at the same time. First, we''ll bring out the wine so the guests could drink and talk. Then, we carry out sugar sculpts to open the feast, then the food."

    "Only the wine?"

    Haselle nodded. Arinel closed her eyes and wrung her brain for a minute, then sprang to her feet, eyes wide and ablaze.

    "Gather all the valerian and lavender you can find!" She barked to the maids, who scrambled towards the cupboards and out the door, then turned to her trusted servant, whispering now,

    "Agnes, you come with me."

    Arinel climbed the stairs to the buttery, Haselle¡ªor rather, Agnes¡ªhot on her heels. Lined with three shelves that snaked along the four walls and numerous cupboards, the room was a food library. The air was stuffy, bursting with mingled aromas of jams, butter, cheese, wine, beer, cakes and jellies.

    The buttery maid and the older scullery maids were preparing meals for the peasants'' tent in the courtyard, leaving the newest Crosset maids to watch the soups and stews. They had a few hours to brew the true sleeping draught and save the guests from the aconite-laced food.

    They would go with the original plan. Arinel would put the guests to sleep with the only course served before the food, the drinks.

    "What are we looking for, Ari?" Agnes asked, her one intact eye scanning the shelves. Arinel swept to the nearest shelf and pushed jars aside,

    "Henbane. Magnolia. Passion Flower. Laudanum. Any sedating herbs you can find. Coris''s ill, they''re bound to keep some."

    They kept more than some. The girls found jars filled to the brim with powdered magnolia bark, essence of henbane and laudanum in no time. Just how much pain was Coris in? Arinel couldn''t believe she was worried about the boy she despised.

    Still, they needed another ingredient, one potent as laudanum, to spike as many drinks as possible.

    Gritting her teeth against the crushing pressure, Arinel blinked sweat from her eye as she rummaged. After about half an hour, she found a promising candidate.

    Dried roots with limbs resembling a human body, laid out in a stack of wooden crates wedged between a shelf and the wall.

    Arinel lifted a root from the pile and smiled for the first time since leaving Crosset on this ill-fated journey. Mandrake. A few roots of this enigmatic plant would be enough to fill her arsenal.

    Arinel didn''t have time for celebration¡ªher work was far from over. She must prepare her array of sedatives for ingestion and decide which refreshment each would be best suited for. Potent herbs must not be mixed with alcohol. Freshness and harvesting season must be factored in for dosage. Arinel prayed her calculations would land the sweet spot between ineffective and fatal.

    Arinel''s mother was a peasant maid who worked in the alchemist''s lab before and even after Lord Crosset took her mistress. Yet, few outside Crosset Castle would believe Arinel also cherished a burning desire to follow in her mother''s footsteps. Because those footsteps had ended with her mother''s fiery demise.

 Duty and Atonement

    "Noble or commoner, the role of the lady of the house is similar. The only difference is the scale."

    Baroness Sylvia laid her spoon beside her emptied bowl of oatmeal and raisins. One of her maids-of-honor, Heloise, brought Meya a water basin and a towel, and Meya washed Beau''s slobber off her face.

    "Once Coris becomes Baron Hadrian, you''ll take my place as Baroness. Coris will take care of his fief and his people. You''ll keep his house nice and tidy for him¡ªmanage our staff, supervise the scullery, and raise the children, yours and others''."

    The Baroness tilted her head at Heloise, who had passed the basin to a chambermaid. She then resumed her place at the tapestried wall with the other maids, squires and pages.

    Meya had seen them in the background since arriving two days ago, but now she studied them more carefully. Heloise and the girl with the brown ponytail looked to be Meya''s age, but the pouting little girl with black curls looked not a day above seven.

    One of the squires looked like the healthier version of Coris. The other squire was handsome, with a serene expression not unlike Arinel. Beside him, a pageboy who looked around ten years old stood fidgeting. He had the brown skin and curly black hair of the Southern Islanders. Even dressed in plain clothes, they were blessed with unblemished skin and well-proportioned faces, and they had the refined air of the well-bred about them.

    Girls of noble birth would be sent to serve older noblewomen as training in deportment, whereas boys would become pages and squires to learn knighthood. Say she did become Baroness someday, how was she supposed to raise them? She was a peasant girl who had both parents to raise her, and she couldn''t grow up properly herself.

    "Whenever Coris is absent, you must take his place. So, it is imperative that you learn the manor''s accounts and law as well."

    Meya''s spirit was further dampened. Accounts and law? Goodly Freda, she didn''t even know how to write numbers!

    Despite her shivering heart, Meya smiled and gave her a dainty nod. Being a lady seemed to entail much more than providing the lord with children. Meya was delighted to hear that. Overall, it seemed an exciting job, and she was eager to learn now that she had the chance, but how would the Baroness react when the girl who claimed to be Lady Arinel couldn''t even write her name?

    The Baroness smiled sympathetically.

    "Daunting, isn''t it?" She clasped Meya''s clammy hand. Meya nodded vigorously, eyes wide in desperation. Sylvia laughed, shaking her head and gazing at Meya with growing affection.

    "I can only imagine how difficult it must be for you. I myself trained from the age of seven, but thirteen years later, I was still a lass out of my depth when I married Kellis. And you''re barely seventeen!"

    The Baroness smiled at her husband, who chuckled in fond remembrance. Meya wondered how she could be so affectionate with the man who poisoned her son half-dead.

    "Don''t worry. You still have time to watch and learn. And, of course, you''ll have the staff to assist you." Sylvia nodded towards the long table, where the staff and servants supped with lower-ranking members of the visiting lords and ladies'' entourages.

    "That''s our seneschal, Sir Emery Nethan. He manages the castle''s staff."

    Meya followed Sylvia''s indicating hand to a suave middle-aged man with long, graying black hair in a ponytail. He was engrossed in conversation with a plump man in his fifties, who had a bald patch surrounded by flaxen hair and a magnificent curved mustache. Meya recognized him from her first day here.

    "Across from him is the chamberlain, Sir Rondell. He takes care of our quarters and our wardrobe. And, of course, that''s Sir Jarl, the marshal. He''s in charge of the grounds, the stables, the men-at-arms and the craftsmen."

    Sir Jarl, a muscular, broad-chested knight with suntanned skin, downed his oatmeal as if in a race against time. Zier sent him to fetch Beau earlier, and he needed to catch up.

    Meya sneaked a worried glance at the door, where Beau had bounded off when she whispered into his ear to bring the note to Coris. There was no knowing for sure if the message would reach him. To top that, Zier just left to bring breakfast to Coris. Would he run into Beau on the way or in Coris''s room? How would he react?

    ?

    After breakfast, Baroness Sylvia took Meya to see her daily routine and show her around the castle. She hosted a tea party in the outdoor pavilion to entertain the visiting ladies, while the Baron took the lords out to hunt game in his forest.

    A blanket of bright red hexagonal roses embraced the pavilion. As they swayed in the breeze, the silvery-white pavilion seemed to float on a rippling crimson lake.

    "These Hadrian Roses are the only ones in Latakia." The Baroness leaned down and caressed their velvety petals, "They bloom all through the year, except for winter. Sir Rondell is in charge of harvesting their petals and making the Hadrian Red dye."

    The party''s guests were just as colorful. Most of the ladies had brought their teenage daughters, decked out in their clan''s unique colors and giddy with excitement as they discussed the upcoming feast¡ªmainly, who the most attractive young heirs would choose to be their pairs for the dance. Zier was the target of many affections.

    The Baroness left the guests to their leisure and took Meya to the scullery. Through the dizzying maelstrom of cooks, assistants and maids, Meya spotted Lady Arinel, Haselle and the Crossetian maids standing guard over the stew vats.

    Meya fitted herself into the Baroness''s shadow, pretending to listen as she discussed tonight''s menu, the preferences and food allergies of the guests and the procurement of supplies with Head Cook Apollon.

    During the evening celebrations, the scullery would prepare food for the nobles'' feast in the Great Hall, and set up a station in the courtyard to cook for the commoners. Thus, the Baroness headed next to the courtyard to supervise the food marquees. Next, she took Meya to the treasury to meet Sir Claptorpe, the treasurer, to review the budget for the wedding.

    Finally, the Baroness led Meya to the chapel. Though built of thick sandstone, the chapel''s interior was flooded with the light of high noon from rows of tall stained-glass windows. Sunlight filtering through the tinted glass pooled on the granite floor slabs in rippling rainbow puddles.

    Meya had never seen this much glass in one place before, much less stained glass, not even in Crosset Castle. The Hadrians really were disgusting rich.

    Stone pillars beset with ornate curlicues protruded from the walls at precise intervals. The panels in between were blanketed with paintings of the goddess Freda and scenes from Latakia''s war of independence from Nostra. However, the first panel to the door''s left depicted a bizarre scene Meya couldn''t interpret.

    On one side was a mountain with fire rising from its summit. A flock of dragons of all colors flew away from it, crossing the sea towards the mainland. The dragon in the lead was dark green, with glowing green eyes. A human knight in armor clung to it.

    Bells rang in her head, then it hit her. The insignia on Dad''s old belt buckle. A dragon flying over the sea! There were runes on it, too.

    Meya had nicked the buckle from Dad''s belt for a closer look one day. Myron told her the runes read We Shall Return. Return where? The seven siblings wondered. The Hilds had lived in Crosset and nearby manors for seven generations, and Meya reckoned their history went no further than that.

    A string of elaborate runes unfurled on the banner painted beneath the panel. The Baroness reached out and caressed it.

    "Duty and Atonement. Our motto."

    The arch of the pillars cast the Baroness''s melancholic face in shadow. At Meya''s puzzled look, Sylvia brightened her expression. She pointed at the exploding mountain,

    If you stumble upon this tale on Amazon, it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it.

    "That''s Everglen."

    Meya''s eyes widened, though she could already guess somewhat. The Baroness''s eyes settled on the man hanging onto the green dragon.

    "Hadrian lore has it that our ancestor, Drinian Hadrian, was a Glennian. When the Everglen volcano erupted, he stowed away on a dragon to flee across the sea and landed in Latakia, while the dragons flew on to Nostra."

    "So, the Nostran dragons came from Everglen?" Meya gawked in disbelief. The Baroness''s silvery eyes glinted. "Why don''t they just land in Latakia, my lady? Why fly all the way to Nostra?"

    Sylvia shrugged and tilted her head in agreement. Having been married into the family like Meya, the Baroness seemed just as skeptical. Meya turned back to the painting, peering at the runes.

    Duty and Atonement. We Shall Return. One picture, two names. How were they connected? Had her ancestors migrated from Everglen like Drinian Hadrian?

    "And what does atonement mean? What do the Hadrians have to atone for? I get the duty part¡ªthat''s protecting The Axel, isn''t it? Or did Drinian explode that mountain, and that made Everglen what it is today?"

    The Baroness seemed impressed. She studied the painting, then heaved a sigh of bemusement.

    "That''s my guess, too. The lore doesn''t say." Sylvia eyed the far side of the long hall. "There''s someone here who would be happy to discuss with you, if you''d like."

    Meya followed her gaze, and her eyes widened. The front rows of praying benches had been cleared away to accommodate a group of youngsters. An old man stood before them in white and gold robes, mouthing a command to the young ones.

    "Our chaplain, High Priest Frey. You probably recognize him."

    Meya nodded, still staring at the strange spectacle. Of course she remembered him. That was the lovesick old priest who married her and Coris!

    "He''ll be your tutor." The Baroness added. Meya almost choked on her breath.

    Tutor? Goodly Freda, I can''t read or write! What am I gonna do now?

    Seeing the look of pure terror on Meya''s face, the Baroness laughed softly, wagging a reprimanding finger,

    "Don''t give me that look, lass. I know they''d rather not teach girls the letters in Crosset, but in Hadrian, you can''t run from school into marriage."

    The Baroness glided towards the last row of benches, gathered her dress and sat down. Meya scampered after her.

    "When you aren''t accompanying me, you are to study Runes, Logic, Mathematics, History, Geography and the Holy Scriptures here with your fellow knights- and ladies-in-training," said the Baroness, whispering now, as Meya settled beside her.

    "If you want to sing or paint, I can hire tutors for you as well. And you must hone your needlework with me. No buts."

    Sylvia raised a decisive finger. Meya closed her mouth with a shudder. In the few weeks of embroidery Meya endured under Mum''s tutelage at seven, she poked her fingers as much as the cloth. Needless to say, Meya''s flower pattern was more blood and tears than thread.

    Under normal circumstances, Meya would be thrilled to be going to school. Back home, the tuition was so expensive Dad could only afford to send Myron. Girls, in general, weren''t allowed to study. Yet, the gift of education had to befall her when she must convince a castle full of nobles that she was Lady Arinel. Typical Freda.

    Resigned to her rotten fate, Meya followed the Baroness''s lead and observed the small classroom instead. The pupils had divided into pairs and sat facing each other from opposite sides of a board game. They arranged colorful chips on the illustrated wooden board, a screen hiding their opponent''s positions from view.

    "What is the subject now, my lady?"

    The Baroness peered at each student, a tapered finger pushing up her chin.

    "Hmm, I''d say Logic. They''re playing Heist."

    "Heist?"

    "It''s a wargame designed to train the future Baron Hadrian to protect The Axel, but I''d say heirs of western manors can learn from it as well. If the Nostran army ever crossed the Zarel Pass again, the west would be Latakia''s first line of defense."

    Her eyes lingered on the brown-haired lad to the left, and she muttered wearily,

    "And now I worry for the future of Latakia."

    Meya followed her eyes to Lord Zier. While High Priest Frey was distracted talking to another pair of students, Zier quietly stacked his blue soldier chips into tall, wobbling towers. His opponent, the Coris-lookalike, lined up miniature trebuchets and loaded them with his red soldier chips. Judging from their deep red, ballooning cheeks, they were trying their damnedest not to burst out laughing.

    "Zier. Of course." The Baroness rolled her eyes¡ªa strategy game wouldn''t involve blasting mini-towers with mini-trebuchets, "That''s Simon of Amplevale, by the way. The boys'' cousin. He serves well as Coris''s decoy. His poor mother wishes the resemblance goes deeper than skin."

    Meya narrowed her eyes at Simon. He did resemble Coris, except for his healthier build, pale blue eyes and carefree smirk. Lips pursed in concentration, Simon hooked back his loaded trebuchet, then let fly. A red chip sailed over the screen and chafed one of Zier''s towers. It lost balance and fell to pieces.

    High Priest Frey spun around at the sound of falling chips, then swatted Zier and Simon on the noggin with the copy of the Holy Scriptures he swiped from the altar behind.

    Meya stifled her laughter with immense difficulty. The handsome, stone-faced squire High Priest Frey had been talking to shook his head. His opponent, the girl with the brown ponytail, pretended to busy herself arranging her chips to hide her giggles.

    "That''s Christopher Merilith, second son of the Duke of Meriton. And that''s Lady Fione of Cristoria. She''s here if ever Cristoria rebels again."

    Onto the next table, the little page from the Southern Isles rained fistfuls of red chips onto his half of the board, his mouth chanting die die die. Heloise peered over the screen, trying in vain to talk him out of massacring his whole army.

    "Frenix of Pearlwater, the wee devil. And Heloise Dunstaal from Westrell. Poor girl hasn''t given up teaching him strategy, Freda bless her."

    At the last table sat the sullen seven-year-old girl with curly black hair, pushing pieces onto her board with dejected reluctance. Her opponent was a chapel clerk around Meya''s age who kept sweating and dropping his chips.

    "Little Amara of Hyacinth. Freda help that poor clerk. She starts pelting chips at you if you''re winning. She has a soft spot for Coris, though. But then, he always seems to have his way with children." Sylvia shook her head with an adoring smile as her thoughts strayed to her son, "Oh, and we used to have your brother Klythe, of course."

    The Baroness spun around, eyes twinkling. Meya blinked, taken aback at the comment that came out of nowhere. Oh, right! She was supposed to be Arinel. One brother missing, two sisters decomposing, right?

    Meya adopted what she hoped was a wistful smile. She turned back to the young lords and ladies, casting about for anything to ask that would steer her away from dangerous waters. Her eyes fell upon Zier as the only one she had actually talked to, then something out of place caught her attention.

    The other lords and ladies came from other towns to train. Why was Zier home? Not to mention Coris as well?

    "My lady, why aren''t Lord Coris and Lord Zier training elsewhere?"

    The Baroness tensed. Meya glanced at her in alarm. Sylvia stared into space, eyes unblinking but unseeing as she gulped air down her throat. At last, she nodded,

    "Well, I guess it''s obvious in Lexi''s case," Her face bone white, she twisted the crimson silk of her dress with trembling hands, "They both trained under Baron Grimthel of Graye. Up until the heist."

    "When Coris swallowed The Axel?"

    Sylvia whipped around, eyes wide.

    "Lexi told you?"

    Meya hesitated, then nodded. A new name had joined the ever-growing Must-remember list in her brain, and her interest was piqued, but seeing Sylvia so troubled, she wasn''t sure if she should let her continue. The Baroness nodded to herself, then heaved a sigh,

    "Yes, around the time your brother disappeared. Kellis suspected Baron Graye was behind it, that he set his daughter, Lady Agnesia, to charm Lexi. So, Lexi tried to steal The Axel to please her. He pulled the boys out of training after that."

    Meya gaped. Coris told her he swallowed The Axel to keep it safe, but his mother was painting a much different picture, one that made much more sense.

    Coris was lying?

    Meya wondered how the possibility had never crossed her mind. She felt as if she were sucked down a quicksand hole on the road of time. The world around her seemed to slow.

    "Coris was protecting The Axel, not stealing it!" She heard her voice as if from the end of a tunnel. She wasn''t sure if she believed it.

    "Only Freda and Lexi himself know the truth of what transpired that night." The Baroness whispered, her voice dead, her eyes haunted with sorrow born of a mother''s love for her child.

    "Of course, I don''t love my son any less, but my husband is a born Hadrian. So is Lexi. And the Hadrian men''s duty is to The Axel alone."

    Sylvia''s voice trembled with bitter fury. Perhaps she begrudged her husband just as she blamed herself. Meya didn''t know what to think. Coris had seemed so sincere, so honest and kind. He didn''t look the type that would cook up elaborate lies to make himself look good.

    Although they''d known each other for mere days, it pained her that Coris would see the need to lie to her, when she could understand why he''d want to steal The Axel. How frustrating would it be? To sacrifice everything one held dear, not even knowing why.

    But did Coris lie? Did he mean to steal The Axel? He didn''t seem bothered while he told her of the heist. The way he said it, it was as if it had happened to someone else. Or, at least, he didn''t believe he was in the wrong.

    Meya had just let Coris in on her secret. This revelation couldn''t have come at a worse time. Could she trust him? What would she do now?

    "What happened to Lady Agnesia after that?"

    The Baroness frowned as she shifted uncomfortably.

    "She¡ªwas staying in Hadrian as my attendant." She wrung her hands, her eyes downcast, "There was a nasty fire in her quarters. We couldn''t save her."

    The Baron ordered Agnesia''s death!

    Strength left her legs when the truth sank in. Meya was thankful she was sitting. The two women locked eyes, mourning silver upon fearful emerald.

    "I tell you all this because you are now part of our family." The Baroness whispered as her cold hands rested upon Meya''s, "The Axel is now your duty as well. I must impress upon you how important it is."

    Meya met the Baroness''s intense stare, her emotions in turmoil. The Baroness''s dress, like Meya''s, was Hadrian Red. She felt the weight of the ruby Hadrian Rose brooch pinned to the chest of her undershirt. She remembered the five guards and the decoy entourage Gillian and his men killed. She remembered Coris''s haunting eyes as he recalled his three nights of torture. And she must now add Lady Agnesia Graye to the death toll.

    She remembered the white pavilion on the sea of Hadrian Roses. The rippling lake of vivid red flowers was now a sea of blood, and Meya wondered how many more would die in the name of The Axel.

    And would that include her as well?

 Odd One Out

    The setting sun signaled Hadrian Castle to throw open its heavy gates. In the vast courtyard, rowdy farmers and craftsmen drank to their hearts'' fill while their wives gossiped, and their wee children ran on the grass. Young lovers danced arm-in-arm as minstrels belted tune after tune on their various instruments.

    In the Great Hall, lords and ladies stood conversing in groups, drinks in hand, while their teenage children and attendants paired up and whirled around on the dance floor.

    Such a manor-wide celebration was a first for Meya. Unfortunately, as the host, she must join the Baron, Baroness and Lord Zier at the front of the hall to greet and thank each distinguished guest. And her husband wasn''t even here to keep her company!

    Coris hadn''t put so much as a toe outside his bedroom for the entire day. Zier reported poor lad had returned to his pillows'' beckoning embrace the moment Zier forced the last spoonful of breakfast into his mouth.

    Meya had been stuck practicing embroidery with Baroness Sylvia for the whole afternoon. Once she''d reduced her right forefinger to little more than a bleeding pincushion, the Baroness led her to the front gate to welcome the Baron and the lords back from hunting. Then, she was whisked away by the chamberlain to dress up for the feast. There wasn''t one opening for her to sneak off and see Coris.

    To make matters worse, each approaching guest would naturally ask where Coris was. And naturally, the Baron wouldn''t enjoy telling them time and again his son was too sick even to attend his own wedding feast.

    As guest after guest repeated the question, Baron Kellis''s mood soured. He''d shoot dark looks at Meya once the visitors had drifted away, as if it was Meya''s fault.

    Meya strived to look as contrite as she could. Well, it was her fault. Coris had a good reason to not be here.

    At least, she thought that was the case. Say Beau was up to his job and the message did reach Coris, it wasn''t likely Coris would immediately make a noticeable move. There was still a month of opportunity window left. They''d only been in Hadrian three days. Meya didn''t expect Gillian would glean enough leads on the dowry''s whereabouts to strike anytime soon.

    Maybe Coris is actually just sick, Meya consoled herself, which makes it your fault anyway since your lady pillows excited him too much.

    Meya blushed at the thought. Freda hadn''t been gracious to Meya with her blessings, but she was generous when it came to her bosom department. Coris couldn''t seem to get enough of them last night and, to be honest, they were still somewhat sore.

    Meya''s head, hands and chest weren''t the only painful parts of her body, however. Her stomach was starting its own riot. Half an hour had passed since the feast started, but the long table in the middle of the hall remained empty.

    The Baroness surveyed the guests every so often to make sure they were still content. Her husband has struck up yet another conversation with a balding, ale-bellied old nobleman, Marquess Fratengarde, so she couldn''t nip away to check on the scullery.

    Meya was worried about the food, too, but not for the same reasons. With their measly manpower, Gillian suggested he might have to knock everyone in the castle out when time came for the search.

    Gillian could use the fireplaces and torches to smoke the room with sleeping draught, but he could spike the food as well. Every guest and most guards were gathered in the Great Hall, making for a rare opportunity to search the rest of the castle, not to mention everyone was bound to eat or drink something.

    If Coris was as smart as everyone said he was, he''d no doubt have realized this. Did he guess the food would be spiked and stopped it leaving the kitchen? Or was it Lady Arinel? She was working in the scullery, wasn''t she?

    As Meya assumed the role of Coris and Gillian to play her version of Heist in her brain, the Baron and the Marquess''s chat droned on.

    "Yes, I understand you, my dear man. Though I''ve always been, still am, a skeptic of Uriel''s interpretation, this time I fully support you." Fratengarde dabbed at his sweaty forehead with a handkerchief then waved it in frustration, "Freda''s damnation aside, we can''t possibly get a trade that''s been outlawed for two hundred years back up in a month, can we?"

    "Exactly. Our best course of action would be to investigate the ships'' disappearance and bring back some ores as soon as possible." Baron Kellis agreed solemnly, "And in the meantime, limit the use of metals, but His Majesty won''t be pleased if we touch his reforms."

    Despite her pressing matters, Meya couldn''t help her mounting curiosity. The Baron had been talking about this thing with ore ships and the king''s reforms with the other lords, too.

    Some of the lords agreed with the Baron about solving the ship problem and continuing to ship ores from Everglen, but some were adamant about finally lifting the Mining Ban and resuming mining in Latakia, to stabilisize our ekonony, or some thingy. Unfortunately, the king was all for lifting the ban, too.

    "Books and coins for the commoner, eh?" Fratengarde chuckled as if the idea was incredulous,

    "I''ve known His Majesty since he was a young squire. Far-sighted dreamer he''s always been, but in times like these, we need eyes grounded in the present. Take it one step at a time. He won''t get his reforms unless he can get us enough metal to survive this year." He took a large swig from his mug of ale.

    "Alden is young, na?ve. He won''t simply surrender his dreams. I''ve been thinking perhaps, we might need to be discreet rather than drastic." Baron Kellis caressed his mustache as he shot an insinuating look at Fratengarde, "This is where you come in, my lord."

    The two men exchanged knowing looks. The Baroness and Zier seemed to have no trouble deciphering the secret message, so although Meya had no clue what was going on, she strived to seem well-informed as well.

    "I take it you''re talking about my niece," Fratengarde broke away first. He nodded with a heavy sigh as he patted Kellis''s shoulder.

    "I will try, my good man, but I can''t promise anything. Zephyr is a woman with her own mind. Very much like your fine lady here." Baroness Sylvia blushed, swaying as she waved the compliment away. Perhaps Meya had imagined it, but her movements seemed...sluggish?

    "She''s mostly kept her lips sealed, and Alden will listen to his queen when she does speak, so it all depends on her opinion."

    The same phenomenon spread to Marquess Fratengarde; he swayed on his feet, his eyes drooped close then snapped open again. He waggled his wooden mug, his speech slow and slurred,

    "So far, she hasn''t said anything, but if it turns out she backs Alden, I''m afraid there''s little I can do to persuade her..."

    "Sylvia!"

    A split-second after Fratengarde dropped to the floor as if bludgeoned in the head, Baroness Sylvia fell lifelessly into Baron Kellis''s arms. Rousing his wife in vain, Kellis staggered toward the nearest chair, then he too collapsed.

    Yet, there were no screams from the surrounding women, nor noblemen barking orders for servants to tend to their lord. As Meya stared in horror, lords and ladies teetered where they stood then crumpled to the floor.

    Dancing couples fell onto each other. Those sitting around tables smacked their faces into their mugs or the tabletop or slid off to the floor. Minstrels slumped against their instruments, guards against the wall or their weapons. Maids and manservants dropped their drink trays with much clattering, soaking them as they tumbled.

    If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.

    Meya spun around at the tug on her arm to find Lord Zier dropping, his mouth lolling open, the whites of his eyes gleaming between half-shut eyelids.

    In less than a minute, the lively party had been reduced to a hall strewn with passed-out, dead-drunk humans, plus one bewildered Meya Hild.

    What in the three lands is going on?

    Meya spun about; eyebrows knotted in bafflement. Have they decided to spike the drinks instead? But if so, Meya had been sipping apple juice. Why was she still standing? And why had no one warned her beforehand?

    At any rate, I should probably be asleep myself.

    Meya emptied her glass onto Zier, then flattened herself on the cold stone. Just as she was relaxing her limbs, footsteps approached from the hallway outside, then the double doors were thrown open. Meya prayed the crackles and sputters of the fireplace would be enough to mask the sound of her thundering heart.

    The scattered clapping of metal-soled boots on stone swelled into a chorus as a dozen pairs of feet joined the march. The congregation halted a few feet away from her.

    "Trunt, you gave them the aconite?" Gillian''s voice rang in the silence.

    Aconite? The poison? What''s that for?

    "Done. Got one of ''em maids to put it in the stew."

    The stew?

    Meya couldn''t believe her ears. Gillian had meant to kill everyone in the castle by spiking the food with aconite? Fortunately, her folk in the kitchen have found a way around by putting everyone to sleep and delaying the food.

    Dead or asleep, no one could thwart their search for the dowry, so overall, there was no harm done, but how could she trust Gillian now?

    It was one thing to steal to feed your hungry family. It was entirely different to murder dozens of people while you were at it. This was insanity. Utter insanity. What should Meya do now?

    "The stew, you say?"

    As Meya shivered in dread, Gillian''s ice-cold voice void of mercy answered. He allowed a moment of excruciating silence, so Trunt would notice the lack of food on the tables.

    "Explain to me, Trunt, why they are all asleep when not a dish of food is in sight, and when I told you to put aconite, not sleeping draught, into the food?" said Gillian, his voice still chillingly soft.

    "I¨DI saw to it that she put it in, commander. I really did. I dunno how¨D" Trunt stammered.

    "Then bring them here and squeeze the truth out of them! What are you waiting for? Go!"

    At Gillian''s snarl, Trunt scampered outside. Gillian turned and barked to his men,

    "If it''s not the scullery maids, then it''s her. Where is Meya Hild? Find her!"

    A jolt of pure fear coursed through Meya. She prayed to Freda for protection as the bandits scattered and examined every guest. If they found out she was the only one awake, they''d think she was behind this, although she had not the slightest idea how it all came about.

    A pair of boots stopped before her. Warm air caressed her cheek as the bandit peeled her face from the carpet and brushed aside her golden locks. Perhaps, with all the beautifying, he wouldn''t recognize her?

    Meya held tight onto her only hope. That was, until he lifted her eyelid. Though it was too quick for him to notice Meya''s eye focusing on him, it was more than enough,

    "Green eyes. It''s her." He muttered, then hollered, "Over here, commander!"

    Stupid, cursed eyes of doom! I swear, if I survive this, I''d stick my head in a chamberpot filled with poo for three days, if it would dye my eyeballs freaking brown!

    A heavy, eerie silence descended as twenty men gathered around her. The pressure of twenty ogling pairs of eyes threatened to crush Meya flat.

    "She faking, right?" A bandit suggested hesitantly, prompting another bandit to prod her waist with the tip of his boot. Meya tried her best to stay limp as raw dough.

    "Read her, Torbald." Gillian commanded. Before Meya could prepare for whatever was coming, Torbald knelt and pushed up her eyelids.

    Glowing green eyes stared into hers, breaking contact only to blink. Unlike Gillian, Torbald''s gaze was warm, so Meya willed her eyes to convey her honest plea to him. At last, he released her and turned back to his leader,

    "She knew nothing, commander."

    Gillian dipped a nod of satisfaction then turned his focus to the doors. Meya melted in relief. Torbald rested his rough, calloused hand on her shoulder.

    "You stay asleep now, little lass." He whispered, chuckling at the sight of her frown, "Wouldn''t wanna blow our secret, eh?"

    He winked. Meya blinked, puzzled. What did he mean, their secret? That aside, one look in the eye, and they believed she wasn''t involved, just like that?

    Torbald didn''t explain, nor did he have time to. Footsteps echoed from outside again. Trunt reappeared at the door, stringing the reluctant Lady Arinel along with a tight grip on her arm.

    Meya''s heart thundered once more as she closed her eyes. She''d been cleared of all charges. Now she feared for her Lady. Once the approaching footsteps had died, she cracked one eye open a slit, then shut it once more.

    A panting Trunt stood before Jerald, Arinel, Gretella, the five guards and nine scullery maids. He jerked his chin at Arinel.

    "''ere, commander. The maid I gave the bag to. If anyone''s tamperin'' it''s gotta be ''er."

    A brief pause followed; Meya guessed Gillian was taking a good look at the maid, broken by the sickening sound of gagging and sputtering which was unmistakably Gillian heaving Trunt off his feet by the collar.

    "You fool! Of all the maids in that kitchen, you handed it to Lady Crosset?"

    Gillian roared in exasperation. Even under such dire circumstances, Meya stifled a snort of laughter. Poor Trunt; Arinel would''ve been the only one in that kitchen smart enough to know poison when she saw it and concoct a countermeasure.

    "Why does it matter who gets the draught and what is spiked, lowlife?" Arinel''s icy voice drowned out Trunt''s intelligible whimpering, "The guests are asleep. As planned. Now go loot to your heart''s fill. We''ll head back to our posts."

    A long, deafening silence followed. Meya chanced a second peek.

    Gillian glared at Arinel, the tendons taut on his scarred, paper-white face, his dark green eyes cold and calculating. Finally, his lips twisted into a tight grin.

    "No, Lady Crosset. I can no longer trust you not to interfere." His voice was as soft and serene as ever, but the menace mingled in it sent shivers down Meya''s spine.

    Gretella pulled Arinel into her embrace. Sir Jerald stepped up to shield them both. Gillian''s smile stretched wider.

    "And yes, my lady. It does matter greatly. My plan has never been to leisurely scour the whole castle for the dowry. Lord Hadrian will deliver it to me willingly."

    Strength flowed out of Meya and seeped away into the carpet at the numbing realization. Gillian had planned to hold all these people hostage, bargaining the antidote in exchange for The Axel. She had miscalculated his true motive, had trusted in his camaraderie. If Arinel hadn''t intervened, she would''ve been responsible for all these innocent lives.

    As she lay there, stiff as a skeleton, Gillian delivered his ultimatum,

    "Lady Crosset. Meya Hild. Lord Zier. The Baron and Baroness. Tie them up. We''re moving out."

    The bandits dashed towards Arinel and Meya. Wrenched back to reality, Meya closed her eyes and played dead. As much as she longed to act, she was powerless and overwhelmed. It was best for her comrades for her to let these heartless bandits believe she was still their ally.

    "Lady! No! Lady!"

    "Let go of me. Let go! Grandma!"

    "Stop! You lowlife! Scum!"

    Gretella and Arinel screamed. A bandit yanked Meya''s arms behind her and looped twine around her wrists. Jerald''s voice joined the din of shrieking maids as the Crosset guards unsheathed their swords, but outnumbered four to one, that was the farthest they could go.

    Meya longed to do something, anything to help. It was she who landed them all in this catastrophe. Yet, as always, when it truly mattered, Meya was at a complete loss for bright ideas. The shame, the guilt was such that she couldn''t muster the will to wag a finger. The bandit pulled her to her feet by her bound hands.

    "What in the three lands are you doing? Do you not want the antidote?"

    Arinel screamed the question ringing in her head. The chaos died. Meya sneaked another peek, then shut her eye just as soon. Arinel was standing right before her, panting, arms pinned behind. She was glaring at the bandit who held Meya.

    "Meya Hild is smart, but she knows too little of the world. And herself." said the bandit, his voice brimming with a smirk; Gillian''s rat-faced second-in-command, Dockar, "There is only one poison to our kind."

    Meya felt as if the ground had opened and swallowed her whole into abyss. Gillian''s mysterious smirk when she suggested the antidote swap; it all made sense then. The reason Meya was unaffected by Arinel''s sleeping draught.

    They were all Greeneyes. Their bodies must have been different from normal people. The only poison that could kill them was Lattis. If aconite couldn''t kill Greeneyes but could kill normal humans, then Lattis could protect normal humans while killing Greeneyes?

    The dowry is The Axel. The Axel is made of Lattis. If The Axel is inside someone, it would protect him from poison. That''s why Gillian poisoned everyone; whoever has The Axel won''t be affected!

    Gillian had kept his promise. He had meant to spare Meya and take her to join their kind, but the same couldn''t be said for everyone else. The moment Meya made that pact, she sentenced the deaths of all these people who had trusted in her.

    There was nothing, nothing she could have done. Dockar''s chilling last remarks rang loud and clear in her ears,

    "But you needn''t worry. Since Meya Hild honored her end of the deal, we''ll uphold ours as well." Dockar''s voice was undercut with tension; he wasn''t comfortable with Gillian''s decision to rescue Meya.

    "All you have to do is be a good little lady, while we wait for Coris Hadrian to hand over what we came for. Then, we''ll deliver the requiem for the whole Hadrian family in one fell swoop."

 Ransom Demand

    Gillian led the party of twenty bandits and twenty stumbling, tied-and-gagged guards and maids down silent hallways and stairwells to the ground floor. Along the way, they passed countless guards slumped against the wall, unconscious. At least, Meya hoped they were. Those were probably Gillian''s work, not Arinel''s.

    Baron Kellis, Baroness Sylvia and Lord Zier were hog-tied and thrown unceremoniously over the bandits'' backs, their heads bouncing to their captors'' heavy gait. Meya was on Dockar''s back. As she was under orders to feign sleep, she couldn''t twitch a finger.

    Or so they thought.

    Meya''s crimson silk dress had long, loose sleeves that had elaborate patterns embroidered onto them with minuscule beads and sequins. Her hand hidden under her sleeve, Meya pulled off a thread and allowed the beads to fall soundlessly to the floor.

    They walked down another set of stairs then stopped. There was silence, then the sound of a lock clicking in place, a door creaking open on rusty hinges. Cold wind grazed her behind. Gillian was using a sally port to sneak out unnoticed.

    The group ventured into the moonlit night in single file, wading across the moat. There were shallower sections towards the back gate, where the castle raised fish and eels in cordoned locks, but Gillian sought out a neck-deep section for them.

    Meya guessed it was to dilute their scent so Coris''s hounds wouldn''t be able to track them down before the ransom drop. She had hundreds of beads to spare, though. Hopefully, they''d suffice.

    Clear of the moat, they sloshed their way down the hill and across the choppy moorland. The night wind batted about their dripping clothes.

    Half an hour later, they approached the Lord''s Forest. The shadow of the overhanging canopy beat down on Meya''s eyelids. Under the cover of near darkness, she creaked open one eye and craned her neck to see the front of the line.

    Gillian stood at the neck of the forest. He spun around and motioned for someone in the throng to come forth. Meya couldn''t see who; she closed her eye and played possum when she felt footsteps stomping towards her.

    "This is where we leave you. You will return to the castle and deliver our ransom demand to Lord Coris," said Gillian.

    "I shall stay with the Lady." The man growled through gritted teeth. It was Jerald. The shriek of an unsheathed blade echoed alongside muffled screams from the maids.

    "You will deliver our ransom demand to Lord Coris."

    Gillian repeated, his voice cold and calm as ever. Jerald didn''t respond, nor did he move an inch. Gillian sheathed his sword, and the group soldiered forth into the gloom with half the number of crunching footsteps.

    The faint, dull light of the full moon peeked through murky clouds and tangled twigs. Though the near darkness meant Meya could open her eyes, she still couldn''t move much.

    Her hair snagged on dangling, dying vines. Low-hanging branches poked her behind. She rose and fell with Dockar as he stepped over large roots and navigated the treacherous terrain. Fallen leaves crunched whenever he stepped.

    Meya wasn''t sure the beads would work beyond this point, but for lack of a better idea, she kept dropping them in clumps, faster than ever, lathering them with sweat from her feverish hands.

    For what seemed like forever they walked, then they emerged into open space. A vast, choppy moorland spread as far as her eyes could see, dotted with boulders and rapids, bathed in bright silver moonlight. Far at the edge of the moor, Meya could just make out the pitch-black peaks of Neverend Heights. The massive Zarel river carved its path between Neverend''s canyons, slicing Latakia apart from Nostra, like a torn shred of parchment barely hanging on to the rest.

    One more obstacle stood in the Nostran army''s way: Amplevale Fortress. It should be somewhere out there, swallowed by the shadow of the mountains. Though thanks to the canyons, the central-west wasn''t the main route for invasions like the low-lying southwest, Amplevale was still heavily manned, supplied with troops and victual from prosperous Hadrian.

    If you spot this story on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

    However, Amplevale''s men would be useless in a situation like this. From what she heard from Baron Kellis during his talks to Lord Amplevale, Simon''s father, thanks to the canyons, Amplevale hadn''t experienced direct attacks for two centuries. Their strength was in swift reinforcements to the southwest.

    Besides, setting up an ambush in open grassland with mere rocks and hillocks to hide behind was near impossible, especially with the full moon illuminating every dip and chink of the terrain. The bandits would spot them creeping in from a mile away, and she''d be dead in a breath.

    Gillian led them about half a mile away from the forest then found himself a boulder to make his seat, signaling his men to scurry about setting up camp.

    The bandits shoved Meya, Arinel and Zier against a boulder then looped a rope a dozen times around them, binding them side-by-side to the cold, jagged surface. The Baron and Baroness were given another rock all to themselves to their left.

    "What are your demands?" Arinel called.

    Gillian, along with everyone awake, glanced at the lady as one, then the other bandits returned to their jobs. Meya expected a negative answer with scathing insults thrown in, but Gillian simply shrugged,

    "Nothing out of the obvious." He pored over a map spread on the boulder, studying it by the moonlight, "I asked Lord Coris to come alone with the dowry. If I see one soldier with him, the deal is off, and we silence you all."

    Meya shivered at his nonchalant tone. It wasn''t a threat. It was a statement.

    Arinel was trembling herself, yet forged on with feigned bravado. She was probably trying to keep Gillian talking to gain as much information as possible.

    "But there''s no deal, is there? Your right-hand man said you''ll deliver a requiem for the Hadrians tonight. You''re going to kill him and kill us all the moment you get your hands on the dowry. Coris isn''t stupid. He won''t come alone. Worse, he won''t come at all. How can you be sure he won''t leave his father and brother to die and become Lord Hadrian himself?"

    Gillian didn''t respond. Meya couldn''t help herself; she opened her eye a slit to see his reaction. Arinel playing devil''s advocate only served to widen Gillian''s mirthless, secretive grin, as if he knew something about Coris they didn''t. Judging from his smugness, it seemed as if this kidnapping was still part of the plan rather than a sidetrack.

    "Oh, he''d come." Gillian tilted his head, a triumphant grin still playing on his scarred features.

    "I won''t count on him being alone, but I count on him coming for one person, even at the cost of his own life."

    What?

    Meya''s heart jolted at that unexpected shred of information.

    "Who?" Arinel shot back in an instant. Her fierce voice rang in the deafening silence. The remaining bandits have stopped whatever they were doing and were listening in.

    Gillian turned to Dockar, who had walked up nearby. The two men smiled at their shared knowledge, then Dockar turned to Arinel with a grin.

    "How about I give you a hint?" He didn''t wait for her reply but went on with a laugh. "If you must ask, it''s obviously not you, Lady Crosset."

    Gillian and Dockar shared a curt nod, returning to business; Gillian ordered his men to stand watch at various spots for enemies approaching from the forest.

    Deciding it was time to drop the bomb, Meya nudged Arinel with her shoulder.

    The lady spun around, eyes wide. Meya cocked her head questioningly at Dockar. Arinel shook her head, a look of hopelessness and cluelessness in her bright blue eyes. Meya bit her lips. If they went by Dockar''s hint, it wasn''t Arinel or Meya. That would leave only the Hadrians.

    Gillian said there was only one person Coris would come after, but between one''s father, mother and brother, how could one possibly choose?

    Mum and Dad probably wouldn''t have that much of a dilemma if the choice were between Meya and, say, Mistral, Morel or Marin, but Meya wouldn''t be able to choose between Mum or Dad or her siblings without going insane afterwards.

    Surely there was a reason other than familial love? A reason Gillian and Dockar knew that she didn''t?

    But, no matter what, it didn''t change the bitter reality that here as well, Meya was just as useless and worthless as she had been back in the pig pen of her crumbling mud cottage. No one would see the need to save her life. She was on her own, as she''d always been.

    Being on one''s own, however, had its merits. Once you were used to it, when things went south, you were always prepared for the worst. And you wouldn''t waste precious time hoping for help that wasn''t going to come.

    A gust of wind lambasted the moor. Meya glanced up at the night sky. It was still as clear as ever, with the round moon settled in its place, like a golden button on a black velvet cloak spangled with tiny diamonds, but an expanse of thick black clouds hovered above the Hadrian forest.

    After a shufti to make sure none of the bandits were eyeing her and Arinel, Meya relaxed against the searing cold of the stone. Her arms were crossed, her wrists tied together, but her fingers were free.

    Meya wiggled her left thumb into her right sleeve. Her fingertip caressed the cold, smooth, faceted surface of the ruby brooch Coris had given her.

    Meya was fidgeting with the brooch while the chambermaids dressed her for dinner. She discovered the brooch was actually a sheath that held a tiny, razor-sharp blade, and so she moved it from her pocket to her sleeve, just in case.

    If she could just saw through these ropes, if the wind kept blowing hard, Meya and Arinel might still have a chance at survival.

 Double Heist

    While Hadrian made merry in the courtyard and great hall, up in the tower where the music and chatter didn''t reach, a young man lay on a lavish bed, bathed in the full moon''s light, deep asleep.

    Cast in shadow, the heavy wooden door opened and closed on its own. A draft fluttered the curtains around the four-poster. The victim-to-be didn''t stir.

    A figure clad head to toe in black edged into the moonlight. He crept one step at a time, slow, precise and feather-light, to the edge of the bed. His eyes fixed upon his target; he unsheathed a curved dagger and lowered it to his victim''s exposed neck.

    The blade jittered above the young man''s pulsing jugular vein; the assassin''s hand trembled, a moment of hesitance that would spell failure.

    A blinding flash of moonlight on metal. A sword reached from the shadows, its tip stopping just short of the assassin''s neck, as his free arm was pinned to his back.

    The sleeping victim snatched the assassin''s wrist and twisted. The dagger dropped to the silk blankets. A crack, a sizzle, then a matchhead bloomed into fire. Its flame was transferred to a candle on a stand, flooding the area with a halo of light.

    Coris tightened his grip on the assassin''s thin arm, his eyes cold as his voice.

    "Who sent you?"

    The assassin remained silent, dark green eyes downcast. Coris pressed his sword to her neck¡ªshe didn''t have the lump of an Adam''s Apple. The knowledge didn''t stop him from twisting her arm further.

    "I won''t ask thrice. Who. Sent. You?"

    The woman met his gaze, eyes watering with pain, but refused to utter a word. Coris nodded, and Christopher moved in to unmask her. In his grasp, the assassin''s arm twitched. Metallic jangling rang from her belt¡ª

    WHUMP!

    A muffled explosion followed by billowing, dark gray smoke snuffed out their candle and blotted out the moonlight. Particles of fine sand flew into their eyes, blinding them. By the time Coris, Simon and Christopher finished coughing, stumbling and rubbing their eyeballs, the assassin was gone.

    "Fyr!" Simon swore. He kicked away the blankets as Christopher relit the candle, "Coris, I''m so sorry. I''ve failed you."

    Coris shook his head and waved it aside, sheathing his sword. He wiped the dust from his tunic and held his blackened thumb and forefinger before his eyes, rubbing them together to feel its texture.

    The dark gray dust was fine, oily as silk, sparkling like ground diamond. He recognized it. As a little boy, he''d sat by her side on the banks of the crystal-clear rapids, kicking his feet in the healing gray sand as they debated the secrets of the three lands.

    "Sand from the Graye River. Our old friend strikes again." He whispered as pallor consumed his gaunt cheeks, then a sudden realization sent a chill down his spine. His eyes widened,

    "Get to the feast! They must know Arinel''s betrayed them now!"

    Coris dashed towards the door, his confused friends hurrying in his wake.

    "Coris, she''ll be fine! Zier''s with her!" Simon called over the clatter of their footsteps echoing around the spiral stairwell, picking his way over the legs of snoring guards. Hulking Christopher struggled to keep up with Coris''s lightweight, nimble frame.

    "You don''t think¡ªIs it possible she''s still¡ªWas that Agnes?" He panted. Coris''s heart lurched. He pushed aside the irrational hope it brought,

    "Those weren''t Agnes''s eyes. And no, it''s not possible. Agnes is gone. How many times do I have to repeat this?" He snapped.

    "But¡ª" Christopher argued, but Simon silenced his friend with an understanding look.

    "So this is it? The bandits Arinel was talking about?" He asked.

    "I hope so." Coris was thankful for the subject change, "Seems unlikely two heists would happen at the same time."

    "Not if you consider the rare opportunity window," Christopher pointed out, "How often do you get a manor-wide celebration and a suspected Axel holder marrying into Hadrian?"

    The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

    They landed on the foot of the stairs. Coris threw open the doors to the great hall. For a moment, the boys stood rooted, gaping at the surreal spectacle, then they spotted familiar faces among the slumbering crowd.

    "Father!"

    Simon and Christopher rushed over to their families.

    "Father! Mother! Oh no. Please no." Simon skidded to his knees beside his father. He heaved up old Lord Amplevale''s limp body, bent low and listened to his breathing, then collapsed with relief, "They''re just asleep. Oh, thank Freda."

    "Same here. And there''s Fione and Heloise." Christopher surfaced from his assessment of his mother, then motioned toward their unconscious lady friends. He noticed Coris still standing where he was, glancing about the room.

    "Coris?"

    Coris turned around, his hollowed face even paler than usual, his eyes wide with horror.

    "They''re not here." He croaked.

    "What?" Simon cried. He and Christopher held their parents, staring at the listless Coris.

    "Father. Mother. Zier. Arinel. They were lying right here," said Coris in that same lifeless voice, nodding at his feet. He stood in the center of an empty space before a snoring Marquess Fratengarde. Four empty glasses rolled on the carpet, dark stains of spilled drinks spreading from their mouths.

    The two squires laid down their fathers and rose, scanning the snoozing guests for a sliver of Hadrian Red. There were none. They looked to Coris, wordless with shock. Coris knelt and retrieved the glass of wine bearing his mother''s rouge stain. His hands shaking, he smiled mirthlessly.

    "Looks like you''re right, Chris. That woman isn''t Arinel''s bandit. She assumed The Axel is inside me; why must she drug the guests? This second group clearly wanted to buy time for a search."

    "But why would they take your family, then?" Simon argued, frowning, "Doesn''t this mean in case the woman failed, their backup plan is to take hostages?"

    Coris hung his head. He turned and slammed his mother''s glass on the table, collapsing into a wretched heap.

    "Fyr, I don''t know anymore." He swore, pulling his hair with trembling fingers, "Zier was right. I should''ve let Father deal with this."

    "Coris," Christopher skipped over the sea of limbs back to his side. Simon slapped his forehead, raking back damp locks of dark hair.

    "Oh, Freda. What do we do now?"

    As Christopher rested a firm hand on his shoulder, Coris gathered himself. He''d have time to beat himself up after he''d gotten his family back safely. He patted Christopher''s arm in thanks, then turned to Simon,

    "Either we wait for the ransom demand, or we¡ªtrack them down before the ransom drop."

    Coris trailed off, his eyes fixed on something glinting on the carpet. He heaved himself up and scampered towards the winking light on unsteady legs, skidding to his knees.

    He pinched the tiny crimson sequin from the equally crimson carpet. More beads and sequins were scattered nearby, drawing a squiggly line toward the ajar side door.

    "Follow the beads, go!"

    Coris barked his command. The squires knew not to wait for their weary lord to lead the charge. Simon bolted out the door, stopping only to snatch a torch from the wall. Christopher helped Coris to his feet, heaving his feet off the floor in the process, then half-dragged, half-supported him along.

    The boys hurtled down hallway after hallway, squinting for the meandering line of kicked-about beads, dodging snoring guards strewn along the way. Snippets of music, bursts of laughter and mingled aromas of cooking food wafted from the courtyard whenever they streaked past open windows. Celebrations were still in full swing there, it seemed.

    The bead trail led them to the ground floor, towards the back of the keep, turned sharply into an alcove in the wall, then pooled before an open door revealing a sliver of the outside night.

    "The sally port?" Simon skidded to a halt before the alcove, Christopher and Coris hot on his heels, "They''d only been here days. How come they know our castle layout so well?"

    "They''re disguised as guards, remember?" Coris strode to the front of the throng. His foot bumped against something heavy; a picked padlock was left on the flagstone amid a spattering of beads, glinting in the light of Simon''s torch. He pushed the door wide open.

    The moat rippled in the night wind like a black ribbon on a blanket of silver grass. The sloping terrain fell out of sight in a steep dive, then evened into a hillocky moorland that stretches towards the Lord''s Forest. Twenty or so dark figures approached them. Moonlight reflected on their crimson guard and maid uniforms.

    "Oh, Fyr. Are those¡ª" Simon poked his head out beside Coris.

    "The Crossetians," Coris finished for him, "Sent back with the ransom demand, probably. Seems they''re already at the drop point. Must be the moorlands beyond the forest."

    Simon and Christopher didn''t react yet. They knew that look; Coris wasn''t finished. After a minute of rapid thinking, Coris snapped out of his trance.

    "Simon, fetch the hounds," He said brusquely, "All of them. Kit them out. Full battle attire. Meet me at the foot of the hill. Christopher, wake the morning shift guards. Circle around the forest and wait at the stream. "

    "Battle attire? We''re talking scent hounds, right?" Simon blinked, incredulous. Coris stared back, looking dead serious.

    "I said all hounds, Simon." He repeated flatly, "You know the rules of hostage-taking. Bring no man or the deal''s off. And leave no witnesses."

    Simon mouthed, still unconvinced but silenced by Coris''s icy look. Christopher braved another question,

    "Wouldn''t it be better to wait at the edge of the forest? Or go through it?"

    Coris closed his eyes, trying to keep his temper in check.

    "They''d be expecting us from this direction. Through the forest may be the shortest way, but it will slow our men down. And believe me, they won''t give us enough time to set up an ambush before they start killing off hostages."

    With that, Coris turned his focus to the approaching party. Although they had but a vague idea of what their charge was planning, the two squires pursed their lips and hopped to it. In the absence of the Baron, his son''s word was law. And in hostage situations, time was always their worst enemy.

 Aria on the Moonlit Moor

    The freezing wind blew without rest, chasing murky clouds from the forest toward the moon. Meya considered herself resistant to cold, but tonight''s wind chilled her to the bone.

    The bandits had spread out in a loose circle, patrolling with either clubs or swords. Gillian and Dockar were deep in discussion above their map.

    Meya eyed them in silence as her hands twitched behind her back. The icy, tiny blade burned her sweaty palm as she forced her frigid, tired fingers to find purchase and wiggled her wrist, sawing against the thick rope binding Zier''s hands.

    Judging by the moon''s position and her sense of passing time, Meya guessed about two hours had passed since Gillian sent Jerald and the servants off with his ransom demand. It probably took half an hour to get to the castle from the forest and another half through the forest to this moorland. Coris should be arriving soon. If he was coming for them, that was.

    Biting her lip against the wave of fear, Meya concentrated on the task at hand, though she still couldn''t understand why in the three lands she was even bothering. First, she wasn''t counting on Coris coming to rescue them. Second, she and Arinel were almost free, if not counting the rope tying them to the boulder, but even that was loose enough to wriggle out of.

    For lack of a better euphemism, Meya had large lady pillows. She simply needed to recline a little, stick her bound hands up high on her back and draw in the deepest breath she could hold when the bandits tied the three of them to the boulder.

    She was only waiting for that sluggish storm cloud to move over the moon and blot out its light. It would give her that one opening when she could slide off these ropes and escape with Arinel.

    So, why was she risking her chance by sawing Zier''s ropes? What good would it bring? He was sleeping like dead. Running off on her own was hard enough without dragging along a boy almost twice her size.

    Yet, the wind still hadn''t done its job, and Meya had nothing else to occupy her wait. Focusing all her being on sawing Zier''s rope provided a much-needed outlet for the boiling emotions that threatened to drive her insane with every minute that dragged past.

    "So...is it true that you stole The Song of May Day?"

    Arinel''s voice penetrated the silence. The same old pang of pain seared against the scabbing wound in Meya''s heart. Although it was that one question hurled at her all her life, the pain didn''t dull with time as she''d liked to hope. Meya''s grip on the brooch knife trembled. She clenched her fingers so she wouldn''t drop it.

    " ''Tis been what? An hour? That''s what you came up with?" She spat, hacking at the ropes with renewed vigor,

    "We''re about to die here, and you just had to bring it up so I''ll have it on me mind when I kick the bucket? What, a flogging and the bridle not enough to satisfy your sadistic urges?"

    Meya snarled, exasperated, tugging against the stubborn rope with her minuscule knife. She regretted bringing up the town square flogging. That was uncalled for. And it only served to make her feel worse.

    Arinel was silent for a beat before she retorted, her voice cold as the wind,

    "I ask because Crosset needs to know if we''ll ever get back our Song. Our crops haven''t been doing well since the Famine¡ªcaused by you, in case you''ve forgotten. We could use a boost from tourism."

    Meya hitched up a savage smirk. If Freda would be offended enough by one cross-dressing lass working in the fields to strike a whole manor with famine, there''d be a disaster striking every other damn day all over Latakia with all the killing, cheating, thieving, raping and who knows what else going on.

    "No, I didnae steal it. I destroyed it." She answered Arinel''s glare with an insolent shrug,

    "I dun have the Song with me. The whole town knows I can''t carry a tune any more than me sow can carry a truffle and dun swallow. Sorry, me mother ain''t getting her Song back even after I rot."

    Meya turned away and resumed sawing. Arinel''s narrowed eyes remained on her, so she willed her face to stay blank.

    "Are you sure? There are rumors." The Lady argued airily. Behind her lips, Meya gritted her teeth.

    "Every rainy night, sharp ears would catch a Song drifting from deep within the forest. A Song couldn''t just sing itself. You couldn''t have buried it somewhere then expect it to come to life, could you?"

    Meya shrugged, unperturbed,

    "Could be one of me two big sisters. They''re born before I bungled me mother''s voice." She kept the conversation going to mask the sound of her sawing, " ''Tis them training in the forest, mayhaps."

    Meya strived to remain deadpan, but she laughed herself hoarse inside. Anyone who knew Marin and Morel at all wouldn''t buy one blob of that swine dung. Ironically though, they''d be pacified if Friar Tumney said they were probably imagining things amid the howling wind and pelting rain.

    "Is that so?" Arinel mused. Meya snapped out of her gleeful reverie.

    "Marin, locked indoors all hours of the day? Morel, never once stepping away from the hearth? Venture into the forest on a stormy night?"

    The casual revelation struck Meya dumb like a bolt out of the blue. She jolted so hard that she almost cut herself with the little knife. Lady Arinel¡ªthe lady of Crosset, sitting there analyzing Meya''s sisters? It wasn''t possible. It just couldn''t be.

    Meya turned slowly back towards her lady, eyes wide and fearful. How long had they been watching her family? And for what?

    "How come you know so much about me sisters?" She hissed, "The Hilds are nobody. Why d''you even care?"

    "The Hilds aren''t nobody. Your father happens to be married to Alanna Clariden of Noxx, who owned one of the most beautiful voices in Latakia," said Arinel coldly,

    A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

    "Father told me before she lost her voice, we held the May Fest out on the hills¡ªthat many people came from all over Latakia to hear her sing."

    "Look what''s left now. We barely needed the town square for all the young people we have. Of course, we keep an eye on Alanna''s daughters to see if any of them showed signs of inheriting her Song. Especially you, Meya."

    Arinel pinned her with her sharp blue eyes. Meya glowered at the ground. Shame burned hot on her cheeks as her heart drummed, every throb painful as the next.

    That Song was nothing but misery. A curse. From the very beginning.

    "Why else do you think Father spared your life when you tainted our wheat?" Arinel whispered through gritted teeth with thinly veiled resentment,

    "Father meant to make Alanna his mistress, but she begged for freedom in exchange for her singing for him whenever he so wished, and he gave in."

    Meya stared, speechless. Arinel lost her aloof cool with every syllable, her breath coming in short, choppy huffs as she unleased a fiery tirade,

    "That''s just how much he enjoyed her Song. And for seventeen years, he hasn''t heard it. And now that he''s dying, the only person who could give him what he misses most¡ªis sitting right here¡ªbefore me¡ªready to die with it out of sheer spite!"

    Silence fell, ringing with her outburst. Meya blinked in disbelief as Arinel panted, their eyes locked, icy blue against blazing emerald. Catching herself, Arinel broke away in shame.

    "Oh, Freda. I''m sorry. Please forget what I said. It''s just¡ªI''ve lost so many of my family." She stammered, sniffling back tears. Gathering herself, she turned around to face Meya,

    "I know what my father did was unforgivable¡ªI apologize. I know the way Crosset treated you was unfair, but you risked a famine befalling us just so you can earn some gold. For many, it''s not the result that matters, Meya. It''s your selfishness."

    Meya lowered her eyes. Arinel was both right and wrong. She hated pretty much everyone¡ªexcept maybe Friar Tumney, Old Silma, Deke and Draken. Still, she hadn''t meant to bring about a famine when she disguised herself as the then-underage Marcus to work in the fields.

    She didn''t believe it would be such a big deal with Freda. All she wanted was for Dad to smile and pat her head or hug her like he did to Maro when he brought home gold and wheat¡ªto Marin when he woke up to her looking prettier than the day before¡ªto Morel when she welcomed him home with a scrumptious meal¡ªand to Marcus, Myron and Mistral for nothing in particular.

    And for that, Marquess Crosset had her chained and flogged with her head locked in a bridle. She swore then that she''d never forgive him.

    Yet, Arinel was there that day, too. And she''d just apologized. Something that had never happened to Meya in Crosset.

    "If this is your revenge, Meya, I''d say it''s your right." Arinel hung her head with a sigh and closed her eyes in resignation. Meya studied her, uncertain. An idea took shape in her head, but she wasn''t sure if it was good.

    "None of us certainly deserved to hear your Song. But wouldn''t it be better, for you, if you shared it with your family, with Crosset, with Latakia? Just like your mother did?"

    "And what if I lose it like me mother did? Then I''d become like her? Forgotten? Left behind in a crumbling mud cottage for the rest of her days?" Meya retorted, glaring at the nonplussed Arinel,

    "You said your father loves her Song. Where was he during the Famine when me mother was starving herself half-dead keeping seven children alive?"

    "You''re right. He was in Icemeet. He forsook her. I''m so sorry." Arinel dipped her head in shame. Meya froze, surprised. The Lady resurfaced with a plea,

    "But while he was in Crosset, he often offered Alanna gold and land, Meya, but your parents never accepted what isn''t rightfully earned. You of all people should know."

    Meya blinked, taken aback. Sighing, she grumbled, disgruntled with the lady''s excessive knowledge and Mum and Dad''s stupid pride,

    "You know about the Ice Pillory, too?"

    "Everybody knows. You''re the nightmare of every mother with a daughter."

    Arinel sounded like she would''ve shrugged if she weren''t a noble lady. Meya snorted and nodded in surrender. As darkness crept over her, she glanced at the sky. The cloud sheet had edged tantalizingly close to the moon.

    Meya nudged Arinel to signal the time was near, heaving a weary sigh.

    "I like to think that¡ªthat I can be more than just me mother''s Song."

    She confessed, her voice low and shaking as she mulled over her life until now. In time, she''d hoped she''d find something to call her own, master it and show it to Dad while he was still alive, but it seemed seventeen years wasn''t enough for her incompetent bum to achieve such a thing. And, depending on tonight''s outcome, that might be all the time she''d ever get from Freda.

    "It''s your Song now, Meya," said Arinel softly. Meya whipped around, confused. Arinel held her gaze firm, "If you don''t let it define you, then it won''t. So, why are you so afraid?"

    Meya couldn''t reply. Arinel sighed and gazed off ahead, her eyes following the bandits pacing before them. She glanced at Gillian and Dockar. Seeing them still absorbed in the map, she whispered,

    "I''ve kept a terrible secret from my father for years. The truth might give him peace, but I can''t tell him. It''s a torture, watching him suffer."

    Bells rang in Meya''s head. Was the secret Lord Crosset was dying to know¡ªfiguratively, of course¡ªabout his missing son? Arinel''s older brother the Hadrians often mentioned¡ªSir Klythe?

    Meya also remembered Dad¡ªhow much he loved Mum, how much he resented Meya for taking her Song. Would she ever have a chance to give it back to him? Should she?

    "I''m just wondering¡ªwouldn''t it be better if you''d just¡ªset your Song free. If not for your father, then for yourself."

    Arinel fell silent, her face flat and unreadable as ever in the falling shadow, but her eyes were filled with fear. Not a desperate, terrified panic, but regretful, mourning, full of pain.

    There was nothing Meya could do to help Arinel with her dying father, but there was time for one more thing. The cloud''s shadow hadn''t covered Gillian and Dockar whole. If all went well, this could give them a smoother escape.

    Here we go, Mum. Time to see if you''re ballyhoo or the real deal.

    The tiny blade sliced through the last fibers of Zier''s rope. Meya hadn''t prepared for the impact. She dropped the knife. Cursing her butterfingers, she shook her head and whispered into the lady''s ear.

    "They say Mum''s Song can charm birds, beasts and barbaric men. Is there any song you want to hear, right now?"

    Arinel looked as if she''d been turned to stone. She turned around. Seeing Meya''s confidence, she whispered,

    "Over The Peaks of Neverend Heights."

    A famous folk lullaby. Meya nodded and glanced at Gillian. The head bandit and his trusted adviser were no longer poring over their map but staring at the sky. Soon, they''d notice the opportunistic window the total darkness provided and light a lamp or something. She must act¡ªfast.

    A gust of wind lambasted them. Thick clouds swallowed the last sliver of the moon and its light. It was time.

    "Dun listen. Pinch your butt hard. Or something."

    Meya whispered. Grabbing Arinel''s arm, she filled her lungs and bowels, hoped for the best, then released the air through her lips with the Song she''d kept repressed for so long,

    "Over the peaks of Neverend Heights,

    Where birds of a feather they circle up high."

    When Meya paused for breath, silence and stillness fell on the clearing as if time had stopped to listen. All the bandits stopped pacing and fidgeting as one. She raised her voice and sang louder.

    "I''ll fly like an eagle, so graceful and proud.

    I''ll fly like a dove, so gentle and free.

    I''ll whisper in your ear and wake you come morn.

    I''ll sing you to slumber and see you in your dreams."

    "Go!"

    Meya pulled herself from the maelstrom of emotions back to reality. The darkness was complete. She slid out of the ropes, yanked Arinel to her feet, then sprinted blindly into the gloom.

    Their feet stamped noisily on the high grass. The charm would wear off in a few moments. Their best chance of survival was to put as much distance between them and the bandits as possible before¡ª

    "Argh!"

    Meya''s foot collided with something rock-hard. She tumbled headfirst to the ground, dragging Arinel with her. Her little yelp broke the spell, and Gillian''s voice turned Meya''s blood into ice,

    "Southside! After them!"

    Before Meya could even think of getting up, somethings whooshed past her up the hill with light, nimble feet. Screams of pain and terror rented the darkness along with wolfish barks and growls.

 Play Possum

    "What in the three lands¡ª"

    Meya raised her head and cast her eyes about her. Solid darkness. Arinel''s cold, sweaty hand was still in hers; she gripped it tighter.

    Sounds of violent impact echoed from the hill; body on body, body on blade, body on cudgel, body on earth. Voices human and canine chorused into a chaotic din. Which one person she knew had a fondness for military dogs?

    Padded paws scampered towards them. Damp nostrils reeking of rotten meat puffed air on her cheek. The nose withdrew, then the creature barked in earnest. Human feet waded hurriedly through the grass to its call. A clammy, spider-like hand slapped Meya''s behind. Meya bit back a scream.

    "Ari? Ari, you alright?"

    He whispered, his cold, trembling hands patted her up and down, trying to find her face. Meya hardly believed her ears. Relief flooded her, turning her limbs to putty after the intense life-or-death thrill. Her eyes burned; she struggled in vain to staunch them.

    He came for her. Didn''t think he would but he did.

    "Coris! Oh, Freda!" Meya gasped. Coris tugged her into a brief hug. Remembering those she left behind, Meya pulled apart, "I got Meya here, but your family¡ªI''m sorry¡ªI didn''t¡ª"

    "It''s alright. You did well." Coris consoled her, brusque with stress. He ushered a thick leather strip into her hand, "Follow Patch to Christopher. Zier''s awake?"

    Meya blinked. Perhaps she should save the wondering for later,

    "No. I was sawing through his ropes. He didn''t budge an inch¡ª"

    The words had barely left her mouth when Coris took off like the wind.

    "Where are you going!? You can''t see a thing!" Meya hollered after him, gripped with cold fear.

    "Meya, we''re useless here. Let''s go get his men." Arinel whispered urgently. Patch tugged on her sleeve. Biting her lips, Meya scrambled up on all fours, crawling after the pull of the leash while Arinel held on to the hem of her dress.

    After some agonizing minutes blundering in solid darkness, came the sound of flowing water. Meya''s palms slapped onto damp, sloping soil. Something huge extricated itself from the water. A dripping-wet hand grabbed her arm.

    "Coris? No¡ªWho''s this?" The voice was male and young, not entirely strange but not that familiar either; Sir Christopher.

    "It''s Arinel. And my maid, Meya." Meya panted. The hand withdrew. The strike of a match rented the air. A lamp sprang to life, its wavering light casting a yellowish-brown glow upon Christopher''s handsome face.

    Meya blinked, disoriented. Once her sight had settled, she blushed furiously. The circle of light revealed dozens of soldiers wearing their bare skins. They lay on the rocky bed of the shallow rapids, their faces just breaking the surface, concealed behind the riverbank to those on the hill.

    Christopher himself crouched behind a large boulder, revealing only his upper half. It wasn''t like Meya wanted to see his lower half, though.

    The soldiers fidgeted under the water. Some creaked out sheepish, shivering grins at her and Arinel. Meya decided she should focus on Christopher and allow them some privacy.

    "My lady, forgive our immodest state. We need to keep our clothes dry or they''ll slow our movements." Christopher explained in a rush, "Thank Freda you''re safe. Where''s Coris? And the Baron? Still asleep?"

    The name snapped Meya back to her fretting self,

    "Yes. And that dunghead Coris¡ªhe just ran off! I''m sorry, I''ve no idea how to¡ªI shouldn''t have let him¡ª" Meya stumbled over her words, shame and desperation burning in her chest.

    "Don''t blame yourself, my lady. You freed yourself and your maid. That made our job easier."

    Even as he reassured her, Christopher frowned in apprehension. He stared off into the emptiness, then up at the sky. The moon had begun to show behind a wispy patch of thinning clouds; solid darkness lightened to dull gray. Craning her neck, Meya peered at the dashing silhouettes on the hill.

    "The hounds will free the hostages and keep the bandits occupied. When the moon comes out again, we''ll round them up then secure your antidote. You stay hidden here. Please don''t worry."

    Christopher explained. Meya sensed the note of urgency in his voice. As soon as light returned, the hounds'' advantage would be equalized. Her heart pounded.

    "Go. Help Coris¡ªHurry!" She gasped. Christopher nodded once, set down his lamp, then edged to the other side of the boulder to grab his clothes and armor.

    The soldiers clambered out of the water with their backs to the ladies and slipped on trousers. Once they were dressed, Christopher climbed onto the riverbank and turned to his men, all dripping wet.

    "Weapons at the ready. Move out!"

    The earth trembled beneath Meya as thirty pairs of feet thundered into the distance. A wave of fatigue overwhelmed her as if her courage had fled with them. Meya crawled behind the boulder and slumped against it, her legs falling free into the knee-deep water.

    The phantom of Coris''s embrace lingered; Meya hugged herself as the cold wind gusted past, her head hung, and her eyes shut tight. Patch keened as he nudged his snout against her side. Arinel edged up beside her, a comforting hand on her shoulder.

    "He''ll be fine. There''s another dog with him. He can find his way," she whispered, tender as her touch. Meya cradled her face,

    "I thought he''s never coming so I didnae bother with his family. Coward¡ªfoul¡ªselfish¡ª"

    "Meya, calm down. They didn''t blame you, in case you haven''t noticed." Arinel shook her shoulder, frustrated. Remembering Dockar''s words back at the castle, Meya gritted her teeth in shame, furious with herself more than any other,

    "Oh, they will after they heard the whole story. Gillian was playing me the whole time." Heaving a tortured sigh, Meya raised her head and leaned it against the rock. She shook her head with a sardonic grin,

    "Dockar''s right. Me Dad''s right. I dun know anything. I thought I was so smart, but I''m just...Meya."

    She concluded with a bitter sigh. It took what was left of her simply to utter that last word. She closed her eyes, exhausted, body and soul.

    An uneasy silence fell between them. Arinel''s hand twitched on her shoulder as she tried to come up with something to make Meya feel better. The realization lit a flame inside her, comforting her with its warmth. Meya closed her hand over Arinel''s in thanks. She flipped around and peeked over the rock, squinting through the darkness at the battlefield. Arinel followed suit.

    Christopher''s men were halfway up the hill, spread in the outflanking formation, prepared to close in. Meya chewed on her thumbnail, humming to soothe herself.

    "What''s that?" Arinel interrupted. Meya jolted, almost biting her finger.

    The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement.

    "Huh? Nothing, just me little song. Wrote it ages ago." Meya glanced fleetingly at the lady, then returned to the drama unfolding, jesting to cover her embarrassment, "I''m gunna have the bards sing me tale someday. Figured I might as well get started early, but I dun have enough stuff to fill another verse yet."

    "Well, Coris must have given you a lot of his stuff last night. Perhaps you should write a verse about that?"

    Arinel murmured as she peered through narrowed eyes, trying to see. Meya was leaning to get a better look, and she nearly somersaulted over the rock at that deadpan delivery of the dirtiest thing to ever come out of Lady Arinel''s beautiful mouth. Eyes bulging, she swore feverishly,

    "Chione''s Ninnies! Did you just¡ª"

    A gust of roaring wind almost sent them both flying. By the time it trailed off into a feeble breeze, light had returned to the moorland from the full moon hanging bright overhead, now free of clouds.

    "Finally! Thank Freda."

    Meya exclaimed. She clambered over the rock, then her heart froze to ice at the scene unfolding,

    "Oh no."

    Sir Christopher and his men had surrounded the bandits, but instead of charging in, they laid down their arms and backed away.

    There was no other interpretation.

    A hostage at knife-point.

    ?

    "...know the demand, Lord Hadrian. The Axel for your brother."

    Gillian''s calm voice broke the standstill as Meya and Arinel inched on their bellies towards the encirclement. The two girls froze and shared a look of wide-eyed horror.

    Coris failed to round up the bandits and seize the antidote. To make matters worse, Gillian had managed to grab hold of Zier and was using him as a bargaining chip.

    Meya swallowed a sudden surge of fear and crept forward. Even as every fiber of her being screamed for her to stay where she was, she wanted to see what was going on. Arinel, Haselle, Gretella, Jerald and everyone''s lives depended on that antidote.

    "What about the antidote?"

    Coris asked as if he had read her mind. Meya was mere feet behind Christopher''s men now. She peered through the forest of tall grass and legs. Coris stood to the right, flanked by a dozen growling, bristling dogs.

    Gillian, Dockar and five bandits stood facing him from across the clearing, their guard uniforms torn and bloody. A nasty gash on Gillian''s arm wept as he brandished a strange cutlass that curved back like a crescent to Zier''s neck. The no-man''s-land between them was strewn with the barely stirring forms of twenty hounds of various breeds and a dozen moaning men.

    Meya scanned Zier for an opening and found none. The arc of Gillian''s blade fitted the curve of Zier''s neck so snugly it was unnerving. But Zier wasn''t particularly perturbed; his head lolled to the side, the whites of his eyes peeked out under his half-shut eyelids. His mouth had fallen ajar. His arms hung limp at his sides as his bent legs dragged on the soil. Gillian''s muscular arm strained visibly as he pinned the young man to him and held him upright.

    Forget escaping; they couldn''t even rescue Zier in time. Coris would be forced to choose between his brother and her. Didn''t take a genius to figure out who he''d choose.

    "Very amusing, Lord Hadrian. You''re not expecting us to adhere to the conditions after what happened here, are you? No. It''s your brother or the antidote. Your choice."

    Gillian retorted, seething. Meya gritted her teeth to rein in the shivers.

    "Surely there must be something else you want besides The Axel? That I could trade for the antidote?"

    As Meya hung her head, Coris continued negotiating, hands held high and bare. Though his face remained calm and undaunted, his eyes flickered between his brother and the man holding him hostage.

    "I''m afraid there isn''t. At least not something you can provide." Gillian smiled mirthlessly as he shrugged, uninterested. Coris cocked his head, still full of camaraderie,

    "Perhaps I could once I learn more about you. Why did you believe The Axel isn''t in the castle?"

    "We have our methods of making sure."

    "I assumed you were our old guest, but your accent isn''t Latakian." Coris smiled. A spasm of fear crossed Gillian''s stricken face.

    "What would Nostra want with The Axel? For over two centuries it has been in Hadrian. Where have you been all this time?"

    "Believe whatever you want," said Gillian icily, his knife twitching, "Enough with your futile attempts to keep me humored. Your brother isn''t waking up! You know as well as I do why!"

    Coris drained a shade paler. His eyes grew wide, his hands trembled as he stared at Gillian, for once speechless. Gillian narrowed his eyes as he pressed his knife to Zier''s neck, still wary.

    "The Axel is made of Lattis. Lattis emits invisible energy pulses that restore natural balance in the human body. Those close to it will be immune to the effects of sleeping draughts and poison. The purer it is, the more powerful its energy."

    Meya''s eyes bulged at that new sliver of information. The human body, he said? So, if Lattis protected humans, did that mean Greeneyes like her...weren''t human?

    A chill traveled down her spine.

    Mum and Dad are humans. Maro, Marin, Morel, Marcus, Myron and Mistral are all humans.

    How come I''m a Greeneye? Why am I the only Greeneye in my whole town?

    Am I even born from Mum and Dad?

    Am I even born in this country?

    Is this why Dad hates me so?

    Frantic voices chorused into a din in her head. Gillian''s voice flowed through her ears, tinny as if carried by the wind from afar.

    "On the small chance your brother is faking, we''ll know soon enough." He hitched Zier up and angled his wrist, ready for the kill. Coris stiffened. Dockar strode up, a glinting glass bottle filled with clear red liquid in his hand.

    "I''ll slice through his neck one sinew at a time, and Dockar will empty the vial one drop at a time, until you make up your mind. It will be wise to make your decision swift."

    Dockar uncorked the vial and tilted it. The red liquid inched towards the vial''s beak. As Coris watched helplessly in horror, Gillian moved the tip of his knife to the far side of Zier''s neck, then pressed it¡ª

    "I give up! I GIVE UP!"

    Coris yelled, his voice cracking and choked with sobs. Gillian relaxed his grip on the knife. Dockar flicked the bottle upright. They stared at Coris, who had crumpled to his knees, panting, arms thrown high in surrender. His eyes were red and damp, his voice trembling,

    "I''ll give you The Axel. Give me my brother. Please."

    Oh no. Poor, poor Arinel.

    Meya spun around to Arinel. The Lady trembled. Her eyes were downcast but dry, striving to die with dignity. She answered Meya''s gaze. The lack of blame in her sorrowful eyes left Meya lost for words.

    Would things have turned out differently if she hadn''t switched places with her? Was there anything else she could''ve done? Was there still hope at all?

    With a forlorn sigh, Arinel rested her hands on Meya''s. They were cold as ice.

    I hope you use it well.

    A voice whispered inside her ears. Perhaps that was also the lady''s last command for her.

    "No," Meya shook her head, her words tumbling out in shivery gasps, "No. We''ll find Old Angus. He''ll have more antidote on hand. You''ll be alright."

    Arinel forced out a sad little smile. Meya pulled Arinel into her arms. Silent tears seeped onto her shoulder.

    No. It can''t end like this. This isn''t right. Either we all die together, or we all live together. How can I be the only one to live? What will I say to their families? I''m a Greeneye. Everyone else dies, but I don''t? How can I live on with myself?

    Coris stumbled towards Gillian, slapping his hand on his sunken middle.

    "It''s with me." He shouted, "It''s been inside me all this time."

    Meya whirled around. Fury writhed in her belly as her hands curled into fists.

    So The Axel never came out of Coris? He was lying? What exactly happened back then? Was there even a heist? Was he even poisoned? What in the three lands was even the truth anymore!?

    The instant before Meya jumped up, sprinted over, wrung Coris''s neck and rattled the innards out of him until he spat it all out, the sickening sound of metal gouging flesh rented the silence. Dark blood splattered against the backdrop of moonlight. Dockar screamed,

    "Gillian!"

    Meya whipped around. Gillian staggered back, his hand clamped over his bleeding neck. His supposedly asleep hostage broke free from his hold. Zier rounded on Dockar. He took advantage of his split-second shock and kicked the vial out of his hand. It spun through the air towards Coris. He dove to catch it.

    Zier launched himself at Dockar, brandishing his bare fist, then the gleam of a tiny blade flashed in the moonlight. Meya''s little brooch knife had dropped straight into his hand.

    "Lattis! Look out!"

    Gillian bellowed, still clutching his neck, his face twisted in pain. Too late; with a vicious slash, blood sprayed from Dockar''s chest.

    The thumbnail blade was too small to inflict a severe wound on anyone, much less two full-grown, muscular, battle-hardened men. Yet, Gillian and Dockar seemed to be burning alive from inside out. They thrashed and bucked, howling and screaming like demented beasts, scrabbling at their wounds.

    Zier sprinted back to Coris and urged him to his feet. Both brothers gaped at the terror unfolding. Gillian''s standing men retreated towards their leader, swords raised to ward off enemies. One raised a metallic tube on a leather cord to his lips. A shrill, lifeless cry pierced the air, followed by blinding flashes of pure white light.

    A chorus of animalistic roars shook the ground. By the time they shook away dancing spots in their eyes, solid darkness had descended. A cloud had blocked out the moon again. The only lights came from twenty pairs of glowing green eyes suspended in thin air.

    Disjointed memories flitted past his eyes. An arrow shooting into the gloom¡ªa young girl''s shriek¡ªa flash of blinding light¡ªa gust of wind¡ªheat from a narrowing ring of fire¡ªicy talons heaving him over treetops into the night sky¡ªcrash-landing into a mountain cave¡ªa girl with glowing, acid green eyes, naked but her mane of red-gold hair, singing him to slumber with a voice like birds of the Heights as he trembled in her burning embrace.

    "Over the peaks of Neverend Heights,

    Where birds of a feather they circle up high..."

    "Get down!"

    Zier''s yell wrenched Coris back to the present. He flattened himself on the grass. Gusts of night wind lambasted them from leathery wings beating in tandem, raining chunks of torn grass and dirt as the creatures tore into the air. Icy talons grazed Coris''s back as they shot away into the night towards the west.

 The Aftermath

    The sound of flapping wings drifted further, then trailed away into silence. Gillian and his bandits had summoned their dragons and fled, likely to the western empire Nostra whence they hailed, and with them left her once-in-a-lifetime chance of joining the Greeneye folk.

    However, when Coris''s men lit torches, and light flooded the area, Meya realized her guess might not have been entirely correct.

    Not the Nostra part. The summoned their dragons part.

    Scraps of torn clothes were strewn all over the hilltop where Gillian, Dockar and their twenty comrades used to stand. Of course, Meya had heard tales of how the Nostran dragon riders hailed fireballs from over Neverend Heights to quell Latakia''s rebellion. Still, the bards had never mentioned those riders were butt-naked.

    Even if they were, how could they have torn their clothes to these many shreds in a flash (no pun intended) like that?

    The other witnesses seemed to have arrived at the same puzzling conclusion. Simon gawked at Gillian and Dockar''s torn clothes on the grass. Christopher knelt to examine what appeared to be the hind half of someone''s linen underpants, then held it for a beagle to sniff.

    Coris and Zier picked themselves to their feet. Now that the bandits trying to kill them had scrammed, the Hadrian brothers were killing each other instead;

    "All this time you''ve been awake! Why didn''t you run?"

    Coris bellowed as he shoved Zier''s hands off him. Meya had never seen the genial, soft-spoken prodigy so livid. He snatched Zier''s collar, his eyes flashing, his nostrils flaring and Zier, a head taller and twice as broad, was scared crapless.

    "I¡ªbut¡ªI don''t¡ª" He sputtered, eyes wide and pleading, "You heard them. If they know I''m awake, they''ll know The Axel''s¡ª"

    "¡ªAnd I could''ve silenced them all if it weren''t for your idiotic lollygagging stunt!"

    Coris drowned out the rest of Zier''s excuses. Zier cowered, arms held over his face as his brother shook him by the neck.

    "At least I could''ve captured them for questioning. You risked the lives of everyone involved then left me to clean it all up for when Father arrives. Six years, Zier! Have you learned nothing? How many more graves do I have to dig to get air through your skull? Haven''t you taken enough of my life?"

    "Coris! Enough!"

    Christopher shouted. Coris flung Zier off, and Simon pranced forth to catch him. Zier stood pale and rigid, staring straight ahead. Catching himself, Coris crumpled onto the grass, head in his hands, trembling with sobs.

    Meya rose and stumbled towards them, hardly feeling the grass crunch under her feet.

    So, Coris had lied again. The Axel was neither inside him nor hidden in the castle. It had been inside Zier all this time, and Coris had played Meya like a traveling bard''s puppet show. What for? That stupid Axel? Again?

    Meya clenched her hands into fists. The yeomen drew apart as she strode in, gawking at her in alarm.

    As she approached his wretched form, Meya drew back her arm, poised to let fly. Heavy footsteps rushed to her side. A rough hand grasped her wrist.

    Meya started and spun around; Sir Jarl, the Marshal, master of the stables and kennels. His hand was firm, but his eyes were pleading. Meya''s breath left her when she saw the broken figure he carried in his other arm.

    A white greyhound, his coat drenched in dark red. She would''ve called his name, but someone else beat her to it,

    "Beau!"

    Coris''s scream was more terrible a sound than a knife sinking in a flesh heart. He scrambled to Sir Jarl as he knelt and laid Beau on the grass. He skidded to his knees and cradled up his old buddy, who hung limply from his arms.

    "Stubborn old fool! I told you to stay home!"

    Beau stirred, his chest heaving with quick, shallow breaths. His weary eyes opened and settled on his master''s tear-streaked face.

    "We''re heading home now. Get some rest. You''ll be fine."

    Coris whispered, his voice shaking. However, Beau seemed to have foreseen the fate his master couldn''t yet accept. He nudged Coris with his nose, then his slobbery pink tongue slithered out and caressed his gaunt cheek for one last time, lapping up the tears now tumbling free before going limp and still.

    For an ominous moment, Coris simply sat there, uncomprehending, then reality sank in. With a howl of grief, he threw himself over Beau. Patch scampered past Meya to nudge at his master''s back, keening, along with a few hounds that could still walk.

    Christopher and Simon patted Coris''s shoulder. Sir Jarl gave a silent bow to the fallen four-legged old-timer, then retreated to his scattered men, directing them to clean up the battlefield.

    Zier gazed at the spectacle, his face unreadable, then traipsed towards Meya. She caught his eye, and he hitched a wry, bitter grin.

    He winked at Meya, confirming he''d heard everything between her and Arinel. Before Meya could decide how to react, he turned back to his brother, whispering in a low, lifeless voice,

    The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement.

    "It does make one wonder, doesn''t it, if he would cry this much for his brother, too."

    With that, he strode towards Arinel, who was just getting up. Meya glanced between the two brothers, one still sobbing uncontrollably, and blinked at Zier in disbelief and anger. Coris might have been too harsh with him, but how could he say such things when his brother had just lost a dear friend? One that gave his life for Zier himself?

    Before she could decide whether she should sock Zier first, a quiet voice spoke beside her,

    "Do not judge him so harshly. Least not before you''ve seen what pains him."

    Meya turned and found herself looking into Simon Amplevale''s sorrowful blue eyes.

    "Zier swallowed The Axel." He sighed heavily as he gazed upon his younger cousin, who was offering Arinel the antidote vial. "When it comes to governing, the Baron''s always favored strategy over sword. Same applies to his sons."

    Meya''s eyes widened. The Baron had seemed so exacting of Coris, and Zier had seemed so boyish and merry. It was difficult to imagine things had once been the opposite.

    "Coris relished being the favorite. He loved tormenting Zier. Freda served him comeuppance in Crosset, and he came home filled with remorse too late to revive a dead heart. I imagine Baron Graye offered Zier a father''s love in exchange for The Axel."

    Silence fell save for Coris sobbing. Meya guessed the truth.

    "Coris knew the fall will be softer for him, so he took the blame for Zier, but he hadn''t expected the Baron would turn against her."

    "Agnesia Graye?" Meya whispered. Simon nodded.

    "His future. His health. His beloved. The ultimate sacrifice to convince Zier. Or so I like to believe."

    Meya spun around. Simon met her gaze, smiling mirthlessly.

    "When it comes to The Axel, one can never fathom the true face of a Hadrian."

    <hr>

    It was no easy feat separating Coris from Beau''s lifeless body. By the time Christopher and Simon hauled him away with their combined strength, the front of his Hadrian Red tunic was soaked through with greyhound blood.

    "So, what do we tell the guests once they''re awake? And your parents?"

    As the procession of man and dog departed for the forest, Simon mentioned the pressing issue everyone was putting off thinking about. He was carrying Baroness Sylvia in a bridal hold.

    Christopher and Zier, who supported Baron Kellis between them, turned to Simon, then all three boys turned as one to Coris. He was limping along, supported by Meya, with Arinel keeping up the rear.

    Coris''s pale face was blotchy, and his swollen eyes gleamed with moisture, but he''d regained his signature calm.

    "Let''s tell them the chambermaids accidentally poured my laudanum into the aroma lamps instead of Hadrian Rose oil." He sniffed, his voice thick due to his snot-flooded nostrils, "It was a hectic day, after all. Mistakes are bound to happen."

    Meya blinked, silently marveling at his brainpower. How could he have come up with that so fast? Simon frowned, then cocked his head.

    "Sounds convincing. And what do we do with their drinks? And the stew? How did you manage to delay the food, by the way?"

    He craned his neck at Arinel, calling all eyes to the lady-turned-maid. Arinel faltered as she blushed. She avoided their eyes, muttering,

    "We had Head Cook Apollon taste the spiked drinks, my lord. He ended up tasting all of them before he finally succumbed."

    The four boys blinked in bewilderment. Meya stifled her laughter as she pictured hulking, copper-bellied Head Cook Apollon growing tipsier and tipsier but still managing to stay on his feet as Arinel and company grew desperate.

    "You really do know your herbs, don''t you." Simon managed a comment. Arinel replied with a dainty smile and bowed.

    "My mother was an alchemist''s assistant, sir."

    Simon nodded. The solemn Christopher unfurled a rare smile as he studied Arinel, a curious look in his brown eyes.

    "One of our priests, Bishop Riddell, is also our resident alchemist," He returned his focus to the road, "He''s looking for assistants to help out in his workshop. I can put a word in for you, if you''re interested."

    "Exactly. Would be a waste for one of your skill to drudge away in the scullery. You''ve done Hadrian a great service. Consider it your reward," Simon agreed.

    Arinel looked as if Miracle Fest had arrived three years early. She beamed at Christopher and Simon, her blue eyes gleaming with tears, faint and speechless with joy. It wasn''t that she hated the scullery, more that she was raring to practice alchemy, Meya reckoned.

    Meya grinned at Arinel. Then she remembered something,

    "Say, what would you need laudanum for?" She turned to Coris, frowning.

    "When my bowels act up at night." Coris gave her a small, sad smile. At her bulging eyes, he chuckled, "Can''t sleep otherwise."

    Meya bit her lips, worried. Coris didn''t linger on the topic; he cleared his throat and raised his voice to address the troops.

    "We''ll go first to the Great Hall to deposit my parents. After that, Chris, you go with Meya here to the scullery." He glanced at Christopher and Arinel, who straightened up, alert.

    "Get rid of the stew and the spiked drinks, wake Head Cook Apollon, give him the true story, and dispense the antidote to the Crossetian maids."

    After both had nodded, Coris turned to Simon,

    "Simon, take the boys back to the stables and have Bishop Riddell tend to them." He cocked his head at the two dozen dogs trotting alongside the yeomen. His gaze set next upon Beau''s corpse in Sir Jarl''s arms, covered in his cloak. He swallowed, his voice choked with tears,

    "Sir Jarl, prepare the fallen ones for burial. I''ll go with you."

    Coris trembled in her arms, so Meya hitched him close. She glanced at the bloodstained bundles in some of the yeomen''s arms. They lost no man tonight. Fyr was satisfied with just six hounds.

    Good boys. You''re braver and stronger than any of us here. There''ll be miles of green fields to run around and roll about on Neverend Heights. So sleep for now.

    Meya beamed them her silent prayers, then turned around at Coris''s voice, calling to his (not-so-) little brother this time,

    "Zier, you pacify the guests."

    Zier stopped dead in his tracks, bulging blue eyes gawking at Coris''s serious expression.

    "What? But¡ªyou know I¡ª" He stammered.

    "Zier, when you become Baron, most of your speaking will be to a gathering. If you''re uncomfortable, best start your training early." Coris cut across, his narrowed eyes warning of danger.

    "But, just this once, can''t you do it?" Zier seemed more terrified of lying to a crowd of nobles than his brother''s fury. Coris swore under his breath and then exploded,

    "I''m supposed to be sick in bed, Zier! For Freda''s sake, will you use your head, just this once? And in case you haven''t noticed, I''m covered in blood! It has to be you!"

    Zier pursed his lips, eyes wide and defiant, barely hiding a smidgen of fear. When Coris turned away to address the yeomen, he hung his head. Arinel silently took his hand, squeezing it in encouragement.

    "Guards, you have done well tonight. As soon as the celebrations are over and the guests have left, I''ll have Father reward you accordingly¡ª"

    At long last, they reached the neck of the forest. The shadow of the canopy fell upon their faces. Meya studied Arinel and Zier out of the corner of her eye as she held Coris upright. Zier clasped his hand around Arinel''s in return.

    Goodly Freda, they''re in love with each other? Zier must have known from the start I''m not the real Arinel. Why didn''t he say anything?

    Meya could only keep her questions to herself; scent hounds pranced up to take the lead, beckoning them into the wall of trees, and darkness swallowed her once more.

 Cleaning Up

    "Coris, c''mon. You need a bath."

    Meya shook Coris''s bony shoulder for what she felt was the tenth time, but still, he refused to budge. He knelt at the foot of Beau''s freshly covered mound, cradling the greyhound''s leather collar with the golden medallion. His other hand laid bare on his knee, sprinkled with Hadrian Rose seeds he''d sown onto the turned earth.

    According to Hadrian belief, the flesh of the warriors who had fallen in the name of Hadrian would nourish the seeds. Their blood would give color to the petals of the roses, which the Hadrians would use to dye their fabric. Their spirit would enjoy eternal peace in the green meadows on Freda''s Caldera, up on the highest peak of Neverend Heights.

    Nearby, stablemen dug graves for the other fallen hounds, now sealed in dog-sized, plain wooden coffins, as Sir Jarl paced about monitoring them.

    As everybody else seemed to have their job to do, Meya decided her job was to get Coris back to his room in whichever manner possible before the night chills got to his frail lungs. Even if she had to drag him by the collar, sling him over her shoulder or piggyback him.

    "Ugh, get...up! You sack of soggy tomatoes! Corien Alexis Hadrian! You get up this instant!"

    Growling through clenched teeth, Meya hooked her hands under Coris''s sweaty armpits and heaved with all her might. It was like dragging Myron from his charcoal doodles to dinner.

    She raised his meatless bum about half a foot above the earth. Still, his boots dragged before him like banners in a feeble breeze, leaving squiggly trails on the soil.

    Meya glanced at the Keep, a towering violet shadow against the night sky, lit here and there by candlelight filtered through stained glass. Coris''s chambers were on the uppermost third floor. This would never work.

    She spotted Beau''s collar, and an idea whizzed into her brain. Quick as a snake''s lunge, Meya swiped it out of Coris''s hand. He started and spun around, but Meya had pranced five feet away.

    His cold silvery eyes narrowed in explosive fury, but Meya was unperturbed as she waved the leather strip tantalizingly,

    "This ain''t catch. If you want it back, then walk."

    Coris frowned deeper in annoyance, but he painstakingly picked himself up. His unsteady legs gave way, but Meya was there to catch his arm when he faltered.

    Their eyes met. Meya smiled apologetically as she handed him back the collar. Coris took it with trembling fingers and pressed it flush to his chest. He then allowed Meya to lead him back into the Keep.

    <hr>

    Meya heaved Coris up the last step onto the third-floor landing just in time to catch their door swinging open.

    Gretella emerged, empty wicker basket propped on her voluminous hip. She turned around at Meya''s call and her sprinting, clattering footsteps.

    "Nurse! Have you got the antidote?"

    Gretella''s strict, lined face unfolded into a warm smile for the first time, even as she tutted in annoyed affection.

    "Goodly Freda, he''s your husband, not your rag doll. Don''t drag him around like that!" She scolded as Meya screeched to a halt before her.

    Meya eyed the unconscious Coris, then shone Gretella a sheepish grin. Sighing, Gretella motioned towards the door behind.

    This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

    "I''ve drawn a warm bath. You know what to do."

    Though her face betrayed no emotion whatsoever, Gretella''s eyes narrowed with the ghost of a sly grin as she glanced insinuatingly at the asleep Coris and then back to Meya.

    Meya''s cheeks burned as though she had just chomped on Easthaven chili. By the time she came up with a befitting retort, Gretella had drifted halfway down the spiral stairs.

    Glancing at the still listless Coris, Meya sighed and pushed open the door. A wave of warm, humid air rushed up to her, billowing from behind the tall Hadrian Red (not again...) curtains hanging from silver railings in the middle of the room.

    Thank Freda! A bath! A warm bath in an actual tub!

    Meya jiggled Coris against her hip as she rushed inside, yanking the curtains aside with many onerous clangs and jangles. The wooden tub was shrouded behind a cloud of vapor, floating flower petals (not more Hadrian Rose, thank Freda) peeking through its gaps as they sailed idly on the soft currents. The wall of the tub was lined with sponge.

    With all the sweat, grime and blood coating her skin like baked honey, Meya itched to strip naked on the spot and dive in. But Coris''s cold arm weighed on her shoulder, reminding her of Gretella''s command. Worse, Coris was deep in a stupor.

    Ugh, fine.

    Meya lowered Coris to the floor and propped him against the tub. She snagged clean towels from the garderobe, then spread them on the stone.

    She set Coris atop the towels then undressed him. Blood had seeped through his drenched tunic and soiled his torso. She must clean him up before chucking him in the bath, or he''d ruin the whole tub.

    Meya soaked a smaller towel in the tub and wiped Coris down, humming absently as she went. Drops of water tainted pink by blood pooled on his ribs then trickled down his sunken stomach. The piteous sight reminded her of Marcus and Myron during the Famine.

    He loved food, he''d said. It must be excruciating, hungry and craving to eat but unable to because your bowels were all scorched up. And now, his best buddy had left him.

    Haven''t you taken enough of my life?

    Meya recalled Zier''s blank look of horror and guilt. She didn''t know what to think, who to blame.

    Coris stirred, his eyelids fluttering like butterfly wings. His eyes settled on her, then his pale cheeks flushed pink. Meya, busy mopping up the mess, didn''t pay it much thought.

    "Sure took your sweet Hadrian time, didn''t you, my lord."

    She ribbed. Coris didn''t reply. When Meya finally looked questioningly at him, he smiled awkwardly,

    "Ari, you''re¡ª" He grasped her hand with the towel on his lower belly, then creaked up a sly smile, "You''re arousing me."

    "Eh?"

    Meya gawked. She followed his glinting eyes to the presence between his legs, then shrieked at the monstrosity.

    "Eeeek!"

    Coris roared with laughter as Meya scrambled back as if scalded by boiling water. He pushed her flat onto her back and pinned her arms to the icy flagstones, his cold lips devouring hers.

    Are you serious? Weren''t you just mourning for your dog?

    Meya screamed into his mouth as she fought her blossoming desire, strength petering from her flailing limbs. She struggled to rid her mind of the terror she''d just witnessed, but the harder she tried, the memory latched firmer onto her eyeballs. Coris did away with the strings of her corset and snaked his hand beneath her dress, up to the zenith of her legs.

    "Coris, wait! I''m all icky!" She cried out between kisses as his icy fingers tickled her through the linen.

    "Hmm. Wet and icky." Coris hummed in agreement. Meya wished she would melt into the carpet and stick there like dried wax, but then he dragged his tongue down the curve of her neck, and all she could do was moan and writhe as a painful jolt of bliss coursed through her. "Nothing a bath couldn''t take care of."

    Coris tore off her dress. Blushing, Meya turned away from his intense stare roaming across every inch of her nakedness. He''d seen it all before; she didn''t understand why he was still so enthralled, why she was still so embarrassed. As if to stop her overthinking, he kissed her forehead, then heaved her into his arms with surprising strength.

    Meya sighed at his look of determination, anticipating a serving of tender loving. Coris winked, then deposited her unceremoniously in the tub with a colossal splash.

    "Oi¡ªHey!"

    Coris snickered, triumphant. Meya had no time to aim a kick at the zenith of his legs before his lips sealed hers again.

    "Let me in," He whispered as he knocked on her door. How could she deny? She closed her eyes in surrender. His finger of cold penetrated the water''s warm embrace, touching her core.

    A hundred questions swirled in her head. She was furious with him for his lies, but the heist was over, Gillian was gone, and relief after intense fear flooded away all the nagging voices.

    All she knew was she was glad to be alive, that Coris and everyone else were alive. Now that everything was back to normalcy, she would worry later about what to do next. For now, she would just be Lady Arinel.

    It''s over. All over. At least for now.

    They parted and locked eyes for a fevered breath, then plunged back as one under the waves of passion.

 Confessions

    Silence returned to the bedchambers. Coris freed Meya from his embrace after a kiss of gratitude, and she succumbed instead to the soft arms of the goose-down bed as her breathing slowed.

    Coris lay on his back by her side, his eyes closed, his bare chest heaving. Meya reckoned the lad would just nod off the way he did yesterday, but he rolled over to face her,

    "Ari, I''m so sorry."

    He said softly, reminding Meya of the score they must settle. A dull pang of hurt pummeled her heart. She ignored it.

    "For what?" Meya retorted coolly, "Lying to me about The Axel, or choosing Zier over my antidote?"

    "Does it make any difference?" Coris''s tired voice was labored by guilt.

    "Of course it does!" Meya snapped, incredulous. Coris recoiled.

    "I have a brother myself," Three, actually, "If you did it purely to protect Zier, I don''t blame you one whit, but if it''s for The Axel, I can''t possibly decide until you tell me what that stupid Axel really is!"

    Coris fell silent, his eyes downcast. He clenched his hand on the pillow, twisting the fabric in his bony grasp.

    "So, which is it? The Axel or your brother?" Meya prodded, impatient. His eyes rose to meet hers. His parched lips stretched into a wry, bitter grin.

    "I¡ªI don''t know." He smiled, laughed even as his eyes cried. Meya''s heart broke for him despite herself.

    "With The Axel inside Zier, with them inseparable like this, I couldn''t even tell anymore."

    Coris trembled. He tugged at the bedcovers as if he longed for something to hold onto.

    "The things I''ve done. The choices I''ve made. The lives I''ve traded." He whispered, shaking his head, his eyes dead and unseeing,

    "There are times I''d give anything to know what they''re for. I''m afraid I''ll drop dead one day never knowing why, but I''m afraid to know the truth, too. I might know I''ve been making the wrong decisions my entire life, sacrificed so much for something not worth protecting."

    Tears fell onto the pillowcase, glinting in the firelight. Coris rubbed his cheek against the fabric to dry them. Meya''s fury calmed as she witnessed his dilemma. She had heard her unspoken voice echoing to her in his words, had seen her hidden wounds reflected in the pain in his eyes. She wasn''t that different from him. There were times, several times, she wondered if she should''ve just done nothing, chosen nothing, instead of trying and failing and suffering. But, in the end, she couldn''t help choosing to do something, to try nevertheless. Even as nobody else did.

    Meya moved her hand hesitantly to cover his, caressing the cold skin stretched taut over his knuckles with the pad of her thumb.

    "The people of Crosset believed the Crosset Famine was brought about by a little peasant girl," she said softly. Coris''s weary eyes slid to her.

    "She was ten years old. She worked in the fields back when farming was forbidden by law for women. Her family has four daughters. They were struggling. She wanted to help. She didn''t believe it would anger Freda. She wanted to prove a point. Well, apparently, it did. Hundreds of people died in that famine, after all."

    Coris''s eyes widened at the horrific tale. Still, Meya''s face remained dead, her haunting eyes staring ahead as she recounted her shameful past. After a deep sigh, she turned back to Coris,

    "What do you see? A noble little girl who wants to help her family? An arrogant heretic who wants to challenge Freda? Or the murderer of hundreds of villagers?"

    Coris avoided her eyes as he considered it.

    "I believe that in every minute of our lives lies a choice. Even when it seems you can''t do anything, that you don''t have a choice to make, you actually still do. To do nothing, or to do something."

    Coris met her gaze. Meya stared back, unwavering.

    "Some choices are well thought out, others not so much. Some are made with good intentions, some with bad. We only look at the end. We forget about the person behind the beginning. You asked if it makes any difference. For me, yes, it does."

    Meya''s gaze softened as she smiled sadly at Coris,

    "Sometimes, we don''t have the courage to make our own choices. And sometimes, we don''t have the strength to live with the choices we made. But, we''re still alive. We can keep trying not to hate ourselves that much. You chose to risk your life to save me, when you could have chosen nothing. I already thank you for that. So, don''t be so hard on yourself. I''m sorry."

    Meya breathed as she squeezed his hand gently. His gray eyes brimmed with painful gratitude for a moment before it was replaced with his usual empty calm. He pulled his hand away.

    "Perhaps you shouldn''t have been so generous with me, Ari." He unfurled that sad, empty smile again, the one that infuriated Meya the most. He shook his head, his eyes brimming with guilt,

    "I would never be the man you could rely on. The one you could trust in, and trust your life in his grasp. The one who would always make you his highest priority."

    Silence descended between them as Meya digested the truth she''d already known since he chose Zier over her antidote, perhaps for as long as she could remember. Her lips stretched to form a mocking smile.

    Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on Royal Road.

    "I''ve always been useless and worthless." Especially once you''ve factored in who I really am, "So I''ve learned not to expect anyone to protect me. Or remember me. Or choose me over everything else."

    Coris''s eyes widened. He looked ready to argue, so Meya plowed on, laughing bitterly,

    "We''ve known each other mere days, but Zier and The Axel, they''ve been there all your life. Even if you didn''t come rescue me at all, I''d understand."

    Meya shrugged. Her eyes wandered towards the open window. She sighed longingly,

    "But it does make me wonder, what I''d have to do to make myself matter, the way Zier and The Axel mattered to you," she mused, a wistful smile glazed on her lips, "I''m not angry. Or disappointed. I''m just¡ªI just wished I knew what to do."

    All the stars in the night sky were fallen warriors who had helped Freda banish Chione from Neverend Heights. They all had names because they were useful, and generation after generation, people repeated those names to their children, so they would never be forgotten.

    How useful must she become? What must she do before she could etch her name across the night sky, like the silver ribbon of Freda''s River, and make sure no one forgot her existence?

    "You''re not worthless, Arinel. Nobody is. Don''t ever think otherwise."

    Coris''s quiet, gentle voice drifted through her reverie. A voice so familiar, echoing as if from lost days of old,

    Don''t ever think otherwise.

    Meya froze as the voice echoed in her head, ringing with the same voice from the past.

    "You''re worth more than a pig, or simply your mother''s Song, Meya. Don''t ever think otherwise."

    As the echoes faded, Meya heard more voices. No, one voice, to be exact. Unbidden, unknown memories flashed before her eyes. Laughter and tinny talking voices. His cold fingers intertwined with hers as they whirled round and round in a clumsy dance.

    "Please! Let me hear your Song!"

    "I know a jolly Hadrian song. And I''d be honored if you would give me a dance."

    "I''ll wait for the day you''re ready to sing for the world to hear. But until then¡ª"

    "It''s our little secret." Her lips moved of their own accord, possessed by memories until now she hadn''t realized existed.

    "Arinel?"

    The voice of the present jerked her back to reality. Like a bandage from a weeping wound, Meya withdrew from the maelstrom. At Coris''s puzzled look, she cast about for excuses,

    "N-Nothing¡ªI just¡ª" Meya stammered, barely hearing her voice as her heart thundered in her ears, "You¡ªyou sound like someone¡ª"

    Tamping down her bursting excitement, Meya avoided his eyes. It might have been just a coincidence. Or a mistake. After all, her memories of the Emerald-Stone-Boy were little more than bits and pieces.

    Yet, her irrational half nagged her. It recognized Coris''s voice. It was the same voice. Hoarse, cracking, gentle. Against her better judgment, she caved in,

    "Coris, have you ever been to Crosset? Apart from your kidnapping, I meant."

    Coris blinked, taken by surprise, then he gathered himself, nodding.

    "Once, when I was fifteen." Meya''s fingernails dug into her palms as she clenched her fists. Three years ago. The evidence mounts.

    "It was that time our fathers reaffirmed the marriage was still going ahead, but I wasn''t with them. That was Simon pretending to be me."

    "I see. Where were you, then?" Meya played along. Coris frowned, his eyes swiveling up as he sifted through his memories.

    "At the Town Square. It was the May Fest. I remember because Simon was griping about coming all the way to Crosset but not getting to see Marinia Hild."

    "So, you were there to see Marin...ia?" Meya remembered just in time to add the last syllable. Coris''s frown deepened as his eyes zeroed in on her instead.

    "No, I was looking for a girl, but not Marinia. A peasant girl saved my life in the Famine. She helped me escape the kidnappers and guided me to Truncale. All young women would be at the May Fest; I reckoned she''d be there, too."

    Of course¡ªall young women, except me.

    Meya blinked, crestfallen. He was at the Fest to look for someone else. It had gotten nothing to do with her in her pigsty. She was imagining things, as usual.

    "And did you find her?" Meya forced her voice through the lump of disappointment in her throat. She hoped she sounded innocently curious.

    Coris''s eyes didn''t leave hers, his face unreadable in the firelight.

    "I didn''t. But I believe I will. Very soon."

    He trailed away into a whisper. His eyes traveled to Meya''s left arm, to that ugly, sunken scar that looked like a dull carving knife had scooped out her flesh.

    Meya covered the grotesque mark from view with her hand. Last night, she''d already told him she was bitten by a nasty viper. She just hadn''t told him it was a water snake, and she was elbow-deep in paddy water, planting wheat shrubs. What was he still hung up about?

    His lingering stare sent icy worms wriggling down Meya''s spine. She forced out a laugh, shrugging,

    "Well, I''m Lady Crosset. You could''ve said something. Father and I could''ve helped you with the search."

    She slapped his arm playfully. Coris responded in kind with a grin that didn''t reach his calm, calculating eyes. He tilted his head,

    "Why did you ask, by the way?"

    "Nothing. Like I said, you¡ªyou just reminded me of someone I thought I''d met."

    The lie tasted bitter in her throat, but she was at a loss for what to do. She couldn''t remember the boy''s face. She had no way to know for sure if Coris was the kind soul whose promised return she had awaited for three years.

    Oh, well. It didn''t seem likely, anyway. What are the odds, after all?

    Worse, Coris didn''t seem to remember anything, either.

    "Who?"

    His question rammed the painful truth even deeper home. Meya pored into his beautiful, mesmerizing silvery eyes, trying to find an angle from which they might seem familiar, but discovered none.

    It was exasperating. The Emerald-Stone Boy had been so important to her. Why had she forgotten all but echoes of his voice and scraps of disjointed images? It had barely been three years.

    Meya smiled apologetically, shaking her head,

    "Dunno. I must have been imagining things. It felt like I''ve heard that before, but it''s just that, a feeling."

    Meya shrugged it off. Ignoring Coris''s puzzled look, she snuggled into his chest. His cold, frail arms enveloped her, his feeble heartbeat drummed on her cheek as his words echoed in her head.

    You''re not worthless, Arinel.

    Meya clenched her trembling hands as her heart writhed.

    Yes, Arinel would never be worthless. People were willing to die and kill for her just because of the name she was born with, but Meya wasn''t Arinel and never could be.

    She mustn''t forget that everything Coris had done for her wasn''t actually hers. They were for Arinel, his beloved Ari, who didn''t exist. She mustn''t be carried away.

    Because, someday¡ªperhaps soon, too¡ªthis too-good-to-be-true dream would end. When Coris learned she was nothing but a peasant girl, driven out of the family that no longer had a place for her, would she still be worth a Latt in his eyes? Who knew what Coris would do after all the lies she''d told him? The danger she''d put him through? The priceless lives she''d cost him?

    The best alternative would be to ask Arinel to sort the matter out with Coris and go home to Crosset. Sure, she''d have to face Dad''s wrath instead, but Dad probably would let her live, at the least. Maybe. Provided he never learned she was no longer a maiden.

    A sudden wave of tiredness overcame her at the thought. Her eyelids felt heavy as lead.

    Tomorrow. She''d figure it all out tomorrow. For now, she simply wanted to rest in his lifeless arms, lull herself to sleep with his empty words of hope.

    You''re not worthless. You''re not worthless. You''re not worthless.

 The Dragon and the Arrow

    The sun hadn''t risen but signaled its impending arrival with pale yellow rays radiating from behind the mountains to the east. The dull light of dawn peeked through the gap between the curtains, feasting upon the sight of a young beauty deep in slumber on the four-poster.

    The silvery medallion resting on her bosom shimmered with the colors of the rainbow as it rose and fell to the rhythm of her breathing. A pale, spider-like hand reached towards it. Long, tapered fingers unhooked the necklace''s metal clasp and slid it off her neck.

    The thief held his breath, although he''d hovered a rag sprinkled with his laudanum under her nose to make sure she wouldn''t wake. Hmm, she didn''t seem to suspect foul play. He gathered his courage and reached in again, this time for her eyes.

    He flicked back one of her heated eyelids. The sight that awaited him beneath the burning skin sent him scrambling in fright.

    A glowing eye, acid green. Beautiful yet unnatural. Peculiar yet familiar.

    Coris struggled in vain to calm his ragged breathing. His hand clutching the medallion was slick with cold sweat. Arinel¡ªor whoever she was¡ªstirred then, scrunching her eyes and twitching her shoulders. Coris laid down, feigning slumber.

    Meya woke up with a pungent smell in her nostrils, an itch in one of her eyes, and a heavy soreness across her body.

    Scratching away eye boogers, she propped herself on her elbows and glanced at her bedmate. Seeing Coris still sleeping in peace, not coughing his insides out, she sighed in relief, then froze with her lungs half-empty.

    Coris was sleeping soundly. A little too soundly. In fact, his chest wasn''t even moving.

    "Coris? Coris!" Meya nudged his shoulder, then shook him when he remained listless. His head lolled to the side, and his eyelids retracted, revealing empty white crescents.

    Oh no. Please no. Don''t tell me he overexerted making love to me last night?

    "Oh, Freda. No! Coris! Coris!"

    Meya shrieked, yanking Coris off the bed by his shoulders, shaking him like a wheat bushel. Coris''s eyes flew open. He raised his arms to ward her off, yelling,

    "Enough, enough, enough! Enough, Ari! I was faking. I''m not dead!"

    Meya''s brain caught up with her ears, and she froze, blinking dumbly at her beau. Coris tried his utmost not to laugh, his pale cheeks pink from the effort.

    "Goodly Freda, Ari. I won''t die that easily." He chuckled as Meya blushed, then leaned in and whispered into her crimson earlobe, his chilly fingers dancing atop her breasts, "Of course I''ve got enough energy set aside for doing y¡ªNuh-uh-uh!"

    Coris caught Meya''s drawn fist in his grasp. He wagged his finger as he folded his lips and clucked. Meya growled in her throat as she jerked her hand from his grip.

    To her surprise, Coris didn''t resist and instead lurched forth to her pull. Meya ended up flat on her back with the skinny young man pinning her. Before she could protest, his lips trapped hers.

    Oh, not again.

    Meya closed her eyes wearily. With Coris being so twig-thin, she could perhaps slither off if she wanted, but for some reason, she never could resist his advances.

    The girl''s tense limbs yielded beneath his as she committed to the sweet morning kiss. Coris exploited her distraction to loop the cord with the medallion back around her neck, masking his move as a sensual caress.

    Her feverish lips cooled to human temperature, warmed by desire, stoking his rekindled fire. However, having accomplished his ulterior motive, Coris freed her arms and drew away, shame gnawing at his heart.

    Clueless as ever, she tugged at his hand and guided him downwards, borrowing his fingers to free herself of the weakened clutches of slumber. He bit back his groan at the caress of heated velvet glazed with dewdrops on his fingertips. Lust overruled logic, and he caved to instinct.

    She urged him forward with a subtle push on his hips. He mustered his courage and ventured inside, braced to withstand the worst she would have in store¡ªthen collapsed to a smoldering heap under her heat and pressure.

    "Coris?"

    Meya called hesitantly. Coris had dropped flat onto her like stone, his bony back heaving. She blinked, trying to make sense of what had happened amid the maelstrom of strange sensations addling her brain. As his fevered breathing subsided, it became clear the lad wouldn''t be finishing what he''d started. Sighing away her disappointment, Meya hitched up a wry grin.

    This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

    "Serves you right. Looks like Freda''s with me this time." She held Coris as she flipped sideways, settling him down before her. His eyes closed, Coris smirked,

    "Nay, she''s with me. In her name I ravished thy land, whereupon I spring forth the Hadrian seed unto thy crib."

    "Ugh! Couldn''t you have put it any other way?"

    "Nay. It appears bliss has opened my eyes to my inner poet. A rare occurrence I cherish¡ª"

    "¡ªI don''t. Drown you and your poetic seed, you donghead!"

    Coris snorted with laughter. Cursing under her breath, Meya inspected her legs, only now noticing the masterpiece he''d left upon her. A grim realization drained color from her cheeks.

    Oh no. She''d been so busy staying alive that she had forgotten. This was how a babe came to be, wasn''t it? A man lay with a woman, planted his seed in her womb, then if he brought forth her water to rain upon it with Freda''s blessing, she would fall pregnant.

    How many times had she lain with Coris already? Still, all those times, he hadn''t brought forth her water once, so she wouldn''t get pregnant, would she?

    Meya blushed as she reminisced each of her escapades with Coris, muttering feverishly as she counted on her fingers,

    "Are you trying for a babe, Coris? If not, I should get Silfum. Fast. We can find that in Hadrian, right?"

    Jezia said getting Silfum Candles, whose aroma was said to kill seeds, wasn''t a big deal in Hadrian (It was illegal in Crosset). To her immense relief, Coris nodded.

    "Bishop Riddell will probably have some, but you won''t need them." Meya raised her eyebrows. Coris smiled, "The healers said my seeds are too weak to impregnate a woman. And I don''t want a babe, anyway."

    "Why?" Although she''d prayed Coris wouldn''t want an heir, Meya was intrigued. His smile turned bitter,

    "You really can''t guess?"

    Meya blinked, then sighed and nodded. Coris didn''t want to orphan his babe. Cautious fellow. Still, Meya was curious. And a little annoyed. It seemed he never decided anything simply by likes and wants; it was always logic with him.

    "Don''t you want to try, at least? Thought you''d want to leave something of yours behind?"

    "Guess we all do, Ari." Coris shrugged with a sigh, looking weary, as if it was a question he had been asked countless times, "Procreation is the drive behind existence, after all, but dying isn''t an excuse to let primal nature usurp reason, nor does it mean one can take priority over the rest. When one''s future is ending, one thinks of the futures of others."

    Meya huffed, disgruntled, having no way to counter his saintly preachings. As if he had sensed her uneasiness, Coris edged close and pulled her to him with his hand on her head.

    "Besides, there are other things we can leave behind."

    Their eyes met. Meya smiled in reply, even as her heart twisted in bittersweet agony.

    From the day she first met him, she felt he was a lad with a fascinating mind, and she wanted to discuss more about any and all things. She wanted to hear his thoughts and share her own. But, one way or another, she couldn''t do that much longer.

    Her heart shuddered. Meya leaned in and kissed his lifeless lips, deep and slow. Taking his hand in hers, she reluctantly drew away.

    "I''ll bring up your breakfast, all right?" She sat up with an offer, as Coris seemed too wasted to get up. Coris caressed her hand with his thumb and shook his head.

    "There''s going to be a special charity tent today. You must be there. Get Zier to help. I''ll join you as soon as I can."

    "I''ll have the Baroness come tend to you, then."

    "I''d like that. Thanks."

    With one last squeeze of his clammy hand, Arinel untangled the blanket and spread it over his shoulders, then rose and left for her adjoining solar to get dressed for the day.

    When the door had closed behind her, Coris slithered from underneath the heavy fur, all signs of exhaustion vanished. He bundled himself in a silk robe from the stand beside the four-poster and strode to his study desk.

    His drawer was crammed with dolls and toys he''d squirreled away over the years. Aunt Kyrel would probably be huge now. He hoped he''d live to see her babe. Would Simon be blessed with a little brother this time, or another sister?

    He waded through the jumble and slid open a secret compartment. A metal arrowhead on a broken wooden shaft rested on the magenta velvet padding. The tip of the arrow was distorted¡ªmelted. The silvery metal shimmered rainbow in the early morning sunlight.

    Like The Axel. Like that medallion ''Arinel'' is wearing.

    Coris picked up the arrowhead and turned it in his fingers. Memories rushed into him from its icy surface. An enormous leg covered in silvery metallic scales, soaked in dark red blood oozing from an arrow buried deep into its rotting flesh.

    The purple rot was spreading. Iron-gray scales fell from shriveled skin. The wretched monster screeched, its other leg clutching him so tight he could hardly breathe. The mountain hurtled towards them, the cave opening black as a yearning mouth of doom. They were falling. They would crash. They would both die.

    With his last ounce of strength, he strained his arm towards the arrow. He closed his pudgy fingers over the splintered wooden shaft, slippery with blood, then pulled with all his might.

    The arrow sprung free. The stone of the cave floor slammed into him. Darkness engulfed him.

    A blink, then there was fire and the stone walls of a cave. He wound strips of his tunic over and under a nasty patch of rotting flesh on a thin human arm, flicking away the long, red-gold hair that insisted on falling in the way. The rot spread like a dollop of ink on parchment.

    " ''Tis nae stopping! They''re gunna chop off me arm and I''m gunna die!" The girl wailed between sobs. Thick tears plummeted from her glowing, acid-green eyes.

    "Just shut up and keep a hold on your hair, will you? You want this to get infected on top of poisoned?" Coris heard his small voice snapping.

    "What''s in-fab-turd?"

    "In-fec-ted!" Coris corrected in exasperation as he cinched the bandages tight. The girl yelped in pain. "Little bugs eating up your flesh. You want that?"

    "I dun have no bugs in me hair!" The girl whined. Coris snorted in derision, sounding very much like a pig,

    "Of course you do! Your hair reeks of pig!"

    Coris slumped onto his chair, panting, the arrowhead pressed to his forehead.

    The memories were more vivid than ever. For the first time in seven years, he could make sense of their conversation. He could even smell the girl''s hair.

    Scalding water blazed a path down his cold cheek. Coris clenched the arrowhead in his trembling hand as relief flooded him.

    He needed more proof, but after seven years, he might have finally found the girl who saved his life in Crosset.

    And she wasn''t human.

 Weighing Options

    "Finally, some privacy."

    Lord Zier mused airily as he and Meya shared the shade of a large oak tree standing sentry at the castle''s town gate, overseeing the charity tent in uneasy silence. Meya glanced at his sly, knowing grin, then swiftly turned her focus to the rowdy marquee.

    The castle''s almoner stood under the crimson canvas, decked out in a crimson robe falling to his ankles, hurriedly ladling stew from an enormous pot into all sorts of containers (Meya could''ve sworn she saw some grandma with a flower vase). Half a dozen castle servants flanked him, following suit.

    A long table splattered with dollops of stew separated the castle workers from the poor and the crippled. Basked by the sun, the ragged commoners stood in a dozen lines, waiting anxiously with their ''bowls.''

    The stew wasn''t the usual leftovers-thrown-in-a-vat but newly cooked, simmering merrily over a freshly-dug hearth. It really was a special charity tent.

    Something buzzed about Meya''s ear as if Zier was saying something else. But, there was a redheaded, freckle-faced girl bobbing among the crowd. The sight of her whisked Meya to the past.

    Whenever Mum ran out of coppers for breakfast, one of the Hild children would walk to the castle and line up for leftovers. Marin would grab a pot and come home with it filled to the brim without having to line up. Meya would be lucky to make it back with some soup left in her bowl.

    "Ahem!"

    Meya jolted out of her reverie. She whipped around to find a disgruntled Zier and placated him with an apologetic grin.

    "Yes, my lord?"

    Zier wrinkled his nose.

    "Just Zier, please." He rolled his eyes and repeated, "As I was asking, how shall I address you? Normally, I''d use fair maiden or Lady Arinel, but seeing as you''re neither fair nor maiden nor Lady Arinel?"

    Zier leaned in, an eyebrow raised in amusement. Meya shot a covert glance at the almoner. Seeing him still busy rationing stew, she whispered out of the corner of her mouth,

    "I may not be fair nor Lady Arinel, but I''m still a maiden."

    "And I might have believed that," Zier cocked his head, sly grin growing even wider, "If it didn''t so happen Father had Simon and Christopher glue their ears to your door that First Night, and now, pretty much the whole castle''s heard what they heard."

    As Meya gawked, Zier counted on his fingers, "To summarize, mostly you screaming my brother''s name, how well-endowed he is, several words I''m not allowed to utter, and a few Fredas here and there."

    Meya''s cheeks burned red-hot. Zier topped it off with a cheeky grin. Events of that night flashed before her eyes, and she felt like drowning her head in the almoner''s boiling soup vat.

    It was embarrassing enough waking up in the middle of the night and hearing Mum and Dad making love on the other side of your one-room cottage, but this?

    "W-w-why haven''t your parents said anything?" Meya spluttered, "I keep telling them we haven''t done it!"

    "They will. Once the guests have left." Zier cocked his head, his smile sliding off and leaving behind a vacant expression. He shrugged at Meya''s raised eyebrows, "Of course, they want grandchildren, but Lexi''s dead against it. You should''ve heard them quarreling in Father''s study."

    "Lord Coris just told me he''s barren." Meya argued, a wary frown on her brows. Zier tilted his head,

    "He may or may not be. No one can prove that, can they?" He leaned ever closer, poring deep into Meya''s wide, fearful eyes, then drew back and jammed his hand down his cloak pocket, "He''s never slept with anyone before, so be safe and Silfum up, Maiden-My-Foot."

    He tossed an oblong package wrapped in crumpled brown paper into Meya''s fumbling fingers. The sharp scent of herbs mingled with the dull smell of moldy paper as the raised whorls of a spiral pattern pressed against her palms¡ªSilfum Candles. Meya raised an eyebrow at Zier.

    "It''s from Arinel. You''re a commoner, Lexi''s a nobleman. A babe would complicate matters. No offense." He added with another shrug.

    "None taken." Meya muttered with a scoff as she stuffed the candles into her dress pocket. Zier smirked, then steered the topic back on course,

    "So, now that we''re on the same page, how should I address you?"

    "Just Meya, milord." Meya waved it aside, having more pressing matters on her mind, "But that aside, you''ve met Lady Arinel. Have you two discussed what we''re gunna do now that Gillian''s gone?"

    Enjoying the story? Show your support by reading it on the official site.

    "Don''t worry, everything stays the way it is." Zier raised two calming hands as if Meya were overreacting, "Arinel said she doesn''t feel worthy of her title yet, so you can keep it for now."

    Meya considered it, then narrowed her eyes, suspicious,

    "Lady Arinel is a woman of honor, so I kinda expected that. But what about you?" Zier jolted, and Meya took the chance to corner him, "You''re gunna let your sister-in-law be a maid for the rest of her life? You dun want her to marry Lord Coris that much?"

    Zier faltered, mouthing soundlessly. The realization hit Meya like a bolt out of the blue. Eyes flared wide, she gazed off unseeing into the distance, nodding slowly.

    "I see. ''Twas why you tried to steal The Axel for Baron Graye, wasn''t it?" A cold smile crept onto her lips as she eyed the younger Hadrian,

    "Lord Crosset only wanted Lord Coris as his in-law for your family''s power. You hoped, if The Axel was taken from Hadrian, he wouldn''t force Lady Arinel to marry Lord Coris no more."

    Zier pursed his lips into a line, his once ruddy cheeks for once pale as his brother''s. Meya weathered the silence, eyes narrowed as if to bore holes into his chiseled profile dabbed by the leaf-shaped shadows. Just when Meya contemplated giving him a nudge, his lips moved,

    "She''s a year older than me. And I''m the second-born. The spare." He said, his voice quiet. His bright blue eyes were bitter like she had never seen¡ªNo, she''d seen it once, last night.

    "Two reasons I couldn''t marry her, and there''s nothing in the three lands I could do to change them. Age isn''t that big a deal if you don''t make it so, of course, but if only..."

    He trailed away as if he''d strangled the air out of his voice. Meya knew what he''d been bursting to speak, for she''d silently wished the same upon her brothers and sisters on particularly harsh days.

    If only they were never born.

    Such a thought would bring forth tremendous guilt but, at the same time, lift the weight of a suffocating secret. For a moment, the embittered ones basked in the shared glory of jealousy, then Zier shook his head out of it,

    "Anyway, Christopher''s taking Arinel to see Bishop Riddell today. I''ve never seen her so giddy." Zier said, his voice chipper as he bounced on the balls of his feet. His eyes wandered dreamily into space, flooded with pictures of his sweetheart,

    "Ah, Ari...she loves tinkering with her alchemy sets. She couldn''t so much as touch one as a lady, considering how her mother died."

    He concluded cryptically, a troubled look on his handsome face. Meya couldn''t tamp down her curiosity.

    "How?" He glanced her way, his bright blue eyes twinkling slyly. At her scowl, he snickered, then obliged,

    "Arinel''s mother was a peasant maid in the alchemy labs of Crosset Castle, then old Lord Crosset took a fancy to her. You know the pattern," He shrugged, "She and her master were boiling vitriol when the lab caught fire. They cut Arinel out of her before she died."

    Meya scrunched her face at the terrifying tale. Mum lost her voice having Meya. Deke''s mother lost her dignity having Deke. Jezia''s mother lost her life having Jezia. And Arinel''s mother got cleaved in half. If the creation of life was indeed Freda''s dearest mission like them priests were preaching, then the goddess was doing a dang crappy job of it.

    "And Lady Arinel can''t get over it?" Meya whispered as if in mourning, having finished her daily entry to the heresy diary. Zier blew a melancholic sigh.

    "They were just experimenting for a potion to make fruits ripe. She shouldn''t have to die young like that." He shook his head, adding with a wry grin, "Only consolation was, she seemed to be sleeping peacefully."

    "And you''re gunna let Lady Arinel follow in her footsteps!?" Meya gawked, but Zier didn''t seem unduly worried for his sweetheart.

    "She won''t be following blindly, will she? Alchemists who came before marked out sinkholes and quicksand with their lives. Hadrian''s labs now are much better than Crosset''s seventeen years ago. She''ll be fine." He patted Meya''s shoulder, his hand warm and slightly sweaty,

    "But, back to your question. You have the full support of Arinel and I, so the rest is up to you. Do you still want to be Lady Hadrian?"

    Meya blinked in astonishment as his eyes locked hers in a vice-like grip,

    "But what about Lord Coris?" Zier cocked his head. Somehow, this seemed to bother him just as much as the chance of his beloved Ari being blown to smithereens.

    "You two get along well in bed and out. And he seems happy with you as his wife. What he doesn''t know can''t hurt him, can it?"

    Zier suggested, his face deadpan save for a raised eyebrow. Although all her life Meya had always taken it upon herself to make her own choices, even when there wasn''t supposed to be any, more often than not to dire consequences, this time she was inexplicably torn.

    Was it because, up until now, her goals had been clear-cut¡ªearn as much gold as possible and make Dad proud? And her means had been straightforward¡ªexploit any loopholes she could find?

    This time, it was different. She didn''t do it for gold nor Dad''s approval¡ªshe did it for her own life, for the lives of twenty others.

    So, now that the threat had passed, exactly what was she still doing all this for? Claiming a name that should never have been hers. Giving away her virginity to a dying man she barely knew. Taking on a role she hadn''t the slightest idea how to fill.

    Greeneyes. Dragons. Nostra. The Axel. Heists. Kidnappings. She was tangling herself in a mystery much larger than her puny, worthless life. Three days ago, Meya was sure she knew what she had taken on, but now Dockar''s words haunted her, and she realized she''d barely scratched the surface.

    Dad''s twisted face flashed past her eyes, his mouth yawning wide as he bellowed,

    "You leave, we get your fine back. And I accepted!"

    He sold me off for three months of wages.

    Meya quirked a sardonic grin. Three months of wages. How many Latts was that? If that was all she was worth to her own father, what did she have to fear?

    She''d given away her virginity, the only valuable thing she''d ever had. Who knew? She probably wasn''t even worth three months anymore. Maybe one at best, or maybe...just dung. Like those boys back in Crosset kept reminding her. Or pebble, like the official documents declared her to be.

    If she failed, what did she have to lose but a life worth less than dung? If she succeeded, how much gold could she add to her worth?

    So long as there''s gold on this land, there''s no limit.

    Meya''s calloused hands clenched into trembling fists. She spoke, her voice heavy as molten gold shining fiery in a crucible blasted with dragonfire,

    "I''m in, milord."

 Lovers Dilemma

    Bishop Tenorus Riddell stood two heads taller than the average fellow. He was a fair-haired, broad-chested hulk of a man who''d chosen burns and scars over a magnificent mustache to compliment his face. At first glance, one might mistake him for a blacksmith or mercenary if not for his long, magenta alchemist cloak and ice-blue eyes twinkling with curiosity yet steeped in knowledge.

    After Sir Christopher left, the sprightly priest beckoned Arinel out of his lab into the courtyard, where merchants, peasants and castle workers milled about their business.

    The alchemy labs were among the several outhouses built along the castle wall. Unlike the other open-air lean-tos for dyeing, washing, dressmaking, leather-working and various other crafts, the labs were walled against contaminants from without, and those walls were fortified with stone to withstand the experiments within.

    Riddell stopped at an outhouse two times larger than the average peasant cottage in Crosset. A heavy, rusty padlock barred the wooden door, upon which was tacked a piece of cowhide with DANGER scrawled across in red ink. Above the door, a copper nameplate swayed in the breeze. Ornate gold-leafed letters gleamed upon it, framed with golden curlicues.

    Muldor

    Arinel cocked her head. The name seemed familiar. She might have picked it up in a treatise somewhere.

    Riddell slid out a crammed keyring from his belt, humming as he thumbed for the right key.

    "So, Meya, is it?" He chirped above the jingling, his voice high for a man of his size. His stunted-looking thumb flicked keys apart. Arinel noticed with a jolt it was missing a chunk. His palm was also parched and wrinkled as if burned by acid.

    "Your first job is to clear out this place. It belonged to my late friend, Noxtis Muldor. I need it well-aired and spotless, since I''ll be using it for risky experiments. Fire, booms and flashes, as the general populace put it."

    He tittered at his little joke as Arinel eyed the innocent laundry maid walking by behind them.

    "Ah, here we are."

    Riddell slotted a burnished old key into the padlock''s hole and turned. The door shifted, freed from its frame, but its hinges were rusty, and years of humidity had bloated its wood. After a forceful shoulder thump, it swung open.

    The musty, moldy smell of disuse billowed out in welcome. All the windows were shut. Daylight streamed through the doorway, casting Arinel and Riddell''s shadows upon an oaken worktable surrounded by shelves crammed with dusty bottles and jars.

    An elaborate distilling set gleamed on the worktable; its glass beakers with burnt bottoms sat empty but for dust, all intact. Muldor didn''t die during an experiment. Lucky you, thought Arinel darkly.

    Silence fell as both took in the scene; Arinel with curiosity and a touch of fear, Riddell with nostalgic reminiscence. At last, Riddell heaved a sad sigh.

    "Right." Clearing his throat, he turned to Arinel. "Muldor worked with some dangerous chemicals, but he was a meticulous chap. I don''t expect there to be anything hazardous lying around where they shouldn''t be. Still, it''s been a decade. Make no haste. Be as careful as you can be."

    Arinel nodded. Riddell noticed the shelf beside the door. He picked up the nearest jar and wiped it with his apron, revealing the milky yellow powder swirling within. Sulfur, thought Arinel. The faded, peeling label confirmed it.

    "You don''t know your letters, I believe?" Riddell asked as he checked the jar''s top.

    A sudden throb of anger pounded on Arinel''s temples, then she remembered she was supposed to be Meya the Maid, not Lady Arinel. She chewed her lips. Would Riddell become suspicious if she told the truth?

    "I do, sir." She eked out, fingers twisting her apron. Riddell''s eyes grew round as dough balls. He mouthed for a beat before his face split into a wide smile of delight.

    "Really? That''s a pleasant surprise!" He chirped in his high-pitched voice. Arinel blew a silent sigh of relief. Of course, a literate maid would be given more work. And more work means more opportunities to rise.

    Riddell set the sulfur jar back on the shelf then clapped his hands.

    "Very well, then. I expect you''d find several bottles with interesting labels, but do not uncork any." He raised a strict finger, his voice solemn, "Curiosity without caution has maimed many alchemists in this place. I should know, of course."

    Riddell glanced at his nub of a thumb with a sigh, then shrugged it off, gesturing vaguely about the lab,

    "Dust the shelves. Clean the glassware. Relabel the bottles." He rummaged in his tunic pocket and produced a pair of thick leather gloves.

    "These will protect your delicate fingers," He motioned towards the handkerchief poking out of Arinel''s apron pocket, "Cover your mouth and nose, and get those windows open right away. Everything you''ll need, you''ll find in the shed."

    Riddell pointed his thumb toward the wooden toolshed leaning against the lab''s stone wall. Arinel craned her neck to see past his hulking frame. The alchemist wagged a cautious finger again,

    "Remember, no haste. Be as careful as you can. I''ll be in my lab. Knock if there''s anything."

    With that, Bishop Riddell gave her a warm smile and walked briskly back to his workshop. Arinel bowed and waited until he had disappeared behind his door, then ventured into Muldor''s lab.

    A diligent maid should start working immediately, but Arinel couldn''t help herself. As soon as the windows were open, she swooped over the distilling set on the oak table, examining the strangely-shaped flasks and elaborate layout from start to finish.

    She shone the glass with her apron and tapped it with her fingernail. She turned glass knobs and imagined liquid dripping from suspended bottles into the flask waiting in the tub filled with imaginary ice. She imagined a merry fire in the silent stove and pictured red liquid bubbling in the empty beaker.

    She sidestepped the aisle between cabinets high as library bookshelves, turning bottles to see their peeling labels, hastily drawing away from ones bearing dangerous names. Their contents came in all colors of the rainbow and all the shades in between. Some even glittered like gems. She could spend all day just reorganizing them.

    Ever since Arinel could remember, she''d been peeking through the windows of the lab Mother and her master, Bishop Tyberne, used to work in, watching their successors tinkling with weird-looking glassware and colorful chemicals, only to be dragged away screaming by Gretella, laughed at by her half-sisters and reprimanded by Father.

    This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

    Your mother died in that very room, Father would roar, back when he still had enough snarl in him, I had her cut open to save your life, and you''re throwing it away in that cursed lab, too?

    Arinel had no comeback; all she could give were empty promises; pinky swears with crossies. She understood the logic of everyone''s fear, but she couldn''t feel it.

    When she peered into the lab, she wasn''t reminded of what once happened there. She saw fascinating experiments with unpredictable results. It was like embroidery; you master the basics, then experiment with new patterns and techniques. Whenever she grew bored, Arinel liked inventing new patterns. So far, she''d wound up with nothing but tangled thread balls, though.

    After a thorough tour of the lab, Arinel stood with hands on her hips, looking around, dithering. So many things to be done. Where should she start?

    In the end, she decided on the worktable. After studying the distilling set for a moment, Arinel strode out to the shed and returned with two large wooden tubs, a stool, a sponge, a bar of soap, a brush and a bucket.

    Filling the tubs took five trips to the well in the middle of the courtyard. Arinel''s apron was splashed all over by the time she was done. Still, it wasn''t as soaked as on her first day in the scullery, fetching water for the dishes. She was getting better at this.

    Once the last bucket of water was emptied into the tub, Arinel tied her handkerchief over her mouth and nose, forced her fingers into the thick, damp leather gloves, then dismantled the distilling set, loading the tubes and flasks carefully into the bucket.

    One by one, Arinel dropped the glassware into the sudsy water in the first tub, then started scrubbing. Some flasks only needed a sponge to wipe off the grime. Some needed persuasion with the hog-hair brush. And the most stubborn must be sandpapered with a wire brush to scrape off the charred remains sticking to the bottom.

    Arinel was struggling with the sooty burner when a pair of warm hands slapped over her eyes. She nearly jolted out of her skin. The metal burner dropped from her frozen fingers into the tub with a dull plonk. A breathy, laughing voice whispered into her ear,

    "Guess who."

    Zier.

    A voice screamed inside her. In less than a heartbeat, Arinel transitioned from terrified to relieved, overjoyed and disgruntled, in that order.

    "Oh, it''s you." She settled on flat and neutral, groping laboriously in the tub for the burner to wait out her giddy smile and blushed cheeks, scolding, "Don''t scare me when I''m handling fragile things. Do you want me to lose my post on the first day?"

    Arinel''s lack of reaction disheartened Zier. Years they hadn''t seen each other. Since her first day here, he''d been finding every chance he could to sneak away and reunite with her, but she acted as if she couldn''t want to see him any less.

    Arinel returned to her scrubbing as if he wasn''t there. Sighing, Zier offered,

    "Want a hand?"

    "I don''t have spare gloves." She shot him down without pause, curt and distant, then hopped straight to business before he could lead her astray, "Where''s Meya Hild?"

    Zier allowed himself another sigh first.

    "Brother managed to drag himself out of bed today, so he''s dismissed me from wife-sitting duty. They''re probably taking a tour of the manor. As scheduled."

    He sidled in, using chatter to mask his move. By the time Arinel caught wind of an ambush, his arms were around her torso and his nose burrowing into her hair.

    Arinel struggled feebly. She ripped her cheek from his ravenous lips as her body collapsed like putty against candle flame.

    "Zier, don''t."

    "Please, it''s been so long since our first time," He tightened his embrace. Arinel''s face burned.

    "Which will be our last." She retorted, harsh and final. Zier jolted alongside her own heart, but she didn''t relent, "I''m betrothed to your brother, Zier."

    "You''re not you anymore, remember?" Zier raised an eyebrow.

    "I''m always me," said Arinel flatly, "Have you talked with Meya? What did she say?"

    Zier opened his mouth to argue. He changed his mind and shrugged, nonchalant as ever,

    "She said she''s happy keeping the status quo."

    "Did she?" Arinel rose, forcing him to his feet and backward, her narrowed eyes cool as her voice, "And what did you tell her? Did you tell her what I said?"

    Zier opened his mouth before he could think. His first instinct was to lie, but his eyes met Arinel''s piercing blue eyes, and he couldn''t bring himself to. He never could. He drew in a deep breath,

    "I told her you''re not feeling worthy, and you''re happy with your new post."

    Silence. Zier held his breath and steeled himself, planting his feet firm on the floor. Arinel exploded like a spectacular fireworks mishap,

    "No, that is not what I said at all!"

    She jabbed a finger at his chest and stretched herself to his wincing face.

    "I struck that deal with Meya, yes. I didn''t think it would be over this soon. The situation''s changed. We need to tell your family the truth now! While we still can. I''ll vouch for Meya. She''ll be pardoned and rewarded. Have you told her any of that?"

    Arinel snapped, arms flailing in exasperation. Zier lowered his eyes and scratched his nape. Her well of calm, patient waters freezing to solid stone, Arinel nodded, her voice cold as ice,

    "Fine. I''ll speak with her myself."

    Arinel yanked off her gloves and marched to the door. Zier scrambled after her,

    "Ari, wait! Stop!"

    She did, her nose inches from his. Her beguilingly calm blue eyes traveled from Zier''s outstretched arms to his wavering eyes, simmering with anger.

    "You''re thinking of keeping me from Coris, aren''t you?" Her soft, level voice somehow scared Zier more than Coris''s scream. She shook her head like an elder sister cautioning her little brother, "Lies aren''t meant to last, Zier."

    Zier twisted the hem of his shirt, his fingers burning and drenched. He shook his head as if he could dislodge the truth from his head and flick it off his shoulders. He leaned in, staring straight into her eyes,

    "Meya slept with Coris. And you slept with me." He whispered, painting her cheeks with shame and fury, "The damage''s done, Ari. Meya can''t go back to Crosset, and you can''t marry Coris."

    "So, instead of simply asking your parents to ignore that, you''re willing to lie to them for the rest of your life?" Arinel hissed.

    "So? It''s what I''ve been doing all this time, isn''t it?" Zier shrugged, undaunted. A shadow fell over his eyes as he added, his voice dead, "For you."

    Arinel shivered as last night''s events returned in flashes of images and snippets of sounds. Zier tried to steal The Axel for her sake, and now it was lost inside his stomach.

    With everything that had happened, Arinel hadn''t had a moment of peace to digest that harrowing, chilling fact. Even now, she didn''t know how she was feeling, how she should be feeling. Even so, she stared right back, willing herself not to tremble,

    "You didn''t have to. And you still don''t," she said heartlessly. Zier blanched as a sneer curled the corner of her lips, "And it backfired, didn''t it? I''m still betrothed to Coris. He''s not fat or obnoxious but he''s dying. And I would''ve already become his if not for all this."

    "So you''d sleep with him too if I let you marry him? Because he''s changed?" Zier cried, his face twisted in disgust. Arinel blanched from fury.

    "I''m his wife, Zier! How in the three lands could I avoid that? Why are you being so dense!?" She shrieked.

    "Dense? Me?" Zier jabbed a finger at his chest. Arinel held her chin high, unrepentant, and Zier shook his head in frustration,

    "You know you''ll never get what you want out of your life as yourself. This is your chance. And you''re throwing it away for what? Honesty? Honor? Duty? Your father? My brother?" Arinel clenched her fists to rein in her temper at his mocking grin. "They''re not going to live for much longer, Ari, but you are."

    "No one knows that for sure, Zier!" Arinel snapped, her heart lurching.

    "Well, I do!" Zier snarled, "And if it''s the last thing I do, I''ll make sure you''re not bound by their decisions for the rest of your life!"

    His voice echoed across the dim room, giving way to heavy silence as two pairs of blue eyes clashed, one willing to show nothing but resigned righteousness while the other burned with rebellious determination. Yet, Arinel saw the plea for sympathy, the longing, the bitter anguish in his eyes, and she relented.

    She reached out, her arms trembling and hesitant as her walls crumbled from stone to dust. Zier threw himself into her embrace. She held him as he shivered, whispering as she smoothed his hair,

    "I was yours. I still am. I always will be. Isn''t that enough for us? For you?"

    Zier tensed and pulled away. As Arinel gawked in alarm, he wiped his face with his sleeve. When he surfaced, his eyes were dead and cold as a frozen corpse in a snowdrift.

    "I''ve been tied to duty all my life. And I''ve become one with it. For you." He fixed her with his flaring blue eyes, then his mask fell. He shook his head, begging,

    "I know you didn''t ask me to steal The Axel, but if you pity me at all, please...don''t let it be for naught."

    With that, Zier swept from the lab, leaving Arinel to crumple over her stool, hands cradling her temples, at a loss of what she should do.

 The Foreshock

    Tarpaulin of all colors blanketed Hadrian''s town square. From the castle''s hill, it looked like an enormous patchwork cloak. May Fest was just over a week away. Merchants from all over the central west had hurried in to stake claim over the best spots and earn early-bird gold. Performers prowled every square entrance, pushing leaflets onto wide-eyed tykes as their harried mothers ushered them away.

    By high noon, stomachs were growling. A queue snaked from the sausage tent to the lonely clobber''s humble stall three plots away. Children crowded around a merchant as he made hand puppets spar with miniature licorice swords. Young lads cheered on a cockfighting ring. Maidens dithered over beaded shawls and embroidered headdresses. Old farmers pored over dice and cards. Merchants egged hesitant housewives to buy goods they would later realize they didn''t need.

    Meya sat on a roadside bench, her head swiveling like a well-oiled weathercock in a storm. She''d lived to see sixteen May Fests in Crosset; none came even close to this. Apart from the May Queen Pageant, where no one bothered to sign up because Marin would win anyway, and a May Dance, where the men would fight to dance with Marin around Freda''s Fountain, May Fest in Crosset was just a week-long weekend bazaar.

    It wasn''t always like that. Misty-eyed adults would reminisce that before Alanna lost her Song, before the Famine polished off a third of Crosset''s children, before Meya was born, Crosset''s May Fest had once been just as grand as Hadrian''s.

    Nobody under twenty could prove that, but that didn''t mean they''d let Meya get away with ''ruining'' the May Fest they never knew. Meya''s first and last experience of May Fest was being pelted with mud and running home crying. Meya would stay home and do the chores in Marin and Morel''s place every Fest since.

    Now, a decade later, far from home, under someone else''s name, she could walk into May Fest like a normal person. Countless people passed by. None of them hissed vicious names at her or questioned the thickness of her skin. No pebbles or mudballs sailed her way.

    It felt odd. Not that Meya minded the lack of attention, but the contrast was painful. A day of sweetness couldn''t flavor sixteen years of bitterness. Or a year. Or twenty. Memories didn''t work like food. Then again, even some food might be too much for honey to salvage.

    Meya peered at the wooden bowl she was holding. The rich, brown drink inside rippled to tremors from the ground caused by dozens of thundering feet. A strange, sweet, milky aroma rose to her nose in wispy spirals of vapor.

    She gingerly stretched out her tongue to touch the paste, then withdrew at the tart, sour taste. Yes, it smelled wonderful, but she still didn''t get how the God-King of the Southern Island that Coris talked about managed to chug fifty mugs of this brown milk daily.

    Coris emerged from the crowd, carrying a wooden plate of potato fritters. He answered Meya''s grin and settled down beside her. Noticing the still-full cocoa bowl, he chuckled,

    "Not to your taste?"

    Meya shrugged with an apologetic grimace as she handed him the bowl,

    "Needs more honey, I guess. A lot more."

    "Or perhaps more time to ferment." Coris cocked his head, took the bowl back then offered her the potatoes, "Try this."

    Meya blinked. Apart from the little black specks on top she reckoned were soot or pepper, they looked no different from the fried potatoes she''d eaten all her life.

    "Thanks, I guess." Shrugging, she picked up one piece and popped it in whole without blowing; it was already lukewarm.

    An earthy, oily smell gushed out, filling her nostrils from inside her mouth. Meya''s eyes widened, then drooped close. A drowsy bliss coursed through her body. If the Heights had a taste, it would be this.

    "Hmm," Meya chewed until the crispy crust turned to mush, savoring the peculiar scent, then sent it down her gullet with a reluctant gulp. She turned around to find Coris looking expectantly at her. She tilted her head, eyebrows tied as she struggled to explain her experience,

    "There''s this weird smell. Can''t describe it but I love it."

    "Exactly," Coris grinned, "It''s topped with truffle salt."

    "Truffle?" Meya gawked at the fritters, then Coris, "They say that''s food from the Heights!"

    "Home grown in Hadrian," Coris sang happily, "It''s one of the new crops we''re experimenting with, alongside grapes, mulberry, cocoa and vanilla."

    "Vanilla?" Meya asked. Coris''s little sly smile returned,

    "That sweet smell in the cocoa? Vanilla."

    Meya mouthed the unfamiliar word. Coris slithered his hand down his trouser pocket, then produced a brownish-black, shriveled-looking, curled twig as long as his hand, which he offered Meya.

    Meya held it up to her nose. She didn''t need to sniff for the sweet aroma to fill her nostrils. She inhaled deeply, then sighed in contentment. Smiling, she handed the pod back to Coris,

    "This would go very well with milk and bread, don''t you think?"

    "Exactly," Coris pocketed the aromatic pod.

    Meya was imagining her favorite pastries coupled with vanilla when the pieces fell into place. She whipped around to Coris with an accusing finger,

    "So, all these stuff you had me try...?"

    Coris''s grin widened, showing two rows of yellowed teeth.

    "Yes. These merchants¡ª" He cast his eyes at the surrounding stalls "¡ªare using truffles, wine grapes and silkworms grown in the castle''s estate to make their products. And the King of the Southern Island just agreed to export cocoa and vanilla to Latakia through the Southmeathe Port. I''m helping Father gauge whether these would be profitable to grow in Hadrian."

    Meya nodded, both awed and annoyed that the lad had used her as a guinea pig. Pouting, she motioned at the fritter plate in Coris''s hand.

    "Well, you''re the mastermind, why don''t you have some yourself?"

    Coris chuckled.

    "Lard doesn''t agree with my bowels." At the sight of Meya''s crestfallen face, he added, "I can get mash and truffle anytime back home. Go on. Don''t feel bad for me."

    Coris prodded her arm with the fritter plate. Meya bit her lips. She loved the fritters, but she didn''t feel like munching through it alone as the poor lad watched.

    "Is there anything here that does agree with your bowels?" She sprang up and scanned the vicinity, peering through the milling crowd,

    "Let''s see. Nothing hot. Nothing spicy. Nothing sour. Nothing oily. Nothing chewy. How about something...light and sweet?"

    Meya''s eyes settled upon a stall front lined with tufts of colorful cotton candy. She snatched Coris''s arm and pulled him to his feet. Coris grabbed the cocoa bowl just in time before she plunged him into the fray.

    Meya weaved through the crowd, eyes anchored to her destination. When you were born a peasant, battling crowds became pretty much one of your basic life skills.

    They managed to squeeze their way to the storefront just as the earlier customer was leaving; a woman hitching a kicking, bawling toddler to her hip with one arm, and jiggling up the bulging shopping bag in the other to hand the vendor a coin and snatch a stick of candy floss as she walked past, all done in less than a quarter-minute.

    "One latt, young lass." The old merchant chirped. Meya rummaged in her dress pocket for two bronze coins.

    "There you go." She deposited them in the merchant''s pale, lined palm, nabbed two rolls of leaf-green cotton candy wrapped in hair-thin, off-white flour pancakes, dropped one on the fritter plate Coris was holding, "And there you go."

    Meya stuffed the end of the second roll into her mouth to free her hand for swatting aside people, then ventured off again. She breached the crowd out to the deserted area in front of the Town Hall. She let go of Coris''s clammy arm, bit off the melting end of the roll in her mouth, and held the rest in her hand.

    Coris set the cocoa bowl on the wall, eyeing his cotton roll. Meya gestured with her floppy roll, talking through a mouthful of half-munched green sugar,

    "I know you favor green. Half your underpants are varying shades of vert. Some are older than others, granted."

    "Ari!" Coris cried, cheeks flushing pink. Meya guffawed, slapping a hand over her mouth as she slurped the overflowing green mixture of sugar goo and spit back inside.

    With a sigh and a grin, Coris shook his head and began nibbling on the sweet treat.

    Meya polished off her roll in about as long as it took to buy it. Coris, forever the knight, quietly gave her the plate of fritters, and Meya happily obliged.

    Popping a fritter into her mouth, Meya peered past the iron gates and the barren stone-paved court to the Town Hall. It was built of sandstone, with a copper-tiled roof dyed milky green by a coat of patina. Merchants and clerks walked through the arched doorway, toting scrolls and paperwork.

    An empty stone plinth stood at the heart of the courtyard, bearing a gleaming copper nameplate inscribed with information on the nonexistent monument.

    Meya poked Coris''s arm,

    "Say, what''s that plinth for?"

    Coris craned his neck to see past her.

    "Oh," He scratched his cheek, "That used to be the statue of Maxus, the first Baron Hadrian."

    Meya raised her eyebrows, intrigued.

    A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

    "It was made of bronze, so Father had it melted. The metal shortage here is a little worse than Crosset. We''re furthest from Easthaven Port, but it''s up to us to arm Amplevale Fortress against Nostra."

    Again with that metal shortage. Meya churned her lips as she eyed the empty plinth.

    "Poor chap." She mused with a wry grin, "His bones are probably rattling in his grave."

    "His ghost hasn''t come to haunt our dreams yet. Let''s hope it stays that way." Coris jokingly shivered, then cocked his head towards the Hall, "Want to go for a tour?"

    Meya nodded with a grin, tossing another fritter into her mouth. Coris strode around Meya to the gate, holding the inside door open as Meya passed through.

    They crossed the courtyard and passed through the arched door into the main hall. Bare wooden trusses bear the weight of the high vaulted ceiling. Guild headquarters lined the three walls, bearing the insignia of their trades. The clerks were either out for lunch, tearing through paperwork at the back as the queue grew longer, or jotting down complaints from members lining up before their windows.

    The blacksmith guild had the longest line, or rather, crowd. Merchants and peasants swarmed the counter like flies on dung, yelling and shaking their fists as the beleaguered apprentice boy cowered behind the counter.

    "Metal shortage," sighed Coris, shaking his head, "Either prices have risen again, or someone''s been hoarding. Wait here."

    Coris ushered the cocoa bowl to Meya, then strode towards the guild. He stopped short of the roiling crowd and rapped on the side door.

    The peeping slot behind a small grille window slid aside to reveal a pair of blinking eyes. Coris held up his Hadrian Crest. The door immediately swung open to admit him.

    Coris''s direct order was for Meya to stay where she was, but it was impossible to do nothing. She crept closer to the throng until she could make sense of their yelling.

    "Fifty latts for a sickle! This is lunacy!" An old farmer waved his rusty sickle; his cheeks flooded with heated blood. Other farmers and shepherds echoed his sentiment.

    "Not one pebble of ore has dropped on my doorstep in a month, Hemrond! It''s called supply and demand!" The blacksmith roared back.

    "This ''ere lad''s paying us fake coins!" A heavy-set merchant woman had a struggling young man by the back of his collar, flanked by five just-as-intimidating merchant ladies.

    "Storm season''s a-comin'' and I don''t have no nails to patch me roof with!" A peasant man whined.

    "Forget yer roof. Sewer behind me house''s been broken for a moon. Now everything I have smells like shite!" Another man shouted over him. Fair enough, everyone gave him personal space in the middle of the throng.

    "We need new pipes! My bathwater smells like metal shavings!" A housewife added, followed by several shouts of agreement.

    The complaints went on and on. At first glance, all seemed random and anecdotal, as if they should''ve belonged somewhere else, but once filtered down, the root cause became the same. There was no metal left in town.

    ?

    By the time Coris emerged, Meya had finished the fritters. He seemed surprised to see her next to the angry mob, but at last, he smiled and motioned for her to follow,

    "So, what have you gleaned so far?" He asked as she fell in step with him. Meya glanced back at the guild. A senior blacksmith had taken over at the counter, hands raised as he appeased the crowd.

    "Broken pipes. Stolen pipes. Fake coins. Coin hoarders. Smiths have no ores to work with. Farmers, stonemasons and lumberjacks got no tools to do their jobs. Nobody can prepare their houses for storm season, yada yada."

    She left off with a weary sigh, then nudged Coris''s shoulder.

    "What about you? What have you got?"

    "Seems like nothing more than shortage. The usual. No suspicious activity." Coris shrugged, but his eyebrows were knotted, and his eyes distant.

    "There''s still no directive from Meriton on what to do, so I''ve asked them to accept only urgent complaints for now. I''ll report to Father when we get back."

    "How d''you decide what''s urgent?"

    "Well, for example, planting season is over, so farmers won''t need their tools again until the harvest in late summer. They''ll have to make do with sanding and whetting rusty tools for now. But storm prepping; that''s a life-or-death issue. If necessary, we might have to melt farming tools to make nails, drain pipes and roof tiles. Or we can have the peasants take shelter in the castle and strong buildings."

    "Like here?" Meya suggested as they climbed the staircase to the mezzanine, where the bailiff and other officers had their workrooms. Coris nodded with another smile.

    The mezzanine''s metal railings had been replaced with crude wooden fences. Empty stone plinths that once carried ornate vases and statuettes lined the walls. Twin foot-shaped lighter patches between the plinths marked where suits of armors once stood; hands clasped over the hilt of their swords.

    Meya pictured faceless men carrying off the suits of armor, the statuettes, and railings. Each tossed to its fiery end in the crucible. It was a gloomy scene.

    Coris stopped before a marble plinth at the end of the corridor, staring fixed at the thin air over it as if he saw what was once there.

    His face was as empty as the plinth he admired, but his eyes brimmed with nostalgia. Meya gave him some personal time, then mustered her courage,

    "What was there?" She whispered. For a moment, Coris didn''t seem to have heard, but then he answered just as softly,

    "Corien''s Harp."

    Meya''s eyes widened.

    "Corien? But that''s your¡ª"

    Coris side-eyed her with a slight grin.

    "Corien was Drinian''s cousin who died in Everglen before the migration. That''s all we know about him. There''s nothing left of him but his harp. When Mother was pregnant with me, she longed to hear the Harp''s Song, so I''m named after him."

    A wistful smile tugging at his parched lips, he chuckled,

    "When I was younger, whenever Father took me here, I''d sneak off to pluck the harp then run and hide. You know, just to annoy the old men?"

    They shared a sad little laugh. Coris turned back to the air harp as silence fell. Meya wasn''t sure if it was curiosity or sympathy that compelled her to speak,

    "You wanted to say something, right? Back at dinner that day?"

    Coris turned to her with a puzzled look.

    "Your father wants to keep the Mining Ban. King Alden wants to lift it. You side with the King, so the Baron doesn''t want to talk to you about it?"

    Coris''s eyes lost focus as he thought back, then widened. The gloomy aura over him dissipated, and his pale face brightened,

    "You noticed?" He asked excitedly, then shook his head and muttered grumpily, "If only Zier were half as attentive."

    "So, what were you going to say?" Meya asked. Coris huffed in frustration,

    "What I''ve been saying for months. We must resume mining in Latakia now, which...is heresy in Hadrian, of course." He shrugged, looking careworn,

    "Maxus was a founding father of the Mining Ban alongside King Edward and the High Priest. And every Baron Hadrian, every Wynn King, every High Priest since honored their legacy."

    "But now we have a Corbyn for a king."

    "Exactly. And he questions that legacy."

    Coris leaned closer, his voice lowered,

    "And I question that legacy. Amplevale is our one line of defense; the moment Nostra sees a crack in our wall, they''ll storm the Pass. We must keep Amplevale armed at any cost. Unfortunately, catastrophe is often the best lobbyist. Such is the flaw of men."

    A dangerous, ruthless gleam crossed Coris''s eyes, now stormy gray. Meya steered the conversation away before he chanced upon a reckless idea,

    "What''s the reason, anyway? What''s wrong with mining? All those lords honestly don''t believe it''d bring about Freda''s damnation, do they?"

    "Of course, they don''t." Coris smirked wryly, "But Father''s lie, they believe. Father accused the King of exaggerating the ore ship crisis so he''d have an excuse to seize the lords'' lands and centralize mining."

    "Centralize?"

    "It means the King controls mining across Latakia, instead of each lord having authority over his demesne. Back in the time of First King Latakas, the tribes and clans relinquished control over their fief, trusted their might to the one King so he may unite Latakia and defend her from Nostra."

    "But it''s been two centuries since Nostra attacked last. And Devind the Demented proved that much power may be too great to be contained in one man. The bond of trust was broken. We supported Alden Corbyn''s rebellion on the condition that once we sat the crown on his head, he doesn''t interfere in our demesne."

    "Ah...And since King Alden overthrew Devind precisely because he had too much power, he''d be a dirty hypocrite if he wants to centralize mining himself? And the lords are afraid he''s following in King Devind''s footsteps?"

    "Exactly."

    "But, it''s been what, ten years? Why hadn''t the lords started mining in their lands already? If King Alden couldn''t interfere anyway, so what if they broke the Ban?" Meya argued.

    "My father is why," replied Coris with a sardonic smirk. Meya raised her eyebrows, blinking.

    "Freda''s blessing is like rain. Some lords have no ore veins on their demesne. Some have ore veins poisoned by Lattis and have no way to refine them. These lords support the Ban because they fear what may happen if their blessed neighbors can finally mine. And they have Hadrian and Amplevale''s might behind them."

    "But what about Hadrian, then? What have we got from Freda?"

    At that, Coris lowered his glinting eyes to her chest. Meya followed and found her Lattis coin, gleaming rainbow in the sunlight streaming through the windows. Her eyes widened,

    "Lattis?"

    Meya half-hoped Coris to say he was jesting, but he nodded. Bells rang in her head, then. Meya grasped the ruby brooch on her chest, unpinning it with hasty, fumbling fingers.

    "This knife. It''s made from Lattis, isn''t it?"

    Meya unsheathed the tiny blade, then her breath caught. The once razor-sharp knife was dull and distorted, half-melted as if licked by white-hot flames.

    Blood of a Greeneye is the only known method of refining Lattis. Lattis melts readily in it.

    Meya''s hand trembled. She''d seen what this thing could do to Greeneyes¡ªto people like her.

    But what exactly are us Greeneyes? Why does Lattis hurt us but not...them?

    Meya sneaked a glance at Coris, speaking as casually as she could,

    "Zier barely even scratched them, and they were screaming like they were being burned alive. And then they fled..." Meya glanced left and right to check if the coast was clear, then leaned in with a whisper, "...on dragons?"

    Meya held her breath as she locked eyes with Coris. Did he see the same thing she thought she saw? After what felt like three Miracle Fests, Coris gave a curt, almost invisible nod.

    Strength left Meya''s legs. She slumped against the wall, massaging her temples.

    "This might explain why Nostra attacked Rutgarth back then. If Lattis could be used against dragon riders, they wouldn''t allow Latakia to mine it," reasoned Coris. Meya was only half-listening. A single word echoed in her brain, ricocheting like a crazed bird caged.

    Dragons. Dragons. Dragons. Dragons. Dragons.

    That mural in the Hadrian Chapel. Those glowing, acid-green eyes of the dragons migrating from Everglen. Eyes like hers. Twenty pairs of those same eyes glowed in the dark. Last night. On that hill.

    What if all the dragons hadn''t flown to Nostra? What if some of them, like Drinian Hadrian, decided to settle halfway in Latakia and bond with humans as dragons and riders?

    But if Greeneyes were dragon riders, how would she explain herself being born a Greeneye while her siblings and her parents were ordinary people with normal eyes?

    "Maxus was a blacksmith in Rutgarth. He survived the Fall but was captured. The Nostrans imprisoned him for ten years, before he escaped back to Latakia with The Axel. He received an audience with King Edward. Not long after, the Mining Ban was announced."

    Meya snapped out of her reverie.

    "Wait, the Ban wasn''t announced right after Rutgarth was attacked?"

    Coris leaned in so close their foreheads touched,

    "That''s why I''m sure The Axel has something to do with it, but why ban mining if our only weapon against dragons is under our feet? Unless..."

    Coris froze, his eyes losing focus.

    "Unless what?" Meya prodded.

    Coris held up his hand, leaving Meya to rock restlessly on the balls of her feet. Then, he folded four fingers, pointing at Meya''s chest.

    "Maxus and King Edward weren''t trying to fight dragons." He began slowly, poring deep into her eyes,

    "They were trying to protect the dragons. From us."

    Protect? Dragons?

    Meya opened her mouth, but no words came out. Why would dragons need protecting? Who''d want to protect dragons? They were dragons, for Freda''s sake! They could melt mountain faces with one fiery breath, let alone a puny human.

    Suddenly, the floor shook and tilted. Meya screamed as she flung herself against the wall and squeezed her eyes shut. She felt the cold from Coris''s body above her, shielding her.

    The quake lasted a few breaths before the world stilled. Meya trembled as she peeled herself from the wall and fell against Coris''s chest.

    "It''s alright. It''s gone now. Everything''s fine." His soft voice flowed over her like a calm breeze as his clammy hand smoothed her hair.

    "What in the three lands was that?" Meya demanded, voice shaking as hard as her hands twisting Coris''s tunic. Coris shrugged nonchalantly,

    "Just an earthquake. ''Tis no big deal."

    "No big deal!?" Meya snapped, pushing away from Coris. He looked both surprised and on the verge of busting his guts laughing.

    Meya''s cheeks burned. She turned sharply away, having just realized she was the only one screaming in the whole building. The busy buzz downstairs droned through the ordeal as if nothing had happened.

    "We feel quakes from Neverend Heights here in the far west. The volcano''s still puffing brimstone."

    Coris explained, his voice rippling with laughter, then walked back towards a door at the end of the hallway,

    "I''ll meet with Bailiff Mansfuld. You have a look around. Nothing much to see, though."

    He said with a wink as Meya blinked blankly, then spun around and strode off.

    A sharp crack echoed from above. Meya looked up. One end of a wooden truss had broken free and was free-falling towards Coris.

    "Coris! Get Out!"

    Meya screamed as she launched herself at Coris. The flat of her palms slammed into his bony back, pitching him face-first to the floor.

    Coris whipped around, wide-eyed in horror. The heavy plank landed a decapitating blow to Meya''s nape, then darkness consumed her.

 The Double-Cross

    Meya woke to a throbbing pain in her head and a lump on the side of her neck. She tried to lift her head, but her brain began swinging drunkenly like a slowing top. Fuzzy yellow lamplights on stone pillars grew pointy blades like jousts and stabbed at her eyes.

    Just as she was about to give up and go back to sleep, a shrill voice pierced her ears, adding to her torture.

    "Arinel!"

    Warm, soft hands squeezed hers. Blurry faces popped one after another into her field of vision, then gradually sharpened.

    Baroness Sylvia sat on a bedside chair to her right. Baron Kellis stood behind her. Coris stood across from them to Meya''s left, red-faced and panting. Zier leaned against a bedpost, arms crossed. Lady Arinel and Gretella were kneeling beside the bed.

    They all looked pale and careworn, except for Coris.

    "What''s up with me?" Meya croaked.

    There was a rustling of long robes, then Bishop Riddell''s hulking frame entered the scene.

    "Lord Coris said you two were in the Town Hall when a wooden beam broke and fell towards him. You pushed him out of harm''s way and took the blow."

    Meya blinked, eyes wide. She did remember walking up the stairs with Coris, but everything after that was still nothing.

    "You might have trouble recalling it now. Your memories should come back gradually," said Riddell as if he''d heard her unspoken concerns. He frowned, his voice grave,

    "You were extremely lucky, my Lady. The beam must have landed on the side of your neck, so you simply fell unconscious. Had it landed directly on your nape, you could''ve died or been crippled for life."

    Died or crippled for life?

    A wave of chill rushed down Meya''s spine. She felt Coris tense up.

    "How did the beam break? Was it old? Was it because of the earth-shake?" She asked. The tremors seemed to have infected her voice somehow.

    "Earthquake." Zier corrected under his breath.

    "Yeah, that." Meya waved a feeble hand, too groggy to be annoyed, "Was that it?"

    Riddell pursed his lips and turned hesitantly to Coris, who was staring daggers at his father. Coris spared the healer a glance, then picked up right where the fight left off,

    "You heard him, Father. She could''ve died. She could''ve been crippled. Today it was her. Tomorrow, it could be anyone. Anywhere. We must approve the repairs. We need metal. The Ban must be lifted!"

    "Coris, your wife has just woken up after risking her life for you, and you''re yelling over her head at me about godforsaken roof beams?"

    Baron Kellis heaved a weary sigh. Coris bit his lips and fell silent, still glaring at his father. Baron Kellis narrowed his eyes,

    "You''re not Baron Hadrian. I shall deal with the matter myself. You''re to tend to your wife until she recovers fully. Is that clear?"

    Coris said nothing. Kellis repeated louder,

    "Is that clear, Coris?"

    "Crystal, my lord." Coris replied through gritted teeth, but the Baron didn''t seem to want to extend the fight. After another sigh, he swept towards the door, signaling Bishop Riddell to hastily whisper an apology and dismiss himself with a quick bow.

    Arinel surreptitiously patted Meya''s hand, then rose and followed Gretella outside. The Baroness met Coris''s eyes miserably and shook her head, then beckoned Zier over to help her to her feet.

    The instant the door closed behind them, Coris slumped on the bed edge. He slouched there and skulked for a moment, then swung up his legs and turned to Meya. He caressed her cheek, his fingers trailing past the bulge on her neck as he leaned down and kissed her.

    "I''m sorry. Thank you for saving me." He whispered as their lips parted, "How are you feeling?"

    Meya managed a one-shoulder shrug and a grimace, too tired and dazed to summarize her pathetic state into words. She felt like Coris''s default morning mood¡ªlow energy, ridiculously calm, always ready to sleep until lunchtime tomorrow.

    "What were you two going on about?" She flapped her hand, gesturing feebly between the door and her husband. Coris sighed,

    "Last time the Town Hall was repaired was thirty years ago. We planned to do repairs again this year, but then ore ships start disappearing and resources became short, so Father kept delaying it."

    "Bailiff Mansfuld''s men found a leak on the roof over the beam that broke. Our rainwater comes from Neverend Heights, so it''s very acidic. It probably ate away at the wood over the years, and today''s earthquake finally snapped it free."

    Meya''s eyes glazed over as she processed the alchemy-laden explanation with what little brainpower she could muster.

    "Are there any more leaks? What about those people working in the Town Hall?"

    "No one else was hurt this time, thankfully, but we must vacate the building until the masons made sure there''s no more danger."

    Meya wondered how long it would take before anyone would dare set foot into that manor again (herself included). Coris slid off the bed and walked to his study desk.

    "Anyway, you should tell your father what happened." He swiped a stack of letters from his desk and strode back, "Letters from Crosset arrived today. Here."

    He pulled the topmost letter from the twine-tied stack and handed it to her. Large letters were scrawled onto the back of the letter in charcoal.

    "Thanks."

    Meya took the letter, flipped it over then cracked the seal. Had her brain been at full working capacity, she would probably have noticed the seal was the tusked whale of Jezia''s clan, not Arinel''s snow fern.

    Meya pulled out the scrap of parchment and pretended to read the charcoal scribble that looked much like Jezia''s handwriting. Strange. Why would Lord Crosset use scraps and charcoal? Was he that much of a miser? Eh, wouldn''t put it over him, though.

    Unauthorized tale usage: if you spot this story on Amazon, report the violation.

    "You can''t read, can you?"

    Coris''s calm, cool voice pierced Meya''s reverie like a pebble hitting the rock bottom of a deep, yawning chasm. Meya froze as she struggled through the fog clouding her brain to make sense of the developments. She turned slowly around and found sharp gray eyes on a handsome face so pale and cold it could have been carved marble. Her trembling hands grew numb with cold.

    How does he know I can''t read? How long has he known? What else does he know? What is he getting at? What does this mean?

    The room fell colder as the clock ticked, as if Coris had drawn heat from the air with every breath he took.

    "That letter is from Jezia Boszel, addressed to Meya Hild. That happens to be your real name, isn''t it?"

    Meya pursed her lips tight, even as her tongue felt so stiff she wasn''t sure she could say anything anyway. She slithered out of the blankets and down the bed, landing on unsteady feet.

    Coris circled the four-poster bed towards her.

    "I am not going to harm you." He held up two pale, spider-like hands. They were empty. "If I had meant to, I would''ve done it long since."

    "Long since?" Meya scoured his wraith-like silhouette for the bulge of a sword hilt, the gleam of a dagger. She bent her knees and relaxed her feet, ready to flee at a split-second''s notice, "Since when have you known?"

    "I haven''t." Coris shrugged, his serene eyes catching Meya''s every twitch. "I simply had a hunch, right from the first night, which I gradually confirmed."

    Coris slipped his hand down his trouser pocket, then produced a coin on a thong that gleamed rainbow in the firelight. Meya slapped her neck. Where the Lattis coin should have been was naked skin.

    Since when...or was it when he...kissed me?

    The revelation unnerved her. She''d sat there talking with him about godforsaken roof beams, not realizing her eyes were glowing like ghostly bonfires. Coris had said he wouldn''t harm her. He''d saved her life even when he suspected she was an impostor. Still, the notion that he had been biding his time, silently observing her while playing the gentle lover, made him seem as intimidating as Gillian...perhaps even worse.

    Never underestimate Coris Hadrian.

    She understood now what Arinel meant, and the thought of what could have been scared her out of her mind. What if she hadn''t changed sides and gone through with the heist? What if Coris had decided she was an enemy? What else did he lie about? What else was an act?

    It pained her to think that hours ago, they were simply good friends sharing snacks, swapping tales and enjoying May Day. To think that just last night they had made love so passionately and then lain side by side sharing heartfelt talk, but was there any truth in what they had?

    No. There wasn''t any truth. It was all a lie. She should never have forgotten since she had started it. Coris was simply playing along. It was her fault she had begun to believe it would actually last.

    Swallowing the bitter taste squeezed up from her constricted chest, Meya gathered her courage and her wits and began negotiating,

    "Milord, you''ve had plenty of time to confront me, but you waited until now. You had plenty of time to kill me, but you haven''t. You had plenty of time to set me free, but you haven''t. What exactly do you want with me?"

    Coris''s pale, chapped lips stretched into a slight grin.

    "I abhor killing." He said, "I''ve seen the real Arinel is alive. I know you mean us no harm. There are other ways we can deal with this that will benefit the both of us. But first, I want to know your demands."

    "Demands?" Meya blinked cold sweat out of her eye, "I just want me life."

    "And where will you go after I spare your life? Home to Crosset?" Coris raised an eyebrow in mild interest. Meya froze, then gathered herself. She shook her head,

    "Of course not, milord. Me family will be fuller this winter without me hogging on their bread. ''Tis why me Dad sold me off in the first place."

    A hollow feeling curled in her stomach, but Meya wasn''t being sarcastic. How could she go home like this? Kicked out of her post with her virginity lost? Dad would bury her alive if he ever found out. Plain and lowly as she was, who''d ever believe she''d lain with Lord Hadrian?

    "Where will you go, then?"

    Meya forced down the shivers as she wracked her brain. Jezia''s letter crinkled in her fidgeting hand.

    That''s right! Jezia! I can travel with Jezia''s caravan and become a merchant!

    Her giddy happiness vaporized just as swiftly as the sinking realization hit her.

    No, Jason will never allow it. He''ll definitely tattle to Dad.

    Sighing glumly, Meya shrugged,

    "Somewhere far, I guess. I''ll pay a merchant''s caravan to get me far from here. So you won''t ever have to worry about me talking."

    "And what next?" Coris still won''t let her off the hook. Meya squirmed. Why in Fyr''s name was he so interested? Would her future life goals affect her odds of escaping punishment?

    "What would you do for a living once you''re there? It''s not easy getting a Residence or Landholder permit as a lone woman. You''d be forced into prostitution in the end."

    Prostitution?

    Meya''s eyes nearly bulged. Goodly Freda, Dad would skin her alive if she even had the thought.

    "Oh, I don''t think I''ll ever be that desperate, milord." Meya waved hastily, having guessed why Coris was so interested in her life after Hadrian,

    "You dun have to worry about turning a woman away to fend for herself, milord. I can gamble and swindle. I can hunt and forage. I dun need a piece of parchment to tell me where to live and how to earn bed and bread."

    "It''s not easy living as an outlaw. Especially as a lone woman as young as you, without a single Latt to her name." Coris''s argument remained chillingly grounded in reality. Meya bit her lips in fear. "Would you rather be gored by bears and hogs or be raped, robbed or killed in a back alley?"

    They locked eyes, calm silver upon wavering green. Meya broke away, picking at a loose thread on her nightdress.

    Coris was right. She couldn''t survive on the streets, far on the other side of Latakia. But she couldn''t go home like this, either. She had nowhere to go. No one to turn to. Even if she left Hadrian alive, she had no idea what to do after. Perhaps, all she could do was walk on and hope for the best.

    For the first time in her life, Meya felt as if she were alone in the three lands. It wasn''t that she was never alone. Even when surrounded by three brothers, three sisters, and a few friends, she was always somewhat alone inside.

    But at the least, she had a home and a family she could return to at the end of the day. No matter how unwelcome she might feel, something was still there for her. And now, there was nothing.

    Coris sighed.

    "Pride will only destroy you," He said, more gently now, "Wouldn''t it be wiser to go home¡ªand marry, if your family didn''t accept you back?"

    Meya hitched up a rueful grin, trembling hands twisting the fabric of her nightdress.

    "No man would want a Greeneye. Not even her father. And I''m not a maiden no more, remember?"

    Coris''s eyes widened in horrified realization as silence fell tense between them. Crosset was much more set in the old ways than Hadrian. The village''s elderly women had ways to determine if a bride-to-be was still a maiden. Should she fail the test, her punishment would be severe, elaborate and humiliating. Paraded around town and whipped, probably.

    "Of course I remember." Coris snapped. Meya forced out a wry, bitter grin. Cursing in an undertone, Coris drifted closer.

    Meya couldn''t bear to meet his eyes. It wasn''t that she blamed him. She''d chosen by herself. She had no one to blame but herself. And she wouldn''t have it any other way. Rather make your own mistakes and suffer the consequences than let someone else point out the right choices for you. At least, this time, she had that choice. He hadn''t taken it away. For that, she would always be thankful.

    Meya knew from the start that Coris would never truly be hers, that this life would not last, but she hadn''t expected the dream to end so soon, so abruptly. It was just too much to handle for now. She needed more time to cope.

    "I''m so sorry. I really shouldn''t have lain with you." Coris whispered, tender and flowing with guilt. Meya swallowed hard as her heart writhed.

    "You gave me the choice, milord. Something few men in your place would have done." She shook her head with a melancholic little smile, even as she stifled tremors from her limbs and her voice,

    "You and Lady Arinel are gracious and noble. ''Twas an honor to serve the both of you, no matter how short. I dun regret everything that happened here. I did everything I could to keep us alive. And if someone would remember me for that, just for a little while, ''tis all worth it."

    As Coris looked on, Meya unpinned the ruby brooch, pulled off her wedding band, and laid them on the bed.

    "I believe these belong to your real wife, milord." She laughed, then solemnly offered her last farewell,

    "I wish you health and happiness, milord. I''m glad we can part on friendly terms. Me time here is up. I shall be on me way."

    Meya bent her knees into the most graceful curtsy she could manage. Steeling herself against fear, she turned to the stone arch painting, which hid a secret passageway to the scullery.

    "Meya¡ªMeya Hild."

    Coris''s call halted her feet. It was the first time he''d ever addressed her by her name¡ªher real name.

    Meya turned around. Coris still stood by the bed, half his face a silhouette backlit by the moonlight streaming through the open window, the other half bathed by the flickering, reddish glow of the fireplace. For a breath, the air stood still, silent save for the crackles and sputters of the fireplace. Then, his lips moved,

    "I am going to give you a choice."

 The Contract

    I am going to give you a choice.

    Words that compelled her to become his that night, led her to risk her life betraying Gillian. Meya clenched her trembling hands into fists. His pale lips moved,

    "First: You remain Lady Arinel, and help me solve the mystery of those dragon riders. I will safeguard you with Hadrian''s full might. You will not be punished. You will be rewarded for your service. You can even stay on and serve Lady Arinel if you like."

    "Second: You go free. I will reward you enough for you to start a new life elsewhere. I will not persecute you."

    Silence fell as they locked eyes. Coris clasped his hands at his back,

    "Think carefully. Once you''ve decided, there''s no going back."

    Meya stared. He offered her the chance to stay, not as the scullery maid she should be, but as Lady Arinel¡ªto help him? She? A peasant? How in the three lands could she be any help to him? What joke was he pulling?

    Meya peered into his eyes. They betrayed no glimpse of mockery or deception. His lips were pursed to a line, his expression set in stone.

    Meya reined in shivers as she backed away, eyes wide and fearful.

    "Why are you offering me this? Why d''you want me here? What d''you see in me?" She rambled shrilly, "I''m just a stupid, useless peasant girl. I can''t even read or write. I can''t help you with nothing. Why in the three lands would you need me?"

    He gained ground with every step she lost. Her foot bumped the leg of his wardrobe and she stumbled. She flung out her arms for balance. Coris stopped, but his serene presence still overwhelmed her. She felt small and cornered.

    "Don''t you want to know more about dragons, Lattis, The Axel? Don''t you want to know why you were born a Greeneye? Don''t you want to experience being a noblewoman, see if you have what it takes?"

    "I''m just a peasant girl. I tried being Lady Crosset and it didnae work. You foiled me from the start!"

    "I''m giving you the chance to try again, aren''t I? You scolded me for letting my death decide my life. Now you''re letting your birth decide yours."

    His words knocked the breath out of her. Coris was right. She''d failed countless times in her life. Yet, she hadn''t let any beating-up stop her from trying. Years she practiced in secret in the woods as the rain pummeled her and the winds batted her to perfect her mother''s Song.

    Still, the townspeople never allowed her to replace Mum as the Song of May Day. Her whole life, she struggled to win Dad''s approval. She toiled in the fields, gambled, foraged¡ªanything to be useful, but she could never become the daughter he wanted. Nobody had given her a chance.

    Coris was willing to. And she must admit, she wasn''t ready to let it all go so soon.

    Not like this. Not just yet.

    But could she really do it? Lattis. The Axel. Dragons. Riders. Hadrians. Latakia. Nostra. Everglen. They were all too grand for her.

    Was she being too confident, too greedy, too reckless? Was she being a coward? A weak, indecisive peasant girl?

    If she let this go, what else? If not now, when? Ready or not, she must give her all and succeed or die trying. There was no someday, nothing else to lose. Hadn''t she decided?

    "I want you for your loyalty, your bravery, your ambition, and your wit. You can be more than a servant, given the chance." Coris closed in, his eyes gleaming silver in the firelight,

    "I''m giving you that chance. And I daresay you''ll be hard-pressed to find a better opportunity elsewhere."

    Meya scoured his eyes for a flicker of deceit. Coris tilted his head, his voice softer,

    "You already know how dangerous this could be. I understand if you''re reluctant to wager your life. Think carefully. A good strategist does not let insecurity nor pride cloud his judgment."

    Silence fell as silver and emerald clashed, the scene set by the uneasy mixture of firelight and moonbeam. Meya pursed her lips, a grim line of determination, her quiet voice echoing in the gloom,

    "I''m in, milord."

    ?

    "So, what do I have to do?"

    Meya broke the silence¡ªCoris had simply nodded. Coris smiled, but there was no joy in his ever-calculating eyes.

    "Learn. And fast." Meya blinked, puzzled. "You''ve just made your first fatal mistake, Meya."

    Meya frowned. Coris sighed, his expression softening to a mix of worry and guilt.

    "You''re too trusting." He muttered, shaking his head, "I haven''t offered anything as proof of our deal. And you haven''t come up with any threats for me should I betray you. You have nothing but my word, and it''s not enough. Always ask for something binding when you strike a deal, and make sure to learn as much as possible about the other party."

    Meya struggled to comprehend. She? Too trusting? Of Coris? Why should she distrust him? Yes, he did lie to her before, but he hadn''t meant her harm. And they were on the same side!

    "You almost led twenty people to their deaths when your deal with Gillian fell through. You must be more careful."

    " ''Twas different! I know you''re a good man. You''ve been gracious and fair, and I trust you. I dun want to threaten you." Meya argued.

    "But you should." Coris frowned in frustration, "Meya, you can''t trust anyone just because they''re nice to you. Or because they''re a Greeneye like you."

    Meya bit her lips, painfully reminded of her camaraderie with Gillian.

    "You''re Lady Hadrian now. You''re responsible for the safety of The Axel, which means the safety of Hadrian, and perhaps the whole of Latakia. Your enemies are no longer locusts, floods or droughts. They''re people. I appreciate your loyalty, but you need to think differently from how you''re used to."

    Meya breathed deeply, then sighed. There went that scary, alone feeling again. True, she lied to her family and broke the law daily, but playing mind games? That was out of her depth.

    Meya nodded in surrender.

    "Fine. If you betray me..." She paused, wracking her brain, "...I''ll tell everyone where The Axel is, putting Lord Zier in grave danger?"

    Coris smiled, satisfied, which was disconcerting, considering he''d just egged her to blackmail him, and she suggested using his brother''s life.

    "That''s more like it, but I''d suggest you include Hadrian and Latakia for good measure. It''s common knowledge I''m not exactly a loving brother."

    With that pithy remark, Coris spun around and beckoned to her with a flick of his hand as he strode to his desk,

    "I''ll write down two copies of everything I said, and we each keep one. This should prevent both of us from reneging on our deal."

    Having settled Meya on the chair facing the wall, he circled the desk and opened a drawer, from which he took parchment, a quill and an inkwell.

    Meya propped her chin on her hand, watching Coris flourish lines of words onto the brownish parchment. The tip of his hawk-feather quill quivered and swung as he wrote loopy letters.

    "Once we sign our names, the contract will become official." He surfaced, "Anything you''d like to add or set straight?"

    Meya jolted, carried away following Coris''s quill. She considered it, then blushed. Her eyes slid toward the four-poster bed,

    "When...when you said I''ll still be Lady Arinel, does that mean we''re still going to, er...?"

    Meya trailed off, simpering apologetically. Coris blinked, then he, too, colored.

    "No." He declared firmly, then his voice softened, "Once all this is over, Arinel will be reinstated as my wife. I must start getting to know her, which means no sleeping with you."

    Meya bit her lips, then hung her head. Though she had expected it, it pained her nonetheless. She impulsively gave him her virginity, but he was bound to marry another woman while she''d be doomed to spinsterhood for the rest of her life.

    Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.

    Coris rested his cold hand on her shoulder, his tender, sad voice consoling her,

    "I promise. You won''t need a husband to provide for you once you''re done working for me. And why would you trade your name for a man who decides your worth by your purity, anyway?"

    Meya raised her eyes to answer his beautiful gray, poring deep into hers in the calm silence. She forced out what she hoped was a brave smile,

    "Thank you, milord."

    Coris cocked his head, grinning.

    "Least I could do for the fair maiden who saved my life, and shared her first night with me." He bowed, "I apologize for my lies, but I truly did enjoy our nights together. Thank you."

    Meya twisted her dress, snickering to mask her shyness.

    "I enjoyed them, too. So, thank you, too, milord." She mumbled coyly, then muttered to herself, "Though I reckon now the whole of Hadrian knows how unexpectedly big your ding-dong is."

    "Excuse me?" Coris frowned.

    "I was saying," Meya chirped, "The other thing is, I can''t read or write. Not even me name."

    Coris froze, then swore under his breath,

    "Fyr! How could I have forgotten?"

    " ''Tis all mighty fine, milord. You just sign it for me." Meya threw up her hands. Her smile sagged as Coris''s sharp, scolding eyes drilled into hers,

    "Has anyone ever told you that you''re lazy, Meya?"

    Meya blinked, miffed but too confused to blow her top.

    "You''re brighter than most people I''ve met. Yet, when I asked what you planned to do for a living, your first thought was of gambling and swindling. Because they''re easy gold, aren''t they?"

    Meya slumped against her chair''s backrest, pouting,

    "When you''re a Greeneye and a peasant and a woman, ''tisn''t much you can do to earn bread and bed if you''re not good at housework."

    "Housework doesn''t take born genius to be good at. It takes patience and diligence. Both of which you don''t have a single ounce of," said Coris drily. Meya was thoroughly pissed,

    "You''re one to talk, milord! Why, you''ve never even emptied your own chamberpot!"

    Coris blinked. Meya froze. She might have been a little too brazen.

    " ''Twas very rude of me, milord. Please don''t kill me." She squeaked. Her apology amused Coris. He chuckled and cocked his head.

    "Fair argument. I cannot in good conscience reprimand you for refusing housework."

    Meya slumped to a pathetic heap on her chair.

    "While you''re here, you''ll earn bread and bed by doing lawful work for me. And, your first task..." Coris opened his drawer, pulled out a sheaf of linen paper, then set it down before Meya, "...is to learn how to write your name."

    "Would be much faster if you''d just sign it for me." Meya frowned at the pile of rag paper. Coris''s eyes narrowed.

    "If you want to work for me, you must be literate." He said, sharp and curt, "If you want to go far in life, you must be literate. You just got caught because you can''t read, and you still have the galls to be lazy?"

    Coris tapped her head with a scroll. Shaking the blow off her head, Meya opened her mouth to retort, then closed it with a sigh. Ain''t no coming back from that. Sure of victory, Coris dipped his quill in his inkwell and drew up a piece of paper.

    "Tell me your true name."

    Meya sighed.

    "May-lah Awn-ya Hild." She recited dully, then heaved another sigh, " ''Tis in Glennian. You can''t spell it anyway."

    Coris smiled in good fun, having reverted to his good mood.

    "Fortunately, I happen to be a Runes enthusiast, with an enormous..."

    Coris twisted around to the bookshelf, running his fingers over leather-bound, gold-gilded spines. He hooked out a thick book, spun back and displayed it with pride,

    "Rune Glossary."

    Meya turned pointedly away, hoping her curtain of fake golden locks would hide her burning cheeks. Coris blinked, then hitched up a sly grin,

    "You are one randy lass, Meya Hild."

    Meya glared as the well-endowed lad snickered in triumph. Coris fell against his chair''s backrest, selected another book, then straightened and laid them on the desk.

    "Do you know the meaning of your name?" He lifted the thick cover of the glossary, trawling his forefinger down the index, his tongue sticking out between his yellowed, chipped teeth. It must have something to do with his damaged innards.

    "Queen of May, and heavenly glow," grumbled Meya grudgingly. She puffed a moody breath, "Go with Meya, milord. ''Tis a lot easier."

    "Since you''re going to be learning all the letters, wouldn''t it make more sense to go with the one with more letters?"

    Meya couldn''t argue with that. Sulking, she watched Coris rifle through the glossary, pausing now and then to scribble runes on the linen. He shunted aside the heavy glossary and pulled the second book to him, probably a Latakian-Glennian lexicon¡ªnow, he was writing Latakian letters underneath the row of runes.

    Once the last rune had been transliterated, Coris spun the parchment to face Meya,

    "There you go. Your name."

    Meya peered at the trail of shining, dark magenta ink, joining and looping and rising and falling to form words she didn''t recognize.

    Maelaith Aine Hild

    She touched her calloused finger to the damp ink, tracing the intertwined letters. She''d never seen her full name in writing before. It might just be Coris''s penmanship, but it was beautiful.

    "Perhaps you shouldn''t be so harsh on it." Coris whispered, smiling as she met his eyes, "It''s a beautiful name. With a beautiful meaning. Lovingly crafted."

    Meya smiled back as warmth enveloped her heart. She''d always wished for a simple Latakian name anyone could say and spell, that castle clerks wouldn''t complain loudly about, that didn''t brand her as a Greeneye. But perhaps, having a unique, exotic name wasn''t that bad.

    Glennian must be a beautiful language with beautiful letters full of mystique. Meya wanted to learn more.

    "Have you met any other Greeneyes, Lord Coris? D''you know their true names?"

    Meya asked, absently caressing her name. Coris shook his head, downcast,

    "Noble families aren''t so noble in how they treat Greeneye children." He said gravely, "My friend Agnesia Graye has¡ªhad¡ªa little sister¡ªPersephia. She''s a Greeneye. It''s supposed to be a secret, so she''s never given a Glennian name."

    "A Greeneye Lady? What''s she like?" Meya leaned in, eyes sparkling with interest.

    "I don''t think I could describe her properly." Coris frowned as he fidgeted with his quill, "We''ve never met at her nor my best."

    Meya frowned as she deciphered his cryptic explanation,

    "You mean to say she was bullied by her family, and you bullied her like you bullied Zier?" She guessed, smirking as Coris nodded in defeat, "What did Lady Agnes say?"

    Even after all that had transpired, it was nigh impossible to be polite to Coris when they''d lain together numerous times. Luckily, Coris was sport¡ªhe shot her a wry smirk and a side-eye,

    "You think I''d bully my beloved''s little sister when she was around to see?"

    "Good to know milord is definitely not a lying, cowardly bully." Meya stifled a laugh.

    "Hence the need for a contract." Coris cocked his head with a grin. Meya reciprocated.

    Their eyes met and did not part. She saw in his eyes their shared moments she was remembering, mourning they could not have been more. But if only he would allow it, perhaps there was hope. Was it shameful of this lowly peasant girl to dream? Why was she even dreaming? Did she imagine it?

    For a breath, it seemed as if he would answer her call, but then he broke away. Meya toyed with a stray lock of hair, her heart writhing even as she chided it. Coris spun his quill between his fingers, distracted.

    "Tell me about your siblings," He said.

    "So you could use them as hostages?" Meya shot back, laughing as Coris shook his head, "I''ve got me two big sisters I''d trade for a hug-sized piglet any day, so good luck with that."

    "And I thought I''d hit rock bottom when Zier said he''d trade me for a busty wet nurse," Coris joked.

    "I can handle Morel," Meya shook her head, "She''s got a rotten mouth, but pretty much everyone in Crosset fancy themselves some gum rot when they talk to me. But Marin..." Meya sighed, drained all of a sudden,

    "I''d give anything to be as pretty as Marin."

    "Anything?" challenged Coris. Meya surfaced to find his keen, mysterious eyes, "Would it actually make things better if you were prettier?"

    Meya pondered it, then shook her head. She might have one thing less to complain about herself, but there was no telling if it would make any difference to Mum and Dad. Let alone the people of Crosset. What with her Song and her monstrous eyes.

    "Well, if I were to choose, I''d rather not be born with glowing eyes, I guess." She sighed gloomily, then her eyes widened as she recalled her disrupted talk with Coris,

    "You said King Edward and Maxus Hadrian wanted to protect Greeneyes from Lattis, so they announced the Mining Ban. And you think Greeneyes are dragon riders?"

    Coris nodded. Meya shook her head,

    "It dun''t make sense, milord. Why would they want to protect people like me? We''re nobody. And there are so few of us. Say, how does one even become a dragon rider? Is it inherited? Why am I the only Greeneye in me whole family, in me whole town? And Lady Persephia, too."

    Coris twiddled his quill, deep in thought.

    "Are there Greeneyes in your branch family? Cousins? Ancestors? Do you keep a family tree?"

    "Dad did say there are Greeneye Hilds and Claridens in other towns..."

    Meya trailed away, distracted by the chime of bells in her head. She snatched the paper with her name on it,

    "Can I draw on this?"

    Coris blinked, then nodded. He handed her the quill, but Meya had dipped her fingertip into his inkwell, painting on the margins.

    "I found this seal on me Dad''s old belt." She slid the paper to Coris, jabbing her maroon finger at the blotchy doodle, "A dragon. The sea. Our family motto. We Shall Return."

    "Duty and Atonement." Coris murmured. He surfaced and met Meya''s eyes, "You mean to say the Hilds came from Everglen, like the Hadrians?"

    "Yeah, but it still dun''t make sense." Meya mussed her hair, "If your ancestor Drinian hitched a ride on a dragon from Everglen, you should have Greeneye cousins somewhere, too. But you dun, do you?"

    Coris chewed his lips, then shook his head,

    "None that we know of, but they might have just been kept secret like Persephia."

    "Besides, Greeneyes are more common in Easthaven and Damerel. Stands to reason most Glennians would''ve settled down near the eastern coast, and those in the far west are their descendants or stragglers."

    "So all the dragons flew on to Nostra, while the Greeneye-Glennian-dragon-riders settled down in eastern Latakia?" Meya attempted to summarize,

    "Why dun they all go to Nostra on their dragons? Or stay together in Latakia?"

    Fed up with his quill, Coris had picked up Meya''s Lattis coin to fidget with. Meya frowned,

    "Say...Lady Persephia. How does she hide her eyes?"

    Coris stared at the ceiling, wracking his brain. He gestured at his wrist,

    "She''s got this..." He trailed away, then his eyes widened in shock, "...bracelet."

    Meya raised her eyebrows. Coris looked as if he was cursed to marble. She reached out hesitantly, then prodded his arm,

    "Lord Coris?"

    Coris snapped out of his trance. He spun the paper around, picked up his quill and wrote down large, separate letters.

    "Here." He slid it back to Meya and handed her the quill, "Trace the letters one at a time. Write as large as you want. You can write smaller once you''re better at it."

    Meya didn''t move, unsettled by the sudden change of subject and annoyed at his none-too-subtle attempt to keep her out of the know.

    Coris nudged her arm, his face impassive. Sighing, Meya took the quill and hovered it above the parchment, unsure where to start or if she was holding it correctly. A dollop of ink splashed onto the parchment.

    Coris spotted Meya''s five-finger choke-hold crushing the feather and realized his mistake. He rummaged in his drawer for an old charcoal pencil, sprang up and circled the desk to her side.

    "Start with the charcoal." He replaced the quill with the pencil, adjusting her grip,

    "Start here. Drag up, down, up again, down again. Eh, not bad. Let''s try again."

    They covered paper after paper with large, clumsy letters. The candle burned low. Coris pulled his chair over and sat beside Meya, guiding her hand with his, their voices echoing as Meya recited each letter.

    The light of dawn filtered through the curtains. Meya snored, the pencil held loosely in her hand, her head of golden locks resting on Coris''s chest.

    Coris stifled a yawn as he dropped the lid on the shapeless candle, putting out its dying light. He mustered the strength in his frail limbs but couldn''t sweep the fair maiden off the ground and carry her to bed. With a disgruntled sigh, he fetched Meya''s pillow from the bed and dragged along the red-and-gold blanket.

    "You''re not the rider, Meya." He whispered as he draped the thick down-stuffed silk over her shoulders, his furrowed eyebrows laden with the weight of the truth,

    "You are the dragon."

 A Graye Area

    Coris was awakened by the combination of asphyxiation and an impending sneeze. A smothering weight flattened his lungs. A soft, warm breeze blew into his nostrils, bringing with it the scent of butter and sugar.

    He opened his eyes and nearly propelled his head into the headboard¡ªa pair of glowing green eyes, an inch away from his nose.

    "Argh!" Coris yelled.

    "Eek!" Meya (for it obviously was she) shrieked as she backpedaled onto the bed. Coris sprang upright, then fell onto his pillow, pinching the bridge of his nose to steady his swimming brain. Once his world stood still, he glowered at the idiot lass,

    "What in the three lands were you doing? Trying to suffocate me?" He snapped. Meya cowered, fretting with her hands as she squeaked,

    "I''m so sorry, milord. I can''t help meself. The beetle..."

    "Beetle?"

    Meya lunged at his head. With swift, light fingers, she plucked something clinging to his fringe and held it up for him to see.

    A tiny, emerald green ladybug with large, shiny golden spots squirmed feebly with its minuscule red legs and antenna on Meya''s thumb, pinned down by her forefinger. Assuming he had taken a good enough look, she drew away and let the wee thing crawl free into her palm, cupping her hand over it to stop it from escaping too soon.

    "He came in through the window then ended up on his back on the desk. I helped him upright, and he shot off again, but he couldn''t find his way out." She prattled on absentmindedly, peering into her hand cave,

    "He kept buzzing ''round the room until he landed on your head. Maybe because your hair smells of flowers?"

    She turned to him with her glowing green eyes. Coris had been just as mesmerized watching the lass as she''d been watching the bug. Gathering himself, he caressed his hair,

    "Possible. I use Hadrian Rose oil on it." He shrugged, seemingly unfettered. Meya blinked, then rolled her eyes,

    "Dun you Hadrian folk have any other flowers apart from the Hadrian Rose, milord?" She edged off the bed. Coris sat up, watching as she strode to the window,

    "We do. It''s just that Mother insist I massage my scalp with it because she''s convinced I''m getting prematurely bald."

    Meya spun around. Behind her, the ladybug buzzed from her outstretched hands into the sunny spring day. Her eyes traveled to his pillow, where long strands of brown hair lay brittle and lifeless.

    "Well, you do shed a lot of hair."

    Coris''s eyes narrowed, his cheeks tinged with self-conscious pink. Realizing her misstep, Meya swiped some parchment from the desk, then scurried back to her balding fake husband,

    "I reckon you just have to eat more, milord. Why, you look like you''ve just been through a famine."

    She knelt beside the bed and smoothed the contracts on the sheets. Moody and silent, Coris slapped the bed for her to clamber up. Meya obliged,

    "Your hair needs more food. Fyr, every part of your body needs more food."

    Meya''s eyes pooled at the region below Coris''s midriff. She stifled a laugh with much difficulty,

    "Well, almost every."

    Coris said nothing. Meya sneaked a glance. Grinning and shaking his head, he turned to the two copies of the contract. Meya looked glumly at her signature at the bottom. Next to Coris''s impeccable, ornate print, hers was a puppy''s doodle.

    "If ''tis too hideous, I''ll rub it off and do it over."

    Coris met her gaze, then shook his head again,

    "Meya, your true name is difficult even for clerks, yet you spelled it correctly in one night, with no prior education. You should be proud. You haven''t yet met Penis Hadrian, aged three."

    Coris picked up the contracts and examined them. Meya blinked, then fell to a heap of hysterical laughter. Coris chuckled along,

    "My fault entirely. Should''ve known better than to trust Klythe Crosset to teach me my letters."

    Meya hiccupped to a halt at that name the Hadrians so often mentioned. She eyed Coris warily. He was still scanning the contract as if for loopholes.

    "You''re close with Sir Klythe, Lord Coris?" She asked softly.

    Coris turned around, and his grin faded. His eyes wandered, lost in tragic remembrance.

    "He''d been living with us for as long as I can remember," He fidgeted with the parchment, "He was my father''s squire, Simon and Chris''s mentor."

    "Your mother said he disappeared not long after The Axel Heist?" Meya leaned closer. Coris nodded. "What happened?"

    Stolen novel; please report.

    Coris bit his lips. His fingers tightened and twitched on the parchment, sending small creases spreading like cracks on glass,

    "I was sick in bed, trying to cough up The Axel that wasn''t in my stomach."

    His voice was heavy, void of emotion. His haunted eyes stared unseeing. Meya squeezed his arm. He rested his hand on her arm in return, swallowing hard,

    "The last time I saw him was when he visited me, the day before Agnes died. The last time everyone else ever saw him, he was by Father''s side, when Father sent him away on an errand."

    "Soon after, a fire broke out in Agnes''s rooms. They found Persephia there surrounded by flames and naked, unconscious but unharmed. Not a single burn. Agnes was nowhere to be found, dead or alive. When Persephia came to, she couldn''t remember anything that had happened."

    Coris''s eyes bored into hers, piercing, foreboding. Meya blinked, then narrowed her eyes,

    "You''re thinking of Gillian? You think the Graye girls had a row, Persephia flew into a rage, called out her dragon and burned her sister to ash?"

    Coris simply stared, an insinuating, almost desperate look in his eyes. Meya shrugged,

    "But why were they naked? Do dragons have an aversion to clothes, or a fetish for naked human riders? So you must strip down before you can call them in? Do I have to be naked to summon my dragon soulmate, too?"

    Meya jabbed her thumbs at her chest, eyes bulging as she stared at him, incredulous. Coris avoided her eyes, falling silent as if in thought. Meya moved on with her argument,

    "Or maybe, ''tis got nothing to do with Greeneyes. Persephia might like being nude in private, or she''d just gotten out of a bath. I know folks back home who died naked on the loo."

    Meya shrugged, then continued more seriously,

    "Sir Klythe served your father. He might have set fire to Agnes''s rooms. That must have been the errand the Baron sent him to do. That''s why he fled. That''s why he disappeared."

    Meya''s lips twisted into a satisfied smirk. Once her excitement subsided, she registered Coris''s silence. She turned and found the pain and sorrow in his eyes. Her savage grin slid off,

    "Oh, Freda. I''m so sorry." She rushed to his side. Coris closed his eyes as he quelled his emotions. Finally, he sighed,

    "A good strategist values unbiased opinion." He forced out his benign, melancholic smile, "Even if Klythe did it, I don''t blame him. I don''t blame Father. They did what was in their nature, their duty."

    Meya bit her lips, scolding herself. She caressed the back of his icy hand with shaking fingertips. Coris didn''t flinch nor bat aside her hand. He closed his eyes, exhausted,

    "It was just as you said. I made a choice but I didn''t think it through. I saved Zier but I killed Agnes, when I should''ve seen it coming."

    "You. Didn''t. Kill. Agnes." Meya insisted, frustrated, almost pleading, as she glowered at those lifeless eyes, her hand squeezing his,

    "Your priority then was Zier so you forgot about Agnes. ''Twas just natural. ''Twas the Baron who miscalculated. He killed an innocent little girl. He was the one what should be sorry, not you!"

    A teardrop welled at the corner of his eye. Meya slumped beside him, downcast. Her heart was in turmoil, but she was dismayed to find a knot of envy deep within her guilt and sympathy. Would Coris ever cry for her as he did for Zier and Agnes?

    Sweeping it under the figurative rug, Meya heaved a sigh,

    "Knew I shouldn''t have brought this up. I''m so sorry, milord."

    Coris rested his icy hand on hers. Meya jolted.

    "You don''t have to be, Meya. We''re working together. Anything you''d like to know, ask away. The smallest clue could turn out to be crucial."

    Meya surfaced to find his gentle smile. Coris bowed, his voice a whisper,

    "And, thank you, what you said really helped."

    A wave of warmth engulfed Meya, and she blushed hard. She nodded and retracted her hand, trying to calm her panicking heart. She went on in a rush,

    "If Lady Agnes wasn''t in on the heist but your father had her killed anyway, why didn''t Baron Graye do nothing? He should''ve been outraged. He should''ve declared war."

    Coris stretched his legs and leaned against his pillow, hands clasped on his lap,

    "It''s a common strategy in warfare, Meya, to exploit the weak link and destroy the enemy from within. Baron Graye chose Zier for that."

    "After the Heist, I made sure Zier couldn''t contact Graye. Graye couldn''t have known what actually happened. Where The Axel was. Whether his and Zier''s involvement was discovered yet. By whom."

    "Then, Agnes died in a fire. Persephia became Father''s hostage. When Father told Graye the fire was an accident, it was probably a test. A trap. Graye knew Father suspected him, so he didn''t challenge it. He accepted defeat, kept up his cover, brought Persephia back safe and sound, and awaits the chance to strike again."

    Coris smiled in satisfaction. A wave of awe and fear swept down Meya''s spine. Fyr, he made it seem effortless deciphering what was going on in the ruthless brains of them big cheeses. She''d love to see Coris in Logic class. He''d definitely demolish everyone else in Heist.

    Coris studied her, dithering, then reached for the bedside cabinet. Meya craned her neck to see. He extracted a bundle from the topmost drawer and laid it before her.

    The purple silk handkerchief unraveled to reveal shards of what must have once been a charcoal-gray clay ball, dusted with fine, glinting black powder. Meya picked up a shard and turned it around. The powder was oily to the touch.

    "While Gillian took you to the ransom drop, an intruder tried to kill me and search my bowels for the Axel." As Meya gawked in terror, Coris picked up a shard of clay, "She escaped using this smoke bomb, packed with black sand from the Graye River."

    "Her eyes were dark green, like yours. She was a Greeneye. She used a Lattis bracelet to hide it. I felt it when I grabbed her wrist," He pointed to his wrist, raising his eyebrows at Meya, "Was she one of Gillian''s?"

    Meya found it hard to digest. There was another Greeneye who was after The Axel? What exactly was with this thingamabob small enough to be swallowed by a little boy? What could it do apart from protecting people from poison?

    Meya churned her lips, dredging every detail of every bandit in Gillian''s band from the depths of her memory. She shook her head,

    "There weren''t no women in Gillian''s band. And them bandits used Lattis coins, not bracelets. Gillian made this for me."

    Meya held up her Lattis coin. It gleamed rainbow in the late morning light and reflected in Coris''s silvery eyes. He nodded,

    "Thank you. I needed to be sure." He avoided her gaze, pensive. Meya narrowed her eyes,

    "Of what?"

    Unfortunately, Meya wouldn''t get her closure¡ªa shriek echoed from the other side of the door. She jumped as if bitten in the bum and rushed to the door, tying the Lattis coin around her neck. Coris shook his head with a sigh as he slid off the bed,

    "Who''d think denial could blind even dragon eyes to the truth."

    It was frustrating and perplexing. He''d thought a girl courageous and intelligent enough to rescue a hostage from a dozen grown men driven demented by hunger, to negotiate with a band of Nostran dragon mercenaries at swordpoint, would have no trouble uncovering the truth about herself and her dwindling kind and accepting it. He''d thought it wouldn''t take much prodding for her to step up and save them.

    But the possibility of herself being something magical, extraordinary, legendary and beautiful, something other than a nameless, faceless existence or a monstrous abomination, had never crossed Meya''s mind.

    He chided her for being too trusting. He should''ve realized the person Meya believed least in was herself.

 Eavesdroppers

    Arinel decided not to report to her post at Bishop Riddell''s lab. Instead, she slipped into the scullery. Zier''s rebellion might have left her reeling, but Arinel''s mind was made long before Gretella swept into the scullery for a morning briefing with Head Cook Apollon. Just as she had anticipated.

    The Baron had ordered Coris to tend to Meya until she fully recovered. Someone must bring up their breakfast to remind them to stay in their room and procreate.

    Seeing her window of opportunity, Arinel made her way to the station near where the two were conversing, signaling with a tilt of her head for the Crossetian maid working there to hurry away and take up her old post.

    "Lord Coris will be keeping watch over Lady Arinel this morning. Please prepare their meals separately and have it brought straight to their chambers. The healer recommends light, easy to digest food for the Lady, and lukewarm herbal tea to reduce the pain and swelling."

    Head Cook Apollon nodded vigorously, his meaty chin wiggling.

    "Very well, madam." He accepted earnestly. With a ghost of a smile on his thin lips, he raised an eyebrow, "Would your Lady prefer rosehip or ginger?"

    Even under the dingy light, Arinel could have sworn Gretella was blushing. She stood frozen but for her blinking eyes, then thawed to her old haughty self.

    "Which would go best with her main dish?" She asked, her voice oddly hearty. Apollon tilted his head as he thought, but his eyes never left Gretella.

    "Lord Coris has his own herb gruel recipe prescribed by the healer. I''m thinking perhaps the Lady could have the same for breakfast. It''s very healthy, and it goes marvelously with ginger tea." He clapped his hands enthusiastically, "And I''ll send up dessert with the rosehip for mid-morning tea. Works wonders for reluctant newlyweds."

    Apollon beckoned Gretella to lean in, whispering behind fingers riddled with cuts and grazes. Arinel strained her ears to catch the gossip,

    "Just between you and me. Me and my rosehip brew, we share credit for the night The Baron finally begot Lord Coris. And if it worked for the sire, why not try it with the scion, eh?"

    Apollon chuckled deviously, his eyes twinkling with glee. Gretella, however, looked pained,

    "I appreciate your humor, Sir Apollon, but would it be for the best if they conceived a babe?"

    She argued softly. Apollon shook his head, his empty, playful grin now weighed with sorrow,

    "It''s not just humor, my good woman." He whispered, the spark in his brown eyes dimming,

    "We all know Coris is against having an heir, but duty aside, hope might do more good for poor lad than he realizes."

    "Hope?" Gretella mouthed. Apollon sighed, his expression weary,

    "Tenorus always said food and herbs can only do so much for the body, if the heart has resigned itself to death. So the Baron pushed for the marriage. To show Coris he hasn''t given up, even if Coris has."

    Apollon heaved a deep sigh. He clearly knew Coris well, probably having bonded over their pet projects introducing new cuisine to Hadrian.

    Gretella''s eyes wandered, then caught Arinel staring up at her from where she was crouched, washing a cartload of cabbages in a large wooden tub. She raised a careworn eyebrow, awaiting her command.

    Arinel understood Gretella''s dilemma, but she''d made her decision. Lies are bound to be exposed someday. It would complicate things if Meya became pregnant with Coris''s child by then. They couldn''t keep sending her Silfum candles; it wasn''t always effective.

    And if Zier couldn''t find it in him to do right by his family, Arinel must end all this herself.

    Arinel nodded. Gretella bit her trembling lips, tortured by the thought of her Lady sacrificing her hard-won freedom for duty. Again.

    "I guess I''ll leave it to the Lady to decide, then." She glanced at Apollon, blew a soft sigh, then turned to Arinel with a command, "Meya, you''re in charge of the Lady''s breakfast."

    "Yes, ma''am." Arinel stood up and bowed, her wrinkled and peeling hands clasped at her front. After one last sigh, Gretella turned and left the scullery.

    ?

    "Do we have to watch my dear old cousin copulating? Again?"

    Simon Amplevale groaned as he dragged his feet up the spiral staircase. The young woman at the front of the pack spun around, her brown ponytail swinging in an arc as wide as her mischievous smile, her deep blue eyes sparkling with glee,

    "Well, your cousin''s a sly, slippery fox, Simon. We must seize all opportunities to ascertain," chirped Lady Fione Cristoria. Her eyes gazing dreamily into the distance, she clasped her hands as if in prayer, "Why, I thought you''d be pouncing at the chance to make sure Coris Hadrian never hears the end of how majestic his manhood is."

    Before Simon, Heloise choked on her breath, her face darkening to the same shade as her Hadrian Red dress. At the rear, Christopher rolled his eyes. Simon huffed in frustration as they stepped smartly onto the third-floor landing.

    "But it''s him, Fione!" He protested, his hands strangling air as if he imagined Coris''s neck between them, "I can''t live my life having Coris Hadrian and copulating in one thought. How am I supposed to look at myself in the mirror when I''ve got his smug little face plastered on my skull?"

    Fione threw her head back with laughter. Simon cursed under his breath as he trudged toward Coris''s bedchambers.

    "And why am I even needed?" grumbled Heloise, as sullen as Simon. Christopher mustered a smile.

    "Lord Crosset demands more trustworthy witnesses." He explained patiently as he drew level with her, "Meriton is Hadrian''s overlord. Amplevale is an ally. Cristoria is a vassal and former enemy. Westrell is neutral. If our testimonies all correlate, then it''s likely the truth."

    The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement.

    Heloise nodded vigorously, her annoyance fading. Christopher beamed her a warm smile and allowed her to overtake him, falling behind to Simon''s side.

    "He''s struggling, Simon." He whispered, solemn now, "I''m sure he''d rather his parents hear it from you, and vice versa."

    Simon closed his eyes with a sigh. Only he, Christopher, The Baron and Baroness knew the truth of how the newlyweds spent their First Night. Coris had collapsed halfway through pleasuring his wife. But of course, the Baron couldn''t let it be known that his heir was weak and dying, so Hadrian was abuzz with rumors of Coris''s prowess and potency.

    Simon''s heart pained for his cousin, but not enough to drown out the ancient pain he was born with. He shrugged and dislodged it from his mind,

    "Of course, it''s my duty to become him reincarnate."

    "That''s not what I meant!"

    Christopher protested wearily, but they had reached Coris''s door. Heloise still wrung her hands nearby, whereas Fione had flattened her ear against the wood, but her giddy excitement was soon replaced with confusion.

    "What''s wrong?" whispered Christopher. Fione frowned deeper as she rubbed her ear closer to the door,

    "They''re talking...He calls her Meya...What sort of name is that? There it is again! Meya! And they''re talking about Agnes? Baron Graye? What is he up to?"

    Heloise went pale as parchment. Christopher turned to Simon, eyebrows just as tied. Simon ushered his friend to the door, pointing blindly as he pelted down the hallway,

    "Keep your ear glued to that door, I''ll find Zier!"

    ?

    Head Cook Apollon assembled the newlyweds'' tray himself. Arinel fetched him a heavy clay bowl, into which he slopped ladlefulls of thick, sluggishly simmering oat gruel. He topped it with chopped squash, halves of a boiled egg, shredded cheese, sprinkled on pepper, chopped parsley and chives, and added a final pinch of salt.

    While Arinel filled a small jug with honey and dug the pit out of lemon slices, Apollon plied a tea sieve with chopped ginger, lowered it gently into a pot filled to the brim with boiling water, then flipped the sand-clock.

    He set the tray atop a wheeled cart for Arinel and Haselle. They trundled it to a delivery shaft at the foot of the spiral staircase, where Arinel left Haselle. By the time she climbed up to the third floor of the Keep, the tray was already there, hoisted up by Haselle working the pulley.

    Arinel fetched a low table from the nearby cupboard. Hands trembling under the weight and pressure, she slid the tray out of the shaft onto the table. After a deep breath, she gritted her teeth and lifted the table as she straightened. The carved wooden curlicues on the edge dug welts into her flabby, waterlogged fingers. Slowly, she spun towards Coris''s door. She found herself face-to-face with one Simon of Amplevale, approaching at full speed.

    "SIMON, HALT!" Lady Fione screamed from Coris''s door, whereas Lady Heloise clutched at the chest of her dress.

    "AAAARGH!" Simon yelled, arms flailing over his head, hoping air resistance would slow him down.

    "EEEEK!" Arinel shrieked, gripping the table so tight her fingers went numb. Simon screeched to a halt half a foot away from Arinel. Coris''s door fell back. Unfortunately, Christopher was standing with an arm propped against it, staring horrified at Simon. He tumbled into the emerging Meya, who swore at the top of her lungs,

    "CHIONE''S FLOPPY LEFT¡ªEEK!"

    Firm hands slammed into Meya from behind, pitching her to her feet and sending poor Christopher rolling out to the hallway.

    Coris poked his head around the doorframe. His sharp gray eyes traveled from the profusely cursing Meya to the groaning Christopher, the grinning Fione and the fidgeting Heloise, then settled on Simon and Arinel, frozen awkwardly at the end of the hallway.

    The air cooled as comprehension came over Coris. He narrowed his eyes at Simon, then at Christopher, who was picking himself up. He asked, his voice slow and bitingly cold as a glacier in Icemeet.

    "What in the three lands are you doing at my door?"

    ?

    "We''re here on your parents'' orders, Coris! You have no right to punish us! We''re protected by Hadrian law!"

    Brave young Simon of Amplevale objected to what he considered cruel and unfair punishment from his cousin. A pile of linen paper lay unsullied before him on the low letter-writing table beside a freshly whetted charcoal pencil. Coris did not deem his costly Hadrian Rose ink, and hawk-feather quill collection fit to be wasted on disciplining unruly squires.

    "Simon, in the absence of the Baron, his son is the law."

    Christopher reminded him, his voice overflowing with resignation. Wincing at the dull pain radiating from his ears, folded in place by wooden clothespins, he forced his jittery fingers to be staid as he scribbled his lines:

    Thou shalt not eavesdrop on thine liege and lady.

    Thou shalt not eavesdrop on thine liege and lady.

    Meanwhile, Lady Fione scrunched her face as if she was experiencing intestinal blockage in the loo. She tried wiggling her ears (a feat she was immensely proud of) and failed.

    "No! I can no longer feel my ears! Will they fall off?" She wailed, pale with horror.

    "Will you all stop talking!? I keep writing down what everyone is saying! Argh!"

    Lady Heloise balled up a ruined paper and chucked it on the floor, then snatched a fresh one from her pile and started at the top. A smirk formed on the corner of Fione''s lips as she chanted under her breath, too low for Coris to catch but loud enough for Meya''s keen ears and the nearby Heloise to comprehend in full.

    "Coris Hadrian is a dong-head, and a fine ding-dong has he. His lady swears by Chione it''s as straight as a coconut tree..."

    "Fione!" Heloise slammed her fists on the table, her bracelet colliding with the wood with a dull clang. White fangs bared and emerald eyes flaring, she glowered at Fione. Meya almost spurted out her mouthful of ginger tea. Sighing in frustration at her paper (which now read "Thou shalt not eavesdrop on thine liege''s dong."), Heloise balled it up and whined at Coris instead,

    "How long do we have to keep these on?" She pointed at the clothespins on her ears.

    "Until Meya finishes reading her letter," Coris replied, arms folded and face blank. His four friends glared at Meya, sitting behind Coris''s study desk with Arinel hovering beside her, then rounded on him with a barrage of protests.

    "You''re a tyrant, you are!" Heloise cried.

    "Devind the Demented reincarnate!" Fione drawled.

    "Why must our fates depend on her literacy?" Simon pointed at poor Meya, who grimaced.

    "Coris, the Baron promotes setting concrete, quantitative milestones." Christopher decided to go full smart-and-big-words.

    Coris shrugged, unruffled.

    "Antagonizing me will not hasten the learning process." He said coolly, then narrowed his eyes, "I''m channeling your combined common senses here. Let Meya read her letter in peace."

    "Yeah. Chuck the heat on the Greeneye. It''s not like we already have a surplus." Meya muttered darkly behind Jezia''s letter, eyes glowering over the edge at her erstwhile husband.

    Coris pretended not to have heard. Straightening his crimson cloak over his nightclothes, he strode towards the door.

    "Now, excuse me while I hunt down my treacherous little brother."

    The door had barely swung shut behind Coris when a sharp voice pierced the airy late morning silence.

    "Where do you think you''re going, my lad?"

    Coris resisted the instinct to jump; he recognized that voice. He composed himself and decided on a course of action in what little time it took to turn and face his assailant.

    "Nowhere, Mother. What brings you all the way up here? Aren''t you supposed to be sending off the guests? Since you and Father sidelined Arinel and I and set your attendants to spy on us copulating?"

    Sylvia Hadrian raised her eyebrows at her eldest son''s seemingly innocent silver eyes and deadpan expression. She clenched her fists, enunciating coolly,

    "Corien Alexis Hadrian. You may be understandably frustrated, but I''m your mother, and you will not answer a mother''s worry with such viperous diatribe!"

    She snapped. Coris stiffened at the glimpse of pain in those eyes like moonbeam he''d inherited. Bowing, he sighed in surrender,

    "I''m sorry, Mother." Sylvia visibly calmed. Coris mustered his courage again and faced her, "I must find Zier. I have a serious matter to discuss with him. Have you seen him, Mother?"

    Sylvia blinked, suddenly sheepish. She toyed with a lock of hair that had escaped her pinned braid, her eyes darting restlessly.

    "Coincidentally, that answers your first question." Coris frowned, alarmed. His mother appeared careworn, "He''s with your father in the study. And your father is why I''m here."

    Oh, Freda, no. Zier. What have you done? Please no.

    "He''s with Father?" Coris rasped hoarsely. Sylvia reluctantly nodded, her fingers tearing at the golden knots on her Hadrian Red bodice.

    "He wants to talk to you. About this latest heist. Now."

 Sabotage

    For as long as Zier remembered, Coris had always been the prodigy, and he the putz.

    True, he came out on top (out of two) when it came to swordplay, riding, archery, and not ripping the seams of the shape-hugging men''s legwear, but considering any knight or yeoman serving his father would achieve the same and more, those weren''t boast-worthy credentials.

    Coris excused his physical shortcomings and obnoxiousness by excelling in all the arts thrown at him; strategy, negotiation, leadership, sciences, and philosophy.

    Linguistics was his forte, however. He''d always had a way with runes, words and languages. Whether he was weaving scathing similes to describe intellectual inferiors¡ªnamely Zier, delivering an opening speech to a banquet, penning a heartrending eulogy for a fallen knight, impressing a Tyldornian emissary with a snippet of their tongue, or most recently, negotiating hostages with a dangerous Nostran mercenary¡ªThings Zier could never imagine himself doing.

    However, what Zier himself and everyone who knew him didn''t appreciate enough was that Zier could be as cunning and eloquent as Coris¡ªWell, when certain things disturbed him enough for him to put his mind and mouth to solving.

    For example, preventing his overtly righteous sweetheart from marrying his brother.

    <hr>

    Coris led Mother into the room and held the door for her. As she swept past him towards Father, who sat behind the oaken desk at the heart of the study, Coris glanced at Zier. And, in that fleeting glimpse, a chill rushed down Zier''s spine.

    Cold fury boiled underneath his serene, benign silver. Zier realized he''d been too late. No, he''d misstepped. He may have reached Father first, but that was because Arinel chose to hurry to Coris. Then again...

    Truth belongs to he who speaks first.

    Coris gave Zier those words, that night in the secret passageway where he stumbled upon Zier having just swallowed The Axel. He then admitted to Father he tried to steal The Axel. His wisdom proved true, as six years had passed, and Coris still held that truth fast in his clammy hands.

    The same goes for Zier now. Since he''d spoken to Father first, Coris would know better than to challenge his version of the latest heist. The truth was of his design. Coris must work with what he left on the table.

    Silence fell as sire and heir locked eyes, then the heir broke it,

    "About the heist two nights ago, Father, I''d been meaning to report to you once the guests have left."

    Coris cut to the chase as if he''d been with them from the start, always an expert at reading whatever room he was in. His smile was gentle, and his eyes twinkled,

    "I simply would rather discuss our most dangerous secret while our every move isn''t under foreign ears and eyes, but now it seems as if I had planned to fool you for as long as I dared."

    "And thanks to your brother, only you and Freda will ever know for which you had intended," Father cocked his head at Zier, who blushed, then sighed heavily, frowning, "Nevertheless, you know you must alert me at once when the matter concerns The Axel. Yet, you kept it secret. I can only assume you fear for Arinel. Or yourself."

    Zier''s breath caught in his chest. It was as if Father had read their memories. Coris merely smiled sardonically as he faced Father''s narrowed eyes.

    "Justifiably so. Considering what happened to the last man who coveted The Axel."

    "I would never harm you. I was trying to protect you!" Father sprang to his feet. Coris still smiled,

    "Alas, only you and Freda will ever know for which you had intended." He wielded Father''s words against him. Mother caught Father as he faltered, glowering at her smug son.

    "You truly didn''t wish I''d died then, Father? My uses are few in life, bound to The Axel. What is a fat, spoilt brat compared to our greatest treasure? You alone know. All I have is a guess. My guesses tend to be right."

    Zier gaped at the pale figure beside him, just as unnerved as he was guilty. Coris was probably trying to derail the conversation, deflect suspicion from Zier by offending Father, painting himself a monster as he usually did. Yet, he was emotionless, mechanical, and so nonchalant was his smile, Zier couldn''t imagine it being just an act or a spite; it was too perfect.

    A crack opened in the gray before the ice closed again. Zier realized then; it was a lie and the truth, an unconscious cry for help. Did Father and Mother catch it, too?

    Father pursed his lips as he breathed deeply, regaining his calm. He straightened, his hand closed over Mother''s in reassurance.

    "If you believe ill of those who wish you blessings, they will in time believe the worst of you in kind," said Father solemnly. His eyes narrowed again with fury, "Do you mean to say you stole The Axel for Graye because you didn''t trust my judgment? Not to please Agnesia?"

    Stolen novel; please report.

    "Perhaps, Father." Coris tilted his head, "More consistent with the monster who razed Cristoria to ash. Also, I''d rather you kill me a foe than spare me a fool, if I may choose."

    Silence fell as Coris alone chuckled at his dark humor. Father gritted his teeth, shaking his head slowly,

    "You can build the mightiest wall with mortar and stone and bones of steel, and discord will bring it down swifter than dragonfire," He said softly,

    "You''ve proven that with your enemies, yet you have no faith in your kin. That is why you fail. So long as you refuse to trust, it''s no longer wise to trust you with The Axel''s protection."

    The room was rid of air as if swept by a storm. Coris was wide-eyed with shock for once. Father sat down and pulled a half-written letter towards him, dipped his falcon-feather quill into his inkwell, and continued it,

    "The Axel''s secret has been compromised." He said without looking up, "After the May Fest, you are to leave with your wife for Manor Safyre. I''ll have Baroness Norena stock Villa Lapis with a moon''s supply of Safyre''s best mead. You are to return once Lady Arinel has conceived your child."

    That last part wasn''t what Zier had suggested. Coris blinked, then his sickly cheeks flushed to healthy red,

    "But I''m barren, Father! How am I supposed to impregnate her? Do you plan to exile me?" He snapped, arms flailing in exasperation.

    "Again! You believe the worst of me, Coris!" Father shot back to his feet. His knuckles shone white as he jabbed a weathered finger at the letter, "You can never be sure if you''re barren. For all we know, Arinel might be carrying your child as we speak!"

    "How could she when I haven''t lain with her once?" Coris retorted. Zier hastily corrected him,

    "Brother, about that¡ª"

    Coris whipped around. As it dawned on him, his face turned deeper red. He glanced between Mother and Father, eyes bulging with disbelief and hurt.

    "You spied on our First Night?" He rasped, "I thought we''d abolished that embarrassing rite decades ago. And you chided me for distrusting you?"

    "If you so loathe us keeping watch over you, might I suggest not manipulating your own parents with secrets and lies?"

    Father raised an eyebrow, his cool simmering with fury. Coris tensed in alarm. Father''s eyes narrowed,

    "I understand you being against the marriage. What I don''t understand is going behind mine and Lord Crosset''s backs to rescue Arinel." Father shook his head with a frustrated sigh, "You''re eighteen, Coris! What do you know about what would be best for her?"

    "I don''t. And I never will." Coris snarled through gritted teeth. His lips twisted into a scornful smirk, "I simply hoped to give her what her father''s never given her, what you''ve never given Zier and I¡ªA choice!"

    Coris shouted. Father fell silent, figuratively and literally thrown against his chair''s backrest. He watched as Coris plowed on as if possessed, fists clenched at his sides as he paced,

    "From the day I was born, I''ve been Corien Alexis Hadrian. The heir of Hadrian. Guardian of The Axel. I didn''t have the choice to surrender the duty, because I was born for it. I didn''t have the choice of who I wanted to become, because of what Hadrian expects me to be. Even if I did have a choice, I wouldn''t have the wisdom to decide because the Baron Hadrian alone is trusted with the secret of The Axel!"

    Coris spun around, his sunken chest heaving as he glared at Father in the silence. Father held his gaze for a moment that felt as long as a lifetime. The depths of his blue eyes were dark as the dead of night, wreathed in sorrow. He shook his head, his eyes never leaving,

    "I guard this secret alone, not because I did not trust you." He whispered,

    "I ask you to trust while you still not know. For once you''ve known, you can only choose. Choice is a privilege and a burden. You will live to the day I pass this burden to you, to carry alone as I did. I just wish to delay that day for as long as I can."

    Coris''s lips trembled as his eyes shone overbright in the gentle rays of late morning sunshine. Then, he blinked, and his empty smile replaced his anguish. He shook his head,

    "I''ll die soon, Father. You know that."

    With that, he turned on his heel as if to signal his leave, his shoulders trembling from the sheer effort of stifling his grief,

    "I should hurry to share the good news with Arinel. She''d be most thrilled. A romantic retreat would do well to heal lingering trauma from the heist."

    He strode towards the door, paused as if swept by an afterthought, then turned back for one last word,

    "By the way, I''d prefer it if Zier accompanies me."

    Zier jolted. Coris spared him a glance out of the corner of his eye. Zier was chilled by the cold steel lining his smile, the glint of a poisoned arrowhead in his stormy gray.

    "The road to Safyre is an arduous one, but at the end lies two prosperous towns, each with a unique culture. He''d learn much along the way and there. I also don''t mind the extra security."

    Zier''s mouth fell open in horrified awe. In three sentences, Coris had obliterated Zier''s elaborate scheme to get Arinel alone to himself while Coris was ten days away on horseback.

    Father nodded, likely for lack of energy to argue than reason to refute,

    "Zier, you accompany your brother." Father turned back to Coris, leaving Zier feeling like kicking himself, "You may take Christopher and Simon as well. It''ll be an experience for them, too."

    Coris bowed in gratitude, a small smile glazed on his cracked lips.

    "Thank you, Father. Until then, I shall be in my room copulating with my wife, while you starve Latakia of resources with your cherished ban. Zier!"

    Coris barked at his little brother, then swept from the room, crimson cloak billowing behind him, a bewildered Zier scurrying after him.

    The door swung shut with a resounding bang. A teardrop splashed onto the Baron''s hand, dried by Baroness''s hand clasping over it.

    "He''s right. They didn''t have the choice, but I did." Kellis whispered. More combined tears splattered onto Sylvia''s hand. She shook her head, eyes shut tight. She burrowed her face into the nook of her husband''s trembling shoulder while his rough hand caressed her hair.

    "Nineteen years ago, Father trusted me with Maxus''s Memoirs, along with my first choice as Baron Hadrian; to validate Axel Hild''s sacrifice, avenge Maxus''s Fellowship, right the wrongs Drinian has done to Corien and Meira, end Mirra''s war in my time; to betray all their expectations, for better or for worse; or to leave things the way they have always been. Unfinished. Halfhearted. A clock ticking back to doomsday, passed from father to son."

    Kellis whispered. His eyes lingered on the closed door, then he hung his head in burning shame,

    "I chose the easiest path, to leave this duty I couldn''t fulfill to my sons, the way my father did to his son, and Hadrian men all the way to Maxus did to their sons, and my sons will probably do to their sons."

    Kellis paused to contemplate his sins, then whispered in a voice soft as the clouds shrouding the peaks of Neverend Heights and heavy as its stone,

    "Tell me, Sylvia: Am I the foulest father for bringing our sons into this three lands?"

 Jezias Message

    Coris had disappeared, but his four noble friends hadn''t moved a finger. They stared transfixed at the door as if listening, waiting for the sound of his footsteps to die away out of respect. Finally, they turned their focus to Arinel and Meya, their eyes narrowed in suspicion.

    The two girls shared a look. Meya pleaded through her eyes. Sighing, Arinel turned to face her fellow nobles in her stead,

    "I believe we haven''t had a proper introduction." She offered timidly, her hands wringing.

    "Perhaps we can, once we''ve rid ourselves of these torture devices," said Christopher crossly. Perhaps he would''ve seemed crosser without clothespins jutting from his ears.

    Oh, those.

    Meya sprang up, strode to the door and bolted it.

    "There, milords and ladies. You''ll have ample time to resume your positions before Lord Coris enters."

    Four pairs of blinking eyes followed Meya as she headed back to her seat at Coris''s desk. Simon was the first to smile.

    "We''ve added a kindred soul to our ranks. Welcome to Hadrian." He said triumphantly as he plucked off the clothespins. Fione nodded as she, too, freed her ears. Clasping her hands in prayer, she gazed dreamily at the ceiling,

    "Aw, this would exasperate Coris." She turned to Heloise, who churned her lips in dismay,

    "Remember that time on Fool''s Week when we locked him out and sling-shot his silk underpants down the garderobe? By Freda, that was some smooth sailing. Wouldn''t you agree, Meya?"

    Meya blushed at the inkling in Fione''s twinkling blue eyes. Until Coris disrobed before her on that First Night, she didn''t believe anyone would actually have his jewels wrapped in silk.

    Yeah, he definitely had it coming.

    "Wonder whose stroke of genius that was." Christopher muttered. Heloise shook her head,

    "You could just have us read your letter for you." She gestured at Meya, sending her bracelet swinging on her wrist. Meya marveled at its rainbow gleam until the sunlight glare momentarily blinded her,

    "I thought of that, milady, but you know Lord Coris better than I do, and even I know he''ll have ways to see if I actually know the words on this thing." She waggled Jezia''s letter, then slapped it onto the desk.

    "Fair point," Heloise sighed and continued her lines in resignation. Christopher followed suit. Meanwhile, Simon and Fione had drifted off to gather around Meya, admiring her constipated grimace as she struggled to identify an alphabet.

    Meya glanced between her letter and a piece of parchment upon which Coris had listed out the letters,

    "Er...is this...bah?" She asked, tapping her finger on the letter. Arinel shook her head,

    "No, it''s hah, like Hild."

    With a growl of frustration, Meya smacked her face on the letter, startling Arinel. She mussed up her hair, now tied back in a simple loose ponytail; Haselle wasn''t yet called in to weave her plaids.

    "How long will it take to read all this? I can''t even remember the letters!"

    "Long enough for ears to rot from obstruction of the humors," Simon quipped, then hollered at his two glowering friends, "Would you take a break and come help? I don''t see this reciting the Scriptures anytime soon."

    "I''m sorry. I''m a dungbrained peasant girl." Meya moaned, her voice muffled by the wood of the desk, as Arinel squeezed her shoulder in encouragement. Christopher and Heloise shared a look, then sighed and traipsed over, plucking out their clothespins along the way.

    Christopher slid the alphabet table around the pile of Meya''s messy hair to himself, his lips pursed in thought,

    "My governess used to have me recite this song, learn the letters and geography in one go." He raised a fist to his mouth, cleared his throat, then jabbed his finger at the first letter, "A says ah, Amplevale. B says buh, Bore-"

    "...ring." Simon finished for him, shrugging at Christopher''s raised eyebrows, "How about...A says ah, Arinel. B says buh, Beau. Rest in peace."

    Simon joined his hands in actual prayer, tilting his head at Beau''s portrait on the wall. At that moment, the same inspiration struck the holy bells in all their heads. The teens glanced at each other, eyes wide in excitement.

    "Ooh, I''ve got one!" Fione bobbed about, hand outstretched towards the ceiling, "C says cah, Coris. D says duh, Donghead."

    "Why must it always be the obscene with you?" Heloise tutted while Simon gave a barking laugh of approval,

    "E says eh. That''s for Sir Emery Nethan, the seneschal."

    "F says fuh, Fione." Fione rested a hand on her heart, unperturbed. Meya nodded vigorously, reciting under her breath as she moved her finger from letter to letter.

    "G says guh, Gretella." Arinel joined in with a small smile as she side-eyed Heloise, who sighed but ultimately floated with the flow,

    "H says hah, Heloise."

    And on the rhyme went until Arinel ended with,

    "Z says zzz, Zier."

    Meya''s finger skidded to a halt at the last letter. Silence wrapped around the throng, tight as a cloak drawn against the winter cold. They shared no whispered words nor dark looks of knowing, all staring at the name Arinel had flourished under the large, bold letter;

    Zier

    "Wonder how Zier''s doing," mused Fione in a rare moment of seriousness.

    "Knowing Coris, much worse than us," said Simon without a snark for once, as the rest nodded.

    "I can understand him, though." Heloise shot Arinel a quick, apologetic glance, "Must be heartbreaking watching the woman you love marry your brother."

    Arinel blushed. Her lips swallowed, she tore at her tattered dress with fingers adorned by bone-white knuckles. Meya cleared her throat and steered away,

    "Right. From the top," Snatching up the parchment with renewed vigor, she recited, "A says ah, Arinel..."

    Coris''s clepsydra kept time as Meya chanted, interrupted now and then by the nobles correcting her errors. With each attempt, she plodded further down the rhyme before stumbling. When she reached the end without a hiccup, Meya decided it was time she challenged Jezia''s letter to a rematch. With a deep breath, she raised the charcoal-smudged paper high and stared it in the eye.

    "Meya...we hope this...letter...reaches...you well," She screwed her eyes, piecing together each word one syllable at a time, each syllable one letter at a time,

    "Our...caravan...will join...the May Fest in...Hadrian. Maro...Marcus...Myron...Farmer Hild...Deke and Farmer... Armorheim...will be coming with us. We''ll be staying at the...Silver Jug Inn. Send word...when and where to meet.

    Love, Jezia and Jason.

    Postscript...A very...happy...seventeenth...birthday...from all of us."

    Sighing, Meya lowered the parchment and glanced around the circle. Simon smirked, then mussed her hair. Arinel beamed as she clutched at her heart. Meya slammed her fist on her palm in triumphant glee, sliding so far down Coris''s chair her toes brushed Heloise''s dress.

    Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

    "Finally! Agh, Freda bless me poor ''eart! Jezia''s a-coming! An'' Jason! An'' Deke! An'' the boys an''...Ah, crap."

    Meya groaned, her dialect usurped by proper Latakian once more. She pressed her trembling hands on the armrests and pushed herself upright, exhilaration fizzling to pure terror,

    "Dad? Aw, Jezia Boszel, why? What have you done? Led Fyr''s raft straight to me dock, you have!"

    Moaning, Meya stamped Jezia''s letter with her face as she imagined Dad''s reaction to all that had transpired in the past weeks. Frowning, Christopher picked up the letter he must have read some three dozen times while he waited for Meya to decipher it,

    "Who are all these people?" He asked. Meya resurfaced, swaying like a drunken snake, her face smudged with charcoal, eyes crossed and unseeing.

    "Maro, Marcus and Myron are me brothers. Jezia and Deke are me best friends. Jason is Jezia''s dad. He''s a merchant. Sells precious stones and jewelry. Farmer Armorheim is Deke''s dad. And Farmer Hild''s me dad, of course."

    She drawled dully, then heaved a sigh. Shoulders hunched, she retrieved Jezia''s letter, folded it until she couldn''t, then slotted it into the safekeeping nook between her pillows.

    "Anyways, there''s no good getting me hopes up...or down, yet. For all we know, Lord Coris mightn''t even let me go see them."

    As if to answer Meya''s prayers, the door jolted on its hinges after a resounding thud, sending the six troublemakers jumping. Whispered swears filtered through the wood in Coris''s hoarse voice. Clearly, he''d taken for granted the door to his quarters would open for him without fail.

    "Yeah, maybe not lock your lord out of his room the next time you want a day off?" Simon suggested.

    "Simon! Fione! You''d better not be poking through my drawers, or I swear to Chione you''ll be charcoal by the time I''m done with you!"

    Coris roared. Meya rushed to the door''s aid as it shuddered. She slid aside the metal bolt and heaved back the door.

    "Lord Coris, I''m so sorry, ''twas me. I didnae want no gatecrash."

    She tumbled over her words in both haste and fear; Coris was livid, his eyes wide and blazing silver. Zier was loitering just behind. Clearly, there was something on his mind other than flying underpants.

    "Is something the matter, milord? You''re spitting fire."

    Coris cursed Meya to stone with a look she privately dubbed the "You think?" Look, for lack of a better name.

    "Ask him." He snarled through gritted teeth, motioning at Zier and calling all eyes to him. Gulping, Zier raised his hands,

    "I...uh..." He stammered, eyes flicking between Coris and Meya, then offered a sheepish grin,

    "I may or may not have landed you an indefinite honeymoon in the most coveted country house in Latakia."

    Meya raised her eyebrows. Zier''s grin widened as cold sweat trickled down the side of his face,

    "Villa Lapis, in Safyre."

    <hr>

    As the seemingly contrite Zier gave a disapproving Arinel and the four attendants a debrief of what he''d done to displease dear old Brother, Coris soothed himself with lukewarm honey ginger tea as he read Jezia''s letter, retrieved from Meya''s generous chest compartment.

    Meya followed his stormy eyes as they glided across the paper. He paused and peered as if he''d stumbled upon traces of a second, invisible letter, such that Meya itched to poke her fingers at his narrowed eyes and trace a sightline to the object of his intrigue. Yet, she had a vague idea of what it might be.

    Armorheim.

    Farmer Armorheim kidnapped Coris in the Famine. Had Coris recognized his name? Would he punish Draken and the rest of the party?

    Though the thought of Krulstaff, Brodel and Yorfus getting a stint under the drawbridge didn''t bother Meya much (that demented butcher did suggest lobbing her hands off), she didn''t want them to get the gallows or the block for doing what they must for their families. Farmer Armorheim, on the other hand, had always been kind to Meya. And then there''s Deke. What would he do without his father?

    Dang it, Jezia. I''d rather it was just you and us young folk. Why d''you have to go and bring the adults, too?

    Coris smoothed the letter on the desk. His eyes lingered, but he was no longer reading it; he was calculating, planning. At last, he leaned back in his chair and clasped his hands, his eyes sweeping over his arguing friends.

    Zier stopped spouting sorry excuses, leaving Arinel hanging halfway through her sermon. Meanwhile, Simon, Christopher, Fione and Heloise stood to attention.

    "You''ve decided, Coris?" asked Christopher. Coris nodded, then turned to Meya,

    "Meya, you can go see your family and friends. However," Meya didn''t have time to decide whether to be thrilled or terrified before Coris raised the conditional finger of doom, "I shall be accompanying you. Under a disguise, of course."

    Their eyes met. A chill rushed down her spine. Meya clenched her fists, struggling and failing to remain civil,

    "Why, milord? Dun you have no pressing matters to attend to?" She spited.

    "No, I don''t." Coris shot back, his expression sour as spoiled milk, "Need I remind you that Father wishes for us to, to put it mildly, stay in this room and copulate as frequently as possible, which we agreed we won''t?"

    Coris raised his eyebrows, daring her to contradict. Meya chewed her lips and imagined they were his neck sinews.

    "Jason Boszel''s a merchant trading in precious stones, is he not? I''d like to talk to him about the shortage."

    "Then I won''t go." Meya crossed her arms over her puffed-out chest. Coris blinked, affronted. "I risked me neck for you twice, milord. It galls me that you dun trust me to stray beyond your sight."

    "I''ve just said, Meya, I simply want to talk to the merchant. I won''t be there to keep an eye on you," said Coris impatiently. Meya gave a barking laugh,

    "Simply talk, me stinky foot!"

    "So you accuse me of not trusting you when you don''t trust me yourself?"

    Coris retorted, eyebrows raised. Meya gritted her teeth in begrudging surrender. His eyes bore into hers, stern but also understanding. Meya avoided his probe, scratching her head.

    "Calm down, and think long and hard, Meya." Coris returned to his gentle voice, "After the May Fest, it''s off to Safyre we go. This might be the last chance you''ll get to see them in a long time. If you have nothing to hide, why must you be so flustered?"

    Meya''s heart jolted painfully at the reminder. She turned pointedly away, her breath quickening in desperation. As blood pounded in her ears, she glanced at Coris. He seemed sincere.

    He might just want to talk to Jason like he''d insisted, hear things straight from the people instead of through the bailiff. Still, would he remember Draken''s face? Would Draken give himself away? Would he pardon Draken if she implored him to...or coerced him to?

    Meya''s eyes widened at the sudden inspiration.

    "If you betray me, I''ll tell everyone where The Axel is, putting Lord Zier in grave danger."

    Always ask for something binding when you strike a deal.

    Meya finally understood his advice.

    Coris said he abhorred killing. It didn''t seem like him to hold grudges, and he was merciful even when he had suspected from the start that Meya was an impostor. Meya longed to believe in his kind heart, but she still held The Axel''s secret over him on the slight chance she was wrong about him.

    It pained Meya to play twisted games with Coris, but she had no choice. Not meeting her folk would appear suspicious, drawing even more attention to Draken. And she was longing to see her brothers and friends, of course.

    "I-I just¡ªI don''t want you to see Dad bury me alive," Meya steered away, the lie bitter as poison on her tongue.

    "Then all the more reason I should go with you," argued Coris, "Should the need arise, I''ll reveal myself and explain it all to him."

    Meya doubted her ears. The unexpected offer surprised her as much as it scared her. Would Dad approve of her deeds? Even Coris''s promise to vouch for her couldn''t reassure her. The passing memory of Dad''s cold brown eyes sapped Meya of whatever newfound confidence she had gained. She felt like she usually did back in Crosset, a failure. Her created excuse had become genuine.

    Coris leaned in and grasped her arm, his gray eyes poring deep into hers.

    "He would be proud of what you did, Meya. And you should be, as well." He consoled her, "You lost your virginity, true. You also saved two dozen people from certain death. Any decent father would know to prioritize."

    Meya wasn''t so sure. The cold of his hand seeped through the thin silk of her sleeve. She shivered as she braced for the worst,

    "What if he wants me home straight away? What if he dun''t want me to work here anymore?"

    "He would, Meya," said the long-silent Arinel. Meya spun around with a frown. The sheer ice glazed over her eyes gave way to sorrow as their eyes met, "My father was planning to exile you, didn''t you know?"

    Exile? Meya mouthed, eyes bulging in horror. Exile. Oh, Freda. That can''t be true, can it?

    Arinel avoided her eyes in shame,

    "Your father begged him to put you in my entourage instead. He said you''d fit better in Hadrian. He offered to work to pay for your place. Father took pity on him for your mother''s past services to Crosset, so he relented."

    "Services?" Heloise repeated.

    "Her mother is Alanna of Noxx." Arinel replied.

    "By Freda!" Simon gawked between the girls, "The Song of May Day? Her mother?"

    "You should''ve said something! I''ve always wanted to hear her Song!" Fione cried, both indignant and excited.

    "So you actually sang that night? We thought the wind played tricks on our ears." Christopher joined the uproar. Zier looked intrigued. Only Coris seemed indifferent, as if he''d already known.

    Meya didn''t register any of it, lost in a maelstrom of emotion.

    Dad wasn''t selling me off? Dad was saving me from exile? Is Arinel telling the truth? Why did Dad lie?

    "Mirram cares about you, Meya. And he''ll prove it to you when you need it most."

    The memory of Jason whispered words that, for seventeen years, she''d longed to believe in someday. Yet, now that she was confronted with proof, it was all she could do not to flee.

    Shivers spread to her legs. She clung to the desk to stay on her feet, digging her fingers into the wood, hoping the pain would douse the fire searing her eyes.

    Dad had cared? Enough to kneel and beg before the lord of their lives, to risk his wrath to save her from exile? It was something out of someone else''s life, someone like Marin or Mistral, and definitely not Meya.

    "Dad never said nothing of the sort," Meya finally managed, her voice thick and strangled, "He said the Lord just wanted me out of Crosset for good, said he''d give him me fine back."

    Arinel shook her head,

    "Father didn''t give him a single copper, Meya. He probably lied so as not to scare you. I thought you''d known. You''re free to stay, Meya, but I''ll vouch for your return if you so wish."

    Meya met her eyes. She wished she could believe it, but she couldn''t until she''d seen the truth in Dad''s eyes and heard it from his lips. She couldn''t bear to lift her hopes only to see them fall to the dark. Sixteen lonely May Days were already far too many.

    Coris squeezed her arm, and his clammy cold roused Meya from her reverie. She answered him with eyes rimmed in red. He tilted his head with a smile,

    "Your choice, Meya?"

 [Interlude] The May Queen

    The sky over Crosset was painted in the blue of early spring, unblemished by clouds. Music and laughter flavored the wind as it circled the town square once before traveling on. Young maidens in white dresses with flowers crowning their hair danced arm in arm with jolly young lads to the tune of blaring bagpipes.

    However, the visiting Baron Hadrian wasn''t mingling with the festive folk, enjoying the May Day celebrations. Neither was his counterpart, Lord Crosset. Both remained in the castle on the hilltop, discussing their children''s marriage.

    A marriage that would end soon with his death.

    Coris Hadrian clutched a white handkerchief to his mouth as he coughed, his thin frame shuddering and rocking. Searing pain like a river of hot acid sped from his bowels up his throat. He gagged and gasped for breath, drowned by his own bile.

    Coris downed the waterskin at his waist to soothe his blistered throat, slopping the last drops on his tunic. He raised the handkerchief gingerly to his eyes, sighing in relief at the absence of shining crimson patches.

    Still, it was piddling compared to the three nights of agony, the fate he''d saved Zier from. He reminded himself he would never regret it. He couldn''t

    Coris gazed over at Crosset Castle. The imposing stone fortress looming over the town belied its master''s powerless state.

    Father didn''t have to bother getting Simon to masquerade as him to make sure Arinel would marry him. News of his frail condition had probably reached Lord Crosset long since, but Lord Crosset would be too desperate to worry if his daughter would be widowed young.

    At least, widowed young by Lord Hadrian might be preferable to diminishing with Lord Crosset, a dying knight the King had forsaken.

    Coris should have had no business strolling about this little country town, but Mother had beseeched Father to allow Coris to tag along, so he could breathe the crisp spring breeze and behold the delightful May Day celebrations. Coris welcomed the opportunity; it might be his last to fulfill his dearest quest.

    Four years seemed a lifetime past; a life when he was spoiled fat as a pig for slaughter, when a Lady from a powerful family would be honored to be his bride, when the seven manors in Father''s demesne were destined to be his, his to take from the moment of his birth.

    He thought nothing of his people, his parents, his poor little brother, his servants, his dogs, or any soul apart from himself, a disgusting being who would never entertain drinking poison in place of his brother. Until four years ago, during the closing days of the Crosset Famine.

    When Bailiff Johnsy invited Coris to hunt game in the Lord''s Forest of Crosset, it had never occurred to Coris that Johnsy was planning to kidnap and ransom him for food. Coris would probably have been dead, or at least tortured, if not for the peasant girl who helped him escape. All she asked in exchange was bread for her starving little brothers and baby sister.

    Coris inadvertently exposed the hushed-up Famine. Bailiff Johnsy was executed, Marquess Crosset was demoted to Lord and harshly rebuked by the King for neglecting his duties, and Crosset was added to Father''s demesne.

    As he recovered, Coris learned all this from Mother, but he never knew what became of the peasant girl. By the time strength returned to him, the girl had disappeared without a trace. Father was too busy feeding the whole of Crosset to spare men to search for a nameless, faceless little girl.

    Coris closed his eyes as he paced the winding dirt roads. Try as he might, he couldn''t recall the girl''s face. His memory had been crystal clear that day, but he woke up a few days later with blurry recollections and shattered, disconnected events.

    The girl hadn''t revealed her name for fear she would be executed for trespassing in the Lord''s Forest. Their parting had been brusque and abrupt, but his search for her hadn''t been. Coris feared he''d never be able to thank her before he left this land forever.

    During his visit to the town square, he had scanned the happy, dancing, drinking crowd for a familiar face, strained his ears for a voice from his past, and failed. Every girl in the town would be at the Fest, but she was still nowhere to be seen. Had he been too late? He didn''t know if she survived the famine, even with the food he left for her in the forest.

    Coris bit his lips at the worrying thought he often must sweep to the back of his mind. He refused to give up hope. If it were the last thing he''d do, he''d find the girl and reward her.

    The town was silent and deserted, save for the occasional housewife bustling about completing chores in her daughter''s stead and the tired old farmer snoring away in his hammock hanging from the ole oak tree by his garden.

    The wind brushed by him as he approached the lasts of the mud cottages, sharing a snippet of song; a voice like the birds of Neverend Heights, lending a lilt to the dreary silence.

    A voice so blessed with such ethereal grace, he could only imagine the beauty worthy to possess it. Coris sprinted as he had never done in three years.

    He skidded to a halt before a small, crumbling cottage of wattle and daub. No smoke trickled from the chimney, but in the small cabbage patch cordoned by a low fence, beside a plump brown sow sat a young girl of no more than thirteen.

    Her plain face was peppered with dirt and freckles. Her red-gold braid was falling undone. Her fading red woolen dress was patched and darned. Her eyes were an unnatural, glowing green. She caressed the sow as it dug its snout into the ground, but her song was for the lone thrush which had alighted on the fence. Her beauty was no match for his first love, Agnesia Graye, but Coris swore he had never beheld a more blessed sight.

    I''m here to sing a song I own.

    I wish to hear the birds sing along.

    I''ll sing my heart when none shall heed.

    I''ve made my vow to the winds of Mays past.

    I''m Meya, Meya. I''m born on May''s Eve.

    As my father grieves for my mother''s song.

    Oh Meya, they say what good is a lass

    As unruly and poor as Meya Hild.

    The song ended with a lengthy, ringing vibrato. The girl bowed her head and then sighed softly. Coris took a step forth, still captivated by the sight. His movement startled the thrush, which shot away into the forest. The girl spun around, her glowing green eyes wide with fear.

    "That''s sad." Coris greeted as he curiously approached the fence. Being a nobleman, he was used to people responding enthusiastically no matter when he called upon them, "Who''s Meya Hild?"

    Coris had forgotten he was now disguised as a peasant. The girl sprang up as if she had sat on hot metal. She sped to the back door of her cottage, vanishing inside without a backward glance. Coris scrambled after her,

    "Wait!" He grasped the rocking fence, hollering desperately at the window hole, "I''m sorry I eavesdropped on you. I just wanted to talk."

    Silence fell, but for the twittering of faraway birds crossing the sky, leaving Coris in despair.

    "Please." He begged, his voice cracking from the sour tang of acid in his throat, "Let me hear your Song."

    He had barely finished when another bout of hacking coughs overtook him. Coris clutched the fence for support as he retched and gasped.

    A small, rough hand landed on his shivering shoulder. He surfaced to find unearthly glowing green eyes. The girl handed him a wooden mug.

    "Mum always says honey pleases an angry gullet. And I added a dash of Grandma''s secret spice powder, too."

    Her regular speaking voice was brusque, snarky, and heavily accented. Coris froze with the mug halfway to his mouth, staring warily at the girl. In his panic, it had just occurred to him a deadly ingredient might have made its way into his honey drink.

    The girl blinked, her face twisting into a scowl.

    "What? You think I have gold to waste on poison to kill some nosy lad passing by?" She snapped. Coris shrugged, his voice hoarse from all that coughing,

    "Well, I did peek on you singing."

    The girl snorted, sounding very much like her pig, then leaned close,

    "If I wanted to kill you, I''d just thwack you on the head with me week-old bread-bowl then feed you to Lady here."

    She whispered through gritted teeth, jabbing a finger at her sow. Coris studied Lady, grunting away as she burrowed, dirt flying about her. How could she possibly devour him whole?

    Before he could ponder further, another round of coughs overcame him. Coris clung to the fence, bent double as the girl looked on with a smirk. He glared at her reproachfully, but she merely smiled wider.

    "Be sure to spew your fluff while you''re at it. I can be here all day; me chores'' all done."

    Coris''s common sense screamed in protest, but his gullet would probably burst if it endured another cough. Tears streamed down his cheeks as the bitter taste of blood and bile seared his throat. He couldn''t wait for warm milk in Crosset Castle.

    Coris grabbed the cup and downed the drink. So soothing, so cold, like water from Freda''s Caldera. Sighing in relief, he set the half-empty cup on the fence. He took a moment for his breathing to slow, then continued pestering the poor girl,

    "So, who''s Meya Hild?"

    "Nobody," the girl retorted. She glared at him, her nose inches from his as she seethed, "Dun you breathe a word of this to no one, hear me?"

    The girl''s nerve amused Coris. Should he let it be known she was talking to the Coris Hadrian? Not that he had power to brag of.

    You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.

    "Why not? You''ve got a beautiful voice. And it''s a pretty song." He argued with a laugh meant to torment, "I''d love to hear more of little Meya. Is there more?"

    "No, ''tis all there is," said the girl brusquely. She shrugged, then gathered the buckets and farming tools scattered about the small garden.

    "No one knows I can sing; ''tis me little secret. And I dun mean to let them know anytime soon. Just forget everything you heard."

    Coris said nothing. Considering his health, she wouldn''t have to worry about him knowing her secret for long. Until then, he wouldn''t want to forget such a beautiful voice. Perhaps it would console him on his deathbed as he sailed for Neverend Heights. Or sink in the Black Lake if these years of repentance weren''t enough to atone for his sins.

    "Who are you? You dun seem to be from ''round here."

    The girl asked, her eyes narrowed with suspicion, shaking Coris from his morbid ruminations.

    "I''m from Hadrian," He said. He saw little point in lying; his accent would betray his hometown. Besides, the people of Crosset loved all things Hadrian; they were their saviors.

    As expected, the girl''s distrust melted into delight. She leaned closer,

    "Hadrian? That''s six days away from here, innit?" Her eyes sparkling, she dragged over the small stool she''d been sitting on, propped her elbows on her knees and her chin on her fists.

    "What''re you doing all the way here? Ain''t there beauties back in Hadrian?"

    Coris smiled as he lied smoothly,

    "I''ve journeyed to countless towns on May Days. My father''s a merchant."

    "Merchant?" The girl''s eyes widened, then drifted as dreamy bliss brightened her muddied cheeks.

    "I''ve always wanted to be the merchant''s daughter like me friend Jezia." She sighed wistfully, "All the adventures, imagine! What d''you trade?"

    Coris thought fast, picking something he knew well enough about; Mother''s favorite food in the three lands,

    "Oils. Spices and herbs. We''re importing white truffles."

    The girl was beside herself with excitement. She sprang to her feet and rattled the fence.

    "Truffles! They say ''tis food from the Heights! You dun happen to have one in your pocket, do you?"

    She bobbed about, scouring him head to toe for a lump in a pocket somewhere. As he stifled his laughter, Coris tamped down a twinge of guilt,

    "No, I''m sorry." Her face fell at that. Coris wished he''d nicked some from home like he used to when he was a gluttonous brat. All he had with him was a string of codswallop,

    "My father never lets me near the shrooms, never even ate one himself. He said if you eat what you sell, you''re eating your gold."

    The girl looked as if the sun had baked life out of her. She slumped down on her rickety stool, kicking glumly at the dirt with worn-out straw shoes.

    "Wish I could eat a truffle ''fore I die," she mumbled.

    "You can dig yourself some truffles with Lady." Coris gestured at the oinking pig beside her. The girl spared it a glance, then shook her head.

    "No, I tried. There''s none this part of the country." The girl sighed as she patted the pig lovingly, "I''m afraid this one''s for the slaughterhouse as usual. We only keep ''em for the year."

    The girl lugged the sow close, leaned down and hugged it, caring nothing of the dirt and mud caked on its wiggly back. It was but a piglet, a snug fit for her narrow embrace.

    "You''re so like me, Lady. But at least your meat would help us through the winter. I swear I''d never touch a sliver of you."

    She cooed as it squealed and thrashed in her arms, then marveled at the blue sky above,

    "If only I could be just as useful."

    Coris tasted the bitterness in her voice. Harrowing it must have been to plump your pet for the family dinner, year after year. The pointless, endless task no doubt left her wondering how she was any different, save for being born a human.

    Even as she smiled, her glowing eyes were etched with loneliness and long suffering. Coris''s heart pained at the sight. He cast his eyes about him in the loud silence and heavy emptiness, struggling to strike up a conversation,

    "What are you doing here all by your lonesome? The whole village''s at the Fest."

    "That they are. Me three sisters, too." The girl grinned as she freed the pig to its feeding frenzy, gesturing vaguely at the house, "They usually do the chores around here, so with them gone, someone has to do it."

    "Then why you? Why not your brothers or your parents?" Coris asked, puzzled. The girl glowered, disgruntled.

    "They gotta be at the Fest, that''s why. ''Cause Marin will get the May Queen Crown again this year. And next year. And the year after that. And every year ''til she''s married off to some rich, handsome landlord''s boy. And after that it''ll be Morel and Mistral''s turn."

    Those three names were probably her three sisters. Coris saw three pretty young women at the town square who resembled each other and their mother. The eldest and prettiest sister was laden with twice more flowers than any other lady, surrounded by admiring men. Perhaps that was Marin.

    "You should go, nevertheless. It''s May Day. Boys would want to dance with you." He shrugged at the fuming forgotten sister. She was feeding acorns to Lady, perhaps to stop her from wrecking the garden any further.

    "Marin. Morel. Mistral. They''re all so beautiful. And they''re good at something. Just like Mum." She muttered softly, her face scrunched as if battling tears. Her voice trembled,

    "Who would ever look at me? Ugly, dirty, reeking pig, weird orange hair full of leaves and bugs, and these stupid glowing monster eyes."

    "They would no longer fear you once they have seen past your eyes," said Coris gently.

    "I hate festivals." The girl declared, harsh and final, "And someone''s gotta feed Lady. She likes acorns from the forest."

    Coris cocked his head, but the girl said no more as she wiped her hands shining with pig drool on her apron. She wasn''t telling the whole truth. Sighing, Coris decided he should first offer his honesty,

    "I''m Simon," Well, almost honest, at the least.

    The girl welcomed the change of subject. She grinned, then stuck out her grubby hand,

    "Nice to meet you, Simon. I''m May-lah. I can''t spell it, so just call me Meya."

    Coris blinked at those mischievous, glowing green eyes, then laughed heartily,

    "So you''re Meya Hild!" He swallowed his disgust as he caught and pecked her hand. He loved dogs, raised an army of them, yet he still rushed to wash their drool off his hands. He leaned against the fence.

    "I''ve heard of a word in Glennian: Maelaith. M-A-E-L-A-I-T-H. It means May Queen. Is that right?"

    "Told you; I can''t spell." Meya shrugged, her glowing eyes straying as her face fell. She crossed her arms on the fence, propping her chin upon it. "But that''s probably it. Today''s my birthday."

    The words barely escaped her lips. Then Coris remembered her song. Suddenly, it became clear why she was left sitting here alone while her whole village was at the Fest.

    I''m Meya, Meya. I''m born on May''s Eve.

    As my father grieves for my mother''s Song.

    "Me mother used to sing at the May Fest every year, until the year I was born, when I stole her Song away." Meya mumbled, shaking her head,

    "I can''t be there. ''Tis just too hard. Song Thief, they''d call me. And they''d chuck pebbles and rotten fruit at me."

    She hid her face behind her arms, leaving only her eyes, staring straight ahead.

    A wave of sympathy welled up in Coris. How must she have felt, reminded every birthday of the misfortune she brought upon her family with her birth? As if being shunned to the shadow of her sisters wasn''t enough. Yet, hating May Day would mean hating her own birth, her very existence.

    He understood why she chose to hide her Song from her people. He''d tasted the bitterness laced into its beauty, and it had drawn him to her. Perhaps it would be best for the three lands to hear her at her happiest.

    And perhaps, there might be something he could do to comfort her. He was a weak, powerless, wretched creature with little time left. He couldn''t do much for ten manors, but perhaps he could be a friend for a young maiden for a day at least.

    "I know a jolly Hadrian song. I''d be honored if you''d join me for a dance, Meya Hild." Coris proposed. Meya perked up.

    "You sure?" She gawked, shaking her head like a dog fresh out of a bath, "I can''t dance like they do in the Fest!"

    "Dance whichever way you like, milady." Coris laughed as he offered his hand and smile, adding with a tilt of his head, "It''s your birthday, after all."

    Meya stared at him, mesmerized, then raised her trembling hand to his. She screamed when Coris instead grabbed her waist then hoisted her over the fence.

    Coris overestimated his strength, however. He toppled back, and the two ended up sprawled on the grass, laughing and rolling about. They helped each other to their feet, their hair tousled and sprinkled with earth, then joined hands and danced clumsily to Coris''s awful voice,

    Little Lord Coris Hadrian.

    As plump as Betty the Sow.

    But he ne''er dig for truffles.

    For lazy and greedy is he.

    His meals are laid on gold.

    And his belly draped in silk.

    His father spoils him rotten,

    As his subjects sing in praise.

    Behold young Coris Hadrian,

    These lands you shall ruin.

    "You sound like Myron in the bath!"

    Meya giggled all through the song. Whether it was because of his voice, the lyrics or both, he''d never know. Once he was done, Meya serenaded him with Crosset''s local rhymes.

    They danced until they were both gasping for breath, then moved on to play checkers with rocks on the dirt. Meya taught him simple games the peasant children play. Coris taught her chess from her father''s old chessboard. She almost beat him once. Almost.

    And in between it all, they simply talked. Coris couldn''t talk much about himself, of course. He was content listening to Meya''s endless stories of her daily shenanigans with the church dog Fartmouth and her dreams of someday becoming great and famous.

    He, in turn, recounted the towns he had visited and the people he had met as Meya drank it in with sparkling eyes. She asked about his violent coughs. Coris admitted he had little time left.

    Meya wanted none of it. She insisted he''d live long enough to travel the whole of Latakia and sail beyond Everglen.

    Despite his intention to comfort her, Coris was emboldened by her company. Beneath her rough shell, weathered by poverty and years of tilling and plowing in the harsh climate, Meya was witty, humorous, and unsettlingly kindhearted. Her strange ideas, her strong will, her inherent yearning for adventure, her burning desire to become more than what was expected of her. They all spurred Coris to look back at the resigned life he''d chosen since the day he sacrificed his future for Zier.

    Outcasted by her people for being a Greeneye, struggling to find footing in a family barely scraping by to feed seven children, this peasant girl still hadn''t lost her will to live and her sight of her dream. Given the chance, would she achieve more than he ever would?

    The church bell chimed. The sun dipped low over the dark wall of evergreen pine trees of the forest. Coris spun around to the black spires of Crosset castle. Father had given him until the seventh hour to return to the castle.

    "Goodly Freda. I must go. My father will be leaving soon."

    Coris hastily fished out his pocket sundial, trying to hide its golden gleam. Meya was crestfallen but soon brightened,

    "Well, you know who I am. If your caravan comes around to Crosset again, then come visit! I did enjoy our little spell together."

    She shone him a wide smile bursting with innocence and life. Coris couldn''t help but return the favor,

    "I did too. Thank you."

    Meya blushed, although it was difficult to see against the colors of gathering dusk. Wringing her hands, she leaned in with a whisper,

    "That was the first dance I ever got from someone other than me brothers," Her breath tickled his ear as she giggled, "So thank you, too."

    Underneath the sour reek of pig, she smelled of fresh grass and honey. A strange sensation took hold of the young man; it compelled him to brush his lips against her cheek as she drew away. As their eyes met, Coris stammered out the one truth he was desperate to impress upon her before he left, perhaps for the last time.

    "You''re worth more than a pig. Or simply your mother''s song, Meya. Don''t ever think otherwise."

    He clasped his hands over hers, leaving behind a small stone embedded with shards of raw emerald. He''d bought it hours ago from a portly Tyldornian merchant and his daughter at the town square; its verdant gleam was familiar.

    However, looking at little Meya, he realized it was meant to be hers. A raw emerald, gleaming courageously in the deepest, darkest cave. Awaiting the day one would stumble upon it and make it the crown jewel it was destined to be.

    Meya blinked at the gift in disbelief. She closed her fingers over it, clutching it tight to her heart. For a glimpse, her glowing eyes gleamed with tears before the fire burned them away.

    "And I''ll wait for the day you''re ready to sing for the three lands to hear, not just the birds. But until then¡ª"

    Meya smiled. She pressed a weathered finger to her lips, then touched it to his.

    "¡ªRemember, ''tis our little secret."

    Coris closed his eyes at the "kiss." He held onto the warmth of her finger for a moment longer, then drew back and trudged away. The heat of her eyes burned steady on his back. He shivered against his cloak as the chilly evening wind overtook him. His body was aching and drained, but his heart was content and refreshed like it hadn''t been in a long time.

    He turned around for one last look, but Hild Cottage had vanished behind rows upon rows of tiny houses. His heart deflated. Then, he heard it again¡ªThe most heavenly voice in the three lands, blowing after him in the wind, sending him on his way. The Song of the May Queen.

    I''m here to sing a song I own.

    I wish to hear the world sing along.

    I''ll sing my heart for all who''ll heed.

    So lend your ear to the wind as it blows.

    Heeding the words of hope, Coris soldiered on with rekindled fire in his heart. He''d comforted a fair maiden and witnessed her Song. In turn, she reminded him of the beauty of this land, hidden in the most unlikely, unremarkable places.

    He could still be of use to this land, no matter how small. And if he could stumble onto little Meya, an emerald buried in the mud of her pigsty, one that refused to let her light die, perhaps hope still lived that he would find the girl whose fiery courage and unrelenting kindness had changed his life forever.

    He would find her someday, and he would live on the best he could until then.

 Burning Red

    One whole week shut in one''s bedroom could work wonders on the human psyche. For all their differences, Coris Hadrian and Meya Hild arrived at the same state of mind: Crippling boredom.

    Once Meya had agreed to let Coris tag along to her reunion with her folk, Coris set Simon to fetch a venue for their meeting and write a reply to Jezia.

    As Arinel would be occupied by her post in Muldor''s lab, Zier by sword practice with Sir Jarl, and Heloise and Fione by their training under Baroness Sylvia, it fell to Christopher to help Sir Bayne arrange a proper burial for the five fallen Crossetian guards and notify their bereaved families, now that the truth was exposed.

    After the arrival of afternoon tea¡ªa plate stacked high with rose-red syrup waffles, a tea set shrouded in rose-scented vapor, and rose-scented tea candles ("Very subtle, Head Cook Apollon," said Coris scathingly), the bedchamber was left to the newlyweds.

    In Coris''s opinion, nothing worked better to humor a sour dragoness who didn''t want more reading lessons than impressing her with the machinations of a water clock, a tour of your vast gallery of canine portraits and library of rune books, or a gander at the fruits of your dearest childhood pursuit...

    "And this...is my rock collection."

    All that was a lie; Coris was trying to overwhelm Meya with his niche interests, so she would succumb to reading before perishing to boredom. Yet, his plan had backfired; Meya marveled at his eccentricities. That or she was so bored after a week of reading lessons that even admiring rocks was rejuvenating, or she''d cottoned on to his scheme.

    "Rich boy rock collection, you mean," said Meya as she examined an iron bead the size of her thumb. Coris raised his eyebrows, and she turned around with a smirk, "Myron''s got naught but riverside pebbles in his crate. Oh, and some crapstones."

    She returned the iron bead to its snug bed. Coris pouted.

    "Not so fast. I''m sure I have one in here somewhere," He pulled the box to himself and lifted out the layers.

    "Aha."

    Meya gawked. Coris had offered her what looked like dried dung carved of glittering gray clay, looking extremely proud of himself.

    "You do realize you''re presenting the fair maiden with fossilized dragon dung, Sir Knight?"

    "It represents undying love. As time flies, roses wilt. Dragon dung turns to stone," Coris shrugged with a smile.

    "Why thank you, milord. I shall cherish it. ''Tis a fine specimen of glittery doo."

    Snorting, Meya turned the romantic gift between her fingers. Dragon crapstones were scattered across Latakia, but the real gold lay in their bones, scales and eggshells, made of an undecipherable combination of metals.

    Historians believed dragons once lived in Latakia before migrating to Everglen. Meya had often wondered why they left. Her current guess was they''d left in fear of Lattis when the initially harmless cavemen of Latakia first learned to mine.

    "Looks like powdered rock paste pressed through a sausage maker," Meya commented, then caught Coris''s eye,

    "What do dragons eat? They burn humans to a crisp, so I dun think ''tis us. Wait, just you. I''m a Greeneye. And we ride dragons! Pssshaaaa! ''Tis one well-done Lord Hadrian!"

    Meya brandished the dragon dung stone like a seaman would a helm, blowing fire noises as she gyrated her body to imitate a slaloming eagle. Coris chuckled weakly as he fingered his lips, wringing his brain for the safest way to slither out of this conversation,

    "Lord Amplevale had merchants smuggle Nostran books through the Zarel Pass. One said dragons drink from the sun as they soak in the earth."

    "So...they flap about in the dirt like chickens and nap in the sun like snakes?"

    "That''s also my interpretation, yes."

    "Must be easy raising them. Lucky Nostra."

    "Not so fast."

    Meya whipped around, blinking. Coris caressed his chin, his eyes narrowed,

    "Dragons are enormous, powerful, intelligent creatures. They breathe fire, fly. Their bones, scales and eggs are metallic. We humans derive nutrients and minerals from plants and animals, and mining. How much earth do you think dragons have to mine to absorb what they need?"

    Blood drained from Meya''s cheeks, replaced by the chilling thought. Coris paced.

    "Perhaps this is why dragons hoard precious metals in their caves and claim large territories¡ªto feed their young. And perhaps, this is why Nostra wants to invade Latakia. Their true end is Everglen. Their land and colonies have been sucked dry. They can''t sustain their dragon army."

    "So, we''ll have to kill dragons off, then? There''s no way humans and dragons can live together? Not even in Nostra?" Meya slumped against the desk, "Where does that leave Greeneyes?"

    The falling silence smothered Coris as a battle raged within. Should he tell her the truth? Should he console her with a hopeful, farfetched solution? Or should he leave her to wallow?

    Meya braced her hands on the desk and hung her heavy head over Coris''s rock chest, peering down its layers of riches,

    "You got moonstone in here somewhere? It calms me."

    Coris blinked.

    "I didn''t take you for the superstitious type."

    Meya snorted,

    "Me neither, but I''m a believer. Been experimenting with Jason''s goods for years."

    She spotted a drop of polished, opalescent moonstone and held it fast, soothing her roughened skin with its icy smoothness.

    "Moonstone makes me calmy. Sunstone makes me sprightly. Lattis makes me dowly." Meya rhymed as she peeled back another layer, then her eyes grew round, "Goodly Freda, is that Rose Crystal?"

    "It is indeed. And I''m guessing it makes you lovely?" Coris grinned innocently. Meya was flattered,

    "Why yes¡ª" Then the fireball hit, "Why you¡ª!"

    Coris managed to bust out a laugh before Meya socked him on the old spot on his arm. He snickered even as he seethed in pain, then froze at the sight.

    Meya was still admiring the crystal, but her eyes had drifted out of focus as her cheeks flushed and her breathing quickened. As if in a trance, she laid the crystal on her neck, slid it down her shoulders, circled her breasts, spiraled down her tummy, then nestled it at the crest of her parted legs.

    "Meya?" Coris whispered, gripped with shame as her soft moans roused the same noise in his throat; he sealed his lips and strangled it quiet.

    Dragons soak in the earth; they absorb nutrients from rock and soil. As superstitions went, Rose Crystal was the stone of lust. It didn''t affect humans, but Greeneyes¡ªhalf-dragons like Meya¡ª

    Oh, no.

    Meya slid her hands down the curve of his back, jolting Coris out of his reverie.

    "Meya, what in the¡ª"

    She knelt and kissed the dimple on his middle, then journeyed downwards, dragging all thought from his head the lower she traveled. Coris gritted his teeth, but the nauseating grate of bones couldn''t tear his eyes from the burning, shining trail her tongue left on his delicate skin.

    Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

    "Meya, give me the stone, please," Coris grasped her wrist and pried the crystal from her clutches,

    "We''ve agreed on this. We can''t do this anymore. Meya, wake up!"

    The crystal dropped to the flagstone with a chiming clatter, and Coris allowed his knees to fold. Meya sat rooted as her senses returned. Her cheeks flooded with shame when their eyes met. She cooled them against her palms, breathing deeply.

    "Forgive me, milord," She whispered, then shivered with nervous laughter, "Chione must''ve possessed me for a while there."

    Her breath caught as if seized by claws of doubt. She sighed, then shook her head.

    "No, ''twas me entirely." She held her breath fast as she held his gaze, then breathed through trembling lips,

    "I want you."

    Coris blinked, then pure joy lit his gaping eyes to life. The grips of fear slackened; her heart had room to beat again. Then, another blink, and his eyes emptied. He stood and backed away. Her heart shriveled and fell through the cracks into nothing.

    "You don''t, Meya." Coris shook his head, frowning, "You''re confused about your father. You''re scared of traveling so far from your hometown. You''re worried about the Greeneyes and the dragons. Those feelings are exacerbated by the crystal¡ª"

    "And you." Meya dragged herself to her feet, clinging to his eyes to keep her there,

    "You''re so good to me. So kind. So understanding. So patient. But you lied to me, manipulated me, even while we were in bed together. You knew I was an impostor, but you saved me from them bandits. You spared me so I could serve under you, but you''re grooming me to become a lady at your side."

    Coris pursed his lips. The pain of the truth was evident in his clenched jaw and wavering eyes, fighting to be free from his rigid code of lies, logic and duty. Meya wondered if she should dare to hope. She braved a step forward.

    "You promised I''ll be your last, then you said you''re gunna sleep with Lady Arinel. You said you''ll woo her, but you''ve never held her eyes the way you held mine. You vowed I''m your first, but I keep hearing whispers of this Agnesia Graye. Tell me which is it, for Freda''s sake?"

    Coris closed his eyes and turned away as if desire had set her glowing green ablaze. He reached out a trembling hand, brushing his fingertips on the ruby brooch pinned inside her sleeve,

    "You gave me your virginity. You saved my life. I''m bound by name and duty to protect and atone." He whispered.

    "But you gave your vow for that. And you saved my life first," Meya argued, shaking her head stubbornly, "I want to be more than your duty. And I know ''tisn''t duty alone what binds you."

    She caught his wrist and ran her thumb down the grooves on the back of his hand. He was so cold, so thin. Her burning skin meant she was seldom touched. When people touched her, it was mostly to hurt her.

    Coris was colder than all those people, but that First Night, he''d held her so tenderly, so protectively; even in his frail, clammy arms, she felt warm and safe. And less alone.

    She longed to feel it again¡ªto be loved, to be cared for, to be appreciated, to be desired by his true self he''d revealed that night, untainted by layers of deceit.

    "I want you for you," She smiled bitterly, "I know¡ª''tis been mere days. I''m just a lowly peasant girl. Not even a maiden at that. I know what you must think of me. I''ve no clue what my heart needs, but I''ve no doubt what it wants. I want you."

    Her hand slipped away. Coris held onto currents of air empty but for her phantom heat. He''d waited for the girl with hair soft as duskfall that held the colors of dawn to break this seven-year night, so his raft could sail to Fyr''s Lake. That was all he''d wanted, to meet his savior and reward her. Then die.

    He wouldn''t greed for more, wouldn''t taint her with his lust, wouldn''t disgust her with his feelings. She was pure and full of promise. He, a monster drowning in the very moat he''d filled with blood.

    Yet, she desired him. She, too, had lied to and manipulated him. She was human, imperfection. He should be allowed to desire her.

    The fabric of her dress was fine and brittle; it crumpled where the crystal chafed it. He knew what lay beneath; he raised his eyes so the memory wouldn''t tempt him. Drown that dress and the chambermaid who picked it. The lines of her breasts pushed against the sheer cloth. He''d often rested his throbbing head there, let her pulse lull him to sleep, refusing to part. Perhaps it had to do with Mother.

    He urged his hand forward. Meya''s voice stopped him,

    "I know we might never become nothing, but I want to make the most of it while it lasts, find our way as we walk. But if you dun want the same, please, just give me the truth. So I can be on my way."

    Truth.

    Truth was they had more than days to their history. Truth was this crisis was far more encompassing than roof beams and a Lattis ball in Zier''s guts. Truth was he wasn''t fit to be her mentor. He was spoiled, cowardly, selfish. A liar, manipulator and schemer with a dozen faces melded to his skin. He was no longer sure if his real face remained or if there was one to begin with. He didn''t even dare to tell her what she must know.

    But truth was also that for the past seven years, she''d been his rope to cling to as he strayed between life and death. Although faceless, nameless, fleeting the memory of her had been, the thought of finding her again kept him crawling for life as his body burned from the inside out.

    Perhaps, he could at least let her know that. Then perhaps she would stay awhile, and he would crawl a little further.

    He trailed his fingers down the curve of her face, pressed his thumb to her lips, watched as it paled under his touch. A breath, then he plunged in,

    "I''ll give you truth."

    Meya closed her eyes as his lips captured hers. Coris flung her down on the desk, sweeping off papers, rocks, books and stationery to make way.

    He slid her nightdress over her head. Meya flinched as the spring breeze dragged its icy sleeve across her breasts. His parted lips traced a winding road just as cold from the dip of her belly button to her nipple. She gasped for breath.

    Coris slid his hand between her thighs, fumbling for his way in. Meya weaved her fingers between his and guided him, writhing as her heart hammered a tattoo on his palm.

    As he continued to rouse her, eager to please, Meya groaned and twitched, impatient. Coris chuckled as he loomed over her, tucking stray curls behind her ear.

    "Very well, let''s proceed. Don''t forget to relax."

    Meya opened her eyes when his cold retreated. She watched, mesmerized, as he undressed at his leisure, backlit by the sunshine streaming in through the window. Coris caught her spying. His beautiful gray eyes twinkled silver over his sly smile.

    "Hope it dun hurt this time," Meya whispered, blushing. Coris paused with his shirt shrugged halfway down his shoulders. He blinked, then rolled his eyes.

    "Hence why I insist on more preparation."

    Meya shook her head. Smiling fondly, she reached over and tugged his trousers down just a little. Jolts of bliss coursed through Coris from her playful caress.

    "It dun make no difference with how blessed you are. So why wait?"

    Coris blinked in awe and surprise. Her voice was higher, sweeter¡ªthe same voice that had echoed across the moonlit moor; the Song of May Day. He was blessed, indeed, to have been graced by such a heavenly voice.

    Meya breathed deeply and willed her limbs to unravel, closing her eyes. Steeling himself, Coris bent and kissed her yearning lips, then moved to close the gap. He''d barely made his way in when he scrambled out with a yell.

    "Fyr! It''s so hot!"

    Meya''s eyes flew open. She stared in confusion, then swore under her breath,

    "My Lattis!" She unknotted her legs from his waist and sprang up, "Wait¡ªI''ll find it!"

    Meya fell to her knees, rooting through scattered papers and whatnot for her medallion as Coris watched, bewildered.

    If dragons kept their heat when disguised in human form, how had they mated with humans to create Greeneyes like Meya?

    The answer was Lattis. Meya had worn it all the times he claimed her. The metal must have become known to mankind far earlier, long before Rutgarth. Yet, who was the one to discover its power against dragons? How had that knowledge been lost?

    Coris shook himself. He could crack that Miracle Egg later. He wasn''t trying to impregnate Meya. He just wanted to make love to her.

    Meya was still searching desperately for her coin. The sight rankled Coris. This was Meya''s first time with him as her true self. She should be free to be just as she was. She shouldn''t have to put out her fire so she wouldn''t scorch him.

    As a Greeneye, she was forced to repress a part of her to blend in and survive. It had led her to deride and reject herself. To think so lowly of herself. To trade her virginity on impulse to feel ordinary and appreciated. And he was perpetuating that cycle.

    Coris mustered his strength, swept Meya into his arms, then toppled headfirst onto the desk. Fyr, he couldn''t carry an ordinary lass, let alone a dragon lass with metal bones.

    Cursing under his breath, he grabbed her hips and pulled her close.

    "Coris, wait¡ªYou''ll hurt yourself!" Meya skidded back, "Coris¡ª"

    Her protests melted into a cry of pain and ecstasy as they moved as one. Her fire repelled his attacks, yet he relentlessly came charging back. As he dug his fingers into her cheeks, she dug her nails into his damp hair in anticipation.

    Almost there. Almost there.

    But Coris was at his limit. He fell on top of her, panting.

    Meya fell back. As she lay panting on the tabletop, she swallowed the aching disappointment. Making love was beautiful but not as simple and smooth as girls her age had imagined it would be. Coris was just as much a greenhorn as her, and they still struggled to reconcile their differences.

    Coris peeled himself off Meya and raked back her wet golden locks, frowning as he peered down at her.

    "Did you...?" Meya shook her head. Coris''s face fell. He slid off and slumped heavily onto his chair.

    "I''m sorry. It''s always like this. I couldn''t last long." He muttered through gritted teeth, his face hidden behind trembling fingers. Meya smiled as a rush of affection and gratitude swept into her heart. The lad had given his all, which was more than enough.

    "Come now. You did pretty good. ''Tis the heat. One more time with the coin?" She tilted her head, suggesting coyly. Coris looked half-dead on his cushioned behind. He shook his head, eyes closed and chest heaving, streaks of dark hair pasted to his forehead with sweat.

    "I''m sorry. I don''t think I can go again ''til tomorrow."

    "Dun sorry me. It ain''t no biggie." Meya slid off the desk and climbed onto his lap. Coris gave her a few tired, affectionate head pats.

    Meya snuggled close. Her thighs had dried. Not one drop of his seed would survive that oven.

    Yes, Zier, I have all these thoughts flying around my head every time I bed my girl.

    And I can''t tell her about any of them, not even that I''d lied most dastardly to her face.

    It isn''t Jason Boszel I want to talk to; it''s Draken Armorheim.

    And it isn''t the shortage I want to talk about.

    Memories flashed past his eyes of the night he was rescued from his kidnapping by a dragon. As he stroked Meya''s hair and counted the moments between her fevered breaths, Coris buried his face in the crook of her neck, shame and anguish burning in his bowels.

    It''s you, Meya.

 Let Me Hear Your Song

    Even after a long cuddle on the chair, Coris was still groggy, and Meya still lusty. Thus, to the bed they retired, giving no heed to the time of day.

    Too exhausted to please his fair maiden, Coris allowed Meya to admire his glorious physique to her heart''s fill while he napped. Poor Meya had settled for finger-doodling on Coris''s belly when a certain something prodded her loins. A flash of pure bliss rushed up her spine, overwhelming her senses. Strangling back a moan, Meya glared down at Coris, who wiped his face blank in an instant.

    "You said you won''t be available again ''til tomorrow!"

    "Apologies. My middle brother is quite unruly." Coris slurred, eyes still closed. Giggling, Meya patted his cheek affectionately.

    "Just rest. I''ll take care of wee-Coris. Well, not so wee, actually."

    Chuckling, Meya took his hands and leaned down with a kiss which slid its way down his neck, over his heart, past his belly button, to his very core. She awakened him, then sheathed him within. Waves of bliss coursed through him. Meya cried out his name. She tilted her face to the Heights, basking in the light at the pinnacle. She showered him with a stream of warmth so soothing, he finally felt safe to let go.

    He laid back as the pulsating river of clouds carried him into Freda''s Caldera, then drifted down to earth like an autumn leaf, knowing he''d miss it sorely when his time came.

    Meya slumped onto his chest, panting. He raised a feeble arm and caressed her hair. She rubbed her cheek, then her lips against his palm.

    "Thank you." She whispered, her voice choked with tears. It was the first time she summited the Heights with him. He finally did it. "D''you like it?"

    Meya raised her face to his, then her smile fell. His wide, pale eyes stared through her at demons only he saw.

    "Thank you, too. I''m sorry I couldn''t satisfy you. I know I shouldn''t be, but I''m glad I get to feel the Heights before I drown in the Lake."

    "Coris, dun say that! You''re not going anytime soon. And not to Fyr''s Lake, that''s for sure!"

    "Still, part of me wished I''d never known how it felt. Now I''m even less ready to die."

    "Coris! Oh, Freda."

    Tears rolled down his cheeks like stars falling to their deaths. Meya eased him into her arms.

    "I''m sorry. Sorry. So sorry." He muttered feverishly as he rubbed his flooding eyes on her shoulder. He jolted and bucked, struggling to staunch the leak, but for years the whirlpool had festered under still waters. The dam was doomed to burst.

    "I''m just so scared. Every night I go to sleep, I''m scared I won''t wake up again. I''m sorry. I don''t want to die. Not this soon. Not like this. But I can''t tell anyone. I don''t want Zier to blame himself. I don''t want Mother to cry. I can''t let Father down. Maybe it''d be better if I just drop dead than live on and on like this...Pathetic. Invalid. Useless. Waste of resources. Can''t even pleasure a fair maiden. Can''t even give her a babe. At best, they''d cry once and move on. What''s the point of dragging it out? What could I possibly achieve? But I don''t want to die. I don''t want to melt away in the Lake. I''m scared. So, so scared. How would it feel to not feel anything?"

    Meya smoothed her hand down his bony back, passing her own tears trickling down his spine. How should she comfort him? Back in the forest when she''d faced death, it was a different brand of fear; certain, urgent, stark white and black. Not the drawn-out, murky gray in-between.

    She had control, the choice of fight or flight. But how would one deal with death when it was out of one''s hands? If one''s body was his enemy?

    Most folk wouldn''t remember death until it was blinking on the horizon. By that time, hopefully they''d already be wise enough to deal with it. But for all his wisdom, Coris was a lad barely a year older than Meya. And he''d been living like this since he was Mistral''s age. Alone. Terrified.

    "Coris, ''tis normal to be scared. Everybody''s scared of dying. You dun have to blame yourself."

    The Holy Scriptures featured a few verses ruminating on death, but none of the hymns lauding the beauty of the Heights, recounting stoic deaths of Latakian heroes seemed to work to assuage Coris''s fears. Perhaps she should simply tell him what she thought, what she knew.

    "Zier loves you. Your parents love you. And I need you. You''re me lord. Me mentor. Me good friend. Me...whatever it is we have now. Stop saying We still got Zier and I dun want to orphan me babe and all that. You''re getting used to it. You shouldn''t."

    Meya drew back. Coris''s eyes stared out of sunken sockets, empty, lost in a pool of tears. She cupped his gaunt cheeks,

    "You asked what you could possibly achieve. You''re achieving so much every day, Coris. You saved Arinel and her men. You''re always thinking up ways to help your people. You''re giving me the chance to make something out of me life."

    Coris bit his trembling lips as if willing himself to believe. Meya shook her head, frustrated, then shook his face for attention.

    "I know you think your father''s sidelining you, and you can''t do nothing about that, but you can try talking to Baroness Norena. Maybe she''d help you with the Ban."

    Coris pulled away. He reached under the bed for his chamberpot, then emptied the quagmire in his nostrils. Meya poured him a basin of water. He splashed some on his face, poured some on his soiled fingers, then gulped down the rest.

    "I doubt it." He dabbed his mouth with the back of his hand, his voice still thick with nose gunk, "Safyre is neutral on the Ban. It has no resources of its own and champions living in harmony with nature. Its economy is based on tourism and luxury goods."

    "But your father said they''re still affected by the metal shortage. Maybe you can talk Norena into helping you. You''re good at talking."

    "I don''t know. I don''t have Hadrian''s sway behind me this time, do I?"

    You dun have nothing but dogs during the Heist, neither.

    Meya made to argue, but Coris cut across with a sigh. He slumped onto his pillows, an arm on his forehead.

    "Remember when I told you, my father is now the only one who knows the whole truth about The Axel?"

    Meya nodded slowly, unsure where he was headed.

    "When the Baron Hadrian were on his deathbed, he''d pass on Maxus''s Memoirs to his heir apparent. It contains all the secrets surrounding The Axel."

    Coris opened his eyes, revealing slivers of dull gray.

    "The truth we seek is here, in Hadrian." He jabbed his finger into the bed, "And Father''s deliberately sending us away from it. To a tourist town with no military significance. No say, no stake on the Ban. I just don''t see a way to wring optimism out of this."

    His arm flapped lifelessly onto the bed. His jaded eyes bore twin holes in the wooden ceiling of the four-poster. Meya watched him, her eyes narrowed.

    "Whenever Lord Crosset slaps down some new law or tax, I dun grumble as I plow the fields or join the folks protesting at the bulletin board. I stay quiet, wait for a loophole, and exploit it. Sometimes I got away with easy gold. Most times I didn''t. But that''s what I do."

    Coris opened his eyes, looking weary. Meya propped her arm on the bed and loomed over him, golden locks trailing onto his sunken, ridged chest.

    "If the Baron''s word is law, there''s bound to be a loophole. Or a way round. If we can''t read those Memoirs, we find another way. Safyre''s closer to Everglen than Hadrian. We''re traveling towards the place where it all started. Where the first Hadrians and Hilds came from. If Norena won''t help with the Ban, she can help us get there."

    Coris avoided her eyes. Meya leaned down further.

    "You''re always shutting your door all the way. Why not leave it open a sliver? You need to have some hope."

    His eyes slid back to meet her, lifeless and bloodshot. Meya grasped his clammy hand, squeezing those knobbly fingers.

    "Hope got me through the Famine, got me to negotiate with Gillian. Tis why I''m still alive. It''ll keep you alive much longer than any elixir would."

    Coris simply smiled his gentle smile, his chapped lips glistening with tears. Meya wasn''t sure if he believed her.

    <hr>

    The hours that followed saw them alternating between consciousness and slumber, passion and serenity, budding love and ripe lust.

    Meya lay sprawled at the foot of the bed. Her half-open eyes widened at the sight of rosewater-colored spots of blood scattered on the linen.

    My virgin blood? Coris said he''d take care of it.

    Meya dragged her fingers over them, then frowned at Coris. Not that she minded, now that the secret was out. Coris''s eyes were also fixed upon the stains.

    "They say blood and ink never wash off. Despite man''s best efforts." He said. Meya tilted her head, then hitched up a wry smile,

    "The laundry maid must have known everything that happened behind our doors, eh." She traced imaginary lines from each minuscule speck to the other, "You probably needed a heavy coin to weigh her tongue down."

    "Not all these are yours." Coris laid a pale, tapered fingertip on a spot of stain. Meya''s eyes widened in dawning horror, but Coris remained smiling, "I used to have to scramble in the dark for my chamberpot whenever my stomach acts up at night."

    Support the author by searching for the original publication of this novel.

    Coris propped himself up and edged away, sinking heavily onto his pillow.

    "I slept well these past few days, but thanks to Zier, that''s probably all the sleep I''d get." He quipped, his eyes closed, looking gaunt in the late afternoon sun, "What in the three lands should I do with him?"

    Meya slithered back to her side of the bed, slumping down face-to-face with him.

    "Maybe you spewing blood is your body''s way of telling you there''s something inside that needs to come out." She drew soothing circles on his sunken belly, coaxing it to behave. Coris raised his eyebrows. She stared straight back, undaunted.

    "You''re always smiling, Lord Coris. Maybe the reason you slept well these few nights is because you cried¡ªand talked. With me."

    Coris froze. His cheeks tinged pink, he averted his eyes.

    "I don''t have the right to complain. Born rich and noble and all." He muttered. Meya blinked. She churned her lips as she pondered it, then surfaced with a wry smirk.

    "Well, we''re liars by nature. We have fathers who are near impossible to please. And our mothers dun really help. I''m jealous of me big sister. Your little brother is jealous of you."

    Coris blushed deeper. Her point proven, Meya gestured at the plate of still-toppling pile of waffles on the bedside cabinet.

    "We got a mountain of waffles to munch through. We can swap tales of our fathers, and I can help you be a better big brother for Zier. How''s that, milord?"

    Meya served Coris a toothy grin. He looked unsure, like a shy tyke faced with a stranger. He creaked up a small, tired smile,

    "Lexi''s fine."

    He muttered, his cheeks faint pink. Meya blinked. A wave of warmth enveloped her heart. Coris propped himself up on an elbow. His eyes wandered, staring through her to memories both fresh and long past.

    "You''re right, actually. About leaving the door open." He flicked away bits of candlewax stuck to the sheets. Probably from late-night readings.

    "Father said I''m always assuming the worst of everyone and everything. Not that I want to, but I''m a Hadrian. My duty is hiding The Axel. I learned to lie and conceal and manipulate. I''ve trained myself to predict the worst-case scenario in every situation. The one time I didn''t, I lost a friend and my own future."

    Once the spot of wax had disintegrated into dust, Coris plopped back onto the bed,

    "I know privilege comes with responsibility. And I''ve never known another life outside this one. But sometimes, they''re so heavy. All these secrets." He sighed, his eyes drooping close, "Why must I be born a Hadrian?"

    Meya slid a soothing hand down his arm.

    "I''m sure Zier''s thinking the same thing. He dun know any more than you do why you two must do the thing you''re supposed to be doing. But he''s not as patient as you. So he did what he thought was right. And he might actually be right, once the truth unfolds. We never know, do we?"

    She cocked her head, then leaned down with a whisper,

    "Tell him what you just told me. Let him know ''tis hard for you, too. Might make him feel better if he knows you think the dung well you''re standing in stinks as much as he does."

    Meya led a stray sheaf of his dark hair across his forehead, tucking it behind his ear. Coris pored deep into her eyes, then dipped his head with a sigh,

    "My parents have always told me to set an example." He chuckled sheepishly, recalling the spectacle he''d made in Father''s study, "This must be the first time he saw me yell at Father."

    "And you should let him see more of that you!" Meya shook his arm in earnest. Coris raised a skeptical eyebrow, and she hastily added, "Not saying you should yell more at your father, though. He might send us even further than Safyre next time. Though I think he kind of deserves it. And I do want to see more of Latakia."

    Coris''s laughter broke Meya off mid-ramble. At the sight of those silvery eyes flickering in amusement, her heart skipped several beats.

    "D''you know why I resent Marin so much? She makes everything seem easy. She never complains. Not even once."

    She ran her hand down the ridges that were Coris''s ribs pushing out from under his skin,

    "Seeing you now, I reckon it couldn''t have been easy for her, neither. Being Dad''s daughter." She mumbled, her impassive face betraying a glimpse of shame.

    "Maybe Zier will understand you more, if you let him know ''tis not easy for you too. Let him see some Crazy Coris. Not-so-perfect Coris. Silly Coris¡ªPerverted Coris. Hey, stop it!"

    Coris was flicking her nipple, looking gloomy. Giggling, Meya sat up and batted his hand away. She studied him as she laid down and snuggled into her pillow, then shrugged with a smile,

    "You''re too...good, sometimes. I''d definitely hate you too, if you were me big brother."

    "You would?" Coris''s smile widened, revealing a sliver of uneven, yellowed teeth. Meya snorted,

    "Yeah. You and your oh-so-righteous guts."

    They shared a laugh. Meya found her hand straying towards the bloodstains again.

    "Bloodstains. Tears. Scars. Thoughts and feelings. We''re not meant to hide or erase them." She muttered, "Maybe that''s why blood and ink dun wash off. Freda made them that way, so they''re meant to be seen."

    Silence fell as Meya busied herself drawing constellations with the bloodstains, then Coris spoke,

    "And your voice. It''s also meant to be heard."

    "Me voice?"

    Coris''s eyes narrowed into slits.

    "You''ve been faking your voice, haven''t you?"

    "What are you talking about?" Meya forced out a laugh, cold sweat beading along her hairline.

    "You sounded different. Back there¡ªon my desk." Coris glanced insinuatingly towards said desk. Her face burning, Meya slammed her fist against the sore spot on Coris''s arm. Once he was done yowling bloody murder, Coris continued seriously,

    "Your voice was higher. Sweeter. Now that think I about it, it fits you more."

    "No, it dun''t!" Meya''s blurted out in her real voice. She shared a blink of surprise with Coris, then spun away and sat up, annoyed,

    "Tis too dainty. All this weird ringing, too. I can''t say fart, crap, dung, or dong without folks giving me the weird eye. Now you''re doing it."

    Meya whipped back and glowered. Jolting, Coris averted his eyes.

    "Apologies. That was unbecoming." He rubbed an awkward finger on his cheek, then resurfaced looking serious, "It''s not good for your voice, you know. You could lose your Song."

    Scowling, Meya propped up her pillow, gave it a vicious slug then flattened it behind her back, as if it were the physical embodiment of her Song.

    "Good riddance. I won''t have to hide it no longer."

    "Why so?" Coris asked innocently, a shrewd glint in his sharp eyes, "It''s a beautiful voice. Must be excruciating suppressing it."

    It''s your song, now, Meya. And if you don''t let it define you, it won''t. So why are you so afraid?

    Arinel''s blue eyes pierced into the depths of Meya''s heart, as her voice rang in her ears. Meya hadn''t hidden her voice just because it didn''t fit her character. Mainly, it was because it resembled Mum''s old voice. It was a dead giveaway.

    Meya had never heard Mum''s undamaged voice, of course. But she felt familiar with her voice. Mum might have sung to her while she was pregnant, a hand caressing her bump, assuming within was a beautiful baby boy with her ice-blue eyes.

    The thought pained her, but was it really anyone''s fault? Was it something she should fear so much? Was seventeen years long enough, far too long, or already too late to set it free?

    As she dithered, Coris sat up by her side.

    "Zier plays the harp, you know." He wrapped the blanket around them, gazing dreamily into space, "Imagine him strumming Corien''s Harp to your Song of May Day. Must be music from the Heights."

    Meya glanced at his wistful face. Perhaps the silence was becoming too overwhelming, confining, but just like that, the Song flowed out of her,

    "I''m here to sing a song I own.

    I wish to hear the world sing along."

    Coris froze as something stirred deep in his repressed memories. He stared, wide-eyed, as Meya''s song built up in courage and vigor with every syllable,

    "I''ll sing my heart for all who''ll heed.

    So lend your ears to the wind as it blows."

    "I''m Meya, Me¡ª"

    "¡ªya. I''m born on May''s Eve. As my father grieve... for my mother''s Song."

    Meya spun around, eyes wide as saucers. Coris was staring back, his cheeks bloodless, his eyes clouded with resurrected memories. He turned away, his lips moving hesitantly as he stammered out the lyrics he for some reason knew¡ªremembered...

    "Oh Meya, they say...what good...is a lass. As unruly and poor...as Me..ya...Hild."

    Silence drifted in to replace the last echoes of his cracked, dissonant voice. It was out of tune, vaguely recreated. Yet, there was no mistaking it. It was her Song.

    Trembles spread through her body. Meya fell limp against the headboard, gaping at the frail young man,

    "No way." The words left her lips in a hoarse rasp. "H-how?"

    "I''ve heard this song before." said Coris, his voice strangled, his eyes unblinking, "Three years ago. In Crosset."

    His faraway eyes returned to Meya. For a breath, it was as if the whole world had fallen out of existence. Shattered memories coagulated into flashes of sharp images and distinct voices.

    "Emerald-Stone Boy?" The words barely left her lips.

    "What?"

    Coris blinked, eyebrows raised. Meya scrambled off the bed. Her toe snagged in the silk blanket, and she almost tumbled face-first to the floor. Coris watched as she sped to the adjoined Solar, still in her birthday suit.

    The door hadn''t even stopped swinging when Meya came hurtling back through it, clutching something to her chest. She skidded to her knees by the bed and stretched out her arms. In her hands was a lump of dark gray stone beset with glinting shards of green crystal.

    "You gave me this. Remember?" She panted, shaking her hands.

    Coris studied the twinkling pebble. Flashes of strange yet somehow familiar surroundings. Snippets of voices and the warmth of spring. He knelt before the simple carpet stall of a portly Tyldornian merchant and his daughter, selecting raw ore stones as souvenirs for Zier.

    Large, acid-green eyes shimmering with tears glowed in the descending dusk, as he entrusted the emerald stone in her hands.

    Coris looked up and found the dragoness''s eyes waiting for him, similar to the last dewdrop of bitter joy clinging to her eyelashes. His frown made way for a faint smile of remembrance. Meya catapulted herself from the floor straight into his arms.

    "Meya!"

    Coris found himself sprawled on his back as Meya ironed the air out of his lungs. It wasn''t her vigor that had caught him off guard, but the boiling tears seeping onto his shoulder.

    "Oh, Freda." Meya tightened her arms, her voice thick with tears and breathy with joy, "You have...no idea...how long I''ve been waiting...for you to come by again."

    As the new, old memories settled in his head, Coris ran his hand down her wiry back. Tremors traveled from her body to his as she sobbed out her tale,

    "Every bazaar day, I went looking for you at every spice stall. Asked every merchant I came across if they knew Simon of Hadrian. But no one ever heard of you. You looked so ill back then, I thought you must''ve died. You lying¡ªfishbrained¡ªdonghead!"

    Meya landed a thump so resounding on his chest, his ribcage wobbled. She crumpled into his arms, her sobs muffled by his shoulder, her skin hot iron on his.

    "Why didn''t we recognize each other?" Meya drew back. She scoured him up and down with red-rimmed eyes, shaking her head with a frustrated frown, "You haven''t changed. Not that much."

    "Same goes for you, too." Coris unfurled a gentle grin which turned sly as he poked one of Meya''s breasts squashed against his meatless chest, "I''m feeling substantial growth and springiness here, though. Ow!"

    Coris yelped and cupped his forearm, glowering in mock petulance at Meya. She flounced away, arms crossed and her back to him. Smiling, Coris crept towards his fuming paramour, a pale finger traveling down a light golden curl, unraveling it to its full length.

    "Your hair''s different."

    Meya picked up a lock of hair and tugged absentmindedly on it. Its coarseness chafed against her rough palm. The bleach, the dye, the curling potions had sapped the moisture and scraped away the luster of her hair, merciless as blazing sunlight, leaving it brittle, frizzled and dry.

    "Tis for the disguise." She muttered, struggling to fill the melancholic silence. Coris sighed sadly in her place.

    "Pity. It was such a rare shade." He combed his long, icy fingers through her tangled curls. Meya closed her eyes sleepily as his soothing voice trickled down the curve of her back, "Rich, lustrous rose gold. Wish I''d live long enough to see it grow back out."

    Meya''s eyes snapped open.

    "Of course you will!" She spun around, glaring at the startled Coris, "You just got yourself one more reason to, haven''t you?"

    Coris avoided her eyes and scratched at his cheek. Frustrated, Meya hooked a finger around his chin and turned his face to hers, forcing him to meet her eyes.

    "I know what you''ve been doing. You avoid trying out new things because you''re afraid you''ll like them, and you''ll miss them when your time comes."

    Coris tensed, eyes wide and scared, but didn''t shy away. Meya leaned close, her voice gentler now,

    "But we''re all going to die someday anyway, Lexi. But, we''re all going about doing the things we want to." Her eyes wandered as she pondered, "Now that I think about it, it might be better to regret doing something than regret not doing it."

    Meya''s finger slid off his chin, leaving a patch of heat like candlelight. She hung her head, sorrowful eyes staring unseeing at the sheets.

    "You''re right." She admitted, her sweet yet rueful voice leaving a bitter taste in his ears, as the trembling glow of her acid-green eyes focused on his, "I was lying. I love me Song. I love to sing. I love this voice. Tis torture hiding it. Every single breath of it."

    Coris reached a pale hand towards her. His knobbly thumb tracing her lips, he repeated his words from years past that had solaced the embittered May Queen of Crosset.

    "Then please, let me hear your Song."

    And so Meya sang. As the young lord rested his head on her lap, with one hand caressing his hair, she sang the tales and lullabies of Latakia. She sang of war and peace. Hatred and love. Winter and spring. Death and birth. Sorrow and joy. Pain and perseverance. Despair and hope.

    From high noon til sundown, for the first time in seventeen years, the Song of May Day echoed within the solemn stones, carrying on the gentle spring wind throughout the castle''s hill.

    And, for the first time in seventeen years, Meya Hild felt free.

 A Tale of Two Sisters

    Meya Hild may be unique in various ways, but like most folks, in her formative years she had also been at the mercy of the whims of love.

    A year before she landed herself a sickly young nobleman, she caught the eye of a handsome, kindhearted merchant from Meriton. In the days leading up to the Fest of Freda, they enjoyed many a game of chess in the local alehouse, as outside the snow wind howled and screeched to be let in, raring to gnaw on some digits.

    Things took a turn for the unexpected when Meya didn''t come home one night. Farmer Armorheim and Farmer Hild mounted a search party of yeomen and fellow farmers. They found Meya stowed away in the merchant''s caravan as he prepared to leave town, knocked unconscious and trussed up along with a couple of Greeneye girls and boys from nearby manors.

    The man was part of a band of Greeneye traffickers. He''d been tipped off by a debt-ridden Crossetian peasant hoping for temporary relief. Once the Greeneye children had been drugged out of their minds by Rose Crystal, he''d sell them to noblemen with unusual tastes.

    Prostitution wasn''t illegal in Crosset, but selling children into prostitution was. Even Greeneye children. Both trafficker and informant were hanged in the Trench the very next day.

    Meya had been warned from childhood of the ordeal that befell careless Greeneyes. Sold into prostitution or dissected, their eyes slung onto amulets of luck, their blood cast upon altars in Chione''s name were but the signature few among many.

    Being the only Greeneye in her town, Meya felt it was simply a matter of time. But she survived, didn''t remember a thing, and learned an awful yet necessary lesson. Though it gave her nightmares for the good part of a year, she didn''t take it personally.

    Back in her fourteenth autumn, however, it was a different matter. That one was personal. Meya was teetering on the cusp of womanhood, and she found herself with something in common to Crosset''s young maidens for once:

    Terron Neale. First of his name. Seventeen. Son of a bard. Slayer of flutes and shawms.

    As the sound of his flute reverberated through the desolate Crosset dawn, young maidens of all value from pebble to gold would burst out their windows, a floppy hand to their feverish foreheads, before being dragged back inside by their weary mothers. Although, the fortunate few might find their mothers swooning by their side. Meanwhile, paranoid fathers and desperate local suitors would whet their sickles to a sparkle and mount them on broom handles.

    Mirram Hild was no exception, perhaps the most demented of them all, even. He imprisoned Marin in Hild Cottage, kept two beady eyes on Morel and even little Mistral.

    Being a breadwinner, Meya wasn''t included in the house arrest, as obviously she must go out and toil in the fields. On her way to the communal pasture with her chicken one day, she caught a whiff of Terron''s whistling nightingale flute. She followed the song to find the finest young lad in the three lands, perched on a rock on a grassy hillock looking out over swishing golden wheat fields.

    As was the case with the fake merchant (and Coris Hadrian), all it took was one gentle smile, and the spell upon Meya was complete.

    A week later, once Mirram and the boys had left for the fields, Meya to the pasture, Alanna and Morel to the market, and Mistral to Old Silmaryl''s house, Marin would open the door of Hild Cottage to one Terron Neale, carrying an armful of sunflowers. He handed them to her with a flourish, then regaled her with a resplendent flute rendition of Tricia of Haventoth, as she clapped along in pleasant surprise.

    Of course, he wouldn''t have found Marin on her own and picked the perfect bouquet and tune without the information he''d gleaned from Meya.

    Meanwhile, in the woods beyond the wheat fields, Meya crouched in her hollow hole, rubbing earth into her watering eyes, vowing never, ever to forgive Marin.

    Yet, deep down, she knew it wasn''t her eyes nor Marin. She was distracting herself from the obvious, much harsher truth. How could a girl ever hope to be loved by any man, if her own father didn''t adore her?

    It was only once she was banished from Crosset, the only home she had ever known and thus where all her worst memories were made, far from the judging eyes of her people and the shadows of her sisters, that Meya found cause for her rebellion in the need of others. She glowed soft and warm from within, no longer smothered by the sun''s fire nor reflecting it with a vengeful, blinding glare.

    And once she''d learned of her father''s desperate attempt to save her from exile, she finally believed she might, after all, be worthy of love. So she mustered her courage and professed her heart to Coris Hadrian, and together they agreed to give their budding romance a chance.

    However, old resentments die hard. Barely a week into their whirlwind courtship, Marin denied Terron''s offer for her to join his troupe as his wife and travel Latakia with him. She continued to live the one life she''d known; bolted up and alone in Hild Cottage.

    Meya would never know Marin''s reason for that, but one thing she knew was she would never, ever forgive her.

    <hr>

    The Crimson Hog was Hadrian''s oldest, most popular nighttime destination for merrymaking, to locals and travelers alike. The alcohol-induced laughter of raucous diners spilled through cracks between wooden panels. Mouth-watering fumes of various dishes billowed out the chimney and windows.

    Despite its age, the rickety old tavern was always worked to full capacity, and pushed to bursting point during the week of the May Fest. Peasants were allowed to travel outside their birth manors only during holidays, and anxious tourists who had been miserly for half their lives queued up at dawn to have their names down for a bowl of Old Mother Gelda''s famous sausage-and-ale-stew in the wee hours of the night.

    Thus, it came as no small surprise to Jason Boszel when, after he had asked for Meya''s reservation, the Greeneye waiter boy led his group through the aisle between crammed tables towards a room at the back of the tavern.

    There was no way a little maid girl could snatch a private room in the most famous alehouse of Hadrian during the Fest, was there?

    Draken was of the same mind. Even the young ones were blinking blankly at the door with bulging eyes, then they all turned to stare at Jason, their de-facto spokesperson.

    The portly merchant gulped. With a flick of his hand, he beckoned the waiter boy to lean his ear towards his mouth,

    "My lad, I don''t mean to be rude, but are you sure this is Meya Hild''s reservation?"

    The waiter, who was Old Mother Gelda''s grandson, looked just as bewildered as Jason. He didn''t even double-check his ledger,

    "Yes, sir. Lady Hild requested privacy for her attendants, and paid with a bill." He answered slowly, glowing eyes glancing at each of Meya''s motley attendants in turn.

    Jason''s eyes nearly popped out.

    "A bill!?" He exclaimed, his voice arcing an octave higher than normal. The waiter nodded like a tired bobble-head.

    "Yes, sir. Stamped with the Hadrian crest."

    "Did she come by here herself? Greeneye? Orange hair? Flat nose?" Draken gestured about his face. The Greeneye boy scrunched his similarly flat nose, then shook his head,

    "No, sir. She sent a representative. But there''s a lady with eyes and a nose like mine and golden hair inside. She arrived with three companions a quarter-hour ago."

    Jason gawked at the boy a bit more, then shared a look with Draken. With a heavy sigh, he reached for the doorknob, turned and pushed.

    This story has been taken without authorization. Report any sightings.

    A blur of golden hair rushed towards him, then the body attached to it slammed into him, knocking the air clean out of his lungs.

    "Meya!" Jason cried in glee. The girl surfaced with glowing, acid-green eyes and a toothy grin. She squeezed Jezia, slapped palms with Deke, then smiled at Draken, who returned it then stepped aside for the three Hild boys.

    "Maro! Marcus! Myron! M-"

    Meya stopped mid-syllable once the signal from her eyes had reached her brain, and it notified her which M of the family she was about to address.

    The young woman stood with an arm akimbo. Under her frilled headdress, her straight hair skimmed her shoulders in rippling blonde curtains. Her signature brown dress spread out under a worn apron spattered with what looked like old blood¡ªand in a gruesome twist was actually Meya''s blood from when she chopped off her fingertip. Her ice-blue eyes resembled Marin''s but flavored with cranberries instead of honey. She stretched her lips into a cold sneer.

    "What''s up with the blonde tresses, Dung Curls? I say Myron still wore it best. So you''d better get shaving."

    "Morel!?" Meya exclaimed, too flabbergasted to take offense. Morelia Hild raised a well-practiced eyebrow and let loose, as if she had been rehearsing for this exchange throughout her six days on the road.

    "What? Do I need another permit to be in your presence, Lady Hild?"

    Meya deadpanned, throwing up both hands in seeming surrender.

    "Don''t ask me. I don''t know nuts about permits." She extracted a small lace drawstring bag from her brassiere, then waggled it before Morel''s flaring nostrils and crossed eyes. Slivers of gold coins peeked out between its fine mesh¡ªthe monthly allowance she had just received from the Treasurer.

    "Does coming to gloat but getting your arse shoved back in your face count as family business?"

    "Girls, come on! Lay off the rotten eggs. Morel, you promised to be civil." Maro shot the seething Morel a scolding look, then turned to Meya, his expression pained,

    "There''s been, uh¡ªa last-minute change."

    "Yeah, second born, always second choice." Morel tutted just loud enough to distract Meya from that cryptic statement.

    "Oi, if I recall correctly, I told Dad to send you instead and you sniveled at his feet for him to send me?" She sneered, green eyes glowing twice as bright. Morel smirked.

    "Oh, I knew he''d never send me away. Because I''m needed." She curled a sheaf of her hair, a maniacal glint of glee in her other eye as she winked one, "I just did it so you could hear him say it to your face."

    "You bi¡ª" Meya bared her gritting teeth and marched in.

    "GIRLS!"

    Maro snatched Meya and Morel''s shoulders, keeping them from tearing out each other''s necks. Looking over Meya''s head, he could see her three friends seated at the table gawking at the spectacle in bewilderment, and his cheeks burned in shame. With one hand patting the cowering Myron''s hands to let go of his arm, he glared at Marcus, who seemed sullen that the upcoming wildcat prizefight was cancelled.

    Still fuming, Meya stashed her gold away, then glanced about the throng.

    "Where''s Dad? At the inn?"

    Everyone tensed up. Meya stood up on her toes, craning her neck to see behind Maro, then pulled back to stare at him. Those large, glowing eyes were brimming with hope, and as he looked into them, Maro couldn''t help cursing his father. After a heavy sigh, he shook his head miserably.

    "He''s not here, Meya."

    Those acid-green eyes widened in disappointment and pain. Meya mouthed speechlessly for a beat, then found her voice.

    "What?" She managed a breathy croak of disbelief, then demanded indignantly. "Why? What have I done wrong now?"

    "No, Meya, listen." Maro held up two pacifying hands, "He''s been planning to come. But something came up. Real serious. Let''s go sit. I''ll explain everything."

    Maro held her forearms, looking pleadingly into his little sister''s eyes. Meya glared back, trembling and panting, then stormed away, taking her seat on the far side of the table.

    To her right was a burly, handsome young man with brown hair, and a pretty young lady with curly brown hair who looked strangely familiar.

    "Wait, isn''t that...?" Marcus paused and leaned to whisper to Myron. Frowning, Myron shook his head.

    "Nah, she''s got blonde hair last time we saw her. Mighty similar, though."

    "Right? Thought for a second she''s the Lady." Jezia joined the gossip ring, and though outwardly unperturbed, Jason secretly agreed. The similarity was uncanny.

    The Armorheims, however, were occupied elsewhere. Deke glanced furtively between Maro and Meya, fidgeting with his hands. Draken was staring at the last occupant of the room. To Meya''s left, at the table''s head, sat a sickly pale, gaunt young man with lank brown hair¡ªand piercing silvery eyes.

    Draken''s feet seemed to have lost control, and he stumbled. The boy returned his scrutiny, a small smile upon his pale lips. Draken averted his gaze, busying himself drawing up a chair and settling down beside Deke. His heart thundered.

    He knew that smile. He knew those eyes. He''d known for almost seven years. Repressed memories stirred from their sleep. Flashes of the past he struggled not to dwell on flitted before his mind''s eyes.

    Streaking through a forest of dead trees. Sprawled on his belly inside a ring of raging fire. A lizard-like metal-clad monster with glowing green eyes and gigantic bat-like wings. Silvery eyes flashing in the dying lamplight, as the little boy leered at him. The same eyes. The same smile.

    Meya and the mysterious youngsters eyed them as they sat down across the table one by one; Jason and Jezia, Draken and Deke. Maro settled next to Deke, and gestured for his reluctant brothers and Morel to go sit on Meya''s side.

    After Morel had settled uneasily between Marcus and the brown-haired girl, Meya heaved an impatient sigh and threw out her hand to introduce them,

    "Everyone, meet the Joplund brothers, Silvan and Sanvell." She indicated the thin boy then the burly boy, and finally the girl. "And Diana Crestine. They serve at the castle with me."

    Everyone turned back to stare at Meya in befuddlement, for if there were a tally of ill-fitted pairings, castle servants and private room in the Crimson Hog would probably rank in the top ten.

    Meya had definitely noticed, but chose to ignore it. She turned to pale, thin Silvan Joplund,

    "This is Jason Boszel the Merchant. His daughter Jezia. Draken Armorheim the Farmer. His son Deke. My brothers Maro, Marcus, and Myron. And my sister Morel."

    Sanvell was the only one fully attentive¡ªor at least pretending to be¡ªsmiling and following Meya''s hand as she talked. Diana avoided their gazes and pulled her headdress down over her eyes. Silvan nodded along, but his eyes were on Draken. And Draken was beginning to suspect Meya was the only one still sticking with this futile fake-name thing.

    Those silvery eyes twinkled at him in the torchlight.

    It couldn''t be possible.

    That thing carried him away.

    And wasn''t he fat as a pig for winter?

    Yet, there was no mistaking those eyes.

    They said he escaped back to his father. He survived.

    Coris Hadrian. That was his name.

    The certainty was overwhelming. The boy was watching his every twitch, and Draken wondered if he should risk sending a signal. A quick furtive glance at his companions proved it wasn''t worth it. They were all puzzling about that Lady Arinel lookalike¡ªexcept for Deke, who seemed to be hosting some kind of mental prizefight.

    Concern for his son overtook fear for himself. But before he could ask the lad what was wrong, Meya finished her roll call.

    "Got all that memorized? Good. What''s up with Dad?" She snapped right back to Maro, who jolted. "He sick? Or was it Mum? Couldn''t be that bad, could it? Since you guys are here."

    Meya raised her eyebrows; her stare drilling holes into Maro''s pupils. Maro shifted uncomfortably.

    "Um, no. He¡ª" Maro looked down at the tabletop, scratching his nape. Finally, he looked up after a heavy sigh.

    "Marin''s pregnant, Meya." He said quietly.

    A brief yet solid silence followed. Draken whipped around when he felt Deke tense up. He followed the boy''s anxious gaze to Meya. The lass had gone stock-still, freckles standing out against colorless cheeks.

    "With who?" She blurted out hoarsely, eyebrows tied in disbelief. Marcus shrugged a glum shoulder.

    "That''s the thing. Nobody knows." Meya whipped around to her younger brother, who went on in that same dull tone. "And Marin won''t tell until Dad promises to let her marry the father no matter what."

    "The whole manor''s been hounding her. Flinging mud. Calling names. You know, your usual pariah set. So she''s hiding out at Draken''s place for now." Myron mumbled, adding another shrug to the pool.

    Meya''s expression was more of incredulity than sympathy.

    "Mum sneaks out at night to bring her food, but she''s not talking to anyone but Dad. And she''s refusing to eat." Marcus shook his head, his distant gaze rife with frustration and worry. "Never seen Marin act up like this before."

    "Me neither." Maro admitted miserably. "And I''ve seen her since we were both babes."

    "Must really love that donghead." Morel sniffed, topping it with a savage smirk.

    Silence fell again after that, but everyone could sense the storm of charged air crackling around Meya. All eyes were on the middle Hild girl, whose expression was blank and flat, yet her eyes were growing colder as her fist on the table clenched tighter and her knuckles shone whiter. A sardonic grin stretched the corner of her mouth.

    "I should''ve expected this. It''s always her, isn''t it? It just has to be her." She said, her soft, level voice haunted with the ghost of a chuckle.

    "Meya¡ª" Maro trailed off, unsure what to say. Meya cocked her head in scathing amusement.

    "I must say. That''s one hell of an over-do. There''s no need to go and get knocked up. The good old fever would''ve done it."

    Maro bolted up and threw down the gauntlet.

    "You don''t seriously think she meant for this to happen, do you?!" He leaned towards his sister, hissing fiercely. Meya gave an insolent shrug, and Maro found himself shouting, "She''s our sister, Meya! Dad''s got no choice!"

    "Oh yes, he has!" Meya sprang up, snarling into Maro''s face. "And he chose her!"

    Meya''s heavy panting was the only sound in the room. She locked eyes with her brother, pointing in the direction she assumed on instinct Crosset would be.

    "You have no idea what I''ve been through this past week." She hissed through gritted teeth, then unfurled a mocking grin.

    "So, forgive me for not giving a fart who Marin''s been whoring with, or what names they''re calling her, or what stuff they''re throwing at her, or how many days she could go without eating. I''ve had it for sixteen years, and I don''t see you guys making a fuss." Meya shot a poisonous look at Marcus and Myron, who tensed and paled, respectively, then sneered at Maro.

    "She¡ªand her kid¡ªand that bastard¡ªcan all go drown in Fyr''s Lake."

    Meya kicked her chair aside and stormed towards the tavern''s back door, shutting it with a slam, snuffing out Maro''s desperate voice calling after her as she slipped out into the rowdy night.

 Everything in Between

    "Meya! Meya, wait!"

    Maro scrambled out of his chair, but Meya was much closer to the exit. He''d taken barely two steps when she disappeared with a crash of the door. Knowing Meya and her vindictive temper, he knew it was futile to pursue. Especially when it was about Marin.

    "By Fyr, Marin. Now she hates you for life."

    Maro collapsed onto his chair, raking a hand through his hair. Before any of his siblings could offer a consolation or a remark, a calm, cool voice pierced the silence,

    "It''s you, isn''t it, Deke Armorheim?"

    Everyone spun around to Silvan Joplund, then to the accused farmer boy.

    Deke had gone ghastly pale to his trembling lips. He looked as if he wanted nothing more than to reappear in Crosset a week earlier. But the truth was evident in his eyes.

    "It''s you, Deke?" Maro croaked. Deke glanced at him on impulse, then avoided his gaze, bulging eyes darting about. "You''ve lain with Marin?"

    "All this time! Why haven''t you fessed up?" Marcus snarled then bolted to his feet, "You left her to deal with all that alone while you''re enjoying the Fest here!?"

    Marcus slammed his fist on the table so hard his utensils bounced and clanked about in the plate. Deke cowered even lower in his seat. Myron stared, pale and speechless. Morel, on the other hand, looked solemn.

    "Is it true, Deke?"

    Asked Draken. His voice was steady, yet undercut with spine-chilling, simmering fury. When Deke didn''t oblige, he exploded,

    "IS IT TRUE, DEKE!?"

    "Yes, Dad."

    Deke confessed in a passing attempt at mouse talk, his back curled like a babe in its mother''s womb, which was probably what he would''ve dearly loved to turn into right now.

    "Of all the things!" Draken bolted up and paced, arms flailing, "What in the three lands were you thinking? Or you weren''t?"

    Draken whipped around and glowered at his son. Jolting, Deke squeezed himself into the corner of his chair furthest from his father, wincing as Draken jabbed a trembling finger at his face.

    "You know what your poor mother went through. What you yourself went through. You''re damning Marin and your child to the same fate, and you''re running away and cowering like a coward! My son! A coward!"

    Draken cried at the ceiling, as if protesting Freda for plaguing him with such a spawn. That unfiltered disgust in his voice finally spurred Deke to explain himself,

    "I''m younger than Marin. I''ve no idea how to provide for a child." Shivering, he looked pleadingly at Draken, his eyes rimmed with red, "And Meya hates Marin! What am I to do, Dad?"

    "Only the right thing, Deke!" Draken rolled his eyes at the Heights, "Are you a man enough for that?"

    Echoes faded away into silence as father and son locked eyes, freezing rage against paralyzing fear. At last, Draken broke off and turned away,

    "You know what you should do."

    Deke studied his father''s stony profile. Though still shivering, his eyes hardened with resolve for the first time since entering the room¡ªor perhaps, since this ordeal began.

    "Here, lad. I''ll be right beside you." Jason ambled over with a gentle smile. A warm, firm hand on Deke''s shivering back, he and Jezia led the troubled young father on his way to redemption. The door closed behind them with a soft snap.

    As if the strings holding him had snapped, Draken plummeted to his chair, head in his hands. Maro rested a hand on his shoulder. A gesture of forgiveness Draken felt he didn''t deserve.

    "I''m so, so sorry, Maro. I was an irresponsible man. And I raised my son to be just like me." He whispered through brimming tears and jittery fingers.

    "It''s not your fault, Draken." Maro shook his head, sniffing back tears as well.

    Draken clasped his roughened palm over Maro''s less weathered hand. All through the exchange, Silvan Joplund kept watch on the fair-haired farmer.

    "Now that that has been dealt with, let''s cut the pretense and get down to business, shall we, Draken Armorheim?" He steepled his fingers, smiling serenely.

    The Crossetians whipped around, eyes bulging, just now fully aware of the three outsiders at the table.

    Silvan creaked up a sly smile as his eyes zeroed in on Draken, who had just remembered his initial worry, now that the family feud was out of the way.

    "You remember me, I believe?"

    His eyes fixed upon his old foe, Draken resigned himself for his last. Drawing a deep breath, he nodded heavily,

    "Yes, I do, Lord Coris Hadrian."

    A pause, then the room erupted.

    "Coris Hadrian?" Marcus cried.

    "Th-th-th-the one you kidnapped in the Famine?" stammered Myron as he pointed at Coris with a trembling finger.

    "The very same." said Lord Coris. Amid their horrified stares, he flourished his hand towards his companions, "This is my brother Zier, and my betrothed Arinel."

    Marcus and Myron blinked at the now brown-haired Lady Arinel, then exchanged swift looks. Maro had more sense of priority, however,

    "Does Meya know, my lord? Has she summoned us here on your orders?" He laid his clenched fist on the table, wide brown eyes and brown freckles standing out on his pale cheeks.

    "Yes and no." Coris leaned back in his chair, "I believe she does know about our history, but isn''t counting on me recognizing Draken, and vice versa."

    Draken shook his head, eyes wide.

    "What is going on, my lord? How have you come to know Meya?"

    "It''s a complicated and astonishing tale. One that makes me secretly glad Farmer Hild couldn''t join us this evening." Coris replied,

    "Arinel''s entourage was held hostage by Nostran Greeneye mercenaries looking for a certain Hadrian treasure. Meya assumed Arinel''s identity and wed me in her place to spy on me, but she had a change of heart, alerted me of the plan, and together we drove the mercenaries away. Yet, I''m sure this is far from over, so I have Meya remain in the masquerade to assist me."

    "She¡ªshe wed you, my lord?" Maro squeaked, an incredulous look on his face. Coris blew a soft sigh of brewing annoyance,

    "Yes."

    "And did she¡ªI mean, did you two¡ª" Morel pointed one finger at the door, then another at Coris. Coris sighed again,

    "Yes, we did. Multiple times." He added. Ignoring their flabbergasted reactions, he closed his eyes, tamped down his fit of pique, and turned to Draken, "You''ve guessed why I''m here, I presume?"

    Draken clenched his shivering hands. As the children watched with bated breath, he touched his forehead to the tabletop.

    "My lord. If it is my life you want, I am willing. All I ask is safe passage for Jason and the young ones, and that you spare those under my command that night."

    "Draken, no!" Maro gasped. He grasped Draken''s shoulder, but his eyes were on Coris, wide and scared as those of his siblings.

    Coris observed their fear as they stood in solidarity with their good friend. Seven years ago, he would have proudly basked in it, but thanks to what happened in Crosset that day, it now suffocated him. He welcomed the sensation.

    "Farmer Armorheim. Draken." He willed his voice to be tender, his gaze to be sincere. He leaned in. Draken flinched back. It was a mark of how repulsive a creature he''d been, that a man who kept a dragon hidden for seven years was intimidated by him.

    "If I had intended to take revenge, I would have done so the moment I reached safety seven years ago." Coris hitched up a bitter grin at the memory,

    "Yes. The old me would have done that, but I knew I was never in actual harm. Even if I were, you were doing it under your bailiff''s command, with your family''s survival on the line. When I understood that, I forgave you."

    Draken gawked. Maro''s hand on his shoulder relaxed. None of them seemed inclined to respond just yet.

    "That is the reason I am here." Coris tapped a long, pale finger on the wood, eyes locked with Draken''s, "You are saved by the same peasant girl who saved me. I made a pact with her that night. You and your men''s lives, and bread for her brothers and sisters, in exchange for safe passage to Truncale."

    He drew back and fell against his chair, looking suddenly grim and withered,

    "I resolved to find her and reward her, but my memory has betrayed me." Coris''s eyes wandered the thin air, as if watching his lifeline eroding away before him, sliver by sliver. "I don''t have much time left. When I saw your name in Jezia''s letter, I knew this could be my last lead."

    At the sight of those weary silvery eyes, Draken felt a lone drop of trust blossoming in his whirlpool of terror, dissipating it to reveal his lingering shame.

    He bore no ill will towards the boy. He''d been ready to accept his punishment, since that night he reluctantly offered to lead the kidnapping party, as Friar Tumney implored him to, lest the task landed upon hotheaded Grogan Krulstaff, who might inflict more damage than was necessary. And though young Lord Coris had shown sympathy, a famine did not excuse threatening an innocent child.

    Still conflicted, Draken gazed on as his former captive rested a corpse-like hand upon his heart.

    If you encounter this tale on Amazon, note that it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it.

    "I swear by the honor of Hadrian that no harm will come to anyone involved." Coris pledged, his voice grave, "To show good faith, I shall tell you what I remember first."

    Coris''s eyes traveled as he rifled through his shattered memories. He saw the flickering flame of the candle on the table. He saw the past through flickering eyes, glancing between Draken and Krulstaff occupied with their altercation, and the feeble lamp in Draken''s hand. He felt the noose burning against his neck loosen in Krulstaff''s hand. Should he seize it before making his escape?

    "You were having an argument with Grogan Krulstaff. The butcher, Brodel, was about to clobber me when we heard movement in the trees. You readied your crossbows, then Krulstaff shot."

    Coris frowned, hesitating as his stream of recollections stuttered,

    "Then, there was¡ªa scream. A girl''s. You ran off to see to her, but a gust of wind knocked you back."

    The room had fallen so silent, one could hear the draft teasing the candlelight. The Hild siblings glanced back and forth between Coris and Draken. All the times they''d nagged Draken to retell his kidnapping mission, Draken had glossed over exactly how Coris escaped.

    "There was a flash of bright light, then everything fell dark. Then there was a¡ªroar." Coris struggled for the right word. He shook his head, dissatisfied with his choice, "It was unlike any animal I''ve known. There was fire everywhere. Then I saw it."

    Coris stared at the empty air above their heads, where it had been. His breathing quickened,

    "It had silvery scales, and two enormous leather wings. Sharp metal claws. A long snout lined with metal fangs. Like the creature on the wall paintings of the Chapel. The one that carried my ancestor over the sea. A dragon."

    Myron shivered in Marcus''s arms. Arinel and Zier sat frozen in their seats. Though Coris''s kidnapping was known throughout Meriton, his wondrous escape was credited to his prodigy. No-one knew the specifics of how he did it. Coris had been elusive about the details, and folks assumed he was ashamed of being taken hostage.

    "The dragon grabbed me, flew me high above the forest to the mountains. Krulstaff''s arrow was buried in its front leg. It kept screaming because the leg was rotting slowly. It couldn''t get the arrowhead out with me in one claw. It was falling unconscious. I pulled the arrow out for it. We crash-landed in a cave, and I fainted from the impact."

    "When I woke again, there was a little girl beside me. She was naked, and there was a rotting wound on her arm."

    "Her arm?" Maro mouthed, his sweaty hand on Draken''s shoulder trembling. Coris nodded, his eyes setting upon each Hild sibling in turn,

    "She had glowing acid-green eyes. Exactly like the dragon."

    Morel''s cheeks lost whatever color remained. The only moving parts of Marcus were his blinking eyelids. Myron''s stayed folded up.

    "The rot was spreading fast. I tried the tourniquet, but it was little help. Then I noticed the arrow was melted where it touched her blood. And it was attracted to my ruby brooch, which held a Lattis razor. I hovered the arrow over her wound to pull the melted particles in place, then sucked the poisoned blood out with my mouth."

    "We huddled under my cloak through the night. She sang lullabies to comfort me. Her body heat kept me from freezing to death. Next morning, we went down the mountain. She blew on snow and melted it so we could drink, gathered acorns to sustain us for the trek to Truncale."

    "She stayed behind in the woods while I walked to the immigration outpost. I showed the yeomen my insignia and asked them to leave a sack of food near the forest''s entrance, then I collapsed of exhaustion and woke up two days later on the way to Hadrian. By that time, I could no longer remember her face. Up until seven years later."

    "The day before my marriage, I met Meya, disguised as Arinel. When we lie together, I noticed she had a large scar on her left arm. The exact spot the dragon was hit by the arrow."

    Coris slithered his hand under his cloak,

    "I noticed the medallion she wore was made from the same metal as Krulstaff''s arrow."

    He reached across the table and deposited the bloodstained, broken arrowhead on the wood. The Hilds leaned in. The Krulstaff insignia, a scepter mounted with a sun, looked distorted when touched by the candle''s glow.

    "One morning while Meya was asleep, I took it out for a closer look. She felt it and opened her eyes. They were glowing green."

    Coris glanced at each of the Hilds, then paused at Draken,

    "I need to be sure. There could be other Greeneyes." He whispered, pleading.

    Draken pursed his lips, his tense jaw and throbbing temple vein betraying his inner turmoil. At last, he sighed and nodded.

    "There is no other, my Lord." He shook his head, "This seventeen years, she''s the only Greeneye in Crosset."

    Even as he''d anticipated it, the revelation threw Coris like a dead weight against his chair. Draken''s hairy arms shivered on the tabletop,

    "Your memories are accurate. You have my word, and the words of my men who witnessed it that night. You weren''t hallucinating. That was a dragon that rescued you. And it was Meya that Grogan shot."

    Draken sighed. He seemed disturbed but also relieved. The weight of the secret, once borne alone, was finally shared. Tapping his fist on the wood, he licked his dry lips,

    "Her father and I are close. Close as Deke and Meya are now. I heard her voice when she screamed. I saw her eyes on that dragon."

    "After you escaped, we ran for our lives from the fire. We managed to find our way back to the village. After we''d contained the fire, we went back in to find Meya. For days we searched in vain, surviving on squirreled acorns and snow, until we were found by Truncale''s search party. They found you, but not Meya."

    "Soon as we were freed, I fetched Grogan and headed to Mirram''s house to tell him the bad news. He was searching for Meya, then, you see. The villagers were raring to lynch her for the famine, so she''d fled into the woods. I found him and Maro home. And Meya inside. Unconscious but alive."

    Draken turned to Maro, who nodded stiffly.

    "Dad and I had just returned home the night before, when we heard a knock at the door. Mum answered it, then she shrieked the house down. It was Meya. She wore nothing but a crimson cloak, and she was covered with blood. She dragged a sack full of food behind her. She was clutching her arm. Then she looked at Morel and said¡ª"

    He glanced at his sister across the table. Morel stared transfixed at some point above Maro''s shoulder, wide blue eyes unseeing.

    "Tisn''t growin'' back, Morrie." She whispered, her accent thick, "Then she fell onto me. Her skin was even hotter than usual."

    "We fetched the healer." Maro continued, "She carved out a swathe of flesh around the wound because it was dead, but luckily it didn''t go too deep, so we could save her arm. Next day, Draken and Grogan came to see Dad."

    Maro shot a reproachful look at Draken, his fists clenched.

    "Grogan said he thought Meya was a wild hog. That''s why he shot. Said she just happened to be hiding around there. But she was trying to help Lord Coris escape, wasn''t she? She must have been following you. She thought the famine was her fault. It was so like her to do that!"

    Maro exploded. Draken hung his head.

    "Mirram is my best friend," He confessed to Coris with a sigh, cocking his head at the youngsters, "And I''ve known these kids since they were in their mother''s womb. But I had no idea what I should tell them. I decided to leave out the dragon part. Wasn''t sure if I believed it myself. Especially when Meya woke up and remembered nothing. She didn''t even notice the days in between had been lost. Her memories betrayed her, just like yours."

    Draken fell silent for a moment, mulling his turbulent past, then looked to the boy who shared it.

    "What should we tell her, my lord?"

    Coris sat petrified, lost in thought.

    "I¡ªI have no idea, as well." He wrung his hands, cocking his head at Arinel and Zier.

    "We''ve encountered other Greeneyes who could transform into dragons when struck by Lattis. So, I think it''s safe to assume this to be a proven fact. Of course, Meya deserves the truth, but I don''t think I have the right to tell her."

    "If not you, then who, my lord?" Draken argued. Coris still seemed unconvinced. "You''re the only witness of the full events. You must be the one to tell her!"

    Coris closed his eyes, sagging under the weight of the secret,

    "How could I convince her when she remembers nothing?" He dragged a hand through his fringe, clutching at his temple.

    "My lord, so, to conclude, you''re telling us¡ª" Maro interrupted, his head finally wrapping around the whole notion. He stared at Coris, begging him to deny, "My sister¡ªmy little sister¡ªis a dragon?"

    "Not just your sister, Marovel." Arinel whispered, her face pale and faint, "Every Greeneye in Latakia, it seems."

    Maro turned pointedly away, shaking his head, his eyes wide and disbelieving.

    "No, it can''t be. It just can''t." He muttered feverishly.

    Coris shot Draken a weary look as if to prove his point. Morel reached behind her neck. She detached the fine silver chain tarnished by sweat and grime, coiled it up in her palm, then slid it to Coris.

    "I believe you should have this. Might give you a clue about what my sister is made of."

    She flipped her hand over. Underneath lay a quaint handmade amulet. A distorted crescent curl of iridescent metal embraced another piece of thin, tapering, curiously shaped metal with a dark gray sheen, forming a passable M.

    "What''s that?" Myron asked.

    "Meya''s fingertip. The old one she chopped off when she was nine. The healer told me to chuck it in Yorfus''s furnace so I''d get a nice Greeneye bone amulet."

    "And you did? You''re sick, Morel!" Marcus flinched, not bothering to hide the scandalized look on his face. Morel started, evidently hurt, then went crimson with rage.

    "Oh, I''m sick, aren''t I?" She rounded on Marcus, "She was thrashing and screaming and bleeding all over the place, and I wrapped her hand in this apron¡ª" She yanked up her bloodstained pinafore and shoved it at Marcus''s nose, "¡ªthen rushed her across the village to get help. Mum came home from the bazaar with Marin, found a bloody knife, and she was ready to bury me alive when we got back. Thought we were fighting and I used the knife on Meya. And Meya defended me."

    Morel''s fingers trembled as she pinched up the tiny bone. She tapped it compulsively on the table, as if its icy chill calmed her.

    "This thing. It''s gross. But it was a part of my sister. Meya didn''t ask about it, so I just kept it. Because it reminds me of the one time we were actually sisters. Am I sick for holding on to that?"

    Morel whipped back to Marcus. There were tears in her eyes. All his life, the only sister Marcus had ever seen so much as sniffle was Mistral. He didn''t know if that was good or not.

    "Sorry, Morel." He blanched in shame, scratching at his head, "It just¡ªit doesn''t seem like you. Don''t cry¡ª"

    Marcus tugged at her raggedy sleeve, pleading with his round, brown eyes. Morel breathed deeply, lips pursed and eyes sealed as she willed her tears back. She turned back to Coris, and laid a scarred finger on the twirl of metal hugging the silver phalanx.

    "This is the ring I was wearing that day. It''s melted through."

    Coris held the twisted metal up to his eyes. It gleamed rainbow in the candlelight as Morel''s necklace trailed down from it.

    "Lattis." He breathed. Morel nodded.

    "Like her collar. Took me a while, but I pieced it together. I knew it was more than just her eyes."

    Morel turned to Maro, her fists clenched,

    "Think about it. Her body radiates heat like a furnace. Her bones are metal. Her blood can melt Lattis. Her limbs regenerate. Like those lizards when we tried to snatch their tails. And our clan''s insignia is an honest-to-Freda dragon!"

    "But why aren''t we dragons, too, then? Why''s Meya the only Greeneye in our family? In our whole manor?" Myron argued. Coris could only shake his head.

    "We don''t know any more than you do." He admitted with a sigh as he slung Morel''s amulet around his neck, "All we have is a hunch that this has something to do with the metal shortage we''re having. And we''re hoping Meya could help us get to the bottom of this."

    Coris leaned across the table to Maro, who was cradling his head in his hands.

    "Once this is over, I will see to it that Meya returns safely to Crosset." He laid a soothing hand on his forearm, "Your family will be rewarded greatly for her service to Latakia. I understand. It''s a great risk, but we''d be grateful if you let her stay for a while longer."

    Maro''s fingers slid down from his face, revealing tortured brown eyes.

    "You''re her family. You have the right to decide."

    Maro resolutely shook his head.

    "No, I can only guide her. Not decide for her."

    He cocked his head at Coris''s puzzled, yet admiring look. In Latakian tradition, the father or eldest son usually had the final say over family affairs.

    "The choice is up to Meya. No matter how it turns out, she won''t have it any other way. Neither will I. Same goes for all my sisters."

    He declared, then sighed and dropped his head back onto his palms, massaging his worn-out brain.

    "But how in the three lands would I explain all this to her? Fyr, I feel like a coward."

    "Join the club." Zier commented in his first reaction of the day. He tilted his head at his brother, who looked just as deep in a dilemma. Draken studied the tormented children, then cleared his throat.

    "Lord Coris. If I may," He said. Coris met his gaze,

    "I''ve seen Meya since she was a wee babe. She was¡ªis¡ªa lonely, wretched thing. Mirram''s a good man, but he isn''t good at showing his daughters the love they need to see. It''s the same with Marin and Morel. Turned them against him¡ªand each other."

    He nodded sadly at Morel, who was trying and failing to sob without a sound, her shoulders in Marcus''s hands.

    "So poor lass poured her heart out to them scoundrels what showered her with affection. They betrayed her, exploited her trust, left her to bleed out and harden on the wayside."

    Coris dipped his head in shame, remembering their altercation two days ago. He understood now, somewhat, Meya''s chagrin at his secretive, deceitful ways. He must have reminded her of the men who had charmed her with their benign facade, only to reveal their impure intentions. But what was it about himself that was different? Why had she chosen to stay by his side? Was there more than naivety that had driven her to trust him and Gillian, like he''d reprimanded her for? Meya was half-dragon, after all. Was it¡ªinstinct?

    "I believe she has a good reason for giving you her virginity. Even as she knew you might not live long. Or ever be destined for her. She must have sensed something in you that feels familiar, but different from them men before you. Could be your pure intentions, my lord."

    Coris blinked, astonished. The old farmer creaked out a melancholic, hopeful little smile, then bowed his head,

    "You possess a virtuous soul, a sharp intellect. I believe you''ll find a way to retrieve her lost memories, and help her to accept them. I implore you, my lord. Please, guide her to the truth."

 Marins Secret

    "Mistral! Just pick one braid and get it over with, will you? I haven''t got until Miracle Fest!"

    Overall, it was an ordinary day in the Hild House. Except for today, Mistral was doing up Meya''s hair instead of Morel. As a result, Meya''s daily morning whining was more melodramatic than usual. She bobbed and jerked her head to the rhythm of her rant, which only slowed Mistral down.

    Mum sighed over the acorns she was pounding with her pestle.

    "Meya, the fields are only a little way away. A quarter hour won''t make much of a difference."

    "And Meya is also only a little way away from lynching." Meya spun around and sniped at Mum. Mistral combed out the ruined braid and redid it from the top. Luckily, Meya was too busy giving Mum a piece of her mind to notice, "Beautiful hair won''t make much of a difference. If at all. So, remind me again who this is for?"

    Meya glared upside-down at Mistral, who was working too feverishly to respond. Mum was losing her temper fast, so Marin hastily pitched in,

    "Let Misty have some fun, Meya. Your hair is rich and strong. And it''s such a rare color."

    Meya''s glare changed target to Marin. For someone so impatient and impulsive, her eyes were paradoxically cold. Marin barely had time to prepare for the barrage of acid her middle sister usually reserved for her, before the girl let loose.

    "So I should lend me head as her practice loom? Me time is gold. And what''s under me hair is how I mine it. Will you decide on one already, Mistral?!"

    Mistral jolted and dropped her attempt at the elaborate lace braid. Poor girl was on the verge of tears. Mum abandoned her pestle, her well of patience drying,

    "Meya, workday or rest day, you''re scarcely in this house. Would it kill you to play with your sister for a quarter hour?"

    Meya sneered at Mum,

    "Because that''s me job. Feeding all your pretty mouths. And this is your job. Braiding each other''s hair and matchmaking the May Queen."

    Meya snatched her lunch and straw hat then sprang up. Mum bolted to her feet.

    "You will not talk to me like this!" Meya ignored her and strode pointedly to the door. Mum stormed out from behind her pile of acorns, "Don''t you walk away from me, Maelaith Hild! Get back here this instant! Meya!"

    The door slammed shut. Mum stood panting, red in the face, her chest heaving. Mistral dashed in and clung to her dress. Mum draped an arm around her.

    "Does she know she''s the reason we can''t work?" said Morel, who''d been silently cracking acorns for Mum.

    "Morel," Mum growled in warning.

    "You know it''s true, Mum!" Morel sprang to her feet, "We''re all carrying Greeneye blood! We''re dirt poor! Who''d want to marry us if we weren''t the prettiest we could be? Why d''you even marry Dad, anyway?"

    Marin''s heart skipped several beats. Mistral clutched Mum''s leg tighter. Mum raised a trembling finger,

    "Morelia Hild, you stop right there, or Freda help me I will beat your calves raw!" Mum snarled. Morel flinched, eyes wide in fright and guilt. "There are Greeneyes on my side as well. There are Greeneyes in every family in Latakia!"

    A suffocating silence fell. Morel stood frozen, unblinking, breathing gingerly as she watched Mum. Marin got up and went over to her, laying comforting hands on her shivering arms.

    Mum calmed herself with a long, slow, silent sigh.

    "You''re not working outside not because Dad''s afraid the sun will steal your beauty. And what we do here isn''t any less important than the work Meya and the boys do in the fields." Mum glanced at each of her daughters in turn,

    "Who will tidy the house? Who will do the shopping, the cooking, the laundry? Who will mind the vegetable patch? Who will weave and mend clothes? You''re needed here. And you''re happy being here. That''s why you''re here. Your father and I decided four breadwinners are enough. And you''re earning your own dowries."

    As Morel nodded meekly, Marin looked away in shame. Having taught herself to read and write from Myron''s books, she copied church manuscripts with her beautiful penmanship, and sold stories, songs and poems she wrote at the bazaar for a copper or two.

    But, being Gold Class, she didn''t need to do this. Her real goal was to buy her freedom. Travel the world like Tricia of Haventoth. Write fresh stories based on her real experiences. Instead of stale, wishful dreams. But her beauty also meant she could marry into a rich family and give Mum and Dad an easier life in their old age. And she was torn. Had secretly been for years.

    "You asked why I married your father." Mum continued. The three girls perked up, sensing a story that would not be told twice, "Yes, he''s always been poor, and he was open about it. He has Greeneye relatives, and he was open about it."

    Mum traipsed back and settled down behind the pile of acorns, her face bitter and jaded,

    "By the time my troupe came ''round to Crosset, I was quitting even before I realized I wanted to. Ten years on the road. Every village in sight. Singing from morn to dusk. That ringmaster milked me like cattle. My Song was dying even before I had Meya."

    The girls gawked in horror. Mum sniffed as she fidgeted with an empty acorn shell,

    "Your father was the one man who never asked me to sing. All the times he visited me, he''d bring me honey he''d hunted himself to soothe my throat. He''d talk to me about anything but my Song."

    "I told him I''d never done a day of housework, that I was about to give up singing. He vowed he''d never force me back into it. He''d laugh with me when he came home from the fields to our messy house."

    Mum smiled through her tears. Her three daughters mirrored her despite their differences. Then Mum turned to Marin,

    "This might be harsh on your ears. Especially for you, Marin. But know that Freda''s blessings will not last. My Song. My beauty. My youth. Even these naughty lasses."

    Mum betrayed a devious grin as she jerked her chin at her still generous bosom. The four women chortled, then Mum glanced at each of them, solemn,

    "Your time to choose will arrive someday. When it does, look not at how the man treats you, but how he treats someone less blessed than you. Someone like Meya. "

    The young women exchanged looks at that strange advice.

    "That is how he''ll treat you once your flowers have withered, once your fruits have fallen."

    Marin''s hands clenched into trembling fists as the past faded away, revealing the present. Terron Neale stood with overflowing mug in hand, surrounded by his admiring troupe as he drunkenly boasted of how he managed to land himself the prettiest young maiden in Crosset. The throng erupted into another round of cheers following yet another clever punchline.

    At long last, he spotted Marin''s blue eyes peeking from under her hood. She stood just beyond the crowd, waiting with Maro.

    "Marin, my love!" He staggered over and slung his arm around her shoulders, "Been tellin'' my folks the good news. So, have you decided?"

    He leaned in, his beer-smelling breath blowing into her nostrils. Maro clenched his jaws. He kept silent but didn''t budge a half-step from Marin''s side.

    Marin gazed into Terron''s bright brown eyes brimming with hope and joy, then swung her hand back and let fly with all her might.

    Terron pirouetted on tipsy feet and keeled to the floor with a crash. Clawing at his stinging cheek, he stared wide-eyed at Marin, as did all the men in the rowdy tavern, which had fallen graveyard silent.

    Marin pulled the hems of her raggedy dress out of his reach, as she stared serenely down her apron at his pathetic form at her feet.

    This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.

    "Marin! What was that for?" cried Terron, is drunken bliss evaporating fast.

    Marin''s kind blue eyes were cold and vacant as a frozen winter lake.

    "Oh, you know what for."

    With that, Marin swept outside, never once looking back.

    The bastard didn''t deserve to see her tears.

    ?

    The sun had fallen, and night drifted down after it upon Hadrian. Merchants sat under multicolored tarpaulins strung across crooked sticks. Locals and tourists milled about on the dirt road. Harried families, clingy couples and squealing youngsters flock from shop to shop, adding goods to their overflowing hands, storing some in their engorged bellies.

    Meya watched the scene from the shadows behind Old Mother Gelda''s tavern. She rested her hand on the low fence, scratching behind the ears of the snoozing, doomed sow in its pen. A lone cricket chirruped somewhere in the vegetable patch, its shrill call keeping time for the steady low hum of the passing crowd.

    A pair of father and daughter entered the stage. Wee lass looked not a day above six, with long brown hair that shone like the silk the Tyldornian merchant was advertising, and brown eyes that twinkled in the lights of the roadside lamps. She led her Dada along with an eager hand, her cherubic lips flapping as she babbled in excitement. Her father nodded along, his eyes filled with pride, his smile with adoration.

    Meya couldn''t remember the last time she had an amicable talk with Dad. Perhaps it was too long ago, when she was too young to recall, when her heart wasn''t yet cold and bitter, when her smile was not yet a sneer. Perhaps it had never happened. And, thanks to Marin, it might never will.

    A wave of resentment surged from her twisted stomach. Meya bit hard on her lips to force back rebellious tears, her hand on the pig trembling from the painful effort. The rational part of her knew it wasn''t Marin''s fault. Marin couldn''t have possibly intended for this to happen. But then where was this unbidden pain and grief and disappointment supposed to go?

    Ever since she saw Dad''s name in that letter, she''d imagined countless versions of their reunion. Rehearsed her summary of everything that had happened since she left Crosset, anticipated his reaction to each revision.

    Again, Dad was supposed to be here not for her family or for one of her siblings, but for her and her alone. And again, Freda struck her with a harsh reminder that it was never to be. She''d never be worthy of even that. No matter what she''d achieved, what she''d been through.

    But should it bother me this much? Does whether Dad knew or approved of what I did makes it right? I knew what I did was right. I knew I succeeded. Arinel thought so, too. Coris said I should be proud. Gretella and Jerald are on friendly terms with me. Shouldn''t that be enough? Why do I not feel enough?

    The answer wasn''t instantly obvious, so Meya dug deeper within herself.

    It''s not enough because I want Dad to be happy for me, too. I want him to hear good news from me. I want him to know I''m doing fine...well...great.

    Heavy, dragging footsteps approached her from the tavern, followed by two more pairs of feet. Meya smirked drily when all went as anticipated,

    "Well, that didn''t take long."

    Deke halted, then resumed walking. He stopped for good a little way away.

    "Meya, I''m really, really sorry."

    "For what? Knocking up me sister and ditching her, or keeping it from me?"

    "You knew?"

    Meya hitched up a wry grin, then shrugged once she remembered he couldn''t see the look on her face,

    "You''re not that hard to read compared to the folks I met on the way here. You flinched every time I badmouthed Marin. I''d be blind if I didn''t figure it out."

    Silence fell, then Deke sighed and clomped over to the log Meya was sitting on. Meya ignored the urge to edge aside and make room for him.

    "Well, both." Deke settled down, striving to look dignified and somber even with one butt-cheek dangling in mid-air, "I should''ve told you, but I was afraid you''d get mad. And I shouldn''t have been. Because you shouldn''t have dangled our friendship over my head like that."

    Meya tensed. And now Deke was going to make his choice between her and Marin. It didn''t take a brain of Coris''s caliber to predict whom he would choose.

    Meya chanced a glance at Deke, then turned away when she caught his mouth moving, holding in shivers.

    "Why d''you hate Marin so much?"

    The dreaded ultimatum never came. Meya whipped around in surprise. Deke''s cold eyes signaling the end of their friendship she''d anticipated turned out to be a melancholic, anguished, almost pleading look.

    "I dun hate her." She shook her head wearily, "I just¡ªwish she''d do more with the blessings Freda gave her, is all."

    "Do what?" asked Deke. Meya huffed, annoyed.

    "You know what I mean. She''s Diamond Class." She spat, "She dun need to save up for her dowry. She could''ve sold all those gifts them idiots piled on her then bought her permit ages ago. Travel wherever she wants. Marry whoever she wants. Live whatever way she wants. Like that Tricia of Haventoth she worshipped. How many chances you think arrived at her door on a silver platter and she turned it down? Some at me expense!?"

    Meya glared at Deke, but he hadn''t cringed back. His face was blank, and his eyes flashed with defiance like they rarely did before Meya,

    "Wanna know exactly why Marin turned down Terron Neale?"

    Meya started, blinking. Deke yanked up a blade of tender spring grass, twisting it idly,

    "Marin made me promise at pencil-point never to tell. Well, she could stick that up whatever orifice of mine she wants." He tossed the grass away with a vicious flick, "I can''t let you go on resenting her when you don''t know diddlysquat about her even when you''ve lived in the same house for seventeen years!"

    Deke let loose in a single breath. Meya gawked, her battalion of pithy comebacks scattered by shock.

    "Maro heard the bastard bragging to his friends about how he played the gentle lover to wheedle out stuff on Marin from other girls. Mostly you. He told Marin, and she went straight to the tavern and slapped the daylights out of the git."

    Meya''s freckles stood out as the ruddiness drained from her cheeks, her eyes swimming with tears. Deke leaned in and grasped her shoulders,

    "You think she doesn''t want to leave Crosset? To be like Tricia? Why d''you think she stayed for this long? Why d''you think she turned down her only chance for freedom? Because being the big sister means sacrifice! For your parents. For you. For Morel and Mistral. That''s why she never complained. That''s why she never did what she wanted to. Because, unlike you, she''s made it a point to never put her own needs before everyone else''s!"

    A teardrop threatened to fall from Meya''s eye. Deke turned away with a sigh, leaving one hand on her shivering shoulder,

    "You know you could earn more from selling food or embroidery or writings like your sisters. Or singing¡ªYes, we know you''ve got the Song." Deke cut in wearily when Meya opened her mouth to argue,

    "But you insisted on working the fields for half the pay of normal folks, then you break the law so you could earn their rate. You''re too proud to use your Song. Too proud to practice the work you''ve insulted. You said your sisters were born blessed. All they did was keep doing their stuff while you gave up on the first try."

    Meya stared at the ground, chilled by the truth.

    Despite her appearances, despite her poverty and seeming lack of choices, Meya had always been spoiled. She had always chosen the choice she preferred, had always stomped tall grass and paved shortcuts where there shouldn''t have been any, had always outsmarted laws and wriggled through loopholes for her own gain. Without the slightest thought for the consequences to the people around her. And it was more for that than her glowing, monstrous eyes that Dad resented her.

    It''s not the result that matters, Meya. It''s your selfishness.

    Arinel''s voice echoed in her ears. Meya closed her eyes as her heart weighed with guilt.

    "Sometimes, you gotta swallow your pride, Meya. Do some things you hate. For the people you love."

    Silence descended. Meya simply nodded, not wishing to disturb it just yet. The lone cricket was still chirping, further off now because of the human presence, its song a warm balm nursing the sores on her heart.

    "So, this is it, then?" She croaked. Deke raised his eyebrows. Meya unfurled a bitter smirk,

    "You gotta go home and marry Marin then raise your babe, dun you? And Marin prolly wanna travel someday, so¡ª"

    Meya scratched idly at the flaking bark of the log. Deke squeezed her shoulder.

    "We''re still friends, Meya. We just¡ªwe all have to do our things someday. We''ve been over this when you left Crosset. You messed up, so you''re banished. I messed up too, and now I got a wife and babe to fend for. It''s not like you did anything wrong to me so I''m leaving you. It''s not as if we won''t be friends no more."

    "I know. ''Tis why ''tis so awful." Meya dropped her head into her hands, "''Tis nothing I can do."

    "Same, same." Deke patted her head, "But you got new friends now. And a new job. And I''m still your best mate. We just...won''t be together that much anymore. I''m sorry."

    Meya snorted the boogers back up her sinuses. A teardrop swayed on the tip of her nose. She plunged her hand under the wide collar of her dress (it was proof of their long shared history that Deke didn''t blush or cringe), and fished out the tiny drawstring bag, the one with her allowance she''d used to taunt Morel earlier. Without a word, she held it out to Deke.

    "Meya, no. I can''t." He took barely a look then backed away, hands raised.

    "I''m leaving for Safyre in a few days with Lord Coris and Lady Arinel." Meya sniffed, her voice thick as she lied, "I got everything I need here. You folks need this more than me."

    "But¡ª"

    Meya snorted.

    "So you''re putting your pride before your family''s needs?" She raised an eyebrow at him. Deke froze in his tracks. Meya laughed as she tucked the bag between his slack fingers, "''Tis all I have on me now, but I''ll keep sending more. You''re part of the family now. Dun overthink it."

    She clutched his shoulder then pushed, as one might a babe''s cradle. Deke''s eyes reflected the golden gleam as he held the tiny pouch to his chest.

    "Thank you, Meya. So much." He looked up with a trembling smile. Meya smiled back.

    "You take care of Marin." She threw her arms around her best friend, now a father, husband-to-be, and her brother-in-law, feeling unavoidably weird about it all, "How far along is she? I''ll try to be back for the birth."

    Tinges of pink blossomed on both sides of Deke''s long face. He scratched one absently.

    "I''d say two moons since¡ªyou know¡ª" He avoided her eyes, shrugging. Meya snorted.

    "¡ªYou guys shagged. Yeah." She nodded in jest. Deke chuckled through his embarrassment.

    Bracing her hands on the rough log, Meya leaned back and tilted her head to the sky, where the first constellations had just peeked out from lazily drifting sheets of dark, powder-blue-gray clouds.

    Unless she had misremembered, the twinkling yellow star was said to be the light reflected from the forehead-horn of Gyrinae, the fabled water dragon terrorizing the seas around Everglen.

    "To be honest, I''d always thought I''d rather ''twas you than all them louts. Just never dreamed it would actually happen." She confessed with a faint smile and a shrug. Gyrinae''s light blinked down at her as if in response, "She''s deeper than I thought."

    "Well, she''s Marinia, the blue ocean." Deke agreed, brown eyes clouded with admiration and adoration, "Her heart''s as deep as it is wide."

    Meya couldn''t help agreeing. She realized she no longer minded that Deke had that look of cherishing in his eyes as he thought of her sister. And she realized she didn''t mind that much, anymore, about Dad not being here for her today.

    She would have the chance, someday. Like Jason said, it wasn''t that Meya''s need wouldn''t ever be enough for Dad to care, but now, it was Marin who needed Dad more than she did.

    Marin had always put her little sisters'' needs before hers. Perhaps it was time for Meya to be the big sister for once.

 The Truth

    Coris didn''t wait for Meya''s return. Having fulfilled his goal of meeting his kidnapper, he left with Zier and Arinel for Hadrian Castle, and arranged for the Armorheims to hitch a ride on another merchant caravan back to Crosset the following morning.

    Meya spent her last days in Hadrian with her siblings and the two Boszels, enjoying her first May Fest. Meanwhile, Coris was home supervising preparations for their voyage to Safyre.

    His parents had seen fit to add Fione, Heloise, Frenix Pearlwater and Amara Hyacinth to the entourage. In the case of Fione and Heloise, it was part of their training, but for Frenix, it was because being a Greeneye, the young page would probably burn Hadrian to the ground if he weren''t allowed to go on such an adventure with the big boys. Figuratively and literally (You never know with that kid).

    Over to little Amara, she was less than thrilled to drop by her hometown, Hyacinth, the last stop before Safyre. But her mother, Lady Amoriah, insisted Amara visit. Coris suspected she was suffering the empty-nest blues, now that her daughters had left for training and she was stuck with her son. Based on the rumors Coris had heard of the Hyacinth women, this anecdote came as a slight surprise. Still, it was nothing compared to the surprise he would stumble into at Bishop Riddell''s lab.

    <hr>

    Bishop Riddell prided himself on his ability to focus on several tasks. His eyes fixed upon the rows of glass beakers on his cluttered workstation, he explained the complex procedure to his young assistant Meya, who hovered beside him scribbling down notes.

    His ears were tuned in to the steady drip of the water hourglass as he timed his experiment, but he caught the gist of what the two men beside him were discussing.

    (If you must know, it was the weather, then their children''s dissatisfactory choice of life partners, then the weather again, and whether it was just one of them or the other also caught a whiff of a burning smell. No one tolerated silent waiting like an alchemist).

    Riddell also felt the vibration of approaching footsteps before the door to his lab swung open.

    His assistant and the two chitchatting audience spun around, while Riddell remained bent over his alchemy vials.

    "Sir Apollon, you sought my audience?" said Lord Coris in his cool, cracked voice. The men of lesser status didn''t have time to address him first, as was customary. Head Cook Apollon seemed taken aback. He hadn''t expected Lord Coris to visit the alchemist''s lab himself, and right away, too.

    "My lord, you shouldn''t have," Apollon protested, feeling his bald crown sheepishly. Coris cocked his head, his eyes twinkling.

    "It was a choice between review the budget for my honeymoon or fob it off on Zier as I watch Bishop Riddell singe his other eyebrow off. I chose befitting revenge."

    Coris''s smile widened in relish. He had the sense to at least seem apologetic when he met Arinel''s eyes, however. Then, he turned to the most senior man in the room,

    "Bailiff Mansfuld. Sorry to keep you waiting."

    "Agh, nonsense," Hunchbacked old Frentis Mansfuld lifted a veined hand from his knobby cane and wave it aside. Traces of affection lurked in his smoky gray eyes, even as the lines on his face were fixed in his usual scowl, "We''re still waiting for the results, anyway."

    "Results?"

    Mansfuld nodded towards Riddell''s workstation. Blinking, Coris craned his neck to see. Apollon obligingly edged his voluminous self aside to make way. With Riddell still occupied with timing the experiment, Arinel stepped up to explain,

    "My lord, these three beakers contain soil samples from Amplevale being tested for nutrients." She swept a graceful hand and introduced the glass containers, which held dark brown soil steeped in different colored liquids, "Lord Amplevale brought them over when he attended your wedding."

    "The fortress''s cropland has been performing poorly this year, my lord." said Bailiff Mansfuld. He raised his withered hand and counted,

    "Weather ideal. No pest nor disease. No brimstone in the air. No acid rain. Tenorus has already tested the air and water samples. Nothing out of the ordinary. That leaves the earth."

    The last drop of red liquid in the water hourglass slid through the tunnel, joining its friends with a minuscule splash. Bishop Riddell straightened as if jolted by electricity. He took a roll of parchment from Arinel and unfurled it, revealing instructions in black ink, interspersed with illustrations, followed by a row of paint daubs. He held it against the beakers.

    "Very well. Ten minutes for Dragon Crystal. Fifteen for Alum. Twenty for Mephitic Air." His narrowed eyes flicked back and forth as he compared the colors, "No visible change in color. That means none or trace amounts."

    Coris thought he must have misheard. Those three minerals were the essential nutrients for all plant life. Without them, nothing would grow. And Amplevale, built on the volcanic soil of Neverend Heights, blessed by Freda herself, had always been ample with them.

    Arinel pushed aside the three beakers, revealing two more rows of similar beakers behind, calling his attention.

    "What about these?"

    "These three, my lord, contains the soil I had the Bailiff took from our croplands." Bishop Riddell touched a disheveled finger to the first beaker in the front row, then moved to the back row, "These are the soil from the castle''s estate the Cook brought in."

    "I noticed our experimental vineyard is growing feeble, so I talked to the Bishop," said Head Cook Apollon, "He told me the Bailiff''s received reports from the Reeve that our crops are withering as well."

    "So are Clardarth''s and Noxx''s." Bailiff Mansfuld thrust an opened letter from inside his cloak at Coris, "Came from Bailiff Hutten just now. I''ll report to your father tomorrow morn."

    Coris''s eyes widened as he scanned the short letter. At the sound of rustling paper, he turned back to the experiment. Bishop Riddell compared the color chart against the six remaining beakers, his face scrunched in deep concentration. He sighed, laid down the chart, then shook his head.

    "Slight change. Better than Amplevale, but much less than normal."

    A foreboding knot tightened in Coris'' bowels. After a moment of rapid thinking, he turned to Bailiff Mansfuld,

    "What is Father''s directive for Amplevale? Has he sent word to Meriton? or Aynor?"

    "The Baron simply arranged for manure and marl in our stores to be sent to Amplevale for now." said Mansfuld, a frown of frustration brewing between his bushy white eyebrows, "But, have a look at this, my lord."

    He beckoned Coris closer then slid a piece of parchment before him. A map of Latakia. It was unmarked. Coris touched a pale finger to the dot marking Amplevale Fortress, tucked away in the mountains to the west, then dragged it slowly to the east.

    The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.

    "Amplevale. Hadrian. Clardarth. Noxx..."

    His finger skidded to a halt as he noticed the largest dot at the heart of the map: Aynor, the capital. Then a smaller dot just above, lurking within the shadows of a mountain range: Safyre.

    "I see. So that''s why you wanted to see me." said Coris, nodding. Head Cook Apollon bowed,

    "We''re noticing the start of a pattern, my lord. But it would be no use to report to Aynor without the barest guess of what is causing this."

    Bishop Riddell turned to Coris, bowing in plea,

    "How rude of me to trouble you with such matters during your honeymoon, my lord, but if you would instruct your men to take soil samples along the way and deliver it back for testing?"

    Coris shook his head,

    "Wouldn''t it be more efficient if you came along? Bring whatever equipment you need. And your assistant, too."

    Oh, Zier would love this.

    He shot a sharp look at Arinel, who nodded fervently, then turned back to Bishop Riddell,

    "You made the right call to report to me. We must make utmost haste. If your guess is correct, we could be looking at a countrywide famine."

    He turned to Bailiff Mansfuld. The old man gave a single, heavy nod. Bishop Riddell nodded vigorously, looking as anxious as enthusiastic.

    "Very well, my lord. I''ll pack right away." His eyes were already darting all over his lab, dithering on what he would have to bring along. Coris nodded and turned to leave,

    "I''ll notify Sir Jarl of the change."

    Coris was closing the door when Head Cook Apollon''s booming voice floated through the narrow gap,

    "Just my crazy hunch, but I''d say Nostra''s behind this."

    Coris stilled his hand on the doorknob, pulling the door in place.

    "This?" said Bailiff Mansfuld''s shrill croak, "My good fellow, you must have inhaled too much mushroom fumes in that kitchen! What kind of monstrous contraption could allow man to suck the elements straight out of the soil or summat?"

    Coris imagined Apollon shrugging the remark off his massive shoulders.

    "Like I said. Crazy hunch. Why so stern, you old thing?"

    Yet, as Mansfuld huffed and grumbled under his breath about the folly of youngsters, the argument reminded Coris of his conversation with Meya a few days ago, when she asked him about dragon diet.

    "Dragons derive their energy from the sun and absorb their nutrients straight from the earth. Like moving trees."

    "Maybe this is why Nostra want to invade Latakia and claim Everglen. Their lands has been sucked dry..."

    Moving trees...

    Sucked dry...

    Could it be?

    Coris raised his gaze from the bustling courtyard to the sky. He could no longer see the sun. It must have drifted below the horizon, leaving behind glowing, fiery salmon pink streaks in the darkening powder blue.

    Meya would be back soon. Perhaps he could discuss with her over dinner. She''d probably have some outlandish theories for him. At least, that was how he tried to explain away the unbidden leap in his heart at the thought. He was definitely not thinking about what usually comes after dinner these past few days.

    Grinning to himself, Coris let go of the brass doorknob, careful not to prod the creaking door, then started toward the stables, keeping his head low to hide his burning cheeks in the collar of his cloak. He really should be focusing on work.

    Lovesick as he was, poor Coris had no idea he was about to run into an even larger, more unpleasant surprise when his dragon girl returns.

    ?

    Night had fallen by the time Coris made his way back to his bedchambers on the topmost floor of the Keep, dabbing at his red-rimmed eyes with the shoulder of his cloak as he went, to the alarm of servants who spotted him.

    The door was unlocked, but on the high chance the other occupant was inside, he knocked. He heard a small squeal, a clunk of something hard colliding with the floor, a rustle of clothes, approaching footsteps, then the knob turned, and the door heaved back.

    Meya stood panting, her cheeks flushed, the black voids of her pupils swallowing up her glowing irises. Her fringe was plastered to her forehead with sweat, the collar of her dress askew, and the skirt rumpled.

    Behind her shoulder, Coris saw the contents of his rock chest sprawled on the flagstones. A hunk of pink crystal winked at him in the candlelight. Coris felt his grief subsiding in amusement.

    "Sorry I''m late." He winked, a sly grin tugging at the corner of his lips. Meya scowled, her face blushing even deeper than her original hair color. Then, she noticed his nose and cheeks looked healthier than usual. Her hand shot towards his face. The pad of her thumb chafed the puffy skin beneath his eye.

    "Lexi, what''s wrong? You been crying?"

    "I''m fine." Coris sniffed, shrugging as if to nudge his grin up, "I''ve just dropped by Beau''s grave. Let him know we''ll be away."

    Meya wrapped her arms around him. He found her heat both soothing and energizing.

    "We could''ve gone together." She murmured, then tugged him gently by the arm, "Come on. Dinner''s just here. Your mother had them whip up all your favorites."

    Coris couldn''t tell due to the gunk in his nose, so he let Meya guide him to sustenance. They were indeed his old favorites. Coils of pasta doused in melted better, dusted with pepper, white truffle and grated cheese. Slabs of duck liver sandwiched between halves of sourdough muffins. A clay pot holding cold pumpkin soup, its subtle yellow surface decorated with a spiral of rich milk. Not a sliver of green in sight. An indulgence befitting of his last meal in Hadrian.

    As they supped, munching and slurping oil from their fingers, Meya told him how Morel had decided to stay in Hadrian and apprentice in the Crimson Hog. After the meal, they sat with their backs against the bed, gnawing on Morel''s homemade nougats. Meya showed him the shawl her baby sister Mistral had knitted for her birthday, and perused through the bundle of clothes, new and secondhand, and adornments her parents had sent her from Crosset. She pinned each tunic over her current dress, eagerly awaiting his compliment.

    By far, things were going very well. Coris was looking forward to a night of slow burning romance, until Meya unfolded a tattered crimson cloak from the pile. Its vivid color jerked Coris awake from his drowsy calm like a slap to the cheek.

    Hadrian Red.

    Meya raised it up before her, a look of mild surprise on her face. Coris felt his bowels twist into a knot as the fabric fell to its length, revealing opaque patches of what was, unmistakably, blood.

    Dragon blood. This dragon''s blood, to be exact.

    Coris reminded himself. There was no mistaking that size, cut, fabric and color. It was the cloak he had worn that fateful day, seven years ago, and which he had wrapped around the girl before him, whose dress had been torn to shreds from her transformation. He hardly dared breathe as he stared at Meya. Her face was scrunched in thought.

    "Coris? ''Tis¡ª''tis Hadrian Red, innit?" She turned to him, an eyebrow raised.

    "Yes. Yes, it is." Coris forced out as he thawed. Frowning, Meya turned back to the mangled cloak,

    "Eh, strange." She narrowed her eyes at the bloodstains, then tilted the cloak about, examining it from all angles, "Where in the three lands did Mum get this? Why''d she buy me a soiled robe, and this small, too? Did she reckon I could wear it as an apron or summat¡ª"

    "¡ªThat cloak is mine."

    Meya spun around, eyes bulging. Coris froze, petrified by his own words, staring into air.

    He couldn''t explain why he''d said it. Then, he understood. He couldn''t continue this charade. He couldn''t keep putting off telling her what she needed to know. Not when he had promised both her and her family and friends that he would give her the truth. Not when a new crisis was creeping near, one that might have something to do with her kind and might affect them all.

    In hindsight, it might not be the best time. But if not now, then when? He had put this off for long enough, telling himself it was for her own good, when it was actually to protect himself. To maintain the comfortable status quo. The very thing he rebelled against his father over.

    As his resolve solidified, Coris turned back to face Meya. He inhaled, long and deep, then let go.

    "I left it behind in Crosset. During the Famine."

    Meya blinked, struggling to connect the dots. She glanced at the cloak then back to him, over and over.

    "But¡ªhow¡ªare you sure?" She rested the cloak on her lap, yet her eyes never left his. There was not the slightest spark of remembrance in them. Of course. As far as she knew, they had nothing to do with each other before, apart from his latest visit three years ago. He understood her suspicion, but the time for him to fear the inevitable was running out.

    Another long, shivery breath, then Coris reached out a dithering hand. His fingers closed around her sleeve, three sinking into the crater carved into her flesh by Grogan Krulstaff''s arrow. He rose to his feet, leading her gently onto the bed. Meya was still gawking at him. He couldn''t bear to look her in her blank face.

    "Meya, I''m very sorry for keeping this from you. I just needed to be sure¡ªNo, I was being a coward. I have no excuses."

    He shook his head. The circles of warmth from Meya''s arms glowed steady on his palms, as did the heat of her gaze on the top of his head.

    "Remember when I told you, a peasant girl saved me from the kidnapping, and I was looking for her, three years ago when you met me in Crosset?"

    Meya nodded slowly, eyebrows raised, still having not the vaguest idea where this conversation was going. Coris''s eyes remained fixed upon her. She thought he had frozen, lost in thought. Then, she noticed the inkling in his eyes. She felt as if her bowels had vanished into thin air,

    "Me?"

 Revelations

    Coris''s tale began with common knowledge¡ªthe Crosset Famine, a beguiling invitation from Bailiff Johnsy, a hunting trip gone awry. From there, it escalated into an anecdote of chilling detail. He described his time in Draken''s kidnapping party, then launched into a fantastical account normally associated with people who have suffered blunt force to the head.

    He recalled a blast of pure flames, a gust of ice wind. Metallic talons swept him off the snowy glade, skimming treetops into the sky. He showed her the melted arrow he claimed to have pulled out of the dragon''s leg, before they crashed into a cave on the mountainside. He claimed to have woken up to a girl with glowing green eyes and red-gold hair¡ªMeya.

    Meya might have believed it. If it wasn''t for the fact that she remembered nothing of the sort. Of course not¡ªit was just too impossible to have actually happened.

    She? Transformed into a dragon? Even the notion of Greeneyes being dragon riders who must strip down to call forth their mounts seemed reasonable compared to this bullcrap.

    Meya was tempted to think Coris was high on laudanum. Or that some of his mother''s rose oil had seeped through his scalp and trickled through his skull into his brain. Yet, he seemed in control of his faculties. His silvery eyes were bright and sharp as ever.

    And, despite her lack of memories, her logic argued otherwise. Coris'' story provided answers to the half-forgotten questions in the old cupboard at the back of her mind.

    Why the wound on her arm didn''t fully heal (and, now that she actually thought back, she was actually bitten by a snake on her right arm!). Why she had seemingly stayed home all through the Famine, when the villagers should have been raring to lynch her family. Why Draken had stared awkwardly at her when asked how Coris had escaped. Why her family crest was a dragon. Straightforward, really¡ªshe was descended from them. And she was one of them.

    Coris left off at his painstaking search for her. Silence descended between them as he reached for a long gulp of lukewarm tea. Meya stared at him, trying to take it all in.

    "So, you''re saying¡ªI''m a dragon." She managed. Coris set down his tea with a rattling clink.

    "Half-dragon, to be exact." He sighed. His movements were subtle, strained. As if he anticipated a fireball from Meya at any moment, "We can assume that most¡ªif not all¡ªof your inner organs are human. Obviously, you ingest human food and excrete¡ª"

    Coris stuttered. As they both blushed, he cleared his throat in an attempt at grace,

    "¡ªExcuse me, human waste. And, judging from our nighttime escapades, I''d say apart from the heat, your¡ªer¡ªattributes are also human. I assume you have had menarche..."

    Coris flourished his hand as if to say You get the idea. That reminded Meya of something that was bound to have arrived by now. She gawked at the waffling young man as her brain whirred in panic.

    No way. He''s barren.

    But Zier said that might just be his imagination.

    No, Coris has healers backing him up.

    But he''s so blessed.

    So what? Size doesn''t equal substance.

    But you luuurrve it, right?

    What''s that got to do with¡ªWhatever! I''m using Silfum!

    Right...! Maybe it''s the Silfum. Or the stress from the Heist. That''s it! Stress and pungent herbal fumes wafting about my nether regions and tipping my humors off kilter. Yes, that must be it.

    Meya nodded over and over, soothing herself. Coris sprang up and strode to his study desk, fetching a journal from his secret drawer.

    "On the other hand, your draconic characteristics are¡ªhere," He rifled through the pages as he traipsed back. Noticing what he''d written here, he breathed sharply, flipped it closed then handed it to Meya.

    Goodly Freda! He''s been taking notes on me?

    Meya took the journal, hands trembling from both fear and fury. His prose was clipped and precise, but still took her several minutes to read. Every other word was long and difficult, each sentence labelled with a rose bullet, crammed around a rough pencil diagram of what appeared to be one half Meya''s face, and one half dragon head, as if Coris had been adding more as he noticed new things.

    Phosphorescent eyes. A branching line connected the statement to Meya and the dragon''s eyes. Meya didn''t need to know what that first word meant to know what the nosy donghead was referring to.

    High body heat.

    Immunity to substances otherwise harmful to man¡ªi.e. dwale, aconite, etc.

    Aversion and severe allergy to Lattis. Must have picked those up during the Heist.

    Ability to transform into dragon and back upon contact with Lattis. Wait¡ªHe''d speculated that right after the Heist? How long had he been keeping this from her?

    Grinding her teeth against the ball of fiery rage roiling inside her bowels, Meya fought the urge to let loose in a particular direction and forced herself to keep reading,

    High affinity to metals and minerals.

    To Meya''s eternal embarrassment, an indented paragraph elaborated on the phenomena:

    ---i.e. Sexual desire and arousal upon physical contact with Rose Crystal.

    Predictably, below that bombshell was:

    High heat in birth canal (female) serves as natural deterrent for interracial reproduction, by hindering sexual intercourse and killing semen.

    ---Note: can be subdued by Lattis.

    Meya made sense of perhaps the first five words, but that was enough. More than enough.

    I''ll give you truth, he''d said. And once again she''d given herself to him, but as she concentrated on making love to him with all the passion and tenderness in her, he made a mental note to scribble details of her most intimate parts in his blasted journal.

    Lastly, in ink that hadn''t yet lost its gleam and seeped deep into parchment:

    Metallic bones and blood capable of melting Lattis

    ---Evidence: severed phalange and molten ring, preserved by Morelia Hild. Account of Gillian, Nostran mercenary, as recalled by Meya Hild.

    And,

    Ability to regenerate digits, limbs, and flesh

    ---Exception: injuries caused by Lattis.

    Meya flipped the page. Nothing was there but splotches of seeped-through ink, and reflected outlines of the previous page''s contents. Smirking, she closed the journal with a flump of expelled air.

    "You could write a treatise." She handed it back to Coris. He took it numbly, his bulging eyes stared at her, unsure and afraid, "I feel like an impaled beetle in some sick collection."

    Coris recoiled, sickened by the side of himself he struggled to repress.

    "I''m so sorry. On hindsight, that was despicable."

    Meya refused to meet his eyes. His apology rang hollow in her ears. She was angrier than she''d ever been in her whole life, but she didn''t know why.

    "We could''ve written this list together. With your consent. If only I''d been honest with you." Coris plowed on, desperation in his voice. He pushed the journal onto her, "I promised I''d give you truth. So, it''s yours now. It''s my only copy. Chuck it in the fireplace. Slap me with it. Do whatever you want with it."

    He shook the journal, prodding her arm with it.

    "What about that copy in your brain?" She asked quietly. Coris jolted at the reminder.

    "I''m so sorry." He hung his head so low his hair grazed his lap. "I swear, I won''t breathe a word of this to anyone. This secret is yours to reveal."

    "Still, ''tis why you insisted on following me to the Crimson Hog, innit?" Meya wasn''t relenting, "You wanna talk to Draken. About me! Then you left right before I came back. But I bet everyone else already knew about all this? Me being a dragon or whatever? What''re you gunna do about their copies, then?"

    Coris simply bowed lower.

    "I trusted you, Lord Coris. And time and time again, you betrayed me trust."

    Coris remained silent, the cold emanating from his body trembling as he did. His shame didn''t soften her, nor heal her feelings of betrayal and hurt. It tortured her worse.

    He was a nobleman and a prodigy. Was it too much to expect even of the lowliest and meanest of men to treat a fellow living, thinking, feeling being with basic respect? Be they dragon, human or something in between?

    Still, she strove to see his side. To understand. To find her responsibility in this quagmire. She hadn''t been fully honest with him. They met as enemies. They hadn''t remembered their past. Even now, Meya had no memory of the Famine. He must have needed time to make sure. Even once he was, it mustn''t have been easy to come forth with the truth.

    Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

    "Then again, musta taken a while, mustering up the guts to tell me." She hitched up a bitter grin. Coris perked up in alarm, "You have your duties, Lord Hadrian and all. Gotta have eyes on freaks like us Greeneyes. I mightn''t have turned out different say our roles are reversed."

    "Don''t justify this. You have every right to be furious." Coris argued.

    "Nah, you''re a nobleman. I''m a peasant girl. And a Greeneye, to boot." shrugged Meya.

    "And does that strip you of the right to outrage? Being a peasant girl and a Greeneye didn''t stop you risking your life to rescue a nobleman. Thrice. It doesn''t make your dignity any less worthy of my respect¡ªof anyone''s respect!"

    Meya wasn''t expecting that from him. From anyone. Her head agreed she shouldn''t be this furious with Coris. He was simply doing what he had to for Hadrian. For Latakia. Yet, her heart longed to believe in what he said, that she deserved to be offended.

    "I should never have spied on you. Observed you like you weren''t human."

    "But I''m not human, am I?"

    "Yes, you are."

    "No, I''m not."

    "Have it your way, but does that make any difference? Human. Dragon. Greeneye. Your body may be different, but you have feelings acute as mine. I should have respected that, but I didn''t. Whatever contempt you feel for yourself, I deserve it."

    Meya eyed him warily. Why was he so desperate? What did he want from her? Forgiveness? Punishment? Or simply for her to stop blaming herself?

    She couldn''t find it in her to figure it out. She was sapped. She abandoned her grudge and moved on. There were more pressing issues than her blind, besotted, oft-betrayed trust in him.

    "Never mind. I''ll save it for next time."  Coris raised his eyebrows, incredulous. Meya quickly added, "No, really. Don''t. Do it. Again¡ªEver."

    Meya hammered down the words as if they were nails on wood, blazing green locked with pale silver. Her forgiveness was swift, but the same may not be said for her trust. And she''d never forget. Coris nodded. Meya cleared her throat, continuing in what she hoped was a casual tone,

    "So, I''m a half-dragon. And you''re saying all Greeneyes are like me?"

    Her expression was blank, her voice flat. She watched her hand as she scratched a smudge of dried soup off her dress. Coris kept watch on her from his distance.

    "You saw Gillian and his men that night. He and Dockar transformed into dragons upon contact with Lattis, while his men¡ª" He flipped the journal to the back cover, then handed it to Meya, "¡ªused this Lattis whistle to transform."

    On the inside of the back cover, swinging from a length of torn string whose ends were glued to the leather, was a tube made of the familiar opalescent silvery metal.

    A little way from the mouthpiece, a slot was carved out for a knob with intricate, minuscule, maze-like carvings. She fiddled with it. It turned once with a clear stop, then back around. Dragon mode and human mode, she''d guess. Though how a dragon would pick this thing up and blow it was anyone''s imagination.

    "I''ve sent men and hounds to scour the hill for evidence. They found this where Gillian was standing. It probably came off when Zier slashed his neck. I reckon the Nostrans escaped partly so as not to reveal more of their secrets to us."

    Meya nodded numbly. The enormity of the revelation was catching up, creeping up her fingers and toes towards her heart like frostbite. All her life, she''d known she was different, of course. Everyone around her had never tired of pointing out her abnormal features. She was a Greeneye. An anomaly. Pariah. Outcast. Yet, by all means, human. She''d gotten a few freakish, unnerving characteristics, but overall, she was still human. Though she''d rather be normal, she could live with the lot she had.

    She realized now, those were less quirks than symptoms. Telltale signs. Evidence of her monstrous nature. She was a dragon. She didn''t belong. Not just in Crosset, but the whole of Latakia.

    Where should I go now? What should I do? Should I be glad? Should I want this?

    Unbidden thoughts materialized one after another, coagulating into a slow, torturous swirl of chaos in her head. Coris''s soft voice pierced the gloom like a faraway, hollow echo.

    "All this must have come as a huge shock. I''m sorry for not letting you be the first to know. Again."

    The journal slipped from Meya''s unfeeling fingers, landing on the floor with a muffled chime of metal, stone and leather.

    "I''m¡ªI''m a dragon." She shook as she grinned. She trembled so hard, even her voice was jittering,

    "So them folks were right. I''m a monster. Not harbinger of misfortune. Not Chione''s minion. Just plain old big, ugly, flying, fire-breathing, murderous monster."

    "No¡ªYou''re not¡ªYou''re not a monster." Coris tried to correct her, but the desperation in his lie only served to underline the cruel truth, scoring a line on her heart like a metal quill. His cold hands on her arms burned like iced steel.

    "You''re just another living being. Like me. You''ve seen Gillian and his men. You''ve seen Frenix. You''ve seen Heloise. You''ve seen Old Mother Gelda and her grandson. We all have dragon blood in us. You''re just like everyone else."

    "No, I''m not." Meya shook her head, "I''m not."

    "Meya, please."

    Meya shrugged him off and sprang up, pacing restlessly.

    "Why? Why me?" She demanded of unseen deities lurking in thin air, fingers tangled in her hair. She broke into a half-run, as if she hoped it would shake away this malediction in her blood. As if she could somehow escape the draconic half of her body.

    "Why''s it me who got this from me parents? Why didn''t any of me brothers or sisters get this? Why isn''t anyone in Crosset like me?"

    "Meya, there''s nothing wrong with being a dragon. You''re still the same as you always have been."

    Coris struggled to find words to comfort her, but, even as pure human as he was, he knew they were empty and meaningless. He didn''t answer her questions. He couldn''t prove his claims. He couldn''t understand how she was feeling. He didn''t know what she wanted. For perhaps the first time in his life, Coris didn''t know what to do except stand there, helpless, silent, as she tore herself to pieces before him.

    "Me own mother couldn''t hug me for longer than two breaths. Me wet nurse was Draken''s cow. No nursing mother in the whole of Crosset could stand to hold me. Everywhere I go they chuck rotten eggs and fling mud at me ''cause me eyes freak them out. I can''t even lie with a man without hurting him. How gruesome is that? What kind of girl burns men when they come inside her?"

    Meya covered her face. Tears trickled out between her fingers and dripped from her chin. She crumpled to her knees, fevered whispers renting through the still night air.

    "I never wanted this. I dun want this. Isn''t my life difficult enough? Why can''t I just be born normal? What have I done wrong, Freda? Why?"

    With a wail of despair, Meya crumpled onto the cold flagstones.

    "Meya!"

    Coris rushed in, heaving her up by the shoulders. She was awake, but her eyes were squeezed shut. Her hands had left her tear-streaked face. She was tearing and clawing feebly at her dress, trying to flee from her own skin. He locked her fingers in his. Her back burned like heated iron on his chest. He gritted his teeth and held on.

    "I''m here. I''m here with you. I''m not leaving. You''re not a monster. You''re my savior. My friend. You''re the May Queen. You''re not alone. You have many people like you out there."

    Meya''s tears fell thicker and faster.

    "We''re going to Safyre and Everglen. We''ll find more Greeneyes. We''ll learn more about your folk. And we''ll help them. All of us. If it''s the last thing I do. Please¡ªPlease¡ª"

    Coris didn''t know what he wanted her to do. And if he should want it. What was he expecting? When she''d first transformed and he''d explained the truth to her, she''d brushed it to the back of her mind, focused on ensuring their survival. Then, she''d forgotten it.

    Here, now, there was no urgent threat to distract her, nowhere and no reason to run. And he fumbled to keep her shattered self in one piece between his thin arms. All he knew was he must keep holding her, never letting go, even as she burned like fire on him.

    Be brave as she had been for you.

    <hr>

    After Meya''s sobs subsided, Coris helped her to the bed. They slept with their backs to each other, as they usually did. Unlike the previous nights, however, Meya left her Lattis medallion on the bedside cabinet. She shoved Coris to the edge of the bed, far away from her heat as possible as she sulked herself to sleep.

    Even from this distance, Coris felt her heat beating against the back of his nightgown. Cold heat, it was. It was rather underwhelming, alarmingly so. He''d been expecting flame and fury. Flying objects, resounding blows. Screams of denial and sobs of despair.

    All would have been natural, justified. All had been his own reactions six years ago, as he lay on this very bed, recovering from his bout with the poison.

    Through it all, Mother held him when he''d let her, and simply stood by his side when he hadn''t, waiting. And Zier was there, in the dead of nights when Father had forced Mother to retire to bed.

    Days later, when he had calmed down to a hopeless stupor, Bishop Frey sat down and explained to him a philosophical term called The Cycle of Acceptance.

    He told the unresponsive Coris that he had walked past the maelstrom of denial and the flames of anger, and was now lost in the night of despair. He told Coris of the parents and siblings and companions he had lost, splotches of tearstained ink from letters bearing dire news, dotted throughout his long journey. He predicted his journey was ending soon, just like Coris''s. Coris asked him if he was ready. The old man shook his head.

    "None, not even the most learned sage, the most meticulous mathematician, the most tortured soul, would ever be truly ready for such a thing so certain, yet so unpredictable as death. Few would wish for it. Few would choose it."

    "The best we mortals can hope for is acceptance. Acceptance leads to action. Action sets apart that which is alive from that which is not. When you happen upon the crossroads of bargaining, know that there is no right or wrong path, so long that it leads away from despair. Keep breathing, one breath at a time. Think, one day at a time. Stronger as you go. Let hope keep you company, if you feel you couldn''t manage it alone. So long as you keep breathing and thinking of tomorrow, you will stay alive."

    Hope will keep you alive much longer than any elixir would.

    A sweeter, clearer, youthful voice whispered. His heart seized up as it dawned on him.

    He''d thought he had achieved acceptance. Had escaped the claws of despair dragging him into its festering mire. Had faced the crossroads of bargaining and chosen his path, but he may have chosen the wrong path. In Meya''s eyes, his acceptance was tainted with despair and pessimism. He''d always been pragmatic, but would it be better to nourish some hope until the end, even when a miracle would never happen? To risk the gutting disappointment that would follow?

    There is no right or wrong.

    Coris flipped over, studying Meya''s backside. In the dark blue-black shadows beyond the reach of moonbeam, her silhouette pulsated in the slow, unsteady, shallow rhythm of fake slumber.

    She was probably slogging through the journey he''d completed, for better or worse. Though much less violent and prolonged than his, the denial was there. The anger was there. The despair had been the present. He longed to help her in whatever way he could. To let hope surround her, the way Mother and Zier and Bishop Frey had done for him. But he had wronged her so cruelly. Ironically, in giving her the honesty she was long due, he''d destroyed her trust in him.

    Still, Coris didn''t regret telling her the truth. It was exhilarating. All that worried him now was her silent pain. Her fury at his deceit, he could placate with sincerity. Her despair at being a creature she believed despicable was something he couldn''t heal. Cruel as it may seem, she must step past it herself, but that didn''t mean she must be alone.

    Perhaps Meya felt the prickle of his stare. She rolled around, her glowing eyes like twin fireflies staring solemnly from the shadows.

    She crept into the moonlight. Her eyes were puffy, her button nose still tinged with red. Coris couldn''t resist himself any longer,

    "Can I hold you?"

    To his surprise and relief, Meya gave a loud sniff then edged further towards him. He gathered her into his arms, breathing deeply as her heated skin burned against his. He pressed a comforting kiss on her swollen lips salty with dried tears. A fresh teardrop landed on his cheek. He was sure it wasn''t his.

    "I dun want this. I dun wanna be a dragon. I dun want it. I dunno how to make it go away." Meya begged, her trembling voice choked with sobs. Coris nodded.

    "Neither do I. It''s unfortunate, isn''t it?"

    "What''s gunna happen to me? To Greeneyes like me? Once they know what we actually are?"

    Coris had half a mind to lie. To appease her fears with idealistic solutions. To be the ultimate problem-solver, the knight in shining armor of every fair maiden''s dreams. But he remembered Bishop Frey''s advice, how he got past his despair. It wasn''t through false hopes, but having a steadfast friend by his side.

    "I''ve no idea." He admitted, "But I''ll be with you. You''ll be alright. I''m a genius. And you''re a dragon. Big, bad, busty and breathing fire. The wet nurse of Zier''s dreams."

    Alas, he laughed alone. Sighing, Coris shifted uncomfortably as her jugular vein beat a burning tattoo on his skin. Unfortunately, Meya sensed it. She sat up and slithered towards the cabinet.

    "Lemme get me Lattis. Else you won''t be able to sleep. We have an early morning, right?"

    "Good idea." Coris mumbled, hating himself for agreeing. Meya had convinced him to let her wear the coin whenever they make love or cuddle, for his comfort. Again, Meya seemed to sense his dismay. She slumped back down, fumbling with the clasp at her nape.

    "''Tis alright, Coris. ''Tis just a coin. I''m still a monster once I take it off. Now you can do me whatever way you like, Dragon Fetish."

    With that, she flipped to her side, facing away. Coris wrapped his arms around her and her hand in his. Her tears splashed silently onto it.

 The Dragons Despair

    Meya didn''t count herself among the precious few blessed with dreamless sleep. Ever since she could remember, her nights had been plagued with bizarre dreams, building up to a failed escape from rolling boulders, bears, hogs, barbarians, or the occasional dragon, depending on what was the trend for puppet shows at the time.

    Fluctuating trends notwithstanding, Utlon''s Escape was the panacea for bards suffering from creative blockage. Throughout the centuries, the blacksmith''s grim account of Nostra''s midnight attack on Rutgarth, and his flight for survival, had been heavily exaggerated and embellished upon, to the point some wondered if Utlon truly existed, and wasn''t simply an amalgam of several survivors'' tales lumped into one hero.

    Last night, instead of dreaming of being one of the poor miners'' wives fleeing torrents of dragon fire, Meya dreamt she herself was a dragon. Fans and jets of flame shot out of her mouth, now on an elongated jaw. Her back muscles pulsed as her wings beat against her silvery, scaled body.

    Below, in her field of vision tinged with green, men and women and children ran pell-mell from her. Some stood their ground and shot arrows that glanced off her impregnable scales. Then, a Lattis-tipped one pierced through. She knew because of that searing, rapid-spreading, all-consuming pain radiating from her arm¡ªno, front leg¡ªas the melted Lattis coursed through her bloodstream.

    Boulders spun through the air from catapults and pummeled her as she fell, screaming and spitting fire. She saw armored yeomen with swords scampering towards her broken form through half-open eyes. The first knight who approached her lifted his helmet, freeing his dark brown hair. Cold silvery eyes glared at her through a coat of grime and soot¡ª

    Meya would have screamed if she hadn''t woken with a start first.

    She was lying on her bed in Hadrian Castle, her forehead and hands drenched with cold sweat. Through the gap in the magenta curtains, she saw the bedchamber illuminated to a dull gray by the light of dawn. After a moment of heavy breathing, as her senses reattuned to reality, she felt Coris''s arm draped over her, his cold hand covering hers in a loose grasp. For once, he was still asleep.

    Relieved yet also unnerved, Meya kept his bony forearm hoisted with her thumb and index, as she slid out from under it. Once free, she laid his arm down on the bed, keeping her eyes on his face. A trickle of drool dangled from Coris''s gaping mouth as he drew in ragged, pungent snores. A side-effect of his damaged bowels.

    Meya slid her vacated pillow under Coris''s to ease his breathing, then slipped silently down the bed. Like a drunken wraith, she treaded her way across the room to her Solar, slow, soundless footsteps lugging the weight of her heavy heart.

    Swinging the door carelessly behind her, she stood before the half-body mirror. With unfeeling fingers, she undid the knots on her linen nightdress and slid the collar down her shoulders, then scrutinized her naked body in the grayish light.

    She looked just the same as she always had. No different from any other woman. Apart from faint pink sores along her shoulders that Coris had left upon her in happier nights, and a web of blue veins spreading under the taut skin of her strangely itchy, sore breasts.

    She wondered why she even had breasts at all. After all, dragons laid eggs. Like snakes. And snake babies don''t need to suckle on their mother''s non-existent nipples. They just slither out their holes fully-fledged and start scarfing down rats.

    Still, apart from the heat your attributes are human, Coris had said. Meya reckoned she''d have to take his word for it, since he''d sent his middle brother in to explore her so-called birth canal multiple times.

    So, she may not lay eggs, at least. The knowledge wasn''t much consolation.

    Meya pinched her arm and felt skin and flesh and pulse. She couldn''t tell whether the hard core she felt underneath was made of bone or metal, whether the red blood that had pooled there was a mixture of the same components as everyone else''s.

    Yet, there on her fingertip, was a ring of scar tissue. On her forearm was the ugly scooped-out scar. In the mirror, her glowing eyes stared back at her from shadow-rimmed, sunken sockets.

    She thought over her nightmare. She remembered vividly what she had felt and sensed as a dragon. Had she simply imagined those from melodramatic descriptions of countless storytellers? Or were they forgotten memories seeping in to taint her conscious at its weakest?

    The latter theory would require her to believe Coris''s tale, which would cement the fact that she was a dragon. Make it permanent. Sure as death. Something she would never be able to run from.

    If it were wings, she could have simply sliced them off and move on with her daily life. But how could she get rid of something that was inside and everywhere? Meya had never heard of a Greeneye successfully becoming normal. Suppressing it with Lattis was the furthest they could manage. What should she do if she decided she couldn''t live with even that?

    Dying was the obvious path. Yet, she didn''t want to walk it. Not now. She had a promising future, a lifetime ahead of her. But did she? Anymore?

    Coris had said he had no idea, but she knew, that he knew as well as she did, the fate that awaits all dragons. In Latakia, they would be rained with Lattis-plated arrows, skewered with Lattis swords, then butchered for metal. In Nostra, they would be saddled and muzzled and whipped by their riders into fire-spitting warmongering mounts.

    Humans had always been the only creature with free will, a purpose undetermined by any other, apart from perhaps celestial beings. To humans, animals were either victual, vermin or villain. It had been the case with all of Meya''s dead piglets. And now it was, too, for Meya herself. What''s worse, as a dragon she could without doubt be all three, simultaneously. She had taken for granted that she was human. Now, she was paying for it. Dearly.

    Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

    A series of soft raps on the ajar door roused Meya from her thoughts.

    "Meya? Can I come in?"

    Coris''s voice trickled through the gap. Meya didn''t budge. She had lost the capacity to care one way or another. Still, the sliver of Coris''s face reflected on the mirror, patiently intruding on her sulking session. She sighed in annoyance then nodded.

    Coris had probably left his surprise at her unexplained nakedness behind the door. He wordlessly took up the spot beside her, drinking in her reflection with familiar eyes.

    "Anything different, Aine?" He used her pet name, usually reserved for when they were making love, his voice tender.

    "Do I have to look the same to be treated the same?"

    Meya retorted, dull and lifeless as her gaze, fixed on her image on the polished, iridescent glass. Startled, Coris took a moment to respond.

    "No. You shouldn''t have to." Meya''s heart couldn''t help but lift slightly, "In fact, I''m beginning to question the rules our country has set such great store by."

    Meya raised an eyebrow. So did her inverted twin in the mirror.

    "It''s not just humans versus dragons. Even between humans, there are noble and commoner. Man and woman. Latakian and Nostran and Southern Islander and Tyldornian. Us and Them. How could there ever be true unity, true peace this way? And how should we decide who, or what, should be included?"

    Had this been a casual discussion over tea, before he had lambasted her with the truth of this beast within her, Meya would have been fervently interested in a debate. But now, it was all she could do to hitch up a rueful smirk and jam the oar in his ship''s helm.

    "You''ve been noble and man and human and Latakian since you were born, Lord Coris. Why question it now?"

    Coris''s reflection blinked at her, dismayed and guilty by her blunt reminder.

    "You, obviously." He sighed, "You''re a peasant. A woman. A Greeneye. You have three of the most oppressed bloodlines inside you, and you''re the first I have ever become this close to."

    Meya remained silent, unsure where he was going.

    "I''ve always thought I was superior because of what my ancestor did. That I deserved to live in luxury and rule people because of my name."

    He paused, trailing his long, pale finger absentmindedly on the wood of the dressing table, his gaze lost in the past,

    "Then I was kidnapped. By peasants. And you rescued me, protected me, led me to safety. You negotiated with mercenaries. You saved twenty Crossetians and your own Lady and alerted me of Gillian''s threat. You performed feats befitting of noble-born knights. Perhaps even better than some. And you would''ve done it anyway without your powers, too. You, a Greeneye. A peasant. A young girl."

    Coris hammered out each word, admiration and awe streaked with desperation in his eyes staring at her, later consumed by shame.

    "I saw your brothers and your sister, dressed in rags, marveling at that room in The Crimson Hog. I saw those old dresses your mother sent you. I saw you struggling to eat the food I deemed mundane. I saw you never knowing how to read and write. The more I talk to you. The more I know you, it¡ªit saddens me."

    Coris shook his head as he clung to the dressing table, his eyes downcast.

    "You''re no different from Fione. From Heloise. From Amara. From Mother. How much better Latakia could have become, if more people like you had had the chance we''ve been given?"

    There was a pause. A calculated one. Out of the corner of her eyes, Meya caught Coris sneaking a glimpse at her. Seeing no reaction, the sly young man changed tracks, running a hand through his tousled hair and plastering on a hasty grin,

    "Sorry, I was rambling." He said with just the right amount of sheepishness. Meya suspected he had been rehearsing this conversation all through the night as he held her. Yet, for once, his eloquence wasn''t getting through to her.

    "My point is, Greeneyes must be treated the same as any Latakian. It''s not the eyes that matter, Meya. It''s what''s behind them. And our work from now is cut out for us¡ªwe''re going to make Latakia see that."

    Despite his fake, strained excitement, Meya grudgingly felt the sincerity behind his words. Born and bred in Hadrian, Coris was bound to be more forward-thinking than her people back in ol'' Crosset, so she wasn''t that surprised of his stance on the Greeneye issue. After all, he and his friends hadn''t been prejudiced towards her from the start, and it wasn''t that she wasn''t thankful. Yet, somehow, she was still troubled.

    As much as the fear of being persecuted and discriminated against, of the daunting mission that awaited her once she accepted her status as a dragon, she still couldn''t bear to accept this abomination inside her.

    She didn''t know how to make Coris understand what she was feeling, how to put into words why she was so bothered. She felt tainted. Dirty. Ugly. Disgusting. Unworthy of friendship and love from him or Arinel or any of her friends. Undeserving to consider herself the daughter of her virtuous parents, or the sister of her blessedly ordinary, pure, beautiful sisters.

    The mere thought of metal oozing through her skin and coagulating into scales, of bat-like wings exploding through her back, of her fingernails transforming into scythe-like claws, of fire roaring out of her snout mouth, burning countless lives to ash, was enough to make her retch.

    And she almost did.

    "You haven''t forgotten the resources crisis, have you?" Meya chose to steer away, swallowing down the unbidden wave of nausea with a grimace. Coris chuckled, undeterred.

    "Of course I haven''t. We''ve already established that these two crises are connected, haven''t we? We could dissolve the Mining Ban, and secure Greeneye rights while we''re at it."

    Meya shook her head. Had last night never happened, those big plans would probably have excited her. And she would have been thrilled that Coris had included her, had trusted her to help. Now, she simply felt numb. It was such that she doubted she would ever feel enthusiastic for anything again.

    "I dunno, Lord Coris." She muttered, her level voice like a blanket thrown over Coris''s glowing embers. The young lord froze in mid-bounce. He stared, wide-eyed, as Meya hunched her shoulders, her eyes unfocused, almost catatonic,

    "I dunno know much about anything¡ªanymore."

    Silence fell. Despite standing right next to each other, so close they could feel their frozen fire and smoldering ice pulsating against each other, it felt as though a chasm stretched between them, and they both struggled and failed to get the right message across to the other on the opposite cliff.

    "Let me off at the first stop outside Hadrian." Meya continued in that same haunting, gormless tone. Coris stood gaping, paralyzed by her request. "All I need is a permit. I''ll just live like I''ve always had. With luck, I might even forget about this someday. I''ve forgotten it once, after all. Still dun remember, neither."

    "With me out of the way, you can lie with Arinel and get her pregnant. Then you can return to Hadrian and pursue your cause. ''Tis quid pro quo, milord."

    "Meya¡ª"

    Coris breathed. His face was a shade paler than usual, his hands clenched as tightly as his jaw. He seemed to be restraining himself from lying. A lie along the lines of how nothing would change between her and anyone, and how she was still the same person that she had always been.

    Meya stepped into her nightdress and slipped it back up to her shoulders. She raised her hand and grasped the rope that would ring the bell in the servants'' room, closing the opening for Coris to comfort her any further.

    "I''m calling Haselle now." She struggled to still both her hand on the tasseled crimson rope and her voice, pleading when Coris remained rooted, "Could you leave, please, milord?"

    A defiant look washed over Coris''s anguished face. For a while he hung back, as if waiting for a masterstroke to wash over him, for a poignant quip or warm embrace that would convince Meya everything would be fine. Yet, in the end, he heaved a heavy sigh and nodded, then retreated from the room, just in time for the door to hide Meya''s tearstained face in the mirror from view.

 Behind the Mask

    "Lady Arinel? Where''s Haselle? What''re you doing here?"

    Meya demanded, gawking at the young woman with brown curls who had answered her summons with a loud bang that bounced the door one-and-a-half rounds into the wall. Completing the remaining half-round with a thunderous slam, Lady Crosset flounced over to Meya, pushed her down on the chair, then snatched up a comb.

    "She''s distraught. Grandmother''s taking her straight to our carriage." She explained brusquely as her hands bustled about, dividing Meya''s hair into equal portions with the comb''s tapered handle. Her hands were shaking, and the comb''s pointed end sliced a vicious path down Meya''s scalp like a scalpel¡ªthe Ice Lady was enraged.

    "What happened?" Meya winced as Arinel yanked back three sheaves of her hair and weaved them into a plait.

    "Few days ago, the other Crossetian maids gave her an ointment for her burns¡ªspiked with poison ivy!" Arinel tugged hard on the rungs of the braid to tighten them, and Meya bit back a groan of pain. The lady took no notice. She headed straight into a fiery tirade, punctuated by her own seething grunts and Meya''s internal prayers.

    "I could''ve ordered them thrown headfirst (Ow!)¡ªinto an ivy bush (Agh!)¡ªif I had the power. Despicable! (Youch!)¡ªAfter all she''d been through! (Oh, sweet mother Freda.)¡ªHow could they! (I''m going bald.)"

    "You could punish them, your grace. To them, you''re the real Lady Crosset. Knock yourself out." Meya commented through gritted teeth, blinking back tears. Then all emotion melted away from her freckled face, her gaze cooled as she reminded, her voice level,

    "That aside, ought you not to have told me summat?"

    Arinel''s hands froze. Lowering the braid she was working on, she raised her gaze to meet Meya''s eyes, reflected in the mirror. Her lips quivered, forming soundless, unuttered words,

    "So, Coris told you?" She breathed, eyes wide in shock and guilt. Meya did not oblige with the slightest nod, but the answer was blatant in her cold stare. Arinel sighed deeply, nodding in surrender.

    "We agreed to leave it to him. He was the only witness, after all. I''m so sorry, Meya. I never knew¡ª"

    Meya studied Arinel''s reflection as she dipped her head in shame. Tremors from her fingertips traveled up Meya''s half-finished braid, and Meya felt her resentment abating. Arinel really hadn''t known, after all. She wasn''t to blame.

    "Aren''t you scared of me?" She asked, more to torment herself than from genuine curiosity, adding at the sight of Arinel''s perplexed look, "I''m a fire-breathing, humongous monster, you know?"

    Arinel chewed her lip as she articulated her thoughts and feelings into words, then sighed softly.

    "Well, I''d be lying if I said the notion didn''t intimidate me at all." She fiddled idly with Meya''s braid, then shook her head firmly, "But I''m not scared of you, no. Weirded out? Somewhat. I guess I simply need time to get used to it. We all do."

    Meya found it difficult to believe. As if sensing her cynicism, Arinel knelt down beside her chair, fingers still loosely steepled on her braid. Meya turned and met her gaze. She unfurled a faint, gentle smile.

    "From what Coris told us, your first act upon transforming was rescuing him." Her voice was soft as her soothing hand on Meya''s arm, her fingers sinking into the scar that was solid proof of her heroic deed.

    "Dragon or human. Then or now. Your motive have always been to protect. That''s what we saw when we look at you." The lady''s smile widened a twitch as her voice lowered into a whisper, "It''s the same with your Song, Meya. If you don''t let it define you, then it won''t."

    So, why are you so afraid?  She seemed to be implying with that casual tilt of her head. Meya gazed deep into those clear, bright blue eyes, and the sincerity she found within rattled her unsteady walls to the ground. Boiling tears bubbled up in her eyes, and she trembled with the effort of pushing them back.

    "But I just wanted to be beautiful." She choked out. Arinel rose to embrace her, biting back her own tears as Meya''s teardrops plummeted down the chest of her tattered dress, shoring up the full weight of her burning body propped against hers.

    "Like you. Like Marin. Like Agnesia Graye. For him¡ª"

    Meya''s confession tumbled feebly through her lips, having traveled all the way up from the deepest depths of her heart, where she had stored her darkest, most intimate thoughts born in moments of weakness.

    As those trembling fingers clung tight to the coarse wool of her dress, the image of Zier inevitably flashed into Arinel''s mind, and she understood her good friend perfectly. No further words were needed.

    As they held onto each other in the stillness of dawn, a sudden inspiration washed over Arinel, followed by a moment of hesitance. Glancing down at Meya, she brushed away the tousled golden locks.

    "Would you like to see her?" She crouched down and whispered into Meya''s ear. "Agnesia Graye. I could introduce you to her, if you''d like."

    As Meya gaped at her, Arinel''s eyes wandered into the distance, pondering the past.

    "I think it''s time for the truth. I''m sure Klythe agrees."

    Her cryptic musing only served to deepen Meya''s frown, but Arinel was not to be deterred. With an excited grin, she picked herself up and grasped Meya''s shoulders, righting her pose on the chair,

    "Come on. Let''s whip you up some gorgeous braids first."

    <hr>

    "We expect the journey to take no more than ten days. First, we will be stopping in Jaise to prepare for crossing the Sands of Caesonai. That should take us three days and two nights at the most, then it''s Hyacinth. From there, we will cross the Blue Mountains into Safyre, which should take around four days."

    Sir Roderic Jarl, the Marshal, would be leading the entourage to Safyre. Preparations seemed to have been over by the time Arinel and Meya arrived at the courtyard before the Keep. The burly warrior was standing with hands behind his back, briefing the group of castle officials, maids, manservants and yeomen assigned for the voyage on the itinerary.

    Support the author by searching for the original publication of this novel.

    Coris was standing with the other noblemen and women a little way behind Sir Jarl. He noticed Meya emerging from the open wooden door, but before he could do more than widen his eyes, Meya hastily dropped her gaze to her Hadrian Red dress. Arinel led her around the throng to the white gold-gilded carriage to the left, the same one they had left Crosset with.

    Meya felt as if years had gone by since she had first stepped down from its golden stairs and set eyes on the Keep in awe. She didn''t have much time for ruminating, however¡ªArinel was already holding the curtains aside. Hushed, frantic voices echoed from within.

    After another skeptical look at Arinel, who nodded solemnly, Meya ducked inside. Her foot snagged on some sort of fabric, and she pitched headfirst.

    "Agh¡ªWhoa!" She reared back and fell against Arinel, who had grabbed her by the sleeve. After taking a moment to regain their balance and catch their breaths, Meya extricated herself then looked down at what she had tripped over.

    Next to her foot, the tasseled corner of a woolen shawl trailed away on the carriage''s wood-paneled floor, then climbed up what looked to be a low plateau made up of multicolored shawls, headscarves, cloaks and blankets. The pile of clothes shivered like a wretched puppy in the rain, giving out muffled sniffles and sobs.

    Gretella (whom Meya had learned recently was Arinel''s grandmother as well as governess), was tending to it with one arm on its leveled summit and the other in mid-air, her plump finger covered in a smudge of white ointment.

    "Come now, lass. It''s just an ivy rash. A few dabs of this and you''ll be fine in a wink."

    She cooed and coaxed as she cautiously lowered her hand, at which point the innocuous pile of shawls produced an arm and a hand. It swatted Gretella''s hand away with such force the blob of cream on her finger landed with a splat on the carriage wall.

    "NOOOOOOOO!" The rag-bundle screeched, pale fingers scrabbling at its hidden face and parrying away Gretella''s advances. "DON''T TOUCH ME! DON''T LOOK AT ME! JUST GO! GO AWAY!"

    "Wh¡ª"

    Meya opened her mouth, but then she spotted the upturned wooden mask wobbling on the floor¡ªHaselle''s mask that normally covered half of her face from view. She fell, weak-kneed, onto the moldy-green seat with a flump.

    No. It can''t be. How could it be?

    "That''s¡ªHaselle?" Meya whispered to Arinel, eyes still glued to the piteous heap, "She¡ªshe''s Agnesia Graye?"

    There was a split-second of silence, which usually heralded a devastating fallout¡ª

    "NOOOOOOOOO!"

    Lady Agnesia of Graye issued a harrowing scream. Meya moved a moment too late to shut the windows. Agnes rounded on Arinel, one hand tugging shawls over her ruined face, the other swiping blindly at her traitorous friend.

    "WHY! WHY HAVE YOU TOLD HER? I TRUSTED YOU! WHY?"

    "Agnes, we know what happened to you. To Persephia." Arinel swooped down and grabbed Agnes''s trembling arms. Adding a few hard shakes of her own, she shouted over Agnes''s wails, obscured behind her numerous shawls, "It''s been six years, Agnie. It''s time we deal with this. What''s the use for putting it off?"

    Agnes registered none of that. She shook her head and bemoaned.

    "It''s all over. I''m hideous. Don''t look at me. Leave me alone. Just leave me alone."

    She slid from Arinel''s hands and ended up crumpled on the floor once more, clutching at her bundled head.

    Meya gazed down at the desolate remnants of her husband''s first love, too numbed by shock to feel anything else. With a sigh, Arinel stood up and drew back, making room for Gretella to move in and take a another turn at calming the poor thing.

    "It''s becoming clear, isn''t it?" She continued, her fists clenched. Meya glanced at her, and saw a fire blazing in those eyes like ice-chips.

    "Klythe had nothing to do with the fire that night. It was Persephia. She must have been struck by Lattis by accident, like you. That''s why she transformed and burned Agnes."

    "A fire broke out in Agnes''s rooms. Only Persephia was there. Surrounded by flames and naked, unconscious but unharmed. Not a single burn. Agnes was nowhere to be found, dead or alive. When Persephia came to, she couldn''t remember anything that had happened."

    Coris''s voice came back to Meya as if he was sitting right next to her. She saw his insinuating stare as if it were yesterday. So this was what he was trying to tell her. She was just buried too deep in denial to figure it out.

    "I''d bet Coris''s parents knew all along. They''ve always known Greeneyes are dragons." Arinel shook her head, then slumped down beside Meya on the cushions,

    "But they kept it quiet and left everyone to their assumptions. I daresay they were hoping to protect Greeneyes, even at the risk of a war with Graye. But the longer you keep Greeneyes ignorant of their true nature, the more they and the people around them will have to suffer like this!"

    Arinel gestured a frustrated hand towards Agnes''s huddled form. She''d turned to face Meya full, flaring sapphires boring into subdued, dull emeralds. Meya''s usually swift reflexes seemed to have been dipped in tar. She could only watch as Arinel plopped down before Agnes again, pleading and demanding,

    "Agnie, I''m sorry. It''s been six years. We have to tell them. We have to find Persephia. We have to help her. And I''ve got to get Klythe home before Father¡ª"

    Arinel broke off and hung her head, overcame by emotion. Shawls slid away as Agnes raised her head. An eye of mesmerizing ocean-blue shone from within its sunken socket on the tearstained right half of her face, which retained vestiges of her once-renowned beauty. Her left eye, meanwhile, was marred and blinded by the horrific burns that had also disfigured her left side, made worse by a smattering of angry pink hives.

    Yet, as Meya gazed into those eyes, she realized that never once had she ever felt pity for the scarred girl. Not when they first met. Not even now.

    Even with her strange mask on, one would notice the edges of Agnes''s burns seeping out from underneath it, and to picture the extent of them.

    Every morning, as Agnes deftly weaved her hair into elaborate braids, Meya had often wondered how she could still manage to keep living, had often admired how she could still find it in her to giggle at Meya''s horrible jokes, to sympathize with Meya''s insensitive griping about her glowing eyes.

    And hadn''t she always watched her own eyes shining in the mirror afterwards, then felt both ashamed and empowered? If Agnes could live with the burnt half of her face, then perhaps Meya could live with the dragon half of herself.

    Agnes had probably cried and screamed and lamented. And she was still crying and screaming and lamenting. Sometimes. Yet, she was still alive and living. Regardless of their differences, their opposite backgrounds, in the eyes of Latakia, they were now both ugly girls, trying to make their way in a world where girls were supposed to be beautiful first and foremost, and little else.

    Without thinking, without planning, without knowing the right words to comfort, Meya reached back towards her nape. Unclasping the necklace that held her Lattis medallion and leaving it on the seat, she slid down to her knees and edged towards Agnes.

    After a quick glance, Arinel moved aside to make way. Meya settled gingerly before her supposed rival. Agnes wordlessly studied Meya''s dragonlike eyes, then a melancholic smile formed on her lips.

    "Your eyes are just like Persie''s," She reached out and traced the corner of Meya''s eye with her finger.

    "Father would insist she keep her bracelet on at all times, but she''d always fling it off the moment it was just the two of us. Perhaps because I was the only one who''d never objected. Or rather, I''ve never said anything. At all."

    Meya frowned, but Agnes was still too deep in thought to notice. Her eyes downcast, she dragged her fingers absently on her burns.

    "So, I guess it was befitting punishment for Freda to have given me this scar."

    "Why? You haven''t done nothing bad. ''Tisn''t fair." Meya shook her head.

    "Well, that''s the thing, I''ve done nothing." Agnes looked up with a wan smile. And as Meya stared, nonplussed, her grin widened, "Nothing bad. And nothing good. As Father and Mother gave every opportunity to me and stripped everything away from Persephia. As Coris and his friends bullied and mocked Persephia behind my back. Simply because she was born with a difference. I stood by and did nothing. And said nothing. If I had a conscience, I ignored it, and told myself all was well."

    A lone drop of tear seeped out from Agnes''s right eye and rolled down her cheek¡ªthe tear ducts in her left eye had been scorched dry by Persephia''s rage. Still, it did nothing to dilute the guilt and shame overflowing from her trembling voice, as she confessed her most dastardly sin,

    "And to my sister. To you. To Greeneyes all over Latakia, that was probably just as bad."

 Agness Tale

    Lady Hadrian''s horse-drawn carriage was accompanied by supplies and luggage wagons, surrounded by yeomen on horseback, with a vanguard of mounted knights and squires paving the way.

    The entourage trundled past fields upon fields of withering wheat stalks. Disfigured and discolored unripe plums, apples and cherries littered both sides of the road, having fallen prematurely from their yellow-leafed mother trees on the levee.

    The early morning spring breeze eased by, and the wheat stirred feebly. The sight further alarmed the harried villeins. They rushed by the irrigation trenches, bobbing in and out of sight amid yellowish-green waves, as they sowed manure taken from the mule-drawn wheelbarrows behind them. Some were lugging carts overflowing with seaweed imported from the Southern Sea, slopping armfuls of slimy, frilly leaves onto bare soil, then spreading them out to form a mulch-mound.

    Meya peeked through the gap in her curtain at the nostalgic yet foreboding sight. Seven years ago, a week after she was punished at the town square, and mere weeks before the Crosset Famine hit at full force, she remembered trudging to the fields with lunch bundles for Dad and Maro, who were mulching the dying wheat.

    While Dad chomped on Mum''s smoked jerky, made from the remains of Meya''s piglet Tildy, and sandwiched between Morel''s homemade muffins, silent and brooding and ignoring Meya, Maro struggled to cheer up the disheartened Meya, who still bore whip scars on her arms and legs.

    It was a tough feat, considering Maro himself was just as flummoxed and fearful as any Crossetian then¡ªwhat little of the battered wheat that had survived the summer rain and autumn locusts were withering without reason.

    Seeing Meya''s indifferent gloom, he forced out a laugh and patted her head, as much to placate himself as her.

    "Don''t worry, we still have the storehouse grain."

    Of course, nobody had known back then that all that emergency grain had been magicked into the gold yarn lining Bailiff Johnsy''s robes, and the fat lining the inside of his engorged belly.

    There was a loud sniff from behind her. Meya turned around. Lady Agnesia had been calming down on the opposite seat, Arinel by her side with her hands on her shoulders. Gretella had taken up the seat beside Meya, lips pursed and looking careworn.

    At long last, Agnes seemed to be ready. She drew in a large gulp from the waterskin, then a deep breath, staring down at her fidgeting hands on her lap.

    "Father once said that daughters are a waste of resources unless they are beautiful." She began, her quiet voice and impeccable speech unwittingly reminding Meya of Coris. Especially as she hitched up a wan grin, "Imagine his chagrin when Freda cursed him with twin daughters and no son."

    Meya thought she must have imagined it, for it looked as if a crimson glint of savage, bitter glee had shot by in Agnes''s eyes.

    "Father promised the church that he would offer up all his daughters but his firstborn to their service. It is fortunate I''m the firstborn and Persie is second, as she''s a Greeneye. She isn''t fit for a profitable marriage. Father would have to offer up his estates and titles as her dowry, and even then, she might not attract an acceptable suitor."

    Agnes raised her left hand. With her right thumb and index, she circled her bare ring finger, as though imagining the band of precious stones that would someday enclose it.

    "I was to marry power, make Graye prosper. Persie was to take the vow at twelve. It''s always been that way."

    Despite their differences, Meya understood Agnes. For as long as she could remember, the four paths of the woman had been hammered onto her skull by fellow women of Crosset: marriage, spinsterhood, prostitution, nunhood.

    The last choice wasn''t always available for peasants, though. Rich merchants and noblemen often reserved slots in powerful monasteries for their crippled, unsightly, or Greeneye daughters.

    Whenever Meya walked to Friar Tumney''s church to donate Marin''s gifts or play with Fartmouth, oftentimes there would be a disappointed peasant man or woman walking away from it, a newborn baby girl in their arms.

    The old monk would stand guard at the gates, hands on hips, shaking his head, a melancholic look in his eyes when he spotted Meya. Crosset''s nunnery wasn''t a top destination for the rich to abandon their daughters. There were always vacancies, of course¡ªthe friar simply didn''t play along with these lazy parents if he could help it.

    "Old Mirram Hild has four daughters!" He''d holler after their backs, pointing at Meya, "And look what fine lasses he raised them up to be!"

    Meya didn''t consider herself good material for persuading reluctant parents of girls. Nevertheless, she agreed with his observations, and her respect for the potbellied old monk skyrocketed whenever this happened.

    "Six years ago, a few years after King Alden deposed the Wynns and ascended the throne, he called for a convening of the Royal Council to repeal the Mining Ban. And he was thwarted by Baron Hadrian."

    Jason''s voice floated into Meya''s conscious at the mention of Coris''s father.

    "King Alden''s been trying to lift the Ban since he became king, but the Anti-Miners on his Council have too much power¡ªthey say Baron Hadrian''s lobbying behind them."

    "Father was one of the few council members who voted in favor of lifting the Ban. Our demesne is abundant in iron. King Alden approached Father and struck a deal with him. He wanted The Axel, or at least information on what it is¡ªwhy it made the Hadrians so feared by the Wynn kings before him. If it satisfied him, he would let me marry the Prince."

    The Axel.

    Meya straightened up. Beside her, she felt Gretella tense up. Arinel stared unblinking at Agnes. The air was heavy and silent except for bated breaths.

    "After that, Father sent Persie and I to Hadrian to train under Baroness Sylvia. He suggested we befriend Coris and Zier. We assumed they were to be our future husbands. How foolish." Agnes spat, rebuking her naivety,

    "Father actually meant for us to spy on them. He gleaned information about them through our letters. Intimate secrets that couldn''t be picked up by scouts. He used us to determine which brother would be the easier pawn to turn."

    "Coris was actually Father''s first target¡ªbut then I told him about Coris''s secret. Coris confided in me that he felt his parents have never loved him, and he''d hoped to change that by dedicating himself to The Axel. Father probably realized then that Coris couldn''t be swayed, and decided on Zier instead."

    Agnes''s fists trembled. So did Meya''s. She felt sick to the stomach with disgust for the despicable Baron Graye. It was one thing for a grown woman to willingly spy for mercenaries in exchange for her own life. It was another for a little girl to be tricked by her own father into such a dangerous, twisted task, just for his political gain.

    "Before the Heist, Father warned us to stay in our rooms. Out of the way. And never to send word to him first, no matter what happened."

    "Once we heard what Coris did during the Heist, we knew then what Father had done. He didn''t allow us to send word, nor did he send men to smuggle us home. All we could do was wait, and watch Baron Hadrian, dreading what he might suspect."

    Stolen novel; please report.

    Shivers rattled Agnes''s voice, as she remembered the fear and uncertainty her father had abandoned her and her sister in. Meya was left to fathom, and failing to, the depths this man would go to further his gains. Agnes squeezed her hands together and huddled her shoulders, glancing up at the ceiling to force back tears.

    "A few days later, a letter arrived from Graye. It was Mother. She was gravely ill and she didn''t expect to pull through, so she''d meant to confess her sins. I didn''t know then, but she''d passed by the time the letter reached me. Whatever secret she wrote in there, now belongs to me alone."

    Agnes sniffed and dabbed at her eyes with the heel of her hand. Her sleeve slid down, and Meya noticed there were swathes of burn scars on her arm, too.

    The Lady took a long pause, gulping and taking short, quick breaths, and Meya realized she was battling the trauma of the memory that was drawing near.

    "Mother wrote that Persie was actually born before me. She silenced all the midwives and maids that had witnessed our births and deceived Father, just to save me from the nunnery. She begged me, once I''m married into the royal house, to use my influence to secure a husband for Persie, so she would be freed from nunhood."

    Agnes hid her face behind her injured hands, while Arinel hid her agape mouth behind hers. Old Gretella shook her head, cursing the Graye parents under her breath. Meya could only blink.

    "Persephia found that letter, dun''t she, milady?" She breathed. Agnes recoiled as if whipped. "''Twas why she burned you?"

    "I was careless." Agnes sobbed through her fingers, renewed tears trickling down her arms, "Or perhaps it might have been Freda''s intervention. Persie came in to our room and saw me reading the letter. She tried to take it from me. I pulled back. I wasn''t ready to let her know. I gashed her arm, and her Lattis bracelet, it¡ªit¡ª"

    The world around Meya fell deathly silent. The only voice she heard was Agnes''s, piercing through the maelstrom of shattered memories. The glint of moonlight on an iridescent arrowhead. Her scream. Pain like none other radiating from her arm. Boiling blood flooding out of her skin. Her whole body felt as if a white-hot furnace had exploded from inside her stomach and consumed her with its lava-like contents.

    "It was a nightmare." Agnes''s dead-looking eyes stared unseeing over her lowered fingertips, "Persie was screaming. Then she was roaring. It was like she''d been poisoned. There was a flash of white light. Then¡ªit happened so fast. Her bones elongated and her skull changed shape. Her skin stretched along with them, and metal oozed out of her pores then hardened into scales. She sprouted wings. Then she lashed about and shot fire at everything in sight."

    Agnes''s feverish description was nausea-inducing. Was that also what Coris and Draken had witnessed of her, back in that forest seven years ago? So that was what had happened, as she screamed and thrashed and vomited flames, too blinded by agony to register anything?

    Meya fearfully felt the skin on her arms and ran a trembling hand over the contours of her face, gritting her teeth and pressing her lips tight as if fearing fire would come out of it rather than half-digested food.

    "Then Sir Klythe came in. The Baron had ordered him to fetch me and Persie for questioning, and he was coming to warn us to escape. He tried to get me out, but then Persie turned around and¡ª"

    Agnes broke off, gaping eyes unblinking as she shuddered, recalling the stone-melting heat that had brushed past her. Her hand flew to the burnt half of her face. Arinel''s hand hovered over her forearm, ready to stop her at the smallest sign boding ill.

    "I don''t remember what happened after very well." Agnes clutched at her cheek, rounded fingernails digging into the parched, thickened skin.

    "Half my face felt like it was still on fire. Every night, Klythe had to take me out of town, so no-one would hear me screaming while the Healer scraped off the dead skin. It hurt so badly, I kept asking Klythe to stab me with his sword and get it over with. I hated Persie so much, then. I just can''t help it."

    Agnes began sobbing in earnest. She shook her head, flinging hot tears about her. Meya could only look as Arinel gathered the poor girl into her arms. She couldn''t help it. She hated herself, her kind, even when she knew she had no reason to.

    "Klythe didn''t let me get my hands on anything with an edge, or a reflection. Not even a spoon. He told me everything would be the same. That he''d always be my friend. But I was still so distraught. So he vowed to travel the whole of Latakia, never to return until he had found me a cure, to make me beautiful again. He trusted me with Arinel and left."

    "He loves you." Arinel muttered, bright blue eyes dimmed by sorrow. Agnes sobbed harder.

    "I know." She bent low as if mourning, "And I know now I''d rather he''d stayed. And it''s my fault he''s lost. I''m sorry, Ari. I''m so sorry."

    The two ladies fell onto each other, one silent and the other loud, both sobbing just as hard. As if sensing the waves of guilt rolling off Meya''s shoulders, Gretella rested her meaty hand on her head,

    "Sir Klythe sent us a letter every month. The last we heard from him was on Lady Arinel''s seventeenth birthday." From the tone of her voice, Meya felt she was just as fond of the young knight as her own granddaughter.

    "He said he''d got a place on an ore ship to Everglen. A group of historians were going to do research there, and they needed a rune scholar. He was hoping he might find a cure for Lady Agnes''s burns there. Maybe some alchemy scrolls for Lady Arinel, too. His ship left Easthaven Port, and it wasn''t seen since. It never returned from Everglen."

    Meya fell heavily against the cushions. She had discussed the sunken ships with Jason, Jezia and Deke, of course. She had worried about the lost ores, what it would mean for Latakia''s money system, and Myron''s blacksmithing prospects.

    She hadn''t shed a thought about the poor miners and merchants, dead or stranded alive on open seas, the hundreds of families seeking closure amid fainting hope. She had no idea that Arinel''s big brother would be among them.

    She thought of Maro, her big brother who had always stood up for her and watched out for her, and guilt and sympathy hit home as she studied Arinel, whose fists were clenched even as tears spilled from her eyes, now squeezed shut.

    "He''s still out there." She choked out, her voice harsh, "Ashes or alive, we have to bring him home to Father."

    Arinel sprang up and swept over to Meya. She grasped her hands and shook them, staring pleadingly into her glowing eyes,

    "Meya, if you transform, you might be able to cross the sea to Everglen." Meya''s eyes grew wide, but Arinel pressed on, breathy with desperation, "Even if Klythe didn''t make it, I''m sure there are miners who have swum to shore. You could save them. Like you saved Coris¡ªYou and Persephia, if we found her. Please!"

    Meya looked up at Arinel. Yet, instead of blue eyes, she saw light gray. For the first time in seven years, she saw the plump face of a young boy, whose handsome features look bloated yet remained undeniably familiar. Little Lord Coris frowned and shook his head. There was no disgust nor fear in his eyes. Only awe and confusion.

    "You saved me."  He whispered,"From your own people, no less. Why?"

    Meya felt herself shrugging, as she dragged a stray stick on the rugged terrain of the stone cave,

    "The famine ain''t your fault. Ain''t fair for Johnsy to drag you into our mess."

    The boy blinked, then glanced down at his swollen, three-tiered belly. When he resurfaced, he had on that melancholic, guilty expression she would come to know so well in the present-day Coris.

    "I know I shouldn''t be, seeing as Crosset would starve, but¡ª" He paused, surprised by his own newfound empathy, then bowed his head, "Thank you. That was very selfless. And brave of you."

    "If you could take me to the nearest manor, we could find a way to help Crosset through this. Even if we must ration our bread, we will feed Crosset."

    Coris''s eyes gleamed with determination, even as his willful voice faded along with the memory. Meya couldn''t recall the events that had led up to this exchange, nor the things she had felt that had spurred her to do the unthinkable. Yet, the fact remained that in becoming the monster she feared, she had saved her town. She had saved a boy''s life, and changed him for the better, and he would live to achieve so much, much more than if he were dead.

    There''s nothing wrong with being a dragon, Coris had said. And Meya was beginning to understand, to believe in those words. Hadn''t there been people¡ªmany people, who had not shied away at the sight of her glowing eyes?

    Hadn''t there been Draken and Deke? Jason and Jezia? Friar Tumney? Coris and Arinel? And Maro, Marin, Morel, Marcus, Myron and Mistral? And Mum, who had never begrudged her for her Song, and had hugged her farewell even as she burned her?

    And, as strict and cold as he was, hadn''t Dad never once thought of giving her away to the church, and had fed and clothed and housed her the best he could? Hadn''t he gone searching for her when she ran away during the Famine? Hadn''t he saved her from exile?

    And that was what had helped Meya to live on, just as Klythe and Arinel and Gretella had helped Agnes to live on with her burns. Those people that mattered. And she was sure it wouldn''t matter to them whether she was just a Greeneye or a dragon.

    We Shall Return.

    The runes on Dad''s old belt. Meya understood it now, in a new light. Seven generations¡ªor more¡ªof Greeneye blood, and none the wiser about it. Sooner or later, they''d have to return to where they started to forget everything.

    Enough lives, human and dragon, had been lost for nothing. Enough dragons had been hunted down, oppressed, exploited, enslaved, discriminated against in these three lands. Simply because the knowledge of how they came to be had been lost.

    And if there were the slightest hope to stop all that, she would cross that sea. She would help bring back those ore ships and those miners, dead and alive. She would find good Sir Klythe. She would fulfill her family''s vow to return, and solve the mystery behind it.

    You and Persephia, if we found her.

    Meya frowned uneasily at the notion that had been niggling at her for a while. She was sure Coris had known about it for some time, too.

    "About Persephia¡ª" She began, scratching her cheek as she smiled awkwardly at Lady Agnes, "I think we''ve already found her."

 Jerald and Erina

    Meya only discovered once she had duck outside that Jerald the Head Guard was the one sitting at the reins of Lady Arinel''s carriage. Thus solving the conundrum of why Arinel had revealed Lady Agnes to Meya with no fear of being overheard by Hadrian ears.

    Jerald heard everything that had been discussed in the carriage, of course. He shot Meya a knowing wink as she settled down beside him.

    "Out for some fresh air, little dragon?" He murmured out of the corner of his mouth¡ªCoris, Zier and the squires and yeomen are riding not far from them.

    Meya blinked, flabbergasted, then chided herself. Of course Arinel would have confided in Jerald after learning the truth from Draken and Coris. She hadn''t wasted time in telling Gretella and Lady Agnes, had she?

    Fyr, couldn''t a dragon have some secrets?

    "No. I''m looking for some ignorance and normalcy." She hissed back along with a dour glare. Jerald tilted his head, blissfully undaunted. Meya slumped back and crossed her arms grumpily, planting her feet against the curved wooden board that served to protect her crimson silk shoes from being sprayed by horse fart.

    "Unfortunately, of all the things the winds can blow away, memories aren''t among them."

    "Perhaps a good old thump on the head will do." Jerald suggested. Meya bit back a snort.

    "Well then, would you be so kind as to bestow one upon me, Sir Knight?"

    Jerald''s roar of laughter petered out as puffs of air through his nostrils instead.

    "I wouldn''t dare, but I daresay Madam Gretella would be more than willing to oblige."

    Meya shuddered. As Jerald chuckled in triumph, Meya studied his profile, his blue eyes and cropped tawny hair. She wondered if he had a daughter of his own. He probably did. He wasn''t young¡ªhe looked only a few years Dad''s junior.

    "Say, tell me about your family, Sir Jerald."

    The knight turned to Meya. Behind him, past a fence of yeomen, hillocks blanketed with patches of purple heather and tall grass topped with cotton-like tufts rolled away into the blue horizon. Jerald gave her a gentle smile.

    "You''ve already met them."

    Meya blinked, then frowned. Having anticipated her reaction, Jerald smiled wider. He turned back to the meandering dirt road ahead, which was partially obscured by Sir Jarl and his horse''s sleek, toned hindquarters.

    "My mother was Lord Crosset''s sister, Lady Arynea. She had me from an affair. She never confessed, so I never knew my father."

    Meya stared unblinking at him, enthralled.

    "To punish her and avoid a scandal, Lord Uncle had me sent to the church. I grew up under Friar Tumney''s care. When I was eighteen, the castle alchemist, Bishop Tyberne, came to gather herbs for his experiments. That''s when I met Erina, his assistant. She was already carrying Lady Arinel."

    Meya had thought her eyes couldn''t grow any wider already, but boy was she wrong. After a moment digesting the shocking revelation, she remembered what Zier had told her, that day outside the charity tent, and her face fell.

    "Lady Arinel''s mother¡ªShe died young, didn''t she? In the alchemy lab?" She asked timidly. Jerald obliged with a solemn nod.

    "Alchemy was her dream. Her happiness." He shook his head, his voice brimming with both awe and anguish, "Tyberne was a talented alchemist, a decent master. On the verge of a breakthrough. No matter what they say about a woman in a lab, I supported her. She was very passionate, though. She insisted on helping Tyberne out, even as her belly grew and grew."

    "Zier said they were working on a potion to make fruits ripe?" Meya asked. Jerald whipped around, eyes wide, then turned back to the road.

    This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

    "Fruits? Goodly Freda, no." A wry grin lit up his perpetually melancholic face, "Must''ve been a rumor they created to ward off competitors. Well, guess it dun matter anymore, dun it, Eri?"

    He raised his gaze to the Heights, beaming a sad smile to his late sweetheart, as a soft breeze trickled by.

    "It was a groundbreaking endeavor, you see. To create a sleeping draught strong enough for surgery."

    "Sir Jury?" Meya parroted. What had the jury got to do with this? Meya had had her share of trials in Lord Crosset''s court. Those jurymen didn''t look like they could do with a drop of sleeping draught. Not after a whole morning presiding over cases of cheating husbands and wives, elopers, child thieves, scuffles between Marin''s suitors, and farmers warring over ownership of fallen apples in their gardens.

    "Surgery," Jerald corrected, "When healers cut into your body to heal you from the inside."

    "You mean bloodletting?"

    "Oh, no. This goes way deeper than that."

    Jerald shot a wary glance at the surrounding yeomen, then leaned sideways, prompting Meya to follow suit. He continued out of the corner of his mouth, voice lowered,

    "It''s banned in Latakia (but I''ve heard Nostra''s been practicing it for centuries). Healers would slice open live bodies. Cut out tumors and even babies. Stitch flesh and veins and organs together like cloth. Ghastly stuff. Very dangerous with not enough expertise on the healer''s part. Not to mention the infection, and patients waking up in the middle of it all. But Erina and Tyberne believed in it."

    Jerald''s description conjured up horrifying, nauseous images in Meya''s mind eye. Imagine being jolted awake by pain like living death, only to sit up and see some deranged, blood-spattered healer levering your guts out of your bowels, coil by coil. She couldn''t see why Arinel''s mum would want to help advance such a gruesome branch of medicine. And why any egghead alchemist would be interested in stealing her work, either.

    Shuddering, Meya steered away,

    "D''you reckon one of their competitors stole their work, then set fire to the lab to kill them? Or, maybe some religious fanatics out for blood?"

    Jerald cocked his head.

    "I''ve pondered it. But one never knows." He shrugged, "After all, they were working with explosives and flammables. It would''ve been an easy getaway for arsonists."

    "Or a dragon?" Meya blurted out. Her theory took Jerald aback for a second, then he resurfaced with a chuckle.

    "Interesting. Erina and Tyberne are humans, though. Eyes brown as burnt sugar."

    Meya''s eyes widened, then she nodded and sighed heavily. Competitors or fanatics, then. Unless both of them hired dragons to do the job, of course. Fyr, the things she came up with.

    There was one puzzle left, though¡ªJerald himself. Pushing aside Erina''s mystery for further contemplation in private, Meya turned back to the head guard,

    "So, how did you come to be Lady Arinel''s guard?"

    "On her deathbed, Mother begged Lord Uncle to bring me back to the castle and train me as a knight." Jerald jostled the reins, more to expel the stiffness rather than out of actual need to stir the horses,

    "Lord Uncle was done being furious with Mother then, so he caved in. I was blessed with many happy months, working near Erina. We''d laugh over a mug of ale in the tavern after work. On weekends, we''d lay side by side on the sunny moor among the heather. She loved heather flowers, Erina. I''d whisper naughty things in her ears just to make her blush, and she''d pick a nearby crowberry and squash it on my cheek. Then we''d make love in the sunset. That was the most we could ever be."

    Jerald smiled, yet his eyes were distant and wistful. Meya laid her hand on his burly forearm, feeling sorry for the exiled squire and the young alchemist, and their doomed love. Kept apart by an old man''s selfishness.

    "I wasn''t in time to say farewell. To see her eyes for the last time, or hear her last words. I held her hand as the midwife took Lady Arinel out of her. She looked as if she were merely asleep. Not smiling. Not crying. Just serene. I consoled myself that she wasn''t in pain, at least."

    In Meya''s palm, Jerald''s arm trembled. And Meya felt her own eyes burning. She turned away and kneaded them with the heel of her free hand.

    "I cradled the Lady as she took her first breath, then I delivered her to my Lord Uncle. She looks exactly like Erina¡ªexcept for her eyes. She has the Crosset eyes. Like Lord Uncle. Like me. Yet, she''s inherited her mother''s spirit. I swore to protect her with my life. Though I didn''t exactly do a fine job of it."

    Jerald hung his head, his gaze downcast. Meya understood what he was referring to. She noticed the guilt and shame in those eyes, and she grasped his arm tight with both hands,

    "Gillian''s no roadside bandit. And our guards were barely trained. You did your best. You survived, and you were the bravest."

    Jerald shook his head, eyes still staring into the distance.

    "Nowhere near as brave as the five who have fallen, and you."

    His sorrowful blue eyes settled upon Meya, and for the first time, she noticed the familial resemblance between him and Arinel. If she hadn''t known, she would''ve thought he was her actual father.

    "You may not remember¡ªI was the knight who read out Lord Crosset''s punishment for you at the town square, the year of the Famine."

    Jerald muttered as he averted his eyes. As Meya froze and blinked in surprise, he bowed his head in contrition.

    "I have never confessed, how wrong the Crossets have been to you¡ªand how sorry¡ªand how thankful we are."

    Jerald held her gaze with those sincere, remorseful ice-blue eyes, and Meya couldn''t help but smile.

    It was but one tiny success, on the path of a thousand hurdles. Nevertheless, hope was stirring from its sleep, a bright green shoot poking its way out from under a thawing blanket of snow, sending ripples throughout the vast expanse of white nothingness.

 The Black City

    The entourage of Hadrian clip-clopped along the seemingly never-ending road, its passage heralded by the blare of a lone shawm, which might sound to a particularly imaginative ear like the melodic passing of bowel gas.

    In the loving hands of Lady Fione of Cristoria, the shawm swung its tail to the jolly rhythm of her song. To complete the image, the lady was also perched astride a brown horse tethered to a supplies wagon.

    All around, yeomen sneaked scandalized glances at the blissfully impervious Lady. At long last, Sir Christopher could stand the sight no more.

    "Fione, you know it''s improper for women to play the shawm and straddle a horse, don''t you?"

    The shawm''s song petered out mid-note. Fione whipped around to the stern young squire, comically wide eyes glazed with faked innocence.

    "Why so?"

    "You know perfectly well why!" Christopher snapped. Fione hitched up a seductive smile. Tilting her head, she ran her hand slowly down the length of her shawm. Despite himself, Christopher found his eyes glued to the titillating movement, and his pulse quickening.

    "Would you rather I blow on something else, then?" Fione''s night-blue eyes sparkled with stars, as her tongue slithered around the shawm''s double reed, "A bass shawm, perhaps? You know I love big shawms. The bigger the better."

    Christopher''s complexion deepened to the exact replica of Hadrian Red. Amidst the gawking yeomen, Simon hollered over a word of wisdom,

    "Leave it, Chris. You''ll never win."

    As Christopher slumped back in his saddle, massaging his temples in defeat, Fione''s shawm resumed blaring its triumphant march. Zier raised an eyebrow at Coris, who pointedly avoided his insinuating gaze and urged his horse away from his brother. Sir Jarl rode on at the far front, pretending not to have heard.

    Meya stifled a roar of laughter as she lowered her face to the journal¡ªCoris''s journal¡ªshe had been scribbling and doodling on, hoping to hide her burning cheeks. She loved shawms as well, though she doubt she''d ever be as outspoken about it as Fione.

    Meya''s eyes swept the surroundings as she tapped her quill on the parchment, seeking a way around the figurative fallen tree on her path. Her gut was sure it had found Agnes''s sister, but the nagging voice in her brain (which sounded very much like Coris) insisted she figure out a way to prove it first.

    The scenery remained pretty much the same. Hillocks low and high covered with heath. A silent fox emerged from behind boulders, eyeing a doomed red grouse, who was still pecking obliviously, croaking ow ow ow. Gray hares pranced and scampered between the numerous entrances to their warrens. Seas of deer legs moved in the shadows of the forest. Overhead, a peck of skylarks flapped by.

    Meya peered into the carriage behind her. Lady Agnes was sound asleep, her head on Gretella''s lap, exhausted from all that crying. Gretella was knitting and humming. Arinel was embroidering silver thread onto a blue handkerchief. She shone Meya a quick smile, then refocused on her pastime.

    Over in the next carriage, young Lord Frenix had a canvas propped up against the window, his tongue between his teeth as he sketched the landscape, with Lady Amara as his admiring patron. Behind them, Bishop Riddell sat with his head thrown back, snoring.

    Across from the alchemist, Lady Heloise''s hand reached out from the shadows, flipping the page of a novel. Her bracelet caught the beam of sunlight and gleamed rainbow.

    Nothing new here as well.

    Meya sighed and slumped back against the carriage. The dreary journey didn''t provide much inspiration, and Fione''s quirky shawm song wasn''t helping her concentration. Deciding to put it aside for now, she turned to the nearby Jerald.

    "Sir Bayne, you know Sir Klythe, right?"

    The head guard turned to her, eyebrows raised.

    "How old is he? What''s he like? Is he handsome?"

    Jerald cocked his head.

    "Should be around twenty now." He gave a slight smile, then offered, "I could draw him for you, if you''d take the reins for a bit."

    "Oh. Alright."

    Flummoxed, Meya exchanged her journal and quill for Jerald''s warm, sweaty reins. As she held the leather strip gingerly in her tense fingers, she watched as Jerald''s hand pranced gracefully about on the journal page.

    "Here you go."

    After about a minute, he handed the journal back to her. Meya gratefully surrendered the reins. She looked down at the sketch on the page, and her eyes nearly popped out their sockets.

    "What?" She gawked at the corpulent, smiling face of a bashful young man with fair, curly hair. "He''s fat?"

    "As fat as his heart. So don''t you go belittling him." Jerald scolded with an affectionate chuckle. Meya dipped a hasty little bow in apology. Turning back to the portrait, she marveled at the mastery and the speed with which it was drawn.

    "You draw so well. How come?"

    "I was a church boy." Jerald shrugged, grinning. "Must have copied a hundred books in my decade of service."

    "Ah." Meya nodded. A question popped unbidden into her head, then straight out of her mouth, "Say, who was fatter, Sir Klythe or young Lord Coris?"

    "Did mine ears deceive me, or did I hear the words fat and Coris in the same sentence?"

    A familiar voice chimed in from the left. Meya jolted and whirled around, and there he was¡ªpresent-day Coris Hadrian; twig thin and so pale he seemed to blend into the afternoon sunlight.

    At the sight of those twinkling silvery eyes, Meya blushed and turned sharply away,

    "Yes, you did." She called back, then muttered to herself in annoyance, "Nosy donghead."

    "Perfect, I''d say. Sir Klythe spent more time in Hadrian than Crosset. You''d do better to ask the Lord Hadrian." Jerald suggested. Meya turned to him, then to the staring Coris.

    "You want to know about Klythe?" Coris asked. Meya blinked, frozen at the realization.

    That''s right. Perhaps Coris could help me figure something out. He''s a prodigy, isn''t he?

    Meya eyed the parade of wagons and carriages surrounded by yeomen around her, then returned to Coris,

    "How fast can she go?" She nodded at his horse, which was pure black save for a dab of white on its forehead. Coris smirked.

    "Jetta? Fast enough to leave you untangling your hair ''til sundown." He boasted, "Why?"

    "We need some privacy."

    Enjoying the story? Show your support by reading it on the official site.

    Meya rose cautiously to her feet, hands clinging to the carriage. Coris and Jerald obligingly halted their horses. Grasping Coris''s outstretched hand, Meya slotted her foot firmly into the stirrup he had just vacated then crossed over.

    As Coris ushered Meya sideways onto her back, Jetta neighed and huffed, kicking her hooves, sending the young lady gasping and clinging to her rider; this was her first time on a horse.

    Coris secured Meya with an arm around her waist, then leaned down and smoothed the mare''s mane with his free hand, whispering reassurances to both his ladies.

    Just as Meya was loosening her grip on his tunic and getting comfortable, Coris sat back up, slapped his legs against the mare''s sides, and Jetta shot forth like a carcass from a trebuchet.

    "Eeeeeeeeeek!"

    Coris whooped as Meya shrieked her lungs out and threw her whole weight against him.

    "This is for calling me fat!" He yelled in her ear as the wind billowed past them.

    "I hope Freda gives your middle brother blisters on his bum cheeks!" Meya hissed through gritted teeth, as Coris slowed Jetta down to a trot; they were now riding far ahead, out of earshot of the entourage. Coris winced at the graphic blessing, then leaned down and whispered,

    "Ouch. I thought you like kissing him? Ow!"

    Meya rubbed her smarting knuckles, which had just made solid contact with Coris''s shoulder. A swathe of black streaked by the corner of her eye, and she whirled around, ignoring her pervert husband''s fake whimpers.

    They were approaching the summit of the uphill road. The shrubbery on both sides of the sloping path gave way to a sea of queer trees with flat canopies like overturned plates.

    The forest blanketed the hills, leading up to a town encircled by a steaming moat and midnight-black stone walls, adorned with similarly black banners and flags.

    Beyond the town, a vast expanse of bald, bluish-gray dunes and valleys sprawled towards the shadows of a mountain range, whose summits were lost in lakes of gray-bellied clouds.

    Those, Meya reckoned, would have to be the fabled desert at the heart of Hythe; the Sands of Caesonai, and the Blue Mountains.

    Coris halted Jetta at the crest of the hill, as Meya strained in her saddle to see past the horse''s head. The relentless black of the town''s walls was an ominous signal.

    "That''s Manor Jaise?" She eked out an anxious whisper.

    "Hm-hmm." Coris confirmed, a smile laced into his voice. He didn''t seem at all alarmed. Meya stared unblinking at the eerie black flags, and the faint shroud of white smoke, growing ever more restless as the seconds tick by.

    "Did their lord die? Have they been sacked? Why are the walls all black? What''s with all that smoke coming from the moat? ''Tis been set ablaze, it has!"

    Coris rocked with suppressed laughter, then leaned down and nuzzled his nose into her cheek. Meya gasped and jolted. She felt her whole face flush. Yet, despite herself, she was privately flattered.

    "Everything''s fine, Meya." Coris chuckled. He jostled the reins, stirring Jetta to resume her trot,

    "Jaise means black in ancient Latakian. It''s their color. As for the fumes, Jaise''s famous for their hot springs. And last I heard, Lady Winterwen is very much alive."

    Meya blinked at the sound of that quaint name, and also the fact that a Lady, not Lord, held power in this town.

    "Winterwen?" She repeated. Coris''s arms tightened ever slightly around her.

    "It means Winter''s joy."

    "Why, that''s one name to kill for."

    "So is yours."

    Meya bit her lip and dipped her head. She could sense the wariness lurking in that tender voice, and as she recalled their exchange in the morning, she still wasn''t sure how to act around Coris, after all the hurtful things she had said to him.

    It wasn''t that she was still angry with him, but with all the things that had transpired, she just didn''t know where to start.

    Desperate for a distraction, Meya glanced around. They had almost reached the forest of flat-topped trees. And now that they were approaching, Meya realized it wasn''t a forest, but rather, an orchard; the trees were planted in neat rows, flanked by fuming irrigation trenches.

    Dozens of farmers were scattered among the rows. They stood on tiptoes, reaching into the branches, plucking out bright orange, oddly-shaped blobs and squiggles that seemed to have blossomed right out of the bark, dropping handfuls of them into wicker baskets propped on their waists.

    The farmers themselves were just as curious. Draped in black cloaks from head to toe. Faces covered in glossy black masks that had holes for only the nostrils, and a grille over the mouths. The sleeves of their tunics, the trousers of their pants and their boots were also black.

    Some of them had decorated their veils with colorful beads and embroidery, and their masks with artistic dabs of bright paint, but some left their black unadulterated.

    "What are they picking? What are these trees?" Meya asked out of the corner of her mouth.

    "Gum trees." Coris whispered back, "They grow only in Jaise, and it''s said they keep the Sands from creeping further. Jaise gum are exported all over Latakia. It''s a staple in many industries."

    "And why are they all dressed like that? Do we have to dress like that, too?" Meya lowered her voice even further. The sight of these eerie, eyeless masked men and women seemed to have sapped the air around her of heat, and she shivered in her cloak.

    "Once we enter the wall, yes." Coris clasped her hand in his, holding the reins between them, as he prattled on airily,

    "The creed of Jaise is that the world''s problems are caused by the judgment of outside appearance. Having two eyes, humans couldn''t help but be beguiled by physical beauty."

    "So, by covering their bodies in a shapeless veil, and hiding their faces behind a mask, Jaisians rid themselves of vanity or shame towards their own bodies, and judge other people only from their words and actions. Marriages are based on mutual attraction of the heart. A most honest and equal town, in their words."

    "But, once they lay together, they''d have to take off their masks, anyway, wouldn''t they?" Meya pointed out.

    "Ideally, by then they would have already been in love with each other. And, as they have never seen another face outside of their own before, they couldn''t grasp the concept of beauty."

    "Would it really work that way, though? The comparison would begin the moment they see a second face, anyway. First their wives, then their newborn babes."

    "Exactly. There''s also the theory that perception of beauty lies in our instincts. It couldn''t be subdued unless one were blind from birth." Coris added, then steered away, his voice now lifeless,

    "Still, a perfect town for Greeneyes to blend in, I''d say. Your mind is made, I take it?"

    Meya froze. It took her a moment to grasp his hint. She turned around to find Coris downcast, slumped in his saddle, hands on his thighs, fingers loosely curled around the reins. Her chest tightened. It pained her to see him so blue, it always did. She reached for his hand and warmed it in hers.

    "I''m sorry. About this morning. And last night." She mumbled. Coris remained silent. "I didnae mean what I said. I didnae mean to leave¡ªyou."

    She confessed, the word a mere whisper on the cool breeze. Coris didn''t respond with words, yet she could feel his chest against her back, all tensed up, his pulse drumming.

    She looked up to meet those wavering silvery eyes. Before she knew it, Coris was leaning down, and she was closing her eyes. As the mare trotted on, as countless strangers looked on, Meya laid back and held Coris close, pressing her lips up against his as hard as he was pressing down. Mingled, salty tears trickled into the mix. Meya drew apart only slightly to take a breath,

    "I''m fine now. I''m back." She murmured, shaking hands tucking strands of dark brown hair behind his ear.

    "I''ve done nothing for you." Coris breathed, his voice trembling with guilt. Meya shook her head, rubbing her forehead against his.

    "Dun say that. You know you have."

    For a moment, they simply held each other. Gradually, their good senses returned. Coris straightened up, pulling Meya upright with him. He glanced nervously at both sides of the road, and Meya felt her cheeks heating up as well.

    "You got over it so fast." Coris''s voice sounded overly hearty. Meya nodded vigorously, both agreeing not to discuss what they had just done. "I was asking Zier about having Frenix talk to you. You know, as a fellow Greeneye."

    "You meant to tell Frenix?" Meya gawked. Coris cocked his head.

    "And Heloise, too. We''ve got to let all Greeneyes know anyway, haven''t we? It''s just a matter of time."

    Heloise.

    Oh, Freda.

    Meya looked away, churning her lips as she dithered. She needed his help to form a plan. But before that, she must tell him about Lady Agnes. But where should she start? How did one even start telling one''s husband his long-lost first love was still alive? And why would one even want to?

    Tis no time for jealousy, Meya. You''re a big dragon girl. Trust in Coris. He''s with you now.

    Meya leaned her head against Coris''s chest, letting the steady rhythm of his heartbeat against her cheek calm her fraying nerves. As she busied herself picturing the various ways she could go about telling him, and his reactions, Coris nudged his arm softly against hers.

    "So, what happened? How did you come to accept it so fast?"

    "Just had a talk with Lady Arinel, is all." Meya tried to keep it short.

    "What talk?" Coris wasn''t easily placated.

    Meya finally surrendered with a disgruntled puff of breath. Deciding she should just wing it, come what may, she turned to meet Coris''s impatient gaze.

    "You really want to know?"

    Coris raised his eyebrows, wary, then dipped a few cautious nods. Shaking her head in resignation, Meya drew in a deep breath, hoped for the best, braced for the worst, then let loose,

    "Agnesia Graye''s alive. Both she and Persephia are hiding in our entourage. Klythe''s lost at sea on the way to Everglen, and we must find him."

    Silence fell, interspersed by the sound of Jetta''s hooves and snippets of harvest songs from the gum farmers. Meya held her breath, forcing herself to maintain eye contact, even as her eyes were beginning to water.

    Coris sat petrified save for his blinking eyes. Then, his eyes rolled up in their sockets, and he toppled backwards in his saddle like a sack of potatoes.

    "Coris!"

    <hr>

    Author''s Note:

    A little pronunciation guide;

    "Jaise" is derived from the French "le jais"  which means "Jet (stone)" and is pronounced /jay/

 Sharper When Broken

    Coris awakened to find himself sprawled across Meya''s lap, a bottle of salmiac hovering at his nose, and three women keeping an unblinking vigil from the opposite bench. His roaming eyes settled upon Agnes, and he picked himself upright. Meya took it as her cue to slither away, but before she had even edged an inch to the door, Coris rested a gentle hand on her shoulder.

    "Do stay, Meya. Please."

    Meya gawked at him. The look in Coris''s eyes was as much a plea as a command. Meya settled back down in her corner, sulking in private, sneaking glances as Coris struck up nervous conversation with Lady Agnes.

    Despite her fears, Coris and Agnes were businesslike throughout their exchange. Agnes started off recapping her tale, apologized to Coris for her father''s sabotage of Hadrian, then plunged straight into the pressing matter of finding Persephia and Klythe. That was where she handed the baton to Meya. Much to her bashfulness, Meya laid out her half-formed plans to uncover the lost Graye twin.

    Her ramble over, Meya held her breath and clenched her hands, shooting shifty glances at the surrounding nobility. She took it as a bolstering sign that they''d let her finish, at least.

    Arinel nodded slowly, her elbow propped on her knee as she pinched her chin in contemplation. Agnes frowned and bit her lip, naturally conflicted. Her sister was the one being lured into their trap, after all.

    Coris twiddled with the salt vial with his long, pale fingers. He nodded to himself then surfaced with a smile.

    "You should be more confident, Meya. It''s a good plan." He straightened up and pocketed the salt vial, glancing at each of the four women,

    "Let''s go over the details tonight. I''ll find a way to keep our target occupied. I have an audience with Lady Jaise tomorrow morning once we entered the town. You all go take a tour of the town, then come to the castle for dinner."

    "Can''t I go with you?" Meya bargained. She hated being excluded. She''d had sixteen years of that, being underage, a girl, a peasant and a Greeneye and all. Coris blinked, then gave her a reassuring smile.

    "You''d better go walk around. It''s a valuable experience." He laid a placating hand over hers, but his eyes betrayed a glimpse of worry. Meya narrowed her eyes.

    "More valuable than what you''re gunna discuss with Lady Jaise?" Coris grimaced as Meya loomed over him. "What''s the matter, Coris? Why can''t I join you?"

    "Because you''re not the real Arinel, Meya."

    Agnes replied. Meya spun around. She fixed Meya with her single working eye, a note of dread and awe in her voice,

    "The Jaisians grow up not seeing other people''s faces. So, they''ve come to recognize people by their voices. No matter how hard we try, lies leak out through our face, body language and voice. And Jaisians are good at hearing them. Especially Lady Winterwen. One word from you, and she''d know."

    Meya shivered. It was a mental pickle, alright. She wanted to be in that meeting, but there was no telling what would ensue should her cover ever be blown. Again.

    "But what if the Lady invites Meya for dinner, my lady?" Gretella pointed out, "After all, it would be against etiquette to not extend the wife of a guest an invitation to dine. Since she''s a woman ruler herself."

    Coris frowned at the wooden floorboards, then gave a soft sigh.

    "We might have to switch back to the real Arinel for the time being¡ªBut let''s leave the worrying for when that happens." He added hastily at the horrified reactions of Real- and Fake-Arinel, squeezing Meya''s sweaty hand.

    Meya met Coris''s eyes and studied his careworn expression. She''d never seen him in such a dilemma. Though it galled her to have to stand down while others get to do all the important work, again, it might be best not to push her luck with Lady Jaise.

    Sighing, she slithered her hand out from under Coris''s and clasped hers over his instead. Clinging to the windowsill with her free hand, she poked her head out the window.

    Now that they were near, Meya noticed the towering black wall wasn''t painted, but tiled with polished stone mosaics, from the lightest shade of gray to the deepest of black, arranged into mesmerizing geometric patterns. As breathtaking as it was unscalable.

    A line of sculpted-stone crow heads jutted out along the wall''s skirt, steaming water pouring from their open beaks into the churning moat below amid a billowing curtain of vapor. The faint smell of rotten eggs hung in the air. Gum trees blanketed both sides of the road.

    "What''re you discussing with Lady Jaise, anyway?" Meya turned back to Coris with a frown, "Why exactly are we stopping here? Dun seem to be much to refill here in terms of provisions. Apart from gum and water."

    Coris stared at his hand, fondling Meya''s fingers. He hadn''t meant to confide in them.

    "There''s something wrong with the soil in the West." He sighed, "Almost all nutrients have gone. Crops are withering all the way from Amplevale to Noxx. I''ll negotiate with Winterwen to sell us water from Jaise''s springs to enrich the soil, buy us more time to figure out the cause. The springs came all the way from down in Fyr''s Lake, so they''re chock full of nutrients."

    "Nutrients which used to make up the bodies of hundreds of thousands of drowned sinners. What a refreshing notion. I can already see those crops becoming rejuvenated," said Meya drily. Coris burst out a short laugh as he mussed up her hair,

    "There goes the blasphemous dragon lady."

    Giggling, Meya swatted his hand off. Agnes, Arinel and Gretella met eyes, smiling, and allowed the couple a moment of levity.

    "I did notice trees and plants growing feeble along the way, but crops are doing fine here." Arinel commented.

    "I''ve noticed, too. And I''ve seen this before." Meya pitched in, a foreboding shadow over her downcast eyes. As Coris blinked at her, she lifted his hand off her head and plopped it on her lap, playing with his fingers.

    "Right before the Crosset Famine, crops and trees and grass were growing yellow and feeble. Cattle and sheep and goat were running dry. And chicken and ducks stopped laying. Fruits and flowers were dropping like rain. We mulched and mulched the fields, but we couldn''t save the harvest."

    Coris gaped at her, his eyes unblinking. Gretella shivered as she turned to him fearfully,

    "Will Hadrian pull through this, my lord?"

    Her voice betrayed a deep-seated fear. Though she hadn''t witnessed the Crosset Famine, she''d probably survived some other famine¡ªor worse, famines¡ªin her youth. Coris started out of his trance and met her gaze. He looked paler than usual.

    "The bailiff''s doing all he could, but I doubt we''d be able to save this harvest." He shook his head with a sigh. "But we still have the storehouse grain. And we caught wind of this early on. Father could order a food ration, switch to hardy crops like potatoes and turnips."

    "What about the livestock? They won''t have grass to graze on, and hay doesn''t keep for that long." Agnes asked. Coris nodded, a slow, heavy nod.

    "We might have to slaughter them early, preserve their meat and fat." He fell against the cushions and closed his eyes, "And we might have to allow some hog and deer hunting in the Lord''s Forest."

    "Deer? But¡ªthey''re your family''s symbol!" Meya sputtered. Coris bowed his head. Arinel let out a long, mournful sigh.

    "Zier would be heartbroken. He loves deer."

    It wasn''t just Zier. Meya felt it as profoundly as the others. Every noble clan and its people had their symbol animal. The prospect of Hadrian driven to butchering their own deer for food was as spine-chilling as the sight of Crosset''s Snow Gyrfalcon torn to blood-soaked pieces by a Dark Eagle.

    Meya''s hands shook as she recalled the famine she''d survived. She squeezed Coris''s hand, and he reciprocated. Like wagons of May Fest tourists, misfortune continued rolling in towards Meya and whatever neighborhood she''d set foot into, one after another.

    Though she tried her level best to deny and debunk it, for once, Meya couldn''t help thinking it might have been down to her rotten Greeneye luck.

    <hr>

    Morning light glanced off the gleaming black mosaic of Jaise''s wall. The heavy drawbridge straddling Jaise''s steaming moat buckled and groaned as wagon after wagon paraded across it in opposite directions behind weary horses. In perfect contrast to how the human digestive tract operates, visitors in the arrivals lane were processed much slower than the departures.

    A line of masked guardsmen armored in black fortified the gaping entrance the drawbridge left in its wake. When Sir Jarl approached on his handsome white mare, two guards standing on either side of the gate tilted their pikes to bar his entry. They took note of the crimson banners, the adornments on the carriages and steeds.

    This story has been taken without authorization. Report any sightings.

    "Be this the entourage of Lord and Lady Hadrian?" The guard on the left drawled, his voice filtered through the metal grille over his mouth.

    "Aye." Sir Jarl produced a scroll from his cloak and handed it to the guard. The masked man broke the seal, unfurled it, then nodded to his comrade to the right, who turned to Sir Jarl.

    "Her Grace has received Baron Hadrian''s letter. She is pleased to welcome you to our humble town." All the guards bowed and straightened in perfect unison, then the one on the right continued,

    "We understand it can be a hassle for those unfamiliar with our culture, but while in the open within the Black Walls, visitors are required to wear the Jaise mask. How many are in your entourage?"

    The guard craned his neck as if to peer into the curtained windows and sniff out stowaways. Sir Jarl presented them a second, much thicker scroll, containing names of everyone from Lord Hadrian to the youngest yeoman.

    After a minute of frantic counting, rushing in and out, barking orders back and forth, dozens of black drawstring pouches were levered out and dispensed to the visiting party.

    Jerald reached towards a guard tottering behind a staggering pile of pouches, relieved him of six, distributed it to his passengers, then settled down with his own pouch and opened it.

    Meya dipped her hand into her pouch. Her fingers brushed the cool, smooth curve of the mask, then a handful of mysterious vials rolling around the bottom.

    She pulled out the mask, then tipped the bag upside-down. Squatty, cork-stoppered glass vials filled with red, yellow, blue, green and white dye tumbled into her lap, all equipped with little stone wands for painting.

    The gum farmers had decorated their masks with paint and beads. Meya gulped sticky spit down her parched throat.

    Fyr, where is Myron when I need him?

    Hoping for help or a fellow soul who lacked artistic talent, Meya sneaked glances at the others. Arinel sucked on the end of her stone wand, dithering. Lady Agnes had ditched her old wooden half-mask and donned the shiny Jaise mask. Mirror in one hand, she deftly dabbed paint on the mask (as one would cosmetics).

    Gretella hadn''t bothered decorating her mask, grumbling as she warred with the leather cord tangled in the loose hair from her bun.

    Coris bent low over his mask, his tongue sticking out, tracing red curlicues on the edges. Sensing Meya''s scrutiny, he glanced her way with a smirk, then returned to his art.

    Cursing under her breath for a drop of spit to drop from his tongue and ruin his work, Meya turned to Jerald. He''d returned to the reins, navigating the meandering, booby-trapped tunnel leading away from the main gate (Meya could''ve sworn she saw murder-holes in the ceiling).

    "Sir Bayne, can you help me with this later?"

    Meya hollered, waving her mask. Jerald turned around, mask on. Meya shrank back, unnerved by the glassy, black, empty eye sockets staring back at her. Behind the metal grille, Jerald''s lips curled into a smile, and he nodded. Despite the lack of eye holes, he seemed to be seeing plainly.

    Intrigued, Meya held her mask to her face. What seemed to be impenetrable black glass from the outside was clear as the windowpanes back in Hadrian Castle on the inside.

    "Goodly Freda! ''Tis bright as day in here!"

    "The masks are specially made." Coris chimed in airily. Meya turned around to find him putting finishing touches on his mask in green paint. They had breached the torchlit tunnel onto the green lawn between the two walls, and daylight had streamed back in.

    "The glass is transparent on one side, opaque on the other. A strategic function for windows, come to think of it."

    After dotting one last green spot, Coris picked up his white quill and spelled out his name on the forehead. Meya decided to follow suit. She''d just finished inking the first squiggly line of the M with trembling hands when the carriage trundled through the inner gate into the town itself.

    Curiosity overwhelmed her. Meya slid on the mask and poked her head out the window.

    Her jaw dropped. She''d expected a town draped in the color of midnight, but the scenery was vibrant and eye-watering as if she had stepped into a town where May Fest never ended. Flat-roofed houses on both sides of the road were blanketed with the same mosaics and dizzying kaleidoscopic patterns, but with all colors of the rainbow.

    The sandstone-paved road was decorated with mosaic art, arranged into sentient suns, moons and stars. Narrow canals run parallel to the road, coursing with spring water. Pipes branched out into dwellings and shops. Hot water flowed in along with excited tourists, while sewage pipes slithered out and slipped underground unnoticed.

    Despite the bright colors and life, some doors carried white banners sporting a triangle colored in black paint¡ªthe Latakian symbol of death, its colors inverted, names and deathdays calligraphed underneath.

    Meya retreated inside and hissed at her personal Latakian encyclopedia,

    "Psst. Lexi?"

    "Hmm?" Coris looked up from his mask with a raised eyebrow. Meya scooted close, cupping her hand over her mouth as she whispered at his ear.

    "Did some plague sweep through here or summat? Look at them death banners."

    "Oh. Those." Coris grinned as he leaned back against the cushions, "Those aren''t the actual dead. That''s why the colors are inverted."

    "Eh?" Meya spared a second glance outside the window, just as another white banner sailed by, "Then why in the three lands¡ª"

    Chuckling, Coris looped his arm around her shoulder.

    "Jaisians believe it''s important to always be aware of death. Every baby would be given a coffin at birth, straight from the Lord or Lady Jaise. Whenever you feel like it, you can put up your name and preferred deathday on the bulletin."

    "On your designated deathday, as you lie in your coffin, people would come to pay respects. They''d deliver eulogies, speaking honestly of your good and bad deeds, thanks and grievances, but the worst punishment ¡ª"

    Coris unfurled his crafty grin, then leaned in and whispered in her ear,

    "¡ªis having no-one at all visit you."

    Meya blew out a sigh of awe. She turned and marveled at the dazzling, rowdy town once more.

    "By Freda, I''m loving this town already." Coris laughed in agreement.

    "If you love it now, wait ''til you see their bathhouses."

    Tourists disappeared into sandstone houses perfectly dry and energetic, and filed out with hair slicked back and shining wet, drowsy grins peeking from behind grilles, damp towels on their shoulders.

    Meya glanced down at her chest. She felt her cheeks flush. She couldn''t afford a dip in the bathhouse back in Crosset, so she''d taken her baths in the river. Even then, she avoided the other girls as much as possible, and vice versa.

    If her glowing eyes didn''t become a subject of disgust and fear, her precocious breasts would be one for endless ridicule, gossip and scandalized looks. According to the elders, the size of one''s pillows reflected the looseness of one''s character. Considering the circumstances in which she lost her virginity, for once, they may be right.

    Her shoulders hunched, Meya folded in on herself. Coris blinked in alarm. Before he could investigate, the carriage jerked to a stop.

    Jolted from her reverie, Meya scrambled for the window and poked her head out again. Wagons and carriages led away before them in single file towards a sandstone plaza. At the heart of the jammed roundabout stood a gigantic fountain blanketed in black mosaic and shrouded in vapor. A pillar of stone arced over the water zenith like a rainbow, bearing Jaise''s motto carved in large, bold letters:

    Sharper When Broken

    Tourists poured out of wagons and made their way to the fountain. Some carried jars, brass goblets, ale mugs and repurposed wine bottles. Some even toted barrels.

    Jerald craned his neck to see if he could edge in a bit further, then sighed and turned to Coris,

    "The women can get down here and walk around. We''ll come pick you up for dinner in the castle later."

    Gretella and the girls gathered their belongings. Coris followed suit, snatching his cloak and gold.

    "I''ll escort them awhile." He sprang up, looped the drawstring of his moneybag around his belt and slipped on his mask. He ducked outside and jumped down first, then helped Jerald ease the women down. Meya, then Agnes, Arinel and Gretella.

    Arinel''s mask was adorned with drawings of flowers and herbs. Agnes had inked a stunning outline of a white peacock. His elaborate tail cascaded down her left cheek.

    Though Coris hadn''t commented, Meya''s face was roasting beneath her mask. She turned pointedly away, picked up the hems of her dress and stalked off, all too well aware of the lonely, ugly "I" (unfinished M) smack in the middle of her forehead.

    By the time Coris caught up with her, Meya found herself skidding to a halt before one of the dozens of roadside stands, hosted by a woman with saggy breasts and a curved back. Her parched lips creaked into a welcoming smile framed with wrinkles behind the grille. Her white, uneven teeth gleamed like the faceted, jet-black stilettos and ornamental spearheads on the threadbare rug. Her glass mask shone like the rows of glazed pottery also available for sale.

    Her pottery was unlike any Meya had ever seen. They looked like broken shards of clay glued together by gold, silver and copper. She knelt down and picked one of them, turning it round and round in her hand. Shining on the inner rim of the bowl was Jaise''s motto in gold.

    Coris knelt down beside her.

    "Sharper When Broken." Meya muttered. She set the bowl down and surveyed the rest of the goods on display, "Makes me think of glass."

    Coris picked up a miniature spearhead on a leather cord, pressing its tip against his finger.

    "Jaise''s most lucrative export is the volcano glass blade. Favored by assassins and healers alike. Obsidian reveals its deadliest edge only when broken. Sharper and thinner than the finest steel. Hence the motto."

    "Can the same be said of people, though?" Meya challenged. Coris pursed his lips, then cocked his head.

    "Well, as the saying goes¡ªThat which does not kill one makes one stronger."

    "That poison didnae make you stronger." Meya pointed out.

    "Not physically¡ªmentally." Coris chuckled wearily. Meya giggled.

    "I know! I was pulling your leg. Still, why d''you want people to break you? Each time glass breaks, it loses a part of itself, and it gets smaller, and sharper, danger-er to anyone who handles it. And if you try putting it back together, it just falls apart."

    Coris cocked his head in thought, then turned away to explore the array of merchandise. His roaming hand settled on a leaf-green cup littered with golden cracks. He handed it to Meya.

    "Once, there was a Safyrian artisan named Jayri. She was famous for repairing broken pottery with precious metals. Her philosophy is what was broken could become whole again. Their scars are what makes each of them unique."

    Meya looked up from the cracked cup, intrigued. Coris''s smile widened.

    "The lucky few are born into, and prefer to lead sheltered lives. They remain forever whole and unscathed. The unfortunate is born on the mouth of hell. The adventurous seek out the steepest cliffs. Many would fall and shatter. Only the remarkable few would pick up their pieces and rebuild it into a unique work of art."

    As Meya pondered it, Coris turned to ask the vendor for the price. He produced a silver coin from his pouch, handed it to the old lady, then clasped his hand over the green-and-gold cup and Meya''s slack fingers. As Meya gawked, he helped her to her feet.

    "Go take a few drinks. You''re a dragon, you need your nutrients." He nodded towards the towering, steaming fountain, a gentle hand on her arm,

    "As far as I remember, there''s no Lattis in these waters. The signs list out all the minerals. Still, I''d say pass your coin over your bowl once, for your health."

    Meya tilted her head back, following the jet of water to the fountain''s crest. Coris''s icy hand slipped away. She whirled around, but Coris was already a few steps away.

    "You''re leaving already?" She called as her heart jolted in panic, suddenly so lonesome and crestfallen it surprised her. Since when had she become this attached to him, let alone anyone? Coris''s lips unfurled into his signature gentle smile.

    "I''ve been here before. You go have fun. See you at dinner."

    He spun around and strode back towards their carriage. Meya stared after his back until the last fluttering sliver of his crimson cloak vanished into the doorway, fingering the icy surface of the cracked cup. It hadn''t warmed to the touch of his bloodless hands.

 Relapse

    The fountain''s bell-jar-shaped water curtain cascaded into the rippling pool below, its deafening roar backdropped by the hum of the crowd, interspersed by the whimsical plonks of bowls, mugs and buckets plunging through the water, as masked tourists jostled for a gulp or more of the blessed water.

    As the heat from her brimming cup warmed her chilly fingers, Meya''s burnished reflection gazed back at her from the copper sign mounted on a ramrod-thin pole. Line upon line of black text rolled across her forehead and cheeks. Alchemy-ish names in block letters preceded advertisements of their healing properties, which ranged from promoting smoother skin and blood circulation to curtailing foot odor.

    As reading practice, and for extra caution, Meya read the whole passage through twice. There was no mention of Lattis as one of the beneficial minerals in the water. Regardless, she should pass her coin over her cup, as Coris had advised. Just in case there were traces of Lattis lurking unnoticed that could be siphoned out.

    Then again, how much difference would it make, though? If Lattis were everywhere in Latakia, then Meya had lived seventeen years eating, drinking, wearing, breathing invisible Lattis particles. If Lattis were poison, as Gillian put it, how many years had already been docked off her dragon lifespan?

    Meya''s lips were parching up fast. She licked and chewed on the flaking skin as she scrutinized the drink in her cup. It appeared innocuous, but she was hesitant to take a sip. Come to think of it, these daily intake of trace amounts of Lattis might be the reason Greeneyes lived about as long as normal humans, despite not being made of the same stuff.

    So this was why dragons from Everglen struggled to cross into Nostra. Even before being unearthed and refined into weapons, Lattis could still harm Greeneyes. Meya felt as if it was Freda''s signal to them, that they don''t belong in this land.

    A wave of lonesome, bone-chilling cold rushed up Meya''s arm from her fingertips, even as the cup remained warm. Still, she couldn''t repress the defiant little voice in her head, its whispered plea glancing off the uncaring, rigid back of the goddess.

    But I was born on this land.

    "If we find that dowry, then we could be anywhere you want to be. Latakia. Nostra. Everglen. Take your pick."

    Gillian''s voice echoed, unbidden. Meya nodded slowly to herself. So, this must be why Gillian came after The Axel. He must have been tired of dragons being confined to Nostra and under the emperor''s service, or withering away in Latakia, sapped of life day by day by unseen demons.

    But what in the three lands could something so tiny it could fit in young Zier''s gullet do to a Latakia-sized lode of poisonous Lattis ore? If only they had captured Gillian, they would have secured the answers long since. Drat Zier for ruining it all.

    With a heaving sigh, Meya focused on her untouched drink. As she dithered on the best destination she should direct it to, down her throat, back in the fountain, or splash on the sandstone, a strident call pierced the air.

    "There you are!"

    Gretella''s voice came with nails like a cat''s claws sinking into Meya''s arm, wringing her flesh like one would a wet floor rag.

    "Youch! What in the¡ª!"

    Meya barely kept a hold on her beloved cup. Hands dripping with hot spring water, she whipped around with teeth bared and glare at the ready, only to lose her fluff at the sight of Gretella''s malevolent finger hovering before her nose-bridge.

    "You don''t just run off alone in a crowded square in an unknown town, you dungheaded lass! What would you do if you''d lost us? Stay forever?"

    Flinching back to put some distance between that pudgy finger and her eyes, Meya noticed Arinel standing behind her grandma, arms crossed and lips pursed, not in the least inclined to lend aid.

    "I''m sorry, Nurse. I was just¡ª"

    Meya sighed in defeat. She spotted the two children the old woman was shepherding at her side. One was ten-year-old Lord Frenix Pearlwater, with his stringy build, dark brown skin like walnut wood, and short, fuzzy black hair like tufts of fine goose-down. The other was little Amara Hyacinth, her silky, wavy black hair cropped short at her chin, her cherubic lips perpetually bent in a scowl as if lined by iron wire.

    Amara''s mask was decorated in the exact same manner as Frenix''s, its whole surface veneered with all five colors provided, masterfully guided into multilayered, psychedelic swirls that curled and unfurled alongside each other yet never mingled.

    Meya bent down, hands on her knees.

    "Hello there, little Amara. Splendid artwork." She gestured at the little lady''s mask, then hitched up a devious grin as she pointed between her and Frenix. "So, who copied who?"

    "¡ªWhom." Frenix corrected. At the sight of her scowling lips, he shone Meya a full-width grin inset with two rows of white teeth and not a sliver of remorse, "Coris told me to take over your language practice while he''s gone."

    "Ugh!" As Meya rolled her eyes and air-strangled her absent husband''s meatless neck, Amara thrust up her nose, threw out her chest, and crossed her chubby arms.

    "I didn''t paint anything. Frenix did both." She tilted her head at Frenix, "Art is for boys."

    Frenix''s gleaming grin slid off his face faster than lard on a heated pan.

    "Rubbish! My mother would''ve become an artist herself if she were allowed to!" He argued.

    "And she shouldn''t! Mother always says girls parry while boys paint." Amara stretched up on tiptoes, wagging a finger at Frenix.

    Meya gawked at the children in utter confusion. While it was true that men was, in practice, the only sex allowed to pursue mastery in all the branches of arts and sciences, Latakian women weren''t known to pick up swords, either.

    "Hyacinth." As if the wind had heard her ringing mind, it reciprocated with a whispered explanation in her ear. Meya spun around and found herself staring into a dozen of bright green eyeballs, rolling in all directions in blood-red sockets.

    "Fyr''s Bollocks!" Meya backpedaled into the copper sign with a shriek. The young woman with the brown ponytail doubled over with wheezing laughter, slamming her hands together in glee as Meya staggered upright, massaging her throbbing buttocks with one hand, righting the wobbling sign with the other.

    "Lady Fione?"

    Fione tempered her amusement with much effort, waving a feeble hand as if to fan away her belly cramps.

    "I spooked a Greeneye with green eyes. Who would''ve thought that would work?" She gasped then succumbed to laughter once more.

    Mumbling curses under her breath as she smoothed a hand down her bosom, Meya turned to the girl next to Fione. Her mask was the color of her caramel-brown hair, with defiant streaks of blue and olive green peeking out here and there.

    The sight reminded Meya of the time Jezia had brought her some oil paint and fine parchment, and she''d given them to Myron. Poor boy had started off trying to draw Freda''s rainbow, but, due to lack of expertise, ended up mixing the colors together into a passing imitation of sewer sludge.

    A ray of malice radiated unfiltered from behind the ruined mask, and Meya caught herself still staring. She braved the Lady''s fury with a meek simper to satisfy her curiosity.

    "What happened to your mask, Lady Heloise?"

    "Don''t ask." Heloise''s voice dripping with venom sizzled through her seething teeth. It was a wonder the grille over her mouth hadn''t melted apart.

    "Because I''ll tell you, anyway." Fione cut in, having successfully recovered from her fit. Ignoring Heloise''s unseen glower, she cocked her head at the smirking Frenix, "I bet her ten latts she couldn''t pull off Frenix''s technique. Paid for my Jayri bowl and a black gum drink."

    She held up her cracked white bowl joined with copper, filled with a steaming, viscous black liquid, which Lady Arinel seemed to be eyeing. She took a sip, then let out a sigh of bliss.

    This book is hosted on another platform. Read the official version and support the author''s work.

    "Ah, taste of the Heights. How about a sip, Haselle? You must be exhausted from all that crying. This will pick you right up."

    Before Arinel could utter a word, Lady Agnes had reached out for the mysterious concoction, and in a blink was already downing it eagerly. Its sickly sweet smell made Meya hungry all of a sudden as well.

    "I-I-I was nervous, that''s all. Give me more time and leave me alone, and I''d even go one better." Heloise sputtered, distracting Meya from glorious food. Fione rolled her painted eyes at her pigheaded friend.

    "Agh, Heloise, you never change, do you?" Lady Cristoria pointed a tapered finger to the heavens. "You know they say Freda''s blessings are like raindrops¡ªyou get some on the head, and you miss the rest. Meya''s got her Song. Frenix''s got his art. You''ll find yours one day. Better yet, make one!"

    Fione patted the disgruntled Heloise''s shoulder. Then, the girls all whipped around at the guttural slurping noise coming from behind. Lady Agnes had had her head tipped back, licking every last drop of black gum from Fione''s bowl. Noticing the masked faces turned to her, she returned to her senses, and hastily lowered the bowl.

    Arinel reached out, prying the bone-dry bowl from Agnes''s trembling, unwilling fingers with both hands,

    "I think that should be enough gum drink for you, Haselle." She said coolly, then shone the rest of them a sweet smile,

    "How about a hot bath? Zier said the Pearly Falls is a must. We''d better hurry before all the pools are taken."

    <hr>

    The entrance to the Pearly Falls was underwhelming and puzzling. Squeezed between sprawling sandstone manors, smothered by copious amounts of steam billowing out of their every orifice, the tiny outhouse was often overlooked by first-time visitors. And, once they had spotted it by a double-take, those visitors would then proceed to scratch their heads in incredulity.

    There was no way that humble shack would be able to host a hundred bathing pools, was there? A latrine, maybe.

    Meya''s doubts ebbed away once they had entered the outhouse and descended the narrow, torchlit staircase concealed within, which fell steeply into a spacious rock chamber, where masked Jaisian women stood welcoming them with wide smiles behind metal grilles.

    Still, key questions persisted: Where is the Pearly? And where is the Falls?

    Once they had paid for their dip in the pools, Meya and her companions ventured deeper into the underground complex. The catacombs, fortified by wooden scaffolding, twisted and turned and branched. Fire flickered within dusty lamps, illuminating yellow-brown and coal-black ledges of jagged shale and raw jet protruding from the walls. Their rough, layered texture reminded Meya of termite-plagued wood.

    At regular intervals, the walls had been hollowed out into caverns, and numbered doors were installed. Meya heard the moans and grunts of rigorous lovemaking leaking out from behind some as she passed, but they did nothing to arouse her desire. She couldn''t imagine herself enjoying an hour of passion with Coris in this dank, drab, crumbling, suffocating, disused underground mine. Fyr, she wouldn''t even think of taking an afternoon nap here. She preferred sunlight and open air to this precarious subterranean crypt.

    Heloise and Frenix seemed just as unnerved by the foreign surroundings. Heloise huddled her shoulders and smoothed goosebumps up and down her arms. Frenix had fallen worryingly silent, and there was some twitchy footwork in his every other step.

    Could this be a Greeneye thing? Dragons are huge creatures of flight, after all. Stands to reason they¡ªwe¡ªwould harbor an instinctive fear of being trapped underground.

    The bathhouse lady left them in front Rooms 25 and 26 with directions to the pool, and the fellowship diverged according to their grouping in the entourage.

    Meya filed inside after Arinel, Agnes and Gretella, and found herself in a spartan torchlit cavern with a walled latrine in the corner, a set of table and chairs, and a mattress with pillows and a woolen blanket.

    The bathhouse lady had instructed them to wash up before heading to the pools. The latrine was large enough for two at a time. Gretella and Agnes decided to go first.

    Once the splashes of water had risen in earnest, Arinel threw her mask onto the mattress, snatched Meya''s arm, then dragged her towards the furthest wall.

    "Milady, what in the¡ª"

    "Shh!"

    Pausing only to grab the blanket, Arinel nestled herself in the nook of the cave, tugged Meya down to her knees, then threw the blanket over their heads.

    Solid darkness. In the dim orange light, the mask no longer functioned as well, and so Meya tugged it off.

    "Milady, what''s with all this? Can''t we talk in the open?" She hissed in annoyance at Arinel''s silhouette and her eyes glinting in the gloom.

    "That black gum drink," Arinel ignored the question, cutting straight to the chase, "I know that smell. There''s laudanum in there."

    Arinel''s voice reeked of disgust as she spat out the word. Meya had heard the name, of course, but she couldn''t understand the animosity.

    "Laudanum? So?" She raised an eyebrow, then shrugged, "Coris takes a few drops in his nightcap every day to help him sleep. What''s wrong with it?"

    Arinel froze as if cursed into stone save for her bulging, blinking eyes. After a moment of silent mouthing, she grabbed Meya''s arm with trembling fingers.

    "Am I hearing this right?" Her voice rose into what could be described as a whispery scream, "Coris takes it daily?"

    "Yes. Is that bad?" Meya eked out, bewildered and a little fearful. Arinel''s nails dug into her flesh, and she winced in pain as she ran a soothing hand down the lady''s shivering arm. Arinel''s eyes seemed to be wriggling free of their stretched-to-burst sockets.

    "Is that bad?" She repeated so shrilly Meya felt her eardrums recoil. She snatched her shoulders, shaking her like a rattle, "Meya, you have to stop him right away! It''s very addictive! And his health would suffer!"

    "What d''you mean, addictive?" Meya frowned, somewhat annoyed. Arinel sucked in deep breaths, struggling back to her calm old self.

    "It means, over time, he wouldn''t be able to live without it." She explained between pants, staring deep into Meya''s wide eyes, "He''d need more and more just to satisfy his thirst, until he takes enough of it that it kills him."

    Kill him? Coris?

    A wave of freezing dread, the kind she had only ever felt when her family was threatened, sped up Meya''s limbs to strangle her heart. Arinel''s voice sounded tinny, as if echoing down from the pinhole mouth of the deep pit Meya was trapped in.

    "The vendor probably sneaked some in there to make sure people keep coming back for more. You have to report this to Lady Jaise, so she could investigate."

    Having shaken away the icy fingers of fear, Meya''s pounding heart calmed. Taking deep breaths, she nodded.

    "Right, I''ll get Coris on it." She promised absently, eyes staring into space as her brain whirred. It wasn''t that she didn''t believe Arinel, but she found it hard to believe such a mundane cure could be that deadly. After all, Coris knew best about everything. He knew what he was doing. If he wasn''t bothered, why should she be?

    Satisfied, Meya turned back to Arinel. The Lady was still panic-stricken.

    "So, how come you know it so well?" Meya asked as much to mask her lack of disquiet as out of curiosity. Another bout of shivers wracked Arinel, and Meya gathered her into her arms to comfort her.

    "The healer who treated Agnes''s burns had her take laudanum to ease her pain, but she never stopped." She whispered, her voice quivering, "It took us years to wean her off it. And it was harrowing."

    Arinel shrank into Meya, her fingers twisting the fabric of Meya''s tunic, as she squeezed her eyes shut at the horror of the memory.

    "She went from rooting through the alchemist''s stores to stealing my jewelry. When we cut her off all those, she went and nearly sold herself to the brothel." Arinel sobbed, and Meya held her close and rocked her gently, "If Jerald hadn''t been there in time¡ª"

    As Arinel huddled up against her chest, Meya patted her back consolingly, yet, she still wasn''t convinced, or concerned.

    It was mind-boggling, the lengths Agnes went simply to get her hands on some potion. Coris wouldn''t ever be that out of control, would he? It was just a few drops to sooth his bowels, for Freda''s sake! What harm could it do?

    Not to mention he was much older now than Agnes when she was dealing with her burns, too. And his pain, though constant, wasn''t as traumatic as hers. He''d be able to control himself, surely. She had little to worry about.

    Arinel''s silent sobs subsided into sniffles. She straightened up, dabbing at her watery eyes, giving Meya a squeeze of thanks with her free hand, her expression now hard and solemn.

    "We can''t let her fall back into it again." She vowed, then glared at Meya, icy fingers gouging into her arms once more, "And you! Promise you''ll get Coris off his laudanum, Meya. Promise me!"

    Meya raised her hands in surrender as Arinel gave her another round of vigorous shaking.

    "He''ll be fine, milady. He dun have it that bad, I guess?" She suggested with a meek grin, cold sweat beading up along her hairline at the sight of Arinel''s death glare, "He only takes a few drops, and he''s sleeping well, and he wakes up refreshed and happy."

    "Well, why is he only getting ever thinner, then?" Arinel''s lips stretched into a mirthless smirk, as her eyebrows rose up and tucked themselves away behind her fringe. Meya''s fingers tingled with trepidation.

    "Why is he always sleeping? What about bowel movements? Is he passing regularly? Is he always nauseated or vomiting? How is he in bed? Is he having trouble satisfying you?"

    "Well, y-yes, but¡ª" Meya stammered as heated blood inundated her cheeks. Arinel had leaned so close, her glaring eyes seemed on the verge of swallowing Meya whole into those gaping black pupils. But then, her expression softened, and her hands on Meya''s arm loosened.

    "You can''t let down your guard, Meya." She shook her head miserably. "Coris may be a prodigy, but he isn''t wise. He may have changed, but he isn''t free of his old ways. He lies to everyone¡ªeven himself. Zier would''ve said the same. We''ve known him since we were children, Meya. Trust me."

    Meya''s eyes widened and wavered in fear, then slid away in denial. Of course she''d find it hard to believe ill of him. Arinel gripped her shoulders tight, hoping against hope that all this would turn out to be just her usual overreacting.

    "All these could be because he''s ill. But it could also be that laudanum is exaggerating his symptoms, and he''s passing it off as poor health." Arinel shook her shoulders, desperation spilling into her voice, "You see him take a few drops before bed. You don''t see if he takes more behind your back. And he has the means to get as much as he needs, too."

    Arinel glared, demanding a response. Yet, Meya could only bite down hard on her wobbling lips. She''d just made amends with Coris after his latest betrayal. And Arinel expected her to revert to the days of doubting and probing his every move again?

    Her reunion with Coris had been a whirlwind of raw emotion, a maelstrom of peril and loss and watershed. It was difficult to believe it had been less than a fortnight since she''d taken his hand and stepped down from that carriage. And just when they were settling down for some simple happiness¡ªanother setback?

    She wasn''t ready. She didn''t want to go back. Not to battle him. Not again. Not this soon.

    Still Arinel was demanding. Still Meya was resisting. Then, both girls started and whirled back in unison. Silence had swooped back into the room¡ªthe splashing of water had ceased. Gretella and Agnes would be back out any second to find the two of them huddled in a corner under a blanket.

    Meya turned back to find Arinel still staring expectantly at her. Avoiding her gaze, she tugged the blanket off them and nodded with a halfhearted promise.

    "Alright. I''ll talk to Coris when I get the chance."

 Falls and Foils

    The song of the Pearly Falls reached out to Meya as she traversed the dim, torchlit jet mine, tugging at her curiosity, hastening her steps. With every yard gained, its call swelled louder. The uphill tunnel echoed with promises of sunlight, open air and warm baths. Light from the wall-mounted lamps glanced off a brass doorknob and arced into her eyes. Meya hurtled forth, pushing her way back to the surface.

    Bright white was the first color she registered. Meya reckoned it was the blaze of the meridian sun, but once the dancing spots had ebbed out the corners of her eyes, her mouth fell open at the surreal terrain spread out before her.

    The tunnel had emerged at the seams of a vast plateau laden with overlapping, snow-white terraces which stacked up like layers of oak bracket, and cascaded into a sprawling rock pool, where dozens of tourists were already lounging, naked but for their masks.

    The smooth, mirror-like face of each terrace reflected the color of the sky, which was vivid blue interspersed with thick, cottony clouds. Their limpid, seemingly lifeless surfaces rippled at the caress of the faintest breeze, or the boorish splashes of excited human feet, revealing them to be shallow travertine pools brimming with ice-clear, steaming water, silently and steadily overflowing down the steps to feed the lake below.

    At the zenith of the terraces stood a statue of faceted black jet, carved into a chough volant, its head tilted towards the Heights. A tiny crystal sphere glowed acid-green from within its curved beak.

    "Oh, Goodly Freda."

    Meya breathed, the words brushing against her numb lips as she stepped out into the lukewarm, ankle-high water, her eyes sweeping slowly across the plateau. Around her, fellow first-timers stood marveling in awe, forcing seasoned tourists to weave around them before stepping cautiously down the terraces to the pool below.

    "We should move, Meya. We''re blocking the exit." Arinel''s whisper floated into her ear. Meya nodded absently and allowed the Lady to guide her aside with a gentle hand. Once she had regained her senses somewhat, she glanced about to find her companions cloistered around her on a small step-pool.

    "Oh, Freda! ''Tis magnificent. And this ain''t even the Heights!" She gushed to Gretella, who was still admiring the landscape and seemed just as breathless. The plump old woman kept a tight grip on Lady Agnes''s arm, the thickened soles of her feet struggling to gain purchase on the smooth, treacherous rocks.

    "If only she could have brought me here earlier!" She lamented at the sight of her wobbly legs, "Cursed kneecaps! I couldn''t clamber up there with these. Erina wouldn''t have cared, though." She added with a disapproving shake of her head, "Five months along, didn''t stop her scaling those pools like a mountain goat."

    "Mother was here? With me?" Arinel squealed, squeezing her grandma''s arm in excitement. For the first time ever, Meya heard the stern old woman laugh. She patted Arinel''s hand in fond remembrance.

    "Just come with us, Nurse. You have my hand." Frenix pranced up to Gretella''s side, chest thrown out and elbow raised. The old nurse beamed him an affectionate smile, shaking her head.

    "Young lord, you are most gracious. But it wouldn''t do for age to hinder youth with their frailty. I shall go and save a spot in the pool. You go hop along to your heart''s fill."

    "I''ll go with you, Grandmother." Arinel''s hands replaced Agnes''s on her grandmother''s fleshy arm.

    "Lady, you don''t have to." Gretella sighed wearily.

    "I insist."

    Without further ado, Arinel imperiously led her grandmother down the treacherous stairs, one by one. By the time they descended the fifth step, Frenix had already chanced upon a new endeavor.

    "Hey, Lo!" He directed his call at Heloise with a hand beside his mouth, "Race you to the top and down!"

    Before Heloise could even nod, Frenix sped off, prancing and splashing his way up the terraces. Heloise spared a second to growl in annoyance then tore off in hot pursuit.

    "Wait! Frenix, don''t leave me!" Poor Amara waddled off after them. Fione dropped nimbly down the cascading steps, following Arinel and Gretella''s lead.

    "I''ll be lineswoman!" She whipped back to yell at the death-race participants, throwing in a taunt for good measure, "My gold''s on Frenix, by the way!"

    "By Freda, they''re going to crack their skulls on those ledges." Lady Agnes tutted, lips pursed in woe and disapproval. Meya realized with a jolt that it was now just the two of them, together. Two women involved with the same man. And it was clear who was the inferior choice.

    Even obscured under the floaty white chemise, Agnes''s tall, slender figure exuded an inherent grace of the sort Meya had come to associate with Marin. Where it was not burnt, the skin of her bare arms was even and unblemished. Her tapered fingers were capped with round, clear, unchipped nails. Meya''s bowels churned with insecurity.

    "Well, go stop them, then."

    Agnes turned around, her lips etching an even, neutral line as she waited in silence. The notion hit Meya with a jolt. She sheepishly coiled a stray lock of her hair, muttering,

    "Oh, right. ''Twas foolish of me."

    Agnes tilted her head, a soft chuckle trickling through her lips.

    "Shall we?" Desperate to ventilate the dead air, Meya flourished her hand towards the chough statue. It looked as if it were frozen in the act of flying straight at the sun.

    Agnes''s dainty smile widened, and she gave a little nod. Holding an arm aloft for balance, she lifted the lacy hem of her underdress with her free hand,

    "I must warn you¡ªI''m slow." She raised her leg, dangling her foot above the overflowing surface of the higher terrace, "You can go on ahead if you like."

    Meya stood rooted, helplessly captivated by the Lady''s mesmerizing movement. Agnes''s calf tightened into a flawless curve as she poised her arched foot, slicing through the water with the tip of her big toe and landing firm with barely a ripple. She repeated the ritual with her other foot, then slid forth in minuscule increments on the smooth lime bed. There didn''t seem to be any malady plaguing her legs and feet, except for a couple of fainting, spotty purple bruises on her shin.

    "What''s wrong? Twisted ankle? Shoe blisters?" Meya guessed. Having shaken herself awake, she started off in pursuit, wobbling as she strove to replicate Agnes''s slow, graceful gait.

    Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.

    "No, I just fall easily." Agnes shook her head. She shone Meya a bashful smile as she fell into step with her, then looked back down at her feet, "I''m not sure if I''m imagining it, but ever since I lost my left eye, I kept tripping down stairs and chafing against pillars and the like."

    Meya stared at Agnes''s masked face. Behind the grille, her lips were pursed in concentration as she braved another climb.

    Despite herself, Meya felt her heart soften. She held out her arm, prompting the Lady Graye to freeze and stare back, perplexed. Meya shrugged the awkwardness off her shoulder and hitched half of her grimace up to what she hoped was a grin.

    "You can hold on to me, if you like. If you dun mind the reek of peasantry." Meya blurted out before she could grab her tongue. She smelled the stuffy odor of dead air descending upon them once more. Agnes simply stared. Yet, at long last, to Meya''s relief and horror, Agnes accepted her proffered arm.

    "Oh, Meya, Meya." She sang, a chuckle of weary amusement woven into her sigh. The smooth, cool skin of her palm slid up Meya''s arm and found purchase in the nook of her elbow, as she ascended another step, "You''ve lain with Coris so many times, I doubt even his hounds can tell your scents apart."

    Meya colored a deep crimson. For the second time since setting foot in this quaint town, she appreciated the cover the glass mask provided. Circling her fingers around Agnes''s arm, she fixed her gaze at their feet and supported the frail Lady''s weight up the terraces.

    She would''ve gripped that arm more firmly, if it weren''t for the feel of that smooth, supple flesh, without a sinew of muscle nor the bulge of a vein. It reminded Meya of the milk cream Morel would skim off the top of the tin pail, whisk feverishly until they rose into thick swirls, then dole into their bread batter.

    She was so delicate, so soft and sweet and ladylike. The more Meya tried not to, she remembered how Coris had cried for Agnes, every time he lamented he had caused her death. He was with Meya now, yes. But the reason he had used to placate her was simply that Agnes was gone. Yet, now that she was no longer gone, what would keep him from returning to her?

    Shudders coursed through Meya. All it would take was for Agnes to slip on her half-mask, and she would easily best Meya in any criteria. It didn''t matter whether Agnes reciprocated his feelings; all that mattered was he had cherished them for her, even now.

    The lingering water in the pools became warmer and shallower as they neared the summit, pure as freshly melted ice, yet Meya felt as if every step led her into colder, deeper, putrid puddles.

    "Thank you, Meya."

    It took Meya a second to register the sound of her name, another to comprehend the preceding words.

    "For me humble arm, milady?" She frowned at Agnes, bewildered. Agnes kept her eyes on her footing, but her lips unfurling into a mischievous smirk.

    "For not taking the chance to fling me down the steps to death by defenestration."

    "And why in the name of goodly Freda would I do that?" Meya retorted, unsure whether she was offended that Agnes would expect such a thing of her, or vexed at why the idea had not once crossed her mind.

    Agnes sighed again, this time a puff of annoyance.

    "Don''t bother with the charade. We both know the waters we''re in."

    "Hot mineral-rich water. A cure for fish feet." Meya grumbled in ardent support of continued bothering with charades.

    "I''ve never desired Coris, if that''s what''s troubling you." Agnes shot straight to the matter.

    "But you can''t do nothing about him desiring you, can you?"

    Meya snapped, then gasped, horrified by what she had let loose in a moment of weakness. She jerked to a halt, feet immersed in stinging hot water, Lady Agnes by her side, a soothing yet intimidating presence. Even shrouded under her mask, Meya could feel the phantom of her intense gaze on her reddening profile. She dipped her head, weighed by shame and turmoil.

    She couldn''t comprehend the chaos within her. An hour ago, she was in a mellow mood. She was worried by the prospect of Coris and Agnes reunited, of course, but nowhere near this jealous, despairing, paranoid mess. Mum would diagnose it as her monthlies exacerbating her daily foul temperament, but the thing hadn''t even arrived!

    Agnes''s hand shifted on her arm. Meya expected her to let go and move away, but she simply loosened her grip into a comforting cradle, her thumb caressing Meya''s suntanned skin, as one would to comfort a nervous lamb.

    "Coris was younger, a much different person back then." Agnes''s whisper was just as soft as her touch, and Meya couldn''t help but unwind the tension in her arm, even as her heart remained tautly clenched, "I believe he knows better now. And he''s more devoted to you than he ever was to me."

    Those words were pleasing to the ear, but they flowed through without the weight of proof. Meya shook her head as a sardonic smile twisted her lips.

    "Because I saved his life in Crosset. And I''m a dragon. His code requires him to repay me, and his curiosity compels him to study my kind, is all." Her heart recoiled at the statement it knew deep down was not true, "I''m grateful for everything he''s done for me, but Latakia will never accept me as his lady. No matter how far I''ve grown out of my roots, a clump of weed grass won''t ever yield a rose."

    Silence was the answer, yet Agnes''s soft hand remain clasped around her arm. Its cool touch sent tears bubbling up in Meya''s eyes. She thrust her head back to tip them down her gullet.

    "Still, I can''t help but adore him so. How arrogant. How besotted." The words clogged in her throat trickled out in a laughing croak. She dared not turn and face Agnes. She wasn''t ready to see the condescending sneer of pity that was bound to be glazing those lips. It was all she could do to look straight ahead and keep walking, "I''ll just give him me all while it lasts. That''ll be the best I can do."

    A faint wind brushed past, fluttering the hems of their chemises, blowing with it the mingled laughter and squeals and chatter of dozens of carefree souls unfettered by heartache.

    "I''d expected you''d do more. It''s not like you to surrender." At long last, Agnes responded. She hoisted herself up another step, her true feelings unfathomable from her light, level tone. Meya succumbed to a swift glance, then lingered; somehow, Agnes''s smile was melancholic, "You and Coris would make for an ideal match."

    Meya blew out a snort of derision, startling the courteous Lady.

    "I was watching you two, back there when you were talking." She retorted, then her voice softened as she muttered wistfully, "You''ve known each other for so long, and you''re so alike. You''re both intelligent, both well-educated. Both noble, both heirs to your manor. Both human."

    Meya shrugged, chuckling bitterly. Agnes shook her head with a weary sigh.

    "We''re also alike in all the worst ways."

    Meya felt a tug, stopped a split-second too late, and nearly keeled face-first into the edge of the next pool. Agnes hadn''t followed her up. She whipped around, annoyed, and found the Lady rooted in the middle of the pool, staring at her submerged feet.

    "All the years we''ve known each other, we''ve never fought nor cried. It was all fun and laughter. We put on our best masquerades." She shook her head, immersed in memories she wasn''t proud of.

    "We talked on and on of the King''s reforms, of Latakia''s future, of becoming fair and able rulers to our people. But we both stood by and left our siblings to suffer alone when we could have helped them. And we''ve never talked about that."

    Agnes raised her face and stared off across the plateau. After a pause, she sighed and turned to Meya with a wan smile.

    "We would''ve been a peaceful, strategic match. We would''ve carried on that shallow dance throughout our lives, but what you have with him is different."

    Meya blinked, unsettled. Patches of heat blossomed on her cheeks as Agnes''s smile unfurled into one of admiration. Her caressing fingers coaxed warmth back into Meya''s numb arm as she whispered in wonder and intrigue,

    "You were with him barely a day. One he could only vaguely remember, no less. Yet, he came home shaken to the core. You showed him he could be better. What you did challenged everything he''d believed in."

    Agnes took a step towards her, taking her other arm in her grasp. Meya gawked, hardly daring to believe those reassuring words.

    "That day in front of the Keep, I saw him for the first time in six years, and I sensed something different about him. He still has that smile, that glint in his eyes¡ªbut there was something in the air around him. I felt he''s more trustworthy, more compassionate. And you''re changing yourself. You''re less bitter, more confident, more content."

    Agnes''s hand left her arm and traveled upwards. There was the barest pause of hesitance, before she nudged a finger into the gap behind Meya''s mask, then dabbed at the unshed beads of tears clinging to her eyelashes. Paradoxically, the touch prompted more to well up, and Meya''s  fingers soon joined Agnes''s in making way for them.

    "With your circumstances, I know it seems hopeless. And I reckon I know how hard it is to keep faith." Amidst it all, that gentle, cracking voice persisted. And Meya recalled that the Lady herself was suffering from her own uncertain love. For a man she had appreciated only too late, and with whom she might never have the chance to reconcile.

    "But, regardless of how this ends, know that it hasn''t been for naught."

 The Choughs Beak

    Meya hoisted her aching buttocks up to the topmost terrace of the Falls. Earlier climbers had formed two loose, ragged circles around the glinting statue, their clothes fluttering gingerly in the hushed murmurs and light breeze.

    Meya spotted a shock of curly black hair to the right. Tightening her grip on Lady Agnes''s hand, she tiptoed along the edge of the terrace until she came up on Little Lord Frenix and Lady Amara in their colorful masks, and Lady Heloise. Like the rest of the gathering, they were staring, transfixed, at the chough statue. Its head was partially obscured by the tousled hair of the tallest men, its polished jet facets flashed fiercely in the high noon sunshine. The jewel in its beak emitted a familiar, acid-green glow.

    A sense of foreboding stirred in the back of her mind. Meya tore her eyes away, glancing between Frenix and Heloise in amusement.

    "Haven''t you said you''d race to the top and down, your graces?"

    Amara whipped around for a blink then turned back to the statue, her plump wee fingers twisting deeper into Heloise''s chemise. Frantic whispers slithered back and forth between fellow strangers. Horror and disgust gushed through the metal grille over their mouths, flavored by their various accents.

    "Whose is tha''?"

    "What in ze zree lands are zey zinking?"

    "Horrid taste of decor!"

    "Musta been fairly recent. Dun recall seein'' nuthin'' last year."

    Meya scoured the crowd, trying to pinpoint the source of each piece of gossip. A shadow swooped over the terrace from a cloud that had drifted before the sun. Agnes snatched her arm.

    "Oh, Goodly Freda! The beak! In the beak!" She gasped, jabbing a trembling finger at the statue. Meya peered up at the troublesome sculpture once more. This time, the sight knocked her knees from beneath her like a hammer whack.

    The sun''s blinding white glare had been blotted out, revealing a metallic sphere rippling with rainbow shimmers and marked with intricate carvings. At the front face of the ball was a sliver of white, almond-shaped sclera. And, in the center, a ring of glowing green iris, with a heart of shiny black nothingness. Meya thought for a second she was staring at her own eye.

    That was a Greeneye''s eye¡ªa dragon''s eye. Taken from a Greeneye. Dead or alive, she didn''t know. By force or willing, she was sure it was the former. Simply to be slotted into a statue, like a fallen enemy''s head on display.

    Fury, grief and humiliation bled from her heart into her blood, like poison pumped into her limbs then her fingertips. It spread into her stomach and her head, stirring the nausea at bay. Her feet faltered under the weight of her head. Meya barely felt Agnes''s hands on her arms, keeping her from plummeting to the rocks below.

    "Tis a gum farmer''s boy, guardsman here''s sayin''."

    A tourist man nearby offered his two latts to the pool of folk wisdom. As faces turned to his, he motioned towards a burly man a little way away. Judging from the light-brown skin around his mouth, he was a Jaisian local, concealed in the signature black Jaise cloak. He shook his head, sighing through the metal grille on his mask.

    "Poor boy. His rotten father lost big at the gamble-house. Owed the landlord here all his worth, so he pawned off his son''s eye."

    Gasps rented the air. A petite Aquarian woman with olive skin and straight black hair in a pinned bun raised her shaking fist.

    "Greeneye or not, this is outrageous!" She cried, "I wouldn''t sell the smallest toe of my girls, no conditions! I say that father goes straight to the Lake!"

    A chorus of murmurs and nods rose in agreement across the terrace. Then came a challenge,

    "Agh, lass. Take it easy on yer poor heart." The elderly man lowered the brush-broom he had been scrubbing the chough statue with, leaning his veined, knobby arm upon its handle. He met the woman''s taut lips with a sagging grin and a dismissive wave of his hand.

    "The boy has one eye left. He sees fine. Didn''t hurt when they took it out of him neither. Popped straight out with nary a drop of blood or tear. I was there when they did it. The socket''s pure silver metal, lady!"

    "But still, putting it on show? How do you expect us to bathe with that staring down at us?"

    Another woman, a blonde westerner, jabbed a pudgy finger at the eye. Hearty laughter rang from the other end of the crowd from a heavy-set Jaisian woman with copious locks of shiny black hair flowing to her knees.

    "Agh, foreigners. There''s a lucky charm, ain''t it? Our glassblowers and blacksmiths wear them around their necks. Protect them from burns, see. Hang one from your doorframe, and not a tongue of fire will ever cross the threshold."

    "You''re on a waterfall, for Freda''s sake. What d''you need charms against fire for?" A pale, hulking Icemeet man called out.

    "Well, of course, there''s more than that." said the old statue cleaner. All eyes traveled back to him, except the one on the statue. Meya wished it would, if only to relieve these foul Jaisians of some of their cocky cheer.

    The old man''s grin only seemed to stretch wider. He relished the attention folk of his station rarely enjoy from the affluent tourists, at the expense of Greeneyes.

    "You pale people bury your dead, don''t you? Well, we burn them here, see. Dun have land to spare. And those Greeneyes when they die, shoulda seen them pyres¡ª"

    The old man leaned in, and the enthralled tourists mirrored him. Meya resisted the urge. From the way her brain was oscillating in her skull, she''d spill her guts on the redhead in front if she did.

    "Takes a lot to burn a Greeneye. First, the undertaker''s gotta bleed them out. Their blood puts out the fire, see. Curst hard to set alight. Fetch good gold in the market, though. Best fireproof paint ever. But once you got the flame going, it''s bright green like their eyes. And when the fire dies, that''s when the crowd rushes in."

    "For what?" A young man blurted out, breathless as Coris staggering up the Keep stairs to his room. The old man cackled,

    "The bones and the eyes, of course!" Agnes'' fingernails dug into Meya''s flesh as she frantically hissed her name¡ªMeya must have staggered. Her head was spinning so bad, the old man''s voice was a tinny echo in her ears.

    "Their bones are metal, lad! And those eyes, they never burn. They never dim. They never rot. For hundreds and hundreds of years! The smart Greeneyes? They''d tell their children to pluck out their eyes first. Or the undertaker might keep them for himself!"

    If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.

    The astounding revelations dealt blow after blow to Meya''s battered heart. Perhaps, if all these had been unearthed by a fellow Greeneye or an ally, with Meya to witness it firsthand, it would''ve come as less of a shock, or even become a source of wonder and delight.

    But here, delivered callously for entertainment. To learn that the flesh, blood and bone of her kind were resources to be harvested. Lucky charms. Fireproof polish. Metal to feed furnaces. How long had this been going on in this town? And the whole of Latakia? Would she walk into glowing eyeballs mounted over a doorway in Safyre or along her way to Easthaven, too?

    "And those desert men. The obsidian and Borax pickers, they go trekking out into the Sands, and they find glowing green eyeballs all the time. Buried under the rubble of the scree. Rolling on the dry lakebed. Shining bright as when them devils were alive. They''re magic, they are. You give those eyeballs to the blind, they can even see again!"

    "Now that''s a heap of horse dung."

    "It ain''t! Even the Lady Jaise loves them. Them desert men give her Ladyship a new pair every year. Paid for their concession, it did."

    Lady Jaise.

    The words chilled Meya to the bone. Lady Jaise. The woman ruler she''d assumed to be just and compassionate. An avid collector of dragon eyes? Coris was at this moment having an audience with her.

    It was beyond what she could stomach. Meya tore through the crowd towards the pine woods behind the statue, barely registering the stares and protests of those she''d left behind or batted aside.

    The solid brown of a tree trunk hurtled towards her. She slammed the flat of her hand against it. The feel of its jagged surface carving welts into her palm grounded her. The tang of acid mingled with the bitterness of bile as her lunch squeezed itself out of her belly, then poured out of her mouth onto the soil at her feet.

    A stab of pain, like her head splitting in half, sped up her face. Meya slumped against the tree, shaking feet scrabbling at loose earth and fallen leaves to keep herself upright.

    "Meya!"

    Agnes''s scream joined the turmoil in her head. Groaning, Meya flapped a feeble hand to ward off her concerns.

    "I''m fine, Haselle, I''m fine. Dun bother."

    The effort it took to speak sent her head spiraling again. She gritted her teeth and pressed down on her lunch, whatever was left of it, keeping it where it belonged.

    Heloise''s flowery perfume flooded her nose as the lady reached around her head. She extracted her mask, then took off her Lattis medallion. Gusts of chilling wind lambasted her cheeks. Someone was fanning her, while someone hovered salmiac under her nose. Hands fussed about her, throwing back her braid, tugging at the collar of her chemise, lowering her against another tree.

    Having been an elder sister ever since she could remember, and impregnable to the runs and fevers her human siblings occasionally came down with, Meya rarely enjoyed this kind of mothering. Even as a babe, she wasn''t nursed. On a normal day, the tender attention would have greatly touched her. Now, the burden on her oversensitive nerves added to her misery.

    "I''m fine. Leave me be for a moment. I need air." She grumbled, swatting blindly at the hustle and bustle, and they obligingly provided her space to breathe. She heard rustling as someone slumped down beside her. Judging from size and body heat, it was Lord Frenix.

    "You may be¡ªbut I''m not," said Frenix. His voice sounded further then, directed to the others,

    "So, what next? We''ll go down for a hot bath and leave that eye there?" His tremors waved the hairs on Meya''s bare arm, "Eh, Lo?"

    Silence answered him. Meya creaked open her eyes. Lady Heloise''s unmasked face was cast in shadow by the sunlight trickling through the pine needle canopy. She held her hat at her lap, her fingers twisting its wide brim until her knuckles shone bone white.

    "We¡ªwe can''t be rash, Frenix." She said, her voice shaking. Frenix bristled, and she flinched at the sight,

    "We don''t know the laws of this land, how much influence the landlord has. The Pearly Falls is an important source of income for Jaise. We''re here as Lord Hadrian''s retinue. Whatever trouble we cause goes right back to Coris."

    Frenix spat on the ground. Little Amara scurried to hide behind Agnes''s legs as young Lord Pearlwater sprang to his feet, fists balled at his sides.

    "You''re pathetic, Lo." He seethed through gritted teeth, then exploded, "Always! The boldest and loudest of the pack. Always! Except when it counts!"

    Heloise''s cheeks blanched, then flushed bright red. Meya watched dumbly, too shocked by the happy-go-lucky Frenix''s outburst and too drained to join in. Amara curled into a ball behind Agnes, who seemed dangerously close to screeching out, torn between stepping in to shield Heloise and keeping her cover intact.

    "All we have to do¡ª" Frenix prowled the no man''s land between them, arms flailing, "¡ªis pluck it out when no-one''s looking, and swap it with some glass marble. We''d be halfway through the Sands by the time they noticed. And even then, they''d be none the wiser who did it anyway."

    "And what next?" Heloise sneered. She hadn''t taken off her Lattis bracelet, yet her emerald eyes glinted malevolently. Frenix blinked as she loomed tall and dark over him,

    "We don''t know who to return it to. We can''t ask around or it''ll look suspicious. Worst case scenario? The landlord suspects the boy''s father and goes after him! Who''s the pathetic one now, Frenix?"

    Heloise hissed, her nose an inch from Frenix''s. The boy chomped on his lower lip to vent his frustration. As much as it galled her, Meya must admit Heloise was right. There wasn''t going to be a simple way out.

    Meya peered through the trees. The old man was still posing by the statue, chatting animatedly. More spectators summitted the Falls and coagulated around him, plugging up gaps where disenchanted listeners had vacated, as she watched and seethed in helplessness. She''d dealt with Nostran dragons, for Freda''s sake! Wasn''t there anything she could do for that poor one-eyed boy?

    Lady Amara edged out from behind her human shield, then. Still gripping Agnes'' dress, she glanced warily between the three Greeneyes,

    "C-C-Can''t we just b-buy it from the landlord? H-H-How much would it be?" She stammered.

    Of course! How had she not thought of it?

    Meya sprang to her feet. Agnes and Heloise reached out, expecting her to sway and fall, but Meya only had eyes for the little Lady Hyacinth.

    "You''re right, Lady Amara." She gave the small girl a taut smile, then glared at Heloise and Agnes, "I''m Lady Hadrian. I''ll write him a bill under Coris'' name. I dun care how much that debt is. I''ll give up my whole allowance if I have to."

    She snatched her mask and Lattis medallion from Agnes''s slack hand and strode off. Harried footsteps pounded the ground after her.

    "Meya!" A hand snatched her sleeve¡ªLady Agnes. Meya didn''t slow. "Meya, wait¡ªMeya!"

    "Let go, Haselle." Meya warned icily. One whiff of that look and that voice, and her brothers would''ve known enough to back off.

    "You just need¡ªto calm¡ªdown!"

    Agnes cut across Meya then pinned her against a tree. Heloise and the two kids caught up, then, but it seemed Agnes couldn''t care less. She tugged off her mask, revealing her mangled left half.

    Amara squealed. Frenix shushed her. Heloise gawked at Agnes'' good eye, now locked with Meya''s in a battle of wills.

    As Meya gazed deep into the mesmerizing ocean-blue, the raging world settled into serenity. Agnes also had that calming influence of Coris. It compelled her to pause, listen, contemplate.

    "If a usurer accepted something in place of the gold he''s owed, that means it has value for him. Commercial, sentimental¡ªwe don''t know." Agnes shook her head, her grip tightening,

    "Depending on how you approach him, he could call for a much higher price or trick you into a contract you can''t get out of. This man isn''t like Gillian. He has no principle, qualm nor scruple. He has an eye for weakness, and he''d try to wheedle as much gold out of you as he could. You mustn''t lose your composure. You must be careful."

    Agnes shook her arms, whispers becoming hisses. Tamping down a sudden wave of fear, Meya pursed her lips and gave a jerking nod. Agnes''s lone eye lingered, searching her face for signs of recklessness. Satisfied, she let go and moved back.

    "There''s also the boy''s father." Heloise added quietly, "If we return the boy''s eye to him, how can we be sure his father won''t just pawn it off to fund his gambling habits again?"

    The underlying issue they were well aware of in the back of their minds. How to give the boy back his eye and protect him from his own father? They needed a permanent solve¡ªthey wouldn''t be here to bail his eye out every time his father fell short on gold.

    Meya propped her hands on her hips and paced, admiring the pine needle-strewn ground as she plodded. She felt three-and-a-half pairs of eyes searching her face, hoping for a glow of sudden inspiration. Their trust was a warm balm of dawning sun on her shoulders.

    The skeleton of a scheme assembled in her head. Meya turned first to Lord Pearlwater. Frenix had never bothered with Lattis. His green eyes glowed unapologetic as he earnestly awaited her command.

    "Lord Frenix, are you sure you can pull off the swap?"

    Frenix''s face lit up as if hit by sunlight. He smirked, restless with anticipation,

    "I have an idea for a distraction. All I need is a marble and some paint."

    Meya forced out a smile. Beads of sweat oozed in her jittery hands at the thought of her elaborate scheme, and how poor Coris would react to it.

    "You won''t be needing those."

 The Usurer

    Tyriel Wert was peering at his latest acquisition through a loupe when three knocks sounded from the door. The impulse to ignore them overwhelmed him, then his rational half surged back in control.

    That knock meant business. Day business. Cumbersome as it may be, for the good part of a decade it had allowed him to conduct his actual business in peace. The wool over the wary eyes of the Jaisian law.

    Swallowing his sigh, he slipped the loupe and the ruby necklace into his desk drawer.

    "Yes, Gertha?"

    The door opened just enough for the maid''s masked face to squeeze in for a nervous word,

    "A Madam...Dunstaal...is here to see you, sir." Gertha glanced at the unseen client for confirmation. Tyriel cocked his head as he rifled through his memories. The name rang no bells. A new client.

    He browsed through his array of practiced smiles and slotted on the humble and welcoming one. He traversed the room in three brisk strides and pulled the door wide open.

    Draped from the shoulder down in her black veil, Madam Dunstaal reminded Tyriel of a velvet jewelry display. Her mask featured a stunning white peacock, whose trailing train seemed as if to loop around her neck in silver-white chains, beset with rubies, sapphires and emeralds. Tassels of gold cascaded from her earlobes onto her shoulders. Metal bands thick and thin pooled at her wrists. Rings adorned every other finger of her gloved hands.

    Tyriel beckoned the client over to the seat before his desk with a bow. Once Madam Dunstaal had lowered herself onto the velvet-padded chair, Tyriel settled on his own.

    "My lady, it is our pleasure to host you in our humble bathhouse. What seems to be the problem?"

    He steepled his fingers, his eyes alighting on the empty eye-sockets of Madam Dunstaal''s mask. Madam Dunstaal started, her honeyed smile faltering.

    "Oh no, no. I''m not here with a complaint." She waved her ornament-laden hand. Judging from her voice and the size of her bosom, he guessed she''d had children, and was well into her fourth decade. Yet, she dissolved into a bout of coquettish giggles as she leaned in,

    "I have an offer for you."

    Tyriel''s hand spasmed on the desk. He''d pinned her for a westerner from the fair skin around her lips. How had this foreign lady been introduced to his actual business? And calling for his services during daylight hours, no less.

    "Do tell, my lady." He let his mask deal with his pallor and apprehension, and simply dredged the tremors out of his voice. Madam Dunstaal smiled. She glanced around his office, appraising the various memorabilia from previous business dealings he had framed in gold on the wall, or rested on velvet busts atop marble plinths.

    Rows of ancient Tyldornian dubloons. A diamond necklace with a sapphire centerpiece the size of a quail egg. A jet-studded tiara. An ornate copper shield. A puzzle box of carved ivory. A polished tortoiseshell bowl. A hunk of aged ambergris. She lingered on the amiant cloak with Lattis yarn goldwork Tyriel had pawned off a Greeneye trafficker. A shiver rushed down her arms. Or just a trick of the light¡ªthe woman was a constellation.

    The lady returned to him at last. Fondling a ruby brooch over her heart, she heaved a sigh and shone him a guilty smile,

    "Pardon me for ogling. I have a weakness for shiny trinkets. You''d think I''m an overgrown magpie."

    Tyriel responded with his obligatory smile.

    "Not at all, my lady. I see it as an appreciation for rare beauty we share."

    His reassurance seemed to trouble Madam Dunstaal. She unpinned her ruby brooch and fidgeted with it on the desk.

    "If so, then I''m sure this must come as an outrageous request." Tyriel tilted his head to mask his growing impatience. He itched to pick up where he left off with his ruby. "You see, from the instant I caught sight of that crystal ball in your chough''s beak, I realize I couldn''t rest until it''s nestled in velvet in my collection."

    Ah, finally.

    Tyriel smiled in satisfaction and relief. Ever since he had that eye mounted onto the chough statue three days ago, he''d received countless complaints from tourists mainly from Meriton, Icemeet or Aquar. He set the old statue cleaner to explain eastern norms to them, and the deluge subsided. Though a few persistent naysayers trickled through.

    Seeing Madam Dunstaal''s fair skin, he expected her to be one of the petty lot. Instead, she had turned out to be the visitor he''d been anticipating. The ones of like mind. A fellow seeker of exotic relics.

    A clack of metal and stone on wood broke the silence. Madam Dunstaal''s drooping necklaces caressed the desk as she leaned in,

    "I heard you''ve lost a dear for it. I''m willing to compensate you for every Latt, down to the last brass coin."

    Unfortunately, Tyriel had decided from the beginning that the eye would not be up for sale. He had prepared a solution for fellow collectors. He reached for the handle of the bottommost drawer.

    Support the creativity of authors by visiting Royal Road for this novel and more.

    "If so, my lady, you would no doubt have also heard of whom I''ve obtained the eye from." He extracted a heavy ledger bound in carmine silk, "There is one more where that came from. I have seen it. I can assure you, they are as alike as any twin."

    He propped the ledger against the desk, trawling through names, dates, and amounts of owed gold with a nimble finger. The deal remained fresh in his memory.

    "Ah, here we are," He looked up. Madam Dunstaal was toppling from the edge of her seat, ample breasts flattened under the combined weight of her jewelry and her leaning head. Swallowing a chuckle, Tyriel gestured towards his inkwell and pile of blank paper,

    "I have the father''s name and address. Shall I write it down for you?"

    Madam Dunstaal burst into a radiant smile. She brought her hands together in a soundless clap.

    "Why, thank you, sir! That would be ideal. You are most generous." She wetted her lips greedily as she watched Tyriel''s quill dancing on the paper, "I hadn''t expected you to be so open about your business dealings."

    "Not at all, my lady." Tyriel''s smile sagged as he concentrated on his work. He hitched its corners back up. He slid his peacock quill into its stand, then flourished the folded note towards Madam Dunstaal, "From one collector to another."

    The lady swiped the note from his fingers and unfurled it.

    "Would it be easy this time around, though?" She argued, "After all, it''s the boy''s only remaining eye. And I do have some reservations about robbing a child''s eyesight."

    Tyriel drummed his fingers on the desk. He hadn''t prepared for that. His eyes strayed to his motley collection, as they often did whenever he sought a spark of inspiration. Unexpectedly, he found it in the blood-red cover of his debtor ledger.

    "We''re in luck, my lady. I happen to know of a covert place. There, you could find Greeneyes who would be eager to trade off their...possessions. Any of their possessions. Provided you have the gold."

    Madam Dunstaal froze, then thawed to life. Nodding, she turned again to the Lattis-embroidered amiant cloak. Even as her hand clenched into a trembling fist over her ruby brooch, her voice remained light,

    "Oh, more than I would ever need."

    <hr>

    Jerald had parked Lady Crosset''s carriage at the Pearly Falls'' entrance. He helped the young ladies and children inside. Gretella brought up the rear, supported by Lady Arinel. Jerald took her free hand and, together with Arinel, eased her up to the driver''s seat.

    As Gretella adjusted her dress, Arinel handed Jerald a note.

    "Please take us to these places first."

    Jerald took the note, but didn''t unfold it. He didn''t so much as glance at it.

    "Your Grace, my orders are to bring you directly to Jaise Castle," He said, his voice strained, "You are to prepare for dinner and an audience with Lady Jaise in Meya Hild''s place. I doubt we''d have time for detours."

    Arinel was unfazed.

    "I''m sure we could cut the preparations." She glanced at the sun, "We still have a few hours before sundown. Please, Sir Bayne. It''s for Meya and the Greeneyes."

    The Lady grasped his arms. Jerald stared at the masked face and imagined those pleading blue eyes through the black glass. He peered into the carriage. An acid green eye glowed in the shade. Meya had taken off her mask, her back curved, her face ashen and her gaze faraway, as Lady Heloise and Lady Agnes relieved her of the multitude of jewelry on her person. He nodded with a sigh,

    "Very well, my lady."

    The Lady burst into a smile of relief. She squeezed his arms briefly, then allowed him to help her aboard.

    The carriage shimmied to life just as Arinel settled down in her seat facing the rear, between Heloise and Fione. She strained around and peered through the doorway. Gretella was leaned towards Jerald, no doubt filling him in on what the girls were up to.

    Arinel beamed her grandmother a silent thanks, the scrutinized her fellow passengers. As was customary for the Lady, Meya had taken the front-facing seat in the middle, flanked by Agnes and Amara. Being the lone gentleman, Frenix had volunteered for the rear seat. His curly head bobbed in and out of sight through the rear window as he enjoyed the view and the breeze.

    Meya had kept silent all through their trip back to the surface, responding to their frantic pestering for results with listless nods and shakes of her head. Now that she''d shed her mask, Arinel appreciated just how pale she was.

    Agnes had relieved Meya of the adornments they had piled on to create her Madam Dunstaal persona, and Heloise was arranging them in their velvet boxes. Meya held onto Coris'' ruby brooch, fidgeting with it on her lap as she stared morosely into space.

    Arinel tugged off her mask and covered those restless fingers with hers. Meya looked up with her left eye and an empty metallic socket. Her right eye had been slotted into the chough statue in place of the boy''s, as part of her scheme.

    "What happened in there?"

    Meya had set out to shake her head then felt the burn of five pairs of eyes on her face. Frenix flipped around and poked his head inside. Sighing, Meya twiddled the brooch''s pin and nodded,

    "He''s got this cloak on display." She gestured over her shoulder in the direction of the Falls, "It''s made of amiant and embroidered with Lattis yarn."

    Heloise and Fione shared a look. Arinel glanced at Agnes, arguably the most studious of the immediate party, now that Coris wasn''t available, but the Lady Graye shook her head. Meya continued,

    "I was almost sold off by Greeneye traffickers once. Just last Fest, actually."

    Heloise seized up in fear. Fione leaned in, her wide eyes transfixed on Meya. Frenix''s grip tightened on the windowframe. Agnes'' hand flew to her mouth. Her eyes met Arinel''s as the same inkling began taking shape in their minds.

    "I remember. Those were the first hangings I''ve ever seen." Agnes whispered. Arinel tightened her grip on Meya''s sweaty hands, remembering all too vividly the dying throes of the five wicked men, as they swayed from freshly erected gallows.

    "Mine as well. They were the first hangings in Crosset after Bailiff Johnsy."

    Meya nodded. Or she could have just been bobbing to the rhythm of the carriage.

    "Them traffickers used one of those cloaks to knock me out." She smoothed the hairs on her shivering arms, "Now I know it''s because sleeping draught doesn''t work on Greeneyes like me."

    "Oh, Meya."

    Agnes gathered the shaken girl into her arms. Meya''s bloodshot eye bulged as she sucked in her lips, willing back the lone teardrop that had welled. She rubbed her eye with the heel of her hand,

    "What did you do with those cloaks, my lady?" She turned to Arinel, wringing her trembling lips to form a half-grin, "Amiant and Lattis don''t burn, do they? They''re nigh indestructible."

    Arinel forced her lips into a consoling smile.

    "Lattis, perhaps. But not amiant. The alchemist dissolved the robe in vitriol and buried the Lattis yarn. Rest assured, it could never be used on another Greeneye."

    She slid her other hand under Meya''s, enclosing them between hers. Meya gave her first genuine smile ever since she had donned (and discarded) her disguise, then chuckled as Frenix playfully patted the top of her head. Heloise, however, wasn''t at ease.

    "How many are still out there, though?" She muttered, her shaking hands clinging tight to one another on her lap, "It''s a chilling thought. Wrap a cloak around a Greeneye, and you can whisk them away anywhere."

    Heloise clutched her head, her strangled voice filtering through her mane of golden-brown hair.

    "Fyr, I hate being a Greeneye."

 Milking Blood

    The gum farmer''s name was Elmund Herzin. He lived in the village among fellow farmers outside the western wall. Having been a farmer herself, Meya had been leery for them to venture beyond the wall only to arrive at an empty house, and thus they decided to ascertain his whereabouts first.

    Just as well, too. A copper coin to a member of the roadside gambling ring revealed Elmund had entered the west gate with his son and passed by nary a quarter hour earlier. He was headed for The Tunnels, promising to return with gold to spare in an hour.

    The alarming news sent them hurtling after Elmund''s trail at full speed. Well, the highest speed possible on a one-lane bazaar street crammed with tourists, locals and wagons.

    The Tunnels was their other destination, the underground¡ªfiguratively and literally¡ªmarket recommended by Tyriel Wert, where Greeneye ''goods'', among other illegal merchandise, were traded. What part of his poor boy was Elmund meaning to trade this time? It couldn''t have been another eye, as he could have just revisited Tyriel for that.

    That wasn''t reassuring.

    As Meya fidgeted with Coris''s brooch, the pad of her pointer finger brushed past the ring of scar tissue on its regenerated twin. The idea hit her like a battering ram to the belly.

    Greeneyes can regrow body parts. Which means...

    Meya had nothing left in her stomach to expel by this point, but her brain was having trouble comprehending that, spinning freely inside her skull as it was.

    Oh no. Oh please. Please no.

    Meya fell against the headrest, burrowing her head into the supple cushions. Taking deep breaths, she closed her eye and pressed the lid down tight, trying to squeeze out the late afternoon sunlight streaming in through the windows.

    The carriage slowed to a halt. Meya swallowed her nausea, sat up and peered outside. Jerald had parked at the lip of a seedy arcade between an apothecary and an alehouse.

    Another two coppers down the gambler''s pocket had coaxed out directions to the elusive flea market, which took Jerald three patient repetitions to commit to mind and paper. Its entrance was concealed in the maze of side alleys that ran alongside the main marketplace.

    The alleys were too narrow for horses, let alone a wagon. A fleeting survey of the populace¡ªwicker bins spilling rotten produce, rabid overgrown rats chasing mangy cats, vagrants huddled against filth-stained walls, drunkards flexing their vocal cords, addicts guzzling down laudanum-laced gum drink¡ªresulted in a heated spit-spraying match between Jerald and Gretella versus the youngsters.

    Much to their chagrin, Frenix and Amara were forced to remain behind under Gretella''s watch, while Jerald led the older girls onwards.

    They ventured forth in single file, Meya leading the way, followed by Arinel, Heloise, Fione and Agnes. Jerald brought up the rear, a hand on the scabbard of his sword, another on its hilt, glaring menacingly at the alley''s stirring inhabitants.

    Rats slunk in and out of sight atop mounds of decomposing garbage. Mangy hounds barked their displeasure but dared not draw near for fear of the wooden stick Meya wielded. Some cats were hungry enough to approach, though. With a desperate swipe, Meya sent them scampering back to the wayside. There they lingered, hissing curses as she threaded her way around scraps of rotting cabbage, gnawed-dry chicken bones, and blobs of their combined droppings.

    It was overwhelming even for a peasant, but as much as Meya longed to check on her noble companions, she didn''t think it wise to lose sight of such a treacherous path, especially with her field of vision halved like this.

    "Take a left at the next crossroads." Arinel whispered into her ear. Meya nodded, her eye lingering warily on the drunkard to the left. The eye sockets of his mask hovered at the level of her bosom, and he licked his lips.

    Meya clutched the ruby brooch in her cloak pocket and hurried forward to take the turn, making a mental note to ask Zier if he''d teach her how to swing a sword, once they were safe in Jaise Castle.

    The remnants of life, however wretched, faded as they advanced deeper into the maze. After a quarter-hour, Meya arrived at what Arinel promised was the penultimate step: counting manhole covers.

    "Four...five...six...seven. Here we are."

    Gathering up her skirt and cloak so the hems wouldn''t sweep the litter on the pavement, Meya crouched beside a circular metal plate embossed with the chough, Jaise''s symbol animal. The plate was caked with grime and dusted with grit. It was hinged on one side, a strip of curved metal welded onto the other.

    Meya spun the tip of her rod up against the hole, trying to weasel it in, to no avail. Jerald strode to the nearby wall and returned with the hook-topped stick leaning against it.

    Meya scrambled to her feet and made way, shuddering at the thought of descending underground again so soon, as she watched the knight slot the hook into the slit.

    "Can you fit a whole market in there? What''s a manhole, anyway? " She asked the party at large. As Jerald braced himself to pop the lid, Agnes tugged Meya''s sleeve for her to retreat.

    "Manholes open to underground tunnels where the pipes run and plumbers work. We''d find them in large towns like Meriton or spa towns like this." She explained over the grinding creak of the hinge as Jerald heaved up the plate. It was about as thick as Meya''s middle finger is long. "This section''s probably been disused for some time."

    Jerald rested the lid with the softest thud he could manage. The girls crowded around the gaping hole it left behind. The late afternoon sun sliced a slanting path down the brick-laid wall, revealing a metal ladder leading into solid darkness.

    Meya glanced around the ring. Even with her mask on, she spied Heloise''s discomfort from her restlessly churning lips. Jerald''s cloak rustled as he rose to his feet. With a bow, he reached for the ladder and lowered himself first.

    Steeling herself with a deep breath, Meya planted her hand on the ladder to signal she would be second. The dull clangs of Jerald''s boots hitting the rungs grew fainter with every yard he descended, topped off with a flump of feet on stone. There was a pause they hoped was Jerald surveying his new surroundings, then his voice echoed back up to the surface,

    "All is well. Please come down, I''ll receive you."

    The girls heaved a sigh of relief as one. Meya tightened her grip on the rusting metal, reached for the other railing, then dipped her first foot towards the top rung, which fell about an arm''s length below the lip of the hole. She descended nimbly, her arms strengthened from a decade working the plow and thrashing bushels of wheat. The gray-black darkness dispersed into orange-brown light as she neared the bottom of the pit. She looked over her shoulder and saw Jerald''s outstretched hands waiting for her.

    "There we go." Jerald grunted as he eased Meya to the stone floor. As he turned away to await the next arrival, Meya turned towards the light.

    They were standing in a circular alcove beside a narrow stone-paved passageway. Rusty copper pipes ran the length of the vaulted ceiling towards nowhere, their journey illuminated by pole-mounted lamps flickering along the meandering path, stalls and stands hosted by masked merchants crammed in between.

    Sacks of salt, sugar and spice lined the walls alongside barrels of wine, and bundles of untaxed Tyldornian silk, satin and leather. Raw jewels and metal ores twinkled and gleamed on threadbare carpets, illegally mined in Latakia. Unregistered prostitutes mingled with browsing clients on the lane, distinguishable by their yellow cloaks. If not for the luxurious and illegal nature of the goods, Meya would''ve mistaken it for a weekend bazaar, albeit subterranean.

    Unauthorized tale usage: if you spot this story on Amazon, report the violation.

    At last, Heloise made her way down to Jerald''s supporting arms and touched her feet to solid ground. As she glanced around, taking her bearings, Jerald peered out the alcove for a quick survey, then withdrew and turned to Meya and Arinel.

    "I propose we stay close together. Keep an eye out for stalls trading Greeneye parts. I''ll do the asking."

    They stepped onto the thoroughfare in pairs¡ªJerald with Meya, Arinel with Agnes, and Fione with Heloise, taking note of crossroads where the avenue branched away to similarly vibrant corridors.

    Fione spotted a stall toting unearthed Greeneye bones and eyes on a side-lane. The masked merchant was carrying a heated haggling session with a masked woman, who held her baby in one arm and held its leg up with the other. A Lattis bangle shimmered over the babe''s ankle.

    Jerald approached them both with a silver coin, but none of them recalled seeing Elmund. Their search resumed, then stopped two crossroads later.

    They were a few steps away from the intersection. A queue of around a dozen masked men and women hugged the wall, leading towards the lip of the sidelane to the right, where a masked man had set up his table. An off-white cloth sign swung from its metal arm nailed into the stone, bearing a large, vivid red teardrop.

    The woman at the table had finished whatever business she had with the doorman, and she proceeded into the lane. The next man in line edged up to the table.

    Meya rushed in to see better, prompting Jerald to pick up his stride. The table had nothing upon it but the doorman''s hands, a flickering candle, and an upended needle stood on a stone.

    The man knew what to do. He reached towards the needle, his pointer finger outstretched. He pricked it with a swift flick, then hovered his bleeding finger over the candleflame.

    A drop of blood plummeted from the oozing pool. The fire rose up to swallow it, then flashed acid green.

    The doorman nodded, and the Greeneye man advanced into the lane. Meya strained her neck to keep him in sight. What she saw in the avenue froze her blood in her veins.

    Dozens of chairs and tables lined the wall, more than half occupied by men, women and even children as small as Mistral. Gum tubes trailed from one of their arms they had laid on the tables, one end swinging in thin air above a tin jar at the floor, dripping red liquid.

    Over at the opposite wall, three large vats like the ones back in Hadrian Castle''s scullery sat billowing steam. Masked men stood on benches around them, stirring with enormous paddles what appeared to be crimson soup.

    Elmund Herzin wasn''t selling his son''s other eye. Nor his regenerating limbs.

    He was selling his blood.

    <hr>

    "Meya! It''s him! To the left!"

    Arinel''s frantic hiss jolted Meya from her trance. She combed the area with her eyes and found him at the opposite lip of the alley.

    Across from the gatekeeper with his candle and needle, another masked man sat behind a table laden with a ledger, an abacus and a coin tray. Blood sellers carrying tin jars meandered up to him from the simmering blood vats.

    The latest seller, a young brunette who eerily resembled Jezia both in hairstyle and height, staggered up and slammed three blood-crusted jars onto the tabletop. Next in line was a man wearing a mask with HERZIN emblazoned across the forehead in weathered white paint. He ambled up to take the girl''s spot, clutching the handles of two tin jars in one hand, and in the other, the sleeve of his son''s black veil.

    Meya tugged Jerald''s arm, then threaded her way to the nearest stand selling ivory carvings, deer antlers and other animal items. Jerald knelt down and pretended to browse the wares, providing cover for Meya to act the bored daughter while she spied on their target.

    Elmund Herzin was of middling height and build, yet the boy''s head barely reached his waist. His yellowish hand hung limply from his sleeve, attached to a bony wrist that would''ve fitted his father''s grasp with room to jostle in.

    The lass with the ponytail tottered tipsily away, her earnings clutched in one fist, her bandaged arm in another. Elmund dragged his son along as he hurried forward, thrusting the jars onto the wobbly table with a clatter. The gatekeeper scribbled a number in his ledger, tossed the jars into the half-filled barrel behind him, then pinched up two coins from among the several rows of white-silver in his tray.

    "That''d be two silvers for yeh." He slapped the pay into Elmund''s waiting palm, catching a glimpse of Elmund''s son as he did. He gestured a distracted finger as he bent down and ready his quill with a dip in the inkwell,

    "Yeh might wanna give it a coupla months next time. Boy''s pale as a Northerner."

    The advice was drowned in the jangle of coins as Elmund busied himself with the drawstring of his money pouch. His two silvers secured, he marched off without even the barest nod to the gatekeeper. His son stumbled after him, the soles of his straw slippers barely lifting off the pavement as his legs lagged leaden behind the rest of his body.

    "Dad¡ª" The boy gasped as they passed by Meya. Elmund didn''t slow nor turn around. "¡ªDad, I need a rest."

    Meya slipped behind them in time to catch Elmund''s reply,

    "And I need to see a man about a dog. So move them legs."

    Either out of protest or fatigue, the boy abandoned his feeble attempt at walking. Elmund''s hand freed his son''s slipping sleeve, only to snatch at his collar instead. He was on the verge of soldiering on, his son''s windpipe be damned, when the boy panted,

    "Three bronzes." He mustered his strength and looked up at his father, "You promised."

    Elmund''s knuckles paled as he tightened his grip on his son''s collar. He seemed to be debating whether to part with some change and be rid of his son instantly, or to be miserly and endure pestering all the way to the gambling ring. In the end, impatience won. Elmund yanked open his pouch, rummaged for the bronzes and brasses scuttling at the bottom, then tossed them to his son as if they were coated with pus.

    "Now shoo!" He hissed as he hitched up his sagging belt, barking over his shoulder as he hurried off, "And have dinner ready when I''m back!"

    The boy stared after his father''s receding back, then fell heavily against a stretch of tunnel wall, where no vendor had claimed as backrest while they peddled their illegal goods.

    Meya hung back until he had slid down to the cold stones, head on his knees, before drawing near. The boy looked up, alerted by the shade of their shadows sweeping over his huddled form. He surveyed the cloaked figures, then pressed his back against the wall and his unsteady feet on the ground, ready to vacate at once.

    "This your spot, miss?" He croaked, swaying from blood loss and shivering from the cold. Meya''s heart writhed as she crouched down one leg at a time, as if she were approaching a cowering bunny.

    "No. I''m looking for Elmund Herzin''s son."

    The boy seized up in fear.

    "Dad owes you something, too?" He raised his trembling hand and pointed in Elmund''s direction, "He''s got two silvers on him. But not for long. You''d better hurry."

    "No, no, no. I happen to have summat of yours." Meya raised her hands hastily, then waggled her fingers at the congregation behind her. Heloise rooted in her pocket then dug out a silk casket. She knelt down, tipped open the box and turned it towards the boy.

    The boy drew in a sharp breath as his glowing eye stared back at him. He glanced at Meya, down at his eye, and back up again, his pale lips parted in disbelief.

    "You settled the debt?" He flattened himself against the wall, as if hoping to become part of the stone, "I don''t have gold. I don''t have blood. I don''t have nothing to pay you."

    "You need only to come serve our lady." Meya forced her voice through the bitter lump of swallowed tears and fury in her throat, "You''ll have your eye back, and plenty of meat to put some flesh under that skin, and some blood under those cheeks."

    The boy considered it, then shook his head. An unwise move, as it sent him cradling his head in nausea right after.

    "I can''t." He whimpered, his voice muffled by his knees as he curled in on himself, "Dad says I gotta cook and go to work. And come give blood here."

    But you don''t need to!

    Meya longed to retort. She couldn''t understand the boy. Meya was never one to bow and meekly accept unfairness. She would''ve been long gone to make a life of her own if it were her.

    But should the boy''s reply have come at any surprise, though? The boy had routinely sacrificed his blood to satisfy his heartless father. Even went so far as pawning off his eye. He was far gone. Meya had no idea how to coax him back to his senses.

    Jerald laid a firm hand on Meya''s shoulder. He knelt down before the shivering poor thing, asking tenderly,

    "What''s your name, my lad?"

    The boy started, then looked up. His lips glistened with drying tears.

    "Atmund." He croaked.

    Jerald gave a few deep nods, then unfurled a melancholic smile.

    "It''s a good name. Pity your father uses it so sparingly."

    Atmund sniffed, then slid a hand behind his mask to rub at his eye. Jerald picked his other eye up from the casket,

    "Atmund, I''m Sir Bayne, a knight. I serve Lady Crosset. Our Lady would deal with your permit¡ªand your father, if need be. My only question for you is," Atmund looked up, his hand still stuck behind his mask. Jerald''s kind smile widened,

    "Would you like to come with us, and never have to sell one drop of your blood again? See the whole of Latakia with your own two eyes? Travel the road to Aynor with two strong legs?"

    Atmund seemed stunned, his lips churned with hesitance.

    "Should you stay, your father would continue letting your blood for two silvers every fortnight. Until the day you collapse. Or die."

    Atmund shuddered. Jerald leaned closer, gazing straight into those empty eye sockets probably obscuring a wide, fearful eye.

    "You know it wouldn''t get any better. You know you''re nearing your limit. You must admit defeat, Atmund. Tis the only way you can move on to new beginnings."

    "What about Dad?" Atmund asked, pale hands clenching to trembling fists on his wobbly knees. Jerald steadied them with his large hand.

    "You owe him nothing, my lad. Whatever I imagine he may say to the contrary." The knight shook his head, his eyes never once wavering from Atmund, "No father should feel entitled to be repaid for siring a child. Nevertheless, you have paid much more than any son would have, to a father who has given nothing but his name and his seed."

    Atmund''s lips trembled as he gritted his teeth against a second onslaught of bitter tears. Jerald squeezed his hand. He was no longer smiling, and his face was downcast.

    "You are worthy of a father''s love, Atmund. And you will find it elsewhere."

    Hot tears bubbled up in Meya''s eyes. Of course, Jerald would understand Atmund. He himself had been rejected by two blood fathers, abandoned to be raised by the church.

    Meya studied him as he warmed the sobbing Atmund''s hand within his. She couldn''t help wondering if Jerald had found a father of his own.

 The Eye in the Beholden

    Jaise Castle stood out from all the castles Meya had seen so far¡ªwhich totaled to two. Then again, the number of castles your average peasant would see throughout his lifetime would seldom be over one. Three for a lass her age was already unheard of at best and impressive at the very least.

    Instead of a sprawling white stone complex, adorned with turrets and towers, perched on a hill, surrounded by a deep moat or a thick crenellated wall, Jaise Castle was a lone column of gray-black stone rising up at the heart of a manmade lake, the pupil of a jewel-clear cerulean iris.

    Sleek shadows of bass and trout sailed alongside their rowboat as it cleaved its way towards the levee, then darted for the safety of open waters when Meya skimmed her hand on the surface. Now that she had put on her Lattis coin, the water was lukewarm to the touch.

    Once Meya had stepped from the wobbling boat onto the quay, the chamberlain led them through the arched doorway, which opened to the Great Hall. Despite the extra items in the itinerary, it seemed they weren''t appallingly tardy¡ªmaids and servants spilled out of the scullery door, ferrying out platters of food, and sliding trenchers before the hosts and guests around the Lord''s table. The attendants'' tables were still bare.

    At Meya''s entrance, the cloaked figure at the center of the main table¡ªLady Winterwen Jaise¡ªturned her veiled head in her direction, then stood up. The flurry of activity skidded to an abrupt halt, then the whole room followed suit, amidst a cacophony of benches scraping over stone.

    The chamberlain stepped forth into the center aisle between the long tables, prompting Meya to lead her entourage along in his wake. She felt the phantom heat of dozens of eyes scrutinizing her through glass masks on every inch of her body¡ªhalf of them probably thinking about dinner or their protesting knees¡ªand she quickened her pace.

    As she approached the end of the aisle, Meya noticed Sirs Jarl, Simon and Christopher perched at the head of the table to the left. Jerald, Atmund, Arinel, Agnes, Heloise and Fione edged in single file before the long bench and settled down, while Gretella herded Frenix and Amara over to the table on the right.

    Lady Jaise''s veiled head revolved on her bare, swanlike neck, shrouded eyes following Meya''s progress as she advanced alone. Meya took note of the raised dais and lifted her dress, freeing her feet. Yet, the tip of her foot caught on the edge of the granite step, and she stumbled.

    Curse you, Freda! I''ve gone hours with one eye. And you chose now of all times to trip me?!

    Meya stood rigid, bent double, paralyzed not by pain nor embarrassment, but the certainty that should she relax one muscle, the curse-laden scream to the spiteful goddess she had been holding back would let loose.

    Coris had stepped around the table and was striding towards her. He led her forth by the hand, gloved fingers hovering about yet not touching her wrist. Meanwhile, Zier was sheepishly edging back to his seat, having lurched a few steps out from behind his chair when Meya tripped.

    The Hadrian boys obviously believed she was Arinel. Over to Lady Jaise, however, the seedlings of doubt were rattling in their shells¡ªZier''s gaffe did not go unnoticed. Lady Jaise''s face was now turned towards him. So were those of her husband, son and two daughters far down the table.

    Drat it, Zier. Could you do nothing right?

    Once Coris had deposited Meya in her seat, Lady Jaise finally gathered her dress and sat back down, signaling the servants to resume their dinnertime hustle and bustle. As a tray of roasted trout resting on a bed of potatoes and blanketed with lemon slices landed before her, Lady Jaise leaned across Coris to greet Meya,

    "Does it still hurt, Lady Hadrian? Shall I summon the healer?"

    Lady Jaise had the deep, clear, calm voice of an older, larger, more imposing woman than her cloaked silhouette suggested. A goblet of water was already sitting on the table before Meya. She took a quick sip to moisten her vocal cords, then answered the lady with a sweet smile.

    "No, my lady, thank you." She said in her best imitation of Arinel''s voice, which wasn''t good enough¡ªshe noticed Coris starting out of the corner of her eye, "My deepest apologies. That was most unbecoming."

    Lady Jaise shook her head with a melodramatic sigh. Her heavy curtain of rich, wavy dark brown hair which fell to her hips rippled slightly.

    "Please, the blame rests upon the host." Her bow lips stretched into a sealed smile under the lace hem of her veil, "I do hope you would find our humble town pleasant still?"

    "Why, of course, my lady." Meya forced out a breathy giggle, nudging up her mask so Winterwen wouldn''t spot the band of sweat now popping up along her hairline.

    As he piled food onto her trencher, Coris sneaked glances at her chest, which was obviously not Arinel-sized. To assuage his doubts, Meya pushed a pickled olive through her lips onto her tongue, then propelled it down her throat whole. (Meya hated pickles)

    Lady Winterwen tilted her head, her smile unraveling at the hems.

    "Your tone hints otherwise." She challenged. Meya''s smile sagged. Winterwen turned away and tore a morsel off her unleavened bread, then soaked it in the centerpiece meat stew.

    "Tell us about your day¡ªwith honesty." She commanded in an airy voice edged with ice.

    Meya stiffened her shoulders to weather the sudden chill. And she''d thought no precarious situation would intimidate her after she had survived her ordeal with Gillian. Lady Jaise had turned back to face her, chewing soundlessly. Meya hitched her shiny smile back up.

    "We headed first to the Pearly Falls, my lady, and we ended up spending our whole afternoon there. The scenery is breathtaking, and the hot bath did much to expel the ache and chills from the long journey."

    Lady Jaise unfurled her tight little smile. Just as Meya was letting down her guard, she uttered a single, resounding verdict,

    "Deceit."

    Winterwen''s voice must have carried to the first seats along the attendants'' table. The buzzing in the hall gave way to an echoing silence as the occupants turned in ripples to peer at the Lord''s table.

    Meya saw all this out of the corner of her eye as she stared dumbly back at Lady Jaise, frozen by chilling horror. Coris was trying his utmost to appear unruffled and politely confused, even as his trembling, sweaty hand clasped over Meya''s on her lap. Meya was already thankful that he at the least did not bury her deeper in her early grave with an I told you so.

    Winterwen propped her elbow on the table and leaned her chin against her hand,

    "Your hair is dry. Your fingers aren''t wrinkled from long hours in the water. Your skin is pale from cold. You smell faintly of blood. Your voice is ventriloquized and uneven." She listed, as her long, lance-like fingers caressed the contours of her high cheekbones pushing through her veil. Her icy smile stretched wide, "You did not come straight from the Pearly Falls, Lady Hadrian. Rather, are you even Lady Hadrian to begin with?"

    Even with the roaring fireplace behind her, it felt as if a lake of chilled winter air had just oozed in through every gap in the flagstones. Coris gripped her hand so tight, she felt the bones of her fingers grating against each other.

    He was signaling her to surrender. Surrender now, while he could still defuse the situation. For he could not speak for her. Yet.

    But she couldn''t surrender. Meya had prepared back-up plans, of course. But the one non-negotiable element was Winterwen must believe she wielded the authority of Lady Hadrian. And for that, she still had one last card up her chest compartment.

    Meya slotted on a smile just as serene and chilly as her opponent,

    "You''re very observant, Lady Jaise." A praise. Not confirming. Nor refuting. Winterwen tilted her head, her smile now smug. Not at all enraged nor alarmed by the prospect of an impostor infiltrating her home.

    "A common pitfall among both those who discern and deceit is to focus on the face, when lies also reveal themselves in other ways." She flourished her hand towards the room at large, "Being raised amidst concealed faces allows our eyes to roam, and seek out other, surer proofs of deceit."

    Meya gave a few deep nods, accepting defeat,

    "True, I may not have come straight from the Falls. The reason for which, I have wished to reveal in private company. To save you from embarrassment. My experience of your town has not been positive, I am afraid." She laid out her argument in words weaved by Agnes and Arinel, "But I do not see why I would be an impostor."

    This story has been unlawfully obtained without the author''s consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.

    "It could just be my paranoia, in which case I apologize," Winterwen glanced at Coris, "but I shall have Lord Hadrian attest to that."

    Meya blinked sweat out of her eye. Winterwen stared at her, then commanded brusquely,

    "Please remove your masks. Both of you."

    Now that was part of the plan. Meya considered it a stroke of luck amidst a maelstrom of surefire disaster¡ªher adversary actually saved her the trouble of charting the uncertain course up to her big ace play.

    Still, she shouldn''t seem too eager, or it might heighten suspicion.

    "Wouldn''t that go against your creed?" Meya challenged. The Lady shook her head with a sigh of amusement.

    "I, my family, and the occupants of this hall have visited other towns and seen countless faces." She said, "Our creed is voluntary. Jaisians are free to gaze upon another face, or let their own face be gazed upon. So long as it does not intrude upon the choice of others within our walls."

    Meya nodded, then obligingly discarded her mask, and waited for the uproar.

    Now, Coris. Don''t let me down. Forget whatever I told you in bed and just let loose, my lad.

    Meya faced Coris fully as he raised his gaze from his mask, making sure the empty socket of her eye was as visible as possible.

    Coris''s performance started subtle, with widening eyes, blanching cheeks and slacking, wordlessly flapping jaws. At long last, words found him,

    "Goodly Freda." He breathed, his shaking hand reaching towards the gaping metallic hole of her missing eye. His icy finger traced the puffy bag below her eye, then gently prodded her eyelid, jerking away in terror when it sunk under his touch.

    Meya watched as he gulped and gasped incomprehensible words. She watched the grief, the fury, the guilt emerge after the shock faded in those eyes she adored, and she steeled her gaze against the battering torrent of tears, even as she whispered hundreds of apologies within.

    "What in the three lands¡ªWho did this to you?" Coris cried, his husky voice cracking. His trembling hands cradled her face as if it were a leaking hourglass, "Does it hurt? Bishop Riddell! See to the Lady, NOW!"

    Coris sprang to his feet, hollering for his healer, who jolted out of his seat and came waddling up the aisle. Meya bolted up, tugging at his arm.

    "It''s alright, Coris! It doesn''t hurt. I took it out myself." She pleaded. Coris''s eyes were bloodshot and desperate, and he was still panting heavily.

    Bishop Riddell stood at the end of the table, awaiting his command. One that would never come.

    "I have never known Lady Crosset to be a Greeneye."

    Winterwen interrupted as she rose leisurely to her feet, more occupied with straightening the wrinkles on her dress than her guests. Coris spun around. Meya squeezed his arm to signal she would handle this herself.

    "Not surprising, considering the marriage prospects of a Greeneye lady in Latakia." She retorted with a sneer, "Especially now that I''ve seen how Greeneyes are treated in this town, I feel it safer for the true nature of I and other Greeneyes in my service to remain hidden."

    Meya paused to size up her opponent''s reaction. Winterwen didn''t respond, so she turned and addressed the hall instead,

    "But safety does not bring about change. As a privileged Greeneye, I am honor bound to raise my voice on behalf of those whom power would not heed."

    Winterwen raised a smile of mild amusement, which both propelled Meya up a wall of Amplevale proportions and chilled her like the winds of Icemeet. The Lady clasped her hands at her middle, playing along.

    "And who would that be?"

    Gathering her courage, Meya nodded then turned and met eyes with Jerald. The knight promptly stood up, a hand on Atmund''s back.

    Shivering, the boy got to his feet and shuffled over, with constant quick glances at the staring public, and incessant fidgeting of his hands. Even with his mask on, it was all too obvious the only thing keeping him walking was courtesy for Jerald''s lingering hand of reassurance.

    Meya nodded at him, projecting confidence from her single eye while suppressing her own fear, and Atmund''s legs seemed to wobble a little less. Once he had toddled into her arm''s reach, she gathered him gently to her side, then faced Winterwen once more.

    "This is Atmund Herzin. He''s a gum farmer, and a Greeneye. He''s barely ten."

    She drew from the bloodless cold and protruding bones of Atmund''s shoulder pressed up against her palm to fuel her determination, knowing that her voice must not only carry throughout the room, but through the shroud of indifference over Winterwen''s humanity,

    "His father Elmund frequents the gamblehouse. He forces Atmund to sell blood every fortnight to fund it." Winterwen was a sculpture under her veil and cloak. Desperate, Meya spun around and appealed to the whole room, "To settle a debt, he also pawned off Atmund''s eye to Sir Tyriel Wert, which Tyriel then mounted on a statue over the hot springs. For all to see!"

    She raised her hand, jabbing a finger in the direction of the Pearly Falls. A chorus of murmurs and gasps rose to engulf the echoes of her outburst, and Meya breathed freer as she turned back to the Jaise ruler.

    "I could have simply brought this atrocity to your notice. But I doubt it would have the same impact, upon both you and my husband¡ª"

    She spared a glance at Coris, who was still wide-eyed and mouth ajar, arms outstretched as if to catch her should she tip over, then spun back to Winterwen,

    "¡ªhad it not been my eye now decorated on that statue in place of Atmund''s."

    Silence descended upon the room, a curtain heavy as night, as the two women locked eyes, one shrouded and one blazing. Meya did not lower her arm, still pointing defiantly to the town beyond the lake, her bated breaths loud in her ears.

    If Lady Jaise remained unmoved, her last resort is to bring this to court and force Tyriel to return her eye over usury charges. But it would be far less than what she had aimed for. Far less than what Atmund¡ªand every Greeneye¡ªdeserved.

    Winterwen stood still as stone. Unfeeling or petrified, thanks to her veil it was unfathomable. At long last, she blew out a labored sigh, her shoulders now hunched. She nodded slowly, her voice somber and quiet,

    "Of course it would, Meya Hild."

    It there ever were a moment one would fear one''s own name, this would be it. Meya''s knees buckled and she stumbled back into her chair. Zier steadied her with a firm grasp on her elbow, and her wide-eyed view of Lady Jaise was partially obscured by Coris stepping in, ready to defend her lost case.

    Yet, Winterwen simply smiled sadly and shook her head.

    "Your eye conveyed your memories to me. You must learn to control your thoughts." Her cryptic explanation did little to hearten her startled guests. She turned to Coris, but her words were still directed to Meya,

    "Yet, Lord Hadrian''s concern for you is genuine. Lawfully wedded or not, in his eyes you are his Lady."

    Then, as the dumbfounded youngsters looked on, Winterwen raised her hands and lifted off her silver circlet, from which gleaming teardrops of jet and moonstone dangled. She laid it soundlessly on the table, then folded up her veil.

    Meya bit back her scream a split-second too late. It wasn''t that Lady Jaise was unbearably ugly or deformed¡ªfar from it, actually. She was blessed with most of Latakia''s ideal attributes for a woman¡ªthick, straight eyebrows, straight and prominent nose, wide, full lips and defined cheeks all deftly arranged on her oval face. Her olive skin was not marred by a single freckle nor pimple.

    Her right eye, however, was a glowing acid green. But where its pair should be, was a raw, moist pink, half-open empty socket.

    A Greeneye?

    The notion whizzed first into Meya''s brain, as soon as she had gathered her senses. But, if so, her empty socket should have been metallic, like Meya''s own. So, what exactly...?

    Her serene smile unshaken by the horrified and queasy expressions of the room''s occupants, Winterwen stretched out her hand towards Meya, who gingerly felt it with her barest fingertip. Her skin was cool to the touch. Not as cold as Coris, but as normal humans felt to her when Lattis wasn''t on her. She stared questioningly back up at the enigmatic Lady.

    "I was born without eyes." Winterwen lowered her veil. Her unaffected manner indicated it was out of empathy for onlookers rather than shame on her part. Meya couldn''t help admiring her courage.

    "It is a rare condition slightly more common among Jaisians, and slightly more so in my family. Perhaps because our ancestor forbade our people from enjoying the beauty of man, Freda cursed some of our blood to never be able to appreciate the beauty of all her other creations."

    Winterwen rested her hand, decorated with flowers and curlicues in crimson paint, over her missing eye.

    "Some consider it a curse. Some consider it a blessing. I myself hardly consider it. Still, I want to rule, and it is difficult for the sightless to rule the sighted. No books were yet written to be read by the blind."

    She flicked back a corner of her veil, again uncovering her glowing green eye.

    "This eye once belonged to a Greeneye who roamed the Sands of Caesonai in times of ancient." Meya could have sworn that eye gave her a covert wink, before Winterwen let down her veil once more. "I''ve ordered the desert men to bring me all the eyes they find in the Sands, in return for permission to forage for minerals there. I store them in our Library of Eyes here in the castle, where our Greeneyes study them."

    Winterwen wrung her clasped hands, then blew a quiet sigh, her face downcast,

    "Most out of the know assume I collect them. And I allow the rumor to spread. I must behave as if I am one of them. It is the only way I could think of to prevent those eyes being traded like doubloons from the seabed."

    "So, you''ve known?" Meya barely felt herself stepping out from behind Coris. One moment she was in awe and surprise at finding another ally, then just as soon disappointed and indignant. Winterwen dipped her head.

    "The gist, yes. Not the specifics." She glanced at Atmund, who jumped at being acknowledged by Lady Jaise herself, then back to Meya,

    "I haven''t heard of this outrageous case, and of the blood market in The Tunnels. But I''m aware of the sentiment towards Greeneyes, here in Jaise and the rest of Latakia."

    Winterwen heaved another sigh. She turned away, her chin on her chest as she propped a painted hand on the table. For the first time, she looked exhausted and defeated. Her husband stepped forth and rested his hand gently on her arm .

    Winterwen closed her hand over his, nodding deeply. She resurfaced and met Meya''s gaze once more,

    "I am beholden to your kind, for the sight that has allowed me to fulfill my duty to my people. In my youth, I have made bold moves to end the prejudice, but I soon learned that such audacity¡ªwhich you possess in such amounts, and have not yet lost¡ªwould be met with resistance just as ferocious."

    Winterwen''s lips tightened, and so did her husband''s lingering hand on her arm. Meya found herself nodding, as her back and calves burned with the phantom of invisible whips, and the scar on her tongue tingled like a loose scab.

    "Undoing a system of belief could take more than a lifetime, and I am by no means the wisest nor the mightiest."

    "Nevertheless, we shall persist." Winterwen''s husband interjected. Winterwen nodded, and added with a bow,

    "And setbacks do not make for excuses. I beg your forgiveness for my lack of oversight. I shall do better."

    Her vow still ringing in the silence, Winterwen straightened up and shook her curtain of hair back from her face.

    "Quida."

    She called sharply to the thin air before her. A lady-in-waiting stepped forth from the shadows behind the table,

    "Yes, Your Grace."

    "Prepare the carriage and the raft. I shall visit Sir Wert." Lady Jaise adjusted the silver corolla she had just deposited around her forehead, "Have the nurse tend to Atmund, and summon his father. We shall discuss the boy''s living arrangements when I return."

    The grand hall buzzed with excited chatter. Ignoring them, Winterwen turned back to her guests, whose smiles were slack with both relief and disbelief, and smiled in return.

    "I would be honored if you would accompany us, Meya Hild." Meya''s mouth fell open. Winterwen turned next to address her beau, "You as well, Lord Coris."

    If Coris was pale from trepidation earlier, he was now faint with thankfulness. His reply was for Lady Jaise, but his beaming silvery eyes and smile of pure joy and pride were solely for Meya,

    "With pleasure, my Lady."

 The Substitute

    It was hard to decide which was more gratifying¡ªLady Jaise marching into Tyriel''s cave gallery to demand him hand over his hidden accounts and ill-gotten relics (which included Meya''s eye), or her declaring to Elmund Herzin that Atmund would be placed under her wardship.

    What was more, as they rode Winterwen''s carriage back to the castle, Lady Jaise proposed they postpone their departure, so Meya could visit the Library of Eyes and learn more about dragons.

    To Meya''s delight, Coris agreed, but even first light tomorrow couldn''t have come quickly enough. The euphoria of triumph, the prospect of unraveling the mystery of her kind, had purged tire from her limbs and drowsiness from her head.

    "Could''ve taken us there straightaway. The night''s still young."

    Grumbled Meya, arms folded over her ample bosom. She lounged against the stone wall of the small bathing pool filled with steaming spring water by masked chambermaids.

    Coris shed his silken bathrobe then sat down on the edge, his feet cleaving through the water like butter knives through molass.

    "Patience, my dragon lady. She must investigate Wert''s finances and help Atmund settle in first."

    Meya glowered at him, to which Coris smiled in satisfaction. When his eyes fell upon her restored eye, his grin sagged. He lifted a hesitant hand, then caressed it with the barest tip of his fingers.

    "Does it still hurt?" He whispered. Even as her heart shuddered at the memory of Tyriel''s Lattis cloak and the blood market, Meya hitched up a brazen grin,

    "Peace, me human lord. I''m fine."

    Coris narrowed his eyes. Meya heaved a weary sigh of surrender.

    "Very well, I''m not." She mumbled. Coris slid down beside her. She leaned her head against his bony shoulder as he looped his arm around her back,

    "''Tis a good start, but now the road seems much longer than I thought."

    "You also gained allies. They''d make your journey speedier and smoother." Coris gave her arm a little squeeze. Meya didn''t hold back the smile that had crept up on her lips. She tried in vain to snuggle up against his flank. If only he''d had more flesh over his ribcage.

    "Sorry. For not telling you first." She murmured. Coris'' sigh caressed the top of her head. Or that could''ve been the draft from the gap in the drapes. One couldn''t tell from the similar lack of heat.

    "It''s all very well. I understand." So he said, but he gathered her close. Meya''s heart writhed with guilt. "You needed my genuine reaction to convince Winterwen you''re Lady Hadrian."

    "And you delivered flawlessly." Meya hid her blushing cheeks behind her hair. Coris shrugged.

    "I was scared out of my wits. I truly am." He laughed, as if he hoped it would distract from his trembling hand, "I was furious with myself. I''ve failed to protect my own."

    "I''m sorry." Meya coiled her arm around his waist, steering the topic away to lighten the mood,

    "Things turned out much different from what I''d expected, though. Better, even. Who would''ve thought Winterwen''s a secret champion of Greeneyes? I was thinking I''d threaten that bastard with a usury charge or summat, if I couldn''t get Winterwen to budge."

    Coris nodded deeply.

    "Now you''ve learned your lesson. Gather as much information as possible before making a decision. So you wouldn''t have to improvise."

    Meya rolled her eyes in equal parts annoyance, affection and amusement. Coris pulled away and turned to face her full. His gray eyes beaming, his cheeks rosy from the water''s heat, he looked awash with happiness. For the first time since she''d known him, the lingering air of decay and melancholy around him seemed to have thinned.

    Meya stared, mesmerized by the semblance of vigor and life. Coris tucked away a lock of wet hair dangling before her eyes.

    "Anyway, you were marvelous." He breathed, shaking his head in awe. His fingers trailed down to caress her jawline, yet his eyes never left hers, "I''ve seen how remarkable you could be, but you keep overwhelming me. I¡ªI¡ª"

    His voice died in his throat. His lips went on mouthing words he just as soon decided not to utter. In his excitement, he was on the verge of letting it out, but his good sense overrode him, held him back.

    Meya knew she shouldn''t hope for the impossible, but she had a vague idea what that slip could have been, could as well become. It was impossible not to wait with bated breath.

    So she stared, and waited, and searched his wavering eyes, his blanching face, as he continued to falter and fluster. She must have looked to all the world patient, unassuming. Yet, inside her, the cynic and the daydreamer battled for dominance. Her heart hammered like raindrops in a storm.

    Coris''s trembling lips settled on his empty smile, the vulnerable depths of his eyes shielded by a devious glint. He leaned in with a whisper,

    "I have a gift for you."

    "A gift?" Meya blurted out, her voice strangled through the bitter lump of disappointment she must swallow as the price for daring to hope. Coris rose from the pool and strode towards their bed, toweling himself dry. Blinking back rebellious tears, Meya hollered after him,

    "Why? What for?"

    "Nothing. Could be to commemorate your victory, if you''d like."

    Coris called over his shoulder. Meya frowned in bewilderment, watching as he knelt before the heavy wooden chest at the foot of their bed. He propped up its lid, tossing around its content with much thudding and rifling of leather and paper¡ªheavy books. Meya threw back her head with a cry of terror,

    "Oh, Fyr. Dun tell me..."

    "I have no choice but to." Coris straightened, a brick-thick leather-bound grimoire in his hand, along with some blank papers. Meya moaned and clawed at her face, her worst fears confirmed.

    Every night before tucking in, Coris would hone Meya''s vocabulary and spelling, using a list of words he curated from multitude of books. Afterward, they''d discuss the meaning and background of each word, during which Meya would glean valuable knowledge and understanding about Latakia''s inner workings.

    Meya greatly enjoyed the latter half¡ªand what usually came after that, of course, but that was only if she survived the endless lines Coris would punish her with for every misspelling.

    "Coris, ''tis already late!"

    Meya slid like dead weight down the wall of the pool. Coris spun around to find what resembled a submerged crocodile with glowing green eyes flaring from behind a curtain of yellow vines. His grin widened, undaunted even as he stood naked but for a towel around his waist against the chance of dragon fireballs.

    "Haven''t you just said the night is still young?"

    Bubbles frothed at Meya''s nose as she cursed underwater.

    "But I dun wanna study now!" Meya flipped onto her back, beating her limbs to stir up a water tantrum, "I''m lounging naked in a hot tub, for Freda''s sake! And you''re doing runes instead of me?"

    Coris was crouched beside the pool, arranging the book and stationery. He looked up, transfixed by the sight of his fair maiden lying splayed beneath the surface. The rippling, ice-clear water distorted her naked body as if to seduce. He grinned even as the beast within him rattled its cage, raring to feast.

    "Fear not, my lady. We''ll get around to that later." He reassured her with a smirk and a wink, slipping on his bathrobe as he settled cross-legged on the damp flagstones.

    "Education comes first. It''s in the royal decree. You won''t get to see your gift until you have completed your daily required study, as assigned by yours truly¡ª"

    "¡ªCoris Hadrian, the Pompous Donghead." Meya drawled. Coris chuckled as he tied the sash at his waist. The length of the remaining rope was chilling.

    Meya gritted her teeth against grief. He was doing this solely for her¡ªher and her future. As far as her little Lord Hadrian was concerned, he himself no longer had one.

    Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

    And so Meya obligingly left the water, toweled and robed. She planted herself opposite Coris, before the pile of linen paper and charcoal pencils he''d laid out. Coris couldn''t resist reaching over to muss up her hair at the adorable sight.

    Meya snatched his invading arm and held it hostage. Childish squabbling ensued between human and dragon. It was a while before study finally commenced.

    <hr>

    Two notches of the candle clock, countless lines, a pile of linen paper and one aching wrist later, Coris was finally satisfied with the amount of knowledge he had imparted to Meya, and she was freed from study.

    Meya had forgotten about the promised reward. She knelt before the mantelpiece, absentmindedly feeding spent papers to the ravenous fire, listening to its happy burps and cackling, when Coris''s pale hand slipped into her field of vision. He held a thin, rectangular box of reddish-brown wood.

    "What? Ah..."

    Her lips burst into a smile of delight. Coris chuckled as he settled beside her. His eyes twinkled in the firelight as he watched Meya undid the crimson satin cord,

    "It''s a famous Jaise export. And I know you have a liking for rose crystal."

    The lid fell away to reveal the gleam of smooth, clear pink peeking out through gaps in the lace of the drawstring bag. Meya scooped the trinket from its stuffed velvet bed and undressed it, rolling the rod of gum on her palm. She ran her finger over the indent sculpted around the tip, her concentration so intense she didn''t notice Coris trying not to bust his gut laughing.

    "Oh, Freda." She gasped with pure joy, even as she had yet to know what the thing was, still turning it lovingly between her fingers, "''Tis too pretty to eat."

    "Understandable. You''re not supposed to ingest it. Least not in the literal sense."

    Coris''s voice trembled with stifled laughter. Meya raised her eyebrows, then turned back to the candylike wand. She stripped away the lace bag. Its entirely didn''t look as savory as she''d assumed.

    "Eeeeeeeeeeek!"

    Coris roared with laughter as Meya shrieked her lungs out. The hideous creation pirouetted through the air and landed with a bounce on the bed, rearing its unholy head as if to smile for its new mistress. Meya gawked at it, panting, sputtering,

    "What the¡ªWhat in the three lands¡ª"

    "They call it The Substitute." Coris explained, his voice hoarse from all the laughing. His grin widened at Meya''s tomato-red face, "As in, whenever the lord is away, the lady could pleasure herself and remember him by¡ªOw!"

    Meya wielded the object of pleasure to inflict pain on her cheeky husband instead. Brandishing the gum-dong like a whip, she whacked at every inch of Coris she could reach as he cowered, strafed and ducked.

    "Ow! Ow! Ow! Meya! Please! Mercy! Ow!"

    The flurry of blows ended after one last resounding thwack smack on Coris''s crown. Coris lifted his head from under his arms and chanced a peek,

    "Meya?"

    Meya sat panting. The dark circles in her eyes grew to swallow her glowing irises. The Substitute rested its bulbous head on the floor before her knees, its shaft clutched in her trembling fingers. The absurd sight sent a church''s worth of bells clanging in his head.

    "Goodly Freda, it''s working." Coris breathed. Meya glowered.

    "Dun give me that. You know ''tis gunna work." She hissed through grinding teeth, struggling in vain to calm her ragged breathing. Coris shook his head, eyes bulging and jaw slack,

    "I didn''t know you can absorb it even when it''s powdered and mixed in gum¡ª"

    Meya launched herself at him. In a blink, his back was chafing against the warm, rough face of the woolen carpet. The cool silk of his bathrobe pressed on his torso as she moved above him. Then, it was her bare skin on his, hot metal on cold stone. Their hearts drummed in tandem, forceful as a blacksmith''s hammer, rapid as an army of galloping hooves.

    Her nails dug into the hollows of his cheeks as she held his face firm, strands of her damp hair trapped between their lips like bars of a cage, then her tongue rammed through to twist in his. She was waiting for him, but he wasn''t ready. Judging from long experience, he likely wouldn''t be for tonight.

    To Coris''s horror, Meya tore away his towel. Coris gritted his teeth as she caressed him with her lustful eyes, her burning hands, her hungry lips. He closed his eyes. He couldn''t bear to witness her disappointment. As he lay panting, his cheeks burned in humiliation instead of desire. At last, she surrendered and retreated. He opened his eyes to find Meya kneeling down by his side, her glowing eyes flicking between his stricken face and his shame.

    "You''re not...up." She muttered, her voice wooden. She turned pointedly away from the abomination, her eyes blazing holes in the carpet, "Am I doing something wrong?"

    Coris''s heart gave a painful lurch. He shook his head, mustering his courage, his voice,

    "No. It happens." Meya whipped around, wide-eyed. He covered her hand in his,

    "Sorry. I''m sorry. So sorry. So sorry. Sorry¡ª" He rambled, his cracking voice choked with sobs.

    "¡ªStop sorrying, will you!" Meya snapped. She cradled his hand between her rough palms,

    "You''re prolly tired. ''Tis been a long day, on and off the road. Looks like a quiet night for us, then."

    There was steel in her voice, in her arms as she propped him up, figuratively and literally. She was the strong one, his protector and savior, time and again. He was the weak one. Impotent. Lacking. When he should be the man. Although Meya had never minded, he couldn''t shake this aching desire to be the one to shield and provide, just for once.

    As he sat up, Coris noticed the pink gum wand rolling unattended nearby.

    "Perhaps we could make use of The Substitute?"

    Their eyes met. Coris cocked his head at the plaything. Meya didn''t spare it a glance. Her blazing eyes were steady, contemplating. Then, she stood up and walked off.

    "Meya?"

    Meya retrieved her bathrobe and slipped it on, cinching the sash at her waist as she crouched back down. She slid her arms under his, urging the nonplussed Coris to his feet.

    "I''ll sing you to sleep." She offered in her lovely birdsong voice, "What song d''you want?"

    Coris sighed and shook his head moodily. He staggered towards their bed, slipping on his bathrobe. When his big toe touched the bedframe, he keeled face first onto the black satin, limbs akimbo.

    "It''s fine, May Queen. A wee nightcap and I''ll be out cold in a blink."

    Coris pointed at the bedside cabinet, upon which sat a pot of valerian tea, two teacups and, to Meya''s dismay¡ªa cork-stoppered vial of clear, dark brown liquid. He pushed himself up and clawed towards it.

    What little remained of Meya''s good cheer from the day''s triumphs vaporized. She clenched her trembling hands, recalling her reluctant promise to the Lady.

    "About that, Coris¡ª" Meya began hesitantly over the clink of crockery. Coris was stirring honey into his good-night''s-sleep tea. He paused and turned to her, silver spoon aloft and eyebrows raised. Meya drew in a deep breath,

    "Could you leave out the laudanum? Arinel said it could be dangerous if you got addicted to it."

    Meya held her breath as she held his gaze. A blink of surprise crossed his moonbeam gray, followed by a flash of annoyance which dimmed into weariness.

    "It''s a cure, Meya. It would be dangerous if I don''t take it regularly." He sighed as he resumed stirring, "Trust me, I''ve tried. My stomach would act up and I''d have a burning fever among other things."

    "Maybe your body just needs time to get used to not having it." Meya persisted. This time, Coris didn''t bother turning around. Desperate, she bounded onto the bed and crawled to his side, tugging at his arm, "Try taking a few drops less tonight and see what happens. I''m right beside you. Just wake me if there''s anything."

    Coris heaved another sigh, impatient now, "Meya¡ª"

    "Agnes was taking it for her burns, and for years she couldn''t live without it." Meya leaned close, hissing in frustration, "She nearly sold herself off at the brothel, Coris! You try going on a few drops less for one night. See if you can make it. Then we''ll know if you''re addicted. Please!"

    She rattled his arm. Coris made up for his lack of concern with much defiance. He rolled his eyes, huffing irritably,

    "I''m taking a tiny dose, Meya. Just to soothe my stomach. Trust me, I know what I''m doing." He shrugged his arm out of her grasp, "If you suspect my performance is suffering because of laudanum, I assure you it isn''t. I''ve always been like this."

    Coris reached for the laudanum. Meya''s temper reached bursting point. She swiped the vial out of Coris'' hand. It fell onto the carpet with a plop, rolling back and forth. The lovers glared daggers at each other, but Coris''s fury melted away when he saw the glistening tears burnishing the glow of Meya''s eyes.

    "For Freda''s sake! You think that''s all I''m worried about, you donghead?" She snapped, jabbing her finger into Coris'' meatless arm,

    "You''re skin and bones! You''re pale as a corpse! And clammy as one! You can barely scale the stairs back in Hadrian Castle!"

    Meya flung Coris against the pillows, her shrill cry choked with boiling tears. As Coris gaped, speechless, she wiped them carelessly away with the back of her hand. Her jittering legs collapsed under her.

    Meya reached for the cabinet, fumbling past the ruby brooch to the raw emerald stone¡ªthe symbol of hopeless waiting, tinged with fear of his impending death. She pressed it against her heart. Coris held his comforting hand just beyond her sightline, unsure, as she sat hunched and listless, rocking from the force of her stifled sobs.

    "You have¡ªno idea¡ªhow harrowing it is to share your bed, Coris."

    She whispered. She glowered at him, her red-rimmed eyes gleaming with half-dried tears,

    "Every morning when I rise, I pray to Freda and steel myself before I turn to your side of the bed. And I hold my breath until I''m sure you''re breathing."

    Coris shook his head, biting his lips against guilt. He rested his hand over hers and held tight.

    "I swear by Freda, if I ever woke up to you stiff and cold, so help me Fyr I will climb up that caldera and kill you again."

    "Meya¡ª"

    A scalding teardrop splashed onto his wrist. Meya fell limply into his embrace, shuddering with renewed sobs as he smoothed her hair down her back. Coris dug his chin into her shoulder, whispering into her ear,

    "I''m sorry. Very well, I''ll give it a try."

    Meya froze. Coris bent down and reached for the phial, rolling just beyond the tip of his middle finger. He strained his back an inch further and coaxed the troublesome thing into his palm. He handed it to Meya. She gawked at him, puzzled. He pushed the bottle into her slack fingers with a sigh then fetched his teacup.

    "You know how much I normally take. From now, you decide my dose for our experiment."

    Meya blinked, then her lips unraveled into a thankful smile. She planted her lips salty with tears upon his, held on for a breath, then withdrew and fumbled with the cork of the vial.

    Coris obligingly held out his cup. Meya tipped the bottle then tapped it five times. Five drops of opium tincture dissipated one after another into the glassy surface of the lukewarm tea, half the amount Coris usually took every night.

    <hr>

    The crescent moon floated on its back, perched on an invisible plinth. The cloudless sky was solid perse, littered with glittering constellations.

    Meya slept soundly, her deep slumber hastened by relief and the headache that accompanied excessive crying. Her dragging, snorting breathing mellowed as the gunk clogging her nose dried, and the sound of Coris''s shallow, rapid breathing swelled to take its place.

    Droplets of sweat peppered his pale forehead where locks of damp hair had left bare. His eyes squeezed shut, his brows furrowed, Coris rubbed the back of his head against his pillow, searching anxiously for his sweet spot.

    Alas, resolve succumbed to fear. Coris reached for the vial Meya had left unguarded on his cabinet, a glaring testament to her overly trusting nature and unwavering faith, despite his repeated betrayals and mountain of secrets.

    Coris''s hand trembled, spilling the bitter liquid on his lips and chin. Once he''d filled up on his missing dose, he returned the bottle soundlessly to its place.

    Guilt weighed on him like a cloak of chains. He couldn''t summon the strength to lug himself back to his pillows. He lowered his head onto his outstretched arm clinging to the cabinet.

    "I''m sorry, Meya." He whispered through gritted teeth as he cooled his feverish forehead on the icy wood, "It seems I really am compromised."

 The Library of Eyes

    The bloodcurdling screeches of brown bulbuls infiltrated Meya''s dream realm. For half an hour, Meya hurtled around inside a maze like dice in a tube, racing to find the source, until she burst into reality.

    Cursing Freda for bestowing morning birds with the cry of dying piglets, Meya flipped to the side and opened her eyes to find a pair of beautiful eyes gray as morning light. Coris'' gentle smile was lined with crooked teeth yellow as his sallow skin.

    "Good morning, my lady." He whispered. Meya crinkled her nose at his morning breath, then squinted at the pouches of gray skin under his eyes.

    "Not so for you, milord." She caressed the tender skin with her thumb, "Didnae sleep well, did you?"

    Coris'' smile sagged. He confessed with a sigh,

    "Seems my body needs time to adjust to less laudanum. As you''ve said." He covered her hand with his, resting it over his heart. Meya couldn''t resist the surge of affection and gratitude within. She pressed her lips upon his, drawing apart ten drowsy heartbeats later.

    "What''s this?" Coris chuckled. Heat radiated from Meya''s crimson cheeks. She coiled a lock of his hair around her finger.

    "So you''ll have something to look forward to." She breathed coyly, leaning in once more, murmuring against his lukewarm lips, "One for every drop you take less."

    Coris slid his hand behind her neck as he sealed their lips in another long kiss. He pulled away with a sigh of sleepy contentment, combing his finger through her tousled hair.

    "You spoil me, Aine, but I''m afraid I''ll need more than kisses to entice me." His unfurled a mischievous grin as his hand silently traveled to her shoulder, "I''m headed for some rough nights, after all."

    Before Meya could process his outrageous demand, Coris rolled her onto her back. He dragged his mouth across her face, his hands exploring the rest of her.

    "Coris, you donghead. Stop it!" Meya gasped when his lips freed hers to trace her jawline. Even as she dissolved into fits of giggles, she arched her body so that it fitted snugly in his, untangling her legs from the sheets to tie them around him.

    Coris took his time rousing her drowsy body. His hands slid down to her hips. He brushed against her. Even through the haze of chaotic sensations, she felt something was amiss.

    Oh, no. Not again.

    "Coris, stop."

    Coris took no heed, his face still buried in the crook of her neck. Meya selected the kindest words to break the unpleasant news.

    "Coris, slow down. You''re still getting ready." She whispered into his ear as she held him.

    "What?" Coris drew back, impatient. A beat, then his passion-addled brain registered what she''d said. He glanced down, then a curse exploded from his lips,

    "Oh, Fyr!"

    Meya peeled her sweaty back off the sheets as Coris scrambled to his knees, cradling his head in his hands.

    "Meya, I''m so sorry. Sorry¡ª"

    "¡ªOne more sorry and I''ll knuckle you, Corien Alexis!"

    Meya snapped as she pulled the trembling lad into her arms. She warmed his shoulder with her sigh, then closed her eyes and rested her head upon it.

    As she listened to their heartbeats slowing down each in its own pace, she told herself to be patient. Freda knew poor Coris was under enough strain, body and mind, even before she''d confiscated his laudanum. He needed time.

    Stroking his lank hair, Meya hitched up a smile,

    "How about we just get ready?" Coris shifted guiltily in her embrace, "There''s a library of dragon eyes waiting. Education comes first, right?"

    Coris chuckled. Meya drew away, finally reassured. She squeezed his shoulder then bounded off the bed, slipping on her bathrobe as she made her way to the solar.

    Coris waited until he heard her bell summoning Agnes and Arinel to dress her for breakfast, then let out the long, labored breath holding him upright. His smile sagged as his shoulders dipped. He dragged his shaking hand through his thinning hair.

    He dug his nails into his scalp, praying the pain would distract him from the urge to snatch the laudanum bottle and down a couple of soothing drops. A lone tear plummeted onto his lap.

    <hr>

    "Behind this veil is the Library of Eyes. For over two centuries, we''ve collected and catalogued dragon eyes from times long forgotten and in living memory, from within and beyond Latakia. "

    Lady Jaise had shed her resplendent dinner ensemble in favor of a simple off-white tunic and lace veil. The only dash of color came from the leather belt dangling at her waist, the same shade of olive as her skin. Her luscious dark hair hung in a thick braid which reminded Meya of church bell ropes.

    Winterwen''s dress seemed to glow before the backdrop of the oily black curtain. Its faint, golden vines-and-flowers pattern rippled to the soft breeze caused by their approaching footsteps. Next to it, a tall, thin cabinet of black wood stood against the wall of bare stone.

    "Please change into the gum slippers. And take off your cloaks."

    Meya turned to Coris and Zier with a raised eyebrow, before she remembered she was wearing a mask. Zier hung back, waiting for his brother''s lead. Coris, however, marched forth without hesitation.

    He opened the cabinet doors, revealing a line of metal pegs drilled into the back-pane. Five pairs of simple slippers, clear as glass with a peach tinge, sat in a row at the bottom.

    Coris levered a pair each out to Meya and Zier, then took one for himself. He clung onto his hulking brother for balance as he slipped his veiny feet out of his boots.

    Meya sniffed the slippers. They smelled of wood and tar. She plopped them on the carpeted floor then slotted her feet in. The surface was cold against the soles of her feet. Its supple, jellylike push unwittingly reminded her of The Substitute.

    The three teenagers regrouped before Winterwen, but she still wouldn''t let them enter so simply.

    "Until I give permission, please refrain from talking, reserve your questions and exclamations, and proceed after me as quietly as possible." A heavy, austere air rolled off her shoulders, yet her voice sounded melancholic, "The work of our curators requires complete concentration. It is extremely draining for the mind."

    Meya nodded vigorously, more curious than intimidated. Sensing her jittery impatience, Coris squeezed her hand. Winterwen held up the veil.

    After a second squeeze from Coris, Meya took the lead. The cool hem of the veil slithered down her hair as she bent and stepped into the gloom.

    Winterwen was wise to warn them. Meya bit hard on her lips to smother her gasp of awe and surprise at the sight. In the dark, rows upon rows of hundreds of glowing green fireflies hang suspended in mid-air. Her eyes accustomed themselves to the darkness, then. The brown of the wooden shelves underneath the eyes distilled out from the gray-black of the room.

    Settled on cushioned chairs behind long tables between the aisles, were barefaced men and women of all ages. They sat still as sleep, eyes closed and expression blank, hands clasped loosely on their laps, a glowing green eyeball of metal floating in a glass of clear liquid before them.

    Winterwen led them down the center aisle. Meya counted two dozens of rows of meditating curators, before she glimpsed another door set into the wall. Winterwen turned the brass knob. The door fell back without so much as a whimper.

    This room was pleasantly lit with late morning sunshine streaming in through the floor-to-ceiling windows. The low hum of chatter swarmed the space like clouds of dust caught in the light. Masked Jaisians sat in pairs on tables, one doing the talking while the other furiously jotted down their tales.

    "Name''s Olfred Marsant of Noxx." Meya slowed at the sound of that familiar name. The masked man pushed a glowing dragon eye in a casket towards his partner, shaking his head, "Died of stone liver five summers ago. Fyr, I can still taste the ale¡ª"

    "Lady Hadrian?"

    Meya jolted to attention at Winterwen''s call. Coris and Zier were standing level with her, faces turned to her questioningly. Winterwen was far ahead, a few steps away from a heavy wooden study desk coupled with a highbacked chair. The masked curator grumbled on about how he still felt Marsant''s three-tiered ale belly. Huffing in annoyance, Meya hurried along.

    Winterwen stepped around the table and rifled through the main drawer. She flourished a careless hand at the long couch in front for her guests to settle down.

    "We''re allowed to talk only within this room." She lifted the vow of silence. But before Meya could let loose the towering stack of questions in her brain, she looked up and pointed at Meya and Coris,

    Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

    "I have a certain eye I believe the two of you will be interested in." A smile tugged at her lips as she pulled a small ledger from her drawer. She straightened, flourishing her hand at the three of them once more as she swept past,

    "Please make yourselves comfortable."

    Meya strained in her seat, keeping Winterwen in the corner of her eye as she scanned the room for the pair talking about Marsant. Just as the Lady disappeared behind the door to the Library, Coris blurted out,

    "Zier, what''s the matter?"

    Concern for her friends won over. Meya grudgingly turned around. Zier sat ramrod straight and stiff as aged oak, staring ahead into nowhere. At his big brother''s call, he shuddered to life, his trembling hands gripping his wobbling knees.

    "The Axel." He whispered, "Those eyes. They''re all The Axel."

    <hr>

    "You''re saying¡ªThe Axel¡ªis a dragon eye?"

    Meya eked out. Zier dipped his head and clutched it in his hands. Impatient, Meya turned to his brother instead,

    "How come you didnae recognize them, Coris?"

    Coris shook his head numbly, his face still turned towards his brother.

    "The Axel was kept inside a puzzle box at all times. Even I have never seen it."

    Meya sighed, disappointed.

    "Gillian''s a dragon. Why would he want another dragon eye?" She muttered.

    Soft approaching footsteps alerted them of Lady Jaise''s return. The trio whipped around. Winterwen swept past their couch, circled the table and reclaimed her seat. She laid the pile of items she was carrying on the tabletop, extracting the ledger from the bottommost to slide it back into the drawer. Of the remaining items, one was a leather-bound codex which made up for its handheld size with a wealth of pages, the other was a casket wrapped in black velvet.

    Winterwen slid the box across the table towards the youngsters, who had scooted to the edge of their couch, then flipped the lid open. Sitting snugly on a bed of stuffed velvet was a metallic eyeball with a glowing green iris, and a minuscule black nametag labeled in silver ink:

    Axel Hild

    "Axel?" Coris breathed. Zier chose the opposite.

    "Hild?" Meya cried, her voice an octave higher than usual. Winterwen nodded.

    "This is the first eye in our Library. Or rather, the origin of our Library."

    The Lady paused as if to give her audience time to react and digest, then continued,

    "After Prince Philip slayed his father, King Edward II Wynn, and usurped the throne, and the Mining Ban was enforced, your ancestor, Maxus Hadrian," Her lace veil fluttered as she turned abruptly to the Hadrian brothers, "¡ªbrought this eye of your ancestor, Axel Hild," Her whipped around to Meya, who jolted, "¡ªto my ancestor, Lord Ralon Jaise."

    The three children mouthed half-formed words as they exchanged bug-eyed looks. Winterwen continued,

    "Ralon was also eyeless." The eyeless lady dipped her head, acknowledging their unspoken questions, "In exchange for sight, Maxus asked Ralon to record Axel''s memories, and keep his eye safe."

    Church bells clanged in Meya''s head.

    "Memories?" She blurted out. Winterwen nodded with a faint smile, encouraging her. Meya collected her thoughts and started over,

    "I remember, milady. You said me eye conveyed me memories to you. So ''twas how you learned me true identity?"

    "Exactly." Winterwen''s tight smile twitched at the corners as she nudged the box towards Meya.

    Meya reached out a ginger hand to retrieve her forebear''s eye. She rolled it between her fingers, transfixed by its iridescent shimmer.

    "As you can see, dragon eyes contain Lattis. In fact, the eyes are the only parts of the dragon body that are comprised of Lattis, in its elemental form, in substantial amounts."

    In her hand, Axel''s eye revolved back to the front. Meya pored through the deceptive, lifelike glow into the empty depths of his pupil, doubting the odds.

    For seven generations, the branch of Hilds she was in was comprised entirely of humble, faceless farmers in Crosset. What had old Axel done to land himself a role in all this? How did his eye end up with Coris'' ancestor, then Lady Jaise''s ancestor?

    "It has been known that Lattis generates pulses of unseen energy that heal and maintain balance in the human body. Some would call it magic." Winterwen tilted her head. Meya tore her eyes away from Axel''s and back to the Lady, waiting with bated breath. She had nary a clue where Winterwen was heading.

    "Through decades of study, we discovered that these pulses are not just plain healing power. Rather, they are messages¡ªsignals to the brain that help regulate functions of the body. You see, eyes are where dragons house their memories. Instead of physical connections¡ªnerves, like humans¡ªthe Lattis in their eyes convey these memories through energy pulses directly to their brains, forming their selves, as philosophers would call it."

    Meya''s impatience ebbed, then flowed. As blurry puzzle pieces snapped into place, they birthed new questions as the incomplete picture expanded into shadows. As if she could read Meya''s mind through her mask, Winterwen cocked her head,

    "Humans are receptive to these pulses as well. And, after a few years of practice, would be able to comprehend them just as a dragon would. As is the case with the eyeless."

    Winterwen''s smile widened. Meya was sure she was winking with her borrowed eye behind her mask. She hummed as she pondered, her eyes distant,

    "So, when Greeneyes go near lumps of Lattis ore that send out signals of their own, they interfere with our brains? That''s why I feel ill when I''m wearing too much Lattis on me?"

    "Yes." Winterwen nodded, "The first telltale signs are, of course, dimmed eyes and reduced body heat. Prolonged proximity with excessive amounts of Lattis, however, will result in headaches, unconsciousness, lapses in memory, and, in extreme cases, death."

    Coris squeezed Meya''s hand as she seized up in fear.

    "Lattis causes memory loss in dragons, that explains you," Zier cocked his head at Meya, then looked past her to Coris, "But it doesn''t explain you, does it?"

    Oh. Zier was referring to the Crosset Famine? Winterwen, however, looked understandably flummoxed. The flow of new developments trickled away to a draught, as Coris segued into retelling his kidnapping. Lucky for them, he was a skilled storyteller. Hardly surprising, considering the dozens of rehearsals he''d had throughout the years. Winterwen was herself an excellent listener. She listened raptly, still save for the occasional nod.

    Once Coris had wrapped up, Winterwen drummed her fingers on the tabletop for a moment. Finally, she nodded.

    "I believe that could be a different case altogether. For the both of you. Trace amounts of Lattis in the bloodstream." She suggested, tilting her head,

    "Our resident alchemist, Sameri, is also studying the properties of dragon blood. I''ve instructed her to bring your alchemist up to speed."

    Indeeed, Bishop Riddell and Arinel were visiting the alchemist to discuss the drought. Meya turned to Coris. He cocked his head at the glowing eye still pinched in her fingers. Meya nodded with a sigh, contenting herself with the matter at hand. Winterwen slid the small leather-bound book towards her.

    "This is a copy of Ralon''s records on Axel Hild." Meya spared the memoir a glance as Coris picked it up, "As the first and only Hild descendant to have visited us so far, I deem it is yours to keep, as well as his eye. Should you wish so."

    Axel''s eye rattled in Meya''s trembling hand. Winterwen gave a little bow, acknowledging her smile of gratitude,

    "You''d want to peruse it thoroughly, but as we''re pressed for time, allow me to summarize the gist for you." The Lady straightened in her seat, her hands clasped on the table,

    "Axel Hild was a poor young peasant farmer in Noxx, lured by lucrative prospects to the iron mines of Rutgarth, not long after the accidental discovery that dragon blood could aid in refining Lattis."

    Meya tensed in fearful anticipation, and Coris'' hand reclaimed his place over hers.

    "Axel was kept prisoner there, along with hundreds of fellow Greeneyes. Milked for blood to extract the otherwise indestructible metal. Until the Nostran dragons burnt Rutgarth to the ground."

    "The dragons attacked at night, hailing fireballs from the night sky over the Zarel Pass." Winterwen poured herself tea and took a sip,

    "They came without their riders, meaning this ambush was kept secret even from the Nostrans. One would suspect it was an act of rebellion against all humans, not just Latakia. And one would be correct."

    The dragons were without riders!

    The crucial detail that for two centuries had been omitted from official history. Meya couldn''t help thinking of Gillian and his cohorts¡ªanother instance of dragons invading Latakia without human riders.

    "After destroying Rutgarth and sealing the mine, the dragons took the surviving miners and Greeneyes to a secret fortress on their side of the mountain. They kept them prisoner there, and treated them no differently from the Latakians. The humans were made to mine. The Greeneyes were little more than blood mares."

    "What do they want Lattis for? What are they building?" Coris demanded. Winterwen nodded with a smile of satisfaction,

    "They call it The Rota. A contraption designed to neutralize the energy pulses of Lattis. Should it be deployed on Latakia, dragons could cross over Neverend Heights and seize our land for their own. It would mean annihilation for us."

    "But, even without The Rota, I can still live here fine." Meya pointed out. She glanced at the two brothers, then back to Winterwen, "They''ve had hundreds of years, why haven''t they invaded us once?"

    "Pure dragons are much more affected by Lattis than Greeneyes, who are half human and acclimatized from birth. It hinders their daily performance, and substantially shortens their lifespan."

    Meya didn''t know if she should be relieved for her homeland or concerned for her fellow dragons. Caught in the middle was not a comfortable place to be.

    "That would explain why dragons crossed over Latakia in favor of Nostra when they first migrated from Everglen. Nostra has no Lattis, whereas we have aplenty." Winterwen added after another sip of refreshing tea, "And also why Nostra surrendered the War of Independence. It''d be a waste to lose more dragons prolonging a futile war with Latakia, when they could wield those dragons to expand west, and maintain order in their empire instead."

    Meya nodded slowly, unwittingly fingering Axel''s eye as she digested it,

    "So, the dragons built The Rota¡ªNo, they didnae." She corrected herself¡ªher life would have been vastly different had the dragons succeeded, "What happened?"

    Winterwen spun her handle-less teacup slowly, choosing her words,

    "While they designed and perfected The Rota, the dragons needed a means to record their experiments without the knowledge ever being discovered by humans."

    Meya''s eyes widened as the truth dawned on her.

    "Dragon eyes." She breathed. Winterwen nodded heavily, her lips a tense line of sorrow,

    "To prevent their victim resisting, the dragons had planned to erase his memories with Lattis, rendering him an empty receptacle, a vessel with no soul."

    "On the day the dragons came to choose their vessel, Axel plucked out one of his eyes and swallowed it, telling the dragons that he had sold it off long ago. It might have been a wise decision, self-preservation wise, but having one eye was precisely why he was chosen."

    "He had no back up?" Zier guessed. Winterwen raised her teacup, then heaved a sigh as she turned back to the eye in Meya''s hand.

    "Throughout the experiments, Axel''s memories in this eye remain intact, while his other eye contains the only copy of instructions on creating The Rota."

    It was as if lightning had struck the room. The three teenagers turned to each other, mouths agape.

    "The Axel." Coris concluded in a whisper. Winterwen nodded.

    "When the first Rota neared completion, Maxus Hadrian led the prisoners into rebellion against the dragons, and escaped back to Latakia with twelve survivors, and twelve pieces of The Rota."

    "So, Axel didnae make it?" Meya''s heart writhe. After all he''d suffered, she couldn''t help praying for a peaceful end of the tale for Axel, although it was obvious he wouldn''t escape Nostra alive. Why else would Maxus be the one to divide his eyes between Hadrian and Jaise?

    Winterwen dipped her head solemnly,

    "He transformed and used his fire to collapse a tunnel over the pursuing dragons, but was crushed under the debris himself."

    "¡ªAnd Maxus gouged out his eyes from his lifeless body?" Coris interrupted, his voice harsh with disgust, his trembling knuckles shining white against Axel''s memoir. Winterwen shook her head,

    "In his auxiliary notes, Ralon''s impression of Axel was as an embittered, cynical man who had lost all faith and hope. Be it in gods, humans or dragons." She heaved a melancholic sigh,

    "But Axel''s last act was the ultimate sacrifice for a cause greater than himself, one he knew he would not live to see. And his last memory was of him entrusting his eyes¡ªand with them, the future of all three races¡ªto Maxus Hadrian."

    Meya, Coris and Zier turned to each other once more, their eyes pooling on the younger Hadrian''s midriff.

    The future of humans, Greeneyes and dragons had been passed on from her ill-fated ancestor to their ancestor. And, judging from Axel''s point of view, somewhere in Zier''s bowels, the future was solid darkness. Literally.

 The Lost Treatise

    Jaise''s alchemy labs were sequestered on an islet, tethered to the castle by a wooden bridge barely two man''s breadth wide.

    A wise decision, thought Arinel as she hurried across the bridge, struggling to keep up with Bishop Riddell''s brisk stride, and maintain sufficient distance from Sir Bayne so he wouldn''t bump into her.

    Two masked figures stood waiting at the other end, the tall, thin, gray-bearded one poised, and the shorter, plump one fidgety. Stirred by the late morning breeze, the hems of their black alchemist garbs rippled to life, brushing the tips of young green grass at their ankles.

    "Sameri!"

    Bishop Riddell cried as he scampered down the steps. Sameri hurried forth, reaching out to cradle Riddell''s hands in his own.

    "Riddell! What an honor!" The old alchemist''s vocal chords sounded strained to their limits. Arinel imagined him beaming behind his mask as he shook Riddell''s hands heartily, "I''ve been raring to get my hands on a copy of your treatise! And here you are in person!"

    Sameri indicated Riddell''s towering physique with pale, lined and scarred palms. Riddell deflected the praise with a wave of his equally marred hand.

    "Diamat, my dear man, the honor is mine. Meriton couldn''t thank you enough for sharing your knowledge."

    Diamat Sameri shook his head with a tired smile.

    "Troubled times, troubled times." He mused, his gravelly voice trailing away into a deep sigh, "Elements would have to wait, then?"

    He turned to Arinel and Jerald, a smile of polite interest on his lopsided lips. Riddell flourished his hand towards Arinel,

    "This is...Haselle. My, ah...apprentice."

    Sameri cocked his head. Arinel gouged at the fabric of her dress. The bishop still wasn''t quite at home with Lady Crosset being his lab maid. Hoping to deflect suspicion, Riddell hurried on,

    "Sir Bayne, head of Lady Hadrian''s guards, insisted on accompanying us. I''ve instructed them to behave. I hope you wouldn''t mind."

    Riddell bowed. Sameri cackled.

    "Ah, my master, bless his soul. He used to say there''s no sin in curiosity. Keeps your brain young." Sameri smiled wistfully as he studied Arinel, envious of her youth. He heaved a mournful sigh, "True for Tyberne, in a way. Why, poor fellow''s brain hadn''t the chance to age!"

    Arinel jolted. Tyberne? Mother''s master? She glanced at Jerald, forgetting she couldn''t see his face. Sameri rested his hand on the shoulder of the short alchemist next to him.

    "Dineira set off for home that same day. Kept the wife and I on tenterhooks for a fortnight. Not a single letter! We thought you''d died along with Tyberne, you thoughtless lass!"

    Sameri jabbed his mostly intact finger at his daughter''s thick shoulder. Dineira flinched away with a yowl of pain,

    "For the umpteenth time, I''m sorry, Dad! I was on the road. Hadn''t heard of the fire. It''s been seventeen years! Can you forgive me already?"

    "No."

    Sameri thrust up his nose. Riddell chortled as Dineira hung her head,

    "You apprenticed with Tyberne, Dineira?" He asked. Dineira nodded eagerly,

    "Yes, sir. I meant to come home just for a visit, but after such a close call, my father thought it best to never let me out of his sight."

    She threw her overprotective father a pout, but Sameri had become intrigued by the peeling skin under his nails. Riddell shook his head.

    "Your only daughter tinkering in a room full of explosives. I wouldn''t have my son within a feather''s flight of my lab, you know." He said. Sameri sighed heavily.

    "Best let them play under your watch lest they sneak behind your back." He gestured at Arinel, returning to business,

    "I''m glad you brought your apprentice. Dineira''s studying Greeneye anatomy. Lady Jaise summoned me last night, said you have a student who might be interested. I take it this is the one?"

    Riddell whipped around to Arinel, mouth ajar, then quickly gathered himself.

    "Ah, how generous of your Lady! What say you, Haselle?" He smiled at Arinel, who realized she couldn''t possibly do anything but smile and bow in these circumstances.

    Meya was a dear friend. Arinel would do whatever it took to further her cause, but it was impossible to focus on dragons when a friend of the mother she barely knew was standing not a stone''s throw away. But how would she bring up Mother with Dineira as the nonexistent Haselle?

    "Very well, then. I shall be discussing the drought with old Diamat. Dineira, if you don''t mind, would you show my bumbling apprentice and Sir Bayne around your lab?" Riddell turned to Dineira.

    "Not at all, Master Riddell! A pleasure."

    The two senior alchemists departed with smiles, chatting animatedly all the way. Dineira craned her neck and stared after them. She waited until her father and Riddell had disappeared into the former''s lab, then rounded on Arinel,

    "So, you know the secret about Greeneyes, too?" She wrung Arinel''s hands in excitement. Arinel wasn''t sure if she had nodded, or her head had simply bobbed to the force of Dineira''s fleshy hands. Dineira bustled off on the lush grass, Arinel and Jerald not two steps behind,

    "I''ve been dying to talk to anyone at all about my experiments. But the Lady made me swear never to tell a soul. Not even my parents! Can you imagine? Yes, I understand the danger to Greeneyes, but my father''s an alchemist, too¡ª"

    Dineira prattled on without the merest pause for breath or thought, even as she approached the padlocked door of her lab, shutting the floodgates only to fish the key out of her pocket. Unlike Muldor''s disused lab, this lock turned smoothly, and the door fell back without protest.

    "Here we are. My humble lab."

    Dineira ushered Arinel and Jerald inside. Arinel glanced around, conjuring memories of the few labs she''d seen before. Dineira''s lab had the appearance of belonging to a fledgling alchemist. Compared to Muldor and Riddell''s labs, the apparatuses were less varied and more rudimentary, the shelves less populated with bottles bearing eye-catching labels signaling danger.

    Dineira was also much more haphazard. Piles of papers weighed down by bottles or salt-crusted beakers teetered over the edge of chairs. On her worktable, books closed and open gathered in a pell-mell hill, peppered with soot, dust motes and pie crumbs. Broken quills and ink spatters littered the tabletop around the centerpiece distilling set. Her writing desk was adorned in similar fashion.

    Dineira bustled about freeing up chairs.

    "Sorry for the mess. My father''s always chiding me about my lack of organization." She relocated the papers to the table, holding up a firm hand when Jerald made to lend aid, "We don''t welcome guests that often. Wish my father hadn''t sprung this on me right on the spot, so I''d have time to tidy up."

    With one hand and a clatter, she set a freed chair before Jerald. As he drew it back for Arinel, Jerald turned to Dineira with a small smile.

    "You haven''t changed, Dineira." Dineira jumped as if startled by a scuttling cockcroach, scattering papers, "It''s been seventeen years. Do you remember me?"

    Dineira let out a bout of breathy, forced giggles, stooping to retrieve her fallen papers.

    "Of course, Sir Bayne. You came to retrieve Erina every evening." She spared Jerald a glance, then steered away, "Wouldn''t be surprised if the whole manor''s buzzing about last night''s spectacle. Lady Hadrian, a Greeneye! Wherever is the real Lady Arinel, I wonder? Does she resemble her mother?"

    Arinel froze, half-sitting in her chair. Jerald''s rough hand clamped around her shoulder and pushed her down the rest of the way.

    "I would''ve loved to tell an old friend, but the Lady''s safety is foremost." Jerald answered Arinel''s glare with another squeeze. Dineira, fumbling with her slippery papers, didn''t notice.

    "Ah, shame." Her reply sounded more out of courtesy than actual disappointment. Having gained control of her unruly notes, she flashed a wide grin at Jerald, "Still, it''s not as if we won''t have other things to talk about! I say we share our tales over lunch, shall we?"

    "My pleasure."

    Beaming, Dineira set her jumbled theses on the table, then turned to Arinel with a clap.

    "Now, dragons! Where to start? You choose, dear. Ask me anything."

    Dineira sat down on the nearest chair, buttocks slopping over the skimpy seat. Arinel took a deep breath, swallowing pique down her burning, parched throat. Focus, she commanded herself. Dragons now, Mother later.

    The mere thought wrenched bile into her gullet.

    "What exactly are you studying about dragon anatomy?"

    Dineira touched a finger to her chin.

    "Well, to be exact, I must say everything, since there''s still so much ground to cover. But, recently, I''ve been focusing on their blood. Components, reactions, practical uses..."

    "Fireproof paint, for instance?" Jerald cut in, his level voice undercut with a rare hint of ice. Dineira tensed, her smile sagging, then nodded heavily,

    Unauthorized use of content: if you find this story on Amazon, report the violation.

    "I''m involved, but not in the manner you''d think. One of Jaise''s exports is the Borax crystal. We load them onto boats. Sail them to Amplevale and all the far west. They must fortify their towns against a possible dragon attack. Rutgarth was two centuries ago, true, but like earthquakes and lightning, they could strike whenever and wherever."

    Dineira shrugged, tapping a nervous hand on the tabletop and jiggling her leg to the rhythm.

    "Before this, the main component in fireproofing was Amiant. We have plenty across Hythe and Easthaven. But ten years ago, my father published a treatise uncovering the dangers of Amiant to the lungs. So we replaced Amiant with Borax. Picked from the dried lake in the Sands of Caesonai. But the demand was more than we could supply. The lake''s been dug so deep it will soon be classified as mining and banned."

    "Greeneye blood contains Borax?" Arinel guessed. Dineira had picked up a quill to twiddle. She tipped it towards Arinel with a smile.

    "Naturally, considering their body heat." Dineira slid to a lazy slouch in her chair, spinning her quill between her pudgy thumbs, "Their organs would''ve to be shielded with Borax to withstand fire (Should they ever need to shoot some!). And their blood transports it around the body."

    Awed as she was by the science, Arinel knew the price of this groundbreaking discovery. Dineira heaved a long sigh,

    "The peers are pressuring Lady Jaise to legalize the Greeneye blood trade. She''s been stalling the best she could, of course. Those bastards must have grown restless, took the underground road instead. Yesterday''s news shook her. That was her worst fear."

    Dineira set her quill on its stand she''d just spotted amidst the clutter on her table, then hoisted herself upright,

    "Actually, I''ve been gauging the effects of Lattis on Greeneyes, but Lady Jaise asked me to shelve that and find a substitute for Borax. Or at least decide a protocol for Greeneyes to sell their blood sustainably."

    Lattis? Arinel leaned in. Now, this could be directly beneficial to Meya.

    "Do you still have them, though? Your studies on Lattis?"

    Dineira sprang up, edging her voluminous curves around shelf corners and table edges to reach her study desk,

    "Yes, lowered priority but still progressing." She bent down and rummaged through the chaos, "I have trouble focusing on one project at a time. Got a bookshelf''s worth of half-baked treatises on paper and in my brain."

    "What have you discovered so far? Anything of note?" Arinel steered Dineira back with mounting impatience. Dineira tipped her head back, rifling through her memories. If her lab was any hint, they were probably just as jumbled.

    "Actually, there is something. I can''t locate my writings at the moment, but I can show you. If you''d just move around here¡ª"

    Dineira gestured vaguely as she hurried out from behind her desk. Arinel and Jerald obligingly gathered at the end of the worktable. With a grunt, Dineira shunted away the pile of books and papers.

    Dineira flitted about her shelves, bumping chairs and sending papers cascading to the floor. She plucked a stoppered bottle filled with Greeneye blood, an ornate padlocked wooden casket, a spare beaker, and a pair of thick cowhide gloves, plopping them down on the workspace.

    "Not to worry. This blood was taken willingly from a curator in the Library of Eyes. Towards a better understanding of, and a better life for Greeneyes."

    She selected a tiny key from her overloaded keyring, slotted it into the padlock, and popped open the chest. On a bed of waxed paper, rested a pile of silvery powder which shimmered rainbow in the sunlight.

    "Lattis. It''s in powder form, I''m afraid. I''ve had to reclaim it dozens of times. Budget cuts."

    Grumbling darkly to herself, Dineira pulled on her gloves, poured dragon blood into the beaker, then tore a strip of parchment from a nearby stray note. She scooped up a smidge of Lattis powder and brought it to the beaker, hovering the chest underneath to catch loose specks.

    "Keep a close eye on the blood. I''m pouring this in." She whispered out the corner of her mouth, so as not to blow away the fine dust. Holding her breath, Arinel steadied herself with her hands on the grimy tabletop and leaned in.

    Dineira tipped the paper. Lattis motes streamed down and vanished under the surface like salt in water. The once Hadrian Red blood darkened to the purple black of Jaise.

    Blinking, Arinel turned to Dineira.

    "What is this?" She whispered.

    Dineira crossed her arms, a smile of triumph peeking from behind her grille.

    "This," She tapped her finger on the beaker, "is what has kept the truth about Greeneyes a secret for all this time."

    Dineira gestured for Arinel and Jerald to resume their seats then cleared away the experiment, leaving only the beaker.

    "With Lattis from Rutgarth trickling into every smithy in Latakia throughout two centuries, you''d think there''s bound to be incidents of Greeneyes transforming that would expose their true nature. But there were none."

    Clunk went the phial of dragon glood as Dineira set it on the shelf. Having stashed the remaining items in the nearest gaps she could find, Dineira plonked back into her chair,

    "By painstakingly ¡äreading'' every eye that had fallen into our hands, the Library curators discovered that some of their owners had transformed by accident while they were alive. Yet, when this happens, more often than not the Greeneye''s memory did not survive intact."

    Arinel''s heart quickened. Both Meya and Coris had been, and still were, suffering from lapses in memory. This could very well be the answer.

    "So, we studied the eyes of Greeneyes who were held captive in Rutgarth before the Fall." Dineira rifled through half-unfurled rolls of parchment,

    "We found that those Greeneyes saw the blacksmiths religiously avoiding all skin contact with the mixture of their blood and Lattis. They must have discovered some danger in it¡ªis our hypothesis. As alchemist, my job is to prove it."

    Dineira gave a small gasp of triumph. She tugged out a piece of parchment and handed it to Arinel.

    Apart from its corners, the parchment was almost flat, both faces crammed to the margins with slanted text, interspersed with diagrams and formulas, written in black ink which had yet to lose its luster. At the header was the title in large print:

    On the Effects of Lattis on Greeneye Blood

    Arinel trawled impatiently through the rolling paragraphs. Dineira saved her the trouble with a summary,

    "I propose that when dragons or Greeneyes are attacked with Lattis, as an instinctive reaction, their blood synthesizes a potent amnesiac, which targets memories of dragons in the human brain."

    Dineira touched a finger to the beaker, nervous even as she was wearing thick gloves,

    "This amnesiac is absorbed through the skin, and can linger in the brain for years. Even decades. Greeneyes, being mostly human, are also affected by this substance."

    Arinel stared at the tepid, seemingly innocuous mixture before her, then pressed a fingertip to the glass. It was lukewarm, proof of the rigorous reaction frothing underneath the beguilingly calm surface.

    How had Dineira arrived at her conclusion? Was it drawn from observation of ancient Greeneye memories? Did she prove it using living humans and Greeneyes? It was too early to pin Dineira for anything, but Lady Jaise would never allow that, would she?

    "Of course, it isn''t foolproof. I reckon there were more than a few folks who took the secret to their graves. For fear of being thought a lunatic! Even now, there definitely are people walking around knowing Greeneyes are dragons! But I''m sure it does help thin the herd. Just enough for survivors to be too few and far between to be believed."

    Arinel nodded. Dineira''s take was similar to hers.

    "What will you do with these findings?"

    Dineira churned her lips, laced fingers wiggling absently as her eyes traversed her mediocre lab.

    "The decision isn''t mine." Her voluminous frame deflated as she sighed and smiled bitterly, "We alchemists are funded by the manor. But I''m commissioned by Lady Jaise to conduct my Greeneye experiments. I''m sworn to secrecy, obliged to hand over my findings. My involvement ends when the Lady is satisfied."

    "And what do you think Lady Jaise would do with it?" Arinel pressed her. Dineira heaved another sigh then shrugged,

    "I suppose she could use it to cleanse the heads of people who have witnessed Greeneyes transforming. For the good of both sides, you know?"

    Arinel narrowed her eyes. Dineira didn''t seem interested about what would become of her discoveries, more bothered that her achievements could never come to light as her own. Had she known beforehand it was to be thankless work, Arinel doubted Dineira would''ve accepted.

    A series of knocks came from the open door. Arinel whipped around to find a masked young man around her age, garbed in a simple woolen tunic and patched trousers. He seemed startled to stone by her and Jerald''s audience, his loose fist held aloft, his mouth ajar. Dineira sprang up.

    "Ah, Ethren! You''re early." She called heartily as if to spook away the dead air. She gathered the boy''s bony shoulders in one wobbling arm and swept him inside, shining Arinel and Jerald an apologetic smile, "He''s one of my volunteer test subjects. We''re deciding how often he should sell blood."

    Dineira guided Ethren towards the side-door, calling over her shoulder,

    "We''ll be a while. Feel free to have a look around. Biscuits and tea on the shelf somewhere. Help yourself!"

    Dineira paused to grab a quill and spare parchment then hurried in after Ethren. The moment the door closed behind them, Arinel rounded on Jerald, her long pent-up temper exploding,

    "You''ve never told me about Dineira, Sir Bayne! Nor has Grandmother!" She slammed her fists on the cluttered table. She leaned on her jittery arms, her voice choked with angry tears,

    "I could''ve had Bishop Riddell introduce me as myself. We could''ve talked about Mother!" She slammed her fist again, sending Dineira''s papers tumbling from the table.

    Silence fell but for Arinel''s ragged breathing. Jerald reached out, then withdrew his hand without so much as a rustle of his cloak. His eyes fixed at his little Lady''s feet, he bowed deeply.

    "My Lady, I''m terribly sorry." His voice trembled as he fought the whirlpool of resurrected grief, "I didn''t mention Dineira because she isn''t fond of your mother. Even as they worked side by side, they were never close. I reckoned it would only bring you unnecessary pain."

    Arinel perked up, her delicate figure which often belied her fiery temper taut with apprehension.

    "Why? What had Mother done wrong?" She demanded, ready to defend her mother''s memory. Jerald shook his head with a sigh. However much he longed to shield her, he had no choice.

    "She existed, that was all. Erina was a mere peasant maid, but Tyberne was more generous to her than Dineira, his apprentice. He saw potential in her, impressed by her eagerness to learn. He took pity on her circumstances."

    Jerald raised his eyes. What little he saw of the Lady behind the grille over her mouth remained pale. However, learning her mother wasn''t fully to blame, she relaxed somewhat.

    "You''ve seen Dineira with Diamat. She''s his only daughter. The jewel of her father''s eyes. Descended from a long line of distinguished alchemists. She didn''t take well to being seconded by a lowly servant girl."

    Arinel glanced at the closed door. Astonishing, the resentment and envy such a bubbly, chatty personality tempered within. Though Mother couldn''t have helped it, it pained her to learn Mother wasn''t liked by all. Jerald was wise to keep it secret, she grudgingly admitted.

    Jerald sat down with a labored sigh.

    "It was no fault of Erina''s, of course. Nor Dineira''s. They were young." He slid up his mask to allow his cheeks a feel of the late morning air, his eyes lost far in the past, "Tyberne was supposed to be the wisest one. He should''ve foreseen it."

    Her knees numb, Arinel slumped down on her chair. Pale sunlight from the window behind Dineira''s study desk scored a blinding white glint on the beaker. She stared morosely at its black depths.

    "This could''ve been Mother." She muttered, hands trembling as she turned the beaker slowly, "Telling me all this. Wearing alchemist robes. Working in her lab. Writing treatises."

    She looked around the chaotic lab. She saw a faceless woman gliding about the shelves. The longer she looked, the more vivid the mirage became. There she was, bent over the distilling set, an eye on the flowing hourglass. Then, she sat behind the desk, fighting her rolling parchment as she scribbled away under the watchful light of the midnight oil.

    So much she had been. So much she would never be. So much Arinel would never know. If only Tyberne had chosen Dineira instead of Mother to help him that night, all this would''ve been the present.

    Arinel''s heart writhed with shame at the thought. Yet, it was impossible to rid. Like a wall besieged by vines, she crumbled in her chair. She rested her forehead on the table, staring at the wooden floorboards. A sharp-edged patch of yellow poked out from the polished brown.

    Arinel pushed aside her chair, falling to all fours. By the time Jerald knelt down beside her, she was wrist-deep in the loose floorboard.

    Without a word, he pulled on the floorboard, and Arinel tugged the papers free. She brushed away the smattering of dirt and dust, revealing words one by one:

    Enhanced Synthesis of Sweet Oil of Vitriol, and its Application in Medicine: A Treatise.

    Below the title, lines of text and intricate drawings rolled on. Faint bells rang in her head as she saw but didn''t read. Jerald coaxed the papers from her frozen fingers. She didn''t resist, yet the papers crackled. His hands were shaking.

    "Erina''s handwriting." He whispered, his voice trembling, "This is the thesis they were working on when they died. Spirits and vitriol. To create a sleeping draught for surgery."

    "And they succeeded."

    Jerald whipped around. Arinel faced him, forcing her voice through her constricted, powder-dry throat,

    "Mother looked as if she were asleep, all the while they were cutting me out of her."

    Arinel rose to her feet and turned to the side-door. Dineira''s giggling voice slithered through the wood, like the hiss of a viper. Her insides burned as if doused in its venom.

    "What if she actually was asleep?"

 Impasse

    From childhood, Arinel had despised her days cooped inside a wagon during her family''s annual pilgrimage to Icemeet. However, she''d never felt more relieved slumping down atop the cushioned seats in her carriage. All it would have taken Lady Crosset for a private conversation would have been going to her guest quarters, but as she was currently not Lady Crosset, this would have to suffice.

    Jerald shuttered the windows, muffling the huffs and neighs of grazing horses in the nearby stables, then settled down across Arinel and Gretella.

    Arinel tugged off her mask. The cold, stale air was a welcome sensation on her cheeks. A plump hand rested upon hers. She turned to find Gretella''s unmasked face stricken with confusion and concern.

    "My Lady, what''s the matter? You''re dreadfully pale."

    Arinel flailed against the numbing fog in her head for the slightest clue on how to begin. She''d never known her mother, and here was the woman who birthed her, raised her, outlived her.

    How should she tell her? Should she unearth the grief and loss that had long been put to rest, douse them with the acid of truth? However cruel and untimely Mother''s death had been, Grandmother had made peace with Fyr. Wouldn''t it simply cause her unnecessary suffering to learn Erina''s death was not destined but planned?

    Mother was up in the Heights. Did she ever learn from Freda how she died? Would she yearn for justice? Had she willed that floorboard to shift? Whose sake should Arinel prioritize? Mother? Grandmother? Herself?

    Arinel turned to Jerald. He gave her a heavy nod. Perhaps he believed Grandmother deserved the truth, or he''d resigned himself to the fact that secrets were not bound to last. They couldn''t continue Tyberne and Erina''s work without revealing how they''d found it in the first place.

    Arinel nodded back. After a deep breath, Jerald extracted the treatise from the inside of his cloak and handed it to Gretella, then quietly recounted what they''d learned.

    Gretella recognized her daughter''s handwriting instantly. As she listened to Jerald, her expression morphed from bewildered nostalgia to petrified horror. Her grip slackened and trembled as her arms fell onto her lap.

    Jerald wrapped up his story and dipped his head. Gretella''s frozen eyes stared through empty air to an altered past. When she finally stirred, it was as if waking from a decade-long slumber.

    "So, that apprentice girl killed her." She croaked, her trembling hands gripping the once long-lost treatise,

    "Out of spite. For a few pieces of parchment. And Erina had done nothing to deserve it?"

    An ominous premonition paralyzed Arinel. She glanced at Jerald and saw the same fear splayed across his face. A moment of hesitation, and it was already too late. Gretella''s howl of grief rose slow, as if dragged out of her throat by a mighty hand. Shrill and chilling as the tortured keen of a dying wolf.

    Like a branch broken on its back, she collapsed onto her lap, crumpling the yellowed parchment against her bosom, rocking with sobs. Rapids of thick tears flooded her wrinkled face.

    "You want to see Dineira punished, Grandmother?" Arinel whispered with all the breath she could muster, "You want me to bring the case before Lady Jaise?"

    Gretella shook her head, pressing the papers flush to her chest,

    "That hateful wench could burn a hundred times if it would bring me some joy of revenge, but it wouldn''t bring Erina back." She spat, stroking the dry, rough parchment as if it were Erina''s shining hair. Tears spilled down her cheeks as she closed her eyes against the bitter present.

    "All I ever want is for her to finish what she''d set off to do. See her work bettering Latakia. See her name down in history. Get the life she deserves. That''s the best I could do for her. And it''s still not nearly enough. Nothing would ever be enough!"

    Gretella crumpled back to the heap she''d just gathered herself from. A page of the treatise escaped her embrace. Jerald caught it before it touched the floor.

    "This branch of study would remain banned so long as the Royal Council believes Tyberne killed himself and his maid in a failed experiment." He said quietly, his eyes fixed upon the paper''s contents yet not taking in a word. He turned to Arinel, a tortured look in his eyes,

    If you encounter this tale on Amazon, note that it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it.

    "We must bring the truth to light. That would mean exposing Dineira. I''ve no doubt it would end her career for good. Perhaps even her life. And¡ª"

    "¡ªHer research on Greeneyes."

    Realization hit Arinel like a ball of lead to her middle. For a flash, Meya''s face flooded the forefront of her mind.

    This was no longer about her alone. Although it galled Arinel to compromise with her mother''s killer, it now seemed just as selfish to put justice for her mother above the wellbeing of a whole race of half-dragon people. But surely, there must be another way? A justification? Anything?

    "Why? Is she the only soul in these three lands who could study Greeneyes?" Gretella snapped through her haze of indecision. Arinel tensed with guilt. They were weighing the value of Erina''s forever lost potential against a half-baked treatise written by her murderer. Yet, she had no choice but to be fair, rational and magnanimous. Like the Lady Crosset she was supposed to be,

    "I understand, Grandmother, but it would slow our progress at best or set us back decades at worst. Dineira holds the knowledge both in her hands and her head. She''d only be useful to us willing and alive."

    Arinel pressed her fingers to the throbbing veins in her forehead, shaking her head.

    "I can''t be the one to decide. Least not the only one."

    Silence descended. Gretella shifted to face her full. Arinel strived to remain still as fear engulfed her.

    "Arinel," said Gretella coldly. Arinel huddled tighter.

    Grandmother had only addressed her by name twice. First time was last year, when she had spotted the visiting Zier leaving her room and entered in a rush to find Arinel sprawled in bed, fast asleep, naked but for the marks of illicit passion. The second was mere weeks ago, when Grandmother had confronted Arinel, in private, about her decision to die in the forest.

    Both times, it was as if Grandmother had echoed the scream of Erina''s blood inside her, the half that had been an ambitious peasant girl. Reminding her that while she was Crosset, she was also Arinel. She had the right to treasure herself and to speak. That she loved the brother of the boy she was supposed to wed. That she wanted to live even if it would taint whatever remained of her family''s honor.

    However, this time, it was more than honor and duty that held Arinel back. And she struggled to throttle the echoes of her darkest doubts, as Gretella''s words pierced her like a hail of arrows,

    "This is your mother. The mother you''ve never known and never will know. And it''s all¡ªbecause¡ªof that¡ªwench!" Gretella snarled, jabbing her finger towards Dineira''s lab, "And you''re putting the needs of others above your own? Again?"

    "Because I''ve never known her, Grandmother!" Arinel exploded, her outburst flinging Gretella back against her cushions. She spun around, cheeks blotchy with blood and tears and twisted by her sneer, "And she''d never known me, either!"

    Gretella''s cheeks lost whatever color they had left. Jerald stared like a child caught in the path of a hurtling wagon, knowing what was to come and that there was no escape.

    The sight cemented Arinel''s worst fears. To protect her, both of them had kept the entire existence of Dineira from her. Freda knew how much more they''d been hiding from her.

    "She mightn''t have given a damn about me, might have hated me, even." The venom in her festering, long hidden words sizzled on her lips. She couldn''t hold them in any longer. They''d been eating at her, hollowing her to little more than a husk, a name, a title,

    "And I don''t blame her¡ªFather had her delivered to his bedchambers like meat on a platter. I was the shackles that chained her to him, the could-be heir of Crosset! For all we know, she might have been saved that night, but they chose me over her!"

    Silence echoed her cry back to her. Arinel crumbled to her knees on the cold floorboards. Her cheeks were on fire, her arms were cold. Her disgust for Father''s blood was such that she dug her fingernails into the wood rather than rub feeling into her limbs¡ªshe might tear out her flesh to drain it.

    "Would she want Dineira to work on and help Greeneyes? Or would she want justice for herself and her findings first. I don''t know. I''ve never known her." Arinel hung her head, "I couldn''t decide on her behalf. And I don''t think she''d ever want me to."

    Gretella and Jerald knelt beside her. The shivering warmth of their hands hovered unsurely over her head and shoulders. Arinel was relieved they''d refrained from lulling her back with lies of her perfect, loving, nurturing, forgiving mother.

    More than ever, she longed for Zier, for someone who''d treat her as an equal. For a voice of bitter truth, of honesty. Someone who wouldn''t deny but share and confirm her suffering.

    The need pushed her to her unsteady feet, and Arinel stumbled out into the late afternoon sunshine, hardly caring if they would pursue or stop her.

    She took off on the soft grass, sprinting blindly towards the castle. The soles of her hay slippers slammed against flagstones, then something collided bodily with her, throwing her to the sun-dried lawn. Swaying on her feet, Arinel looked up to find a mask of black glass emblazoned with the white peacock of Graye.

    "Arinel!" Agnes panted, exasperated. She snatched Arinel''s wrists in her scarred hands, rambling, "Finally! I''ve been looking everywhere! Aren''t you supposed to be at the alchemist''s?"

    Arinel hastily scoured her numb brain for a sound excuse, forcing up what she hoped was a dainty smile,

    "The sulfur fumes gave Grandmother a headache, so I took her for some fresh air by the stables."

    Agnes cocked her head, her sharp intuition stirring as it caught the scent of deception. Gretella wasn''t scheduled to be visiting the Sameris along with them. She settled on a grudging nod,

    "Coris''s summoned us to his quarters. He''s probably made shocking discoveries in the Library."

    More shocking discoveries? Thank Freda.

    As much as she longed to throw herself into Zier''s embrace, Arinel was grateful to have the urgent troubles of others to lose herself in rather than her own, a state of comforting distractedness she perpetually indulged in. She straightened with a sniff and a stiff nod then led the way back to the black fortress.

    "Very well, let''s not prolong Lord Hadrian''s fretting, then."

 The Heir and the Spare

    "So¡ªwe can transform into dragons?" said Atmund Herzin, his voice shrill, his back ramrod straight and taut as a wire. Coris and Meya nodded for the fifth time. Yet, Frenix Pearlwater was still wary.

    "And we can fly? And shoot fireballs? And our limbs grow back? And our eyes keep our memories?"

    Meya rolled her eyes. Ever patient, Coris nodded again,

    "How does that make you feel?"

    Atmund teetered as if caught unaware by a gust of wind. He grasped the edge of Coris''s desk,

    "Lightheaded¡ªbut that could have been the blood loss." He froze, then continued glumly, "If I''d known all this sooner, I could''ve told Dad whenever I didn''t feel like selling blood."

    The older teens gulped, unnerved by the dark tale relayed in such a bland, unassuming tone.

    "These blood sellers get pricked with metal needles every fortnight. Why has nobody ever transformed? There''s bound to be some Lattis in those needles." Fione deftly steered the topic away.

    "Dineira reckoned Jaise''s court officials are behind the blood traders. They''ve probably been told not to mix Lattis with Greeneye blood."

    Arinel suggested. Yet, Lady Crosset seemed occupied elsewhere. Her eyes stared out from her ashen face, wide and unseeing, as if her body was reacting in the present but her mind was reeling from the past. Meya narrowed her eyes.

    "Maybe the amount of Lattis also isn''t enough for our bodies to react. Took a whole arrowhead for me, according to Coris." She tilted her head at Coris, who nodded.

    "What about you, Frenix?" He turned to young Lord Pearlwater. Frenix churned his lips, then blew a sigh at his shuffling feet.

    "Honestly, if I gotta choose between ruler of Pearlwater and dragon, I think dragon''s more fun." He said levelly, then surfaced with a wry grin, "But I shouldn''t have to choose, should I?"

    "What d''you mean?" Meya asked. Frenix turned to her, then went on in that same dull, morose tone,

    "I''m the firstborn¡ªthe Pearlwater seat should''ve been mine next, but Father said he''d give it to my little brother because I''m a Greeneye and I wouldn''t find a lady to marry me. Then he sent me all the way here to train." He shrugged at Coris, "Now I know why. I could torch the whole castle if I really wanted the birthright."

    Frenix left off in a manner just as chillingly innocent as Atmund, who nodded in agreement. Abandoning all effort to liven the air of bleakness, Coris sighed and weaved his steepled fingers together.

    "Though it galls me, I''d have to agree." He straightened, his sharp stare piercing the three Greeneyes lined up before the desk in turn, "You all must learn to harness your power. Though I''d always be thankful for the rescue, it was fortunate you simply burned down half of Lord Crosset''s forest, and that Draken and his men escaped unscathed."

    Coris eyed Meya, drawing all eyes in the room to her as well. Meya shifted in her seat at the unpleasant reminder.

    "Yeah. Could''ve been worse." She threw the ungrateful prick a glower, then studied her fellow Greeneyes in confusion and awe, "You three are receiving it much better than I did. Why, you didnae seem fettered at all, Lady Heloise?"

    Heloise jumped. She hadn''t been allowed to speak, and didn''t seem inclined to protest, either. From her fidgeting hands and restless rocking on the balls of her feet, she seemed more desperate to be freed from the conversation.

    "Perhaps I need time for it to sink in. Ever since I saw you take out your eye, I''ve begun to realize we''re not exactly human, but I hadn''t imagined we''d be something different altogether." She forced a smile, fingering her bracelet,

    "It could also be that you''re still deciding whether to believe it." Coris suggested sagely. At Meya''s questioning look, he explained, "When I told you the truth, I had solid proof. You''ve also actually transformed. You remembered inconsistencies in your past, and you were able to connect the dots. It was irrefutable. Once these three have experienced their dragon forms, the truth would impact them at full force."

    Frenix gawked at Coris, then at Atmund, who shuddered and shook his head vigorously, then back to Coris, his eyes sparkling.

    "Are you saying we''ll have to transform like her, too?" He pointed at Meya.

    "Unfortunately, yes." Coris shone him an affectionate grin. Leaning back in his chair, he rested his hand on Meya''s rigid arm as she gaped at him, his reassuring pressure focused on the scar.

    "Of course, our means of transformation wouldn''t involve pain like living death. I''ll meet with Lady Jaise tomorrow to glean whatever information she has on dragon transformation."

    Coris reached for a loose roll of parchment on the desk then smoothed it out, revealing a map of Latakia. As his subjects crowded around him, he traced a spindly finger on the dotted line of a trade route leading to the eastern duchies, pausing to tap at large dots indicating landmarks and towns,

    "The following day, we set off for Hyacinth. If we''re lucky, we''ll have five days in the Sands of Caesonai to train in relative privacy. After replenishing supplies in Hyacinth, we''ll leave behind most of the entourage and pass through the valley of the Blue Mountains. That should give us three more days of training before we enter Safyre."

    The surrounding audience nodded and murmured their yes, my lords, lifting their hands from the margins of the map, which curled back to roughly its earlier tightness. Coris eyed Frenix and Atmund as he twisted the map into a rod-thin roll,

    "That would be all for now for you two." He deposited the map at the foot of a pile of books, then met the boys'' blinking eyes with a tender smile, "I believe little Amara expects you for playtime? Better not keep your lady waiting, my fellow knights."

    "I''m a knight?" Atmund breathed.

    "Can we tell her we''re dragons?" asked Frenix.

    "I''ll leave the decision to you." Coris quickly recovered his smile after a jolt, "Though I''m afraid impressing her with your dragon physique will have to wait until we''re well in the Sands."

    If you find this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the infringement.

    Frenix smirked. He roused the ogling Atmund with an elbow jab, then sprinted towards the door, the masked boy in tow. Now that he was to venture outside his hometown, Atmund would have to tolerate the sight of the naked face. He was allowed to keep his face private for as long as he preferred, though.

    The door swung close with a shattering slam. Christopher whipped around to his charge, a streak of white-hot fury highlighting his pale cheeks.

    "What are we training them for, exactly, Coris?" It was obvious from his strained voice he was trying his utmost to sound plainly curious. Failing dismally, he let loose, "I know you''re infatuated with your new mistress, and you''d like to further her cause, but shouldn''t our priority be the mining crisis? The crop failings in the west?"

    "Chris!" Fione cried. Simon grasped his arm, echoing her in an imploring hiss. Christopher shook him off, his handsome features twisted by disgust,

    "Amplevale is heading fast towards a famine. Your aunt is pregnant, and she''s worried her baby won''t come out right!"

    "I told you, Mother''s being her hysterical old self. Lord Uncle''s sent over provisions. They''d be fine," said Simon wearily, but he was determinedly looking anywhere but Coris.

    Silence reigned but for Christopher panting. Coris stared serenely back at him, waiting for the remnants of his outburst to ebb away,

    "I''m training them for our voyage to Everglen."

    Meya could almost see the name scrawled out across Christopher''s wide-eyed, pallid countenance, as well as those of Simon, Fione and Heloise. Not surprisingly, as their post covered only so much ground as Safyre. As far as they were concerned, Coris was demanding half a country, across a sea and beyond the horizon further than their duty.

    "I have no intention of pleasuring my wife in Safyre while Latakia is being drained of its lifeblood from both the eastern and the western front," Coris continued coldly,

    "Lady Jaise will ramp up supply of mineral-rich water to the most affected settlements in Meriton. All manors will coordinate to ration food. We will also dispatch spies into Nostra and investigate their movements. Meanwhile, I will mount a mission to Everglen and bring back those missing ore ships."

    "You suspect Nostra?" Christopher frowned, incredulous.

    "The crop failings began in Amplevale and spread eastward. Common sense would dictate it originated in Chione''s Lair and traveled through the Zarel Pass."

    Simon rolled his eyes.

    "We know that, genius! But how could Nostra cause a famine? Even dragons couldn''t have sucked nutrients out of our soil, not with the whole Neverend Heights in the way!"

    "They may very well could, Simon." Coris argued, "We can assume dragon research has progressed much further in Nostra. They may have discovered a strategic use of the dragons'' ability to absorb nutrients from the soil. We can''t afford the benefit of the doubt."

    Coris''s gray eyes seemed to momentarily blaze white. His four friends drew back and shared looks, digesting the astounding revelations and selecting the more delectable morsels upon which to plan their next move.

    Meya narrowed her eyes at Coris. He''d glanced her way before countering Simon, his eyes wide with fear. The same fear he betrayed when reunited with his old, bloodstained cloak. Was he hiding something from her, again?

    Coris straightened.

    "Our old friend Gillian is a dragon from Nostra." The mention of their old enemy jolted his audience out of their thoughts like the snap of a finger. Meya grudgingly set aside her suspicions,

    "This famine, perhaps even the missing ships, could be an attack on Latakia from the Nostran Emperor. A move to claim Everglen. But providing he''s alive, it could also be Gillian''s plan to hold Hadrian hostage."

    Coris paused. So did his sweeping gaze, with Zier on the receiving end, pale and faint, bracing for the worst which didn''t spare him.

    "In exchange for The Axel."

    Air seemed to have frozen solid even with the windows opened wide, as the brothers locked eyes. Zier broke away and stared at his feet, a twisted grin on his lips,

    "I was hoping you wouldn''t bring that up."

    Coris closed his eyes and sighed deeply, his long fingers locking together.

    "I have no choice but to. Now that we know its importance, we must bring it out. For your own safety."

    Zier burst out a barking laugh, jolting Coris awake.

    "My safety?" He spat, "You''ll cut me open and churn through my innards for a dragon eye. You''ll sacrifice me so the dragons can build a new Rota. At least have the decency to say it like it is!"

    Zier slammed his fist on the desk. Heloise shrank back. Arinel glanced between the brothers, hands grasping her chest. Fione stood rigid and blinking. Simon and Christopher shared worried looks. Meya found herself back in the infuriating dilemma of not knowing which brother she should thwack first.

    Coris closed his eyes, not out of exhaustion but grim determination. His jaw was set. His cheekbones shone white as his knuckles. He opened his eyes, but his pale silver soft and warm as moonbeam had darkened to iced steel. His voice was void of emotion,

    "Yes, I''m asking you to undergo surgery to save the humans and dragons of Latakia."

    Zier staggered as if lightning had torn the ground before him, his once brazen blue eyes now fearful and pleading.

    "Surgery?" He gawked at his brother''s cold, blank face, "But¡ªit''s hardly ever been done. And most of the test subjects died¡ªthey died, Brother! The Council banned it for a reason!"

    "I know it''s a great risk, Zier. I know you''re scared." Coris''s words rang hollow as the depths of his pupils. A crease folded between his eyebrows,

    "But we''re in Jaise, the town known for crafting the sharpest blades known to man¡ªobsidian. With Lady Jaise''s support, we have alchemists at our disposal. We can carry out research on blood transfusion, sleeping draughts, infection treatment. We can make it safe and painless."

    "You know sleeping draughts don''t work on me!" Zier snapped, "Do you plan to draw my entrails alive?"

    "That''s because you''ve only ever swallowed them." A quiet, lifeless voice interrupted.

    The feuding brothers spun around. Arinel stood frozen, eyes crossed, shocked by her own decision, but soldiered on against her will, like stuttering clockwork unwinding,

    "Healers have proposed that the nose is a more direct path to the brain than the stomach. If we could create a potent sleeping draught that could be inhaled like incense, it wouldn''t have to pass The Axel in your stomach before reaching your head."

    Morsel by morsel, Arinel thawed. She turned to Zier, tears of guilt quivering in her eyes,

    "My mother and her master were experimenting on this, the day they died. They were distilling sweet oil of vitriol for use in surgery when their lab exploded."

    She covered her face with her hands, her voice muffled,

    "A copy of their unfinished treatise survived the fire. Dineira...showed it to me today. She was Tyberne''s apprentice. The research has been banned, but with Lady Jaise''s support, we might be able to continue it without the Council''s knowledge."

    A dreadful silence descended. Zier shook his head and hobbled away from his beloved.

    "I can''t believe you, Ari." He croaked, pale with disbelief. Tears dripped from Arinel''s chin. Zier pointed a trembling finger at his brother, shouting, "You''re actually helping him kill me in my sleep!?"

    "Haven''t you been listening, Zier?" Coris slammed his hands on the desk and sprang to his feet, "We''ll improve the procedure! We''re not blindly drugging you then carving you up with a rusted knife." He conducted each beat with a slam, "We will do¡ªwhatever it takes¡ªto ensure¡ªyou''re¡ªsafe!"

    "Then kill those dragons attacking our ships and draining our soil!" Zier yelled, jabbing his finger wildly at the window,

    "Two hundred years this blithering Axel''s been stolen, and they only showed up now to claim it? What if it turned out The Axel wasn''t what they wanted? The bumbling spare died in vain for the prodigious heir''s misled cause! A befitting end! Oh, no, the heir is dying! Who''d continue the Hadrian line now?"

    Zier swept the throng with wide, crazed eyes, his arms thrown wide, then spun back to Coris. His brother hadn''t flinched a muscle.

    "This metal ball," He gouged at his stomach then tore at his cloak, "and this Hadrian blood are the only parts of me you¡ªor anyone¡ªhas ever cared about!"

    Coris waited out the tirade as if he were an empty dam, an unfeeling wall¡ªthe tempest, fanning the flames with his calm. Zier faltered, shaking his head, disbelief and disgust masking his pain,

    "You haven''t changed. You don''t give a damn how many pawns you''d have to lose if it would win you the Heist. Agnes. Ari. Beau. Me! Everything you''ve ever done is for duty. For that cursed Hadrian seat! You don''t know love. You don''t know fear. You don''t know mercy. You''re a coldblooded monster, like your beloved half-breed mistress! And I was a danged fool to think you could ever be my brother!"

    With that, Zier swept from the room, slamming the door behind his billowing, blood-red cloak.

 Oblivion

    Zier''s pounding footsteps had died away, but the stifling air bristled with the tremors of the row. The witnesses remained rooted, staring at the door, reeling from the impact, too numbed by shock to think or feel.

    As expected, Coris was the first to recover. Or seemingly, at the least. He filled his lungs with a long draw of breath then emptied them in a labored sigh. He turned to the two remaining Greeneyes¡ªhalf-breeds as his brother branded them.

    "Meya. Heloise. I''m so sorry." He lingered in turn on each pair of green eyes, one glowing and reproachful, the other dark and subdued. Trembling with shame, he steadied himself with a hand on the desk then bowed deeply,

    "I''m sure he didn''t mean it. He''s just in denial. He''ll come around. And he''ll give you both his most contrite apology. You have my word."

    Even as her fury and hurt subsided with Coris''s promise, Meya shared a worried look with the others. Coris had settled on his chair, drew up a piece of linen parchment then scribbled away with his trusty hawk-feather quill, pausing for thought at intervals, before adding more bullets and intructions.

    "Coris," Meya called. Ignoring her, Coris pushed himself to his feet and handed the paper, now folded thrice so it would fit snugly within a palm or stashed under a belt, to his father''s two squires.

    "Chris. Simon. We''ll need preparations for our dragon training. Please see to this by tomorrow."

    Simon took the note with numb fingers, still staring in wide-eyed disbelief at Coris along with Christopher. Coris turned next to Arinel, who remained shaken. She seemed to be relying on Heloise''s hands on her shoulders to keep her on her feet, while Fione gave her nervous pats on the back.

    "Arinel," Lady Crosset surfaced as if from a stupor. Coris gave her a slight bow, "I apologize for the short notice, but you have tonight and tomorrow to decide whether you''d like to travel on with us, or stay behind in Jaise."

    Arinel seized up in horror, eyes bulging from their swollen sockets. Coris dipped his head once more,

    "Your mother''s research could be crucial to retrieving The Axel. Naturally, you''d want to continue it, but there''s also the matter of finding Klythe."

    Arinel shivered. She seemed to have forgotten her missing brother in light of all that had been going on. At long last, she dipped a deep nod of resignation, then folded herself between her arms. Heloise tightened her embrace, then glanced around along with Fione at the next command directed to her.

    "Fione. As maid-of-honor to the lawful Lady Hadrian, your post is with Arinel."

    "What about Zier?" Fione narrowed her eyes as if to capture the barest flick of emotion from her perpetually equanimous master. If Coris was taken by surprise, his denial was honed to perfection.

    "If he agreed to undergo the surgery, he''d need to be examined by Jaise''s healers." He cocked his head. "He''d have to stay. If he doesn''t, then he''d travel on with us to Everglen. He''d have to contribute in some way."

    Silence fell. Even Fione seemed to have been robbed of her inherent ability to talk in any situation. Coris''s calm leadership and eloquence, though soothing in the midst of a crisis, was unnerving when the crisis was that of his own. It seemed fitting¡ªdestined, even¡ªthat the Hadrian brothers would repeatedly clash. A being of selfish freedom without restraint, Zier was bound to be alienated by his inhumanly logical brother.

    Meya shook her head in frustration. He seemed accepting alright, back then when they were talking on the pillow. Yet, once the opportunity arose for vindication, Coris hadn''t heeded a word of her advice on how he should portray himself to Zier.

    Coris surveyed each of his subjects spread out before him, impervious to their thinly veiled looks of apprehension and admonition. His signatory smile was glazed like syrup over the cracking, peeling skin of his lips.

    "That would be all. I''m so sorry you have to witness such a scene. You''ve earned your rest. Goodnight."

    ?

    Dinner stopped by to keep Meya and Coris company once the congregation of noblemen and women had departed. Though foreign and plain at first glance, even the fussiest eater need only muster up the courage to take the first bite, before he would become a devotee of the Hythean cuisine.

    Roasted flat bread gleaming with droplets of olive oil, stuffed with deep-fried mashed chickpea patties, seasoned with tangy sesame cream. An assortment of scalded vegetables, to be dipped in a sauce of mashed eggplant. And, for dessert, tiny cakes made of a dozen delicate layers of peppery nuts and wafer-thin dough, drenched in gum syrup and garnished with cinnamon.

    Yet, even with recipes designed to impress, with plenty of ingredient for surprise and awe, the meal was a subdued one. The caustic stench from the row between brothers lingered heavy in the air, like tendrils of nostril smoke from a foul-tempered dragon. Ventilating the room by gushing over food seemed laughable.

    "I''m very sorry, Meya. About Zier."

    Meya looked up from her trencher, three fingers inside her mouth. Her eyes met his fleetingly, then settled upon the stick of boiled carrot he had been stirring aimlessly in his pot of starchy eggplant paste. The poor thing looked two orbits away from snapping in half.

    This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

    Sighing, Meya pulled her fingers free, scraping off the residue of gum syrup with her teeth.

    "''Tis no use sorry-ing me, Coris. You have to go talk to him." She polished the last remnants of gum off her fingers with a napkin, then answered his gaze.

    "I know I shan''t speak for Greeneyes and dragons in all the three lands, but I wouldn''t want to risk your brother''s life for our cause if there were any other way, either."

    "He betrayed our family and stole a secret that could jeopardize all of Latakia, Meya!" Coris''s eyes blazed, his voice harsh and biting as a winter gale. "It''s high time he learned there would be consequences!"

    "For Freda''s sake, you''re his big brother, Coris!" Meya slammed her fists on the table, sending carrot fingers jolting out of their trenchers and spoons out of their bowls, her eyes locked in a death match with Coris.

    "He expects you to protect him. Not serve him up on a platter to be dissected by egghead healers while drugged by egghead alchemists. For something he did as a child!"

    Coris simply glowered back, his expression impassive, his jaws clenched. Meya deflated with a huffing sigh, settling back down on the carpeted flagstones,

    "Look, I''m as frustrated with him as I am with you, and as you are with him. And I''m tempted to blame it all on him just as much as you are. But you gotta think like us selfish common folk for once, Lexi. Not a leader."

    Coris averted his eyes and scanned the tabletop, a wordless show of defiance. Swallowing the urge to roll her eyes, Meya leaned across and grasped his fleshless arm.

    "You''re asking a lad of sixteen to offer up his life for an experiment. A banned experiment that''s already killed many people. And you and Arinel are pressuring him into it."

    Coris looked up, silvery eyes peering out from sunken sockets, lost and melancholic.

    "He''s cornered. He feels betrayed. He''s alone, and he''s scared. So he lashes out."

    At long last, the whirling tempest dissipated. His defensive arms of blade-like winds died away, revealing his true battered self alone at the eye of the storm. Coris hung his head, covering his face in shame and anguish. Meya stood up on her knees and circled the table to his side, gathering him into her arms,

    "He thinks you don''t love him." She murmured into his trembling shoulder, closing her eyes as the warmth of her breath reverberated to engulf her cheeks, "He thinks you couldn''t be bothered to do everything in your power to protect him before considering the last resort. You have to talk to him, Lexi."

    One by one, she peeled his resisting fingers from his face. She pried his chin from his chest and tipped his face up with a tender finger, then understood his reluctance to face her. Coris''s complexion had drained to ashen, and his overbright eyes were rimmed with red.

    Knowing enough not to comment, Meya smoothed his hair, then helped him to his feet and to their bed.

    "If you''re not ready to face him, then sleep on it for a night, alright?" She coaxed him down, smoothing the silken blanket over him, "I''ll get a head start on Axel''s memoir for tonight''s reading practice."

    "Nightcap." Coris mumbled. Meya cocked her head, acknowledging her defeat, then shuffled away to their dinner table to cobble up a drink. She traipsed back to an impatient Coris with her green Jaise bowl, filled to the brim with cold chamomile tea, then tapped the laudanum vial four times over it.

    "Four drops." She pushed the bowl into his eager hands, adding with a blush on her cheeks, "That''d be six kisses tomorrow."

    "Told you, I need far more than that to carry me through the night." Coris held the bowl before his lips, inhaling deeply to feed his nostrils with the faded aroma of blissful slumber. Meya''s cheeks deepened in color as she unfurled an affectionate, mischievous smile.

    "I just said kisses. I didnae say where."

    Coris was left blinking for a mere breath. Yet, it was more than ample time for Meya to snatch Axel''s memoir from the bedside table and scamper out of his reach.

    Coris''s covert grin of giddy anticipation morphed into one of guilt and apprehension in the span of a heartbeat. Keeping an eye on Meya as she undressed for a bath, he downed the rest of his tea in one hearty swig, slammed the bowl onto the table, then plummeted into the bed''s supple embrace, praying¡ªyet not expecting¡ªfor sleep to claim him swiftly and linger until morn.

    ?

    Coris woke again well before the end of first sleep, drenched in cold sweat and feverish enough that for once, he couldn''t discern the heat radiating from the nearby Meya.

    For a while, he simply laid there, unable to decide which was more bearable of two evils¡ªslumber plagued with nightmares, or lucidity dogged by withdrawal.

    After what could have been a whole minute, the poor lad came to the disheartening conclusion that sleep was not an available option. Coris grudgingly forced himself upright, cradling his throbbing head in his hands, as Zier''s words beat a tattoo onto his skull with every pounding pulse.

    You don''t know love. You don''t know fear. You don''t know mercy. You''re a coldblooded monster.

    Monster. Coris was no stranger to the word, having been surrounded by its whispered form and its countless variants from childhood. Especially after his victory in the War of Cristoria.

    Fat, short and unathletic, he leaned on his sharp mind to excel in his studies, to manipulate those who would otherwise ridicule him¡ªSimon and Christopher, namely¡ªinto being his underlings. Committing atrocities no child should be capable of in the name of duty, in the hopes of a shred of his reluctant parents'' affection.

    For his beleaguered Father had only sired him to continue the line. For his unready Mother had been caught in the act, trying to end him as she did his three predecessors. For he had a little brother who was handsome¡ªand innocent¡ªand tall¡ªand strong¡ª

    He bred envy, resentment, disgust, and fear wherever he went. And he reveled in it. There might have been times when he doubted this caricature he had molded around his empty, long forgotten true self, but he would just as soon decide it was the only way for him to be.

    He was Lord Hadrian, future Baron Hadrian. From the moment he was conceived, there was no other path, and nothing else upon this path. He committed himself to his role. He embraced his duty to The Axel. Without it, he was nothing.

    It was such that Coris wondered if his efforts to liberate dragons was because he actually cared for Meya and her kind, or because it would further cement his wise, benevolent Lord Hadrian persona in the eyes of the world, and Mother and Father.

    Even as he knew, as Zier knew¡ªa monster could not love, and a monster did not deserve love.

    Normally, Coris would not have to dwell on these torturous ruminations, as whenever they surfaced, he would promptly drown them back to the bowels of his consciousness with the oblivion laudanum brings. And now, more than ever before, he craved that blessed emptiness. Just a couple of drops¡ªA few more swigs, then¡ªNow, one last lick might just do it¡ªUntil the Mist of Nightmares was kept at bay...

    Meya did not stir at the sound of Coris falling like stone, spread-eagled, his face bone-white and cold as moonlight. From his slack hand the empty laudanum vial rolled. Its last dredge of poison seeped into the white sheets as it lolled lazily back and forth, echoing the dying throes of its drinker, before finally going still.

 Bated Breath

    Arinel had always appreciated the value of life¡ªshe was well aware that each life carried a different value, and thus could be traded.

    The life trade was ever prevalent in her world. As a baby, she was chosen to live at the expense of her mother. As a young girl, she was nourished by the lifeforce of hundreds of peasants who worked her father''s land and grew the food that fed her. As a becoming bride, her father had insured her safe passage to Hadrian with twenty guardsmen, of whom fifteen survived, and a band of decoys, of whom none did.

    Over the years, as she watched nameless, faceless people parade before her to form a wall of living flesh, protecting her from harm. As she imagined her mother lying serene on a bed of blood, cast aside to die as if she were a mere container for a higher being, she was overcome with uncertainty¡ªWas she really worth all these lives? Had she lived up to the potential these people saw in her, when they drew their last breaths at her father''s command?

    The answer was no¡ªand never will be. Though life could be traded, life could never be replaced. No matter how much she would contribute to progress in Latakia, how many lives she would go on to better and save, how many dreams she would accomplish in her mother''s place, the shed blood of others that flowed within her veins and tied her to life would never be diluted. Not even by a single drop.

    And yet, even as she knew her sin could never be undone, nor her guilt forgiven, she couldn''t help but try in vain. It was her only way of coping, her only way of living. It was such that Arinel hardly knew, anymore, what it was to live for one''s own self. The choice that Zier had always found so simple and inherent to make.

    "This is your mother. The mother you have never known and never will know. And you''re putting the needs of others above your own? Again?"

    As Gretella''s rebuking voice echoed in her ears, Arinel burrowed her cheek deeper into her pillow and hunched her shoulders against the chill within her bones, shutting her eyes against the prodding moonlight.

    My needs aren''t worth considering. Because I''m not worth considering.

    Every sacrifice. Every life lost. Every choice made¡ªhave always been for Lady Crosset.

    Lady Crosset would know what she wants. But I''m no longer Lady Crosset.

    Now, I''m just Arinel.

    And I barely know Arinel.

    Rather, is there even anything to know about Arinel?

    The gong of the chapel bell reverberated in the night air, signaling the actual end of first sleep, and Arinel rose thankfully from her down-stuffed four poster, trailing not a remnant of drowsiness.

    Last night was the first time ever since she left Crosset that she slept in a bed. As Meya''s maidservant, she was relegated to a hay mattress on the floor, alongside Gretella and Agnes. They were at least given a separate, conjoined room to sleep in, however, which was fortunate, considering the frequency with which Meya and Coris went about their nighttime business.

    Beside her on the bed, Gretella lied awake yet unresponsive, her bloodshot, swollen eyes boring holes into the ceiling, and Arinel quickly turned away in shame. Twisting sideways, she noticed Heloise''s empty mattress and overturned blanket. Agnes was already up and combing her hair. Fione rubbed the sleep out of her eyes as she struggled to rise, no doubt meaning to go tend to the fire in Meya and Coris''s room.

    One might assume the absent Heloise could have beaten her to the task, but that wouldn''t explain how Arinel hadn''t heard her leaving despite having been awake for the good part of an hour, and why darkness still seeped out unmitigated from the gap under the door. Like Arinel, the Greeneye lady had probably woken long before the bell, sleepless from the astounding revelations about her dragon nature.

    A sudden inspiration lit up in Arinel''s head at the thought.

    Greeneyes...Dragons¡ªMeya.

    Of course. Arinel doesn''t know. But Lady Crosset would know.

    I should go ask Lady Crosset.

    Arinel planted her stiff arms on the yielding mattress and edged to the side. Her numb legs fell to the carpeted stones like lead planks as she swung them off the bed. She hobbled towards the side door, wiggling her hand behind her at the half-risen Fione.

    "Rest, Fione. I''ll take care of it."

    "Thank you, m''lady."

    Fione gave a melodic yawn, falling back to her hay sheet with a grateful flump as Arinel turned the icy metal knob. The solid black of night engulfed her as she stepped over the threshold, blemished only by a sliver of milky white moonlight slashing a slanted path down the foot of the bed. She could just make out Coris''s bare toes sticking up behind the lumps of Meya''s blanketed feet.

    In the fireplace, pinpricks of orange light peeked from among shambles of ash and blackened timber. The suffocating cold of a desert night would have jolted a regular sleeper from his slumber¡ªbut not Coris, who would sleep through an earthquake even without an urging from laudanum¡ªand Meya, who was impervious to the cold due to her inner body furnace.

    Hands outstretched, Arinel grasped and groped in the darkness for firewood¡ªbut her foot found them first. The resulting thuds of rolling timber was followed by rustling from the bed. Arinel glanced sharply up, just in time to catch Meya''s silhouette swaying upright, barely discernable against the backdrop of pitch darkness. She turned around, her glowing green eyes blinking blearily, eerily seeming to hang suspended in mid-air.

    "Sorry. Looks like I let the fire die again."

    She mumbled as she slid down the bed, landing with two dull thuds on the carpet. She shuffled drunkenly¡ªthough not blindly¡ªtowards the fireplace, knelt down to gather the scattered logs, laid them one by one inside the grate, then topped them with kindling. After about a minute of striking flint, a hatchling fire clawed its way out to open air, flickering within Meya''s glowing eyes, now narrowed in worry at Arinel.

    "Lady, how come you''re here? You been sleepwalking? Thank Freda we weren''t shagging tonight."

    Arinel reckoned Meya was still too drowsy for modesty. After throwing a furtive glance at Coris, who hadn''t wiggled a toe, Meya tossed in a pinch of twigs to coax the fire out further, then turned back to her,

    "I''d been meaning to talk to you, actually. You''ve been acting strange since you came back from the alchemist''s. What happened?"

    Out of habit more than conviction, Arinel shook her head listlessly. Though she had decided to let Meya in on her mother''s murder and follow her lead on the matter, now that Meya was right before her, she was again too dazed to speak.

    Still, Meya persisted. Once she had lit a tallow candle on a stand in the fireplace, she took Arinel tenderly by the arm and led her to the half-vacated bed.

    Did you know this text is from a different site? Read the official version to support the creator.

    No sooner had the candlelight fell upon the figure on the bed, than the candle itself plummeted to the carpeted floor. The remaining dim orange light from the hearth mingled with moonbeam, illuminating a pale hand falling out from a gathering of shadows. Long, tapered digits lied splayed lifelessly, fingertips resting against an empty glass vial.

    A gust of wind scattered the curtain of clouds. Moonlight reflected on the bone-white slits of his half-closed eyes. A trail of spittle glistened as it inched through his parted lips...

    "CORIS!"

    Meya''s strident scream pierced the petrified air like a blade of lightning, jolting Arinel to action. At the acrid smell of burning wool, she hurriedly stamped out the candleflame. By the time she had glanced up, Meya had already scrambled onto the bed and lifted Coris into her arms, shaking his limp form and shrieking his name both in prayer and beckoning.

    A crash sounded from behind them. Arinel spun around to find Fione hanging from the side door, wide-eyed and panting. Her gaze fell upon Meya''s bent form, screeching dementedly, and her eyes bulged wider. Knowing better than to wait for her question, Arinel yelled her command.

    "He''s poisoned by laudanum! Healers, NOW!"

    There was another bang of the door as Fione rushed to carry out her order. Meya''s abrupt silence had Arinel whipping around in alarm, fearing she had collapsed in shock. To her relief and astonishment, Meya was furiously tearing off her nightdress. As Arinel looked on, perplexed, she heaved Coris up from her lap and pressed him flush against her naked body, sobbing and rocking back and forth. Coris''s head lolled about on her shoulder, his face bloodless.

    "Don''t die." She whimpered into his hair as she rubbed blood back into his back and arms,

    "Don''t die. Don''t die. Don''t die."

    Arinel understood then¡ªshe was keeping him warm. As tears stung in her eyes, she picked up the folds of blankets with trembling hands and wrapped them loosely around Meya''s bare shoulders. A glare of moonlight arced into the corner of her eye from the abandoned vial of sleeping death. She picked it up and examined it. It was sucked dry save for one last dreg clinging to the bottom.

    The chilling proof hit home like a sickening blow to the stomach. Her fist clenched as if to crush the baleful phial in her bare hand, Arinel pelted towards the door and fell into the hallway, screaming for the one soul who would come to regret tonight for the rest of his life.

    "ZIER!"

    ?

    The hallway had been transformed into a waiting area for ashen-faced Hadrinians and masked Jaisians by the time Zier rounded the corner towards the fray, Christopher, Simon and Heloise hot on his heels.

    The moment the spectacle came into view, Arinel let go of his hand and rushed towards the pathetic figure sitting crumpled on the floor beside the slightly ajar door. Her bare, freckled shoulders rose from the unraveling blanket pooling in terrace-like folds around her folded legs. Her straggly blonde hair with a hint of red-gold at her crown hung draped over her face, cascading onto her covered knees.

    Her trembling hands clasped tightly in prayer, she crouched listless as healers and apprentices in sweeping black cloaks hurried past her in and out of the room she shared with his brother, rocking back and forth on the balls of her bare feet, gleams of unfaceted emerald spilling out from between her fingers.

    Meya...?

    Zier shuddered at the unsettling sight, especially as he recalled the disparaging titles he had branded the Greeneye with. Coldblooded. Monster. Half-breed...

    Even then, she had barely flinched. Even at the mercy of dragon mercenaries, her spirit remained unbroken under the pressure of twenty lives. Yet now, she seemed on the brink of utter despair¡ªthe situation was that dire.

    Brother.

    Zier whipped around and stared at the slamming door. Another wide-eyed apprentice had just scrambled in, lugging an empty wine barrel. Lady Jaise weaved her way through the chaos in her billowing nightdress, dishing out curt commands to her fretting subjects left and right.

    As she ordered her seneschal to send an urgent note to Baron Hadrian, desperate shouts from inside the room burst into the corridor, superseding her voice, ebbing and swelling as the door swung back and forth on its well-oiled hinges.

    "Harder, Eidred! His chest isn''t rising! And keep the rhythm!" One of Jaise''s senior healers barked at his apprentice, who presumably was in charge of pumping the mouth bellows.

    "Coris! Coris, can you hear me? Coris Hadrian!" Then came the frantic calls of Bishop Riddell, jolting and panting from the impact of pressing his charge''s ribcage. Receiving no response, he rounded on the unseen maids preparing the antidote in exasperation,

    "How far along is that cure?"

    "Nearly there, sir!" Dineira''s sobbing voice echoed from the other end of the room, coinciding with her father''s frustrated growl, his breathing heavy and choppy now that he had taken Riddell''s place.

    "Come on, lad. Breathe! Or you''re going on the barrel!"

    "The barrel?"

    Zier breathed, eyebrows tied in confusion and cheeks draining in dread. His eyes still fixed on the doorway, Simon whispered out of the corner of his mouth,

    "They''ll roll him face-down on the barrel to revive his heart. They couldn''t keep up pumping by hand for that long."

    The brusque yet clear explanation sent chilling fear coursing down his limbs and extremities. Guilt tore at his spasming heart like claws of whetted ice, as he knew full well what had agonized the unbreakable Coris to the point of casting away his very life like dice on a gambling table.

    "You fool." Zier rasped, his strangled voice choked with sobs, his breathing ragged from the strain of biting back tears, then succumbed to his anguish and roared,

    "You blithering fool! D''you have to go kill yourself over everything I said?"

    His pleading, chastising scream could not penetrate the limbo between life and death his brother was trapped within. Instead, it alerted his grieving mistress of Zier''s presence. Meya''s bowed head snapped upright, glowing green eyes blazing from behind tangled strands of golden hair. Her teeth bared and gnashing, she bolted up and stomped over to him with murder in her eyes, blanket trailing from her naked torso.

    "YOU!"

    Heloise shrieked and dropped the tea tray she was still holding as Meya snatched Zier''s collar and dragged him down to face her livid, crazed glare, rattling him senseless as she screeched into his ears.

    "You made him like this! He was crying! He was sobbing over what you said! You ungrateful beast! You selfish coward! This is your fault! This is all your fault! He''s gunna die and this is all your fault!"

    "Meya!"

    Pried away from the petrified Zier by the combined efforts of Arinel and Haselle, Meya crumpled to her knees, weeping wretchedly. It was apparent that even more so than she blamed him, she blamed herself for what had happened. As the startled crowd, Lady Jaise included, looked on in mingled shock and pity, she crawled to the wall and fell against it, thrashing a bare fist feebly on the lime-washed plaster.

    "Take my blood. Take my eyes. Take my anything." She whimpered, collapsing into a limp heap on the floor, as she begged and bargained with Fyr for more borrowed time for her beloved,

    "Coris...please...please...don''t leave me again."

    After a suffocating pause of silence, Lady Jaise stepped forth and knelt down beside her. She shed her cloak and robed the mourning girl, then gathered her into her arms,

    "Hush, lass." She chided gently as she nestled Meya''s head on her bosom, whispering reassurances down her hair. "You may fear, but you mustn''t lose faith in your lord. You are his lady. You are his duty to love and protect, and a Hadrian does not desert his duty."

    Her solemn words rammed succeeding blows into Zier''s heart like a battering stake, oozing shame and guilt like poison which crushed his chest from inside out. As Meya twisted her hands in Winterwen''s nightgown and bawled into her embrace, Zier lowered his gaze to the bare flagstones, unable to withstand the cold, silent, accusing stares from his friends spread out along the narrow hallway. All the while, muffled, harried voices echoed from the other side of the door, seeming only to mount in urgency with each second that crawled by.

    Then, there was a piercing, strident scream, followed by hushed murmurs whose nature could not be deduced, whether they were echoes of an astonished pause that heralded a dreadful proclamation, or simply the hum of a reprieve of relief.

    Resigned for the worst, Meya wailed and buried her face into Lady Jaise''s chest, clinging onto the Lady as she stared transfixed at the door along with every eye in the vicinity. After what must have been five Miracle Fests, the door finally banged open.

    Bishop Riddell stood panting, his face pale and drenched with sweat, clinging to the doorframe for support. At long last, he regained his breath and eked out a smile of utmost joy.

    "He''s breathing." He croaked, his voice choked with tears, then shouted over the screams of joy from the gathered crowd, "He''s lucid. No lasting damage. He wants the Lady Hadrian."

    Riddell had barely even finished when Meya streaked past him into the room, throwing the door into the wall with a resounding slam. Even as Zier shot in barely a second after her, he found her already lying prone over his brother, sobbing uncontrollably onto his bare chest, as he stroked her hair with whatever meager strength he had left, muttering feverish apologies to her unheeding form.

    After a while, he registered Zier standing just nearby. His bleary silvery eyes slid to the side and met Zier''s wavering gaze, bursting with as much guilt as relief, then his colorless lips creaked up to form his signature lukewarm, reassuring smile.

    In that moment, Zier had never loathed his brother''s smile more in his entire life.

 Splinter

    Coris may have been whisked from Fyr''s raft in the nick of time, and yet, he was still not out of the beguilingly calm waters that could carry him to the dreaded Black Lake.

    Bishop Riddell and Jaise''s senior healers had warned that the young Lord Hadrian must be kept under constant vigil all through the night. As the laudanum had yet to be cleansed from his system, it could flare up and bring him under again once the effects of the antidote had subsided. At best, he would only suffer the fevers, aches and nausea of withdrawal. He would need to be kept cool, well hydrated, and well away from more laudanum.

    Zier volunteered for first watch without the slightest of hesitation. His offer was undisputed. Being their cousin and closest kin, Simon naturally stepped up to take the next watch.

    It was third hour by the time Meya finally drifted off to sleep with her hand around Coris''s wrist. Her tears had dried, yet her nose was still rosy, and her breathing was loud and ragged. Simon had tucked in straight away to prepare for his dawn shift, and was snoring softly on his mattress at the foot of the bed.

    By the light of the fireplace, Zier could see Coris''s eyes still jittering restlessly under their sockets. Beads of sweat glistened on his wide forehead and peppered his receding hairline. Every once in a while, he would rub his head against his pillow, eyebrows furrowed in a frown as he struggled and failed to find his sweet spot. If Zier were to guess, he was aware that Meya had had her finger pressed up against his pulse, and had refrained from tossing and turning to his heart''s fill, feigning an easy sleep to lull his Lady into allowing herself some rest.

    Zier heaved a private sigh of weariness at the thought. As he watched Coris fidget in place as if tied down by invisible ropes, his shallow well of patience ran dry. He fished the towel out of the water basin, wrung it, then dabbed at Coris''s forehead.

    Coris wrenched his eyes open halfway. It took a moment as his faculties aroused themselves, before those silvery pupils slid to the side, settling on Zier.

    Leaving the folded towel on his forehead, Zier flipped back the corner of his blanket. The taut skin of Coris''s naked chest looked bone white, illuminated by the moonlight. He took his brother''s clammy, bony hand and warmed it between his.

    "Where does it hurt?"

    Coris''s chapped lips crinkled into a wan smile. He strained his feeble shoulder up for a minuscule shrug.

    "Everywhere." He chuckled. His smile widened as he tilted his head, "If you were to leech me, you''d have to suck me dry."

    Zier betrayed no flicker of humor, and Coris''s smile sagged. He turned instead to his bedmate, staring long and still at her tearstained countenance, before gingerly pulling his arm out of her loosened grasp. It was so thin that it slid out without so much as a brush.

    A trail of mucus seeped from Meya''s nostril. Coris pulled the towel down from his forehead and dabbed gently at it, then tugged up the blanket to cloak her exposed shoulders.

    It was an intriguing sight. Zier had never seen Coris tending to women. Usually, it was women¡ªmaids, nurses, Mother¡ªtending to him, sickly as he was. And he couldn''t help his curiosity,

    "You love her?"

    Coris froze with his hand halfway through a sheaf of Meya''s hair. Tremors wracked his fingertips, before he withdrew soundlessly back to his side of the bed. Still, his gaze lingered upon her.

    "I prefer not to ascertain." His soft voice barely traveled in the thick silence, "I don''t have the right to, even if I did."

    The truth was evident in the lie. Guilt and fear clashed within Zier. Yet, amidst the maelstrom, there was that waving splinter of denial. He hammered down on it, as he had always did, ignoring the dull pain as it sank back into its crevasse. The words of yesterday''s argument beat a tattoo against his skull, and he clutched his numb hands together, head bowed as if in prayer.

    "I''m sorry, Brother." He shook his head, "I just can''t do it. I''m no knight. I''ve always been a coward. I''m scared of dying."

    "That makes two of us, then." said Coris. Zier froze, then snorted.

    "Don''t try the empathy game. I know better. You''ve already accepted it. Fyr, you''ve been preparing for it for years."

    "Doesn''t mean I''m not scared, does it?"

    Coris''s voice remained soft, but there was a hint of ice in it. Zier glanced up. Coris was staring straight ahead. His gaunt face was masklike, void of color and emotion, but his gaze was bitter and morose.

    Somehow, Zier felt the splinter in his heart stirring, battling to pull free, calling out to be acknowledged once and for all. It was as if it had found its fellow in his brother''s eyes. And, for the first time, Zier asked Coris the one question he had neglected to for six years.

    "Why did you do it, then? Why did you lie to Father about swallowing the Axel? Why have you sacrificed your future for me?"

    Coris remained staring ahead into darkness and silence. Zier could see the strain of the battle within him in the thinning line of his lips, the tightening grip of his spider-like hands on his blanket. At long last, Coris glanced at his slumbering mistress, then took a deep, shuddering breath,

    Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author.

    "I hadn''t set out to do that, Zier." He closed his eyes as he exhaled, sinking limply deeper into his pillow.

    "You know as well I do that Father would never harm us for The Axel. I''m his heir, and you''re my spare. We''re the future of Hadrian. He couldn''t bear to lose us."

    Zier could only stare unblinking at his brother''s tortured expression, dreading, anticipating. A part of him felt like it already knew what was coming, that this would turn out to be just one of Coris''s mind games.

    "If only The Axel had come out of you, none of this would have ensued. How in the three lands could I have foreseen all this happening to me?"

    Coris shielded his eyes with a jittery hand. His voice choked with sobs died halfway out of his throat. Zier''s heart lurched at the sight of crystal-clear teardrops plummeting down his protruding cheekbones. But he couldn''t retreat now. He must know now. This talk of theirs was long overdue.

    "Why did you do it, then?" He demanded once more. He planted his hand on the mattress, his nails digging into the supple down as he loomed over his weeping brother,

    "Just a show of brotherly love, is that it?" He sneered, even as his voice shook with suppressed tears, "You think you could stop me from bringing The Axel to Graye with one kind gesture, after all those years of making my life hell? You think you could hang Father''s love over me to scare me into behaving?"

    Coris laid another hand over his face, curling in on himself in shame. He flipped to the side and made as if to burrow and hide in his pillow, but Zier grasped his shoulder before he could flee.

    "Why didn''t you confess?" He peeled back those pale fingers with his, revealing silvery eyes wide in terror,

    "Three days and nights, you let that hag poison you half-dead. Turns out that wasn''t to protect me from Father? Then what for?! Why did you have to do all that?"

    Zier shook those bony wrists in frustration. Coris panted, breathless from swallowing back his tears.

    "Because I didn''t¡ªI still don''t know, to this day¡ªhow to convince you¡ª" He choked out in between breaths, then buried his face into his pillow, further muffling his words,

    "¡ªThat I''ve changed¡ªThat I''m trying to be¡ªthe brother I''ve never been for you. That I''m learning to love and protect and guide you¡ªthe way I should''ve done from the start¡ª"

    "¡ªAnd you didn''t need to, you idiot!"

    Zier snapped, completely forgetting that there were others present in the vicinity. Heaving Coris upright, he grasped him by the shoulders and locked gazes with his brother, who was so stunned he had stopped crying,

    "All it would have taken¡ªwas a simple sorry, Coris!"

    Coris sat petrified but for his blinking eyes, staring dumbly as Zier''s grip faltered and those hands slid lifelessly down to his elbows. The younger Hadrian bowed his head, burning tears splashing onto icy stone.

    "The months after you returned from Crosset, you went out of your way to be kind to me. You became the brother I''ve always dreamt of having. You were so like Klythe, it was unnerving, Coris!"

    Zier exploded. Having exhausted his strength, he fell, resting his head on his brother''s narrow shoulder.

    "I thought you''d cottoned on to what I was about to do. I thought you were trying to lure me back to Father''s side. And when I was finally back safely in Hadrian''s demesne, you''d sell me out for Father''s praise. Just like you''d always did."

    "All these years, even as we''re deep in this crap together, I still can''t shake this doubt, deep down. That all this was for The Axel. That you wouldn''t have cared if I went over to Graye that night. If Gillian were to slit my throat on that hill. If I didn''t so happen to have this dragon eyeball stuck somewhere in my guts!"

    The dull, sickening sound of flesh impacting flesh rent the air. Zier had slammed a blow into his abdomen. Coris felt winded as he wrestled with his little brother, trying to stop him walloping himself to a hemorrhage.

    "Why didn''t you just ask?" He gasped, "Why haven''t you said a thing?"

    To his immense relief, Zier''s struggle grew feeble and ebbed away. As he pressed his watering eyes flush against Coris''s shoulder as if to cauterize them, his hoarse confession echoed in the still night.

    "I couldn''t bear to lose my brother now that I finally have one. I couldn''t bear to hear the truth."

    Then, without thinking, without planning, as Zier sank bodily into his embrace, for the first time in his life, Coris raised his arms to hold him. He was much broader, much stronger than he was, yet Coris tried his best to support, to protect, to comfort. For once, to be brother first and Hadrian second.

    "I''m sorry, Zier. I''m so sorry for everything I''ve done to you." Through renewed tears, he mustered up his words and whispered them into Zier''s ear, as they swayed and held onto one another.

    "And I will not begrudge you, if you should withhold your forgiveness, until you feel I truly deserve it. Even if that may take more than my lifetime."

    Zier felt it was over him to reply, to decide just now. It was all he could do to nod vigorously, to absorb the ghost of the warmth he had never received from his brother''s clammy, shrunken chest. True to his word, Coris simply smoothed his hair in understanding.

    "We won''t force you to undergo the surgery, Zier. At least until the risk is negligible. You''re not a coward for fearing it. Anyone would have been afraid. I would have been afraid."

    This time, there was the tremors of a suppressed shiver in his voice. It convinced Zier that this wasn''t him feigning empathy simply as a ploy to gain his trust, as he often did.

    Yet, even as he was both relieved and grateful, he also felt he didn''t deserve it. Yet again, Coris was abandoning the quickest route to justice and freedom for Greeneyes, because of Zier''s selfish desire to stay alive. Prioritizing his brother''s cowardice over the predicament of the woman he loved and her kind.

    Zier couldn''t help sneaking a glance over Coris''s shoulder at the thought. To his horror, he found himself staring straight into a familiar pair of glowing green eyes (though, to be frank, it would have been a more worrisome matter had she somehow remained asleep through it all). A sudden thump followed by rigorous rustling of fabric from the foot of the bed implied Simon wasn''t that heavy a sleeper as well.

    Meya sat up, her silhouette backlit by the crackling fire in the hearth. Zier pulled away from the nonplussed Coris, and motioned for him to turn around.

    Burnished silver and blazing emerald entwined in a silent, excruciating battle of wills, before Coris broke away and gingerly took his Lady''s hand, his shivering words a reassurance to Zier as much as a plea for Meya''s sympathy.

    "We still have time. We still have much left to discover. We will find another way."

    After a long, suffocating moment, Meya clasped Coris''s hand in return, and the Hadrian brothers breathed once again. She remained wordless, however. Her downcast face draped in shadow, and her lips a grim line of cold fury, she withdrew her hand and turned her back on them, then slid soundlessly off the bed. She traipsed towards the side-door then disappeared behind it, for once actively seeking the company of trustworthy fellow women over the secretive brothers of Hadrian.

    Meya may be magnanimous when it came to the fate of her kind, but convincing her to forgive Coris for his latest betrayal of her trust would not be as simple.

 Motherhood

    Keeping time for the whole manor meant life in the church was also governed by a strict routine. On midday, young acolyte Jerald would normally be found trailing after Friar Tumney, recording his observations of the pea plants in his experimental plot.

    Today, however, Jerald was on his own. Friar Tumney was hosting the visiting alchemist Tyberne inside the church. He was counting pea plants with pink flowers when the sound of retching interrupted the quiet afternoon.

    Jerald straightened. The retching echoed from the back of the church. Being a monk armed with knowledge in medicine, Jerald hurried to see to the sick. He skidded to a halt at the sight of a fair-haired woman around his age, bent on all fours before a plot of herbs, coughing and sputtering. The hems of her Crosset Green tunic flowed onto the ground like mint paste, held down by a wicker basket strewn with plucked sprigs of basil and rosemary.

    Once she had exhausted the contents of her stomach, the maiden sat up, dabbing at her mouth with her apron. She spun around, and Jerald recognized her as Tyberne''s maidservant. At the sight of his priest habit, her brown eyes widened in fright. She snatched her basket and scrambled to her feet.

    "Sir Acolyte." She gasped, her voice hoarse, bowing so low the tail of her braid caressed the soil, "Forgive me. I''ve retched all over your sacred herbs."

    Jerald dismissed it with an absentminded wave, covering the remaining distance with brisk, gangly strides. He bent to the maiden''s level, surveying her pallid, sweat-peppered countenance.

    "Are you..." He hesitated whether to pry into a maiden''s private affairs, but succumbed to the urge of his training, "by any chance...pregnant?"

    The maid pointedly avoided his eyes, glaring down at her apron, now twisted in her hands. Jerald could guess her circumstances, and he knew better than to prolong her shame. Spatters of sick drooped from the leaves of their precious herbs, falling in dollops to the pool below. He snatched the watering can and washed them away.

    "You''d better stay away from herbs. Even healers aren''t certain what the aromas could do to you and your babe." He set the can on the barrel and turned to the maid with a disapproving frown, "And you definitely shouldn''t be working in the labs, for that matter."

    The maid hitched up a cool, mocking grin.

    "That''s swell, then." Her bright voice dripped with sarcasm, "I was hoping I could retch the thing out while I was at it. Turns out the uterus isn''t connected to the gullet."

    She spat bitterly then turned away, heaving a deep, sobbing sigh as she covered her face. Jerald dithered in silence as he watched her. Allowing the woman to rid of the life within her was against his teachings, but to force a reluctant woman to carry a babe to birth and raise it would be an affront to his mother.

    The maid tugged on his sleeves, jolting him from his thoughts.

    "Please don''t tell." She begged in a tear-choked whisper, rattling his arms, "If they know, they''ll make me keep it. And they''ll kill me if I don''t."

    At the sight of her anguished brown eyes, Jerald''s blood froze to ice then boiled with fury. He knew those eyes. He''d known that gleam of living pain since he could remember. To see it again in this woman''s eyes. After all these years.

    "He forced you, didn''t he?"

    He breathed through numb lips. The woman''s bulging eyes grew even wider.

    "How did you know?"

    Jerald focused on the grass beneath his feet as dull pangs of pain throbbed in his heart.

    "My mother has that look in her eyes whenever she looks at me."

    Silence fell between them. The woman''s grip on his arms slackened, yet he felt her eyes lingering on him.

    "So, you''re like my babe." She whispered as her hand traveled to caress her middle. Jerald''s heart seized up at the sight. My babe, she''d said. She''d accepted the babe as her own. She moved closer, a sign of trust as well as curiosity, "Do you know your father?"

    Jerald shook his head. He wasn''t one to spill his family''s secrets to every other soul on the road, but he felt compelled to. Her plight hit too close to home.

    "My mother was never to reveal his name." He unfurled a wan grin as he settled on the shaded patch of grass along the church''s wall. The maid cautiously followed suit. He felt the heat of her stare on his cheek, as he gazed ahead into sunshine and blue sky,

    "He must have been powerful enough. Even my Lord Uncle didn''t dare confront him. He forbade my mother from exposing his deeds, spread rumors that I was born from an affair. As soon as I weaned, I was whisked away to live out my days here in secrecy."

    The maid paled as realization dawned on her.

    "You''re the bastard of Lady Arynea?" She gasped. Jerald bowed his head. The maid clutched at the bosom of her tunic as she edged back, gawking in fearful suspicion.

    "Why have you told me all this? We barely know each other. Aren''t you afraid your Lord Uncle will be angered?"

    "My mother might be able to help you." Jerald willed every last dredge of sincerity he possessed into his eyes. The poor woman shook her head vigorously,

    "No-one could help me! Not with the father being Lord Crosset!"

    The words slammed into Jerald like blows of a battering ram. Even after what had happened to Jerald''s mother¡ªhis little sister¡ªhis Lord Uncle took this woman by force. How dastardly. How heartless. How selfish.

    "You''re Lord Uncle''s mistress?" Jerald dipped his head in shame. The mistress whipped around, her delicate hands clenched into trembling fists.

    "Don''t call me that." Her voice struck like a clap of lightning, jolting Jerald out of his misery. She straightened, her nose high, her eyes flashing with determination,

    "I''m an alchemist." At Jerald''s unwitting stare of bewilderment, she blushed and turned sharply away, adding hastily, "Someday. Hopefully. I''m more than a broodmare for your uncle''s demon-spawn."

    Only after a beat did she realize the harm of the words she had let slip in her anguish. Jerald closed his eyes, pursing his lips against grief. The maid scurried back to his side,

    "Oh, Freda. I¡ªI''m so sorry, sir." The warmth from her hesitant hand hovered over his elbow. "I didn''t mean to. After all, you seem a decent man..."

    She trailed away into a torturous silence. Jerald shook his head, pushing the pain back inside his heart so it wouldn''t leak onto his face.

    "I understand. My mother probably feels the same way about me. Only sometimes, hopefully." He chuckled bitterly. The woman stared unblinking at him, studying him. Whatever she gleaned paralyzed her with terror.

    "So, your mother still can''t love you?" Jerald turned around. Somehow, the heartbreak on her face was a warm balm mending the wounds on his heart. Her eyes swept him from head to toe, welling with disbelief and pity,

    "After all this time? Even as you grew into such a fine man?"

    Jerald didn''t know the answer. And he''d rather it remained that way for the rest of his days. The woman seemingly took his silence for a nod. She heaved a sigh of despair, muttering bitterly,

    "I knew it. The babe would be better off not being born. And I should do it soon, before Freda bestows it a soul."

    Jerald shook his head, as again warmth enveloped his heart,

    "Don''t trouble yourself unduly. I can see you already care for your babe."

    As the woman gawked, he met her gaze with a wan smile.

    "You''re so afraid you won''t be able to adore your babe, you''re willing to risk your life to end her suffering before it began. Should you choose to become her mother, I''m sure you would be loving and responsible. At the least, you would try your best, like my mother did."

    He cocked his head, reminiscing the moments he shared with his mother, the love weaved into her interactions with him, even as his presence was a constant reminder of her trauma.

    "I mean no offense, but seeing you fret for your babe comforts me."

    The woman blinked, then looked down and cradled her level belly. Jerald continued,

    "To keep your babe or not is your choice." The woman relaxed, smiling in relief and gratitude. Jerald returned her smile,

    Love what you''re reading? Discover and support the author on the platform they originally published on.

    "But, if I may, I beg you at least to meet my mother. Lord Uncle is fond of her. He allows her some freedom when it comes to me. She might be able to help you in some way."

    The woman held his gaze for a moment, then her eyes wandered, her hand smoothing the creases of her tunic over her belly. At last, she returned with a question soft as the summer breeze tickling the young grass,

    "What should I call you, Sir Acolyte?"

    "My name is Jerald."

    The woman nodded, her cold, hard eyes growing gentle for the first time.

    "Mine is Erina." She smiled, then added with the same boldness Jerald would come to know, and love, for the rest of his life,

    "Thank you, Sir Jerald. I hope my babe would grow up to be as kind and just as you."

    <hr>

    The muffled shouting from the other side of the door subsided into murmurs, then gave way to the still night. The women in the conjoined bedroom breathed a collective sigh of relief.

    Out of the gloom, a triangle of brownish orange light blossomed from the opening door, backlighting the silhouette of a young woman with glowing green eyes suspended in thin air.

    Noticing all the glinting eyes now upon her, Meya froze, sighing as she closed the door softly behind her.

    "You all heard that ruckus?" The girls nodded.

    "What were they fighting about?" asked Heloise timidly. Meya shook her head.

    "Just had a heartfelt talk." She grumbled. Seeing no other empty spots, she gathered her nightdress and settled on the mat before the door. Fione edged to the foot of her hay mattress, blankets bundled around her,

    "Are you sure? That sounded pretty explosive." She said, a hint of a grin in her voice. Meya shrugged,

    "Take it or leave it, milady." She retorted flatly, her eerie, glowing eyes narrowed at Fione, "I''m not recounting their every word to you. Not tonight. Maybe ever."

    Muttering sullenly, Meya shifted sideways and glared out the window. Agnes turned her worried gaze to Arinel. At her determined nod, Agnes rose to her knees and treaded her way to Meya, taking her hands.

    "Meya, I know it''s a shameless request, but¡ª" Meya glanced around then turned sharply away, "Please. Forgive Lord Coris. Just once more."

    Meya''s moonlit silhouette wavered. Agnes squeezed her hands,

    "The laudanum, it destroys our reason. Changes our very selves.  Binds us to it, body and mind." She shuddered in fearful remembrance, eyes fixed on her lap. Meya glanced at her, eyes wide in alarm. "I''m sure he hadn''t wanted to lie to you. He might have even tried to wean himself off it, but the craving was too strong."

    Agnes resurfaced, but Meya had turned away. Agnes shook her hands, desperate,

    "He''ll need you as he fights the withdrawal, more than ever. Please. Take pity on him, at the least."

    The impatient silence washed back in the instant her words died. Meya''s face, half-lit by moonlight, was plagued by sorrow and indecision.

    "Of course I won''t abandon him now, Haselle." She sighed. Taking Agnes'' hands in turn, she leaned against the door. Her weary eyes staring into space, she shrugged feebly,

    "But, once he recovers¡ªI dunno. Might''ve already been one lie too many. Lady Jaise''s right. He''s a Hadrian. He''ll always have his duty, his priorities, his circumstances. They dun include me."

    "I''ve known from that first night. I should''ve been prepared to lose him at any time, but I''m not. Tonight proved just how much."

    Meya shivered, probably seeing her piteous state tonight flashing before her eyes,

    "I''ve never lost control like that before. I''m not ready to go through it again." She shook her head, her voice trembling from staunched tears, "I need to think. Please dun pester me about this right now."

    Her words was undercut with such finality, the girls of noble birth made no move to protest, save for a large serving of fidgeting and shared looks. As if to quell the brewing dissent, Meya turned to Arinel,

    "You still owe me an answer, Lady Arinel."

    Arinel avoided her eyes, even as she knew in her fluttering heart escape was futile,

    "To what question?"

    "I asked what was wrong with you. You''ve looked dreadful all day."

    Arinel forced out a scoff, shaking her head with a patronizing smirk,

    "Don''t try shifting pressure onto me. I''m perfectly fine."

    "Very well. If the Lady insists on playing the fool, I''ll tell you myself."

    Arinel spun around in horror. Gretella had sat upright, shifting against the pillows supporting her curving back. She surveyed the wide-eyed girls one-by-one, her brown eyes reflecting the splash of moonlight on her face.

    "My daughter Erina was murdered by the alchemist Dineira Sameri."

    Gasps echoed from around the room. Arinel hid her face in shame as Gretella ruthlessly soldiered on,

    "She put Erina and Tyberne to sleep, stole their treatise then set the lab on fire."

    Through the gaps between her fingers, Arinel saw Meya''s questioning eyes, asking for proof.

    "The Lady found the treatise hidden in her lab." Gretella cocked her head at Arinel. She hastily closed her finger-blinds and cowered lower. If only she had two more fingers, so she could plug her earholes, "But the Lady doesn''t want to expose her. She doesn''t want to interrupt Dineira''s work on dragons."

    Silence fell. Arinel peered fearfully through her fingers. Gretella was locking eyes with the dumbstruck Meya, and she steeled herself for the fallout.

    She could guess Meya''s reaction. She wouldn''t begrudge her friend putting the living dragonkind over some dead lab maid who happened to be Arinel''s mother. So why was she silently praying she''d be wrong?

    Meya turned to her. Arinel expected hesitance, an excuse, perhaps an apology, but all Meya had for her was disbelief bordering on exasperation.

    "So that''s why you were in me room? You wanted me permission to avenge your mother?" She asked shrilly. Arinel looked away. Meya swore with a curse so obscene Agnes and Heloise cringed in unison, "Why in the three lands¡ªYou act as if nobody else in Latakia can study dragons!"

    "I said as much." Gretella sniffed. Shaking her head in annoyance, Meya sprang to her feet and marched towards the bed,

    "I swear to Freda, you and Coris would make a great pair." Meya''s misshapen toes bumped into hers, "Listen, milady. I won''t hack through Zier''s guts to free the dragons. And I won''t bargain for it with justice for your mother, neither!"

    "She''s not my mother!" Arinel exploded. The sheer force of her outburst threw Meya a half-step back. Meya frowned, puzzled. Arinel turned away, taking calming breaths,

    "You won''t understand. Your parents married for love. Your mother loves children." Arinel fell weak with burning envy of the peasant girl, her shoulders sagging as another sigh left her,

    "My mother''s different. She didn''t want to be a mother, she was forced to be. She''d loath to think of herself as my mother¡ªI''m the spawn of the man who raped her."

    "How do you know that?" Gretella challenged. Arinel turned to her. Her lined face was stricken with reproach and sorrow. Of course, Gretella wouldn''t understand. No-one would understand. It was wisest to keep these thoughts to herself. Arinel shook her head with another sigh,

    "Isn''t it obvious, Grandmother?"

    Gretella''s eyes narrowed on her stony face,

    "In my sixty years, I''ve never met two mothers who are alike. It''s not obvious, Arinel!"

    Gretella hissed so viciously, it petrified even Meya and Fione. They hadn''t expected the fawning, reverent Gretella would ever snap at her darling little Lady.

    Still, Arinel couldn''t bring herself to believe. Alchemists operated on proof, and there was no proof. Just biased opinions and vague guesses. The uncertainty brought a wave of loneliness so freezing cold, she curled inwards and hugged herself for comfort, trying with all her might to strangle the cry of longing, of need that threatened to burst out of her.

    Gretella turned to the other girls, her voice streaked with pride,

    "My Erina was one unruly lass. Even more so than you, I''d say." Meya raised her eyebrow skeptically.

    "Get this. I''m her mother, and I wasn''t first to know she was pregnant. Curst lass thought I''d go straight to tell Lord Crosset! By Freda, I''d have spanked her buttocks raw had she not been nineteen and pregnant. What in the three lands did she make of her own mother? Like mother, like daughter, I say!" She sniped at Arinel, who jolted, "Sir Bayne was the first to find out. And even that was by accident."

    The focus in the room was so intense, the air seemed to be holding its breath.

    "Sir Bayne was a child of rape himself." A round of gasps from the girls interrupted, "He didn''t try to persuade or punish Erina, even when she made no secret what she planned to do. He just brought her to see his mother, Lady Arynea."

    "All Erina feared was she wouldn''t love the babe, but she talked with Lady Arynea, then she decided to keep the babe. The Lady persuaded Lord Crosset to let her continue practicing alchemy safely."

    Arinel''s heart seemed to slow. It was unbelievable, yet she craved to believe. Gretella heaved a deep sigh, her distant eyes brimming with guilt,

    "Bishop Tyberne never once complained. He did everything he could to make sure Erina was safe. All these years, I blamed him, when I should''ve known she could never have died because of his carelessness."

    The old lady broke off, sobbing into her hands. Arinel peeled them gently from her tearstained face, warming them between hers. Gretella pulled out a hand and clasped it over hers. A puddle of her tears formed on it.

    "Erina told me she''d name you in honor of Lady Arynea if you were a girl, Bishop Tyberne if you were a boy."

    Arinel''s eyes widened. Her name. Why had she never noticed? It was so similar to her aunt''s. Derived from the same rune of light, arinn. Just as the Lady had been a light for her mother in her darkest time, Arinel was also her light.

    The truth filled her, a warm, spreading mass of light, driving away her lonesomeness. She heard Gretella''s voice as if from faraway.

    "She chose the names herself. I found the entry in her diary. She wrote it just a week before that day."

    Gretella reached for the bedside cabinet. From the drawer, she extracted a small, nondescript book, then rested it on Arinel''s trembling hands.

    "Had I known you''ve always carried this doubt within you, I would''ve given this to you sooner."

    Arinel leafed through the pages. Her hands shook so hard, she could barely make out the words on white linen in the faint moonlight.

    Dates and margin scribbles. Alchemic formulas and hidden love letters. There were even drawings. Erina meticulously documented changes in her body throughout her pregnancy.

    She noted how some music she had been treated to by the castle minstrels elicited a flutter, or a flurry of sickening kicks from baby Arinel, how Arinel had stirred to her voice as she went about her day.

    Arinel blushed as she read her grumbling entries of how her swelling belly hindered her spells of pleasure with Sir Bayne, and her unabashed, borderline blasphemous fantasies that she hoped would enhance their performance.

    Grandmother was right. Mother was worse than Meya, but it made Arinel more fiercely proud of her.

    She was unafraid, unapologetic, ever curious. And despite it all, she ultimately loved Arinel. The more she read, the more she ached to know, the more she burned with resentment for the woman who had taken her wonderful mother from this world, from her, so soon.

    "Erina had never blamed you." Gretella tugged up the frilly collar of her nightdress and dabbed at her eyes, "She was selfless...fearless...tireless. Freda punished her with such a fate, but she believed neither a lord nor a god would stop her from learning the sacred truths, so why would you ever let doubt stop you?"

    "Grandma¡ª"

    Gretella''s arms received Arinel as she fell into her embrace, trembling shoulders soaking up her spilling tears. Through her nightdress, the callouses on Meya''s hand chafed on her back. Agnes''s smooth palm slid down her hair.

    All her life, she had kept her fears to herself. She wasn''t brave enough to reveal her wounds even to her family or the boy she loved, so they could help treat them.

    Like a shell, she had lived as they festered and scabbed within her. Without a mother to assure her she was loved and worthy of life, she wasn''t wrong for being born, she sought closure by living to please others, putting their wishes above her own.

    That in itself was not an evil, of course, but one could only give so much before one would be left empty and bone dry.

    For once, Arinel decided to take, to let their shared tears fill her husk of a self into a living soul. For once, her wishes would take priority. One must stand for at least something, no matter at what cost, if one were to truly be alive. One of those things was honoring her mother''s legacy.

 The Brides of Hadrian

    "Meya?"

    An urgent croak disrupted the serenity of midday in the guests'' chambers. Meya looked up from Ralon''s Memoir to find pleading silvery eyes.

    "No, Coris." She shook her head for the umpteenth time and made to return to Axel''s miserable tale.

    "Meya, please." Coris persisted. Meya snapped the journal shut with a flump of flattened air. It was taxing enough piecing the words together letter by letter without her supposed teacher nagging her for a sip of laudanum-laced cure every quarter-hour, too. Either Coris knocked himself out now, or she''d knock him out for him with her method of choice, which involved a few knuckles but a lot of pain.

    Meya deposited the small book on the bedside cabinet. Nearby, a candle clock rose amidst the puddle of its melted flesh. Two inches or so of wax remained above the nail marking the time for the next dose of cure.

    Sighing in frustration, Meya poured some water from the crystal jug into a matching goblet, then held it to Coris''s parched lips,

    "We''ve got a while to go. Have some water for now."

    Coris scrunched up his face. He thrust his head back and forth on his pillow, reminding Meya of Morel''s rolling pin on fresh dough. With him being so gaunt, Meya hadn''t expected he''d have enough flesh on his cheeks to twist up a fit. Then again, he''d had a decade of tantrum practice as spoilt little Lord Hadrian.

    "I can''t sleep without it." He whined, smacking a feeble fist on the mattress. When Meya remained unmoved, he threw his head back with a growling moan, thumping with all four of his gangly limbs. A tear seeped from under his eyelid and plummeted from his cheekbone, gaining speed as it devoured dewlike beads of sweat along the way.

    Meya''s heart writhed at the pitiful display, but relent now, and she could have dead Coris dangling from her arms rather than demented and delirious. The dull twangs of Zier''s harp floated over from the study desk, and an idea flitted by in her brain. Fists and jaw clenched, she leaned in and braved an offer,

    "How about a lullaby? I''ll sing you a song or two."

    Lord Hadrian was not pleased. Slapping the bed with startling force, he snapped,

    "I don''t want lullabies! I want laudanum! Now! NOW!"

    Coris''s familiar scream of displeasure jolted Zier out of his happy place and straight into battle mode. He abandoned the harp he was tuning and scampered in, swinging nimbly onto the bed. He pinned his brother''s flailing limbs with his knees and hands and quieted him with cooing shushes. Meya cradled his face in her palms and washed his feverish forehead with her song.

    "Over the peaks of Neverend Heights¡ª"

    Even as her voice trembled with stifled tears, Zier could already feel his and his brother''s tense muscles dissolving to clay from its unearthly beauty. Under him, Coris struggled drunkenly, and Zier bit his lips as he urged feeling back into his hands.

    Coris stilled, sinking limply onto the bed. He was asleep before the song was over.

    Zier''s sigh of relief coincided with Meya''s. She pressed her lips onto Coris''s forehead. He clambered numbly down from atop his brother to her side, watching as she smoothed Coris''s hair with both hands. Meya drew back in jolts, her face veiled by loose hair from her fraying ponytail. Still, her sobs leaked out in her shivery breaths.

    Zier looked away and wordlessly held out his arm. Meya grasped it, and he helped her to the study desk for a moment of fresh air, away from the depressing vigil. He poured tea into her Jayri bowl. She cupped her hands around it, yet her red-rimmed eyes were listless and aimless. Mired, no doubt, in dilemma.

    The breeze from the open window was too light to disperse the heavy, dead air around them, and Zier could only think of one thing to say to distract her.

    "Meya Hild?"

    He gulped as those glowing irises rose slowly to meet his, hastily avoiding her cool stare. Scratching at his own cracked and mended bowl, he mustered up his courage,

    "I''m truly sorry. About¡ªeverything I said yesterday."

    Meya''s silence betrayed no reply. He risked a glance, but ended up lingering. Her intimidating gaze had softened somewhat, and within it, he glimpsed a warmth that was unlike Ari''s loving. Somewhere between that of a mother and a friend. He settled upon older sister. She looked down at her bowl once more.

    "I know you dun actually think that about me." She spun her bowl, her voice level, "You were just saying anything you could think of that would hurt Coris the most."

    "But it still hurt you nonetheless." Zier argued. Meya shrugged.

    "I''m used to names. Got about half a dozen back in Crosset."

    "And you shouldn''t have."

    Meya glanced up, eyes a little wider in surprise. His insistence must have finally reached through and touched her. Or it could have been his sincerity. Zier himself had been blessed with only one nickname, The Bumbling Spare¡ªand he hated it with the fire of three suns. He couldn''t imagine being pelted with half a dozen¡ªand a couple more of his contributions, for that matter.

    A tongue of candlelike heat caressed his neck. Zier started out of his musings. Meya''s rough finger traced the threadlike, scabbing gash peeking along the line of his collar, where she had snatched him last night.

    "I scratched you." She muttered, a hint of shame in her dull voice, "And I said mean things to you, too¡ªI mean, you didnae tell him to go drug himself half-dead. ''Tisn''t entirely your fault. I''m sorry, too."

    She sighed and went back to tormenting her bowl. Zier could only stare and blink. Her capacity for forgiveness was overwhelming. Then again, a less tolerant woman wouldn''t have been able to stand his brother''s lies as much as she had. And he could tell that even she was doubting her choices.

    "I prefer not to ascertain. I don''t have the right to, even if I did."

    Zier tensed at that unbidden voice inside his head, and he hesitated. He feared for his brother''s feeble heart, should Meya ever abandon him. But Meya''s kindness also shamed him from asking more of her, when she had already sacrificed so much for his liar of a brother. More to stall for time than anything, he hitched up a sly grin.

    "Fyr. Now that you mention it, they''re dancing before my eyes again." Zier raked his hand through his hair, clutching his head in mock anguish. Meya raised her eyebrows, and Zier shook his head with a melodramatic sigh,

    "Freda, how could one be bestowed the most heavenly of voices and the unholiest of breasts¡ªYouch!"

    Zier yowled for sweet mother Freda as Meya''s talons wrung the flesh of his shoulder. It was becoming clear now where those pink sores on Coris''s arms had come from. Meya settled back in her chair, muttering through gritted teeth,

    "I believe you two are brothers now."

    Chuckling, Zier gave her a meek grin. Rubbing his stinging arm, he studied the sullen Meya as she slopped honey into her tea and stirred it. He remembered the way Coris had looked at her, had tended to her last night. He remembered his agony when prompted about his true feelings for her, his crippling fear at the sight of her fury. And he could no longer bear to simply observe. Drawing a deep breath, he hitched up his confident smirk,

    "It''s been a while since we last talked in private. New developments aplenty. So, what are your revised plans for you and Coris?"

    Meya continued stirring as she shrugged once again,

    "Dunno. All circumstances considered, we decided we''d just wing it."

    Stolen story; please report.

    She said, dull and uncaring. A far cry from the sharp and determined impostor who had accepted his offer, that day by the tent. Zier blinked, alarmed as much by her revelation as her blas¨¦ attitude,

    "Wing it? Doesn''t sound like Coris." He narrowed his eyes. Meya simply went on stirring. Frustrated, Zier leaned forward in a rare moment of seriousness,

    "Look. We have until Everglen at best, then it''s reality. Say we were able to persuade Lady Safyre to cooperate, Father and Mother are bound to send word. Ask about your babe-making progress. We can''t keep fending them off forever."

    The spoon began stalling in Meya''s hand. Still, she refused to peel her eyes off the tabletop,

    "And what does Lady Arinel say?"

    Zier spasmed at the sudden mention of Lady Crosset. He hadn''t had a chance to actually talk with Ari since their disastrous altercation in Muldor''s lab. And now, Ari had brought her mother''s case to Lady Jaise, while he nursed Coris through withdrawal. He didn''t even have the chance to apologize for his behaviour the night before. For once, he prioritized his family.

    Ari would be proud, thought Zier morosely as he also set about flavoring his tea, stirring a bitter sigh into the mix,

    "She''d probably tell them the truth." He nodded mockingly as he listed off, "Reward you. Marry Coris. Sleep with him. Give him an heir. The way it should be."

    His heart writhed. The words seemed more final that ever, now that they had rolled off his own tongue. Meya''s silence only served to stoke the flames of anxiety engulfing him. He hooked a finger in her sleeve,

    "The only way you''d get to be with Coris is as his mistress. The only way I might get to be with Ari is after Coris is gone." He hissed, shuddering at the cold, inevitable truth. Meya glanced up, a shadow of defiance in her eyes, and Zier was bolstered,

    "We both know we''re never going to accept that. And though Coris and Ari would, it''s going to be a torture for them¡ªboth of them."

    Meya lifted an eyebrow, skeptical. Zier licked his drying lips as he edged his fingers up her arm, resting his palm over her wrist. In his memories, Coris''s melancholic gray eyes shone dully against the dark of night. He understood, as Coris did, that it was not one''s place to demand love and devotion from another, even as one believed one would perish otherwise. Yet, he must at least make sure she knew.

    "He loves you." He whispered. Her eyes widened and wavered as he held her gaze, "He''s never going to say it, so I said it."

    Meya chewed on her trembling lips. Zier understood her dilemma. He drew back with a sigh, freeing her,

    "I know it seems hopeless. I know you''re in two minds after what just happened." He absently tapped the back of her hand, carefully selecting his words, "Still, he''s not a prodigy for nothing. If you wished for it, he''d find a way."

    He spared his slumbering brother a long glance¡ªhoping, praying for his uncanny ability of overcoming the impossible to find a way for the four of them, out of this dead-end path their parents had set them on. With a deep sigh, he gave Meya''s hand one last squeeze, then leaned back against his chair and retrieved his abandoned, half-tuned harp,

    "Just let him know whether you''re still in or out, so he can start scheming¡ªor screaming."

    He concluded wryly. Meya silently raised her eyes, watching as Zier busied himself with the knobs of his instrument, then turned to the blanketed figure on the bed. Each pluck of a string felt like a pluck on her heartstring.

    She remembered Agnes''s plea. It wasn''t that she didn''t understand their fear. She knew that right now, Coris''s need was greater than hers, even though he''d brought all this upon himself. But she couldn''t help feeling resentful, nevertheless. She couldn''t explain why. They had reassured her that they knew she felt conflicted and betrayed. Still, it was heavily implied that she should stay by Coris''s side.

    If Meya had to admit, she did not adore Coris any less, but she also couldn''t carry on like this. Their differences in race, birth and status, their unsure future, she could handle. But she doubted she could withstand that paralyzing fear and utter despair, over and over, just with different lies. There were things that must change, before she would even reconsider plunging deeper into darkness with him.

    She heaved a deep sigh, hoping to lift some weight from her heavy heart, and was disappointed. Zier had finished tuning his harp. He was strumming the melody of Over the Peaks of Neverend Heights, plectrums on his fingers.

    Meya remembered the longing in Coris''s eyes when he had mused about her Song set to Zier playing Corien''s Harp. As she watched those long, tapered fingers, which resembled Coris''s, pirouette gracefully across the strings, her thoughts wandered to Arinel, who was similarly ensnared by the Hadrian family''s machinations.

    "Why couldn''t your parents have just switched Arinel from Coris to you?" The harp song died. Zier looked up, eyebrows raised. Meya shrugged, "You''re brothers. Makes no difference which one she marries, does it?"

    Zier blinked, then sighed and set aside his harp. He fell back against his chair, fingertips loosely laced on his lap.

    "For the Crossets, no. For the Hadrians, yes." He dissolved into another heavy sigh. Meya leaned closer, intrigued. "Coris and Arinel were promised to each other back when Coris was still healthy, and the Crossets were still powerful. It was profitable¡ªan alliance with a potential rival house."

    "But, after the Famine and the Heist, Coris became sickly and impotent. Arinel''s house became destitute, and their fiefs became ours. The reason Father went ahead with the marriage, apart from honor, is because she''s the only acceptable bride who''s happy to marry Coris. No lord would want to waste his dowry marrying his daughter to a nobleman who likely wouldn''t give her a son in the few years he has left."

    "So, you''re saying¡ª" Meya whispered as the cold realization dawned on her, steeling herself against shivers. Zier nodded, shoulders sagging under the weight of his woes.

    "Either Coris miraculously became strong again, or I''d have to marry for the both of us." He closed his eyes and sighed again, "My wife must bring in twice the dowry, and give me twice the number of surviving sons. Ari''s house has nothing to offer. Worse, her family carries a blood malady. That''s what killed her sisters."

    Zier trailed away. Meya felt a pang in her heart at the blunt truth¡ªif even Arinel wasn''t good enough for Zier, then what chance did she have with Coris?

    "So, either way, Coris can''t marry me, can he?" She unfurled a spiteful smile. Zier turned sharply towards her, and her grin widened, "Because I''m a peasant girl?"

    A brief silence descended as Zier struggled for a consolation, a solution. Then, his face lit up,

    "There''s one thing I could think of¡ª" Zier blurted out. Despite herself, Meya looked up.

    "We go to Everglen, and bring back those ore ships. We give you credit, and you''re recognized by the king for services to Latakia in a time of great need. Then, he might reward you with titles and lands, like Edward II did for Maxus¡ª"

    Zier broke off. He looked up to find Meya''s cool gaze and bitter smile waiting for him.

    "Yes. I''m a woman and a Greeneye. That''d be a catch."

    Zier froze, then sighed and nodded in defeat.

    After a war had ended, a distinguished soldier may be knighted by his lord. A humble merchant, through generations of hoarding wealth, funding wars, and marrying daughters to destitute power, could pave the way to nobility for his descendants, but not himself.

    Even in Maxus''s case, the decision to knight him must have been just as much out of fear and necessity as a reward. Meya knew now why, for two hundred years, the Wynn Kings who succeeded Philip the Usurper had stopped shy of going against the Hadrians¡ªshould the Hadrians ever betray them and return The Axel to the dragons, it could spell the end of Latakia.

    And if it was rare even for a man like Maxus to rise above the station he was born into in his lifetime, then what chances did she, a peasant girl and a Greeneye, have of becoming a true Lady? Of marrying the heir of a powerful noble house? Of being bestowed titles and land to rule? Of being accepted and respected as an equal?

    If such things were possible, there wouldn''t have been a need for fairytales like Tricia of Haventoth to placate the fruitless dreams of brighteyed young maidens. In this land, worth was decided by birth, and Greeneye peasant girls were not destined for greatness.

    "I know you''re infatuated with your new mistress."

    "Like your beloved half-breed mistress!"

    Those demeaning words, though not directed at her, echoed still in the back of her mind. Arinel was a noblewoman, so she was the wife. Meya was a peasant, so mistress was the most she could ever hope to be. No matter how many lives she had saved¡ªher liege''s included. Or how much she would contribute to Latakia''s cause. Or even as Coris regarded her as his only Lady Hadrian.

    It''s not fair.

    Meya''s hands clenched into fists on the cold polished wood. If there was one thing she hated more than wasted privilege, it was injustice. It was why she had railed time and again against the unjust laws Crosset imposed upon Greeneyes. It wasn''t just to earn her own dowry. She was fighting for what was rightfully hers.

    "How much better Latakia could have become, if more people like you had had the chance we''ve been given?"

    Coris was right. Freda knew how many Greeneyes there were¡ªhow many people there were¡ªwho could be just as or even brighter than Meya herself. This wasn''t just about her getting to marry Coris. This was about showing all those nobility and royalty and the king and queen that they were all worthy. That they all deserved the opportunity to rise and prosper. Man or woman, noble or common, dragon or human. The way Coris had seen her potential, had given her a chance and a choice.

    If anything, the setback had galvanized her resolve. She would journey to Everglen, bring back the lost ships and erase¡ªor at least erode¡ªthis stigma surrounding her people. From her destination on the horizon, her Song would have the king''s ears, even for a fleeting moment. So that though she herself may never receive a thing in return in this lifetime, she would lay the first stone on the path towards a better future for all the downtrodden.

    As her will solidified, Meya''s smile softened with the warmth of hope, and her eyes sparked a mischievous glint.

    "Still, brilliant scheme, milord." She turned back to Zier with a smirk, "Guess I''m with you two troublesome brothers to Everglen and back."

    "What about the catch?" Zier raised an eyebrow. Meya''s smile widened, undeterred,

    "As I''ve told your brother, Lord Zier¡ªthe thing about catches, all you have to do is lay low, and a loophole will show up someday."

    Her eyes wandered towards the window, to the same cloudless spring sky she had always looked upon back in Crosset, and she tilted her head as her grin turned melancholic,

    "Granted, some might take a lifetime to find. Some might end up swallowing you alive. But nothing''s never all for naught."

    Even when you had expected nothing in return. Or perhaps precisely because of that.

    Meya chuckled to herself. Lady Agnes was right. In more ways than she had thought. Then, she turned around at Zier''s voice,

    "So, you''re saying you''ll marry Coris?"

    Meya rolled her eyes and snickered, amused and just a little bit annoyed,

    "That''s another story, milord."

 Right of the Bereft

    Arinel was told Dineira''s trial would open Lady Jaise''s court today. From her seat on the plaintiff''s pew, her eyes swept over the court as she awaited the arrival of her nemesis.

    To her left, at the back of the hall, Lady Jaise sat ramrod straight on her highbacked wooden chair, her lips a grim line under her half-mask of black glass. Her freefalling hair was shrouded under a black lace veil trailing from her toque. A shimmering robe of purple-black silk cascaded down her shoulders and flowed from her armrests to the floor. She was flanked by six jurors to each side, all masked and draped in black.

    On another pew before the opposite wall, sat the alchemist Diamat Sameri and his wife, a plump woman whose fidgeting tendency further likened her to her daughter.

    As his wife huddled against his arm and grasped his hand for reassurance, Diamat''s shrouded eyes stared at Arinel across the room. Though she couldn''t see his face, he seemed more fearful and confused rather than hostile. Arinel suspected Winterwen hadn''t told them the reason they were here.

    At long last, from the crowd of shadows flitting pass the entrance, one reached its way towards the depths of the hall. At the end of the shadow was Dineira Sameri.

    Being an alchemist, Dineira was no doubt called to court on occasion to provide insight on cases. She breezed down the hall as if stepping into old footprints worn into the stone. Her brisk gait stalled when she spotted her parents on the bench normally occupied by relatives of the accused. Her gaze lingered on them as she mouthed wordlessly, then she lurched to a halt just short of the chair and table set at the center of the room.

    Dineira gawked at the chair, then turned to Lady Jaise and offered her a shaky smile.

    "My Lady, y-you''ve summoned me for my opinion on a case?"

    "No, Dineira. Today, you are here to testify on your own behalf."

    Winterwen''s melodic voice was calm and pleasant. Yet, there was a weight to it Arinel hadn''t felt before, an icy front masking a heavy heart. Dineira shuddered. Winterwen raised her decorated hand and indicated the empty chair.

    "Have a seat. We''d be here for some time."

    Dineira shot the chair a swift glance, then simpered weakly.

    "Oh, I-I-I''d rather stand." She stammered. Her feeble attempt at a laugh trailed off to a pathetic end in her throat as she ebbed away from the chair. She clutched her cloak close to her sides, as if she feared she would be cursed if it touched the seat which had condemned countless men.

    Winterwen''s tight smile stretched tauter.

    "If you insist." She accepted tonelessly, then turned to the clerk,

    "Bring out the evidence."

    Dineira jolted as if stung by a scorpion. The clerk made his way around the row of jurors. He laid the wooden tray he carried on the table before her. Dineira hobbled forth to read the heading of the papers in the tray, then staggered back, scrabbling at the chair to keep herself on her feet.

    "This treatise was written by the late alchemist Lucis Tyberne and his maid, Erina Chatrise." Winterwen''s resounding voice drowned out the echoes of Dineira''s frantic panting. Arinel clenched her fists as the surreal spectacle unfolded, anticipating yet dreading the outcome. "It should have been destroyed in the fire that killed them seventeen years ago. Can you explain how it came to be in your lab?"

    Dineira stared transfixed at the unearthed treatise, one hand gouging at the chest of her alchemist''s robe.

    "H¡ªHow?" She gasped, hyperventilating, glancing wildly around the hall, "Who? How in the¡ª"

    She broke off as she caught sight of movement in the audience¡ªArinel had stood up. As Dineira stared, confused, she slid off her mask.

    Dineira shrieked. She scrambled back, tripped over her cloak and landed on her behind on the flagstones.

    "Erina¡ª" She breathed, then shook her head sharply as her senses returned, "¡ªNo. Oh no. Oh Freda."

    Her hands flew to cover her face. Tears dripped from under her mask. Arinel dragged her leaden feet one in front of the other. She was numb, winded, as if walloped in the middle by a battering ram. Despite her blue Crosset eyes and snowy Icemeet skin, she still resembled Mother.

    "You asked Sir Bayne if Arinel takes after her mother." She forced her strangled voice through teeth gritted against grief, "I hope you still remember her face. Because I''ve never seen it, thanks to you."

    Dineira flinched, then fell on her face, cowering at Arinel''s feet.

    "I didn''t mean it. I didn''t. I really didn''t." She sobbed. Arinel snatched her foot away on instinct when she reached out with trembling hands, "Mercy. Please. Have mercy..."

    "Dineira. What have you done?" Diamat''s voice, hoarse with disbelief, rang from across the room. He shook his head as Dineira trembled, "You took their work for yourself and murdered them?"

    "No!" Dineira screamed, scattering tears as she threw her head from side to side, then pressed her forehead against the flagstones, "Not murder them. I never meant to. Please. Mercy!"

    Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

    After a piercing wail, Dineira flattened herself to the floor. Arinel''s hands were trembling. She dug her fingernails into the fabric of her dress. She might gouge into Dineira''s neck otherwise.

    "Your testimony will decide your sentence." Lady Jaise''s cool voice echoed across the hall. Arinel spun around. Dineira jolted. "Tell us what happened."

    Arinel turned back to the whimpering, piteous black puddle before her. Dineira lay trembling as the room waited. At last, she heaved up her head, her nose an inch from the tiles, her voice nasal and whispery,

    "Research on anesthesia and surgery are banned. We had to carry out experiments after sundown."

    Apart from Dineira''s dead voice, the silence in the court was absolute. Arinel calmed her breathing so as not to disturb it.

    "We couldn''t find test subjects. Erina was pregnant. Dad would never allow me to volunteer. So, that night, Tyberne administered the anesthesia to himself."

    "I was in charge of holding the mask¡ªthe usual brainless work." Dineira spat, betraying her lingering bitterness, "While Erina recorded Tyberne''s condition."

    "Our apparatuses were made entirely of glass. Except for the hose connecting the mask to the glass globe holding the anesthesia. Those were parts I designed and molded from Jaise Gum specifically for this experiment."

    Arinel raised an impatient eyebrow at that seemingly useless segue.

    "Once Tyberne was asleep. I forced the mask on Erina. I was larger than her¡ªshe couldn''t fight me off¡ª"

    A tortured scream from Gretella rent the air¡ªa manifestation of the fire of hatred and grief roaring inside Arinel. Her fists were clenched so hard they had gone numb. Dineira took no heed. Her eyes wide and empty, she continued in that same lifeless manner,

    "After she went under, I snatched her notes and the treatise. Cut a leak in the hose for good measure. Then hightailed it onto a wagon headed for home."

    "There were no burning fires¡ªTyberne didn''t even dare light the fireplace. All we had was an oil lamp. There wasn''t that much sweet oil left in the globe. The room was well ventilated. They should have been awake in a quarter-hour and remember nothing."

    Dineira shook her head slowly. Tears resumed trickling out the corners of her eyes.

    "I''ve no idea how the fire had broken out. I''ve only heard the news from Dad once I reached home a fortnight later. I hid the treatise. I don''t know what to do with it. I didn''t dare publish it as my own. I didn''t even dare read it. I''ve forgotten it. Almost..."

    Gasping for breath, Dineira sank into a quivering heap once more. It was all Arinel could do to stay on her feet. Instead of a peaceful, blessedly ignorant slumber, her mother died fighting for both their lives, sinking into a sleep only Arinel would wake from.

    The mere thought was excruciating. Had Mother known what Dineira had meant to do? Did she realize she was going to die? Was she scared? Was she prepared? Or was she just worried about the treatise? Which was worse?

    Footsteps echoed in the silence. Arinel turned to find Jerald on his feet. He trusted Gretella, who looked faint, with Agnes, then stepped down the platform towards them.

    "The lamp was likely the source of the fire." He said gravely. Dineira perked up in alarm. "The yeomen who rescued Erina recounted they found the lamp''s metal frame surrounded by shards of glass, fallen under the table beside her hand."

    "After you left, Erina must have slipped from the table and knocked it down with her. It ignited the vapors from the leaking hose."

    Dineira trembled. She clutched at her shaking head, blubbering,

    "I didn''t mean to hurt her! Never hurt her!" She moaned, "All I wanted was some fairness. I just wanted to do more than hold stuff or stir stuff or clean stuff for him while she gets to follow him around and discuss theories with him and gets all the credit. But never kill her. No. No!"

    She fell forward, pummeling her forehead onto the stone.

    "Mercy. Mercy!"

    Arinel shook her head, trying her utmost to confine the trembling to her fists, but it was in vain.

    "There''s no use asking mercy from me. The law will decide." She spat through gritted teeth.

    "No, Lady Arinel. You will."

    Lady Jaise interrupted. Arinel whirled around, eyes wide in utter confusion behind her mask. Winterwen dipped her head,

    "In Jaise, for heinous crimes¡ªmurder and rape, for instance, we invoke the Right of the Bereft." She elaborated,

    "The court would not weigh in on these cases. We would decide only the highest sentence possible, drawing from precedence. The remaining family members, or the family member designated by the victim in their will¡ªthe Bereft, would decide the final sentence."

    It was as if a boulder had walloped her in the middle. So she was to decide the sentence? Up until the trial, Arinel was sure she would be gratified to see Dineira hang for her crimes. Even once she had heard her story, of how it was not meant to be, her resolve had wavered but yet did not crumble. But now that the decision to execute was to be made by herself, why did it repulse and scare her so much? As if it was murder, not justice. Perhaps now that it was her choice to make, rather than the court, its weight was much heavier to bear.

    She was Lady Crosset. She was an alchemist. All she had known was protect and provide and innovate. To give life and support life. Taking lives was not in her nature.

    "In this case, Lucis Tyberne has no wife nor children. His parents are also deceased. You and Madam Gretella are the Bereft for Erina Chatrise."

    As Winterwen explained, the clerk flitted about collecting the jurors'' written verdicts, then swept back to Winterwen''s side and served them to her,

    "The jury has decided, my Lady."

    Winterwen accepted the pile of parchment. Her gaze lingered on Dineira, who jolted at the announcement, then left to peruse the verdicts. After a few minutes which seemed to drag on for eternity, she lowered the papers with a heavy sigh. Dineira perked up to watch, fearful yet still with one last flicker of hope peeking from the line of her pursed lips. Her mother buried her face into Diamat''s arm, sobbing silently, steeling for the worst.

    "For two counts of murder, unintended it may be, the abrupt loss of two lives whose dreams and potential would never be realized, whose absence would forever torture those who remain, the consequences are all too real."

    Winterwen gave a foreboding speech. The Sameris trembled harder. Arinel held her breath as Jerald embraced her. For once, his fatherly warmth and strength couldn''t penetrate the numb fear enveloping her.

    "The highest sentence possible¡ª" The Lady projected her voice to the far reaches of the hall, "¡ªis death by hemlock."

    "No¡ªNO! Mercy! Mercy!"

    Dineira screeched in despair then fell to a shivering heap before Arinel''s rooted feet. A chorus of gasps rang from across the room. Arinel turned around to find Dineira''s mother a limp, dead weight hanging from old Diamat''s trembling arms. Muffled sobs blew into her ears from Gretella. She buried her face in Jerald''s handkerchief as Agnes rested her head on her shoulder.

    Jerald tightened his embrace. Arinel glanced up to catch his reaction. Instead of vengeful gratification as justice was finally served for his beloved Erina, the line of his pursed lips conveyed just as much conflict as Arinel herself.

    "Lady Arinel," Winterwen called. Arinel turned numbly back to her.

    "You don''t have to make the decision now. Take all the time you need."

    Without waiting for her nod, the Lady turned away and picked up her gavel,

    "Court is adjourned."

    The sharp rap of wood on wood reverberated in the silence, interspersed only by Dineira''s sobs. The jury rose to send off Lady Jaise in a wave of clothes rustling and chairs scraping on stone, then filed out the side door after her. In no time, Arinel was left standing amid the cries of the condemned and the vindicated.

 Memento

    Harp song trickled through the gap under the doorframe and greeted Arinel as she approached the guest quarters. Lady Crosset heaved a deep sigh, curled her finger then tapped her knuckle thrice on the wood. The soothing tune died, replaced by the rustle of hurried footsteps on carpet. The door fell gingerly back, the sunlit sliver occupied by Zier''s bright blue eye.

    "Quietly¡ªthey''ve just drifted off to sleep." He whispered.

    "They?"

    She stepped around Zier into the room, and her question was answered. Coris was spread-eagled on the bed, snoring, his blanket reduced to a rumpled heap beside a mop of curly golden hair, which trailed down the side of the four-poster in a fraying ponytail.

    Zier rearranged his brother''s limbs and spread the blanket over him, as Arinel tucked the cloak Zier had draped over Meya''s shoulders more snugly around her.

    "Poor fool." She tutted as she propped her hands on her hips and admired her work, "Must have been up all night watching him."

    Zier shook his head then beckoned her to follow him on tiptoe over to the study desk. He sighed as he slumped onto Coris''s chair,

    "She''s been swooning and retching since morn. I''m guessing it''s the heat or the Hythean cuisine¡ª"

    "¡ªOr she could be pregnant." Arinel bolted up from the seat she hadn''t sat down upon. Zier froze with his fingers on the strings of his harp. He gawked at her, then shook his head in desperate denial,

    "Can''t be. If she''s using the Silfum we gave her¡ªwhich I''m sure she is."

    "Silfum isn''t foolproof." Arinel reminded him, pale and rigid as stone safe for her lips. Zier gripped his harp, eyes wide and fearful looking to her for reassurance,

    "Is there a way to know for sure?"

    Arinel fumbled at her chair with numb, shivering fingers and dragged it back.

    "There are many telltale signs, but the surest is the menses." She lowered herself into it with a sigh, then answered Zier''s quivering gaze, "If she hasn''t bled in two moons, then it''s likely."

    Pale swaths of color returned to Zier''s cheeks. He straightened up, his countenance brightening with optimism.

    "Hasn''t even been a moon since they first lay together."

    Somehow, that made the matter more worrisome for Arinel. She blew out an exasperated breath and cradled her head in her hands.

    "Meya, you fool." She growled through gritted teeth as Zier blinked, astonished, "We warned her this could happen, and she just kept on sleeping with him! And I won''t be there to see for sure if she''s pregnant!"

    "You won''t?" Zier latched on to the slip, bringing her tirade to a jolting halt. Arinel bit down hard on her tongue, steeling herself for the fallout.

    "So, you''ve decided to stay behind in Jaise?"

    Arinel lowered her hands and clenched them on the tabletop. She kept her unseeing eyes glued to her lap as the heat of Zier''s lingering stare enveloped her. She hadn''t meant to declare her intent. Not yet. Not like this.

    Silence suffocated them as Zier struggled for words to dissuade. At last, he managed to sputter,

    "But¡ªwe''re going all the way to Everglen, Ari. And what about Klythe? You won''t regret it?"

    Arinel sighed. She could guess what he was thinking, and she must set him straight.

    "I''m not staying just for my mother''s sake." She met his gaze firmly, enunciating each beat with soft raps on the tabletop, "I want to do this. I want to practice alchemy. And I want to support their cause in the way I can." She tilted her head towards the slumbering couple.

    Zier avoided her eyes, his shadowed face downcast. She grasped his hands, both beseeching and consoling.

    "We could travel Latakia together. In a better time." She shook their joined hands to rouse him. Zier met her gaze with a dejected pout, and she pleaded through her eyes.

    "These are urgent matters I must deal with. And I know I can trust you with Klythe. Please, Zier. I have to do this."

    Zier''s eyes widened in surprise, then deserted hers in shame as he withdrew his hands and lowered his face. Perhaps he had sensed her puzzled look¡ªhe mumbled,

    "I¡ªI haven''t apologized."

    Arinel blinked as Zier''s anguished face flashed by before her eyes, and his bellowing voice echoed in her ears. With all that had been going on, she had just remembered what he had said to her and had not atoned for. As anger clicked in, she straightened and turned aside, giving him unparalleled view of her icy shoulder,

    "And you only thought to bring it up now?"

    She didn''t need to raise her voice to send Zier flinching as if lashed. Yet, his mischievous grin returned just as soon,

    "You didn''t seem furious with me, I guess." He shrugged and cocked his head, "That or you always seem furious with me for something or other, anyway, so I couldn''t tell."

    Any other time, that would have been enough to elicit a weary sigh of surrender. This time, Arinel wasn''t inclined to be so lenient. Zier had taken many steps too far, and that could have been partly her fault for spoiling him for all these years.

    After a strained pause, Zier heaved a sigh and gingerly took her hands.

    "Ari, I''m sorry."

    Tension dissipated from her taut shoulders as she blew out her resentment in a soft sigh. Arinel turned back and met his pleading eyes in a gesture of forgiveness, sealed with her hand upon his,

    "You must think of the consequences of your actions, Zier." She scolded, then pinned him with her solemn glare, "Freda has been clear with her warning this time, but I doubt she would hold back again."

    Zier''s hand shuddered under hers. She caressed it comfortingly, her voice gentler now,

    "Your brother has his limit, too. Don''t test it so daringly."

    Zier dipped his head in repentance, then turned to scrutinize his brother and his mistress with a worried frown,

    "What would we do with the babe, if she turns out pregnant?"

    A dull pang of pain gripped her heart in vice-like claws. Arinel closed her eyes and shook her head.

    A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

    "That''s solely their decision to make. Our opinions don''t matter."

    "Coris''s always said he doesn''t want children. What if he forces her to end it?"

    Despite herself, Arinel gave the slumbering Lord Hadrian a long look of appraisal.

    "You''re his brother. Could you see him doing that to Meya?"

    Zier froze, then sighed and shook his head, sheepish.

    "No."

    "Neither do I."

    "So, it depends on Meya, does it?"

    Arinel''s eyes strayed to her good friend. As a child born to a reluctant mother herself, it pained her to consider the obvious solution. Yet, it was the only way. And there was nothing she could do, or should do. Whether the babe lived or die was not her choice to make, nor her burden to bear.

    "A dying nobleman and a peasant dragoness." Zier quipped, then shook his head with a hopeless sigh, "To be frank, I doubt even Coris could conjure up a solution for this. I pity the babe already. If there were one."

    Arinel managed a listless nod. Zier''s hand fidgeted against her palm as he cast about for a way to liven up the air, then jolted as he remembered,

    "Of course! How was the trial? What''s the verdict?"

    Oh, perfect. Here we go.

    Arinel pulled her hand away from Zier''s before he would notice it trembling. Faced with the daunting task of deciding life or death for her mother''s killer, half of her would rather continue fretting about Meya''s sexual escapades instead. Yet, she had no choice but to shake her head,

    "There isn''t a verdict. Not yet." She corrected with a sigh, "As I understood it, I am the judge."

    "Ah. I see." Zier raised a knowing brow, "Right of the Bereft, is it?"

    "You knew?" Arinel frowned as she leaned forth, intrigued. Zier hitched up a quirked, mirthless grin as he shrugged.

    "Marquess Fratengarde." He revealed, then elaborated at the sight of her raised eyebrows, "Few drinks in and he''d grace us with nuggets of Hythean wisdom. For instance, you can take any woman in the three lands¡ª"

    "¡ªRape, you mean." Arinel cut in, cold yet sizzling with disgust.

    "Yes. My apologies." Zier dipped his head, then duly corrected, "You can rape any woman, except a Jaisian woman or a woman in Jaise."

    Arinel''s fist was clenched so tight, it had turned numb to the pain of her fingernails drilling into her palm.

    "I finally succumbed to curiosity at twelve. Asked Coris what it meant. Somewhat wish I hadn''t." Zier echoed her contempt in his dead, sardonic retelling, then cleared his throat and straightened up. His eyes flicked back to meet her blazing gaze,

    "Since Winterwen took the Jaise seat after her father, the court has a one-woman majority. The highest sentence possible is always castration."

    Arinel blinked, unsure whether she should be awed or repulsed by the Jaisian brand of justice. Not that she was in any position to judge¡ªhaving hailed from the clan that invented the Ice Pillory and that had chained, bridled and flogged a ten-year-old girl at the town square simply for working in the fields.

    As she dithered, Zier cocked his head and went on, his expression deadpan,

    "Most victims simply sent the rapists for a spell in the man-brothels of Hyacinth. Give them a drawn-out taste of their own medicine. Hard to say if that''s mercy, though."

    He ended with a shrug, leaving Arinel with even more moral quandaries to battle. There were clear parallels between those women and her. So, what should she choose? Swift, violent retribution? Slow, torturous payback? Or forgiveness?

    The first two instances were only natural. She wondered if there were also women who were satisfied with simply genuine remorse, who had not chosen revenge when they very well could.

    "Let me guess: the highest sentence for Dineira is death. And you''re torn?"

    Zier''s tone was gentle as the touch of his hand upon hers. Arinel lowered her face in shameful confession. Zier gave her hand a light squeeze, his sigh loud in the stillness of late noon.

    "You could always see humanity in the wicked, Ari. I''ve always admired you for that."

    Arinel shook her head, a sardonic smile creeping onto her lips.

    "I just don''t have a spine, that''s all." She spat, disgusted with herself. Zier''s hand tightened around hers in anguish and rebuke, and she let loose, her voice choked with tears,

    "That night, I decided I''d live by my own will¡ªBut then I see her parents¡ªAnd when she confessed¡ªturns out it was an accident¡ªBut then there''s Grandmother¡ªand Sir Bayne. They''d want justice, obviously¡ª" She broke off, resting her burning forehead on Zier''s hand.

    "Do they? Or did you just assume they do, again?" He challenged wearily, as the weight of his hand pressed down on her fleecy hair. Arinel froze in shame. She could imagine Zier shaking his head as his sigh blew down on hers, "What did they say, Ari?"

    A moment of charged silence, before Arinel deflated with a long, tortured sigh of defeat,

    "Not a word from Sir Bayne, of course. And Grandmother left the decision to me." She resurfaced, but her eyes remained downcast. "She said she at least had nineteen years with my mother. I had none."

    She shook her head, her gaze distant as she recalled her grandmother''s tearful nod of confirmation, then burrowed her face into their clasped hands once more, her tear-choked voice muffled,

    "But I know what she''d want! And I''m afraid I''d let her down!"

    "And you don''t have to be. She lets you decide. She wants you to choose what you think is best." Zier argued.

    "But, still..."

    Zier heaved a heavy sigh at her feeble protest. He adjusted his hand to fit more snugly around hers.

    "Erina is in the Heights, Ari." He began in a voice gentle as the warmth of his hand as it embraced hers, and Arinel trembled at the truth in his words,

    "I''m sure she''s at peace, and Freda is treating her well. Your happiness is what matters to her, and Gretella and Jerald above all. They all love you dearly. You don''t have to worry about disappointing them¡ªor the public''s thirst for vengeance, for that matter."

    Zier added wryly. Arinel jolted. He saw through her when she hadn''t realized she had something to hide. Zier squeezed her hand in reassurance.

    "You''re not spineless for not wanting retribution, Ari." He reiterated, his voice solemn. She could feel his heat looming over her hunched, piteous form as he leaned close, coaxing, "Talk to me. Why don''t you want to execute her?"

    For all his flaws, Zier was never once judgmental. A rare quality she could only guess he developed unintentionally¡ªor perhaps intentionally¡ªfrom being misunderstood for all his life. It eradicated her constant, irrational fears, and Arinel had always felt safe to voice her true thoughts to him, knowing he would always listen and understand.

    "I guess it''s in part because she didn''t mean to kill Mother, and she shows remorse." She straightened up once more with a sigh, as Dineira''s blubbering voice echoed in the back of her mind,

    "She hasn''t claimed the treatise as her own¡ªhasn''t so much as touched it for all this time. She must have tried her best to bury the guilt."

    "Also, nothing would come out of killing her. This began with two deaths. Adding another death wouldn''t bring my mother or Bishop Tyberne back to life. All it would bring is more suffering. Diamat is a kind and respectable man. I don''t want to hurt him and his wife."

    Zier nodded deeply, accepting, waiting as Arinel scoured through the haze in the deepest depths of her heart for the truth, and made sense of it. At long last, she resumed,

    "And...no matter how much she despised Mother as she lived, a piece of Mother''s memory lives in her still." She confessed, her voice so soft that her words seemed to be dissipating in her throat before they could be uttered, as her watering eyes stared but did not see at the white high noon sky,

    "I want her to live, if only so that memory could live on, and she could convey it to me in some way. A dragon eye, perhaps."

    Her gaze returned to Zier, whose eyebrow was raised in surprise at her scheme. He tilted his head, his eyes wandering as he nodded to himself,

    "She took your mother away from you. Not to mention Tyberne from his parents, too. She must live to atone, not die and be redeemed. You spare her life, providing she will live it to your benefit."

    He attempted a summary. The young couple met eyes, then a sly grin graced his lips,

    "It''s not spineless mercy at all, Ari. Cold retribution, more like." He said with a laugh as he leaned back in his chair, retrieved his oft-interrupted harp, then began strumming randomly,

    "I say go ahead and let her live. It won''t tarnish the name of the ruthless Crossets."

    Arinel couldn''t stop her lips as they relaxed into her first genuine smile in days, sighing in affection as the simple, familiar sight of the boy and his harp filled her sightline and rejuvenated her senses.

    "Thanks, Zee."

    Zier started, blinking in dawning realization, then settled with a smirk,

    "And he''s back." He drawled, raising a wry, knowing eyebrow as he side-eyed her, "You haven''t really forgiven me up until now, have you?"

    Arinel cast her eyes about the room, striving to remain cavalier.

    "I''m surprised you''ve only just noticed." She couldn''t resist a quip, even topping it with a punchline, "Or rather, I''m not."

    She turned back, flaunting her dainty smile of victory as Zier ran his tongue over his bared teeth in annoyance. That was when their eyes met, and all movement ceased. And the world seemed to have fallen into the stupor of night, even as the day blazed down upon it.

    There was no need for words as they both leaned forth, their lips meeting at the perfect middle, pressing harder against each other as the seconds ticked by. She had no right to scold Meya, Arinel realized. She also couldn''t resist the charms of a Hadrian brother.

    Even with duty and propriety at stake, she would risk it all just to taste paradise for one last time, before the long farewell that could very well become permanent. If the ocean proved impossible to traverse even with dragons on their side.

    Everglen.

    How she hated the name.

    Arinel tightened her embrace around Zier, knowing she would have to let go once her beloved had given his vow that he would return.

 Into the Sands

    Three days and nights after Lady Arinel delivered her verdict to the Jaise Court to spare Dineira''s life, but strip her of the right to practice alchemy for the remainder of her days, Lord Coris had recuperated enough to sustain comprehensible conversation and exercise his usual coolheaded leadership, and was deemed fit for travel.

    The sky was a shade of lilac darker than the rolling dunes beneath it, invaded from the eastern front by the pale, milky yellow of the waking sun. A path strewn with coarse gray pebbles sliced through hillocks of blue-gray sand, which were naked and desolate but for the occasional curiously-shaped boulder, or twisted, leafless tree, towards the mountains on the horizon.

    Lady Jaise had released Meya''s hands after a showering of well wishes, and was discussing business with Coris. Lady Arinel was the next to step up to bid her farewell, and she had come with a parting gift. Inside the thin oblong box lay a feather white as snow, trimmed to resemble the silhouette of a Snow Fern frond, its pointed tip capped with silver.

    "The feather of the Snow Tern." Arinel touched a snowy finger on its delicate fibrils, her expression grave, "Every Crosset would carry this on his person throughout our pilgrimage to Icemeet. It''s a charm for safe travel."

    Meya gripped the box tight. Her fingers were trembling at the warmth spreading from her heart. Gently, she slotted it into the pocket of her cloak, joshing to hide her embarrassment,

    "One has to wonder what it was doing when Gillian and his band showed up."

    "Perhaps its luck was spent canceling out your Greeneye misfortune?"

    "Yeah. That explains it."

    Arinel was rummaging in her sleeve now. She picked up Meya''s arm and deposited a cold, heavy, jagged lump into her hand.

    There''s more?

    Meya raised the mysterious trinket to catch the faint light of dawn. Its close-set terraces of charcoal-gray metal gleamed like flower petals scattered with dewdrops. Like a rose carved out of pure iron. There was a lack of symmetry and sophistication in its appearance. Meya suspected it wasn''t manmade.

    "Eisenrose. It''s a rare crystal found in iron mines. Father gave it to Mother to pray for her safe birth." Meya looked up. Arinel seemed downcast and bitter, "Only half of his prayers were answered, sadly. That or his prayers had been more for me than for Mother."

    "Come now. Dun be like that." Somehow, Meya found herself gathering the poor Lady into her arms. And this time, even she was surprised by her audacity. Yet, there was no taking it back. And she realized she also didn''t want to. Arinel''s sigh flowed down her back like a cool breeze.  She rested her head on Meya''s shoulder.

    "Two lucky charms. Five guards, dozens of decoys and six dogs dead." Meya whispered, chuckling, "Just how unlucky am I?"

    "Horrendously." Arinel replied, back to her usual biting self. Meya gritted her teeth in both affection and annoyance even as relief flooded her.

    "You''re awfully superstitious for an alchemist, you know that?"

    "Oh, shut up." Arinel snapped. Meya chuckled in triumph. She tightened her arms around her good friend, for once solemn and sincere,

    "Thank you, milady. For everything."

    Arinel sniffed and squeezed her back. Her cheek chafed against Meya''s as she shook her head, dismissing it.

    "You be safe out there." She said brusquely, overwhelmed by emotion. Meya closed her eyes with a smiling sigh.

    "And you in the labs."

    Arinel patted her back reassuringly, then her hands slipped away. She retreated to the protective arms of Gretella and Jerald. Meya felt her lingering gaze even as she turned around and stepped onto the waiting carriage after Coris.

    Zier was perched sideways on the driver''s seat. His eyes followed Meya as she helped Coris onto his cushioned bench and laid a blanket over him, then settled on Arinel. After one long, last look at his love, he turned away, his eyes trained on the winding road. A silent, excruciating pause as he steeled his resolve. Then, he jostled the reins, spurring the horses to a trot.

    As the wheels jolted and cranked to life beneath the soles of her feet, Meya leaned out the window and waved to her comrades as she drifted further towards the next installment of her journey, until their shimmering figures at the foot of Jaise''s black walls were swallowed by the swell of the hill.

    <hr>

    There was no alternative route across the Sands, nor were there fellow voyagers, save for the occasional mountain chough with its piercing call, gliding high above.

    Meya sat with Coris''s feverish, bony cheek digging into her lap, cushioning him from the constant jolts and tremors of the gravelly road as he slept. The scenery outside the carriage windows remained unchanged, save for the color of the sky, which faded from lilac to blue, then white.

    Dunes of gray sand like sculpted ocean waves seemed to absorb the color of the sky as the day wore on. Crooked trees with a few strikingly green leaves. Balls of tumbleweed rocked in the soft breeze as they huddled at the foot of randomly placed boulders.

    This story is posted elsewhere by the author. Help them out by reading the authentic version.

    Roughly three hours in, the dunes gave way to a vast depression strewn with pebbles and rocks¡ªthe dried lake. Two dozen or so masked men ambled about the wide nothingness with baskets on their bent backs, hacking at piles of scree with pickaxes. They were the Desert Men of Jaise, foraging for borax. Their energetic movements were a brief reprieve, before the lifeless dunes returned.

    Meya weathered the wait by tackling Axel''s Memoir, the steady click-clacks of Agnes''s knitting needles and the rasps of Heloise turning the pages of her novel keeping her company in lieu of conversation.

    When the orange of dusk surrendered to a deep ultramarine glittering with silver stars, Sir Jarl finally called it a day at an oasis carpeted by short, feathery grass, with a well at its heart. By then, Meya''s leg was buzzing like a hive full of bees, numb from ten hours carrying the weight of Coris''s large brain.

    Despite her efforts, Coris still woke up pale and disoriented¡ªplagued, as usual, by laudanum withdrawal. Zier had to support him down the carriage steps.

    As Sir Jarl directed the squires and yeomen to refill water and pitch tents in a circle on the roadside, the maidservants cooked stew under the supervision of Heloise and Agnes. Meya, due to her lack of culinary flair and superior Greeneye night vision, was sent along with Frenix and Atmund to forage for kindling to fuel the watch throughout the night. By the time they returned with a wheelbarrow and three baskets laden with logs, twigs and tumbleweed, dinner was impatiently waiting.

    Meya was halfway through her fourth bowl of pottage and hunk of bread when Coris rose to his feet. The chatter around the ring died down as his subjects turned to him, anticipating a speech.

    Coris apologized for his illness delaying the journey, to which the maids and yeomen murmured their compulsory forgiveness. Then, he launched into an explanation of everything that had happened during the past weeks. The heist. The drought. Their mission to Everglen. Meya''s identity. The truth about Greeneyes.

    As his subjects gaped and trembled and stared at each other in disbelief, Meya shared looks of horror with the fellow youngsters in the know. Their pale, wide-eyed faces meant Coris hadn''t warned them as well. Meya balled her fists as she glared up at the Lord Hadrian. It was this habit of secrecy of his that irked her above nearly all else.

    Coris definitely felt her staring, yet showed no contrition. His silvery eyes glided around the circle, observing the unrest, waiting for it to settle.

    "Some of you may be wondering why you have been selected for this journey. Some of you may believe it to be coincidence. It is not."

    His voice rang in the silence as he locked gazes with each and every in the throng,

    "We all have one thing in common. Greeneyes. Ourselves, our blood relatives, or those who are dear to us. That is why we are here."

    Coris''s eyes settled at last upon Meya. She saw the flaring determination, the suppressed emotions in those eyes, and trembled as her heart thundered. He lingered on her briefly then moved on,

    "We know now that Greeneyes are not harbingers of misfortune. Nor are they minions of Chione. Nor are they monsters, or shameful family secrets. Nor are they game to be bred and milked like cattle. They are our kin. Our countrymen. Latakians. They are us."

    "We must rid ourselves of our prejudiced beliefs, before we can ever hope to move forth. Against an enemy as mighty as Nostra, we must defend Latakia as one people. As we once did. And triumphed. They have dragons and riders. We have Latakians. Only Latakians."

    His powerful words echoed like an icy wind rushing through the conclave. The pale figure before her shone so brilliantly against the night, her eyes burned even as she shivered, as if her dragon half had softened in gratitude, while her human half tensed in shame. She closed her eyes and turned away. She couldn''t allow this. She couldn''t be falling for him all over again so soon when she had promised herself not to.

    Coris turned to select members in the throng, calling them forward,

    "Cleygar. Lors. Tissa. Philema. Dorsea."

    Meya''s eyes snapped open. She stared along with the others at the blinking yeomen and maids. That was when she first noticed their lack of a nose bridge, and their emerald-green eyes glinting in the firelight. She clenched her fists once more in equal parts awe and annoyance, as realization dawned on her.

    Oh, Freda. He''d planned all this? Since when? Was it after she egged him to find a way around their banishment? So, he had taken her advice. It had been his plan all along to sneak away to Everglen with dragons and solve the resources crisis, even before he had told her the truth that she was one? He''d gone so far as to handpick this many Greeneyes for the entourage and groom them for the mission.

    How arrogant. How overconfident. How...exasperatingly ingenious...

    Coris''s voice softened along as he addressed the five newly-introduced Greeneyes, who had duly stepped forth into a loose line before him.

    "I know this is daunting. We still know so little about this power we have. All I ask is for you to accept yourselves. We will learn to live with it. Together."

    "Like it or not, there is no changing who you are. You may take it as a curse or a blessing. Take it whichever way you see fit."

    Coris paced slowly from Cleygar, a brown-haired, stocky yeoman in his early thirties, to Dorsea, a scullery maid who resembled Morel in her age and curvy build, but with the Southern Isles'' squiggly black hair and nut-brown skin.

    "However, the fact remains that you are bestowed with the power to traverse sky and sea. To level mountains and scorch the earth. You have the right to wield it for your own good, for the good of Latakia, or not at all¡ªAnd to never be judged for it."

    The look in his eyes softened as he regarded the five, Heloise, Frenix, Atmund, and finally Meya,

    "Your only responsibility is to learn, survive, and prosper."

    As the blaze of his sincere, tenacious eyes arced into hers, Meya felt her resolve crumbling once more, and avoided him. Coris gave her space. He dipped his head and turned back to the five Greeneyes, his voice lighter now as he moved on from a rallying cry to simple closing remarks.

    "Tomorrow, we''ll be free of Jaise''s territory, and out of sight of their Desert Men. We shall commence training then. Be sure to feast and rest to your hearts'' fill. If it is fine by you all, I''d like to allow my fellow humans to observe the training as well. Hopefully, it would be of some benefit to their loved ones back home."

    The five Greeneyes glanced at each other, initiating a chain of nods which ended at Lors, the oldest yeoman who looked to be around Dad''s age, with his graying chestnut hair and mustache. Naturally, he took the mantle of leader and bowed. Coris smiled back, relieved and grateful.

    For the first time, Meya had a glimpse of Coris''s leadership in action. Of course, as Lord Hadrian, it was within his right to have his subjects consent to anything. Yet, his kindness and humility reached through to them, inspiring loyalty and courage in even the downtrodden, beaten and bitter Greeneyes. His charisma was moving and fearsome at the same time. And Meya couldn''t blame Zier when he cursed under his breath,

    "Fyr, he''d better live. I can never do this."

    Meya allowed herself a faint smile, shaking her head as she studied Coris''s profile. Her best friend''s voice rang in her ears as she passed on his words,

    "Sometimes, you gotta do something you hate, for the sake of the people you love."

 A Fit of Pique

    "Why are there two mattresses?"

    Meya paused with one foot into the tent. Coris nudged her in with a featherlight finger on her forearm, himself trudging to the hay mattress on the right.

    "I''m not fit to lie by your side. I never have been." He slumped onto it, head bowed in shame, "That didn''t stop me taking advantage of your trust, time and again."

    Meya blinked, surprised and miffed, which surprised her again. He was sensible enough to know he''d been scratched off her good books, but he''d also given up on winning her back even before he''d tried.

    The all-too-familiar resignation rankled her. Wasn''t he in the least bothered to right his wrongs? To improve himself? And Zier was saying he loved her? What a load of dung.

    "''Tisn''t all your fault." She settled on her mattress with a sigh, shrugging at Coris'' raised eyebrow, "I pushed you into it. You''re just too noble to say no. We should''ve taken more time to get to know each other."

    Coris pursed his lips in distaste. Meya held his gaze, hoping he''d see her guilt was genuine. At last, he sighed, then a sly smile crept onto his lips,

    "Does this mean our short-lived contract is back in effect?"

    Meya blinked, then cracked a nasty grin.

    "Yeah, go shag Arinel. I''ll see if I can ask Zier to give you a merciful death."

    Coris chuckled triumphantly. He saw through her act as a fruit of jealousy. Silence fell heavy and uneasy as the erstwhile lovers realized what it meant, what persisted despite it all. Wringing his hands, Coris began again,

    "Since it''s clear we''re both attracted to each other nevertheless, what do you say we experiment with courtship?"

    Meya''s heart leaped, then pained at the sight of his wavering eyes poring into hers, weathering her scrutiny to convey his sincere emotions. He hadn''t surrendered. Still, some kinks must be ironed out first.

    "Can we call it a courtship if our parents dun even know about it? And we have no clue if we can ever wed?"

    Coris bit his lips, his eyelids weighed down by defeat. Sighing, Meya leaned close,

    "D''you see us getting married, having a babe, Coris? What exactly is it that you want out of this?"

    "What I want, I can never have," said Coris brusquely. His voice softened as he met her gaze, "What I can have¡ªis you by my side in some shape or form. That I already do, and I''m content."

    "Well, I''m not."

    Coris froze, eyes wide and fearful. Meya told herself to be steady,

    "I can''t have you dying on me again, Coris." Her throat constricted as she recalled his lifeless, broken form, "You have your Hadrian duty. Your betrothed. Your poor health. Your prodigal brother¡ªvalid reasons why we can''t marry, and I can take all those, but this?"

    Meya rattled the vial of laudanum she was safeguarding. Coris must still take dwindling amounts of laudanum to ease his withdrawal. Coris relaxed with relief when he understood the true cause of her fury. Meya doubled down to make sure her message got through,

    "You could die for anything, anyone. Just not for nothing. I want a man who''ll try to live until he really can''t, who won''t leave me unless he really has to. Who won''t go behind me back in every¡ªsingle¡ªthing!" She punctuated each word with a thump on the mattress, "I told you, no more lies, no more secrets! I need to be able to trust you!"

    Meya''s flailing arms flopped lifelessly onto her lap, yet her eyes clung to his as she whispered,

    "And if that''s more than you''re willing to promise, then perhaps we''re never meant to be. No matter how strong our feelings are."

    They locked eyes, stone gray on emerald green, his eyes blazing brighter silver with every passing breath. His fire bolstered Meya. He was no longer the dying boy she must convince to fight. He was beginning to live.

    "I understand. All I ask is a chance to prove myself worthy," he said, his voice solemn as his piercing eyes. Meya pursed her lips to stop them from curving up at least. Her heart was goners, a smoldering puddle in her chest. She nodded cavalierly,

    "And you shall have it."

    Coris cracked a boyish smile of such pure joy, Meya turned sharply away before her cheeks grew so hot they sprouted roses. He clasped his hands,

    "So, what are the rules?"

    "Standard courting practices. Lovemaking is off the table. So is kissing. Holding hands and hugging permitted in emotional situations only."

    "No lovemaking? Are you sure?" Coris grinned mischievously. Meya glowered,

    "Dead sure."

    "Understandable. The sight of my impressive manhood may hinder your ability to think straight."

    If there were a furnace inside her, Meya would have burst into flames and blasted the unrepentant donghead to a cloud of sooty smithereens. She unfurled a smile lined with grinding teeth, hissing tongues of flame,

    "I''m more worried about you, actually. Until I deem you trustworthy, you''re not getting a taste of these¡ª" She jabbed her thumbs at her proudest possessions. Coris sealed her lips with a gentle finger,

    "¡ªWe''re still courting. We shouldn''t be discussing our sexual attributes so soo¡ªHey!"

    Coris hastily jerked his finger away from Meya''s chomping teeth. Meya growled in annoyance,

    "You started it, donghead!"

    Their eyes met. Their lips parted but words had died. In that frozen split-second, all seemed forgotten but pure desire. The young lovers tore their welded eyes apart with great effort. Meya panted as her pulse pounded in her ears, avoiding Coris'' eyes at all costs.

    Help support creative writers by finding and reading their stories on the original site.

    "Wish Arinel were here," she mumbled.

    "Wonder if Zier would chaperone," Coris muttered. Meya cast her eyes about the tent, hoping for some other distraction, as banter seemed to be serving the opposite purpose.

    "You brought Heist?" Coris shook his head. "Chess?" His eyes lit up. Meya hitched up a sly grin, "We can play a match or two. For old times'' sake."

    "I see you''re prepared to be annihilated," Coris steepled his fingers before his pitying smile.

    "Underestimating me already?" Meya sneered as sweat oozed along her hairline. She hadn''t touched a pawn since gamble chess almost landed her in a Greeneye brothel.

    "Coris Hadrian does not over nor underestimate. He simply estimates with precision."

    "And exaggerates."

    "How impertinent. I''ll make sure to include that in our next vocabulary drill. Along with impertinent."

    Meya trembled from the effort not to kick his smart arse across the desert. Smirking, Coris edged to his chest and rummaged for the chessboard.

    Maybe we can pull this off, after all, Meya reassured herself as Coris set up the miniature battlefield with deft fingers, we can learn to be friends before man and wife.

    Alas, it was not to be. In typical Freda fashion, Coris broke the sacred silence of friendly competition after just five turns in,

    "Meya, there''s¡ªsomething I''ve been keeping from you."

    Meya looked up. She remembered Coris'' terror, that time Simon asked about the drought in Amplevale, that time she told him about the Crosset Famine. She couldn''t decide if she should feel betrayed or gratified.

    "I know,"  Meya fell back on her propped arms, deadpan but for a raised eyebrow, "Is it singular or plural?"

    Coris winced, then dipped his head,

    "I wasn''t even doing it for your sake. I was worried it would derail my plans, if you reacted like last time." He cradled his head,

    "In the end, I''m no better than those I condemned. I planned to exploit your powers. Zier''s right. I''m the monster, not you."

    Meya narrowed her eyes as fear gripped her. What horrors had he kept from her now? Surely nothing could be worse than learning you were a dragon, could it?

    "Old habits are hard to shake, I guess. At least you''re taking a step forward." She tried in vain to remain nonchalant, but still her voice trembled, "Is this why you brought five more Greeneyes? They''re backup in case I won''t fly you to Everglen?"

    Coris blinked, a look of hurt in his eyes. He shook his head,

    "No, I''ve just realized this after we left Hadrian. It''s still a theory¡ªI don''t have proof yet." He met her eyes solemnly, "But no matter what the truth is, just know that it''s not your fault."

    As silence descended between them, freezing fear permeated every inch of her. If Coris touched her then, she might''ve felt cold to him. Shivering, Meya willed every last ounce of courage for her numb lips to thaw,

    "Tell me, Coris."

    Coris sagged under the pressure. His head bowed over the abandoned chess match, he whispered,

    "Meya, I¡ªI think you may have actually brought about the Crosset Famine."

    <hr>

    Silence descended but for the roar of the night wind pummeling the tent walls. The leather rippled at the corner of her eye, as did the gleams in Coris'' eyes.

    Meya had heard this before, countless times. She''d never contested it, but she''d never once believed in it. She would''ve done the same this time had it not come from him. The man who urged her kind to rise above the prejudice hammered into their heads their whole lives.

    "What makes you think that?" She whispered. As if she still held out hope there would be a pitfall in his theory. Coris squeezed his joined hands, his eyes roaming the bare gravel at their feet.

    "You said the crop failings in Crosset began after you were flogged at the town square. From what I''ve heard, the Famine was limited to Crosset. Neighboring manors had regular harvests. They reported nothing of the sort."

    Church bells rang in her head, but the connection remained out of reach, shrouded by her soul''s last attempt to preserve her sanity.

    "My theories are¡ªOne, in a moment of vengeful rage, you may have wished for Crosset''s demise. Or two, your battered body may have reacted to your fear of death, tried to heal your injuries, and overcompensated."

    Meya started. Was it the tent flapping? It sounded like the clap of the whip when it broke through fabric and split her flesh. Chains with links thick as her thumb erupted in jingling giggles as she fell onto the stake, clinging for balance. She gritted her teeth over the bridle''s bit and tasted metal. Was it from the rust or the blood oozing out of her tongue? Or both? The whip came down again. Again. The once sharp claps had become waterlogged, slippery.

    She wrenched her eyes open against the pain. Lord Crosset¡ªspiteful old man with empty eyes like ice-chips. His three daughters all had them, too, and she loathed them all. All around her, the crowd jeered. They flung brown mud at her. It slid off her red. Somewhere, Mum screamed and sobbed for mercy, for restraint, for the chance to take the blows in her place.

    Lord Crosset always heard Alanna''s Song¡ªit was the only thing he chose to. Rage boiled inside her like never before.

    If I''m getting the whip and the bridle anyway, I might as well have earned them.

    Icy fingers on her arms pulled Meya back to the present. Coris was hovering over her, pale with worry. Her elbows had buckled from the force of the truth, and she was hanging halfway on her back.

    Avoiding his gaze, she picked herself up and warded off his fretting hands.

    "Go on."

    After a wary pause, Coris nodded in defeat. He settled beside her on the mattress,

    "In any case, with your dragon ability to absorb nutrients from the earth, you absorbed all nutrients in Crosset''s soil into yourself. That would explain why you were fully armored when you transformed, that night you rescued me. Even when you were fed human proportions of food all your life, and had weathered months of starvation."

    Coris didn''t seem inclined to ask which it had been¡ªvengeance or fear. Meya turned away in relief. She couldn''t bear to see his disgust, not when she was already disgusted enough with herself.

    She longed to crawl out of her skin and inhibit anyone else, anything else. Fyr, even a rat might be preferable. A rat never killed dozens of its kin out of sheer spite. There was no taking back what she''d done, no redemption. Even death wasn''t enough to escape this sin. Their blood would follow her to Fyr''s Lake, she''d sink to its bowels, and she deserved it.

    "Like I said, it''s just a theory, and none of this is your fault, Meya."

    Coris'' voice barely reached her, like a breeze on tar. She struggled to believe. She knew she should believe it, but she didn''t want to believe it.

    "You were a child. You didn''t know better. You were treated unjustly. You were in great pain. You were never taught about your powers, let alone to control them. You were scared, angry, and no one can blame you for that. Not even Fyr himself."

    Coris shook her arm, desperate at the sight of her listlessness.

    "But now that you''ve grown and we know better, we must make sure this will never happen again. As I''ve said, your only duty is to learn to control it."

    Meya nodded listlessly. She remembered the insults the villagers hurled at her, that day as she dangled from the Ice Pillory.

    "Well, guess that''s one thing the folks back home got right all along, eh." She chuckled, shrugging even as she felt Coris'' glare, "I mean, I wouldn''t want hundreds of deaths on my hands if I could help it, but now that I know for sure ''twasn''t Freda''s damnation, that I wasn''t wrong for working in the fields, the truth did set me free. Only to stab me in the back out of spite. Typical Freda."

    "It''s not¡ªyour¡ªfault, Meya!" Coris hammered out. He tore at his hair in frustration, cursing, "Oh, Fyr."

    Meya knew what he was thinking, and she tugged on his sleeve to stop him. Still, she didn''t know if she regretted hearing the truth¡ªif she would hear it again if she had the choice to go back.

    Guilt was too terrible to bear. Hope was nowhere in sight. And Meya dealt with it the one way she knew best¡ªsarcasm.

    "So, looks like I can wipe out a whole town with sheer willpower." She chuckled, then cocked her head, "That''s going on the list next to lizard limbs and burning off dongs."

    Coris let loose a string of curses. Meya had never heard him curse this long, but it seemed she''d lost the capacity for surprise, numbed by hatred for herself. Suddenly, his arms bound her, tugging her into his embrace. She fought as she felt she''d begun to thaw againsr the cold of his bony chest.

    "I dun think¡ªthis counts¡ªas an emotional situation." She grunted, panting from the struggle, but for once, Coris trumped her with his masculine strength.

    He buried his face into her shoulder, whispering through gritted teeth,

    "You forgave all of us." He tightened his embrace, "Now forgive yourself."

    At his command, Meya let go. Overwhelmed by her tide of anguish and grief, she couldn''t hear quiet sobs leaking from the women''s tents. Nor the crunching footsteps of sleepless Greeneyes as they slunk away to the privacy of solid darkness. Throughout the night, for the first time in millennia, the desolate plains of Caesonai echoed with the lament of dragons.

 Training

    Torches were left to die as morning light returned. Zier heard the dawn shift guards scurrying about, preparing for departure. Horses whinnied and huffed as they were saddled and loaded, then settled for the peace offering of fodder and soothing brushes. Maids chattered as they distributed breakfast.

    The smell of reheated stew wafted over. Zier cut straight to the last part of his daily drill. He circled the pell with swift sidesteps, his blunted practice sword swinging fluidly through its dance. Iron door. Thrust. Strike. Withdraw. Lady''s Guard. Thrust. Strike. Withdraw. Window Guard. Thrust. Strike¡ª

    Approaching footsteps broke his concentration. His sword rebounded from the pell, and the flow stopped. He spun around and found himself face-to-face with one Simon Amplevale and one Christopher Merilith.

    "Morning, cousin." Simon tossed Zier a bread roll and a smirk. Far behind him, Zier saw yeomen and maids milling around the pot over the bonfire, ladling leftover pottage into their bowls.

    "Same to you, cousin." He slotted his sword into the ring on his belt, then dabbed at his damp forehead with his sleeve, wincing as he caught a whiff of his sweaty underarm. "I need a wash. When do we set off?"

    "Don''t ask me. You decide." Simon shrugged, thrusting the papers nestled in the crook of his arm over to Zier. Zier gave them a quick sight-over. A map. An itinerary. A leather-bound journal he recognized as Coris''s.

    "What''s all this?"

    "Coris isn''t feeling well. He wants you to lead the entourage in his place." Christopher said with a sigh, fed up with Simon''s antics. Zier blinked, then swore feverishly.

    "Why me?" He protested. "I''m the spare. You''re the heirs. You do it!"

    He ushered the odious paperwork to Simon. Simon pushed them back.

    "No deal. Donghead''s orders."

    Oh. So he''s well enough to give orders.

    Seething, Zier looked to Christopher. He seemed sympathetic, but ultimately shook his head. The papers weighed on his shivering arms like stone slabs. Zier edged closer to his friends, back bent and eyes pleading.

    "Please. You know I can''t do this." He jerked his head in the direction of Coris''s tent, hissing, "This is his stuff."

    "Well, better study up, then." Simon shrugged, still deadpan, "Without your wise leadership, we''re sure to lose our way and starve to death in this sandy void. No pressure."

    He gave Zier a ceremonial shoulder pat and encouraging smile, then turned on his heel and strode away, a bounce in every second step.

    "Oi, Simon!"

    Zier''s yell of displeasure trailed away into a whine. As the silence of dawn descended over him, Zier sank to his haunches, head bowed in despair. As if he had taken pity on his pathetic state, Christopher sighed and murmured his advice before traipsing away,

    "If I were you, I would first consult Sir Jarl."

    Zier perked up. His eyes followed Christopher''s gravel-crunching footsteps as he walked off, then roamed the clearing for the marshal. He found Sir Jarl standing beside a boulder not far from Coris''s tent, receiving reports from a yeoman. Stashing his bread in his trouser pocket, he picked himself up, uprooted the pell, then sprinted over.

    The yeoman noticed him first. He paused mid-speech, eyes wide. Sir Jarl turned around. He nodded at the yeoman, who hurried away to continue his duties, then dedicated his full attention to Zier.

    "Yes, my lord?"

    Zier closed his eyes and willed his breathing to slow. He hadn''t run that far, yet he was panting as hard as Coris after a lap around the courtyard. He deposited the pell with a soft flump,

    "Brother''s put me in charge for today, it seems?" He straightened up with a meek grin. The precariously balanced papers made an attempt to jump ship. He managed to snatch Coris''s journal with the tip of his fingers.

    Sir Jarl waited in silence as Zier gathered himself, his face unreadable.

    "Yes, my lord. I''ve been told."

    Zier''s cheeks burned at that almost pitying gaze. He knelt down and spread the map on the boulder, using Coris''s journal as paperweight, then unfurled the itinerary. It listed the dates they were due to arrive in Hyacinth and Safyre, and scheduled audiences with their hosts, but, much to Zier''s dismay, nothing about their time in the Sands.

    He turned to the map. The multitude of grid lines, scales, compasses, legends, topography lines and Coris''s notes overwhelmed him. He closed his eyes against the deluge.

    "I¡ªI have no clue how to do this. I don''t even know when''s the right time to set off." He hung his head and sighed, gesturing feebly at Coris''s tent,  "Brother decides everything, usually."

    Roderic studied the beaten young man, and took pity on him.

    "My lord, do you believe your brother leads all on his own?"

    Zier perked up. His wide eyes followed the marshal as he knelt down to his level,

    "Do you think he alone has all the knowledge? All the experience needed to make decisions? How do you reckon he''s able to do what he does?"

    Those blue eyes flicked away in reluctant contemplation, then the impatient lad shrugged. Roderic could read his sullen conclusion in his eyes. He sighed.

    "He asks for advice." Zier turned back, jaw slack in disbelief. Roderic narrowed his eyes, "If only you had paid attention to his briefings with us, my lord, you would have noticed he gives less commands than he asks questions."

    The marshal paused, then continued more tenderly,

    "In time, every man would fashion his own style of leadership. You don''t need to strive to be your brother. Nor should you."

    Zier wrung his jittery hands. He seemed lost. Roderic decided to help him along,

    "Let''s start with your demands, my lord. What are your goals for today''s journey?"

    At the guiding light, Zier seemed to come back to life. He shook himself awake and scanned the itinerary.

    "Er¡ªBrother wants us to reach Hyacinth in four days. And he wants training time for the Greeneyes along the way." He paused, eyebrows wrinkled from rapid thinking.

    "Since we can only travel by day, I think we should do the training at night after we set up camp. And...we could be looking at nine dragons at maximum. So...we''ll have to find a large, open space that doesn''t sink underfoot."

    Zier stopped, blinking as if waking from a trance. He looked up, trembling,

    "Is...all that...possible?"

    Roderic bit back another sigh of frustration at the fear in those eyes. The boy had been through much putting down, he reminded himself. He edged over to Zier''s side,

    "From here, we have another oasis, and the dried Lake Amaguara." He pointed out the landmarks on the map, "The oasis is nestled between dunes of soft sand. Not suitable for training. And the lake is barren."

    Zier nodded along, eyebrows tied in thought.

    "So, we stop at the oasis to refill supplies and firewood then hurry to reach the Lake by nightfall?"

    He looked to Roderic for approval, and he nodded with a smile. The boy let out his breath and sagged in relief.

    "I''ll have us all ready for departure by sunrise." The marshal concluded. As he made to rise, the boy stopped him.

    "Oh, relieve the Greeneyes of their duties for the day and let them rest. I bet none of them got a blink of sleep last night. Curse Coris." He muttered, "And they''ll have to be up all night tonight, too."

    Roderic smiled. That was a thoughtful touch.

    "Good call, my lord. I will."

    Zier dipped his head in gratitude, then picked himself up. He pinched up the chest of his tunic for a sniff, then crinkled his nose.

    "I need a douse of perfume."

    The boy fumbled up his papers and hightailed it to his tent without a backwards glance. Roderic shook his head with a smiling sigh, then started at the voice from behind.

    "Your opinion, Sir Jarl?"

    Roderic spun around to find glinting gray eyes peeking from the shadows of the tent. He cocked his head.

    "He has a different approach from you, but he''s quite effective, my lord. He should have more confidence."

    Coris gave a soft sigh.

    "He hopefully will after these four days. I''ve no doubt in his capabilities, but he''s never had to deal with responsibility before. Nor has he been told he would ever be fit for it. It''s high time I make it up to him."

    The rustling of blankets distracted Coris, and he broke off. In the light of dawn, Roderic could just make out the curled form of the Greeneye girl on his charge''s lap.

    This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it

    It wasn''t his place to comment on their relationship. At least, the girl was loyal to his liege, and he did observe a positive change in Coris since she arrived.

    "The Lady''s anguish was heartrending to behold." He lowered his voice. Coris flinched¡ªthe lament of the Greeneyes had echoed around the enclave through the night. "Is there anything I can do, my lord?"

    Coris shook his head.

    "You''ve already done it, Sir Jarl." His gaze was tender as he caressed his mistress''s hair,

    "She''ll have to overcome this setback herself, but your goodwill would no doubt hasten that journey."

    <hr>

    Meya woke only to retch and eat. Not that she wanted to¡ªthe rising heat from the sand brought along a haze of sickness that dogged the travelers throughout the day. No-one was spewing except her, however. Her spinning head also didn''t help her dwindling appetite, but Coris had threatened to bar her from training if she failed to finish at least three servings of pottage and bread per meal.

    Meya couldn''t have that. It wasn''t that she was raring to become a dragon. She just couldn''t bear to lie awake with nothing but truth for company. During the day, she''d even swapped her Lattis medallion for the hated old collar, just to force herself to fall asleep. Fyre, she might have tried Coris''s laudanum if she weren''t immune to it.

    She needed a distraction. Anything to keep her brain occupied, or else it would stray to the shadows of the past she could not accept.

    After dinner, it was finally time for training. The Hadrian brothers and the two squires led the congregation of Greeneyes and curious bystanders beyond the campsite down the barren side of Lake Amaguara. Hundreds of stars blinked sadly down on the empty expanse, missing the days far gone when their twins in the rippling water would wink back.

    The slope mellowed into level terrain, and Coris stopped. He turned around and knelt down, setting the chest he had been carrying on the gravel-strewn lakebed. He nodded to Zier, who stepped forth and handed each of them a thick bundle of cloth. Meanwhile, Christopher and Simon trudged off with a lamp between them, lugging a cart laden with mats, glass bowls, more lamps, a bucket of water, and a coil of rope.

    There was no point asking, as Coris would soon explain. Meya held out her bundle by the corner. Its folds fell down to reveal a cape. Its hems dragged on the ground, and it seemed wide enough to wrap thrice around her.

    "You''ll have to strip down before you transform. Figured you might want some protection from the wind." Zier explained, as if he had seen her raised eyebrows. At the scandalized looks from the nine potential dragon strippers, he grimaced then glanced up at the starlit sky. His grimace deepened.

    "Sorry. Thought it would be darker."

    Muttering and scratching his nape, he wandered towards the two squires, who were setting up mats and lamps at intervals along the length of the rope, now stretched out on the ground.

    Coris popped open his chest, and a streak of acid-green light called Meya''s attention. Inside the chest, ensconced in wooden half-sphere holes, were nine glowing eyeballs.

    Frenix skidded to his knees, his wide eyes glowing brighter with added light from the dragon orbs. Atmund hovered just behind, curious but fearful. Lady Amara squeezed through the wall of mesmerized Greeneyes to gawk through Heloise''s arm.

    "Lady Jaise has graciously lent us these priceless specimens from the Library."

    Frenix picked up the eye in the middle of the row, labelled Nazzar Brutus, turning it between his fingers.

    "So, if we pop in one of these, we''ll turn into dragons?" He asked. Coris chuckled.

    "That''s one way to do it, but it''s risky. We''ll only be reading them."

    Coris slumped cross-legged onto the ground. With a wave, he signaled the Greeneyes to follow suit, and they formed a half-circle around him. Gravel crunched under dozens of shoes as the humans who had come to watch settled down a little way back.

    "We''ve discovered from prehistoric dragon eyes that dragons in nature learn how to fly, transform and feed through memories, passed down from generation to generation." Coris handed them each an eye,

    "Dragon parents would transmit their memories to fledglings and show them the dragon way of life. After dragons migrated to Latakia and attempted to assimilate into human society, it is likely they chose not to teach their offspring the dragon culture. The chain of inheritance ended, and the knowledge became lost."

    Coris''s eyes swept the throng, resolute with hope.

    "While we don''t have dragon mentors, we have their memories. We will revive the tradition." He held out his hand to Heloise. She lent him her assigned eye as a prop. He held it up for all to see.

    "These eyes belonged to dragons who served in the Nostran army."

    Gasps of shock and swears of disgust filled the clearing from Greeneyes and humans alike. However, Philema, the reed-thin Greeneye woman, burst into tears.

    "You fool." She buried her face in her hands, "You naive, poor fool!"

    Philema crumpled into her lap as Dorsea gingerly patted her back. She looked to Coris for an explanation.

    "Philema''s husband Flindel commanded the patrol guards in Amplevale. He often came across Nostran defectors stowed away in merchant caravans. He let them all through. His right-hand man, who coveted his position, later exposed him. And my uncle, Lord Amplevale, had Flindel executed for treason. That was fifteen years ago."

    Coris closed his eyes and pursed his lips in shame. Philema sobbed louder. Meya was perplexed. Why had Flindel let those Nostrans pass when it was obvious they were soldiers and spies? Because, why would Nostran dragons who were up to any good come to Latakia? Was life in Nostra so unbearable they would risk death to escape? To a place that would shorten their lifespans, no less! What had Flindel known?

    Meya looked down at the eye in her palm. She had a clue as to what atrocities this dragon might have done, for its eye to lay in Latakia. Yet, poor old Flindel had seen the need to save these dragons nevertheless. Even gone so far as to risk his life, and losing it.

    Somehow, the notion consoled her. There were people who believed the likes of her should live, even after all the lives they had taken. Did that mean she also had the right to live?

    "Yes, some of these eyes came from Amplevale, likely from the corpses of dragons who had fallen in the War of Independence," Coris continued amid Philema''s muffled cries, "However, the rest came from across the country, from deserters and defectors who fled Nostra and lived out the rest of their lives in Latakia. Thanks to the sacrifice of folks like Flindel."

    Coris bowed his head, leading the congregation in a silence of mourning. Grating footsteps approached. Simon, Christopher and Zier reappeared by Coris''s side.

    Meya peered past them at the lake. Nine balls of light flickered in the blue-black void in three lines of three, each with a mat and a bowl of water huddled in its pale yellow halo. The setup looked as if it was for nine traitors who had been sentenced to death by poison.

    "We chose these eyes and not Latakian eyes, because these dragons were soldiers and spies." Coris continued, "They had been trained to their full ability. They know how to transform properly. It would be best to learn from them."

    "What about that whistle?" Meya asked, frowning. Coris lifted Gillian''s whistle up from where it hung on a necklace, hidden underneath his collar. It gleamed in the green light from their eyes, illuminating his look of immense distaste.

    "I doubt I''d use it even as a last resort." He said coldly, "It turns out these Lattis whistles are used by human riders to control their dragons. From a young age, Nostran dragons would be trained¡ªtortured¡ªby its sound until they instinctively transform upon hearing it. This is why we won''t be wearing these eyes. Delving too deep into the memories of these abused dragons might pass on the trauma to you."

    He returned the eye to Heloise, who scrambled forth to take it. In her haste, she didn''t seem to notice her eye was now in his left hand instead of his right. Meya blew a sigh of relief.

    "Even reading them carries a risk. Winterwen told me that in the early days of the Library, curators would often go insane. They had lived through too many lives and deaths, they became overwhelmed and detached from their own, and some chose to end it."

    "So, h-how do we read them without going crazy?" Atmund squeaked. Coris met his gaze reassuringly,

    "Advice from curators is, above all, to always be aware. You are but an observer, seeing the world through their eyes. You may¡ªand should¡ªempathize with them, but don''t let their emotions become yours."

    Coris rose to his feet, and they followed. One by one, the Greeneyes deviated from the group and took up one of the arranged seats.

    "We only need to feel the sensation of transforming. We don''t need their whole lives. Maintain a clear sense of purpose, find what you need, recall your reality, and leave as soon as possible."

    "Ignore your physical senses. Drain your mind of all thoughts. Become a receptacle. Dragons are drawn to dragons, and you should feel the eye trying to communicate with you in no time. Don''t resist."

    Coris''s shout echoed over to Meya as he paced around them. Meya drew in a deep breath, plopped the eye into the water bowl, then settled back and tried to clear her head. As she concentrated on its bobbing motion, the cold, the howling, the razor-sharp slice of the wind on her skin numbed to nothingness. So did the jab of pebbles poking up under the mat on her buttocks. The stars dimmed...

    Total darkness, bursting with heat. She used to love this, but it had become more and more cramped. Impatient blows from the outside. Her world toppled and rolled. She scrabbled with her four limbs, carving welts as her claws dragged down the curved surface.

    A claw sunk through, and her black world lightened to dull gray. Cool air tickled at her nose. She kicked and punched at the opening, wanting more. Next thing she knew, she had flown headfirst into something hard and warm that shifted under her. Her world was still dull gray, but she felt cold air enveloping her.

    A shadow engulfed her vision. Something touched her forehead. Suddenly, the world was bright and full of color. She saw her large clawed, armored foot planting firm on the pile of pure, silvery ore. She drew in and felt a warm, refreshing stream course through her veins from her paw. The pile of ore disintegrated into nothingness.

    And then, she was back in her dull gray world, and her foot felt nowhere near as big as it had been seconds ago. The shadow retreated, then pressed down on her paw. She felt the smooth, curved surface of the thing she had just broken out of chafing against the soft, grubby sole of her foot.

    The shadow hissed. She didn''t understand what it said, but she knew what it wanted. She drew in. The smooth, cold thing melted and rushed into her, oozing out of her skin and coagulating into a protective coat. She felt the tire from the earlier struggle subside, and she no longer felt the cold of the air.

    Meya finally understood what she was experiencing.

    She was a dragon hatchling, and her mother had just taught her how to digest her own metallic eggshells for her first meal and set of scales. The dull gray was probably because her eyes hadn''t even opened yet.

    Ah, crap.

    This was way too early. How long did it take for dragon eyes to fully develop? Hours? Days? Weeks? How long would she have to lie staring at this gray void?

    This is torture, this is!

    I have to get out. How do I wake up?

    Recall your reality.

    As her body moved of its own accord, Meya struggled to feel the reality she had been in through the fabricated senses enveloping her. Coris''s voice. Stars. Cold. Howling. Wind. Footsteps¡ª

    Then, she was blinking freely and breathing by herself again. Coris was pacing by. Having spotted her open eyes, he paused and knelt down with a worried frown. His eyes were the same gray as the world she had narrowly escaped.

    "Are you alright?" He whispered.

    Still shaken, Meya nodded. Taking a deep breath, she stretched out her leg and shook her foot free from the slipper, touching her bare sole on the gritty lakebed.

    Time for a test.

    Meya closed her eyes. She could hear food humming to her. The soil here was rich, steeped with minerals as the lake evaporated. She longed to feel that warm and nourishing river spreading through her body again. She braced her foot against the sharp gravel, willing it to melt and flow into her pores.

    All of a sudden, she was feverish, hungry, battered and bruised, gasping for life on her bloodstained mattress beside the hearth. Mum was weeping somewhere. She saw the bare earth just beside her mattress, and she strained her limbs to touch it. Nourishing warmth entered her, flowing over her wounds and refilling her veins¡ª

    More¡ªshe needed more¡ª

    No...NO!

    "Meya!"

    Meya pitched forth and regurgitated the three servings of pottage and bread all over her dress, mat and bowl. The deluge petered away to a sour, burning aftertaste in her throat. She coughed and wheezed as she fell against Coris''s chest. His heart was thundering as fast as her own as he cradled her in his arms. She heard strident voices and crunching footsteps. Zier''s perfume billowed into her nostrils along with the stench of her own sick.

    "I''ll be with you in a moment."

    Coris whispered. He passed her to his brother and strode away, shouting commands and reassurances to the other Greeneyes.

    "Hang on¡ª"

    Zier heaved her up from the ground with a grunt. It was all Meya could do to hook her fingers in his shirt as he scaled the slope back towards the campsite.

    The memory of the Famine, once blocked by fever and trauma, had retreated along with the irrational fear and nausea. She couldn''t understand it. She knew she couldn''t possibly create another famine in an honest-to-Freda desert. But it was as if something inside her didn''t and forbade her from suckling on even one paw-sized patch of dirt.

    It was as if something deep, powerful, out of her conscious control, was overriding her mind.

 Rattling Cages

    "Oh, bugger. I''m turning into your brother."

    Safely back inside the tent she shared with Coris, Meya grumbled as Zier stood her on her feet. Zier straightened up and eyed her warily.

    "Impertinent question," He began. Meya raised her eyebrows. "When''s the last time you bled?"

    Blushing, Meya reached for the folding screen, pulled it out to full width, and began undressing.

    "''Bout a fortnight ago. ''Twas late and I was getting nervous. Thank Freda¡ª"  She cursed under her breath. She undid the last knot on the bodice, then shrugged her soiled kirtle onto the floor. Zier''s hand poked under the screen and whisked it away. "I''m using the Silfum, dun worry."

    Silence fell as Meya changed into a chemise for bedtime. Zier was just straightening up when she emerged. He tossed her sweaty smock onto the pile on his arm.

    "Neither dwale nor poison work on your kind. Are you sure Silfum would protect you?" He strode off and deposited her laundry in the basket. A jolt of horror rushed through Meya. She brushed it aside.

    "At least I''m human down there, according to your brother." She jerked her chin at her lower half, folded the screen, then slumped onto her mattress. "At any rate, we''re back to courting. That should assuage your fears."

    Meya grinned up at him, hands clasped over her folded knees as she rocked back and forth. Zier blew a sigh of relief, but he still looked troubled as he settled on Coris''s mattress.

    "So, what was it, then?"

    Meya bit her lip, then sighed in surrender.

    "Last night I learned that I sucked all the minerals out of Crosset''s soil, created a famine and starved hundreds of people to death." She forced out a bitter grin as she picked at her nightdress, "And it seems me body''s stopping me from using that power again. Ever."

    "Maybe you could just learn the other abilities and ignore it. It''s enough if you could transform and fly and breathe fire, right?"  Zier suggested. Meya shook her head. She''d toyed with the idea herself.

    "I must fly across the ocean." She sprang up and paced, "I must feed like a dragon and fill up me metal stores while we''re in the Sands and the Blue Mountains. They''re the only places I can feed without destroying a village or two!"

    She burst out in desperation, flailing arms falling to her sides with a clap. Zier scratched his nape and avoided her gaze. Embarrassed, Meya closed her eyes and rested her burning forehead against the wooden tentpole. Then, a sudden inspiration hit her.

    "The Axel¡ª" She gasped. She heard the sound of hay chafing. Zier must have jolted hard on the mattress. "Coris¡ªHow did you deal with the guilt?"

    She turned to the younger Hadrian. Zier''s eyes were like diamonds, hard and flashing. He picked up a stray pebble.

    "I didn''t have to. It''s not my fault." He shrugged, his fingers exploring the blunted edges of the tiny stone. Meya''s grip on the pole fell slack. She blinked in disbelief.

    "It is your fault!" She snapped. Zier glared back, eyes blazing with fury.

    "If Father and Coris had shown me one shred of appreciation, Graye would never have been able to turn me." He said coldly, "And I''ve never asked Coris to take the blame for me¡ªunnecessarily too, as it turned out."

    Zier smote the pebble against the ground, then cradled his head in his hands. The suffocating silence echoed with their loud breathing.

    "Look, I love my brother." Zier whispered, still refusing to show his face, "I hate seeing him like this as much as you do, but it''s not like I forced him to do anything."

    Meya closed her eyes and pushed down the ever unrequited urge to scream and land a Hadrian brother a well-aimed blow.

    "I see." She met Zier''s glare with a sardonic grin, "You never blame yourself, whereas I blame meself for everything."

    "Exactly. The two of you should learn from each other."

    A voice chimed in from the tent door. For all their enmity, Meya and Zier jumped and spun around with flawless synchronization. Coris greeted them with a sly smile, silvery eyes glinting in the lamplight.

    "How come you''re here?" Meya demanded. Coris grinned wider, then strode in,

    "I said I''d only be a moment. A knight keeps his word." He claimed a spot on his mattress beside Zier, who scooted aside to make way. Meya narrowed her eyes.

    "Who''s overseeing the training?"

    "Who do you think?"

    Meya blinked, then recovered with a savage smirk.

    "I see. Whatever happened to ''We''ll learn it together''?" She shot Coris a wide-eyed look, which slid off to reveal a sneer, "I guess a knight does keep his word¡ªto the fair maiden he hopes to get back to bedding."

    "Ouch." Zier dissolved into a bout of stifled snickers. Coris appeared unfazed, but Meya glimpsed a streak of annoyance in his eyes.

    "So, Zier. How is leadership treating you?"

    Zier hiccupped to a stop. He whipped around to Coris, who looked as if he would have whistled innocently had he known how.

    "You were never sick, weren''t you?" Zier deduced, his voice cold as fratricide.

    "And you made a better leader than you''d thought, didn''t you?"

    The author''s narrative has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

    For a moment, it seemed as if Zier''s soul had departed his body, before pink patches blossomed on his cheeks, growing darker the brighter Coris beamed with pride.

    "Until we reach Safyre, I''m trusting the entourage to you." He clapped Zier''s shoulder, his expression solemn, "I''m afraid I''ll be quite busy with dragon training and¡ª" A mischievous grin crept onto his lips as his eyes slid to Meya, "¡ªgetting back to bedding my fair maiden."

    As much to hide her burning face as to not have to bear the sight of that infuriating smirk, Meya plonked onto her pillow and flipped away, stuffing her ears against the Hadrian brothers'' chortles of triumph.

    "Thank you, Brother. I should go talk to Sir Jarl."

    Still sniffling from tears of laughter, Zier bade goodnight then left.

    Peace and quiet returned. Meya felt her mattress sink. Coris''s bony arms slithered under hers and coiled loosely around her waist. His cold was a soothing salve to her feverish fears.

    "I should learn from Zier?" She whispered. Coris rested his cheek on her braid.

    "Thanks to you, I finally realized what is wrong with my brother." He heaved a labored sigh,

    "I agree The Axel Heist was his fault¡ªbut not entirely. He was young and vulnerable, and Father and I played a crucial part in that. The same applies to you."

    Meya tensed, perplexed and skeptical. Coris reaffirmed his embrace.

    "The Famine is your fault, but you must forgive yourself where it is due. Acceptance leads to action, yes, but it also means acknowledging things that are out of your control¡ª"

    Meya cracked a wry grin then snorted. Coris froze in alarm.

    "¡ªYeah. Me body." She sprang up with a bitter laugh. Flashes of the past pierced through her battered heart like red-hot blades. She dug her nails into her scalp, hoping the pain would anchor her to the present.

    "How can I be sure me powers won''t go berserk again? I saw what I did. I sucked Crosset dry in me sleep! I¡ªI¡ª"

    The lump in her throat dropped into place. Meya broke off, trembling against the tide of pent-up grief and shame. Her eyes burned, but she held back. She didn''t deserve the relief of freefalling tears.

    Coris sat up and gathered her into his arms. Meya tried to resist, but her struggle was feeble, and his will was firm.

    "Perhaps, seeing other dragons using their powers safely would cure your trauma." He met Meya''s gaze with a tender smile, "Tomorrow, I''ll set aside some time during the day for the nine of you to swap tales. Like Zier, you simply need proof."

    He shrugged, smirking, satisfied with his plans. Meya''s heart fluttered to life. She scoured deep within those silvery eyes, and saw hope. He truly was the tempest, lifting her gigantic wings when she couldn''t find the strength to move them on her own. And in the sky she''d remain, soaring on, long after he''d dissolved into thin air.

    Meya shuddered at the thought. She leaned her head against his shoulder.

    "Guess you''re right. But I doubt Lady Heloise would have much of a tale."

    Coris chuckled in agreement, and Meya smiled in relief. Her sense of humor was back, at the least. Still, it did little to expel the creeping dread that had risen at the mere mention of their suspect.

    "How much longer will we wait? I fear for Zier."

    Coris tightened his embrace.

    "He''ll be safe." So he said, but his arms shook. Meya nuzzled close, willing the warmth of her hand over his heart to drive away the cold fear gripping it.

    "Wish Agnes would make her move soon."

    <hr>

    Heloise was still in her day clothes when Agnes dropped in with new sheets and a basket to collect her laundry. She didn''t pause her troubled pacing. She didn''t turn around, nor made any gestures to acknowledge her.

    Gritting her teeth to steady her resolve, Agnes knelt down and set to work making the lady''s bed.

    "Good evening, my lady."

    Heloise skidded to a halt and shot her a glance.

    "Good evening, Haselle." She huffed, annoyed, then resumed pacing.

    "How was the training?" Agnes braved another attempt at conversation. She would''ve gone to watch her little...big sister herself, of course, if she hadn''t had to oversee the maids in Heloise''s place.

    "Good." Heloise shrugged, then slipped behind the screen. One by one, her old clothes leaped over and hung themselves halfway down the frame. She was silent save for the rustling of linen as she donned her nightwear, not inclined to elaborate.

    "I heard you were reading dragon eyes." Agnes pulled the dress down into her basket, cocking her head at the reemerging Lady Dunstaal, "What did you see?"

    "Well, some bloody wars." Heloise stepped around her, determined not to answer her gaze, "I wouldn''t want me to go into detail if I were you."

    She slumped down on her mattress and picked up her comb, tugging at the knots in her hair. Agnes unfurled a slight grin,

    "Understandable. Lord Frenix said you couldn''t see anything at all."

    Heloise''s comb froze halfway through a tangled sheaf of golden brown. She whipped around, her green eyes glowing dangerously. So absent-minded was she, she''d neglected to put her bracelet back on once training was over. The scar on her wrist gleamed white in the lamplight, four raggedy lines scored into her flesh by Agnes''s own fingernails.

    "You caught me. I''m scatterbrained. I can''t ignore my senses and empty my mind. Satisfied?" She rolled her eyes and resumed combing with increased viciousness, "Now, would you be so kind as to deprive me of my own company no longer?"

    She shifted to the side, her snarl echoing in the silence. Agnes left the basket behind as she approached, rubbing each foot firm on the carpet to compensate for her trembling legs.

    "I''ve never known you to be scatterbrained." Heloise tensed even as she feigned indifference, "You have perfect concentration. I remember maids banging pots and pans to rouse you whenever you had your nose in a good story."

    "I remember nothing of the sort." Heloise snapped. Agnes blinked, taken aback. She turned around with a sneer, "I''ve never known you before Hadrian. I''ve no idea where you came up with all that from."

    "Oh, but you do." Agnes retorted, dropping her act with a sharp call, "Give up the pretense, Persephia. You know there''s no fooling me."

    Charged silence, like one just after lightning had struck. Persephia stiffened. She spun around, pale yet brazen,

    "I beg your pardon." She smiled mirthlessly, her icy voice dripping with venom, "Last I remember, my name is Heloise, and you will address me as lady."

    "I shall address you as who you really are. You''re my twin sister Persephia, the rightful firstborn of Graye."

    "What''s this madness? I have no sister. Especially not one as hideous as you."

    Persephia gasped at her own unwitting outburst. Agnes was so numb, she''d just realized she had faltered. After the years of hatred and disgust she had endured, she thought she had risen above, that words would no longer hurt her the way stones did, save for the occasional moment of weakness.

    Persephia''s eyes betrayed a flash of regret and guilt, replaced by determination. She whirled away, her chest heaving.

    "Would you leave? I''m trying to forget the sight of your ugly face and you loitering around my tent doesn''t help."

    Agnes shivered. She remembered Amara''s scream, that day she snatched off her mask. Still, she stood her ground. Persephia turned back with a glare. Her sister was impatient, as she had always been.

    "Get. Out. Do I need to start throwing things?" She brandished her thick wooden comb, madness in her bulging eyes, "You want a cracked skull to add to that mangled face?"

    Agnes shook her head as she drew back, one staggering step then another.

    "You wouldn''t, Persie." Her voice rippled with tears even as she smiled, taunting, "You can''t bear to hurt me more than you already had."

    "My name is Heloise." Persephia insisted through gritted teeth, her knuckles blanching around the comb''s handle.

    "Isn''t it time you see sense, Persie?" Agnes rushed forth, beside herself in frustration. "There''s nothing wrong with you. Coris gave you an empty eye! He''s keeping you from using your powers against him. He''s growing suspicious and you know it. How do you plan to get your hands on The Axel, exactly? Threaten Zier and get yourself killed?"

    "GET OUT!" Persephia reared back and let fly. Agnes skidded sideways. The comb smashed into her mirror. Shards of glass rained onto the carpet. "Out! OUT!"

    Persephia''s shrieks lambasted Agnes as she fled back out. She staggered to her knees, teardrops darkening the rough gravel as they leaked through her fingers and splattered on the ground. Had she been any less immersed in her anguish, she would have heard that hers was not the only cry of despair.

 A World Worth Seeing

    The desert was just as teeth-shattering cold by night as it was skin-melting hot by day. Meya had tucked her blanket and shawls around Coris, yet he was still trembling as he hunched and cowered under two layers of blanket. In the end, she pushed her mattress up against his and lay with her back to his chest, warming his feeble heart with her heat.

    Between her fingers, the Nostran dragon''s eye glowed in the gloom, answering the light from Meya''s own eyes. She lowered it into the bowl and watched as it bobbed and revolved in the disturbed water, and allowed the present world to drain away from her consciousness. Since she''d left training early, might as well do some catching up so she''d have more tales to share with the other Greeneyes tomorrow.

    Night was swallowed by day. Carpets of fabric replaced by that of lush grass. Surrounding her was blue sky, her mother, and her quarrelsome siblings, as they rode the wind towards a looming pillar of clouds.

    The warm updraft under her belly inflated the flaps of leather sprouting from her back, keeping her afloat before vanishing. Meya felt a lurching sensation behind her navel as she plummeted through thin air. The baby dragon whose memories she was inhabiting showed no fear, however. With a swooping beat of its wings, she was propelled back above the wind.

    The sun emerged from behind a veil of clouds and her metal scales soaked up its rays. Its warmth spread through her veins and inundated every sinew of her muscles, diluting the fatigue accumulated over hours of flight. The sun really was their source of energy, mused Meya. She wondered how far, if at all, she would be able to fly at night.

    A shrill scream pierced the calm, jolting Meya from the lull of the cool breeze and the sunlight''s embrace. Its cry ricocheted in her skull and rang in her eardrums long after it had died. A second cry followed, then a third, a fourth. Behind her, her dragon mother moaned in agony. Her five wee dragon siblings thrashed and tumbled in panic, screeching for the call to stop.

    At long last, their mother hurtled towards the earth, screaming for them to follow. As Meya dove after her waving tail, sunlight glanced off her silvery scales into Meya''s eyes, already smarting against the wind. Green grass rose up towards her. She fanned out her wings to soften her landing, the way her mother had taught her.

    Her paw flattened hairy grass, slippery with a coating of dew. Meya looked up and saw four humans¡ªtwo grown men, a boy around five years old, and a girl twice his age.

    The younger, slighter man lowered an iridescent silvery tube from his lips¡ªA Lattis whistle. From one shoulder hung a crossbow, and the other a quiver filled with bolts of Lattis. He turned to the broad-chested, scarred man in a flowing blue cape, reading off his journal.

    "Number 47, Commander." He nodded towards the mother dragon, who had herded Meya and her siblings into the caves under her wings. The commander appraised her with a neutral gaze bordering on bored, "Finest dam we have in this sanctuary. This litter was sired by Gorgodev. Tall as three men and ten times as mighty in his prime. Best known for his performance during the War of¡ª"

    The commander rolled his eyes and waved, impatient.

    "Spare me the pedigree, we''re not looking for war-mount material." He snapped at the dragon keeper, who jolted into a hasty bow. He turned to the little boy with a halfhearted smile, as if he wished he could be anywhere but dragon-pet-shopping with his kids,

    "Well, son? You like any of them?"

    The boy stuck out his pink, slobbery lip as he eyed each of them, his fleshy hand twitching in his father''s cloak.

    "I want a golden one. They''re all iron." He grumbled. His big sister crossed her arms and rolled her eyes.

    "Feed it enough brass and it will turn golden, dunderhead." She spited, a flash of jealousy in her seemingly cavalier gaze.

    "Shut up, Pissy." The boy shot back without pause. The girl''s hands dropped to her sides and funneled into fists as she flushed scarlet, venting steam from her facial orifices.

    "It''s Pascentia!" She shrieked.

    "Pissy Farty." The boy insisted with an innocent smile.

    "Father!" Pascentia tugged at her father''s cape, bobbing and whining. The commander heaved a sigh of annoyance then shot his son a glare¡ªthe boy had proceeded to squeezing his cheeks at his sister, mocking her.

    "Perish it, Polus. Before I have second thoughts about your readiness." Polus sobered up at once at the prospect of his prize being forfeited. The commander thrust his hand towards the dragons, growling, "Well? Which one?"

    As little Polus approached with a thumb in his mouth, Meya cowered against her mother''s leg. She looked up for reassurance, and instead noticed a blackened scar on each side of her neck.

    The baby dragon''s memories enlightened her that they were where her mother had had her fuel nodes removed when she first came to the sanctuary. She couldn''t breathe fire and burn these humans to smithereens.

    Fear gripped her at the realization. Meya shrank closer to her mother''s enveloping warmth. The boy screwed up his eyes, mouth and nose as he studied them one by one, left to right, then all over again. Just when Meya had begun to believe those eyes would just go on swiveling, they stopped at her. He raised his pudgy finger and jabbed in her direction.

    The keeper marched forth and snatched her from her mother''s protective shade.

    No! Don''t let them take me away! I want to fly with you! No!

    Meya kicked and flailed as she screamed, straining in vain to reach her mother. Yet, the majestic dragoness could only look on, heartbroken, her eyes dimmed and full of sorrow.

    Farewell, She crooned, Do not grief. You will see better days. And you will tell me all about it when we meet again.

    She leaned forward on her haunches and touched her forehead to Meya''s one last time. Flashes of the past consumed her. Dragons¡ªhatchlings, fledglings and adolescents¡ªcarried, pulled, dragged away screaming and fighting from her helpless old mother''s sight. This was not her first litter. Nor would it be the last to be taken from her.

    The keeper flipped her on her back and parted her struggling legs with his gloved fingers.

    "It''s a female¡ªa girl dragon." He called to Polus, "Would you like a boy dragon instead, young sir?"

    "Nah, a girl is good." Polus shook his head, his words garbled by his thumb, "Now I can name it Pissy."

    Pascentia gave a stifled shriek then flounced away to their waiting carriage. Meya continued to fight, bulging eyes staring unblinking at her mother, who never broke her gaze. The keeper stuffed her into a cage, uncaring. As the bars closed in between her and her mother, Meya rammed her horned head against them and screeched with all the air in her lungs.

    "Oh, for Valtor''s sake, make it quiet!" The commander snarled.

    The cage door swung open with a creak, followed by a resounding clatter, then slammed shut once more. A familiar dull throb blossomed in Meya''s head and expanded to fill her skull, threatening to burst it from within. In the dim light, she could just make out the nugget of silvery metal with its rainbow sheen sliding along to the tilt of the cage, as the keeper carried her towards the back of the commander''s carriage.

    Lattis.

    The agony was such that Meya could barely feel the impact when the keeper thrust her onto the back seat next to Polus, who promptly began poking her with a twig he''d found during his brief return journey. The wheels jostled awake beneath her, and Meya surrendered herself to the claws of slumber dragging her under its waters.

    <hr>

    "Come on! Eat!"

    The same whining voice lambasted her eardrums, followed by a rattle of metal. The human boy would often resort to kicking the cage in the hopes of rousing his new pet.

    The wooden bowl clattered towards her, spilling a few coils of yellow-gold shavings.

    "Eat, you stupid lizard! Caius brought his dragon to school yesterday and it''s copper! So I told him my dragon''s gold! I need you to turn gold, you hear? Eat!"

    Polus underlined his command with yet another blow. To the little dragon whose head Meya was inhabiting, however, his noise was a mere distant ringing, too weak to penetrate the thick fog of doldrums she was mired in.

    "You''re boring!"

    Polus gave up his cause for the day and stormed off. He lashed out at rocks, gardening equipment and his mother''s flowers all the way, wrapping it up with a slam of the door.

    Meya wondered if Coris was like this before he''d met her. They were probably fake tantrums in his case, though.

    Day after day and night after night flowed by in dull flashes of disjointed memories, tinged by boredom, longing, hunger and fatigue. Meya wondered how the little dragon would ever survive into adulthood and fly over to burn Amplevale to the ground. The poor thing was taken from her mother too young. She wasn''t wise enough, yet, to realize as Meya did, that her best chance of survival was to build up her strength and wait for an opportunity to escape.

    Polus''s loving care was not helping, either. Instead of rich, natural earth teeming with an array of essential minerals, the misguided boy had ordered his servants to serve his pet nothing but brass shavings, in the hopes she would turn gold.

    Instead of open sky, the dragon was allotted an enclosure in the mansion''s gardens. Though she had ample room to move around and spread her wings now, Meya knew the little one would soon outgrow it. And, size notwithstanding, dragons were never meant to be caged, were they? Why give them wings if they weren''t meant to fly free, like those fearless sparrows pecking for ants in front of her cage?

    The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

    Worse, the boy''s mother had ordered her paws wrapped in Lattis shackles. One day, in a similar manner to Meya''s during the Famine, the little dragon''s body had gone against her conscious desire to starve to death, and sucked nutrients straight out of the soil of the garden in her sleep. Polus''s mother had screeched the house down when she woke up to her beloved tulips wilted in their beds.

    From then on, it was either the brass shavings or nothing.

    The swinging door had eased to a standstill when Meya felt tremors of scurrying footsteps. A shadow not unlike her mother''s swooped over her. The little dragon raised its head with withering hope, which flickered out at the sight of a plump, clearly human maid girl.

    Her dark, wavy hair fell to frame her face in tangled tresses from her bonnet. Her rosy cheeks were marred by angry, pus-filled pimples and smudged with soot. She carried with her the scent of rich soil. Meya looked down and saw the sack she held beside her leg.

    The maid knelt before the cage. The flesh of her supple palm oozed in square blobs through the wire mesh as she pressed close. Her brown eyes were kind and filled with sadness.

    "You poor thing. You miss your mama, don''t you? Me too."

    She settled on the manicured grass and wormed a pudgy finger through the eye of the net, rubbing Meya between the horns. Meya had just closed her eyes halfway when she withdrew and turned to fumble with the sack''s drawstring. With a mighty heave, she swung the open mouth of the sack at the cage. Soft black earth tumbled down in clots.

    "Here. Fill up quick. Don''t leave no trace." She whispered urgently as she rammed the sack against the net, urging more earth to fall in. Her eyes flicked over to meet Meya''s puzzled gaze. They were filled with determination.

    "You have to live, little dragon. Tis the only way you''ll get to see your mama again."

    The maid rose to her feet, dusting off her dress with her free hand. When she turned back for one last, harried smile, their eyes met once more. This time, the little dragon delved deep into those twinkling irises.

    Glimpses of another''s life consumed them. A peaceful people with a culture of vibrant colors, surrounded by nature. A merry home bursting with grandparents, parents, cousins and siblings. All consumed by the red of flames and black of smoke. Screams of terror segued into the drone of children reciting Nostran values, tears glistening on the pages of their books.

    The deluge of memories ended. Meya was back in her cage inside the little dragon''s head once more. The maid had long bustled away. Unlike Meya, the little dragon was too young to understand what had happened, of course, but she sensed the maid''s pain, and found her own pain within it.

    One inch at a time, she dragged herself forward. For the first time, she realized just how tired and hungry she was. With her paws covered, she''d have to eat the soil with her mouth and digest with her bowels filled with bubbling acid. It would take much longer for the nutrients to absorb, but she was in no hurry, anyway.

    As the little dragon lapped up the nutritious soil, Meya felt the gritty soil tickle her throat as it inched down, and smelt its mushy, earthy scent. Yet, it left no taste behind in her mouth. Instead, she heard the choir of a dozen metals reverberating in her head.

    Like Lattis, all metals emit an energy of their own. Each with a different feel. Each with a different color. Each with a different voice.

    So, this is how dragons taste. With song.

    <hr>

    The maid, whose name was Seona, did not arrive one day. Then the next. And the day after that. None the wiser, the distraught little dragon continued to wait for her hasty head-rubs and lifesaving sustenance, but Meya had already resigned herself to the truth.

    Before Seona disappeared, Polus had grown increasingly frustrated at the lack of a golden sheen on his dragon. The little dragon had barely touched the mound of brass shavings. She only ate as much as her body required. Yet, she seemed satiated and remained stubbornly iron-gray. His parents had probably deduced for him that someone had been disobeying his orders.

    Meya could only hope Seona was left alive to find employment elsewhere with not too much flogging.

    Without Seona, brass shavings again became the sole item on the menu. Meya didn''t have to be born a dragon to know that eating nothing but brass coins would result in an early and torturous death.

    Just as Meya was beginning to wonder, once more, how the little dragon managed to survive such atrocity, Polus came shuffling up the lawn one day, sack lugging behind him, a dejected pout on his cherubic face.

    "Caius''s dragon died yesterday." He grunted as he let go of his sack. It sat crumpled and hunchbacked beside him. His pale green eyes narrowed in annoyance as he glowered at her through a curtain of tousled ebony locks. "He said he gave it nothing but copper to eat for a month."

    As Meya looked on, numb with grief and fury that was solely hers, Polus opened the cage and nudged the sack in with his foot. Black, moist earth fell onto the flattened grass.

    The little dragon wouldn''t have cared to be affronted even if she''d understood human words. She pranced forth and buried her head into the mound, gobbling up, down, left and right.

    Over the rustling of the sack, the sound of Polus''s stomping footsteps traveled through three inches of soil to her ears as he flounced away, back to the safety of his mansion. He''d probably nag his father for a new showy toy soon. One that wouldn''t die halfway while he used it as fuel to boil up jealousy and admiration from his just-as-spoilt friends.

    <hr>

    Meya was jolted awake by shouts, bangs, clatters and harried footsteps of a dozen men. The dragon raised her spinning head, eager for food and water. The house had been lifeless for a day and night, after a burst of activity during which servants scrambled about, stuffing their cloth bundles with whatever valuable they could snatch before jumping ship.

    Only Polus and his family remained unseen, but Meya had heard the boy bawling in protest over his mother''s trembling, tear-choked pleas that they must leave, that Papa would not be going with them, and no, he couldn''t bring along his new pet parrot, which now sat in a golden cage beside Meya''s, nor the little dragon.

    Men in flowing blue capes and silvery armor spilled around the mansion''s marble corner onto the gardens. At the sight of their bared scimitars, Meya couldn''t help not being as hopeful as the clueless little dragon. Well, at least now she knew why Polus''s family had fled. The Commander had probably committed treason against the emperor, and the dictator had been generous enough to have his family join him in Fyr''s Lake.

    The emperor''s men darted in all directions with a frenzy like that of trapped mice, disturbing every silhouette in sight. Potted plants were smashed. Barking guard dogs silenced. Crashes from inside the mansion echoed through swinging windows.

    Food! Water!

    The dragon''s desperate screech swallowed that of the startled parrot. With the lasts of her strength, she lurched forth and rammed her horned head against the wire mesh. Her priorities soon shifted, however, when she noticed fire dancing on the glass of windowpanes, stark orange against the night as smoke billowed out all open orifices of the house. She thrust her side against the net this time. The warming metal fabric yielded but did not burst.

    As seconds rushed by and the heat and smoke thickened, the parrot echoed her despair, ricocheting inside its cage like dice in a tube¡ªif dice could scream. The dragon''s fear poisoned Meya as if it were her own, even as she knew she couldn''t possibly die now.

    The dragon would survive into adulthood and become a soldier. Curators had read her eye. But then again, there was always the chance of a mistake¡ªnot to mention her rotten Greeneye luck.

    Should she stay and wait for salvation, or should she leave before having to experience being cooked alive? What if something important was about to happen? How much would she miss the next time she returned?

    A shadow backlit by a wall of flames streaked towards them, saving Meya from further dithering. Flat, solid black gave way to shapes and colors¡ªa soot-smudged, sweaty young soldier in a torn blue cape. He tore open the parrot''s cage¡ªthen Meya''s, as the traumatized bird shot away to freedom.

    The little dragon hobbled forth, bruised and feeble. The soldier''s pale green eyes gawked out at her from his sooty face.

    "Fly! Go!" He yelled, arms flailing in exasperation. Meya nudged her head against his middle, keening for sympathy. It''d been cloudy these few days and she hadn''t been touched by a single ray of sun. Her wings were too weak to lift her heavy, metallic body. The soldier exploded in curses. Shaking his head, he stooped down,

    "If I die for this thing, Caecil, I swear¡ª" He grunted as he heaved the little dragon into his arms. He sprinted back the way he had arrived, then reared back with a cry of pain at the wave of intense heat.

    He spun about wildly, watching as flames and smoke closed in around them, his sobbing voice swearing vengeance at the unseen Caecil. The little dragon urged herself up then touched her forehead to his. A vision of the mansion''s hidden back gate consumed them, superseded by reality.

    Underneath a coat of ash, the soldier turned pale as lime.

    "Oh, Valtor." He breathed, then tore down the garden path towards the towering hedge. He turned the corner and threw their combined weight against the narrow metal gate. Cool night air washed over them. Safe at last.

    <hr>

    "A dragon, Caecil¡ªand a female at that. We''ll get much use out of it."

    The scarred, mustached man in a blue cape grunted, as the boy lathered his hand up and down the contours of her head. The soldier who had rescued her loitered behind, his expression stricken. Caecil''s lone, pale green eye stared straight through her, empty as the socket on the other side of his face. At his father''s voice, he tensed up.

    "What did you mean, Father?" He asked, his voice low and frosty. His father bristled.

    "Don''t use that tone with me, boy!" He roared. Caecil and the dragon flinched in unison. The soldier averted his eyes and dipped his head as their father paced between them, gesturing in frustration, "You think we could afford to raise this metal-guzzling lizard for pleasure, like Patricius''s brat?" He spun around, jabbing his finger at Meya, "I let Calix bring it home for three reasons: its eyes, its wings and its womb!"

    As his father''s voice echoed in the cluttered, dingy basement, Caecil''s hand trembled on her shoulder. At the sight of his son''s anguish, the father sighed. He clomped over and slumped onto his haunches beside the blind boy.

    "You''ll get to see the world, Caecil." He urged tenderly, "You''ll fly into battle, and you''ll be gifted with a mighty Hybridean child. Think, son, what all this would bring to our family. Your mother would finally get the treatment she deserves."

    Caecil''s already wrinkled eyebrows spasmed, torn between two evils. He looked to be no more than seven, pale and thin, yet having to shoulder such expectations. While the little dragon was bored and confused by this droning stream of human gibberish, and simply wanted to be left alone to recuperate, Meya''s heart writhed along with Caecil''s.

    "I''m sorry, Father." Caecil muttered. His father heaved another sigh as he rested his lined, roughened hand on the boy''s head of ebony curls.

    "I''ll leave you two to get to know each other, then." He rose to his feet, cocking his head at Calix, "We must be off. The emperor''s appointing Thelonius the new Commander."

    Once the door had swung shut behind his father and brother, Caecil scooted towards her, his lips twisted into a crooked smile.

    "Hello. I''m Caecilius¡ªbecause I''m blind. I know...my parents are pretty creative, huh?"

    He prattled on as he undid the Lattis gloves on her paws. Meya glanced around and realized she was sitting inside a large wooden tray blanketed with a thick layer of moist black earth. She turned and followed Caecil as he stood up and felt his way to the window behind her.

    "Thelonius was gonna burn down Polus''s house. His father tried to kill the emperor. Theo was bragging about it in class. So I begged Calix to free you."

    He threw aside the curtains and flung the panes open as wide as they could strain against rusty hinges, letting the rejuvenating light of day inside. The baby dragon yearned towards it.

    "You''re supposed to fly away, actually. Never mind, we''ll get you back to the sanctuary. Promise."

    He said with a casual determination which implied past triumphs. Meya was intrigued. Fortunately, her hunger satiated and her fatigue abated, the little dragon''s priorities had shifted to taking stock of the new human. She peered at the back of Caecil''s head.

    Day was replaced by nothingness. It was a peculiar sensation. Not black. Nor gray. Not even darkness. Just blindness. In Caecil''s hands, the baby dragon''s skin felt shrunken and emaciated inside its armor of copper scales. The poor thing lay still, betraying not even the barest pulse. Surrounding them was the scent she knew so well, of grass and earth and water and sun, of home. Muted plops were barely heard amidst Caecil''s howling sobs, as his tears splattered onto the dragon''s scales and slid off. A hot, sweaty palm pressed firm onto his shoulder. His memory told them it was Calix''s.

    Caius''s dragon. The brothers had tried to save him. And almost succeeded.

    Meya prayed the little one at least had a glimpse of home, a taste of freedom, before Fyr took him. The surviving dragon mourned with her.

    The memory ebbed away. Caecil had climbed into her soil-box. He sprinkled water onto the earth then set to work, patting and molding the raised mound into the passable silhouette of a dragon.

    As he continued patting, his hand instead touched the baby dragon''s horned, metallic head. He froze, surprised, then relaxed with a smile, as the little dragon nuzzled up against his chest.

    "Father never understands. I''m happy the way I am." He whispered as he pressed his nose against her smooth crown,

    "If I had to steal a dragon''s eye to see the world, maybe the world isn''t worth seeing."

 Overridden

    Lord Hadrian''s deafening snores drowned out the song of midnight crickets when Heloise ducked inside. Using the noise as cover, she let the tent''s flaps fall with a clap, heaving a sigh of relief with utmost abandon.

    She looked around and scanned the tent''s layout, then stuffed her mouth with her first to stifle a scream of fright.

    As she lay on her mattress in the near solid darkness, Meya''s eyes remained wide open¡ªtwo disembodied orbs as glowing and acid-green as the third revolving in the water bowl before her.

    Yet, the dragon girl did not twitch a toe nor finger, and Heloise soon calmed, reassured by the continued drone of Coris''s snores. If Meya wasn''t stirred by this, then nothing would wake her.

    As her frenzied heart slowed, Heloise filled her lungs with a deep breath and surveyed the tent once more. As her eyes adjusted to the lack of light, darkness precipitated into silhouettes. She saw the rigid lines and sharp corners of chests and crates, and the shapeless, yielding forms of bundles of clothing.

    She would need more to find what she had come for, however. With trembling fingers, she reached for her bracelet and tugged it off her wrist.

    The effect was immediate. It was as if the light from her eyes had illuminated her path. Patches of darkness became riddled with gleams of silvery-gray from polished metal. Black morphed into the muddy brown of wood and the dull purple and red of carpets and blankets. Coris''s and Meya''s pillows, once stark white in the light of day, shone like silver, smooth against the coarse pattern of their hay mattresses. And there, just beyond the head of Coris''s mattress, sat the familiar rectangular chest.

    How thoughtless.

    She crept towards it, one tiptoe after another. She knelt down behind Coris and tugged the chest towards her, careful not to snag it on the wrinkles of the carpet. With her thumb, she nudged up the clasp and tipped the lid over. On the wooden bed, a lone eye glowed in its hole.

    Heloise knew what the obvious course of action would be, and she knew that Coris would have foreseen it. Fyre, he would have foreseen all possible courses of action she could take. However, she doubted he would have fathomed how far she was willing to go for her mission.

    Heloise''s hand shivered as she raised it to her eye. She circled the region, searching for the sweet spot as she recalled how Meya had done it, back at the Pearly Falls. Her finger stumbled over a pea-sized bump, barely half an inch from the corner of her eye. As she struggled to relax against mounting anxiety, she strained her eyes open as wide as her muscles would allow, and pressed the trigger.

    A squelching, nauseating pop. A lukewarm, slimy weight dropped onto her palm. Like parchment sliced apart by a falling blade of obsidian, half of her world blinked out. She could no longer see the snoozing couple to her left without turning.

    Swallowing the urge to vomit, Heloise wiped her freed eye dry and deposited it in one of the holes in the chest. She picked up the other dragon''s eye held it against the gaping hole where her own eye had been.

    After a few fevered breaths dogged by hesitation, she pushed it in.

    A deluge of memories overwhelmed her. She was Persephia. Yet, he was also Evander. She had closed her eyes to welcome what should have been a lonely, peaceful death on a deserted battlefield, only to open his eyes to a stranger''s life in a body that was not his.

    No! I''m Persephia!

    Take it out. Now! While you''re still in charge!

    She slapped the heel of her hand onto the button. Then, she was back in control once more. Evander''s eye lolled on the carpet, its green glow hazy behind a film of clear slime. Yet, she could still sense foreign memories in her, threatening her reality. What was hers and what was another''s, she was no longer as sure as she used to be. Just as she had feared, his memories had evaded her remaining eye, and she could no longer bear it.

    Time for the next step of her plan. Persephia deposited Evander''s eye back in its bed and retrieved hers, pressing it in place over its original home. She placed her other hand above the trigger which would eject her right eye.

    Her breath petered out of her in jittery shivers. Reaction time and sleight of hand was crucial for this step. A split second''s lag. One tiniest falter. And she would either be stuck with Evander''s memories in both of her eyes forever, or end up a soulless doll waiting to be discovered by the asleep couple in the morning.

    To be honest, though, at this point, she couldn''t decide which was worse.

    No good would come out of delaying. At long last, she held her breath and pressed.

    Her right eye popped out of its socket just as her left eye slid back in. For a moment, she was disoriented. She had felt around her left eye, located the minuscule node, and depressed it. Next thing she realized, her right eye was rolling on her lap.

    Persephia had not the slightest clue what had transpired during the time her left eye was absent. Nevertheless, according to her meticulous plan, rehearsed over and over in her mind in the preceding hours, the sight was proof she had succeeded. Still, to be sure, she scoured her memories, and discovered nothing there that shouldn''t have been.

    Relief flooded her, seeping out in the form of thankful tears. Now that the most daunting step was over, all that was left were finishing touches and covering tracks. Out of her pocket, Persephia extracted the empty eye Coris had handed her and slotted it into the cavity.

    Dry metal scraped against her sockets as she rolled her eyes around, and she closed her eyes to allow time for host and dweller to adjust and lubricate. Once the stinging pain and grating sensation had subsided, she returned the chest to its original spot, stashing her tainted eye in her pocket as she rose.

    With no more than a last, fleeting look at her none-the-wiser adversaries, she swept back out into the night.

    She had secured her means of escape. Now to seize The Axel.

    <hr>

    "My dragon''s boring. He just flies around the sanctuary with his mama all day, every day. The End."

    Little Lord Frenix lay stretched with his belly on the warm sand. His head propped up on one arm, he tossed the cloth ball he had just received from Heloise over to Atmund. The infant toy gave out a merry jangle which clashed horribly with his dejected pout.

    It was dinnertime. They had stopped for the night at yet another oasis still in the middle of nowhere. Members of the entourage freely picked the preferred turf upon which to rest their weary bums, and amiable company with which to dine. Meanwhile, the nine Greeneyes were cloistered next to the vat of reheated stew with the two Lord Hadrians, taking turns discussing their experiences using Coris''s so-called Bard''s Bell.

    "Mine too. But it''s a she." Atmund mumbled. He recoiled at the sudden shift in focus from around the circle, then his voice grew stronger, "I-I-I like it, though. I was scared when she flew for the first time, but the wind felt great. And there''s beautiful meadows and blue sky. I''d be happy to live like that forever."

    The masked boy trailed away with a dreamy smile, which soon turned into a troubled pout.

    Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author.

    "We can''t go outside the sanctuary, though. My head hurts whenever we go too near the fence. I dunno why. So, yeah, it does get boring after a while."

    "Right? It''s great they had a happy life, but I want some action!" Frenix agreed, cleaving a piece of diced carrot in half with his spoon. Coris shook his head, laughter petering out of his narrow nostrils.

    "Believe me, you wouldn''t. Least not the Nostran brand of action." He answered Frenix''s raised eyebrows with a sly smirk, "I had the curators select dragons with peaceful childhoods for you two. Hopefully, you''ll get the hang of feeding and flying during their time in the sanctuary. Pick up transformation and fire-breathing in training camp. Then, we move on to application in reality."

    "What? We won''t get to see them go to war?" Frenix slammed a fist onto the ground. Coris rolled his eyes.

    "Frenix, you''re ten."

    "You were ten when you won the war with Cristoria."

    "I gave orders from a distance. It''s not even remotely comparable."

    "You know I could just skip ahead to after my dragon joined the army, right? And you''d never know." Frenix unfurled a nasty grin. Coris responded with a smirk.

    "I''ve expected no less." Frenix''s smile sagged and added to Coris''s widening grin instead, "I''ve asked the curators to transfer only non-traumatizing memories from the original eyes into empty eyes for you two. And I trust the rest of us know better than to share."

    Coris''s glare swept across the circle, each syllable sizzling with menace. Atmund curled in on himself, sheltering from the tension. Frenix shook with stifled tantrums.

    "You stinking donghead!"

    "I''d welcome worse, if only to keep your innocence intact." Coris accepted the compliment with as much reaction as a whitewashed wall, then his frown deepened, "You don''t want to see a carnage, Frenix, trust me."

    His sharp voice echoed in the graveside stillness. In a rare moment of sincerity, guilt twisted Coris''s pale features for all to see. Even Frenix was finally compelled to relent.

    The reek of trauma rolled off his shoulders, like creeping tendrils of invisible fog that Meya could sense with painful ease. She reached for his hand, clamped tight over his kneecap¡ªjust as he raised it and gestured towards Dorsea. The Southerner maid jolted and blushed. She straightened up, receiving the ball from Atmund.

    "My dragon is a male, too." She smiled at Frenix, then the whole circle, jittery with nerves, "He was among the lucky ones, he got to stay with his mother until he was ready before he joined the training camp¡ªall the dragons there were male, somehow. Then, there was this selection ceremony¡ª" She scratched her cheek and eked out a halfhearted smile,

    "Human girls from another training camp came to pick male dragons as their mates. From what I learned, they''d ride them into battle and have Greeneye children with them¡ªsame goes for female dragons and human boys."

    "Ugh! Gross!" Meya denounced, then grimaced at the gawking eyes now upon her, "Separate your mount and your mate, for Freda''s sake!"

    "Gladly, my dragon lady." Coris accepted, resulting in an inevitable pinch on the old sore spot on his arm. "¡ªOw! Meya!"

    A flurry of nervous giggles swept the throng as the Meya turned pointedly away from the petulant Coris. Dorsea blew a covert breath of relief, then rolled the ball off. It came to a stop at Lors'' boot. The old yeoman bent down to retrieve it with a grunt.

    "Same for me. The girl who picked me was inconsolable. Cried through the whole first night." He shook his head, heartbreak in his weary eyes, "Wasn''t ready to be a mother, and she already had a human lover. It was harrowing to watch. Could''ve been my daughter."

    There was a pause as his audience processed the chilling truth in their own manner. Tissa, a blonde maid who looked not a day above twenty, tilted her head back and forth.

    "Why would Nostra want Greeneye babies? Aren''t pure dragons more powerful?"

    Coris caressed his chin with a pale finger.

    "If I were to guess, they have different strengths. Greeneyes are smaller than purebred dragons, true, but they have more tolerance to elemental Lattis." He cocked his head towards Meya, who felt her cheeks heating as all eyes inevitably pooled on her.

    "Meya took a crossbow bolt in her arm, yet retained her mental and physical functions. All it took to incapacitate Gillian was a shallow cut from a thumbnail blade. Even Lattis waves emitted by Hadrian''s underground lode might have clouded his judgment as well."

    "So, you''re saying, milord¡ªdragons are suited for battle, and Greeneyes are suited for spying?"

    "Exactly."

    Tissa churned her lips, contemplating.

    "That would explain it." She reached for the Ball, "My dragon is training in a camp for spies and assassins because she doesn''t want to go to war. All her fellows are Greeneyes, so she has no friends. They resent her. Like they resent their parents."

    Tissa''s brusque voice was dark as her downcast face. She handed the ball to the nearby Cleygar. He spun the ball between his sausage-like fingers as he stared into space,

    "My dragon was already old and living in Latakia. He doesn''t seem to have any memories after leaving training camp. He still remember how to fly, transform and breathe fire, but he never did any of those. Took up farming. Lived alone in Clardarth. No idea what happened to his rider. Or him."

    He ended with a shrug, then looked to his lord for some closure. Coris nodded, his eyes wandering and his hand trembling on his knee. This time, Meya was quick enough. His icy knuckles shifted against her heated palm, finding a nook of solace.

    "I would guess he may have been traumatized or suffered too many Lattis wounds in war. Or, he may have erased his memories, using a mixture of Lattis and his blood." His head bowed, Coris closed his eyes, "Either way, the past was too painful to relive."

    Again, silence fell, and Meya bristled with annoyance. One look around the ring was enough for her to sense something amiss that she wasn''t a part of. What was Coris hiding from her this time? Or was it common knowledge but she''d been too busy staying alive to pick up?

    As Meya skewered each and every of her fellow Greeneyes with narrowed eyes, Cleygar pushed the ball onto Philema, nudging her knobby elbow with his.

    Philema gawked at the proffered ball, then Coris, then Cleygar, unsure. But, at the yeoman''s pleading nod, she straightened up and swallowed, her voice hoarse,

    "My dragon is still alive. Lives in Jaise with her rider and their children. They¡ªthey are among the last defectors Flindel let through."

    Philema held Coris''s eyes. It was clear she''d deduced he was behind this, but there was no malice in those glowing eyes.

    "I had no clue what my husband had been doing until the day he was arrested. Me being a Greeneye, he must have thought it too dangerous to involve me." Her hollowed cheeks tensed and twisted, wracked with emotion. "We never had the chance to talk it over. He told me to flee to Hadrian, said everything would be fine. That''s the last thing he ever said."

    With a strangled cry, the widow hid her face in her hands, rocking in place. Dorsea caressed her arm and Tissa took her hand. She grasped Tissa''s fingers and clung to Dorsea''s sleeve in return.

    "It''s been so hard¡ªall these years¡ªknowing I''m the reason he died." She dabbed away tears with the heel of her hand, but then she turned to Coris and creaked out a wan smile, "But, seeing all these lives he''d saved¡ªit helps me hate myself a little less."

    Philema succumbed to sobs again and spoke no more. Coris turned to Meya. His smile was triumphant and his eyes gleamed with confidence, but Meya bit her lips in uneasiness.

    He''d planned all this. He believed converting Philema would convince Meya to let go of her guilt as well. But, for once, Coris was wrong. It wasn''t that simple. Survivor''s guilt, murderer''s guilt¡ªthey couldn''t be compared.

    Meya opened her mouth, but Coris''s attention was already elsewhere. He leaned across Dorsea and rested a comforting hand on Philema''s knee.

    "I''m sure it would make Flindel happier than anything, to see Greeneyes reclaiming their lost ways." His soothing voice masked the guile in those honeyed words. He straightened up, addressing the rest, "How about we demonstrate what we''ve learned so far? Let''s start with feeding, shall we?"

    Seven Greeneyes plus Zier whipped around and glowered at Coris, who blinked in confusion. Meya was tempted to hammer some sense into his brain¡ªliterally. Poor Philema wasn''t even half-done crying, and he was moving on with the training? Had anyone ever taught this lad tact?

    Still, as the self-proclaimed and as yet largely unacknowledged leader of this dragon liberation front, Meya was obliged to project an image of unity with her most avid patron. Filling her lungs, she stretched out her leg and shook off her silken slipper.

    The heat of a dozen staring eyes engulfed her. Meya closed her eyes and willed her frenzied heart to calm, so she could hear the hum of the earth. As she braced her foot on the yielding sand, her throat seared at the memory of acid and bile combined barreling up her gullet. Gritting her teeth against fear, Meya pushed her foot into the sand.

    ¡ªNo, not sand. She looked up at what she had stuck her foot into and saw a mound of dry, flaky earth piling twice as high as herself. She peered past the man-made hill to the gaping brown crater. A jumble of heads, torsos, arms and legs carpeted its floor.

    As she gazed on, more bodies were tossed into the mix. One¡ªtwo¡ªthree disfigured, famished children. Weeping parents. Flies and gnats swarmed the air. Crows circled and screeched, then settled down and sliced their beaks into rotting flesh¡ª

    "Meya!"

    Coris''s yell was proof she had again emptied her stomach. The past retreated the way it had attacked¡ªsudden and seamless. Meya found herself on all fours, face to face with her impressive puddle of spew. Had she chugged down that much soup? The cacophony of panicking voices was not helping her nausea.

    "Oh, Freda!"

    "Are you alright?"

    "Where''s the healer? Get Bishop Riddell!"

    Meya closed her eyes and fell back on her behind, hoping to shut out the din. She felt as if she was drifting away from her body¡ªfloating and numb. Then, Zier''s familiar strong arms slid under her back and knees and heaved her up, carrying her to peace and reprieve.

 Dying Wish

    (A few months earlier)

    In the loose embrace of pale fingers like spider legs, the melted arrowhead gleamed orange in the firelight and silver in the moonbeam.

    Sylvia pulled up the blanket to shield her son''s hand from the night chill. With a tender finger, she guided streaks of damp hair away from his sweat-peppered forehead. Coris''s breath petered through his parted lips, ragged and feeble. Even under the influence of laudanum, his brows remained crinkled towards each other in apparent pain.

    Sylvia lay down beside him, smoothing his hair as she whispered tender words of reassurance, even as she knew her son would not hear them. Familiar, heavy footsteps clomped on the carpet towards them. She looked up to find her husband of twenty years standing on the other side of the bed, his head bowed and his eyes downcast. His hands were overflowing with curious silhouettes, and he set them down beside their son before one could tumble and startle him awake.

    "Found these stashed away in his drawer." He reached across and offered Sylvia one of them, then settled back down with a tortured sigh, his head in his hand, "How long has he been hoarding them?"

    Sylvia turned it over and over in her hands, as the firelight revealed it was a baby rattle. She raised her gaze to the pile of whatnot before her husband and made out a jumble of dolls both human and animal, wooden tops, dream-catchers, and cloth balls. She whipped around to her slumbering son.

    "Oh, Lexi."

    Her heart throbbed in anguish as his raised voice echoed in her ears. The times they had argued. The harsh words they had traded. And all this time, he had suppressed this hopeless craving under his cold, unfeeling fa?ade. Kellis''s sigh chorused with hers.

    "He wants to leave behind a child. Understandable."

    "Why won''t he just admit it?"

    "Probably doesn''t want to orphan it. Or burden it with The Axel."

    Sylvia allowed silence to descend between them as she recalled, recoiled and recovered. She knew Coris wasn''t to blame. She knew Kellis had never meant to harm their little boy. Yet, she couldn''t shake the feeling that had Kellis been more honest, more fair and less exacting as a father¡ªhad she herself been a present mother, had she not been so distracted, so occupied with enjoying whatever was left of her youth¡ªCoris would never have felt the need to turn the whole of Latakia against him, just to win their love and approval.

    Sylvia blinked away the burning sensation in her eyes, swallowing them to the depths of her heart. She squeezed the rattle to still her trembling hands and ground herself in the present.

    "We have to find him a wife." She hung her head, sighing, "But, who would willingly have their daughter marry him? Unless..."

    Sylvia trailed off as the notion crossed her mind. Kellis nodded.

    "Olivis Crosset would be delighted."

    Sylvia tensed. She knew that tone¡ªit was as if she could hear the calculations going on in his brain. Her grip on the rattle tightened.

    "Lexi would never go through with that."

    "We''ll take good care of the lass. She''ll be honored and respected." Kellis insisted. Sylvia shook her head, her eyes fixed upon the bed.

    "It''s not enough." The tip of the arrowhead peeked out from Coris''s blanket, and she glared back at its challenging glint. "He''s still holding out for her."

    Kellis was silent for a breath. Then, he heaved another sigh. Sylvia shared his dilemma. They had choices, of course, but what use were they when all those choices had irreconcilable drawbacks? One was a known enemy. The other, Coris would refuse point-blank out of honor. Whereas the last¡ª

    One nudge at a time, Sylvia urged the ruined arrowhead out of her son''s feeble grasp. The Lattis bolt was warm and damp with sweat as it rested in her palms. He had treasured the memory¡ªand yet, he had forgotten it. It didn''t make sense.

    "Why can''t you remember?" She mused, more to lament than to demand an answer. Kellis pressed the pads of his fingers into his forehead, as if hoping it would dull the pain.

    "Dragon blood. And, as far as I know, there is but one living Greeneye in Crosset."

    Sylvia froze as the inkling coursed through her like a flash of pure agony. She stared at her husband as he observed Coris in his troubled sleep, his shadowed face pensive and unfathomable.

    "Why haven''t you told him?" She rasped as fury curdled into a roar in her throat. Kellis shook his head,

    "He doesn''t remember her. And she''s a peasant. What if he falls for her? He can''t marry a commoner."

    Sylvia was tempted to throw her head back and swear to the heights.

    "What does that matter at this point? Lexi''s losing hope by the day! He''s dying!" She snapped, her voice cracking at the foul, poisonous taste of that last word in her throat.

    "And I''m afraid, Sylvia¡ª" For the first time, Kellis raised his gaze to face hers. His wide eyes quivered as horribly as his voice, "She may be the only thing keeping him alive. Once his wait is over¡ª"

    Silence interluded, solid and cold¡ªso cold that Sylvia couldn''t even manage a blink, as the truth in those blue eyes seeped into hers.

    "Oh, Freda." She bent over her son and draped a protective arm down his back, trembling with fury, "Kellis, what have you done? What have you been giving him?!"

    She exploded. Kellis hesitated, then his eyes slid to the side. Sylvia followed them to the bedside table, where Coris''s nightly laudanum vial sat glinting in the firelight. She picked it up, uncorked it and held it to her nose. Once the sickly sweet aroma of opium tincture had dispersed, for a split-second, the hidden notes of blood and metal flooded her nostrils. Her fingers trembled as she stuffed the cork back in.

    "The mixture has healing properties. He''s recover¡ª"

    Sylvia couldn''t bear to let him finish. She bolted up and slapped the vial against his cheek. The malignant vial fell and rolled gleaming on the carpet. The baroness crumbled to a heap over her son, shaking with stifled sobs.

    Kellis clenched his jaw as he waited out the throbbing pain and his wife''s heartbreak. He rested a nervous hand on her river of dark brown hair¡ªshe thrust it off in disgust, burrowing her face deeper into Coris''s shoulder. He tried again¡ª

    If you spot this tale on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

    "I can''t bear to lose him, Sylvia. He means more to me than my life¡ªmore than Hadrian¡ªand definitely more than The Axel¡ª"

    "¡ªThen let him live!" Sylvia''s cry rented the silence like a clap of lightning. Silvery eyes blazed on her tear-streaked countenance. Kellis reared back, stunned. "Strike a deal with Crosset. Call in every Lady in the three lands¡ªbut let him choose¡ªlet him remember. Look at him! Hasn''t he sacrificed enough already?"

    Sylvia cupped their son''s gaunt face in her hands as she screeched across the bed at him, then fell back onto Coris. She dried her tears against his cheek, whispering as if in mourning,

    "Lexi¡ª"

    Sylvia''s muted sobs rippled the suffocating silence. Somewhere in the shadows, Coris''s clepsydra dripped steadily, marking the seconds as they trickled by. Kellis closed his eyes and let out a long breath. He bent down and retrieved the phial he had tampered with, then poured its contents onto the fire.

    O Freda, he prayed to the goddess of the Heights, as the flames of the Lake rose to devour the potion,

    Hast thou meant for this to be, then I shall accept thine destiny.

    <hr>

    "I don''t understand it. I''ve told you numerous times it''s not your fault. You''ve witnessed other Greeneyes feed without consequences. What in the three lands is the problem this time?"

    Coris paced back and forth, arms flailing as he fumed. Meya squeezed her hunched shoulders against her folded knees, listless eyes following his twig legs as they paraded past her and back. She was already asking herself the same question. He didn''t need to add to her misery.

    "I''m sorry. I dunno what''s wrong with me." She rested her forehead on her knees with a heavy sigh, "I''d see flashes of the Famine and I just¡ªI can''t¡ªI''m sorry."

    The harrowing flashbacks replayed before her eyes, roused by a mere mention. Her voice rose so high, it fell and shattered to sharp sand in her throat. Too drained to put her feelings to words, Meya shook her head in frustration and curled into a tighter ball.

    Zier''s hand alighted on her shoulder. The sound of Coris''s footsteps died. However, reprieve was brief before he stomped over and resumed nagging.

    "Meya, you need to stop blaming yourself for everything that happens." His sharp voice was tinged with annoyance as he slumped down cross-legged before her, "None of this is your fault. Why is it so hard for you to accept? You were a child. It was unintentional. Even the law has exceptions for these cases. You''re innocent. It''s simple logic!"

    Meya gritted her teeth as each angry, accusing syllable lambasted her, trying her utmost not to tremble. Yes, she knew all that. She knew she was now a hindrance¡ªhis thinly-veiled exasperation only sunk it deeper. She knew she had no reason to feel guilty¡ªhe''d hammered that into her brain numerous times, but still¡ª

    Zier''s hand twitched on her shoulder, bristling at his brother''s every word. At long last, he could stand it no longer¡ª

    "For Freda''s sake, Brother, shut up!"

    Silence. Dead and solid.

    Meya could hardly believe what had just transpired. She knew Zier was losing his temper, but even then, she hadn''t expected such an...honest...outburst. But it was also what she hadn''t realized she needed the most right now.

    She resurfaced to find Coris¡ªwide-eyed, mouth open in mid-rant¡ªgawking at Zier. Zier glared back, for once as imperious and intimidating as Coris in his element. It was unnerving as well as hilarious, as if the brothers had swapped bodies.

    Zier jerked his chin towards Meya.

    "Hold her."

    Coris blinked, then shot Meya a glance. For the first time since they''d entered the tent, their eyes met. Coris''s cheeks became tinged with blossoms of pink¡ªthough, judging from the intense heat, Meya was sure hers were a much deeper shade. He hastily shifted his focus back to Zier, annoyed¡ª

    "Gladly, but how is that going to¡ª"

    A dangerous glint glanced off Zier''s narrowed eyes, prompting Coris to shut his trap. Then, as Meya watched, awestruck, he edged to her side and gathered her into his arms.

    His familiar cold enveloped her. His faint pulse tapped against her arm¡ªand Meya''s embarrassment faded along with the chaos in her brain. She leaned her head against his chest and closed her eyes at the touch of his palm on her hair.

    As she adjusted to the rhythm of Coris''s heart on her cheek, she felt Zier''s hand on her lap. She turned and found warm, sincere blue eyes staring at her. He flicked Coris a sharp look, as if ordering him to pay attention, then turned back to her,

    "You don''t have to rush it, alright? Take all the time you need."

    Meya cocked her head. Zier''s voice wasn''t gentle like Coris''s. It was just his usual dry, barking voice. He also wasn''t smiling. He simply stared into her eyes, blunt and perhaps a little dumb.

    Yet, there was a soothing quality about him. Something that had been lacking from Coris, and Meya had only realized she had always needed, but never could pin down. Was it understanding? Was it the willingness to listen? Was it the reprieve only a fellow lost, wayward fool could provide?

    Whatever it was, Meya was tempted to follow its urging¡ªyes, perhaps she should take the time to figure herself out¡ªif only for a moment, before the same old shame won over. The need to please. The need to always be useful¡ªto compensate for being born a Greeneye.

    "We dun have time for this. I must sort this out now." Avoiding Zier''s gaze, Meya pulled away from Coris and made to stand up, desperate for some action to distract her from her thoughts. She''d barely lifted her bum off the carpet when four hands pushed her back down and pinned her in place. The two brothers were united for once.

    "I''m sure we can find another way." Zier shrugged, answering Meya''s raised eyebrow with an undaunted grin, "You wanna make our job easier? You take care of your heart." He prodded said organ with a long, tapered finger.

    "¡ªBrain, actually." Coris piped in, left out and eager to rejoin the club. Zier rolled his eyes.

    "One more word, Lexi, and I swear¡ª"

    Coris took the hint and retreated backstage. Zier made sure he had dutifully resumed smoothing a hand down Meya''s back, then leaned back in with an offer,

    "D''you want to talk about it?"

    Meya studied those patient, honest eyes, biting her lips to hold in the words and trembling from the effort. Her nerves failed, and she shot a covert glance at Coris. Zier deduced her dilemma, and he frowned in disapproval.

    "Just tell him what you''re thinking." He jerked his chin at Coris, his eyes narrowing, "It''s your feelings that matter now. Not his."

    Coris''s arm around her shoulders shifted. He was tense, but also eager and prepared. It was the final push Meya needed.

    "I understand ''tis not my fault¡ª" Meya turned and faced Coris, steeling herself not to avert her eyes, pleading for him to understand, "But I can''t help feeling guilty anyway. All those people died at me hands! They had faces. They had names. I know them! I can''t just ignore me conscience. You can''t just tell me it''s not me fault and expect me to forget them!"

    She couldn''t hold back. She was shouting, choking and crying at the same time. Meanwhile, Coris had grown pale as marble and just as stiff. He stared unblinking at her, fear and guilt tainting his wavering silver¡ªbut Meya chose not to delve into it for now. For once, she must allow herself to be the priority. Her face burned with self-hatred and tears stung in her eyes. She cowered behind her hands.

    "What kind of monster would brush off hundreds of dead people and move on? I wouldn''t be able to live with meself."

    Her energy spent, Meya let her hands fall and stared unseeing into empty air,

    "I wish I could promise it''d get better with time. But I dun think ''tis summat that''s ever gunna change." She closed her eyes, lips pursed in stubborn determination. "I''m sorry. ''Tis who I am. I''m not gunna change that."

    Coris''s hand trembled on her arm, then stilled. Meya turned back to Zier. He nodded and gave her leg a brief squeeze.

    "There''s no need to apologize. You''re not wrong to feel that. You''re human¡ªWell, half-human¡ªbut¡ªyou get what I mean."

    Zier shrugged, scratching his nape sheepishly. Somehow, Meya found herself laughing¡ªher first genuine, spontaneous laugh in days. The relief was contagious¡ªCoris gave a nervous chuckle, and Zier snickered. An awkward pause followed as Meya''s senses returned. She reviewed the events of the prior few minutes in her head, blushing harder the further she went.

    "D''you still want to talk? D''you want us to stay?" Zier asked.

    Meya turned to Zier, with his raised eyebrows and innocent, staring blue eyes, then Coris, who hastily conjured up his usual tender smile, then looked down at her lap as she considered the offer.

    Once again, she was calm and determined, the Meya Hild who could find a solution to any setback. Once she had decided on where she stood, what she would bend and what she would not surrender, and let it be known, she could move forward with direction. She shook her head.

    "I could do with some time alone." She met Zier''s gaze and dipped her head, "Thank you¡ªand you, Coris."

    She turned to Coris with a smile and squeezed his arm in gratitude, then watched as the two brothers rose to their feet and filed back outside, allowing her some privacy.

 Turning Point

    A smattering of stars twinkled on the night sky, whereas down on the earth, eight tiny orbs of acid-green glowed steady, aligned like a constellation against the endless black expanse of sand.

    Another night of dragon training was proceeding smoothly under Coris''s supervision, aided by Christopher, Simon and Zier, who took turns patrolling to ensure all dream-gazers weren''t being traumatized by their visions.

    Zier''s hand flew to his tummy as he walked past Heloise, the last stop before the end of his shift. At the sight of her troubled expression and constant fidgeting and sighing, the knot of anxiety in his stomach, ever present since the night he swallowed The Axel¡ªloosened, and he let his hand swing free at his side as he moved on. Coris would rake him over the coals for this had he happen to be watching¡ªt was a dead giveaway. Yet, he couldn''t help it. The privacy of his guts depended on the Lady Graye not obtaining dragon powers.

    Fortunately, Coris seemed to be distracted for once¡ªhe stood propped against a boulder, engrossed in amicable conversation with Christopher.

    The Meriton heir glanced up as Zier trudged towards them, dipped his head at Coris to signal his leave, then walked over. He met Zier halfway with a clap on his shoulder, then strode on to take up the patrol.

    Coris shot Zier a smile when he settled into Chris''s place, then turned away. His eyes roamed the sandy plain as he toyed with his cloak''s clasp, but he wasn''t actually watching the dragon cadets.

    Seconds dragged by with no interaction whatsoever between the brothers. Zier was on the verge of fleeing for somewhere else with more breathable air, when Coris broke the silence,

    "Thank you¡ªback there. I was at my wit''s end, to be honest."

    Zier whipped around. In the dim light, blotches of pink dabbed Coris''s pale cheeks, and he still refused to meet his gaze. Zier had never seen this side of his brother before. Coris had always been the commander. The erudite. The priest. Now, he seemed lost and embarrassed¡ªperhaps even afraid.

    Zier caught himself smiling, and quickly turned away to share it with the stars. Coris was a clam¡ªspook him and the doors to his insides would slam shut faster than a blink. A strip of weed fluttered over to his foot. He bent down to catch it before the sudden gust of wind could tug it away.

    "Well¡ªfeelings¡ªhave never been your forte, big brother." He huffed as he straightened up, spinning the grass stem before his eyes. It was still green, and there was a tiny flower at its tip.

    "I''ve always known, but when you said you drank poison in my place just to win me over, when all you had to do was muster up the guts to apologize, I realized you''re utterly hopeless."

    Zier knelt down and erected the flower in the earth under the boulder''s shade. He straightened up to find Coris gawking at him. Dumb surprise didn''t look good on the Hadrian heir, and Zier couldn''t help chuckling.

    "You see¡ªme, Arinel, Meya¡ªwe''re humans. Creatures of emotion." He cocked his head, concluding with a dry jab, "You''re a golem."

    Coris frowned as he considered it.

    "Under normal circumstances, I''d consider that a compliment, but I must admit this is starting to concern me." He let out a heavy sigh, seeming to shrink a few inches.

    "Because it''s Meya?" Zier struggled with all his might to hide his knowing smile. Coris burned magenta in the bluish-white starlight.

    "No¡ªbecause I''m the Hadrian heir!" He spun away and began pacing. Zier watched in amusement. "I was born to lead, but whenever my subordinates look to me for guidance, I''m useless at best and harmful at worst. Whenever I''m faced with their emotions, I''m flummoxed."

    Silence fell, broken only by the sound of Coris panting. Zier no longer needed to fight back a grin as he watched his brother. Coris had always been sick and frail, but he had never seemed this¡ªvulnerable. In the dark he stood, narrow shoulders heaving, back crooked and head bowed¡ªand, for the first time, Zier noticed how alone and lost he was. Despite the retinue he commanded, the network of allies he''d forged. Despite his intellect and his responsibilities. Or perhaps because of them.

    Zier walked over to him, timid, toddling footsteps sinking and sliding on the sand.

    "Am I a bad leader, Zier?" He whispered as Zier drew level to him.

    Zier pursed his lips in distaste. Even as he craved affection, Coris still wouldn''t connect with everyone else as equals. His world had no place for family, friend nor mate.

    He was improving, however¡ªwhere there was once solely power, and where everyone belonged on that food chain in relation to him¡ªlove was poking in through the cracks, and he was scared of the chaotic breath of fresh air it brought. Zier could almost see the battle raging under his pained profile.

    Enjoying the story? Show your support by reading it on the official site.

    "Depends on what you mean by bad, I guess." As he peered ahead into the desert night, he saw his brother''s receding backside, his billowing crimson cloak, his thunderous command ringing in the air in his wake, "You''re always walking ahead, blazing trails, having people running after your back. But you never once turned around to see if they''re stumbling¡ªand help them up."

    Coris trembled. He pressed a hand to his forehead.

    "I can''t continue like this." He confessed, his voice growing ever louder and more desperate, "I put off telling Meya the truth to the last second possible. The last time Meya had a breakdown, Arinel brought her back, not me. Now that Arinel''s not here, it''s you she turns to."

    Zier sorely wished Simon was here to share a stifled roar of laughter. Hadrian heir, my arse¡ªCoris''s every second word was his dragon maiden''s name.

    "You''re jealous, aren''t you? You''re supposed to be her knight in shining armor."

    Coris whipped around, eyes blazing.

    "Doesn''t matter who did it. She''s on her way to a full recovery. That''s good enough for me."

    Zier rolled his eyes.

    "Weren''t you listening? She said she might never get over it for the rest of her life. And that''s fine. Some things aren''t meant to be solved. That''s just how it is." Zier leaned close with a raised eyebrow, not to be sidetracked, "That aside, would it kill you to admit you have feelings for once?"

    Coris burst out a barking laugh at the sky, exasperated.

    "I''m not jealous." He pinned Zier with a menacing glare as he hammered out each word, "I''m just frustrated with my ineptitude."

    Zier hid a sigh as Coris whirled away and resumed pacing. He was tempted to return to patrolling, leave the pompous idiot to stew in his obstinate ego¡ªbut then, Coris''s footsteps slowed to a stop. He stood rooted, staring at nothingness, as if seized by a sudden notion.

    "Perhaps¡ªwe aren''t suited to be partners for life." He mused. His hands trembled. He stuffed them down his pockets then looked up to the Heights, "Just allies with a shared dream. We''re incompatible, and this incident''s just proved that beyond doubt. She''d be better paired with a man of her nature."

    "You want to say that again? Without the lies?" Zier challenged drily. Coris snorted.

    "I doubt it would come out any different."

    His brother''s nonchalance hid a bitter undertone. Zier''s patience ran dry, and he strode up to block Coris''s way.

    "Despite the odds and your good judgment, you love Meya." Staring hard into his brother''s dilated eyes, he shook his head, "You can''t imagine a life without her. You want to change because you''re scared you''ll lose her, but you''re too ashamed to act on your feelings."

    Coris had turned pale as the light laying on his face. For a moment, he stared back, wide-eyed and wordless. Then, he dipped his head in surrender. Zier was torn between gratification and heartache at the sight.

    "You''re not incompatible. You''re just unworthy." He grasped his brother''s bony shoulder, whispering, encouraging, "There''s a difference there¡ªif you''re unworthy, all you have to do is make yourself worthy."

    Coris turned and met his gaze, the lights in his eyes wavering.

    "How do I start?" The rasping words barely clawed through his lips. Zier cocked his head in approval,

    "By acknowledging your feelings." He nudged his brother''s arm, "Say it aloud. Everything I just said. In your words."

    Coris gawked, incredulous, but Zier stood firm. Coris broke the gaze and stared at his boots. Over and over, he parted his lips then pursed them, gulping then mouthing. After what must have been minutes, he mustered up his voice,

    "I...I love Meya."

    Zier had never heard Coris speak so soft, nor utter a name with this much care and awe. Despair clouded his sharp eyes as he gaped, unseeing, picturing what he believed was the inevitable,

    "And I''m terrified of the thought¡ªof her leaving me."

    Zier gave his shoulder a squeeze. He, too, suffered the same fear.

    "She told me you two are back to courting?" They settled down side by side on the sand. Coris jerked out a few absentminded nods.

    "She feels betrayed. Not surprisingly. And she has doubts about the point of our relationship. She asked me what I want out of this."

    "And what did you tell her?"

    Coris shrugged in that same listless manner.

    "It doesn''t matter what I want, because we could never have more than what we have now¡ªOw!"

    Coris whipped around with a petulant glare¡ªZier had socked him on his sore spot, but much harder than Meya usually would.

    "That''s not the point, idiot!" Zier was exasperated beyond words. Coris recoiled. "She knows your circumstances, she just wants to know what you really want!"

    Coris shivered, then turned away. Zier nudged him in the ribs¡ªliterally.

    "Well?" He growled, wincing at the impact of bone on bone.

    Coris seized up. For an excruciating moment, it seemed as if he had shut himself in for the day, or forever¡ªbut then, he picked up a stray branch and began dragging lazy, wobbling lines in the sand. A stick figure. A second one with long hair, wearing a long gown. A third in the middle, small but with the biggest smile of the three, supported by his parents'' loving hands.

    The stick had barely left the babe''s smile when Coris smote it against the scene and plopped his head onto his knees, hiding his face behind his arms. Zier squeezed his shoulder with a trembling hand, eyes still glued to the simple, heart-wrenching secret.

    "You should let her know." He shook his shoulder. Coris resurfaced, his eyes empty and lost,

    "What good would it bring? It''s not going to happen. And I won''t allow it to happen." His eyebrows lowered and creased over his now blazing eyes, "I won''t bring a life into this world for my own gain, the way Father did to us."

    "Why d''you always have to be so darned pessimistic?" Zier rolled his eyes, exasperated, "You never know with the future. Just live in the present for once and do what you want to do! See how it turns out!"

    Coris closed his eyes, sagging as a long sigh petered out of him.

    "I can''t take any chances with Meya''s future." He shook his head, a note of finality in his exhausted voice, even as his hands trembled.

    "I''m pursuing her. Even as I know nothing would come out of it but pain for her. That''s as far as I''m willing to go. I don''t dare bring a child into this."

    Coris rested his forehead on his knees. No matter how hard Zier nudged and poked and rattled him, he spoke no more. In the end, Zier resigned himself to squeezing his brother''s shoulder as he trembled and mourned his future.

    He watched as the wind smooth away the remnants of his brother''s ruined dream. And, for the first time in six years, he wondered if Coris''s looming death really wasn''t his fault, as he''d always insisted.

 Reunion

    Coris was occupied with dragon training. The maids had already come to collect her laundry. Meya didn''t expect to be disturbed for the next couple of hours at the least. Still, one couldn''t be entirely at ease without a bolted door between one''s privacy and the outside world.

    Meya studied the pink gum wand in its box and lace bag, cast in the shadow of her pillow, then turned to eye the tent flaps.

    How long would she need? A quarter-hour? A half-hour? An hour? Shouldn''t take that long for a lass to relieve herself, should it?

    Meya mulled over her circumstances, and felt heat rising to her cheeks once more. Since the Hadrian brothers left, she''d been trying to think up a solution to her feeding problem¡ªbut it happened to be the time of night when she would be having fun with Coris, back when they were a happily married couple. And her naughty side wouldn''t let her work in peace until she indulged it.

    Meya drew in a deep breath, then heaved a sigh of defeat. She unwrapped The Substitute and slipped it under her linens, rousing herself with timid, clumsy movements. She turned away and closed her eyes in shame when she felt her body awaken and respond with enthusiasm, both to the reminiscent touch and the infused aphrodisiac. The potency of Rose Crystal seemed to have increased tenfold when in its powdered form, and desire soon overwhelmed all inhibitions.

    The smooth resin was cold and yielding on her heated, sensitive skin¡ªlike Coris''s fingers. She threw out her chest and braced against the tide, as the vivid memory sent waves of pleasure surging through her body. With her free hand, she tore apart the buttons on her tunic, one after another, then traced his oft-traveled path¡ªdown her neck, round her breasts, to her legs and back up, this time savoring bare skin. She pulled him in and sheathed him in her protection, seething against the pain as they soared together towards the Heights.

    They crested the peak¡ªthen plummeted to the cold hard ground of reality. Meya collapsed panting onto her mattress, breathing in the scent of sunbathed hay wafting through the thin cotton covers. Damp fabric latched onto her naked legs¡ªshe''d made a mess of the sheets. Now that she had exhausted her sinful urge, however, she was too sleepy and content to move.

    ¡ªYou lazy bum! You can''t just nod off! What if Coris came back before you woke up?

    Agh, that donghead''s seen worse. What''s the fuss?

    ¡ªWhere''s your dignity, lass? Get up! Or you''d never hear the end of this!

    Grunting and whining at her conscience (which sounded very much like Mum) in what might have passed as dog talk, Meya strained against the sheet''s embrace and swayed upright. Her chemise dangled off her shoulders in two halves and pooled in enormous folds atop her waist. She buttoned it back up with one hand, as she mucked about in the crumpled blanket for The Substitute with the other. Having polished the plaything to a shine with her nightdress, she was on the verge of slotting it away in its case when she froze, dumbstruck, at the evident change¡ª

    Had she imagined it? Or had it gone paler?

    Meya held Coris''s thoughtful gift up to the lamplight for a thorough inspection.

    No, she hadn''t imagined it. The Substitute¡ªonce pink like petals of evening primrose¡ªnow sported colorless blotches, and its overall color had faded like sun-aged paint. Had she absorbed that much Rose Crystal in one use?

    Absorbed?

    Meya sat petrified as the spark of inspiration streaked across her inner world, illuminating obvious connections she had somehow overlooked.

    She couldn''t bear to feed with her feet in open terrain, because she couldn''t predict how far-reaching and drastic the drought would be¡ªbut what if she fed off a piece of concentrated ore clutched in her hands, or earth collected in a cordoned space, the way Polus and Caecil had fed the baby dragon? She should be able to circumvent the triggers of her trauma.

    Every last vestige of drowsiness blown into oblivion, Meya scrambled over to her chest of clothes and snatched the belt with her money-pouch sitting on the lid. She unhooked the bag then emptied it onto her mattress. Coins¡ªmostly bronze, with a few coppers and silver, and even a lone gold¡ªlay gleaming on the white cloth, flashing like pebbles lining the bed of rapids.

    Meya picked up a bronze one-latt coin and folded her fingers over it. The metal seared against her palm, having absorbed the cold of the desert night, but soon warmed to match her temperature, allowing her to examine its aura without distraction. The glowing, mellow warmth of copper was marred by the sour tang and bitter bite of lesser metals. It wasn''t entirely pleasant, but Meya knew from instinct that it would make for a stronger protective armor than copper alone.

    Meya clasped her other hand over the coin, pressing it into the pit of her palm with the heel of her hand. She filled her lungs with air, then emptied it. Like a siphon, as air flowed out of her, a stream of white-hot metal rushed into her veins, spreading its heat across her hands. Her palms rubbed against each other, now skin on skin. She opened her eyes and parted her hands¡ªthe coin had disintegrated without trace.

    The heat from the devoured coin rose to her eyes. As the sight of her bare hands shifted in and out of focus, Meya trembled in relief and elation. A scream swelled and obstructed her throat, as her limbs rattled with the stifled urge to attempt a few cartwheels around the too-tidy tent and kick up some chaos.

    To deplete some of her pent-up energy, Meya darted to the tent wall and busied herself tugging up the carpet by its tasseled hem. She was greeted by a sliver of blue-gray soil, strewn with sharp, angled blue-black pebbles, ranging from the size of half a pinkie nail to a thumb joint. She swept an armful onto the carpet, then sunk her hands into the pile.

    Echoes of a dozen voices called to her, and Meya let the nutrients flow into her unhindered. Once the stream had trickled to a stop, she scooped up fresh soil and started anew, again and again. The effect was immediate and addictive. She felt refreshed, alert, energized and strong like never before in her seventeen years. Deep-seated aches, borne of a decade of hard labor, seeped out through her pores. Blemishes, lines and warts melted into mellow skin, with a radiant glow not unlike the blessing of the morning after. Her hair, once brittle and frazzled, fell heavy and lush down her back.

    It was as if an empty, insatiable well had opened up inside her. Meya would have gone on drinking the desert dry to fill the pit¡ªif not for the muffled yells blowing in from afar, lambasting the tent walls. The voices were male and young¡ªand familiar.

    Coris? Zier?

    Meya bolted up and hurtled through the tent flaps, only to pitch face-first onto the gravel¡ªa gust of wind had swooped in from behind, batting the tent''s skin against its wobbling skeleton. A solid lump collided soundly with her head then continued its upward trajectory. Meya threw her head back and followed the boot as it soared, attached to a swinging leg that was in turn attached to a young man wrapped in shackles of silvery claws. Above him was the distinctive silhouette of a reptilian creature with gigantic bat-like wings.

    The boy kicked out. His foot connected with the dragon''s naked belly with sickening speed and force. The dragon plummeted two feet in thin air¡ªwinded¡ªthen regained height with a single beat of its wings, narrowly missing a row of mounted torches. A torn strip dangling off the boy''s cloak glowed blood red as it fluttered before the flames, then was snatched away. Strewn across the clearing were listless forms of guards, maids and servants, fast asleep amid scattered belongings.

    "Zier!"

    Coris''s scream pierced the roaring silence of howling night gale. Meya heard faint scrabbling footsteps as he scaled the hill. He''d never catch up with Persephia. But she can.

    This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it

    Meya tore the ruby brooch out of her pocket¡ªpulled the Lattis razor free from its sheath¡ªand stabbed its ruined tip into the pit of her scar with all her might. She willed the pain to engulf her senses, straining with all her being to call forth the memory of that night¡ª

    Pain¡ªblinding, paralyzing, burning¡ªcoursed up her injured arm. Muffled voices drowned out by her own scream. She felt herself rise high above the ground as her bones elongated and melded and twisted. Hot liquid oozed out of her gaping pores and coagulated into a coat hard as steel. Folds of excess flesh and bone, hidden and forgotten beneath the very skin of her back, burst out and became wings. In the ring of flames, the little boy lay cowering. The pain threatened to bring her under, so she held on to one last thought to stay afloat.

    Save him.

    She dashed forward, claws outstretched¡ªand the present slammed into her. Masses of air roiled under her wings and heaved her into the sky as she bulled forth, chasing the receding black mass that was the villainous dragon and her prey...

    <hr>

    Persephia may have had a head start and the element of surprise, but she was bogged down by Zier''s kicking, struggling weight. As traditional noblewomen went, she shouldn''t be that strong, either.

    Meya had been confident in her endurance, honed from a life of physical labor, but as she streaked forth, flanked by blades of slicing wind, she felt ache accumulate in her muscles and drowsiness poison her focus. She slammed her wings against the packed air and shook her head to rouse herself.

    Starlight glanced off the scales of Persephia''s tail as it waved to her, its tip a body''s length away from Meya''s gritted teeth. The pitch-black mountain range at the horizon hadn''t grown an inch in size even as they hurtled across countless hills of sand. Just how far did this desert reach?

    Meya had long lost track of direction. Persephia had pulled several sharp turns to throw her off. With Zier dangling so precariously at such height, she couldn''t blast Lady Graye off the sky with a ball of fire, or latch onto her back and start a mid-air tussle. She needed a strategy and pinpoint precision. She must stall for time until he arrived.

    Meya lined her limbs with her torso, arms outstretched. With a flap as fast and forceful as lightning, she propelled herself forward with the loudest, shrillest screech¡ªsignaling her position to her comrades¡ªcut short when she clamped her jaws over Persephia''s tail.

    Persephia picked up her abandoned cry in pain. She thrashed and bucked as she soldiered on, cocooning Zier with all four limbs. Meya squeezed her jaws tighter around the wiggling tail, metallic teeth struggling to find purchase on the similarly metallic plating. Scales on her rump wore away as Persephia raked her dead weight over sharp gravel. Fireballs shot past her head. The armor on her sides buckled and rattled from sheer force and heat. She''d barely had time to feed¡ªher scales were too thin. She dug her claws into the loose terrain. Bile bubbled up and choked her.

    Oh, for Freda''s sake!

    Meya jerked her head to the side, annoyed. Persephia tumbled¡ªthen righted herself with a screech and another fireball down her back.

    Come on, Coris! Where are you?

    Ducking to avoid the inferno, Meya keened in desperation through the mingled blood, metal and bile in her mouth. Without sunlight and feeding, her well was drying fast. Her grip was slacking. Her consciousness was fading¡ª

    Coris¡ª

    Persephia''s tail whipped out of her mouth, and she was left snapping air. Meya struggled to lift off after her, but her joints would not respond.

    A gust of wind blasted past her. She opened her eyes and saw two dragons on all fours, scampering towards the fleeing Persephia. Perched on the smaller dragon''s back was a familiar, reed-thin silhouette. His cloak billowed behind him as he bent low over his mount, whispering commands. The dragon moved into position under Persephia, usurping her faint shadow.

    Coris straightened up and barked orders to the two men on the nearby dragon. One of them¡ªthe burly one¡ªraised a crossbow, hesitated, then lowered it and shouted back at Coris.

    It was too risky. The target was moving too fast.

    Having recharged some stamina, Meya heaved her belly free of the icy sand and waddled forth on unsteady legs. Coris threw his head back and hollered at the Heights. The goddess answered his call with a scream of air which rented a path from sky to earth. Like a midnight sun, a ball of fire flashed in mid-air then slammed into Persephia''s head.

    Persephia banked and swayed, concussed. Another fireball lambasted her wing joint. Then another. Persephia slowed, still being bombarded by the invisible dragon. Christopher aimed his readied crossbow and fired a glinting bolt. Persephia screeched in pain, her incapacitated right arm falling limp. Zier wriggled his arm free and reached for his brother''s straining hand, their fingertips fumbling by inches.

    I take that back. Noblewomen are strong when driven mad by desperation.

    Meya summoned her last ounce of strength and threw herself forward, teeth latching onto the old grooves on Persephia''s tail. Persephia dipped down with the added weight. Zier finally caught Coris''s hand. Simon pranced over from the other dragon and joined the tug of war. Christopher fired another bolt, taking out Persephia''s right leg.

    Zier popped free amid his captor''s howl of agony. He flipped in mid-air, landing on his belly across his brother and cousin''s laps. Poor lad would probably be winded, but at least his spine would remain intact.

    "Right! Go!" Coris yelled to his mount, who streaked to the right at full tilt. Meya pulled with all her might as Persephia yearned after her prey. The unseen dragon shot down a vicious blow which exploded the ground before her, blinding her with a shower of sand. There was no pause of mercy as his opponent reared back, clawing at her eyes with her one intact paw¡ªone last cannonball collided with her head¡ªa killing blow.

    Battered, bruised, confused, Persephia fell. Meya let go of her tail and slid forward. The impact of equal weight compounded by gravity drove air out of her flattened lungs. At least her unarmored belly was soft on her spine.

    It''s over.

    Meya sighed and closed her eyes as exhaustion and pain caught up to her. Persephia''s heat receded and contracted into a human-shaped lump on her back. Her skin was slick with a warm liquid. Her faint breaths glanced off her scales as her pulse strummed. Meya sank deeper into the prickly sand in relief. This was one tough lass. She''d live.

    A horse''s neigh pierced the silence, accompanied by a scream.

    "Persie!"

    Meya opened her eyes and turned to the voice. Her face paper-white in the halo of her lamp, Agnes parked her spooked horse at Meya''s side. She reached out for her sister, and Meya obligingly leaned towards her.

    Her hands trembling with sobs, Agnes peeled Persephia''s limp arms from Meya''s back and half-heaved, half-dragged her onto the saddle. Coris, Zier, Christopher and Simon had arrived on the two dragons but hung back¡ªPersephia was naked. They waited until Agnes had bundled her up with her cloak before dismounting and approaching.

    Christopher and Simon received Persephia from Agnes, then rested her on the sand. The Meriton heir folded back the robe¡ªjust enough to reveal the arrows sticking out of her right arm and leg. Agnes swooped down with her lamp to join them, cushioning her sister''s head on her lap. As Simon tore strips from his tunic to staunch the bleeding, Christopher bowed and whispered apologies to the Lady Graye.

    Meya eyed Persephia''s heaving chest, then cast about for the Hadrian brothers. Coris had his back to her as he talked with Tissa and old Lors, who stood where the two dragon mounts used to be, wrapped sparsely in cloaks.

    Zier loitered awkwardly at the fringes for a moment, then stepped around Persephia''s bare feet and made his way up to Meya''s face. She closed her eyes as he cupped her snout in his hands then rested his forehead against hers.

    "Thanks, big girl." He whispered, his shaky grin blowing puffs of warm air onto her elongated nose. "That was some wild ride."

    Meya chuckled, a low rumble that rattled the scales on her neck. Their reverie was interrupted by a grating, skidding thump. Meya looked up to find a newcomer dragon who was much smaller than her. His snout was still smoking from his fiery barrage as he ambled over and slumped down beside Agnes. A flash of blinding light¡ªthen an unabashedly naked Frenix was sitting in its place, watching over his downed foe.

    Coris walked over and dropped a spare cloak around little Lord Pearlwater''s shoulders. He looked up¡ªand his eyes met Meya''s for the first time.

    Coris lingered, but Meya turned away, spreading her wings over her scaled, snakelike body in shame. Zier gave her comforting claps on the side of her neck, then departed.

    Coris toddled up to her, stumbling once on the treacherous terrain. Yet, he refused to tear his eyes away from her monstrous form. He stood before her, his gray eyes wavering, his handsome face a canvas dabbed with gratitude and guilt, elation and longing, awe and shame.

    He knelt down and threw out his hands. His trembling smile lit up his pale features, and Meya''s fears evaporated. As she urged herself forth to take his embrace, her wings and tail receded and tucked themselves away under her skin. Her scales melted and flowed back into her pores. Her hair, singed away by the heat, regrew and fell down her bare back. Coris''s cold hand traveled its length as she fell into his arms. Her heart raced against his as her breasts pressed up against his chest.

    "Sure took your sweet Hadrian time, milord." She snickered through the inexplicable blockage in her throat. Coris tightened his hold and burrowed his nose into her shoulder.

    "Seven years." He breathed, his voice choked with tears. "I finally found you."

    Meya blinked in surprise. She stared ahead into the rolling purple-black sand plains, and saw a meadow in broad daylight, carpeted with virgin snow. She cowered in the shadow of the canopy, one hand clutching the lapels of his Hadrian Red cloak over her heart, the other clinging to the rough bark of an oak tree¡ªwatching, praying.

    At the heart of the snowfield, plump little Lord Hadrian halted and turned around for one last look, sheaves of his brown hair fluttering in the wind, his silvery eyes quivering, then spun away and disappeared behind the dip of the hill, making his way towards Truncale Castle in the distance.

    The night gale chased away the memory. Coris had wrapped his Hadrian Red cloak around them both, needlessly shielding her from the chill. Meya closed her eyes with a sigh as she wormed her arms out and wound them around his shoulders.

    "And you finally returned."

 The Prodigy

    "Mmmph! Uuuumph! Mmph!"

    Muffled moans and whimpers punctuated the quiet of night from Coris''s tent. Outside, Zier, Christopher and Simon heaved and pulled limp bodies of drugged yeomen and maids from open air into communal tents.

    The chorus of hoof beats serenading them had long faded away. After Philema had cleaned and dressed Persephia''s wounds, Agnes rode off with her sister in her arms, accompanied by Cleygar and Lors. With luck and haste, they would deliver the Lady Graye for treatment in Hyacinth before the inevitable fever set in.

    Every few moments, the curtain of darkness burst apart at its invisible seams from spheres and streaks of flames, as Frenix busied himself awing the sleepless Amara and Atmund with his newfound dragon powers.

    Meanwhile, inside Lord Hadrian''s tent, Meya was suffering the consequences of her hard-earned abilities. Lying flat on her belly, she gnashed her teeth and dug her fingers into her pillow as Coris dabbed wine-soaked gauze on her wounds.

    Unknown to Meya in the heat of the moment, her tug-of-war with Persephia had torn scales clean off her buttocks, leaving her bare, delicate bum to drag on a mile of sharp gravel. What was left of her skin hung loose in strips, exposing her raw, weeping flesh to thin air.

    A corner of the gauze dipped into her lacerated flesh¡ªCoris fishing out a stray piece of grit. Meya jolted. Eyes watering, she seethed through gritted teeth, tensing stiff as a dried-up earthworm as she waited out the searing agony.

    Coris''s clammy hand pressed gently on her hair.

    "Hang in there, Aine." He worked his way through layers of thick, rich rose gold, scratching soothing circles on her scalp. As Meya relaxed, slumping gratefully down to her pillow, he added with a chuckle, "Better lift your behind next time if your scales aren''t thick enough."

    Meya froze, then rage clicked in. Grinding her teeth, she restrained herself from hammering a heel into the smug bastard''s smirking face.

    "Agh, shut up, you!" She strained around and snapped at him. Coris bent low over his aching tummy, stifling laughter as he continued cleaning her wounds. Growling in her throat, Meya turned away, grunting, "Tactless¡ªungrateful¡ªknow-it-all¡ªGaaargh!"

    Meya curled up with a scream as Coris raked yet another bit of buried gravel out of her flesh.

    "Sorry." He swooped down, blowing whispered words onto her hair, "Thank you for saving my brother."

    He breathed, his voice trembling. Meya shook her head and burrowed her tear-streaked face into his shoulder. Coris wound his arm around her. They held on until they were shivering as one, smothering the icy flames of fear with each other''s warmth.

    As Coris turned his attention back to her injuries, Meya steeled herself for the worst, but it seemed at long last, her wounds were free of contaminants. Dollops of ice-cold honey slopped onto her turned flesh, dousing the burning heat, and she melted into her pillow in contentment. Bliss was fleeting, however. By the time Meya was fully aware again, her upper legs had been mummified in clean gauze and covered with her nightdress.

    Her mattress sunk from the added weight as Coris eased himself down by her side. He gave her a drowsy smile, then slid her the honey jar. As Meya dug in with her bare hands, he raised a bloodstained, silver-gray, hexagonal metal plaque to the light¡ªone of Meya''s fallen scales.

    Meya frowned as she suckled on her finger, watching as he rotated, flipped and rubbed her shed armor.

    "Anything?"

    Coris met her gaze, his eyes narrowed.

    "You couldn''t have secreted this much metal from eating alone." He offered the scale to Meya. She took it with her unsoiled hand. "Have you been feeding? You overcame your trauma?"

    Meya''s fidgety fingers froze around the scale. She smiled as she planned her grand reveal.

    "Nah. Just found a way ''round it." She shrugged. Coris blinked, intrigued. Meya propped herself up on her elbow and extended her hand.

    "Watch."

    Meya closed her eyes, clasped her fingers over the scale, and inhaled. The scale liquefied and seeped under her skin, vanishing in a flash of warmth. She didn''t stop there¡ªwithin her mind, she conjured the sensation of metal hardening over her skin, and willed it to life. Coris gasped in awe, a puff of warm air brushing her knuckles, now coated in silvery metal.

    Meya turned her hand around and flexed her fingers, admiring her handiwork, then grinned at him.

    "Better think hard next time before incurring me wrath." Chuckling, she willed the armor to disintegrate, revealing normal skin. Coris nodded, a thoughtful look on his handsome face.

    "I see. You eliminated the risk of a drought by feeding in a limited area. Clever." He pinched the wrinkle between his eyebrows, muttering, "Why hadn''t I thought of that?"

    "We were so focused on moving the rock, we forgot we could just¡ªwalk around it?" Meya raised her eyebrows.

    "An apt analogy, if I may say so." Coris cocked his head, pompous as ever, then heaved a sigh, "To be honest, it still bothers me to leave the proverbial rock as it is, but perhaps Zier''s right¡ªsome things aren''t meant to be solved. The way blood and ink don''t wash off."

    Meya narrowed her eyes, wracking her brain for a way to segue into their long overdue talk, but it was as if Coris had anticipated her strike,

    "How did you find out, by the way?"

    Meya watched as he dipped his finger into the honey jar, shame setting her cheeks alight from within.

    "Dunno. I just did." She shrugged. Coris clicked his tongue then shook his head.

    "Uh-uh. No more lies. No more secrets. Remember?" He reached in and pinched her nose. Meya swore under her breath at the sound of his devilish chuckling.

    "Fine." She closed her eyes in grudging defeat, mumbling, "I''m gunna need a substitute Substitute."

    Silence. Meya chanced a look and found Coris gawking, a finger still stuck in his half-open mouth. Her cheeks burned.

    "Go on. Laugh. I''m a whore. I can''t control meself." She spat, but Coris wasn''t grinning back nor slurping honey. He was livid.

    "Don''t ever call yourself that." He hissed, raking back his hair in frustration, "See? This is why I gave you The Substitute."

    Meya raised her eyebrows. Coris blew another sigh then leaned close.

    "I know that''s what Crosset wants you to believe, but you don''t have to be ashamed of yourself here. Or anywhere." He pinned her with his blazing stare, but his voice softened as he traced his fingertip down the contour of her face, "You''re beautiful. It''s only normal to love yourself."

    Beautiful. That was perhaps the first time in her life the word was directed towards her. As her heart writhed, Meya gently unwound her eyes from his, face still awash with heat from the turmoil within.

    The idea was foreign to her. One she''d never thought to question. Born and bred in Crosset, she was taught that chastity was paramount, that pleasure must be born between man and woman, solely to bring forth new life. She''d been conditioned to take her undesirability for granted as simple truth, so she was surprised how Coris had cherished her body, had derived pleasure simply from holding her, had considered her beautiful.

    Still, it was a woman''s duty to be appreciated by a man. Did she have the right to appreciate herself, like Coris insisted? In Crosset, such vanity would be scoffed at and shamed. But should it?

    In light of more pressing matters, Meya decided to save it for later contemplation.

    "Thank you." She resurfaced with a wan smile, "In case anyone wanted to enclose me for adultery, I was thinking of you the whole time."

    "Oh, Freda. Please don''t tempt me." Coris slapped a hand over his eyes, chuckling wearily. Meya smiled at the endearing sight. Taking a deep breath, she took the plunge,

    "Your turn, Lexi."

    "For what?" Coris was still all smiles, unsuspecting. Meya gave a small shrug,

    "I told you me secret. Now you tell me yours."

    Coris''s smile sagged. The blacks of his eyes dilated, eclipsing the gray. Color drained from his cheeks. He avoided her eyes and picked at the sheets, but Meya wasn''t about to surrender,

    "When Frenix mentioned the war with Cristoria. When you saw dragon-me. You looked¡ªscared. What''s going on?"

    If you come across this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.

    Coris tensed, cursed to stone by the mere touch of her hand on his shoulder. Meya let go. She turned away, giving him space.

    "Come to think of it, you haven''t told me what really happened in The Axel Heist, too."

    Coris was already strained to his limit. Instead, he trembled under the pressure. Meya inched her hand forward and touched the back of his hand with a nervous finger. He felt to her like a house built of strands of hay, as if the slightest nudge would send him collapsing on himself. Yet, there was no better time to venture inside. At his most vulnerable, he was also at his strongest. He wouldn''t crumble.

    "What happened in Cristoria?" She leaned in. Her protective hand crept over his, embracing it, "Why did you come to Crosset during the Famine? How did you become...you?"

    Coris shook his head, his eyes dead and unseeing.

    "I didn''t become anything. I''ve always been a monster."

    "You''re not."

    Coris didn''t respond. Meya bit her lip in desperation.

    "Please, Coris. You know everything about me, but I barely know you." She shook his pale, lukewarm hand, "You''re in pain. I wanna help."

    A battle of wills raged, long and silent as it always was, but at long last, those silvery eyes rose and held hers in return. Not surrender, but a plea for a willing ear.

    "My grandfather died when I was a year old." He said. His eyes wandered as he compulsively pinched lint from the bedsheet.

    "Father was young when he took the Hadrian seat. Mother, even younger. Father wasn''t ready for his duties. Mother wasn''t ready for me when she fell pregnant with Zier. I''d get a few glimpses of them on a lucky day. I wasn''t lucky that often."

    His lips twitched into a mocking grin. Meya reined in the tears stinging in her eyes and silently affirmed her grip.

    "By the time I was three, I knew the Holy Scriptures by heart. I taught myself chess. The nurse wasn''t prepared for such a child. She''d leave me with books and sweets while she doted on Zier. He was a simple, quiet, beautiful, blue-eyed babe."

    A jumble of emotions tainted his smile as he recalled baby Zier, his eyes glazed with a mix of bitter jealousy and warm love¡ªthen crushing shame. He dipped his head, sinking under its weight.

    "I had infinite energy. I needed an outlet. I wanted to be noticed, to see some reaction. So, I tried hurting Zier. The nurse separated us. I started screaming and throwing things. Perhaps I was hoping my parents would hear."

    "''Tisn''t your fault." Meya whispered, tears falling free. Coris shrugged and grinned, his face empty.

    "When I was four, my grandparents came to visit from Noxx. They scolded Mother because of how fat and spoiled I was. After that, Mother settled down and took care of us. But I know Mother. She''d rather be somewhere else, anything else. Than my mother."

    That''s not true, instinct tempted Meya to argue. Don''t think that, but she bit her tongue in time. Coris was telling the truth and, ugly as it was, it was true¡ªMeya spent her brief spell with Baroness Sylvia in awe. She wasn''t the type to settle for housework and child-rearing.

    "I''m the firstborn. Father made me because there''s a role for me to fill." Coris was no longer smiling as he moved on to Baron Hadrian, his downcast face stricken with shame.

    "I must do him proud, so he could trust Hadrian to me. But I''m terrible with the sword, the lance, the bow¡ªwith any weapon. The other boys bullied me. I had no friends. I commanded no respect, no loyalty. I hoped for a chance to prove myself."

    "Cristoria?" Meya guessed. Coris nodded.

    "Cristoria has always been a difficult vassal. The year I turned ten, they declared freedom from Hadrian''s demesne. When negotiations failed, I asked to follow Father to war. He just wanted me to observe and learn. I had much more in mind."

    "Father fell gravely ill just before we reached Cristoria. The knights wanted to bring him back to Hadrian, but the healer feared he''d succumb along the way. There''s only one solution¡ªwe must take Cristoria Castle swiftly and treat him there."

    "I seized command. It was harvest season¡ªimpossible to surround and starve the castle out. I ordered the cavalry ahead to sack the village, seize the croplands and granaries. The people were in the midst of the harvest. They hadn''t taken shelter inside the castle. They fled to the wall, demanding entry. Lord Cristoria was familiar with this tactic. He knew his people would starve or be massacred before his wall. He didn''t yield."

    A survivor of famine, Meya bit her lips in horror. Coris betrayed a wan smile¡ªlingering pride for his old ingenuity,

    "It was all within my expectations. I ordered my men to hurl food over the moat to the people, along with rhetoric. Turn them to our side and against each other. I suggested they single out wives and children of castle guards and leave them to starve. And they did."

    "After two days, a guard broke and opened the sally port for us at night. Once we had infiltrated the castle, victory was swift. Father recovered in Cristoria before we headed back."

    Coris fell silent, scratching trails of dried honey off the jar. Meya frowned as she mulled it over.

    "So, at ten years old, you saved your father''s life, won a bloodless war, and avoided a massacre." She summarized, her frown deepening, "What''re you hung up about?"

    Coris dipped his head lower.

    "It wasn''t bloodless." His hand trembled under hers. Meya clasped her free hand over it.

    "It was easy to learn strategy from history tomes, to scheme and command from the safety of my tent. After we stormed the castle, I left camp with my father and walked through the village. For the first time, I saw war."

    Coris rested his forehead atop their bonded hands.

    "My men raided in the middle of the night. People were asleep. I remember the sight, the smell, the lack of sound. Houses burnt to the ground. Humans charred to a crisp. Fathers and mothers with babies in their arms. Children my age, trapped under their collapsed roof¡ª"

    He broke off. Moisture seeped onto her hand from his burning eyes. She leaned over him, pressing her nose into his hair as he wept,

    "I should''ve realized. I wasn''t ready for this. I might never be. But to accept that was accepting failure. If only I''d known there''s more than one way to rule¡ª"

    "When Lord Cristoria saw who had defeated him¡ªa ten-year-old boy, he threw himself off his tower." Meya drew a sharp breath. Coris shrank further away, disgusted with himself, "Perhaps, if I hadn''t taunted him so, Fione would still have her father."

    "Fione?" Meya breathed, only remembering now whence she''d hailed. Coris straightened, his eyes puffy and bloodshot.

    "It didn''t end there. Father was comatose for weeks. I couldn''t leave him unprotected and send the troops home. Not in the midst of vengeful Cristorians."

    "You didnae have enough food to feed everyone, since you interrupted the harvest." Meya blanched in horror. Coris nodded.

    "I couldn''t ask for relief from surrounding manors. They could come with reinforcements instead. As we wait for food from Hadrian, I had to send the old, the injured, the sick outside the wall to starve."

    Coris sat silently, paralyzed by the memory. Meya wiped her tears on her pillow.

    "I thought my father was disappointed in me because our victory wasn''t perfect. Now I realized he was probably disappointed in himself. In his absence, I''ve become a monster." Coris shook his head with a rueful grin. "Had I realized that, I wouldn''t have accepted Bailiff Johnsy''s invitation."

    "To¡ªhunt game?" Drying her eyes, Meya croaked.

    "Yes." Coris turned to her. Again, she glimpsed that fear in his eyes. "You."

    Meya mouthed, speechless. What was this? All this time, she''d thought he''d strayed into their midst, a naive little boy lured by the prospect of entertainment, a bit of adventure. Instead, he had come knowing and prepared¡ªto hunt her?

    Coris must have felt her hand twitching. He withdrew his hand and turned away. Meya was left to stare after his steely profile. Before she could decide whether to explain¡ªif she could¡ªshe didn''t even know what to think, yet¡ªhe went on,

    "Johnsy claimed slaying the escaped Greeneye would end Freda''s damnation. It was a lie, of course, but I''d suspected the Famine was unnatural. For one, nearby manors weren''t affected. Some families'' gardens and lands, aside from your family''s vegetable patch, yielded crops throughout autumn¡ªthe Armorheims, the Gretgorns. People you''re on good terms with."

    "Crosset wasn''t in our demesne. We were still recovering from the war. Supplies were tight. I decided I''d do my part. Capture the culprit, study Greeneyes and their powers. It seemed profitable."

    Coris smiled mirthlessly, then hid his face in his hands, his voice cracking,

    "And I was saved by the dragon I came to slay."

    Meya''s heart writhed with guilt. Would she have done the same, had she known what he was there for? But one thing was for sure¡ªshe still didn''t regret it. She did what she believed was right, had hoped for nothing in return. And she had saved both him and Crosset. As the sight of the anguished young man reflected in her eyes, her chest filled up with warm relief. It didn''t matter. He was no longer that despicable being. He had proven that with his bravery tonight, in this moment. And she was simply happy to have him by her side.

    Coris sneaked a glance when he felt her approaching heat. He didn''t flinch away, but nor did he reciprocate, still too ashamed of his actions.

    "Once I was back in Hadrian, I tried my best to make amends. But I couldn''t avoid the consequences of who I''ve been."

    "Zier." Meya sighed. Coris tilted his head, adding.

    "And Cristoria."

    Meya blinked. A wave of chill washed down her spine¡ª

    "What d''you¡ªyou''re not saying¡ªthey poisoned you?" She cried.

    "It wasn''t Baron Graye who sent the fake healer. It was Fione''s mother, Lady Firesta of Cristoria." Coris closed his eyes, sighing softly, "I didn''t dare tell my parents I was in pain. They would''ve deduced The Axel wasn''t inside me, so Father kept increasing the dosage to overcome The Axel''s power. Up until the third day, when I started vomiting blood."

    "So, all that about your father¡ªyou made that up?" Meya hissed through gritted teeth. Coris''s cheeks twitched.

    "I was suspicious of you. I hoped to win your sympathy and trust. Mislead you about The Axel''s whereabouts."

    Meya turned away. Her heart raced. Disgusted. Furious. So, even then, he had lied?

    "I actually felt sorry for you, Coris." She shook her head, a sardonic smile on her lips, "I know I was your enemy, and you did what you had to do, but¡ªdid you really have to go that far?"

    "I''m sorry."

    Meya turned back. He was slumped, downcast. He made no move to excuse himself, and the sight of his genuine remorse softened her somewhat.

    "Is that why Fione''s in Hadrian? As your hostage?" She picked up the conversation, a gesture of begrudging forgiveness. Coris nodded.

    "I begged Father not to declare war on Cristoria, to spare the healer. But, to make sure they wouldn''t betray us again, he had Fione handed over."

    "So, now that you''re sick, your parents know the truth?"

    "Father guessed The Axel was trapped somewhere in my bowels. I don''t know if he was lying. At any rate, he gave up trying to take it out, and increased security for me. I''m not allowed to leave the castle unless necessary¡ªnot that I can." Coris added bitterly.

    "But¡ªyou came to Crosset, three years ago." Meya said. Coris looked up with his signature melancholic smile.

    "Of course. It could be my last chance to find you."

    He whispered. His silvery eyes captured hers, lingering with longing, brimming with gratitude and guilt, then fleeing in shame.

    "Duty and Atonement." He muttered, his head bowed, "That is what I live for. No more."

    Silence fell. Meya studied the hunched, wretched creature before her. He sat there, awaiting hatred and ridicule. Or perhaps to see her draw back and never stray near again. Receiving neither, he made to rise and leave, only to be stopped by her hand on his arm.

    Meya pulled herself up. Standing on her knees, she cupped his face in her palms.

    "Well, then." She breathed, a crooked smile on her lips as Coris gaped at her, his eyes wavering, "I''m afraid you''re gunna have to live forever."

    He saw through her words to the truth in her eyes, and Hadrian''s unyielding wall succumbed. Meya held Coris as he sobbed into her shoulder. His chest heaved as he breathed. His claw-like fingers dug into her hair, clinging onto its scent and feel, seeking purchase, as if to ground himself in what remained in the face of all he never had, all he had lost, all he had destroyed. She held him tight as her tears fell down his back.

    It would be too simple¡ªan insulting exaggeration¡ªto say she knew him fully now. It wouldn''t surprise her if that endeavor would take her entire life or longer. Perhaps it was the same for everyone. Yet, despite her hatred of long, grueling work, she knew now that for him, and him alone, she was willing to do what it takes. And vice versa.

    That was when she realized she hadn''t simply fallen for¡ªbut truly loved¡ªCoris Hadrian.

 The Catalyst

    Orange light burned her eyelids. Meya knew better than to open them and get her eyeballs singed for her trouble. With a whine, she buried her face into Coris''s shoulder and hooked her human pillow closer with an arm and a leg. The light flashed out in seeming surrender, but left a negotiator to continue its work. Heavy footsteps clomped on the overlapping carpets, then a heavy bum slumped down at her feet.

    "Rise and shine, newlyweds."

    Zier sang over a chorus of clattering china and metal. More clinks and chimes followed as he set about unveiling their breakfast tray. The aroma of boiled wheat and herbs floated into Meya''s nostrils, dragging bile up her gullet and spinning her brain in her skull.

    Meya bolted up and scrambled for the chamberpot. She heaved and spat, but nothing came save for a few drops of drool. A stab of pain sliced through her head, and she slumped over the pot''s cold metal rim, exhausted. She resurfaced and found Zier gawking at her, hands frozen in the act of arranging utensils.

    "Why are you retching this time?" He squeaked. An ominous premonition curdled in Meya''s stomach. She averted her eyes and combed back her hair.

    "Nightmare. About the Famine." She nudged the pot away, wincing at the taste of the lie. She''d been blessed with the rare gift of the blissful, dreamless night last night. None the wiser, Zier turned to the snoring Coris, frowning.

    "And my brother?"

    Meya glanced at her beau. Coris''s closed eyes had swelled to twice their normal size, and his runny nose remained shiny pink. She edged back to his side.

    "Cried himself to sleep." She cradled his head onto her lap, sighing as she smoothed his hair, "Poor lad."

    Zier blinked in pleasant surprise, then shrugged.

    "Good for him." He lifted his behind onto Coris''s mattress, then leaned over and shook his brother''s elbow. Coris shook him off, nuzzling his face into the fat of Meya''s leg with a grunt. Chuckling, Zier fell back on his arms and looked to Meya instead, "Well, guess you''ll have to do the morning briefing."

    The pause of silence jolted Meya from the cold grips of drowning fear. She tore her gaze away from her belly¡ªit was as flat as it had always been, just flabbier from all the good food she''d been enjoying¡ªand met those honest blue eyes. She couldn''t rid herself of the uncertainty, nor could she let it show. Not in front of the potential uncle, at the least. She shoved it aside and focused on the present instead.

    "Very well. Uh¡ª" Meya scratched her nape, wading through the chaos in her brain for a proverbial driftwood to latch onto. She held up her hand and counted on her fingers, muttering,

    "Philema, Dorsea, Tissa, Frenix, Atmund, Meya¡ªwe have six dragons. Three transformed last night." She paused for thought, then acted out her train of thought with her hands,

    "So, we pair up. Me with Dorsea, Philema with Tissa and Frenix with Atmund. You folks set out first and get a head start. We''ll teach each other how to transform¡ªshouldn''t take that long. Then we catch up with you and practice flying."

    Zier rubbed his chin in thought, then nodded.

    "Perfect. So, you fly alongside us during daylight hours. Then, after dinner, we continue your meditating sessions." Satisfied, he sprang up with a smile, "I''ll go talk to Sir Jarl."

    Zier left Meya to the grueling task of waking Coris without invoking his tantrum mode and ducked outside. However, instead of seeking out the marshal as he promised he would, he made a beeline for the servant loading cages of messenger pigeons onto a wagon.

    "Ah, milord." The old fellow spun around at the sound of his approaching footsteps. Spotting the scroll Zier had retrieved from his sleeve, he reached for the cage on the left, "To Hyacinth?"

    Zier surveyed their vicinity with a cursory glance. Seeing no-one within earshot, he took a step closer to the servant.

    "No. Hadrian, please." He passed the sealed letter to the man''s veined hand, then leaned in further and murmured into his ear, "Not a word to anyone, especially my brother."

    The old man nodded. He must have felt the weight of the golden coin attached to the scroll.

    "Of course, milord." He drew away and fiddled with the padlock on one of the remaining cages, proclaiming heartily as a maid walked past with a basket full of dried laundry, "Tofty is our fastest. He''d reach Lady Hyacinth by evening."

    Zier nodded, eyes following the maid, who hadn''t bothered to investigate their shady dealings. She disappeared into Coris and Meya''s tent.

    "Very well. Thank you." He muttered his gratitude, then hurried away, his sweaty, clammy hands shoved deep into his pockets. By the time he realized where he was going, his knowing feet had brought him past their enclave of tents to the wide sand plain dotted with boulders, which had served as last night''s training ground.

    To the left was the rock under whose shade he had sat commiserating with his brother. The very rock Coris had shoved him against, shielding him from the oncoming dragon-Persephia with his body. She swatted him aside like a rag doll she''d grown out of, as she''d done with Simon and Christopher seconds earlier. It was a futile act, yet one fueled by raw protective instinct¡ªthere wasn''t time for his brother to scheme or tabulate profit and loss, let alone think.

    Zier felt his hands trembling in his pockets, and he twisted the fabric lining to still them. Coris''s doodle, along with the stick he''d used to draw it, had long been carried away by the harsh desert gale, while the flower-topped stem of weed remained where Zier had erected it.

    He uncorked his waterskin and tipped a splash of moisture over it, along with his prayers to the goddess, shuddering as he imagined his parents'' reactions to his secret letter.

    There was no turning back, and what was bound to come horrified him, but it was high time for the truth.

    <hr>

    The sky was cloudless, occupied instead by circling shadows of dragons, like a mural depicting the Everglen skies of legend. One of the beasts dove with breakneck speed towards the men sitting half-asleep astride their steeds. Having startled them awake with the screaming wind, the little dragon¡ªwho was obviously Frenix Pearlwater¡ªpulled up and away, keening with laughter as he banked to avoid the stone Simon had lobbed after him in annoyance.

    The day had started slow and didn''t pick up pace as the hours wore by. The officials, maids, yeomen and servants were still suffering the after-effects of Persephia''s sleeping draught spiked in last night''s dinner. Some were merely groggy and could do with nodding off occasionally on their horses, but an unfortunate few were confined within an arm''s reach of the chamberpot.

    Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on Royal Road.

    Coris, Simon and Christopher, having slipped pieces of Lattis cut off from Meya''s collar under their tongues beforehand, were unaffected, but drained nonetheless from the intense chase and the subsequent cleanup.

    No-one felt like chatting or singing, or playing an instrument, making for a dreary, subdued journey. Meya longed to be up in the Heights, frolicking and chasing and hurling balls of leather and fire with her four fellow dragons-in-training, but transforming would mean stretching her lacerated skin and inundating it with sizzling liquid metal.

    Meya plopped her head onto her arms, fuming as she glared morosely through the carriage window at her luckier friends. She''d grown back a whole joint of her finger, true, but even that had taken a week. So, for now, she was stuck here listening to a hymn composed of Coris''s guttural snores set to a melody of wagon wheels on rubble, while Philema worked on her wounds. Due to a mild fear of heights, the old maid wasn''t keen to take to the skies just yet.

    A strip of the bandage clung to her scabbing flesh as Philema unraveled it. Meya seethed in pain. Philema made cooing shhs and tongue clicks as she patted her hair. In the noisy silence, the motherly touch was a none-too-subtle nudge, reminding Meya of her own potentially impending motherhood.

    She turned and studied the slumbering Lord Hadrian. Fear, shame, and uncertainty, tinged with an inexplicable, bitter warmth, circled into a whirlpool within her. Her eyes slid to the older woman, hesitant, but at long last, curiosity won over.

    "Philema?" The widowed dragon nodded in acknowledgment. Meya gulped, lubricating her dry, flaking throat. "D''you have kids?"

    A spasm shot through Philema''s hand as she drizzled a fresh layer of honey over Meya''s wound.

    "Three that we know of. None of them were born."

    Meya froze. She strained her neck further back, gaping at Philema''s seemingly unperturbed facade. She knew it was a facade¡ªMum and Dad had on that same expression when they lost the babe who came before Mistral. And none of them dared speak of their lost sibling. Overwhelmed by shame, she''d just realized she was staring, and quickly averted her eyes.

    "Oh, Freda. I-I''m so sorry¡ªI-I didn''t know."

    "No, you didn''t. So why apologize?" Philema retorted, her voice sharp, and Meya reared back from the force. When she continued, however, her tone lightened to conversational, "What are the symptoms so far?"

    Meya gaped in astonishment. How had she divined that from one casual question? Had there been scores of young women before Meya who had approached her gingerly with the same fearful query? Was she rankled by the shallow, exploitative, presuming attention? She was more than just Flindel''s widow. More than a woman who should''ve experienced motherhood.

    "Lass, I asked you. The symptoms?"

    Philema repeated, now a touch impatient. Meya shook her head out of it and averted her eyes. Making a mental note to properly get to know Philema later, she tried to focus on reminiscing,

    "I get nauseous when I smell food. And when I wake up in the morning. Me breasts seemed to have swelled, and they hurt when I poke them." Blushing, Meya arched her back up to relieve pressure from her squashed pillows, wincing as the corset chafed against her now oversensitive blobs. "But me monthlies came. It came late, but it came."

    "Was it the usual amount? Or just a little?"

    Meya shuddered as a rivulet of chill trickled down her spine. Oh, no...

    "Just a few drops for a couple of days. I didnae bother with the rag."

    Philema nodded along as she set aside the honey jar.

    "Happened to me as well. All three times." She scrubbed blood and honey off her soiled hands in the nearby water basin, then dried them on her apron, "They say that''s when his seed takes root in your womb."

    In that moment, it seemed as if Coris had stopped snoring, and the wagon wheels had stopped crunching gravel¡ªtheir noises held back by her own denial and disbelief. Meya''s arms buckled against the lambasting wave of truth. No, this wasn''t happening. She wasn''t Mum. She was never going to be like Mum. She can''t be Mum. There must be a way out of this.

    "But¡ªit can''t be. He''s barren. And I used Silfum!"

    Philema closed her eyes with a quiet sigh. To Meya, it was as good as a death sentence. Her fingers trembled with pent-up vigor, prepared for the flight, and she gouged at her newly-grown hair¡ªshe felt sure she would''ve clawed her belly inside-out to see for sure if there were a babe in there otherwise.

    "Oh, Fyr. How long do I have before the bulge shows? Three months? Four? I can''t live like this for that long! Is there a way to know now?"

    She scrambled up and grasped Philema''s arms, eyes bulging, begging for a shred of light. As she patted her hand to both calm and warn her, Philema shot a wary look at her liege, who impressively snored through it all. Sighing, she turned back to Meya,

    "There''s a trick I used often, back when Flindel and I were trying." She leaned closer, wagging a finger to emphasize each step of the process, "You take a pot. Plant ten grains each of barley and wheat. Make water over it once in the morning and once in the evening for a week. If the barley sprouts, it''s a boy. If the wheat sprouts, it''s a girl. If neither grows, you don''t have a babe."

    The knowledge brought with it a sliver of hope, and hope reassured her frazzled heart, at least for the time being. Meya deflated with a long, labored sigh. Wisps of a plan began to coagulate in her head. Taking deep breaths, she nodded.

    "Very well. Guess I''ll go piss over some grains and see if I should panic." She shrugged, then eked out a tired half-grin at Philema, "Thank you, auntie."

    Philema pursed her lips, her expression impenetrable. Meya could guess what was on her mind, and she turned away, flattening herself on the floorboards once more. Philema remained silent as she weaved clean gauze around Meya''s leg.

    "If either sprouts, will you tell him?"

    Just as Meya was letting down her guard, the attack came. Meya''s eyes slid once more to settle on Coris, and the mere sight of his guileless, unperturbed, slumbering profile transported her to an imagined future.

    She saw Dad cradling Mum in his arm as he drew soothing circles on her belly, cooing to the unborn babe that would become Mistral, and superimposed Coris and her on them¡ªThe first Mama and Dada¡ªThe first crawl¡ªThe first step¡ªThe first fall and scraped knee¡ªThe playtime¡ªThe meals around the hearth¡ªThe endless questions and the patient answers, as they passed on the world they knew to their future.

    But then, she also saw the closed door failing to shut out Mum''s bloodcurdling screams as she gave birth. She saw Mum and Dad, harried and bedraggled, rocking and singing the squealing newborn to sleep in the dead of night, as her six elder siblings also grumbled and whined.

    She remembered coming home one day to the house stinking, its walls smeared with baby shite¡ªMarin had nodded off in her shift, leaving wee Mistral to tackle her bursting diaper with her budding artistic talent. She heard her own voice as she denounced Mum and the life she chose, and saw Mum''s heartbreak spread like glass cracks on her pallid face. She imagined that pain hammered down seven times, as each of her children reached their rebellious age.

    She watched as over the years, the radiant woman who was her mother dimmed and deteriorated, until she was no longer distinguishable from the scores of mothers in their village. She remembered vowing to Jezia and Deke never to become her. Then, she remembered Coris''s firm response, all the times she had raised the issue.

    Meya averted her burning eyes and stared at the floor, unseeing.

    "He¡ªhe''s always said he dun want children. Neither do I."

    Her heart writhed with guilt. After all, she had brought the babe into existence with her reckless, selfish pleasure-seeking. Was it right to cast it away simply because it wasn''t needed now¡ªor ever? Like a mere tool without a feeling soul? She had been molded by the pain of being unloved by her creators¡ªand yet, she was shamelessly perpetuating that cycle. But would it be better to let it live, knowing it was doomed to suffer at the hands of unworthy, unwilling parents, than to strike it down now?

    It was a dilemma with the potential to drive one insane, and Meya decided to leave the thinking until after the results were out. For now, she''d learned her lesson. She must be more careful.

    The pressure on her leg as Philema tied the bandage jolted Meya from her reverie. She recalled the woman''s tragic circumstances and drew in a sharp breath of horror.

    "Oh, Fyr. I''m so, so sorry¡ªI-I mean, you and Flindel were trying so hard¡ª"

    "Would you do away with the sorrys already, lass? It''s not your fault I can''t carry a child to birth!" Philema snapped, no doubt exasperated by decades of unneeded pity for her childlessness. Meya shrank back, spooked. However, her gaze was kind yet sorrowful as she met Meya''s eyes.

    Meya blinked, puzzled. Philema heaved a brief sigh.

    "Freda''s blessing doesn''t always come in the best of times, nor to those who wish for it. It''s not your fault if you don''t feel like accepting it."

    She shook her head, then reached for more gauze to swathe Meya''s remaining leg, dispensing a dose of concrete advice¡ªalong with a chilling warning.

    "You still have a few months before Freda bestows it a soul. I''ve heard Hyacinth is decades ahead in the forbidden ways. So, take your time to choose wisely. Motherhood is a path once chosen, one cannot tread back upon."

 The Stall

    The black mare groaned and snorted as Zier strode up to face her, splattering him with droplets of her drool. Her head swung in the opposite direction of her torso as she faltered on four dusty hooves. He reached out, and she nuzzled her forehead against his palm, her half-open eyes drooping close. Zier brought his free arm around her neck thick as a young tree and drew her close.

    "Hang in there, big girl." He whispered as he combed down her wind-ruffled mane.

    He looked up at the sound of wagon wheels crunching to a stop. Coris emerged from the grandest carriage and disembarked with a skidding thud.

    Zier clung to Jetta, inhaled deeply, then turned to receive his brother''s displeasure.

    "What''s going on? Why have we stopped?" The heir swept in, crimson cloak billowing in the breeze, followed by his redheaded mistress.

    Simon led his ambling, moaning stallion by the reins into their circle. Christopher''s steed, meanwhile, had given up on her legs and was on the ground, keening in apparent discomfort. Coris blinked down at her, then at his trusty mare, Jetta, horror draining color from his hollowed cheeks.

    "They can barely stand on their hooves. Must be the heat or the stress from the journey." Patting his horse''s neck, Simon jerked his head towards the rest of the entourage. All around, horses are either on their feet groaning, or on their side moaning, refusing point-blank to walk another step with human loads on their backs.

    "All of them? At roughly the same time? For Freda''s sake, Simon. Use your head." Coris rolled his eyes. Simon strove to remain deadpan, but couldn''t hide the pink shine on his cheekbones. Coris shook his head, gray eyes darting about the scattered throng. "More like the hay or water is contaminated."

    "Could it be Persephia poisoned them? So we wouldn''t be able to pursue her?" Christopher strode in, followed by Sir Jarl, whose horse had joined the former''s on the gravel. Coris stroked his tapered chin as he weighed it.

    "It''s possible." He doled out a few nods of approval. Simon stalked away, swearing under his breath. Coris was too immersed in the matter at hand to notice.

    "This may set us back for days." He muttered. Meya reached out to prod him, but he spun around to the marshal first, "How much supplies do we have?"

    Sir Jarl tore his careworn gaze away from Simon''s retreating back to his young master. He cocked his head in rapid calculation.

    "I''d say just enough for three days. We threw out the whole vat of spiked stew, so there isn''t much to spare."

    The four teens drew a collective breath of terror. Meya and Christopher met each other''s gazes, pale and stricken. Coris crossed his arms, his eyes fixed on the gravel.

    "Cutting it close, eh." He nodded to himself. After half a minute of deliberation, he looked up with eyes ablaze, turning first to Christopher.

    "Call down those four. No more training. They must preserve their strength." He jerked his head towards the four frolicking shadows in the sky, then pulled the Lattis whistle from under his collar and offered it to the Meriton heir. As Christopher sprinted away, blowing into the metal tube, Coris grasped Meya''s arms, wracked with guilt.

    "Meya, I''m so sorry. I''m afraid the six of you would have to rely solely on feeding from now."

    Meya followed her fellow dragons out of the corner of her eye as they headed for earth, growing larger and clearer by the second.

    "We could fly to Hyacinth and bring back food." She suggested. Coris''s frown deepened.

    "You''re still injured." He flicked an insinuating look towards her so-called site of injury¡ªMeya''s cheeks burned¡ªthen propped his hands on his waist, eyebrow raised, "Besides, how do you think Hyacinth will react upon seeing six dragons approaching?"

    Meya froze, then sighed in annoyance. She''d completely forgotten about that.

    "We could send a pigeon and ask them to deliver us supplies." Zier finally contributed his two latts to the pool. Coris''s glare slid to him, and he deflated in relief at his brother''s nod of approval.

    "It''d take a day for the bird to reach them, and two days for them to reach us here." Coris gazed off into the distance, as if plans only he could see were scrawled into thin air,

    "We''d have to move closer. Soon as the horses are ready, we set out. I''ll send Lady Hyacinth a bird and tell them to meet us at the first qanats¡ªSir Jarl, please see to the horses. Have your men throw out the water and check the hay for poisonous weeds."

    The marshal dipped a quick bow, then hurried away. Coris turned back to Zier, who hastily stood at attention. He tilted his head at the neck-craning, loitering crowd.

    "Zier, call a meeting and bring them up to speed. We must preserve as much water as possible. Instruct everyone to stay in the shade and refrain from talking."

    At the prospect of the dreaded public speaking, Zier opened his mouth to protest. However, at Coris''s encouraging nod, he gulped it down and eked out a slight grin. Meya urged him further with a smile, and he finally set off, taking hearty, stiff steps towards their worried subjects.

    Vibrations strummed up against the soles of their feet from approaching heavy footfalls. The remaining couple whirled around to find Christopher wading back through the ankle-high heat haze, two metal-clad, horned reptiles fanned out on each flank, a dark shadow backlit by the noon sun.

    Meya succumbed to a reluctant blink, mesmerized by the magnificence unfolding. She was startled awake by the crunch of boots on grit as Coris rushed ahead to meet them. Rubbing in frustration at her rosy cheek, Meya took off in a sprint then screeched to a halt¡ªshe could be carrying wee-Coris, after all. Sighing, she restrained herself to long, firm-footed strides instead.

    "Dragons." Coris proclaimed as she drew level with him, twig arms thrown wide as his magnanimous smile. However, his expression then morphed to somber.

    "We need you to fly to the first qanats and carry water back. Please. It should only take a few hours by flight. Simon will¡ª"

    Coris turned around, expecting to see his cousin still dutifully awaiting his command. He glanced about wildly, prompting Meya to meet eyes with Freda up in the Heights, then rounded on Christopher,

    "Where''s Simon?"

    Christopher blinked. Then blinked again.

    "You hadn''t...noticed?" He asked, a crooked finger pointing in Coris''s direction. Coris frowned deeper.

    "Noticed what?"

    Christopher spared another blink as he processed the utter idiocy of his charge, then huffed a breath of resignation.

    "Never mind. What do you want him to do?" He played along, but, like the tempest he was named for, Coris had changed his mind in a blink.

    "Nothing¡ª" He trained his commanding stare on the Meriton heir instead, cocking his head at the waiting dragons, "Chris, you bring them up to speed and lead them to the qanats."

    Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

    Christopher stood frozen, aghast, then his expression darkened.

    "No. Simon is going, and you''re going to tell him yourself." He marched forth, looming like a tipping boulder over Coris. Coris rolled his eyes.

    "I have matters to attend to." Lord Hadrian spun away and made to head off. Teeth gnashing, Chris stepped onto his path.

    "He''s your cousin, Coris! Not some servant you can summon and dismiss as you please!" He jabbed a vicious finger into his friend''s bony ribcage.

    "And we''re about to starve here, Chris!" Coris exploded, arms flailing, "Someone must go with the dragons. One of you. Both. I don''t care. Anyone with opposable thumbs and the ability to read maps. So, for the love of Freda, just go!"

    Christopher opened his mouth, but bit it back in favor of one last scandalized look at the donghead, then flounced off. The dragons turned tail and trooped after him¡ªa small one (it was obvious which one) managed to thwack Coris on the noggin with his tail as he did. Keening in fake contrition, he scampered away, wings flapping.

    "I do not accept your apology, Frenix Pearlwater!" Coris hollered as he staggered upright, clutching his precious dome. Meya''s eyes were stinging from lack of moisture, but she couldn''t blink as she appreciated the possible father of her child in his full glory.

    "Corien Alexis Hadrian. What¡ªin these three stinking lands¡ªwas that?" She jabbed her finger at Chris''s receding back. Coris whipped around, his eyes now stormy orbs swirling with madness.

    "That, Maelaith, was delegation!" He snapped, one hand still fondling his ruined hair, the other pointing at the four shadows soaring into the Heights. A round of successive eye-rolling ensued, then Coris stormed towards the entourage, arms swinging in all directions,

    "Please, Meya. For all we know, Simon''s probably distracted by some movement in the distance and wandered off. Chris is the better man for the job, anyway¡ªany job, actually¡ªI should''ve known. You''d do better to worry about yourself. You need to recover. Get some rest."

    Having wrapped up his delegation by assigning his wife to bed, he veered towards their carriage, no doubt to start on his letter to Lady Hyacinth. Meya indulged in a sigh of self-pity, then set off after him. She hadn''t the slightest intention to rest, however, as she helped the feeble young man up the steps then climbed inside.

    "What''s a qanat?" Meya demanded as soon as they had settled around the low table. Coris narrowed his eyes and jerked his head towards the cushioned seat. Meya continued to rankle him with her innocent stare. At long last, he heaved a sigh of surrender.

    "A qanat is an underground structure used to deliver water from an elevated source, usually beneath a mountain, to a settlement on lower ground." He unraveled a strip of blank parchment, weighing down its corners with writing equipment, "Vertical holes would be dug at intervals for maintenance access and air ventilation, that''s where we could get water."

    Meya attempted to doodle the structure in her head as she followed his esoteric explanation, then vented her impatience with a sigh. She''d bet Coris had lifted the passage verbatim from some renowned treatise. Whether he did it intentionally to bore her so she''d retire to bed, or he was too distracted to realize she could barely understand half the terms he had parroted to her, with him in his current erratic state, it was impossible to discern. But she''d be damned if she didn''t try, nevertheless.

    Meya watched in silence as connected letters gushed out through the nib of Coris''s quill, like water from a pin-hole hose. His print wasn''t stencil-perfect like usual. His hand shook, and his knuckles shone under the strain. Meya''s fury calmed as she remembered the night on the moor, and realized what had caused his obnoxious side to leak out.

    Coris hated derailed plans. He feared losing control of his checkerboard, as it often resulted in loss of life. It reminded him of Cristoria. Naturally, Zier was the variable he struggled to plan for the most¡ªthe selfish, impulsive spare was utterly unpredictable, even to Meya herself. But if this time it wasn''t Zier, then what? Coris was scared¡ªand suppressing it with anger, as usual¡ªbut of what?

    "''Tis Persephia, d''you think?"

    Meya probed. Coris shook his head as if startling off imagined gnats,

    "I can''t draw conclusions. Least not this early on. Heat, stress, fatigue, diet, disease, poison¡ªanything could be the cause. I''m no equine expert." He crossed out a whole poorly-worded sentence, then resumed his desperate scribbling, "I just hope it isn''t the hay. Horses must graze constantly, and there''s a dearth of flora in this area that we know to be safe¡ª"

    Coris''s quill danced out of his hand onto the wood with a clatter. For a breath, silence descended, heralding the ominous. Coris gaped at his latest failure, then his trembling hands moved towards his head.

    "Oh, Freda. It''s Cristoria all over again." He clawed at his scalp, his voice choked with suppressed sobs. Meya''s hand shot out on instinct, but he whipped around before she could reach him, eyes wide and bloodshot, hyperventilating¡ª

    "Laudanum." He demanded, fingernails gouging the flesh of her arms as he rattled her in desperation, half-wheezing, half crying¡ª"Is it time? Where is it? I want my laudanum! Please, Meya, please¡ªI can''t¡ªI can''t¡ª"

    "Yes, Coris, you can!" Meya grabbed his bony shoulders¡ªthen his cheeks, forcing him to face her, "Look at me¡ªCoris, look at me¡ª"

    She growled through gritted teeth, but Coris did not seem to have heard, lost in his void of woes.

    "I should''ve foreseen this. I should have¡ª" He squirmed in her grasp, bulging gray eyes ricocheting in their sockets.

    "No! No-one could''ve foreseen this." Meya cut across his rambling. Coris gawked up at her, lost and skeptical, and she hammered out a nod. Eyes blazing, she leaned in, her voice a vicious hiss as she shook him back to his senses, "We''ve got six dragons here. We won''t starve. And there are bound to be other parties passing by. We could trade for bread and water."

    Silence fell but for their ragged breathing, echoing after one another, falling in synchronization as they slowed. The raging tempest dissipated into clear silvery sky. Coris let out a long sigh, seeming to shrink in her hands.

    "You''re right, of course." He breathed, then clawed at his face, stammering "I-I''m so sorry, Meya. That was most embarrassing¡ª"

    Meya silenced him with a fierce embrace. Coris resisted, only to melt to her warmth. Their sighs chorused as each rested their head on the other''s shoulder.

    "You''re shouldering dozens of lives. You''re worried for Jetta. You''re scared. You''re stressed. We know." She combed her words into his hair with gentle fingers, then shrugged, "Still dun grant anyone the right to be the consummate arse. So, finish that letter, then go think how you''ll patch it up with Simon."

    "If only I had any idea how I''ve wronged him." Grumbled the consummate arse as he slithered down to nestle his inflated head between her sore breasts. Meya gritted her teeth in both pain and annoyance.

    "You''d do better to ask him, if you''re that dense." She suggested through grinding teeth, prompting Coris to seal his trap. Meya allowed him a few more moments with his beloved pillows before pulling apart.

    As Coris reluctantly returned to his letter, Meya pulled out the drawer beneath the seat, hoisted up the chest sitting inside, plopped it on her lap, then unhooked the clasp. She spotted the familiar cork-stoppered vial amid the various trinkets at once. She spun around and held it up for the Lord Hadrian to see,

    "Now, I''m gunna take this with me, just in case¡ª"

    Meya broke off, having just gotten a good look at the vial. When she had last administered it the evening before, it was still over half full. Coris was supposed to wean himself off the substance gradually. Yet now, only a small drop of laudanum clung to the rounded corner of the bottle.

    Meya saw her hand tremble, but didn''t feel it. All she felt was her heart pounding against her ribs, her pulse hammering in her ears. She allowed gravity to pull her arm down to earth, revealing Coris, slumped, frozen and pale behind his table. He shook his head, eyes wide and pleading,

    "Meya, I swear to Freda. I haven''t touched that vial."

    Meya filled her lungs, then plunged silently into the depths of his pupils. She believed him. She retreated, witnessing as relief and gratitude inundate his eyes and flow out to light up his face. Hoping against hope that she wouldn''t have to regret this choice, she creaked up a wan smile, then returned her attention to the vial. If Coris hadn''t been using behind her back, then there was only one other probable culprit.

    "Is laudanum poisonous to horses?" She edged back to her side of the table. Coris seemed to have reverted to his calm, calculating self, and his eyes had that familiar sharp glint in them¡ªhe had arrived at the same hypothesis.

    "Laudanum is extracted from the poppy plant, which could make horses slow and drowsy in large amounts." His mask slipped momentarily as he raked back his hair, weak with relief, "Oh, thank Freda. It''s the water, then."

    "D''you reckon ''tis Persephia?" Meya leaned across and took his free hand. This time, Coris was willing to conclude,

    "Persephia had enough sleeping draught with her to drug our whole entourage. Why would she risk sneaking into our tent to steal my laudanum, just to drug the horses?" He shook his head, narrowed, flashing eyes staring right through her, "I think it''s more likely to be someone among us. Someone who had access to our tent at will, who knows where you kept the laudanum. But why?"

    Coris''s distant gaze flicked back to hers, frowning. Meya could only shrug, similarly stumped.

    "Yeah. Seems to me all they wanted was to slow us down for a few days, but no ill intent. Why?"

    Silence fell as they each wracked their brains, to no avail. Amid the stillness and smothering heat, Meya was jolted awake by the touch of Coris''s hand upon hers. She looked up and found beautiful silvery eyes. His stare was intense, as if to captivate her soul, its grip as strong as that of his cold hand around hers. Its pressure was crushing, she could hardly breathe. Yet, somehow, she felt safe and at ease. He was ice, but in this moment, he radiated warmth. It was like that literary term he had taught her¡ªa paradox.

    "Whatever happens, I''ll protect you, Meya." He said simply, as if stating universal truth. "You''ll be alright."

    Meya found herself smiling as warmth washed over her. Yes, it was the truth.

    "I know, Lexi." She whispered, her hidden hand cradling her belly.

    "I know we''ll be."

 Bad Hair Day

    "Whatever happens, I''ll protect you."

    His tender smile lingered, although he wasn''t here. His words warmed her heart as they did that day, but now that the novelty had subsided, Meya decided she must hate it.

    Old-Meya wouldn''t hesitate to protect herself. To save her life like she did in that forest, on that moor.

    What have I become? What have you turned me into, Coris? A woman?

    Meya''s hands trembled. She set down the chamberpot in case she might drop it. After her talk with Philema, she''d wedged a mound of churned earth, horse manure and hay in the nook between three boulders, planted wheat and barley she''d nicked from the supplies wagon, then fed them daily with water from her chamberpot.

    Five days later, two clumps of stringy white stalks had poked through the hay, each sprout tapering into two thin, green blades like moldy rabbit ears. The clump on the left was wheat, and the right was barley. Either Meya was expecting a boy and a girl or a babe who was two in one. Meya had no idea how that would play out in reality.

    Straddling the chamberpot between her legs, Meya sank to her haunches with a sigh, tugged down her underpants, and answered nature''s call. Coris had ordered a water ration, but all the retching and nips to the bushes made Meya constantly thirsty, and she''d been getting the evil eye from members of the entourage.

    There was no denying it¡ªshe was pregnant. And neither could she deny the unbidden leap in her heart at the sight of those little sprouts, at the thought of carrying the essence of the man she loved inside her, nurturing it to life.

    Still, the horror of giving birth, the bleak reality of raising children, the shame of mothering a nobleman''s bastard aside, wouldn''t that make her one of the countless women she''d scorned?

    If Meya gave birth to this thing then settled down to raise it, how was she different from the scores of mediocre women across the three lands whose ultimate dream was to bear children? Like Madam Krulstaff and Madam Gretgorn? Like¡ªMeya shuddered¡ªMum? She''d turn into the very thing she swore never to become at the age of three.

    Oh, Freda. What would Old-Meya think? Would she be able to face her? The damage was done¡ªOld-Meya wouldn''t have batted an eyelid when the time came to choose. New-Meya had probably batted dozens in the time it took to empty her bladder.

    Should she listen to Old-Meya, though? Old-Meya was bitter, lonely, stuck in a rut. Friendless and loveless. She was New-Meya now. She wanted to make a difference in these three lands, but even New-Meya couldn''t do that with a dead weight hanging down her front, nor a squealing, kicking one in her arms.

    The choice of ending it also came with its brand of dilemma. The babe had no soul yet, let alone a heartbeat. Still, it was a joint creation of Meya and Coris. Meya couldn''t shake the guilt, the fear of possibly coming to regret it someday, knowing there was no return. Not to mention the procedure itself was grisly to picture. Would it be simple, like drinking laxative tea? Or would the healer reach inside her guts with red-hot blacksmith tongs to scrape out the thing?

    Meya sensed an oncoming wave of nausea that had nothing to do with the picky-eating squatter in her belly, so she shook the idea out of her head. She emptied her chamberpot over the mound of sprouts as a farewell gift, then trudged back to camp.

    It was the fourth morning after the horses'' sickness came to light, and the steeds were finally back on their feet. Under Coris''s leadership, the entourage thrived on water ferried from the qanats and bread traded with occasional wagons passing by, carrying rapists convicted in Jaise, headed for Hyacinth''s man-brothels.

    Hyacinth women captained the wagons. They were tall and muscular, with broad shoulders blanketed in ink of all colors, hair cropped close to their scalps or done away with.

    Coris would venture off alone with a wheelbarrow, donning his skin-tightest trousers and most colorful tunic, his hair neatly combed back and his face lightly powdered. After a few minutes of negotiation, he''d return with the wheelbarrow laden with meat and bread, receiving sympathetic pats from fellow men for his "sacrifice."

    According to one queasy-looking Christopher, Coris was the only man in the entourage who resembled the ideal Hyacinth male physique. In other words, coupled with his handsome (albeit emaciated) features, he''d be the Marin of this topsy-turvy town.

    Ingratiating himself to the warden would save them a few gold coins, but was it worth the blow to his already tattered manly pride? Meya admired Coris''s unwavering dedication to his duty. Still, she despised his tendency to cast aside his feelings.

    Shaking her head, Meya scanned the clearing for her fellow Greeneye ladies. They were about to set off to the first qanats, where Lady Hyacinth had left them supplies and a guide, so Meya must don her Arinel disguise. So long to her mane of rose gold. Dorsea promised her innovative dye recipe would be less damaging, though, and Meya was relieved.

    And she hated it. Since when had Meya Hild ever given two farts about the state of her hair?

    Dorsea''s head of squiggly black hair bobbed amid the small throng of women gathered around a chair. The chair had produced two additional chubby, kicking legs apart from its original four, and seemed to be emitting high-pitched protests. Meya weaved through a dozen scurrying servants to Dorsea''s broad backside.

    "I smell chaos. What''s cooking, Latakians?"

    The women spun around then moved apart, revealing a head of glossy black curls sitting atop the chair''s backrest. Meya recognized it as belonging to little Lady Amara Hyacinth.

    "Lady Amara demands I cut her hair against her will, and I refuse to!" Dorsea crossed her arms and thrust up her chin, brass scissors in one hand, a comb in the other. Meya nodded.

    "Very well¡ªWhat?" She squawked, having registered the lack of sense in that sentence. Dorsea opened her mouth to fume in more detail, but Amara beat her to it,

    "I can''t go home like this! Mother would kill me!" Amara squirmed in her seat, tugging and clawing at her curls. Dorsea reached out on instinct but froze just in time. A commoner couldn''t lay a finger on a noble without permission, let alone restrain her.

    "But you love your hair like this, don''t you, milady?" She argued¡ªverbal counsel was allowed, at the least. Amara''s hands balled into fists over her hair.

    "I¡ªd-d-don''t! Mother says I don''t." She pulled her hair to shield her face. "Just cut it off!"

    While Dorsea stood in a dilemma, a wave of murmurs rose from the surrounding women.

    "What in the three lands is going on in that town?" Old Philema shook her head, arms akimbo.

    "Apparently they solved it all by switching women and men, end of story." A fellow middle-aged maid tossed in a pithy quip.

    "I know. Ingenious, innit?"

    A younger voice piped up in support. Meya turned around, then frowned in confusion. The woman seemed barely in her twenties, with needles of golden hair tracing the shape of her skull like manicured grass and glowing green eyes. Meya couldn''t remember ever seeing this woman in the entourage before.

    Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on the original website.

    The stranger strode up to Amara, then crouched down with a broad smile,

    "Milady, you should be happy. Hyacinth''s right. It''s high time we women are noticed for more than our attributes and decorations."

    The woman tilted her head back and forth, her nose high and her shoulders rippling. Meya recognized that aloof manner.

    "Tissa?" She blurted out.

    "¡ªwho no longer bothered growing her hair back out after transforming." Tissa finished her sentence, acknowledging Meya with a wink, "They say the longer your hair, the more blood is needed to feed it instead of your brain, you know? My head feels light as a feather and my focus sharp as broken glass right now."

    She dragged her fingers through her freshly-grazed-autumn-grass hair. Meya hadn''t had time to weigh its merits when a light tug on her hair sent her jolting out of her skin,

    "Fyr''s Bollocks¡ªCoris?"

    Meya whirled around to find the Hadrian heir with his mischievous grin, holding a sheaf of her hair. Coris bowed and pressed his nose to it, leaving Meya gawking.

    "Is this what you''re here for?"

    Eyes closed, Coris sucked in a lungful of her hair''s perfume and sighed in contentment.

    "Just cherishing my last moments with your rose gold before you turn into Arinel." He resurfaced with a drunken, giddy grin, which vanished when he glimpsed Amara. Her face was still shrouded behind a fountain of ebony curls that dripped crystal-clear tears.

    "Amara? What''s wrong?"

    "I got sand in my eyes!" The little lady perked up with a roar, "You got a problem, Hadrian?"

    Amara''s violet eyes blazed from gaps in her seaweed-like hair. Coris reared back but recovered in a blink, a smile of mild amusement on his lips.

    "Ah. I see you''re adapting to your native habitat." He nodded in an attempt at feigned graveness. Dorsea was growing ever desperate.

    "Please¡ªDon''t let her go through with this, milord." She joined hands in prayer over her scissors and comb, attracting Amara''s death glare,

    "Just cut it, will you!" She barked, jabbing a thumb at her hair.

    As the gathering held its breath, Coris glanced between two starkly different yet equally stubborn faces, his expression blank. He knelt before Amara,

    "Amara, we''ll only be staying in Hyacinth for a few days. Your mother would understand if you left your hair the way it is. The choice is yours."

    "Milord, that''s not¡ª" Dorsea protested. Coris rested his hand on her shoulder,

    "Amara''s still a child, Dorsea. We shouldn''t force her to fight centuries of tradition if she''s not ready."

    He was firm but not unkind. Dorsea heaved a sigh, then jerked out a few grudging nods. Satisfied, Coris donned his sly smile once more and strode back to resume his duties, but not before leaning in for one last whiff of Meya''s hair.

    "So long, my precious."

    Meya whipped around, but he was gone before his whispered farewell had faded, off to oversee the loading of a supplies wagon.

    "Make it ugly. Like you just want it out the way when you''re fighting?" Amara was describing her new hairstyle to her barber. Dorsea rattled like an overheated tea kettle bouncing on a stove.

    "I can''t do this! You do it." She thrust her tools into Tissa''s hands then flounced off, probably to find a spot to scream in private.

    "Gladly." Tissa usurped her place with a smirk. Snapping her scissors, she turned to her fellow Greeneye, "Want a cut, too, Philema?"

    Philema felt her hair, still in that tousled just-woke-up ponytail.

    "Oh, don''t bother. I''d just cover mine up with a bonnet." She offered a quick, forced smile before hurrying off, leaving Tissa to seek other prey. At the sight of those cold, appraising eyes and gleaming scissors, the other women backed away with mumbled excuses, then scattered like the blades of Miracle Fest fireworks.

    Meya found herself remaining, somehow. Tissa propped her hands on her hips, huffing in disappointment and gratification.

    "What was I expecting?" She muttered. Noticing Meya, she jerked her head in Philema''s direction, then combed Amara''s hair into one tamable bunch.

    "You know, I''d give her my womb if I could. The way she looks at kids with such longing in her eyes. Makes me gag. Do something else with your life, for Freda''s sake."

    She spat as she snip-snipped away Amara''s curls with contempt-fueled vigor. Meya watched as lustrous black crescents tumbled onto Amara''s trembling shoulders then slid off.

    "Me mother gave up her fame and freedom to become a housewife." She mused, more to herself than to Tissa, shrugging as she felt the latter''s stare, "Twenty years on, still blows me mind."

    Tissa snorted.

    "What a waste." She shook her head with a savage grin. An unbidden surge of anger burned inside Meya. She tamped it down, but a twinge of guilt wriggled through. "Maybe that''s why she lost the Song to you. Freda gave her a blessing. It''s ungrateful to waste it on a humdrum life. Not like you."

    Tissa shot Meya an admiring smile that she had no choice but to return, then resumed her job as the worst barber in the three lands.

    Meya fondled her hair, dithering. She''d stayed this long. Tissa would expect her to chop her hair short. Imagine walking away at this point¡ªshe could already hear her rival in troublemaking, Pollinia Gretgorn, hollering Loser from way back in good ol'' Crosset.

    But Coris loves my hair.

    And I love my hair. I love when Mum strokes it. I love when Maro musses it with a smile, when Marin kisses it, when Morel and Mistral braid it, when Myron nuzzles it for warmth, even when Marcus yanks it. I love how it keeps my neck and cheeks warm in winter. I love how Dad tidied it the day I left Crosset, gently as if every strand held all the colors of the dawn¡ª

    No! Be strong. Be different from all those useless women. Be Meya Hild.

    Meya''s trembling fingers stilled as they tightened around the sheaf of hair, her palm burning with fire from within.

    ?

    The entourage was almost ready to set off. Stares and murmurs followed Meya as she headed towards Lady Crosset''s white gold-gilded carriage with her new hairstyle, reeking of wood ash and vinegar.

    Coris stood waiting, one hand clinging to the door frame. His grip slackened, his silvery eyes traveled from her forehead to her chin where her hair ended, then shot back up to meet her eyes. He seemed lost for a moment, then unfurled a mischievous grin.

    "Well? What d''you think?" Meya prodded. His smile grew wider and more infuriating.

    "Do you believe in vampires?"

    Meya frowned, half-annoyed and half-amused.

    "Well, if dragon-humans exist, why not bat-humans?" She crossed her arms, eyebrows raised, "What of it?"

    Coris shrugged, his eyes hovering about where her neck leveled into her shoulder.

    "Logical fallacy aside, it''s just occurred to me¡ªif vampires did exist, you''ve just made yourself an easy target."

    "How¡ª?"

    Coris swooped over her. By the time her faculties caught up, his lukewarm breath was caressing the curve of her neck. He nipped playfully on her sensitive flesh. Meya let out an unwitting gasp of desire.

    "Dinner." He breathed. The ghost of laughter in his voice jolted Meya to her senses. Seething in embarrassment, she retaliated with a threatening prod on his sensitive place.

    "Oh, Fyr!"

    Cursing, Coris backpedaled out of her personal space. He glowered petulantly at Meya''s triumphant smirk. Meya tilted her head, continuing as if there had been no interruption,

    "Agh, don''t worry. I''ll get meself a steel choker, dip it in skin-colored paint. For perverted bloodsuckers to break their fangs on." After chilling Coris with the vivid imagery, she tugged his hands in frustration, "Seriously, though. What d''you think?"

    "Doesn''t matter what I think, does it?" Coris replied so quickly it felt insincere. He avoided her eyes, "If you like it, it''s perfect for you."

    His signature wan smile was a coat of lacquer on his lips. Meya''s heart jolted at that all-too-familiar sign of deceit. Coris preferred her with long hair. He was right, though¡ªhis preference shouldn''t matter. Still, she wasn''t at ease. She hadn''t chopped off her hair because she liked it¡ªshe wanted to send a message.

    The realization stole the breath from her lungs, then pride replaced it.

    Why should she feel the need to even ask in the first place? Why should she care whether it was perfect for her? Hair never mattered to Meya Hild¡ªwhat was under her hair was what she valued.

    Meya jerked out a few nods, more to herself than Coris.

    "You''re right." She nodded absentmindedly. At Coris''s worried look, she shook herself awake and reached into her pocket,

    "Here¡ªI saved it, if you want."

    Tissa had gathered Meya''s rich hair into a thick braid before hacking it off. Meya levered the braid one knot at a time, then held it out for Coris. His hands trembled as he cradled it.

    "Thanks." He looked up with a smile so melancholic it melted Meya''s heart. She replied with a hasty grin, then hurried onto the carriage.

    Coris''s smile sagged as soon as Meya turned her back. He studied the hair she had disowned with a sinking realization¡ªhis infatuation prompted her to slice it off.

    Being the ambitious, progressive woman she was, it must have offended her to be acknowledged simply for her feminine beauty. Even when it wasn''t his intention in the least.

    Coris had decided for once to put aside duty, responsibility, and propriety, to connect with others using his honest, selfish feelings and desires, the way Zier had told him to, starting with his closest friend, his love. And it had backfired.

    Back to business as usual, it is.

    The braid was too long and heavy to be carried in his cloak. Coris wrapped it in one of his scarves, then stowed it away in Jetta''s saddlebag to be appreciated later in private. He clambered onto his steed''s back and led his entourage towards food relief, yet his heart remained heavy as it was in the days they spent battling starvation. Perhaps, even heavier.

 Bosoms Bared

    After they have crested what must have been the hundredth dune, the roiling sea of sand finally gave way to a flat expanse of even more sand. In the midst of nondescript blue-gray, the humble oasis¡ªwith its patch of green grass and gaggle of weary trees¡ªstood out like the Greeneye of the family. Through the heat haze, Meya could just make out a tent, bales of hay and wagons loaded with supplies, a few horses huddled into the shaded mercy of the trees, and a slim figure puttering about tending to them.

    Beyond the oasis, what appeared to be a road made of gaping holes meandered towards a faraway town, blinking like a polished pebble at the foot of the mountain range. These holes were without doubt maintenance shafts of the qanat Coris had mentioned.

    With their raised, conical rims, they reminded Meya of the icky formations glued to the seashells Jason would bring back from the Southern shores. Barnacles, he said they were called. Shellfish with long, waving hair used to live within them¡ªbefore they were baked to death by the sun when the tide receded. Talk about building a useless home.

    As they approached yelling distance, a life emerged from the nearest hole. To Meya''s slight disappointment, it wasn''t shellfish, nor was it hairy¡ªit was a Hyacinth woman. Tall, hulking and tanned, she balanced a bucket on her clean-shaven head with one hand, and scaled the ladder out of the qanat hole with the other.

    The willowy man who''d been tending to the horses rushed over, arms outstretched, eager to assist. The woman marched right past him to the nearby barrel mounted on a stool, and tipped the bucket''s content into it. Water flowed out of the pipe hammered into its side into the waiting barrel below, filtered and fit for drinking.

    The woman spun around, headed for another trip down the hole. That was when she noticed their entourage. Bucket propped at her angular hip, she turned to face them full and waved. That was when Meya noticed her clothing¡ªor rather, the near lack of it.

    She wore white trousers, cinched at the ankles so each leg ballooned out like flaps of flesh, likely to keep out the sand. Her upper body was bare save for the elaborate cloak of tattoos on her shoulders, and the taut strings of glinting black beads restraining her breasts from jiggling as she went about her daily business. The strings coalesced at the crown of her breasts, where two eerily glowing dragon eyes sat above her teats.

    Meya drew a sharp breath. Coris''s hand was upon hers in a beat, but Meya slipped hers out just as quickly as her reflexes would allow. What would the woman¡ªa Hyacinth woman, no less¡ªthink if she appeared holding a man''s hand for comfort? At the mere sight of dragon eyes mounted on a brassiere?

    Ignoring the fleeting look of confusion and hurt in those silvery eyes, Meya disembarked. The Hyacinth man had taken up his place beside the guide-woman. He was draped from head to toe in a hooded white toga decorated with violet curlicues. The hood served to shield his face from the harsh sun, and thus his skin retained its natural sheen of matted olive, much like Lady Jaise. Both the man and woman looked to be in their late twenties¡ªit was difficult to pinpoint, as they looked, dressed nor carried themselves like the typical Latakian of their sex.

    Meya walked side-by-side with Coris towards them. The guide-woman stepped up and bowed to her.

    "Lady Hadrian." Her voice was deep and hearty. She pressed a spade-like hand to her chest, her violet-black eyes glinting, "I''m Jadirah. I serve the Lady Hyacinth. I shall escort your entourage to our humble town."

    Jadirah drew her foot back, her arm outstretched towards the line of holes leading into the distance,

    "We''ll follow the course of the qanat, straight to Hyacinth''s front gates. The journey should take two days. Ozid here, the Orientator, will educate you all on our culture along the way."

    She rested her hand on the man''s shoulder, her fingers tracing its contours. Ozid betrayed a grimace, dislodged it with a subtle shrug, then bent a knee to Meya.

    Meya swallowed down the uneasy churning in her belly. She had been aware that Hyacinth strove to be the flipside of the norm when it came to the sexes, of course, but she hadn''t expected this¡ªshe''d never been assumed to be the one in command.

    How does Coris go about this leader thing, again?

    She scoured her memories, then inflated herself with a deep breath,

    "Very well. Thank you." She landed on that hearty voice Coris often used to receive reports, topped with a snobbish nod, then chucked the torch towards the real liege of Hadrian with a flourish of her hand, "Actually, Lord Hadrian is the one in charge. You''d do best to report to him."

    Jadirah blinked, glanced at Coris, then back at Meya¡ªthen smacked her palm on her forehead.

    "Oh! You''re a patriarchy!" She threw her head back with a wide grin, then fell into repeated bows. "My deepest apologies, my lady. Force of habit."

    Composing herself, she turned to Coris, her knees bent and her hand outstretched.

    "Lord Hadrian. You''re as beautiful as the rumors foretold. I''m Jadirah. Rest assured, no harm would come your way under my watch."

    Coris rested his spider-like hand in Jadirah''s, and she dipped her head to press a kiss onto it, while Meya gawked on at the bizarre exchange. Coris was a fairly handsome lad, of course, but the subject of praise had always been his intellect and his achievements. It was as if the grownups in her village had remarked to Maro how handsome he looked instead of how much he was helping Dad out in the fields, then lauded Marin for her penmanship instead of how prettier she had become.

    Then it made sense¡ªthat was because Latakia had no need for Marin''s penmanship and Maro''s appearance. It was just the opposite in Hyacinth. Coris''s intellect wasn''t welcomed here, the way Meya''s beauty (or lack there of) wasn''t as relevant as it would have been. Hyacinth had simply taken the difference in Latakia''s treatment of men and women and turned it on its head.

    But¡ªwhy couldn''t it have been the same for all of us? Why couldn''t it have been either? Or both?

    Meya had a feeling she was supposed to feel gratified, but female revenge was neither sweet nor triumphant as she watched Coris humoring their host,

    "Thank you, Jadirah. I could rest easy with a fearsome warrior such as you to safeguard me." Coris pressed his hand on his heart as if to still it, then turned to shine Meya a sappy smile of adoration, "Also, Lady Hadrian is being humble. In Hadrian, though we men sit on the throne, it is common knowledge that true power lies with the women behind the curtains."

    Meya dried up her well of restraint to not quirk a skeptical eyebrow at Coris. Jadirah also saw through his flattery. She forced out a queasy, almost pitying smile.

    "Of course, my lord. Of course." She dipped a few hasty bows, rolling her eyes in Meya''s direction as she did. She steadied her weapon¡ªa war pick swinging at her hip¡ªthen surveyed their waiting entourage.

    "If you could gather up your wom¡ªmen, my lord. We''ll load the supplies." She jabbed a finger at the mountain of hay and supplies behind the tent. Coris nodded and cleared his throat.

    "Simon. Christopher."  The two noblemen promptly dismounted and began summoning servants left and right. Jadirah gave Coris one last bow, then swept off towards the fray.

    "All yours, lovely."

    She smacked Ozid in the behind as she passed him. Poor man must have jolted a foot off the sand. Feeling his rear end, he shot Jadirah''s receding back a look of mingled frustration and fear.

    Meya couldn''t help her curiosity.

    "Are you two¡ª"

    "No, my lady." Ozid cut her off, brusque and cold, then caught himself. He folded his arms over his middle, his fingers arched and stiff as his hands hovered over his tunic, the very tips of his middle fingers touching. It seemed a torturous method to restrain your hands during a speech.

    This story originates from a different website. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

    "I''m Ozid, my lady. An Orientator. I''m responsible for educating visitors on our ways before they enter the city."

    He wore a graceful but restrained smile¡ªone that no doubt had gone through years of practice to ensure it wouldn''t reveal one sliver of teeth too many. His voice was also unlike that of any man Meya had ever known. It was soft, light and tender¡ªbut unlike Coris. If Coris''s voice was the playful, whispering, chilly wind, Ozid''s was the slow, unassuming hum of a harp at night. A mix of feminine and masculine.

    Ozid turned to observe the heights. The sun blazed from behind a thin veil of clouds. He drew his hand up to shield his eyes with a movement like a fluttering flower petal.

    "The sun and heat would be harsher from this point on, my lady. We must hurry to reach the oasis by midday." He whirled back with a dramatic rippling of his tunic, lowering his hand to again complete the uncomfortable pose, "We''ll have a few hours of respite, while we wait for the sun to sleep¡ªI would like to hold the orientation then. After dinner, we set off again at nightfall. The same goes for tomorrow."

    Ozid''s gaze set upon Meya and Coris in turn in anticipation. A cursory glance at Coris revealed him still staring at Ozid, uninclined to respond. With a sigh, Meya took the lead

    "Very well. Please be at ease." She hastily added. The mere sight of Ozid''s rigid pose was making her arms ache.

    "Thank you, my lady." Ozid bowed, but didn''t relax a muscle. As Meya chewed her lips in annoyance, he turned to Coris with an apologetic smile, "Normally, I would gradually transition to reporting to the lady¡ªmen in charge tend to be resistant to relinquishing command, you see. And their wives are reluctant to take charge¡ªbut you both seem willing to adapt to our ways. Seems I''m barely needed, after all."

    Ozid smiled. This time, Meya was sure it was finally genuine, and responded with her own.

    "Nonsense! We have much to learn." Beckoning for Ozid to lean in, she cocked her head in Jadirah''s general direction. "For a start, why does she cap her teats with those?"

    Ozid blinked, wide-eyed, but soon caught on.

    "Ah. That, my lady, is to ward off any ill fortune willed by the evil eyes¡ªotherwise known as Greeneyes." He unfurled a mysterious smile, then cocked his head, "And what better to deflect it with than itself?"

    At the permission given by Meya''s flourished hand, Ozid bowed then ascended the steps into their carriage, leaving Meya to share an incredulous look with the equally bewildered Coris.

    If Greeneyes could wish ill upon human folks just by staring, there''d be mountains of corpses back in ol'' Crosset even before The Famine struck, each and every snuffed out in gruesome yet ingeniously creative fashion. Meya''s imagination did run wild, after all.

    ?

    "Wouldn''t you agree, my lady?"

    Jadirah called over as she helped Dorsea into the breast covering provided for tourists, so they could blend in without drastic leaps¡ªa strip of coarse white cloth just wide enough to cover the nipples. In contrast, her unruly Southerner hair had been tamed¡ªtucked under a purple headcloth with a tail trailing down her nape, which signaled their status as visitors and also provided protection from the harsh sun.

    Meya strained her neck around, left arm halfway out of her sleeve. After a two days'' journey, they were finally approaching the gates of Hyacinth. The women of Hadrian were spread out behind a barricade of wagons and carriages, changing into Hyacinth fashion. The men were undergoing a similar ordeal on the other side of the road, just with Ozid as their instructor.

    "With what, Jadirah?"

    The hulking woman smirked, then jerked on the ends of Dorsea''s breast-cloth to tighten the knot.

    "That the penis is the most unsightly creation ever bestowed upon the human body." She announced amid scandalized gasps from surrounding women. Dorsea probably would''ve joined in if she weren''t wheezing for breath.

    Meya''s cheeks tingled as color rushed up towards them. Not that she was squeamish about the thing¡ªhaving grown up alongside two younger brothers and lain with a man too many a time¡ªshe''d just never heard a woman utter the word with such brazenness in her seventeen years.

    "I must admit, it is startling at first sight, but one becomes used to it." She shrugged, pulled her left arm free then began tugging out the right. Jadirah cocked her head,

    "And yet, they''re allowed to flaunt it. Accentuate it with those ridiculous codpieces and fitted trousers. Chisel them onto statues. Craft them into trinkets. They''re allowed to walk the three lands naked but for a loincloth, while women are told every part of our bodies is either ugly, sinful or filthy, and must be shrouded¡ªunless you''re a whore or a statue, of course."

    Meya froze. Something didn''t fall in place.

    "You live in Hyacinth. How come you knew all that?" She spun around to face Jadirah fully. Jadirah''s eyes glinted, relishing her own mystique.

    "I was born and bred in Hythe, my lady. Under the rule of one of the most disgusting men in the three lands¡ªXavius Fratengarde." She spat out the name with venom. After sending Dorsea pitching forward with a forceful shoulder-slap, she set off walking among the scattered women, seeking out those who might need assistance,

    "After the sisters Ardehah and Nazebab seized the Yasint seat from their deranged brother, and Ardehah announced retribution on men¡ªscores deserted her. All the men left, of course¡ªbut also some women who still longed to be oppressed. They followed Nazebab through the valley and built Sufayr¡ªSafyre in the Latakian tongue¡ªto be a town where man nor woman exist. What nonsense." She rolled her eyes with a snort.

    "Geezers, cripples, boys and babies were all the men Yasint had left. So, Ardehah built the man-brothels and collected men most deserving of revenge from across Latakia¡ªrapists¡ªto provide quality seed and repopulate the town. Castration and death are too swift, too merciful. We must give them a taste of their own torture. They must learn what it''s like to be used as a plaything or a broodmare. To have their being reduced to their rod and the seed it held¡ªthe way it had been for our sheath and our womb."

    "Then, she renamed the city to the Latakian tongue¡ªHyacinth¡ªand opened the gates to any woman who seeks to be reborn free from the oppression of men. That continued to this day. I am one of those reborn women."

    Jadirah turned back, a smile of pride on her lips. Meya realized she was still stuck in the act of freeing her right arm. She shrugged her dress off her shoulders and slipped her leg into the baggy white Hyacinth pants.

    "I agree that those rapists deserved it¡ªbut what of the men born and bred in Hyacinth?" She hopped on one foot as she tried to poke the other through the cinched pant-leg. Seeing Jadirah''s raised eyebrow, she jerked her chin in the direction of the men, "Ozid¡ªis he a rapist, too?"

    "Ozid?" Jadirah dissolved into fits of laughter, smacking her forehead. "Fyr''s bollocks, no! You don''t see us throwing poor man in the brothel after his first wet dream, do you?"

    Another round of gasps swept the throng. If Jadirah kept this up, Meya bet hearts would be exploding. Yet, again, Jadirah took no heed.

    "My lady, men are better off being governed by women. Even Ozid would agree." She slumped against a wagon''s side, arms crossed over her beaded brassiere¡ªthis one held no slots for dragon eyes. She cocked her head towards the unseen men, "For all of history across the three lands, haven''t we given them enough chances to leech from every square of dirt until it''s dry as their foreskins?"

    "There are good men." Dorsea blurted out. Jadirah blew a puff of derision out of her nose.

    "Name one man you know who hasn''t taken from the land, who has given something back."

    "My husband Flindel died rescuing defectors from Nostra!" Philema snarled, fists clenched at her sides, dimmed eyes flaring with fire. Of course, Jadirah had heard such an argument before. She unfurled a condescending smirk and turned to face the bereft wife,

    "And does the grace of one man excuse the pillage of thousands? Does it justify  all men their right to rule over us? Say, what gave rise to those defectors in the first place, hmph? Isn''t it the war and oppression spread by the Nostran emperor¡ªa man?"

    Philema jolted, choking on her own words. Meya found herself stumped as well. She was about to volunteer Coris as an example¡ªonly to remember young Lord Hadrian had confessed to taking hundreds of lives simply to prove his worth to his father.

    But I''ve taken hundreds of lives myself. As a dragon, I take from the land, literally.

    No¡ªeven that was brought about by men. Power-hungry, callous, greedy men like Lord Crosset and Bailiff Johnsy.

    But what about Dad? What about Maro? What about Marcus and Myron? What about Draken and Deke? And Jason?

    But her attacks, too, would be parried away by Jadirah''s retort: Do those anecdotes excuse the atrocities of the rest of them? Were they enough to justify all of them having the right to rule?

    "Our goddess Freda is a woman. We are chosen by the divine to be the superior sex. Then why is Latakia crawling with men lording over us? Because they stole it from us."

    A new voice broke the chilly silence¡ªTissa''s. She stood with legs parted, an arm pointing towards the men, then up towards the Heights.

    "Freda led us to victory from Nostra. Latakas Wynn took the credit, crowned himself king, set men to put words on parchment that was never uttered by Freda, and they''ve been rubbing their dongs on the throne since!"

    "Exactly." Jadirah jabbed an approving finger at Tissa. She threw out her arms, glancing at each woman in turn, daring them to contradict, "What gives them that right? The ability to blast water out of their genitals? I could do that with the same hole I give birth to men with. Makes more sense for us to rule them."

    Dorsea shook her head, anguish splayed across her face¡ªshe still hadn''t gotten over Amara''s hair.

    "But you''re doing the same things, just with women doing them. How''s that going to make anything different?" She pointed out in her quiet, quivering voice. Jadirah shook her head with a broad smile.

    "Why wouldn''t it be different?" Walking backwards, she threw out her arms as if to embrace the members of her fellow wondrous sex, "Women are different. Women are better. We''ll do their job, but better."

    With that bold promise, she sidestepped the last of the wagons and vanished. Yet, her words lingered on the minds of the Hadrian women, triggering thoughts, forging conclusions.

    Though Meya didn''t agree with every of her ideas, Jadirah was right about one thing¡ªwhat gave all men the born right to rule, and stripped women the right of being considered at all? What qualities make a good and effective ruler? Does the presence of a penis give birth to those qualities supposedly unique to men? If the heart (¡ªor brain, as Coris would remind her) was what thinks and feels, then why couldn''t men and women be the same?

    Not counting history, out of the dozens of incumbent rulers in Latakia she''d met or heard of, only three were women. Why was that? Even the supposedly progressive Hadrian had largely abode by tradition when it came to the succession of power.

    It begs the question: If, when given the power, the women of Hyacinth were capable of the same achievements¡ªand atrocities¡ªof men, then how were men and women different?

 Windcatcher City

    The procession of qanat holes ended as the hill began its descent to level terrain. Walls of sand rose on either side of them as the road sliced a sheer path down the slope towards a wooden bridge. A shallow, crystal-clear canal rushed by beneath it, fed with ice-cold water of melted mountain snow from the sand walls'' gaping mouths.

    Across the bridge was a work of miracle. Grass green as spring carpeted the land. On one side of the road, dome-shaped adobe cottages rose out of the blue-gray sand, then gave way to a grove of trees tall as the most ancient oaks.

    These trees were unlike any Meya had ever seen. She''d only guessed they were trees because of their olive-green leaves. Their trunks, papered with layers of petal-shaped barks, shot towards the heavens without meandering, ending in a fountain of branches bearing long, thin leaves like blades. Bunches pregnant with unripe fruit hung from the junction. Hulking Hyacinth women stepped precariously from one petal of the bark to another. They wormed their hands into the fruit bunches, tugging some out at random and flinging them to their deaths on the abyss far below.

    "Date palms, my lady." Ozid explained as their carriage trundled by the wall of tree trunks. "This harvest should be ready in a month. The bunches are thinned out to allow for plumper fruits."

    Meya nodded in awe. Pinching a dried date from the plate on Ozid''s lap, she nibbled on the sweet sustenance¡ªso sweet it made her eyes water¡ªthen poked her head further out, holding her breath at the daring display. The death-defying date farmers had not a single length of rope tethering them to life.

    A poke from Coris distracted her and she pulled back, frowning. Coris jabbed his thumb at the opposite window with a grin. Meya''s eyes followed it, then she scrambled over her snickering husband to his window.

    On the side of the road she overlooked was more blue-gray adobe houses, surrounded by gardens populated by yet another race of peculiar trees. Flat leaves like milky green pieces of pockmarked, thorny unleavened dough sprouted atop one another into higgledy-piggledy towers as tall as Meya herself.

    In spite of the thorns'' protection, the leaves were plagued with swathes of white, mold-like fluff. Hyacinth househusbands hovered over them, scraping the disease off with metal spoons¡ªthen Meya noticed they were collecting the puffs into trays.

    "Cochineal, my lady. These tiny critters feed on the prickly pear. The men collect them, boil them, dry them, crush them into carmine, and dye fabric with it. It''s our most lucrative export. Some have even made their way into Hadrian Castle."

    Ozid flourished a graceful hand at Meya and Coris, even though they were no longer draped in their garish home color, but in Hyacinth''s calming off-white and purple.

    "I thought Hadrian Red is made from the Hadrian Rose?" Meya shot an accusatory look at Coris. He nodded.

    "We''ve had occasional shortages when the roses came down with disease. You could say there''s a trace of Hyacinth in all of us."

    Coris forced a grin as he shifted restlessly in the folds of his Hyacinth toga¡ªa stark contrast to Meya''s revealing attire.

    "Is anything the matter, my lord?" Ozid leaned forward, a hand over his heart. Coris glanced at the puzzled Meya¡ªthe smirking Jadirah¡ªback to the worried Ozid, then sighed and stared down at the floorboards.

    "Can''t I part my legs wider? It''s uncomfortable." He dug his fingers into his kneecaps, looking pleadingly at Ozid. "You''d understand, surely?"

    As part of their orientation, Ozid had taught them how to carry themselves¡ªwhich included the proper manner of sitting. There were no taboos for women, but spreading your legs were recommended as it gave an impression of confidence and dominance. On the other hand, men were allowed to open their legs only up to a hand''s width apart.

    Of course, Meya had been annoyed with the men hogging up bum space at Fest tables with their leg spread. Women were shunted off to the sides, legs closed tight as Bailiff Johnsy''s pursestring, straining away from their heat. It was considered their fault and their loss if a man brushed up against them. Only whores and birthing women open wide, the elders would quip.

    So, men actually needed some of that added space for their little fellows to breathe? Still, not having a dong didn''t justify women having to shut their legs tight as a clam, though.

    Ozid had definitely received such a request before. There was a genuine look of sympathy in his eyes.

    "My lord, this is part of our training in discipline and restraint. Discomfort isn''t an excuse to take up more space than you''re worth. A good man knows his place. He exudes humility and modesty." He then blushed, stuttering, "It''s also¡ªah¡ªimproper¡ªto display the bulge of your manhood. It distracts the women and welcomes¡ªah¡ªunwanted advances."

    Coris''s eyebrows crept closer in annoyance. His eyes were brewing thunderstorms streaked with lightning.

    "This isn''t about building character nor flaunting one''s attributes to attract women, Ozid. Freda hasn''t designed men to hold this ridiculous pose and you know it!" He snapped. Ozid recoiled with a gasp. Meya grabbed Coris''s leg. Jadirah, however, exploded in a fit of wheezing laughter.

    "With all due respect, my lord. Never heard of a man going barren from his thighs squashing his nads for too long." She shrugged at Coris''s freezing glare.

    "It''s not like we didn''t leave you any space, either. A hand''s width is generous, considering how men force women to sit outside Hyacinth." She stood her hand between her thighs, then cocked her head, a sly glint in her eyes,

    "Unless your package is larger than average, of course."

    If there ever would be a moment Coris turned the exact shade of Hadrian Red, Meya would bet all her savings on this. Even Ozid felt it was one lewd joke too far.

    "Jadirah!" He cried, but Jadirah only seemed to swell larger as if feeding on Coris''s fury.

    "Why the long face, my lord? It''s a compliment. Freda isn''t generous with her blessings. You should be proud."

    "Jadirah!" Ozid hissed so viciously Meya could have sworn spit flew out through his gritted teeth. Jadirah finally relented. Heaving a dramatic sigh, she stood up and crossed over the bench,

    "Oughta give Sir Jarl a hand. Man''s never rode on sand." She grunted then ducked outside, no doubt to patronize the seasoned horseman with unwanted help.

    Coris slumped back against the cushions, pinching the bridge of his nose as he waited out the ramifications of his outburst. As he took heaving breaths, Meya cleared away the folds of cloth clinging to his neck to ease his breathing. She noticed her hands were shaking.

    It might be flattering if Meya complimented Coris''s attributes in the privacy of their bedchambers as they lain together. It was not if a stranger mentioned it when Coris was the representative of Hadrian on a diplomatic mission.

    He was a charismatic and selfless leader. He was a brave and loyal friend, brother and husband who strove to coax out the best in every soul he encountered except his own. And sometimes, he was an obnoxious, snobbish, melancholic git. Still, even that was much more than his manhood. And it broke her heart to see him reduced to the appendix between his legs.

    Then it hit her.

    We must give them a taste of their own torture. They must learn what it''s like to have their being reduced to their rod and the seed it held.

    So this is Hyacinth''s revenge¡ªa glimpse of it. If a castle guard could get away with insulting Lord Hadrian''s dignity, what would Lady Hyacinth have in store for the common man?

    "I''m so sorry you had to witness that, Ozid." Coris went back to his soft-spoken, almost poetic speech. Meya woke from her reverie to find him downcast, playing with his fingers in his lap.

    "She''s just doing her duty on behalf of all women¡ªgiving a man a taste of what it''s like to be them. I shouldn''t have been furious. This was what she''d lived through in Hythe."

    "Then take it up to the men in Hythe!" Meya hissed, startling both men. As Coris gawked at her, she jabbed a finger at her head, "You''ve never disrespected a hair on my head, let alone a woman. How in the three lands is that fair? Unloading your past grudges onto any man who couldn''t rape you back?"

    Ozid gasped and grasped at his heart. Coris, however, was used to her brazen tirades.

    If you encounter this tale on Amazon, note that it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it.

    "True, I may have never hurt a woman that I know of," He dipped his head and sighed, "But countless men have, and still are. And that''s not enough. I have a prominent voice. I should raise it for the benefit of women."

    Meya huffed a breath of annoyance. To Fyr with all that, she still wanted to kick Jadirah''s arse for upsetting her wee donghead. Yet, even more irksome¡ªand worrisome¡ªwas the undeniable fact that Jadirah''s method had worked to raise Coris''s awareness.

    "Still¡ªdo we have to become their mirror just to make them see?" She turned and met Coris''s gaze, "Is this the only way?"

    Their eyes aligned, and Meya knew Coris heard her unspoken fear.

    How would this translate to solving the conflict between humans and dragons? If oppressing the oppressor is the only path to their enlightenment, and salvation of the whole, that would mean taking Gillian''s lead. Enslaving humans and trampling over Latakia on their way to reclaim Everglen.

    That would be strength. That would be glory. That would be true power. That would be a man''s choice. Yet, it repulsed her, like it would most women. It was what had led her to desert Gillian''s madness for Coris''s daydream.

    Perhaps that was why women seldom ruled. Women had no stomach for harsh reality¡ªfor doing what needed to be done.

    Meya was born from humans. She had human family and friends¡ªand a human mate. And time and again, she had betrayed her kind''s interests for them. She sold Gillian out for Coris. She turned down surgery for Zier. She persuaded Arinel to bring Dineira to court in spite of her dragon research. She chased down Persephia to save Zier.

    Like the woman she was, she cared more for the minority before her, her found family, than the majority, her true family. And she didn''t know which choice would make her hate herself more.

    Traitor or heroine. Dragon carcasses or human corpses.

    ?

    Hyacinth''s imposing gray wall of mud and clay was smooth, seamless and seemingly impregnable, save for the open iron gates in the center. The wagons from Hadrian were parked on the drawbridge straddling the moat. All that stood between them and the hulking immigration guards was a wagon¡ªrather, a cage mounted on wheels¡ªshuttling rapists to the man-brothels.

    As an immigration officer¡ªyet another clean-shaven, muscular Hyacinth woman¡ªprowled each side of the wagon, namelist in hand, taking stock of the prisoners, Meya looked out the window at the locals parading by her carriage.

    She followed their journey across the bridge and off the side of the road towards a nondescript arrangement of boulders. A dozen men and women had already formed a ragged enclave. Some knelt and fell forward, pressing their foreheads to the sand. Some stood and waved their hands backwards as if scooping air up to wash their faces.

    No, not air¡ªsmoke.

    Tendrils of smoke rose beyond the stones, the wispy gray contrasted by the backdrop of blue sky. Meya peered into the gaps between ballooning pants and fluttering togas. A small fire danced before the rocks, shooting out of the earth itself.

    "The Eternal Fire, my lady. Legend has it that a miner started it by accident, and it''s been burning since. Four hundred years and counting."

    Meya froze but for a series of skeptical blinks.

    "Somebody must be sneaking firewood under there." She turned back to Ozid with a mischievous smile. The orientator giggled.

    "Alchemists discovered it is in fact flammable air¡ªthe term is gas, I believe." He tapped his finger to his chin. Meya turned to Coris with a raised eyebrow. He nodded, a promise to educate her later in private. "It is colorless and odorless. Countless miners and qanat diggers lost their lives to explosions and cave-ins because of that."

    "Have you found a solution, then?" Coris asked with a wry grin. "Or did the Mining Ban render it irrelevant first?"

    "Interestingly, my lord, the solution brought about the Hyacinth of today. Before the Ban, Yasint''s economy relied on mining in the Sands and the Blue Mountains¡ªuntil gas leaks began to plague the tunnels in the years leading up to the women''s revolt. Then, a budding alchemist, Lashtiri Hasif, invented the green crystal¡ªa heatless, fireless source of light. She allied with the Yasint sisters and withheld the knowledge from men. Women set foot into the mines and worked their way to freedom, while men cowered from the invisible threat."

    One word in particular roused her suspicion. Meya flicked Coris a quick look.

    "Green, huh. What''s it made of?" She leaned forward, eyes narrowed to slits. Ozid shook his head with a secretive smile.

    "To this day, the knowledge resides with the Hasif clan only, my lady. Of course, after the Mining Ban forced us to turn to new sources of income, the crystal''s importance faded. Only qanat diggers use it nowadays, and even they are dwindling. The Hasifs moved on to new inventions and remain prominent alchemists in service to the Hyacinths."

    The carriage wobbled and resumed trundling across the bridge. With a jolt, Ozis poked his head out the window. Jadirah''s voice floated inside as she greeted her peers at the gates. They let them through with whistles and waves.

    Meya reached inside her pocket, fingering the dragon eyes she had nicked from Jadirah''s brassiere. Hopefully, Frenix''s painted marbles would hoodwink her until they were well on their way through the valley¡ªHopefully, this would be the worst of their fears.

    Coris''s cold hand closed over hers. Free of Jadirah and Tissa''s judging eyes, Meya felt safe to indulge herself.

    "Hope we''re just being paranoid." She whispered. Coris squeezed her hand tightly.

    "Hard to tell paranoia from valid suspicion by this point."

    ?

    Behind the walls, the Hyacinth townscape blanketed the sand all the way to the skyline. On both sides of the crowded dirt road, adobe domes had been replaced by flat-topped adobe houses. Some were one-room dwellings of the modest, while some spread and conjoined into sprawling complexes. Some piled up to three stories high. Staircases snaked along the walls, leading up to balconies and rooftops, where hung laundry flapped and billowed in whichever direction the hot breeze was blowing.

    Shooting high above the chaos, basking in the blazing sun, were hundreds of towers with bars carved into their sides. Most were rectangular. Some were other shapes with five, six or eight sides (Meya was sure the latter three had lengthy proper names, but only snobs like Coris would use them).

    Ozid told her they were windcatchers, designed to catch the cool wind and funnel it down to the rooms below, and provide the rising hot air a venue to escape. Cool air blew occasionally from within shops on both sides of the road, as their carriage trundled past, supporting his claim.

    Hyacinth househusbands milled about, frequenting vendors with vegetables and meat for sale. Unlike tourists and castle officials, who wore white and violet, the local men dressed in tie-dyed fabric which came in all shades of red. Crimson, scarlet, vermilion, rose and purple psychedelic patterns stood out from resisted white canvas, embellished by embroidery.

    Most men wore their hair long. Some had slung babies on their backs. Others led along children who scream for their grocery-laden fathers to buy them date-sugar candies, molded into various shapes and dyed bright red. Heat-weary tourists licked on melting blocks of rich, frozen goat cream sprinkled with chopped dates and skewered onto sticks.

    A church loomed into their midst. It didn''t resemble the churches in Meriton, but its ornately carved pillars flanking the arched doors, its towers and turrets topped with mosaic-plated domes, its altar of eternal fire sitting smack before the entrance nevertheless coupled to exude that familiar heavy, imposing, taciturn aura.

    As they approached, Meya made out the inscription on the arched lintel. One half was written in Hyacinth runes¡ªlittle more than squiggles and dots to Meya. The other was in Latakian.

    Become the Fire.

    Meya mouthed. As always, Ozid noticed her frown.

    "Do not simply fight fire with fire. Become the fire. The philosophy of our founder, Ardehah Yasint. The path to sure victory over your oppressors is to learn from their ways, and best them at what they do."

    "Won''t that make you the oppressor, justifying the oppressed''s cause to best you back in future?" Meya quirked a skeptical eyebrow.

    "If they were stronger, then they would have deserved that victory." Ozid gave a sad smile and cocked his head, "War and mankind are inseparable, my lady. Like fire, each side would burn ever brighter and consume the other, until their fuel is exhausted. But, unlike regular fires, the human fire never runs out of fuel."

    At that, Meya shrugged with a savage grin.

    "Humans breed like rodents." She quipped, despite the hollow feeling eating at her heart.

    A crowd had gathered at the church''s steps, spilling onto the road, shaking fists and screaming obscenities. The object of their chagrin¡ªa woman with long black hair, naked but for the paint of rotten vegetables and mud dotting her shivering torso, hanging by her wrists from a pillory. As Meya watched the familiar sight, a fresh handful of mud spattered the condemned''s face, dripping off with her tears.

    "What''s her crime?" She breathed, more to lament than inquire.

    "Fallen back on the old ways, is my bet." Jadirah poked her head outside the window with a smirk of glee. She''d come back inside¡ªSir Jarl insisted he could drive on sand.

    A priestess stood tall on the steps, scantily dressed in violet-embroidered fabric, head swathed in violet cloth. She jabbed her finger at the prisoner.

    "This vain, shallow woman took the sacred cloth to hide her hair, and preach the old ways to our students." Her voice boomed across the square. "Not only that¡ªshe has allowed men to bestride her, like a she-dog in heat! Knelt before them, pleased them with the very lips she prays to Freda with! Has she no pride?"

    "No!" The crowd jeered.

    "Has she no shame?"

    "Shame!" The crowd parroted.

    "Is it her intention to undo centuries of progress this great city has won with the blood of countless women?"

    This time, responses were varied.

    "Shame!"

    "Shame on you, man-loving she-dog!"

    "Drown in the Lake!"

    The woman cowered and sobbed as the barrage resumed. Pebbles, spoiled fruit, mud, shite¡ªMeya could tell by the pong wafting through their window, and she trembled with fear, fury and shame.

    She had done those things, and worse¡ªshe enjoyed it. Was this the reason behind the violet turban? To separate tourists so they wouldn''t be accidentally subjected to Hyacinth''s standard?

    "That''s her crime?" She hissed to Ozid, pointing at the priestess, who looked pleased with her brand of justice. "Growing out her hair? Submitting to a man in bed?"

    "There are certain practices considered degrading for women, my lady." Ozid explained with an uneasy smile. "It''s not illegal, but for a teacher¡ªthat''s close to heresy. It sets a dangerous example."

    Degrading? Meya''s cheeks burned as she recalled. She, too, had knelt before Coris and pleased him with her lips, had allowed him to dominate and reap from her, had derived pleasure from being degraded. Though, having been a regular at the stocks, she''d never condone such a punishment on all but the foulest, she could understand the rationale. The old ways must be nipped in the bud, or history would soon repeat itself. And, as a woman striving for change, Meya must also hold herself to the same standard.

    Coris watched Meya''s trembling hand slide further away then onto her lap, then hid a melancholic sigh. It was still within his reach, of course, but should he? Would she allow him to? And should she? Was Hyacinth unhinged, or was this how true equality should be?

    Even their relationship¡ªtheir shared dream¡ªwas questionable. Instead of making it so that women and Greeneyes like Meya could bring about change on their own, he was simply using his status as a nobleman to help her cause, and preserve his interests while he was at it, wasn''t he? Would it be better if he withdrew now, before he tainted their movement?

    As silence grew between them, so did their distance.

 Warmly We Welcome Thee

    Hyacinth "Castle" was the largest adobe complex boasting the most windcatchers, built at the innermost of the city, with the Blue Mountains as its rear defense.

    Lady Amoriah Hyacinth lounged on her throne, legs parted, one foot resting on her other knee, her fingers stirring in a bowl of dates. Her clean-shaven scalp and blue-black eyes gleamed in the sunlight streaming in through the windows. Her bare breasts spilled over her three-tiered belly, which in turn spilled over her groin. She stood up and threw out her arms, then crushed little Amara within them. Once the poor winded girl had toddled off to take her place beside her three hulking sisters, Amoriah turned to her gathered guests.

    "The infamous Coris Hadrian!" She cried in delight as she descended the steps, arms thrown out wide as her smile. She swooped down for the customary cheek-rubs, then drew back and surveyed him head to toe.

    "Have you grown thinner, my boy? You should give my Ahmundi some advice. Can''t have the boy take after his mother, can I? Ha-ha-ha¡ª"

    Her hearty belly laugh was replaced by a scowl once she''d sensed the lack of her son in the room. She glanced about, arms on her hips.

    "Where is that boy? Must''ve sent for him a quarter hour ago!" She barked at a manservant in the shadows, who hastily bowed and scurried out a side-door.

    Coris creaked up an uneasy smile.

    "I hope you''re joking, Amoriah. You wouldn''t want your only son to adopt my methods, I''m sure." Amoriah spun back, eyebrows raised, then shrugged.

    Meya blinked, aghast.

    How dare she! Did she just proclaim Coris''s torture to be beauty? Would she rather her own son scorch his bowels if that was what it takes to achieve a figure like Ozid?

    Meya opened her mouth, but Coris beat her to it with a bow.

    "I''m so sorry for all the trouble." Amoriah rolled her eyes and waved in exasperation, but he persisted, "We owe you our lives. I''ve written to Father. I''m sure he''d no longer haggle on Hyacinth''s richest carmine."

    Amoriah threw her head back and snorted.

    "Agh, letters. I''d pick the reek of spit over ink any day." She shook an exacting finger before Coris''s sweating nose. "I won''t squish one beetle until you''ve asked him to the face and received a yes. You could do that right now, in fact."

    She cocked her head to the side, a mischievous grin dancing on her lips. As her visitors gawked in confusion, she turned and nodded at the shadows. Two familiar figures emerged.

    Kellis and Sylvia Hadrian.

    Air itself seemed to have frozen. By the steely glint in their eyes, Meya realized in terror that their jig was up. Partially or all¡ªit was up to them to test the waters and contain the fallout.

    "Father. Mother. What brings you here?"

    Coris stepped up to shield her on instinct, his bright smile distracting them from his trembling arms. Sylvia blanched bone-white in exasperation.

    "You nearly died, Lexi! Shouldn''t that warrant at least a letter?" She snapped. She''d flounced halfway down the steps, before Kellis stopped her with a gentle but firm hand around her forearm. He dipped the ever-gracious Amoriah a slight bow of apology, then turned back to his sons.

    "You said you have the truth for us, Zier?"

    Meya''s heart skipped a beat. She whipped around to Coris and found wide, unblinking gray eyes staring back. The pallor of rage consumed whatever color was left on his face, then he rounded on his treacherous little brother.

    "You poisoned Jetta?" He roared.

    "Just a few drops of laudanum! She was never in any harm!" Zier stammered, scampering back as Coris pursued. Coris looked as if he would''ve unsheathed his vampire fangs for real, if not for¡ª

    "Coris!"

    The Baron''s call clapped down like lightning. The warring brothers spun around, frozen in mid-act but for their blinking eyes. Kellis''s eyes narrowed in rebuke.

    "We''ve encroached on Amoriah''s hospitality enough." His voice had returned to normal volume, but remained sharp and icy. He turned to his squires, who were standing behind his sons,

    "Simon, Christopher¡ªlead Lady Arinel, Lord Frenix and the men to their quarters."

    Zier hadn''t told them of her true identity?

    The realization didn''t console Meya nor abate her fury as she watched the brothers depart with their parents. Zier was trembling, looking resolutely at his boots. Coris''s expression was stony as he stared straight ahead, his eyes cold and empty.

    A manservant approached Simon and bowed. Simon signaled to the spooked entourage with a firm nod, bowed to Lady Hyacinth, who seemed to be mildly enjoying the spectacle, then held out his hand for Meya.

    "Lady Arinel?" Amoriah''s booming voice rang out before Meya could accept it. She spun around to find the Lady''s calm, unreadable eyes upon her. "A moment, if you please."

    Meya frowned. Her intuition was tingling, but it was likely Amoriah wanted a chat over tea as fellow women in power. Or perhaps she had news on the Graye sisters, and Cleygar and Lors. There''d been no word from the four since they left, and Ozid and Jadirah had heard nothing. Coris dashed off an apprehensive letter to Amoriah, then a reply came from Lasralein Hasif, the court physician, assuring them the Lady Graye had been taken into her care. Yes, perhaps that was it.

    This book''s true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience.

    Meya gave the wary Simon a nod and watched as members of the entourage filed past her. Dorsea shot her a worried look. Philema avoided her gaze, like most of them. Tissa gave her a wink. Frenix held Atmund''s hand and was urging him along¡ªthe poor boy was sniffling back tears, frightened by Coris''s outburst. Little Lord Pearlwater looked to her for reassurance. For once, he seemed just as scared.

    Meya eked out a nod of confidence she didn''t feel. The side-door closed behind the boys, then Amoriah''s command thundered in the silence.

    "Seize her."

    "Wha¡ª"

    That was all Meya managed before a gag slipped between her jaws. Hulking Hyacinth guards jerked her arms behind her and bound them, then stamped on her kicking feet. Wriggling in vain, Meya glowered up at Amoriah, but the woman had turned her back to the scene, ascending the steps back to her throne.

    "Lord Crosset sent word that an impostor has assumed his daughter''s place." She plonked down with a contented sigh then dipped her hand back into her bowl of dates. She tossed one into her mouth and chewed noisily, "You''ll be held until his men arrive to take you back to Crosset."

    The struggle left Meya''s limbs, driven out by blood-freezing cold like she had never known. Not even when Coris exposed her fraud. Not even when Gillian stormed the entourage. For Meya''s back hadn''t forgotten the touch of the salted whip, nor her tongue the taste of the Liar''s Bridle.

    The voices from near and far were mere tinny echos in her ringing ears.

    "My lady, should she be held in the men''s prisons or the women''s?" The guard on her right asked. Amoriah paused munching, then spat out the date pit in annoyance.

    "Are you blind? Look at her hair!" She jabbed a finger at Meya''s crop of mangled golden locks, then sank back to her cushions with a grin of savage entertainment, caressing her lips with another date fruit, like rouge.

    "She aspires to become one of us. We shall treat her as one of us." She concluded, then jerked her chin with a terse order, "Strip her."

    The verdict was carried out swift as the blink of an eye. As one guard tore the cloth off her breasts, the other tugged down her trousers. She was left naked as the day she was born. Whispers, jeers, gasps, laughing, pointing from across the length of every wall of the Hall, appraising her body like that of a horse''s. Shame burned her like the waters of Fyr''s Lake. She wanted to faint, to escape from it all. But she couldn''t. Tears spilled down her cheeks. As the guards dragged her to her doom, she was reduced to desperate prayers.

    Coris. Zier. Simon. Christopher. Maro. Dad¡ªhelp.

    ?

    The warden closed Meya''s wrists in a pair of hanging shackles. She traversed the narrow, fenced walkway to the heart of the crossroads, then scaled down the rungs jutting from the tower''s dividing wall.

    Meya followed her until she disappeared into the bustle of the hallway below. A cool breeze fluttered her hair. She turned to face it, peering through the sand-colored bars to the city outside.

    Under the blazing sunlight, a choppy sea of flat, sand-colored rooftops blanketed the desert all the way to the gaping mouth of the valley.

    Windcatcher towers rose high above the townscape. Some had four sides, like the one Meya was in. Some had six, and some as many as eight. Meya''s tower seemed to be the tallest, a mark of peerless wealth and authority.

    Chains jangled in the silence. A voice hollered across the divide,

    "Oi, new girl! What''s yer name? Where ya from?"

    Meya whipped around. Her fellow prisoner was wedged into the opposite corner of the tower. Had she been standing, Meya predicted she would''ve been two heads taller and twice as wide as the average woman. Her arms dangled from rusty shackles on either side of her head, tanned, toned and thick as logs. Her bare breasts rested over twin rows of muscle. She crossed her legs on the wooden box, which served as her seat and latrine. She tilted her shaven head with a grin,

    "I know those teats. Yer pregnant? Whatcha in for?"

    Meya''s cheeks burned. She wished she still had enough hair to cover her attributes. She smirked wryly, shrugging,

    "Meya Hild of Crosset. Impersonated a noblewoman." She called across the chasm. The woman blinked, then folded her lips and smacked a kiss,

    "Ooh. Highbrow." She crooned, "Name''s Mithrin, by the way."

    "What did you do?" Meya asked. Mithrin''s smile widened, revealing a sliver of yellowed upper teeth.

    "Me hubby''s too pretty, so I fixed that."

    She winked. Meya shivered in the heat as her imagination ran wild.

    She turned instead to study the silent prisoner in the corner between them¡ªan emaciated, wasted lady with long, straggly soot-colored hair streaked with white. She sat slumped and listless, glassy eyes staring into air.

    "Save yer breath. That one''s a goner, " said Mithrin. Meya shot her a questioning look. "Stole a baby from the School for herself. Crazy, innit?"

    Meya''s heart lurched in equal parts pity and fear. She licked her parched lips,

    "How long she in for? And you?"

    "Five years. Two left." Mithrin answered, then cocked her head at her defeated cellmate, "Twelve, two done."

    Meya gawked,

    "You sure ''tisn''t the other way ''round?"

    Mithrin exploded with laughter, swaying against her chains,

    "Sure as the sun. You?"

    Meya fell against the wall with a sigh.

    "I''m just here ''til my Lord''s men come fetch me. I''ll be tried for real in good ol''Crosset."

    A chill rushed down her spine as she was reminded of her predicament¡ªno, theirs.

    Meya glanced down, but all she could see were her stupid pillows. Wee-Coris was still too wee for the bulge to reach past her ample breasts. Her hands trembled with a burning, torturous itch. It was the least a mother could do, but she couldn''t even comfort the babe with her touch.

    Grinding her teeth against the tide of fear, guilt and loneliness, Meya peered at the tiny heads sailing by on the hallway far below, some bare skin and some covered with short tufts of hair, as if hoping to see a familiar dark-brown head come to a stop beneath this one tower among the hundreds in this warped little town, see that familiar pale, gaunt face and beautiful silvery eyes, looking up to her with that gentle, reassuring smile.

    She shook her head out of it, back to reality, chastising herself for the moment of weakness.

    The wooden trapdoor of the latrine seat chafed against her bum. She nudged the lever on the ledge with her foot. The two halves fell away beneath her, revealing bottomless darkness, probably a pipe leading outside the tower and straight to the cesspit.

    An amusing idea crossed her mind.

    "Say, they know we can chuck our shite down there, right?" She jerked her chin at the potential victims milling about like ants far below. Mithrin tilted her head, picturing the gratifying scene.

    "If you could get your hands free, of course." She wiggled her tethered wrists, rattling the chains.

    "How are we supposed to eat and drink?" Meya asked. Mithrin lowered her feet onto the ledge, where sat a bowl of water. She nudged it before her with her foot, then cupped it between her feet.

    "There we go," she deposited the bowl on the seat with a grunt, lowered her legs again, then squeezed the bowl between her thighs. She looked up at Meya with a smirk, then nodded down at her rigid abdomen, "This how I got these buns."

    Mithrin raised her thighs and bent down in demonstration, slurping noisily from the bowl. Meya slumped against the wall, closing her eyes as despair engulfed her.

    Meya was no stranger to the chains, but this would have to be the worst, even worse than the time she was punished in the Famine. Back then, she had the comfort of knowing it would end after ten whips. She could graze her hand on the Lattis shackles and transform, perhaps, but there was no telling what destruction she''d wreak in her blind agony, what chaos she''d leave in her wake, if a dragon were to take to the sky of Hyacinth.

    And where would she run? How would she survive? What about Arinel? What about Coris? What about the babe she now carried? These invisible shackles were harder to break than Lattis. Impossible, even.

    To think that a week ago, her biggest worry was skinned buttocks.

    Another gust of wind lambasted her, robbing more heat from the poisonous metal burning against her wrists. Its chilled touch reminded her of the ice shackles that had fettered her a mere month ago, and she had slipped through.

    If only things were that simple now.

 Return

    The prison tower was silent, save for Mithrin''s afternoon nap snores. Meya peered at the sunlight streaming in through the bars. The rays hadn''t changed color, but their angle seemed to have tilted.

    How long had it been? An hour? Two hours? Shouldn''t take the Hadrian couple that long to interrogate their sons, should it? And wouldn''t anyone at all bother to double back and check if Meya was still talking with Amoriah? Was she, ultimately, alone, as she always was?

    The realization rattled her, but it shouldn''t. Since she had become part of Arinel''s¡ªthen Coris''s entourage, learned to move, act and survive as a group, she''d forgotten what it was to be alone. To rely on herself, never expecting salvation nor assistance. What was she doing, waiting for help that would never come? How pitiful, crying for people¡ªmen, no less¡ªwho weren''t even here?

    Think! How would I escape?

    Meya took stock of all she was left with. She''d have to break these Lattis shackles with the only known method¡ªher blood. She could dig her nails into her palm and let the blood drip onto the shackles. That way, she could avoid Lattis entering her body, but the mixture could still drip onto her bare skin.

    How much would she forget this time? Who would she forget?

    Arinel, laying her hand atop Meya''s as she accepted death, entrusting her name to Meya¡ªembracing Meya as she passed on her clan''s priceless charms of luck. Lady Jaise, returning her ancestor''s legacy to her as rightful heir. Atmund, the boy she saved¡ªFrenix, the ultimate troublemaker¡ªPhilema, tending to and comforting her like a mother¡ªDorsea¡ªTissa¡ª

    Coris.

    Glinting, sly silvery eyes. Faint, melancholic smile. Awkward, bony embraces. Ice-cold lips. Cheeky teasing. Shared laughter. Shared tears. Shared nights and days. Twice she''d forgotten him against her will. Now, she would knowingly erase him? Cherished memories, forever lost. Would she risk that again? Without even a goodbye?

    Meya''s fingers trembled. She dug her nails into the flesh of her palms. She couldn''t bring herself to slice through, but there was no other way.

    Be decisive. Be ruthless. Be strong. Be free.

    Meya gritted her teeth against grief, urging strength into her numb fingertips. Before she could make up her mind, clattering noises echoed from the ladder, rising higher and higher towards her.

    Meya hung her head and fell limp from her bonds, the picture of meek defeat. The visitor set foot onto the walkway with steps light and unsure, paused, then sprinted. Their shadow reached first into Meya''s field of vision, eclipsing the light. Then came feet. Surprisingly small, wrapped in simple hay shoes, appearing and disappearing under fluttering lace hems. This was no Hyacinth guard. Meya couldn''t resist herself. She looked up.

    Ice-blue eyes wide with fear and shock. Spotless cheeks flushed from the steep climb. Locks of rich golden hair streaming through her hood. She stood panting, a snowy hand clutching her cloak at her chest.

    "Lady Arinel?"

    Meya croaked, voice cracking from thirst. Arinel surveyed her from head to toe, then raised her trembling hands to her mouth.

    "Oh, Meya." She breathed, her voice choked with tears. After a moment of useless fretting, she gathered herself, tugged off her cloak then wrapped it around Meya. She struggled with the clasp¡ªher fingers were shaking horribly.

    "Father¡ªhe found out¡ªI''m so sorry¡ª" She spluttered, hiding her face in shame. Meya was too shocked to care.

    "How did you know? How did you get here so fast?"

    "Never mind that now." Arinel cut across. She leaned close, narrowing her eyes at the shackles, then rummaged in her pockets, "He''ll have you tried for petty treason. You have to get out before his men get here."

    Arinel resurfaced with something Meya had never imagined she''d be caught holding¡ªa set of lock-picks. She studied the shackles again, then eyed Meya quizzically, "Why haven''t you gotten out?"

    Meya watched as Arinel jammed the picks into the keyhole, then tapped the rainbow gleam on the metal.

    "Lattis. Dun feel like burning down the whole danged town yet." Arinel''s wide-eyed look morphed into fury. Meya shrugged, "You''re Lady Crosset. Just sort things out with Amoriah then send them home."

    Arinel froze, blinking. She roused herself then shook her head, working the lock-picks ever more furiously.

    "I''m Lady no more. Father disowned me when I left Jaise." Her voice trembled as hard as her hands. Meya''s frozen heart clattered in the pit of her empty bowels.

    "Milady, you shouldn''t have¡ª"

    "What should I have done, then? Let you burn at the pyre?" Arinel snapped. A flash of glowering blue eyes and fluttering golden curls, then she was again warring with the keyhole, grumbling,"This isn''t working¡ªI''m going to melt this. Be still."

    Arinel produced a jar filled with crimson liquid out of her pocket, then a knife which she dipped into the red. Meya couldn''t help herself,

    "Where did you¡ª"

    This story has been taken without authorization. Report any sightings.

    "Not now, Meya!" Arinel growled through gritted teeth. As she sawed through the shackle, she held up her cloak to absorb the amnesiac mixture. Still, the smidgen of fear in her voice didn''t escape Meya''s ears, "Where''s Coris? How could he let this happen?"

    The name dragged Meya back to the dark place she was in. Meya hung her head, staring at her belly.

    "He dunno. He''s being grounded." She sighed. Arinel''s sawing paused. "His parents are here. Seems Zier''s been tattling about our planned little detour to Everglen."

    The first shackle caved under the weight of Meya''s hand. Massaging her aching shoulder, Meya glanced up to find Arinel petrified, gawking. She thawed, fury radiating from her delicate frame.

    "Drown you, Zier." Arinel cursed under her breath. She moved over to Meya''s right, taking out her frustration on the second shackle. Meya snorted,

    "To think I was growing rather fond of him, too, you know. No offense."

    "None taken." Arinel rolled her eyes. A clatter, and Meya was free. She barely had time to rub blood back into her wrists when Arinel tugged her to her feet. "No time for goodbyes, then. They''re waiting. Come on."

    "They who?" Meya didn''t budge. Arinel spun around with an exasperated cry.

    "Meya¡ª"

    "¡ªIn nine months I''m gunna multiply, milady. Are they prepared for that?"

    Meya exploded. Arinel stood blinking, then her hands flew to her mouth again. Her eyes darted to Meya''s middle, back to Meya''s eyes, then welled up with tears.

    "Oh, Freda." She breathed. Sinking to her knees, she touched cold, soft, shaking fingertips to Meya''s belly.

    "Coris''s?" She looked up, the question barely escaping her lips. Meya turned away at the sharp pang in her heart. Who else could it have been?

    "Have you told him?" Meya closed her eyes with a sigh then shook her head.

    "Dun think I''ll keep it." She slumped onto her prison seat. Even as she said it, her hand joined Arinel''s on her middle, cradling the as yet nonexistent bump, "I''m afraid I''ll become my mother. But I''m afraid I''ll regret it. I''m afraid how Coris would react. But I dun wanna keep secrets from him. I dunno what I''m more afraid of."

    Tears burned in her eyes, threatening to spill¡ªshe pressed them back with the heel of her hand. Arinel''s hand left her belly and clasped over hers, smooth fingers slipping between her rough, warty ones. Her palm pressed over the back of her hand was a patch of grounding warmth amid the swirling, chaotic sea of darkness.

    "Do you want to keep it?" Her voice was soothing, like the cool reprieve of a damp herb poultice over heated skin split open by whip lashes. Meya couldn''t suppress her tears any longer.

    "Dun matter what I want. Can''t have it in this danged life."

    "Why?" Arinel tugged Meya''s other hand away from her face and held it, too. It urged Meya to set aside sarcasm, untangle the chaos in her heart.

    "I¡ªI killed hundreds of people in the Famine. I robbed my mother of her Song. I brought my family so much shame. I have to make up for all that."

    Meya''s shoulders trembled under the soul-crushing weight.

    "Say Coris somehow miraculously made me Lady Hadrian, I couldn''t be sitting around braiding my hair and cooking and weaving and raising children and making love to my husband while Greeneyes are suffering and humans are starving all over Latakia. I can''t be a woman, milady. I can''t be¡ªme."

    The confession robbed Meya of what remained of her strength. Arinel caught her as she fell, sobbing, spilling tears and her deepest, darkest fears down the lady''s shoulder.

    "And I''m so scared. And tired. And cold. I wanna go home but I can''t. Not like this. I haven''t accomplished a thing. I haven''t done Dad proud. I''m not a maiden no more. I was an exile. Now I''m a traitor. And now I''m pregnant out of wedlock. And ''tis all¡ªmy¡ªstupid¡ªfault!"

    Meya buried her face into Arinel''s soft hair, clinging on like one would the last bollard standing in a storm. Arinel held her, a distracted hand running down her back, then her hand began to tremble.

    "Meya, this is too much. You''re punishing yourself for existing!" She shook Meya, as if to jolt her out of her insane beliefs. Meya remained limp and listless. She huffed in frustration and tightened her embrace.

    "What''s wrong with becoming your mother? What''s wrong with cooking and weaving and raising children and marrying the man you love? Why do you have to be so afraid?"

    Tears tumbled down Meya''s cheeks. Arinel pulled back and stared deep into her eyes, blue eyes blazing with determination.

    "You can have a babe. And you can save Latakia. It''s going to be double the hurdle and double the work, yes. But I''ve never taken you for someone who''d settle for second best. And you''re not alone. You have Gretella. You have Agnes. You have me. Let us help."

    The gleam in Arinel''s eyes blazed bright white, like sunlight reflecting off virgin snow, Meya shuddered as her earnest emotions arced through the thick fog into her heart. She didn''t deserve such pure friendship and love from the girl she''d exploited and manipulated and scorned. She averted her eyes. Arinel sighed, frustrated.

    "What''s the point of fighting for a better life for every Greeneye in the three lands, if you can''t have the life you dreamed of, too?" She took Meya''s hands, pleading. Meya heaved a tortured sigh, remembering the other, more worrisome obstacle.

    "But even so¡ªCoris¡ªhe dun want children." She shook her head hopelessly as she blubbered out Freda knew what. Her head was a jumble of half-formed fears and excuses and reasons and facts and emotions, but she was so drained, it was all she could do to unload it in one go,

    "But he''s too noble. I''m sure if I told him, he''d take the babe because he felt responsible. And I dun want that. And he kept saying he''s gunna die soon. I dun wanna make him live for the babe''s sake. Just because I can''t bring myself to kill it. But what if he wasn''t just being a depressed dolt and he just up and dropped dead one day? I dun wanna orphan the babe. What if I died giving birth? Or maybe I''d die aborting it. Either way, it''s gunna hurt. I dun want that. I dunno what to do."

    Silence. All Arinel did was caress her hands. Somehow, the awkward yet earnest gesture gave Meya strength. Although the darkness remained just as pitch black, she was no longer alone inside it.

    "We still have time, Meya. It''s still early." Arinel gave Meya''s hands one last squeeze¡ªa signal to move, "We''ll figure something out. For now, let''s get you out of here. One thing at a time, Grandmother always says."

    Meya nodded. Yes, escaping was first priority. She''d only have to worry about all those if she still had a life to live.

    "Is Jerald here? Just pretend you''re the arresting party your father sent." She suggested as Arinel helped her to her feet. The Lady shook her head.

    "I tried. Amoriah''s under orders to not hand you over to anyone but his trusted men. So we move on to the last resort."

    "Which is?"

    The clunk of boot against metal rung echoed from the ground below. The two girls jolted and spun around, staring, waiting with bated breath as the clunks rose higher up the ladder, the barest of pauses between steps a testament to the climber''s strength. A head of straggly black hair emerged, heralded by a familiar cold, no-nonsense voice tinged with that unforgettable Nostran accent.

    "Dragons¡ªdouble the lifetime, half the patience, Lady Crosset. What''s taking so long?"

    Arinel hid her face behind her hands.

    "I''m so sorry, Meya. It''s the only way." She squeaked as the towering shadow eclipsed her repenting form. Meya raised her eyes to his emotionless, emerald-green eyes. Across his neck, a jagged scar slashed a slanting swathe of dead, bone-white against olive brown. The mark of her betrayal, forever branded on her brethren.

    "Meya Hild." said Gillian with a mirthless smile.

 My Brothers Keeper

    The doors closed with barely a sound. The servant''s footsteps echoed further and further away, then melted into the soft hum of background noise.

    From their long chair, Father and Mother glowered up at Zier and Coris. Mostly Coris. Zier sneaked a glance at his brother. His eyes were void of emotion, but Zier felt fury mingled in the cold emanating from him. He returned to his thoughts with a gulp.

    He drew in a deep, shaky breath, reminding himself of what he''d planned. He''d drugged Jetta and the entourage''s horses, stranding them all in the Sands for a week. He couldn''t let it go to waste. Yet, every time he filled his lungs and raised his eyes to his parents, his resolve petered away along with blood from his numb lips.

    He took too long dithering. Coris blew a soft sigh of surrender then plastered on a bright smile.

    "So, what are we working with here?" He flourished two bare, pale hands. For once, he wasn''t able to read the room.

    "Not much." Mother shrugged. She cocked her head at Zier, "He said you''re planning to sneak away to Everglen and bring back the lost ore ships. The rest of the truth is too dangerous for letters. Our guess is it has something to do with The Axel."

    The mere word sucked all heat and air out of the room. Zier felt three pairs of eyes honing in on him. He should stand tall, but he folded in on himself.

    "Zier?" called Father, impatient. It was time. Had been for the last quarter hour¡ªNo, six years.

    Do it now. End this. Free Brother from your sin.

    Zier dragged in another deep breath. Hopefully, he wouldn''t need any more.

    "Very well," He shivered. Fists clenched, he looked up,

    "Father, Mother, I¡ª"

    He found their eyes. Father¡ªhis own blue. Father had never placed much, if any, expectation on him. Coris had always been his hope. The prodigious heir, ever ready to sell his soul for the Hadrian cause. Even after Coris fell sick, after his recent rebellions and betrayals, Father still hadn''t given up, had never once spared Zier a glance. The Axel Heist was the one time his predictable sons defied expectations. And yet, Father still wouldn''t give up on Coris. The one time Zier acted the heir, not Coris. But even that was a lie.

    "I¡ª"

    Another feeble attempt. Mother stared deep into his eyes. Hers were the sharp gray of Coris''s eyes. Mother''s love was begrudging. She''d wanted little to do with young Coris, with his precocious, manipulative nature and tantrums. She''d always fawn over Zier¡ªthe quiet, sweet, innocent blue-eyed babe who did no harm. The spare she could spoil and coddle and mold to her heart''s desire, since Father had claimed Coris for his own. But he was about to shatter that dreamlike doll.

    If he confessed, Father''s indifference would turn to disgust. Mother''s fondness would turn to disappointment. He couldn''t lose them. Those shallow, fleeting semblances were the closest to love he''d ever get from them. If he didn''t, Coris would resent him, then die with the secret, forever branded a traitor in his place. Nothing would change. And he couldn''t have that, either.

    Wasn''t that why he orchestrated all this? To return justice to his brother who had sacrificed so much for him? But then Father and Mother would hate him, probably banish or kill him. They could. He was the spare, a bumbling one at that. They had no need for him.

    "I¡ªWe know what The Axel is. Coris plans to use surgery to remove it. To save the dragons."

    The words tumbled out, almost of their own free will. And there it went. Another chance, wasted. Weeks of preparation, made meaningless by seconds of cowardice. He couldn''t do it. He couldn''t face the consequences. He couldn''t lose what little love he had from his parents.

    Ari, I''ve let you down.

    Brother, I''m sorry.

    Zier met his brother''s wide gray eyes, pleading for mercy. He saw a blink of disappointment so profound, replaced with resigned determination. The familiar crease appeared between Coris''s eyebrows as he rapidly calculated, adapting to the circumstances Zier had left him in. As he usually did.

    "Dragons?" Father repeated. Coris faced him with a serene smile. Father shared a look with Mother, then narrowed his eyes at Coris. "Why dragons?"

    "Why not?" Coris shrugged, a mocking grin on his lips. Zier saw suspicion in Father''s eyes. The reveal wasn''t astounding, far too little to warrant dragging his parents across the desert and risking the lives of the whole entourage. He cast about for more ammunition. A trump card.

    "He''s in love."

    Coris whipped around, eyes bulging. Jolts of pain coursed through Zier''s heart, but there was no stopping now. He couldn''t have Father suspect him. Not until he''d worked up the nerve to confess again. Although, now that he''d added another betrayal to his tally, it would only be more difficult to come clean. Perhaps even impossible.

    "That Lady Arinel. She''s an impostor. A Greeneye. And he''s in love with her."

    Coris'' heart writhed. His cheeks burned in shame. For the first time in his life, he''d worn his heart on his sleeve, confessed to his deepest feelings, the love of his short, worthless life. And Zier wielded it against him. Fury and grief surged in his stomach, acid burning its scarred walls. He balled up his trembling hands.

    If you encounter this story on Amazon, note that it''s taken without permission from the author. Report it.

    "As a proud Hadrian, I''d appreciate it if you don''t lump my quest with some lovesick fool''s attempt to bed a fair maiden, Zier." He quipped, his smile glazed with ice. He spared Zier a look of pure contempt, just so he could watch him squirm, then turned back to his parents,

    "She''s the Greeneye who saved my life in the Crosset Famine. Her name is Meya¡ªMaelaith Aine Hild. One of Axel''s descendants. Against the odds, we''ve met thrice over the years. I take it as a sign from Freda that my duty¡ªmy purpose¡ªis to support her cause. And repay my debt."

    Father and Mother gawked at him. After a whole minute, Mother thawed, raising trembling hands to her mouth.

    "So, you found her. Finally." She breathed, her voice shrill and choked with tears. She covered her eyes then melted with a sobbing sigh. Father rested his hand on her shoulder.

    "What happened to the real Arinel? Was she killed?" He whispered anxiously. Coris cocked his head towards the door.

    "She gave up her titles to Meya to preserve her family''s honor and pursue a career in alchemy. She''s in Jaise, perfecting anesthesia for my surgery." He unfurled a sarcastic grin, "Turns out she isn''t raring to marry a dying man she barely knew and never loved."

    Father frowned, incensed. Coris doubled down on his aggravating act. He must draw their attention away from Zier, steer the conversation off-course,

    "I''d thought you''d be delighted, Father. Isn''t this what our clan is about? Duty and atonement? Fulfilling this two-hundred-year-old promise?" He threw out his hands, a look of innocent confusion. Father cursed under his breath.

    "That''s not the point, Coris!" He pinched the bridge of his nose, then sprang up and paced, gesturing in exasperation, "You''re traveling across land and sea! Why do you not feel the need to consult us? Your parents? Dozens of ships have been lost. When do you plan on letting us know? A month from now? When Norena delivered you a fresh batch of mead, only to discover you weren''t there?" He spun around and glared. Shaking his head slowly, he rasped, "How could you be so selfish?"

    Coris blinked. Beneath the fire, he caught a glimpse of concern. He fought back the wave of emotion threatening to overwhelm him. Was Father actually worried he would drown at sea, as a father would his little boy, not Lord Hadrian would his heir? It was unlikely, illogical, considering the number of times he had failed Father. Sickly, useless, ugly, twisted monster¡ªhe didn''t deserve love. Yet, he ached with every fiber of his being to believe. He didn''t have time for this.

    "How could you be so selfish?" Coris'' voice trembled as he fought the burning in his eyes.

    "Manipulating the Council to uphold the Ban. Sending countless men to their deaths at sea, hoping to preserve our clan''s influence! While dragons and Greeneyes are suffering across the three lands, and Nostra is draining our soil dry! How could you look Meya in the eye, and recite our motto to her face? Two hundred years! What have we achieved? I''ll die soon anyway. Let it end with me. Let our children and grandchildren live for a purpose of their choosing!"

    "You¡ªare not¡ªdying¡ªCoris!"

    Father exploded. A ringing silence fell. Less because of the outburst, more because of the tremors wracking Baron Hadrian''s shoulders. He pressed his fingers over his eyes and turned away. Coris watched, dumbfounded.

    Mother rose and walked to Father''s side, a soothing hand down his arm. Father heaved a tortured sigh, then met Coris''s gaze. His voice sounded decades tireder than his age,

    "Son, you have one of the noblest hearts and finest minds Freda has ever blessed Hadrian with. It is an honor to be your father. I should''ve told you more often." He muttered, then shook his head wearily, "But you''re also young. Idealistic. Inexperienced. Rash. Drastic."

    Coris trembled at those loving words, wondering if it was simply his longing manifested into a hallucination. Father lingered for a moment¡ªthere was no blame in his eyes, just sadness¡ªthen broke his gaze. Mother led him back to the chair, and he slumped heavily down.

    "Imagine, son. If the king or the people were to learn Greeneyes are dragons in disguise today. What would happen?"

    Coris frowned. Father gazed out into the distance.

    "Maxus and the Fellowship returned from Nostra¡ªnaive, goodhearted young men, inspired by Axel''s sacrifice, raring for change. They headed for the capital. King Edward was sympathetic. He promised to restore Everglen, to use The Axel for good."

    "Unfortunately, his son Philip and most of his Council weren''t so trusting. They killed him then hunted down the Fellowship one by one. Their families weren''t spared, down to the newborn babe. Maxus¡ªwas the last man standing."

    Father hung his head. Coris dropped weak-kneed onto the long chair. Zier remained standing, mired in his own void.

    "High Priest Uriel IV, and every high priest that followed were Greeneyes. That''s part of the deal Maxus made with Philip the Usurper. Philip would stop persecuting Edward''s supporters. In exchange, Maxus would keep The Axel from falling into dragon hands. Decisions regarding Greeneyes would be made by the triumvirate¡ªthe king, the high priest, the Baron Hadrian¡ªone human, one dragon, one in between. Balancing the interests of both races."

    "Uriel made the amendment which led to the Mining Ban¡ªto protect Greeneyes. Yet, he also made the amendments which explained that Greeneyes are minions of Chione¡ªharbingers of misfortune, instead of outright introducing dragons to Latakia. Why do you think that is?"

    Father met his eyes with a raised eyebrow, then tilted his head.

    "Fear¡ªespecially that of the unknown¡ªtempts man to do the unthinkable, gives birth to the wildest beliefs. The tragedy of the Fellowship is harrowing, yet still but a taste of what could have been. With the threat of Nostra''s dragon army looming over us, dragons could either be exploited for war, or massacred."

    "So, Uriel invented the most harmless explanation to quell all prior theories. Better petty prejudice than civil war and genocide."

    Meya...

    Coris masked his heavy heart with a sardonic grin, as the new, old setbacks reared their ugly heads on her path. What should they do? Was it even possible for man and dragon to coxist peacefully in these three lands?

    Father pushed himself up and resumed pacing.

    "I do agree we have kept the dragons waiting long enough. However, we must be subtle and discreet. And even then, we must still be prepared to lose what is easy, what is dear. Even in the best of circumstances, change is rarely bloodless. Five young men of Crosset have already lost their lives. Are you two ready for the consequences?"

    Father locked eyes with Coris. He wasn''t referring to him and Zier, but him and Meya. Once the shock subsided, he felt an inexplicable surge of burning, choking, fluctuating emotions in his chest. Confusion. Determination. Thankfulness. Guilt. Joy. Fear.

    "Zier, be a dear and fetch Meya for us, would you?" said Mother. Coris jolted¡ªhe''d forgotten his brother was still present. By the time he turned to look, the violet corner of Zier''s toga disappearing behind the door was all that was left.

    Oh. So, he was at least ashamed of himself. A slight improvement.

    Zier''s footsteps died away, then Father broke the silence,

    "It''s inside Zier, isn''t it?"

 Honor Bound

    "It''s inside Zier, isn''t it?"

    Coris''s first thought was that he must have imagined it. He turned around as slowly as he dared without giving away his fear¡ªthat he needed those precious split-seconds to compose himself. First, gather information. How much they knew and what they suspect would determine the recipe for the most believable lie.

    "Father, please, we both know for a fact it isn''t."

    Coris smiled and threw up his bare hands, the body language signaling openness¡ªwhich Father pointedly ignored. He stood up and resumed pacing.

    "He was planning to confess¡ªjust didn''t have the courage to follow through." He halted his feet. Heaving a sigh, he shook his head.

    "All this time." He turned and met Coris''s horrified stare. "Why, Coris?"

    Coris studied those mournful blue eyes filled with guilt, and knew there was no longer an explanation, or a pithy quip to distract at the least.

    It''s over.

    The realization crashed into him, six years'' worth of high tide made up of as much fear as relief. All these years, it was as if he''d been drowning under the weight of the sea, so long he''d forgotten what it was like to have empty shoulders and breathe freely, but the surface air was freezing cold on his bare skin. Cold as that hidden chamber felt that night, as he confronted Zier.

    He looked past Father and saw his little brother, as solid and vivid as the present, trembling, hunched in the corner. He tried to speak. His lips were numb from the chill.

    "I found him with the puzzle box¡ªopen¡ªon the floor. He was holding something¡ªThe Axel."

    He saw Zier clutching the unseen artifact closer to his heart, saw the anguish in his wide, round eyes. Tears bubbled up in his eyes as he remembered what would follow.

    "He saw I was about to yell for someone. He stuffed it in his mouth, swallowed it."

    He saw his parents in their nightgowns, pale and disheveled in the lamplight. Memories blended into reality. They hadn''t changed much. He lowered his gaze to the carpet, shaking his head.

    "When you found us, he¡ªhe looked so scared. I¡ªI should''ve known it was unnecessary, but I¡ª" The cry he''d been suppressing for six years swelled to fill his throat, suffocating him.

    "You acted on instinct. To protect him." Father''s knowing voice was a mere whisper. Coris closed his eyes. He couldn''t face them as he battled the festering emotions fighting to burst free. "I should''ve seen through that, but I¡ªassumed the worst of you."

    Despite himself, Coris looked up. Father had his fingers pressed over his eyes, shoulders shaking. Coris''s heart wavered. He turned sharply away, willing it to still.

    "It was only natural." He shrugged and hitched up a bitter grin. "Months ago, I was still a monster."

    "Lexi!" Mother scolded. There was heartbreak in her exasperation, and Coris finally succumbed. He let his spine curve, his face hidden behind his trembling hand.

    "I never imagined it would become¡ªthis¡ª"

    He gestured feebly, making up for his lost voice. Hot tears fell onto his palm, slid down his wrist, then stained his sleeve. His parents must have noticed, but he didn''t dare peel his hand from his eyes and reveal the embarrassment underneath.

    Father and Mother fell silent. His sniffling was now the only sound in the room. He hardly dared breathe. Sighing, Father walked back to the chair and settled down.

    "The Greeneye girl." Coris gritted his teeth as heat enveloped his face. Of course they would return to that. "Is it true? Do you love her?"

    Coris scoffed.

    "Why does it matter? Would you let me marry her if I said yes?"

    "Yes, I would."

    Coris whipped around. He couldn''t stop himself. There was no trace of mockery in Father''s eyes. Something deep within him sensed the honesty in his words, knew that Father simply, truly meant what he''d said. But it wasn''t in Coris''s nature to trust that little naive voice when there were a myriad of other, logical explanations.

    "Understandable." He shrugged and hitched up a wry grin. "I''m dying and impotent. Doesn''t make much of a difference. Plus, she''s a Greeneye. Good publicity for the dragon cause without actual commitment."

    "For the umpteenth time, Lexi. You''re¡ªnot¡ªdying!" Mother snapped.

    "Coris, that''s not the reason." Father argued with simmering frustration.

    "Then what, Father?" Coris sneered. He sprang up and paced, arms flailing. "Back when I still had a future, you arranged for me to marry a lady from a powerful house. Now that I''m a sickly addict spiraling into insanity, you''re ready for me to marry a peasant girl?"

    "I know how it seems, but for once, would you not assume the worst of us?" Father massaged his temples.

    "Even with your blessing, I wouldn''t marry her." Coris rebuffed coldly. Father and Mother''s gawking eyes followed him as he clomped back and forth, moody and downcast.

    "All Hadrians¡ªall nobility¡ªmarried for duty. We''ve forfeited the choice since the day Maxus accepted knighthood, swore to govern this demesne and protect its people. Father, Mother¡ªyou''d never loved each other. You both had your lovers, but still you abandoned them to marry for Noxx and Hadrian. Why do I get to be selfish?"

    He clawed at his chest, brows tied over a derisive smile. His parents blinked, speechless.

    "What about Zier? If I married below, he''d have to marry above for the both of us. I can''t do that to him¡ªto you two¡ªto our ancestors. I was born so that I would give my life to guard The Axel, my blood to continue to Hadrian line, my hand to strengthen Hadrian''s influence." As his train of thought faltered, so did his feet. Coris stared wide-eyed into emptiness, shuddering as the chilling realization dawned on him.

    "What would I be without that?"

    "Our little boy?" Mother suggested, eyebrows raised.

    Coris blinked back tears as he faced her solemn gaze. No, that''s Zier. I''m the monster. He shook his head and backed away.

    "You''ve never wanted me." He muttered. "You''ve aborted three babies before me. I''m the one you missed¡ª"

    Coris gasped and bit his tongue, but it was too late. Mother''s cheeks blanched bone-white under her dabs of rouge.

    "Coris!" Father scolded as he kneaded blood back into her cold hands.

    "It''s fine, Kellis." Mother squeezed his protective hand in thanks. Her eyes were fixed upon her lap, where tear stains had begun to blossom. Yet, her voice did not tremble. "Of course, I can''t expect him to take my love for granted¡ªI have to earn his trust."

    Her voice echoed in the deafening silence, and Coris swayed as tremors in the air sliced through him. It wasn''t that he resented Mother for what she did. Young and ambitious, forced to be a mother before she was ready, she delayed the inevitable the only way she knew. But he couldn''t deny that because of that, he felt unworthy of her love¡ªlet alone Father''s¡ªon his own. Duty and Atonement¡ªit gave him purpose. A standard with which to measure himself. Something to aspire to be. Without it, he was nothing. So how could he choose something so selfish, so foolish, so¡ªZier¡ªas to marry the girl he loved?

    Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

    Father gathered Mother into his arms.

    "I as well, Sylvia. I as well." He whispered into her hair, then turned and met Coris''s quivering stare, his blue eyes steady and gentle.

    "Yes, your mother and I, like our ancestors before us¡ªwe all married for profit." He cocked his head. "That doesn''t mean it has to always be so for the next generation. Parents should strive to create a better world, a better life for their children. Why force our children to be unhappy the way we once were? That''s jealousy. Not love."

    Father shook his head. The strict lines of his face relaxed. His eyes were warm and kind.

    "Isn''t that what you''ve set off to do, son? Ending the cycle?"

    His voice was barely above a whisper, yet Coris swayed as if lambasted by a gale. One by one, Father chipped away at the lifelines tying him to logic and duty. His whole persona. His chosen identity. And he was left grasping at straws.

    "But¡ªwhat about our allies? What about our people?" He threw up his hands, incredulous. "We''re not given a life of luxury and privilege so we can do whatever we want."

    "I''m sure there are other¡ªperhaps even better¡ªways to strengthen Hadrian and bring prosperity to our people¡ªthan threatening the king with The Axel, and marrying a powerful ally." The corners of Father''s lips twitched into a small smile. "With that brain of yours, I''m sure you''d figure something out."

    Father''s eyes brimmed with confidence. Coris hurriedly dipped his gaze to the carpeted floor, struggling not to tremble. Yes, there were other possibilities, and his heart yearned to hope. But all were roundabout, meandering. Too much of a risk and an effort to justify. All so he could be selfish. He couldn''t live with the guilt.

    "Wouldn''t you like more time to consider, Father?" Coris hastily steered away. Fyr, he''d gladly go back to discussing The Axel. "?You''ve only learned Meya exists just now."

    Father froze. As Coris frowned, perplexed, he shared a long look with Mother. Though fearful, she gave him a firm nod and squeezed his hand. Father drew in a deep breath and turned back to face Coris, pale but determined.

    "No, we''ve known about the girl for as long as you have." He lowered his head. An ominous premonition clawed at Coris''s thundering heart, then became reality¡ª

    "I tampered with your laudanum. To have you forget."

    There was a pause, before the truth hit at full force. Memories flashed before his eyes. Seven years, searching for answers amidst the thick fog in his brain which receded then returned, then repeated. Just when he started remembering, he would just as soon forget. All this time¡ªhis own father¡ªwhy¡ªhow¡ªwhat¡ª

    Coris sat and gaped at his father, trembling from the effort of staying sane as his head threatened to burst from the screaming questions within. Father stilled his hands by clamping them on his knees.

    "There''s a unit of Hadrian men, stationed across Latakia. Whenever a Greeneye transforms, it''s their job to contain the fallout." He began.

    "Erase everyone''s memories with Greeneye blood and Lattis?" Coris whispered. Father dipped a sorrowful nod.

    "The blood comes from the High Priest himself. The Lattis, our secret mine in Hadrian. The method would depend on the nature and scale of the event. Sometimes, treating a few burns was all it took. Sometimes, we must taint the village well. And, sometimes, a father must spike his son''s nightcap."

    He concluded bitterly, hands curling into trembling fists. Coris was too shocked to have room for anger yet. He fixed his gaze on the spider-like pattern on the carpet, anchoring himself amid the chaos.

    "My kidnappers remember everything." He looked up and narrowed his eyes at Father. "Why were they spared? Because no-one would believe them anyway?"

    "Meya''s transformation happened in a remote location, with only a handful of untrustworthy witnesses." Father closed his eyes and sighed. "The fire could easily be explained away as a result of dry weather. The people were too busy surviving the famine to ask questions. Since your word carries the most weight, silencing you is much more effective than hunting down a dozen peasant men who already feared retribution and ridicule too much to ever come forth. It''d be a hassle at best. And at worst, it could rouse suspicion."

    Coris nodded slowly. He wasn''t sure what he felt, or what he should feel. His logical half understood and felt it would have done the same had it been in Father''s position, while his selfish half protested it had the right to feel enraged and betrayed. Still numb and undecided, he watched as Father slouched in his chair, overwhelmed by guilt.

    "I''m so sorry, Coris." He said, his voice labored and trembling, shaking his head, "All this could''ve begun seven years earlier. It was the perfect opportunity. I saw your eyes that day, I knew you would repay that dragon girl if it was the last thing you''d do. I had a choice, and I chose to be the selfish coward. To keep the status quo. I''ve wronged you. So unforgivably."

    Father broke off, his back bent so low, his hair grazed his white, trembling knuckles above his knees. Mother squeezed his hand as she pursed her lips against tears. Deriving strength from her touch, Father resurfaced.

    "You have our blessing, son. If your destiny lies in Everglen, I''ll do everything in my power to get you there and back home safe." He vowed.

    Once more, Coris thought he had dreamed his hallucinations into life. Yet, Father''s eyes were so understanding, so gentle, so loving¡ªhe knew he''d never have dared imagine it.

    "Wh¡ªwhat about Lord Crosset?" He whispered, as if loud noise would scatter the illusion.

    "We''ll figure out a compromise¡ªtogether." Mother moved to his side and took his hand. It sounded so foolishly simple. Coris licked his dry lips, itching to protest, and she shook her head, "We won''t stop you, Lexi. We just ask that you trust us a little. Give us one more chance. Let us know. Please."

    As Mother pinned him with her eyes of wavering gray, Coris knew he was out of excuses. The lies he cooked up to mask his one true fear. The actual reason he''d shied away from his heart''s desires for all these years.

    "She still has a future. I¡ªdon''t." He choked out. The harsh, unchangeable truth. Mother rested her free hand on his shoulder.

    "You have the present, too, Lexi." She shook him gently, tears glistening on her cheeks, "Don''t forget that."

    It was the final stone. As he remembered for the first time in seven years, his wall collapsed from within, and the human trapped inside burst free with all his flaws and emotions and dreams and wants. Coris fell into his mother''s awkward embrace, clung onto her as her arms encircled him. He buried his nose into her shoulder and sobbed, for once not caring for the stain of tears and snot he had created. Mother didn''t shush him nor scold him. Father''s rough hand joined hers on his head.

    Sylvia met her husband''s eyes, sharing the dilemma of parents of doomed children. The stubborn hope that Fyr would have mercy, that healers would err, that Freda would perform a miracle. The undercurrent of despair, brought on as one saw the cold light of reality. The frustration of not knowing what to say, what to do. What was right and what was best. Should they help ease this poor boy''s transition to death, or urge him to fight and cling onto life? Or do nothing?

    However, that would be for another day. For now, they would celebrate Coris''s breakthrough, and plan their next move on Zier.

    One down. One to go.

    After a few minutes, Coris exhausted his pent-up grief. He pulled away, dabbing at his face with his overabundant sleeve. Sylvia was reaching for her handkerchief when the door flew open and bounced off the wall with a bang.

    "Brother!" Zier fell in with a cry. He hurtled over to the nonplussed Coris, revealing little Lord Frenix standing in the doorway.

    "Meya¡ªshe¡ªyou gotta come¡ªnow!" With one vicious jerk of his arm, he dragged Coris to his feet and towards the door.

    "Calm down, Zier. Explain." Coris commanded, sharp and cold. He pulled his hand free. The mere presence of his brother must have snapped him back to his public self, which only served to intimidate Zier more. As Zier gulped and mouthed and trembled, Frenix rushed in.

    "Lord Crosset heard about the switch. Amoriah had Meya locked up. She''ll be sent back and tried for treason." As what little color drained away from Coris''s face, Frenix snatched his arm and tugged.

    "I know where she is. Come on!"

    <hr>

    Fast as a cornered cat, Frenix scaled the ladder and disappeared onto the landing. Dozens of rungs down, Coris urged himself up another step, then another, then another. Zier was right behind, ready to retrieve his dangling corpse should his feeble heart gave out halfway through the climb. Father and Mother remained on the ground, eyes on the coast.

    With a final push on the tush from Zier, Coris hoisted himself onto the stone bridge. He scrambled to his feet, turning wildly around. A pillar of dark brown caught his eye¡ªFrenix. Young Lord Pearlwater stood paralyzed at one end of the four-pronged walkway. On the seat before him sat a young woman wearing two curtains of long, curly golden hair and a chemise. Her bare shoulders, arms and feet were snowy white and slender, unmarred by freckles, veins nor muscle tone. Empty, mangled shackles dangled from the wall on either side of her.

    For once, Coris didn''t pause to analyze the oddities. He couldn''t think. He hurried towards them, his echoing footsteps distracting the girl from Frenix. Her ice-blue eyes widened, not by surprise¡ªbut fear. The sight slammed into him like ice water over his head, waking him¡ª

    "Arinel?" Coris rasped, stumbling to a halt on numb feet. Her eyes flickered away momentarily, staring past his shoulder at Zier, who must have been frozen a few steps behind, then returned to his. She shivered and dipped her head once more.

    "She''s safe, Coris. She''s with him." She extended a trembling arm. "I''m so sorry. He left you this."

    In her hand was a folded note. As Coris took it, his heart sank even lower. He remembered the feel of the paper. He opened it. He knew the handwriting. He could guess the demands:

    Wait at the Valley''s mouth.

    When the first star rises, follow the Song.

    Bring The Axel and no more.

 The Rescue

    (Two days earlier)

    The calm heralds the storm, the bolt strikes out of the blue, as the saying went. Yet, for Arinel, it wasn''t even a calm, cloudless-sky day to begin with.

    One of her first moves as alchemist had been to recruit Dineira, her mother''s accidental murderer, to assist her with recreating and improving on her mother''s work.

    It wasn''t that she''d forgiven Dineira. She''d put aside her grudge if it meant anesthesia could be perfected one day sooner. One less day Zier would have to live in fear. One less day dragons would have to suffer.

    Apparently, that was too much for Gretella. Within days of Meya''s departure, Arinel found herself no longer on speaking terms with her grandmother, for the first time in her life.

    Worse, the progress she had fought her nana for was anything but remarkable. Surgery remained a forbidden practice by the Royal Council, which meant Lady Jaise couldn''t provide funding or test subjects. Arinel had had to use her life savings to fund the experiment, yet it was still illegal to even put up bulletins recruiting test subjects from the common populace.

    Diamat Sameri helped spread the word and bring in old regulars. However, when Arinel explained in full honesty that they would be put to a sleep they might not wake up from, using a banned procedure, the volunteers would either develop cold feet or demand absurd compensations Arinel could not afford.

    That fateful day, Arinel had shuffled into her lab to find Dineira''s note, with suggestions and designs for never-before-seen, custom-made equipment needed to streamline the procedure, a schedule empty of appointments with potential test subjects, and no new letters from Zier on her desk. When Lady Jaise summoned for her, she''d entered the Great Hall expecting nothing more could dampen her spirit, only to nearly faint at the sight of her father sitting there in the flesh.

    As Meya would often proclaim with a roll of her eyes¡ªtypical Freda.

    Arinel watched Father''s white boots pacing back and forth before her, the hem of his Crosset Green cloak fluttering with each furious step. Every two steps, a swing and tap of his cane. Even with her Icemeet blood, Arinel shivered in the cold. She missed Jerald''s warmth at her back, Grandmother''s hands upon her shoulders. They weren''t allowed by her side. Partners-in-crime were to be interrogated separately.

    "How did you find out, Father?" Arinel succumbed with a sigh, unable to tolerate the silence any longer. Father slumped down on the long chair, a hand on his cane''s silver knob.

    "Rumors, Annetta." He growled. Arinel twitched uncomfortably at the name. Her father preferred her middle name, which he had chosen. If Mother hadn''t died, forcing him to honor her memory with the most inconsequential gesture he could afford, Arinel had a sneaking suspicion she would have been named Annetta Arinel instead.

    "Them masked merchants, stirring up a crowd in every alehouse. Lady Crosset is secretly a Greeneye, is what they said."

    "Naturally, you suspected Meya." Arinel muttered.

    "I thought you were dead, Annetta!" Father snapped, glaring into her eyes. Arinel flinched. "Five guards were killed, and I only learned of it a week later! It''s not below that wench to take your place when the opportunity arises."

    "No, Father." Arinel straightened up in her chair. She glared straight back at her father, voice trembling with emotion, "I made the choice to die. The bandits were willing to negotiate. Meya persuaded me to live. She''s brave¡ªloyal¡ªselfless¡ª"

    "Just not enough to hand back your titles when it was all over, is she?" Father sneered. Arinel bit her lip, trembling fists clenched on her lap.  Father shook his head, growling through gritted teeth, "I should''ve known better than to let a crone and a bastard raise my daughter. They''ve raised a softhearted fool! A cowardly liar!"

    "How could you¡ªHow dare you¡ª" Arinel choked out, winded by shock, grief and rage. Father slammed his cane on the floor.

    "No! How dare you!" He snarled, a spindly finger jabbing at her. Arinel could only sit in stunned silence, pale and shivering with cold fear. She pressed her back against the cushions, watching as Father sprang up and resumed pacing, faster this time. Sharp raps of his cane on the flagstones echoed through the charged air.

    "When Alden demoted me, I feared the Hadrians'' honor wouldn''t be enough to persuade them to follow through with the marriage¡ªthen Coris fell ill. It was as if Freda was on my side for once." He rambled, then shook his head in frustration,

    "If you so desired the little brother, you only needed to wait. I don''t give a damn if the boy wasted away in three months, if he managed to sire you an heir before he boarded the boat. But you couldn''t wait, could you? Like mother, like daughter. Insatiable whores!"

    He spat. Arinel''s head went blank in shock. For a moment, time stood still, then rage consumed all inhibitions.

    "You raped her! What choice did she have?" She bolted up, screaming, tears spilling down her cheeks.

    "I took what was mine to take! My right!" Father roared, a finger jabbing his sunken chest. "My duty to continue the Crosset line!"

    "Duty?" Arinel tore up a sneer of derision, even as tears continued to flow from her eyes. She shook her head in disbelief. "Is that the one thing I''ve been living for? You raped Mother then left her to die in the flames to have me. You couldn''t care less if she slept with Sir Bayne behind your back, so long as I was yours! You forced me to marry a dying man I never loved, just so he could leave me widowed with your heir! My womb¡ªis that the only part of me you''ve ever cared about?"

    Silence fell, ringing with her desperate cry. Arinel stood panting, clutching at her middle. Her throat was dry and smarting¡ªshe''d never raised her voice this loud, this long before in her whole life. She pleaded with her eyes, hoping for a denial, a shred of love and kindness.

    Father didn''t deign to answer. He turned pointedly away, glaring stubbornly at the floor. Scalding tears tumbled out of her eyes as Arinel gave up hope. She hung her head, teeth gritted against the pain, and made one last ditch attempt to salvage what she had ruined, to please her heartless father.

    "The marriage was held in my name. All that''s left to do is consummate it¡ªand I would. Coris doesn''t know I''ve lain with Zier¡ªI could fake my purity. I''m sure he won''t object."

    Silence. She gathered her courage and raised her face, forcing herself to meet those cold, disapproving eyes. She crumpled to her knees.

    "All I ask is that you spare Meya. She kept me alive¡ªa feat even a knight and ten yeomen couldn''t match. That allowed me to fulfill my duty to you. She''d done no wrong."

    She whispered, shaking her head in plea. Father spared her a glance, then gave a soft sigh and held his head high.

    "Too late, Annetta. I''ve sent word to Hyacinth. She will be brought back and tried for petty treason against Lady Crosset."

    Treason.

    Strength left Arinel''s legs as gruesome illustrations flashed by in her head¡ªwomen dragged along the streets naked behind horse-carts, as crowds pelted them with stones and filth¡ªthen bound to pyres, engulfed by flames, screaming in agony. Meya didn''t deserve that. No-one deserved that. Not women who counterfeited coins. Not even women who killed their infants. Perhaps not even the wickedest men.

    She must do something. She didn''t know what exactly. All she knew was she must go to Meya''s side. Warn her. Comfort her. She only needed to be with Meya. Then, together, they would find a solution. They would find hope.

    Arinel pushed herself up on wobbling knees, feet struggling to find purchase on the slippery stone.

    Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on the original website.

    "Looks like I''m going to Hyacinth, then." She whispered.

    She felt the cold of Father''s stare on her back as she toddled numbly towards the door, hardly believing what she had meant to do. Crossing a desert. Defying her father. For the sake of a peasant girl¡ªa Greeneye¡ªher best friend.

    "One step out of that door, and you are no longer my daughter."

    Father warned, cold and sharp as a blade against her neck. Arinel froze with her hand on the doorknob. Fear crept back in, tugging at her dress, yearning for what was familiar, for compromise. Until a realization dawned upon her, a flash of light bright as a snow glare, burning away the mist, leaving only clarity.

    If one step out of the line was all it would take, then was it that much to lose?

    The door opened with barely a hitch, closed on the only life she had known with barely a whisper. The stones on the other side felt no different under the soles of her shoes, save for the grim knowledge that there was no going back. A feather-light step, a fine line that took seventeen years to cross, and her new life had begun. Lady Crosset no longer existed. She was no-one. And she could be anyone.

    After a few deep breaths, Arinel shook herself out of her reverie and eked out a couple more stiff steps. As she approached the alley at the corner of Father''s room, a Jaise guard stepped out of the shadows and slipped down his mask.

    His hair remained hidden under the hood of his cloak, but Arinel would never not recognize those glowing green eyes, that scar-ridden face, that cold, menacing smile.

    "Lady Crosset." said Gillian the Dragon. His smiled widened, "I believe you''re in want of rapid transport across the Sands?"

    <hr>

    (The present)

    Meya''s successful escape came to light soon after the Hadrians had sneaked Arinel back to their guest quarters, when a guard climbed up to refill the prisoners'' water bowls. Enraged at the affront to her infallible prisons, Lady Amoriah commanded her guards to tear the Hyacinth Palace apart in search of her fugitive.

    As they waited for sundown, Arinel explained to her de jure in-laws how Father had come to learn of the switch and ordered Meya''s arrest¡ªhow Gillian and his twenty men had flown her and Jerald across the desert as dragons¡ªhow they had smuggled Meya out in Arinel''s clothes and a blonde wig, while she stayed behind with the ransom demand. She also had to recount the ambush in the forest¡ªher deal with Meya¡ª

    She stopped short of revealing her affair with Zier, however¡ªwhen guards came knocking to conduct a search, Coris sprang up and dragged her to the bed. In the precious seconds he had while he helped her crawl under it, he warned in a whisper that his parents knew the truth, but Zier hadn''t confessed, before climbing onto the bed himself to feign sleep.

    This happened twice more while Coris''s parents bombarded her with questions, hoping to know her better, before the Baroness welcomed Arinel as her ward and maid-of-honor.

    Arinel was reduced to tears. Of course, the true family she lost could never be replaced, but she had found a new one to shelter her as she weathered the storm, and figured out which path to take. The Baroness held her as she sobbed, and Arinel felt a mother''s embrace for the first time in her life.

    The last knocks came on the eve of sunset¡ªservants had brought them a light dinner of goat milk and dates (Lady Hyacinth having upended the feast table as the culminating act of her tantrum). They downed the milk, pocketed the dates, then crept through the mostly deserted hallways and up one of the towers under the pretense of stargazing. The Baroness reluctantly stayed behind¡ªthey have limited seats on their transport. They also needed to leave someone to deflect suspicion, and protect the remaining members of the entourage.

    They emerged on the rooftop to eight Greeneyes¡ªPhilema, Dorsea, Tissa, Frenix and Atmund, and three Greeneye guards wearing Hadrian Red uniforms. That explained how the Baron and Baroness had managed to overtake their sons to Hyacinth.

    Philema winced as the night wind lambasted them¡ªstill leery of the heights. She held Frenix, who seemed even more tense and sickened.

    "Dragons, thank you for coming on such short notice. Hopefully, you''ve had the chance to fill up your metal glands. The Lady Hadrian has been kidnapped from her cell. We need your help to get her back safely."

    Coris stepped forth for the debriefing, as usual.

    "Amoriah''s closed all the city gates, and every house is being searched. We''ll fly above clouds to avoid detection, and reach the valley before the stars rise."

    Coris turned and met eyes with each Greeneye. That was when he noticed Frenix''s dismay.

    "Is something the matter, Frenix?"

    Frenix jolted. Urged on by pressuring looks from Dorsea and Philema, he reached a trembling hand into his trouser pocket and pulled out two metallic, glowing green spheres. Dragon eyes.

    "Jadirah''s?" Coris rushed in with a furrow of temper between his brows. He grasped Frenix''s hand and raised it for a closer look. "Aren''t they supposed to be with Meya?"

    "I nicked them from her pocket." Frenix mumbled.

    "¡ªAnd read them?" Coris raised a demanding eyebrow, then rolled his eyes at the Heights. "I warned you, Frenix."

    "Well, I want to read exciting eyes, too! You guys keep treating me like a child!" Frenix exploded.

    "You are a child." Coris was reduced to pinching the bridge of his nose, eyes closed. Sighing, he asked on, "What horrors have you witnessed?"

    The fight drained from Frenix''s face along with some of the brown. As Philema gathered Frenix deeper into her embrace, Dorsea heaved a sigh and reported in his place,

    "The boy''s probably about fifteen. He ran away from home because his father and brothers bullied him for being a Greeneye and unmanly¡ªhe hoped he''d fit in better here. His mother was a loving woman, so he believed the Hyacinth women would rule with kindness. He found a bulletin, thought he''d get to work in the fabric trade. Instead, the women who put up the bulletin took him to a man-brothel. He tried to run, but they pinned him down, stole his belongings then lunged for his eyes. That''s the last memory."

    Dorsea gasped out then pressed her hand to her mouth, holding back a sob. As the newcomers gaped in terror, Tissa rolled her eyes and snorted.

    "Idiot. Everybody knows offers like those are too good to be true." She muttered under her breath. Dorsea shot her a glare so venomous, Arinel half expected to see fangs when she turned to Coris and continued.

    "I''m sure there are many Greeneyes like him¡ªmaybe even regular people. Lured in by lies then trapped here. Please, we have to do something, my liege."

    "We will, Dorsea." Coris nodded absently, a hand stroking his chin, then finally met Dorsea''s gaze.

    "If negotiations went our way, we would have transport back. Once you''ve dropped us off, fly back here, report to Mother, then read the eyes again. Find the brothel. Get names. Look for familiar faces. Fetch Jadirah and Ozid, get them to talk."

    Dorsea nodded vigorously, eyes wide and back ramrod straight. Arinel doubt they''d be able to take it all in with the speed Coris was talking in. Sure enough, she spotted Christopher hastily scribbling his commands onto a scrap of parchment. Zier''s mouth was hanging half-open, as always intimidated by the ever larger boots Coris would leave for him to fill. Simon seemed silently disgruntled for some reason. Coris, of course, noticed nothing¡ª

    "¡ªAnd have Mother summon Lasralein Hasif. Agnesia and Persephia should be fine¡ªI doubt they''d dare touch the Grayes, but I want Cleygar and Lors safely under our care by tomorrow morning. We''ll be back with Meya as soon as possible."

    Atmund stepped forward, then. Coris broke off and blinked questioningly at him. The masked boy drew in a deep breath and clenched his fists.

    "I¡ªI want to go with you." He said, determined and grave unlike his usual fretful self. As Coris gawked at him, he dipped his head in shame, "The good miss helped me. That''s why everyone knows she''s a Greeneye. It''s my¡ª"

    "No, it isn''t. Don''t ever think that." Coris cut across him, his voice sharp. He knelt down and held the boy''s shoulders, his gray eyes gentle as he stared at the glass sockets on Atmund''s mask. "I admire your bravery. You''ll make a fine knight one day, Atmund¡ªbut it''s still too risky now. We can''t bear to lose you."

    Behind the metal grille, Atmund pursed his trembling lips. Coris squeezed his shoulders.

    "We''ll bring her back. I swear." He vowed. Atmund finally nodded. He turned and strode out to the wide-open space, bathed blood-red by the setting sun. He shed his mask and cloak, revealing the thin coat of silvery scales covering him from neck to ankle. There was a flash of light. Where the little boy once stood was a small dragon, only slightly larger than Arinel herself.

    The remaining Greeneyes wordlessly followed suit. Old Philema hung back and watched in wistful awe along with the rest of them, shielding her eyes from the successive flashes of light.

    "Gillian''s much larger, isn''t he?" A voice whispered up nearby. Arinel spun around to find Coris had retreated to her side. At her look of astonishment, he cocked his head with a sly grin. "You seem disappointed."

    Arinel turned back to survey the seven dragons lined up before them, sharp silhouettes against the orange sky, then nodded with a sigh. She could sense apprehension seeping from under Coris''s nonchalant facade. A hilarious notion popped into her head, and she hitched up a little smile.

    "Size doesn''t matter."

    There was that anticipated pause of shock, inevitable for one who had experienced her humor for the first time, then Coris collapsed into a fit of laughter.

    ?

    Jokes aside, size did matter. Greeneyes were smaller than purebred dragons in their true form. Dorsea and Tissa were slighter than the three Hadrian guards. Frenix and Atmund were even smaller, being young boys as they were.

    They decided that Baron Kellis, Jerald and Zier would board the three adult males, Christopher and Simon would go with Dorsea and Tissa, and Arinel and Coris would go on Atmund and Frenix. However, Tissa objected and insisted she could carry a passenger as heavy as the men, so Coris obligingly swapped Zier and Simon.

    Tissa spent the whole journey lagging behind the pack, sometimes dropping feet in the air as the green-faced Zier did his best to hold on to dinner and dear life. Arinel could have sworn she saw Baron Kellis shaking his head when he spotted Coris''s vengeful smirk peeking over the rim of his cloak.

    As soon as they landed, Zier tumbled off Tissa''s back and staggered away for a crop of desert grass he could mulch with his bowel''s content. Arinel slid off Atmund and thanked him with a kiss on his eyelid. As the little dragon curled up for a siesta, she stepped onto the gravel-strewn road and tipped her head back until she could see the two violet peaks on either side of the valley, sharp as a sword''s tip, dark as night against a backdrop of clouds set aglow by the dying sun.

    A gust of compressed wind blasted from deep within the heart of the valley. Arinel hastily retreated to the wayside. She peered into the shifting clouds for the twinkling light of a star, strained her ears for a faint song mingled in the gale, but caught neither. Behind her, the men began gathering firewood and setting up camp. They''d have to settle in for the wait.

 The Valleys Mouth

    The Greeneyes had departed for Hyacinth. The rescue party was left to huddle around the fire against the gathering desert chill. As she waited for the kettle to boil, Arinel made a poultice with desert herbs she had picked and dried during her trip across the Sands. A mixture of acacia, brittle bush, desert lavender, yellow bells and whatnot, sure to soothe the nerves and the bowels.

    Once the kettle had begun to sputter, she slipped it off the spit and poured scalding water over the poultice into wobbly tin cups. She carried the first two to Baron Hadrian and Simon¡ªthey spared a moment to nod in thanks before returning to their grave discussion over a letter. The next she offered to Christopher, who had just returned with more firewood and gratefully warmed his dusty hands around it. She set one down before Jerald, who refused to acknowledge it, left one behind on the gravel to cool for Coris alongside her empty cup, and made her way to the tent with the last one.

    She lifted up a half of the cloth-door. Zier was lying on his side on the carpet. He hadn''t bothered taking off his boots. He flinched away from the sliver of light as it slithered up his crumpled silhouette, burrowing his face deeper into his arms.

    "Zier? I brought you tea."

    Zier flipped onto his tummy, trembling. She knelt down and caught snippets of a sob leaking from the crook of his arm.

    "Zier!"

    Arinel bent down and gathered him onto her lap. He pushed himself up and into her embrace, nestling his face into her chest.

    "I''m sorry. I just can''t do it." He blubbered, shaking his head in a desperate plea for mercy. "I don''t want them to hate me. I don''t want to die."

    He repeated over and over as he clung tighter to her. Arinel pressed her nose into his hair and dried her tears. In this moment, a soothing hand down his back, and a listening ear, were all she could think to offer.

    <hr>

    By the time Arinel reemerged from the tent, Coris''s tea had gone ice-cold. She replaced half his cup with freshly poured tea, then cast her eyes about for the Hadrian heir. She found him stationed a little way away from the clearing, his back to the light, his eyes on the wedge of darkening sky visible behind the gaping mouth of the valley.

    Arinel approached him, tin cup in each hand. So deep was his concentration, he only started at the sight of her hand entering his field of vision. He whipped around, eyebrows raised. His sharp gray eyes were emotionless, constantly calculating¡ªjust as they were all those years ago.

    "Tea," was all Arinel could manage to break the awkward silence. Coris''s eyebrows crept closer together.

    "Thank you."

    Arinel felt his eyes upon her as she gathered her skirt and settled down. He blinked, then unfurled a smile which did not reach his eyes.

    "Interesting. What inspired you to seek my hated company, Lady Crosset?"

    "You were supposed to be my husband. Just thought I''d see what could have been." Arinel cocked her head.

    "Ah. So, are we going all the way?"

    Arinel felt a rush of heat on her cheeks. She shot the cheeky lad a withering look.

    "No, thank you. I''m regretting it now."

    Coris chuckled.

    "Shame." He heaved a dramatic sigh, then succumbed to the call of the earth and slumped down by her side, "Perfect timing, nevertheless. I''ve been meaning to ask¡ªHow''s your research going?"

    Arinel seized up under the pressure of those intense, eager gray eyes. She''d just meant to persuade him to relent and look in on Zier, actually. She guessed he''d be preoccupied with rescuing Meya, and had prepared thus. But it was impossible, it seemed, to predict just exactly what¡ªand how many things¡ªwere going through Coris''s mind at any given time.

    She had no countermeasure. And, having served as receptacle for the anguish of others, without a chance to pour a drop out of her own overflowing bowl, Arinel realized only then how desperate she was. It hardly occurred to her she was about to divulge her secrets to her mortal enemy¡ªa known manipulator.

    "Nowhere." She propped her arm on her knees and rested her forehead against her hand, "It started off well enough. I''ve got Dineira to help. We''ve refined Tyberne''s method to be more efficient, but¡ªwe''re having difficulty finding volunteers to test it on."

    "What if you offer a handsome reward?" Coris suggested. Arinel pressed her fingers on her closed eyes.

    "I tried, but¡ªGold? Illegal? Death? It attracted all the wrong sorts of people for all the wrong purposes. And we can''t get funding from Lady Jaise. She could get in trouble with the king."

    "How about prisoners? Those scheduled to be executed? Castrated?"

    Arinel froze, then sighed. Ask Coris, and of course she''d get solutions like these¡ªuse any means possible, morals be damned. But what irked her most was that she had considered it herself. And perhaps¡ªwas even briefly tempted.

    "Anesthesia is supposed to save lives, Coris. It''s supposed to be safe. Testing it on dispensable people, people who are meant to die or suffer¡ªI don''t want the public to associate it with that."

    She met his gaze and shook her head. A streak of annoyance flitted by in Coris''s eyes¡ªnot at her, but at the shallow reservations of man at large.

    "An image problem, eh." He stroked his chin as his eyes roamed, "Proving your mother''s death to be murder rather than alchemical mishap might help to soften the Council¡ªif only they weren''t occupied with the resources crisis." He muttered sullenly, then his face lit up¡ª

    "Have you considered experimenting on yourself? A noblewoman putting her own life at stake for her cause. If that didn''t boost the public''s confidence, nothing would."

    Arinel''s heart skipped a beat. An unbidden flash of anger tore through her. She couldn''t help it¡ªit was second instinct. She was a woman¡ªa noblewoman, no less. How dare he suggest such a thing, as if her life was disposable? But just as soon, shame flooded her, humbling her, as she remembered the Famine and Gillian''s ambush. She swallowed her pride and forced herself to focus.

    "I have, but Grandma and Sir Bayne wouldn''t allow it. And I can''t ask Bishop Riddell or Dineira, either. After all, it''s my mother''s life work¡ªit''s my work."

    "And how does that make you feel? Frustrated? Or relieved?"

    His question sunk like a blade of ice into her core, chilling her from within as the truth seeped out of her. Arinel trembled, then hung her head.

    "Relieved," She breathed. Coris nodded.

    "That''s the true problem, Arinel." He betrayed a small, triumphant smile, "If even you aren''t fully at ease with it, no one will be. And it''s not your fault."

    He tilted his cup as if to salute her, then took a sip. Arinel''s breath caught as realization hit her. She glared down at the gravel at her feet as her heart pounded. Her cheeks flushed from both embarrassment and rage.

    He''d lured her in with his charming wordsmith. She''d confided in him in her most vulnerable moment, and he''d wasted no time in wielding that knowledge against her. She remembered now, why she had once loathed him so ardently.

    "Is this why you wanted to talk? To convince me to give up?" She whipped around and glared, seething through gritted teeth, "I don''t play your games, Coris. Just be frank with me. What¡ªare you¡ªafter?"

    Coris sat frozen, blinking, pale as parchment. Arinel frowned. She''d never feared Coris, of course, but she hadn''t expected she''d ever scare him into being human for once, either. He looked away, out into the valley. A charged silence stretched between them.

    "I want you to research Lattis¡ªhow to nullify it¡ªand recreate The Rota."

    It became Arinel''s turn to blink and gape. As the notion dawned on her, her heart shuddered with both sorrow and gratitude.

    This scheme, this negotiation¡ªhad ultimately been for Zier. She''d come in hoping to ask his forgiveness, and it had been utterly unnecessary. She''d had no clue what was in his brain¡ªand still didn''t. Somehow, all this time, he''d been thinking of Zier and little else. He''d always paved the shortest path for every conquest, yet now he was willing to walk the longest roundabout to spare his brother the fear of death.

    This content has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

    If only Zier could''ve seen.

    "What about The Axel?" Her voice was so hoarse it surprised her. Tendrils of grief rolled off Coris''s shoulders even as he creaked up his empty little smile.

    "I know. It''s a dilemma, isn''t it?" He chuckled feebly, "You know Zier the best. What would you do?"

    He turned to her, looking so simply, so truly lost, it threw her for a loop. Arinel leafed through memories fresh and faded. She remembered how Coris would leave her crying alone by the pond, haunted by his devilish smile, his voice whispering that Mother resented her, that Father was disappointed she wasn''t a boy¡ªand Zier would sit down beside her and ask about her dolls. He couldn''t stop her marriage to his brother¡ªbut he promised he would be there to protect her. It made the thought of marrying Coris tolerable¡ªperhaps even hopeful.

    "I''m not giving up on him." Arinel finally said, quiet but firm. "Please. Don''t give up on him just yet."

    She shook her head slowly, pleading through her eyes. Coris''s eyes widened before he broke his gaze. Sighing, he massaged his temples.

    "Why is it so difficult for him to confess? He knows we''re not killing him for The Axel. I''ve told him dozens of times."

    "But do you really feel it, Coris? He''s a Hadrian¡ªand a man. People expect him to sacrifice his life for the greater good. Even you and your parents. You''re his example of how to be a man. And he feels he had no choice but to follow you but he couldn''t."

    Coris glared down at his boots. Arinel leaned closer.

    "He doesn''t want to die, but a man isn''t allowed to fear death, is he?"

    Coris pursed his lips into a mere line. His hands curled into trembling fists on his knees.

    "I agree that he must confess on his own. I''m grateful that you''ve waited so long to give him the chance¡ªbut seeing you suffer in his place only makes it harder. I know what he did was treason, but did he deserve to die?"

    For a moment Coris considered it, then his jaw clenched in distaste. His eyes blazed.

    "So, you''re saying¡ªhe must believe our parents would forgive him before he''d confess?" His lips twisted into a cold sneer. He bolted to his feet.

    "We can''t wait to do what''s right when it''s convenient. You sacrificed your father''s love and your titles. Crossed the Sands with your worst enemy for Meya''s sake! My brother is a coward who doesn''t deserve your sympathy¡ªand frankly, I''m ashamed of him!"

    Coris rounded on her, then caught himself. Arinel noticed his wide-eyed horror, and realized she had flinched back, a hand clutching her chest. Pathetic, really. She was a tern''s flight away from home, yet a raised voice could send her back to her room in Crosset Castle ringing with Father''s outbursts.

    Coris gingerly knelt down by her side, as if creeping up on a rabbit.

    "I''m so sorry. I didn''t mean to startle you. I say we set this aside for now and focus on the rescue?"

    Arinel drew in a deep breath and willed her wire-taut limbs to unravel. She nodded. He was right, she grudgingly admitted. They''d have to deal with Zier later. Coris couldn''t afford to lose his calm now.

    "I shouldn''t have brought Gillian into this. I''m sorry." She hung her head in shame.

    "Don''t be. It''s a great opportunity." Coris waved it aside without a breath''s pause, "It would be more beneficial for the cause if we could bring him to negotiations. That''s your plan, isn''t it? That''s why you cooperated with him?"

    Arinel resurfaced to find Coris staring at her, eyebrows raised, and felt her cheeks flush. He could still read her like a letter. It was as if she hadn''t improved the slightest in a decade.

    "I just needed the fastest way to cross the desert. And I¡ªI have this feeling that he''d never harm Meya." Arinel stared into the remnants of her tea, thinking back, "The way he relented and went along with her childish plan. Even after she betrayed him, he retreated when he could''ve just¡ªburned us to ash and collect The Axel. It was as if he''d made a vow to himself to protect every single dragon and Greeneye he came across."

    "Meya said so, too." Coris nodded, jaw set with determination. "We have to take a chance."

    Arinel blinked, astonished. She''d expected him to spin that vulnerability to his advantage. Crush his enemy permanently. Perhaps he had changed. A little.

    "I feared you wouldn''t be able to forgive him for Beau. Then I remember it''s you." She hitched up a wry grin, then bit her lip in dismay, "Still, he killed five of my men. I''m not looking forward to facing their families."

    "And that decoy entourage he mentioned?"

    "It was a bluff. There was no decoy. Sir Bayne confirmed."

    "And what did Gretella and Sir Bayne say about all this?"

    Arinel jolted, unprepared for that sudden reminder. Swallowing the lump in her throat, she tilted her head,

    "Sparing Dineira''s life was understandable. Letting her help with the research is too much for Grandmother. Just when I thought I''d still have Sir Bayne¡ª"

    Arinel stole a glance at the campfire behind, only to accidentally meet Jerald''s gaze across the divide. For perhaps the first time, he was the one to break away. Arinel''s heart shuddered at the sight.

    "You''re the one thing he has left of your mother. Naturally, he''s overprotective." said Coris.

    "But I''m not my mother." Arinel shot back, then muttered morosely. "And he''s not my father."

    "You''ve put him in a confusing position. Perhaps if you made it clear what you want him to be? A cousin? A friend? A servant? A father?"

    Arinel started at the stab of agony in her chest. Realizing he had overstepped, Coris abandoned the pursuit, but he wasn''t silent for long,

    "Can you see yourself reconciling with your father?"

    "Not unless he pardons Meya, that''s for sure." Arinel said brusquely. Even so, she felt her whole body trembling. She closed her eyes against the bubbling tears.

    "I can''t stand it. Knowing what he did to Mother. To me. And now Meya. Without a shred of remorse. We''re too¡ªdifferent. Perhaps it was just a matter of time. Perhaps it''s for the best. I don''t know."

    She hid her face in her hands. Coris allowed her some time to grieve, then broke the vigil,

    "Perhaps he''d be placated if we bear him an heir?"

    "He already has an heir¡ªSir Bayne!" Arinel shot up with a retort. Coris gawked, spooked. "He''s just afraid Sir Bayne''s father will surface and rule Crosset through him. He thought, if I had a son with you, and you died young then left the birthright to Zier, your line would end and my son would be a full Crosset. Then Crosset might have a chance to be free from Hadrian''s influence."

    "What about Klythe?" Coris suggested. Arinel shook her head, striving to remain nonchalant amid the dull pain in her chest.

    "You know Klythe. He''s not interested in ruling¡ª"

    Arinel broke off. She heard a whistle¡ªa voice¡ªblowing from deep within the valley. As the blasts of wind thickened, she could make out the words to a familiar song¡ª

    Over the peaks of Neverend Heights.

    Where birds of a feather they circle up high.

    ?

    "Meya¡ª"

    Arinel scrambled to her feet, but Coris was already three steps ahead, toddling blindly towards the siren song, staggering in the lambasting gale.

    "Coris, wait¡ª!"

    Arinel lunged for his arm, but he parried her off and soldiered on. As she gaped at his retreating back, astounded, crunching footsteps drew up behind her. She spun around to find four men lumbering towards her, hulking shadows backlit by the fire they''d abandoned. Baron Hadrian, Simon, Christopher, Jerald¡ªeven Zier had ducked out of the tent and joined the eerie procession. Their eyes were fully open, yet void of a soul.

    They say Mum''s voice can charm birds, beasts and barbaric men.

    Arinel''s hands flew to her mouth as she recalled. The pounding of her pulse in her ears threatened to drown out Meya''s deadly song. She whirled back¡ªshe could hardly make out Coris''s silhouette in the darkness anymore. She must act now.

    I''ll fly like an eagle, so graceful and proud.

    I''ll fly like a dove, so gentle and free.

    Arinel sidestepped Baron Kellis and dove for the fire. She dragged out the fattest log in the pile and sprinted back, overtook Coris, then held it out to him. He paused and stared, mesmerized by the light. Then, much to her relief and surprise, he took it before venturing on to the dragoness''s beckoning.

    I''ll dive like a hawk, and dance like the swan.

    Sail fast as a swallow. Soar high as the chough.

    The wind petered away into a whistling, bone-searingly icy breeze as they scrabbled up the scree blanketing the valley''s entrance. The valley was two walls of sheer stone, shooting out of the earth itself. The light from Coris''s torch glanced off their countless scales of gray stone, flashing white as moonlight. They confronted each other, slanted back as if sizing up the other, frozen forever in an uneasy truce.

    I''ll glide with the geese, for a glimpse of green grass.

    I''ll travel with the tern, yearning for warmth.

    The no man''s land between them was padded with clumps of short, hardy grass fighting for dominance with piles of sharp gravel that kneaded the soles of their feet like dough. The men didn''t seem to register pain nor tire, though¡ªlulled as they were by the Song of May Day. The valley was wider than it appeared from afar. Arinel estimated all seven of them could probably have walked shoulder to shoulder¡ªhad they been lucid enough to decide to, that was.

    I''ll sing like a song thrush home for the spring.

    I''ll sing like a blackbird when winter blows in.

    Deeper and further they plodded, as the wind ebbed and raged, like the river that had once carved through these stones. The terrain, as well, rose and leveled then dipped, making for overall a gentle climb.

    Each time they stumbled, Meya''s voice urged them back to their feet, riding on the wind whenever it picked up, ricocheting on the stone whenever it died, cajoling the leaves of stubborn saplings hanging sideways from the valley walls.

    I''ll scatter the sparrows, and send out your prayers.

    I''ll circle with the crows, and guard you in sleep.

    The song was weaved to be neverending, and never once the same¡ªhaving as many different verses as there were mothers and birds. Yet, Arinel knew it was coming to an end when the firelight illuminated a sliver of pure darkness wedged between glinting gray stone on the valley wall to their left¡ªa cave.

    I''ll jeer like a jay and chase off the night.

    I''ll lilt like a robin and call on the dawn.

    As they hastened towards the crevice, Meya''s voice became less unearthly, the men''s footfalls less clumsy on the treacherous path. Coris staggered against the valley wall¡ªhis poor health had finally caught up to him as the enchantment waned. The sight snapped Baron Hadrian out of his trance¡ªhe swooped in and caught the torch before it fell, then helped his son on his way.

    I''ll whisper in your ear, and wake you come morn.

    I''ll sing you to slumber, and see you in your dreams.

    The lullaby ended just as they crowded before the cave mouth¡ªa crooked gap hopefully just tall and wide enough for Zier to edge in hunchbacked, sideways. As the men shook the last echoes of the song off their eardrums, a breeze trickled out of the cave with a shrill, eerie call.

    Coris turned first to his father. The Baron grasped his son''s bony shoulder, as his knuckles tensed white around the torch. Swallowing a lump of fear down his throat, the young heir spun around and eyed his loyal subjects.

    "Father and I will go in and negotiate. Stand by and wait for our signal."

    "¡ªYou wouldn''t dare." Christopher''s hand shot to the pommel of his sword.

    "¡ªGood call. Not like it''s freezing out here. Not at all." Simon rolled his eyes.

    Zier opened his mouth and made to join the din, but Coris''s eyes swept over him to set upon Arinel. She felt the pressure of Jerald''s glare on her back, pushing her heart and lungs up against her rib cage. Of course he knew there was only one option she would take. If only there were a way to make this any easier for him.

    Arinel drew in a deep breath, then turned to face Jerald.

    "I''m going in." She answered Coris, yet her eyes were fixed upon his same Crosset blue, pleading with all the gratitude and guilt in her being. "Please."

    For a breath, the thin veil of ice held firm, before melting away, revealing familiar sorrowful, weary eyes. Jerald sighed, then gave her a firm nod.

    "You have my sword, my lady. And my life."

    And so, on they went¡ªinto the dragon''s lair.

 The Way of Dragons

    The entrance hall to the dragon''s lair was only wide enough to allow a single human visitor at a time. With Baron Hadrian leading the charge and Sir Bayne taking up the rear, they walked and sometimes edged forth in solid darkness. They''d had to abandon the torch by the entrance, fearing this tunnel, too, would be one poisoned by invisible, explosive gas the Orientators had warned about.

    Seconds dragged on into minutes. The breeze flowing in to supply them with fresh air whistled a high note. Yet, surely this tunnel must open into a cavern at some point. Large enough for twenty dragons and a hostage. Unless they were in the wrong cave, that was¡ª

    "Bring The Axel and no more, I wrote. Could you not read?"

    Gillian''s cold voice echoed along the tunnel to Arinel in the back, and she stuffed her mouth with her fist to stifle a shriek, as Jerald wrapped her in his arms. Zier jerked back so far, he stamped on her foot. Simon swore feverishly, and she heard Christopher grab for his sword. As expected, she heard nothing from the two Hadrians in the front.

    Like cursed stars, against solid darkness, glowing green eyes lit up, one pair after another. Five¡ªten¡ªfifteen¡ªtwenty. Then, at long last, came the strike of a match, and a distinguished fire sprang back to life at the heart of the circular stone hollow. Roughly twenty men lined the walls, some on their feet, some on their behind, luminous green eyes flickering with miniature fires, their bare bodies covered by a layer of silvery scales.

    Gillian sat on a conveniently-placed boulder by the fire. Behind him stood Dockar, his reed-thin, beady-eyed lieutenant. And there, with her shoulder in Dockar''s hand¡ªwas Meya. Her hair fell rich and lustrous to her waist, as fiery red-gold as the fire before her, and her skin was similarly coated by metallic scales¡ªshe had flown with them here. Relief filled her eyes when she spotted Arinel in the shadows, replaced by guilt and fear when she settled on Coris.

    "Twenty dragons against seven humans sedated and blindfolded to a location decided by you. I''m not sure you should be the one to complain."

    Coris walked boldly into the fray. Arinel heard the wry grin in his voice. Gillian smirked as he rose to his feet, the lights in his eyes dancing in good fun,

    "I''ve heard much about you, Coris Hadrian. Under normal circumstances, you''d never expose yourself to such odds. Your brother used to be your one weakness. And now¡ª"

    "How sentimental." Coris shook his head in pity, "You believe I was there out of love for my brother and my parents. My priority was keeping the Hadrian line from dying out."

    Arinel felt as if air itself had thickened on their side. Of course, it had to be a bluff, but with Coris, it was just as likely not.

    Coris''s smile vanished, leaving only cold emptiness.

    "Do what you''d like with the Greeneye. I''m simply here to protect the interests of Hadrian and Latakia."

    Coris didn''t spare Meya the slightest glance. Meya, for her part, hid her emotions well, but it was impossible to miss that split-second of heartbreak before pride took over. Yet, Coris continued without a hitch,

    "You need The Axel, Lattis to reconstruct The Rota, and safe passage for all dragons to Everglen. You''d have better odds of convincing the King of Latakia by working with us Hadrians."

    "In exchange, you must provide us literature on Nostran surgery to remove The Axel from its hiding place. You must promise to compensate for the five Crossetian men you killed, spare the citizens of Latakia, and help defend Latakia from Nostra''s retaliation." Coris heaved a long sigh, his gaze downcast, "It takes time, but this way, there would be minimal bloodshed on both sides."

    Gillian stroked his chin, calculating.

    "What about the Greeneyes?"

    "Those who choose to stay in Latakia shall be given rights equal to human citizens. Those who elect to join their purebred brethren in Everglen are yours to govern. We shall not intervene."

    "And how could we trust you to uphold your end of the deal?" Gillian cocked up a suspicious eyebrow, "What would you get out of this? After all, without The Axel, your clan loses its two-century grip over the king. If the Mining Ban were also dissolved, there''d be a power struggle over resources between the king and the lords. And Hadrian would not be a part of it¡ªyour only valuable resource is Lattis, which you couldn''t exploit without our cooperation."

    "We''re already losing our grip over the king and the council." Coris admitted, tilting his head towards Baron Hadrian, "Ever since Alden Corbyn overthrew Devind the Demented and ended the Wynn line, since Father supported Devind throughout his reign, we''ve made several enemies. We''ve had to resort to lying and manipulation to keep the Mining Ban running."

    "However, as liaison between humans and dragons, we could maintain our influence by assisting in the transition, becoming the foremost authority on dragon matters."

    A shadow crossed Gillian''s face as his frown deepened¡ªCoris had overstepped.

    "Humans deciding dragon matters?" He repeated, his voice icy and deadly, then exploded, "Do you seriously think we would tolerate that? Anything else, human?"

    The stones trembled with Gillian''s roar. To his credit, Coris never broke his gaze. Gillian narrowed his eyes.

    "Why are you doing this? Why are you even here, if not for this girl?" He gestured at Meya. She ignored them both, eyes roaming the cave floor. Coris raised two bare, bloodless hands.

    "All my cards are on the table. I could only hope you take my word for it."

    A moment of charged silence stretched between the two men as they stared. At long last, Gillian nodded.

    "Very well. Let''s prove it, shall we?"

    With breathtaking speed, he unsheathed his curved blade and swung it towards Meya. With a scream, Arinel threw her hands over her eyes, not wishing to see her friend''s blood. Yet, the sickening sound of blade slicing flesh she anticipated instead became a deafening clang and a smattering of sparks.

    Slowly, fearfully, Arinel parted the trembling fingers over her eyes. Another sword had stopped Gillian''s blade just in time. Behind it was Coris, purple in the face, concentrating all his meager might on pushing the blade away from his dragon maiden.

    Gillian held firm with no outward signs of struggle. Finally, he jerked his blade up and stepped back, breaking the stalemate with a grating shriek of metal on metal. Pale and panting, Meya crumpled on her weak knees. Coris dropped his sword with a clatter and caught her, shivering just as hard himself.

    "How do you expect us to trust anything you said, when the first word out of your mouth is already a lie?"

    Gillian''s seething scold lambasted the clearing. For once, Coris was lost for retorts. Avoiding Meya''s eyes, he deposited her on a nearby boulder and wordlessly retrieved his sword, missing twice as he slotted it back in its sheathe. Gillian''s glare followed him as he strode back to his old spot in the ring.

    "You knew that my weakness is Greeneyes." He continued, more calmly now, "I would gladly make changes to my plan if even one member of my brethren would be harmed. Your weakness is Meya Hild. Since we share the one condition we would not compromise at all costs, we could work together."

    At that, Coris and Meya perked up in unison, eyes round and mouth ajar. As if reminded of their youth by the sight, Gillian''s gaze softened. He unfurled a tight smile.

    "If we are to be allies, I need honesty, Lord Hadrian." He sheathed his sword, then met Meya''s glowering eyes with a slight bow, "I apologize. Rest assured, I would never harm you. I just needed to be sure of his motive."

    "And yours?" Coris retorted brusquely, still shaken, "What changed your mind?"

    "She did." Gillian nodded towards Meya, who silently picked herself to her feet. Coris turned to her, a look of surprise and admiration in his eyes, even as his expression remained neutral.

    "At first, I assumed Greeneyes could be easily persuaded to turn against the humans who have oppressed them for centuries. I hadn''t accounted for the fact that most of them have love for their human family and friends, and for their land. Enough to betray their own kind to save them." Meya clenched her fists at the reminder of her sin, yet it seemed Gillian had never blamed her. His head bowed, he confessed simply,

    "We could perhaps do without human aid, but we at least need the Greeneyes'' support if we ever hope to reach Everglen. I can''t ignore that."

    He turned to Meya. She reciprocated with an apologetic smile, then let her eyes roam.

    "We''re small people. We couldn''t see the three lands. Just what''s before our eyes." Shrugging, she stared into emptiness, eyes wide and haunted, then met Coris''s gaze for the first time,

    "Coris, I understand if you want to avenge Beau. And I still can''t forgive him for the five guards who died. I''m just afraid it''d just create more of them. Putting aside grudges and coming to a compromise might be better in the long run. You need us to keep Nostra at bay, and we need you to restore our homeland."

    Silence fell as the two held their stare, held back emotions bursting to be expressed, yet must be repressed for the sake of the occasion.

    "I can separate private and public affairs, Meya." said Coris sighingly.

    "Yes, Coris. I know. So much so I was afraid you wouldn''t come at all." Meya snarked, her expression sour as spoiled milk, "After all, ''tis me this time. Of course I''d be fine. Not that Gillian would hurt me, but you didnae know that, did you?"

    She trailed off, grumbling. Perhaps noticing the surreptitious looks being sent Coris''s way by the anxious onlookers, she shook herself out of it and returned to business.

    "That aside¡ªFirst, we need to deal with Lord Crosset. Otherwise, you two would''ve to sail to Everglen while I burn to a lump of metal at the pyre."

    Unperturbed by the chill of her morbid joke, Meya turned to Coris.

    "Since we''re going to the capital anyway, can I ask for the king''s pardon?"

    Coris took a moment to weigh it.

    "You''re a peasant under Lord Crosset''s rule. I think he''d be reluctant to intervene in petty trials for the sake of a peasant girl¡ªNo offense." He concluded with an uneasy grin.

    "None taken." Meya snorted.

    "Not to mention Lord Crosset and the king aren''t on amicable terms. I wouldn''t be surprised if Olivis demanded some form of compensation. I doubt the king would be unduly inconvenienced by that, whatever it may be, but it would reflect poorly on his authority."

    If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

    "Yeah¡ªgotta persuade him on the dragon stuff, too. Might be asking too much."

    Meya nodded to herself, but Arinel suspected she wasn''t dithering over the issue at hand. Hands on hips, she sneaked surreptitious glances at Coris as she pretended to study her tapping foot, a frown of apprehension and hesitance tugging her eyebrows closer and closer. At long last, she resurfaced with a new proposal,

    "What if I''m pregnant?"

    Silence swept the throng like a gust of wind. The other men¡ªCoris included, simply blinked, confused. Zier alone shot Arinel a wide-eyed look. Pursing her trembling lips, Arinel jerked out a minuscule nod, yet Zier''s knees momentarily buckled as if he''d been hit by a stone from the cave ceiling. Especially at his brother''s reaction¡ª

    "How?"

    Arinel thought the echoes must have distorted what she heard, then she saw Coris''s expression of simple, pure bafflement, complete with a bemused little smirk. And she understood Meya''s move¡ªits necessity. Yet, even Meya herself probably hadn''t prepared for this. Her eyes bulged, her arms trembled, and there was a hint of a sob in her voice as she shot back incredulously,

    "You?"

    Coris betrayed the slightest flinch, as one would when hit in an old sore spot, then settled into a frown.

    "We''re barely a month into our sham marriage. It''s common knowledge that I''m impotent. And you aren''t involved with any other man, as far as I''m aware. Unless you change that, the odds aren''t optimistic."

    As Meya staggered in disbelief, Arinel felt her shivers speeding down her own back. How could he suggest such a thing, with such an unfeeling face? She longed to satiate this violent impulse in her trembling fingers, but it wasn''t her place to step in nor her truth to speak. And she could only watch as her poor, besotted friend tried her best to retain hope.

    "I could pretend." Meya shrugged with a feeble attempt at her usual wry grin.

    "It''s not as simple as you might expect." Coris counted on his fingers, "Pleading the belly means you''d have to return to Crosset, stand trial, receive a verdict of guilt and a death sentence first. And you''d have to be far along enough for the jury of matrons to feel quickening."

    "We could bribe the jury."

    "They''re selected on the spot from women in the crowd."

    "I could fashion myself a fake belly with a snake stuffed inside."

    Coris heaved a sigh one would when barely refraining from both rolling his eyes and nuzzling the other party''s cheek in affection, nodding in surrender,

    "Very well. Let''s say you somehow fooled the jury. The sentence would be delayed, you''d have to wait in jail until you gave birth to a baby you didn''t have. Some women chose to have the warden impregnate them. And true, most women received a pardon once they''d given birth, but not all. And, if you were one of the unfortunate, by that point, it would be too late to do anything."

    As Coris remained chillingly unperturbed, Meya''s tattered faith seemed to have at long last gave way to his successive, ruthless blows. All attempts at levity abandoned, she huffed in annoyance then propped her hands on her hips, smile morphing into sneer.

    "Fine. What d''you suggest, then? O Prodigious heir?"

    A charged silence stretched across the divide, broken only by pops and sputters of the fire as peasant girl and nobleman locked eyes. Arinel glimpsed the dilemma in Coris''s eyes as he shot covert glances at the Baron. She could guess what he''d wanted to offer, but held back for the sake of duty. Being the Hadrian heir, he couldn''t offer to sacrifice Hadrian''s interests to further his own¡ªeven for Meya. She decided to intervene to save him the pain.

    "What if you acknowledged the baby, Coris?" Arinel stepped in. Meya whipped around, while Coris blew a secret sigh of relief, "The baby would be a Hadrian heir. Even before it quickened, it would be valued more than a baby fathered by a peasant¡ªno offense."

    "But this means Hadrian would have to intervene. It''d hurt the alliance between your clans. I''m not having that!" Meya protested hotly.

    "¡ªBut you''ll burn on the pyre?" Coris raised his eyebrows, incensed.

    "It won''t be for long, Meya." Arinel hurried on before Meya could aim a snipe at Coris, reasoning darkly, "Father''s very old. After he dies, Crosset would fall under Hadrian rule anyway. Even if I bore a son right after I married Coris, he wouldn''t grow up in time to take the seat. Father''s not looking to get anything. He''s just lashing out, out of pure spite."

    There was a pause as the unfortunate truth sank in. The answer was in the air, Arinel could sense it, the inevitable solution they could all deduce. Yet, Meya had always been the one to see the light beyond the fog, a better solution. The last, always, to surrender, and Arinel looked to her with hope. This time, however, even Meya had been disheartened.

    "There''s only one solution, then." She sighed, then met Arinel''s gaze, her eyes brimming with guilt,

    "All this happened because I manipulated you and took your name. And you sided with me. Lord Crosset has every right to be furious. The least we could do to show good faith is to have you two consummate the marriage with us bearing witness. Return things to the way they should be." Seeing the lawfully wedded couple still frozen defiantly in place, Meya blinked, aghast, "Now! Amoriah''s men could be here by next sunset. We don''t have much time."

    "Meya¡ª" Arinel mounted a protest, but Meya had turned away. She bent down and selected a log from the fire, then ventured into a side-tunnel.

    "I''ll go find a spot for you two to shag."

    The gathering stared after Meya and her little halo of light until she took a turn and vanished, except for Zier, who was still reeling from the new developments and sat slumped against the nearest stalagmite, lost in his personal void.

    Arinel kept her eyes on Coris for Meya''s sake, studying his every twitch. She must figure out what he had gleaned¡ªif at all. What was Meya thinking, anyway? Banking on Coris of all people being tactful when boys could be surprisingly dense when it comes to picking up hints? Not to mention he was already in denial of his own virility, too.

    Coris must have sensed her probing. He turned to her with a forced grin.

    "You don''t second that proposal, do you?" He jested.

    "Of course not!" Arinel snapped. Coris accepted defeat with a feeble chuckle.

    Silence fell again as the echoes of her voice died away. Baron Hadrian peered into the darkness of the side-tunnel, frowning.

    "Persuading Olivis is nothing compared to the king. Is that all she has for us?" His level voice was lined with cool disappointment. Coris clenched his fists. He fixed his eyes on the dancing shadows on the cave floor, cheeks reddening. Perhaps he had realized his blunder. Finally.

    "She hasn''t given up. She''s just¡ªnot at her best." He stammered.

    "Then bring it out. I''ll wait. Simon and I will take over from here. Go."

    The Baron''s voice remained sharp, but his eyes were gentle. After one last hesitant glance, Coris snatched a blazing log from the fire then hurried away after his dragon maiden. As his echoing footsteps faded, Baron Hadrian settled down on the boulder in his son''s place.

    "So, Gillian. I heard your men refer to you as commander?"

    In the firelight, the lines of Gillian''s jaw tensed.

    "The title was given to me by humans. For slaughtering humans. The name was simply part of my disguise." He explained, brusque and flat, then tore his gaze away from the fire and met Kellis''s eyes,

    "Dragons of old did not need names to recognize one from another. Now we do. Our way of life is dying, Kellis. We''ve become dependent upon the Nostrans for survival. Pledged our wings and flame to their cause, and made enemies of the entire human race in the process."

    "We dragons were once creatures of wisdom and adventure. New veins of Lattis emerge at random, forcing us to abandon our home islands every millennia or so. Until time transform it into other harmless metals. We travel the world to witness its beauty, observe its creatures, then share our memories with our young."

    "Then, humans happened." Kellis gave a mirthless chuckle. Gillian closed his eyes, as if tempering his contempt.

    "Your kind have always railed against the limits of nature for progress and prosperity. The humans of Everglen saw us dragons as pests feeding on their metal. They weren''t content with being savages, with their half of the island. They wanted to expand, to innovate."

    "However, we dragons also couldn''t accept the verdict of nature. We couldn''t bear to wait for extermination. Nor could we fight divided and unorganized, like the free creatures we were. A young dragoness rallied the scattered dragons, made herself queen¡ªas humans would call female leaders of creatures¡ªand led us into battle. Yet, in the end, nature still won. The volcano erupted, flooding the land and poisoning the air with Lattis. We left Everglen, seeking a new home across the ocean."

    "Unfortunately, Latakia is flowing with Lattis." Kellis continued, frowning at their now grudging ally, "But why Nostra? They''re the greediest of all the lands."

    "The Nostrans of then were no greedier than any other race. We were grateful that they at least welcomed us, shared their home with us, whatever their ulterior motives may be." Gillian corrected him, and Kellis bowed, humbly accepting his bias,

    "Their vast plains were just enough to sustain us, not arm us for war, but we were content. We''d lost many to fatigue and disease. Left thrice as much behind in Latakia. We simply wanted peace and rest, but it wasn''t long before neighboring lands attempt to seize us for themselves. We had no choice but to strike a deal with the Nostrans. We''d see the world with them, and have a home to return to in them, if we fight alongside them."

    "Not much to see, anyway. Considering they had us burn everything then rebuild them into miniature Nostras." A dragon grumbled.

    "Come now, Vittorius the First was peaceful. And a few others." Another reminded him.

    "Don''t you dare¡ªHe had my mother''s whole battalion''s fuel nodes cut out for that peace with the Hutinds!" Yet another roared from across the ring.

    "Dragons, we are not here to debate the past." said Gillian sharply. The bickering ceased at once. The offended dragon slumped back down, huffing and grunting blessings for his leader and his friend the sympathizer. Gillian closed his eyes with a silent sigh.

    "So, your plan was to seize The Axel and migrate dragons back to the restored Everglen?" Kellis picked up the conversation as if there had been no disruption. Gillian nodded, a slow, melancholic nod of painful longing.

    "We may not be able to travel like we used to, but at the least, we would be free from the will of humans."

    "Is that why you sunk our ore ships?"

    "That isn''t us. Though I must admit it was to be our first act after we''ve taken control of Everglen."

    "And the creeping drought from the west?"

    Gillian blew a snort of derision,

    "Most likely the Nostran emperor. Why would we enrich the soil of the land we wish to escape? Might as well give them our blood and fire to refine Lattis while we were at it."

    "Still, none of this is endearing your kind to the average uninformed Latakian." Simon spoke up for the first time. As all glowing eyes pooled on him, he stepped forward and handed a piece of parchment to Gillian,

    "This letter is from my mother, Lady Amplevale." He explained as a few of Gillian''s younger, less reserved comrades crowded behind him for a glimpse, "She wants Coris there to investigate the cause of the drought, but since lover-boy''s got his course set for Everglen, I believe this is your chance to show your worth."

    At those closing remarks, the dragons looked up from the letter as one. Simon drew in a sharp breath. What had he done wrong, now?

    "Show our worth? We dragons have as much right to the soil of this world as your kind, human!" A dragon who had been peeking behind Gillian stepped back, shaking his head in disgust.

    "¡ªNot to mention we precede you by millennia. We won''t prove ourselves worthy to live! Never again!" The second dragon raised his shaking fist, eliciting a dozen cries of dissent which threatened to topple negotiations.

    "Yes, Vitrius, but you must understand it is necessary to gain their favor." said Gillian placatingly. He rose to full height and turned to face his subordinates, who obligingly quietened down to hear his argument.

    "As much as it galls me to admit, Meya Hild is correct. We need them just as much as they need us." Gillian hung his head as he laid bare the bleak circumstances,

    "We have no clue in what state Everglen is in, how long it would take to amass resources and rebuild the Rota. Our dragons have grown used to living among humans, and like humans. They''ve never known Everglen. It''d be hard enough to convince them to live like dragons of old¡ªif that is still possible¡ªeven without our new home being a barren wasteland. We need time¡ªand shelter."

    Gillian''s eyes swept the throng, pausing at each member in turn. Some restless, rebellious dragons avoided his gaze in grudging acceptance, while their more levelheaded comrades nodded in grim determination.

    "I''ll go, Gillian."

    At long last, the long-silent Dockar stepped up as the first volunteer. Gillian''s eyes widened as he spun around to his lieutenant.

    "No. You lead them to Everglen. I proposed this change of plan¡ª" He jabbed a finger to his chest.

    "¡ªAnd I agree with it." Dockar countered, flat and final as his expression, "That''s enough for me."

    For a moment, Gillian could only blink. Then, in a rare moment of emotion, he covered his eyes with a rough, scarred hand.

    "I swore you''d see Everglen¡ª" He whispered through grinding teeth. Dockar comforted him with a hand on his shoulder.

    "Stormy sea. Poisoned sky. I don''t know if I''d survive the journey." He shrugged with a wan grin, which widened as he met Gillian''s anguished eyes, "You''d have to tame the motherland for me first. I can wait a while longer."

    "I''ll go, too." Hotheaded Vitrius piped in, winking at his disgruntled leader, "Just to double your guilt."

    "And I." A cheery-looking older bandit volunteered, "If the emperor succeeds, it''d be millennia before this land would regain its beauty. And I do love sightseeing."

    Simon glanced at the three dragons in disbelief. He hadn''t expected such earnest support. Only one would have been more than enough to provide insight and assist with the investigation.

    "Thank you." He sank into a deep bow, then straightened up and met Dockar''s gaze, "The Lady''s bound to be skeptical. Tell her Coris requested you come in his place. That should reassure her."

    "Why don''t you tell her yourself?" Dockar frowned. Simon hitched up a wan smile.

    "She doesn''t trust my judgment. You''d better not mention me at all." He picked up a log from the fire, then strode back towards the cave mouth, "I''ll go get an angle on the time."

    "So, you won''t be going with us?" Dockar called after his back, perplexed.

    "Simon, this is your idea¡ªyour home." Christopher snatched his elbow, pleading, "And you miss the twins!"

    Simon stopped with one foot on the rim of a puddle. In the silence, the tiny water drop swaying on the stalactite''s tip did its best to be quiet, yet failed to hide the resounding splatter as it added itself to the shallow pond below.

    "I''m supposed to die in Coris''s place if need be." Simon said, staring down at his reflection in the puddle, born of the torch''s light, "How could I do that if I''m not with him?"

 Fools Errand

    Meya regurgitated the contents of her stomach¡ªmostly water¡ªonto the tiny space by the wall fenced in by stalagmites. Torch in one hand, she clung onto the cave wall with the other as she coughed out the last dregs of diluted bile, then pressed her forehead to the icy stone, hoping to numb the piercing headache.

    It''s common knowledge that I''m impotent.

    You''d have to wait in jail until you gave birth to a baby you didn''t have.

    Tears bubbled up in her eyes as his words echoed in her ears, heartless and uncaring. He didn''t even pause to take her hint, didn''t even consider the slimmest possibility. There was no joy, no fear, no shock nor disappointment. He was so sure of his death, it didn''t occur to him that he could create life. How could she entrust their babe¡ªtheir future¡ªto a man who did not see one for himself?

    Meya dug her fingertips into her middle, trembling from the effort of stifling a sob. Unfortunately, Freda didn''t allow her much time to grieve.

    Footsteps echoed towards her. Meya bounced back upright and wiped her eyes with her arm. She propped the torch up against a stone column, then strained her neck back for a glimpse of the intruder. Sure enough, the monstrous shadow that preceded him shrunk as it slid across the rough surface, then the elder Lord Hadrian emerged from the tunnel''s bend. Meya hastily turned around.

    "Dun tell me you''re done shagging. I hadn''t even found a good spot." She tossed a quip over her shoulder. Coris halted a few steps away.

    "I''m sorry for what I said." He began. Meya shrugged.

    "Dun have to be. Gillian''s an enemy. You must keep your upper hand. You taught me that."

    Another bout of silence. Coris left his torch leaning against the wall, then drifted a step closer.

    "Arinel told me how she found you. What Amoriah did." His voice started to tremble, "I wasn''t there. I was never there when it counts. I''m sorry."

    Meya heard his guilt, his sorrow, and her heart lurched, yearning for his bony arms, his gentle smile, his clammy hand combing through her hair, but pride kept her feet planted.

    "Ain''t your fault. You were being grounded." She dismissed it with a tilt of her head. Yet, when Coris braved another step, she couldn''t bring herself to edge away from his cold.

    "I know where I went wrong." He continued, "You''re scared. And I was a heartless monster when you needed someone who''d listen¡ª"

    He took advantage of her stunned silence to slide his arms around her waists, rubbing his cheek upon hers.

    "And a hug."

    He whispered, a puff of wind in her ear. He sounded¡ªdifferent. No longer the cunning, unfeeling Lord Hadrian persona he would default to, but a simple young lad begging for his fair maiden''s forgiveness. And, just like that, her walls fell. Meya spun around and sank into his embrace, closing her eyes as their sighs chorused.

    "You came for me. Dun think you would." She mumbled as she burrowed her nose into his chest.

    "I always would!" Coris gave her an exasperated squeeze, "It was a bluff. An unnecessary one, as it turned out. I''m sorry."

    "No¡ªI started it." Meya shook her head, rubbing her overflowing eyes against the smooth fabric of his toga, "I pushed you away because I wanted to be strong, free, independent. The way I used to be, but I was never that. I was arrogant, cold, lonely¡ª"

    Coris smoothed his hand down her back as she rambled,

    "I saw Amoriah, Jadirah, that priestess, those wardens. They''re everything I wanted to be¡ªand they sickened me. So how should I be now? I''m not a good Latakian woman. Can''t ever be one. But if I wouldn''t be a Hyacinth woman¡ªwho else could I be?"

    Coris''s soothing hand never left her back. Meya scrunched her watering eyes against the shame. Hyacinth was a mirror¡ªit showed her what old-Meya would''ve looked like had she been allowed to grow, and she was repulsed by her own ideal reflection. She was doomed to become like Mum, like Marin, like Arinel¡ªweak, complacent, subservient women she had once scorned. Because she didn''t have the stomach to become the fire.

    "You once asked me what I saw in you. Loyalty, bravery, ambition, wit, I answered. I lied."

    At long last, Coris broke the silence. Meya perked up, gawking. His eyes were distant, lost in the past.

    "You have those qualities, of course, but so did I. And countless others. And you''ve seen the horrors we''ve inflicted upon these three lands. It''s not a question of who has the most. You also possessed something else much rarer."

    Coris gathered her onto his lap as he settled down, his back against a thick, aged stalagmite. Meya jolted at the feel of his icy fingertips resting on the uneven surface of her sunken scar. He bent down and pressed his lips to it. They were just as cold as his fingers.

    "Seven years ago, you chose to save me." He murmured, his soft, ticklish breaths puffing onto her scar, "You were the most downtrodden, miserable soul in the whole of Crosset. I was a boy who lived a life of privilege, a despicable monster who was there to hunt you. Not to mention I was Crosset''s only hope of survival."

    "Us nobility only have so much room to consider matters outside of power, profit, and self-preservation. Everything was logical, cold and calculated¡ªeven my parents'' love. When you saved me, I couldn''t make sense of it." His taut lips unraveled into a bitter smile.

    "You were battered and bruised, starving. In pain like living death. You betrayed your people and helped me escape to safety. Sung me a lullaby. Kept me warm as I slept in your arms."

    He shook his head slowly, his voice choked with emotion.

    "When dark times brought out the worst in man, you protected me and led me home, like a mother would. Persuaded rather than threatened me to save the very people who banished you. Whenever the odds seem bleak¡ªremembering what you did¡ªit''s always given me hope. Urged me to do better. Because¡ªeven when violence seems to be the only way, you''ll always strive to find another. You''d walk the path of the fool, if it meant doing what is good¡ªwhat is kind."

    "You saved Crosset the way you saved Arinel and her entourage, the Greeneyes in Jaise, and Zier, and me. You fought like a woman. And I believe the three lands¡ªthe parts we''ve been to, at the least¡ªis a much better place than what it would have been otherwise."

    This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

    "Lexi¡ª"

    Tears tumbled down Meya''s cheeks. She''d never once thought of it that way before. She realized then, why she had often felt so lost¡ªshe had lost a dear memory, a crucial part of herself. The choice that would have just as easily doomed Crosset as saved it. It was who she was, who she wanted to be.

    She''d betrayed her own people, her dragonkind¡ªoften on impulse, and had no idea what it had been for. She realized now¡ªshe wanted to find a better, kinder alternative. Perhaps, that was something she could live with, something she could aspire to be.

    Meya rested her head on Coris''s chest. She pressed a kiss on his hand in thanks, then heaved a long, shivering sigh.

    "I wanna help Arinel. But I can''t bear the thought of you lying with her."

    "I know. Neither do I. We''ll find another way." He caressed her hair in reassurance, "I love you."

    His whispered words echoed in the stillness. Meya didn''t realize until she felt her tears blazing a path down her numb cheeks that she was crying. A myriad of emotions overwhelmed her one after another in hot and cold flashes. She was touched¡ªthen in denial that she was touched¡ªthen annoyed he hadn''t given her even a second to prepare, to remember this moment¡ªthen convinced she must have been hallucinating from the nausea¡ªthen relieved he felt the same¡ªthen worried he''d change his mind if she told him about the babe¡ªthen angry that Freda made her a peasant and him a dying nobleman and that nothing would ever come out of it anyway.

    As she trembled, struggling to keep herself from bursting to pieces in the maelstrom, Coris tightened his embrace. Together, they gently swayed.

    "I know we''re still courting. I know I''m still lacking in various ways. I know I won''t live long. I know I won''t be able to give you a babe. I''m not proposing marriage or anything." He rambled in a fevered rush, then his voice became firm, grave¡ª "I just want you to be sure that until my last breath, you''ll be my priority. I''ll always come after you, protect you with my life. I saw that look in your eyes¡ªthat night I almost died¡ªand back there when I called my bluff. I can''t bear to see you so scared like that ever again."

    His voice shook as he buried his nose into her shoulder, his arms squeezing her ever tighter. He was still so convinced about his impending death, and despair poisoned her joy as she heard his vow. She realized she would deal with it later. She would revel in the present, for at least there was progress to celebrate. Amid the chaos, she held onto that one thought. A shaft of light, clearer and surer than she had ever been in her life.

    "I love you, too." She breathed against the curve of his neck as grief choked out her voice, "I''m the big, bad, busty, fire-breathing dragon, and you''re the prodigy, remember. We''ll be together. For all time."

    "No¡ªDon''t¡ªDon''t love me." Coris pulled away, fingers of ice digging into her cheeks, eyes wide and desperate, "Promise you''ll forget me. Swear you''ll move on. Please."

    "No¡ª!" Meya sobbed as she pressed her forehead against his.

    "Find a new man. A good, strong man. Have a dozen children." Air from his lips caressed hers. Their mingled tears fell onto her lips. She urged herself closer, shaking her head to ward off his impossible requests.

    "No. No¡ª"

    She kissed him and held on until he succumbed and reciprocated. She slipped her hands under his toga, learned every inch of him by touch, taste and smell, as he cried for the goddess to forgive his sin. She did her best to awaken him, to remind him he was alive, that this much life was left inside him. Even when his hands on her breasts were cold as the stones on her bare back, even as his protruding ribs grazed and stabbed at her supple flesh, even as tears tainted their kisses, making them bitter and salty, she ignored it and welcomed the familiar pain.

    He caught her when her knees gave way and laid her down on his cloak, before moving in to stake his claim. Her limbs were still vibrating with aftershocks from the blissful release, and she was too sapped to do much aside from clinging on, sheathing him in her protection. She felt a throb, like a heartbeat, then a flood of warmth, before he fell limp atop her chest, his back heaving as he drew in huge gasps of breath.

    Meya made sure to deposit Coris by her side first, just in case he''d accidentally nod off too soon. She tugged off her Lattis medallion, reached for his crumpled toga and spread it over them both, then blanketed it with her cloak to further insulate him from the chilly air.

    "You''re getting better." With a loving finger, she tidied away the streaks of damp hair stuck to his temple. Coris opened a bleary eye, and she greeted him with a sweet smile. "Is your lowly servant allowed to love you now, milord?"

    Coris creaked up a melancholic little smile, his eyes wavering with both guilt and joy.

    "There''s no stopping you either way." He feigned a troubled sigh, shrugging, "Couldn''t be helped, I reckon. Irresistible as I am. I take it our courting period is over, then?

    "Whatever suits you, donghead." Meya shot him a dour look, cheeks burning.

    "You, more like. Seeing as you broke our contract both times." Coris''s sly grin yearned towards his ears. Meya blushed deeper.

    "You know I can''t resist them loopholes." She griped.

    "My contracts don''t have loopholes. You''re just plain old rulebreaking¡ª"

    Having no timely comeback for that irrefutable truth, Meya shut his smart mouth by smothering it with her pillows. Coris accepted his punishment with grace and glee. Cursing his ever-curious lips under her breath, Meya gazed out into the gloom beyond the torches'' combined halo, pondering his words.

    Walk the hard path of the fool, for what was good and right. Yes, there must be something Lord Crosset wanted that they could offer. A nobler, more pleasant solution. And she wouldn''t settle for less. As her resolve crystallized from the raging maelstrom, the turmoil itself settled down to an uneasy truce, tempered by slight apprehension for the unfathomable future, yet also comforted by stubborn optimism.

    As she toyed absentmindedly with the mop of tousled brown hair under her chin, Meya remembered with a jolt the dastardly deed she had commited, and she cringed in shame,

    "Lexi?"

    "Hmm?"

    "I''m sorry I lured you all here with my Song. Were you scared?" She bent down and whispered at the rim of his ear, kissing his temple in apology.

    Coris shivered at the memory, nuzzling closer to her warmth in response.

    "Gillian made you?" He asked, his level voice strained to bursting point with cold fury. Meya tightened her embrace as guilt tore at her heart.

    "No. That was all me. Trying to be an arse."

    Meya hitched up a sardonic grin, shuddering as she recalled the brief exchange in the prison tower. Embarrassed, in denial of who she truly was, how she truly felt, what Coris meant to her and vice versa, she''d suggested enchanting Coris with her Song to ensure he would appear at the negotiating table.

    Then, as if to spite this baby she was carrying, she twisted a mother''s lullaby into a weapon of war, warped Mum''s voice of hope and love into its caricature of lust and manipulation. For nothing but foolish pride, she''d tainted the Song of May Day, and its poisoned aftertaste would linger on her tongue as reminder, as retribution.

    "Well, in all honesty, it was an underhanded tactic, but it was beautiful, nevertheless. Not to mention efficient." Ever the pragmatist, Coris still tried to justify it. Meya snorted, shaking her head.

    "Dun lie. You know ''twas the ugliest song I''ve ever sung."

    Coris made no further attempt to refute, and Meya knew she deserved it. He shifted and pressed his ear to her strumming heart.

    "Well, if you want to do it over," He began airily, surfacing to meet Meya''s guilt-ridden gaze with his drowsy eyes and melancholic smile, "I could do with a lullaby. Stave off the pesky cravings, you know?"

    Meya drew in a sharp gasp. Obviously, Coris hadn''t had time to snatch his nightcap before her Song had him sleepwalking off to supposed doom. She only had a rough idea of what time it was, but it was surely well past laudanum time. Not to mention today''s stressful dealings would''ve only served to hasten his symptoms. Just how long had he been ignoring his pain?

    "Oh, Fyr!" She slapped her forehead, cursing her selfishness, "Your laudanum! I forgot¡ª"

    Meya scrambled up. She''d fetch Arinel and fly back to Hyacinth. If she flew at full speed, she could probably be back within the hour. However, before she could dash off, Coris tugged at her arm.

    "No¡ªI think I could do for one night. Just¡ªstay with me. Sing me to sleep. Please?" He begged, panting, his voice choked with fearful tears.

    Meya spun around, hesitant. Their eyes aligned, and their forgotten past burst to life, overlapping the present. Those same wavering, silvery eyes. Poor boy was cold and frightened. She remembered now¡ªit''d been seven years since he''d last heard that song, in a mountain cave very much like this one.

    And so, the embittered May Queen relented. She did her best and made herself comfortable on the cold, hard stone, and offered her lap so the shivering young man could rest his heavy head. As she rested her hand atop his hair, caressing his forehead with her thumb, she drew circles on her middle with her free hand, singing both father and child to slumber.

    Over the peaks of Neverend Heights.

    Where birds of a feather they circle up high.

    I''ll fly like an eagle, so graceful and proud.

    I''ll fly like a dove, so gentle and free...

 Sins of the Father

    It must have been an hour since Coris left to pursue his fair maiden. After a lengthy discussion, Gillian and his dragons decided to conserve their energy for the night.

    Every so often during their enlightening talk, Kellis had strained his ears for the echo of returning footsteps, but there were none. Either Coris and the girl had gotten themselves lost in the meandering caverns, or their torches had been spent during their talk and they had decided to tuck in, wherever they were. Knowing his son, though, it was likely the former. And so Baron Hadrian took yet another log from the bonfire and set off after the couple.

    Kellis rounded the second bend, and heaved a sigh of relief. Just beyond the halo of light, lay a crumpled bundle of Hyacinth''s purple-embroidered toga, topped with a crop of brown hair he recognized immediately as his son''s. The boy appeared to be in uneasy sleep¡ªthe bundle rose and fell in rapid succession due to his ragged breathing. He rushed in with light, rustling steps, knelt down and swept aside Coris''s fringe. Sweat drops glistened in the torchlight against fever-blushed skin.

    Where is that girl?

    As if she''d sensed his fury, the unmistakable sound of retching traveled to him from beyond the cavern''s bend, too faint to stir the slumbering but just loud enough for a vigilant ear.

    Kellis''s fingers grew numb on the log. The girl retched a few times more, then fell silent. Weary, dragging footsteps echoed towards him. The girl reappeared, wiping her mouth on her scaly, metallic arm. Spotting him, she froze, eyes bulging. She drew back a step, then changed her mind and crept forward, falling gingerly to all fours.

    "Milord. I¡ªI won''t claim no birthright or nothing." She whispered, shaking her bowed head, "I won''t tell him nothing, neither. Just let me keep it for now. Please."

    Kellis couldn''t yet form a reply, overwhelmed by the myriad of developments. Underneath his palm, Coris''s forehead burned. He roused himself and focused on the urgent.

    "What''s wrong with him?" He murmured. After a disoriented pause, the girl edged over to Coris and straightened his tossed-aside blanket.

    "Withdrawal, milord. He hasn''t taken his laudanum. He insisted he''ll fight it for one night. So I just keep him warm."

    She reached for their abandoned, half-burnt logs and laid them on the stone floor. Kellis obligingly added his torch to the pile, handed the girl his cloak, then settled down across from his son. The girl wrapped the garment around Coris then slid away to the shadows, hugging her knees to her chest, staring glumly into the fire.

    "Meya, is it?"

    Kellis broke the silent vigil. Glowing acid-green eyes flicked over to him, then away just as soon.

    "Yes, milord." She mumbled, curling into a tighter ball.

    "I''ve yet to thank you for all the times you saved my son''s life. Sylvia and I have given our blessing for your union. I take it Coris hasn''t told you?"

    Meya whipped around, eyes wide. His hunch proven, Kellis cursed his boar-headed son inside.

    "But I''m a peasant. A Greeneye. Dragon." The girl hissed as if worried he''d forgotten, brows tied and shoulders tense. Kellis sighed as he studied his son.

    "It happens when you''re a parent. And you only understand once you become one."

    Meya blinked, a look of mingled suspicion and bewilderment in her eyes. Kellis linked his fingers loosely on his lap as he gazed into the dancing fire.

    "Two hundred years. Why have we done nothing? Coris asked me." He smiled wanly at the memory, "Little did he know, I demanded the same of my father. He didn''t reply. Then, on the day Coris was born, and the midwife handed him to me, and I held him for the first time¡ª"

    Kellis allowed the past to wash over him, feeling the tingle of phantom warmth on his arms. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the girl moving closer, eyes round with curiosity.

    "Of all the things people would tell you on the eve of your marriage, they''d never warned me what a hideous thing a newborn babe would be." He chuckled, shaking his head, "But the moment I looked upon that ugly little face, I remembered the look in my father''s eyes. And I understood. He''d asked his father the same thing. And I knew the answer."

    "I could no longer see the three lands. Just what was before my eyes¡ªmy son."

    The girl shuddered at the force of her own words, wielded back at her. They turned as one to his slumbering son, watching as he fidgeted in his cocoon of warmth, then calming at the gentle pressure of Meya''s hand on his crown. Kellis sighed,

    "When I was his age, I too dreamed of ending this feud, one way or another, but whenever I look at Coris, I feel my resolve crumbling. Then, Zier came, and I became a spineless, indecisive coward. The very words I branded my father with, that my son would come to brand me with."

    Unauthorized use of content: if you find this story on Amazon, report the violation.

    "Breaking the status quo could mean anything for the future of Hadrian. It was as Gillian said¡ª" Meya whirled back, eyes wavering as the realization dawned upon her. Kellis shook his head, "There''s no foreseeable benefit for us Hadrians. Either we destroy Latakia or humankind, or we surrender the one bargaining chip that has kept us alive and prospering for two centuries. I can''t leave my boys to face that life. I can''t forsake my people, but nor can I forsake yours."

    Meya hung her head, teeth grinding, no doubt torn between two bloodlines racing in her veins. Kellis gazed aimlessly ahead, haunted by illusions of memories he weren''t proud of.

    "I tried my damnedest to distance myself from my sons. To resent them, see them as mere tools, means to an end, obligations forced upon me by my forebears. I hoped it would give me the will to do what is needed to be done."

    "And yet, two decades later, I still can''t bring myself to act. And you''ve seen what my sons have done to win my love, to escape the burden I''ll soon pass on to them. If only I had the guts to pick a side, I would''ve at least been able to save one."

    Emotion drowned away the rest of his words. The fire seized the opening to interrupt with cracks and sputters. Meya turned away and stared into its depths, pondering.

    "So, you''re saying¡ª" She began, her voice quiet, a hand caressing her middle, "If I want Coris to follow through with saving dragons, I shouldn''t tell him, milord?"

    She stared into his eyes, knuckles glowing white in the meager light as her grip tightened. Kellis shook his head.

    "As a father, I only have the right to decide what I believe is best for my son, while he is unable to choose. But Coris is a man now. A father. And you''re a wife, and a mother." The girl''s eyes wavered in horror at the grim reminder. Kellis gestured at her level belly, "This child is yours and his. And this land would be yours¡ªand then your child''s to live. Your choice is yours to make, but the consequences will not only be yours to shoulder."

    Meya hung her head, sinking under the weight of endless, obscure possibilities. Kellis''s resolve to live and let live softened at the sight, and he decided to give the girl a little nudge in the direction he deemed right.

    "Why won''t you tell him?" He asked, though he could somewhat guess the cause. Tears welled up in the girl''s eyes.

    "He¡ªhe''s always saying he dun want children." She kneaded her eyelids with the back of her trembling hand, sniffling, shaking her head,

    "I dun wanna force him to be a father out of some sense of duty. I dun want the babe to grow up feeling as if he had to become something he thought his dada would love. Because I know what that''s like. Trying to be useful, be a good woman, the Song of May Day. So Crosset would accept me. I dun want that life for my child, too."

    Kellis felt her words hammering onto his heart, and clenched his fists to brace against the onslaught. That had also been¡ªstill were¡ªthe lives of his sons. And how could he die in peace if he allowed that to be the life of his grandchild, as well?

    He let his eyes roam across the blinking stone facets of the cave wall, selecting the words with which to guide, to advise the troubled young soul,

    "Sylvia and I have been married for twenty years. Ours weren''t a union of love¡ªwe barely knew each other before, but only once did we come close to divorce."

    He closed his eyes as he struggled to swallow the bitter taste in his throat. He felt the heat of the girl''s glowing eyes burning on his face, and he dipped his head in anguish,

    "I learned Sylvia had been aborting our children¡ªthrice¡ªwhen she was about to abort Coris."

    Meya slumped back, color draining from her freckled cheeks. She whipped around to Coris, unnerved at how narrow a stroke of fate his very existence was. Kellis blew out a long, tortured breath. No matter how many times he''d remembered it, the notion still chilled him to the core,

    "I was hurt. Devastated. I know she didn''t love me. At least, not yet. I know she didn''t trust me. I know it would''ve been she who must carry those children for ten months, then risk her life to bear them. Still, they were my blood as much as her flesh. And we are man and wife. We could''ve discussed our options. We could''ve decided to wait until she was ready, until our parents had passed¡ªanything. Just together. Willingly." He pressed a hand to his eyes, tremors leaking into his voice, "At least, it probably wouldn''t have pained Coris this much if that had been the case."

    Meya pursed her lips, stifling sobs as tears dripped from her chin. She turned and combed Coris''s tousled hair, fingers trembling.

    "Honesty is vital to any lasting partnership. If you both don''t possess enough trust to be fully honest, enough patience to negotiate a compromise, your marriage would always be this torture you''re feeling now, doubling and tripling with every secret you add. Holding hands would always feel as if you had poison dripping from your sleeve. In that case, it might be better to let go early on, while you still could."

    Meya''s hand jolted at the heartwrenching, yet tempting suggestion. Kellis allowed silence to reign, and the lass ample time to weigh her options.

    "Coris and Lady Arinel have decided they will not marry. Do you have any alternatives?"

    He continued in a brighter tone. Meya''s eyelids fluttered like gossamer wings as she woke from her thoughts, caught off guard by the sudden change of subject. She met his gaze briefly, then turned to Coris.

    "Yes, milord, but¡ª" She turned back and faced him full, glowing eyes blazing with determination, "That would depend on how much you''re willing to sacrifice. For your sons."

    Kellis raised his eyebrows at the challenge in those narrowed eyes, chuckling. Finally, she was showing him why Coris had chosen her to aid him in his quest.

    "You''d be surprised." He unfurled a devious grin. Meya reciprocated in kind, before loud rustling and moans from the far side of the ring wiped their smiles clean off their faces. The Baron and Greeneye girl spun around with a start to find sleep-deprived Lord Hadrian rolling about, rubbing his eyes in annoyance, whining,

    "Is this a matter of significance? Can''t you see I''m trying to¡ª" At the sight of Kellis, the boy''s eyes flew all the way open. He bolted up, hastily snatching the tumbling folds of clothes to cover his naked torso.

    "Father?" Coris croaked, color blossoming on his gaunt cheeks, gawking eyes darting between his old man and dragon maiden. Kellis belted out a hearty laugh.

    "Absolutely, son. I''m getting to know my daughter-in-law." He tilted his head at the furiously blushing young lady, then resumed his interrupted conversation,

    "So? Your proposal, Meya Hild?"

    Coris frowned, but not for long. He stared deep into those glowing green eyes, then his sharp mind filled him in the rest, as she laced her fingers between his.

    After a deep breath, Meya turned back to Kellis and unveiled her plans...

 Forgotten Four

    Long before the sun had commenced her crawl up towards the horizon, members the newly-minted alliance departed for the Windcatcher City.

    With seven humans in want of transport, Gillian agreed to have his subordinates who would later be heading for Amplevale¡ªDockar, Vitrius and Torbald¡ªcarry them back in dragon form alongside himself and Meya. Unsurprisingly, the humans wouldn''t be riding the dragons but clinging onto their front legs.

    With darkness as their cover, they took off on a low, leisurely glide skimming the top of the sand dunes. They could''ve shot high above the clouds, of course, but the humid cold and buffeting wind would freeze the humans'' frail lungs. Even at the humble speed and height, Coris was already shivering against Meya''s underbelly in his bundles of cloth. She adjusted her arms, pressing him more snugly into her warm skin. To her right was Gillian with Baron Hadrian and Zier in each arm, and to her left was Vitrius with Lady Arinel and Jerald. Bringing up the rear, the frailer Dockar and old Torbald each took Simon and Christopher, respectively.

    The sky lightened to pale hyacinth, revealing the walled city blinking just beyond the rippling sea of sand. The dragons touched down behind a row of sand dunes and resumed their human disguise, then the congregation slogged their way up to the travellers'' road leading to Hyacinth''s town gate. As part of Meya''s plan, Baron Hadrian had sent word of her surrender, and Meya found Hyacinth''s sleep-deprived guards-women waiting for her with seething smiles and swinging chains.

    When Coris threatened to be chained alongside her in the wheeled cage and paraded back to the palace, the guards relented. Still, Meya and the four additional "Greeneyes" must walk among the populace on foot, while the noble, human guests were allowed to lounge on palanquins balanced atop the mighty shoulders of Hyacinth women.

    The outrageous arrangement triggered yet another heated lecture from Coris, before he announced he would join Meya and her brethren on the ground, forcing the rest of the group to follow suit.

    Though even Zier didn''t seem inclined to gripe, Meya couldn''t help dipping her head in apology at her human comrades as two guards steered her forward, squeezing each of her arms in their gigantic hands.

    By the time they ventured onto the thoroughfare, the sun had already risen free of the Blue Mountains'' shadow. Meya knew from experience that it was schooltime. As artisans and merchants bustled around arranging their storefronts, young girls came charging out from doors and alleys on Meya''s right-hand side of the street, clean-shaven and draped in purple-embroidered white togas, toting copies of the Holy Scriptures. Fathers came trooping down the hill towards Meya, leading their kicking, bawling daughters. They saw their children off at the school''s entrance¡ªa gap in the mile-long wall on the left side of the street, crowned with an imposing sandstone arch. Some shot dirty looks at the teenage girls hunkered nearby, gnawing on dates and chucking pits at passing young men, along with whistles and jeers.

    "Ow!"

    Meya whirled around at that familiar cry. Coris was rubbing his cheek. His eyes found the owner of the invisible traces of date sugar and spit now on his skin in a tall, muscular young woman who looked to be around Meya''s age. Even as she wore the school''s embroidered toga, she lounged against the flaking adobe wall with no regard for how harder her father would have to work to scrub the dirt off the white fabric.

    "Hey, gorgeous. Where you from?" She called, prompting her surrounding friends to whoop and crow. Her eyes zeroed in on the region not far below Coris''s midriff, "Betcha got a solid five hundred down there."

    A second round of applauding cheers befell the woman as Coris flushed crimson, even as he''d known enough to feign total obliviousness and hasten his feet. Seething, Baron Hadrian tugged up his sword. Sunlight glanced off the silvery hilt, silencing the hoodlums for good¡ªor while they remained in sight, at the least.

    Her arms trapped, Meya pitched in with her own healthy serving of glare. Fixed by her glowing, allegedly ill-wishing eyes, the louts scattered like peas in a popped pod into the school. Yet, Meya''s fury lingered in the pounding of her heart in her ears, as did their words.

    "Five hundred?" She raised an eyebrow at the guard on her right, arms trembling in their grasps, itching to break free and check on her poor husband.

    "Latts¡ªfor a pump." The guard added at the blank look on Meya''s face, then added again, "¡ªof his seed. Pop out a child, bump up a rank, they say. It''s a promotion criteria. If it were a boy and you couldn''t pay dowry, you could leave it in front of the school."

    She motioned with her head towards the school''s seemingly unending adobe wall. Coincidentally, a young boy¡ªMeya knew because he had some length of hair¡ªwas prowling that particular stretch of wall with his reed broom, sweeping date pits strewn about its skirt into his dustpan. His dusty, wrinkled uniform was a far cry from the blazing white togas of the Scripture-toting girls passing by him through the arched doorway.

    "Agh, five hundred''s nothing." The other guard''s voice traveled to Meya like an echo from the other end of a tunnel, "They''re bidding by the thousands for Dizadh''s load these days."

    "By Freda, that''s insanity." The first guard guffawed.

    "Well, he ain''t getting younger. Old man''s been pumping for decades. He''s running himself dry fathering the whole danged town."

    As the two women dragged Meya on, chortling over her head, Meya''s eyes remained upon the boy. It was likely he was one of those abandoned children, cast aside after they had exhausted their worth to their parents.

    She imagined the school had begrudgingly took him in, and, when he was old enough, set him to work to pay for bread and bed and books. She remembered the days in front of the church back in Crosset, watching parents turned away by Friar Tumney slouching off with their unwanted baby girls, no doubt to raise them up with resentment.

    What if the child had been a Greeneye? Would they have even ventured out to the church and risk exposure for the slim chance of getting rid of it legally? Would the school have simply left it there to hopefully die of exposure in due course? Though Meya knew she would never do such things to her own child, it would''ve been but one less baby living unwelcome and unwanted in Freda''s cruel lands.

    <hr>

    The doors to Hyacinth Palace''s Great Hall trembled with echoes of the conflict within as they approached. The guards threw the doors open and marched in, dragging Meya between them, and the once muffled, strident voices now blasted her at full force¡ª

    You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

    "Sylvia, please! I have a deal to fulfill. I can''t spare my women for your search!"

    Lady Hyacinth was no longer lounging lazily upon her throne but bent forward, appealing in frustration to her counterpart. Baroness Hadrian stood adamant on the dais, her raised voice traveling the length of the hall as she brandished a shaking finger down at Amoriah.

    "Four of my people under your care are missing! Meanwhile Olivis is dragging you into his childish feud with some peasant girl. Need I draw up a map to remind you whose army is nearer to Hyacinth?"

    "Army? Are you listening to yourself, woman? You''re declaring war over two Greeneyes and two girls who don''t legally exist?"

    "My lady, Baron Hadrian has returned with the convict." The guard on Meya''s right announced, coming to a stop behind the gaggle of spectators gathered at the foot of the dais. The group whipped around, along with the two warring noblewomen, revealing the familiar faces of Frenix, Atmund, Dorsea, Philema and Tissa.

    Baroness Sylvia''s flashing gray eyes finally found Meya, squeezed between the two hulking guards-women. For a blink, her fiery expression softened in relief, before freezing back to smoldering ice. She hurried down the steps towards her family.

    "I guess that''s one less excuse for you, then, Amoriah?" She threw a sharp quip over her shoulder as she took up her usual spot beside her husband.

    "Sylvia, what''s going on?" Baron Kellis glanced between the two fuming women. Sylvia pursed her lips as his stare settled upon her, then turned and met Coris''s puzzled gaze instead.

    "The Graye sisters, and Cleygar and Lors, they¡ªOh, Lexi, I''m so sorry." Her hands flew to cover her mouth. She shook her head, eyes wide and fearful, "Amoriah has no knowledge of them. They''ve never made it here."

    Her whisper befell them like a clap of thunder. Agnes¡ªPersephia¡ªCleygar¡ªLors¡ªMissing? How could this have happened?

    Meya would have crumpled to the marble floor if it hadn''t been for the guards'' ironclad hold on her arms. A blade of wind rushed by her as Coris marched to the forefront, eyes blazing,

    "Preposterous!" He snapped at Amoriah, brandishing the letter they received days ago, "We sent you a letter asking of their whereabouts and received this reply from one Lasralein Hasif. They should be under her care!"

    "As I have just told your mother, I''ve received no such letter, Lord Hadrian." A new voice joined the argument. It belonged to the tall, thin woman with cropped black hair, draped in a purplish toga, standing to the left of Amoriah''s throne. The silvery sequins dangling from the wire band on her forehead gleamed rainbow in the late morning light as she descended the steps towards Coris and received the letter in question.

    "This is not my handwriting nor signature, my lord. The Lady Hyacinth can attest to that. I have not the slightest idea how this came to be."

    After a moment of examination, Healer Hasif passed the letter on to her Lady with numb, stiff fingers, her face now pale and confused as the rest of them. Amoriah nodded her support, then turned to the Baroness with a sigh.

    "Three of the missing are Greeneyes, Sylvia. Worst case scenario is they''ve been kidnapped and sold to the black market. Their eyes fetch high prices here. They should''ve been more careful."

    Coris whirled around to Meya, and she saw her horror mirrored in his eyes. Coris had briefed her on the fate of the poor boy whose eyeballs had ended up on Jadirah''s brassiere. Now Lady Hyacinth was suggesting the same had happened to their own Greeneye friends? It''d been days since. They could have been taken anywhere, without their eyes¡ªtheir very selves!

    The sound of the doors opening once again arced through the midst of their despair. Meya strained her neck, peering over her shoulder. A wooden palanquin sailed towards them, carried by four burly women, its passenger concealed within its walls and curtains coated with cochineal. The preceding guests obligingly parted to make way like roadside foliage. The women set the palanquin down with the barest sound, and the occupant emerged.

    Even in these dire circumstances, Meya couldn''t help but appreciate that he was perhaps the most magnificent man she had ever seen. His shiny hair stretched down his back all the way to his ankles, like a strip of finest black silk on a loom, embroidered with strands of gold and silver. His deep red toga hung from broad shoulders, silhouetting his lean, triangular torso, trimmed with rows of golden bangles on both of his arms and feet. His dark, sharp features stood out against his pale olive skin even without the help of cosmetics. He advanced in a regal, yet gentle, quiet manner, sinking into a curtsy before Lady Hyacinth, who shook herself awake from her stupor, awe and delight morphing into embarrassment.

    "Ah, Dizadh!" She slapped her forehead, then waddled down the steps. She cradled the man''s painted hands as she urged him upright, shaking them vigorously, "I''m so sorry. Afraid we''ll have to reschedule. You''ll be paid in full, don''t worry."

    Dizadh blinked, discombobulated, then surveyed the gawking crowd on either side of his path. His gaze lingered on Frenix, who, as usual, had chosen not to conceal his glowing eyes. Without a word, he dipped another curtsy to Amoriah, then retreated and nestled back inside his palanquin, hidden by curtains once more.

    Meya watched as Dizadh''s palanquin sailed away, then turned back at Amoriah''s voice¡ªshe''d picked up her argument with Baroness Sylvia,

    "Take all the women you want, but I doubt there''s much more that can be done. The black trades are beyond my reach. You know how things are." She shook her head wearily,

    "I''m truly sorry for losing your men. I''m willing to compensate. I''m sure you''d find our women just as capable¡ªif not more. As for the two Ladies Graye, they''re dead to their father, as far as I know. But you''d need replacement maids-of-honor, still. If you wish, my daughters are at your command."

    She tilted her head towards her three elder daughters, still standing dutifully to the left of her throne. Little Amara, meanwhile, had exploited her mother''s distraction to slump down and rest in the shadow cast by the grand chair.

    "Now, Kellis. I''ve read your request." As the Baroness seethed, Amoriah turned to the Baron. She gestured at Meya, who started, "Lord Crosset promised me 30 male convicts in their prime if I hand over the impostor. Nothing tops quality seed. You''ve already lost me my golden hour with Dizadh, so you''d better have a mouthwatering proposal for me."

    Baron Kellis nodded serenely, then eyed the two guards-women still restraining Meya.

    "The girl is to assist with Sylvia''s search. Could you have your guards unhand her?"

    At Amoriah''s wave, the guards freed Meya''s arms and stepped aside. Coris immediately sidled in, scrutinizing her arm for injuries.

    "But I must have eyes on her at all times." Amoriah bargained. Kellis cocked his head.

    "Understandable. I have no objections."

    Amoriah indicated a door to the right with her outstretched hand. The Baron shared a look and a nod with the Baroness, trusting her with finding the lost members of their entourage while he haggled for Meya''s exoneration, then swept after Lady Hyacinth. The moment the door closed behind Kellis''s swishing cape, Frenix dashed to Meya''s side, Atmund close at his heels¡ª

    "That Dizadh guy. We saw him when we read the eyes." He hissed, tugging desperately at her arms, eyes swimming in tears. Atmund nodded vigorously. "He lives in that brothel they took that boy to. Maybe that''s where they took Lo and the others, too."

    Meya''s eyes widened. She turned swiftly to the guard on her right.

    "Who''s Dizadh?" She asked, although she already had an inkling of the answer.

    "He''s our top courtesan. An hour with him is a must for tourists¡ªwell, if you could afford his price. The Lady herself''s a regular."

    Her speculation confirmed, Meya turned next to the long-silent Gillian behind her, flanked by his three fellow dragons. His chiseled, scarred face was emotionless as ever, but his jaw was clenched, tendons pulsing as he nodded, livid at the appalling injustice done to his halfling kin. If ever there were a tally of the most foolish, most dangerous feats of daring-do, marching defenseless into Hyacinth''s man-brothel as a handsome young Greeneye man would probably top the list, but he seemed ready to pursue the matter regardless of how far down the whale''s gullet it would take them.

    Meya turned last to Coris, staring deep into his eyes¡ªa plea for complete trust. Coris bit his lips as she waited with bated breath. He''d guessed what she had planned to do, but his frown was of worry rather than jealousy. At long last, he slipped his cold fingers over hers and grasped her hand tightly. Bolstering the bond with her other hand, Meya turned back to the guard with a raised eyebrow.

    "How much for an hour?"

 A Trip Down Pleasure Lane

    With Baron Kellis off to negotiate with Lady Hyacinth for Meya''s freedom, Baroness Sylvia heading the door-to-door search for the missing Greeneyes and guarding the rest of the entourage, Meya and company had seized the Hadrians'' guest quarters as base of operations, so Meya could prepare for her pleasure session with Dizadh the top courtesan.

    "This is lunacy. You''re staying¡ªI''m going!"

    Coris stopped pacing and stomped in for a rematch with Meya as she studied her reflection in the mirror. Leaning in, she gingerly prodded the warm blob of silvery metal on the bridge of her nose. Perhaps she could do with more to work with.

    "You''ve seen those girls at the school, Coris. ''Tisn''t like you lot have safe passage in there, neither." Sighing, she scrunched up her eyes and concentrated. Instead of piling on her nose, the liquid metal flowed onto her cheeks like alluvial fans. Swearing under her breath, she reabsorbed the goo and started over.

    Coris''s twin in the mirror raised his eyebrows.

    "Well, at least they won''t gouge out my eyes and peddle them on the black market!" He snapped.

    "Coris, enough! I''m going with you no matter what you say." Meya abandoned her quest for a human nose-bridge and whipped around to the real Coris, "They''re just as much your people as mine. I can''t just sit by!"

    "We''ve spied in hostile lands before. Enemies who actively seek out dragons in hiding. We''re treating this as such."

    Gillian, who was mentoring Meya from his spot beside her chair, attempted to mediate. Coris opened his mouth to retort, so Meya quickly added,

    "Exactly. I mean, I''m a Greeneye meself, and I only knew he''s one when I looked closely at his eyes. I didnae even do this nose thingy back then, and you slept with me and you were still none the wiser. The record speaks for itself, Coris."

    Coris made to argue, but swallowed his words and resumed pacing, muttering darkly to himself. Shaking her head, Meya turned back to the mirror and concentrated. Metal trickled out of her pores and pooled on the flat region between her eyes. With her fingers shielded by thimbles, Meya shaped the cooling, waxlike puddle into a ridge.

    As she was about to venture into a brothel known for kidnapping Greeneyes and stealing their eyes, Gillian had decided to teach her to also fashion herself a human nose, in addition to wearing Lattis.

    According to the dragon, skilled Nostran spies could change their very appearance by tweaking and shaping the metal underneath their skin. But as Meya wasn''t experienced enough yet, Gillian thought it safer for her to practice molding her armor over her skin first.

    Adding a few prods as finishing touches, Meya turned left and right, admiring her new nose.

    "What d''you folks think?" She hollered for the human lads to score her efforts. Simon, Christopher and Zier crowded around her chair. Coris ignored her and continued his parade.

    "Hard to tell. Guess I''ll have to see it with the skin on." Simon cocked his head at the strip of paper-thin, eggshell-colored leather on the dressing table. Coris flounced to the door and disappeared outside with a huff of contempt.

    "Coris!" Meya whipped around, half-rising out of her seat. Gillian pushed her down with a firm hand on her shoulder.

    "Sit. He could never be persuaded."

    "But¡ª"

    "He''s a man, Meya Hild. No man wants to see a woman put herself in danger if he could help it." said Christopher solemnly. Meya froze, then bit her lip as a wave of turmoil surged inside her.

    She couldn''t deny she was scared, extremely scared. But she couldn''t just stay out of harm''s way while her fellow Greeneyes could possibly be suffering a gruesome fate. She might die if she went, she understood that. But she couldn''t live with herself either if she stayed.

    "So what? I should just sit here and wait for news? So what if he''s a man? I can''t stand seeing him in danger just as much as sitting by while me friends are being¡ª" She choked on her words. She couldn''t bear to imagine what ordeals her dragon friends might have been subjected to.

    "You don''t have to sit by. There''s a safer option¡ªhelp Arinel spy on that Hasif woman." Simon cocked his head at the door.

    "It''d make my job easier with one less youngling to watch over." Gillian added, his face deadpan. Meya shot him a reproachful look, then spun around at the new voice from behind.

    "I''ll¡ªI''ll go, too." Zier scurried forward. Meya''s glowing eyes turned cold as she examined him. He shrank back on instinct, then summoned his courage,

    "He''ll be safe. I promise¡ªI swear."

    He corrected, his words heavy with conviction. Meya narrowed her eyes. She hadn''t forgotten the anxiety, the dread of being trapped in an endless sea of sand, supplies dwindling amid scorching heat and freezing nights. Freda knew she could''ve easily lost her babe. Her forgiveness wouldn''t be given so simply this time.

    Christopher interrupted the charged silence,

    "Delegation is a vital part of leadership. You can''t always do everything yourself." He leaned closer, lowering his voice, "As the future Baroness Hadrian, you should practice."

    Meya blinked, her cheeks heating as she glanced between the two young men. Baron Hadrian would''ve informed his squires about their new charge. Zier alone looked as surprised as her.

    "It isn''t as much of a risk for Coris. There''d be Baron Hadrian to answer to should anyone so much as upsets the ulcer in his guts." Simon quipped, tilting his head towards the dragon-man, "And unlike Gillian, you don''t have to be there. Unless you didn''t trust Coris to represent your Greeneye interests. Plus, Gillian''s been a spy all his life, he could hold his own if need be."

    "Also, the Baron''s ordered us to safeguard you and your baby." Christopher added, "There''s no way in these three lands we''re letting you go."

    Meya gawked at the mirror as her cheeks drained. She dipped her head, hiding her face behind curtains of red-gold hair, picking at the lint on her dress.

    "I''m just pregnant. Not dying. I can still be useful." She grumbled, cursing Baron Hadrian in her head. See, this was exactly why she''d decided to keep mum. Secrets spread like wildfire once the first spark had leapt out of one''s mouth. Simon heaved a sigh,

    "Males are made to protect females. Females are made to protect the young. It''s nature, Meya. You have your duty, so do we."

    Meya met his calm, sad eyes through the mirror, then turned to the door. She remembered Baron Hadrian''s words. He was right. She was no longer alone. She must consider the consequences to both Coris and their babe. They must communicate with honesty, and arrive together at an agreement. Coris was hurt. Her pride was the culprit.

    This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.

    Her eyes closed, Meya willed the metal back under her skin. The boys stared at her in surprise and relief. She stood up and took Simon and Christopher''s hands, gazing deep into their eyes.

    "Be careful." She spared Zier a glance, then turned to Gillian after the boys had nodded, "You too."

    The boys watched as Meya hurried away to find her tempestuous husband, then Christopher turned and raised his eyebrow at Simon. He started, but just as soon feigned dumb,

    "What?"

    <hr>

    As the shroud of evening descended upon the bustling desert city, rows of purple paper lamps mounted on poles on both sides of the road led curious tourists and seasoned night prowlers alike to peruse the vast array of illicit entertainment.

    The man-brothel Dizadh worked for was one of the grandest along Hyacinth''s Pleasure Lane, boasting three sprawling floors. The signature purple lamps swung from every inch of the roof. Mosaic depictions of men and women in various stages of passion blanketed its adobe walls.

    Gillian, with Coris, Zier, Simon and Christopher in tow posing as his servants, stepped through the arched doorway to find a polished wooden table squatting on his path. Behind the table sat a thin, bald Hyacinth woman with enormous hoops swinging from her ears. Her eyes were glued to the page of her book. Judging from her finger caressing her devious grin, her glossy eyes and flushed cheeks, it was a safe bet what she was reading. She spared them a quick sight-over as they approached, then returned to her pastime.

    "First door on the right. Leave nothing on. The Madam will see you in a bit." She drawled, pointing her thumb in said direction. All the young men in Gillian''s entourage were handsome, their fair skin unmarred by disease nor weather, thanks to their noble blood and upbringing. She''d probably assumed Gillian was a procurer and the boys were hopefuls signing up to work in the brothels.

    Coris blinked, a half-smile frozen on his lips. Zier cocked his head, as usual blessed with cluelessness. Christopher blushed crimson. Simon gawked at the woman. Like the seasoned spy he was, Gillian retained his composure.

    "We have an appointment with Dizadh." He said. The woman''s head snapped up.

    "Dizadh?" She repeated, eyes bulging. She blinked blankly for a moment, before a look of horror washed over her face. She hastily dipped Gillian numerous bows,

    "Oh. Oh, I see. I''m terribly sorry, good sir. Just a moment."

    She dragged over the ledger to her left, set it over her erotic magazine, and rifled through it, trawling a finger down the list of names and dates.

    "We have a reservation here from one Lady Hadrian. Is that correct?" She glanced up, an eyebrow raised. Gillian nodded.

    "We''ve agreed on the price, but I''m afraid you''re going to have to pay additional. You see, we assumed Lady Hadrian would be the client. Dizadh prefers women. He charges a premium to entertain male clients. If you''d feel more comfortable with staff who share your preferences, we could arrange that. If you''re actually in the mood for a quick and economic alternative, we also have a vast lineup of dolls you could choose from."

    Gillian rapidly calculated his next move. His mouth stretched into a grim, taut line of distaste.

    "I''m here for Dizadh. Not any whore. Put it on the tab." He spat, then jerked his head at the gaggle of young men accompanying him, "Show my servants to the dolls."

    The woman nodded to the man and woman standing beside the counter. The long-haired man draped in a gold-trimmed blue toga stepped forth and bowed to Gillian, then led the priority client down the hallway to the right with a gracious flourish of his painted hand. The sparingly dressed bald woman approached the remaining young men and beckoned them to the hallway on the left.

    "Dolls?" Christopher hissed to Coris as they followed the hulking staff woman down a dim, low-ceilinged walkway. Walls of paper screens backlit by flickering orange lamps hosted shadow plays of men and women in the act of lovemaking. Coris slowed his pace, allowing Zier, Simon and the woman to gain some distance.

    "I''ve heard some brothels commission life-sized dolls for low-income clients to satisfy their needs." He whispered, using the cacophony of moans, screams, creaks and slams as cover, "You two pick one each, then spread out for the search. I''ll go with Zier. Gather as much information as possible. In case Gillian couldn''t wheedle anything out of Dizadh."

    Out of the shadows, a nondescript wooden door appeared at the end of the hall. Coris broke off. The door was left ajar. A dim, brownish-orange light leaked through the gap.

    A Hyacinth woman exited, carrying what appeared at a cursory glance to be a blond, fair young man bundled in lavish folds of crimson fabric. His pale, bony limbs dangled lifelessly from her arms, jolting to the force of his new mistress''s footfalls. His glassy, empty eyes reflected the light of the oil lamps in the hallway. The woman disappeared with him into a screen door to the right.

    It could''ve been a trick of the inadequate lighting, but the doll looked eerily lifelike.

    <hr>

    Over to Arinel and Meya in Hyacinth Palace, the two girls were cloistered behind a sandstone pillar, eyes fixed upon the wooden door set into the wall at the junction in the hallway, behind which, they were told, was Lasralein Hasif''s alchemy lab.

    Like Bishop Riddell, Healer Hasif was first and foremost an alchemist. A prominent member of the prestigious Hasif clan. Her ancestor was the legendary Lashtiri Hasif, who used the green crystals to lead the women of Hyacinth to victory in the explosive-gas-filled mines.

    Agnes, Persephia, Cleygar and Lors'' disappearance was a conundrum. Like in Jaise, the Greeneye trade was coursing in the catacombs under the scorching sands of Hyacinth. The disappearances could easily be explained away as accidents, the losses easily paid with a few Hyacinth guards.

    That meant either Lady Hyacinth or Lasralein, or both could be the culprit, and the letter was sent from someone else. A courageous defector trying to alert them. There was even the slight chance it could''ve been the missing four themselves.

    Meya was more inclined towards Lasralein working alone. Why would Lady Hyacinth risk souring ties with Hadrian and trade one of her daughters for six dragon eyeballs? Considering the amount of dates she consumed daily and the hours of pleasure she bought from Dizadh, she wasn''t in want of quick gold.

    Meya and Arinel flattened themselves against the heated stone, waiting for an opening to sneak inside Hasif''s lab, or at least tail her around and observe her movements. However, Hasif hadn''t once left her lab since she returned from Baroness Sylvia and Lady Amoriah''s spit-spraying match in the Great Hall.

    Either she was that dedicated to her current pursuit, or she was spooked by the letter from the informant, and had decided her best chance was to guard her lair of secrets until the Hadrians had surrendered and left.

    They could use force to bust their way in, of course, but there was no telling if they would find anything incriminating. And Meya wasn''t sure how further she could push her luck, her exoneration riding on negotiations between Lady Hyacinth and Baron Kellis as it was.

    "Are you spying on Hasif?"

    Said a timid voice from behind. The two girls jolted and spun around, hands over their mouths barely stifling squeals of surprise.

    The voice belonged to a meaty young man who stood as tall as Zier and boasted an ample belly reminiscent of Lady Hyacinth. Like most Hyacinth men, he had olive skin and wore a purplish toga. His wavy black hair was cropped short, however, and the tired, greasy locks huddled close to his scalp. Silver-rimmed glasses magnified his round, blue-black eyes. He smiled awkwardly at the sight of their abject terror.

    "Don''t worry. I won''t tattle. I''ve been in there myself." He raised two bare, astonishingly slender hands. His eyes found Meya''s glowing green, and he froze. Rapid calculations scrolled past his round face as he glanced between her and Arinel. At last, he reached out a hand,

    "Er...I''m Ahmundi Hyacinth. You look like Westerners. You''re guests, right?"

    Ahmundi? The name rang a bell. Ah, Ahmundi! Lady Amoriah mentioned him when they''d first arrived, said she wanted her son to be as thin as Coris.

    But what was Lord Hyacinth doing here? Keeping an eye on them for his mother? But he said he didn''t mind them spying on his mother''s healer. Besides, it wasn''t as if they''d done anything wrong. Well, not yet, at least.

    Arinel shot a quick glance at Meya. Meya stretched to full height, regarding Ahmundi with imperious glowing eyes. Arinel took it as cue to play neutral. She extended her hand and clasped Ahmundi''s.

    "I''m Arinel Crosset. This is Meya, the Lady Hadrian." She flourished a hand towards Meya,

    "Lady Hadrian?" Ahmundi blinked at Meya then turned back to Arinel, "Isn''t Lord Coris betrothed to you?"

    The two girls gawked at him. The lad spoke as if he had walked straight out of last week into today.

    "Haven''t you heard?" Meya rasped, eyes bulging, so baffled she couldn''t keep up her snooty air. Ahmundi seemed used to the reaction. He slipped his fingers through his hair and scratched his scalp.

    "I''m sorry. I don''t come out of my lab much these days. ''cept to steal stuff from Hasif''s lab. No time to lose, you see."

    "Your lab? You''re an alchemist?" Meya''s eyes sparkled. Arinel looked scandalized, apparently more hung-up about the other, more worrisome snippet of information.

    "Ah, if only." Ahmundi chuckled, then beckoned with a wave of his hand, whispering now, "We''d better come to my quarters. We can talk freely there."

 The Secret Lab

    Ahmundi''s room was bathed in bright yet eerie acid-green light, radiating from the chandelier on the ceiling and tall, cylindrical lamps made of faceted crystal set at intervals along the walls. Piles of books huddled between them, humbly awaiting a shelf.

    Magenta curtains smothered every window. The bed and wardrobe had been shunted into the far corners, making way for a large wooden table cluttered with rolls of parchment and curious paraphernalia, and what appeared to be an enormous, misshapen, slightly deflated ball made of strips of thick cowhide sewn together, sitting next to the table. It could probably house all three of them snugly inside with its size.

    Meya scrunched up her eyes against the unnatural, disorienting lighting, then shot its occupant a quizzical look,

    "Why dun you use normal lamps, milord?"

    Ahmundi nodded towards the mysterious leather ball. He closed the door behind the girls, led them to his worktable, then rested his hand atop his invention.

    "Flammable air from the old mines." He smoothed his hand lovingly down its patchwork surface, his eyes sparkling with enthusiasm and pride, "I think we can use it as fuel. If only we can stuff it into a smaller container."

    "Why?" asked Arinel as she tore her eyes away from the assortment of gauges, pumps and tubes on the tabletop. Ahmundi shrugged,

    "Mother asked Hasif to invent a way to carry a large amount of fuel inside this basket, said it''s a top-secret request from King Alden."

    He bent down with a sigh and picked up a wicker basket, setting it on the table for the girls to examine,

    "She''s probably finding a way to harness the light energy of the green crystals, turn it into movement. But I think we''re relying too much on the Hasifs and their green crystals, so I''m working on my own method."

    "So, this is your container?" asked Meya, holding a metal tube roughly the shape and size of a bundled-up baby she''d retrieved from the floor beside the table. One end was rounded, the other end was a bottleneck. Ahmundi nodded, then sighed and propped his arms on the table, his head bowed,

    "I''ve been testing with normal air. Works quite well. But problem is I dunno how safe it would be with flammable gas. If it''s small enough. Or holds enough." He stared ahead with a frown, eyes dark with desperation, "I must see Hasif''s work. I must know what I''m up against."

    Silence fell. Meya watched Ahmundi''s hands on the tabletop curl into fists. She turned and shared a look with Arinel, and saw pain in her eyes as they arrived at the same conclusion.

    Ahmundi''s lab was his own bedroom. He kept the curtains closed at all times. He didn''t dare call himself an alchemist, and he was forced to squirrel supplies from Hasif''s lab to further his own experiments, locking himself away in a race against time to best his mother''s alchemist.

    If Hyacinth was the opposite of Latakia when it came to men and women, his predicament was probably not much different from Arinel''s. Possibly worse.

    And if he was spurred into action seeing Hasif''s growing power, that meant her shadow over the Hyacinth seat was not a benign shade.

    Arinel pursed her lips and reached out her hand, but before she could touch Ahmundi''s arm, he resurfaced with that little rueful smile, glancing between the two young women,

    "Well, that''s my story. What about you two? Why are you spying on her?"

    The two spies blinked, then shared another look. Meya studied Ahmundi as she weighed her options. The lad had shared top-secret news with them, showed off his invention and pretty much laid bare his motive to two complete strangers, just because they were similarly working against Hasif.

    He badly needed something from them, that much was clear. Although it was just as likely a ruse to gain their trust and waylay them, and he might have actually been here on his mother''s¡ªor worse, Hasif''s¡ªorders to sabotage them, Meya heard the honesty in his words, saw the despair and long-suffering in his smile. And she decided, once again, on the kinder alternative.

    "Four of our friends are missing. Three are Greeneyes. Your mother thinks they''ve been kidnapped by traffickers for their eyes, but we think Healer Hasif might''ve something to do with it." She leaned in, her voice lowered,

    "Lord Coris sent a letter to your mother asking about them, and we got a reply from Healer Hasif, saying they''re under her care. But this morning, your mother and Healer Hasif said they''d never seen the letter. Dun you think ''tis fishy?"

    Ahmundi frowned and churned his lips, then nodded slowly,

    "Yes. It is odd." He said carefully, pinching the curl of flesh on his chin, "All letters addressed to Mother passes through Hasif. She''s Mother''s personal advisor."

    Meya shared another look with Arinel, then cast her eyes to the eerie crystal lamps around the room.

    "These green crystals, milord. D''you have any idea what they are?"

    Ahmundi followed her lead. As their eyes met, his eyes widened. He had definitely noticed the acid-green sheen shared by her glowing irises and the light of Hyacinth''s women. Arinel''s blue eyes grew large as her face paled.

    "Oh, Freda. You don''t seriously think¡ª" She whispered. Ahmundi gritted his teeth, shaking his head slowly,

    "I''ve been inside Hasif''s lab dozens of times. She doesn''t work on the green crystals in there. She has a secret chamber, but try as I might, I can''t break in. Might have something to do with her being a Greeneye."

    "Hasif''s a Greeneye?" Meya exclaimed, then slapped her forehead as she remembered the rainbow sheen of the sequins on Lasralein''s headdress.

    "Of course! Her circlet! She''s wearing Lattis. No wonder they knew to use Lattis shackles with me. She must''ve warned them I could escape. So this is why you''re so eager to work with us? Because I''m a Greeneye?"

    Meya shot Ahmundi an accusing look. Ahmundi shrugged and hitched up his forced smile again, unperturbed.

    "Well, I''ve tried everything. Got nothing to lose. You might have better luck than me."

    He confessed simply. Although Meya was a tad annoyed with his somewhat racist motive, that heavy air of despair he gave out was probably the main perpetrator, not genuine disdain.

    "We need someone to distract Hasif, and you need to follow me into the lab." She wagged a finger in the air as she calculated, then spun around to Arinel, "Milady, d''you think you can talk alchemy with her for a while? What''s her specialty, milord?"

    "Well, green crystals, of course." Ahmundi shrugged, "But she''s also a healer, so there''s that."

    Arinel pursed her lips, thinking hard.

    "Perhaps I could pretend to discuss anesthesia with her. But how do we discuss alchemy outside her lab?" She muttered, frowning.

    "What if you ask her for a tour of the herb garden or something? You have one here?" Meya turned to Ahmundi, who nodded enthusiastically.

    "Yeah. The botanical gardens outside of town at the qanats." He pointed a thumb behind him, then rubbed his hands together, eyes sparkling with glee,

    "If you could lure her out there, we''d have plenty of time to snoop around. We''d better hurry, then¡ªthe sun''s already set. Say you''re bored and want to kill time or something."

    The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

    Ahmundi seemed satisfied, but Meya remembered yet another catch,

    "Does Healer Hasif know you''re sympathetic to Greeneyes?" She turned to Arinel, who went pale.

    "She saw Jerald and I pretending to be the arresting party. And I''ve stood by for a month while you masqueraded as me. I''ve no idea what she might have deduced from those." She mumbled, fearful.

    "Maybe if you go through Mother? If Mother orders Hasif to be your guide, she''s got no reason to refuse, has she?" Ahmundi suggested. Meya nodded as she fingered Coris''s ruby brooch.

    "Amoriah''s busy talking with the Baron right now. She prolly won''t think much about it. Anything to get more of us out of her hair."

    She rambled out her thoughts, hoping to harness the scattered possibilities in her head, settling on one vivid scenario she could picture and follow, like the strategist she must be in Coris''s absence,

    "But if Hasif suspects Arinel, she''d destroy all evidence before leaving. So we mustn''t give her any time to act. Milady¡ª" Arinel straightened up. "¡ªYou go straight to Amoriah. Soon as she calls for Hasif, milord¡ªWe sneak inside her lab. If she returns, we bolt ourselves inside."

    Her two accomplices nodded, which wasn''t surprising in Arinel''s case, but Ahmundi was unnervingly unperturbed. Meya leaned closer, staring deeper into his eyes,

    "We''ve only got one chance. We dunno if we''ll find anything." Meya narrowed her eyes, "Are you sure about this, milord?"

    Again with that bitter grin from Ahmundi. He waved a dismissive hand,

    "Oh, I''ll live. Mother needs someone to marry a Hasif girl."

    He laughed, a laugh that soon petered away when none of them laughed along, leaving him to scratch his head and steer the topic clear of his troubled life he wasn''t yet ready to face. He gestured at Meya,

    "Better worry about yourself, I''d say. You''re Lady Hadrian, and Mother trusts Hasif more than anyone else. If we get caught, she could cut ties with Hadrian for this."

    The new information left Meya stunned.

    Of course. How could she have forgotten?

    She avoided their eyes, her heart pounding in dread. Just as it was back in Jaise, she was gambling Hadrian''s interests in Coris''s absence. What if she lost the bet? She was no longer just Meya Hild¡ªshe was Lady Hadrian. The fallout wouldn''t stop at her.

    A bell rang inside her head.

    Jaise.

    Yes. Jaise. Winterwen owed us. Perhaps this would be her chance to make good on her promise. But Ahmundi¡ªHe certainly won''t like this.

    Meya sneaked a glance at Lord Hyacinth, chewing her lips.

    "If my hunch is correct, and Hasif really is a Greeneye trafficker, we might have a powerful ally who could make Amoriah see sense."

    She said heavily, then met Ahmundi''s puzzled look,

    "But that depends on how far you''re willing to go to get rid of Hasif. Of course, Hyacinth''s never in real harm, so long as your mother does what''s right by Greeneyes. And curbing Hasif''s power might actually keep your mother''s throne safe. But still, ''tis treason against your mother and your town."

    Ahmundi frowned, tilting his head back and forth as he considered it,

    "Maybe it doesn''t have to be. What are you suggesting?"

    Meya licked her dry lips and took a deep breath,

    "Is Hyacinth dependent on Jaise for anything?"

    <hr>

    Meya pressed her eye up against the keyhole as sunlight ebbed out of the room behind her. A servant scurried across the length of the hallway leading away from Hasif''s lab, lighting oil lamps mounted on the walls. Every now and then, alchemists in flowing purple robes would walk by, some alone and some in pairs, headed for dinner in the Great Hall. Yet, Lasralein Hasif was not among them.

    It had been a quarter-hour since Meya and Ahmundi parted with Arinel. She and the Lord Hyacinth headed for the unused room near Lasralein''s lab to lie in wait, whereas the Lady Crosset rushed off to find Lady Hyacinth.

    Lady Hyacinth was still under the impression that Meya had set off with the sunset, headed for the Pleasure Lane with Coris and Gillian, her two guards in tow. The change in their plans, however, left them no choice but to put the guards to sleep and stuff them into the wardrobe in the Hadrians'' guest quarters, so Meya would be free to sneak off and help Arinel spy on Healer Hasif.

    At long last, clattering footsteps echoed towards them, then a servant boy turned the corner into the hallway, hurrying towards Lasralein''s door. He knocked. Lasralein''s muffled voice must have answered, for he then announced Lady Hyacinth had summoned for her.

    There was a pause, then the double doors opened and Lasralein emerged looking annoyed, a length of chains coiled around her arm, and Meya made a fist in silent celebration. Lasralein produced a ring with four keys, jamming one into each corresponding hole on the left-side door. Top, middle, bottom. Then, as the final precaution, she uncoiled the chains from her arm, knotted them around the door handles, then sealed them with a padlock.

    Meya readied her sweaty hand on the doorknob as she pushed her face harder against the keyhole. She strained her eyeball against the confines of the narrow field of vision she''d had to work with, following Lasralein as she stalked past their door, the servant boy tailing two steps behind. She waited until they have disappeared behind the corner and their footsteps have faded to silence, before turning the doorknob. The two troublemakers spilled out onto the hallway, then scrambled for Lasralein''s door.

    As Meya fell panting against the wooden double doors, breathless from the thrill, Ahmundi bent down and pulled a ring of keys out from his sleeve, slotting one into the padlock on the chains. It popped open with one sharp turn.

    "Doesn''t she ever change her locks? All this time, she never noticed you nicking her stuff?" Meya asked as she pulled the heavy chains out from the door handles. Ahmundi had knelt down to open the bottom lock.

    "Told you, her lab''s just a front." Clack! Ahmundi straightened up with a sigh and slotted another key into the middle lock, "She mostly works in the secret lab." Clack! He stretched up on tippy-toes and strained for the top lock, "And she barely uses the stuff I took anyway, because our experiments are very different."

    Clack!

    Meya let out a sigh of relief when the fourth key turned smoothly in the last lock. Ahmundi, however, remained tense. He grasped both door handles and pushed his way inside, Meya hot on his heels.

    As Ahmundi pulled the doors close behind them, Meya handed him the chains and padlock then took the time to explore the room. Lasralein had left the lamps lit. Apparently, she''d thought she would be able to return soon.

    The lab was roughly as large as the one room in Meya''s cottage back in Crosset, with a worktable instead of a hearth-hole as the centerpiece, and shelves carrying books, scrolls, apparatuses, and labeled jars containing hazardous substances, instead of pots, pans, jars of pickle, strings of sausages and hunks of meat (from Meya''s piglets) and loaves of bread.

    Not a thing was out of place, except for the chair Lasralein must have been sitting on, her eye on the door, touching nothing. Ahmundi truly had been in here numerous times. This lab had probably barely seen experiments, at least not for a long time.

    A heavy clunk resounded in the still air from Ahmundi snapping the padlock close. Meya turned to him as he advanced a step further into the room, his eyes trained on the shelves on the opposite wall,

    "Now, the time for truth." He sighed, eyes narrowing. Meya hurried after him as he rounded the table towards the three-tiered shelves, then joined in when he set to work relocating their inhabitants onto the wall-length chest of drawers below. He didn''t bother taking note of their places so they could erase their trail once their job was done. He really had meant for this to be his one last heist.

    Now that the shelves had been cleared, a hair-thin, vertical gap appeared along the seemingly seamless adobe wall, once hidden behind books and jars. Five tiny round holes that could have fitted no rod thicker than a meat skewer had been drilled into the wall at intervals, all framed with a golden ring.

    Ahmundi laid a tapered finger over the hole in the middle, rubbing the golden ring to a shine in frustration.

    "These smug little holes have been taunting me for years." He muttered, "I bribed the castle''s locksmith to make these for me, but for these, he''s stumped."

    He raised the ring of copied keys, then gestured it towards the peculiar keyhole with a chorus of jangles, shaking his head,

    "He''s never seen keyholes even remotely like these in his life. None of his mold keys would fit, so he couldn''t get markings. Either Hasif commissioned a different locksmith for this door, or she crafted this lock herself."

    Meya met his apprehensive gaze, then narrowed her eyes at the keyhole, thinking hard. Ahmundi had guessed that it might have something to do with Lasralein being a Greeneye. If Lasralein did indeed craft the locks herself, she could''ve used some sort of technique only Greeneyes would have been capable of, yet not an inherent skill any uninitiated Greeneye could manage...

    Ahmundi mentioned mold keys. Meya had heard tales of lockpicks and thiefs from travelling bards. When the key was unavailable, locksmiths would ram a mold key into the keyhole and force it against the lock. The pins would leave markings on the mold key, which they could then use to craft the imitation key.

    Meya raised her right pointer finger to her eyes. She still required heaps of practice to make herself a nose-bridge from scratch, but perhaps she could make herself a key with a mold in place to guide her flow.

    As Ahmundi frowned in puzzlement, Meya pushed her fingertip up against the minuscule keyhole, then closed her eyes and drew in a deep breath. Letting out a long, sustained sigh, she opened her eyes and willed hot metal to gush out of her pores in a steady stream into the keyhole. Once the hole was filled, she allowed the silvery liquid to form a coat over her finger, creating a handle, then tugged out her finger once the metal had cooled and settled.

    Beside her, Ahmundi let out a breath of awe. Meya glanced aside and met his magnified eyes, quivering behind his glasses, then took another deep breath as she closed both hands around the finger-shaped handle. So tiny was the hole, the key might just break in the lock if her strip of alloy was not strong enough to turn the weight of the deadbolt. But if her hunch was correct and this was how Lasralein did it, then this would have to work. Unless Lasralein subsisted on a diet rich in much hardier metal than she did, that was.

    Very well, here goes nothing.

    Whispering a silent prayer to Freda for a miracle, Meya turned the makeshift key.

    Clack!

    A single note like music from the Heights graced their ears. The gap in the wall widened slightly now that one of the deadbolts holding the halves of sliding wall together had tucked itself away in its nook. Four more to go, and they would be in.

 The Dolls

    The hallway which led to Dizadh''s quarters was a stark contrast to the one housing the Dolls. High-ceilinged enough to accommodate Gillian''s height and a chandelier with plenty of wriggle room in between, and wide enough for a man of Gillian''s breadth to spread his arms and just about touch his fingertips to the walls, and interspersed by sliding doors made of panels of smooth, polished wood, which let out not a whisper nor a glimpse of the private affairs going on behind them. The doors were identical save for the golden letters emblazoned upon them, spelling out the name of the courtesan who resided within.

    The man in the gold-trimmed blue toga halted before the door bearing the name Dizadh, bowed deeply to Gillian, then scurried soundlessly away. Gillian followed him out of the corner of his eye until he had disappeared round the corner with a flutter of his robe, before pushing aside the door.

    The room was brightly lit with paper lamps set along the curtained walls and hanging from the ceiling. Dizadh was right across from him, reclining against a long triangular cushion. His black eyes widened at the sight of his visitor, and he rose to his feet with a swish of his crimson toga and much jangling from his rows of bangles. Golden and silver threads were still entwined in his river of black hair. If he had entertained another client after his canceled session with Lady Hyacinth, it was impossible to tell.

    "You''ve come in place of the Lady Hadrian?" He asked, his voice soft and fearful. He''d probably recognized Gillian as one of the Greeneye girl''s entourage. The man was sharp. Very well. It saved him trouble.

    "She would''ve come personally, if not for the danger." Gillian thrust the door back against its frame with a slam then marched into the light, glaring down at Dizadh from his towering height, his grip tight around the hilt of his curved blade, "Where are those Greeneyes? What have you done to them?"

    Dizadh shrank under his shadow, trembling hands raised in surrender.

    "Please. I''m your ally." He whispered, shaking his head side to side, "I answered Lord Hadrian''s letter in Healer Hasif''s place. To warn you. She called me to the palace for a session a few days ago."

    As Gillian froze, frowning, Dizadh swept towards the red floor-to-ceiling curtains draping over the wall and tugged them aside, revealing the sliding screens once concealed behind them.

    "I was beginning to fear you''d never come for them. I can''t keep them for much longer."

    He rambled, his voice bursting with sobs, then slid back the screen. The lamplight flooded the once pitch-black cupboard, illuminating its occupants¡ªa teenage girl with long golden-brown hair whom Gillian recognized as one of Baroness Hadrian''s maids-of-honor, a stocky brown-haired man in his prime, and a middle-aged man with chestnut hair and mustache.

    There they sat in a row, hunched in the cramped space, limbs akimbo like resting marionettes, lifeless but for the slow rise and fall of their chests. They had been stripped down to their undergarments. Their signature eerie, glowing green eyes had been replaced by blue human eyes, perfect but for their lack of a soul, and their glass-like gleam when touched by the light. The stale stench of piss and shite billowed out and inundated his nostrils, faint yet pronounced against the perfumed air of the room. Dizadh must have been feeding and cleaning them to the best of his ability over the past few days.

    As the pieces fall into place, Gillian clenched his trembling hands, hissing through gritted teeth,

    "Where are their eyes?"

    Dizadh had just scurried off and returned with fresh towels and a water basin. Streams of clear liquid were flowing down Lady Persephia''s bare legs, yet she appeared not in the least aware.

    "The brothel owners sold them to Healer Hasif. If we''re in luck, she might not have used them yet." He knelt down and mopped up the mess. Gillian ducked inside and half-heaved, half-dragged the brown-haired man out to make way and prevent him from getting soiled as well.

    "And where is the other Lady Graye? The human twin? Have they silenced her?"

    Dizadh shook his head with a shudder.

    "They were about to. She convinced them she''d work for laudanum, so they let her live, but her addiction''s getting worse. She''s working in the Dollhouse."

    "The Dollhouse?"

    <hr>

    The staff woman stood waiting impatiently beside the door as Coris and Christopher hurried over to join her. Zier and Simon were standing before the door, their heads tipped back. In the dim light, Coris could just make out the letters scrawled in carmine ink across the wooden panels.

    Dollhouse

    An apt name. So innocent it was unnerving. The enormous woman tossed Coris a key along with parting remarks,

    "Your room''s down that way. Number''s on the key." She jerked a thumb over her shoulder, indicating another hallway perpendicular to the one they had just traversed, then nodded at the Dollhouse''s door,

    "You have one hour. Try any and as many dolls as you want. Just be considerate of other clients. Take one at a time. I''ll come knock when your hour is over."

    With that, she strode back the way she came. Christopher, Zier and Simon watched the bald woman until she disappeared into the shadows, tossed incredulous looks at each other, then turned as one to their leader.

    "So...do we each snag a doll first?" Simon asked hesitantly. Coris met his gaze in the gloom and nodded.

    "I''d say our best shot is to blend in and ask other clients if they''ve seen any of the missing four." He explained as a furrow appeared between his eyebrows, and tremors wracked his slight frame,

    "To be frank, I reckon we''d be lucky to even recover their remains. Greeneyes are mindless golems without their eyes, and Agnes isn''t worth anything as a prostitute thanks to her burns. If I were the brothel owner, I''d sell the dragon eyes to Hyacinth authorities in exchange for protection, bury the Greeneyes alive to destroy the evidence, and silence Agnes."

    The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.

    The cruel yet irrefutable guess left his three friends speechless, petrified in horror. As his wavering resolve threatened to succumb to despair, Coris turned pointedly away from their bloodless faces, their gaping eyes, and pushed open the door. As leader, he didn''t have the luxury of showing weakness. It was important to maintain his men''s morale. Yet, he must also ensure their safety and the success of the mission by keeping them abreast of exactly what they were up against. It was a fine balance to strike. He wasn''t sure he had made the right move, but now that he had chosen, forward was the only direction he could take.

    Unlike the dingy hallway, the Dollhouse was bathed in pleasant orange light. Two bald, well-built women were already inside, browsing the rows of ''dolls'' sitting propped against all four walls of the room.

    The ''dolls'' were life-sized, bundled in vividly colored togas decorated with intricate patterns. There were male and female dolls, child and teenage and adult, blonde and brunette and dark and redheaded, snowy and fair and olive and brown-skinned. Their eyes, however, were all glassy blue, gaping unblinking into space. They appeared too lifelike to have been mere gum molded over a wooden skeleton. So lifelike it was uncanny, and too masterfully crafted to be exploited as an economic alternative to living prostitutes.

    The two clients seemed to have been acquaintances. They selected their preferred doll and left the room together, giggling. One picked a doll resembling an adult man, and the other nabbed a young girl, proof of their differing tastes.

    Coris shifted aside to make way for their exit. His eyes strayed towards the dolls lolling on the floor nearest to him, then he nearly yelped in fright.

    He could have sworn he saw their chests moving¡ªrising and falling in the slow rhythm usually indicating deep slumber in actual humans. A male doll that looked to be his age sat with its mouth ajar. A trickle of drool was seeping out through its parted lips.

    No¡ªNo, not it. Him.

    A wave of freezing cold cascaded down his back as the harrowing realization dawned upon him. Coris faltered back and bumped against Christopher.

    "Oh, Goodly Freda."  The Meriton heir pressed his hand over his mouth, stifling a retch, "They''re breathing."

    "I should''ve guessed this," Coris shook his head as he alternated between disbelief and rage, "How obvious. How disgustingly ingenious."

    Yes, the brothel had kidnapped Greeneyes and sold their priceless eyes to Hyacinth authorities. However, they didn''t simply dispose of their comatose bodies after the deal was sealed, but had decided to milk the Greeneyes for what they were worth, forcing upon them a fate perhaps worse than death.

    Zier dropped to his knees, shivering. Simon gritted his teeth. Setting his emotions aside to be acknowledged later, he glanced wildly around, scanning the dozens of eerily empty faces for a familiar one.

    "They must be here. Find them, hurry!"

    He barked at his paralyzed friends as he dove towards the Greeneyes nearest to him, spurring them to follow suit. Before long, he came upon a young woman with flowing brown hair. He grabbed her chin and pulled her closer, shut her eyelids over the distracting glass eyes and compared her face against Persephia''s in his memory.

    A grating noise sounded from the far side of the room. He glimpsed a slab of the wall sliding open out of the corner of his eye, and turned around. A wheelbarrow sat in the doorway, carrying a naked, unconscious Greeneye girl who seemed to have just been cleaned after her session with a client.

    Behind it stood a young woman with a wooden mask covering half of her face. Her visible eye, bloodshot and shadowed, welled up with tears as she noticed them. Her hair was unkempt. She wore the same red maid uniform she last had on when she parted with them at the dried lake, plus some large splashes of water and dark spatters of what was likely human excrement.

    "Agnes?" Coris breathed.

    <hr>

    Over to Meya, now standing in the doorway to Healer Hasif''s secret chamber, she was also facing her darkest fears turned reality. The shelves along the far wall of the hidden lab held rows of glass jars, crowded together like merchandise to be sold. Each and every was labeled, and each imprisoned a glowing green, metallic eyeball.

    On the worktable was a complex metallic contraption with a small windmill attached to one end, and an eggcup-like receptacle the size of a teaspoon at the other. The windmill was spinning so fast, it had turned into a psychedelic gray whorl, likely powered by the glowing, acid green stone held in the clutches of the spoon.

    Two bowls sat nearby, one holding a dozen similar glowing stones, and the other littered with what appeared to be cracked shells made of opalescent metal¡ªLattis. A vat sat at the corner of the table, half-filled with clear, syrupy liquid. Thousands of minuscule particles hung suspended throughout the jelly, winking in the room''s light like flecks of powdered sequins.

    "Oh, Freda. Goodly Freda. Freda Freda Freda."

    Lord Ahmundi rambled feverishly under his breath, his fingers tangled in his curly black hair. Strength deserted Meya''s legs. She crumpled to her knees, then slumped against the wall. Her guess was correct, but only partially. The whole truth was worse than she had expected, worse than her wildest nightmares.

    The green crystal wasn''t simply a dragon eye by another name. It had been harvested from inside a dragon eye.

    <hr>

    The journey back to Hyacinth Castle began as an arduous slog suffered in stealth.

    Gillian had rendezvoused with the young noblemen at the Dollhouse, then snuck the as yet glassy-eyed, struck-dumb Agnes with them through the hallways over to Dizadh''s quarters. There, Dizadh unveiled a secret passageway leading outside the brothel.

    Carrying the three unconscious Greeneyes between them, the men edged and scraped their way down the narrow staircase, which leveled into an underground passage, then rose to emerge on the side of the bustling road, its exit hidden underneath an innocuous manhole cover sitting just behind the fence swinging with purple paper lamps.

    From there, they hiked back up the rising road until they found their wagon, thankfully still parked in front of the grand brothel.

    As soon as he disembarked at the foot of the stairs leading up to the adobe complex, Coris sent the guardswomen to notify his mother of their return and the mission''s success, so Baroness Hadrian would call off the search.

    Gillian, Simon, Christopher and Zier had just deposited Persephia, Cleygar and Lors down on the bed in the Hadrians'' guest quarters when the door burst open. In came the Baron and Baroness Hadrian, and Lady Hyacinth, followed by the remaining Greeneyes.

    For a beat they stood rooted, eyes transfixed by the prone figures on the bed. Mother was the first to break the spell. Tears of relief streaming down her cheeks, she threw her arms around Coris.

    "Lexi, you''ve found them! Thank goodness!" She withdrew and surveyed him for as if to spot missing chunks, then turned to the rest, "Thank you. Thank you all."

    She grasped Gillian''s hands and shook them, nodded at the two squires and embraced Zier. Pulling away, she finally turned her scrutiny to the long-lost Greeneyes. Her eyes widened as the rosy tinge of blood drained away from her face. The dabs of rouge on her cheeks stood out starkly against the white.

    "Oh, Freda."

    Prepared, Father and Zier caught her as she crumpled. As the bedside chair was already occupied by Agnes, who was absentmindedly stroking Persephia''s hair, they led her to the sofa instead. Lady Hyacinth turned to one of her two guardswomen,

    "Fetch Healer Hasif. She should be at the herb gardens with Lady Crosset."

    Mere moments after the guard rushed outside, another bolted in with a wide-eyed look which seldom heralded pleasant news,

    "My lady, Healer Hasif requests your audience at her lab." She gasped. Lady Hyacinth raised her eyebrow, affronted at being summoned by her own subject. However, her displeasure faded when the guard clarified,

    "The Lady Hadrian has broken into her lab and barricaded herself inside. She''s also taken Lord Ahmundi hostage."

    "What?"

 Lasraleins Defense

    "Tell me where you''re keeping those eyes, or Lord Hyacinth gets a shiny burn on his other cheek!"

    "No! Please!"

    A strident voice echoed down the hallway as Lady Hyacinth, Gillian and the Hadrian men hurtled towards Healer Hasif''s lab, muffled by the thick wood of the double doors, but still unmistakably Meya''s, followed by a whimpering voice pleading for mercy. Whether it was due to fear or pain, Coris was not sure.

    "Please! I''m telling you, my lady. I have no clue about these accusations!"

    Healer Hasif reasoned to the door in exasperation. Coris cast his eyes about the scene as he struggled to process this surreal turn of events.

    He saw Lady Arinel standing a little way away to the right, wringing her hands, stricken with worry. She started, having just registered their presence, then turned and scampered over to them.

    "Ari, what''s going on?" Zier demanded in a whisper. Arinel was downcast, her face hidden behind blinds of blonde locks as she clutched at Zier''s sleeve with a trembling hand,

    "I had Healer Hasif show me around the herb gardens, to lure her away from her lab so Meya and Lord Ahmundi could sneak inside."

    She shot a quick look at the door, using Hasif''s and Meya''s raised voices trading barbs as cover as she brought them up to speed,

    "Hasif grew suspicious and she hurried back. When Meya spotted her coming, she chained the doors from inside and took Ahmundi hostage. She said Hasif''s been hoarding dragon eyeballs and breaking them open to harvest the glowing stones inside¡ªHyacinth''s so-called green crystals. Apparently, they give out immense energy. That must have been the reason the eyes could remain glowing for thousands of years."

    The air in their vicinity seemed to have dropped in temperature. Coris''s eyes lost their usual focus as the pieces fell into place. He understood why Meya had chosen this course of action, of course, but the enormity of what she had done chilled him to the core.

    "Persephia, Cleygar and Lors'' eyes might have already been used, to destroy evidence and silence them, but on the slight chance they''re still untouched, we need Amoriah to force their whereabouts out of Hasif." He murmured, his lips numb. Arinel nodded earnestly,

    "Ahmundi''s looking to get rid of Hasif as well. I''m sure he''s simply playing along. Meya would never harm anyone."

    "Well, Amoriah doesn''t know that, does she? Wouldn''t this turn her against Meya? How do you expect Lord Uncle to negotiate safe passage for her now?" Simon pointed out, voicing Coris''s exact concern.

    Coris turned to Father, just as much for advice as reassurance, but Father''s expression was of grim acceptance. He shook his head slowly,

    "We have three days at best to deal with this matter before Olivis''s arresting party arrives from Jaise."

    He said, lips barely moving as he kept an eye on Lady Hyacinth. She stood with her arms crossed, eyes narrowed, unnervingly calm even as her only son was under threat of torture,

    "If Amoriah rejects my offer, Meya''s best chance is to flee with the dragons while we stay behind and negotiate with Olivis."

    He glanced at Gillian. The dragon commander gave a nod, his barely blinking eyes never once leaving the lab''s door,

    "Dockar will take her to Amplevale. I take it they are your ally?"

    "Lady Amplevale is my sister. She''ll take care of the girl."

    Coris followed Gillian''s gaze to the double doors. He could imagine Meya standing behind it, her feet braced on the stone and her face set as she taunted Hasif with her bluffs. He shook his head in disbelief.

    "I must call this off. This is too much of a risk." He started towards Lady Hyacinth. Father''s roughened hand clamped onto his shoulder.

    "She knows the consequences, Coris. That she deliberately didn''t consult you means she doesn''t intend for Hadrian to intervene."

    "Please, Father. I can''t let her become a criminal!" Coris shook his head, beseeching.

    "The girl is doing this for three of her kind. And I''m deciding on behalf of three Hadrian subjects. This is not your place to weigh in." Father reminded, his whispered voice sharp.

    "She''s my retinue. She''s under my command!" Coris hissed back. This time, it was Gillian who challenged him,

    "Meya Hild, your father and I, we are the triumvirate and our decision is unanimous. You will respect it, Lord Coris."

    The dragon commander growled through gritted teeth. Coris stared deep into those blazing green eyes, and he knew his case was lost. Meya was first and foremost her own self, before she was the woman he loved, a Greeneye before Lady Hadrian. The halfling, the Hadrian, the dragon¡ªthree shall decide on matters pertaining to Greeneyes. And, in this immediate party, Meya was fittest for the role among the nine Greeneyes, just as Father''s word took precedence over his as Baron Hadrian. He had no say in the matter.

    A drawn-out scream of (faked) agony issued from behind the door. Coris jolted and turned his attention back to the hostage negotiation. Healer Hasif''s long, pale face still shone with droplets of sweat, but she was no longer fretting as she gawked at Lady Hyacinth, who had merely raised an eyebrow at the sound of her son''s apparent torture.

    At long last, Amoriah heaved a sigh, uncrossed her arms, then strode forth into the fray,

    "For Freda''s sake," She cursed in annoyance, then shouted at the closed doors,

    "I know you''re behind this, Ahmundi, but by all means, do carry on entertaining me. Open up, boy! Let''s see what atrocity Hasif has in store this time."

    Coris stood staring in the eerie silence that descended, blinking in bewilderment, which was soon replaced by dread.

    Meya and Ahmundi had miscalculated. Lady Amoriah knew her son''s antics well. Ahmundi''s enmity towards Healer Hasif, it seemed, was not a well-kept secret. What would be Meya''s next move?

    Seconds dragged into minutes. At long last, heavy clunks of slinking chains broke the silence as the culprits unbarred the door, and the double doors were thrown open.

    Meya stood in the doorway, panting and red-faced. Beside her was a towering, ample-bellied, bespectacled young man with short, wavy black hair, cloaked in Hyacinth violet robes¡ªLord Ahmundi Hyacinth.

    There were no burns on either of his cheeks. He appeared fearful and nervous, just as Coris had always known him to be, but also determined as he faced his mother''s wrath.

    The two wordlessly led the way as the congregation trooped inside Hasif''s lab. Meya stepped around the worktable, then pulled aside a slab of the opposite wall, and the sight that awaited within whisked the air from Coris''s lungs.

    Rows of dozens of glowing green eyes glared back at them, seemingly hanging in mid-air, surrounded by the darkness of the secret chamber.

    <hr>

    Meya stood before the shelves bearing the jars holding dragon eyeballs, narrowed eyes sweeping across the lab, taking note of each visitor, their movements, their reactions, as they spread out and examined the room and all the horrors it had on display.

    Coris had stationed himself at the corner of the worktable across from her, eyebrows furrowed, his gray eyes gliding back and forth between the pile of cracked Lattis halves overflowing from the bowl and the vat of glittering, clear jelly.

    She wasn''t the only one watching him, however. Out of the corner of her eye, Meya caught Lasralein Hasif loitering near the opposite end of the worktable. After a surreptitious glance at Coris, as if to make sure he wasn''t aware of her presence, she extended a brown arm from the folds of her toga towards the curious contraption with the whirring windmill. Meya''s heart skipped a beat, and she blurted out,

    Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

    "None of you disturb one speck of dust in this room ''til we find those eyes."

    Lasralein''s arm froze, and so did every movement in the room, except for perhaps the slowly oscillating specks of glitter in the vat. All eyes pooled upon the alchemist. She answered them all with a look of serene defiance, then reached for the contraption.

    "Last I remember, this is my lab, and you''re standing on Hyacinth soil." said Lasralein coolly. She retrieved the luminous green stone from its holder (the windmill slowed to a stop), dropped it into the corresponding bowl, straightened up and finally turned to face Meya,

    "Not to mention you''re a fugitive bound for the pyre pending negotiations. And you have just added kidnapping the Lord Hyacinth to your tally. Had you not been Lord Hadrian''s mistress, you would''ve paid for that crime the moment that door was open!"

    Lasralein''s voice rose into a snarl as she jabbed a trembling finger towards the lab''s outer doors, her black eyes flashing with fury. Meya gritted her teeth as she was reminded of exactly how screwed up her situation already was. Yet, she glared right back. Coris swept down the table towards her, shielding her from the alchemist''s death glare with his slight frame,

    "I''m sure Meya was acting under orders from Lord Hyacinth, Healer Hasif. He has the authority to investigate your lab, and he was never in any harm."

    He said, his voice soft and placating. He glanced quickly at Ahmundi¡ªthe Lord Hyacinth jerked out a single heavy nod, his blue-black eyes staring at Hasif with utmost distaste from behind thick spectacles¡ªthen stepped closer to the worktable, a pale hand sweeping over the various paraphernalia,

    "Could you please explain all this? What are you doing with all these eyes? What is your experiment? What could possibly justify harvesting eyes from dozens of living, breathing people¡ªmy men included¡ªthen throwing their listless bodies into brothels to bury evidence?"

    Coris propped his hands on the tabletop, staring unblinking at Hasif. The room held its breath as Hasif pursed her lips into a line. Her eyes slid towards Lady Amoriah, communicating silently. Then, she shook her head.

    "I cannot tell you." said Lasralein, cool and clipped.

    "You cannot? Or you will not?" Coris shot back, eyebrows raised. Lasralein merely raised her face and threw out her chest in defiance, her lips sealed even tighter. Then, as tension in the air built up to breaking point, a new voice struck like the first bolt in a storm,

    "It''s a request from King Alden." Ahmundi burst out. He shivered as he answered each pair of widened eyes but soldiered on regardless, pointing to the contraption on the desk, "He needs a lightweight, compact energy source to power this machine."

    "AHMUNDI!" Lady Amoriah roared, slamming two bejeweled fists onto the worktable. Arinel seized up then huddled against Zier''s chest.

    "Mother, please. This is madness!" Ahmundi cried, both hands raised before him, pleading for his mother to see reason, "You can''t possibly be thinking of presenting this to the king! Greeneyes they may be, they''re still humans!"

    Amoriah rolled her eyes then slapped a meaty hand to her forehead,

    "This is Hasif we''re talking about here. I''m sure these eyes have been taken willingly and lawfully. Haven''t they, Hasif?" She raised an eyebrow at her trusted aide, who nodded vigorously, "As patriotic donations towards the betterment of our country, I don''t see why Alden would object to it."

    "Please, rest assured, my lord." Lasralein rushed over to her young master, back stooped and shoulders folded, switching from haughty to humble in a blink. Ahmundi seemingly wasn''t convinced. "After all, I myself am a Greeneye. I would never dream of harming a fellow Fyrbound."

    "Fyrbound?" Meya repeated, frowning. Lasralein turned to her, nodding.

    "Yes. You and me both, Lady Hadrian." She straightened with a thin smile that did not reach her eyes, back to business as usual. She touched her fingertips to the centerpiece sequin dangling from her headdress¡ªsome sort of insignia. It was shaped into the outline of a triangle. Contained within was a rhombus, which, in turn, contained a circle.

    "Our church, Light of Lashtiri, is dedicated to the salvation of those who came into this land tainted by Chione''s touch." Lasralein''s explanation tugged Meya''s eyebrows ever closer together,

    "Cursed to be her spies and agents of strife. Branded for the Lake from birth. However, by offering prayers and dedicating their lives in service of Freda''s blessed land, one coin at a time, they would earn their place in the Heights. And have their names immortalized on the scientific wonders they''ve contributed to."

    Lasralein swept a graceful hand over her worktable. It took Meya a moment to peel away the perfumed petals of her flowery sermon to the cold, hard truth beneath,

    "To put it plainly, when you were assigned this task from King Alden, you asked them to donate their eyes to buy their way to the Heights?" She scoffed through gritted teeth.

    "Exactly." Lasralein was unperturbed. Eyes followed her as she glided over to the chest of drawers and retrieved a book from it. She handed it to Meya,

    "This ledger records all donations and their status. If you require more proof, I could take you to our place of worship. Our donors would be more than willing to answer your questions."

    Meya''s gaze lingered on Lasralein''s seemingly magnanimous face for a breath longer, before poring down at the pages of the ledger. Coris sidled up beside her and followed suit. The ledger recorded dates and names (Greeneyes were marked with a cross), followed by donations¡ªmost in gold of all amounts, some in artifacts of priceless value and daily necessities, the rest in Greeneye eyes.

    The remarks column recorded the status of the contributions in careful detail. Gold went to fund various activities of the church. Eyes were used in experiments. Some were left blank¡ªstill intact in jars, awaiting their turn.

    Hands shaking, Meya met eyes with Coris. He gave her the slightest, solemnest nod. She understood his message.

    It was Lasralein. Whatever he and Gillian had witnessed in that brothel had proved that beyond doubt. But how would she convince Lady Amoriah of her guilt when Lasralein had solid proof of her overground dealings and they had next to nothing.

    Meya turned back to Lasralein. Beneath her humility, she could''ve sworn she saw a glint of smugness at the sight of her apparent defeat,

    "So you mean to say these eyes, this experiment, have no connection whatsoever to our Greeneyes being found in Lady Hyacinth''s favorite brothel?" She asked.

    "I''m appalled you would even consider the possibility." Lasralein shook her head slowly, affronted, "What evidence are your suspicions based on?"

    "Well, the letter¡ª" Meya shot Coris a swift glance.

    "I have told you. It was not written by me." Lasralein sighed in exasperation, "It was likely an attempt by the actual culprit to scapegoat me."

    "What about Agnes? She could tell us what happened the day they arrived here." Meya turned sharply to Coris. He didn''t return the gesture, still staring at Lasralein.

    "I''m afraid Agnes is in no state to testify, Meya." He murmured, his lips barely moving. It was more the fear in his voice than his words that sent a wave of chill cascading down Meya''s back. Yet, she couldn''t lose now. There must be some other way. There must be¡ª

    "What¡ªwhat about¡ª"

    Coris said not a word. He merely looked at her, a look that snuffed out Meya''s voice in her throat. No, his eyes weren''t in the least cold nor threatening, but they shone with authority and experience, as well as a plea, as if he knew a losing battle when he saw one.

    Meya fought back tears. She was on the verge of hyperventilating. Coris laid a sorrowful yet firm hand on her shoulder, then turned to face Lasralein in her place.

    "Finding our men''s eyes and investigating the Dollhouse is of utmost importance. Until Lady Agnesia recovers, we couldn''t rule you out as a possible culprit." He said, soft-spoken as ever yet solemn, then turned to Baron Hadrian,

    "Father, I''d like to interview the donors. I''d like this lab to be under guard from both Hyacinth and Hadrian men to prevent any of us from tampering with evidence. I''d like the brothel in question to be temporarily closed so we could investigate the dealings of the Dollhouse. And I''d like protection for informants and witnesses should any come forth."

    Silence fell once again as father and son held their gaze. The son beseeching, the father deliberating. At long last, Baron Kellis broke the connection, turning to his Hyacinthean counterpart,

    "Amoriah, the Greeneyes in the Dollhouse could''ve come from all corners of Latakia." He began, his voice not much louder than a whisper, shaking his head slowly as he gazed deep into the Lady''s indifferent blue-black eyes,

    "Greeneyes they may be, they could very well have been offspring of noblemen. Sons and daughters of powerful merchants. Some of them may have been missed by those who knew them. The brothel may be on your soil, but my men have been found in it. The eyes may have been willing donations, but who is to say none have been stolen from those poor souls left to rot in that brothel?"

    Baron Kellis paused, eyebrows raised. Meya saw the muscles in Amoriah''s jawline tensing underneath her jowls of fat, even as her expression did not waver. Kellis took an imposing step closer to her.

    "If you are indeed fulfilling a request from the King, then I am prepared to bring this case to his attention. If it would bring back my men''s eyes, or at least answers for their family in Hadrian, I swear to Freda I would. If you do not wish for your invention to be tainted by infamy. If you do not wish to suffer the ordeal of Lord Crosset on charges of willful neglect, then I suggest you lead this investigation, or at least allow my son what he requested."

    All was quiet yet again. The two rulers locked eyes, transfixed in a battle of wills, as their subjects held their breath. After what must have been full minutes, Amoriah shook her head.

    "No." She said, and her dead, cold eyes betrayed no more.

    Meya could not believe it. How could she? Whether Hasif had any involvement was irrelevant. She''d thought the mere fact dozens of Greeneyes¡ªliving, breathing human beings¡ªhad been found stripped of their sight and memories, prostituted as pleasure dolls in a brothel, should have been enough to move even the stoniest heart and spur them to take action. She couldn''t make sense of it. How could this happen?

    "You can interview those donors if Healer Hasif permits it. I can spare a few guards to watch over the lab while you make sure every eye is accounted for, but I will not intervene with the brothel''s business."

    Amoriah shook her head again, then her eyes slid to Meya,

    "As for the girl," Meya jolted out of her reverie, but Amoriah''s eyes had already slid back to Baron Hadrian, "You''ll have your answer tomorrow¡ªAHMUNDI!"

    She snapped, sending Ahmundi jumping half a foot into the air even with his considerable mass. Her beady eyes narrowed in fury as she commanded,

    "My study. Now!"

    At that, Lady Hyacinth spun around and stormed out of the lab, her son trailing gloomily behind her, braced for whatever ordeal may befall him.

 Countdown

    Before making the journey back to her study with her disgraced son, Lady Hyacinth had paused just outside the lab to hiss a barrage of commands to the guardswomen still stationed there. The moment her pounding footsteps resumed flouncing down the hallway, five hulking guardswomen marched inside, and two snatched Meya''s arms.

    Since Meya had violated the Lady''s trust by evading the watch of her guards, likely with help from the Hadrians, Lady Hyacinth had deemed fit she be remanded to a prison cell until tomorrow''s decision. Amoriah did keep her word, however, and had tasked one of the guards to escort Healer Hasif back to her quarters. Two guards will remain at the lab, and the Hadrians were given access under their watch.

    Meya allowed the guards to steer her away without protest, her face pale and her eyes downcast. Coris rushed to delegate tasks. He and the Baron would follow Meya. Simon and Christopher would investigate the lab. Arinel and Zier were to return to the Hadrians'' quarters, and bring the Baroness and the rest of the Greeneyes up to speed. Gillian decided he would follow and do what he could for the recovered four¡ªthe three Greeneyes, to be specific.

    The Hadrians'' sitting room had been transformed into a communal bedroom for the Greeneyes. Mattresses were laid out not only for the unconscious Persephia, Cleygar and Lors, but also Philema, Tissa, Dorsea and the two page boys. The three Greeneye yeomen of Hadrian''s secret unit, who had ferried the Baron and Baroness across the desert, stood watch outside. The Hadrian family themselves would be sleeping in the adjacent room for the night.

    All these, they hoped, would at least give the Greeneyes some semblance of safety amidst the ongoing threat, in a town that had little sympathy to spare.

    As Zier relayed the heated exchange in Healer Hasif''s lab to Baroness Sylvia, Gillian mentored Philema and Dorsea as they carefully removed the blue glass orbs from the eye sockets of the kidnapped three.

    The glass eyes, hard and excessive in size and unwilling, had produced a trail of tears, bruises and abrasions upon their entry, and so they tried their best to prevent that upon their exit. Gillian dabbed the injuries with ointment from his battlefield kit, then directed the women to lay soft, warm cloths over their eyelids to soothe the strained muscles.

    Tissa simply watched, perhaps stunned by the actions of the women of Hyacinth she had strove to emulate. Agnes remained mute as Arinel held and smoothed her hand down her back.

    After Zier finished his report, the Baroness excused herself temporarily to check on her human subjects and prepare for bed. Frenix and Atmund had nodded themselves off to Slumber Valley by then. Tissa was crying in a corner, commiserating with Philema, who consoled her. The former seemed to be apologizing over and over for some unknown offense. Dorsea had gone outside to chat with the Greeneye yeomen, ever the affable soul she was.

    Zier slumped down beside Arinel with a thud, startling her. He met her eyes briefly, glanced at Agnes, then looked away, his head bowed and his broad shoulders hunched in shame. Arinel could guess what was weighing on his mind. She cast her eyes about the room and found Gillian propped against the wall, his glowing eyes fixed upon the young man next to her.

    She gave Agnes''s arm a light, short squeeze¡ªa warning of her absence, and a promise to return, then rose and approached the dragon mercenary.

    Gillian eyed her as she chose her spot next to him. Arinel turned once more to Agnes. She hadn''t moved but for her blinking eyes.

    "Will she speak again?" She whispered. Gillian appraised her, his face impassive, then said curtly,

    "In time. If fortunate."

    Her hopes rekindled only to be dashed in the same breath, Arinel trembled as she bit back tears. As much to distract herself as to glean information, she braved another attempt at conversation,

    "Where is Dockar? And Vitrius and Torbald?"

    "Hibernating, I would guess." said Gillian, "They must preserve energy for tomorrow''s journey."

    "And those you left behind in the cave? Will they manage without their leader?"

    Gillian tore his eyes away from Zier, if only for a moment. There was a flicker of fury, then his face emptied of emotion once more. He returned his focus to his prey, the bearer of The Axel.

    "I can guess your aim, Lady Crosset. No, they will not rebel." He said coldly in that exotic Nostran accent and clumsy prose. Arinel shivered as a wave of chill rushed down her spine, "After all, I am keeping myself close to The Axel."

    "Not as close as you''d prefer." Arinel retorted, making no further effort to hide her enmity. Gillian was impatient and desperate, and cared deeply for his brethren, halfbred they may be. Zier''s excuse would soon give way against the sheer weight of such tragedy.

    Gillian did not respond. Arinel took it as a yes.

    "What was your first plan? If you had found The Axel with me?" She asked. Gillian shifted, crossing his arms over his chest,

    "We know the Hadrians are running a Lattis mine in secret. We would hold the town hostage, and demand a share of Lattis and their manpower to create the Rota."

    "If the Hadrians have been mining Lattis, they must have been preparing traps for dragon spies. Not to mention they have seven vassal houses. What if they sent for aid?"

    "Then twenty dragons would raze Hadrian to the ground." The dragon commander glowered. Arinel hardly dared draw breath, fearing she would fan the cold, emerald fire blazing in those eyes. He finally looked away, into what little distance they could admire through the window,

    "Your marriage was the reason we came to Latakia. Our spies had been searching for Klythe Crosset ever since he disappeared. We had suspected the rumors were started by Baron Hadrian. To distract those who seek The Axel from its true whereabouts. Still, we took no chances. Until your marriage was announced."

    "You believed returning The Axel is a condition of my marriage." Arinel breathed, understanding at last.

    "We planned to intercept it before it returned to the Hadrians." Gillian closed his eyes with a frown, uneasy, "Setting foot into Hadrian Castle is our absolute last resort. They are as primed for a dragon attack from within as Amplevale is for one from without. But our hunch turned out to be wrong. The Axel was not with you. I was not bluffing when I said we must improvise."

    A spasm shot across his face as he raised his hand to caress his neck, where Zier had ripped into his flesh, leaving a stark white gash of dead skin. Arinel couldn''t staunch her welling sympathy as it tainted her fear for her beloved.

    After all, he had followed them into the last place in the three lands dragons would want to be trapped in, and had retreated in peace. Largely out of camaraderie for the very halfling who had betrayed him. He had extended that mercy, however begrudgingly, to include humans, if only because Meya held them dear, but just how much further? How much longer did Zier have left to cower?

    "He''s simply scared. If you could guarantee the procedure is safe, it won''t be difficult to persuade him." Arinel pleaded, "How long would it take to smuggle your healer through The Pass?"

    Gillian shook his head,

    "We have a healer in Hadrian¡ªa surgeon who has seen countless battlefields. He has treated dragon and human commanders alike."

    It dawned upon Arinel then. Of course! How could she have forgotten?

    "Old Angus." She breathed. Gillian confirmed with his pause of silence.

    "He grew attached to a human woman from one of the western colonies. They mated and she bore him children. Twenty years ago, the colony rebelled. He feared she would be executed, and he would be called to serve. They defected. Amplevale patrols caught them. Their captain let them through, and was hanged some years later."

    That last part caught Arinel unaware. She blinked as it sunk in, then rage supplanted surprise.

    "Had you known this when you slaughtered my men?" Arinel seethed through gritted teeth, hands curled into shaking fists.

    "We had not." Gillian admitted simply, his gaze downcast, "Angus''s fury was terrible when we visited that day. He had gazed into our eyes. Seen our memories, and shown us his. It was not easy convincing him. The Moonflower seed was in truth the egg of a harmless parasite. You are innocent¡ªhe could not bring himself to harm you."

    Arinel''s fury abated at the sight of his genuine remorse. However, she wasn''t sure the parents of those poor men would be as forgiving. Gillian''s expression hardened then, as his eyes once again honed in on Zier,

    This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

    "The aconite was aconite, however. Angus has no love for the rulers of the West. Sytus Amplevale killed the man who had saved countless of us. For two hundred years, the Hadrians bide their time as they hold our salvation in their hands. They must be reminded. They must be forced to act."

    His resentment was chilling. Once she had thawed somewhat, Arinel took a step closer, shaking her head in plea.

    "Please. Give them some more time." She whispered. Gillian did not react. A stretch of silence stood between them, as Arinel''s own fevered breaths kept time. At long last, his lips moved,

    "I have sent word to Angus. He will arrive in three days."

    Having delivered his verdict, Gillian turned on his heel and swept from the room.

    <hr>

    Meya''s prison wasn''t an architectural marvel this time around. Just your old run-of-the-mill square cell located below ground. She had not been stripped of her clothes, and was even given the privacy of solitary confinement. The walls and floor were washed with sand-colored adobe. A dressing of fairly new hay insulated her behind from the damp cold caused by the groundwater rushing below, but there was nothing staunching the cold of the night as it seeped in through the walls.

    Through the rusty metal bars, Meya watched Baron Hadrian and Coris haggle with the warden for a visit, possibly a stay. As the shadows caressed her feverish arms with icy sleeves, her heart shivered in anticipation of a lonesome night, even as her body remained impervious to the cold. Still, she half-hoped Coris wouldn''t be able to spend the night. Night terrors didn''t kill, but night chills did, after all.

    At long last, the warden with her blazing torch-staff led father and son down the narrow path to her cell. She slid a key into the lock, popped the door open, dipped a bow, then strode back to her table at the dungeon''s entrance to resume playing chess with her friend.

    Coris rushed in and knelt down beside her, his expression careworn as his eyes roamed her face and his hand alighted on her shoulder. Meya could guess the result of the negotiation from the furrow of annoyance between his eyebrows.

    "How long do we get?" She asked. Coris glanced at his father, who had just stepped silently into the cell, then met her gaze,

    "Half an hour." He sighed deeply, "I''m so sorry, Meya. I''d never imagined Amoriah could be this callous."

    Meya closed her eyes as she pressed her cheek against the back of his hand, willing herself to find solace from the familiar stinging cold. She mustn''t lose hope. She of all people could not. There were Greeneyes who depended on her to be the dreamer. For every Amoriah, there should be a Winterwen. And if Coris was living proof of anything, it was that even the most apathetic carry within them the potential to become ardent.

    Baron Kellis sat down, sighing as he made himself as comfortable as he could on the sparse mat of hay.

    "Hyacinth is in great peril." He began, calling the children''s attention, "They are in great need of men. Poor women are unwed and childless, while the rich all buy seed from a handful of courtesans. Baby boys are abandoned or sold off to other towns. Countless children sired by the same men are now adults who cannot marry. Amoriah is probably desperate to win this favor from the king. I''d bet he''d promised her a battalion of male convicts. Same as Lord Crosset."

    He turned and met Meya''s wide eyes. Coris stroked his chin, his gaze distant,

    "An existential crisis looming on the horizon." He muttered, then nodded, "The only way we could win is with a threat of the same scale, but urgent."

    "Amoriah knows I won''t bring the case before the king and risk this knowledge spreading to every corner of Latakia. Not when protection for Greeneyes is still a farce." Baron Kellis added. Coris sprang up and paced,

    "With every hour that passes, our chances of finding their eyes dwindle. Hasif could have had a secret ledger outside the lab she could dispose of at any moment. Without protection, Dizadh probably wouldn''t come forth and expose the brothel he works for. It could be days, weeks¡ªmonths before Agnes would be ready to speak. And now that we''ve threatened both her sources of new convicts, Amoriah will likely hand Meya over to Lord Crosset. She must secure that first batch, at the least."

    Coris paused in his tracks then dropped to one knee before the Baron, whispering desperately,

    "Father, I don''t think we have a choice. We must send word to the King, seize Hasif and her church before they could move. And we can stall Lord Crosset''s men if we have Meya stand as witness."

    The Baron shook his head.

    "You''re placing a blind wager, Coris." He warned, his voice taut as he locked eyes with his son, "We don''t know the king''s stance on Greeneye lives. We don''t know what he has in mind for that contraption, what it means for Latakia and his throne. Alden craves progress, remember. What if he decided every Greeneye in Latakia were worth sacrificing for a new source of fuel?"

    Defeated, Coris hung his head. Meya''s heart writhed in shame and guilt. It was all her fault. For meddling when she was only meant to observe first. She''d bet everything she had¡ªand more, that she''d nail Hasif to the crucifix with whatever she found in that lab. Just when things were taking a turn for the better, she''d brought them all collapsing down. And she was dragging Coris into the depths of the Lake with her.

    "Milord. Coris. I''m so sorry." The men spun around. Meya couldn''t bring herself to look them back in the eye. She hid her face and shook her head,

    "I saw those eyes, cracked open like eggs. Then Hasif returned. I just couldn''t think of any other way. I was afraid she''d destroy the evidence if I left the lab."

    Coris had evolved¡ªhis arms enveloped her in a blink. He rocked her as she wept, a hand patting her hair.

    "Olivis will likely be satisfied with your offer. There may still be hope yet." The Baron reminded softly. Meya sniffed and shook her head again.

    Back in the caverns, Meya had proposed a plan, a last resort if Lady Hyacinth rejected their offer and Lord Crosset proved impossible to reason with: Arinel would marry Zier, who would give up his name and claim to the Hadrian seat, and their firstborn son would continue the Crosset line.

    Apart from lost opportunity in the hefty dowry and fruitful alliance Zier could have secured by marrying a more powerful, wealthy lady, it was a wager against Fyr himself. There was no knowing whether Coris had enough years left in him to take the Hadrian seat and sire a son.

    Both Coris''s mother and his aunt, the pregnant Lady Kyrel of Amplevale, were on the cusp of their last childbearing years. If Kyrel''s baby turned out to be a girl, the survival of the Hadrian line would be in peril. And, alongside it, the secret of The Axel. The Hadrians could no longer take their sweet time¡ªthere may not be a next generation to bear this duty.

    And it was all for her. All because of her. The weight of their sacrifice was suffocating her.

    Meya pressed a trembling hand to her middle. She couldn''t let the Baron and Coris go through with this. Not anymore. She could only hope the babe would come to understand.

    "There might be another way." She said. The air in the room stilled as the men focused on her as one, "I''ll bring in Lady Jaise."

    Father and son remained silent. Meya gathered her courage and raised her eyes,

    "Winterwen is a staunch ally of Greeneyes. All Amoriah is worried about are food and quality seed. Jaise is the hub of Hythe, Hyacinth''s only means of trading with the rest of Latakia, and their one stable source of men. Without Jaise, Hyacinth starves. Winterwen might be the only one who could pressure Amoriah to close that brothel."

    Eyes wide, Coris shared a look with his father, his face alight with renewed hope. However, Meya lowered her face once more. She must speak now, before she would succumb to fear,

    "Amoriah saved us from starvation in the Sands. And I''m bringing famine to her doorstep."

    Meya grimaced at the bitter taste of her betrayal, as she remembered Jadirah and Ozid. And that Mithrin, even. Even as unpleasant some of them were, they were uninvolved.

    "I dun wanna to hurt Hyacinth''s friendship with Hadrian anymore than I already had." She turned to the nonplussed Coris, pleading with her eyes, "I know you''d stand with me, but I dun want you to get involved. Please, Baron Hadrian. You must call off the deal with Lady Amoriah and distance yourself from me. I''ll flee with Dockar''s party and find refuge in Jaise."

    "You can''t be serious¡ª" Coris burst out,

    "You and your family have done enough for me, Coris." Meya cut across him, gentle yet final. She eked out what she hoped was a playful grin, cocking her head,

    "Delegation, remember? I''ll deal with Hasif and her stupid church. Arinel''s working on the anesthesia, and Gillian will smuggle the surgeon in. Dockar will deal with the drought in Amplevale. We''ve wasted enough time here. You must leave me and move on. Go to Everglen. Find Klythe. Bring back the ore ships and win support for me people. I''m counting on you!"

    Meya cried in desperation. Coris refused to meet her eyes. He kept shaking his head, jaw clenched so hard he was trembling, eyes darting about in their sockets as he wracked his brain for something else, anything else. At last, he turned back to her with steel in his eyes.

    "Either we go together, or we stay." He said coldly through gritted teeth. His eyes narrowed as he caught her defiant glare, "Those ships have been lost for months. A few days longer wouldn''t make much difference. But Greeneyes are rotting away in that brothel as we speak. My priority lies here!"

    "You mean you dun trust me to handle this?" Meya retorted.

    "I can''t lose you again is what I meant!"

    Coris burst out in exasperation, sending Meya jolting. Then, silence. A ringing silence so heavy and numbing it sapped every last ounce of strength from her.

    Despite her best efforts to tamp down the raging chaos within her, Meya''s eyes burn as she stared at the panting, heaving, downcast figure before her. When he finally spoke, his flat voice quivered,

    "Go to Jaise. Bring Winterwen in. It''s a brilliant plan, curse it! I promise I won''t get Hadrian involved. Just let me go with you."

    Coris resurfaced, his voice hoarse. His gray eyes blazed silver as they bore into hers, reflecting light from the wall-mounted torches outside. Meya let her tears fall free. He reached in and dried them with his thumb, then turned to the Baron,

    "Please, Father."

    For a long, silent moment the Baron studied the young ones, who held their breath in unison. Then, his impassive mask unraveled. His once icy blue eyes softened. Instead of his son, he turned first to Meya,

    "Hadrian stands with you, but not just you." He shook his head,

    "We stand for basic human decency. And for our duty to atone. My ancestor promised Axel Hild on his dying breath, that we would end this tragedy, and we have dragged our feet for two hundred years. We will cower no longer."

    His voice was tender and warm as the whisper of candlelight. Meya gaped in disbelief, her eyes following his towering form as he rose to his feet.

    "I''ll send word to Lady Jaise," said the Baron. His blue eyes lingered awhile on Meya''s middle, then flicked towards Coris,

    "Son, meet me in my quarters later. We need to discuss Amplevale."

    Coris bowed his head, then stood up for a proper send-off. The Baron wrapped himself in his cloak, then swept from the cell. When the echoes of his father''s receding footsteps no longer reached them, the young lord took a few steps forth, then leaned his forehead against the metal bars, releasing a long sigh that seemed never-ending.

    Meya studied him in the silence. He seemed weak with relief yet wracked by fear. His outburst still rang in her ears. She recalled his confession of love. She realized she could no longer stand to hide,

    "Lexi?"

    Coris started, then spun around, eyebrows raised. Meya drew in a long, long breath and forced herself not to avert her eyes,

    "There''s something you must know," Her voice sounded strangled as her breathing quickened. Coris''s eyebrows crept towards each other as they rose higher and higher behind his fringe.

    Meya cast about for a quip, a sarcastic spin to perhaps ease the tension. She came up empty. Shaking her head, she squeezed her eyes shut in frustration and prayed for the best,

    "There''s no wittier way to put this," she sighed, "I''m pregnant."

 The Wager

    Silence answered her confession. One by one, Meya pried open her eyes. Coris hadn''t moved. He stood there, blinking, his expression blank, then an uneasy smile twisted his lips.

    "You''re not." He shook his head, his voice unnervingly light and calm as he settled down gently before her, "Pregnancy shares many symptoms with common ailments. Have you ruled out other possibilities?"

    Meya gritted her teeth to tamp down the sudden surge of annoyance.

    "It''s me womb, Coris. I think I''d know."

    Coris blinked, astonished. A flash of hurt flitted by in his eyes, yet he attempted to conceal it behind a grin of derision,

    "How? You haven''t slept with other men, have you?" He asked airily, forced laughter in his voice, then glanced away, "Or have you lain with Gillian before you arrived in Hadrian?"

    Meya''s head went momentarily blank, stunned, all emotion usurped by white-hot fury that seared her writhing heart. How could he? How dare he? For a beat, she mouthed unspoken gibberish, then found her voice.

    "''Tis your child!" She cried in exasperation. Coris lost his smile, rolled his eyes then sprang up, pacing moodily.

    "How many times do I have to repeat this? I''m barren! I can''t sire a child!" He snapped, arms flailing.

    "Oh, you dunno that!" Meya crossed her arms and whirled away fuming. Coris scoffed,

    "It''s my manhood, Meya. I think I''d know." The little donghead tossed her barb right back at her.

    "No, you don''t!" Pushed to the brink of her patience, Meya bolted to her feet. Her nose a mere inch from Coris''s, she let loose,

    "I kept track of me monthlies. I took note of changes in me body. I asked Philema for advice. I pissed over wheat for a week. I retch day in and day out. That''s how I know. You taught me! Gather as much information as possible before drawing conclusions. How did you know?"

    "The healers said¡ª"

    "And how many years ago was that? You were a boy back then! You got your bowels scorched, not your crotch. You could never know for sure. Not until you''ve been bedding your wife for years and she hasn''t become pregnant once!"

    Silence descended between them once more, ringing with their combined outbursts. Meya stood panting, her chest heaving as her wide eyes stared unflinching at his wavering gray. At long last, Coris broke away, leaning his forehead against the bars once more with a long sigh, his eyes closed. His hands trembled as he clung to the railing.

    Meya had no illusions about his opinion on children, and she gritted her teeth against rebellious tears as she clutched her middle. The poor thing might not have a father. And it was all her fault.

    "You''re far stronger than you believe yourself to be." She began, even as suppressed sobs choked her voice, pleading with his seemingly unheeding back, "Have some hope. Why d''you always have to resign yourself for the worst? Why d''you feel so content with the bare minimum of a life when you could have so much more?"

    Coris did not respond. His long, pale fingers tightened their grip around the metal bars. Sapped by the disheartening sight, Meya slumped back down on the sparse mat of hay.

    "Acceptance leads to action, you said." She sighed. Coris finally turned around, eyebrows raised, wary. Meya shook her head, "I know you dun want children. I just need you to believe me, so we can decide what to do with this thing."

    Meya gestured feebly at her belly. Heaving another sigh, she fell back against the icy wall and closed her eyes. There was a pause, then Coris''s boots dragged across the hay towards her.

    Meya hung her head. She knew what was coming. What he was mustering up the courage to ask. Somehow, she wasn''t relieved. Was she actually considering this? Somewhere deep down, had she wanted to become a mother someday?

    "I¡ªI only said that because I''m scared I''d orphan them young."

    Coris said, his voice barely a whisper. Meya perked up, gawking in utter disbelief. Coris did not meet her eyes. He stared at the floor, unseeing, his face void of emotion, an air of melancholy and mourning like a cloak weighing heavy on his drooping shoulders.

    Her eyes followed him as he settled numbly down by her side. She wanted an explanation. Yet, she wasn''t sure if she wanted him to speak further. She was afraid she had simply misinterpreted, misunderstood. Slowly, he awaken from his stupor and reached out a spider-like hand, rifling idly through the smattering of straw at his feet, pinching up a few that caught his fancy.

    Meya watched, perplexed, as he twisted the strands together, bent the bundle in half, then tied it in place with a stray piece of hay. At long last, it became clear when he twisted up a second bundle of straw and slid it perpendicular up the first one. He was making a straw doll.

    "I have a drawer full of toys back home." He said softly as he tied more hay on the ends of the straw, marking the hands and torso, then fished in his pocket and produced a knife, "I was hoping I''d live long enough to play them with Aunt Kyrel''s new baby, at the least."

    His voice broke, overcame with emotion. He vented it by hacking off the long straw ends forming the doll''s legs. Meya cast her eyes about the adobe floor and spotted a few stray hay flowers. She plucked them from their snug beds among the straw, then edged close to Coris.

    "What was your favorite growing up?" She asked as she slotted their stalks into the doll''s hay belt, encouraging him. She felt Coris''s start, the phantom heat of his eyes on the top of her head. Meya simply went on with the finishing touches, giving him time. At last, he sighed and his hand joined hers, poking a bit here, yanking a little there.

    "I love chess, but I had trouble finding an opponent." He began. Meya stole a glance at his profile. He was frowning slightly, still concentrating on the doll, "I had this little wooden doll. I''d stand him on a chair across the table from me and pretend he was Father. Or one of my big brothers or sisters. I should''ve had three."

    His voice died in his throat. Meya couldn''t help staring at those gray eyes hollow with loneliness and yearning. By the time of her first memories, she''d already had five siblings. The walls of her cottage were close-set, and they were often forced to huddle for warmth whenever the fire burned low in the hearth-hole. While Coris sat by his lonesome in his quarters, a fireplace crackling at one far end, its heat radiating throughout the room yet not reaching his heart. Then she understood the aching need he had tried his best to hide. He must have wanted to create for himself the one thing his parents could not provide in his childhood.

    Support the creativity of authors by visiting the original site for this novel and more.

    "I want children. So much so that I didn''t dare hope. The fall would crush me." Coris whispered. He shook his head, his dead, empty eyes staring aimlessly ahead. Meya nodded as she sniffed back tears. She closed her heated hand over his chilled hand, still holding their little straw doll.

    "''Tis easier to surrender than fight a hopeless battle. And you''re exhausted." She stroked his knobbly thumb with hers. Coris reached out his free hand, hovered hesitantly for a moment, then touched his fingertips to her middle.

    "Do you want this?" He asked, his voice bursting with guilt. Meya glanced down as he pressed his palm flush to her belly, a patch of tingling cold beating in tandem with the pulse under her burning skin.

    An inexplicable warmth blossomed inside her, as she imagined the endless possibilities that awaited her should she walk this new path. She had always been of the thought that she had only one life. And she wanted no road untraveled, no land unexplored. Wasn''t that the reason she lay with Coris that first night? To experience? Could it be that this baby was created in that very night?

    And now that the glaring obstacles had been overcome one by one, many of her fears had been abated. Coris''s parents had given their blessing and protection. Coris himself was a wise and willing father, and she trusted him not to repeat their mistakes. And childbirth appeared somewhat less daunting, with the level of care she could expect as a nobleman''s wife.

    But she was still so young and unruly. Did she have the right to become a mother? Would it be good for the babe? Would she be able to love the babe the way she had wanted to be loved by her mother?

    Meya urged the doll into her grasp then laid it on her lap. The straw doll was the charm of fertility, a prayer for a smooth birth. She remembered Mum clutching one Dad had made to her heart to help her through the pain of Mistral''s birth. Apparently, as with all charms of luck, it didn''t work when it was baby Meya jammed in that birth canal.

    "I''m happy. And scared." She shook her head with a sigh, "I just dunno if I''m ready."

    "We can be unready together." Coris consoled her as he gently eased her head onto his shoulder, then froze as he remembered, "But we''re traveling to Everglen. Will you and the babe be fine?"

    Meya pouted, disgruntled. Again with all this fuss,

    "I''m just pregnant. I''m not sick. I can still contribute."

    "I know. Just give your word that you won''t overdo it." Coris glowered, his voice sharp, and Meya glimpsed the shadow of pain deep in his eyes. Perhaps she had reminded him of his mother, just now. Ambitious and independent. Putting her own desires before her child. Was she truly ready for this?

    Coris eased her head back down on his shoulder and patted her hair, soothing her.

    "Perhaps Gillian could weigh in. He must have seen his fair share of Greeneye women in the army. He should know their limits." He tilted his head, "You could make your choice, then."

    His offer jolted Meya out of her settling calm. Did he say choice? Again?

    "Me choice? To end it?" She sat bolt upright, aghast. Coris nodded. "But you want children!"

    "I do, but there''s no need to have them now, is there?" Coris met her bulging eyes, frowning slightly. He shook his head, "We''re still young. It might not be safe for you. We have a dangerous quest to fulfill. I want the babe to come when we''re both ready. We¡ªwe still have time."

    We still have time.

    Meya blinked in astonishment. Coris Hadrian, the boy who had accepted death. Ever in a rush to pay his dues, ever restless to fulfill his duty, ever prepared for the end. Reassuring her they could wait?

    Was he truly attempting to believe, or was this hopeful promise yet another mask? Was he subtly urging her to end it, sabotage what could have been to save himself from possible pain? Or was he simply putting her needs before his own? If so, should she let him? What should she do? Was she right to bring a babe into this?

    Coris turned away, his eyes wandering aimlessly.

    "I thought I couldn''t have children. I was wrong." He muttered. His hands quivered, as if reeling from the force of his snap decision, his wager against Fyr, with his dearest desire on the line, "I think the Raft is drifting near. Perhaps I could be wrong about that, too."

    He turned back and unfurled a small smile trembling with both fear and hope. As tears burned in her eyes, Meya leaned forth and pressed her lips onto his. They tasted just as cold and lifeless as ever, but she felt the energy, the prayer, the force of life in his reciprocating kiss, and her fear subsided if slightly.

    Their lips parted to gasp for breath. Meya sank limply onto Coris''s bony chest, exhausted from the tension and the blissful release of relief. Coris was affectionately patting her head again. She wondered if her hair resembled Beau''s coat too much.

    "Have you told anyone? Apart from Philema?" He asked. Meya shook her head,

    "Just Lady Arinel. But Zier looks as if he''d seen Fyr, so I guess she told him. And your father stumbled in on me retching, and he told Simon and Christopher, and I reckon he''d already told your mother, too." She felt Coris''s chest contracting as he drew a sudden breath, and she pressed a guilty kiss to his heart, "Sorry you weren''t first to know."

    "''Tisn''t your fault. You know that." said Coris sharply. He gave her a scolding squeeze, then blew a long sigh, "I''m relieved, actually. You sought out others to look out for you in my stead."

    Meya relaxed, then tensed up at the reminder,

    "Still, you were planning to flee to Jaise. Without even telling me?"

    Coris''s low voice was stricken with grief. Meya slid her arms around his waist as she burrowed her face into his chest,

    "I''m sorry."

    Coris embraced her in return, his cool arms emanated forgiveness even as he shivered in fear of what could have been. A moment of silence, then he spoke once more, his voice brighter now,

    "Seems only yesterday we were dancing hand-in-hand around a pigsty. Now we''re having a babe together." He raised her face with a gentle finger on her chin, then smiled fondly down at her, "Surreal, don''t you think?"

    Meya grinned back in reply, then the twosome turned around at the sound of approaching footsteps. The warden was walking down the hallway¡ªwith purpose, not simple patrolling. And Meya''s heart panicked. As expected, she stopped before Meya''s cell.

    "My lord, it is time." She spoke to Coris, her voice emotionless. Meya fought the instinct to cling onto her Sir Knight for protection. She made to extract herself from his arms, but Coris hitched her closer to his side.

    "Please, she''s pregnant." He pleaded. The warden met his gaze. She must have seen truth in his beseeching eyes, and the compassion she should not have softened her expression, but still she hesitated. And Coris knew enough to not ask too much of her, "Let me keep her company until she sleeps."

    The warden studied Meya for a moment, then returned to Coris. To their combined relief, she sighed and nodded,

    "Thank you." Coris whispered. She bowed her head, then clomped back to her post. Once her footsteps had died away to be replaced by the scrape of her chair as she settled back down for another game of chess, Coris''s fingers resumed combing through her hair, trembling now,

    "I''ll be fine, Lexi." Meya insisted, then squeezed her eyes shut as she remembered those in worse predicament, "Better worry for those three. What if we never find their eyes? What if Hasif''s cracked them open? What are we gunna do with all those dolls?"

    Coris remained silent for a long moment.

    "You remember that vat?" He finally said. Meya nodded, huddling her shoulders against the chill as she saw those twinkling specks of dust floating in the clear jelly. Just how many eyes had it taken to fill up that container?

    "I reckon that liquid came from inside the eyeballs, along with the green crystal." Coris continued, "If the crystal is the energy source, then the liquid might be where their memories are stored. We might have to sift through it, read every drop, but a life is worth saving no matter the toil. Human or dragon or those in between."

    A glimmer of hope glowed in the midst of despair, and the clenched knot in Meya''s heart loosened somewhat. Coris pressed his lips to her forehead,

    "Try to sleep, Aine. You''ll need your best for tomorrow."

    Meya obediently closed her eyes and emptied her mind through her exhaling breath. Lady Hyacinth''s verdict would befall tomorrow, but the true wager was Lady Jaise. If Winterwen''s courage fails, then Hadrian stands alone.

 Mother Dearest

    Night has fallen outside the window. Baron Kellis was penning the last paragraph of his letter to Lady Jaise when knocks sounded from the door. He voiced his consent, and his elder son entered.

    Kellis looked up as the lad approached his desk. Coris''s complexion was ashen. Judging from his dazed, distant eyes, his mind hasn''t followed him from the prison cell. He must have felt the heat of Kellis''s questioning stare and his raised eyebrows, however. He gathered himself and met Kellis''s gaze.

    "Meya''s pregnant." Coris breathed, his voice hoarse. Kellis blinked. He couldn''t resist a savage smirk at the corner of his lips.

    "Not exactly barren, are we?" Coris colored at the none-too-subtle jab. Noticing the wrinkle of worry on his son''s eyebrows, Kellis sighed then gestured towards the chair before his desk, continuing tenderly,

    "What troubles you, son?"

    Coris drew back the chair then slumped heavily onto it.

    "I''ve always wanted children, but perhaps this isn''t the best of times." He confessed then heaved a long sigh, lamenting, "My fault entirely."

    "And what do you plan to do?" asked Kellis. Coris stiffened, as if surprised by the freedom his father was allowing him, then nodded slowly.

    "I''m willing to raise the child, but I feel the verdict should lie with the mother. Meya is seventeen. Far older women have died giving birth." His voice quivered at the chilling notion, then he raised his eyes and faced Kellis''s serene scrutiny,

    "Father, when the time is right, Hadrian will have an heir. I give my word. Please. Do let her end it if she so desires."

    Kellis gazed into his son''s beseeching eyes, and was surprised to see he truly believed in his words, the existence of his future, when days earlier the boy was still as convinced of his premature death as he always had been.

    He glanced at the door to the adjoining room. Sylvia had been preparing to tuck in but decided she''d have another look on the Greeneyes and Lady Agnes. Finally, he nodded,

    "You''re young, son. And you''ve known the girl for barely a month. Your heart may change." Coris''s eyes hardened. For a second, he looked as though he would argue, then realized he couldn''t deny the truth in his father''s words, "I''d hate for you to feel imprisoned by your choice for the rest of your days. The child has not a soul yet. You do have time. Choose wisely."

    "Thank you, Father." Coris deflated with a thankful smile which Kellis reciprocated. His gaze wandered as his thoughts strayed to the dragon girl, alone in her prison cell.

    "I should return to her side. Perhaps some gold would persuade the warden." He muttered, frowning. His mind made, he straightened in his chair, "Shall we discuss Amplevale, then, Father?"

    Prepared, Kellis handed his son an opened letter,

    "Kyrel''s letter to Simon. You haven''t the chance to read it, have you?"

    Coris took it with a quizzical knot on his eyebrows, which soon tightened into one of displeasure. He resurfaced, gray eyes blazing silver.

    "Aunt Kyrel specifically requested my counsel! Why hadn''t Simon mentioned this?" He exploded.

    "Would you return if he had?" Kellis raised an eyebrow. The subtle coolness laced in his airy voice had Coris biting back his temper. He shook his head, panting.

    "She must understand I can''t abandon my work here, but¡ª" His darting eyes snapped back to Kellis, cold with fury. He seethed, "Still, I would''ve known how serious this is. I need every last scrap of intelligence if I were to lead effectively. He had no right to deny me that out of some childish rivalry!"

    "Do you actually think that, Coris? That Kyrel requested you because the threat is serious? That Simon is jealous of you?" Kellis challenged, his voice rising.

    "If it weren''t serious, Simon would''ve been adequate." Coris retorted flatly. Kellis was reduced to massaging his forehead.

    "Serious or not, she shouldn''t have favored you over her own son, Coris! And using him as the messenger, no less!" He snapped. Coris jolted. "Simon didn''t mention it because he doesn''t want you to have to choose. And he opted out of going because he''s heartbroken. Now that you know, you should have the sense to tell Kyrel off and urge him to return!"

    "But have you seen Simon in action, Father? I can hardly blame Aunt Kyrel for choosing what is best for Amplevale." Coris remained stubbornly pragmatic, "At any rate, we''ve already sent a most befitting replacement. Simon would only slow the dragons down. He shouldn''t¡ª"

    "Coris!"

    Kellis rapped his fist on the desk in frustration. Coris fell silent, seemingly miffed and confused. Kellis shook his head, sighing,

    "Son, the kindest solution may not be the wisest, but the wisest solution may not always be the best. Your test as leader is to decide which a certain time calls for." He imparted his wisdom, then commanded fiercely, "Think. If it were Hadrian suffering the drought. And your mother asked Simon, the heir of Amplevale, to help her. How would you feel?"

    Coris pursed his lips and avoided his father''s narrowed eyes. Kellis fell back against his chair.

    "You can''t possibly be this dense." He observed, shrewd as ever, and Coris tensed, "Be honest, son. Who is the jealous one? Simon? or you?"

    Coris met his father''s gaze briefly, then closed his eyes in surrender. Of course, he''d long nursed a secret envy towards Simon. With his skill in combat and flawless physique. As he fought Fyr tooth and nail for every day of his life, how could he not resent how Simon''s unblighted health was wasted on his lesser intellect and flippant attitude towards ruling? And how could he not scheme to keep Aunt Kyrel''s affection for himself, when he was starved of motherly love?

    Still, all this was no fault of Simon''s. And perhaps his cousin had suffered just as much, if not more, for Coris''s jealousy, just as Zier had.

    Faced with such decision, a logical leader would venture on, leaving his struggling subordinate behind to fend for himself, sacrificing him to preserve the odds of success. A good leader, however, would likely pause to lend him a hand and walk alongside him. Just as a good father would not abandon his child.

    <hr>

    Lady Hyacinth''s verdict was as predictable as the morning that came. She revealed she had rejected Baron Hadrian''s offer and sent a letter to Lord Crosset in Jaise, informing him of the successful capture of Meya Hild. She expected the arresting party to arrive in three days, along with the first batch of five prisoners headed for the brothels.

    This novel is published on a different platform. Support the original author by finding the official source.

    The Hadrians were a half-step ahead of her, however. Baron Kellis''s letter to Winterwen had been signed and sealed since the night before, and by first light was sent off to Jaise with the first pigeon that cooed.

    Coris remained in the prison cell to keep Meya''s morale high. Dockar, Vitrius and Torbald continued hibernating, waiting for nightfall to set off. Baroness Sylvia, Gillian and Arinel were occupied with the Greeneyes'' care. Sir Jerald helped Sir Jarl manage the human majority of the entourage as they took up various duties in the Hyacinth court. After a good night''s rest, Simon and Christopher resumed scouring Hasif''s lab for evidence. By late morning, the Baron called them in to report their progress.

    "We''re comparing entries in the ledger to the unused eyes on the shelves. We''ve found no discrepancies so far."

    Christopher rested the donations ledger on the Baron''s desk.

    "I''m sure most of the cracked eyes in the bowl are from the brothel Greeneyes, disguised as donations from church members in the ledger, but we can''t tell the difference nevertheless." Simon shook his head, eyebrows knotted in frustration. Kellis nodded with a heavy-hearted sigh,

    "I''ve feared as much." He admitted, then straightened up with resolve, "We need witness accounts. We must persuade church members to come forth. Dizadh and Agnesia must give testament. Then, we use Jaise''s boycott to force Amoriah to close that brothel."

    The two squires sounded their heeding in unison. Kellis met their eager gazes in turn,

    "I had Sylvia reserve an hour with Dizadh. He should be here soon. Once I''m done with him, we leave for the Church." The young men bowed at his command. Kellis turned to the Merilith heir, "In the meantime, see what you can do for Agnesia, Christopher. Simon, you remain."

    Simon blinked. He shot a swift glance at Christopher, his mouth open halfway to object, but his best friend replied with a scolding look then swept away. Once the door had closed behind him, Simon heaved a sigh then turned wearily back to his Lord Uncle.

    "This is about the drought, isn''t it?"

    "Are you sure you''re not going back?" Kellis raised an eyebrow. Simon rolled his eyes.

    "Uncle, please. Chris''s been pestering me about this every chance he gets."

    "As he should." Kellis shot back, his voice sharp, and Simon begrudgingly pursed his lips, "It''s inconsiderate of Coris to not release you from your post, but you also haven''t thought to ask him yourself. You''re now armed with knowledge about dragons. Your place is by your father''s side, among your people. Tackle the crisis as it unfolds, then send word to me and Coris. Why are you abandoning your duty?"

    A spasm shot across Simon''s already stricken face. He avoided Kellis''s narrowed eyes, lips sealed tight. The Baron sighed.

    "It''s Kyrel, isn''t it?" Simon tensed. The look in Kellis''s sharp eyes softened. He shook his head in pity, "Your mother favored your cousin''s advice over yours. Yet again. I dare not imagine how that must have felt."

    Simon''s lips twitched, bursting at the seams from emotions fighting to be released. Yet, silent he remained.

    "Her heart has been made cold through disappointment, Simon. Long before you arrived. It is no fault of yours. She adores Coris for she sees in him the life she might''ve had, if she were born a man. If not for Karus."

    Simon betrayed a faint, bitter smile. It was a tale told in hushed tones, in huddled circles behind heavy doors of every house in Hadrian. Before Kellis and Kyrel, the late Baron Hadrian had been blessed with another son and heir¡ªLord Karus. Karus was betrothed to Lady Sylvia of Noxx, Kellis to Lady Sorelyn of Amplevale, and Kyrel was a prodigious young beauty poised to serve in the King''s court.

    However, when the ailing Baron Hadrian prepared to pass on the secret of The Axel to Karus, Karus kidnapped Sorelyn and the pair eloped, never to be found again. The fallout resulted in Kellis taking the Hadrian seat and marrying Sylvia. Kyrel was hastily married to old Lord Sytus, Sorelyn''s father, to keep Hadrian''s interest in Amplevale from falling into other hands. Then, Simon was born.

    Simon glanced to his left, the direction of the prison cells.

    "Mother wishes for me to see that Coris comes to no harm. Carry out his bidding. Be vessel for his mind, for his body is dying." He explained softly, "I''m of more use to her here."

    "But how would you rule Amplevale, if you do not return in her time of need?" Kellis argued. Simon forced his smile up a little further as he raised his eyes to face him.

    "In all honesty, Lord Uncle, I don''t see myself taking the Fortress after Father." He chuckled weakly, "My sister will marry a worthy knight. He will take the Amplevale name, and I relinquish it."

    One of Simon''s younger twin sisters, Serulda, though still small, had shown glimpses of the intellect and drive her mother and cousin possessed. Mother had finally found someone through whom she could channel her unspent potential, her reincarnation as she lived and breathed. This time, she would ensure nothing stood in her path. Especially the son and rightful heir.

    Simon wasn''t duly bothered, however. He was half Hadrian to begin with. And he''d spent a good part of his life here. He enjoyed his post in Hadrian, serving his kind Lord Uncle and the delightful Baroness Sylvia alongside his best friends. It was a pleasant, humble life, bought with constant peril as decoy for The Axel holder, and withstanding the ego of the most gargantuan donghead in the three lands. Moreover, it was what his mother desired. The one thing he could do for her. He was happy to oblige.

    A series of knocks sounded from the door, breaking the stalemate between uncle and nephew. A servant announced the visitor was Dizadh the courtesan. Baron Kellis straightened up and bustled about rearranging the contents of his desk. Simon made to announce his leave, but the Baron beat him to the last word,

    "Simon, you will go to Amplevale to investigate the drought. That will be all."

    Simon stood frozen. As Simon''s liege, Lord Uncle''s command took precedence over Mother''s. He couldn''t disobey. The best he could do was beg.

    "But, Uncle¡ª"

    "That will be all." Kellis repeated, his voice like a clap of thunder. Gritting his teeth, Simon dipped a bow and retreated, reeling at the daunting prospect. On average, it was unpleasant to return home. He couldn''t imagine returning in Coris''s place.

    <hr>

    Dizadh entered the room with his usual grace, draped in all his earlier splendor. He appeared unfazed at the sight of Baron Hadrian waiting behind his study desk, fully-clothed and solemn, instead of the Baroness raring to be pleasured.

    "I''ve assumed your lady hasn''t summoned me for my services, my lord." He began quietly after a bow. Kellis unfurled a tight grin, satisfied with the man''s sharpness.

    "Lady Hadrian struck the hornet''s nest. Best not arouse further suspicion." He clasped his hands together on the desk, then cut straight to the chase, "Amoriah refuses to investigate the brothel, so I''ve asked Lady Jaise to intervene. If she agrees, I''d like you to stand as witness and give your testimony before her and Amoriah."

    Dizadh''s black eyes widened, betraying fear for the first time.

    "Her Grace?" He sputtered, "But, my lord¡ª"

    "Yes, I know." Kellis placated him, "The brothel will likely be shut down. You and all who serve it will lose your livelihood. You''ll also face retaliation from Amoriah or Hasif''s church."

    Dizadh shook his head, a flash of defiance in his eyes. He opened his mouth, and Kellis hurriedly laid out his offers. Soothing. Reassuring,

    "Those trafficked Greeneyes will require long term care. Come serve Hadrian. We''ll protect and provide for you. After all, your time in the trade is nearing its end. Isn''t this the perfect opportunity to escape?"

    Dizadh shook his head again, slowly this time. A sardonic smile twisted his ever agreeable lips,

    "My lord, you do not know." His eyes were like obsidian touched by light¡ªhard, cold and blazing, "I do not fear for my lowly self. Lord Ahmundi and Lady Amara are my children. They''ll lose their mother''s favor if I move in the open. I will do what I can for those poor souls, but the Lady must never know."

    Kellis was stumped. He had miscalculated. He must improvise for this unforeseen development. Still, it handed him a weapon he could wield. They may have led entirely different lives, he realized, but they do have a shared experience as fathers to sons.

    "In that case, I''m afraid Ahmundi has lost her favor, Dizadh." He cocked his head, "If he had any to begin with. You do know that, don''t you?"

    Dizadh betrayed a flinch, then avoided Kellis''s eyes.

    "There may still be hope yet. He may someday wish to change. She may someday relent. I don''t want to be the stone that snuffed out the last light." He whispered, shaking his head as if in plea. Kellis frowned, disapproving.

    "Ahmundi was instrumental in exposing Hasif''s crime. Amara has made fast friends with Greeneyes." He reminded him, eyes narrowed as he pored deep into those fearful eyes, "They truly are your children, Dizadh. Do you want them to abandon that part of themselves? Embrace Hasif''s ways just as Amoriah does?"

    Dizadh didn''t reply, but his pause was one of contemplation, of hesitance. Encouraged, Kellis pressed on,

    "You seek to protect Ahmundi from that path, but he''s already chosen it for himself. I may not have been that present for my two sons, but if I''ve learned anything about them, it''s that they''re stubborn as mules. There''s no stopping him, Dizadh, I''m afraid."

    Dizadh sighed deeply, accepting defeat. Kellis doubled down,

    "Do stand, Dizadh. If his mother has truly forsaken him, then he''ll still have his father. At the very least, you''ll have done your damnedest to make sure his efforts won''t be in vain. You''ll consider it, at least?"

    Dizadh was still and silent for a moment, then at long last bowed,

    "Yes, my lord."

 Cross the Divide

    The hallways of Hyacinth palace were deserted save for the occasional harried servant bustling by. Lunchtime was approaching, and all hands were busy preparing the Lady''s daily feast.

    Simon hurried back to the room he shared with Christopher and the other yeomen. Earlier, when he sidled into the kitchen for traveling supplies, the head cook snatched his old cloak, and upon it she heaped a handful of wrinkly dates, strips of dried goat meat, dried prickly pear fruits, and a log of goat cheese.

    As he was returning home, he didn''t need to pack most of his belongings. Just a couple shirts and water skins, and his bundle would be ready. Hopefully, the dragons wouldn''t mind the added dead weight. Him and the bundle, both.

    Sighing for the umpteenth time, he slid open the door. Sudden movement at the corner of his eye startled him, and he dropped his bundle with a curse. Fortunately, the short fall wasn''t enough to burst its knot. He cursed again in relief and annoyance. Thought he''d be chasing after dates rolling like spilled marbles down the hallway. As if he wasn''t enough of a dunce already. He looked up to see who the squatter was, then blinked in surprise.

    "Coris?" He strode up to his cousin, now standing beside Simon''s mattress, "Shouldn''t you be with your mistress? She''ll need every ounce of company you can provide after that verdict."

    The crease between Coris''s eyebrows deepened.

    "I''ll return later. My wife is enjoying a well-earned siesta after helping me rehearse for my long overdue apology."

    Simon sensed the hint of cold in his airy voice. He felt tempted to retort, so he strode off to the wardrobe instead.

    Coris wasn''t his logical self since the peasant girl arrived. It was luck that her Greeneye cause happened to align with Hadrian''s centuries-old quest, for he was no longer sure if Coris would put Hadrian''s¡ªand Amplevale''s¡ªinterests first if that wasn''t the case. He could understand him risking it all to protect Zier. But Meya Hild? Even Christopher agreed.

    Well, that would teach Mother. Little Coris isn''t so flawless now, is he?

    As much as the thought gratified him, Simon chided himself. After all, his days weren''t numbered. He couldn''t judge what Coris should do with what was left of his. And Coris had already sacrificed his share for their people. If Lord Uncle was satisfied, perhaps it wasn''t his place to toss in his two Latts. Perhaps it wasn''t proper of Mother to keep relying on Coris, either. Perhaps it was high time a true child of Amplevale defended it. Lord Uncle thought that was Simon. He was too optimistic in that regard, but what could Simon say?

    "Freda bless her." He snatched up shirts then stuffed them into the bursting bundle. He''d repack them properly later. He didn''t feel like basking in Coris''s presence longer than he must, "Out with it. Uncle sent you, didn''t he?"

    "Why should that matter?" For a prodigy, he could be unbelievably dense. Simon rolled his eyes then slammed the wardrobe door shut.

    "Because your opinion matters to my mother. And my mother''s opinion is that I should stay." He spared a moment to enlighten him, then marched back to the door¡ª

    "Simon, from my experience, it isn''t always wise to please our mother''s opinion."

    Simon froze with his hand on the doorframe. He couldn''t help but consider it. If their mothers'' opinions were to be pleased, both he and Coris would not have been born. Yet, he digress¡ªit would be wise. Perhaps they would''ve been better off if Freda had planted their souls in other wombs, but these were the ones she''d chosen for them. What else could he have done if not accept the mother he''d been given?

    Simon let his hand fall. He couldn''t hold on, his strength spent by the mere memory of his mother, the flash of her cold, judging eyes whenever she must tear her eyes away from the twins to toss a grudging sideways glance at him. The more he resembled Coris in appearance, the more he irked her. For he was his weak-willed father in personality. And she hated them both as the embodiment of her downfall.

    "I could only have one mother. Wise or not, at least I have something to set store by. I''d rather have that than naught." He sighed. Despite himself, he turned back,

    "My father''s old, Coris." He whispered, pleading. If Coris had mercy, he''d accept it and pick no further at his story,

    "Fyr will claim him soon. Once he leaves, Mother will be the only one I have left. Until Serulda marries and her husband banishes my arse to secure his seat. And since I''m in on The Axel''s secret, it''s either back to Hadrian for a quiet life or die screaming. Well, can''t say I haven''t been training."

    Silence fell. The only sound was his own panting. Simon wasn''t sure why he didn''t simply leave. Was it because of that skeptical, almost pitying look in Coris''s eyes? Was he expecting Coris to agree first? Or disagree?

    "Do you truly want that life, Simon?" said Coris finally. Simon shrugged,

    "It''s either that or kill Mother and the twins."

    "Aunt Kyrel is deluded if she thinks Father would allow an outsider to helm Amplevale when a Hadrian male exists. Is she that sure Serulda would never lose control over him?"

    "Then better you than me, I guess. Or Zier."

    "Do you truly believe so?"

    Simon said nothing. He couldn''t be bothered whichever way. Mother would handpick a pretty idiot for Serulda, one who would be needed simply for his seed. She''d manage fine. Even if she didn''t, there was nothing Simon could''ve done, for he was, obviously, another pretty idiot.

    Coris sighed. Hopefully, he would give Simon up as a lost cause and free him from this fruitless conversation. Freda knew he''d himself given up long since. If Lord Uncle desired so, he''d go. He''d endure Mother''s wrath for a few days then carry back her letter of protest. Then, life would return to normalcy. Besides, why starve at home when he could shipwreck on the way to Everglen? Simple, really.

    The silence stretched on. Simon toyed with the cloth of his bundle, shivering in the melting heat of Coris''s stare. Perhaps he should just leave. Could he?

    "I''m becoming a father." Coris said. Simon raised his eyebrows, then shrugged.

    "I know."

    "That was why you didn''t tell me, wasn''t it?" Coris''s quiet voice was tinged with guilt at his considerate gesture. Simon avoided his eyes. He could guess where Coris was headed. "You know my place is with my family. My duty is with my people. Whatever your mother says. Whatever you may feel. You should return to your father, your sisters, your people. You know that."

    Simon trembled. Yes, he did. He had lost. He couldn''t hide any longer.

    "I don''t want to go back." He shook his head. His voice came out strangled through the lump in his throat as he met Coris''s gaze, begging, "I can''t bear to see her disappointment when she sees it''s me, not you. I can''t bear to hear her predict I would fail and see her proven right. Not again."

    Coris looked pained. His pity burned like white-hot metal. Simon turned pointedly away, his voice harsher now,

    "My place is before you. In your harm''s way. Freda gave me your stupid face for a reason. It''s my purpose. It''s not a good one, but it''s the only one I''ll ever have. It''s better than nothing."

    "What if it''s a trial?" Coris suggested, an eyebrow raised. Simon froze, swallowing words on the tip of his tongue. Coris walked towards him, his piercing eyes fixed upon Simon.

    "Simon, for seven years I believed I was too weak to sire a child, but my belief is just that¡ªan opinion. It isn''t enough to bend reality. To alter truth."

    Coris stopped an arm''s reach away. Simon frowned, still lost as to where his cousin was going with this,

    If you stumble upon this tale on Amazon, it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it.

    "Aunt Kyrel isn''t a seer. Her prediction is simply her opinion. You alone have the power to shape the truth. Whether you triumph or fail, you''re the one to decide, not your past defeats nor your mother''s words. Unless you let them. And only once you''ve given your all can your worth be fairly judged."

    As Simon stood frozen, stunned by both the force of his voice and the truth in his words, Coris produced a letter from the folds of his toga then handed it to him.

    "I wrote this letter with Meya''s help." Seeing Simon still listless, he shook it imperiously, "I reprimanded your mother for her spiteful behavior and expressed my complete confidence in you. As you said, my opinion has weight to her. Hopefully, it would keep her out of your hair while you investigate the drought."

    Simon was sure he was hallucinating from desert heat and lack of sleep. It just couldn''t be. Impatient as ever, Coris pushed the scroll into his free hand.

    "I left it unsealed for a reason. Go ahead. Have a gander."

    What choice did he have? Simon dropped his bundle then untied the scroll. His eyes grew wider the further he read. It said as much. And more. He lowered it, staring at his cousin in equal parts disbelief and gratitude,

    "Lexi¡ª" He began, and ended, his throat obstructed by emotion. For once, Coris understood. He raised his pale, gangly hand and slapped Simon''s shoulder, squeezing the bundles of muscle with all the strength he could muster.

    "You won''t be alone, Simon." He smiled gently, and Simon saw sincerity in his eyes when he met them, "We''re your family, too. Don''t forget that."

    Heat engulfed Simon. That was more honesty and sentimentality than he could handle in one sitting without collapsing into a shameful, smoldering heap. He cleared his throat to banish the dead air, then made a noncommittal jerk of his head.

    "I should be off. The Church." He mumbled. Coris''s eyes darted sideways, no doubt remembering his mis¡ªwife he''d left behind.

    "I as well." He sighed, then turned back and stared straight into Simon''s eyes, his expression forlorn, "I''m sorry."

    Simon realized from the weight of the apology that it wasn''t just for this latest altercation. Heat rose to his cheeks and eyes. A smile threatened to curl his lips, so he swiftly spun away. Had Coris just taken his laudanum? Donghead was unnervingly saintly.

    "Just get lost already." He tossed over his shoulder. Coris chuckled, knowing better.

    "Safe journey, Simon."

    Simon paused, one foot through the doorway. He tugged on the sagging bundle, then sallied forth with newfound courage,

    "And you, Coris."

    <hr>

    Baron Hadrian''s words weighed even heavier on Dizadh''s head than his impressive length of hair, and they led his feet down the oft-traveled hallway which held the young Lord Hyacinth''s chambers.

    After every session with the boy''s mother, Dizadh would seize the opportunity to get a glimpse of the only son he knew, in the only way he knew how¡ªthrough a keyhole.

    Ahmundi spent most of his time in his room, assembling intricate equipment Dizadh was not educated enough to ever comprehend. The Lady Hyacinth was also mostly happy to keep him out of the public eye, as his obesity embarrassed her. Like countless women in this twisted hell of a town, she''d bought Dizadh''s seed precisely for his handsomeness to be passed down to her son. She had not expected her fat to trump his seed, apparently.

    However, Dizadh was not intellectually challenged enough to not recognize danger when he saw it. The boy was tinkering with explosive gas, containing it with repurposed bits and bobs from another alchemist''s workspace.

    Dizadh would gladly trade every last bangle on his arm, every last strand of gold in his hair, even the silk on his very back, for a proper alchemy set for the boy. If he would accept such shameful gold from a lowly courtesan, that was. But a peep through the keyhole was the most he could do.

    Freda was not his friend today, however. Today of all days, too. Turning the corner, he spotted a guardswoman standing before Ahmundi''s door. For, of course, Ahmundi was being grounded.

    Dizadh had hoped for just a glimpse, to help him with his decision. If this was any other day, he could always wait for another summons from the Lady and try again, but he simply must see Ahmundi today.

    There was no other way. He''d have to go for it. He''d have to actually talk to his son.

    Dizadh steeled himself with a few deep breaths, prepared his most solid excuses, then glided down the hallway towards the guardswoman.

    The woman, who was nodding off and back, gawked and righted herself at the sight of him. She seemed stunned to be able to behold the most beautiful man in Hyacinth in such proximity.

    "I would like to request an audience with Lord Ahmundi." said Dizadh with a gentle smile, courteous as always. The woman''s giddy glee faded. She cast a hurried look at the door behind her then bowed her head sadly,

    "Lord Ahmundi demands his privacy."

    Dizadh blinked. He stared at the door, lost for a moment, then nodded slowly.

    "I see." He accepted simply, then bowed, "Would you please inform him that his lowly servant Dizadh would be honored for a minute of his time?"

    Before the woman could answer, a voice rang from behind the door,

    "Let him in."

    Dizadh''s heart leaped, but a knot of worry tightened in his stomach. Was it because he heard his name? Dizadh was aware of the rumors, but he was not supposed to confirm nor deny them in any circumstance. Yet, there was no turning back now. He must tread carefully.

    The door opened. Dizadh crossed the threshold inside. Ahmundi was slumped on the floor, his back against the foot of his bed. His hair was more unkempt and oilier than usual. His room, once bursting with clutter, was empty but for his bed and wardrobe. Even the worktable was gone. The eerie green lights had been replaced with regular oil lamps.

    Fury burned in his bowels, but that was perhaps the furthest he could go. This was what he had feared would happen to Ahmundi. And now that it already had, what worse could be in store if he testified?

    Ahmundi''s eyes had been following him from the start, calm and unreadable. Dizadh contained his anger so it would not show, then bent his knee in greeting,

    "My lord."

    Ahmundi was silent for a moment as he surveyed him.

    "They say you''re mine and Amara''s father." He said. Dizadh tensed. "Is it true?"

    Dizadh held back the truth on the tip of his tongue, shaking his head,

    "I do not know, my lord."

    Ahmundi''s eyes widened in anguish, then hardened in exasperation.

    "Why are you here, then?" He asked brusquely. Dizadh swiftly bowed to hide the unwitting spasm of pain on his face,

    "I heard you would like to expose the crimes of Healer Hasif. I happen to work in the brothel where Baron Hadrian''s men were found. He has asked me to stand as witness, but first, I must ask for your permission."

    Ahmundi blinked.

    "Protection, you mean?" He corrected, eyes narrowed. Dizadh shook his head, small but firm.

    "No, my lord. Permission." Ahmundi frowned, incredulous. Dizadh cast his eyes about the ringing void of a room, "I take it your mother has confiscated your possessions. I fear it might complicate matters worse should I stand."

    He returned to Ahmundi. The boy held his gaze for a moment, then his eyes roamed aimlessly around the chamber, as if remembering all that had once been,

    "She gave all my research to Hasif." He muttered, shrugging, "At least it would be of use to someone else. I was afraid she''d burn them. Better yet if she stopped experimenting on Greeneyes, too. Now that we have an alternative."

    So the boy said, yet it was impossible to not smell the bitterness in the air as he breathed. Dizadh could only dip his gaze out of respect. Silence fell, then Ahmundi blurted out,

    "Have you seen Amara?" Dizadh shook his head. Sighing, Ahmundi stared out the window, "She wants to play. Don''t have the heart to explain to her why I''m being grounded this time. She''s too young for all this, Freda help us."

    He cradled his head in his hands. Dizadh sighed in agreement.

    "The servants are bound to talk, my lord." He warned, "She''ll learn of it sooner than later. If it were up to me, I''d rather the little Lady not have to be afraid for her Greeneye friends when she does. Still, you have suffered much."

    Ahmundi met his gaze, then drifted away once more, reminiscing,

    "It was midsummer, the day she set off for Hadrian. Her hands were cold as ice." He eked out a bitter grin,

    "I''m grateful for Frenix. I''m relieved Ahmi had someone around her age to keep her company, watch over her in my place. It''s the least I could do for him. So, yes, you have my permission."

    He turned back with a nod. Inside Dizadh, a warm glow of pride blossomed. Although he couldn''t help but worry, it was Ahmundi''s stand, and he should respect it.

    "Do forgive my audacity, but if it helps at all, I daresay your father would have been proud, my lord. Whoever he may be."

    He said, smiling tenderly. Ahmundi''s eyes narrowed as a glint like obsidian glanced out of them.

    "You are our father and you know it!" He snapped, sending Dizadh jolting so hard he almost tripped on his hair,

    "You''re not even making an effort to hide it. You haven''t a single thought for yourself since you stepped foot into this room. It''s all about us!"

    As he watched the burning fire in his son''s eyes, Dizadh''s eyes burned. For a moment they locked eyes, then Ahmundi whispered fearfully,

    "Will you be safe? Can you promise you''ll be safe?"

    Dizadh bowed again,

    "Your concern is most touching, my lord. I do have Baron Hadrian''s protection, if that would assuage your doubts."

    Ahmundi cocked his head, then shrugged.

    "A little," He nodded absentmindedly, then added as if unsatisfied with how he left it off, "Father."

    Tremors spread all over Dizadh, radiating from his chest. He bowed deeply, cautioning,

    "It would be better for your standing, my lord, to not let it be known you have a courtesan as your father."

    "It''s common knowledge, Father. All five of us were born from courtesans." Ahmundi argued with yet another shrug.

    "No courtesan has fathered and forgotten more children than I." Dizadh reminded him. Ahmundi shook his head,

    "How could you forget them when you''ve never known them?"

    Dizadh gritted his teeth. Ahmundi seemed to feel it was not his fault, but when Dizadh was young and conceited, he had knowingly sold his seed to the highest paying clients, not a thought to the consequences. As he grew older and wiser, however, he became appalled by his actions.

    Yet, even after he had demanded the brothel respect his wishes to only accept pleasure clients, there was no knowing how many women had gotten away with his seed. And his heart broke at the notion of never meeting the dozens of his children scattered across Hyacinth, never knowing what had become of them.

    So, from the shadows he watched over Ahmundi and Amara. Yet, even as he might never be allowed inside this castle again should he speak against Lady Hyacinth, he must do it for his children, even if it meant this would be the last he''d see of them.

    "How did you become a courtesan?" asked Ahmundi. Dizadh sighed,

    "I was born one, as far as I knew. The brothel is my first memory."

    A pause as Ahmundi digested the fact and all it implied. Then, a solemn request,

    "Promise me it won''t be your last, at least."

    Dizadh raised his eyes to his son''s, then managed a sad little smile.

    "I will try, my lord."

 Burden on the Land

    Baron Hadrian and his two squires spent the rest of the day questioning the one-eyed followers of Light of Lashtiri, to no benefit whatsoever. They insisted, in suspiciously similar wording, they had donated their eyes willingly towards the betterment of Latakia. There was not the slimmest hint of a link to the kidnapped Greeneyes in the brothel. Although Dizadh had already agreed to testify, they might need more eyewitness accounts if they were to convince Lady Jaise to boycott a key trade partner.

    Once his three subordinates had stolen away amid the falling darkness to Amplevale, Simon in tow, Gillian slipped off for a stakeout of the Pleasure Lane. Healer Hasif could very well use this opening to quietly dispose of evidence¡ªnamely, the Dolls. It depended on how threatened she was feeling, how threatened they were having her feel. Whether she would risk making a move and destroy evidence, or decide staying put and projecting an air of innocence would suffice.

    The morning after, Coris entered the Hadrians'' chambers, where his parents, friends and subordinates have gathered for a meeting. The question of what had kept he and Meya occupied in the dreary prison cell was answered by the thick book bursting with papers, nestled under his arm.

    "Good morning, all." He strode briskly to join the congregation. Frenix''s eyes followed the book as Coris deposited it on his father''s desk.

    "Have you been giving her reading lessons?" He asked, eyes narrowed.

    "I have. Why? Do you take issue with that?" Coris extracted the papers from between the pages of the book. They were slightly wrinkled, covered in words written in large, clumsy, childlike print.

    Frenix gawked.

    "She''s in jail! And pregnant!" He cried. Coris shrugged as he scanned the pieces of paper, probably spotting patterns among Meya''s misspelled words.

    "All the more reason to. Quality education works well to keep her mind off our worrisome state of affairs." He turned to Christopher, "Speaking of which, any word from Jaise so far?"

    "It''s been dead silence, I''m afraid." Christopher shook his head, looking careworn.

    "I''ve sent a letter to Fione, myself. I''m still waiting for her response." Arinel added.

    Color drained from Coris''s taut cheeks as he gritted his teeth, eyebrows lowered over blazing gray eyes.

    "Don''t lose heart yet. She might simply need to be discreet to avoid alerting Lord Crosset of our movements." Baron Hadrian comforted him. Coris glanced at his father, then nodded with a sigh. Christopher remained frowning, however.

    "How could she beat the arresting party here if they''re traveling the same route? Or evade them, for that matter?"

    "The Jaisians know the Sands. She may be able to waylay them. Or travel on dragonback." Coris guessed. He stared out the window, thinking on his feet, "At any rate, we must prepare for the worst. If the arresting party arrives before Winterwen¡ª"

    Silence fell. Coris appeared to be gulping back words from the tip of his tongue. Zier had an idea what they were. Meya''s safety would take priority in such circumstances, but his brother being the way he was, he was too ashamed to voice his selfish desires.

    "Do you reckon your father will lead the arresting party himself, Arinel?" He turned to Lady Crosset, who jolted, "After all, he wouldn''t risk the journey to Hadrian for your wedding, but he came all the way to Jaise on sheer force of spite. No offense." He added hastily as Arinel blushed.

    "Not to mention neglecting his duties for no sound reason. Again. Who''s watching over Crosset?" Christopher shook his head disapprovingly. Coris tilted his head towards him in appreciation,

    "Exactly. We could threaten him with that. Talk about not learning from your past mistakes."

    "Given his paranoia, I think there''s a high chance he''d come in person. He''d want to see for himself that Meya is safe in his clutches." muttered Arinel shamefacedly as she fidgeted with her dress. Coris regarded her thoughtfully for a moment. The crease between his eyebrows deepened. At long last, he sighed in defeat then turned to his parents, ensconced behind the handsome wooden desk.

    "Meya proposed having Zier marry Arinel in my place, but isn''t there a better way?" At the sight of their questioning look, he rambled out his argument,

    "Meya impersonated Arinel with her consent on my orders to protect The Axel. That should be more than enough to exonerate her in any fair court. As a Crossetian, Meya belongs to Lord Crosset, true, but Crosset is our vassal. Ultimately, she belongs to us. And she''s carrying my child. To top that, my marriage to Arinel hasn''t been consummated. We have plenty of ground for annulment."

    Coris threw out his arms, baffled. Baroness Sylvia shared a look with Baron Kellis, then shook her head sadly at her son,

    "You''re not wrong, Lexi, but the issue here is not the law, or whether Olivis is being childish. It''s honor."

    "From Maxus''s time, the Hadrians have built a reputation on honor, loyalty and mercy." Baron Kellis explained, his voice heavy as the weight of two centuries on his shoulders,

    "Reputation is a seedling slow to sprout, but it will bear fruits of the Heights to feed your descendants. It demands outrageous sacrifices to maintain, it wilts if the tiniest drop of filth tainted its water, and once blemished, it is for good. Some noble families don''t consider it worth the effort, but we must abide by the values our ancestors have chosen."

    "Why do you think Amoriah treated you with respect as she abused her own men? Why do you think I disapproved of your handling of Cristoria? Why do you think I spared Lady Firesta after she poisoned you? Why do you think Fione never begrudged you for her father''s death?"

    Coris pursed his lips and dipped his head, shaken as he was reminded of the benefits he''d taken for granted in his worry for his wife.

    This story is posted elsewhere by the author. Help them out by reading the authentic version.

    "True, we supported the Wynns during the time of Devind the Demented mainly to protect the secret of The Axel, but also to show fealty to the king who knighted us. When Lord Crosset fell from grace, we didn''t abandon Lady Arinel for a richer bride. In return, when you fell ill, Lord Crosset was willing to proceed with the marriage."

    "Granted, we both didn''t have alternatives at that point, but how would our vassals, our allies see us, if we use coercion to bend Crosset''s knee this time?" Kellis raised his eyebrows at Coris, who nodded in defeat, "Again, son, your solution may be wisest, but it may not be the best. Meya was right. If we were to break our promise to Olivis, we must compensate him. And we must be civil."

    "I just wish I could be free of this guilt." Coris whispered shakily, his eyes shut tight against the bitter taste in his throat. Kellis shook his head firmly,

    "The guilt is mine to bear, Coris. I forced you into this marriage. Kept you from the bride you''ve chosen to bear your child. I shall deal with Crosset myself. You focus on the Greeneyes. That is your Hadrian duty."

    Coris resurfaced looking conflicted as ever. Taking a deep breath, Arinel moved closer to him, laying a light hand on his forearm.

    "Don''t worry, Coris. If Father refuses to see sense, I have an ultimatum for him." She whispered through lips numb with fear.

    Ari, NO!

    Zier''s heart turned to stone, then pounded in his ears. He watched with bated breath as Coris spun around, eyebrows raised, dreading what his brother might have deduced, what Arinel was willing to sacrifice. He couldn''t let her do this to herself. This was too much.

    "Which is?" Coris asked.

    "I can''t tell you." Arinel shot back in an instant, releasing Coris''s arm as if his cold bit her, "But it will be sufficient. Please."

    "It''s Meya''s life, Arinel. I must know." Coris rounded on her, his voice rising in exasperation. Arinel pursed her trembling lips but stood her ground. Zier seethed as he dithered, furious and ashamed of himself above all else.

    Coris still shouldered the sin of his betrayal, he would get to marry the girl of his dreams, but he couldn''t live with it. He didn''t feel happy. He didn''t deserve the love of these brave, selfless people who would sacrifice all just so he could be selfish. He knew what he must do to make himself worthy, yet he couldn''t pry his damn mouth open.

    "A secret retains its power so long as it remains one, Coris. Don''t press her further. She''s sacrificed more than enough to earn your trust." Again, he took too long to act¡ªFather came to Arinel''s aid. Coris snapped out of the staring match and met his sharp blue eyes.

    "Of course, Father." Sighing, he turned back to Arinel, looking sheepish, "My apologies, Arinel."

    "Apology accepted." murmured Arinel. Yet, she refused to meet his eyes, still offended.

    Zier didn''t have long to wallow in his anguish, however. The side-door banged open. Dorsea and Tissa came tumbling in, breathless and pale,

    "My lord! My lady!" Dorsea gasped, glancing wildly between the bewildered Baron and Baroness, "The Lady Graye. She speaks!"

    <hr>

    The listless figure at Persephia''s bedside turned at the sound of their entrance. Her one working eye found Arinel, who had sidestepped Atmund, Frenix and Christopher to the forefront, then filled with tears.

    "Agnie! Oh, thank Freda!"

    With a strangled cry, Arinel launched herself at her old friend, then broke down sobbing with relief. Tears flowed silently down Agnes''s wide, haunted eye as she trembled.

    "I heard everything." She murmured, "I''m sorry I took so long¡ª"

    "Don''t be daft, Agnes." snapped Coris as he approached the pair. Slowly, jerkily, Agnes turned to him, her empty eye boring into his, but said nothing. For a moment they simply stared, then Coris bowed his head in shame,

    "I let this happen. I''m so sorry." He rasped, choked by emotion. Agnes shook her head slowly,

    "You couldn''t have known. And¡ªafter what Persie did, what Father did¡ª"

    She broke off, having spotted Baron Hadrian. Shivering, she wormed her arm out of Arinel''s embrace and grasped Persephia''s lifeless hand on the bed, pulling herself closer to her sister.

    Coris shot Father an apprehensive glance. Although unwitting, the sisters had fed Baron Graye crucial intelligence that almost led to Hadrian''s downfall. Since it was up to the father to protect his children from his sins, it might actually harm Hadrian''s name more to spare the life of a known enemy. Last time, Father let Persephia live to keep the secret of the dragons. This time, he must find an equally good reason. Mere mercy was not enough.

    Father regarded the cowering young woman, his face expressionless, then nodded.

    "It was just as much for our benefit as yours." He said quietly, "I spare your lives, in return for your testimony. To save my men."

    He glanced at Cleygar and Lors, slumbering nearby, as Agnes seemed to melt to a puddle. She knelt before his feet, touching the hem of his robe to her forehead, sobbing in earnest, until Mother took pity on her and ordered her to stand, as she was now her ward.

    Agnes did as she was told, but not before kissing the hem of Mother''s gown as well, then returned to her seat at Persephia''s side, gulping for breath and wiping her blotchy face. After a few minutes, she calmed enough to resume conversation with Coris,

    "Is there any hope of separating the memories in that vat?" Coris nodded slowly. He''d received the same question from Meya, and they''d been discussing possibilities during his time in her cell.

    "Jaise''s library curators filtered out traumatic memories in dragon eyes for Frenix and Atmund." The two boys turned to him at the sound of their names. "There should be a way."

    Agnes nodded with more fervor, emboldened by the notion.

    "There''s a slim chance Hasif still keeps one of their eyes, incriminating it may be." She laid eyes on the three prone figures beside her, prompting the rest to follow suit,

    "The moment Persie was awake, Hasif was by her bedside, preaching, persuading her to join the church. Greeneyes are a burden on this land, she said. They migrated here from Everglen, competing with Latakians for land and food, contributing to drought and famine. So, it''s only fitting during a resources crisis that Greeneyes pay their due with flesh and blood."

    Coris blinked, then clenched his fists. White-hot fury coursed through his veins as he remembered Meya, and all she had suffered. Despicable. Preying on their insecurity, their guilt and desperation to belong, leveraging her status as a fellow Greeneye to gain their trust. Or had this monster actually believed in what she preached?

    Agnes shook her head, her eyes staring ahead and unseeing, lost in the nightmare,

    "Persie wouldn''t hear a word of what the three of us were trying to tell her. Hasif almost had her converted, up until she asked to borrow her eyes for an experiment."

    Philema gasped. Frenix looked livid. Atmund trembled. Agnes went on as if possessed,

    "Obviously, Persie asked what would happen to her body while she was unconscious, and the memories in her eyes. That''s when Hasif knew¡ªwe know what her other victims didn''t, that dragon eyes house their memories."

    Agnes shuddered, then a fresh stream of tears tumbled down her cheek. As Arinel hugged her, she choked out, her voice growing shriller and breathier,

    "She turned nasty. Called us heretics. Screamed for her followers to seize us. Pluck out their eyes. Lend their bodies to the brothel as punishment. She took one from each pair¡ªto read them, no doubt. Learn where our knowledge came from. What else we knew. I thought I''d be silenced on the spot, but it was difficult to dispose of a body inside the palace. She had me smuggled out along with the others¡ªthey''d kill me at the brothel. I convinced them to spare me. They forced laudanum down my throat. If I were addicted, I wouldn''t flee. Or perhaps they hoped the withdrawal would kill me. Dizadh saw everything. He had these three smuggled out of the Dollhouse before they were¡ª"

    Agnes crumpled, sobbing and screaming, and said no more. Coris watched numbly as Mother rushed to the door, calling for the Greeneye guards of the secret unit to find something to pacify her, grant her the dreamless sleep she deserved.

    It nauseated him, the fact that he had forced Agnes to relive the horror she had just escaped. Yet, he might need to ask her to do it again tomorrow. He hoped he wouldn''t have to. Freda have mercy, he prayed Dizadh and Ahmundi''s testimonies would be enough. He couldn''t put her through this again. If anyone deserved to forget, it was her.

 The Bargain

    The light of new dawn shone upon the Jewel of the Desert. Manservants held their breath as Lady Hyacinth led her entourage into the Great Hall. To be honest, they were nervous every meal. It wasn''t a strange sight. Even when she had emerged in a mellow mood¡ªwhich she didn''t¡ªher temperament could swing in the opposite direction once she received her letters and heard her agenda for the day.

    A high-ranking official handed a stack of letters to Healer Hasif once she''d assumed her spot on Amoriah''s right hand. Amoriah snatched herself a slab of unleavened bread, then poured a pond of olive oil over it.

    "So, Kellis. You found a connection between Healer Hasif and the brothel, yet?" She asked, shooting a dark look at the freeloading Hadrians. Baroness Sylvia glared back.

    Coris closed his eyes and took deep breaths. Cleygar and Lors had been lying blind and mindless for days because of Amoriah''s negligence. A decent ruler would be ashamed visitors had been harmed under his watch and would do all in his power to help. Just how much quality seed was Amoriah promised from the king?

    Zier, meanwhile, was toying with a tomato and didn''t seem to be paying attention. Father remained calm, apologetic even, as he shook his head.

    "None so far, but we shall continue to investigate. My men are worse than dead, Amoriah. Their families will demand answers. I hope you''d let us impose on you a while longer."

    Before Amoriah could do more than huff in exasperation, the great doors opened a sliver. In edged a guard who came scurrying down the aisle.

    "My lady, a delivery from Jaise."

    She reported. The news brought a grin of triumph to Amoriah. The Hadrians knew enough not to react. Like his parents, Coris simply fixed a wary eye on her.

    "Fresh seed!" Amoriah threw up her hands in jubilation, "Bring them in and unmask them. They''d better not be dregs this time around."

    The guard bowed and hurried back up the aisle. She heaved back both doors, revealing five chained, masked and cloaked figures led by a similarly obscured figure. The guard escorted the warden and his prisoners towards the Lady. At her nod, he stripped them of their masks, revealing five pairs of glowing green eyes on olive-skinned faces.

    Gasps and murmurs rose from other occupants of the main table¡ªAmoriah''s three hulking daughters,  her wards, and high-ranking officials. Castle workers on the long tables stood up and craned their necks to see what the commotion was about. Amoriah was temporarily speechless, before her cheeks darkened from an influx of boiling blood.

    "Greeneyes?!" She screeched, banging her fist on the table, "As if we need more Greeneye seed diluting our pure blood! Off to the Needlehouse they go! I''ll have Winterwen answer for this!"

    The warden, to his credit, didn''t flinch. He produced a ring of keys from his sleeve then slotted it into the manacles on his nearest captive. Once the man was freed, he gave him the key so the man would free his fellows in turn. He turned to the seething Amoriah. Coris noticed the pair of lips behind the metal grille¡ªthin, beautiful, painted in shiny black.

    "You''re in luck, it appears." The warden spoke in a familiar deep, serene voice. Coris''s heart leapt.

    "Winterwen?" Amoriah cried, eyes bulging. Lady Jaise unmasked and lowered her hood, revealing her beautiful, high-cheekboned face, freeflowing black hair, and one glowing green eye. An ornate circlet with tassels of glittering jet shrouded her empty eye socket from view.

    "What''s the meaning of this?" demanded Amoriah.

    "I heard my convicts are subjected to punishments my bereft hadn''t called for." Winterwen glided up the steps to the main table. Amoriah strove to look unfettered.

    "Before being sent to repent in the man-brothels, convicts you deem unfit to impregnate your women would be sterilized in the Needlehouse, which is not in their sentence. Greeneye convicts would also have their eyes taken out, making them mindless dolls. Also, not in their sentence."

    She stopped before the table, frowning in contempt,

    "How would they repent if they couldn''t remember their punishment? How would they repent if not given a second chance at life? What is your answer to that, Amoriah?"

    Silence. Lady Hyacinth was forming her retort¡ªCoris noticed the furrow of rapid thinking between her brows. Winterwen glanced at Healer Hasif. She stood at Amoriah''s side, pale and tense.

    "I believe Healer Hasif is in charge of the Needlehouse?"

    "She is." Amoriah shrugged, "Still, you can''t blame me for what wasn''t stipulated in our contract, Winterwen. You loaned your convicts to me. I have the right to make use of them as I please. I paid for them. You delivered them to me. Time is up, I return them to you the way they arrived. Even the sterilization is reversible, is it not, Hasif?"

    "Yes, my lady. Perfectly reversible after some time off the potion." Hasif nodded vigorously. Winterwen cocked her head,

    "True, I can''t demand compensation for foolishly assuming you have basic decency." A vein throbbed in Amoriah''s temple. "However, I can withhold future deliveries until I have investigated those brothels. See they are up to Jaise''s standards."

    Amoriah darkened once more.

    "They are up to Jaise''s standards for convicts who are up to Hyacinth''s standards!" She snapped and slammed another fist. Coris could''ve sworn the roasted goat leg jumped half a foot into the air.

    "My city! My rules! I was foolish myself to assume you have common sense. You want standard treatment? Don''t send us sub-standard seed. No Greeneyes. Or cripples. Or retards. Or straight to the Needlehouse they go. If you agree, then we ink it down here and now."

    "Fine. Onto the next pressing issue." Winterwen accepted brusquely, sounding annoyed for the first time. Perhaps she was uneasy with Jaise''s practice of sending rapists to Hyacinth''s man-brothels, especially now she''d seen what would become of them, but she couldn''t deny the Right of the Bereft.

    "I heard Greeneye visitors to Hyacinth are being kidnapped for their eyeballs and thrown into brothels, to be used as pleasure dolls. I''ve no doubt some of them are innocent Jaisians."

    Amoriah shot Coris''s whole family a glare, grinding her teeth. Coris struggled not to look too pleased with himself.

    "Their eyeballs are then sold to your trusted advisor, who uses it to fuel an alchemy project commissioned by the King."

    Amoriah cracked a nasty smile. Behind her, Hasif remained wide-eyed and petrified.

    "So, you''ve heard, you say?" She drawled, eyes sliding towards Baron Hadrian, "Why, I have a vague idea which little bird shat it into your Falls."

    "Hadrian is grateful for your friendship and hospitality throughout these years, Amoriah. So long as you don''t harm my people." Father stood, facing wrath with ice.

    "You have no evidence connecting Hasif to those brothel Greeneyes." Amoriah threw out her arms, "The eyes she used are all donations. Those Dolls you found in the brothel are all rapists!"

    "You fool! Are our yeomen rapists, too?" Mother snapped, exasperated at that sheer idiocy.

    "I never said that. I said they ran afoul of the wrong crowd and got their eyes stolen, didn''t I?" Amoriah retorted, "I offered my women in compensation, remember? You insisted on whipping up a sandstorm out of dirt in your eye! Your oh-so-precious men could''ve been found anywhere. It''s the word of your son that they were found in that brothel. Your son, who spent his days in that cell, rolling in shite sarding that Greeneye¡ª"

    Amoriah called Meya a name reserved for loose women so insulting, a collective gasp tore through the hall. One of Amara''s sisters covered the poor girl''s ears and cried, "Mother!", Coris''s sword was halfway out of its sheath, but Mother was faster¡ª

    "How dare you!" She screamed and launched herself at the foulmouthed Lady. Father stepped between the lunging women, fist clenched around Amoriah''s beaded necklace.

    "Insult my family or my men again, Amoriah, and there will be war." He warned through gritted teeth. Amoriah glowered but sealed her lips. Father freed her, but didn''t retreat,

    "We also have the testimony of Dizadh and Lady Agnesia of Graye. And your son, Ahmundi. I could have them summoned here to speak before this audience. Or you could save yourself any more disgrace than what you have already brought upon the name of your ancestors, and order an investigation on your advisor and that brothel now."

    Amoriah trembled, eyes bulging, veins throbbing at her temple. The long silent Winterwen offered her cold ultimatum,

    "Until I have made sure no innocent Jaisian is in that brothel, consider all trade between us suspended, Amoriah."

    Silence fell. Hasif had eyes for none but her Lady, her most ardent patron. Amoriah glanced between Baron Hadrian and Lady Jaise, fear and pride battling in her eyes. At last, her shoulders sagged, her belly deflated. She hung her head, calling dully to her subjects,

    "Guards, prepare transport to the Pleasure Lane for Lady Jaise, Baron Hadrian and I. And detain Healer Hasif for questioning."

    Not a soul moved, a pause of shock only Hyacinthians of the court could fully comprehend. The Lady Hyacinth had condemned her most trusted advisor, ordered a woman of the revered Hasif blood to be imprisoned. It was unprecedented. Even Hasif made no attempt to flee. They still couldn''t believe their ears.

    Stolen story; please report.

    "Guards!" Amoriah snarled into the ringing silence, and the guards'' training overtook personal reservations. Two gigantic female warriors strode up and seized Hasif''s arms, steering her to the small backdoor.

    "No! My lady! No! Please!" Hasif screamed and pulled and kicked and fought, tears streaming down her face, "You must understand! I have done no wrong! I am carrying out Freda''s work. I have done nothing but dedicate my life to the betterment of Latakia!"

    "We Greeneyes are a burden on this three lands! I must lead my people to salvation! We must earn our place in the Heights! We must pay the price of our existence! Let us free ourselves from this burden we are to Freda''s land! Lest we sink to the bowels of the Lake! Unhand me! Unhand me!"

    Her curses and sermons continued even after the guards had unhooked her foot from the doorframe and dragged her through, echoing further and further down the unseen hallway. Amoriah sank weak-kneed onto her chair, head in her hand.

    Burden on the Land. Place in the Heights. Price of our existence.

    Coris thanked Freda neither Meya nor Atmund were here to witness the tirade. Considering their past, they were no doubt the most susceptible of the eight Greeneyes to this poisonous faith that had already claimed Persephia. He stole a glance at his parents¡ªFather was embracing Mother¡ªthen Lady Jaise, and was surprised to find her downcast, staring at her feet. There was a sorrowful, pondering expression on her face, as if she were shaken to the core by those words, even when she was not a Greeneye.

    <hr>

    Life in prison wasn''t entirely unbearable for this particular cell. Since Coris had taken to spending hours-long stretches inside with Meya, reading Axel''s memoir with her, giving her vocabulary drills, guarding her as she delved into the baby dragon''s eye, even spending the night with her, the warden would drop in to change the hay and Meya''s chamberpot, and freshen the air with burning incense.

    Yet, there was no burning away the dampness and the cold. The stench of human waste fermenting in uncleaned chamberpots wafted over from other cells, along with morose glares simmering with jealousy from less privileged prisoners. Meya squirmed guiltily as she crinkled her nose. She looked forward to Lexi''s visits, but she worried for his health. And he was a nobleman, too. This filth was unfit for him.

    The warden''s clomping footsteps echoed down the hallway, preceded by her long shadow. A second set of footsteps echoed alongside hers, but it didn''t sound like Coris. Meya deflated and slumped against the wall. Ah, well. Probably someone else''s relative.

    The warden stopped before her cell. Meya''s eyes widened at the sight of the visitor she had escorted over.

    "Baroness Sylvia?" Meya scrambled to her feet, remembering only too late she was carrying things in her lap. She lunged after the falling book and papers, breathless with panic, "Where''s Lord Coris, milady? Has Lady Jaise arrived? Or Lord Crosset?"

    "Calm down, lass. You don''t want to startle your babe." The Baroness scolded as she ducked inside. The warden stepped aside, just beyond their field of vision, creating an illusion of privacy.

    Meya stood gawking, clutching her belongings to her middle. The Baroness settled on the purple silk cushion the warden had brought for Coris, prompting Meya to gather her dress and kneel down.

    "Winterwen persuaded Amoriah to investigate the brothel. They''re heading there now. Hasif''s detained¡ªin a more comfortable cell than yours, no doubt." spited the Baroness, then her expression changed to mournful anger, "We''ll question her on the eyes'' whereabouts, once we''ve brought the Greeneyes out safely."

    The Baroness trailed away, her eyes distant. In the silence, Meya realized she hadn''t actually spoken to her sort-of-mother-in-law-now since the day of the foreshock. This was the first time they were alone together since the day the Baroness showed her around Hadrian Castle, and the first time as who she truly was.

    The same happened with the Baron earlier, but this was more unnerving. Perhaps because she''d actually talked with and seen genuine emotion from her, had admired her more than the cold, distant image of Baron Hadrian Coris had instilled in her.

    After the lies she''d lived, the secrets she''d kept, the mere realization that this woman was Coris''s mother birthed in her a knot of writhing guilt she couldn''t find logic for. Meya dipped her head, staring at her trembling hands.

    "Milady, I''m so sorry."

    The Baroness said nothing. Meya felt the heat of her gaze on the top of her head. At last, she sighed and looked away,

    "You saved my sons many times. You''ve more than atoned for your crime, but that isn''t what you''re apologizing for, is it?"

    Meya shivered at her cold voice. Coris had inherited more than his eyes from his mother.

    "I''d be lying if I said I wouldn''t prefer my son marry a highborn woman, that I have no doubt in your intentions for him, but that isn''t my problem with you."

    She paused, suffocating Meya under the mounting pressure.

    "You carry his child, my grandchild. Because you stupidly, selfishly, fooled my dying son into lying with you." She hissed, then exploded, "He gave you the choice! Why did you do it?"

    Scalding tears spilled down Meya''s cheeks. She curled in on herself, hiding her face in shame.

    "I''m sorry, milady. I''m so sorry." She gasped between sobs. The Baroness was right to be furious. Had Coris known she wasn''t Arinel, he wouldn''t have even given her the choice. She hadn''t been honest. That was why she''d wanted to start over. However, those first nights made sure there was no turning back¡ªit was before she''d started on Silfum.

    She and Coris had been indebted to each other, had loved the other over the years, long before Freda allowed them to reunite. But to the Baroness, she must have been no different from those peasant women, looking to trap rich men with bastards that might not have been theirs, even.

    "Lexi knew we only gave our blessing because we fear he''d die at any moment." the Baroness refused to spare Meya even a glance of contempt, "I fought Kellis to let him find you and wed you, but only because I''d lost all hope then. I wanted him to find some happiness before he¡ª"

    The Baroness broke off, strangled by grief. Breathing deeply, she shook her head in frustration,

    "But look at him now. He''s alive. He''s bursting with energy, with hope. And it was thanks to you."

    Her voice trembled. Meya gathered her courage and stole a glance. The Baroness''s eyes were red-rimmed and overbright, blazing silver. Meya stupidly lingered, and Sylvia turned around and met her eyes.

    "You led my son astray. I can only pray it was in the right direction."

    Meya bowed her head. It was the best she could hope for. Their beginning was tainted with her lie. There was no changing that, but she''d try her damnedest to prove herself worthy by the end.

    "Your prayers will not be in vain, milady. I swear by Freda."

    Silence. Then, to Meya''s surprise, the pleasant weight of a soft, cool hand on her head. She perked up before she could stop herself. The Baroness wasn''t smiling, yet her expression had softened to disgruntled affection. Meya thought it wisest to refocus on the floor and leave her to fume in peace. Sylvia retracted her hand then edged away, making herself comfortable in the corner.

    "Lexi told us he''s leaving the choice to you. About the babe."

    Meya looked up, bewildered. She had an inkling which choice the Baroness would prefer. She clutched fearfully at her middle, then her grip slackened when she noticed sorrow in those beautiful gray eyes. Of course. Perhaps there was an unexpected purpose to the Baroness''s sudden visit¡ªother than grilling her for stealing Coris''s virginity, that was.

    "The Baron said, milady," She began timidly, jolting when the Baroness turned around, "You were pregnant three times before you begot Lord Coris?"

    She held her breath. The Baroness regarded her silently, lips pursed into a thin line. At last, she nodded. Meya sighed, then filled her lungs once more for the actual worst. But she must know. And she had no alternative. Mum wasn''t here. Even if she were, Mum had never faced this choice. It had to be Baroness Sylvia.

    "D''you regret it, milady?"

    She whispered, as if lowering her voice would soften the blow. The Baroness shuddered, then clapped her hand over her mouth. Her eyes scrunched up against an onslaught of tears. She nodded.

    "Seeing my sons now, I can''t help wondering what could''ve been." Sylvia clutched the chest of her gown, rocking in place,

    "I was young, selfish, impulsive¡ªlike you. When I held Lexi for the first time, it wasn''t love I felt. I''d just realized what I''d done. It destroyed me. I drowned my pain in parties and plays. Kellis forgave me, then. He tried his best to mend our marriage. And so, Zee came. But still, I couldn''t bear to look at my boys. They reminded me of what I did. I didn''t dare draw near them. I was scared of what I might do to them."

    She gasped, then covered her face with her hands, shuddering with sobs. Meya wasn''t sure what she should do, what she was allowed to do. Fearfully, she crept forward, reached for the hem of her crimson dress, and tugged gently. The Baroness nodded as if in gratitude then surfaced, wiping her tears.

    "It wasn''t until my parents stepped in that I pulled myself together. I cannot change the past, only the future. Still, I could never have imagined just how much damage I''d inflicted upon my sons. It was my fault Coris massacred the Cristorians. It was my fault Zier stole The Axel."

    She said, her voice dead as the look in her eyes. Meya shuddered, her fingers fidgeting on Sylvia''s dress as she edged closer.

    "But¡ªyou were married, milady. Ready or not, you must consummate the marriage. You didnae have a choice."

    "But I did. Our parents were pressuring us, true, but Kellis was reluctant, too. I could''ve waited, but I didn''t. A whiff of Silfum, a sprig of pennyroyal would take care of the side-effects, so my good friend Amoriah reassured me." She cocked her head, chuckling bitterly, "And I did it. Not once, but thrice."

    She threw her head back with a sardonic grin. Meya bristled in silence, struggling for an argument. Sylvia rested her hand on hers.

    "I know. It''s unfair, but men have their short end of the stick as well. There are consequences to our choices. One comes of age by facing them. It''s hard, but when is there ever honor in what is easy?"

    She tucked a stray strand of hair behind Meya''s ear.

    "I don''t have the right to judge you, but you must know before you choose. And you must remember, it''s not just you."

    Meya closed her eyes, hoping to fool herself she was back in Crosset, that Mum was caressing her freckled cheek with the back of her fingers. However, reality refused to be silenced. Tears bubbled up to her eyes.

    "He said ''tis me choice, but I just know, milady. He really wants me to keep it." She rasped through the lump in her throat. The Baroness nodded slowly.

    "I expect he does." She whispered. She must have known, of course. Why else would she and the Baron have pushed Coris so hard to marry Arinel and have a child?

    Meya handed her the little straw doll. Sylvia froze, eyes widening in surprise, then brushed her fingertips over it.

    "He made me this. And he was gushing about us having a babe together and everything. He just can''t lie." Meya blew out a frustrated sigh. The Baroness smoothed her hair tenderly.

    "I bet you miss your mother."

    Meya nodded, tears spilling now. Sylvia continued caressing her hair.

    "Our Alanna, isn''t she? And you have three brothers and sisters each, is that right?"

    Her voice brimmed with pride and camaraderie. Meya only remembered then that Baroness Sylvia came from Noxx, like Mum.

    "Yes, milady."

    "Lexi mentioned you''re particularly worried about your father."

    Meya froze. She could guess where the Baroness was going. The mere thought of Dad''s reaction when he learned of her pregnancy, how it had happened, sent shivers down her back. The Baroness resumed caressing her hair.

    "We might have to stay quite a while here to sort out those poor Greeneyes. Lexi wants to arrange for your family to visit. He wants it to be a surprise. I don''t think that''s wise, but I do agree you must let your parents know."

    Meya stared down at her lap, gripped by fear and indecision. The Baroness gathered her into her arms, as Meya sat bug-eyed in shock. Her warmth thawed her, spreading to her shivery heart. Meya let herself melt into the embrace. It seemed she had softened the Baroness. A little.

    "Thank you, milady."

    The Baroness gave her a few parting pats on the back, then released her. She gave the cell a sweeping glance.

    "This is no place for a pregnant woman." She muttered, rising to her feet, "Let''s see if Winterwen can''t give Amoriah another little nudge."

    "Milady, there''s no need¡ª"

    Sylvia pressed a finger on Meya''s lips, shushing her with a smile. She straightened up and brushed strands of hay off her gown.

    "The children are anxious to see you." She said airily. Meya gawked, then blushed deep red. Frenix¡ªthat royal pain in the arse! The only reason he''d want to visit was to torment her. And because he wouldn''t get a gander of prison bursting with bare-breasted brown ladies otherwise. No. No way in Fyr''s Lake.

    Before Meya could protest, the Baroness threw her a farewell smile and left. The warden locked the door then clomped away, leaving Meya alone to brace for the arrival of Fyr''s boat.

    Meya fell against the wall, exhausted. A dull chime reverberated from her sleeve as it hit the hay-strewn floor. She raised it to find the ruby brooch she had pinned inside out of habit¡ªthe mark of her first night with Coris. She unpinned it and laid it on her lap, feeling its smooth facets, smiling at the bittersweet memories it held, the courage she often derived from it. Then, with a deep breath, she pinned it at the collar of her dress.

    There were consequences to her choices. It was time she left behind the peasant girl she was and faced the challenge as Lady Hadrian.

 The Interrogation

    The Pleasure Lane remained active during the day thanks to tourists. Women from the progressive eastern and southern duchies, where their chastity would rarely come under scrutiny, would traverse the country for a taste of the sinful entertainment that would have been restricted to men elsewhere. Westerners and northerners weaved their way around the darker folk, gawking in mingled awe and terror at the brothels but rarely venturing inside.

    The steady-trickling river of passers-by squeezed into a bottleneck in front of the largest brothel. Curious onlookers¡ªa mixture of tourists and locals who have flocked over as the news spread¡ªformed a circle around the entrance. Hyacinth guards barked and waved for them to clear a path. Guards filed in and out of the brothel''s open doors, some carrying unconscious Dolls on stretchers, some leading out frightened prostitutes and wriggling brothel staff on foot.

    The subject of most gossip, however, were the dozen-or-so hulking men with olive skin and glowing green eyes, wearing an armor of silvery scales. They stood sentry along the cleared path which led back to the palace, luminous eyes following the Dolls as they sailed by. Occasionally, one would glare at a pair of guards who were careless while handling their patient, and they would walk more in sync, or adjust their grips on the stretcher.

    Inside the brothel, Winterwen Jaise walked down the dim hallway, peering behind paper screens into the emptied rooms as she passed. Hyacinth guards rushed by her from all directions, ushering along protesting clients in various stages of undress, and trembling prostitutes. At the end of the hall, she entered the doorway under the sign Dollhouse.

    To the left, a muscular man with straggly black hair, glowing green eyes and a pale scar on his neck was on his knees, moving a teenage boy onto a stretcher held by two Hyacinth guards. Most of the Dolls had been carried out¡ªaround half a dozen were left. A panel in the back wall was shunted aside, allowing the stench from the washroom to permeate the air.

    Winterwen waited until the Hyacinth guards had left, before approaching the man.

    "Dragon, we have not met. How shall I address you?"

    Lord Coris had told her his name, of course, but Winterwen thought she ought to allow the dragon to choose a moniker he preferred. The dragon worked on the next Doll, a woman in her thirties, as he waited for more guards.

    "Humans chose the name Gillian for me." He said, his fingers scouring the skin around the glass eyes of the unfortunate Greeneye. There was a basin and a pile of fresh towels nearby. Winterwen knelt down and dropped a towel into the water. It was warm and soothing.

    "And Winterwen for me. I hold the seat of Jaise." She handed Gillian the towel with a smile and dipped her head, "Thank you for your aid. Freda knows how many Jaisians have wasted away in this terrible place."

    She cast her eyes about the room. A grim, desolate air hung about it despite the pleasant orange light. Gillian pressed the warm cloth on the woman''s eye. There was a faint, squelching pop. Gillian took the glass orb from beneath the cloth, then moved on to the remaining eye.

    "You sent them here." He said coldly. Winterwen tensed, then bowed her head once more. Not all the Dolls were Greeneye convicts she had sentenced, of course, but her prisoner trade with Hyacinth had no doubt fed the brothel. Like flies to a spider, which then expanded its web and ensnared innocent travelers.

    Instead of punishing rapists for their crimes, Jaise exacted revenge on them, made a trade of them. Shuttled these unwanted men across the desert, reaped profit from them, milked them to feed the very crime they were punished for. It was an abuse of justice. And perhaps, this was Freda''s retribution.

    "That, I do not deny." Winterwen sighed, "Perhaps it is time we reconsider our justice."

    Gillian didn''t respond. Sighing, Winterwen prepared a warm towel for the next Greeneye.

    "Kellis requested I bring my most experienced curators, but this is far beyond my worst nightmare. I counted thirty Dolls when I left the palace. We''ve experimented with sorting and transferring memories, but never on this scale." She shook her head, then turned to the dragon, "How about you? Does your kind study the eyes?"

    "We do not disturb the remains of our dead other than to read their memories." Gillian''s instant, sharp reply caught her off guard, "If we do tamper with them, it would be for vengeance, not curiosity. When it is not enough to snuff out a dragon''s life, we destroy his immortal memory."

    Winterwen froze, then nodded slowly.

    "Seems we Jaisians are the foremost experts, then." She mused softly, then bargained, "If we share what we know, would you and your dragons stay and assist us with these Greeneyes? After all, you keep time in dragon lives, not Greeneye. How many have passed with every minute war raged in Nostra?"

    A pair of guards returned. Gillian didn''t appear to have heard¡ªhe concentrated on laying the Greeneye woman on the gurney. Winterwen worried she might have offended him.

    "I have Greeneye young." He said at last, staring down at the next Greeneye¡ªanother teenage boy with dark brown hair and olive skin, not unlike himself, "So do half my dragons. I do not make my pack of those who do not value every drop of dragon blood spilled. In the colonies. Or in this hovel."

    Winterwen smiled in relief.

    "You have an intimidating presence." She complimented, "We hope Hasif might have kept an eye of some of the victims to study their memories, but we''re having trouble prying open her mouth. Perhaps you could pay her a visit?"

    Gillian shook his head as he prepared to extract another glass eye.

    "Dragons deal in fire. Not words."

    Winterwen sighed, but wasn''t surprised. Coris had warned her Gillian was not a politician.

    "I tire of them often, myself." She tilted her head, "Best leave it to the Hadrians, then."

    <hr>

    "Did we just get you out of prison to get you into another prison?"

    Atmund griped as he struggled to keep up with Meya''s stride, prompting little Lord Frenix to poke his head around her midriff with a scolding,

    "Don''t pester her, Atmund! Mommy Meya just wants to be with Daddy Donghead!"

    Atmund smacked his lips shut over his burst of laughter just in time. Meya burned Hadrian Red. She spun around, glaring at Frenix and his toothy, innocent grin.

    "One more word, and straight to the Hadrians'' quarters you go, Frenix." She growled through gritted teeth. Frenix leaned in and glared right back.

    "Go ahead, I dare you. You''re going wherever I''m going. The Baroness trusted us with the safety of her grandbaby donghead dragon."

    Meya threw back her head and swore at the ceiling. Heavy chains rattled against the manacles on her wrists as she fought the urge to strangle a brat. Thanks to Baroness Sylvia (possibly screaming at Lady Amoriah), Meya was finally allowed to leave her cell, provided she was chained and accompanied by a Hyacinth guard.

    The warden paid no heed as she led the quarrelsome children down the hallway. A familiar figure stood waiting to receive them at the exit, decked out in her usual puffy white trousers, beaded brassiere and cloak of violet tattoos.

    "Hello, Jadirah." Meya''s heart lifted at the sight of her new warden. Jadirah forced a smile then bowed. The teats of her brassiere were empty, which reminded Meya,

    "Sorry about the eyeballs, but I''m afraid you can''t have them back."

    "I understand, my lady." Jadirah turned around and set off, looking queasy. Meya braved another question,

    "How did you get them, by the way?"

    "The brothel uses them to pay tax or as ''gifts'', my lady. You know, make business smoother?" She added at Meya''s nonplussed stare, scratching her nape, "I''ve always thought they took them from dead prostitutes."

    "Dead or not, they hold memories in them." said Meya, eyebrows raised. Jadirah frowned, troubled,

    "Still, if the owner''s fine with it..."

    She trailed away, looking longingly at the empty sockets on her brassiere. Meya blew a miserable sigh. She kind of liked Jadirah. She had a lot in common with Old-Meya. Hopefully, in time, she would improve as Meya did.

    Jadirah led them to the eastern wing of the palace, then up the spiral staircase of a prison tower. Two guards stood at the top of the stairs, pikes propped at their side. A visitor waited outside the cell¡ªa tall woman with long black hair trailing down the back of her midnight-black cloak, crowned by a jet circlet. She turned around, revealing a glowing green eye beside a veil of glittering black crystals.

    Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author.

    "Lady Jaise!" Meya''s cry of joy came out a whisper¡ªWinterwen held a finger to her lips just in time. She nodded towards the jail cell.

    Meya peered through the bars inside. Sitting against the far wall was Lasralein Hasif, her short hair tousled, her violet tunic crumpled and lopsided. Standing before her, his back to Meya, was Coris.

    Coris showed no signs of having sensed their arrival. Neither did Lasralein. She seemed to be meditating, her eyes closed and her face impassive.

    "Why won''t she open her eyes?" Meya whispered. Frenix and Atmund crowded around her for a gander.

    "She''s afraid we''ll read her memories." Winterwen murmured back, "It''s not as simple to read an eye in a living host. You must have eye contact, and trick them to concentrate on the memories you want to read."

    The stale air of inaction was smothering Meya. Gnashing her teeth, she made to join the questioning,

    "Prop her eyes open with some toothpicks. I''ll give her a staring match."

    "Fyr''s Bollocks, no!" Jadirah grabbed Meya''s arm, explaining hastily as Meya glowered up at her,

    "You don''t understand, my lady. Hasifs are second only to Freda and Fyr here. People worship them. You can''t lay a finger on them, let alone a toothpick! Honestly, I''m surprised her followers aren''t kneeling at the gates threatening to fast themselves to death already."

    So this was why Coris bothered questioning Hasif, when he could''ve just have Meya pluck her eyeballs out and read them. Pouting, Meya extricated her arm from Jadirah''s death grip. Coris''s voice echoed across the chamber, then, cold as midwinter,

    "You will not be fed. Nor can you feed. There''s no use preserving your energy. Where have you hidden the eyes?"

    Lasralein shook her head with a smile.

    "I''ve made my terms crystal clear. I''ll reveal their hiding place once I''ve had an audience with His Majesty."

    Meya''s heart skipped a beat. Lasralein kept some of the eyes? Her relief was eclipsed by frustration, however, for Lasralein was wielding the knowledge as collateral. For the chance to plead her case before the King, no less.

    "Hyacinth will starve before you get a glimpse of Aynor." Coris hissed, cold hatred dripping like venom from every word, enraged as Meya had never seen him. Then again, Meya hadn''t seen Coris face an enemy who remained so serene in his presence. Even Gillian wasn''t what she''d call nonchalant. It was as if he''d met his match.

    "Will she?" Lasralein smiled¡ªan unnerving, pleasant smile, "Our flora and fauna thrive in the harshest climate Latakia has to offer. Our goats provide the richest cheese yet subsist on so little. We have mountains of dates and prickly pear. Our women won''t starve anytime soon. Your tourists, your convicts and your men will be first to fast. By the time we cast them to the mercy of the Sands, they''d be too weak to survive the journey home."

    Lasralein described in that calm, singsong voice she once preached to Meya with. Her smile stretched wider. She cocked her head.

    "Or, we could battle. You''re welcome to test the will of Hadrian''s men against the disciples of Lashtiri. Pity, you''re such a beautiful young man. Well-endowed as well, I''ve heard. I''d love to feel you writhing beneath me, have your pregnant mistress watch as I rake your naked body over the scorching sand, milk your seed as I bury you alive. Then, I''ll gouge out her eyes to share with my women. The memory of your rape will keep Hyacinth entertained for millennia. And so would your son''s, if we were fortunate."

    Meya''s bowels burned as the nauseating scene played in her head, at the sight of Lasralein''s crazed, bulging eyes, her tongue caressing her white, bared teeth. Fury consumed terror, only to give way to a new, inexplicable fear.

    She trembled as Frenix and Atmund huddled against her. Her instincts screamed for her to barge in, pull Coris out of harm''s way, ram Hasif''s head against the wall until she was reduced to a bleeding pulp. Winterwen''s hand clamped down on her shoulder like claws of ice.

    "It was our hatred of men that burned the oasis dry." on Lasralein jeered, for Coris, to his credit, hadn''t flinched a hair, "My Greeneyes are willing to die for a place in the Heights, my women for the song of screaming men. How far are you willing to go to avenge a handful of Greeneyes?"

    Coris remained still. Lasralein''s goal wasn''t to intimidate him. She was goading him to strike her, give her fuel to stir her disciples into a riot. Meya longed to scream his name, to warn him, but she must trust him.

    Coris was silent for a long time. Then, he shook his head. His face, Meya imagined, wore an expression of pure disgust.

    "It wasn''t your hatred." He said, slow and icy, "It was the will of the Greeneyes your prophet Lashtiri lured to a slow and painful death in the Blue Mountains. For a handful of glowing stones. I''ve seen a Greeneye strike her village with famine. I know a dragon''s wrath when I see it."

    Meya''s eyes widened in horror, as the sickening truth in those cryptic words dawned on her. Yes, it made sense. If Lashtiri Hasif harvested the first batch of Green Crystals and sealed the secret within her bloodline for centuries, it meant her first victims had never been found. If the land upon which Hyacinth now stood was once fertile, then those trapped, blind, mindless, starving Greeneyes must have sapped it dry, before the poisonous air in the mines killed them.

    "Is it not enough to harvest their souls and erase their existence? You must also claim their vengeance as your own?" Coris backed away in disgust, "You besmirch the image of Freda. You''re a stain on the grace of the women of Latakia, and a traitor to your kind."

    Lasralein simply smiled. Coris spun on his heel and headed for the door. He froze, having spotted Meya.

    Their eyes met. She must have looked scared, for the ice in his eyes melted away and his face softened. He stepped through the doorway, and pulled her into his arms.

    <hr>

    Coris hardly uttered a word throughout the afternoon, but his silence was camouflaged by the bustle of activity. Hyacinth Palace''s great hall was cleared out to make way for the fifty-odd eyeless Greeneyes rescued from the brothel, laid out on blankets in three neat rows. Healers and nurses were called in from the hospital to feed and clean their lifeless bodies. Baroness Sylvia and Bishop Riddell led the Hadrian women to assist them. Zier and Arinel joined them.

    Meanwhile, Lady Jaise''s curators raided Hasif''s lab and carried the vat of memory-jelly, the bowls of eye shells and green crystals, and the jars containing intact eyeballs to the Lady''s quarters. Alongside Gillian and the Nostran dragons, they faced the painstaking endeavor of separating the memories and restoring them to the mended eyes.

    Over to Baron Hadrian, he was busy in his quarters, dashing out letters to other manors in Meriton, and the capital of other duchies across Latakia, asking for lists of missing Greeneyes to help identify the victims. Letters also arrived from Hadrian¡ªreports and appeals his officials had compiled in his absence. Coris and Christopher took care of them. Meya, hands still shackled, couldn''t do much besides watch and learn.

    The chaos died down as evening rolled in. After a light dinner of dates and goat milk, Meya excused herself and dropped in next-door to check on the Graye sisters, did an orbit of the depressing great hall, then returned to the Hadrians'' quarters.

    The room was empty when she entered. Meya reckoned all four Hadrians were next door with their wards and was about to join them, when she noticed the open balcony doors. In the deep-blue darkness, she could hardly make out the thin silhouette leaning against the balustrade, his cloak fluttering in the night wind.

    Meya''s chains jangled as she crept up beside him. Coris didn''t turn around. Sighing, Meya followed his gaze to the ultramarine sea of flat-roofed houses below. Yellowish lights filled rows upon rows of square window-holes. Meya felt as if they were spirits in the Heights, looking down upon a sky blanketed with Miracle Fest lanterns.

    Meya leaned her head against Coris''s arm, tickling the back of his icy hand idly.

    "Can''t always win first time ''round, can you?" She whispered. Coris ignored her, so she nudged him, "Have another go tomorrow. I still think you have the bestest tongue. In more ways than one."

    Coris turned around, eyes bulging. Meya greeted him with a sly, insinuating smile. She watched as his eyes traveled to the region below her midriff, then turned and pressed her front against the railings, hiding the area from view.

    Coris caught himself, blushing crimson. Meya nearly suffocated herself trying not to bust her guts laughing. She felt the heat of Coris''s glare on the back of her head. At long last, he sighed wearily.

    "Thanks, Meya."

    Meya returned his smile, then sighed herself as she flopped onto the balustrade.

    "Jadirah said Hasif was kicking and bawling like a baby all the way up the prison tower. Not a trace of any of that back there, huh." She snorted.

    "It was an act. She wanted word to spread, rally her followers to protest. How better than to paint herself a helpless victim with the loudest colors on her palette?" said Coris with unabashed disdain. His elbow on the banister, he cradled his forehead in his hand, "We''ve been fooled. The church holds true power in this town, not the seat."

    Meya nodded slowly, lost in thought.

    "I''ve been wondering, how come the Hyacinth women are stronger than the men?" She asked.

    "Probably a mixture of nurture and mate selection." As usual, Coris''s matter-of-fact reply had Meya turning to him, eyes round,

    "Hyacinth women are drawn to frail, effeminate men who pose no threat to them. They then give birth to frail sons. Those sons would be raised with less resources than their sisters. They''re kept in the shade, while their sisters run and spar in the desert sun. While their sisters climb date palms, they scrape cochineal from prickly pears."

    "If we actually go to war, d''you think they''d beat our men?" Meya asked. Coris thought for a moment, then shook his head firmly.

    "Weak seed creates weak daughters, too. Not just sons." He turned and met her gaze as if to reassure her, "Amoriah sees this. That''s why she''s desperate for quality seed. She knows, even in the Sands, her best warriors would fall short of foreign men soon. If they haven''t already."

    "Hyacinth believes men and women are equal in every which way, so women could replace men without trouble. But women are daughters of Freda, men sons of Fyr, and the gods themselves are incomplete. Existence is born of creation and destruction. Blood is made of seed and water. Hyacinth''s lifeblood will run dry without their men."

    As Meya pondered over his wisdom, Hasif''s words infiltrated her train of thought, filling her heart with shame.

    "D''you think it''s the same with dragons? Is there any need for my kind to share the soil of Latakia? So we''re not just parasites?"

    Coris froze, then whirled around, gray eyes flashing silver with fury,

    "Don''t ever think that. Don''t you dare think that!" He leaned in and hissed onto her nose, his hands shaking her arms. Meya rolled her eyes and heaved a sigh.

    "I know, Coris! But look at Nostra." She jerked her head to the west. Or what she felt was the west, at least, "The only reason they''re invading all those colonies is because dragons flocked over there for shelter, when Freda meant for us to die off when she destroyed Everglen. So humans could replace us, because you''re her true children."

    "And since when have you cared what Freda thinks?"

    Meya mouthed gibberish, lost for words. Coris leaned so close, his flaring eyes were about the only things she could see.

    "There''s no use debating times long past unless you could change them. Least not for me." He shook his head slowly, his eyes never once leaving hers, "You were born on this land. You worked this land. You have family on this land. You and your baby have as much right to exist on this land as any human, and I will do what I feel is just."

    With one last glower, Coris turned away, glaring morosely at the town below, his hands clenched so tightly on the banister, his knuckles shone white even against his pale skin. As Meya watched the familiar sight of her donghead fuming, a warm glow bloomed at the heart of her, its heat growing to fill her to the tips of her fingers and toes, and she smiled under the weight of her guilt.

    For though she still didn''t believe in his words, she knew she someday surely would. She knew and trusted that he was, as he usually was, right. And, in the worst case scenario where he weren''t, considering the size of his head, he''d torch a town or two to make himself right, probably.

    She had made her decision.

    "Lexi?"

    Coris turned, eyebrows raised. Meya sucked in a deep breath for courage as she held his gaze.

    "Maybe this isn''t the time, but since you''ve mentioned it,"

    Coris''s eyes followed her hand as she rested it on her middle. A flash of fear crossed his face. He clenched his jaw as if bracing for the worst. The sight sent a jolt of pain coursing through Meya, and she dallied no more,

    "I''m keeping the babe."

 True Fear

    Coris froze. Blinking, he woke from his stupor, his gray eyes round.

    ¡°You are?¡± He breathed. His voice trembled. When Meya nodded, he broke into the widest smile of pure joy that brought his pale, gaunt face to life. He pulled her into his embrace, weak with relief.

    ¡°I knew it.¡± Meya linked her arms around his waist, shaking her head in annoyance even as she blinked away tears, ¡°Why did you have to lie?¡±

    ¡°I can¡¯t force you. You¡¯re the mother. You have the final word.¡± Coris muttered between feverish kisses down the curve of her neck. Meya rolled her eyes.

    ¡°Well, you¡¯re the father. You get your word, too!¡± She pushed apart, so they came face-to-face once more, ¡°I can¡¯t live the rest of my life second guessing everything you say, Coris. No more lies. No more secrets. You promised.¡±

    Coris opened his mouth to object, but changed his mind at the sight of Meya¡¯s glowering, flaring green eyes. Sighing, he nodded.

    ¡°You¡¯re right, of course. I¡¯m sorry.¡± He closed the gap and urged her gently back into his arms, whispering at her ear, ¡°Thank you.¡±

    ¡°Aw, Lexi.¡± Meya groaned as she felt hot tears seeping onto the shoulder of her tunic. Coris said nothing; he merely tightened his arms around her. Meya¡¯s own tears trickled down his hair as she combed her fingers through it.

    ¡°You can¡¯t fool nobody, honestly. I felt you touching and kissing my belly when you thought I was asleep.¡± She grumbled as together they swayed in the night breeze. Coris froze.

    ¡°You weren¡¯t?¡± He croaked, his cheek burning against her neck. Meya snorted.

    ¡°I was, but your hands and lips are so cold, I woke up.¡±

    ¡°Oh.¡±

    They fell silent for a while. Coris drew circles on her belly, his eyes on the Blue Mountains, lost in thought. Meya gazed down at the sea of flat rooftops below, feeling Coris¡¯s heart beating against her back.

    ¡°Do you think we should cut that deal with Hasif?¡± He asked quietly. Meya considered it for a moment, then heaved a sigh.

    ¡°Well, if it was me, anything to get the victims¡¯ memories back as soon as possible. But that sets a bad precedence, doesn¡¯t it?¡± She met his gaze. As he broke away, she glimpsed conflict instead of despair. He was frowning, his eyes fixed on the banister with an intensity that could bore through stone. He wasn¡¯t searching for a solution; it was a battle within.

    Meya freed herself from his loose embrace and spun around, eyes narrowed.

    ¡°You¡¯ve found a way to make her talk, haven¡¯t you?¡±

    Coris¡¯s eyebrows gave an involuntary jolt. Catching himself, he forced them back into a frown.

    ¡°I haven¡¯t.¡±

    ¡°Coris, don¡¯t lie.¡± Meya shook her head. Coris rolled his eyes.

    ¡°Why would I? I normally don¡¯t enjoy looking stupid.¡± He flounced off to the far corner of the balcony. Meya pursued.

    ¡°Why can¡¯t you tell me? If you got a thought, let¡¯s hear it!¡±

    ¡°I haven¡¯t, so stop pestering me!¡±

    ¡°You wouldn¡¯t ask what I think if you didn¡¯t have another way!¡±

    ¡°I don¡¯t want to return to what I was, alright?!¡±

    Coris whirled around with a blast of fire. Meya froze in her tracks, staring wide-eyed at his flashing eyes as he stood panting. Ashamed, he hung his head and turned away.

    ¡°I was a monster.¡± He rasped, his voice strangled, ¡°Perhaps, I still am. I¡¯ve tried my best to smother that side of me, but it keeps rearing its head. I pressured Zier to die for The Axel. I called the shots that brought Persephia down. I tried to manipulate Arinel to give up her mother¡¯s research, or else experiment on herself! Father must keep reminding me to choose the kind alternative. The choice you chose, that saved my life. How could I betray that by turning my back on the very thing you stood for?¡±

    Silence fell as Meya stared at his emaciated, anguished profile. All that remained were the faint, fading hum of the city as its last inhabitants ambled along the road that led home. Meanwhile, the chorus of crickets swelled by the second as if to replace it.

    She¡¯d never imagined the impact of what she¡¯d done to be so profound and lasting, considering she hadn¡¯t actually saved his life that time¡ªDraken would never have harmed Coris. Yet, he had cherished the heart behind the act, had held her as his standard. The knowledge was a warm balm as well as a douse of ice.

    One slow yet resolute step after another, she walked towards him, shaking her head,

    ¡°Coris, I chose to trust Gillian, and all the guests at our wedding party would have died if it weren¡¯t for you.¡± Coris didn¡¯t budge, so she persisted,

    ¡°I chose to let Agnes deal with Persephia, and Zier would have died if it weren¡¯t for you. We tried diplomacy with Amoriah, didn¡¯t we? Where¡¯s it gotten us? Those Greeneyes would still be stuck in that brothel, if I hadn¡¯t taken a leaf out of your rune glossary and threatened Hyacinth with famine!¡±

    Meya¡¯s flailing arms fell to her sides with a slap. Coris finally turned back, his eyebrows furrowed, a mournful look in his eyes. She stared at him as she panted for breath and waited out her tirade.

    ¡°I did what I thought was right, but it only paid off because it was you.¡± She resumed, calmer now, ¡°You made Cristoria learn the hard way, and it backfired. That doesn¡¯t mean there won¡¯t ever be a time that calls for an ultimatum.¡±

    ¡°Someone will know exactly what needs to be done, most times. Someone will do it, sometimes. But it¡¯s not even every Miracle Fest that you find someone who could be both. Especially when he¡¯d go down in history as a monster. Maybe, that¡¯s what makes a leader.¡±

    Yes, she¡¯d found her answer. It was not one¡¯s birth that determined if one were fit to lead, but the sheer strength of will to sacrifice for the many. To take up the mantle and wear its crushing weight while standing tall in the face of one¡¯s greatest fear, whether power had come before one by luck or misfortune, by will or necessity. And in her eyes, the Hadrian heir had proven he possessed what it took.

    Coris averted his eyes, dithering. Meya raised her chained-together hands and cupped his cheeks.

    ¡°If it helps at all, you¡¯ll never be a monster to me.¡± She whispered, ¡°I know the man behind the beginning. I know whatever he does will be to protect what he holds dear.¡±

    ¡°Meya¡ª¡± Coris called hoarsely, grateful yet skeptical. Meya leaned ever closer, her eyes never once leaving his,

    ¡°I need you to make the choice. You¡¯ve given me enough choices I¡¯ve proven time and again I¡¯m not ready for. I still have much to learn. How better than to watch my mentor in action?¡±

    Meya cocked her head alongside what she hoped was a cheerful smile. Coris pursed his lips, eyes wide with fear. Yet, Meya did not waver. At long last, he sighed, nodded, and relayed his plan to her. Once he had finished, Meya nodded, her face grim.

    ¡°I¡¯m exploiting your people. To destroy one of your own. I must have you agree to this, at the least.¡± Coris murmured, his face downcast. Meya warmed his hands between hers.

    ¡°I trust your judgment. Do what you must¡ªbut maybe run it past your father also. You¡¯re gambling The Axel, too, after all.¡±

    Meya hastily added, chuckling. Coris didn¡¯t laugh. A spasm of pain crossed his face. He extracted his hand and ran the back of his fingers down her hair.

    ¡°How have I tainted you.¡± He lamented. Meya shook her head, her smile waning to sad and exhausted.

    ¡°I was never pure.¡± She reassured him, shrugging, ¡°I was naive, Coris. I gotta face reality. I keep forgetting not everyone¡¯s like you. That¡¯s why I got tricked so much.¡±

    Coris¡¯s hand reached the tips of her hair, yet he refused to let go, still toying idly with it. Sighing, Meya leaned her forehead against his bony arm, closing her eyes.

    ¡°All these years, it was as if I was searching for you in the back of my mind. I kept trusting men who felt like you. Even before I remembered you, I¡¯ve always loved you.¡±

    Coris didn¡¯t respond; she felt his body tense momentarily then relax. Gently, he tilted her face up by the chin, sealing her confession with his kiss. He ran his fingers down her arms, trembling with guilt as he passed over the ice-cold shackles on her wrists to reach her hands. Meya pressed her lips harder against his to comfort him.

    Past the fluttering curtains, in the brightly-lit room behind, Zier Hadrian stood and watched in silence as his brother held the chained and manacled Greeneye peasant girl. Then, without a sound, he turned on his heel and left the room, his head bowed and his heart heavy, suffocating under the weight of the words he had overheard.

    <hr>

    After suffering the trample of hundreds of feet throughout the day, the hallways of Hyacinth Palace were finally given respite.

    Zier traipsed down the corridor, guided by the blinding, flickering glints of wall lamps on the violet spider-patterned tiles. The atmosphere carried a scent of sorts, not unlike that of the night six years ago he spent waiting before his brother¡¯s bedchamber with Simon.

    If you discover this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.

    Bishop Riddell and a dozen healers had went inside with his parents. They trooped out shaking their heads, muttering words of pity for the poor boy. Father and Mother lingered a little longer, emerged looking defeated, and beckoned them inside.

    Without moonlight, the room would have been pure black. Coris laid on the bed, his cold, lifeless gray eyes boring holes into the ceiling. It had been days since he sipped his last dose of Lady Cristoria¡¯s poison. One wouldn¡¯t be able to see the agony he had suffered, the injuries he must now carry for life, looking at his plump face and bulging belly. The stench of blood hung crimson in the air.

    Coris showed no signs he¡¯d noticed them. After a minute dithering, Simon mustered the courage to speak,

    ¡°How are you feeling?¡±

    ¡°Have my parents left?¡±

    Simon and Zier met eyes. It hadn¡¯t crossed both of their minds to check.

    ¡°I¡­guess?¡± Simon offered his best shot.

    ¡°Then have a look through the keyhole and answer me again.¡± commanded Coris coolly. Simon¡¯s eyes hardened, but he bit his tongue and strode off. He bent down, peeped through the keyhole, then returned.

    ¡°They¡¯ve left.¡±

    Coris¡¯s eyes remained on the ceiling. Zier noticed his pudgy hand fidgeting, trembling fingers caressing a tarnished silvery arrowhead that gleamed rainbow in the moonlight.

    ¡°Father assigned you to assist and protect me in my frail state. We all know that¡¯s a lie.¡± He said, his voice level. He wasn¡¯t the sly, smug Coris who relished in scheming and bullying those of lesser intellect. Nor the kind, brotherly Coris he¡¯d been after he escaped his kidnapping in Crosset, either. Zier didn¡¯t know who¡ªwhat his brother was. Before Coris, people would call him a prodigy. Behind, a monster. Either way, he wasn¡¯t human.

    ¡°The Axel is all that matters. Always has been and always will be. To ensure you have the best chance of success, I must tell you the truth. The Axel is with Zier.¡±

    Simon whipped around, eyes bulging. Zier seized up in fear. He hung his head, trembling under the weight of the fate he¡¯d roped both his brothers into.

    ¡°You will protect him while maintaining your appearance as my decoy. He holds The Axel. He¡¯s the only remaining heir to the Hadrian seat. Should the time come when you must choose, you¡¯ll leave me to die and protect him. Can I trust you to do just that?¡±

    ¡°But, Coris¡ª¡± stammered Simon, scared as was to be expected of a twelve-year-old.

    ¡°Can I trust you, Simon?¡±

    A dreadful silence followed. Zier braved a peek and saw, to his just as much as Simon¡¯s surprise, a plea in those silvery eyes. For something much deeper than duty, much closer than Hadrian. Powerful enough to transform Simon¡¯s fear into courage, as he looked long and hard at Zier, then turned back with a nod.

    ¡°Yes. Yes, you can.¡±

    Coris smiled. That stupid saintly smile Zier would soon despise.

    ¡°Thank you. I¡¯ll be of some use in death, at the least.¡± His voice breaking, he heaved a long, shivering sigh as he gripped the arrowhead ever tighter. Only recently, Zier understood why. It was proof there existed a soul in the three lands he believed had truly cared for him as the lonely boy he was.

    Tears rolled down Coris¡¯s cheeks. He flipped on his side, dragging the blanket over his head.

    ¡°Coris¡ª¡± Simon began.

    ¡°Go,¡± ordered Coris, his voice thick. His head hung, Simon shuffled away. The door closed with a gentle snap behind him. A strangled sob issued from shivering bundle on the bed,

    ¡°You¡¯re not worthless. You¡¯re not worthless. You¡¯re not worthless.¡±

    He chanted, willing it to come true. And, for the first time, Zier realized there was a human beneath the skin of the monster he¡¯d hated. He wanted to let him know he was still needed. That he needed a big brother he wanted to believe truly loved him. He didn¡¯t want him to surrender and die.

    Zier reached out a nervous hand, resting it over the spot he guessed was his brother¡¯s hand. Coris tensed. Zier was afraid he¡¯d chase him away, but he warmed to the touch and broke down, sobbing as he had never done.

    ¡°I¡¯m sorry.¡± Zier whispered, sniffling, ¡°I didn¡¯t mean for this to happen.¡±

    Coris shook his head.

    ¡°Just eat your greens. And use the chamberpot. If Hadrian fell because The Axel ended up lost in some cesspit, I¡¯d kill you.¡± He snapped, embarrassed.

    Zier never did end up passing The Axel, of course. Months wore on into years. They grew close, closer to the brothers they were supposed to be. Zier read and played chess with Coris, set aside his pride and let his brother displace some of the refreshing air in his head with stuffy, moldy knowledge.

    Coris enjoyed teaching him, and in return, he chipped at his wall one brick at a time, giving Zier a glimpse of his heart. Zier had never imagined his brother could be so playful and mischievous, and such a hilarious target to tease.

    Yet, there were times Coris would revert to his cold, ruthless self. Times he would seem melancholic and resigned. Times he would be angry and demanding. Times it appeared he cared more for The Axel and Hadrian¡¯s future than Zier. Coris had many masks. It was natural to doubt his love.

    Zier blamed that doubt for making him depend on The Axel. He was resentful yet secretly thankful that his body now housed Hadrian¡¯s most prized treasure and the birthright. He now enjoyed undivided affection, attention, priority and protection that had once been Coris¡¯s. The weaker Coris fell, the stronger he rose in comparison.

    He hoped he¡¯d be able to live out this peaceful life as a secret chamber, a ringing void glazed with a ray of sunshine on the outside, the way it had been for two hundred years. Then the dragons came. Axel¡¯s clock resumed ticking back on Maxus¡¯s promise, shattering the bond he¡¯d tried to build with Coris.

    And yet, now that he knew he would still have his brother no matter what he lost, why couldn¡¯t he let go? Why was it that countless lesser men could face death but he couldn¡¯t? Why couldn¡¯t he live without his parents¡¯ love even as it was built on his lie?

    He headed to the Great Hall, entering through the side-door. He¡¯d spent the best part of the day there, carrying and rearranging the Dolls. The ceaseless inflow of victims was gut-wrenching to watch; a Doll for every day he evaded surgery since Gillian invaded Hadrian. He¡¯d thought the guilt would be enough, but he underestimated his selfishness.

    A few healers walked between the rows, occasionally bending down to press their fingers against an exposed neck. Zier spotted a familiar head of curly golden hair gleaming in the moonbeam, keeping vigil on that young man they suspected was the owner of the eyeballs Jadirah had.

    Zier made his way to her. Arinel turned around, her tired face lighting up with a sweet smile.

    ¡°Zee.¡± She whispered. Zier slumped down beside her.

    ¡°Reckoned you¡¯d be back with Mother for dinner.¡± He muttered. Arinel smiled, then turned away and adjusted the young man¡¯s blanket.

    ¡°I felt your parents might have family matters to discuss, with all that¡¯s happening with your brother.¡±

    Zier nodded. His parents took advantage of the private company of him, Coris and Meya to discuss the pregnancy and bless the couple. Wise of Arinel, as usual.

    They sat in silence, Zier watching Arinel doodle absently on some linen paper. She seemed to be designing a knitting pattern for a cot-sized blanket.

    ¡°Meya was here earlier.¡± She said, ¡°She¡¯s keeping the child. You¡¯re becoming an uncle.¡±

    She shook his arm gently. Zier tucked his chin behind his folded knees.

    ¡°She just told Brother. I walked in on them talking.¡±

    ¡°Goodly Freda, did she?¡± Eyes round, Arinel set aside her papers and leaned closer, ¡°How did he react?¡±

    Zier recounted the entire exchange to her, including Coris¡¯s plan to deal with Healer Hasif. Arinel paled, but instead of the disgust she would reserve for his brother for cooking up dastardly schemes, she nodded fervently,

    ¡°Coris¡¯s afraid he¡¯d have a bloodbath like Cristoria on his hands, but it¡¯s different now.¡± She said, beaming, ¡°He¡¯s acting for the right reasons. In service of the people. He¡¯ll have Freda¡¯s blessing, I¡¯m sure.¡±

    In service of the people. The nobles¡¯ code his brother and the girl he loved lived up to without trouble, but he couldn¡¯t.

    ¡°How do you do it?¡± He blurted out. Arinel turned to him, a questioning look in her eyes. ¡°Meya¡¯s walking around in chains because she revealed herself to save Atmund. Brother¡¯s ready to throw away his birthright and his life to protect her and her cause. And you¡¯ll tell everyone you¡¯re no longer a maiden, if it would silence your father.¡±

    Zier shook his head, frowning at the floor.

    ¡°I just don¡¯t know how you all do it. All these sacrifices. Aren¡¯t you afraid?¡±

    He looked to her, hoping and desperate. Arinel blinked, intrigued, as if she¡¯d never considered it before; it had come naturally to her. Her eyes wandered. She sighed,

    ¡°We all are, Zier. Even your brother, but we find something else we¡¯re more afraid of. Something worth dying to protect. It¡¯s different for everyone, I expect. You just have to find your own. And then, your path forward will become clear to you.¡±

    Her voice was soothing as the touch of the wind. Zier shook his head with a snort.

    ¡°It¡¯s over. One way or another.¡± He cradled his head. Arinel spun around, alarmed, ¡°The surgeon¡¯s on his way. I¡¯ll just enjoy the rest of my life the best I could.¡±

    ¡°Zier, Old Angus has done this countless times! And with my mother¡¯s anesthesia and Jaise¡¯s obsidian blades, you have little to fear!¡± Arinel clamped her hand over his knee, shaking it in frustration. Zier curled into a tighter ball.

    ¡°My parents will learn the truth. Either I die a traitor or I live a coward.¡±

    Arinel¡¯s icy grip melted into a warm, comforting weight. She paused, deep in thought, perhaps, then continued gently,

    ¡°You have no power over their forgiveness, but if these few days were to be the last of your life, wouldn¡¯t you want to be free for once?¡±

    Zier raised his head from his arms. Arinel answered his puzzled look with steady, mournful blue eyes.

    ¡°Your father¡¯s right. A secret retains its power so long as it remains one. How long have you lived under this secret? How far have you let it drag you on this road you¡¯re supposed to choose with your heart and walk with your legs?¡±

    Zier couldn¡¯t stand to hold her gaze. The soul within was too pure, too honest, too brave. He broke away and fled, but Arinel did not surrender. She leaned closer, shaking his knee again,

    ¡°If you love your brother, this is your last chance to do right by him.¡± She whispered, enunciating each word with a jolt of his knee, ¡°Because you will live. I¡¯ll test the anesthesia on myself. I¡¯m smaller than you. If I survive, then you definitely will.¡±

    That finally knocked Zier out of his self-pitying ruminations.

    ¡°What!?¡± He cried. Arinel shook her head, steel in her eyes as she stared into the distance.

    ¡°Coris would¡¯ve volunteered, I¡¯m sure, but he¡¯s a father now.¡± She met his bulging eyes, pleading, ¡°I must be the one to do this, Zier. It¡¯s my mother¡¯s work. I must believe in it before anyone else would.¡±

    ¡°No. No, Ari, no.¡± Zier shook his head. He backed away, scrambling to his feet. Arinel never broke her gaze.

    ¡°Yes, Zier.¡± She rose, putting one firm foot after another towards him, ¡°Also, Coris mentioned he could arrange for a switch of sorts during the surgery. If you really don¡¯t want your parents and the rest of Latakia to know the truth.¡±

    ¡°A switch?¡± Zier repeated incredulously. This was beyond his wildest imagination. More than he would ever wish for. And it was torture for him.

    Amid the chaos, he felt Arinel¡¯s cool, soft hand on his cheek, as her gentle voice consoled him.

    ¡°When The Axel¡¯s secret comes to an end, there¡¯s no telling what the people will make of what you did. Their anger. Their hate. Their fear.¡± She sighed sadly,

    ¡°Coris wants to protect you from the fallout. He loves you just as much as I do. So, you can be sure we won¡¯t rush the surgery until we¡¯re sure you¡¯ll be safe. And you will be, Zier.¡±

    Zier shook his head, leaving Arinel frowning in alarm. Before she could say another word, he snatched her hand and marched to the door.

    ¡°Zier!¡±

    Once they were outside, he sprinted down the hallway as he dragged her along, their clattering footsteps echoing behind and in front of them.

    ¡°Zier, where are you¡ªWhat¡¯s going on?¡±

    Zier didn¡¯t dare spare a few seconds to answer her. He hardly even dared breathe; with every breath he felt his surge of courage leaking out of him. He might betray fear again if he tarry. He might change his mind. And he would lose her forever.

    He had his answer. He understood now. He had found something he feared more than his own death. Something he loved more than his own life. And he held onto her soft little hand to bolster his resolve as he hurtled around bend after bend, Arinel¡¯s sharp protests stabbing through the wind in his ears.

    He turned the doorknob and bulled his way in. Father and Mother were on their bed, tucking in. Coris and Meya half-carried a hay mattress between them. Judging from their open mouths as they gawked at him and Arinel, panting in the doorway, they were probably squabbling about where best to deposit it.

    Zier glanced at each of them. As he tightened his grip around Arinel¡¯s hand, he prayed to Freda to grant him bravery.

    ¡°It was me.¡± He gasped, ¡°I stole The Axel for Baron Graye. I swallowed it. It¡¯s inside me. It¡¯s been inside me all along. I¡¯m the spare¡ªwhatever you want, test it on me. Take this thing out while you¡¯re at it. Just leave Arinel out of this. Better I die than her.¡±

    Silence, but for the flump of the mattress¡¯s corners falling unnoticed to the floor. Father, Mother and Meya merely gawked, lost for words, but Zier only had eyes for his brother.

    ¡°I¡¯m a man now. You don¡¯t have to protect me.¡± He said heavily, ¡°It¡¯s time I help you protect Hadrian and the Greeneyes. And our family.¡±

    For a moment which felt as if it lasted three Miracle Fests, the brothers locked eyes. Then, at long last, Coris smiled. A genuine smile of joy, pride and love such that Zier had never seen, as he took Meya¡¯s hand and urged her to his side.

    ¡°Of course, little brother.¡± He said.

    <hr>

 The Fall

    Morning seeped in through the window beyond the bars of Lasralein''s cell at the top of the east tower. A new day had dawned, but Lasralein wasn''t impatiently waiting for her enemies to return with an invitation from the king. Jaise and Hadrian could threaten Hyacinth all they liked; the fact remained that they and their precious Greeneyes would be the first to starve. So long as she commanded the loyalty of the women of Hyacinth, she had nothing to fear.

    The door swung open with an oily screech, followed by the lone, heavy footsteps of her warden. Lasralein had become familiar enough with its weight, she could tell without looking. The warden stopped before her. The air smelled the same; she hadn''t brought breakfast.

    "Have I been freed?" asked Lasralein, eyes still closed.

    "No, my lady. Lady Agnesia Graye wishes to see you."

    "Lady Graye?"

    Muttered Lasralein as she rose, then nodded with a smile of derision. She wondered if the silly girl simply wanted to plead for her sister''s eyes, or if Coris Hadrian believed Lasralein would take his threats closer to face value if he spoke through a woman. Either way, there was no risk to her. So she allowed the warden to lead her down the spiral stairs, the bare tiles of half a dozen hallways, then finally through a door that was wooden and full, not metal bars.

    The warden sat her on a cushioned chair, then swept away. The moment the door swung shut, a voice spoke,

    "Good morning, Lasralein." it said, "I believe you remember my voice."

    Lasralein took care to not let her thoughts show on her face. There was something familiar about the voice, but it sounded distorted, fake. Whether it was Agnesia or not, she couldn''t tell; she couldn''t recall a voice she''d heard just once with crystal clarity. Not to mention with all that was happening then, the memory had slipped her mind.

    But should she sneak a peek, there was a half chance she''d find herself staring into glowing green eyes, and her secrets would be laid bare. For all she knew, it could even have been a ruse to pry open her eyes. So, she stretched her back taut and turned her face away from the sunlight tempting her eyelids.

    "If you seek your sister''s eyes, my offer for Lord Hadrian stands," she said flatly. Lady Agnesia made no noise. No uneasy shifting, no sharp draw of breath. Could she be nodding?

    "Seems I''m fortunate, then." Agnesia replied. It appeared she was. "I can secure you an audience with the king, but I''m afraid by the time I''ve laid bare my offer, you might find you no longer wish for it."

    Lasralein frowned. Even before her supposed death, Lasralein hadn''t heard much of the Lady Graye aside from her budding beauty. What was more, the girl''s words reeked of Coris Hadrian. Her guess was right; Coris was behind this.

    "Are you familiar with The Axel?"

    Lasralein froze. That was unexpected. The first in days, even. Agnesia took her alarm as a yes,

    "Very well, then you know how dearly His Majesty would love to have it in his grasp at last." Fabric rustling, a waft of perfume; Agnesia had leaned close, "For over two hundred years it has made hostage of king after king. Raised a clan of lowly blacksmiths to lord over the richest croplands in Latakia."

    Lasralein pursed her lips. She had guessed where the girl was headed,

    "My sister''s eyes hold the secret of The Axel''s hiding place." Agnesia''s voice was a hiss of ice wind at her ear, followed by soft, hollow laughter, "What do you think His Majesty values more? A pile of eyeballs, or the key to the Hadrians'' downfall?"

    At that, the knot in Lasralein''s gut loosened. Perhaps she was too quick to judge. Perhaps this was Agnesia, who had tricked Coris and was acting of her own accord, for her own agenda. After all, the girl was raised by Grimthel Graye. And even Coris wouldn''t wager The Axel, even for a bluff. A realization dawned on her, and she smiled in good fun.

    "How foolish of you to tell me this." said Lasralein, shaking her head, "You must have forgotten¡ªI''m experimenting on an invention for His Majesty. I might as well send word to him myself."

    "I couldn''t care less." Agnesia shot back. Lasralein raised her eyebrows, and so the Lady Graye explained,

    "Either way, Graye would benefit. And my sister would get her memories back. I simply wanted to have you know just how priceless that particular eye is, before you hack it open for some glowing stone."

    Lasralein parted her lips to form a silent "Ah". She drummed her fingers on the wood, weighing her options.

    "I do not harvest from every eye." She spoke carefully, adding with a tilt of her head, "Least not at the earliest opportunity. Your sister and manservants are of special interest, since the four of you know the secret of the Greeneyes. I must know how. To prevent future...inconveniences."

    Lasralein smirked, satisfied with her choice of words. Agnesia didn''t respond; she was simply confirming what they''d guessed. Lasralein''s drumming fingers kept time as silence smothered the room. At long last, the high priestess pulled her hand back into the folds of her robes and straightened up. Eyes still closed, she shone a faint smile on the spot she believed Agnesia was sitting in.

    "Very well, Lady Graye. Though I don''t need aid securing His Majesty''s audience, it wouldn''t hurt to befriend the white phoenix that shall rise from ashes of the stag."

    Chuckling softly, she rose to her feet and rapped her knuckles on the table, signaling for the warden. As the burly woman approached her, she whispered to her newfound ally,

    "Bring me here again tonight. I shall lead you to the eyes."

    Silence. Perhaps Agnesia needed time to consider, but Lasralein wouldn''t linger. She''d have her answer tonight, but she didn''t need it. The odds hadn''t changed. Only the stakes, and both were in her favor. She turned to leave, then Agnesia spoke¡ª

    "No. You will lead us there immediately."

    Us?

    Lasralein''s eyes snapped open, priorities switching as panic replaced paranoia. She spun around. The girl sitting across the table from her had flaming rose-gold hair and glowing green eyes¡ªMeya Hild.

    But the fact she was staring straight into her eyes wasn''t the most pressing threat. Something stood between them¡ªa long, reed-thin brass tube which stretched across the room then through a hole drilled into the wall. Its near end opened into a mouthpiece, exactly where Lasralein''s mouth had been moments earlier. She''d been speaking straight into the receptacle, her every word transmitted down the pipe towards¡ª

    Lasralein snatched the tube and jammed her ear against the cone. A cacophony of voices blasted her. Dozens¡ªhundreds of people, all shouting and screaming at the same time¡ª

    "You fraud! Liar!"

    "So you have mountains of eyes stashed away all along?"

    "Don''t let our offerings go to waste, High Priestess!"

    "My daughter''s waiting for her eyes!"

    "Freda struck your brat blind for a reason, you rich fustilug!"

    "Don''t stick our eyes in your scum-crusted sockets!"

    "We need those eyes for Neverend Heights!"

    The furor raged ever wilder with every cry adding insult to the flames. Lasralein bolted for the door, then hurtled to the great double doors. She pushed against them with all her might, just enough to let her squeeze through the gap. She fell out, and was almost instantly slammed back in by the torrent that befell her.

    "Liar!"

    "Eye Thief!"

    "Give us the eyes!"

    "Give back our eyes!"

    "Our gold! Where''s our gold, eh?!"

    "Charlatan!"

    Lasralein fell faint against the cold wood, her eyes darting across the crowd and back and forth again. She didn''t know where to look; the voices were screaming from all directions. Hundreds of people had gathered under the other end of the metal tube¡ªa gigantic, gaping cone of brass. She recognized it as one of the ten-foot vamping horns from her temple, used to project her voice during sermons.

    She also recognized faces behind the voices¡ªrich merchants who donated to her coffers, hoping to secure dragon eyes for their eyeless children¡ªpoor faithfuls who gathered to protest for her release¡ªGreeneyes who sacrificed one of their eyes to earn their ticket to Freda''s Caldera. They screamed at her just as much as their rival factions. The scene of infighting, humiliation and manipulation of the masses reeked like no other. It was the boy''s signature.

    Grinding her teeth, Lasralein cast her eyes to the shadows cast by the portico. Sure enough, there stood Coris Hadrian. His empty gray eyes met hers, but there was no triumphant smile beneath them.

    The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

    "Where are the eyes, Lasralein?" He demanded as he drew near. But no, if she were to end here, it would not be on the boy''s terms, nor out of defeat like Lord Cristoria. Seething, Lasralein lunged for the sword hanging from the belt of a nearby guardswoman¡ª

    "Coris, NO!"

    The scream struck fear into Coris even more than the gleaming blade swinging before him. Meya bursted through the double doors, launching herself at the crazed priestess, but instead of plunging it into her nemesis, Lasralein turned the blade towards her eyes¡ª

    The sword fell to the floor with a dull clang, followed by sharp chimes of two metal orbs bouncing like marbles¡ªthen Lasralein herself, dropping like stone. Coris looked up to find Meya standing ashen-faced, hands raised as if to squash a gnat, breathing heavily. She''d depressed the triggers beside Lasralein''s eyes and ejected them, but it was obvious she thought she was stopping the woman from killing Coris, not her memories.

    Meya tore her eyes from Lasralein''s crumpled form to Coris. Tears welled in her eyes. Coris gnashed his teeth and stormed towards her.

    "WHAT IN FYR''S NAME WERE YOU THINKING?! SHE COULD''VE SLICED YOU IN HALF¡ª"

    "Coris, I''m sorry, I¡ª"

    "AND THERE''S A RIOT OUT HERE IN CASE YOU HAVEN''T NOTICED¡ª"

    Coris broke off mid-tantrum. The surrounding silence filled his ears, and it was as if his bowels had emptied themselves out of his nether orifices. He whirled around and sure enough, the crowd had ceased all movement. All eyes pooled on the two metal orbs rolling, gleaming, glowing green on the stone balcony.

    "GRAB THOSE EYES!"

    A voice yelled. The spell was broken. The crowd surged forth. Coris clawed at the eyeballs with one hand as he shoved Meya at the doors with the other. He only managed to grab one slimy, slippery orb before the crowd engulfed Lasralein''s body. Dozens of hands lunged at him, even as the guardswomen pushed with all their might with their pikes.

    Coris spun around and threw himself over Meya. They fell together through the doors, Coris thrusting out his arm to cushion her fall. He winced as Meya''s flank lined with her metal ribcage crushed it (He was expecting the front, to be frank).

    The nightmare hadn''t ended. The crowd''s roar rained upon the doors alongside their fists. The guards on the inside have barred the doors with an enormous plank. Yet, the doors still jolted on their hinges, the rings on the metal knobs swinging and jangling ominously. It was only a matter of time.

    Coris pulled Meya to her feet. To his relief, Mother, Father, Zier, Lady Jaise and Lady Hyacinth were rushing down the hallway. He pushed the eyeball into Meya''s hands then ushered her towards them.

    "Go¡ªRead it¡ªI''ll handle this¡ª"

    "You go. I''ll hold ''em off. I''ll transform¡ª" Meya fought, tears spilling down her cheeks.

    "Mother!" Coris cried. Without a word, Mother rushed in and dragged the struggling Meya along by her arms.

    "CORIS! NO! LET ME¡ªCORIS!"

    As her screams echoed further away, Coris turned to face the barrage alongside Zier; Father and the two Ladies leading the charge. The crowd battered the doors to the rhythm of the past hammering to be let back into his mind.

    No. Not again. Not Cristoria. Please let it not be another Cristoria.

    <hr>

    Baroness Sylvia led Meya to take shelter in the Great Hall, alongside Lady Arinel and the eyeless Greeneyes. Since then, the shadow on the sundial behind Lady Hyacinth''s chair had traveled the distance of roughly half an hour. The hall hadn''t welcomed new refugees since a dozen guards rushed in, bolted the doors after them then spread out behind their spider-patterned shields. The din of the riot was like a thunderstorm night; a numbing monotone with no end in sight. Huddled together, the room''s occupants watched the doors, bracing for the invasion.

    At long last, the din ebbed away into silence. But who stood victorious? And how many? Footsteps echoed down the hallway. From the sound of it, they came from but a few pairs of boots. The Baroness trembled as she tightened her arms around Meya and Arinel. The women jolted in unison when one of the booted men banged on the door.

    "It''s over! Let us in!"

    "Zier! Thank Freda!" Arinel clamped her hands over her mouth with a gasp, as the guardswomen lifted the plank from the metal arms on the door. Meya watched unblinking as the door fell back and in came Baron Kellis, only sighing in relief when Coris staggered in alongside Zier and Christopher.

    Arinel sprinted up and launched herself into Zier''s waiting arms. The Baroness surveyed her husband for injuries even as he shook his head and murmured he was well. Coris was unscathed, but pale and drenched in sweat, a haunted look in his eyes. Like the others, his clothes were rumpled and his hair windswept.

    Meya gritted her teeth as she took in his state, pictured the scene that had caused it. Their eyes met, yet it still took a few moments for Coris to reel his soul in after his body. He noticed her, finally, and his eyes narrowed.

    Meya shook her head, muttering,

    "I should''ve stayed. I could''ve helped¡ª"

    Meya trailed away as she caught the look on Coris''s face. The faint, lingering furrow between his eyebrows deepened. His eyes darkened with rage. Then, he slapped her full on the cheek.

    "Coris!" "Meya!"

    Christopher lunged for Coris''s shoulder as Arinel swooped down on Meya. Meya barely registered her trembling embrace. Spun sideways by the force, she dragged her fingertips across the stinging, numb skin of her cheek. She shrank away into Arinel''s arms even as she turned back to face him, fearful and confused.

    Coris lowered his shaking hand, his eyes unblinking, never once leaving hers.

    "Lasralein''s dead. It could''ve been you." He said, his lips barely moving, his voice cold. His mouth stretched into a sardonic grin, as he raised his trembling hand once more and pointed towards the chaos he''d escaped,

    "What do you think they were fighting over back there? You''re a Greeneye! A woman! You''re pregnant! You''ve never been trained to negotiate or fight! You''re the last person in the three lands who should be facing that crowd!"

    Coris exploded. Words failed Meya as she gaped and mouthed voiceless gibberish. Dead? Lasralein¡ªDead? She''d never seen Coris this furious, never dreamed he would actually slap her. All she did was save his life. Just as she''d always done. Why¡ªHow could he¡ª

    "But I¡ªyou¡ª" She choked out.

    "You had no business showing your face even if I were to die back there!" snarled Coris, a thumb jabbing at his chest, "I''m Lord Hadrian. I must be the first into the fray. I can''t do that if you keep swooping in and whisking me away!"

    "So you''re saying all those times I shouldn''t have saved your life?" Meya finally found her snark.

    "You know that''s not what I said." Coris retorted, his finger now jabbing before her face, "You doubted my judgment. You undermined my authority. You sparked the riot and made Lasralein a martyr! They''re still counting the injured and dead as we speak!"

    Dead? More dead? It wasn''t just Lasralein?

    In the ringing silence, the words pounded on the inside of her skull. Dead. People. Dead. And this time, she was wide awake. This time, it was obviously her doing. And Coris wasn''t denying it.

    Meya had no clue what face she had on; the buzzing numbness had devoured her whole face. Whatever it was, it must have been pitiful; Coris''s eyes softened to their normal moonbeam gray. He peered over her head at the back of the hall, and Meya turned around to find the runes set into the decorated wall behind Lady Hyacinth''s chair; mosaics spelling out three distinct words,

    "Become the Fire." breathed Coris. Meya turned to him, and he echoed her. When their eyes met, he gave her a small, sardonic grin, "Fire, Meya. And the last thing I need when I''m taming a sea of fire is a blast of wind. If you ruin my plans again, I may have no choice but to send you away. For the good of the mission."

    Meya couldn''t believe her ears. She stared at him. And she couldn''t believe her eyes. His face was marble. Pale, cold, unwavering. He meant it. It was more than she could take. More than she could stand. Tears burned in her eyes. He didn''t deserve to see them¡ª

    "Meya!"

    Arinel called as Meya sprinted away. She disappeared behind the doors, leaving them swinging in her wake. Arinel spared a moment to scorch Coris'' eyeballs with a venomous glare, then dashed after her good friend.

    Closing his eyes, Coris raised a trembling hand to his sweaty forehead and swept back his damp hair with a sigh. His hand was numb, stinging, reminding him of what he''d done.

    "That was low, Brother." Zier broke the silence. Coris surfaced to find his blue eyes narrowed in disdain.

    "You had no business showing your face yourself." He took a menacing step closer, "Could''ve let the crowd do the job and there would''ve been no bloodshed. You put yourself in harm''s way when you know Meya''s nearby and she''s going to intervene. You know it''s your fault just as much as hers. You''re just venting on her¡ª"

    "¡ªEnough, Zier." Father cut in, exhausted but final. Zier stalked away, fuming. Coris felt the heat of Father''s gaze, but he was too ashamed to face him. Zier was right. He couldn''t accept that history had repeated itself, that there was even one perfect ending where the deaths and suffering he should''ve foreseen didn''t happen.

    But say Meya was to blame for all this, he still had no right to strike a woman. Had Farmer Hild or Maro ever struck her, even? Would she fear him forever now? Would her broken heart ever heal? Would she ever forgive him? Should she?

    Coris eyed the doors, hesitant. Before he could muster his courage, Father continued,

    "Amoriah spilled this blood. Not you. Not Meya." Coris gaped at him. He cocked his head at Lady Hyacinth''s empty chair.

    "She owns this castle. She let those followers gather, made it so our only choices are to surrender to them, or sacrifice them."

    The truth chilled Coris to the core, then a sinking realization consumed him in flames. He glared at his father, hands clenching into fists.

    "So you knew? You knew this would happen? That people would die?!" He whispered through gritted teeth. Father stood firm, answering his fire with stone.

    "I know it could happen. I didn''t think it would." He closed his eyes with a sigh, and Coris caught himself. "I thought we could contain the riot. Lasralein''s reaction was in her nature, but Meya''s was beyond my expectations. I underestimated the girl''s fear for you. I am the one to blame."

    Father pursed his lips and turned away, staring at the sunlight streaming in through the windows. Coris gaped in horror. He shook his head, pleading.

    Father took the blame to save his sanity. If their misstep was not considering Meya, the burden of the blame should have been tenfold on Coris. He should''ve known her better than them all combined. He should''ve warned her, have her understand. He should''ve asked Arinel, Zier, anyone to keep a hold on her. He should''ve¡ª

    As if he sensed his stubborn guilt, Father turned back with a weary sigh,

    "You cannot always predict every outcome, son." He said gently, "Change is rarely ever bloodless. I asked if you two were ready for the consequences. This is why."

    Coris hung his head. He thought he''d understood, having walked past the children he burnt to a crisp in Cristoria, almost losing Agnes to save Zier, and sacrificing Beau for it in the end. Then, he realized he''d never truly understood until that moment the dust settled upon those lifeless, broken bodies. He made this choice as a leader on behalf of countless faceless people. Not a child playing war games or protecting his brother. And, for the first time, he failed.

    "What if you''d known? Would you have warned us? Would you have given us time to find a better way?" He asked, even as he knew both answers would torture him with regret just the same.

    "My one condition is you, Coris. I said I''d see you to Everglen if it were my last. And I''d send you home with your head a ringing void if you so choose. What do you make of me?"

    Father snapped, indignant. Mother patted his arm soothingly as she shot Coris the look. Coris glimpsed pain in Father''s blue eyes, and he gritted his teeth against the swell of emotion clogging his throat.

    "I''m sorry, Father. I shouldn''t have doubted you." He whispered, bowing. Father sighed and shook his head dismissively.

    "What if Gillian breaks our alliance over this?" Christopher mused softly. Coris felt his guts twist into knots. Gillian would not like this. That was an understatement.

    "It''s humans I''m more worried about at the moment." Father sighed as he peered across the hall at Lady Hyacinth''s throne, "Amoriah could use this as an excuse to drive us out of Hyacinth. It might''ve been her plan from the start, even."

    Father turned his back to them, thumbs hooked under his belt, his head tipped back. This signaled he was deep in thought, and he preferred the company of Mother alone.

    Mother caught Coris'' eye and nodded at the door, and Coris obligingly left. Unlike Father, he was more worried about dragons at the moment. One female dragon, to be exact.

    <hr>

 Dead Men Tell Tall Tales

    Knowing Meya, the absolute last place Coris wanted her to be in this particular situation was unfortunately where she would most likely be in this particular situation.

    Coris¡¯s heart raced his feet down the hallway to the ajar front doors. He kicked aside the metal bar that had been their last line of defense from the rioters, and slipped through the gap onto the balcony.

    The sun blazed into his eyes from a sky bright, pure blue as turquoise, scorching what remained of the unrest. The perfect weather felt like Freda¡¯s cruel touch, illuminating every detail of the carnage for him to see. Dusty scraps of clothing. Blood spatters. White cloths falling over corpses, loose corners fluttering in the breeze as weary guardswomen moved on to the next dead. A weeping widower. A lost, disheveled little boy toddling around, sobbing, searching as other mourners watched, none having the heart to tell him he¡¯d been orphaned.

    Not a strand of red-gold hair was in sight. Then, he heard a faint sound of retching.

    Coris skidded down the sandstone steps then swung himself around the corner. A little way away, he found Meya on all fours, her head stuck halfway into the hedge, jolting and heaving as she emptied her belly onto the flagstones. Arinel knelt beside her, holding her hair and smoothing her hand down her back.

    Coris prayed the nausea was because of the child in her womb, not the one back there whose blubbering had become screams. After a deep breath, he crept his way towards the girls.

    Arinel turned sharply around. Her eyes narrowed to slits, she rose to her feet and stepped up to shield Meya.

    ¡°Please, Arinel.¡± Coris mouthed.

    Arinel pursed her trembling lips and stood firm, so Coris pleaded with his eyes until at last, her ice melted. Sighing softly, Arinel gave Meya one last glance, then turned back to him with a glare that promised him the wrath of Freda should he so much as pinch Meya. Coris sealed the deal with a nod. Sighing again, Arinel rested her hand on Meya¡¯s shoulder to signal her leave, then swept away.

    Once Arinel¡¯s blonde tresses had disappeared around the corner, Coris dipped the bucket into the nearby well then knelt down in her place. Meya was no longer retching; she leaned her head against the hedge, her eyes closed, panting. Gently, Coris poured water onto the tiles, washing her sick down the gutter. When Meya made to wipe her soiled face with her sleeve, he cut across her with his cupped hand, filled with clean water.

    His telltale clamminess must have alerted her; Meya whipped around, eyes wide, then scrambled to her unsteady feet. Coris caught her as she fell against the palace¡¯s wall.

    ¡°Meya¡ª¡± He held her arms as she struggled, his heart breaking as her stifled sobs burst through her lips. He wrapped his arms around her, pressed his lips to her thick hair¡ª

    ¡°Meya, please. I¡¯m sorry. I¡¯m so sorry.¡± Her fists pummeled his chest, burning hot as her tears on his neck. He held her, rocked her as he urged her along, ¡°Let me have it. I deserve it. I¡¯m sorry I hit you. It won¡¯t happen again.¡±

    Still, her heart wasn¡¯t in it. Her blows were feeble, reluctant. She loved him so much, she couldn¡¯t bear to bruise his delicate skin. Coris was sure that was her actual revenge, however; the guilt winded him like a ram to his stomach.

    Meya calmed. Still, she didn¡¯t yield to his embrace as she usually would. He sensed cold fury in her pulse beating against his. Sure she wouldn¡¯t flee, he released her and turned to peer at the front courtyard. The orphaned boy had fallen silent.

    Meya let out a whimper and a loud sniff. Coris spun around, alarmed, but she¡¯d turned away, busy rubbing her renewed tears and snot off her face. He shook his head,

    ¡°You shouldn¡¯t have come here. You shouldn¡¯t have to see¡ª¡±

    Meya glared at him as if he¡¯d insulted her whole family, prompting Coris to cut his sermon short and leave her to lather her face with mucus in peace. Silence fell, soothing and unobtrusive. Slowly, the resentment in the air ebbed away, until Coris felt safe enough to try and argue his case once more,

    ¡°I¡¯m grateful for the times you saved my life, but you¡¯re a woman, and you¡¯re pregnant. You can¡¯t put yourself in harm¡¯s way. Least not for me.¡± He trailed away weakly.

    ¡°That¡¯s not what you said back there.¡± Meya shot back flatly. She still refused to look him in the face. Coris nodded with a sigh of surrender,

    ¡°I know. I was the consummate arse. I¡¯m sorry.¡± Meya unwound at his confession. Bolstered, Coris took a step closer.

    ¡°I was scared I¡¯d lose you. I was just too embarrassed to say it in front of them¡ª¡±

    Meya snorted, then pulled a face when she tasted the gunk she¡¯d inhaled down her throat.

    ¡°¡ªVery well, that and my pride was wounded.¡±

    Muttered Coris shamefacedly. Meya sneaked a glance out of the corner of her eye. His head was bowed and his face cast in shadow, his hands tucked behind him as they usually were, but his fidgety toes were no longer shielded by warm boots and naked in the Hyacinth sandals. The sight softened Meya.

    ¡°I¡¯m sorry, too.¡± Sighing, she looked down at her middle, cradling it with nervous fingers. Tremors spread up her arms and shoulders to her throat, flooding her eyes, infecting her voice, ¡°You¡¯re right. I could¡¯ve killed our babe. I shouldn¡¯t have doubted you. This is all my¡ª¡±

    ¡°No. Don¡¯t.¡± Coris swept her into his arms. Her walls crumbled to dust against his chest. He held her tight as she cried, combing his fingers through her hair. ¡°I almost died in Jaise. It¡¯s only natural.¡±

    ¡°I came up with the plan. My father allowed it. Amoriah used those followers like pawns¡ª¡±

    ¡°But still¡ª¡±

    Coris waited for her to finish, but Meya didn¡¯t know how. It didn¡¯t matter who the plan belonged to, or how many people approved of it¡ªthe fact remained that Coris wouldn¡¯t have gone through with it if Meya hadn¡¯t agreed. Coris was right, wasn¡¯t he? She was tainted. She lost hope. She chose the easier way out. And this was Freda¡¯s punishment.

    As if he¡¯d heard her self-inflicted sentence, Coris pressed his forehead against hers.

    ¡°Each man in that courtyard adds a drop of chaos to our plan. These things...they just happen, Meya...when we¡¯re up against people.¡±

    He breathed, his voice strangled with sobs. His cold skin rubbed against hers as he shook his head,

    ¡°But if we let it stop us here, this will be the end. I¡¯ll not say the good will be worth the sacrifice. Nothing can justify the lives we lost. But at least...if we keep...walking...¡±

    Coris hammered out, swallowing and gasping. Meya had never seen him struggling this hard simply to speak. He shivered as his tears slid down and mingled with her own on her cheeks. And Meya couldn¡¯t bear to see him face his nightmare again, over and over, worse and worse. Just to satisfy her selfish dreams.

    ¡°But what if more people die? What if we fail again?¡± She whispered as she burrowed her face into his chest, pleading, ¡°The brothel¡¯s freed. We got Hasif¡¯s eye. We just sort things out with Lord Crosset then we go home to Hadrian and raise our babe. Let them old folks go on if they want to. Freda knows they should be the ones doing this. Not some stupid peasant girl.¡±

    Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on Royal Road.

    Coris didn¡¯t speak for a long moment, simply caressing her hair. When he did, his voice was steady,

    ¡°In every minute of our lives lies a choice. To do nothing, or do something.¡±

    Meya froze, eyes bulging, reminded of her own words she¡¯d forgotten.

    ¡°There¡¯s always risk when you choose the uncertain, but also hope for a better tomorrow. It takes bravery to walk knowing you can only try but never know. You taught me that, and I believe it.¡±

    Coris pulled apart, tipping her head back so their eyes met. His gray eyes were overbright, yet they never wavered from her.

    ¡°You¡¯ve been brave enough, Meya.¡± He unfurled a heartbreaking little smile as he trailed his finger down her face, ¡°For all the times you chose to act. I won¡¯t think any less of you if you choose to stop here. You¡¯ve more than earned your rest from a battle that isn¡¯t your duty to fight.¡±

    He cupped her face and leaned close, staring deep into her eyes, ¡°But it is mine, so I¡¯ll see it through. I must.¡±

    Meya delved into his eyes in kind, and her breath left her at the sheer strength of will she found in there. From the first day, it was always like this. Either he was a knight so true, or the consummate arse who always knew exactly just what to say to bend her to his will. Drown Freda and Fyrand Chione, it only made her fall harder for the donghead either way, and she hated it¡ª

    ¡°Ow! Meya!¡± Coris yowled in pain.

    ¡°You bastard, you know I won¡¯t let you leave me behind again!¡± snapped Meya at the whimpering, petulant Coris. Cradling the sore spot on his arm, he muttered grumpily to himself (¡°Serves you right taking courting advice from the likes of your idiot cousin¡±), shooting dirty looks at her.

    Meya indulged herself in ignoring him. A pause of silence, then Coris continued,

    ¡°Whenever I doubt myself, you¡¯ll remind me of the good I¡¯ve done. The lives I saved. You saved so many lives yourself, Meya.¡± He rested his hand on her shoulder, caressing gently with his thumb, as he smiled at her wide-eyed surprise,

    ¡°Me. Zier. Arinel. Atmund. Agnes. Persephia. Lors. Cleygar. Your fellow Crossetians. Those poor brothel Greeneyes. Those one-eyed followers. We¡¯re all alive and free now because you chose to do something. Your people back in Crosset might insist you¡¯re a curse, but I¡¯d say you¡¯re a blessing to the rest of us.¡±

    Coris left off with a chuckle, his eyes twinkling as he gazed fondly at her. Meya closed her hand over his and tried her best to return his smile.

    ¡°I know, Lexi. I¡¯ll keep trying. I will...¡± She nodded, her voice squeaky and trembling. Her eyes burned, and so she rested her weary head against their joined hands to hide the tears soon to fall, ¡°It¡¯s just so much harder than ever today.¡±

    The weight of his cold hand pressed tenderly down on her crown, and Meya caved as if she were made of matchsticks. Meya cried her heart out as Coris held her, shielded in his arms from the scorching heat, the unforgiving Hyacinth sun.

    She¡¯d keep walking into the uncertain, fighting this battle by his side. She just needed a little rest. In his arms where she belonged.

    <hr>

    Despite their recent heartfelt talk, Arinel still didn¡¯t trust her future brother-in-law. The instant she rounded the corner of the palace, she flattened herself against the wall and strained her ears as far as she dared. Flowing water. The scuffling of feet on stone and rustling clothes. She braved a peek. Coris held a struggling Meya to his chest, braving her punishing blows.

    Arinel watched until her friend calmed, then let out a long sigh of relief. She turned to leave, only to find a familiar, unexpected face hurrying up to her.

    ¡°Sir Bayne?¡± breathed Arinel in disbelief as the panting, sweaty, windswept Jerald surveyed her from head to toe, his hand clenched around the hilt of his sword.

    ¡°My lady, you¡¯re supposed to stay inside!¡± scolded Jerald. Arinel blinked. Affronted, she thrust out her chin and stretched to full height.

    ¡°And aren¡¯t you supposed to be at the stables?¡± She suggested imperiously. Her displeasure had always worked to discipline Jerald. This time, however, his frown deepened as his blue eyes flashed in exasperation. He raised a trembling hand, pointing at the great double doors behind them,

    ¡°With all due respect, your grace, there were two doors between you and a hoard of crazed cultists. I didn¡¯t follow you across the Sands to watch from a safe distance!¡±

    His restrained voice swelled to a blast of fury, but it was more the fear and guilt behind his fire that humbled Arinel. She lowered her gaze, taking in the state of his dusty, crumpled tunic, then heaved a small sigh.

    ¡°You¡¯re right, Sir Bayne. I¡¯m so sorry.¡± She took a step towards him, held his wavering eyes as she held his calloused hand, ¡°Thank you for coming to help. And thank Freda you¡¯re safe.¡±

    Having come to his senses, Jerald avoided her gaze in shame.

    ¡°Not at all, my lady. Please forgive my outburst. I gave your grandmother my word. I hope you¡¯ll understand.¡± Arinel rolled her eyes at the futile lie. Jerald must have sensed she was no fool; he cocked his head at the doors with an abrupt change of topic,

    ¡°The messenger¡¯s just arrived. He might have word from your father.¡±

    In spite of his transparent attempt, Arinel couldn¡¯t resist her curiosity. Together, they hurried back inside. Jerald had reached out towards the doors to the Great Hall when Lady Hyacinth¡¯s barking voice leaked through the sliver between the unbarred doors, stopping him,

    ¡°We counted fifteen dead. Mostly Greeneyes.¡±

    Jerald shared a glance with Arinel, hesitant. Lips pursed, Arinel crept forward as Jerald shifted aside to make way. He rested his hand on her shoulder, steadying her as she lined her eye with the gap and peered inside. Lady Hyacinth was pacing at the front of the hall before the dias, just beyond the line of eyeless Greeneyes. Baron Hadrian stood to the side with his wife.

    ¡°And their eyes? Have they been stolen?¡± He asked coolly. Amoriah halted in her tracks. She spun around after a pause. There was an iciness, a deadness in her eyes Arinel hadn¡¯t seen before. She clomped towards Baron Hadrian. Slow, heavy steps which sent ripples through her bare breasts and ample belly.

    ¡°Those sponsors are the lifeblood of Hyacinth, Kellis. Merchants. Landlords. Officials. Scholars.¡± She hissed, her arm thick as logs raised and pointed towards the back of the hall, ¡°Their daughters will carry our future. How can they if they can¡¯t see it?¡±

    She demanded in poisonous whisper, her flaring eyes inches from Baron Hadrian. He glared back, his expression of pure disgust.

    ¡°And that gives them the right to see through stolen eyes?¡± Kellis¡¯s lips curved into a sardonic grin lined with gritted teeth. Scoffing, Amoriah stalked away. He called after her back, ¡°You¡¯ve filled your brothels with Jaisian men. Is it any wonder why the rich are cursed with all these eyeless children? Rather than build a city where the blind can prosper, you rob from the poor¡ª¡±

    ¡°Word of advice, O honorable lord of Hadrian.¡± Amoriah turned back, her cold voice trembling with tempered fury, ¡°If you plan to question how your host came upon her means, speak before you¡¯ve gorged yourselves on the bread she so generously provided!¡±

    Snarled the Lady Hyacinth. Baron Hadrian pursed his lips in grudging defeat. Gratified, Amoriah lumbered back with a devious smirk over her three-tiered chin.

    ¡°Which brings us to the issue of my compensation.¡± Arinel shivered; Amoriah¡¯s voice had dropped dangerously low and soft as she advanced on the seething Baron Hadrian,

    ¡°I saved your starving heir from the Sands. Hosted his entourage, tolerated his antics and demands. Out of respect for our alliance, and for the chance to hear your offer.¡±

    Amoriah¡¯s smile widened. She threw open her arms, shaking her head,

    ¡°Well, I¡¯ve heard it. And I¡¯m not satisfied. My advisor is dead. My sponsors are in an uproar. The place I EAT¡ª¡± She suddenly screeched, jabbing a shaking finger at the ground, then at Baron Hadrian¡¯s throat, "turned to a MORGUE! So either you pay for my misery in food or seed, or carry your pasty arses and your precious Greeneyes out of my palace, before I cast you to the Sands!¡ªAnd the girl STAYS!¡±

    Having sprayed spit in the Baron¡¯s face with one last scream, Lady Hyacinth whirled around and flounced away.

    ¡°Mother¡ª¡± A timid voice interrupted.

    ¡°WHAT!?¡± Amoriah spun back with a roar, eyes bulging, nostrils flaring. Arinel didn¡¯t blame Amoriah¡¯s unseen daughter for taking a few seconds to gather herself before answering,

    ¡°Word¡¯s arrived from Lord Crosset just now.¡± The daughter tried her best to restrain the tremors in her voice, ¡°He¡¯d like to alter the deal. He no longer wants the Hild girl. He¡¯ll trade the fifty men for his long-lost heir, Sir Jerald Crosset.¡±

    ¡°Jerald Crosset?¡± Lady Hyacinth¡¯s incredulous voice echoed as if from the exit of a cave, as a sweeping numbness froze Arinel whole. On her shoulder, Jerald¡¯s hand trembled like never before. ¡°What¡¯s this malarkey?¡±

    ¡°I¡¯ll have the Spiders investigate immediately, Mother. Also¡ª¡± A rustling of parchment as the daughter consulted the second letter, ¡°Marquess Fratengarde died yesterday. We should send our condolences to Hythe and the Queen. Her Majesty is very fond of him¡ª¡±

    ¡°Perfect! More expenses!¡± Amoriah rolled her eyes and threw up her arms in exasperation. She stormed away, waving dismissively at her unseen daughters and subjects, ¡°Get out of my sight, the lot of you¡ªAnd I expect your answer by midday, Kellis!¡±

    She paused just long enough to point and scream some more at her hated nemesis, then resumed stomping towards the smaller door beside her throne. Once she¡¯d disappeared behind it with a shattering slam, Arinel turned gingerly to Jerald; her collarbones felt as if they¡¯d been welded together by ice.

    ¡°Sir Bayne, you don¡¯t suppose¡ª¡±

    Jerald¡¯s haunted eyes answered hers, killing Arinel¡¯s words in her throat, where they suffocated her.

    It couldn¡¯t have been mere coincidence, that Father finally decided to reinstate Jerald as the Crosset heir the very same day Marquess Fratengarde died, when he¡¯d tried his damnedest to hide Jerald¡¯s existence from his father for almost four decades. No, the only reason he was suddenly forthcoming would have been because the father could no longer interfere. And if the man was powerful enough to silence the once great Marquess Crosset, it would only make sense if he was someone of the might of Xavius Fratengarde¡ªthe respected uncle of Queen Zephyr herself.

    Yes, it could only mean one thing. The man who had taken Arinel¡¯s late aunt Arynea against her will and impregnated her¡ªwas Marquess Fratengarde. Jerald had found his father at last.

    <hr>

 Hewn of Ice and Stone

    The shadow of the sundial had crept over the fifth hour, inching its way towards midday. Lady Jaise, whom Meya had trusted with Healer Hasif''s eye, had just rejoined the congregation at the Great Hall, accompanied by Gillian, Ahmundi and Dizadh. She nodded vigorously, sending the beaded curtains of jet on her circlet dancing, as Baron Hadrian relayed Lady Hyacinth''s ultimatum to her. Hasif''s eye remained clutched in her painted hand, half forgotten.

    "We found more eyes than surviving victims. It will take time to match them all. And a few may not find any match."

    Winterwen concluded gravely as she rested the lone dragon eye on the dining table with a soft sigh. She met eyes with Baron Hadrian again, then gazed sorrowfully upon the rows of unconscious Greeneyes,

    "You need only deliver these poor souls to Jaise. My curators and I will take care of the rest."

    Gillian nodded. His glowing eyes surveyed the room; counting, calculating,

    "I have fifteen dragons. They can each carry two." He suggested.

    "My three Greeneye guards can probably carry one each. And Tissa and Dorsea, if they are up to the task. Then we take the rest in our carriages." Baron Hadrian concluded. Winterwen nodded, yet worry still weighed heavy on her eyebrows.

    "We''d still need a few days to prepare. And supplies aplenty." She reminded him. Kellis rubbed his chin as he frowned in dismay.

    "Amoriah accepts food or seed in payment." He recalled. Heaving a deep sigh, he shook his head as his frown deepened, "Hadrian needs every morsel of food we can salvage at the moment. And we certainly will not pay with our men."

    "Neither will Jaise." Winterwen heaved another sigh. Lips pursed in determination, she turned to Baron Hadrian with an offer, "I can promise her a share of Jaise''s harvest, but do your best to haggle, regardless."

    Kellis''s expression lightened at that, relieved and thankful.

    "Very well. Hadrian will compensate you in gold."

    "No need for that. This sin is ours to atone." Winterwen waved her hand, adamant.

    "I insist."

    As the two rulers continued to argue the terms of payment, Ahmundi caught Gillian''s eye. The dragon-man nodded, so Ahmundi silently excused himself and his father from the discussion, tiptoeing over to where Baroness Hadrian stood keeping watch with the children.

    Ahmundi bowed to Baroness Sylvia, smiled at Frenix and Atmund, then met eyes with his old friend Coris. Out of the folds of his toga, he produced three stoppered vials, each labeled, each containing a glowing dragon eye.

    "We found your friends'' eyes." He handed them to Coris, watching as the scarred Lady Agnesia lunged for the vial bearing her twin sister''s name, then dipped his head apologetically, "But only one each. Lady Jaise said they can take a second eye from the library later. She has some spares no one will miss."

    He whispered. Coris nodded along as he studied the remaining two vials, then handed them to Meya. He answered her hesitant gaze with a jerk of his chin, and Meya dashed off, headed to the Hadrians'' quarters to return them to their owners. Christopher, ever vigilant, caught the girl''s arm and assumed the lead. Meya was forced to slow down to match his gait, much to Coris''s relief and her chagrin.

    Despite her frenzied scramble for her sister''s eye earlier, Agnes didn''t follow. She stood rooted, the vial pressed flush to her chest, as her eyes stared unseeing into the distance.

    After the ordeal Coris had suffered with his brother, Agnes''s dilemma felt as if it were his own. And how could he judge her letting her demented dragon sister slumber for a while longer, when he once chose poison over apologizing to his ten-year-old baby brother?

    Coris rested a consoling hand on her shoulder, then turned back to Lord Hyacinth.

    "We owe you, Ahmundi."

    Ahmundi grinned, his eyes twinkling and his cheeks blushing behind his cloudy spectacles.

    "I don''t keep tabs for doing what''s right." He shrugged. Coris glanced at Dizadh, who bowed his head as if to echo his son''s sentiment. He closed his eyes and reciprocated with a deep nod of gratitude.

    "So, what next for you two? " Frenix blurted out, looking worried for once. Ahmundi shared a look with Dizadh, his smile tinged with just as much relief as pain.

    "Father''s leaving for Jaise to work in the Library of Eyes. I''m staying. Amara needs me."

    His lowered voice disappeared into his throat. Coris''s eyes widened. He hadn''t expected such courage from his friend, whom he''d always taken as a timid and passive character.

    His eyes strayed to Zier, who was tending to a patient with Arinel a little way away. He found his little brother already watching him with narrowed eyes, suspicious. But, for once, Coris had nothing to hide, so he simply smiled as he returned to his conversation with the anguished Lord Hyacinth.

    "Be sure not to lose hope." He peered deep into the blue-black of Ahmundi''s eyes, sharing words he himself had come to believe, thanks to a certain little girl who was too stubborn for surrender, "If ever you find yourself in need, Hadrian''s gates will always open for you. It''s the least we can do for such fast friends of Greeneyes."

    He left off with a smile and a tilt of his head. Unaccustomed to Coris''s brand of blunt praise, Ahmundi scratched his reddening cheek, chuckling awkwardly,

    "Or you could have Meya give me a scenic ride over the Blue Mountains." He added with a toothy grin, then backpedaled for dear life at the sight of Coris''s bared, yellowed fangs and gleaming sword, "Easy, old friend. I''m joking!"

    The Baroness and Frenix guffawed as Coris''s once pale cheeks blushed the shade of Hadrian Red. Behind them, Zier blew a soft sigh of relief,

    "Somehow it hasn''t occurred to my brother we could just deliver Jerald to Amoriah, and all our troubles would be over." He grumbled, then added sarcastically, "Thank Freda."

    Arinel rolled her eyes. With all that was going on, Zier hadn''t had a chance to confront Coris about what he''d overheard his brother confessing to Meya; the little talk he had with Arinel at the valley''s mouth.

    "It definitely has, Zier, but he''s changed. He wouldn''t do such a thing." Arinel shook her head wearily. Zier spun around and glowered at her,

    "He egged you to experiment on yourself!" He hissed, incredulous.

    The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

    "And for whose sake was that, I wonder?" Arinel retorted, eyebrows raised. Zier mouthed like a fish gasping for breath, having no comeback to that.

    Arinel huffed out a loud sigh, then allowed her eyes to stray back to the doors. After Lady Hyacinth stormed out, Jerald, too, swept down the hallway with his hood over his head, ignoring her whispered call demanding to know where in the three lands he was headed, leaving Arinel to enter the Great Hall on her own. Knowing Jerald, he could very well be preparing to surrender himself to Lady Hyacinth as they speak.

    Arinel jolted at the weight of Zier''s hand on her shoulder. She turned and caught his waiting eye. He motioned at the doors, his face solemn.

    "Go. I''ll hold the fort."

    Arinel melted into a grateful smile. She kissed his cheek in thanks as she rose, then hurried on her way, armed only with a vague inkling of where the long lost heir might be.

    <hr>

    Arinel asked her way around until she found the men''s quarters. Her guess was right. She found Jerald inside the room, kneeling beside his mattress. He was tamping air out of the few sets of clothes he''d laid atop a blanket, making way for the assortment of food laid out in rows around him.

    He glanced sideways as Arinel drew near, then continued as if he hadn''t sensed her presence. His hands trembled as he fumbled blindly for the pile of dried dates; if he turned, he''d have no choice but to greet her.

    Sighing at his stubbornness, Arinel sank to her knees by his side and gathered up the rolling, scattered fruits.

    "I suppose you''re my Lord Uncle now?" She tilted her head with a beaming smile. The lines on Jerald''s face pulled tauter at her attempt at a joke. Her smile sagged.

    "Jerald is fine, my lady." He said brusquely. Arinel shook her head,

    "But I''m no longer your lady. I never am, in fact."

    Silence fell. Jerald pursed his lips. He knew she was right. Arinel leaned closer and took his rough, lined hand. Not as weathered and hardened as a knight''s, yet no longer gentle and warm as a monk''s, nor delicate and whole as a noble''s.

    Throughout his life, he''d been shunted from place to place, whenever Father had a need for him, then left to his devices when he hadn''t. From the castle, to the church, back to the castle, to the road, then back to the castle once more. A lonely, meandering river of ice that never finds warmth, or the sea.

    Arinel closed her other hand over his, squeezing warmth into it.

    "I''m your cousin. We''re family." She whispered, then bowed her head in shame, "I''m so sorry for everything I did. Everything Father did. To Mother. To your mother. To you." His hand remained limp in her grasp. She shook it in frustration, tears in her cracking voice now,

    "You owe him nothing. You don''t have to return. Just come away with us. The Hadrians will give us Zier. The Crosset line will survive."

    "Yes, my lady, I must." Jerald burst out at last, his voice harsh and final. His hand clenched into a fist, he faced her for the first time, his bright blue eyes blazing, "I can''t force you to marry for Crosset''s sake while I still live. I can''t bear it."

    "But I''m willing, Sir Bayne! I love Zier!" Arinel cried.

    "The boy is sixteen, my lady! And so far he hasn''t given anyone reason to believe he can protect you. Your father may not care, but I do!"

    Jerald let loose a tirade. Arinel bit her lips, eyes wide in defiance as much as fear. For she knew, deep down, he spoke nothing but the truth. Ashamed by his outburst, Jerald averted his eyes with a sigh,

    "It''s for the best, my lady." He closed his eyes, his head hung in surrender,

    "If I take the seat, Crosset''s future is secured. You''ll be free to live the life your heart desires, the life you deserve. Little Meya no longer has to live in fear. Hadrian will have an ally in Crosset for the Greeneye cause. And if a woman would be saved from the fate of your mother and mine, I guess it''s the least I can do."

    "But will you be happy?" Arinel pleaded, "You''ve never wanted to rule."

    Jerald unfurled a small, bitter smile. The light had left his eyes as he stared unseeing at the ray of afternoon sunshine.

    "What difference does it make when a man has so little left, my lady?" He whispered, shaking his head as he counted, "My mother is dead. My Erina is dead. My father is dead. My uncle will soon follow."

    Arinel''s tears fell free as her heart mourned with him. Jerald raised a shaking, dithering hand, then cradled her cheek for the first time. His lifeless eyes roamed her face, taking in every detail, as if to freeze this moment in time in his memories.

    "You''re the last blessing Freda has given me, that Fyr hasn''t taken." He forced out a smile, his eyes never leaving hers as he shook his head,

    "I couldn''t save Erina. I''ve always failed to protect you. This is my last chance. Let me at least try. The day you are wed, I will have lost my last. Nothing left to lose. Nothing left to be taken¡ª"

    "¡ªNothing left to live for, you mean!" Arinel choked out, her throat scalded by boiling tears. Jerald released her as if burned and turned back to his traveling bundle, but Arinel persisted, "You''re being ridiculous! You''ll still have me after I married. And Grandmother. And Agnes. And Meya. And Atmund. And the rest of us. Or are we not enough to count as blessings?"

    His eyes closed, Jerald shook his head slowly with a twisted smile as if to chide her. As if he knew better that her words were naive lies. As Arinel knelt there, panting, seething with helplessness in the suffocating silence, he reached into his collar and drew out a locket carved of jet on a silver chain. He flipped the lid open. Its hollow was filled with woven hair of warm, gleaming gold. The same gold of Arinel''s own hair.

    "Your mother cut me a lock of her hair, the day she became Lord Uncle''s mistress." Jerald whispered. He gazed longingly at the keepsake, caressing it with his thumb, then handed it to Arinel with trembling hands,

    "Now that we are to part, it''s only fitting that you take it, but you must promise you''ll become the beautiful woman your mother had been. You''ll marry well to a worthy man, leave Crosset for a worthy place. And never look back."

    Arinel closed the locket so her falling tears wouldn''t tarnish what was left of her mother. She pressed it to her heart as she shook her head.

    "I can''t just leave you behind all alone." She sobbed.

    "Then perhaps you''ll leave me a lock of your hair to remember you by." He suggested softly. Arinel could almost see his sad smile through his voice.

    "It''s hardly going to be enough, is it?"

    Jerald paused as if lost for words. When Arinel pried her swollen eyelids open, he smiled at her even as his eyes were crying.

    "It will be." He said, his voice barely a whisper.

    Even as Arinel glared back in protest, Jerald chuckled then resumed packing halfheartedly. Arinel was left to hang her head in despair.

    She couldn''t stand him whittling away at everything that gave his life meaning to please Father. Not again. Not any longer. But she didn''t have Meya''s brazenness to roil him into action. Nor did she have Coris'' eloquence and logic to persuade him to see sense.

    She''d traveled the same road, but she had people like Grandmother, like Zier and Meya to pull her to shore while she was still young, before she''d fallen as deep as he did. Perhaps that might have been what Jerald needed, what she did have. Perhaps Arinel could be that friend for him. If it weren''t already too late.

    Arinel drew in a deep breath and mustered her courage once more. She raised her face, glaring at the defeated, downcast man before her. She shook her head slowly, her voice trembling with exasperation,

    "I''m not blind, Sir Bayne. I''m far from your last blessing. Freda is gracious. She keeps on giving, you just never took it! Seventeen years! How many women have you rejected? How many you haven''t thought to pursue?"

    Jerald closed his eyes and turned away, his lips pursed into a line on his impassive face, unable to lie to his little lady. Arinel huffed in frustration, begging for him to understand,

    "You''ve been more a father to me than my real father ever was. I''m a woman now. I''m safe, and happy, and free. You''ve more than honored your promise to Mother. She loved you. She wouldn''t want to see you bound to her for the rest of your life. She''d want you to be happy, and free."

    Jerald whipped around, eyes wide in terror at the mere thought of betraying his beloved Erina, of allowing himself to be happy. Yet Arinel believed¡ªknew Mother was a kind, loving woman. It would tarnish her memory if Jerald insisted on torturing himself, because he believed Mother would want him to stay devoted to her, even after death did them part.

    Jerald deserved to live, truly live. And especially now that he was to become Lord Crosset, he needed a loving wife to give him respite, children of his own to give him purpose, hope for the future.

    Jerald stared in bewilderment as Arinel reached for his flank. She tugged his knife out of its sheathe, held it to a sheaf of hair she''d pulled taut in her free hand. The blade cut clean through. Her severed hair curled back to tight tresses in a blink.

    She held it out to Jerald, but when he reached out for it, she clenched her fist over it. He met her eyes, puzzled and heartbroken. Arinel willed herself to stay firm as she pored deep into his same Crosset eyes.

    "I''ll give you this, if you promise to accept Freda''s blessing this time around. Find love. A family. Happiness. Live for yourself, for once."

    The dull gleams in Jerald''s wide eyes wavered as he battled to let go of his guilt. Arinel waited, patient, believing. At last, he managed a smile and nodded, his eyes twinkling with life for the first time since Arinel remembered.

    "I will," He vowed, his voice heavy with conviction, as he patted her head the way a loving uncle would, "Arinel."

    <hr>

 Sibling Rivalry

    Dawn broke over the Sands, bathing Hyacinth in gold. Zier woke to find a gargantuan purple-black spider with gleaming eyes hanging over him. He reared in fright, then discovered it to be just a mosaic pattern on the ceiling.

    Storing the embarrassing moment away to take to his grave, Zier flipped over and smiled at the pleasant sight that awaited him. Arinel lay asleep on the hay mattress she shared with Agnes, so close by her golden tresses spilled onto his mattress. He could steal a kiss if he strained a little, but she looked so adorable asleep.

    Zier craned his neck around. Behind him, Christopher slept as if training for the coffin; face up, hands joined over his chest. Meanwhile, on the mattress next to Father and Mother¡¯s bed, Meya tossed and turned, blankets strewn about her, Coris¡¯s pillow in her arms.

    Oh no.

    Zier rose on his elbows. Perhaps Coris was a lump somewhere among those blanket folds. Nope, even Bonebags wasn¡¯t that thin. What if he sleepwalked himself down a well? Coris never woke before dawn cracked¡ª

    Something tapped his head. Zier whipped around, then gawked at his attacker. Coris stood fully dressed, wooden sword in each hand. He motioned at the door, then tiptoed off.

    ¡°Lexi? What¡ª¡±

    ¡°Shh!¡± hissed Coris. Tousing his bedhead, Zier groaned as he rose. He snagged his boots then edged out the door, yawning in earnest. Coris was already striding down the hallway. Zier stumbled barefoot to his side,

    ¡°Where are we¡ª¡±

    ¡°Shh!¡±

    ¡°So what if someone hears?¡±

    ¡°You know where the troops train?¡±

    ¡°Not wherever in the Lake you¡¯re going. Gimme those.¡±

    Zier swiped the practice swords from Coris, stuck one down his collar and scratched his back as he led Coris down another hallway. They emerged to a closed courtyard paved with soft earth, empty but for them.

    At their roots, Hadrians were blacksmiths. Coris often had Zier test modified weapons from the castle smithy or new techniques while he observed. Maybe Coris was figuring out counters for the Hyacinth Sword, or combat tactics in desert terrain.

    Zier slipped a gambeson over his nightshirt and swung his sword, warming his muscles,

    ¡°So, who¡¯s the lucky meat?¡± He joked as he worked through his routine. Coris was silent for a moment, then replied brusquely,

    ¡°Me.¡±

    Zier froze, but he didn¡¯t have much time for shock. A battle cry echoed from behind. Zier whirled around to find Coris sprinting towards him, sword raised. As his jaw dropped in astonishment, Zier instinctively selected the guard to counter Coris based on his stance (or lack thereof). He parried the swipe with one arm. Coris staggered sideways, righted himself, then came charging back with a roar.

    ¡°Brother, wait¡ª!¡± Zier parried him again. Again. And again. Coris wiped sweat and dust from his flushed cheeks, storming in with a vengeance.

    ¡°Lexi, what¡¯s the point!?¡± Zier cried in exasperation as he deflected another pitiful swing, sending Coris flying. As his brother struggled to sit up, Zier cast his sword aside.

    ¡°Look, if you don¡¯t tell me what you¡¯re trying to achieve, I don¡¯t know how to help.¡± He grunted as he pulled Coris to his feet, ¡°If you just want to vent, you¡¯d do better hacking at a tree. If you want to learn swordplay, we drill the guards into your muscles and then we can start sparring.¡±

    ¡°I want to be stronger,¡± panted Coris as he bent double, hands on his knees, ¡°Thicker. Wider. Taller. Like you.¡±

    His voice strangled, he gestured feebly at Zier¡¯s impressive physique, then hung his head and panted some more.

    Zier¡¯s heart pained as he blinked down at him. Although Coris wouldn¡¯t say it straight out, he understood the anguish behind his drive.

    ¡°Then you push your heart and muscles harder. Eat hearty. Get sunlight and fresh air.¡± He clapped Coris¡¯s shoulder then jogged in place, grinning,

    ¡°We¡¯re going ¡®round the yard, Lexi! Giddy up!¡± Zier aimed another slap at his back when Coris wouldn¡¯t budge. Coris raised a hand for mercy.

    ¡°I¡¯m out of breath, aren¡¯t I? My bones are still rattling.¡± He gestured blindly at their abandoned swords, ¡°Sparring will do, come on.¡±

    Zier rolled his eyes,

    ¡°You really hate running, don¡¯t you?¡±

    ¡°I normally delegate it to the horse,¡± muttered Coris as he straightened.

    " ¡®Course you do, donghead.¡± Zier cursed under his breath, shrugged off the gambeson, then nudged Coris¡¯s elbow encouragingly, ¡°Here, we¡¯ll start slow. Talk with me, it¡¯ll keep you distracted.¡±

    Coris looked as if he¡¯d rather swallow a live frog. Nevertheless, he breathed deeply then shuffled off, working his way up to a light jog. Zier drew level with him,

    If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

    ¡°So you told Ari to experiment on herself?¡±

    The brothers bickered as they ran, blind to the three girls watching from the corridor. The redhead rubbed her glowing eyes as if she doubted them,

    ¡°Milady, is it normal for a girl with a bump to be¡­awakened¡­by some boys running?¡±

    Arinel turned around. Meya watched the brothers as if in a trance, smiling dreamily as she fingered her ruby brooch, her twitchy knees chafing together. She smiled slyly,

    ¡°Some boys or one boy, specifically?¡±

    ¡°That boy, specifically.¡± Meya sighed as Coris jogged past with Zier, gaining speed as their argument heated.

    When dawn wore into morn, Coris pulled off his drenched shirt; Zier followed suit. The Hadrian brides-to-be blushed, then fell giggling over each other, shushing themselves in vain to stay hidden. Two laps later, their amusement turned to terror when the brothers suddenly pounced and wrestled each other to the ground. The girls rushed in, arms flailing, screaming to reach them through their bloodlust.

    Agnes hung back. She watched as her friends dragged the brothers apart and helped their respective beaus to his feet. Arinel scolded Zier while Meya grilled Coris, then swapped.

    Agnesia and Persephia had never fought like so. They barely had a bond of any sort. For ten months they shared a womb, ten years they shared a room, yet they hardly spoke; Agnie too ashamed for all she was given, Persie too embittered for all that was taken.

    Persie¡¯s eye burned like ice against her fingertips as Agnes stared into its empty depths. Persie being unpredictable as she was, everyone was leery to revive her. The day before yesterday, Agnes had sat alone in the corner, stroking Persie¡¯s hair as everyone celebrated Cleygar and Lors¡¯ return.

    They were enemies of Hadrian. They weren¡¯t welcome, but they weren¡¯t free to leave. They were all they had. She couldn¡¯t let Persie waste away while she cowered in fear. She¡¯d cowered long enough. Whatever would face them once Persie returned, she¡¯d face it by her side.

    The dragon eye nestled tenderly in her palm; Agnes turned her back on the scene and swept down the hallway.

    <hr>

    Persie¡¯s door was unlatched, unguarded. Agnes knew what she would find behind it, but the sight still wrangled her heart. The room, once bustling with fretful folk fussing over the three comatose patients by day, and crammed with Greeneyes huddled together for safety by night, had emptied but for her twin sister on her mattress in the corner furthest from the window.

    The three Greeneye guards from Baron Hadrian¡¯s secret unit stood watch over her, their swords pointed at her neck. They eyed Agnes as she approached.

    ¡°You will return her eye now, milady?¡± asked the same Greeneye with the most pronounced frown, his grip strangling the hilt of his sword.

    ¡°Yes, Vyrgil,¡± Agnes whispered. The words left a tart aftertaste over her tongue. She couldn¡¯t believe she would actually do it. She offered him a rueful smile, ¡°I don¡¯t suppose I can ask for privacy?¡±

    Vyrgil didn¡¯t answer; he frowned deeper as he scoured her, no doubt searching for the eye, but Agnes saw conflict in his eyes. He looked only a few years her senior. Despite the secrecy of his post, he wasn¡¯t always so stern; she¡¯d seen him laugh and joke with his fellows, and Dorsea, Frenix and Atmund. After all the injustice he¡¯d seen as he traveled Latakia to snuff out leaks in her collective memory, how did he feel, carrying out Baron Hadrian¡¯s bidding to keep dragons secret still?

    Agnes reluctantly peeled her eyes away. She was her father reincarnate; it was in her instinct to read the minds of others and sway them to her will, but she must focus on Persie now. Her sister. She must be sincere and honest and true, even when it may seem foolish. That was the one way she could mend their bond.

    Vyrgil and his two friends made way as she knelt at Persie¡¯s bedside. Trembling, she tucked away the hair over Persie¡¯s sunken eyes and rested the glowing metal sphere over the right one. The mere thought of the act nauseated her. Swallowing, she parted Persie¡¯s eyelids and pushed the eyeball in place.

    The rustling of fabric, the slice of metal against air; Vyrgil and the other two raised their swords at the ready as the socket welcomed the ball. Agnes held her breath as Persie twitched and crinkled her eyelids. At last, she opened her eye. Agnes¡¯s tears fell.

    ¡°Persie,¡± She rasped. Persephia turned to her, frowning groggily. Agnes waited, watching as memories settled in place in her widening eye. Persephia drew in a sharp breath, then bolted up and scrambled away. She collided with the forest of legs surrounding them like bars of a prison. She glanced fearfully between the three yeomen, panting. Agnes saw recognition in her eyes; she knew them.

    ¡°Persie, it¡¯s alright. You¡¯re safe. I struck a deal with Baron Hadrian; they won¡¯t harm you.¡±

    Agnes grasped her hands. Persephia spun around, jolting as if burned by the cold, struggling to keep up with both her breath and the developments.

    ¡°What deal?¡± She retorted waspishly. Agnes realized then she had no idea what she had to work with, what was in Persie¡¯s head at the moment,

    ¡°What is the last you remember?¡±

    Persephia churned her lips, probably torn between her hatred of Agnes and her need for information.

    ¡°I was flying away with Zier.¡± She muttered, her downcast eyes boring holes in the blanket as she wrung her brain, ¡°Coris pursued. Christopher shot my arm and leg. I dropped Zier. Frenix shot fire at my head. I fell.¡±

    Agnes nodded,

    ¡°You were badly injured. I rode you to Hyacinth with Cleygar and Lors in tow. The healer stole your eyes and threw the four of us in a Greeneye brothel. Coris and Gillian saved us. The Baron wanted my testimony to rescue the rest of the Greeneyes. That¡¯s the deal.¡±

    Her tale ended, Agnes held her breath as she held her sister¡¯s gaze. Persephia seemed unfazed as she narrowed her eyes; she must have forgotten the entire ordeal with Hasif. At least for now. Thank Freda.

    ¡°And you?¡± She finally asked. Agnes blinked in surprise. Persephia sneered,

    ¡°What do you want from me this time? Let¡¯s see¡ª¡± She counted on her fingers, ¡°You have my nurse, my governess, my tutors, my suitors, my dowry, my birthright. What¡¯s left? The skin of my face? My favor?¡±

    She snarled, jabbing at her face. Agnes pursed her lips, her fists clenched over the tremors as her eyes flared in determination.

    ¡°I don¡¯t mean to steal The Axel, Persie, but nor will I let it fall to you or Father, or remain in Hadrian.¡± She said, cold and firm, shaking her head slowly, ¡°The Axel was bought by the blood of Latakia. It¡¯s not our right to decide how or if to wield it. That right belongs to Latakia.¡±

    It became Persephia¡¯s turn to blink in surprise. Her lips parted, she stared at Agnes. Her glowing eyes wavered with sorrow, before the sneer of derision usurped it once more. Her lips twisted into a triumphant smirk,

    ¡°Well, that¡¯s very high and noble of you, but it¡¯s too late.¡± She laughed softly then leaned close, her eyes of madness burning bright before Agnes¡¯s own, ¡°He knows.¡±

    She whispered. Agnes glanced at the three Greeneyes as a chill ran down her spine. At Vyrgil¡¯s nod, one of his friends bolted for the door, no doubt to alert Baron Hadrian of impending doom.

    Persephia slumped back, half-sitting against her pillows. Her eyes answered the look of pure terror in Agnes¡¯s eyes, but her smile no longer reached them.

    ¡°I told him where it is, told him I¡¯d deliver it to him, that night.¡± She said levelly, her eyes solemn as she tilted her head towards the door, toward Graye,

    ¡°Father¡¯s waiting, Agnes. For The Axel.¡±

 Farewells and Summons

    Lord Crosset''s change of mind scrambled their priorities. Meya was unshackled, the gold on her head shifted to Jerald. As Hyacinth''s spy unit, the Spiders, combed their webs of hearsay for whispers of Crosset''s long-lost heir, Hadrian and Jaise exploited Lady Hyacinth''s frustrations to ease their escape.

    Baron Hadrian promised Amoriah a share of Jaise''s upcoming harvest, her Great Hall restored to every last spider spinning their web in the shadows, and a proper cremation for victims of the riot. In exchange, he asked for means, supplies and safe passage home. Delighted, Amoriah provided.

    Jerald posed as one of Winterwen''s Greeneye curators, hidden in plain sight under his glass mask and black cloak. The curator whose place he took trusted his eyes to his colleagues and laid himself among the mindless, eyeless patients.

    Once safe across the drawbridge, away from the eyes and ears in the Hyacinth wall, the voyagers gathered on the sand plains beyond the eternal fire, catching breath and parting words with those who would remain.

    Lady Jaise, Baron and Baroness Hadrian weaved through the crowd, eyes sweeping hawklike over the bustle. For once, Coris joined Zier and Christopher in physical labor, lugging eyeless Greeneyes onto wagons alongside Gillian and the dragons. Ahmundi had introduced Amara to Dizadh; the little girl was playing with her father''s ankle-length hair. And the fellowship of Greeneyes were saying their farewells.

    "Tell my mother I''ll be home soon," said Cleygar heavily as he shook Lors'' hand, tears in his pleading eyes, "Just have to see this to the end."

    Old Lors cracked a rare smile as he slapped Cleygar''s shoulder, beaming with pride,

    "I''ll be sure to, lad." He grunted softly, then received Dorsea''s hug.

    "Send my love to Claudie," She squeaked through her sniffles.

    "And be good to her this time ''round, old man. You hear me?" Tissa added sharply, hands on her hips. Lors scowled as he parted with Dorsea, his cheeks blushing,

    "I dun need to hear you, lass. Why d''you think I''m going home?"

    He turned his scowl to Meya, calling all eyes to her. Blinking, Meya followed their insinuating looks to her middle, then her face flushed Hadrian Red amid Dorsea and Tissa''s giggles.

    "What, now I''m a cautionary tale in Hadrian, too?" She scowled back in kind. Frenix tilted his head, his eyes suspiciously round and large,

    "If it''s not enough, Atmund can spread the word in Jaise, and I''ll do my part in Pearlwater."

    Before Meya could do more than raise her foot to stamp a seal of approval on Frenix''s smart arse, Lady Jaise approached with Atmund and Sir Jerald, now restored to his normal appearance.

    Meya lowered her foot and fell to her knees. Around her, the other Greeneyes followed suit.

    "Milady, we owe you our lives."

    Winterwen caught her before her forehead touched the earth. As Meya reluctantly rose, the Lady waggled her hand at the others, urging them back to their feet.

    "It is my duty, and my honor." She dipped her bejeweled head at Meya with a smile. Her borrowed eye swept the throng, then settled upon Atmund and Jerald in turn, "I''ll leave you to your farewells."

    After one last smile, she swept back to rejoin Baron Hadrian and oversee the loading of supplies. Meya tore her gaze from her receding back to find Jerald smiling, looking younger than his age for the first time. He nodded at Atmund, who drew in a deep breath and lowered his mask.

    Short, wavy black hair. Olive skin with a healthy shine. Thick, dark eyebrows. Two round, protuberant, glowing green eyes. A wee button nose over a smile lined with thin lips and white, uneven teeth. His face was thin and pointed, but his cheeks were full nevertheless.

    Meya''s eyes welled with tears. She swept him into her arms,

    "I''m gunna miss you, me lad."

    Shaken by his ordeal and reminded of his age, Old Lors decided to return home to his daughter Claudia. Whereas Atmund decided he''d become Jerald''s page and accompany him to Crosset, after stopping in Jaise to find his mother, Hamina. Desperate after years squirreling away every Latt she could to feed their son, Hamina had confronted Elmund over his reckless gambling, and Elmund had stolen Atmund away to continue business in peace with a golden goose. Or rather, dragon.

    "Good miss, don''t cry." Atmund rubbed his little thumb under her eyes, brushing away fresh tears. Meya simply nodded, waving for the others to come take their turn hugging the young knight. Dorsea swooped in,

    "Trust in Freda. She''ll guide you home." She whispered as she nuzzled Atmund on each cheek. The boy nodded fervently.

    "See you in Crosset." Frenix punched Atmund in the shoulder. Jerald laughed, his eyes twinkling,

    "Then my first act as Lord Crosset shall be to triple the budget for firefighting."

    Frenix chortled along with the grownups. As the laughter subsided, Meya caught Jerald''s eye once more in the falling silence. She bent her knees into a curtsy,

    "Tell me father I''m all well." She rasped through the fresh lump in her throat, "Please take care of me family."

    Jerald rested a heavy hand on her shoulder as he sank to one knee.

    "On my honor, little lass."

    <hr>

    The line of wagons trundled up the road. The wind swayed the date palms to wave their bladelike leaves and scolded the prickly pears to bend their wobbling backs in well-wishing.

    Arinel shut her cloak against the billowing dust, her eyes fixed upon the carriage that held Jerald as it shrank into the empty, vast distance of the Sands.

    The rest of them would follow after cremating the dead. With their obsidian and sulfur deposits, Jaise was best equipped to host Zier''s surgery. Baron Hadrian would depart for the capital, Bishop Riddell in tow, to report on the drought, then hopefully return in time to his son''s side.

    Using The Axel, they would craft The Rota, deliver it in secrecy to Easthaven then sail for Everglen, but when would that be? Was Klythe waiting still? How much longer could he?

    The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

    Zier was supposed to cross land and sea, bring her brother back to Jaise, where Arinel would be waiting with the perfected anesthesia. Instead, their parents had discovered their secret, called off the honeymoon in Safyre. Old Angus had arrived in Jaise, armed with decades of expertise in Nostran medicine. Meya had fallen pregnant. The drought had taken root so deep in the soil of Amplevale, Simon was called home. Gillian had returned, and never again would he let Zier stray from his sight.

    Fleets of ore ships had been lost beyond Gyrinae''s veil. Even Dockar, a battle-hardened dragon, wouldn''t brave the flight to Everglen. So was it still wise for Arinel to hope? Was it selfish to demand Latakia mount another deadly voyage?

    Arinel turned her back on the road, her feet sweeping away scars wheels and hooves had scored on the sand. The cremation ceremony would be held here tomorrow. The dead would each be given a tongue of the eternal fire as their last gift.

    Baron Kellis directed Hyacinth guards as they threw a swathe of carmine cloth over the clearing, accompanied by Zier and Christopher. Baroness Sylvia was debating Ozid over a vast array of flower arrangements.

    The bandits had wandered into the wilderness, likely to find a sandhill to bury their dragon selves in and sunbathe. Gillian remained, watching the preparations curiously. Ahmundi doused the blue-gray sand with qanat water for Frenix and Amara to mold little sandmen. Cleygar and Dorsea weaved between the towering palm trees, picking fallen dates. Tissa tried her best to climb one.

    Meya had drifted across the road, peering and poking at cochineal fluff on the prickly pear. She looked strangely lonesome without Coris by her side superciliously lecturing her on the pigment trade.

    "I was observing your exchange with the Crosset heir,"

    A cool voice spoke behind her. Arinel jumped, then rolled her eyes. Of course, he''d come to torment her instead.

    "Is that an apology?" She said flatly. Coris blinked, then huffed in annoyance,

    "I hardly consider it eavesdropping to observe a public conversation from out of earshot, but as I still wish to speak to you, yes it is."

    Arinel admired Meya for not having already welded his lips shut with molten metal. Coris must have read the blessings in her eyes; he scratched his cheek sheepishly.

    "I take it you''ve been contemplating my question at the valley."

    "Against my better judgment," quipped Arinel, then she met his gaze. As he did that night, Coris seemed sincerely curious. So, sighing, she too set aside her pride.

    "I asked him to let go of Mother. She''s kept him waiting long enough." She settled on the sand. Coris echoed her. A househusband approached Meya with his winnow basket, offering her a paddle to scrape cochineal with.

    "I saw in Mother''s diary; Jerald wanted to elope. Lady Arynea left him a fortune when she died. He asked Mother to come away with him, but Mother wanted to finish her treatise. She asked him to wait and so he did. Still did."

    A lump lodged itself in her throat, breaking her voice. Arinel swallowed it,

    "Seventeen years. If she truly loved him, she wouldn''t have asked so much. Wouldn''t have agreed to be Father''s mistress. Risked her life, my life, day after day in a lab festering with poison. But she chose alchemy."

    She concluded in a bitter smile. Coris shook his head.

    "She may have chosen all but." He said, his voice heavy as he met Arinel''s surprise with a frown,

    "You''ve seen your father''s wrath as a frail old man. She suffered him in his prime. She''d be stealing not one, but two of his heirs. She had Gretella''s life to fear for, and Jerald''s future. She may have been waiting for Fyr to claim your father or Jerald''s father, for this day."

    "But wouldn''t she have stayed away from the labs, then? She should''ve done her damnedest to stay alive, but she chose alchemy!"

    Arinel burst out. Coris fell silent as she deflated, panting. And Arinel gazed within, to the eye of the whirlwind.

    "Maybe that''s why I was drawn to it," She whispered, "Perhaps I hope to prove it was something worth her leaving me for. And if it saves the one I love, then perhaps it had all been for me, after all."

    This time, Coris nodded.

    "You took the blame, when perhaps she was simply foolhardy. And greedy." He shrugged as Arinel glared, undaunted, "She wanted it all. She refused to have to choose, so Freda punished her hubris. It has nothing to do with you. Yet, you tell yourself there is something you could do, could change. You feel powerless otherwise."

    Arinel''s heart skipped a beat. She frowned at the young man, wary, slightly unnerved. Coris read minds, never hearts. That was Zier''s demesne.

    "Did Zier put you up to this?"

    Coris jolted. Catching himself, he straightened with a devious grin,

    "Well, you couldn''t have fallen deeper for him if I tossed you a shovel. If I say yes, my sacrifice would be wasted. I''ll take my chances with No."

    Arinel didn''t bother deciphering his riddle, having seen it for the facade it was. Coris''s smile faded. He turned away, picking at a scab on his cheek.

    "My mother tried to tear me from her womb," He confessed. Arinel nodded,

    "I''ve heard say."

    "But she loves me now. As much as she loathes herself, perhaps." Coris sneaked a glance at his mother; she was busy sniffing flowers, "I tried to see beyond the end to the beginning, to understand why she did what she did. For there must be another answer; the one I have is too cruel."

    "And is there?" Arinel asked, her voice barely a whisper. Coris turned to Meya, then. He flinched as she hopped in place, shaking her hand, while the househusband giggled. She must have pricked herself on a thorn trying to reach the tiny bugs. Finally, he nodded.

    "Some women need more than a birth, a year, a decade even, to become a mother. She may take some time to learn to make the right choices, but she can change."

    "If only she was given the chance."

    Arinel scrunched her eyes against an onslaught of despair at the cruelty, the unfairness of it all. She would never know, would never have peace, would never find closure.

    Coris paused for long while.

    "She chose you, once." He said tenderly, "She carried you, chained herself to the man she feared and hated above all others. She was prepared to suffer so you can be Lady Crosset. Such courage asks for nothing less than a mother''s love as its toll."

    Warmth enveloped her heart as she remembered. Arinel closed her eyes and nodded, tears spilling down her chest.

    "If you truly must, let go of your guilt, and keep her memory. As Jerald did," said Coris. Arinel nodded again, wiping her tears,

    "There may be another I must let go." Sniffing, she turned to the Blue Mountains. Two lands and two seas lay beyond them. Klythe was so, so far away.

    "If only I were a dragon. I could''ve gone after him myself," She lamented weakly.

    "And what if you were lost yourself?" scolded Coris sharply, startling Arinel. "He sailed there for the woman he loves. What do you think he''d make of losing you?"

    Arinel shivered as the truth in his words pierced her like shards of ice. More tears tumbled down her cheeks as she seethed in helplessness and guilt. Coris lowered his eyes, ashamed.

    "I can offer little in solace or promises," His voice softened, his gray eyes full of sorrow as he held hers, "We''ve lost many, and we may lose countless more. I can only hope Klythe understands Latakia takes priority. I''m so sorry."

    Coris held out his handkerchief, and sat silently by her side as Arinel sobbed into it. When Arinel surfaced, she found him staring transfixed across the road again. This time, however, Meya caught him spying. She held his gaze briefly, then moved on as if he were air. Coris trembled.

    "She needs time." Arinel croaked, sniffling. Coris nodded.

    "I know. I''m just afraid it would be a lifetime."

    He trailed away. Arinel shifted uncomfortably as she recalled,

    "I struck her once, and my fury was far less earned. I haven''t apologized." She mumbled shamefacedly.

    "Yet, she''s unafraid of you." Coris pointed out. Arinel tilted her head,

    "She expected it of me, but you''d never punish her for insolence, would you?" She shook her head, sighing, "You''ve always forgiven her reckless schemes because all''s well ended well, and you had only your death to worry for, but that''s changed."

    A pause of silence. Coris hung his head, agreeing,

    "Freda gave us trials to test our bond, and we shattered." He sighed, crumpling in on himself, "One may yet hope to mend, in time, through fire, bonded by gold and silver. So Jayri said, but broken trust isn''t crockery."

    Arinel had no words to comfort him, faced with such an undeniable truth. She rested her hand on his bony arm as he wallowed.

    Suddenly, the sound of galloping hooves beat towards them from the gates. As Arinel spun around, Coris sprung to his feet. The Hyacinth guard tugged the reins to halt her mare, then dismounted and rushed to the Baroness.

    "Milady, Lady Hyacinth requests you return at once."

    Sylvia blinked in confusion, as her husband was very much present. Yet, even as Baron Kellis hurriedly strode over to take his command, the guard plowed on, panting, eyes wide and haunted,

    "The King''s herald is here. His Majesty demands your presence at his Royal Council in Aynor. To answer the question of The Axel."

    <hr>

 The Blood Druids

    (Six years earlier)

    Never had darkness been more welcome. For hours fire, not dawn, painted the sky glowing red, using Hadrian Castle¡¯s mighty keep as its easel, but they had doused the last tongue of flame. All that remained were blackened stone and snow of ash.

    Baron Hadrian staggered down the alley between lines of cheering men, nodding his thanks at their faces swarthy with soot and sweat. The ropes of the pulleys, once pulled taut and laden with swinging buckets of water, lay abandoned on the sodden, trampled grass of the courtyard.

    Kellis threaded his way towards the marquee that housed the injured. Healers and housewives bustled in and out the flap-door. He ducked inside and spotted his wife Sylvia sitting in the furthermost corner. She spun around at his approach, then her pale, marblelike face cracked into a sob,

    ¡°Kellis!¡± She launched herself into his arms. Kellis pressed her to his heart.

    ¡°Thank Freda.¡± He breathed the perfume of her hair to cleanse his nostrils of the smell of burning, then his gaze fell upon the two boys asleep behind her, ¡°How are they?¡±

    Sylvia peeled off and slumped beside the mattress, smoothing Zier¡¯s hair. The boy fell asleep with his nose inches away from his big brother¡¯s pudgy cheek, their fingertips just about touching.

    ¡°Zee never left his side. I had to put Lexi to sleep; he kept bolting up to go find the other Graye girl.¡± Sylvia whispered as she fingered the vial of laudanum at Coris¡¯s bedhead guiltily. Kellis¡¯s attention was drawn to the young girl on the mattress next to his sons.

    The bridge of her nose, once high, had sunken to level terrain. The fire must have burned away whatever disguise she had molded atop it. Her shoulders were bare. So was her head. Her left wrist peeked out from the blanket. A sliver of purple-black marred her fair skin. He flicked the cloth back, revealing three deep, gaping gashes scored into her forearm, with swollen lips of purplish rot. So, this was the cause of the fire.

    Sylvia rose to her feet beside him.

    ¡°I asked everyone I came upon. Not a glimpse of Agnes nor Klythe.¡± She whispered, sharp and collected as ever. However, when Kellis turned and met her eyes, she betrayed a shiver,

    ¡°What do we do now? What do we tell Crosset and Graye?¡±

    Kellis turned back to Persephia, hesitant. He couldn¡¯t answer. There were still too many mysteries, gaping holes to be filled with logic and evidence. Facing his wife, he grasped her frozen hands in his,

    ¡°Do not let her escape your sight. I must be the first to question her once she awakens.¡± He hissed, then his voice softened as he pressed his lips to her forehead, ¡°I won¡¯t be long.¡±

    He tore himself from her soft arms and left the tent, pulling the hood of his cloak over his head. No one called out to him or stepped in his path as he entered the double doors of the evacuated Keep and scaled the empty stairs to the third floor. However, when he made to cross the threshold into the Graye sisters¡¯ quarters, an arm barricaded his way.

    ¡°Milord!¡±

    Kellis reared back in surprise. He whipped around and found the weary face of old Hamlin, eldest of the Blood Druids. In his other hand he held a lamp aloft. His seemingly black eyes glinted emerald in its light.

    ¡°You cannae enter, milord; dunno the floor would hold or not.¡±

    Hamlin nodded towards the room¡¯s interior. The fire had melted brocades into the wall in some places, eaten through then cracked the lime in others, and churned the naked flagstones like butter. Kellis reluctantly accepted defeat, sighing,

    ¡°What have you gleaned so far?¡±

    Hamlin handed him a broken, twisted curl of iridescent metal; Persephia¡¯s bracelet. He pointed at the open door, which had a hole Kellis could probably slot his head through, then reached inside and tapped at the stretch of stone wall nearby. A mixture of paint, lime and stone flowed to the floor, frozen like cooled lava. Reddish-gray dollops led away from the pool and out through the doorway, then vanished.

    ¡°Lattis. Door blasted through. Molten stone. I¡¯d wager a blast of dragonfire from ¡¯round there what did it.¡± Hamlin gestured vaguely towards the gaping window, then stooped down with a sigh and jabbed a knobby finger at the final drop of molten stone,

    ¡°Footsteps end here. Rest must¡¯ve been trampled away in the stampede.¡±

    ¡°No stench of burnt flesh,¡± Kellis muttered, having taken a whiff of the lingering air, ¡°They escaped.¡±

    One hand on his kneecap, the other on the crooked doorframe, Hamlin pushed himself upright, whispering,

    ¡°Your command, milord?¡±

    The same question as Sylvia. Now, Kellis must answer, based on whatever meagre scraps he had salvaged.

    ¡°This fire is a tragic accident,¡± He began, his voice cold, as he answered Hamlin¡¯s gaze, ¡°We tell Graye and Crosset we missed Lady Agnesia and Sir Klythe in the chaos. We¡¯ll spare men to search for them as soon as we are able, and Lady Persephia will be given safe passage home.¡±

    ¡°But, milord, she¡¯s taken her true form.¡± Hamlin argued, desperate. Kellis closed his eyes and nodded heavily.

    ¡°We have no choice,¡± He admitted. ¡°We cannot let her stay, and we cannot let them suspect we are any the wiser.¡±

    This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.

    ¡°It would be near impossible to silence her in Graye Castle.¡± Hamlin reminded him. Kellis caressed his beard for a long moment,

    ¡°It¡¯s been a year. How is the Greeneye in Crosset?¡±

    ¡°Not a glimmer of recognition, milord.¡±

    ¡°Very well. We¡¯ll feed Persephia the potion before we send her home. I¡¯ll have Baron Graye know he sent a Greeneye into our midst, and her misfortune brought about this fire that could¡¯ve killed my sons. Hopefully, he¡¯d rush her off to the nunnery, keep his Greeneye lineage secret. We may be able to seize her back before her memory returns.¡±

    Hamlin nodded, finally satisfied. Kellis leaned close and spoke to his ear,

    ¡°We¡¯ll give her a new face and a new name, a new life as my ward. If she shows signs of remembrance, question her, then feed her the potion again. Divide all the eyes we can spare between Graye and Crosset. If Agnesia or Klythe ever surface, seize them as well.¡±

    ¡°For peace.¡± Hamlin accepted, bowing slightly. Again, Kellis saw the lights reflecting in his eyes, bounding back as if from a void.

    How long had the old Greeneye been forced to undermine his own kind, time and time again? How much longer must he? And would his betrayal ever find purpose?

    Kellis dipped his head, shame burning on his cheeks, hot as dragonfire itself,

    ¡°For peace.¡±

    <hr>

    The send-off party had gathered in Baron Hadrian¡¯s quarters. The silk scroll bearing the King¡¯s summons and seal lay unfurled for all to see on his handsome wooden desk. Yet, all eyes were on the Baron and the resurrected Lady Graye. They glared at one another over the scroll, Kellis in his high-backed chair with his hands steepled on the desk, Persephia standing in chains before him, held at swordpoint by Vyrgil and his Greeneye comrade.

    Agnes would¡¯ve squeezed herself in between and shielded her sister, but the third Greeneye guard held her by the arm.

    ¡°Perhaps it would¡¯ve been wise to leave you in that brothel. Or that fire.¡±

    Kellis¡¯s voice was soft and calm, but Agnes had never seen such pure fury in his blue eyes. After all he¡¯d risked to save Persephia, she¡¯d betrayed The Axel¡¯s secret to Father. No doubt he¡¯d gone straight to the King, for he was promised the Prince¡¯s hand for Lady Graye.

    Persephia¡¯s hand trembled. She clenched it into a fist.

    ¡°Why didn¡¯t you?¡± She smiled faintly.

    ¡°My duty is to protect dragons. Unless sparing one harms others.¡±

    ¡°Not if one is crowned queen.¡±

    ¡°Not if that queen is under the thrall of Grimthel Graye.¡±

    ¡°His hand is unproven. Unlike yours!¡± Persephia finally exploded. The tip of Vyrgil¡¯s blade dug into her neck as she strained forth, sneering, ¡°Two hundred years you¡¯ve taken your sweet time. What have you done for my kind?¡±

    ¡°Do not exploit your kind for my pity just as you¡¯ve sold them for your father¡¯s.¡±

    The Baron hissed, his lips barely moving. Persephia staggered back, shivering. Agnes could only stand there, powerless. Of all the faces surrounding them, few showed compassion. Meya bit her lip, then strode forward.

    ¡°Milord, does the King know she¡¯s a Greeneye? He might not want her for the Prince, anyway.¡±

    ¡°She¡¯s still compromised and unpredictable,¡± said Kellis tonelessly.

    ¡°So what? You¡¯d kill an innocent girl who¡¯s just doing her father¡¯s bidding?¡± Meya cried.

    ¡°Meya!¡± Coris called scoldingly.

    ¡°Is it not within my right to execute a spy who has threatened my sons and those I am sworn to protect, Meya Hild?¡± Kellis raised his eyebrows. Seething, Meya turned to Baroness Sylvia. She closed her eyes and held her nose high. Christopher avoided her gaze and shook his head. Arinel turned to Zier for hope.

    ¡°You¡¯re all fine with this?¡± Meya rounded on the silent dragons. ¡°You said you wouldn¡¯t take even one Greeneye life lost!¡±

    She shook her finger at Gillian¡¯s nose. He turned away, a muscle pulsing in his jaw. The evil of Laslarein Hasif and her cult have shaken his creed.

    ¡°We just keep wiping her memories. Bring back Heloise. There¡¯s no need to kill her!¡± Zier argued. Beside him, Arinel nodded fervently.

    ¡°I¡¯d rather die.¡± Persephia snarled. Zier threw his head back and swore at the Heights.

    ¡°She fooled us once, Zier. What if she fools us again? What if she returns to her father with all the secrets she¡¯s learned?¡± said Baroness Sylvia sharply.

    ¡°We lost this one, Father. You know it. Graye knows it.¡± Coris broke his silence. He glanced at Persephia, his eyes cold with contempt. ¡°Lay one finger on her, and we¡¯ll have the King to answer to. Whether she becomes the princess consort is irrelevant. Latakia is questioning where our loyalties lie.¡±

    Leave it to Coris to turn it into a game of Heist. As father and son locked eyes, Agnes held her breath so as not to blow away the faint glimmer of hope.

    ¡°And what do you suggest we do?¡± asked the Baron. Coris glanced at the mocking, defiant Persephia, then Agnes with her pleading look, then Meya, who pointedly ignored him. Logic clashed with emotions in his tempest gray¡ªrage, pity, love¡ªone for each of the girls. He sighed and bowed his head.

    ¡°We spare her, then head for the capital. We can¡¯t restore Everglen on our own. We need the King¡¯s support. She¡¯s simply hastened the inevitable.¡±

    Although Coris wasn¡¯t one of the triumvirate, his father held his counsel in high regard. Baron Kellis caressed the groove in his chin, then turned to Gillian,

    ¡°And you, dragons?¡±

    Gillian eyed each of his subordinates, communicating wordlessly, then scrutinized the three Greeneye guards.

    ¡°The Blood Druids failed to silence her.¡± He said. ¡°You can spare the traitor on one condition¡ªShe is handed over to us.¡±

    ¡°Blood Druids?¡± Meya gawked at Vyrgil and his friends. Baron Kellis nodded.

    ¡°The dragons have had secret keepers since they landed on the Easthaven shores. Some dragons wished to reveal their true form and drive humans from Latakia, and must be silenced.¡± He explained,

    ¡°So a handful of dragons dedicated to peace wandered the duchies in human form, as soothsayers from lands afar, serving a nameless faith. Their rituals ward off Greeneye misfortune. Their potions cure tortured souls of Chione¡¯s visions. After the Mining Ban, Uriel IV gathered their Greeneye successors and named their faith¡ªthe Order of the Blood Druids.¡±

    ¡°The secret Hadrian unit!¡± Coris breathed, then shot Meya an insinuating look, ¡°Whenever a Greeneye transforms, they erase all memory of dragon activity with their blood and Lattis¡ªour memories!¡±

    Meya¡¯s glowing eyes widened.

    ¡°But then¡ªyou must¡¯ve known who I am from the start!¡± She whirled around to Baron Kellis, grasping the tabletop, ¡°They must¡¯ve told you I was going to Hadrian!¡±

    ¡°Freda must¡¯ve intervened.¡± Baron Kellis cocked his head. ¡°Around late March, I sent the Druids monitoring you after Klythe¡ªhe¡¯d surfaced in Easthaven. Since you¡¯ve shown no signs of remembrance for seven years, I reckoned I could take eyes off you for a while.¡±

    ¡°You do not take your eyes off Meya Hild. You simply don¡¯t,¡± muttered Arinel. Meya bared her fangs at her Lady.

    ¡°Anyway, they must¡¯ve read me memories of that night, dun they?¡± She leaned across the desk, her voice breaking, ¡°I want them back. ¡¯Tisn¡¯t the same just having them told to me. They¡¯re part of me soul. I¡¯m sure that¡¯s¡ª¡± She glanced quickly at Persephia, ¡°¡ªthat¡¯s all she wanted, too.¡±

    Meya answered Persephia¡¯s blinking eyes, lingering this time. She turned back to Baron Hadrian, panting.

    ¡°If you¡¯d just told her the truth that day, milord¡ªgave her a choice before you called in the druids¡ªshe might¡¯ve chosen you.¡± Her trembling voice stilled. ¡°Just as I chose your son.¡±

    Meya turned to the disbelieving Coris, but before he could utter a word, she straightened with a deep breath and returned to his father,

    ¡°As third of the triumvirate, I vote to spare her.¡±

    Baron Hadrian locked eyes with the Greeneye, the dragon, then cast his vote,

    ¡°Then it is decided.¡±

    <hr>

 Fireflies

    It was decided that Persephia Graye would be spared and handed to the watch of Gillian and his dragons. After tomorrow¡¯s cremation ceremony, they would all set sail along the Celestel River into the capital, Aynor.

    Like most from the countryside, Meya had long dreamed of touching her bare foot on the stone of Aynor for once in her fleeting life. Jason often told tales of narrow streets with houses crammed on both sides like rows of crooked teeth, upper floors tottering over the thoroughfare, drying laundry slung across windows. Celebrations came one after another, neverending¡ªtournaments, festivals, markets. People, food and crafts from every corner of Latakia and beyond, collected in one square.

    The prosperity of Aynor even spilled onto the surrounding roads and rivers, such that they could shed most supplies, travel light, and live off the land. There wasn¡¯t much left to pack, seeing as Meya was already prepared to set off for Jaise. She wasn¡¯t allowed to help with the heavy-lifting, either. So, on Ozid¡¯s advice, Meya stole away to the botanical gardens.

    True to Hyacinth pride, the gardens¡¯ design took inspiration from a spiderweb. Sandstone walkways radiated from the centerpiece fountain, flanked by layers of violet flowerbeds and emerald hedgerows alternating with crystal-clear canals. A colonnade of date palms sealed the enclosure against the desert heat.

    Meya sat on the sandstone seat surrounding the fountain pool, feeding leaves to a voracious green caterpillar lounging on a bare branch dripping with milky sap. Footsteps approached. She looked up to find a familiar gaunt, pale face, lit orange by the setting sun.

    ¡°It¡¯s getting dark. You should head back,¡± said Coris. His features sharpened as he drew near. He spotted the pile of leaves beside her. ¡°What have you got there?¡±

    Meya said nothing. Carefully, she scooped up the little fellow along with his branch and the leaf he was munching on, as Coris bent down to see.

    The caterpillar was apple green, plump and soft and large as her finger. A line of white and blue freckles scored his sides down to his pointy yellow tail. Two pairs of elaborate, spiky green antlers crowned his head, and on his back were two luminous, blue-green false eyes.

    ¡°Aw, look at his wee horns. And his eyes. He¡¯s just like you.¡± Coris cooed. He shot her a toothy grin, then gave the caterpillar a gentle poke. The wee thing jolted just as he recoiled. A glistening drop of half-clear, half cloudy-green liquid clung to his fingertip.

    ¡°That¡¯s his blood,¡± said Meya darkly as she rested the branch back upon the leaf pile. Their eyes met, and she tossed her chin towards a squatty potted plant with garish pink flowers, some way away in the gathering darkness,

    ¡°The gardener plucked him from one of them shrubs there. Tossed him on the gravel. Prolly would¡¯ve stamped his guts out if I hadn¡¯t stepped in.¡±

    Coris peered at the shrub for a moment, then lifted himself to the seat with a sigh.

    ¡°Desert Roses.¡± He muttered. ¡°The sap¡¯s poisonous. Be careful.¡±

    Meya felt his eyes upon her middle. She bit her lips at the pang of guilt in her heart. The caterpillar munched on, unknowing, slicing away the leaf in neat, curved lines.

    ¡°Ain¡¯t no fair. Look how starving he is. He¡¯s just trying to survive.¡± She grumbled.

    ¡°I know,¡± Coris accepted softly. The caterpillar waved his head, searching. Coris nudged a new leaf towards him, ¡°But imagine you find him in your cabbage patch back home. You can¡¯t let him ruin your family¡¯s food, can you?¡±

    Meya wasn¡¯t talking about just the caterpillar, of course. And Coris wasn¡¯t, either. As if he sensed her pain, he added more kindly,

    ¡°We¡¯ll bring him along. With time, love and care, he¡¯ll turn into a majestic moth.¡±

    Meya¡¯s heart warmed despite herself. Back there, Coris spoke in Persephia¡¯s favor purely out of his love for Meya, for what she stood for. She saw herself in Persephia¡ªher old self. She too was once lost without memories to guide her way. She too would¡¯ve done anything if she thought it would please Dad.

    Coris wasn¡¯t much different. But now, he was becoming a father himself, and Meya a mother. With all the scars they carried still.

    They watched the little caterpillar in silence. The phantom of Coris¡¯s blow burned on her cheek like the ebbing noon heat. Meya recalled his eyes, colder than the creeping night chill.

    She was scared and angry, but not as much as she should be. Her heart still melted at his smile and silver glint in his eyes, but could she trust him again? And she was pregnant with his babe. She couldn¡¯t leave.

    As her lord, mentor and husband, Coris had the right by law to discipline her. And Meya certainly had done enough to deserve discipline. It was just that¡ªthat wasn¡¯t exactly discipline, was it? And did Coris have the moral ground to discipline her, when he himself was barely older than her, and just as flawed in many ways?

    And Coris didn¡¯t seem himself, then. She¡¯d seen him dish out lines and folded ears and vocabulary drills as punishment, fob chores on his brother as revenge, but never violence. It was as if something had possessed him. Something from the past. Even beyond Cristoria.

    ¡°May we talk?¡±

    What have we been doing, then?Meya itched to retort. Coris took her silence as permission, sighing.

    ¡°I¡¯m so sorry I struck you.¡± He whispered. ¡°I promise it won¡¯t happen again, although I have no proof for my word. I¡¯m still committed to you, but if you want to end our courtship, I¡¯ll take the child and raise it with a loving mother. So, don¡¯t worry and¡ªtake all the time you need to decide.¡±

    Meya watched, dumbfounded, as he rose. He glanced at the caterpillar, then handed her his dagger.

    ¡°Cut him a new branch. I¡¯ll wait at the gate.¡±

    He turned and headed to the arbor. Meya sprung to her feet, fire blasting in her bowels.

    Did he honestly think she¡¯d take that insane agreement? What did he make of her?

    ¡°Coris.¡±

    He halted at her call. Meya drew in a deep breath. His parting words rang some bells. She was sure she¡¯d found her answer.

    ¡°It was your mother, wasn¡¯t it? She didn¡¯t just avoid you¡ªshe tried to abort you.¡±

    Coris spun around, eyes wide on bloodless cheeks.

    ¡°I¡¯ve never¡ª¡±

    ¡°She told me. And your father told me you knew.¡± Meya cut across. Coris stood blinking, lost for words for a moment, then hung his head.

    ¡°It was Zier.¡± He said as if he¡¯d read her mind. ¡°He probably overheard the servants gossiping. My friends and I were cornering him¡ªtrading barbs and¡ªhe let slip.¡±

    Meya took a few slow steps towards him. He chuckled, but she doubted he was trembling from that.

    ¡°Strangely enough, I believed it instantly.¡± He threw his head back, smiling wanly at the emerging stars. ¡°Everything made sense, then. I knew what I must do.¡±

    He jolted, tensed at the touch of Meya¡¯s burning palm on his cheek, then he caught her hand with his and pressed his nose against it. Meya drew soothing circles above his ear. His pulse mellowed under her fingers.

    ¡°Seeing me put our babe in danger must¡¯ve struck you deep down there. It dun excuse what you did, but it explains where you came from, where I went wrong.¡±

    Coris shook his head.

    ¡°You¡¯re always¡ªleaving.¡± He stammered, ¡°I know you want nothing less than full honesty from me¡ªthat I can¡¯t always give. I know I can¡¯t make you stay, but I can¡¯t help but¡ªfeel as if I¡¯m just¡ªairunder your wings. Someday you¡¯ll rise where I can¡¯t follow, and I¡¯ll melt away into nothing.¡±

    ¡°I¡¯m sorry.¡± Meya breathed, her voice trembling with tears. Coris shook his head again.

    ¡°No, you¡¯re not Mother. Irrational of me to assume¡ª¡±

    ¡°Well, it dinnae help that I was mightly like her, did it?¡± Meya retorted, ¡°All those times I went off on me own. I knew you¡¯d be worried sick. I knew you¡¯d feel hurt. And you haven¡¯t said a word.¡±

    The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

    Coris pursed his lips, but his eyes betrayed the truth. Meya let her weary head bow, sighing,

    ¡°I used to be just a peasant girl. Now I¡¯m Lady Hadrian. And a dragon. It happened so fast, I keep forgetting. And when I remember, I feel¡ªtrapped.¡±

    Coris stroked the back of her hand, reassuring her with his familiar cold.

    ¡°But I promise, I won¡¯t flee no more. But you must promise you¡¯ll protect me. And never hurt me again.¡±

    ¡°On my life.¡± Coris pulled her into his embrace and pressed his lips to her temple. ¡°I love you, Meya.¡±

    ¡°I love you, too.¡± Meya murmured into his chest. Her eyes were falling close when tiny lights blinked from among the hyacinth thickets. Three became five, then ten, then twenty. Some even took flight. Before long, Meya found herself and Coris standing amid dozens of floating green lights.

    ¡°Ozid said there¡¯ll be fireflies.¡± She whispered, as if her voice would scatter the elusive critters. Coris¡¯s pale eyes absorbed their eerie color as he smiled and drank in the ethereal scene.

    ¡°You know, some say fireflies are souls of fallen warriors. Others say they¡¯re weary souls descending from the Heights to the mortal plane for a second chance at life. The Scriptures say they¡¯re Freda¡¯s lights, meant to guide our way through the dark.¡±

    ¡°¡ªAnd Meya says they¡¯re horny crawlies, waving green crystals in their bums to snag a wife.¡±

    Meya added drily, sending Coris chuckling at her daily dose of heresy. His laughter was short-lived, however¡ªa fluttering light landed on Meya¡¯s middle, blinking like a winking star¡ªthen another, blinking to its rhythm.

    Meya didn¡¯t dare breathe. Eyes bulging, she turned slowly to Coris. His eyes were just as large.

    ¡°Lexi¡ª¡± She breathed. Coris nodded, smiling shakily. He slid his arms around her as softly as he could. The fireflies remained, winking at each other. They flew away side by side, their lights soon lost among the rest. Obviously, they were simply a pair of lustful bugs, but Meya couldn¡¯t help believing, for once.

    ¡°Looks like we¡¯re having twins.¡±

    Coris whispered in her ear as he wrapped her more snugly in his arms. Meya giggled, her cheeks doubling in heat. Boys or girls or one each, she prayed to Freda they¡¯d be chummier than the Graye twins, at least.

    <hr>

    Persephia was kept under the double guard of the Blood Druids and Gillian the Dragon throughout the day. Agnes had been in the kitchen for the good part of the afternoon, emerging at last come dinnertime.

    Her hands straining under the tray¡¯s weight, she pushed open Persephia¡¯s door with her backside, spun around, then almost dropped her tray.

    At first glance, three walls of the room were plastered with gold-gleaming scales as metallic green as beetle wings. Then, she noticed the silvery claws, the curved tail thick as a log and beset with silvery spikes, and the long, serpentine head adorned with silvery horns. The dragon seemed to have been in light sleep. Its visible eye opened at her entrance, glowing acid green with a tear down the middle, a sliver exposing its mysterious depths.

    Agnes rolled her tongue over her dry lips. She dipped her head a little in acknowledgment, firmed her grip on the tray and headed to Persephia. She was sitting against Gillian¡¯s armored side, her neck, wrists and ankles manacled, trapped between the enclave of Vyrgil and his two friends¡ªwho held their swords at her neck¡ªand Gillian¡¯s drumming talons. Her glowing green eyes rose and followed Agnes as she set the tray between her feet.

    ¡°I¡¯d rather you left me to rot in that brothel.¡± She hissed through gritted teeth, but she didn¡¯t send the bowl flying like she did with the prior two meals Agnes had brought, at least.

    ¡°Blancmange, Persie. Your favorite. I cooked it myself. Hasn¡¯t been tampered with, see?¡±

    Fumbling in desperation, Agnes lifted the lid off the heavy clay bowl. The roiling cloud of vapor dissipated, revealing a snow-white gruel, its smooth face inlaid with honeyed pine nuts, spelling out a vulgar curse upon Hadrian.

    Persephia stared down her nose at the white gruel, making no move to touch it.

    ¡°How do you expect me to swallow with blades jabbing at my throat?¡± She shoved it off with her foot.

    ¡°I¡¯ll feed you.¡± Agnes hastily caught the skidding tray before the swirling gruel overflowed, then snatched the escaping spoon.

    ¡°Try it. I¡¯ll spit it out and boil your other eye in its socket.¡± Persie snarled.

    ¡°If it means you¡¯ll take a sip, then fine by me,¡± Agnes mocked through gnashing teeth.

    ¡°I¡¯ve no appetite.¡±

    ¡°You¡¯re half-human. You must stilleat.¡±

    ¡°My body willfeedif it needs to.¡± Persie cocked her head at the wall of scales she was propped against. Was that why Gillian assumed his true form? So Persie could feed on his scales? How absurd.

    Agnes shook her head in frustration. Scooping up a slopping ladle-full, she leaned in and held it before Persie¡¯s lips, pleading,

    ¡°Please. One mouthful. It¡¯s Mother¡¯s blancmange.¡±

    Whenever the King¡¯s entourage took up residence in Graye Castle, Father would organize a hunt for one of their prized white peacocks. The fowl¡¯s flesh would then be boiled with rice in goat milk, served in a bowl of white turtle-shell, sitting atop a nest made of its pearly train. The centerpiece of the welcoming feast.

    But that wasn¡¯t Persie¡¯s favorite. Whenever Agnes fell under the weather (Persie, being a Greeneye, was never sick), Mother would cookbothgirls a filling, healthy treat of their favorites. For Agnes, she¡¯d bake a pie of ground almonds and cream. For Persie, she¡¯d cook a homey blancmange with the tenderest common hen and fattest goat milk. She¡¯d carry the treat to their bedsides, alongside a flowing handful of pine nuts, and watch with a smile as the girls decorate their dish.

    The rich smell no doubt caught Persie¡¯s nostrils, stirring distant memories. Her glowing green eyes lingered on the spoonful. A long pause of silence, then she mused softly,

    ¡°I still can¡¯t believe she¡¯s dead, sometimes.¡±

    Two emotions welled inside Agnes¡¯s chest. Relief¡ªand shame. She wondered what had prompted her to whip up Mother¡¯s specialty for Persie. Was it to manipulate her? Or was she genuinely hoping to console her? She lowered the spoon to the bowl, her eyes to the carpeted floor, counting the legs of the embroidered bejeweled spiders.

    ¡°What I wouldn¡¯t give to be at her bedside that day. Just for a moment.¡± Persie continued, her whispered voice trembling as it gathered strength, ¡°I¡¯ll never forgive him.¡±

    ¡°Then, why are you still doing his bidding?¡± Agnes muttered. Persie caught it.

    ¡°Do I look like I have a choice?¡± Her retort was instant. Agnes surfaced, blinking eyes filled with questions. Persephia averted her gaze, glaring morosely at Gillian¡¯s gleaming talon.

    ¡°Baron Hadrian sent me home with a letter for Father. I thought it was an apology but no¡ªhe threatened to expose me as a Greeneye.¡±

    Persephia¡¯s hands clenched into shaking fists on her knees.

    ¡°I guess Father couldn¡¯t bear the risk any longer. He bribed the Bishop to disappear me. I could¡¯ve been defiled then killed for all he cared, but the bastard just threw me in the convent to rot.¡±

    ¡°When Baron Hadrian found me, I thought I was saved.¡± Persie shook her head, a derisive grin chiding her naive past self, ¡°He erased me. Changed my name¡ªmy life¡ªmy face! Set these Druids to watch me, slipped me amnesiac whenever I showed signs of remembering. I don¡¯t even remember what I looked like. What Mother looked like. But I¡¯m beginning to. I don¡¯t know what he¡¯d do if he ever knew.¡±

    Her voice rose into a snarl, then dissolved into shivering sobs. Her face in her hands, she took a long pause to rein in her ragged breathing, then nodded slowly,

    ¡°But Father, I know. I know what he wants. And if I give it to him, he¡¯ll give me what I want. I just want to go home. Maybe he keeps Mother¡¯s belongings somewhere still. I want to see her old rooms. Maybe I¡¯ll remember her face again.¡±

    ¡°I understand, but then what?¡± Agnes demanded, her voice breaking from the tang of tears in her throat, ¡°What if he wouldn¡¯t introduce you to the Prince? What if he banished you again and Baron Hadrian tracked you down again? How can you be soreckless?¡±

    Persie¡¯s fingers slid down her face. She turned and answered her gaze, cold and calm.

    ¡°I told you¡ªI¡¯d kill myself.¡± She said quietly, adding at the sight of Agnes¡¯s wide-eyed, stunned silence, ¡°What is there left to lose? What¡¯s the difference if I must live as another?¡±

    ¡°Persie¡ª¡±

    Agnes was at a loss. She knew Persie to be headstrong, but she¡¯d never imagined her head would bethisstrong. She cast about for something, anything to convince her, to tempt her¡ª

    ¡°Father¡¯s taken a new Baroness Graye. She¡¯ll bear him an heir.¡± Persie didn¡¯t twitch a muscle on her face. Agnes grasped her arms and shook her gently, peering into her eyes stubbornly glued to the thin air about her shoulder,

    ¡°We¡¯re free, Persie. When all this is over, and The Axel is secret no more, we¡¯ll disappear. Together. We can be anyone, anything. We can go anywhere. If you don¡¯t trust the Hadrians, we can go serve Pearlwater. Or Meriton. Or Cristoria, even. So, please¡ª¡±

    Persie closed her eyes to the sight of Agnes, to the naked half of her face which retained vestiges of Mother¡¯s beauty. Agnes sank to her haunches in despair, but if she were doomed to forever suffer in atonement, she would set off on that path with honor, with her head held high.

    Agnes reached a trembling hand into her sleeve. From it, she produced a piece of old, spotted parchment, crumpled, burnt, and bloodstained in places. As Persephia gawked, she held Mother¡¯s last letter out to her, its contents laid bare in fading ink.

    ¡°You are the firstborn of Graye.¡± She forced air through the claws of dread strangling her windpipe. She stared down at the carpet spiders, peering so hard they dissolved into blurs of black and glowing amethyst, like the gleam in Mother¡¯s eyes,

    ¡°I surrender my birthright. I surrender my claim to the Prince. I surrender myself to the Church.¡±

    Persephia didn¡¯t move. Agnes held on, her hand shaking from ache. She closed her eyes as hot tears stung them. The prospect of life in the convent chilled her to the bone, but it was her destiny. She couldn¡¯t force it upon Persephia any longer.

    ¡°Promise you¡¯ll visit me. And bring me Mother¡¯s pie sometimes. Please?¡±

    For an eternity, Persephia said nothing. Then, to Agnes¡¯s disbelief, she reached for the bowl and poured the gruel down her throat, gobbling like a starved child. Dollops of soup drooped onto Vyrgil¡¯s blade (the three Druids hastily withdrew their swords) and splattered her front.

    When Persie finally lowered the bowl to take a breath, Agnes launched herself forward.

    ¡°I¡¯m so sorry, Persie.¡± She succumbed to tears as she linked her hands upon her sister¡¯s burning back, shaking her head vigorously, ¡°All those years. I should¡¯ve done something. Should¡¯vesaidsomething¡ª¡±

    Persie sniffed, then smoothed her hand down Agnes¡¯s back in return.

    ¡°It¡¯s fine.¡± She comforted her gently, ¡°It mustn¡¯t have been easy for you, either. I¡¯m sorry, too.¡±

    Burning fingertips snaked under her mask, tracing her scar. Agnes squeezed her eyes against the tide of grief for what could have been, as she pressed her cheek to the soothing heat of Persie¡¯s palm.

    ¡°That convent was torture.¡± Persie confessed, her words similarly choked by tears, ¡°But it still took me a week to stop wishing it upon you. How could I have ever wished such a thing? To my own little sister?¡±

    ¡°Don¡¯t, Persie. It¡¯s just a thought.¡± Agnes shook her head. Persie embraced her tighter,

    ¡°Thank Freda it was me. I¡¯m glad it was me.¡±

    The twins sobbed and held onto each other. Gillian watched them, seemingly impassive, then his eye narrowed with a blazing will. Silently, he shifted so his icy metallic scales burning the Hybridean girl¡¯s back made way for his softer, warm belly, and his tail curved in as if to cordon the heat amid the falling night chill.

    By the time the girls¡¯ tears were finally spent, so was their energy. Persephia downed and licked all but a few spoonfuls of the white gruel Agnes helped herself to. Even as hungry as she was, Agnes still couldn¡¯t stand Persie¡¯s beloved blancmange, even one made with Mother¡¯s recipe.

    <hr>

 Aynor

    The road was three days-on-horseback long from the outskirts of Hyacinth to the nearest port of the Celestel River. Fortunately, it was the year of the Miracle Fest, and the week of June that Hyacinth would deliver their finest products to supply the capital for the soon-to-come celebrations.

    The Hadrians took the opening to slip into Aynor with as little notice as possible, disguised as merchants, hidden amongst dozens of barrels and crates of carmine, dates and goat cheese, which were then loaded onto three roofed barges. The ablest men lay down arms and took up oars instead, and the stowaways were wedged into whatever space was left like an afterthought.

    Sir Jarl and the Blood Druid Vyrgil steered the foremost barge, which carried Gillian, and the Baron and Baroness Hadrian, attended to by the Graye sisters. The remaining Blood Druids took charge of the last barge, carrying Tissa, Dorsea and Philema.

    Meya shared her nook at the back of the second barge with Coris, Zier and Arinel. Frenix was supposed to be with them, but he''d monkeyed his way over the kegs to the front, just behind the rowing Christopher. The little pain claimed he needed space to play-fight with the monster of his shadow, using Coris''s straw doll, equipped with a toothpick sword Meya had molded for him.

    Meya''s excitement for the river voyage had long soured. After three days cramped inside a sweltering wagon, pummeled incessantly by the unforgiving terrain, her back stiff, her neck cricking, her buttocks sore, her head swimming from morning sickness, her expectations had risen so high, even the gentle, lulling sway of the water did little to please her.

    Coris untied his cloak and cast it over his lap. He grinned as he caught Meya''s questioning look, pulled the hems taut then flourished his hands.

    "Sleep, my lady," He said, his gray eyes twinkling, "Rest thine head so weary."

    Zier whistled over the sound of his harp, as Arinel giggled from her bed on his lap. Meya shot her beau a playful glare then took up his offer. She leaned on her back so as to behold his face, as he leafed through the book resting open on his other knee. An unwise decision, as it positioned her nose right below his pit.

    Meya rolled onto her side, her face scrunched. Coris straightened in alarm.

    "What, again?" His book fell with a flump as he lunged for the chamberpot. Meya shook her head, her nostrils pinched shut,

    "No, Lexi, you stink!"

    "Meya!"

    Coris whined amidst Zier''s roar of laughter, which met its abrupt end by Arinel''s verdict,

    "Oh, perish it. You both stink."

    Trembling with laughter, Meya clamped her free hand over her mouth as the smelly brothers sulked. Since their disastrous first attempt in the Hyacinth Castle courtyard, Coris and Zier, undeterred, had taken to training together at every opportunity, which did not necessarily include the chance to bathe and change.

    His nose thrust high, Coris crossed his arms and puckered his lips, eyes closed in denial.

    "You may smell the stench of sweat, my good woman. I smell the fragrance of love."

    "Whatever you say, milord."

    Chuckling, Meya burrowed her cheek into the fat of his leg. He was still bony enough that his pulse drummed clear against her ear, but he was rosier, slept sounder, and no longer asked her for laudanum. Soon, he''d be strong enough for Meya to no longer constantly worry for him, strong enough to defend her and their babe, which was his goal (as revealed to her in strict confidence by Zier).

    Warmth flooded her chest, having nothing to do with his arm now draped protectively around her. Meya pressed her lips to his palm. The icy taste of his skin had faded greatly.

    The raft rocked to the river''s rhythm. Coris''s fingers fell again and again through her hair. She was drifting away, then a voice dragged her back to her aching body,

    "Psst, Meya¡ª" Frenix popped his head over the lid of a nearby barrel, "Hey, Meya!"

    Coris huffed in annoyance. His hand left her hair to hook her closer jealously.

    "Can''t you see she''s exhausted?"

    "Won''t take long!" Frenix whined, then whipped back to Meya, "Make me a dragon."

    His demand left the three nobles deep in thought, probably picturing the dragon Meya''s utter lack of artistic flair would give birth to. Meya was torn between her desire to be of use and harsh reality.

    "Dragon? Ain''t that quite tall of an order?" Rolling her eyes, she peeled herself from Coris''s sweaty lap and swayed upright. "Fine, but you''re gunna have to use your imagination a fair bit, milord."

    As Frenix watched in excitement, and Coris, Zier and Arinel in slight trepidation, Meya wormed her hand deep into her money-pouch, catching the copper faces scuttling about the bottom in her fist. She withdrew and, after a deep breath, unfurled her fingers. A pool of metal, warm rust-brown with swirls of glittering silver. So deep was her concentration, she hardly noticed her audience had fallen deathly silent.

    "Meya, what are you doing?" Coris whispered, his voice sharp.

    "''Tis fine, Coris. I''ll turn ''em back when he''s done with it."

    Meya hummed as she shaped the coagulating liquid into what she hoped was a passing lizard with her finger. Coris froze to stone at her reply, shaking his head in terror.

    "No, you can''t!"

    He lunged, his long, pale fingers throttling Meya''s wrist. Molten bronze sloshed from her palm, splashing onto the wooden floorboard, where it froze solid in moments.

    "Fyr''s Bollocks¡ª"

    Scrambling to her knees, Meya slammed her hand over the puddle as she would an irksome gnat, drinking it back in.

    "Why would you do that? ''Tis me money you''re spilling!" She rounded on Coris. He glared back, unrepentant.

    "Because what you were about to do is akin to coining, Meya," hissed Arinel, adding at Meya''s wide-eyed stare of incredulity, "It''s high treason!"

    High treason? For melting and recrafting a handful of coins? Meya shook her head in disbelief, eyebrows knotted at the utter insanity.

    "But¡ª" She opened her mouth, but Coris cut across her with his bony arm.

    "Here," He fished his journal and charcoal pencil from the folds of his cloak, handing them to Frenix alongside a stern command, "Outside of this immediate party, this never happened, understood?"

    His sharp, blazing gray eyes swept the company. Even Zier nodded, his eyebrows furrowed. Frenix glanced between them, eyes wide, his grip slack around Coris''s journal. Huffing, Meya leaned in with a protest,

    "Coris, I can turn them back¡ª"

    "Can you? Do you remember precisely how much of which metals were in those coins? Do you even remember how many coins there were?" Coris raised his eyebrows, his long nose inches from hers. Meya gritted her teeth, trembling in grudging defeat. Coris narrowed his eyes, his voice icier with every word,

    "Only smithies given rights by royal decree can mint coins. Women have burned for shaving a handful of gold faces. For Freda''s sake, what is it between you and the pyre that you just can''t stay away?"

    "Fine! Fine! I won''t do it no more. Happy now?" Meya threw up her hands then crossed them over her bosom. She rammed her back against the barge''s wall, venting her temper.

    "Meya, listen to him!" Arinel scolded in an unprecedented show of solidarity with Coris. Meya cocked an eyebrow at her. She glowered back.

    "You take this matter seriously, or it may very well be the last thing you''d ever do."

    Those unblinking, ice-clear blue eyes delved deep into hers. Meya gulped words down her contricted throat, reminded of the last time she had failed to heed the Lady''s warning. Still, Meya Hild was nothing if not tiresomely pigheaded. Especially when it came to the law.

    "''Tis but a pocketful of coins. I ain''t plotting to kill the king. What''s with high treason and all that?"

    Grumbled Meya. Coris and Arinel turned and met eyes worriedly.

    "I reckon it''s high time you teach her about the coin," said Arinel. Coris weighed it briefly, then shook his head.

    "She won''t learn in this state." He said brusquely, then nodded at the pouting Meya, slapping his leg, "Sleep. I''ll explain tonight."

    "Say, if we reveal Greeneyes can absorb and secrete metal, how do we stop them doing this? Say even if the majority didn''t, how can we trust our money from now on?"

    Zier finally broke his silence. Coris froze, then sighed heavily.

    "My fears precisely." He admitted, for once agreeing with his brother, his eyebrows furrowed, "We may have no choice but to plate our coins with Lattis. I wonder how Nostra tackled this issue."

    Lattis?

    Coris hummed as he caressed his chin, his eyes unfocused, lost among possibilities. Meya could hardly believe her ears, her eyes. She scrambled to her knees and bolted back, wanting nothing than to flee as far from this heartless creature as Freda would allow.

    "I can''t believe this!" Coris spun around, nonplussed, then jumped out of his skin at Meya''s scream¡ª

    This story has been unlawfully obtained without the author''s consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.

    "HOW DARE YOU! D''YOU WANT ME TO DIE SOONER!?"

    A flash of comprehension crossed his eyes. Meya realized Coris must have simply forgotten, and her rage subsided¡ªonly to surge into a wall of flames when his fleeting guilt gave way to the familiar cold determination.

    "And what other solution do you have?" He asked, a hint of derision in his voice. Meya had none. Her fear must have poked through her fury¡ªCoris caught himself, then. His taut lips unwound. His frown melted away. He blinked, and his eyes were gentle gray once more.

    "Latakia wasn''t built with dragons in mind." He began, "If we were to share this land in peace, compromises must be made."

    Meya didn''t deign to, she couldn''t bring herself to meet his eyes. Compromise. Sacrifice. Goodwill. Whatever. They were all facades for one and the same¡ªBurden on the Land. He simply hid it better than Lasralein. Desperate, Coris reached out his hands.

    "I''ll consult Gillian. We''ll find a safe balance. Together." He held her hands as he clung onto her eyes, pleading, "I would never knowingly harm you, Meya¡ª"

    "Unless you really had to? Until your precious babe is safely out of me¡ª"

    Meya cursed so vulgarly Arinel clutched at her heart. Zier belatedly clapped his hands over Frenix''s ears.

    "Meya!" cried Lady Crosset, but if Meya knew Coris, he''d be more affected by the sentiment. The realization scored a searing wound on her heart, but she swathed it with pride. And so she remained smiling as Coris paled bone-white, as his eyes blazed silver¡ª

    "You dare¡ª" He growled.

    "Have I ever not?" Meya shrugged, unrepentant, as she spat oil onto the flames, "Looks like I''ve struck a nerve, eh?"

    She must have. Coris gritted his teeth, his lips pursed to a thin line. The sight brought a burning sensation to the rims of her eyes. Whether it was his sorrow, or his lack of protest, she wasn''t sure. Meya tore her eyes away.

    "You said I''d always be your priority." She said softly, her lips twisted into a mocking smile, "Guess you haven''t changed. At all."

    Silence. Terrible, hopeless silence. He made no move to break it, shattering her heart with every breath that passed.

    "Perhaps you shouldn''t have been so generous with me."

    Yes, he hadn''t changed. He was Lord Hadrian. He''d always been Lord Hadrian. Perhaps he had forgotten, just as she had forgotten.

    "Meya, go to sleep," said Arinel at last, her voice heavy as her heart. Then, she turned to Coris, "It''s her pregnant humors talking. She doesn''t mean it."

    "By Fyr I didn''t¡ª" Meya swore under her breath.

    "Meya Hild, I''m commanding you as your Lady!"

    Arinel snapped, eyes blazing, demanding obedience. After one last scorching look, Meya clambered over the sea of barrels to the front, bumping the shaken Frenix aside as she went.

    Once she had dismounted and vanished from sight, Zier sighed and shook his head. Should''ve known to bite his tongue at the onslaught of intrusive thoughts. He sneaked a glance at Coris, and it was just as he''d expected. His brother sat slumped like a marionette cut loose from its strings, pale and downcast, his eyes unseeing. As if he sensed the concern in their staring eyes, he nodded listlessly.

    "She does have a point." Words clawed their way feebly out of his lips. "The day will come when I must choose. I can''t choose her over Hadrian. Or Latakia."

    Silence fell as Coris sank, his head in his hands, fingernails scoring lines on his scalp.

    "I''d always thought she understood. She''d always said she understood."

    A warm hand on his shoulder was all Zier could give, alongside empty promises.

    "She will. I''m sure she will."

    <hr>

    Daylight slid over her back like gentle hems of a lace curtain, silent and warm. A clumsy plunge of the oar sent her wooden bed lurching forward, jolting Meya awake. She opened her eyes. Christopher remained perched on the deck, now a silhouette against the vermilion sky.

    Just how long had she nodded off?

    Meya sat up, ignoring protests from her creaking bones. Unfortunately, she rose too quickly. Her head swimming, she clamped her hand over her mouth at the sudden wave of nausea. Christopher spun around at her stifled retch¡ªonly, he wasn''t Christopher.

    Their eyes met. Coris blinked blankly for a beat, then hastily returned to rowing.

    "Sorry. I''ll try to row smoother."

    Meya fixed her gaze on his feet, too ashamed to reply. Her lips quivered with whispered words as she mustered her courage, but he beat her to it.

    "I''m sorry," Meya perked up. Coris held the oar, his eyes closed as he cooled his forehead on its handle. "I should never have suggested that. It was lazy. And beyond cruel."

    Meya shook her head, sighing. As Coris resumed rowing, she edged in and linked her arms around his leg, resting her head against it.

    "I''m sorry, too." She mumbled, "''Twas a low blow, that was."

    "But you are right," said Coris quietly. "Should the worst come to pass, I must choose Hadrian over our child, and our child over you."

    His voice trembled then stilled, the tremors having traveled to his knee she was clinging to. She tugged on his trousers, pleading through her eyes, but he rambled blindly on,

    "I know how I must sound, but it''s not that I don''t love you. That I don''t mean what I swore. You''ll always come before me, but so will those who look to me to lead them¡ª"

    "Lexi, stop it! ''Tis not gunna happen. ''Tisn''t fair of me to ask. I shouldn''t have¡ªI¡ª"

    Her desperation finally reached him. Meya hugged his leg close, eyes shut tight against burning tears.

    Coris rowed silently on for a moment.

    "Have you ever heard of Noblesse Oblige?"

    Meya peeled her wet cheek from his leg and raised her eyes. Coris stared straight ahead, his profile painted glowing ember by the setting sun.

    "Nobility comes with obligation. Privilege comes with responsibility. Power comes with sacrifice."

    Meya nodded.

    "Yeah. You told me."

    "If you''re to become my wife. Lady Hadrian. Baroness Hadrian¡ª" He enunciated. Meya shivered under its weight. "We must choose as one to place the well-being of Hadrian above our own, stand loyal to the crown in Aynor and no other. Yes, we''ll treat Greeneyes as Latakians same as humans. They''ll be given the same rights and protection as everyone else. And subject to the same rules and penalties as everyone else."

    "I understand."

    "Do you, Meya?" challenged Coris with a noisy plonk of the oar. Meya cocked an eyebrow in simmering annoyance. She''d ditched her pride, tried her damnedest to make amends, for Freda''s sake. Was this donghead addicted to conflict, too?

    "Say a Greeneye commits high treason, will you stand by me sentencing him to be hung, drawn, and quartered alongside his human cohorts?"

    "I don''t believe we should sentence anyone to hung, drawn and quartered, for that matter," scoffed Meya. Coris merely hummed in amusement, as if to toy with her fraying patience. Growling and rolling her eyes, Meya heaved herself up and crossed her legs on the deck, surrendering once again to curiosity.

    "Why''s coining high treason, anyway? And why d''you need hung, drawn and quartered for high treason? Just chop his head off and be done!"

    Coris curled a sly smile at the corner of his lips, his gray eyes shining with victory.

    "With the obvious exception of Jaise, punishments often aren''t revenge or justice but deterrence." Grunting, he pushed the barge forward with a mighty row.

    "It is as Zier said. Imagine if you knew Greeneyes could leech gold and silver from your coins, fill them with lead, and you''d be none the wiser. What would you do if you couldn''t trust the gold you''d earned? If you could no longer trade for food with it? If everyone in Latakia thinks the same?"

    Meya watched Coris''s oar as she pondered, the vivid scene robbing her heart of warmth as chaos unfolded. People would''ve to resort to trading with whatever they had¡ªor not at all. The way it used to be. Travelers and merchants would offer a tale, a song, a bundle of silk, maybe, for shelter and dinner with the Hilds. Meya couldn''t picture that being the norm, not the exception.

    "Greeneyes are capable of the same heights of miracles, and the same bowels of atrocities as humans." Coris turned to her at long last, his sharp eyes piercing deep into hers at his dire warning, "It will happen, Meya. We must be ready."

    Meya hung her head, mourning the undeniable truth, but the change in scenery soon distracted her. To the left, a small pier hung from the grassy slope of the riverbank, reeling in boats and rafts. Light from lamps mounted on poles glowed in the gathering dark. Tents and stalls spilling with goods dotted the roads on both sides, crowding denser the further along they went.

    A dark stone column rose from the heart of the river, parting the stream in two like a delta. To the right, rafts and barges sailed past, treading the waters they''d traveled down, back up to the northern duchies. To the left, fellow new arrivals fell into step with them, jostling to be first into the capital.

    As they hobbled their way forward, lamplight from surrounding boats pooled on the column, revealing a marble statue of powdered blue-gray¡ªthe color of the Wynn Kings of old, shaped into a woman¡ªveiled, faceless, hands clasped over her bosom. An arch of reed crowned her, stalks of grass twisted into Aynor''s motto:

    All Remember She Who Forgets Herself

    On they sailed, yet the words captured her still. Meya tilted her head back, then around, her eyes lingering, her brows knotted as the sinews of the arch itself.

    "I''ve always wondered¡ªwho is she?" She mused aloud. Coris shrugged in empathy.

    "I''d always assumed it simply rhymes. As of recently, my bet is it refers to Freda¡ªOr, whomever she may have been."

    "Freda? What d''you mean?" Meya whipped around. Coris cocked his head.

    "Chione rained fire and brimstone from the Heights. So Freda guided Latakas Wynn to drive her away." He met her gaze with eyes narrowed, "What if Chione was the dragon queen?"

    Meya''s eyes wandered as her thoughts took her to times long faded, then widened as the faint connections sharpened.

    "Of course. Rutgarth." She breathed, nodding vigorously to herself, "And who would''ve known how to defeat a dragon but a dragon from Everglen? Freda was a Greeneye. She betrayed the Lattis secret to King Latakas, let him take credit, then disappeared. To keep dragons secret. So they can live in Latakia?"

    She turned to Coris. At his solemn nod, she let her mind drift just a little further,

    "She forgot herself. And so, all remember her¡ªas the Goddess Freda."

    Even as Coris voiced his silent support, Meya couldn''t help but sigh at the grim conclusion. She glanced at her haversack. Stowed within was Axel''s memoir and remaining eye.

    He gave his life for his sacrifice to remain in vain two centuries on. And what of poor Flindel, hung for saving dragons fleeing war? Or folks like Dizadh? Friar Tumney? Or even¡ªDad? Gracious, righteous folk who gave whatever and whenever they could¡ªoften more. Only to quietly fade into time, their tales unsung.

    Meya shook her head, cold fire burning in the pit of her tummy.

    "She''s still forgotten, though." She muttered. Coris turned around, eyebrows raised. Meya shrugged, "If all this was true, nobody knows her name, so All didnae remember, did they? What a filthy lie. What''s the use if you''re forgotten? After all you''ve done? All you''ve sacrificed?"

    Coris fell silent for a long while, so long Meya thought he''d agreed. Yet, just as she lowered her guard, he attacked,

    "If I wouldn''t have remembered you. If we wouldn''t have met again. If I wouldn''t have saved Crosset. If you would''ve died in the attempt. If you''d known, would you still have rescued me that night?"

    Meya froze, blinking, caught unawares. Before she could think, Coris went ahead and answered himself,

    "You would. You had. Because you knew full well all those would likely have been the case. Or, it had simply never occurred to you." Again, Coris pierced her with his willful, heart-chilling stare, then melted it with a warm, adoring smile.

    "All that mattered to you was that I was alive. That''s the use, isn''t it?"

    He looked so sure, so sincere, Meya couldn''t help but answer in kind. Her smile sagged the instant Coris turned his back on her and focused on rowing. Sure, young Meya would''ve saved little Lord Coris without a second thought, pure and naive and foolish as she was. But would present Meya be as brave? As selfless? She dreaded the truth.

    They were approaching the heart of Aynor now. Shops had given way to wattle-and-daub houses, floors teetering dangerously over the water, crammed so close to their neighbors that their eaves touched, as endless strings of locals and tourists filed past the gaps.

    Ahead loomed a bridge of brick and stone, groaning under the weight of hundreds of parading feet. It was but the first of six bridges over the Celestel, stitching two halves of the city in place, decorated with tinsels of glass in all shapes¡ªteardrops, diamonds, spheres, stars that flashed in the lamplight¡ªall shaded with glass stained with every color in Freda''s rainbow.

    Meya''s spirits couldn''t help but lift. As they passed under the bridge''s arch, she stretched her arm as far as her joints would allow, touching her fingertips to the swaying glass drops.

    On each of the six bridges, the light of the six duchies would unite with the light of Aynor to celebrate the Miracle Fest. Each Duke would send his best merchants with the finest products to peddle on his duchy''s bridge decorated by the hands of his best artisans. On the last day of the Fest, after the King''s fireworks, festival-goers would cast their vote for their favorite bridge.

    Coris straightened once the bridge was behind them. He hung back for a moment, admiring the display, then sallied forth, chanting as he rowed,

    "Fireworks from Aynor. Glass from Easthaven. Stones from Hythe. Candles from Icemeet. Lanterns from Damerel. Water from Aquar¡ª"

    "¡ªand mushrooms from Meriton." interrupted Meya, disgruntled, as they approached Damerel''s bridge, festooned with paper lanterns of all colors, shapes and sizes. Up next would probably be Aquar, with their orbs of shimmering blue algae water and mother-of-pearl lanterns. Another favorite for the popular vote. Chuckling, Coris mussed her hair in jest,

    "Come now. They''re testament to the richness of our woodlands. And they rhyme. That''s always a plus, right?"

    "Then how come we never win?"

    "Agh! Them barbarians simply cannot comprehend the edible romance that is glowing mushrooms." Coris rolled his eyes, waving his free hand before his nose as if to fan away the stench of the uncultured, then his eyes bulged at the gloomy sight of the third bridge¡ªa black-dark silhouette spotted with clumps of cold blue and green glows.

    "Shining shrooms¡ªThere''s our bridge!" He cried, then spun around with a breathless demand¡ª

    "Kiss me!"

    "What!?" Meya gawked. Would''ve made more sense if he apologized then corrected it to kick, even. Coris jittered in place in frustration.

    "It''ll show them! Kiss me!" He whined, snatching Meya''s hand and dragging her to her feet.

    "No!" Meya jerked her wrist free, blushing furiously in the eerie light.

    "For Freda''s sake! Don''t you want Meriton to win for once?"

    "We''re farmers on a raft peddling cheese from Hyacinth¡ªFor Freda''s sake!"

    "Precisely! That''s just how persuasive Meriton''s shrooms are!"

    "''Tisn''t them shrooms I''m kissing, donghead. How persuasive are you?"

    "Persuasive? Woman, I''m poetic!" Coris threw up his hands in exasperation, then dived headfirst into his offering¡ª

    "Your eyes shine eerie as fungi lit aglow.

    Your voice gnaws on my skull like worms in oak ole.

    You conquer my heart like mold on bread grows.

    You''ll bring the death of me like poison slow¡ª"

    The limerick ended there¡ªMeya had launched herself at Coris with a kiss full on his rhyming lips. Coris responded with rivaling passion, casting away his oar in favor of Meya''s waist. The lovers twirled round and round on the deck, lost amid the thousand lights of Latakia¡ªuntil that old feller on the nearby boat chucked the oar back and knocked Coris upside the head, followed by a string of curses. Unfortunately, due to the crowding in the river, Coris had pitched the oar smack into the old man''s face.

    Giggling, fondling (Coris''s) head, the two embraced and swayed to the beat of the river as they sailed through the remaining bridges to the heart of Aynor, creating memories of their first Miracle Fest¡ªand first Miracle Fest together.

    <hr>

    (Author''s note)

    How wonderful for this chapter to fall on this time of year.

    Merry Christmas and Happy New Year, everyone!

 Mirrams Worst Nightmare

    Even as a lad, Mirram Hild couldn¡¯t understand the call of adventure. It was as if the young men of his little village were born blessed with the gift of a secret tongue, the whispering language of the wind that the bards sang but which he did not speak.

    His daughter Meya, however, wasn¡¯t born with the gift¡ªshe was made of it. He guessed she¡¯d learned it from her mother alongside the Song she stole. And as she grew, so did her yearning, with every Miracle Fest he forbade her from clambering aboard Jason¡¯s caravan to Aynor.

    She managed to find her way there in the end as part of Lord Coris and Lady Arinel¡¯s entourage¡ªso she wrote in clumsy letters she¡¯d also learned in her new post. She begged him to accept, for once, Jason¡¯s invitation. She longed to show him Aynor, treat him to the sights and sounds and tastes with gold she¡¯d earned from honest, hard work.

    Although Mirram still couldn¡¯t comprehend the call of the road, he¡¯d follow his daughter¡¯s Song even if it beckoned him to the unknown. He missed her mischievous grin, her unruly red-gold hair, her whining voice challenging his every command, although he was too bashful to admit. And now that the new Lord Crosset was on his way home, she too should finally be able to return from exile. He¡¯d bring her back once she¡¯d had her fill of the three lands.

    One by one the barges slipped into place along the riverbank. Rowers set aside their oars and pranced onto the pier, then set to work unloading crates and barrels of Meriton¡¯s finest products.

    Jason had paid for Mirram¡¯s place in the caravan, of course, but Mirram still joined the young men and lent his strength wherever needed. Once the last batch of glowing mushrooms had been tied and covered with tarpaulin, the remaining pony clip-clopped up the dirt road towards Meriton¡¯s bridge.

    Mirram dusted his hands and trudged alongside Jason back to the waiting women. Jezia was crouched, studying the knot tying the nearby barge to shore. Alanna was still marveling at their surroundings, Aynor¡¯s variety of lights dancing in her blue eyes.

    ¡°I¡¯ve never seen Aynor as a guest before.¡± She sighed as Mirram drew level with her, then met his gaze with a wistful smile, ¡°I was always part of the decoration, part of the city.¡±

    Mirram¡¯s heart tightened as he gathered her into his arms. As if spurred by her sentiments, Jason too peered at the faraway bridges.

    ¡°And I struggle to not price everything in sight.¡± He agreed with a laugh. When Jezia straightened, he wrapped his arm around her shoulder, gazing fondly down at the beaming girl, ¡°But tonight, I¡¯ll try my best. We¡¯ll rest and enjoy.¡±

    Alas, his promise was not to last. Having bade the caravan farewell for the night, they asked their way to the inn Meya had reserved for them. Before the gates of the Dragon¡¯s Crossing Inn, however, Jason found himself wondering if he was back at the Crimson Hog.

    Jason gawked at the copper sign embossed with a snarling dragon hanging from the stone post, consulted Meya¡¯s letter, then blinked at the sheer sprawl of the establishment. The mansion hogged the entire stretch of land between two lanes for itself, its limewashed wall carpeted with vines. Peeking between swathes of blooming blue lobelia, its two-dozen-or-so windows set in two rows cast their warm glow upon the town square.

    A handsome horse trotted by them, pulling a magnificent white carriage onto the inn¡¯s courtyard. Its door swung open. Out spilled a belly draped in fine fabric, pinned with gleaming golden buttons, followed by a bald, mustachioed head. A doorman bowed him and his beautiful young mistress inside.

    Alanna tugged her cloak over her shabby dress then leaned towards Jason,

    ¡°Jason, we pick up Meya here then we move on to our lodgings for the night, do we?¡±

    Jason met her unblinking eyes, then scoured the letter for a second destination, even as he knew he¡¯d find none. He shook his head,

    ¡°No, this is where we stay the night.¡±

    A moment of silence as three pairs of eyes gawked at him, then Alanna turned again to the inn.

    ¡°I take it Meya¡¯s serving in the Lady¡¯s chambers, then.¡± She nodded slowly, then a trembling smile lit her face aglow, ¡°What an honor. And how so generous of the Lady. She must be a favorite, Mirram!¡±

    Alanna rattled her husband¡¯s arm in excitement. Mirram stood blinking dumbly up at the towering shadow that was the inn,

    ¡°I guess Freda does perform miracles.¡± He said hoarsely. However, having finally realized what this entailed, Jezia faltered, shaking her head, her face bone-white in the light of the lamppost,

    ¡°I don¡¯t care how much of an honor it is, I am not sleeping next to Lady Arinel¡¯s chamberpot.¡±

    ¡°Hush, Jezia.¡± Jason scolded. The three adults met eyes, then ventured forth as one. Jezia shuffled in their wake, grumbling about Meya forcing her to share in her torment and how she¡¯d empty Lady Arinel¡¯s digested dinner on Meya¡¯s head the following morning.

    The doorman eyed them from windswept hair to raggedy hay slippers as they lined up before him. Jason cleared his throat,

    ¡°This is Mirram and Alanna Hild.¡± He gestured at the couple, who nodded vigorously. ¡°Their daughter Meya serves the Lady Hadrian, and the Lady has graciously allowed us to meet her here.¡±

    The doorman¡¯s suspicion melted to terror, which he hid with a bow, then surfaced with a nervous smile.

    ¡°Ah, you¡¯re guests of the Lady Hild?¡±

    Alanna shared raised eyebrows with Mirram and Jason, then corrected with a hasty grin,

    ¡°Yes, but just Meya Hild¡ª¡±

    ¡°Please, do come in. I shall lead the way.¡±

    The doorman bowed and thrust back the door, seeming not to have heard the last part. After sharing another round of befuddled looks, the four trooped inside. Perhaps the inn referred to every guest as Lord or Lady as a rule, concluded Jason. That didn¡¯t explain the Crimson Hog, however.

    The doorman led them across the bright chandelier-lit hall, up the varnished wooden staircase, then down the carpeted floor of the left wing. He stopped halfway through, between two gleaming oaken doors.

    ¡°This room is for Sir and Madam Hild. And this room is for Sir and Madam Boszel.¡± He flourished his hand towards the door on the left, the right, then beyond,

    ¡°The Lady Hild is with the Lord Hadrian¡¯s entourage in the right wing. I shall notify her of your arrival. Please wait inside. She will be visiting presently.¡±

    He handed keys to Mirram and Jason, bowed deeply then retreaded his footsteps. Jason watched his shrinking figure until he knocked on a door deep into the right wing and vanished into the room, shared another look of bewilderment with Alanna, then filed into the Hilds¡¯ room.

    Now that she wouldn¡¯t be roommates with the Lady¡¯s chamberpot, Jezia¡¯s mood lifted. She dashed into the room, prancing from one luxury to another. Jason dragged his tired feet towards the nearest chair by the fireplace, halfheartedly chiding her.

    Mirram, however, had on a dark expression as he eyed the four-poster bed peeking from behind blue silk curtains, the roaring stone fireplace hosting a circle of high-backed wooden chairs, the powder-blue carpet woven with golden thread, the windows offering a view of the bustling town square. His fist clenched over the knot of his bundle, he stood in the doorway, not even deigning to set down their belongings or take one step further.

    Enjoying the story? Show your support by reading it on the official site.

    Alanna knew his suspicions. She took his hand in hers and ran her free hand down his arm, soothing his tense muscles.

    ¡°Could just be a courtesy for me. You know they always do that.¡± She whispered with a mischievous smile and tilt of her head. Mirram melted at the twinkle in her blue eyes. Sighing, he left his bundle by the door and trudged inside. He¡¯d barely touched his behind on the chair across from Jason when the door flew open with a bang, and he shot straight back to his feet.

    For a breath, he thought it was Marin who had burst in, wrapped in a flowing dress of blood-red silk and flashing silver embroidery, rich rose-gold hair unfettered but for the part woven into a net braid, freckles powdered into oblivion, her smile radiant as the dawn. Yet, her eyes were glowing acid-green. They found Mirram before the fireplace, and she scampered in.

    ¡°Mum! Dad! Jason!¡±

    Meya squealed as she shook their limp arms, then threw herself at Jason, almost bowling him over in the process.

    ¡°Meya, my good lass!¡± Jason laughed heartily as he slapped her back, then peered over her head at those who¡¯d trooped in after her, familiar faces among them, ¡°And Silvan and Sanvell! And Diana, too! It¡¯s so good to see you all again. May I say, you look healthier than the last time we met, dear boy.¡±

    He nodded approvingly at gangly Silvan, who inflated as if he¡¯d swallowed a puff from a bellows. He, too, was wearing blood-red robes threaded with silver.

    ¡°I am healthier, Jason. Albeit only slightly. I still have a ways to go.¡± He corrected with pride, then stepped aside to reveal the man and woman behind him, ¡°My parents, Silas and Vaila.¡±

    Silas and Vaila were also dressed in the same crimson and silver robes. Something stirred in Mirram¡¯s memory at the sight of the vivid red. Jason hurried forth and shook Silas¡¯s hand, ever eager to strike new gold.

    ¡°Jason Boszel, good sir. This is my daughter Jezia. Humble merchants at your service. I¡¯ve met your sons once, but it¡¯s plain you¡¯ve raised such fine young men. Sharp, too! I¡¯d say Silvan here would make an awesome detective.¡±

    Jason shared a few chuckles with the unabashed Silvan. Mirram frowned as he glanced between the Boszels and the new youngsters, having caught the air of familiarity they enjoyed.

    ¡°You know them?¡± Jason spun around at his tone of disbelief, nodding earnestly.

    ¡°They¡¯re Meya¡¯s friends from the castle. The Joplund boys and Diana Crestine. We met last time in Hadrian.¡±

    Mirram studied them one by one. Silvan and Sanvell weathered his scrutiny. Diana, however, dipped her head and hid behind her curtains of brown curls. She eerily resembled Lady Arinel. Alanna didn¡¯t seem to notice, though¡ªshe¡¯d heard the word ¡®friends¡¯.

    ¡°Oh, thank Freda.¡± She scurried forth, shaking both of Diana¡¯s hands, gushing, ¡°I was so worried she wouldn¡¯t make any friends. Thank you so much for putting up with¡ªall this.¡±

    ¡°Mum!¡± Meya cried, glaring at her mother¡¯s gesturing hands. Silvan¡¯s yellow-toothed grin seemed frozen on his pale face.

    ¡°Eh...not at all. It has been our pleasure, I assure you.¡± He answered Meya¡¯s gaze. She was no longer glowering, nor he smiling. An awkward silence fell as the gathering turned as one to Mirram, as if awaiting his reaction.

    Mirram lingered briefly on the others, then honed in on Meya. She clasped trembling hands over her middle, her eyes wide and fearful, barely blinking as her rouged lips quivered as if bursting with words. Words of apology Mirram realized then he didn¡¯t need to hear. He stepped forth and drew a deep breath,

    ¡°Meya, I¡¯m sorry. For¡ªwhat I said.¡± He imagined Alanna rolling her eyes behind his back. Hours of rehearsing, wasted. Or perhaps not¡ªMeya¡¯s eyes filled with tears. He reached over and gave her hair a couple awkward pats, shaking his head.

    ¡°I dun want to scare you, but I dunno how else to tell you. I reckon, I may have lost my temper a bit too soon, but¡ªwe have a new Lord Crosset now, and¡ª¡±

    Meya¡¯s small, feverish hand rested on his arm. He broke off and raised his eyes. Tear tracks gleamed on Meya¡¯s cheeks over her exposed freckles. Her lips trembled from the sobs she held in.

    ¡°Dad, I know.¡± She whispered, ¡°I was exiled. The Lady told me.¡±

    ¡°Lady Arinel?¡± Mirram¡¯s eyes widened. Meya nodded. As Mirram wondered if it was out of compassion or spite, Meya shared a long look with Silvan, who dipped a single, firm nod. She turned back to Mirram, her head hung, her shoulders shaking, her hands now clawlike, clutching at her belly.

    ¡°Dad, I¡ªI gotta tell you this, too.¡± A foreboding notion curled in Mirram¡¯s stomach as he watched Meya hunch lower as if in agony. But no, it couldn¡¯t possibly be. How could he possibly have two daughters pregnant out of wedlock in less than two months? The fault couldn¡¯t have been Alanna¡¯s¡ªshe was a woman of flawless repute. He couldn¡¯t have failed this abysmally as a father, could he?

    As the weight of the mystery threatened to buckle his knees, Meya raised her tear-streaked face, sniffling,

    ¡°Please don¡¯t disown me, Dad.¡± She squeaked, slowly shaking her head. ¡°I¡¯m so sorry. I¡¯m pregnant.¡±

    Behind him, Alanna crumpled to the floor. Meya glanced at her, fresh tears falling at the sight of her mother¡¯s heartbreak, then returned to Mirram with bated breath.

    Mirram couldn¡¯t move just yet. His eyes roamed the room. The luxury inn. The lavish dress. The rouge and powder. The pomp and titles. Honest hard work! She must¡¯ve slept her way up to Lady Arinel¡¯s bedside. Loyal confidante to one, lustful mistress to the other. Ice sped up his veins like disease, crushing his lungs, shattering his heart.

    Meya gingerly took his hand. He flung her off. She recoiled, then mustered her courage,

    ¡°You dun have to worry. I¡¯m keeping the babe. He¡¯ll marry me proper. I won¡¯t bring no shame upon your name, I swear. No-one will know¡ª¡±

    The ice in his arm broke, and Mirram swung. Meya crashed to the floor. With a scream, Alanna flung herself over the girl, sobbing. Meya picked herself up, crying in earnest now. Blood trickled from her split lips. Mirram turned over his hand. A drop of red glinted on his palm.

    ¡°I¡¯m sorry, Dad. I just wanted to know what it feels like. I just love him. I¡¯m so, so sorry.¡±

    It was then that Mirram realized just how wrong he was, just how terrible a father he had been. For even believing such a thing of his own daughter. His poor, lonesome, lost daughter. He fell to his knees and pulled her into his arms. Meya crumpled against his chest, bawling as she had never done in years.

    ¡°Dad, I¡¯m sorry.¡± She blubbered. Mirram smoothed his rough palm down her hair then pressed his lips to her crown.

    ¡°¡¯Tis alright. ¡¯Tis alright, lass.¡± He murmured distractedly, his imagination running wild, ¡°Did he force you? Hurt you? Trick you?¡± He demanded sharply.

    Meya peeled her face from his shirt, mopping it with the back of her hand.

    ¡°No, Dad. I was willing.¡± She froze, then lowered her head in shame, mumbling, ¡°Actually, I¡ªI kinda tricked him into it.¡±

    Alanna wailed and clapped her hands to her face, smoldering to a heap. Meya hung her head.

    ¡°I¡¯m sorry, Mum. I¡¯m so sorry.¡± She sobbed. Mirram shook his head. Cursing through gritted teeth, he snatched Meya¡¯s arm, yanked her to her feet, then flung her headfirst towards the door. Silvan caught her as she stumbled.

    ¡°Fetch your things. You¡¯re going home. We set off first light tomorrow.¡± Barked Mirram over his shoulder as he stormed about, searching for his bundle.

    ¡°Dad, wait¡ª¡± cried Meya desperately from Silvan¡¯s arms. Mirram spotted his bundle where he left it beside the door and marched in¡ªthen someone stepped squarely into his warpath.

    ¡°Farmer Hild!¡±

    Mirram cocked an eyebrow. Thin, pale, brown-haired Silvan Joplund. For a blink, the realization froze his heart, then rage like iron tongues of flame strangled it. So, this was the bastard who befouled his little girl.

    The boy wetted his cracked lips, scorched dry by the ray of pure hatred flaring from Mirram¡¯s eyes. Yet, he held firm, his gray eyes barely blinking as he sank heavily to one knee.

    ¡°The child is mine. Please. Allow me to ask Meya¡¯s hand in marriage.¡±

    Mirram stared down his nose at the boy, hands curled into shaking fists.

    ¡°You should¡¯ve asked before you ruined her with your filthy seed, you mongrel!¡± He swung his fist back with a roar. Silvan squeezed his eyes shut, braced for the blow, but Meya had thrown herself at Mirram¡¯s arm, shrieking her guts out¡ª

    ¡°DAD! NO! HE¡¯S REALLY¡ª¡±

    ¡°Silence, Meya!¡± Silvan snapped. So did whatever was left of Mirram¡¯s restraint¡ª

    "YOU DON¡¯T TELL MY DAUGHTER TO SILENCE AS I LIVE AND BREATHE, YOU SON OF A¡ª¡±

    ¡°HE¡¯S CORIS HADRIAN, DAD!¡±

    Meya bellowed. Mirram continued to struggle in the few moments it took for her voice to reach his brain, for his brain to digest her words. His arms fell limply to his side as he stared down at the boy in bewilderment.

    So, his guess was correct, after all? Meya was Lord Hadrian¡¯s mistress?

    Coris picked himself to his feet, straightening his clothes as he went.

    ¡°Farmer Hild. We haven¡¯t met.¡± He swallowed, eyeing Mirram warily. His hands remained at his side, not extended for a kiss as was customary of nobility. ¡°I am Corien, Lord of Hadrian.¡±

    Mirram showed no outward signs of acknowledgment. Coris shared a swift look with Meya, then decided to set the remaining stories straight,

    ¡°This is my father, Baron Kellis. My mother, Baroness Sylvia. My brother, Zier. And, of course, Lady Arinel of Crosset.¡±

    An uncomfortable silence followed. Jason appeared green in the face as he mulled over his most recent dealings. Jezia muttered ¡®I knew it,¡¯ then sighed heavily. The hyperventilating Alanna massaged her heart as if it would stop. Lord Zier pursed his lips as if he¡¯d wished nothing more than to bust out a roar of laughter.

    Coris shot his younger brother a look promising revenge, then returned to Mirram with a little bow.

    ¡°I apologize for the deception. I did not wish for you to learn who I am until you have given your blessing. I wanted to prove my worth as a simple man who loves your daughter, and wishes nothing more than to do right by her. Not as Lord Hadrian.¡±

    Still, Mirram said nothing. Desperate to unwind the tension, Meya crept nervously up to him once more,

    ¡°Dad, Coris did nothing wrong.¡± She clasped her hands above her heart in plea, ¡°I was disguised as Lady Arinel, then. He didn¡¯t know I wasn¡¯t his wife. It was my fault¡ª¡±

    ¡°¡ªAnd my fault as well, Meya.¡± Coris added sharply. He turned back to Mirram, his expression grim, ¡°Even after I learned she¡¯s not my lawful wife, I continued our affair in secret until she fell pregnant. You deserve to know.¡±

    Mirram narrowed his eyes as he peered into those defiant gray eyes. The boy¡¯s honesty would have impressed him, perhaps, if he remained the commoner he first said he was.

    ¡°And what do you expect me to say, milord?¡± He hitched up a sardonic smile, fury roiling under his calm voice, ¡°I am but a lowly farmer. Should you desire Meya and your child, I have no right to keep them from you.¡±

    ¡°Yes, you do. The choice is yours, Farmer Hild,¡± said Coris simply. At Mirram¡¯s frown, he dipped his head, acknowledging his suspicion, ¡°Of course, I¡¯m willing to support Meya and our child, but I shall claim them for Hadrian only with your permission. That you may rest assured of.¡±

    Mirram blinked, hardly believing his ears. Meya was a mere peasant girl. Lord Hadrian could¡¯ve taken her by force, could¡¯ve ripped her babe from her arms if he so wished, and the most Mirram could¡¯ve done would be to die trying¡ªand failing¡ªto prevent that. Could he trust his words? Why was he so generous to Meya?

    ¡°Meya, how could this happen?¡± Alanna cried out the same questions pummeling inside his skull, ¡°Why were you even disguised as Lady Arinel in the first place? Why have you kept this from us for all this time?¡±

    ¡°That is what we¡¯d dearly love to know as well,¡± said Baroness Sylvia as she coolly observed her son, arms folded over her bosom.

    Meya and Coris locked eyes across the divide. The young lord held out his arms, and the peasant girl toddled into his embrace. The two then took turns sharing the tale of their three chance meetings, spread over the course of seven years, and the ancient quest they had decided to unearth, which had brought them from the forests of Crosset, across sand and over water, to the cobblestones of Aynor.

    <hr>

 Coming Clean

    Fire crackled merrily in the hearth. Jason excused himself and ushered the protesting Jezia away, closing the door behind them as the tale unfolded, whereas Arinel and Zier joined in with their confessions as it developed.

    Coris ended the last leg by explaining the letter that orchestrated this evening''s meeting, then retreated humbly to his place at Meya''s side. In a row they stood, four naughty children before disapproving parents. Eyes darting, thumbs twiddling, toes shivering. The hearth cooked their backsides as mum and dad''s appraising stares sapped heat from their guilt-ridden cheeks.

    At last, the Hadrian brothers caught their parents'' eyes. The Baroness sighed softly as the Baron nodded. Coris blew a breath of relief as ice claws loosened their grip over his heart. He turned to Meya''s parents, who still looked faint.

    "I understand. It is an awful lot to take in." He sighed. Taking Meya''s for once clammy hand in his and doing his best to rub blood back to her fingers, he raised his face, his voice stronger now, "We''re due in court with His Majesty tomorrow, but I''ll leave Meya with you. She''ll fill you in on the rest."

    Mirram and Alanna shared a wide-eyed look. Meya squeezed his hand, then traipsed towards them.

    "Anything I can''t say, Coris?" She paused for one last question.

    "Outside of The Axel, you can tell them anything." Coris cocked his head, then, smiling slightly, "Although they may not need everything. Am I right, Farmer Hild?"

    All eyes followed Coris''s lead to the gruff old farmer. Mirram raised his gaze, delving deep into those sharp silvery eyes, but his fear was not for himself.

    "You sent her my cloak," said Coris quietly, "That was intended, wasn''t it?"

    "Dad?" Meya whispered, eyes rounding under her frown. Mirram lowered his eyes to his hands gripping his knees. They were trembling. He was prepared for everything. For who could''ve imagined all this would follow?

    "I knew nothing, milord." He said gravely, shaking his head, "I just thought ''tis time she faces her destiny. Time I let her¡ªchoose."

    He choked out. Meya''s glowing eyes wavered with a dozen emotions, a dozen questions, but Coris cut across her with a deep bow.

    "And I will be grateful for that as long as I live." He surfaced, his voice weak with emotion, "Seven years, I''ve loved her. I love her now, and I will for as long as there is breath in me. Whether you deem me worthy, whether she lays her hand upon mine, I will love her regardless."

    "Lexi¡ª" Meya breathed. Coris placated her with a tender smile, then strode over to offer his mother a hand.

    "We''ll leave you to it, then." He signaled his leave as the Baroness rose and took his arm, nodding to each of the Hilds in turn, "Goodnight, Meya. Farmer Hild. Alanna."

    Mirram and Alanna hurriedly stood up and bowed in farewell. The Hadrians filed past them, disappearing through the doorway with a good many flutters of blood red.

    <hr>

    After a little rummaging around, Mum returned with a tub of ointment for Meya. Dad said nothing as Meya made herself comfortable on the carpet, dabbing absently at her swollen lip, stealing nervous glances at him still on his chair. He stared into the heart of the fire with glazed eyes. The tangles of his mustache and beard masked the shape of his mouth, but not his hollowed cheeks.

    "You''re thinner, Dad."

    For a moment he didn''t seem inclined to show he''d heard, but then life returned to his eyes.

    "And you''re a dragon. And pregnant." He grunted. Meya drooped in shame.

    "I''m sorry, Dad." She mustered her courage and crawled to his feet, pleading with tear-filled eyes, "I shouldn''t have kept everything from you. I shouldn''t have lain with Coris."

    Dad still wouldn''t tear his eyes from the fire. Meya hung her head, catching sight of his hand draped over his knee as she did. The same hand that had tidied her hair and patted her head, that day he saw her off on her sorry way. Had she imagined it, or was it darker and more lined than the last time she''d seen it?

    She folded her jittery fingers, hesitant, then reached up and rested her hand atop his. He didn''t shake it away like earlier. She sighed in relief.

    "You shouldn''t be working so hard, Dad. You''re not that young anymore."

    Silence. Even the fire in the hearth seemed to be popping and sputtering impatiently by this point, especially as Mum made no move to lend a soothing hand. Meya ground her teeth in annoyance. But if any of the seven Hild kids could drive Dad over the castle wall in one sentence, it was her. She unleashed her trump card¡ª

    "Listen, none of us dun have to work no more, Dad. Coris''s rich. He''ll give you everything you want. I¡ª"

    "Meya! Don''t you dare¡ª" Dad whipped around like a poked viper.

    "Not¡ªa single¡ªcoin, Meya!" Mum''s nose was right before Meya''s in a blink, a pointy finger stabbing deeper and deeper into Meya''s ribs, "Do you want people to whisper that you marry him for his gold? Did you choose him for his gold?"

    "No, Mum! I just¡ª" Meya corrected wearily.

    "Then we dun speak of this no more." Dad waved an exasperated hand. He met her eyes at last¡ªin a glower, "Once you''re married, you''re a Hadrian. You belong to his family."

    Meya rolled her eyes and huffed a breath of frustration. Drown them stupid patriarchy rules...

    "Fine. But can I at least send you my stipend?" She haggled, defiant eyebrows raised. Mum and Dad met eyes. As Mum seemed to be bursting at the seams with laughter, Dad sighed and shook his head in surrender, grumbling darkly to himself. Meya caught Mum''s mischievous blue eyes, and a few giggles leaked from her mouth.

    You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

    Silence fell again as hilarity gave way to the simmering questions waiting to be answered, secrets frothing beneath their masks. Eyes on the carpet where they felt safest, Meya drew a deep breath then broke the spell,

    "So, you knew all along I was the one who saved Coris?" Dad didn''t budge, but his hands clenched into fists on his knees. Meya raised her gaze and leaned in, "Why didn''t you tell me?"

    Dad swallowed, cracking under the pressure of her stubborn glare. His thumb slipped back and forth over his knuckles, rubbing them raw.

    "Whatever it was, I reckon I wasn''t ready for it. I''m not." He hung his head with a sigh, "The way you were, never thought you''d grow up so soon."

    He smoothed his hand down his weary face, covering his heartbreak. Meya''s own heart twisted painfully at the sight. She took his hand, pressed his dry, rough palm to her cheek.

    "I''ll always be your wee may beetle, Dad." She whispered, her voice choked with sobs. Dad''s hand twitched as he brushed against her split lip. He ran his thumb over the bulge, regretting it.

    "I''m sorry." He said softly, "D''you know why I struck you?"

    Meya nodded as burrowed her nose into his palm, breathing in the reassuring scent of home. Dad sighed as he scratched soothing circles behind her ear. He slid down to join her on the floor, urging her into his arms.

    "You told me you''re doing honest hard work. I thought you''d changed. Then you brought me to this¡ª" He cast his eyes about the room, then shook his head as if to forget the sight. "Like how you''re always impressing the boys and Mistral with gold-gilded presents. Then you show up pregnant."

    Meya curled herself into Dad''s lap as his hairy arms tightened around her, shuddering just as hard as he was trembling. To think she''d once relished the thought of how Dad might react, that First Night. How could she have been so spiteful? So selfish?

    "I thought I was wrong." Dad''s voice sounded ancient, labored, as his hand fell through her hair, "Thought you haven''t changed. Still same old, chasing riches and fame. Thought you''ve gone and sold your honor, your body, your purity, your own babe¡ª"

    "I''m sorry, Dad." Meya blubbered onto his chest. Dad patted her head as she cried.

    "I''m proud of you, Meya." He said, his voice thick. Meya froze to stone at those words she''d never dared dream would ever be for her. Yet, salty tears still burned on her swollen lips. The lines on Dad''s palm snagged on her hair as he combed it over and over. As his gentle words whispered like a cool wind at her earlobe.

    "You''re serving the people. Saving the downtrodden. And you look happier than I''ve ever seen you."

    "Thanks, Dad." Meya squeaked through the swelling lump in her throat, nodding vigorously, "I am."

    "Still, Baroness Hadrian?" Dad heaved a sigh, his chest shuddering with fear. Meya peeled herself from his embrace and held his woeful gaze.

    "I love Coris, Dad. I want to see this through¡ªwith him." She grasped both his hands in hers, shaking them. Dad''s eyes were bulging. He''d probably long since resigned himself to the fact he''d never hear her say those words in his life, considering she''d vowed at the age of three to never marry. At last, he blew a smaller sigh, adapting to the new reality, nodding,

    "Long as you''re sure that''s what you want."

    "Thank you, Dad." Meya threw her arms around his neck at that sort-of blessing and go-ahead, "I love you."

    Dad patted her back awkwardly. Either he was simply embarrassed, or he was signaling Meya to loosen her hold and allow some air down his windpipe. When she finally released him, he pushed down on his knee and rose to his feet. Meya helped him back to his chair. He slumped down with a sigh of contentment, grateful for the spine support,

    "Thought I could finally die with me eyes closed, then you gone got yerself pregnant."

    "Agh, Dad! Dun say stuff like that." Meya whined as she plonked back down with a pout, shrugging, "It''ll be fine. Coris''s over the Heights¡ªhe''s always wanted children. He''ll make a great dad. And he''s a nobleman. We won''t starve."

    Dad blew a sardonic snort.

    "''Tis him being noble what''s keeping me eyes open in the coffin."

    He spat. Meya blinked at Dad''s unexpected take, then realization washed over her, warm as the first wave of sunrise flowing down the hills at the horizon. She edged closer to Dad once more, wrapping her hands around his jittery knee.

    "Dad, ''tis alright." She reassured him with a soft smile, shaking her head, "He ain''t like that. From the First Night, I''m his wife. He swore I''m his first and last. And he hasn''t had eyes for anyone else since."

    "He ordered you to shut up in my face!" Dad snapped as he jabbed a shaking finger at the door, his stomping foot startling lovestruck Meya off his knee to her old grumpy self.

    "He does that to everyone. I dinnae shut up back there, did I?" Meya retorted wryly as she righted herself, but Dad didn''t explode at her backtalk like he usually would. His eyebrows lowered, his lips pursed tight, he leaned in with a grave whisper,

    "Has he ever hurt you? Treated you like a peasant?"

    A flash of cold burned her cheeks as blood drained from them. Meya averted her eyes from Dad''s scrutiny. Her hand instinctively flew up to feel the side of her face still tingling with the phantom of Coris''s slap.

    "He struck me once. For putting me and our babe in danger." She mumbled, sneaking glances. Dad''s eyes were wide, his mouth half-open¡ªthe blink of shock before fury set in. She quickly added, "He apologized. And he really regretted it. So I gave him another chance."

    Meya locked eyes with Dad, pleading with bated breath, but he was still faraway. Mum covered her trembling lips with her hands, eyes watering as she gawked at Meya''s healed cheek. Dad''s hands balled into fists as his jaw clenched and his face paled bone white. He was far angrier than Meya had ever seen him.

    "When was this?" He choked through gritted teeth. Meya shoved her frozen hands down her lap and rubbed feeling back into them, rocking back and forth.

    "About a week ago? That thing with the cult in Hyacinth. There was a riot. I¡ªalmost died. Coris saved me." Her voice disappeared into her throat as she sunk like a turtle down its shell. She held her breath as Dad''s fists continued to tremble, then stilled and unwound.

    "I would''ve liked to know sooner." His hollow verdict left Meya haunted with shame. Whether he meant her almost dying or her being hurt by her husband¡ªor both, she wasn''t sure.

    "Sorry..." She squeaked as she shrunk even lower. Dad sighed. His voice returned to normal, then, but still cold with fury.

    "If he ever makes you feel¡ªless, you can always come home. We''ll take care of you and the babe. I won''t have you stay for anything."

    Meya dipped her head, weighed down by the depth of Dad''s love for her. She understood now. Any other father, and Coris''s wealth, power, intellect and infamy would''ve elicited some kind of response¡ªbe it weak-kneed relief, foaming-mouthed greed or crippling fear. But, back there, Dad didn''t flinch a hair. His blessing could not be so simply bought. That was why Coris treated him with such respect.

    For the first time in her life, Meya swelled with pride in her parents'' pigheaded dignity she''d often bemoaned.

    Mum left her chair and settled down beside Meya, her hand on Meya''s level belly.

    "The first three months is the most delicate. You must be very careful." She pinned Meya with sharp blue eyes as she hammered out each warning word, then brightened with a sweet smile, "You can ask me anything. And I mean anything. I''m no midwife, but I know a thing or two about pregnancy."

    She cocked her head, her eyes sparkling with just as much affection as amusement. It was in that instant that the lid burst over the frothing turmoil within Meya. Hot tears bubbled up in her eyes then spilled down her cheeks. She sputtered and gasped, her mouth dry as sand even as she drowned in the festering whirlpool. Mum pulled her into her arms.

    "Oh, my poor wee lass. Let it out. Let it all out." She cooed as her soothing, cool palm slid down Meya''s back, and Meya felt as if she''d never aged a day over five.

    "I''ll always be here. You''ll be alright. You''ll give birth to the most beautiful babe in the three lands. And Lord Coris will take good care of you both. And your father and I will be there. And Maro and Marin and Morel and Marcus and Myron and Mistral. Everything will be alright. We''re so happy for you, Meya. You''re becoming a mother."

    On and on she sang. The harder Meya cried, the tighter her arms held. She hadn''t realized just how deathly scared of giving birth she was, how lonely she was, how confused and guilty and desperate. But she was fine now. She would be. She had Mum and Dad. When she needed them most, they were here for her. Even when she had nothing to offer to impress, nothing to show for her troubles. Not a single latt.

    Jason was right, after all.

    <hr>

 Corien and Meira

    (A few hours earlier)

    One night and day had passed since the party arrived at the Dragon''s Crossing. Meya had just returned with the Hadrians from a morn-til-dusk butter-and-slobber fest with nobles and merchants from across the land, when a towering man with glowing green eyes burst into their sitting room.

    Most of the room''s occupants gawked and blinked, frozen halfway through mundane tasks. Baron Hadrian was prepared. He nodded at the Baroness. She sprang to her feet from where she was sprawled on her couch by the fireplace, banishing people left and right with her jabbing finger. Meanwhile, the Baron welcomed Gillian into the room and joined him around the hilariously petite tea-table.

    Gillian seemed lonesome without the usual two dozen dragons flanking him. Dockar, Vitrius and Torbald had departed for Amplevale to investigate the drought, of course. Then, three more left for Jaise with Lady Winterwen to assist her with the eyeless. Two followed to guide Old Angus to Aynor. Three secretly remained in Hyacinth to monitor the remnants of Lasralein''s cult. Five headed for the Blue Mountains to gather green vitriol for Zier''s surgery. If Freda favored them, they''d also find the Greeneyes trapped in the mines, and lay their crumbling bones to rest.

    That left four to keep watch over Zier and Persephia, their prize and prisoner, and Gillian himself to negotiate safe passage to Everglen.

    As Persephia and Agnes left the room, so did the two dragons flanking them and two of the Blood Druids. Zier stayed, so did his two dragon wardens. Meya was surprised she, Bishop Riddell and Vyrgil were spared the finger, when even Sir Jarl, Lady Arinel and Lord Frenix (after much whining and foot-stomping) were dismissed. Even as the Baroness should''ve known Zier would share everything with his sweetheart afterwards.

    Once the door had snapped shut and the Baroness had settled down, the Baron took his seat and Gillian followed suit. The remainder coagulated around them.

    "No word from your dragons?"

    Gillian stared deep into Kellis''s unflinching blue eyes.

    "And none from your humans." He stated. The Baron sighed. Coris clenched his jittery hands into fists.

    "Hasn''t been a fortnight since they set out. Even you can''t possibly find anything," said Christopher tensely. Coris rested a reassuring hand on his shoulder, then glanced out the window at the sun setting on the glittering cobblestones of Aynor, worry weighing on his eyebrows.

    "The Council will convene in secret tomorrow night after the feast," he turned to Gillian, then his father, "Perhaps we should discuss our course of action in the worst case scenario?"

    The Baron stroked his golden beard, then raised his eyes to meet Gillian''s.

    "Do tell us exactly what Persephia wrote to her father."

    "The Axel is key to a weapon that will allow dragons to invade Latakia and reclaim Everglen. I shall deliver it to you where the Sands begin and Jaise ends," recited Gillian, word for word from Persephia''s memories, no doubt. Probably taken without her or Agnes''s knowledge, too. Meya bit her lip in dismay.

    "When she didn''t show, he brought the matter straight to the King," the Baron concluded, his voice so cold, Meya couldn''t help but try to defend the absent Lady Graye,

    "She didn''t mention Zier or Lattis, at least. That''s good, right?" She cast her eyes across the congregation, but received no support. Even Coris shook his head.

    "Without mentioning Lattis, there leaves only one motive for Hadrian." The furrow between his brows deepened as their eyes met, "We''re traitors conspiring with Nostra to take over Latakia."

    Ice-cold tendrils slithered down Meya''s spine. Coris sighed softly,

    "We must prove to the King that our loyalty is to the crown, and an alliance with dragons is our best chance to solve the resources crisis."

    Meya chewed on her fingernail as she pondered.

    "Maybe we won''t need that much. King Edward agreed to help Maxus for nothing in return, didn''t he? Or, well, anything to lure dragons away from Nostra, I reckon." She added as an afterthought, then leaned in earnestly, "What''s King Alden like? You''ve met him, haven''t you?"

    Meya looked to Coris, eyes aglow with hope. To her surprise, Coris averted his eyes. Gawking, she rasped,

    "You haven''t?"

    Coris''s pale lips unraveled into a wry, knowing smile.

    "Unsettling, isn''t it?"

    Meya plonked herself down on a cushion, grumbling dejectedly,

    "Yeah, that there are people even further up the mountain than you Hadrian folk."

    "While I will advise against writing Alden off as an idealist with no grasp of intrigue, the Queen is more of a threat," said Baron Hadrian, one of possibly two souls in this room who had had an audience with the King. "We don''t know the reach of her influence on the King, nor the strength of her ties to Hythe so well."

    "Selane still hasn''t forgiven me," said Baroness Sylvia with a mischievous grin as she met her husband''s glance. "She''s sure Alden would have picked her if I''d divorced you then."

    "He still would''ve picked Zephyr if she were Lady Hadrian, is what I heard," the Baron smiled back. Sylvia shook her head as she fell heavily against her chair.

    "I can only pray Selane is right, then."

    "The Queen was once Lady Fratengarde. Daughter of the Duke of Hythe and niece of Marquess Fratengarde." Coris explained, calling Meya''s glassy eyes rotating between his bantering parents to him. "Lady Selane is my youngest aunt. She''s Lady Clardarth now."

    Gillian''s narrowed eyes slid to Coris, rapt with attention. Coris caught it out of the corner of his eye. He showed no signs he''d noticed, but continued on the guise of lecturing Meya on Latakian politics.

    "In terms of military significance, Hadrian beats out Hythe as guardian of the Zarel Pass, but Father supported the Wynns before Devind''s fall. Naturally, the King chose Lady Zephyr for his queen. And he still doesn''t trust Hadrian. I even suspect he gave us Crosset''s former vassals to spread us thin. Draw our troops away from Amplevale. Hoping we''d fail." He trailed away, his eyes peering into the distance.

    "But if he only chose her for politics, it''d be easier to swing him to our side?" said Meya, catching on at last. Coris nodded. At that, Meya''s eyes wandered, flitting through memories.

    "Marquess Fratengarde said he''s with Hadrian on keeping the Ban, but he didn''t know what Queen Zephyr thinks." She began slowly, glancing towards the three Hadrians who bore witness to the exchange¡ªwho all nodded¡ªthen back to Coris, "So, you think she wants to lift the Ban, too?"

    "We have no clue, but we''ll assume that to be the case. Just so we''re prepared." Coris shrugged, shaking his head.

    "So Hythe stands to gain if the Ban is lifted?" said Gillian shrewdly.

    "It clears the path for them to resurrect their old salt mines. And explore Neverend Heights for new ore veins," the Baron explained.

    "The Marquess just didn''t agree with stopping the Everglen ships right away," Zier added. "He wasn''t the one on the Council, either."

    "Pardon me. Who else is on the Council?" Meya raised her hand on behalf of her fellow dragons. Coris strode up to the tea-table, produced his trusty travel-sized map of Latakia and smoothed it on the painted wood.

    "There''s the King representing Aynor, of course." His long, pale finger stabbed at the flower at the heart of the hexagon, then sliced towards each corner, "Then the dukes representing each of the duchies. Then, we have Baron Hadrian and Baron Graye, representing the manors defending the Zarel Pass and the Galwerth Pass in the southwest."

    His finger skidded to a halt at the strip of land wedged between the tail of Neverend Heights and the southern sea, then he braced his hands on the table, leaning forward as his eyes flitted between Meya and Gillian.

    "Aquar, Damerel and Easthaven cling desperately to the Ban. They''ve built their economies on the Everglen ore trade and sea salt. If mining is allowed again, both would become redundant. Hythe, Icemeet and Graye have long fought to abolish the Ban. Their mountains are rich with ore and salt they''re raring to mine. And Aynor has always been a proponent of the Ban, of course¡ªUntil King Alden."

    Coris sighed, then cocked his head at Christopher,

    If you spot this story on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

    "Fortunately, Meriton has always followed Hadrian''s lead on the Ban, so we could retain our majority. And I believe Duke Merilith would still trust Hadrian to defend the west."

    Coris turned to face his best friend, silvery eyes ablaze with honest determination. Christopher nodded, his face solemn, but was that a flash of guilt Meya spied in those sharp brown eyes? But how could Christopher ever betray Hadrian? How could he doubt Hadrian''s intentions, after all he''d fought alongside them this far?

    Meya kept the Meriton heir within the corner of her eye as she returned to negotiations with Coris,

    "''Tis five over four. Teetering on the brink, if you ask me." She lowered her counting fingers. "Should swing one more over to be safe."

    "We might soon need more than one, I''m afraid." Coris heaved another sigh. Meya raised her eyebrows. "The prospect of dragons crossing into Latakia might unite the duchies in fear. They''d want to arm themselves to the teeth with Lattis, which means lifting the Ban."

    "And how will they know to arm themselves with Lattis?" Gillian growled, rising suddenly and slamming his now-clawlike hands on the table. Meya guessed she would have jumped, if his roar didn''t echo the cry in her head. The Hadrians didn''t flinch. Had they discussed this beforehand? Were they prepared for this?

    Meya''s hands balled into fists atop her knees. This again. Coris was putting humans above Greeneyes. Again.

    "We may not have the choice, Gillian, but to reveal your one weakness," said the Baron, a note of frustration in his voice as if they were being deliberately obstinate.

    "The drought was our one card to play. Without the threat of Nostra, even the knowledge that dragons can be defeated may still not be enough for the Council to grant you safe passage. Even on land."

    "Land?" cried one of the dragons guarding Zier, looking incredulous. Gillian mirrored him. "We walk through Latakia? As humans?"

    "After all the lands you''ve burned, you can''t in all seriousness expect to fly over us?"

    Christopher cocked a mocking eyebrow. The dragon seethed, sounding as if flames were clawing behind his gnashing teeth. His eyes never leaving Gillian but for a glance at Meya, Coris flourished a hand at his friend,

    "Living proof."

    "So, if it is enough, how long would it take them to exploit it as the Nostrans did?" Gillian hissed.

    "¡ªOr Rutgarth. Isn''t that the reason this entire Ban was put down in the first place?" Meya chimed in. Coris whipped around, pale with trepidation. But did he expect Meya to somehow agree to this? Easy for him to decide¡ªhe didn''t still carry a hideous scar seven years on from when his arm nearly rotted off. She sprang to her feet, burning fingers strangling the old sunken wound on her arm.

    "You don''t know how it feels, Coris. Acid speeding up your veins? Your very flesh rotting black as you watch helpless? You can''t bet on this. Not when every stinking town we''ve been through sold us hide, blood and bone for even a copper or two!"

    "And for five hundred years dragons have razed kingdoms to ashes! Have you forgotten?" Coris retorted. Meya gritted her teeth, unable to deny, but there was no triumphant glint in his eyes as he hammered his point home, "We both have plenty right to distrust one another. Only the promise of mutual destruction is strong enough to bind our alliance."

    "Would you rather be gored by bears and hogs, or be raped, robbed or killed in a back alley?"

    "If you betray me, I''ll tell everyone where The Axel is, putting Lord Zier in grave danger?"

    Their voices rang in her ears. He''d threatened her with ruin, reeled her in with praise and power and riches¡ªand she ultimately rejected his offer. Only once he succumbed at the prospect of her leaving forever, and revealed his true motive¡ªlove¡ªdid she decide to stay. And the same went for him.

    No. Some cannot be bought with fear. Some cannot be explained by coldhearted logic. Some cannot be predicted nor calculated.

    Tears burned the rims of her eyes. Meya shook her head as she swallowed them, her breathing ragged from the effort. She mustered her courage and faced his cold, dead eyes.

    " ''Tis not. We both forgot." Her lips twisted into a sardonic smile. "A contract of mutual destruction? That''s what binds us still, Coris? Where in the Lake is it now, then? What of Old Angus and his wife? Maxus and Axel? Caecil and Seona?"

    "Not all dragons are you, Meya." Coris turned sharply away, his eyes shut tight as if his resolve would crumble.

    "Well, we can''t just live forever like this, either! How long can you live with fear before you just up and slaughter the beast for good?" Meya retorted.

    "Fear is not your worst enemy, Meya Hild," a calm voice interrupted. Meya spun around to find bright blue eyes haunted with the ghost of times forgotten, "It was greed that destroyed Everglen. Human and dragon both."

    The children stared as one at Baron Hadrian, tense with anticipation for the forbidden tale long sealed away. Kellis turned to his eldest son, his gaze solemn.

    "You were named after the man who sparked the war between the races."

    "Corien?" Coris whispered, hoarse with disbelief. Gillian narrowed his eyes.

    "You were the birth of all our deaths." He hissed through gritted teeth. Coris frowned, as confused as he was scared. He looked to his father, who nodded,

    "You resemble him, Coris. Such that it is uncanny." Coris shared a look with Zier, thoroughly spooked, "Not just in spirit, but also appearance¡ªso I''ve seen in memories passed down through the generations."

    The Baron leaned against his chair, looking far tireder than his age. He was soon to begin his tale, so Meya and the Hadrian boys settled down in wait.

    "Corien Hadrian was but a little boy, when he found an egg at the foot of the volcano that divided the humans and dragons of Everglen. He brought it home, and it hatched a baby dragon. A female. She couldn''t speak, but through her eyes she talked."

    "Corien hid her in a cave. For a decade, he''d sneak away to her, teach her the language and ways of humans. A wiser man would have turned the beast free, but he was lonesome for a friend and knew no better."

    "One day, he arrived to find the dragon gone, in its place a beautiful human girl with glowing green eyes. She revealed dragons can shapeshift into humans. A gift likely granted by nature to counter the threat of humans. However, the dragon was so grateful that he''d given her a chance at life, so saddened by his loneliness, that she wished to become better company for him. For her name, she chose Meira, bringer of light."

    The Baron''s eyes found Meya''s and lingered awhile, then moved on,

    "Predictably, as years passed, their friendship became desire, and Meira fell pregnant. She was more human than dragon by this point, so the two decided she''d have to join human society."

    "Corien brought Meira to his family home. Soon, his cousin Drinian discovered her true nature and her weakness to Lattis. He betrayed the secret to their king. Corien died protecting Meira from assassins as she gave birth. And Meira died before she saw her seven Greeneye children taken from her."

    Meya trembled as she clutched at her belly. Coris rushed to her side and held her, while Zier mumbled shamefacedly,

    "So that''s our atonement."

    The next part of the tale was, unfortunately, more gruesome.

    "The king raised the halflings in an enclosure by the volcano. Six males and one female¡ªMirra. Once she came of age, Mirra was forced to mate with her brothers to create as many offspring as possible. The king needed a constant supply of blood to refine Lattis, and tunnel through the Lattis veins in the mountain to the dragons'' side. It took a decade, but he succeeded. War erupted between the races. Followed by the mountain itself."

    "The humans fled to surrounding islands, and the dragons migrated after their queen, abandoning the Greeneyes, so the regretful Drinian rescued them. They flew across the ocean to what would become Latakia. Drinian settled in the west and continued the Hadrian line, but Mirra''s war wasn''t over. She discovered the Dragon Queen had struck a pact with the Nostran Emperor. To level the land and slaughter all humans to make way for dragons."

    "Mirra had been destroyed by humans just as much as she was given life by humans. She betrayed the secret to defeating dragons to Latakas Wynn, on the condition that he seal the knowledge with his death, never to be wielded twice. When she bore him a child, Latakas knelt and asked her to be his queen, but she denied and vanished. Never to be found again."

    "So how did Rutgarth know the secret?" Bishop Riddell wondered. The Baron tilted his head. As with Meira, there must have been a traitor.

    "So that''s who She was." Meya breathed, sharing knowing looks with Coris, "Latakas couldn''t break his vow, but couldn''t bear to erase her, so he turned her into the Goddess Freda."

    "And She is your ancestor." That cold voice from the long-silent Gillian had Meya whirling around, eyes bulging, but even the Baron dipped his head in agreement. "One of her young with her brothers, Hilden¡ªhe was the first Hild."

    The cold glow of the dragon''s eyes trapped her like frozen claws. So this was why he seemed familiar with her name back then...

    "Seems Freda has her designs for our meeting, after all," mused Coris. They met eyes, and he smiled sadly, "Hadrian and Hild. We began all this."

    It hit Meya, then. Her middle name, Aine, meant heavenly glow in Glennian. In a roundabout way, Coris wasn''t the only one with a namesake.

    Meya hung her head then rested it against his shoulder. All these new revelations, unearthed connections in one fell swoop¡ªher brain was spinning like a top.

    "Fear fades, in its place greed only ever grows," the Baron sealed the tale with a chilling token of wisdom. He glanced at Meya and Gillian, then the one man who hadn''t offered a word in this entire conversation, "You''ve made your stance clear, but what say you, Vyrgil?"

    Meya blinked, then whipped around. She''d been so occupied with staying alive and out of trouble, she hadn''t the chance to talk with Vyrgil. He was a burly young man a bit older than Maro, with freckled, suntanned skin and mud-brown hair. He''d look to all the three lands an ordinary peasant lad¡ªsave for his glowing green eyes, obviously.

    Used to operating in shadows and lurking in the backdrop, Vyrgil tensed under the room''s scrutiny. The Baron was understanding,

    "For years you''ve soiled your hands on my behalf. You''ve earned your say." He said, as kind as he was sorrowful. Vyrgil eyed Meya and Gillian warily. Gulping, he returned to the Baron, his lips quivering,

    "My lord, you''ve often said¡ªa secret retains its power so long as it remains so." He said, his voice trembling and breathy from years stifled in his throat, "I''m tired of holding, twisting my tongue, and being the only one who must. I must know there''ll be an end to this."

    He bowed in plea as much as apology. To Meya''s astonishment, he turned next to her.

    "You were the only Greeneye you''ve seen for far too long. I''ve traveled far and wide. We''re not as rare as you think." He shook his head, "There are enough of us to make the King and the Dukes listen. If we trust this knowledge to the public, laws can be written to protect us. People would know to be careful with Lattis. That wound of yours came from ignorance, not malice."

    "The longer you keep Greeneyes ignorant of their true nature, the more they and the people around them will have to suffer!"

    Vyrgil gestured at her arm. Arinel''s voice echoed in her ears. She saw long suffering in his glowing green eyes. She knew he was right, but she couldn''t shake this deep-rooted fear. She stared down at her lap.

    "¡ªBut you''ve never tasted the poison of Lattis, have you, Hybridean?" challenged Gillian. As he stood with his back to the daylight, the jagged scar glowed bone-white on his neck. Vyrgil seemed to deflate, having no counter to that. As tendrils of despair crept in, the Baron broke the silence as if to scatter them,

    "We''ll reveal the secret only as an absolute last resort." He enunciated loud and clear, then cast his eyes at the hulking healer, who bowed, "Bishop Riddell will do his best to persuade the Council with his theories so far, and I''ll stall for time until Amplevale delivers their findings."

    Gillian weighed the offer in silence, then swept from the room. The meeting was only seemingly fruitful, for the troubling question lingered in everyone''s minds¡ª

    If the betrayal of one man¡ªone dragon¡ªcould trigger wars and topple civilizations, what could possibly win against the lure of greed?

    <hr>

 The Feast

    A soft breeze caressed her eyelids, cold as the gray dawn. Meya opened her eyes. Fine curtains fluttered just beyond her reach. Through the window, Aynor was still blanketed in sleepy gray. Just underneath the chatter of early birds, she heard Mum''s breathing, steady and slow. Dad was no longer snoring the room down from his spot by the fireplace. He insisted the hard floor was ideal for his aching back, but Mum and Meya knew better.

    Meya smoothed her hand down her belly, sighing softly into the still air. The door creaked, then, followed by the rustle of delicate fabric chafing against prickly carpet material. A jolt of fear coursed through her¡ªthen she realized only a few would have access to their key. The staff probably would be better off stealing from the Hadrians down the hall. That leaves¡ª

    A pale, smiling face poked its way around the corner of the four-poster, completing her answer. Meya closed her eyes and sunk limply onto the bed. Her heart pounded faster as he crept nearer, then froze at the touch of his icy lips on hers. She resisted the urge to reciprocate, taunting him¡ªbut Lord Hadrian wasn''t bred for meek surrender.

    "Come now. I saw your eyes," he whispered between kisses and laughter. Meya smiled in the dark as she slid her hand around his nape.

    "What in Fyr''s name are you doing here?" She murmured.

    "Delivering my regards to the May Queen¡ªhave her know I''m still breathing?" Coris moved on to nibble at her ear. Meya rolled her eyes in amusement,

    "Bullcrap. You miss me already."

    "How can''t I?" Coris admitted suspiciously simply. His cool breath puffed into her ear, "Where there were five soft, warm, springy pillows wrapped in silk, only one remains to soothe my weary head."

    Heat flushed Meya''s cheeks quite a moment too late. She longed to sock him on his old sore spot, but Mum and Dad would definitely hear the impact. She settled for depriving him of air instead.

    "¡ªUuummph!"

    Coris sprang back, his spider hands waving desperately, eyes squeezed tight in pain. Meya relaxed her fingers and he pulled his nose free. After a moment of wary observation, he braved her fury again and nestled his head between his beloved pillows.

    "Can''t wait to see you in that dress¡ªthen out." He joked. At that, a chilling realization lit up Meya''s brain like a bright shaft of light, shunting his cheeky remark to the side.

    "Oh, Freda. I completely forgot." Meya breathed, eyes bulging in terror. Coris pulled away, blinking blankly, then caught up¡ª

    "You forgot!?" He hissed, building himself up to a Coris tantrum. Meya rolled her eyes as she launched straight into her tirade,

    "Agh, come now. D''you expect me to remember after all that yesterday? And I didnae got the chance to. I was crying, Mum was hugging me, next thing I know ''tis dawn out the window¡ª"

    Coris waved her excuses aside with a careless hand.

    "No matter. Soon as they''re up, ask them. I''ll be off¡ª" He brushed her a farewell kiss as he rose¡ªthen froze halfway to his feet, wide silvery eyes fixed upon the thin air behind her. Meya didn''t have time to decipher the implications before a familiar sweet, hoarse voice answered her worst nightmare¡ª

    "Ask us what?"

    Meya rolled over. Mum had sat up beside her, arms crossed over her chest. Dad stood with one hand on the headboard, the other thankfully empty at his side, not brandishing his trusty sickle-on-a-broom-handle.

    Coris bounced upright, his clammy hand lathering hers with sweat as he clutched it tight for dear life.

    "Farmer Hild. Alanna. A splendid morning to you both!" He proclaimed heartily, dipped a graceful bow, then rambled with carefully planned fluster, "I apologize for coming to call so early. You see¡ªafter two months with Meya by my side¡ªI can hardly bear being parted¡ª"

    "¡ªwith your soft, warm, springy silk pillows you can''t wait to undress. Yes, we heard."

    Dad drawled coolly, his brown eyes staring unblinking at the shameless lad who still hadn''t even earned his approval. Blood drained from Coris''s face. Scratching his chin and chuckling meekly in defeat, he followed the command from Dad''s roving death glare, relinquished Meya''s hand, straightened his shirt, then edged a step away from the bed, as Meya also awkwardly fixed her nightdress. Mum shook her head and rolled her eyes as she grumbled to herself, then steered the conversation back to what mattered,

    "What are you having our Meya do, my lord?"

    Coris and Meya shared a quick look. When Meya sighed and thrust her chin in grudging defeat, Coris narrowed his eyes to scold her then turned back to Mum with a polite smile.

    "The King will host a feast at the palace tonight to welcome the visiting dukes." He tilted his head at Meya, "Meya''s agreed to join, and you two are welcome to accompany us if you''d like, but we''d also like your permission to present her as the new Song of May Day, and¡ª" He glanced at Meya again, and gently took her hand, "¡ªif we have your blessing, Lady Hadrian."

    As Coris sank to one knee, Mum and Dad turned to one another, their impassive eyes empty to Meya trading entire letters between themselves. With all their recent disagreements, will she and Coris ever reach that level of solidarity someday? Meya couldn''t help pondering.

    Coris dipped his head lower.

    "She''s been practicing for her debut. We''re hoping you''d mentor her and come if only to cheer her on. It would do much to bolster her spirits."

    Mum averted her eyes as she thought, whereas Dad''s eyes remain fixed on Coris as he caressed his beard slowly. At last, his lips moved,

    "You said Meya''s half-dragon and she caused the Famine. And dragons from Nostra are infiltrating Latakia. ''Tis how all this came about."

    He thrust his hand towards the two of them. Coris nodded. Air itself seemed to have frozen solid as the men locked eyes, as the implication sank in. Dad''s hands balled into shaking fists.

    "You''ll tell the King what Greeneyes really are. And you know what will happen to them." He raised a trembling finger trained at Coris''s heart, his voice raging fiercer as he went, "''Tis why you''re hurrying to show her to Latakia. Have her speak for Greeneyes across the land. Charm them with her Song¡ª!" He jabbed his finger at the window.

    "¡ªI''d never ask such a thing of her." Coris shook his head, his eyes unwavering, "I simply wish to share what I''ve discovered, so they''d see what I saw in her. Then they''d understand there''s nothing to fear. Our likeness is greater than our differences. That would benefit her cause¡ª"

    "¡ªYour cause, not hers!" Dad roared.

    "¡ªIt''s our cause, Dad!" cried Meya. As Dad''s blazing eyes bore down on her, she wrapped his roughened, thickened hand in both of hers, pleading.

    "Dad, I was almost lost last Fest. All them towns Coris took me to¡ªI saw how they treat Greeneyes there. Every ounce of our being could be traded like goods and wares. If we don''t tell them anything, nothing will change."

    Dad turned pointedly away. Meya tugged harder on his hand, desperate.

    "I have to do this. If I''m their best bet and no-one else would take a stand, then at least someone''s gotta be first¡ª"

    "¡ªAnd ''tis not you!" Dad spun back. Meya shivered¡ªnot out of fear of him, but of the truth in his words, as he took her arms and shook her, glowering deep into her eyes.

    "You''re barely seventeen. You want the whole rest of your life decided by this? You wanna live your life under a thousand staring eyes? Carry the hopes of every Greeneye in Latakia?" He turned and seethed at Coris, "You may be bred for this, milord, but not her."

    "I agree. That''s why we''re asking for your permission," Coris agreed so readily, it took Dad back. Then he dropped the twist just as nonchalantly, "¡ªI''m asking, at least. It is Meya''s idea, after all."

    Meya blanched white then flushed bright red in rapid succession.

    "Coris!" She screamed at the betrayal.

    "I''m just afraid it''s your guilt talking again, Meya." Coris retorted sharply, flinching not a nerve as he braved her flaring eyes, "You don''t owe this land for existing any more than I do¡ªless, even, considering the pittance it gave you. It''s not worth tainting your Song again."

    His silvery eyes pierced deep into hers. He remembered her last song in the Blue Mountains. The song she had come to despise, that still left a taste like bile in her throat. But he didn''t understand. This wasn''t the same. Was it?

    Meya hung her head, stubbornly standing her ground even as she doubted it. A hand creamy white as eggshell crept in and clasped over hers. She looked up to find Mum''s loving blue eyes.

    "Meya¡ªSongbird¡ª" she tucked a rebellious coil of gold dawn behind Meya''s ear,

    "''Tis not my place to tell you how or even if you should put your blessing to use. But as a fool who''d milked her Song dry for gold and fame, such that she''d only remembered how to truly sing once the Song had left her, I hope you''d take my tale as caution when you decide."

    She cradled Meya''s cheek in her palm, the pad of her thumb rubbing gently on her skin.

    "Why do you want to sing so much?"

    The simple question hid layers beneath. Meya''s eyes strayed to the faint shadow rippling on the blanket covering her legs as it darkened with every new ray of the waking sun. She sunk deep within herself, scouring the void for her true voice.

    "I just want to. I''m just looking for an excuse to, I reckon." Shaking her head, she confessed with a shrug, then gathered her courage and raised her eyes,

    "I dun care about no gold, no fame. I''ll stand for Greeneyes, but not by singing to butter them dukes up for them. I just have this beautiful Song I want them all to hear and be happy. ''Tisn''t about what I owe or what I''m owed. ''Tis simply something I can give freely without a care. And I want to."

    Coris was blinking, his mouth hanging ajar. Dad gritted his teeth, then pressed a trembling hand over his eyes. She''d feared they might mock her audacity, laugh in derision, but they seemed more to be despairing at her na?ve, reckless kindness. So, she focused on Mum. Mum of all people would understand.

    "I know ''twasn''t gold nor fame you did it for neither, Mum." She rested her hand atop Mum''s still on her cheek, shaking her head, "You''re just too kind, so you gave too much, but you only had your rotten ringmaster. I have you and Dad and Coris and everyone to stop me, to remind me never to forget how to sing from the heart¡ªor, brain, in donghead terms."

    She tossed Coris a wry sideways grin, and his fear melted away as his taut eyebrows unwound. He stared at her with eyes glazed with longing, his smile slack with awe. Meya blushed as she broke the contact, tugging absently on the ends of her hair. She glanced at Mum. Her smile brimming with pride and love, Mum cocked her head.

    "Then I guess there is but one obstacle left."

    Mum shone her smile at Dad, leaving dread to steal air from the room once more. Meya leaned in and took his hand again, whispering with every ounce of her.

    "Please, Dad."

    Dad stared long and hard at Meya, then turned to the boy standing just behind her, his fists clenched and trembling at his side.

    "Swear by the honor of your name. You''ll protect her no matter what comes." He growled, his voice like an ice wind. Meya tugged his arm, shocked he would dare to command the heir of Hadrian¡ª

    If you come across this story on Amazon, it''s taken without permission from the author. Report it.

    "Dad!"

    "Swear it, boy!" Dad roared over her protests, so Meya shot Coris a threatening glare instead. It wasn''t that she weren''t touched by Dad''s concern for her, but how could she have Coris bind himself with such a contract, when it was her own selfish decision to take this risk?

    Coris didn''t glance her way even once. He barely blinked as he bowed his head, declaring fiercely.

    "I swear. By the honor of Hadrian. I will protect Meya with my life."

    Silence fell as the men locked eyes, age as stubborn as youth was willful. At last, Dad deflated. He nodded, sighing wearily,

    "Then may Freda help you, ''cause I ain''t gunna be here much longer. Curst lass musta sheared a decade off me life. Prolly two more today."

    "Daaaaad!" Meya whined, pummeling the bed as Mum exploded with laughter. Dad ignored them both. He slumped heavily onto the bed, looking dead inside.

    "You have our blessing." He grunted. Coris''s solemn mask broke into a face-wide grin. Laughing with relief and joy, he swooped down and kissed Meya full on the lips. Dad sighed in annoyance as he averted his eyes, still not used to his daughters growing up, asking matter-of-factly,

    "What do you demand as dowry?" Meya froze as she remembered the glaring issue. Coris, however, burst out laughing. He drew back with a smile.

    "Father agreed she''s paid for a dozen marriages with all the times she saved my life. Please don''t worry."

    He topped it off with a chuckle. Dad strove to maintain his aloof composure, but couldn''t hide the smile of pride twitching underneath his beard. After another kiss, Coris set off to begin his noble obligations (chatting up other nobles and rich folk) for the day, leaving Meya to prepare for her first song to Latakia.

    <hr>

    Night falls over Aynor. All six paved avenues radiating from the palace were clogged by feet, wheels and hooves as the richest and noblest from across Latakia clamored over for a patch of carpet in the grand banquet hall of the Blue Palace.

    Unfortunately, Meya wasn''t in a state to appreciate the extremes of civilization. Whenever she least expected it, one of her vying humors would surge, drowning her in a wave of dull, pounding heacache.

    Colors were stabbing. Lights were blinding. Sounds were deafening. Touches were burning. Smells were suffocating. Movements were dizzying. Even as Mum had dressed her in the roomiest gown made of finest, softest silk, everyone had foregone perfume for the evening, and Coris had reassured Meya she''d have her chance to sing as this was but the first of many feasts, all it did was make Meya more exasperated with her unruly body.

    Everyone''s advice was to breathe open air, keep her eyes on the horizon. A little hard to follow when they were all crammed in this hull of metal on wheels, jammed at the heart of the thoroughfare alongside a dozen others.

    The carriage shimmied to life one final time and rolled past the metal gates onto the fountain courtyard. Circles of golden lights from a hundred windows dotted the palace''s silhouette, revealing pale blue stone like clouds streaked with hundreds of golden thunderbolts, trapped mid-strike as the molten marble froze solid. Ten years, and it had almost become the last relic of the Wynn Dynasty.

    The cool, crisp night air soothed her nausea, so Meya drew only her eyes back inside. Mum and Dad sat across her, their backs to the palace. Dad seemed frozen in the silken tunic the Hadrians had lent him. Mum rubbed life back into his hands. Beside Meya, Coris had his faced turned towards the window, yearning as far as he dared and stopping just shy of becoming a wide-eyed tyke hanging out with his mouth ajar.

    For once, he wasn''t watching her with that mischievous smile, raring with answers for her questions, even ones she hadn''t thought of. Then she realized¡ªhe didn''t have any. It was his first time, for the first time since she''d known him. First time in the capital, in the palace. First time meeting the first king from the first dynasty who didn''t share an ancient secret with his family. For the first time, he had no right and no choice but to trust his father, who wasn''t much more experienced himself. And, for the first time, he was perhaps more afraid than her.

    Meya reached for his hand, felt tremors before she touched her palm to it. He turned round and their eyes met. All she had to offer was warmth, so she huddled against him. He sighed and rested his cheek against her hair.

    They dismounted before the marble steps. Rows of men bowed them through sets of ornate doors, until at last they entered the banquet hall. Chandeliers of faceted glass winked like crystals of ice far above a long table draped in powder-blue silk, laden with cauldrons of soup and platters of meat red and white, plucked from air, soil and water. Men, women, children of all ages stood talking, laughing, dancing, supping, their flowing, colorful gowns glowing against the pale blue of the surrounding walls.

    At the head of the room, three golden throne chairs sat empty beside the lively band of minstrels, awaiting their King, Queen and Prince, so Baron Hadrian directed them to snag a drink from passing servants and follow him to greet familiar faces.

    Christopher bowed and left to find his father. So did Frenix, with a great serving of sulking. Arinel, representing Crosset and having no other family to join with, decided to stay with her Zier.

    With all the sights, sounds, scents and movement, wee Coris (or Coris-es) threw a tantrum again. Everyone smelled to Meya of the compost mound outside Crosset Castle she must endure every stint down the Trench.

    "Lord Hubrus of Clardarth, my Aunt Selane and their son, Harold." Coris whispered into her ear. Meya gritted her teeth behind her pursed lips. It took every ounce of her to swallow the frothing bile every so often and keep her face straight. She wouldn''t add three more names to her pounding head.

    "Baron Hadrian! Always an honor, my lord!" A tall, suave man in his mid-thirties rushed in for a bow, conjuring his wife who in turn snatched their young son seemingly out of thin air. He surfaced with brown eyes sparkling bright as his teeth and oak-brown as his short, neatly-oiled hair.

    "Hubrus!" Baron Kellis threw out his hands and clapped him on both arms. Lady Selane offered the same to Baroness Sylvia,

    "Middle sister!" She exclaimed with a wide smile, familiar silvery Noxxian eyes sparkling under her golden-brown hair.

    "Baby sister!" Sylvia giggled then rushed forth. As the sisters embraced and kissed cheeks, the Baron turned to the Clardarth heir¡ªa handsome little boy of probably eight, with his mother''s hair and his father''s eyes.

    "Harold, you remember Coris?" the Baron flourished a hand at his son, cocking his head as Coris stepped forth with an affectionate smile, "Pity he was taken ill at the wedding, or you''d have met sooner."

    "Was? He still looks ill." Harold pouted up at Coris, eyebrows raised. Meya realized then the dongheaded-ness came from the mother''s side of the family and wasn''t a Hadrian trait.

    "Harold!" cried Selane. Coris''s smile widened to reveal yellowed fangs.

    "I am getting better." He stretched to full height, staring down his nose at the little devil, "And you''re no longer a loaf of wrinkled bread swathed in sodden nappies!"

    Harold growled as the adults chortled, stomping his foot.

    "Of course, I ain''t! Means I''ll get the wife soon. And prettier than yours!"

    Baron Hadrian blinked, then turned to Hubrus who was still blinking down at his son, "Seems you won''t be having trouble getting grandchildren out of this one."

    Hubrus rolled his eyes.

    "Give it a few years. Once he''d learned what all wives turn into, he wouldn''t want to be first to get one."

    Selane proved her poor husband''s prophecy with a resounding smack on his muscular arm, amid roaring laughter from the Baron. Harold heeded not a word of his father''s warning, too busy craning his neck and swiveling on his ankles to see where Coris had stashed his wife.

    "Where''s the wife, Coris? Where''s the wife?"

    "Yes, Coris. Bring out the wife." Zier pitched in with a sigh that said and here we go. Coris rubbed his temples.

    "You will address her as Lady Meya, not the wife. You have met her, haven''t you?" He gestured testily at Meya.

    Meya smiled wanly at Harold''s look of befuddlement, sweat beading along her hairline. Some of the lords and ladies they greeted earlier had also seen Meya at the wedding, and they raised eyebrows at her glowing eyes, red-gold hair, and her name being not Arinel Crosset (while some ignored the women completely), but they didn''t have little kids with them, spouting their gossipy thoughts and asking endless questions.

    "This?" Harold staggered back, his face tipping up and down as his eyes swept her from head to toe, toe to head. He jabbed a pudgy finger at her eyes, jumping, "But she''s a Greeneye! I met your wife. She''s blonde and she ain''t a Greeneye and her name is Arinel!"

    "She''s always been a Meya, a redhead and a Greeneye. She happened to be wearing Lattis and had bleached her hair for she was tired of people pointing them out."

    Coris shrugged as anger radiated from him. He wasn''t furious at Harold¡ªit wasn''t his fault he was as smart and obnoxious as himself. It also wasn''t his place to chide his allies and relatives for their prejudice, nor the time to explain the whole convoluted story. There was little he could do but play dumb and avoid confrontation.

    "Then you''ve got to get a new one! Grandfather says if you marry a Greeneye then Chione will speak through her and turn you into her slave!"

    "Harold!" Hubrus and Selane wailed in unison. Although their horror was probably for him airing his beliefs, not believing them. Coris pursed his lips petulantly as he took Meya''s hand.

    "I happen to like this one. I have faith Freda will be moved by our true love to guard us against Chione''s intervention." He smiled lovingly at Meya, then flourished a hand towards Mum and Dad,

    "Her parents, Mirram Hild and Alanna Clariden."

    Coris was expert at steering the conversation as ever. Mum''s maiden name snatched attention away from Meya''s mystery. Hubrus and Selane gawked at Mum. Slowly, remembrance dawned in their eyes after two decades of slumber.

    "Alanna Clariden? Alanna of Noxx?" Selane gasped, glancing between Mum and Coris. Mum stepped forth, hands clasped over her bending knees.

    "My lord. My lady."

    Lord Clardarth gawked a few blinks more, then his narrowed eyes slid towards Baron Hadrian as he chuckled evilly,

    "So, this is your gift, my lord?" Kellis nodded. Hubrus clicked his tongue, shaking his head in admiration. "By Freda, you must not have foreseen the look on Lord Noxx''s face."

    "Oh, we have, but ''tis not every day I get to upstage dear old Brother, spite miserable old Crosset and help old Kellis win the good King''s favor in one masterstroke." Baroness Sylvia flashed him a wink as she coiled her arm around her husband''s. Hubrus threw his head back and guffawed. Mum cleared her throat softly then dipped her head,

    "Actually, my lord, I have passed my blessing to my daughter. Meya is the new Song."

    Lord Clardarth''s eyes followed Mum''s hand to where it rested on Meya''s shoulder, then rose to drink in Meya, with more intent this time.

    "You are saying, after two decades, we''ll get to witness the debut of the new Song? A Greeneye Song?" It was becoming obvious who Harold had inherited his blabbermouth from. "What will you sing for us tonight, girl?"

    He leaned in, bringing with him a waft of flowery perfume. Meya clamped her hands over her mouth as the sour soup of bile and half-digested lunch crashed against her gritted teeth. Hubrus fell back, eyes crossed and brows knotted.

    "¡ªThe Woodland Throne." Coris answered for her as if he hadn''t noticed, but the Clardarths were again transfixed on Meya as if she were a horse-cart somersaulting downhill. Especially as her cheeks ballooned, her eyes watered, and her back caved under the strain of a losing battle. Playing dumb no longer sufficed. They''d soon figure out the truth. Mum cradled her forehead then fished out a vial of salmiac.

    "And I warned you about those sea snails! Iced or no, ''tis no longer fresh carted halfway ''cross the country!" She scolded as she waved the bottle at Meya''s nostrils. There was a pause, then Lady Selane shook her head, her gray eyes twinkling in amusement.

    "Easthaven cuisine¡ªNever fails to be a gamble." She tossed a triumphant smile at her sister, and raised her goblet in salute, "Seems I''ll be the one to upstage dear old Brother after all."

    Baroness Sylvia simpered and raised her cup in reply, too relieved at the charade''s success to have room for a pithy comeback. Mum grasped Meya''s arms and hitched her snugly to her side.

    "Do excuse us¡ª"

    After a hasty bow, she whisked Meya away, picking the widest paths through the milling crowd towards the balcony, shielding Meya from the chaos with her body.

    "Head high. Deep breaths, Meya. Almost there. Almost¡ª"

    Mum''s voice was yet another unwelcome feather''s touch in the maelstrom of sensations flinging her about. All she needed was a gentle nudge too sharp, and she would tip over the edge¡ª

    She bumped into something solid and yielding, smooth and coarse, hot and ice-cold at the same time. A splash of freezing water down her front startled her so hard, the deluge burst free. Screams and yells and broken glass and clattering metal. Pain arced up her skull then blinked out, and the world settled into clarity around her once more.

    As she panted, runny, yellowish sick dripped off her onto the carpet. It had emptied but for Mum''s crimson slippers, and a pair of leather boots pure white but for the splatters of vomit.

    Meya followed the trail of her sick up the man''s white trousers to his charcoal-gray tunic, to find his square-jawed, snowy-skinned face and freefalling white-blond hair. Compared against other noble faces, he must be around Baron Kellis''s age. Goblet still held aloft in one hand, his ocean-blue eyes calmly appraised the damage.

    "Oh, my lord¡ªmy daughter¡ªshe isn''t feeling well¡ªI''m so sorry¡ª" Stammering, Mum rushed in with her handkerchief, but the man raised his hand to halt her.

    "Not at all, not at all." He muttered, distracted. After a deep breath, he surfaced with a slight frown over his gentle smile, "Are you all right, my lady?"

    Meya blinked. The man had a familiar air about him, like Coris when they first met, yet slightly different, so slight she couldn''t pinpoint where. His eyes were beautiful, serene and piercing. She delved into them and found no bottom for the pit, no treasure nor horror. They were empty.

    "Yes, milord. Now that I''ve spewed? All over you?" Shivering, she added jestingly, as if hoping something would well up in that chilling void in response. Even fury would be more palatable. As Mum spanked her arm with an exasperated cry, the man smiled wider.

    "Indeed." He chuckled tenderly, then tilted his head, "Let us go clean ourselves. Allow me to lead the way."

    He extended his hand, bowed, then stepped confidently through the gawking, whispering crowd. He stopped a scurrying servant-boy, who pointed them to a water-pump in the gardens, and brought them clean rags.

    As the man wiped sick off his tunic and Mum helped Meya with hers, Mum broke the silence,

    "My lord¡ªI''m Alanna Clariden. This is my daughter, Meya. We''re part of the Hadrian entourage."

    "Hadrian?" The man perked up, blinking, then his eyes strayed to the doorway they''d come through. His lips curled into a faint smile, as he brushed the rag absently down his damp shirt, "So, they are here. I certainly must greet them."

    He tossed aside the rag and plunged his hands into the bucket. Clattering footsteps drew near. A reed-thin silhouette emerged at the doorway, froze at the sight of Meya, then rushed down the steps with a cry,

    "Meya!"

    "Coris¡ª"

    Coris slammed into her, caring not in the least for the reek and damp.

    "I lost you in the crowd. I''m so sorry¡ª" He drew back and dipped his head at Mum, only then noticing the unknown man, "And who is¡ª"

    Coris froze, the rest of his question dying in his throat. His eyes widened as blood drained from his cheeks. He stepped up to shield Meya, his back shivering. Yet, all the man did was smile warmly, raising his arms as if to embrace a long-lost heir.

    "Coris, my dear boy. It''s been so long." He shook his head, his voice parching to a rasp of longing in his throat. Her fear subsiding, Meya slipped out from behind Coris.

    "You know Lord Coris, milord?"

    The man blinked, taken aback, then laughed affectionately. Swearing under his breath, Coris shoved Meya behind him again, yet the man continued airily as if he hadn''t noticed.

    "Better than most. His little brother, as well. They once trained under me¡ªthe sons I''ve never had."

    Meya began to smile¡ªthen stopped. For a heartbeat, relief and joy blossomed in her at the discovery of her husband''s kindly mentor, then remembrance crashed in like a freezing wave.

    There was a man who had trained Coris and poisoned Zier into a willing pawn for the Axel Heist. The man also sent his daughters to Hadrian as unwitting spies and discarded them when they''d exhausted their use. The man had learned the hiding place of The Axel, brought the knowledge to the King and called a meeting of the Council.

    "And this¡ªis Baron Grimthel of Graye," hissed Coris through gritted teeth.

    <hr>

 The Dance

    Silence fell but for the distant chirp of crickets and faint echoes of music and chatter from the faraway feast, as the old knight and erstwhile squire locked eyes for the first time in half a decade. In a surprising turn, it was the elder who yielded first.

    ¡°Goodly Freda, why must you fear me so?¡± Baron Graye frowned, shaking his head, ¡°It was a tragic accident. I don¡¯t curse Hadrian for the fire that took little Agnes. You must know that.¡±

    ¡°Oh, I¡¯m sure you wish that fire upon us. Only then can you set your rivers of iron alight,¡± retorted Coris through teeth still grinding.

    ¡°You are sorely mistaken.¡± Baron Graye tilted his head with a sigh, still magnanimous. ¡°Your father and I have our differences, Corien, but we are both humble knights of the Council, serving our one king for the good of Latakia. So long as that appears to be the case, you have nothing to fear.¡±

    Tension emanated from Coris, so thick in the air Meya felt the flesh in his arms clenching as he raised them ever higher to shield her. Baron Graye must have caught a nose-full as well, for his sigh fell heavy, knowing the time to abandon a lost cause. He glanced at Meya, his ocean-blue eyes hollow.

    ¡°You¡¯ve found yourself an enchanting young lady, Coris.¡± He said softly, his eyes still studying Meya, ¡°You should enjoy your evening while it lasts.¡±

    With that simple, yet inexplicably ominous remark, he swept away, his white cloak rippling after him like a rain-stream through a maze of grass. Meya followed his receding white silhouette until he vanished behind a left in the hallway, then turned around at Mum¡¯s stern voice.

    ¡°My lord, if I may. He may have his feuds with your father, but he seems nothing but gracious to you. He¡¯s clearly fond of you, and that is not how one treats one¡¯s old mentor.¡±

    ¡°Mum!¡± Meya moaned. There she went again, mothering every youngster in sight, hers or not. Yet, Coris seemed too baffled to be offended. He spun around and gawked at Mum, gray eyes like blinking moons, then shook his head in horrified awe, torn halfway between laughing and cradling his forehead.

    ¡°Alanna, you¡¯re worse than your daughter.¡± (¡°Oi!¡± snapped Meya.) Mum huffed and rolled her eyes, no doubt taking him for the arrogant prodigy she¡¯d heard he was. Coris leaned in, desperate now as he pleaded his case,

    ¡°Grimthel Graye may appear to anyone as anything¡ªbecause he isn¡¯t anything. He sees nothing but uses, even for his own daughters. He used them both, and he¡¯ll do the same to Meya¡ª¡±

    Meya seethed in mounting frustration. Would everyone stop with all this smothering protecting-the-fair-maiden? She wasn¡¯t that gullible!

    ¡°¡ªThen perhaps you shouldn¡¯t have declared open war,¡± Mum¡¯s soft voice was grave as a cornered viper¡¯s hiss, taking the threat seriously now. She cocked her head at Meya. ¡°She¡¯s your wife. That is your child. You choose the battle they suffer. If he doesn¡¯t wear his colors yet, why should you?¡±

    Coris closed his mouth and swallowed his words, his cheeks coloring. But then, Mum froze. She peered at Coris, then her eyes widened.

    ¡°But of course, you must know that.¡± She muttered, her hand absently straying to her lips as she leaned in, her voice disappearing. ¡°Poor thing. He used you, too, didn¡¯t he?¡±

    Coris paled to match the moonlight on his face. He averted his eyes, his short bursts of breath jarring in the quiet. Mum raised her eyebrows at Meya, and she nodded slightly, even as vapors of doubt swirled deep within her.

    From the tales of Agnes and Coris himself, she¡¯d long imagined Baron Graye as a conniving, ruthless, cold man incomprehensible in his ways due to the lack of a human soul behind his choices.

    So, meeting him in the flesh, she couldn¡¯t reconcile the real Baron Graye to that twisted portrait she¡¯d drawn. He seemed a kind gentleman. A wee unnerving with his empty eyes, yes, but then it was probably necessary for court intrigue. Even the Clardarths weren¡¯t so honest.

    Agnes and Coris¡¯s accounts were filtered through their eyes, colored by the ordeal they suffered. And Freda knew how paranoid the Hadrians have become from two centuries of secret-keeping. And as Baron Hadrian himself admitted, they hadn¡¯t always acted in the interest of Latakia, either.

    Baron Graye spied on Hadrian on orders from the King, who had full right to be suspicious of the old guard that had supported his demented predecessor he overthrew. He may not have expected Agnes and Persephia would be harmed. Or, like Coris often did, may have sacrificed them for his duty to Latakia.

    There must be more to him than the rumors that precede him. She should trust what she saw with her own eyes than what others told her they saw, shouldn¡¯t she? But then again, Meya didn¡¯t fare well so far as judge of character. Especially when it came to men¡­

    Meya¡¯s eyes strayed to the only man in the vicinity. Mum looked mournfully at Coris, who squirmed under her scrutiny. He turned to Meya,

    ¡°Are you feeling better? Shall we head back?¡±

    ¡°I doubt it¡¯d be long before we find ourselves rushing back here,¡± sighed Mum, eyeing Meya who jolted out of her head. Coris peered at the faraway window of light, nodding.

    ¡°It¡¯ll be downright chaos soon. Just you wait for the dance.¡±

    Dance?

    Meya¡¯s eyes widened, appetite for novelty restored now that her stomach was a growling void. Her eyes must have glowed twice as bright¡ªMum caught the spark with the corner of her eye, frowning as she always did when smelling oncoming unruly Meya.

    ¡°Either way,¡± she drawled as she puttered about gathering spent rags, ¡°you won¡¯t be singing tonight, Mama Bird.¡±

    Having retrieved Baron Graye¡¯s abandoned cloth and tossing it into the basin, she straightened with a haughty ultimatum, ¡°I¡¯ll fetch your father.¡±

    Basin on her hip, Mum strode off. Meya shot Coris an incredulous look. He stood, arms crossed, the look in his eyes not unlike Morel gloating over Meya¡¯s torture. Growling, she stomped after Mum.

    ¡°Mum, I¡¯m fine! Give me one glimpse of the King and you¡¯ll have me blessed silence!¡±

    ¡°I¡¯m not sure His Majesty would be as gracious if you spewed on him!¡± Mum snapped.

    ¡°I spewed it all already! I dun have nothing left to spew!¡±

    ¡°Again, Meya¡ªthe Fest ends with the month. You¡¯ll have your chance.¡±

    Coris¡¯s voice blew in from behind, sounding weary¡ªand hurt. Meya caught herself. Still, she couldn¡¯t help but grumble shamefacedly,

    ¡°But you haven¡¯t eaten. You haven¡¯t got to dance.¡±

    Mum¡¯s face unwound, softened in the moonlight. She drew close and grasped her hand.

    ¡°Meya, it¡¯s all right.¡±

    Clear blue eyes bore deep into hers. Meya hung her head in defeat, although she still couldn¡¯t believe it truly was. Mum ran the back of her fingers down her cheek, then turned to Coris.

    ¡°My lord, do you think I can trust you alone with my daughter for a quarter-hour?¡±

    At her raised eyebrow of suspicion, Coris heaved a dramatic sigh and shrugged.

    ¡°She¡¯s pregnant. I¡¯m afraid there¡¯s nothing else I can do. Ow!¡±

    Coris must¡¯ve known the consequences by heart, so either he yearned for pain, or he¡¯d mistimed how fast her fist was. Meya concluded it was the former, for he chuckled with pride as Mum glowered at him as if debating whether she could splash him with sick-water from the basin and get away with it.

    At long last, Mum melted into a smile. She mussed his hair as any mother would for her boy, then went on her way.

    A string of apologies bursting at her lips, Meya counted the steps until Mum was out of earshot then spun around. Her mouth fell open, but no words left it. Coris stood rigid as stone, staring transfixed at the patch of thin air where Mum was. His hand traveled to his ruffled hair, slow and trembling.

    Coris was rarely treated as a little boy. His parents weren¡¯t around much while he was a babe. His intelligence and precociousness meant from the time he could talk sense, he was surrounded by adult nobles who treated him as an equal or legitimate threat, and knights he could command to fight wars for him. Meya couldn¡¯t imagine even Baroness Sylvia mussing up his head. Sure, Meya often toyed with his hair, but it probably wasn¡¯t the same.

    Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on Royal Road.

    He turned to her as she slid her arms around him. They shared a smile, as the doorway shared tantalizing wisps of music from the banquet hall. Before long, Coris swayed to his imagined rhythm. He was even more fidgety than Meya at times.

    ¡°Now that you¡¯ve mentioned it, we haven¡¯t danced since,¡± he said. Meya blinked, cocking her head as she reminisced, a smile creeping onto her lips as their second meeting tingled in her limbs like phantom touches.

    ¡°Something always happened, eh?¡±

    Coris whirled her to face him, his hands clamping over her waist.

    ¡°Nothing¡¯s happening now.¡±

    ¡°Wee-Coris is happening, and I dun think he¡¯ll take to spinning and twirling!¡± All too aware of her vomit breath and vomited-over dress, Meya placed her hands firm on his bony chest and pushed hard. Unfortunately, he¡¯d hooked his fingers securely in the soft fat of her middle,

    ¡°¡ªSo we¡¯ll sway. Nice and slow. Rock the babe straight to sleep.¡±

    His heart pounded on her palm, betraying the courage he¡¯d mustered for his guise of nonchalance. He truly didn¡¯t mind the stench? Hadn¡¯t he noticed the damp swathe on her bodice?

    As they swayed wider and steadier, Meya gingerly edged close. ¡¯Twas a pain figuring how to rest her head on his shoulder without touching the wet, smelling front of her dress to his tunic. Her resulting posture was akin to hunchbacked old Bailiff Mansfuld.

    Coris¡¯s sigh blew onto the naked skin over her breasts. He trailed his hand down her unfettered hair to her sleeve then her dress.

    ¡°You¡¯re¡ªextremely¡ªpretty.¡± He abandoned his attempt at refined poetry, his face flushing as his shoulders fell in defeat. Meya pouted as the pong of diluted sick floated up her nostrils.

    ¡°I got watered spew down me front.¡±

    ¡°Still pretty. Just stink a wee bit of porridge.¡±

    Meya hammered her fist on his chest. Laughing, Coris pressed her back so her soiled front was flush against his. She tensed in terror, yet on he swayed, the song in his head unheeding.

    As he gently assured her, little by little her mind strayed from the cold, stinging damp of her chest to the soothing, lukewarm heat of his embrace, and the Song flowed out of her.

    ¡°Deep in the heart of the Woodland Realm.

    In the ashen keep, stood an oaken seat.

    Worn smooth as ice and white as bone.

    For a hundred kings lasted Woodland Throne.

    What the wood remembers, so the leaves whisper.

    What the wood remembers, so the winds speak.¡±

    The Woodland Throne wove a hundred songs from a hundred reigns. Meya had picked the tale of an intrepid young prince, who felt imprisoned in his castle ensconced in the arms of the lush, dense forest. He longed to see sand plains where azure skies never rained, sail to islands so far-flung the winds could no longer push his ship.

    ¡°I will fly ¡¯til the sky runs out of rain.

    I will sail ¡¯til the sea runs out of wind.

    I will walk these lands ¡¯til my soles burn to stone.

    I will reign so far from the Woodland Throne.¡±

    Fearing he¡¯d abandon the Woodland Throne to ruin, the king ordered poor boy locked away in the deepest heart of the keep. The loving queen set him free and showed him a path through the forest, but she did not let him go without words of reassurance¡ªand warning¡ª

    ¡°Go now, beloved¡ª ¡¯til the day you learn.

    When your bones creak and groan what your heart yearns.

    When your ears think they hear what the leaves whisper.

    You¡¯ll return to my cairn guarding Woodland Throne.¡±

    ¡°You may fly ¡¯til the sky runs out of rain.

    You may sail ¡¯til the sea runs out of wind.

    You may walk these lands ¡¯til your soles burn to stone.

    You will find your home on the Woodland Throne.¡±

    So the prince traveled far as he desired, writing to his mother of the sights he discovered, the adventures he enjoyed. He returned a learned man worthy to serve his subjects, to find his mother had just passed away.

    However, the Woodland Throne stood shining and ready for him. The queen, true to her promise, had protected it until her last breath, safe in the knowledge he would return.

    As he caressed the arm of the empty chair, the prince lamented¡ª

    ¡°I have flown where the sky runs out of rain.

    I have sailed where the sea runs out of wind.

    I have walked all the lands, burned my soles down to stone.

    To come home to your bones on the Woodland Throne.¡±

    To find my home on the Woodland Throne.¡±

    Coris pressed his lips to her temple as they continued to sway and swivel, even as the song had long ended. From afar, Mirram and Alanna also swayed as they watched with smiles on their faces.

    This night, it seemed, would last eternal.

    <hr>

    Back in the grand hall, the music had quickened to a merry tune. Blossoming young women had gathered in a wide ring, surrounded by an even wider circle of young men, shunting their parents and grandparents to clapping admiringly on the sidelines. They pranced in clumsy unison, left to right then back and over again, kicking and twirling their feet, laughing and singing. The vielle and shawm swelled and ebbed in turn, egged on by drums, like witty banter between the sexes.

    Kellis smiled as his younger son swung back into view. Zier blew a kiss to Arinel, who giggled as the song carried them apart once more. The soft, warm weight of Sylvia¡¯s braided head nuzzled against his neck. He smoothed his hand down the curve of her waist.

    ¡°Kellis.¡±

    His hand froze just before it found home. Kellis shaped his lips into the smile that had vanished at the sound of that familiar voice, slid his hand to his wife¡¯s back, pressing slow circles to calm her, then together they turned to face his nemesis.

    ¡°Grimthel.¡±

    Grimthel Graye accepted his nod with a serene smile. His eyes strayed to the rings of dancing youngsters, and Kellis followed it. Zier and Arinel met again. This time, the lad managed to snatch a whiff of her rosy cheek before she tore away in a whirl of blonde tresses.

    ¡°Isn¡¯t that Arinel of Crosset?¡± asked Grimthel.

    ¡°Yes.¡±

    A pause of silence followed while Grimthel digested the new development. He cocked his head, his empty smile returning.

    ¡°Pity. Our children would¡¯ve been dancing hand in hand, save for a stroke of fate.¡±

    ¡°I thought your daughters were reserved for king and deity,¡± said Kellis.

    ¡°And Fyr has claimed one, Chione the other.¡± Grimthel sighed, then raised his head high, his voice colder, heavier now, ¡°Loyalty betrays and honor punishes when made to serve an unworthy liege. Now I am wiser.¡±

    Kellis whipped around and glared at the man. Graye served no liege, he¡¯d always known. What alarmed him was Graye sharing his sentiments with him, for Graye knew full well he¡¯d never entertain the notion.

    ¡°You speak words of treason, Grimthel,¡± Kellis lowered his voice as he peered into those bottomless eyes, shaking his head. ¡°I cannot harbor them in silence.¡±

    Graye¡¯s lips curved into a pitying smile. Before he retorted, the blare of trumpets swallowed the minstrel song. The spinning circles broke in half then flattened into meek lines before the three emerging figures, who trailed purple robes trimmed with snow-white ermine. The herald cried their royal titles, and the gathering bowed in submission.

    As the king gestured for his guests to resume their positions of ease, Grimthel straightened and tossed Kellis a parting smile,

    ¡°Fear not, old friend. Today is not his turn to fall.¡±

    With a flutter of his white cloak, he set off silent and swift as he arrived. Kellis stared after him until his last sliver of white melted into the crowd, pondering his cryptic remarks, King Alden¡¯s speech echoing faintly at the back of his mind.

    ¡°Esteemed lords and ladies of the six duchies, thank you. Far, far indeed have you traveled to join us in our humble abode. We are honored to receive you. We see tire linger still in your faces. If by the midnight bell it has not been purged, we shall consider ourselves to have failed abysmally as your host.¡±

    A smattering of laughter rose in reply. Kellis wagered it was more encouragement than amusement. The Queen had honed her husband¡¯s public mask to a shine, yet stubborn burnishes refused to be sanded. Alden was a warrior, an idealist. Man delivered flattery as if he were scraping sap from his tongue. Even Coris could¡¯ve done better.

    A hill woven of hair and cloth stretched between him and the royal family, rippling here and there as the young and fidgety craned their necks for a glimpse of the handsome king or the adorable ten-year-old prince, and the opportunistic jostled for a spot within the king¡¯s sightline.

    A decade on the throne had buttered over the sharp angles of Alden¡¯s face and leeched ruddiness from his cheeks, but otherwise he remained knightly. His honey-brown locks hadn¡¯t retreated fully from his now wrinkled forehead. His blue eyes gleamed bright with youth as they flitted nervously across the sea of people spread out before him.

    Queen Zephyr pressed her hand on her son¡¯s shoulder to still the squirming boy. Six braids of ash brown, threaded with ribbons of gold, fell to caress her ankles. Her almond-shaped brown eyes swept the crowd like a gliding hawk, her thin purple lips perfectly straight as she took her husband¡¯s hand in her free one. Heartened, the king mustered his smile and soldiered on,

    ¡°We have news of great importance to announce. Thereafter you may drink, dine, dance to your hearts¡¯ fill, and suffer us no longer.¡±

    King Alden looked to his herald, who in turn nodded to the guard standing sentinel before a door to the side. He opened it, and a golden-haired girl of no more than five emerged, shadowed by her heavily pregnant golden-haired mother, both resplendent in robes of apricot and silver.

    Sylvia dropped her goblet with a clang.

    King Alden flourished his hand towards the pair as they approached, his eyes roaming the crowd.

    ¡°It is decided our humble House of Corbyn shall be joined with the great House of Amplevale. As proof of this union, Lady Serella of Amplevale shall be betrothed to Prince Halcyon.¡±

    ¡°Why haven¡¯t we heard a word? How could they¡ªWhy?¡± Sylvia hissed in panic at his ear, her voice drowned by the roiling chatter of the crowd. Kellis grasped her hand tugging his sleeve as his heart thundered against his ribcage. Yet, the worst had not come to pass.

    ¡°Amplevale has also asked to represent themselves on the Council, for their pleas are no longer voiced by those they trusted to speak for them.¡±

    The King extended his hand once more, gesturing for the pregnant lady to step forth. The woman Kellis had known from his earliest memories¡ª

    ¡°Lady Kyrel of Amplevale, who speaks for the ailing Lord Sytus.¡±

    ¡°Ailing? It hasn¡¯t been two months!¡± Sylvia scoffed, yet her fingers were claws of ice between his. Their worst fears were befalling them¡ªthe ever looming doom kept at bay by The Axel.

    ¡°As our first line of defense against Nostran invasion, Amplevale¡¯s concerns must be heard. And thus, I have called a convening of the Council to cast vote on this very issue.¡±

    By all rights, Baron Hadrian shouldn¡¯t be on the Council. Maxus bargained with Philip the Usurper for the seat that belonged to Lord Amplevale. As Hadrian must now guard The Axel against dragons, it was only fitting they control Amplevale¡¯s army and the defense of Zarel Pass, he reasoned.

    But the Wynns¡¯ blood of oath had run dry. And Maxus¡¯s threat had always been hollow. Hadrian would never betray Latakia to dragons, even at the cost of their lives.

    ¡°However, ¡¯tis a matter for tomorrow! Tonight, we celebrate Freda. Let the feast continue!¡±

    The king threw his arms wide, and once more, minstrel song rose to fill the bursting hall. The gathering took a while to shake off lingering chills from the news, then all but few sank blissfully back to merrymaking.

    Kellis peered through the whirling dancers to find Zier rooted at the heart of the ring, Lady Crosset in his arms, his blue eyes wide and fearful on his bloodless face.

 The End Begins

    The King and Queen ushered Prince Halcyon towards his future bride. The poor girl slipped between the folds of her mother¡¯s dress, as if she knew the fabric was paler than what was visible of her cheek. The Prince, for his part, struck an expression of incredulity so perfected it would¡¯ve been at home on the face of a curmudgeonly old sap.

    ¡°Are you waiting for next Fest? Ask her hand!¡± The King hissed, panicking.

    ¡°She¡¯s but a baby!¡± The Prince hissed back. ¡°When I asked for younger I meant me young, not young young¡ªAgh!¡±

    Halcyon jolted and drew his right foot closer to its pair, seething in pain. The Queen remained deadpan. Lady Kyrel urged her smile back as she steered the coyly squirming Serella towards the Prince.

    ¡°Give her a decade, your highness. She¡¯ll blossom into the perfect rose.¡±

    Halcyon stared down his nose at his young bride, looking as if he¡¯d want nothing more than to make known his lack of love for flowers, but his smarting foot must have protested, for he sighed heavily and sunk to his knee, his hand extended.

    Kyrel smiled as Serella eagerly laid her hand in the proffered palm and the prince bowed his brown head to kiss it. Her first smile for Serella that Kellis had seen¡ªshe¡¯d found a use for the spare, finally. It froze at the sound of his footsteps, then continued to widen when she spotted him among the crowd.

    She dipped the Corbyns the deepest curtsy she could manage, then waddled over. Motherhood had piled more flesh onto her once tight cheeks, lent glow to her hair like streams of golden silk, yet sucked warmth and life from her round blue eyes.

    ¡°Kyrel, what is the meaning of this?¡± He whispered. Her back to the King, Kyrel abandoned her smile. Her eyes flared.

    ¡°I was born to wait on queens. To bear sons of dukes.¡± She spat. ¡°Not some fat old knight drudging in the far-flung fringes of the kingdom.¡±

    Kellis shook his head in disbelief. His heart cracked in flames of fury. He¡¯d always pitied her destiny, refrained from placing blame on either their father for choosing duty or her for resenting it, then she¡¯d gone and sold her family off with glee¡ª

    ¡°Gold runs thicker in your veins than blood, it seems. Father was wise not to trust you with the truth.¡±

    Kyrel¡¯s beautiful face twisted, hatred replacing triumph.

    ¡°I paid for dear Brother¡¯s freedom¡ªfor you to sard his wife on his seat¡ª¡± She jerked her head at Sylvia, ¡°¡ªwith all I would have been. I fulfilled your duty. I atoned for his sin. Now I reap my dues.¡±

    ¡°What have you done to Simon? To Sytus?¡± snarled Kellis through gritted teeth.

    ¡°What of Serulda? Won¡¯t you ask after her as well?¡± Kyrel pouted, a hand over her heart in mock petulance, then sighed, ¡°but of course, only the men count. A rose for every hundred thorns in the side.¡±

    She leaned in, her cheek dusted with powdered ice brushing his jaw, her lips rouged with blood his earlobe, whispering each word with relish,

    ¡°¡ªBut the rose wilts. Thorns fester. And boil.¡±

    With a hiss, she withdrew. Her smile brightened as she watched him seethe.

    ¡°If you¡¯d given me Coris when I asked, perhaps you would¡¯ve saved one of your precious sons.¡± She cocked her head, then spun away,

    ¡°Savor your last Fest, Kellis. It¡¯s been twenty years a-coming.¡±

    She hobbled away, laughing with the King as they watched wee Serella teaching the Prince a clapping rhyme. A doomed memory of what his sister once was. Or what he had mistaken her to have been.

    Sylvia¡¯s hand throttled his wrist, dragging him out of mourning and the raucous party onto the balcony. She cast her eyes at the doorway, her chest heaving.

    ¡°All this to lift the Ban!¡± She shook her head, eyes blazing with determination. ¡°He won¡¯t get rid of us so simply. We have the majority.¡±

    Kellis shook his head, his voice low and dead,

    ¡°He gave Amplevale the title of future queen. Why make such a trade if he¡¯d be defeated?¡±

    Sylvia froze. Her eyes widened as chilling truth snuffed out her faint hopes.

    ¡°Someone turned?¡± She rasped.

    ¡°And we have until the dance ends to turn someone over.¡±

    Silence fell as they digested it, the steady beat of drums from the hall chipping at the dwindling time. They had no clue which of their anti-miner allies had defected. They must seduce an opponent¡ªbut who? And how?

    Sylvia gasped, and his heart leaped.

    ¡°Graye¡ª¡± She breathed, tugging at his sleeve. Kellis gaped as his swelling heart froze in his chest. He couldn¡¯t believe his eyes¡ªshe was ecstatic. ¡°Alden made the offer to him first! Now he begrudges him for it. He¡¯s our only chance¡ª¡±

    ¡°For what, Syl?¡± Kellis snapped. He snatched her arms, rattling her back to sanity, ¡°So he can ruin our sons a second time over? He knows next to nothing about The Axel, and already he plans to overthrow the king! We can¡¯t join him!¡±

    ¡°WELL, WE CAN¡¯T STAY PUT, EITHER!¡± Sylvia screamed. She tore her flesh from his claws, her voice breaking with tears as she jabbed a trembling finger at the party. ¡°If Kyrel gets to speak, they will die! You know The Axel is the dowry! And she¡¯ll tear our boys open to get it!¡±

    Fists clenched, Kellis turned sharply away. The price was clear. If he chose Graye, it might mean the end of Latakia, but if he chose Latakia, his sons could very well die.

    Sylvia¡¯s nails gouged into his arms, her fierce voice choked with sobs as she commanded,

    ¡°You must stay on the Council, Kellis. Or there won¡¯t be a future for any of us.¡±

    <hr>

    The return journey to the Dragon¡¯s Crossing wasted as much time as the departure. Mum and Dad retired straight to their room for first sleep, but the spoiled little Lord or Lady Hadrian or two squatting in Meya¡¯s belly now decided they did want dinner, after all. And, much like their father, their demands were particular in detail.

    Thus, Meya joined the congregation before the fireplace in the Hadrians¡¯ chambers, trying her best to pay attention over the masterpiece on her plate as Coris relayed to the Graye sisters his puzzling encounter with their father.

    ¡°And you¡¯re sure your letter reached him?¡± Agnes pressed her sister for the third time.

    ¡°What else could have prompted the King to summon us?¡± Coris pitched in from across the ring. Persephia had opened her mouth to again stand her ground, when the door opened and in came Zier and Arinel.

    ¡°Wha¡ªthe feast¡¯s over?¡± Meya sat up, tossing her headless fried anchovy back to the mess on the plate.

    ¡°The Council¡¯s begun?¡± Coris echoed her. Zier shook his head as he led Arinel into the room.

    ¡°Father sent us back.¡± He froze halfway to the ring of chairs, his nose twitching. His eyes found the culprit in Meya¡¯s hands, then widened in terror.

    ¡°Is that¡­battered anchovy and tomatoes? With custard and honey?¡±

    Coris rolled his eyes as he waved his mother¡¯s feathery fan in Meya¡¯s direction.

    ¡°One is a genuine demand from Little Lexi. The rest are my wife¡¯s sinful favorites disguised as a mother¡¯s duty. Care to bet?¡±

    ¡°Remember your mother¡¯s cravings, Coris,¡± said Arinel coolly.

    ¡°I craved pickled frog garnished with rose jelly¡ªset to Corien¡¯s Harp. Be grateful I left out the frog before the soothsayer,¡± recited Coris under his breath. Sensing Meya¡¯s death glare as she chomped the head off another anchovy, Coris turned to his brother with every ounce of seriousness he could muster.

    ¡°Is everything all right?¡±

    Zier shared a look with his lady, then heaved a sigh.

    ¡°Serella¡¯s marrying Prince Halcyon,¡± he met his brother¡¯s gaze with haunted blue eyes, his voice hoarse. ¡°Aunt Kyrel wants Father¡¯s seat on the Council. They¡¯ll vote on it.¡±

    A pause of silence followed as the room¡¯s occupants digested the news. Again, Coris was first to the answer. He fell against his chair with a flump, staring eyes unseeing.

    ¡°So that¡¯s what,¡± he breathed.

    Meya frowned at her husband, then cast her eyes around the ring. Hers was the only relieved face. Arinel watched Coris as she caressed Zier¡¯s arm, as if to gauge how dire it was. Agnes glanced between the Hadrian brothers, a trembling hand rising slowly to her lips. Persephia gawked at Zier. What had she missed here?

    ¡°That¡¯s¡ªthat¡¯s great, innit?¡± She prodded Coris. He¡¯d bent forth, elbows on his knees and fingers weaved under his nose, lost in feverish calculations, so she looked to the bearer of bad news instead. ¡°Your auntie¡¯s on the Council and your cousin¡¯s the future queen.¡±

    ¡°It¡¯s a trade, Meya,¡± said Agnes, her single eye boring into Meya¡¯s, ¡°The King offered me the title of future queen if Father delivers him The Axel. What do you think it means, now that he¡¯s given it to Serella?¡±

    Zier thawed out just enough to pull up a chair for Arinel, then sank limply into his own.

    ¡°Aunt Kyrel is the one behind the summons. Seems your father didn¡¯t tattle, after all.¡± He tossed the Greeneye Graye a sideeye.

    ¡°But I was so sure¡ª¡± Persephia shook her head, still staring at the patch of nothing Zier used to occupy.

    ¡°He¡¯s likely saving it for a better use, a better time,¡± suggested Coris darkly.

    ¡°¡ªOr your letter might not have reached him,¡± Agnes cut in, eyes narrowed at Coris in annoyance.

    ¡°I slipped it in with a shipment of finest gum. Father personally inspects those!¡± cried Persephia, hammering her fist on her knee.

    ¡°Still not foolproof, Persie!¡± Agnes cradled her head.

    ¡°We were discussing whether Grimthel still believes them dead,¡± said Coris, seeing the two newcomers blinking blankly at the quarreling twins.

    ¡°Why? What came up?¡± Zier¡¯s deep voice arced an octave shriller.

    As Coris again recounted their meeting with Baron Graye, Meya pondered Agnes¡¯s words. Her hand froze on her chin at the chilling realization¡ª

    ¡°Your auntie knows about The Axel?¡± Coris turned to her.

    ¡°That it¡¯s inside me, yes.¡± He nodded. His narrowed eyes darted across the divide to the Graye girls. ¡°The more worrisome matter is whether your father knows.¡±

    Meya sighed. There he went again. Since Baron Graye made no attempt to contact Persephia, nor did he threaten Baron Hadrian to hand her over, nor made any mention of The Axel, Agnes doubted he¡¯d received Persephia¡¯s letter at all. Now that it turned out Lady Kyrel was behind the summons from the King, it was clear Baron Graye had nothing to do with this bullcrap.

    This story is posted elsewhere by the author. Help them out by reading the authentic version.

    Yet, Coris left his fangs stubbornly lodged in his calf, so used to playing mental Heist, he assumed everyone in the three lands was as much a fingers-steepling, eyes-glinting schemer as him.

    ¡°The Heist, Zier¡ªWhat were his instructions? His exact words.¡± Coris rounded on his brother.

    ¡°I can¡¯t possibly remember¡ª¡± Zier sputtered.

    ¡°¡ªDid he tell you to swallow it?¡± Arinel offered a compromise.

    ¡°¡ªNo, it was on impulse!¡±

    ¡°¡ª¡¯Course it was! Even you¡¯ve never seen The Axel ¡®til now. How could the Baron have known ¡¯tis small enough to be swallowed?¡± Meya threw up her hand. With a huff, she set aside her plate and stood,

    ¡°Look, we got our answer. Baron Graye hasn¡¯t got Lady Persie¡¯s letter. He doesn¡¯t know where The Axel is. He hasn¡¯t tattled to the King. He¡¯s not behind the summons. He still thinks Lady Agnes and Lady Persie dead. The true culprit is Lady Kyrel. And she¡¯s your aunt¡ª¡±

    ¡°¡ªAnd Simon¡¯s mother. Look what good that did him,¡± muttered Zier.

    ¡°He could also be waiting for the perfect moment to strike, Meya,¡± said Coris. Meya spun to face him. It¡¯d been a while since a foe hit so close to home, she¡¯d forgotten how cold and emotionless he once was. This was a betrayal he hadn¡¯t expected, the worst he failed to foresee. But was it truly a betrayal? Wasn¡¯t he Kyrel¡¯s favorite, after all?

    ¡°Kyrel has the King¡¯s ear now, but when the King doesn¡¯t find The Axel with me, she¡¯ll lose his favor. Why would Grimthel risk speaking when Kyrel has already set herself to fall? When he could scheme to keep The Axel for himself?¡±

    ¡°Then tell her the truth! She¡¯s your aunt! Why¡¯d she even think of getting you killed? Why d¡¯you even think of letting her fail? She can get the King to allow surgery for Zier. She can talk him into letting dragons pass. ¡¯Tis all¡¯s well that ends well!¡±

    ¡°You¡¯re forgetting a crucial detail, Meya.¡± Coris remained unnervingly serene, ¡°Kyrel wants to replace Father on the Council. Why would the King back her if she were on our side and would vote to keep the Ban?¡±

    Meya briefly faltered. Yet, she just couldn¡¯t believe it. Of course she¡¯d heard how nobles would kill even family for power, but having become so close to the Hadrians, she just couldn¡¯t imagine Coris¡¯s aunt¡ªSimon¡¯s mother¡ªbeing that sort. And she was pregnant, for Freda¡¯s sake!

    ¡°She doesn¡¯t know the truth, does she? She probably did what she thought was best for Amplevale. She¡¯ll change her mind once she knows what¡¯s at stake.¡±

    Zier snorted at her hasty offering. Meya whipped around to find his sardonic grin.

    ¡°In your dreams, maybe.¡± He shook his head, chuckling, then fell solemn. ¡°This is a mother who hates her own son, Meya. You didn¡¯t see her with Father back there. Like twenty years¡¯ worth of poison ate through her skin and out spilled the she-serpent. She told the King old Lord Sytus is ailing, but not a word about it in her letters to Simon. Now Simon¡¯s gone quiet. Don¡¯t you think it¡¯s suspicious?¡±

    ¡°Now she¡¯s parading her swollen belly about, selling her five-year-old daughter to the Prince. Where¡¯s her twin? Where¡¯s Simon? Does she seem like someone who¡¯d give a rat¡¯s arse about Greeneyes? Her Hadrian duty?¡±

    ¡°You haven¡¯t been fooled by Kyrel and Grimthel, Meya. We have.¡± Coris rose to his feet, his dead eyes locked with hers, ¡°They cannot be trusted with The Axel. Father must keep his seat. He must keep the secret¡ª¡±

    ¡°¡ªIn short, the status quo?¡±

    Coris froze, taken aback. Meya lowered her gaze to the dancing flames in the grate, giving him pause to remember as she delved deep inside, peeling away fear and turmoil to find what she truly believed, what she wished for.

    ¡°I¡¯ve been thinking over what Vyrgil said. He¡¯s right. We should trust more in dragons and humans. Dragons just want to go home. The King wants to save Latakia, wants his reforms so his people can prosper. And Greeneyes are his people. Without their dragon army, Nostra is no longer a threat. And if we get the dragons to Everglen, we¡¯ll know where our ore ships went.¡±

    Coris avoided her eyes, so Meya turned to the others, pleading in earnest.

    ¡°Don¡¯t you ever think the reason this never ends is because we keep assuming the worst of each other? So we strike first, destroy them to be safe? Or live in secret, in fear? And I¡¯m tired of it,¡± Meya cried, her flailing arms flapping lifelessly to her side.

    ¡°Kyrel and Graye can¡¯t be trusted. Fine. What of everyone else? They can¡¯t all be greedy cowards who won¡¯t understand there¡¯s enough good for both sides that¡¯s worth working toward. Tell the Council the whole truth. How else will they ever trust us? Let them help us fight those two. We can¡¯t do this on our own.¡±

    ¡°What if it turns out we were wrong?¡± Coris broke his silence at last. Meya spun around, met his hard, fearful eyes, ¡°Will we have a second chance? How much will we lose?¡±

    Step by step, he moved closer, his words chilling her colder as he went,

    ¡°What if the King and the Dukes turned against Greeneyes? Like Philip the Usurper did? What if they lifted the Ban, resumed mining, and exploited Greeneyes? What if Nostra attacked us? Like they did Rutgarth? What if the rest of the dragons didn¡¯t want to return to Everglen? What if goodwill doesn¡¯t win against fear and greed?¡±

    He stopped. They stood face-to-face, once again, in the clash of moonbeam and firelight. Coris sighed, gazing at the rippling shadows on the carpet.

    ¡°We Hadrians are not worthy to guard this secret, nor do we claim to have the sole right to, nor do we know the answer,¡± he shook his head, then raised his shadowed eyes to her, ¡°but fate cursed us with this duty. And we¡¯re trying our damnedest. That means sacrificing the luxury of trust.¡±

    Meya¡¯s breath caught at the familiar gleam of resignation, of dilemma in his eyes. Baron Hadrian was right. History was inherited, handed from father to son. Coris was becoming a father¡ªhis father. Ever since she¡¯d professed her unwavering love, ever since he realized she was pregnant, he had become cautious, wary¡ªindecisive.

    Coris raised his trembling hand. His fingertips dragged like tears of ice down her cheek.

    ¡°I agree with you, I always have. I wish things could¡¯ve been so simple. I wish we could¡¯ve taken the risk. It amazes me that after all you¡¯ve seen, you haven¡¯t lost what I love above all else in you, what drove you to save me all those years ago. And I pray you never will.¡±

    Meya pursed her lips against despair. Coris urged her into his embrace.

    ¡°That¡¯s why I can no longer be reckless.¡± His hand slid down to cradle the subtle bulge of her belly. ¡°I have so much to lose.¡±

    <hr>

    Whenever a decision of such consequence arose that the Council of Nine was called to convene, the members would gather in a circular chamber at the heart of the Blue Palace.

    Six dukes and two barons took their places on each of the eight faces of the hollowed table. All familiar faces to Kellis but one. Duke Merilith had been substituted by his heir¡ªLord Cavalon, Christopher¡¯s elder brother.

    Kellis eyed the young man clad in seafoam green as he settled on the chair to his right. Cavalon¡¯s gaze, however, was fixed upon the king. When they last met at Coris¡¯s wedding, he was his father¡¯s eager, amicable aide, the opposite of his taciturn little brother. It was as if an impostor had replaced him. Or rather, the contrary.

    So this explained Christopher vanishing after he left to find his father. It was Meriton that turned. The worst he could¡¯ve anticipated. Meriton didn¡¯t gain from the Mining Ban nor its abolishment, having grown rich on thick woodlands and roaring fields. The king must have appealed to their fear. Fear of the creeping drought, the demands of Amplevale¡¯s army putting a strain on Meriton¡¯s crops. It was harder to reassure fear than satisfy greed.

    The mystery that remained was¡ªHow had Cavalon waylaid his father? The same method Kyrel used on her husband? And had Christopher divulged anything about The Axel?

    At the center of the ring, the king¡¯s chair stood empty on its rotating platform. In Devind¡¯s time, Kellis saw little but the chair¡¯s back. Since Alden took it, the chair seemed fixed to confront him.

    ¡°We have but one agenda for tonight¡¯s convening. Whether we should put to vote the removal of Hadrian from the Council, and the nomination of Amplevale to take their place.¡±

    King Alden prowled the ring, his eyes on the rich Corbyn purple painted over Wynn Blue on the seamless wall. Unlike most of his predecessors, the incumbent monarch would pace as he laid out his arguments. Most blamed it on his previous post as knight commander. Kellis attributed it to paranoia. A man shows his back to those he knows wouldn¡¯t knife it. Having severed a crooked spine to come upon his chair, Alden¡¯s back was erect and ever turning, save for whenever his eyes fell upon Hadrian.

    Alden¡¯s boots halted before him. Kellis raised his eyes to the young king¡¯s bright blue. The fall of his eyebrows met the rise of his narrowed eyes, underlining his deep-rooted distrust.

    ¡°For two hundred years, the defense of Zarel Pass has been trusted to Hadrian. Despite Amplevale being the frontier. For reasons known only between you and the Wynns.¡±

    Alden spun on his heel and swept back to his seat. He hung from the edge like an impatient crow, hands like claws gripping the golden knobs atop his armrests.

    ¡°Now Amplevale is crippled by the drought and the lost ships. Our troops must be fed. They must be armed. And still you insist the Mining Ban must be upheld. Tell me, Kellis, is the Ban key to Latakia¡¯s survival? Or your own?¡±

    Kellis sighed inwards as he stood. In his prior life¡ªthe one before he learned The Axel¡¯s secret¡ªhe would¡¯ve been shaking his fists at Alden¡¯s side, while his father sat stone-faced in this very chair. Knowledge is power. An uncontrollable weapon. If he could just foresee how many lives would be lost in one sentence¡ªGreeneyes are dragons, the decision would¡¯ve been easier. And when time pressed him, he wouldn¡¯t have to resort to repeating lies that burned his tongue¡ª

    ¡°Your Majesty, I stand by concerns I have raised which the Council shares. And the conditions we agreed on when we pledged our allegiance¡ª¡±

    ¡°We?¡± Alden raised a mocking eyebrow. He jabbed a finger at the surrounding men. ¡°You didn¡¯t put forth those conditions, they did. You didn¡¯t pledge allegiance to this crown, they did¡ª¡±

    ¡°Our allegiance¡ª¡± Kellis raised his voice, ¡°¡ªwe pledged to Latakia, my liege¡ªwhich is why we examine your intentions. You may very well be espousing innovation, exploiting crisis to seize control of our serfs, our resources to create your army. Following in Devind¡¯s footsteps¡ª¡±

    ¡°And I¡¯ve promised¡ªfor the last ten years¡ªso long as Amplevale and Graye are armed, you¡¯ll retain control of mining in your demesne!¡± Alden sprang to his feet, his finger hammering his armrest. He threw his arms wide, glowering at Dukes Damerel, Easthaven and Aquar¡ªstaunch anti-miners Hadrian could always call upon. Meriton was for once spared the lecture.

    ¡°You have nothing to fear. Nothing to lose but the comfortable present. You put your power, your riches, your people¡¯s support before the good of our country. We are a kingdom, not an empire. You are not kings of your land¡ªyou are stewards of our land. And in these trying times, we must all sacrifice to keep this land together. Your duty does not dwindle with distance from Nostra. If the west falls, how long will it be before the east crumbles as well?¡±

    Cavalon nodded fervently, proving suspicion beyond doubt. Like clockwork, the vote had been decided by the queen¡¯s machinations beneath the pearly face. The king¡¯s pleas, however sincere and ardent, were wind on wooden ears. Hadrian¡¯s seat would be put to vote. Hadrian would lose that vote. Unless¡ª

    Kellis clenched his fist around the voice of temptation. How easy it would be to give up The Axel and have only his sons to protect. How easier would life become if he could just shrug off the burden, let them all suffer in his place. Let them know. Let them decide. Freda knew they were more suited for this task than him¡ª

    ¡°The Mining Ban must be abolished. No more ships to Everglen. We need every man slated for sea in the fields and down the mines. Shipmen, felons, Greeneyes¡ª¡±

    Kellis froze. For the first time in two decades, chaos stilled within him.

    Greeneyes.

    Greeneye blood, milked for fireproof lacquer. Greeneye men, herded onto ships, slated for Everglen in droves to mine metal. If Alden had his way, Greeneyes would be shepherded down the mines or had their eyes harvested for whatever innovation he was chasing. Latakia wasn¡¯t ready for the truth in this state. Threatened by the drought and the lost ships, they¡¯d clamor for the easiest way out for their kind¡ªhumankind.

    Sylvia¡¯s screaming plea echoed in his ears, but blazing just as bright were her silvery eyes on her son.

    You seek to protect him from that path, but he¡¯s already chosen it for himself.

    I just thought ¡¯tis time she faces her destiny, time I let her choose.

    Sylvia had longed for the Harp¡¯s song. The soothsayer then predicted his son¡¯s fate would be tied to the laments of the past.

    Dizadh had let go. Mirram had let go. Perhaps, after eighteen years struggling and failing to keep Coris from his calling, this was Freda¡¯s sign for him to set his son free.

    Kellis raised his gaze to falling silence. Alden stood panting, eyes darting wildly across the ring. When he spoke again, his fire had frozen to ice,

    ¡°I am done assuaging your fabricated fears. I am done cowering to mine. Your sole concern is what we all know but do not speak of¡ªThe Axel.¡±

    Air held its breath. The unspeakable was spoken. Alden glared at Kellis. Step by step he advanced, a beast cornering prey.

    ¡°Two hundred years. One unspoken rule. Cross the Hadrians, Latakia suffers. To that I say, so be it.¡±

    He hissed through gritted teeth. They stood face to face, two men fighting for the greater good. He was simply a wilder dreamer than Alden.

    ¡°Your sister offers what she knows for your place on the Council,¡± Alden began. ¡°I give you one final chance before we move to the vote. What is The Axel? And where is it now?¡±

    ¡°Your Majesty, we cannot take such drastic measures until we have exhausted every option,¡± Kellis offered Alden his own final chance, although the man would never know, ¡°We must send ships to Everglen to investigate. I have sent resources to Amplevale, sent men to investigate the drought. And you can double that effort. Time is our enemy, and it¡¯d be better spent finding the cause and solving it than starting anew¡ª¡±

    ¡°¡ªThe Council is asking you, Kellis Hadrian! What is The Axel? Where is it?¡±

    Alden snarled. The king¡¯s patience had run dry. It was time.

    Kellis pored into his eyes. The man truly believed The Axel would be the cure for all ills, the answer to all their troubles, when it was the cause.

    And so he spoke the words that would decide his family¡¯s fate, and the fate of countless others.

    ¡°I am bound to secrecy by the pact sealed between the Baron Hadrian, the Wynn King and the High Priest. This pact does not end even as two of the triumvirate are no more. It is not our fate but Latakia¡¯s that is at stake.¡±

    Silence lingered as they locked eyes for a seeming eternity. At last, Alden nodded, his expression carved in marble.

    ¡°So you have chosen.¡± He concluded quietly, then declared to the room, ¡°I propose we put to vote in tomorrow¡¯s convening whether to replace Hadrian with Amplevale.¡±

    He extended his hand and beckoned from the shadows a figure veiled in violet¡ªsave for its hands, which clutched a midnight-black box with six faces. A slave of wooden ears and knotted tongue, reared for the sole purpose of guarding the Casket of Nine.

    Kellis lowered his eyes to his plaques¡ªtwo pentagons each the size of his palm, one black, one red. One by one, the councilors slotted their chosen color into one of nine slits, their vote hidden by generations of practice.

    Kellis fed his red plaque to the Casket. The keeper turned the box and moved on to young Lord Merilith. Once Duke Aquar had cast his vote, the servant knelt before the King, the casket held high above her head.

    Alden didn¡¯t bother with secrecy. He took off the casket¡¯s lid and tipped it on its side, displaying its contents for all to see. Eight pentagons rested in their grooves, four black and four scarlet, one fellow short of a perfect hexagon and a decisive vote. Alden completed it with his black plaque.

    ¡°Five in favor, four against.¡± He tapped each black pentagon, reclaimed his, then returned the casket to its voiceless guardian. ¡°Tomorrow, we vote on Hadrian¡¯s removal and Amplevale¡¯s nomination. Council is dismissed.¡±

    The king swept from the circular room without a backwards glance. As the Casket keeper did her second round of the table, returning each councilor¡¯s plaque, Kellis sat numbly in his seat.

    He¡¯d finally chosen. After nineteen years. There was no returning now.

 The Second Fellowship

    The last hour of first sleep was almost over. So was the feast. Tipsy lords and ladies crowded out the double doors and toddled down the marble steps, skidding on the carpet trail. Some hollered for their snoozing carriage-men to awaken. Some linked arms around each other¡¯s neck, singing praises for attributes of legendary mistresses of the night¡ªbefore being swatted on the head by their righteously jealous wives.

    Kellis threaded his way through laughter and bustle. Coris had accompanied the Hilds back in their first carriage. He¡¯d sent Zier and Arinel back in the second, then packed Sylvia in with the Clardarths, who¡¯d left early to stuff one screaming and kicking Harold into his crib. He¡¯d have to hire a carriage for a copper or walk home.

    He pulled his hood over his eyes as he strode toward the gates. Hadrian Red melted into the night. Carriage after carriage trundled past him, unnoticing. Then, he slipped into the circle of glow cast by the torches at the gates. A voice yelled, and the carriage screeched to a halt by his side.

    ¡°Kellis!¡± The voice cried again, a familiar voice. Kellis drew a deep breath and turned. Grimthel Graye and his curtains of white-gold hair hung from the open door of his carriage. Panting through his smile, he nodded to the empty seat across him.

    ¡°Come. Ride with me.¡±

    Kellis gritted his teeth as he climbed in. Once he¡¯d settled, the carriage rolled down onto the glinting cobblestones. Reputable folk had long retired. ¡¯Tis the hour of drunkards and women of the golden cloak.

    ¡°Where to?¡± asked Grimthel. A wooden hand mounted on a post sailed past his window, beckoning desperate travelers to the nearest inn. He knew from experience it wasn¡¯t one of Graye¡¯s regular lodgings. And it was less than a sliver-hour away.

    ¡°The Lion¡¯s Lodge,¡± Kellis read it. Grimthel repeated it to his whip. The carriage lurched left at the crossroads, trotting down a better-lit alley with more respectable folk.

    Herb-infused silence filled the wooden globe. Kellis kept his eyes on the road as Grimthel stirred his tea. At last, Baron Graye sighed.

    ¡°All is not lost, my friend,¡± he said softly. ¡°You need only break free of the comfortable present¡ª¡±

    ¡°What is the price of your vote?¡± Kellis cut through the bullcrap. Grimthel blinked, disoriented, then recalled his smile.

    ¡°No more, no less than what the king demands.¡± He lowered his tea to his lap. His deep blue eyes flashing in the streetlamp light, ¡°Bring me The Axel, and Graye¡¯s vote is forever yours to cast.¡±

    He laid bare his hand, and from his sleeve out slid two pentagon plaques onto his palm, both engraved in silver with a peacock. Kellis stared at them.

    Trading council votes was a dangerous resort. Once a vote was relinquished, it was no trifling matter reclaiming it. Some were returned as dowries, even.

    The king promised the prince to whomever delivered him The Axel. Yet, Graye made no move to reclaim his daughters. Yet, he still coveted The Axel, so much so that he¡¯d give up his vote, allowing his enemy to stay on the Council and prolong the Mining Ban.

    It was apparent¡ªhe no longer cared. If Persephia¡¯s letter reached him, he would know for certain The Axel possessed true menace behind its veil of hearsay. That with The Axel in his grasp, votes were mere wooden chips. Whoever held The Axel wielded direct power over the three lands. Why would he then settle for Latakia¡¯s throne through his daughter? Why would he¡ª

    Kellis¡¯s fists trembled in the gloom as another chilling realization struck him.

    Grimthel could also be weighing whether to kill Kyrel to keep The Axel¡¯s secret from the king. If Kellis accepted the vote and remain on the Council, she and Serella live. If he didn¡¯t, they die. And it would seem to all to be his doing.

    Kyrel, you fool! Oh, sweet Sorrel, what should your Lord Uncle do?

    Time. What else could he do but stall for time?

    Kellis regretted choosing the Lion¡¯s Lodge as his stop. Somehow, he must hint that Kyrel didn¡¯t know the truth, without revealing the truth, and make it seem incidental. It may be the only way to save her and her children. He must show he was barely considering her, show Graye how much closer he was to the secret.

    ¡°You said you lost your daughters serving an unworthy liege. So, you confess you were behind the heist six years ago?¡±

    Grimthel raised his eyebrows, then sighed with a smile as if chiding a child, shaking his head.

    ¡°You must understand, Kellis, how foolish it is to have a lake of iron before the Gap of Galwerth, yet insist on sourcing it from Everglen¡ª¡±

    ¡°So, for the better half of five years, you poisoned my sons against me. Set your daughters to spy on them for the lesser half, in exchange for the prince¡¯s hand?¡± Kellis snapped, eyes flaring, rejoicing inside as Graye appeared to fall for the bait,

    ¡°Spare me your heroics, Grimthel. You only turned against Devind after your sister mysteriously vanished shortly into her service to Freda. And you¡¯ve envied Alden for the throne since.¡±

    ¡°And what better chance for you, old friend?¡± Grimthel smiled ever wider, unfazed, ¡°To have a king whose vote lies in your palm? A king who shares in your secret, the way it always have been?¡±

    He paused, then cocked his head as he stirred his tea.

    ¡°Or, you could wait for Amplevale¡¯s army to sack Hadrian¡¯s keep, while Alden tortures the truth out of poor Coris and Zier.¡±

    As Grimthel raised his cup to his lips, Kellis breathed an internal sigh of relief. He succeeded. Grimthel¡¯s eyes were back upon his boys, and he was no closer to the truth.

    The carriage slowed to a stop. Grimthel leaned outside. The swinging sign bore the words Lion¡¯s Lodge.

    ¡°Pity. I had a longer negotiation in mind.¡± He retreated, sighing down his teacup, then nodded with his ever-present smile.¡°Still, there is no need to rush. The Council reconvenes next sundown. Until then, my offer stays.¡±

    Kellis pretended to fumble with his cloak until Graye¡¯s carriage vanished around the bend, before trudging back up the avenue to the Dragon¡¯s Crossing, dreading the reaction of his wife and children to his decision.

    <hr>

    The room¡¯s occupants stirred when Kellis hobbled through the door, with the exception of Gillian and his four fellow dragons. In the shadows outside the hearth¡¯s halo they lingered, emerald eyes aglow, awake and in wait. They¡¯d spied on the Council meeting, making sure he did not spill their secrets.

    Sylvia rose drowsily from her pillow, but her eyes flew wide open when she noticed his state.

    ¡°You¡¯re frozen. Did you walk?¡± She rushed over to peel his damp cloak off his stiff shoulders. Kellis shivered, staggering to the fireplace.

    ¡°Grimthel Graye offered me a ride.¡±

    Sylvia blinked as she filled in the rest. Her face fell.

    ¡°And you turned him down?¡± She wailed.

    ¡°He musta had an offer for you!¡± On the long chair, Meya bolted upright from Coris¡¯s lap. He hastily caught her by the arms to keep her toppling over in her eagerness.

    ¡°His vote. For The Axel.¡± Kellis trained a sharp eye on the girl, eyebrows raised. ¡°Would you have me take it, Meya Hild?¡±

    Meya swallowed, looking sheepish. She glanced apologetically at Zier, who kept his eyes on the carpet. Persephia shot Agnes a look of triumph as if she was proven right. Coris squeezed Meya¡¯s arms in reassurance and reprimand, then rose to meet him.

    ¡°Gillian brought us up to speed.¡± He spared the lurking dragons a glimpse. ¡°So, tomorrow will be your last day on the Council?¡±

    Kellis met his son¡¯s eyes¡ªwide, pale and fearful of the unknown horrors this change would inflict upon them. He filled his lungs, mustering his courage.

    ¡°I¡¯m afraid so, son.¡± He closed his eyes to open them with fire anew, ¡°I¡¯ve only realized¡ªit¡¯s best for Hadrian, for Latakia, for the far western lands under Nostra¡¯s shadow. Humans, dragons and those in between. For the Hadrian men to relinquish our noble duties, free ourselves to pursue the quest we believe to be just. Devote our protection to those who need it most, as common men.¡±

    He cast his eyes at the dragons, then the Greeneyes. Gillian¡¯s head rose like a serpent catching movement of prey. Vyrgil sighed and hung his head, while his two comrades consulted one another through looks of disbelief. Meya simply gawked.

    Kellis returned to Coris, still draped in the colors he must soon shed. The Baron caressed the crimson hem of his silken tunic with unfeeling fingers, forced a smile he shone to his two sons. He foresaw they have foreseen his words.

    ¡°Yes. We¡¯re going to Everglen, boys.¡±

    Silence smothered the room. Kellis allowed them a moment to reel from the impact.

    ¡°I leave the seat of Hadrian to Kyrel in my absence, and return Lady Noxx to her kinsmen.¡±

    He pleaded with Sylvia, with her unblinking, welling eyes for forgiveness. This duty was in his blood, but she had no part in this ancient feud, none to gain and all to lose from this quest. He caught a tear on her cheek with his thumb, then her quivering lips in his, as sweet and tinged with bitter as the first night he took her.

    ¡°We must be prepared to lose what is easy, what is dear.¡± He murmured as they parted. Time for this father to practice what he preached. As Syl crumpled in his arms, he peered over her trembling form at Coris, ¡°I¡¯m sorry for deciding alone¡ªthere was no time. And I trust in Freda¡¯s sign, and your heart.¡±

    Coris remained speechless. His eyes flared wide as the pallor of sinking realization crowded blood from his taut cheeks. Kellis reached out and clasped his shoulder.

    ¡°Am I correct, Coris? Is this what you expect of me? Is this what you desire?¡± He shook him, eyes locked with his wavering gray. Coris woke from his stupor, his breath quickening.

    ¡°Yes¡ªYes, Father!¡± He cried, back to his fiery self. Then fear gripped him. His eyes strayed to Zier, ¡°¡ªbut, what will we do? Soon as Aunt Kyrel speaks, the king will arrest me and cut me open, then they¡¯ll turn to Zier¡ª¡±

    This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

    ¡°For Freda¡¯s sake, focus on your guts!¡± Zier sprang to his feet. Coris rounded on him, but as the brothers bared fangs, on the brink of a tussle, a new voice cut through the tension¡ª

    ¡°I¡¯ll break him out.¡±

    All eyes turned to the piece of shadow that had detached from the rest and molded into Gillian, but the dragon-man kept his glowing eyes solely on Baron Hadrian as he ventured into the firelight.

    ¡°All my seventy years, I watched your kind. Small. Scaleless. Flightless. Fire-less. Short-lifed. Yet somehow, you have always overcome us. I realized that dragons are lone. We fight for our lone self. You are many, with the ability to fight as one for the sake of your kind.¡±

    He stopped before the bewildered family. Kellis gathered Sylvia to his chest, but to comfort rather than guard.

    ¡°Some humans went further. They fought for a kind they did not belong to, did not have reason to die for. Their blood remain in you. Until now, I believed it had dried.¡±

    Gillian¡¯s voice petered into a whisper, his eyes dimmed with emotion, shaken as none here had seen before. None here would¡¯ve expected this from Baron Hadrian, from any nobility¡ªa ruler abandoning his power, his sons¡¯ birthright, to fight for the future of countless others.

    ¡°Two hundred years ago, a band of humans and Hybrideans almost succeeded. It failed because they did not trust their might was enough. They let benevolent Edward Wynn snare them with prizes¡ªnames, territory and a flock to rule!¡± Gillian spat in disgust, then locked his blazing eyes with Kellis.

    ¡°Return to where they left. Bring back the Fellowship. This time with dragons on your side.¡±

    Kellis nodded. They were of the same mind. And he was filled with pride to see his sons also understood without more need for words. They couldn¡¯t save all the lands, all the peoples when bound by oath as knights to serve the interests of one. Instead of waiting to act once all had united (which may never happen), they must trust in the few they could and lead the charge, so that more would follow in their example.

    Coris glanced at Zier, then bore down on Gillian.

    ¡°You¡¯ll guard my brother from harm?¡± He demanded solemnly.

    ¡°You¡¯ll help my brother escape?¡± Zier growled, usurping his brother¡¯s command.

    Gillian surveyed the siblings in turn, then nodded once. Coris sighed in relief, then turned to Baroness Sylvia.

    ¡°Mother?¡±

    Sylvia extricated herself from Kellis. Her gray eyes glinting with tears roved over her children, from the tips of their hair to the point of their boots, taking in their height, their breadth. She understood then the agony all mothers must bear as they saw their sons to war, their daughters to wifehood. She reached up and cradled their cheeks.

    ¡°You¡¯re men now. You must do what you believe is right,¡± she choked out. Zier rubbed his nose against her palm, breathing her perfume. Coris held her hand to his cheek, his eyes staid on hers.

    ¡°Take care of your brother.¡±

    Coris nodded, his eyes like diamonds in the firelight. Her courage spent, Sylvia retreated to mourn her last moments in Kellis¡¯s arms. Zier whirled to the sound of rustling lace and silk, facing Arinel who rose to her feet.

    ¡°Ari?¡± He begged, his blue eyes brimming with guilt. Arinel clapped her hand to her mouth, stifling a sob. Failing, she threw her arms around his neck with a weak cry,

    ¡°Oh, Zee!¡±

    Zier swung her gently as if it were their last dance. Emboldened, Coris spun to Meya with eyes sparkling with hope,

    ¡°Meya¡ª¡±

    His smile sagged, the fire in his eyes doused to death by the cold in her glowing green. She hadn¡¯t moved. She sat with her back taut and ramrod straight, her face pale and stony, clawlike, white-knuckled fingers gouging into the cushions.

    ¡°Meya?¡±

    Meya uncrossed her legs and stood, her face empty but for a slight frown Coris knew from long experience heralded the worst of arguments.

    ¡°So¡ªyou¡¯ll step down from the Council. And Hadrian. And when the king arrests you, you¡¯ll have Gillian bust you outta prison then run for Everglen. As commoners. Possibly traitors.¡± She said, slow and flat, then raised an eyebrow, ¡°and you only thought to ask your mother, your wife who¡¯s pregnant, on second thought?¡±

    Coris faltered as he realized his misstep. He took her hands in his, his voice soft with sorrow,

    ¡°Meya, I¡¯m sorry. We have no other choice¡ª¡±

    ¡°Yes, you have!¡± snapped Meya as she shook herself free, her finger jabbing out the window, ¡°Baron Graye! Your aunt! The king¡ª¡±

    ¡°I thought we agreed the first two are out of the question¡ª¡± Coris narrowed his eyes, his voice now cool and clipped.

    ¡°Did Gillian mention Alden would have Greeneyes slated for Everglen mine in Latakia instead?¡± Baron Hadrian interrupted. Meya whipped around. His blue eyes were weary as he shook his head.

    ¡°Alden has a good heart, but with Latakia in such a state, he doesn¡¯t have the capacity for generosity. He¡¯ll sacrifice the minority for the greater good. That¡¯s why we must first heal Latakia. Bring back the ore ships and stop the creeping drought. We¡¯ll prove our honor with our actions. No more rhetoric.¡±

    Meya¡¯s head spun at the successive blows. Even the king wouldn¡¯t willingly help her kind? But the Baron¡¯s alternative was also insanity. A ragtag band of men and dragons, fleeing a king¡¯s might to the eastern shores, crossing the sea to a distant island to build a contraption out of metal and blood, then hopefully finding and returning atop ships loaded with ore to clear their name? When dealing with the suspicious King Alden, the cunning Baron Graye or spiteful Lady Kyrel would be far easier?

    ¡°But just imagine what you¡¯re about to do, milord! Can we ever succeed? Can we ever return?¡±

    ¡°We?¡± Coris repeated. He frowned slightly, laughing hollowly at her look of confusion. ¡°What can you possibly mean by we, Meya? You¡¯re pregnant.¡±

    Meya¡¯s heart sank at the sight of his silvery eyes. Time seemed to have momentarily stopped for her, trapping her alone in a void of suffocating silence. She glanced at the faces surrounding her. They all bore the same incredulous expression, as if she were the only one out of the inner joke.

    She wasn¡¯t going with them? Coris was leaving her behind? Possibly for ever?

    Meya shook her head as she staggered away, her fevered breaths quickening, echoing against her pounding eardrums.

    ¡°But¡ªthen¡ªwhat am I supposed to do if I¡¯m not going with you?¡± She argued hoarsely, clinging to a last shred of hope to overturn his verdict. Yet all her beloved had for her was a wry grin of frustration.

    ¡°Do?¡± Coris moaned. He pinned her arms and her eyes as he shook her, demanding obedience¡ª ¡°Go home to Crosset and deliver my babe is what you¡¯ll do! Leave the quest to me. If the king learns about our affair, he might try to hold you and your family hostage to force us back. You must stay hidden. Change your face if you must¡ªArinel, can you keep them safe?¡±

    He whipped around to the sniffling Lady Crosset. Arinel jolted, straightened, then nodded vigorously.

    ¡°On Crosset¡¯s honor. To the limit of our might.¡±

    Another blow on Meya¡¯s battered heart. Even Arinel had agreed, rendering the sentence ever more final. She saw but didn¡¯t feel Coris¡¯s hand on her face. He caressed the curve of her cheek to her jaw. His longing eyes held her glowing green as his hand left to cradle her belly.

    ¡°I won¡¯t leave you destitute.¡± He vowed, shaking his head. ¡°Sell all my possessions. That should last you a while¡ª¡±

    ¡°¡ªHow long?¡± Meya cried. Coris pursed his lips and averted his eyes. Meya shook his arms. ¡°Me family can¡¯t change their faces. What if they¡¯re found? I¡¯m not noble like the rest of them! I need your protection¡ª!¡±

    ¡°Meya, I¡¯ll protect you and your family¡ª!¡± Arinel stepped in. Meya laughed shrilly.

    ¡°Like you protected your entourage?¡± Arinel stumbled at the reminder.

    ¡°Don¡¯t you dare¡ª!¡± Zier swung his frozen lady behind him.

    ¡°Meya!¡± Coris snapped.

    ¡°Zier, no!¡± Arinel threw herself on Zier, dragging him back with all her might as Coris cast himself between the two, shouting at Meya behind him.

    ¡°Maelaith Hild, you apologize this instant!¡±

    ¡°YOU CAN¡¯T DO THIS! HOW CAN YOU DO THIS TO ME!¡± Meya screeched through her tears, struggling in Coris¡¯s restraining embrace,

    ¡°Meya¡ªMeya, please¡ª¡±

    ¡°Marin¡¯s having a baby, too, remember!¡± Meya wrangled his collar, shaking him senseless as she reminded him. ¡°We¡¯re gunna have two babies in the house¡ªtwo nursing mothers eating the pantry bare. Dad¡¯s getting old. Mum¡¯s sick all the time. Morel¡¯s all the way in Hadrian. Myron¡¯s apprenticing. Marcus¡¯s about to join the caravan, and I¡¯d die before I see Mistral toiling in the fields or thrown in the gaols!¡±

    Meya shoved Coris aside then pelted to the door, disappearing with a slam.

    ¡°Meya!¡± Coris called, but footsteps clattering down the corridor were all he received in reply. He glanced around the room at the stunned faces, his parents¡¯ included. They¡¯d never seen Meya¡¯s fury. Even he himself was utterly blindsided. She¡¯d be safe and well-fed under Arinel¡¯s care. Why was she so terrified?

    He spied at his brother and his beloved out of the corner of his eye as he caught his breath. Arinel¡¯s obedience and unified front with Zier shamed him. Would it always be this way with him and Meya? Why were they only fighting lately?

    Now, what should he do? He couldn¡¯t ignore Meya, yet he couldn¡¯t let his private affairs affect their mission. Striding to the door, he gestured hastily at the gathering.

    ¡°Please, continue.¡±

    The door closed again behind Coris. Zier¡¯s hand trembled as he smoothed it down the sobbing Arinel¡¯s back. He¡¯d make sure Meya give his poor Ari her most sincere apology on both knees, but for now he must focus on the mission in his brother¡¯s place.

    ¡°So, what¡¯s the overall plan?¡±

    ¡°Two of us and the Blood Druids will leave with you first light tomorrow,¡± Gillian replied serenely as if he¡¯d somehow hibernated all through the spectacle. His dragons were just as unperturbed. Being the lone creatures they were, the weight of these uniquely human concerns would no doubt be lost on them.

    ¡°I will stay behind. Lord Coris will be our decoy to the king, give you as far of a head-start as possible. Two will leave for the Blue Mountains, Jaise and Hyacinth to alert the rest of us. We rendezvous in Easthaven, then cross to Tyldorn. There, we¡¯ll have time for the surgery and for you to recover. Then, we make for Everglen.¡±

    Zier nodded along, hurriedly painting each stage of their flight in his mind. Father turned to Arinel, his gaze sorrowful and his voice gentle.

    ¡°Lady Arinel, my entourage is at your disposal. Please, keep them safe. Make sure they are happy and quiet to the best of your ability, but no retribution should come to them should they speak of what they know. It is their right to do what they believe is best. This will be my last command as Baron Hadrian.¡±

    Arinel wiped her tears and swallowed her hiccups, nodding bravely as Zier tightened his embrace.

    ¡°I will, my lord.¡±

    Father smiled amid his pain. He reached out and led an unruly curl of gold away from Arinel¡¯s eyes.

    ¡°Hadrian is in your debt.¡±

    Arinel shook her head in reassurance, glancing at the Graye twins, who were now in her responsibility. Vyrgil was next to approach her on bent knee.

    ¡°In the Baron and Lords Hadrian¡¯s absence, the Blood Druids are yours to command, my lady. We will show you how to contact them.¡± He raised his face and met her eyes solemnly. ¡°We can alter faces, create new names and lives for those in danger. Spirit them away entirely if needed. We shall assist you with the Hilds.¡±

    ¡°Thank you, Vyrgil.¡± Arinel whispered, slightly more relieved. Vyrgil bowed, then turned at the Baron¡¯s weary voice,

    ¡°I¡¯m afraid the Order of the Blood Druids must endure a little longer. I apologize.¡±

    Vyrgil straightened. He shook his head slowly, his eyes closed with a soft sigh.

    ¡°You¡¯ve finally chosen, my lord. At least now, I see an end to our struggle.¡±

    Kellis clapped a heavy hand on his broad shoulder, peering deep into his melancholic gaze.

    ¡°The secret will end when the time is right. We will bring that time.¡±

    Vyrgil nodded as he drew a deep breath of prayer. It was then that Bishop Riddell, who had been silently witnessing the exchange from the start, stepped forth also and bowed to the Baron.

    ¡°My lord, I will accompany you also.¡±

    ¡°Tenorus¡ª¡± Kellis protested, but the towering alchemist cut across him with another bow.

    ¡°You tasked me with parting The Axel from Lord Hadrian.¡± His voice trembled with suppressed guilt, then stilled with resolve. ¡°I will see it done, my lord.¡±

    Kellis pursed his lips against grief, nodding with a heavy heart. After the Heist, Tenorus had been the sole healer adamant that only surgery, not emetic, would be able to safely retrieve The Axel from Coris. He¡¯d always advocated for the study of Nostra¡¯s advanced medicine, long reviled by Latakians as unholy, unnatural arts of the enemy.

    ¡°Very well. You may leave first with Zier¡¯s party. I trust you with my son.¡±

    With Bishop Riddell¡¯s fate decided and Meya absent, the last remnants of dissent in the air settled into agreement. The men must proceed to map out the specific logistics of Zier¡¯s escape. If she didn¡¯t speak now, she would speak never.

    Her fists clenched in light of the decision of her life, Arinel raised her voice,

    ¡°Before we move forward, I¡¯d like to say my farewells¡ªand my vows.¡±

    The men gawked at her, yet Arinel didn¡¯t flinch. Zier paled at the blaze of her blue eyes, shaking his head even as he knew it was futile to sway her.

    ¡°Ari¡ª!¡±

    Like so, Zier Hadrian and Arinel Crosset were secretly wedded. Coris returned in time to witness his brother¡¯s marriage. Meya wasn¡¯t with him.

    Baroness Sylvia took off the ruby band Kellis had gifted her sixteen years prior when she bore him his second son, and gave it to Zier to place on his betrothed¡¯s finger.

    Arinel had no ancestral ring to give in exchange. She took Zier¡¯s hand, coiled a curl of her hair round his finger, then cut the strand from her head. It held firm in their joined hands as Bishop Riddell read out their vows.

    Once the men and dragons had left to survey their escape route, the women for the adjoining servants¡¯ room to debrief the remaining Greeneyes, Zier unclothed Arinel and laid her before the hearth, admiring her naked body bathed in its glow. He leaned down and caught her nipple between his lips, her sigh of pleasure blowing onto his head as he suckled. Her hand found his, led him downward and deep within, beckoning him to satisfy her hunger.

    He swept in and claimed her like a flood tide from a rain-swollen river, over and over. On her finger amid their woven hands, Hadrian¡¯s ruby glinted like a drop of virgin blood, sealing them ¡¯til death as man and wife.

    <hr>

    Sylvia pressed her ear to the door again. Arinel¡¯s cries of bliss had long quieted. She led the Graye sisters back inside, bearing witness to the consummation.

    The hearth¡¯s fuel was spent. Chill and shadow crept forth as the flames ran low. Persephia gently fed new kindling to the pile and tended to the gurgling newborn fire. Sylvia dropped a blanket over the entwined, slumbering couple, and slid a cushion under their heads. She bent to kiss their hair, and folded their scattered clothes.

    She traipsed to her four-poster and lay on her side, sleepless, watching over the pair, as Agnesia spread the curtains around her, dreading the last night she would also soon share with her husband.

    <hr>

 The Temptation of Fate

    (A while earlier)

    Ignoring the innkeeper¡¯s call, Meya crashed through the wooden doors onto the courtyard, panting, tears streaming down her cheeks.

    She regretted her words soon as they leapt from her tongue. Yet, in them were truth they must heed. How could Arinel fend off the king if he bore down on Crosset? And what might she sacrifice? How could Coris and Zier place this danger on her and her people without hesitation? Arinel was too generous and honorable for her own good. Of course she¡¯d hold the red-glowing gold until it melted her hands off her wrists!

    Yet, as she fumed at her friends, she puzzled at herself. Why wasn¡¯t she brave and optimistic as always? Why was she the one, now, to hesitate? When the gamble had never slowed her before?

    Then she realized, and her breathing stalled as she did¡ªshe¡¯d never faced true sacrifice. Not since the one time she risked her family¡¯s survival saving Coris from ransom.

    When she negotiated with Gillian, she was also saving herself, and she gambled Coris and his family¡¯s safety without a second thought to save her skin. When she saved Atmund and Persephia, exposed blood-sellers and eyeball-harvesters and cult leaders, she did it as Lady Hadrian, under the name Arinel Crosset, knowing deep down no matter what come would befall Hadrian, be it broken alliances or war.

    Perched grand like a chough volant on her moral high ground as defender of Greeneye rights, she wielded Coris¡¯s wealth, authority, might¡ªfriends, even!¡ªlike her own army at the hill¡¯s feet, taking the worst, dying in her stead.

    This time, for the first time, Coris faced an adversary far more wealthy and powerful than he¡ªthe king. And he¡¯d cast aside his nobility to widen that gap. Worse, when it came to who had the righteous claim to the three lands¡¯ most dangerous secret, the Hadrians were down a trench, wolves closing in on all sides. And once they were done with Meya, they¡¯d turn on her family.

    And she was terrified¡ªof returning to the failure that was Meya Hild, to her old life with more mouths to feed. What horrors awaited them should Arinel''s protection fail? Would Dad and Maro be tortured? Would Mum die of heartbreak? Would Marin lose her babe? Would Morel be dragged by the hair from the Crimson Hog into this mess as well? What about Deke and Draken and Jason and Jezia? Would whoever Fyr spared live out their days hidden, starving, in squalor?

    Marcus would never get to travel with Jason¡¯s caravan. Myron would never be a blacksmith. Mistral would never weave the longest Fest Trail in the duchy. Meya¡¯s babe would never have his father, his birthright. How would she explain to him why he weren¡¯t the rich and powerful little Lord Hadrian he should be?

    She was also terrified of what she¡¯d just realized Coris expected¡ªassumed of her. Remarkable. Marvelous. Brave. Strong. Beautiful¡ªwords he¡¯d reserved to describe her. A maiden fair like no other. Emerald of his eyes. She was his May Queen, the fiery dawn that ended his night, his savior. Pure and brave-hearted. The Meya he admired wouldn¡¯t care for the mundane fears of an embittered, scarred peasant girl. She¡¯d fight for the cause even at the cost of all she held dear. And if he discovered the truth, she¡¯d lose his love.

    ¡°Lady Hild?¡±

    An unsure voice jolted Meya out of her dilemma. A slim young man drab in gray lurked by the gates. Frowning, Meya nodded cautiously. He scurried up the path to share her circle of torchlight. He bowed, hands outstretched, a letter under his thumbs.

    ¡°A message for you, from milord.¡±

    Meya pulled the envelope from his loose hold, tearing her eyes from his trembling head to inspect the seal. Ashen gray with a peacock dusted in silver.

    He didn¡¯t move as she cracked the wax and read the short message. He must¡¯ve been told to wait for her reply. Yet, he jolted and scampered for his life when a cry echoed from the inn behind¡ª

    ¡°Meya?¡± The messenger cleared the gate just as Coris exploded through the doors. His eyes instantly found Meya petrified on the gravel.

    ¡°Meya!¡±

    He stumbled down the steps, sweeping her from head to bare toes curling against the icy stone. He slid out of his slippers and knelt to push them under her feet. His worries assured, he straightened with a stern way about his face.

    ¡°You should not have said that to Arinel!¡±

    Meya¡¯s heart writhed with guilt, but not enough to shore the wave of jealousy.

    ¡°You came runnin¡¯ all the way here for that?¡± She scoffed, muttering petulantly, ¡°¡¯Course, I¡¯ll always be second thought. Shoulda known.¡±

    Coris fell silent, contemplating his sins. He drifted close, his hand yearning for hers.

    ¡°Meya, I¡ª¡± He stopped¡ª ¡°What¡¯s this?¡±

    A chill swept down her spine to her hand clutching the letter. Meya whirled back, her hand sinking behind the swells of her dress, her breath coming in short puffs. Coris frowned down at it. He reached out his hand.

    ¡°May I see it?¡±

    There was no hint of anger in his soft voice, yet his eyes were wide and unblinking, brows raised like a mother demanding her unruly tyke bare his hands lathered with honey. Meya trembled as she glued her frozen arm to her side. Coris narrowed his eyes.

    ¡°So you¡¯re having secrets with me?¡±

    The letter crumpled in Meya¡¯s shivering fist. A sudden impulse tore through her to rend it to a dozen pieces, but Coris always knew how to get what he wanted from her. Grudgingly, she stuck out her hand, grumbling as he untangled the parchment.

    ¡°¡¯Tis Baron Graye. He invites me for tea tomorrow, ¡¯tis nothing¡ª¡±

    ¡°¡ªExcept you¡¯re thinking of going?¡± said Coris, his voice fierce. Meya reared back, chained by his cold, imperious eyes. He shook the letter, enunciating.

    ¡°This is my brother¡¯s life, Meya. I forbid you from going!¡±

    Stolen content warning: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.

    They shared a gasp. Meya saw in his eyes the scene from the past playing in her head¡ª

    If you betray me, I¡¯ll tell everyone where The Axel is, putting Lord Zier in grave danger?

    Include Hadrian and Latakia, for good measure. It¡¯s common knowledge I¡¯m not exactly a loving brother.

    The notion chilled her. Meya couldn¡¯t believe she¡¯d ever be tempted to execute that cruel term in their contract she added as an afterthought and he¡¯d encouraged as a lesson, no matter how briefly. Judging from Coris¡¯s look of heartbreak and terror, he also couldn¡¯t believe he¡¯d ever be at her mercy. He¡¯d taken her loyalty for granted. And it pained her that was his undoing. Shouldn¡¯t love be unconditional, after all?

    But he must understand how much he was asking her to risk. She¡¯d care less if it were only her skin that would be flayed, but if it were her babe and Mum and Dad and Maro and¡ª

    Coris drew a shivering breath as he drew near. She was no longer his beloved. She¡¯d become one of his deadliest foes. It killed her like poison rot from the core out. Why couldn¡¯t he understand? Why was he afraid? Why was he forcing her to choose between him and Dad, the two men she loved above all others in the three lands? And lose both?

    ¡°Meya, I know how difficult it would be for you¡ª¡±

    ¡°NO, YOU DON¡¯T!¡±

    Words deserted him, scattered by her snarl. Meya shoved her nose against his, teeth grinding as she hissed through them.

    ¡°You¡¯ve never gone a week without a morsel of food down your gullet. Never swung a shovel at clay after a drought nor an axe for firewood until your hands blister then break then burn numb. You¡¯ve never hung from a pillory, never been tied to a pole, had your head locked in a bridle and whipped until your cloak turned to blood!¡±

    ¡°You¡¯ve never heard the last throes of crooks swinging from the gallows, the cheer of crows picking flesh from bones rattling in gibbets. Have you seen babies dying in their mama¡¯s arms, while your mother decides which of her seven gets the last sliver of winter meat? So don¡¯t you dare say you know a smidgen how difficult it would be, being a peasant, pregnant and a fugitive¡¯s wife!¡±

    Her scream echoed far in the solid silence that had swallowed cricket song. Meya whirled away, panting, clutching her middle. Coris said nothing, feeling as she did more profoundly than ever the yawning chasm between them, of nobleman and peasant woman. Still, he tried to close it, bridge it at least.

    ¡°Meya, I¡¯m sorry¡ª¡± Coris breathed as his arms embraced her, and Meya unwound. ¡°I wish I could promise all will be well, that I¡¯ll return in no time, but the best we can do is hope. If you leave tomorrow with Arinel, while you can still claim ignorance, and disavow all our bonds, the king would likely overlook you. And Arinel will keep you and your family safe and fed. And if I don¡¯t return¡ª¡±

    Meya waited for the rest of his argument, which didn¡¯t come. As if he¡¯d just realized what he was undertaking, and it stole his breath that for once, he couldn¡¯t finish his sentence. He had no plan. He forgot to consider the worst case scenario. The one time it mattered most. Again.

    But there¡¯s still time, this time.

    Meya turned around. The sight of him rooted, frozen and downcast, eyes shackled in the past softened her. She took his hands, kneading warmth into them.

    ¡°Give Graye what he wants.¡± She whispered as he raised his eyes to hers, pleading. ¡°Buy us-selves some time. He can¡¯t possibly do anything that bad. He might not even be as bad as we think. If you can¡¯t do it as a noble, what hope d¡¯you have as criminals on the run?¡±

    Coris pursed his lips, eyes wide and defiant under knotted brows. Meya¡¯s patience ran dry. She stormed away.

    ¡°Meya!¡±

    ¡°DUN FOLLOW!¡± She snapped through sobs.

    He didn¡¯t, as she tore into the waiting shadows of the night.

    <hr>

    Meya hung her head over the fence, mired in despair as the sleeping horse blew warm air onto her forehead. Crunching footsteps drew near. Wiping her tears, she dropped to the hay-strewn floor and spun to meet her assailant.

    ¡°Knew I¡¯d find you with the four-legged kind,¡± grunted the man, a note of pride in his gruff voice. Meya¡¯s eyes widened as moonlight lit his familiar, rugged features.

    ¡°Dad?¡±

    She jolted and whipped back. The horse had blown a loud snort, startled by her shrill cry. Watching him warily, Meya edged out of head-chomping range.

    Dad blinked at the sight of her tear-stained cheeks. He spread his arms, his voice tender.

    ¡°Come, lass.¡±

    Tears welled in her eyes anew. Meya hesitated for a heartbeat, then leaped into his hug. His sigh flowed down her hair as he petted it.

    ¡°How d¡¯you know to come find me?¡± She blubbered against his chest. Dad shifted his arms to give her a more snug fit.

    ¡°D¡¯you always quarrel with your husband in public?¡±

    Meya¡¯s cheeks burned as she counted how many windows must have been open in a summer night such as this. Shrinking in shame, she squeaked,

    ¡°You heard?¡±

    Dad snorted as if to say, the whole square heard!

    ¡°Most of it. Boy filled me in on the rest.¡± He jerked his head towards the main building, then met Meya¡¯s bulging eyes. ¡°You may go see Baron Graye and hear his offer¡ªlong as I¡¯m goin¡¯ with. You¡¯re to say nothing about you-know-what. Or show you know what or where it is. You know what he means.¡±

    Meya¡¯s eyes widened. Her foremost concern wasn¡¯t what Coris had told Dad but what he might have left out.

    ¡°Dad, he¡¯s gunna break out of jail and run from the king to Everglen with you-know-what. Did he tell you that? He¡¯s putting us all in danger! You all right with that?¡±

    Dad nodded calmly, his eyes still. Meya snatched his shirt.

    ¡°He¡¯s throwing all his riches and titles away and he¡¯s leaving me behind! What if he never comes back and I¡¯m having his babe and I can¡¯t work the fields no more? I dun wanna be a burden. I won¡¯t let you work ¡¯til you die. I dun want us to be poor no more, Dad! I can¡¯t take it no more¡ª!¡±

    Meya trailed off into a wail, crumbling to pieces in Dad¡¯s arms. Dad held and rocked her as she sobbed her heart onto his, his sad, gentle voice whispering into her ear,

    ¡°Meya, sooner or later in a man¡¯s life, he¡¯ll be called to war for a cause larger than he. Most times, we get no say what it¡¯ll be. The scores and whims of our lords we die for in droves, whether we agree or not. But your husband¡ªthis is the war he chose. For the future of your folk. Of your babe. Who might be born just like you¡ª¡± He cradled her glistening face, staring deep into her glowing eyes. ¡°And may-beetle, there ain¡¯t no war I¡¯d be prouder to die in.¡±

    Meya whimpered, a fresh deluge of tears tumbling down her cheeks, scalding her lips. Dad clasped her shoulders.

    ¡°If he¡¯s crossed swords with this Graye feller before, and he knows how rotten he is, how much damage this you-know-what can do in his hands, a good wife would trust her husband¡¯s judgment, and stand by him.¡±

    His eyes narrowed, as if he saw unruly old-Meya rearing her head inside her eyes.

    ¡°The way your mother¡¯s stood by me for all these years. We¡¯ve always did what¡¯s right, haven¡¯t we? And if right is ever easy, why, we¡¯d be having the Heights here on land! But you¡¯ll know what¡¯s right because it dun¡¯t weigh on your chest. ¡¯Tis the one easy thing about it.¡±

    It¡¯s unfair, it¡¯s hard, but when is there ever honor in what is easy?

    Baroness Sylvia¡¯s voice echoed. Meya lowered her eyes as she mulled over it. Dad stepped back, but left a hand on her shoulder.

    ¡°Don¡¯t worry about us. We¡¯ll get by as we always have. Lady Crosset and the Baroness will protect us.¡±

    Meya raised her gaze, taking in Dad¡¯s sunburned, veined hands and arms, his wrinkled, freckled face, his tangled hair and beard streaked with coarse, frazzled strands of gray. His palm chafed against the silk of her gown. When a decade ago, his thick golden hair shone in the sun bright as Myron¡¯s, his constant frown hadn¡¯t worn welts into his handsome face. And her heart mourned what he lost to what was right, what was honorable. Why did he care so much for people, dragons, who had little to do with him? Why would he give so much to a land that had paid him so little?

    Dad clapped her shoulder then turned to leave. As Meya roused herself to follow, he crumpled¡ª

    ¡°DAD!¡±

    She dashed in with a scream. Dad propped himself up on one knee, one hand clutching his right hip, the other waving in annoyance.

    ¡°I¡¯m fine!¡± He barked. ¡°Spent a week holed up in that blasted wagon, now me bones¡¯ gone lazy! Help me, will you?¡±

    Meya bore Dad¡¯s weight on his bad side, hobbling forth one step at a time. Dad grunted whenever his right leg touched the ground, grumbling how he¡¯d never understand the allure of adventure.

    A tear rolled down her cheek. And this, she thought, Coris would never understand.

 Seduction

    Crimson dawn had broken the blue of the sky by the time Meya rose from her mattress to retch out the window. Despite Dad¡¯s protests, she¡¯d spent the good part of second sleep massaging his bad hip with her heated hands, while Mum brewed herb tea to soothe his pain and ease him to slumber.

    Mum was there when Coris talked to Dad. She advised Meya to sleep on her fears for a night, and her wisdom proved true. Now that the shock had subsided, and her pregnant humors had settled again, Meya realized she may have let her imagination run too wild.

    Sir Bayne, now the new Lord Crosset, would definitely not let the Hilds starve. And even if Dad¡¯s honor wouldn¡¯t accept riches and titles in return for Meya¡¯s services, Coris¡¯s silk, satin, gold and jewels alone should be more than enough to sustain Meya and her babe for months.

    The chances of King Alden hunting her and her family down, though not naught, were also slim, considering Meya hadn¡¯t even married Coris, and was unknown to him.

    For Coris would let them believe he had The Axel, hunt him to the edges of Latakia. He¡¯d offer himself as bait to protect Zier. And that was her true fear.

    She remembered the night she almost lost him. She couldn¡¯t imagine then, and still couldn¡¯t now, how life would continue if he¡¯d died. This time round, she wouldn¡¯t even have his corpse to mourn. He¡¯d simply disappear from sight and sense. A kiss that faded, an embrace that turned cold, the tempest melting into thin air. Until she birthed a son with his eyes, then his memory would haunt her for the rest of her days.

    Would it be worse to have his body delivered to her doorstep, his belly split open and his guts removed, or to never hear his name in a sighting again, knowing yet never seeing proof that he¡¯d drowned at sea? She¡¯d seen Philema, Sir Bayne, Jason, a dozen other widowers, but she couldn¡¯t fathom how to live so long after losing one¡¯s love so young.

    Why must he do this? Was it truly worth the risk? What were tens of thousands of nameless, faceless Greeneyes, compared to her Lexi, if she were honest? This was the trap the Hadrians fell to for two centuries. This was why it had taken Baron Kellis two decades. And she was falling for it as well.

    Having emptied her gullet, Meya looked up from the chamberpot, then nearly toppled headfirst towards the sight below. Black-cloaked figures swept across the inn¡¯s courtyard. A gust of wind unhooded one as he knocked on the door. Lamplight fell on his pale, gaunt face.

    Meya hurtled through her door and down the hallway. She reached the head of the stairs just as the innkeeper heaved the door back and they trooped in, Coris in the lead, followed by Baron Kellis, Baroness Sylvia and Lady Arinel, the latter two sniffling and wiping tears.

    Coris froze and blinked as Meya scampered down the carpeted steps, chamberpot swinging.

    ¡°Where have you been?¡± she gasped. Coris merely caught her free arm and steered her back up the stairs. ¡°Why didn¡¯t you tell me?¡±

    ¡°Meya, not here,¡± he replied curtly.

    ¡°Where¡¯s Zier? Why are they crying?¡± She shook him off, straining to see those behind.

    ¡°Meya, wait,¡± he commanded. Meya gritted her teeth as he led her into his family¡¯s room. While his parents and Arinel drifted towards the fireplace to warm themselves, Coris took Meya to the alcove, drew the curtain across, then finally answered her glare.

    ¡°He left. For Easthaven,¡± he said somberly.

    Easthaven?

    Her head slowed and her senses dulled as if weighed by Lattis. Zier left, just like that? Last night he was there, and now he was gone?

    Arinel¡¯s quiet sobs filtered through the brocade. Meya peered through the gap. The pot fell from her unfeeling fingers to the carpet with a flump. The lady had become a crumpled heap on the bed, weeping like a widow under the Baron and Baroness¡¯s arms.

    Soft fabric touched her cheek, dabbing at the remains of sick around her lips. Meya wheeled around. Coris reared back, lowering the handkerchief.

    ¡°You¡¯re going through with this?¡± she breathed. Tears choked her voice as she clung to his front, ¡°I haven¡¯t even agreed! You can¡¯t just do this!¡±

    Coris lowered his eyes in silence. A sudden suspicion gripped Meya.

    ¡°Is it me? ¡¯Cause I¡¯ll go talk to Graye? That¡¯s why you snuck him away without me knowing? In case I send Graye after him?¡±

    ¡°Meya!¡± Coris cried, his handsome face twisted in heartbreak, and Meya caught herself. In the dim nook, his eyes shone overbright, and his hands trembled on her arms.

    ¡°This was decided before Graye¡¯s letter came,¡± he said thickly, then swallowed his grief. ¡°I¡¯m his decoy. I¡¯ve been for six years. He leaves first, I stay and stall for time.¡±

    ¡°Then you¡¯ll leave, too?¡± whispered Meya. Coris¡¯s eyes widened, then flitted away, even as Meya rattled and beg. ¡°What about me? What about our babe?¡±

    He finally succumbed. Meya fell against his chest as he hugged her, as his fingers fell through her hair.

    ¡°This is no longer about us, Meya,¡± he breathed. ¡°Latakia, humankind, dragonkind, those in between. Their fates come before ours.¡±

    He drew her back, holding her eyes in his solemn gray.

    ¡°Noblesse Oblige,¡± he whispered as he trailed a knuckle down the curve of her cheek, shaking his head. ¡°You can be Meya Hild, or Lady Hadrian. You cannot be both. This is what it takes to be a leader¡ªthe choice.¡±

    His words echoed as if from afar, flowing by her ears, as tears rolled down her cheeks. He wiped them away, impatient, uncaring.

    ¡°Mother and Arinel¡¯s protection is the best I can promise you. And I trust it to be more than enough.¡± He leaned his forehead against hers, sighing. ¡°All eyes will be on me. They¡¯ll hunt me. I¡¯ll lead them on a wild goose chase to the ends of the world, and you¡¯ll be safe at home¡ª¡±

    ¡°A widow? With an orphan?¡±

    She breathed onto his lips, freezing them. His hands shifted nervously on her arms, sweaty and clammy. Meya shook her head, pleading,

    ¡°I need you, Lexi. Don¡¯t leave me.¡±

    ¡°I must,¡± he murmured.

    ¡°Then take me with you.¡±

    ¡°Aine¡­¡± he scolded, his voice weary. Meya hung her head. He pushed her up with a gentle finger on her chin.

    ¡°Isn¡¯t this what you want? A better life for Greeneyes? Freeing the dragons?¡± he leaned close, eyebrows knotted. I want you more, her heart sobbed, but it was clear he¡¯d never understand.

    ¡°There must be another way,¡± she gave one last try. Coris smiled sadly at what he must have taken to be her signature undying hope.

    ¡°Perhaps, but it is beyond any of us for now.¡± He tidied a stray lock of hair from her face, pressed his lips upon hers, then parted a moment too soon, leaving her hanging.

    ¡°I¡¯ll join Gillian at the palace. We¡¯ll survey my escape route.¡± He glanced behind him, probably gauging his father¡¯s whereabouts, then pinned her eyes, shaking her by the shoulders.

    ¡°Keep your father near, and you¡¯ll be safe from Graye. Remember, say nothing unless necessary. He may try to have you on your own, so be on guard and insist your father is present. Hear what he has to say, but do not listen. Return straight away and report to Father.¡±

    Meya blinked at the abrupt change of subject, then nodded listlessly, too numb to argue. Coris¡¯s hands trembled as he pored into her eyes.

    ¡°We trust you, Meya,¡± he rasped, then bowed. ¡°Please. He¡¯s my only brother.¡±

    Meya shook her head, pained by his fear.

    ¡°As if I¡¯d ever hurt him,¡± she protested. At that, Coris relaxed. He nodded, then cocked his head at the room behind.

    ¡°Go make amends with Arinel. You¡¯ll only have each other once¡­¡±

    He trailed off, his voice cracking. As if he feared his resolve would crumble, he swept through the curtain. Meya bolted after only to watch him join Baron Kellis at the door, then disappear without a backward glance.

    The door closed with a snap, and strength left her knees. Meya turned to the women who remained, fellow widows of Hadrian. Baroness Sylvia held Arinel, who sobbed onto her chest. Swallowing her own cry, she reached out an arm, and Meya toddled into her embrace, letting her tears mingle on her bosom.

    Arinel snatched her hand, and the hard, icy touch of metal jolted Meya. A ruby glinted on her ring finger. Faint pink sores and teeth marks swelled along her neck and collarbone. A sheaf of her hair hung shorter than the rest. Truth fell like an anvil of lead down her bowels, blasted by her flames of fury.

    How could you do this, Zier?

    <hr>

    Morning was ending when four horses bore a carriage in charcoal gray onto the courtyard of the Dragon¡¯s Crossing. Jason had picked for Dad a walking stick carved of finest maple from his merchandise, still Mum must help Meya ease his groaning, grumpy self up the steps onto the black cushions. She then waved them on their way, looking as if it were on a voyage to far shores.

    Meya had insisted she¡¯d be fine on her own, of course, to which Dad growled he would go with, or no-one would go. Coris had probably convinced Dad of Graye¡¯s danger, affirmed his belief that Meya couldn¡¯t handle herself with such men. And Meya couldn¡¯t help but hate him as she watched Dad gritting his teeth, swallowing screams with every jolt of the wheels on cobblestones, for how unneeded his agony was.

    Love this novel? Read it on Royal Road to ensure the author gets credit.

    A half-hour later, they arrived at Graye¡¯s residence¡ªthree sprawling stories of wattle and daub, sat on a foundation of stone, topped with a dozen red-roofed windows and turrets. Gray-clad servants cast a silver-trimmed gray carpet on their path across the courtyard towards Baron Graye. He stood waiting in his family¡¯s colors, his silky hair blazing white as fountain foam against stone in the sun.

    He blinked at the sight of Dad stumbling down into Meya¡¯s receiving hands, but recovered his smile swiftly and strode up with open arms.

    ¡°Madam Hild, what an honor.¡± He smiled at Meya, then turned to Dad, ¡°and you must be her father.¡±

    ¡°Mirram Hild, milord.¡± Dad bowed, adding, ¡°we are humble farmers of Crosset.¡±

    Dad bowed again, prompting Meya to curtsy in tandem. Graye nodded, his blue eyes like glass pierced by daylight, clear and empty.

    ¡°So I¡¯ve heard.¡± He motioned at his battalion of servants, two of which obligingly scurried to take Dad¡¯s cane and his arms from Meya, then extended an arm before him. ¡°The sun is hot, let¡¯s hurry inside.¡±

    Meya allowed Dad and the servants to overtake her, taking the stone stairs one at a time as the two men heaved Dad up the steps. Dad was trembling, not out of pain but shame.

    Baron Graye led them through the door and down a long gallery. Sunlight streamed through floor-to-ceiling windowpanes onto the wall of silver-gray wood. In every charcoal-gray frame hung a painting¡ªof unmelting ice walls in Icemeet, of winter fountains and winter forests, all peppered with silver dust.

    Curious instruments lined the wall as she walked down the gray carpet¡ªa giant hourglass, a music box, a cylinder with curved glass at one end Coris told her was used by seamen, a globe surrounded by a swinging cage of smaller balls, a clock with multiple faces populated by suns, moons and stars, a metal doll with gears and cogs for innards, an impressive pair of deer antlers, even a pillar of stone tall as Meya, hollowed out and lined with glittering white crystal¡ªall plated in silver and shiny new, untouched. Calming yet extravagant.

    They told her everything, yet nothing about their owner, except perhaps his love for his clan¡¯s color and his wealth. Coris¡¯s room was filled with books of runes, paintings of handsome hounds and bustling towns, reflecting who he was as a country boy who loves languages, dogs and travel. Who was Baron Graye, if she were to judge from his gallery? Musician? Seafarer? Hunter? Stargazer? Inventor? Alchemist? Explorer? All of them? Or none?

    Grimthel Graye may appear to anyone as anything, because he isn¡¯t anything, whispered Coris in her head.

    Once they reached the end of the room, Baron Graye flourished his hand at a set of black-cushioned silver chairs around a glass tea-table framed in silver curlicues, sitting in a pool of sunshine. A maid in gray stood nearby, toting a silver tray of silver-trimmed porcelain teapot and cups.

    As she poured red tea into Dad¡¯s cup, the door behind them opened. A gray-clad manservant led in a woman draped head to toe in an oily violet veil. For a beat of her heart, Meya thought she was back in Jaise. In her hands, she held a solid black hexagon box with a slit or two in each face.

    Graye seemed just as surprised by this interruption as Meya. Yet, he silently read the scroll she offered, then reached into his sleeve. In his palm lay two wooden plaques, one red and one black. As he fed the black plaque to the box, he unwittingly revealed its underside emblazoned with a silvery peacock. The woman retreated from the room without a word.

    Realization dawned on Meya, then.

    ¡°Is that a vote, milord?¡±

    Graye surfaced, eyebrows raised, paused in the act of straightening his sleeves.

    ¡°It is, indeed.¡± He lowered his hands and turned to face her full, smiling tenderly. ¡°Although I¡¯m afraid I cannot elaborate further. Council business, you see.¡±

    His carriage, cadence and speech was unnervingly familiar. Between him and Coris, Meya couldn¡¯t discern who was the learner, who was the mentor. And what was the vote for? Couldn¡¯t have been the vote to remove Baron Hadrian from the council, could it? For he would¡¯ve been called to gather in person for such an important decision.

    As curiosity and a touch of foreboding beckoned, and she dithered whether to pry further, Dad cleared his throat and leaned forward.

    ¡°Milord, forgive mine being rude.¡± The furrow between his eyebrows deepened as his eyes narrowed and the nerve pulsed in his temple, not meaning a word he said. ¡°I dunno Graye¡¯s customs, but in Crosset, ¡¯tis improper for a young maiden to enter a man¡¯s abode alone. And for a man to pursue business with her without her father knowing. Folks like to whisper of what goes behind closed doors and shuttered windows. I beg you forgive mine being here.¡±

    A wave of cold chilled Meya¡¯s cheeks as blood drained from them. She desperately tugged the back of Dad¡¯s shirt, but Baron Graye wasn¡¯t offended. He raised both hands, waving vigorously.

    ¡°Not at all, Farmer Hild. It is I who must apologize.¡± He leaned in, hand on his heart, bowing and smiling hastily. ¡°You see, I only met Meya and her mother last night, and we barely had time to speak when Coris jealously chased me away. In what little time I have, I only managed to track down where the Hadrians are lodging. Had I learned you are here, I would have sent the invitation to you. Still, Meya would attest I have not instructed her to come alone, and I¡¯m glad you accompanied her, as I would have done for my daughters. I mean no disrespect to either of you.¡±

    His explanation seemed sound to Meya, but Dad merely narrowed his eyes tighter, leaned further.

    ¡°All that trouble to meet her in haste.¡± Although his words were airy, his voice was anything but, and his eyes never strayed from Graye. ¡°What use could this bumbling daughter of mine possibly be, to the mighty steward of Galwerth Pass?¡±

    As the men locked eyes, a shadow shifted behind Graye¡¯s ocean-blue, probably realizing just as Coris did, this was not a man who could be swayed by honeyed words, impressed by luxury, nor cowed by power.

    What he thought of the fact, she couldn¡¯t fathom, for just as quickly he smiled, calm and relaxed as always, and cocked his head in that manner infuriatingly reminiscent of Lord Hadrian,

    ¡°She could be my bride, the new Baroness Graye.¡±

    Meya hadn¡¯t time to digest the offer when Dad bolted from his chair, dragging her after him. In his rage, pain caught up to him three strides down the hall, and he crumpled to his knees.

    ¡°DAD!¡± screaming, Meya dove to catch him. He crouched, panting heavily, his face twisted. He swallowed his lips so she wouldn¡¯t see them trembling.

    ¡°Please, hear me speak, and you will find I mean no disrespect,¡± Graye¡¯s calm voice called. Two shadows loomed over them, cast by his ever-ready servants. Dad had his head tilted back, drawing in deep gulps of air. He needed a while to muster strength, and Coris did tell her to hear Graye¡¯s say.

    Meya turned around, her hand smoothing the cloth over Dad¡¯s shaking back. Graye rose from his seat, like a white peacock as he glided down the carpet path to kneel before her. He flourished a handkerchief to her, and Meya realized tears were streaming down her cheeks. She didn¡¯t take it, her hands stubbornly holding Dad, so he took the liberty of dabbing them dry.

    ¡°I¡¯ve heard much say about you, Meya Hild,¡± he began gently. ¡°Masquerading as Lady Crosset, you protected Hadrian from a band of bandits, exposed greedy bloodsellers in Jaise, brought down the crooked church of Hyacinth.¡±

    His eyes traveled to settle on her hand on Dad¡¯s back, on the six-sided ruby Coris had given her months prior. Meya curled her fingers to hide it, but the damage was done. Graye¡¯s eyelids drooped in sorrow.

    ¡°You wear Hadrian¡¯s ruby, but the marriage is sealed under another¡¯s name.¡± He shook his head, ¡°and yet, he takes pleasure from your body, grows his heir inside your womb, grooms you to lead his battles, giving naught in return.¡±

    No, a voice inside her argued, he doesn¡¯t know our bond. I chose to lie with him. I chose to sign his contract. I chose to keep his babe. I chose to fight this battle. He¡¯s always, always given me the choice.

    Yet, even as she knew the truth, her heart swayed at his blunt observations.

    ¡°Why hasn¡¯t he dissolved his marriage to Arinel and wed you proper? Why hasn¡¯t he made you Lady Hadrian, so long after your First Night? Why hasn¡¯t he given your family titles, lands and stipend befitting of a lady?¡± Graye cocked his head, his smile widening. ¡°Simple¡ªyou¡¯re not a lady. You¡¯re not lawfully wedded.¡±

    We were so busy surviving, we didn¡¯t have time to!

    The voice screamed in frustration, sounding laughably pathetic. The fact was Coris¡¯s wasn¡¯t a hand one should lightly take. What with his addiction, his melancholy, his family feuds and scars, his self-destroying tendencies¡­

    ¡°With me, you will be. The moment our union is sealed, Graye¡¯s riches are at your disposal. You can have my men carry your father wherever he wishes on a golden palanquin, have my healers mend your mother¡¯s throat and restore her Song.¡±

    ¡°You can cloak them in the finest silk and satin, have warm hands massage away their aches and pains of age as they behold the great sea. You can give permits to all your brothers and sisters and set them free, fund any pursuit they prefer. You will then be empowered to champion your cause without worry or fear for those you left behind.¡±

    Under her palm, Dad trembled, not out of pain but fury, as if he saw the illusions conjured in Meya¡¯s mind.

    Yes, how easy it would¡¯ve been. Why had it never occurred to her to demand so of Coris? Because Coris would never have allowed it? Because Mum and Dad would never take it? But why? She¡¯d done so much for others. What was wrong with asking a reward in return?

    Still, Coris¡¯s teachings nagged her. Not every man was him. Graye would want something costly in return for his price, but what was it?

    ¡°You haven¡¯t answered Dad¡¯s question, milord,¡± she reminded him, her voice strangled. ¡°Why would you go to such lengths for me?¡±

    ¡°I have,¡± Graye insisted with a slight frown of incredulity. He gestured both hands at her, shaking his head in awe. ¡°You¡¯ve performed such grand feats of courage and intelligence, and you are but a poor, young Greeneye peasant girl. Imagine the heights you could reach, with my power, my riches, my allies, my sway on the Council. Imagine how better Latakia could¡¯ve become, with you as Baroness Graye.¡±

    ¡°Why couldn¡¯t I have just served you like I serve Coris, if you cared so much?¡± Meya shook her head, as she scoured his proud form with her eyes. ¡°Why do I gotta marry you? You¡¯re me Dad¡¯s age! Your daughters are¡ªwould¡¯ve been me age had they lived!¡± She caught and righted her tongue just in time. Graye chuckled, undeterred.

    ¡°Alas, but what importance is age when one is so wise beyond her years?¡± He shook his head, his eyes twinkling in admiration at her, then nodded, ¡°and yes, in order to realize your dream, we must marry. I would have loved to give it all to you just as you are, but Latakia would never accept it. They¡¯ll whisper and scream how Grimthel Graye is blind for his new mistress. I must make it official, appease them so your path forward will be smooth.¡±

    He turned to appraise Dad, who strove to hold his head high and his back straight, but pain chained him in place. He could only glower, to which Graye¡¯s answer was pity.

    ¡°Coris must¡¯ve seen how your family suffers, yet he lifts no finger to help, tied by his code of honor and duty as he is,¡± he sighed and hung his head, seeming to shrink, then raised his eyes to Meya once again.

    ¡°I know the strength of your love for him, I know you carry his child, and yet, I made my offer. That is just how much I desire you.¡±

    He reached out to her, meaning to trail his finger down her cheek, but stopped and hastily withdrew, perhaps getting an eyeful of Dad¡¯s glare. Yet, he continued without a hitch, a master of performing.

    ¡°Your beauty, your wit, your loyalty, your ambition. You have immense promise that would be all but wasted on his cowardly deal, and his impending doom.¡±

    His last word snapped Meya out of her woes.

    ¡°Doom?¡± She sprang to her feet, a hand still on Dad. Graye sighed as he followed suit.

    ¡°I shouldn¡¯t disclose council business, but I feel compelled to, for your sake. That vote earlier is to remove Baron Hadrian from the Council, replace him with Lord Amplevale. I don¡¯t expect any surprises on the outcome.¡±

    Feeling left Meya¡¯s legs. Her knees buckled, and she scrabbled for purchase on Dad¡¯s shoulder to remain standing. So, it was happening, just as Baron Hadrian foresaw. Lady Kyrel will rise to the seat and tell the king The Axel resided in her beloved. The scene may even be unfolding as she imagined it.

    Her heart lurched up the gallery, up the streets, all the way to the palace, where the unsuspecting Coris was, but she couldn¡¯t leave Dad here.

    ¡°He didn¡¯t lift you to his heights, and now, with his fall, he may drag you to his depths,¡± lamented Graye, his cold, ocean-blue eyes poring into hers. ¡°All the times you saved his life, and you may yet save him again if you join me. Has he ever saved yours?¡±

    Meya trembled. She didn¡¯t care. It didn¡¯t matter. She was the dragon, he was the sickly Lord Hadrian. He may not have saved her life, but he had saved her heart, shown her love, kindness, friendship, honor and bravery. All she wanted was to save him, to bear him his babe, to see Mum and Dad happy, rest easy in old age, but she couldn¡¯t do it. She couldn¡¯t stand the thought of baring herself to any other man.

    How could she be so selfish?

    ¡°I¡¯m sorry, milord,¡± she sobbed, shaking her head, ¡°I love him still.¡±

    Graye smiled sadly as if he had predicted it.

    ¡°And that is a beautiful sentiment,¡± he dipped his head in respect, then shrugged. ¡°Unfortunately, love doesn¡¯t bring bread home, and although marriage can survive without love, the inverse is not the case.¡±

    The cold truth in his bland statement chilled Meya to the core. Graye surfaced once more, his eyes locked with hers, beseeching, guiding.

    ¡°Victory demands pain. Change demands sacrifice,¡± he whispered. ¡°Sacrifice your love, and Greeneyes across the three lands will remember you as their goddess of deliverance. Coris is logical, he will understand. If he truly loves you, he won¡¯t tether you to his sinking ship. He¡¯ll rest easy, knowing you¡¯re safe in the arms of his mentor.¡±

    ¡°Meya, we¡¯re leaving!¡± Dad¡¯s patience finally ran dry. He climbed painstakingly to his feet, snatched his cane from the servant then limped his way back. Meya acted as his right leg, Graye¡¯s tempting words lingering stubbornly in her ears.

    <hr>

 Imprisoned

    Soon as the carriage wheels lurched to a stop on the flagstones of the Dragon¡¯s Crossing, war broke out between Dad and Meya.

    ¡°Go! I can handle meself. Go to him!¡± barked Dad as he tried his damnedest to shake Meya¡¯s hands off him, but she latched on like a caterpillar in a storm, tears of dilemma streaming down her cheeks.

    ¡°Let¡¯s just get to your room, alright? Lemme get you to Mum,¡± she bargained as Dad dragged himself through the door and down the steps. As if Freda had heard her pleas, Mum burst through the inn¡¯s front doors and tore across the courtyard, arms outstretched to receive him.

    ¡°I¡¯m fine, woman. Leave me!¡± Dad raised his caneless, Meya-less arm to bat her aside, but Mum charged right back in with revenge.

    ¡°Oh, for Freda¡¯s sake! Forget your pride for once, you old hog!¡± she snapped as she shouldered half his weight with her whole. Panting under the strain, Meya gasped across to her,

    ¡°Mum, Coris¡¯s in danger! I¡¯ll go tell his mum then I¡¯ll fetch a healer for Da¡ª¡±

    ¡°Then go. Now!¡± she added at Meya¡¯s nonplussed blinking. ¡°I¡¯ll call the healer. Just go, Meya!¡±

    Sobs barely sealed behind her gritted teeth, Meya gently lowered Dad¡¯s right onto his cane. She sprinted across the court, crashed through the doors, leapt up the stairs three at a time, landing on the second floor with a stomp. She blew down the hall and banged her fists on the Hadrians¡¯ door. Agnes¡¯s shrill voice called back,

    ¡°Who¡¯s there?¡±

    ¡°Meya, milady!¡±

    ¡°Come in!¡±

    Meya fell through. A wave of air swept over her, smelling of hot bread and melted butter. Agnes knelt before the fireplace, folding clothes and whatnot for Persephia to cram into a bundle. Arinel was on the bed, fast asleep after all the crying. The Baroness stood nearby, livid and breathing heavy, her silvery eyes glaring past Meya at the door. Meya rushed over.

    ¡°Milady, they did the vote! We gotta warn Coris! We¡ª!¡±

    The Baroness¡¯s gaze remained fixed above Meya¡¯s shoulder. Frowning, Meya spun around, just as the door closed with a slam. A tall, burly, tan-skinned man in a Corbyn Purple guard uniform stepped before it. His black hair was cropped short and well-oiled, and his face now round and unfamiliar, but she¡¯d never miss his scars and cold, glowing green eyes.

    ¡°Gillian?¡± Meya breathed, utterly confounded, then turned at the new voice from behind.

    ¡°We know,¡± panted Persephia as she threw her weight over the folded blanket atop the bundle. She thrust her chin at Gillian, ¡°Coris sent him back with the news. Lady Kyrel took the seat, told the king Coris has The Axel. He¡¯s in prison awaiting judgment. Baron Hadrian¡¯s buying time, but they might have to flee by dawn-break tomorrow.¡±

    The lid in Meya¡¯s midriff opened and her bowels tumbled into a void. Tomorrow. It can¡¯t be. How could it be this soon? This was just like Zier!

    ¡°NO!¡± She whirled around with a scream, only to crash into Gillian¡¯s wall of muscle and metal so hard she glanced off it like sunlight. She staggered upright, pounding her fist on his chest. ¡°LET ME OUT!¡±

    ¡°He commands you all not to visit,¡± the dragon hissed, eyes narrowing, demanding obedience. ¡°He has no mate, no brood¡ª¡±

    ¡°HE HAS A MOTHER, DOESN¡¯T HE!¡± Baroness Sylvia shrieked in retort. She stormed to Meya¡¯s side, blood rimming her eyes crimson. ¡°I¡¯ll see my son, and I¡¯ll take my maid with me if she so wishes! If you¡¯ll not lead my way, then leave it!¡±

    Silence fell but for the bated breaths of becoming widows. Gillian pored into their eyes, and sorrow softened his. For even a dragon had his own that he left behind.

    ¡°Yes, he does have a mother. And a mate,¡± he whispered finally. He turned the knob and strode out into the hallway, waiting silently as the Graye twins shoved a few more wedges of cheese into the bursting bundle then trusted it to Meya. A meager gift to send off the Baron and his heir on their voyage.

    <hr>

    Coris was held in a cell atop a tower, much like that of Laslarein Hasif. Seeing it was just the fugitive¡¯s mother, led by a uniformed palace guard, few batted an eyelid as Baroness Sylvia, Meya and Gillian strode down carpeted hallway after carpeted hallway to the foot of the tower.

    Gillian hung back to debrief his fellow guard as Meya and the Baroness scaled the spiral staircase. After the final turn, metal bars came into view, slivers of a shock of dark hair showing between them. Baron Kellis stood before the cell, eyes locked with a younger man clad in lavish purple robes.

    ¡°Lexi? Lexi!¡± the Baroness sent her voice ahead of her, tripping over her dress in her haste. Meya pranced up and caught her arms. The two men spun around, eyes bulging.

    ¡°Sylvia?¡± breathed Baron Kellis. He and the guard hastily stepped aside as the women slid to their knees before the bars. Meya had eyes for none but the prisoner. Coris sat cross-legged on the hay-strewn stone, stripped of his Hadrian Red garb to his white undershirt and trousers. Apart from his tousled hair and the manacle on his ankle, he looked just as he always did. No injuries nor signs of struggle. His eyes widened in fear at the unexpected sight of them.

    ¡°Mother, you shouldn¡¯t be here¡ª¡± he sprang to his knees, scrabbling at the bars.

    ¡°Don¡¯t you dare insult me with that!¡± snapped Sylvia. She pried her son¡¯s hands from the cold metal and cradled them between hers, lamenting,

    ¡°Oh, your hands are frozen already.¡±

    She lowered her lips to their joined hands, blowing warm air onto his fingers. Although Coris strove to remain stoic, he shuddered as waves of heat spread up his arms. Her heart lurching, Meya dropped her bundle to the floor and untied it with fumbling hands.

    ¡°Lexi, we got you blankets,¡± she rambled as she fed the thick cloth through the bars, then the rations. ¡°Flat bread and cheese. Gotta take ¡¯em one at a time then wrap it again yourself, I¡¯m afraid. Got some books, if you wanna read¡ª¡±

    Coris took the parting gifts with slack hands, eyes unblinking, staring in bemusement at Meya.

    ¡°And who might you be, fair maiden?¡± he asked, his voice calm. Meya froze. She raised her eyes to his, then her heart, too, froze to ice at the empty void gazing back, swallowing her in its abyss.

    ¡°Coris?¡± she whispered. Beside her, the Baroness started as if she¡¯d just noticed something. She ushered Meya aside, plunging her hands into the supplies the Graye sisters had laboriously arranged, now a miserable jumble.

    ¡°Just my maid, Haselle. Lost her sweetheart last winter. Hasn¡¯t been right since. Poor thing,¡± she spoke as if Meya weren¡¯t there, as one would when explaining away the antics of simpleminded folk, cramming a pouch of salt and books and whatnot into Coris¡¯s hands. ¡°Just take them. It¡¯ll soothe her poor heart as much as mine.¡±

    ¡°May we continue, Baroness Hadrian?¡± said a deep voice behind them from the guard in purple. Sylvia stiffened, then hitched up a smirk.

    ¡°Will you not give a mother some time with her dying son?¡± she spited the daring man. ¡°Or are we not human simply by virtue of being Hadrians, Your Majesty?¡±

    She hissed, injecting a hint alongside the extra venom into those two words, answering Meya¡¯s questions as if she¡¯d read her spinning mind.

    This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.

    Your Majesty.

    Oh, goodly Freda.

    Meya raised her eyes fearfully, studying the stranger she had taken to be a mere prison guard. A looming man in his early thirties, with shoulders that had carried corpses, yet his chest remained full and proud, and his eyes bright, piercing blue. Rich swirls of honey-brown crowned his head. Alden Corbyn, as young and handsome as rumored. He frowned at the Baroness as she warmed Coris¡¯s hands against her heart, saddened by her unbridled hatred.

    ¡°Your son won¡¯t die, Sylvia,¡± said King Alden, shaking his head, then motioned at Coris. ¡°Young Corien just told me how he supports my reforms so fervently, he swallowed The Axel, hoping to bring it to me. And if it will return The Axel to Latakia, he¡¯s ready to offer himself as candidate for surgery.¡±

    Meya¡¯s heart skipped several beats, before her head chided it. This was obviously just one of Coris¡¯s mind games, made all the more convincing by the fact that Coris did in fact once supported abolishing the Ban, printing books for the commoners and all that. Yet, the king seemed genuinely moved by his passion. And it pained Meya to hoodwink him so.

    ¡°Surgery?¡± Baroness Sylvia raised her eyebrows. She rose to her feet, sardonic smile twisting her beauteous face further, ¡°so you¡¯ll allow it, now that it benefits you?¡±

    ¡°Of course not, Syl.¡± Baron Kellis stepped up to shield her in his arms, blue eyes narrowed with disgust at the young monarch. ¡°He¡¯ll gut our son like cattle on a hook. Claim The Axel for himself and surgery as a barbaric practice, then abolish it for good. Two birds with one stone.¡±

    ¡°Kellis, that is not my intention!¡± King Alden protested.

    ¡°Father, Mother, please!¡± cried Coris. He rattled the bars for attention, his knuckles white and trembling. ¡°I¡¯m not long for life. At least let my death serve a purpose. Let our guard end with me!¡±

    ¡°YOU¡ªARE NOT¡ªDYING, LEXI!¡± Sylvia screamed.

    ¡°YOU ARE OUT OF YOUR MIND, SON!¡± Kellis echoed her. He spun back to the king, pleading in desperation, ¡°my liege, can¡¯t you see? He¡¯s driven demented by guilt. His brain is addled by laudanum. He¡¯s not of sound mind. He cannot consent!¡±

    ¡°I am perfectly sane and rational, Father,¡± said Coris flatly. ¡°Occasionally more so than you, if I¡¯m honest,¡± he added under his breath.

    ¡°Silence, Coris!¡± Kellis snapped.

    ¡°ENOUGH!¡± roared King Alden at last, a hand pinching the bridge of his nose. After a moment of rapid contemplation, timed by the pulsing vein in his temple, he surfaced with a sigh.

    ¡°I¡¯ll hold court in five days¡¯ time. He¡¯ll be examined by a jury of the wisest philosophers, physicians and professors from our university. They will determine whether he is fit to consent, and undergo surgery.¡±

    ¡°Until then, he¡¯ll be moved to a secret location. It will be well guarded, well furnished, and he¡¯ll be warm and well-fed, to give him the best chance of survival. I will not cast the blood of the innocent upon the altar of progress.¡±

    He declared, eyes hard and ablaze setting upon each Hadrian in turn. Yet deep down, Meya spied a well of sorrow and sympathy as he met Baron Kellis¡¯s eyes. He, too, had a son, a little prince. Perhaps His Majesty now understood what for two decades Baron Hadrian fought so bitterly to protect. He bowed his head with another sigh.

    ¡°I¡¯ll leave you to your farewells. Good day.¡±

    With that, he turned and left in a flutter of purple silk. Silence clung tight until the corner of King Alden¡¯s cloak vanished around the bend of the stairwell, then Coris spoke,

    ¡°Flawless, Father. And you, Mother.¡±

    Meya spun around. Coris was smiling, his same old conniving grin when all went according to plan. Not a minim of the prior melodrama lingered. Baron Kellis, in contrast, remained tense.

    ¡°We bought five days. In exchange for an easy escape,¡± he frowned. Coris tilted his head, undaunted.

    ¡°You must¡¯ve missed it, Father. He said I¡¯ll be warm and well-fed.¡± He raised his eyebrows, silvery eyes glinting. ¡°That means plenty of firewood, and a dozen meals at least Gillian will deliver to me. They¡¯ll also clean and refurnish the room to welcome me. Plenty of movement he can track.¡±

    Coris topped it off with a shrug. Baron Kellis shook his head, chuckling. Whereas Baroness Sylvia glowered in equal parts exasperation and affection at her cocky son.

    The scheme unveiled to Meya then, and the clenched claws of fear over her heart unwound. Coris hadn¡¯t meant to undergo surgery. He simply wormed himself into the king¡¯s good graces, buying five more days of head start for Zier, and a more comfortable prison for himself while he waited. Then, when the king¡¯s guard was at its lowest, Gillian would break him out.

    The plan hadn¡¯t changed. One way or another, this would be their last day together. This would be the last she ever saw of him in a long, long time. Or in this life. And his nonchalance insulted her.

    His parents reassured, he finally turned to her. His eyes were no longer empty, but filled with longing.

    ¡°Meya,¡± he called. Meya raised an eyebrow.

    ¡°Oh, now you remember me,¡± she spited. Coris pouted petulantly.

    ¡°Come now. You know why I must act such.¡±

    She did, so she crept forth as far as the bars would allow. He drew her in with his hand on the back of her head, kissed her forehead, the tip of her nose, then took her lips between his. The bars burned on her cheeks as he bore down like waves chained, sucking all the air out of her to last him for the long voyage ahead. He set her free, yet he clung to her arm, and his fingers trailed down the curve of her face.

    ¡°I reckon this is farewell,¡± he whispered, his voice choked with tears. Meya shook her head, pleading,

    ¡°Lexi, please. There must be another way.¡± She truly meant it, this time, but Coris closed his eyes against the light, blowing it out with a sigh of despair.

    ¡°Meya, we¡¯ve been through this.¡± He surfaced with a frown, his hands on her shoulders, shaking her lightly. ¡°Have you met Graye? What did he offer?¡±

    Meya avoided his eyes, her heart pounding. Graye¡¯s voice whispered at her ear like Chione¡¯s temptation.

    ¡°Nothing important,¡± she muttered. The furrow between Coris¡¯s eyebrows deepened.

    ¡°I¡¯ll be the judge of that.¡±

    There was no wriggling out of it. Meya wished she¡¯d be bursting to share the news with him with a laugh of derision, wished she could mock Graye¡¯s foolish, misguided attempt at humoring her, his sheer audacity, but she couldn¡¯t. Her cheeks burned with shame, but should she be ashamed? Shouldn¡¯t she be more ashamed she¡¯d left her parents behind to suffer in poverty, when all this time, she could¡¯ve asked for so much more?

    A sardonic smile twisted her trembling lips. She raised her face and met his moonbeam gray.

    ¡°He offers for me to be Baroness Graye,¡± she said blandly. Coris blinked, eyes wide. ¡°He¡¯ll bring back Mum¡¯s Song, give Dad a golden palanquin, freeman permits for all me brothers and sisters. So I can help Greeneyes without worry.¡±

    Coris swallowed his lips. His hands trembled on her arms, and blood left his cheeks, leaving it bone-white as the day they met, months ago. Meya¡¯s smile widened.

    ¡°But you¡¯ll never give me those, won¡¯t you? You had all the time in the three lands to, and you haven¡¯t.¡± She hung her head, staring at the bare stones. ¡°You have your people to feed, too. They¡¯ll want golden carriages and servants, too. You can¡¯t just give to me, you¡¯ll have to give to all of us.¡±

    Silence reigned once her bitter laugh melted into air. Over and over, Coris shifted his grasp on her arms.

    ¡°Is Farmer Hild¡¯s hip paining him terribly?¡± He managed finally. Meya wiped her eyes, and he rushed to help her.

    ¡°He can barely walk without a cry. Mum¡¯s fetching a healer for him, but I dunno if there¡¯s anything we can do,¡± Meya surfaced, tears streaming down her cheeks. His restraint blown, Coris tugged her into his arms. She sobbed against the side of his neck,

    ¡°He toiled so hard, Lexi. His bones must¡¯ve worn to nothing. I dunno how long your jewels will last us. What with me and me babe. Myron¡¯s apprenticing. And Marin and Deke still need us. There¡¯ll only be Maro and Marcus bringing bread in. So many mouths to feed¡­¡±

    Coris smoothed his hand down her back, struggling for words to console, scattered by the sound of boots clattering up the stairs. Meya was too drained to turn and see.

    ¡°They¡¯re coming,¡± said Gillian, cold and clipped. Meya¡¯s heart lurched just as Coris¡¯s embrace tightened in fear. He drew her back, staring her straight in the eye.

    ¡°Do you still have our contract?¡± Meya blinked, then her fury boiled.

    ¡°What¡¯s that gotta do with¡ª!¡±

    ¡°There¡¯s a clause. Your reward for services rendered,¡± Coris cut across in a rush, rattling her for attention. ¡°Once I¡¯m gone, show it to Arinel. She¡¯ll know what to do. Should give you more time to settle matters, give Farmer Hild the rest he needs. Then you and Marin can serve in Crosset Castle to help out your brothers. You can be wet nurses, even.¡±

    Meya¡¯s anger calmed, but her woes remained. How long would it last? What difference would it make? She¡¯d still be a poor peasant girl, with a child born out of wedlock, fathered by a fugitive on the run. Her whole family would still be peasants, would still be poor for the seventh generation running. There was hope of ending that, but not from Coris.

    As if he¡¯d read her mind, Coris bowed low, his sigh heavy.

    ¡°You¡¯re right. I can¡¯t match Graye¡¯s offer. I won¡¯t.¡± He shook his head.

    ¡°Hadrian¡¯s riches aren¡¯t mine. They belong to the people. I spend them in their place for their good. I take as my share only what I can justify. I can¡¯t give you a golden palanquin. What I can give is the fair chance to earn it. But if that¡¯s not enough, then perhaps¡­Hadrian isn¡¯t right for you.¡±

    He trailed away into a faint whisper, as if he¡¯d only just realized what this meant, what it might entail, and he was powerless to prevent. Meya sank weak-kneed onto her haunches, staring in horror at his bowed head. He was accepting it so simply.

    ¡°Aren¡¯t you going to stop me?¡± she breathed. ¡°I carry your child.¡±

    Coris shook his head, his whole self trembling.

    ¡°You¡¯re no fool, Meya.¡± He raised his face at last, his voice weary. ¡°He¡¯s using you to punish me. Once that¡¯s accomplished, he¡¯ll discard you like he did the twins. You know that.¡±

    You could¡¯ve just said you love me! You could¡¯ve begged me not to leave! You could¡¯ve married me right here, right now!

    Lie to me. Vow you¡¯ll come back in time to see the babe. For once in your life, don¡¯t give me a choice! Chain me to you. Make me believe. Give me a shred of hope!

    In her heart she screamed, as purple-clad guards arrived to join Gillian and pulled Coris from his cell. As he turned back for one last melancholic smile, one last look at her glowing green and red-gold dawn, before they shoved a black hood over his head. As they led him down the stairs by a leash tied to his bound fists, stumbling and blind.

    And like so, he left her. Again. Her best friend, her beloved, her husband, the father of her babe, her Lexi. The tempest had left for sea.

 Depths of Despair

    The ride back to the Dragon¡¯s Crossing was a subdued one. Outside, the summer sun set cobblestones aglow, glittering with specks of last night¡¯s stardust. Townsfolk and tourists alike had shaken sleep from their company. They edged down the crammed thoroughfare, turning to hoarse yells of merchants on both sides of the road toting their wares. Children streaked through the quagmire, arms aloft with flimsy toys that would barely last them through the Fest. Laughter, music and song. Sighs of sappy young lovers and tuts of frustrated parents.

    Meya wondered how they could be so blind, so carefree. So cruel as to mock her with their cheer. Didn¡¯t they know her dream was shattering, her love was dying, her path was ending?

    Baron Kellis was consoling Baroness Sylvia on the bench across from her. He patted her hair as she sobbed silently into the side of his neck, pressing his nose¡ªthen his lips¡ªonto her forehead.

    Meya didn¡¯t know if it would actually be worse if Coris were forced to flee straight away. Five more days with him still within reach, yet unable to meet, seemed more of a torture.

    ¡°Meya,¡± Kellis¡¯s deep, melancholic voice pulled Meya from her thoughts. She tore her gaze from Sylvia, answered him with her hollow glowing green. Under his frown, his blue eyes were straining against grief.

    ¡°He will return. I promise,¡± he said heavily. Meya shook her head, her welling tears washing away the image of him.

    ¡°When, milord?¡±

    Kellis lowered his eyes to his lap, and her heart writhed in disappointment, even as she knew the answer¡ªor lack, thereof. He steered away,

    ¡°Your family will be fine. Arinel won¡¯t leave you destitute. She¡¯ll find a post for you, treatment for your father. All you must do from now is what you always have. Stand for Greeneyes.¡±

    Meya clenched her hands atop her knees and hung her head, her cheeks burning in shame. Yes, she knew, but how could she explain why she wasn¡¯t content, wasn¡¯t grateful? How could she let them know that now she¡¯d seen what could be, she couldn¡¯t return to what should be?

    She couldn¡¯t forget the gold-gilded carriage, the milk baths strewn with rose petals, the trays laden with mounds of meat and platters of pastry, the dresses of silk and satin trimmed with silver and padded with lace, the goose-down mattress and pillows, the bustling servants, the rolling carpet cushioning her footfalls, the lightness of never having to worry about tomorrow¡¯s bread and bed. And she couldn¡¯t let her family live and die nameless, faceless, forgotten, without ever having a taste of these riches.

    What¡¯s the point of fighting for a better life for Greeneyes, if you can¡¯t have the life you dreamed of, too?

    Their carriage veered onto the courtyard of the inn, slowing to a stop next to another poised to depart. Before its ajar door stood an old man with bushy tufts of white-gray hair and an equally tangled beard. He was dressed in flowing robes of violet silk. The golden thread embroidered onto his sleeve flashed in the sun as he examined the contents of his satchel, tossing bundles of herbs and flowers onto the overflowing arms of his apprentice.

    Her heart skipped a beat. Meya flung the door open and tumbled down the steps, dashing to the wide-eyed man and boy.

    ¡°Master Healer! Master Healer, sir!¡± She latched onto his arm, gasping, ¡°were you here for my father? Mirram Hild? How is he?¡±

    At Dad¡¯s name, the healer blinked, and a gleam of recognition came to his eyes. He raised his free hand. Meya feared he¡¯d brush her off¡ªshe¡¯d mostly known doctors who were ill-tempered¡ªbut he patted her hand, weary.

    ¡°His spine is crooked and withered,¡± he said, keen blue eyes peering through tangles of white eyebrows to her, then shook his head. ¡°Happens eventually to all men who toil. No cure for it but rest and time. Herbs may dull his pain, but it will never go away.¡±

    His words sunk like claws of ice into her heart, robbing strength from her arms. Her hands slid and fell lifelessly to her side. Meya gawked at him, disbelieving.

    ¡°He¡¯ll never walk without a cane? He¡¯ll always be in pain?¡± she whispered. The healer nodded, his face grim.

    ¡°And he must not work.¡±

    That was not the problem, of course, but it was disconcerting. Ever since she could remember, Dad had always worked. Dad¡­worked. That was what he did. All he did. Then, suddenly, he was never to do so again.

    He¡¯d never trudge off at sunrise again, cramming his fraying straw hat on his head, Mum¡¯s lunch bundle swinging from his fist. He¡¯d never walk through the swishing wheat to the tavern at sundown again, grumble about Meya to Draken until both their pints dried. He¡¯d never barge through the door at dinnertime again, sweep a squealing Mistral off her feet and into his arms. He¡¯d be an old man confined to the warmth of the hearth, teetering over his old-man stick.

    No! She balled her fists, protesting to Freda. He ain¡¯t even fifty! It ain¡¯t even his time! She couldn¡¯t take that. She wouldn¡¯t take that!

    ¡°Isn¡¯t there a way to cure him at all? Set his spine straight? Rebuild it?¡± Meya pleaded. The words tasted insane even on her tongue, but she couldn¡¯t overlook even the slightest glimmer of hope. The healer closed his eyes and shook his head again.

    ¡°Not even with Nostran medicine, I¡¯m afraid.¡±

    He sighed, then reached out a veined hand and grasped her shoulder, pinning her with his keen blue once more.

    ¡°You take good care of yourself, lass. That¡¯s all he needs.¡±

    After a few hard, reaffirming pats, he released her and clambered onto his ride. The carriage bore him off to his next patient, leaving Meya alone as cold reality crushed her.

    <hr>

    ¡°Dad! Dad, how you doing? Does it still hurt?¡±

    Meya fell headfirst through the door, propelled by leftover energy from taking the stairs three steps at a time. Dad was sprawled on his belly on their room¡¯s only bed, shirt halfway up his back. Mum knelt beside him, throwing her whole weight onto her thumbs to knead out the knots in his tense flesh.

    ¡°I¡¯m fine!¡± He barked, his voice muffled by the pillow, then groaned and gritted his teeth¡ªMum must¡¯ve hit an old sore spot. Meya rushed in.

    ¡°Did you pay the healer? How much was it?¡± She panted, forcing her hands under Mum¡¯s so she¡¯d retreat. Dad blew a long sigh, soothed by the heat of her burning palms.

    ¡°It¡¯s alright, Meya, I took care of that,¡± said a hoarse voice to her left before Mum could answer. Meya whipped around, eyes bulging. In her haste, she¡¯d breezed right past Lady Arinel standing just beside the bed. Her eyes were red and swollen nearly shut, her blonde curls frayed and tangled.

    She stood reading a piece of parchment, still in the dress she wore to see off Zier, rumpled by uneasy slumber. Without even looking up, she strode to take Meya¡¯s hand and pulled her back to the door.

    Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

    ¡°The healer left a recipe for painkillers. You come help me forage,¡± she said, her voice lifeless.

    ¡°My lady¡ª¡± Mum lurched after them, but stopped at Arinel¡¯s command¡ª

    ¡°You keep him company, Alanna. I must keep busy.¡±

    For a blink, Arinel¡¯s restraint gave way. Her voice trembled as her hand tightened around Meya¡¯s, pleading for mercy, clinging on for hope. Meya was torn. Her heated hands worked better to sooth Dad¡¯s pain, but poor, heartbroken Arinel needed a friend who knew her plight to commiserate with.

    Meya looked to Mum, but of course Mum would nod, desperate to repay Arinel¡¯s kindness as she was. So Meya let Lady Crosset lead the way, biting back her sigh so as not to trouble her good friend.

    <hr>

    Under normal circumstances, the nearest hospital was but a short carriage ride from the inn. However, the multitude of festival-goers had extended that time by tenfold, so Arinel and Meya chose the quarter-hour walk instead.

    The crowd thinned as they left the square. Falling silence tempted conversation to break it, yet the girls were content with letting it reign.

    Meya didn¡¯t know how to begin. Unlike her and the Hadrian boys, Arinel had none to gain and everything to lose from all this. This wasn¡¯t even her cause, her duty, her people. She shouldn¡¯t have to suffer simply because she loved Zier, because Meya was her friend.

    Meya opened her mouth to apologize, but then a shadow swallowed her. She glanced up and found the hospital¡¯s sandstone column looming tall behind a gate of wrought iron. Scrape scrape went the rake as the lone young nun tried her best to weed out fallen leaves from among the grass.

    The nun looked up at the creak of the gate, saw the basket Meya had slung on her arm, and instantly understood what they came for. She led them through the heavy wooden doors into the hospital¡¯s main hall.

    Meya¡¯s nose was the first to react to her new surroundings. The musty smell of decay, mingled with sour notes of blood, vomit, piss, shite and other foul combinations of the humors. Close second were her ears. The rustle of robes, the murmurs of monks and nuns, the groans of the old, the ill and withering. Faint screams of a woman giving birth echoed from another chamber somewhere. They compelled her eyes to roam, seek out the source of these horrors.

    The noon sun streamed in through tall windows, tinting the scene in bleak yellow-white. Two rows of hay mattresses sat along the walls, all occupied. Most weren¡¯t sick¡ªjust ancient and worn thin by the years. Some were sleeping. Some sat glassy-eyed and mouth ajar, staring at dust motes dancing in the light, hairless, toothless and shirtless, as the nuns cleaned them. Some stood leaning heavily on their canes, staring jealously at Meya and Arinel walking past with their straight backs and flowing dresses.

    Meya faced their ogling eyes. Mum and Dad¡¯s faces glared back at her wherever she turned. This could be their future, only difference was they¡¯d crumble away at home, as Meya witnessed the true toll of her dream.

    Meya glanced at Arinel, but her eyes were fixed on the knot of the nun¡¯s apron, blind and deaf to all else. Her grief left no room for pity, and Meya didn¡¯t begrudge her. She¡¯d soon suffer the same fate. No, she already was. Dad¡¯s plight and Coris¡¯s departure had drove Greeneyes almost clean from her mind.

    Yet, with Graye¡¯s help, she could save all three.

    They filed out through a side-door to a stone path lined on both sides with herbs of all sizes and shapes, from sparse, reed-thin stalks to close-set, stout bushes. Some had wide leaves like flatbread covered in fine hair, some were decorated with sharp needles. Some bore fruit, some stopped at flowers.

    The nun left them with a sweet smile and an invitation to pluck as much as they need for old Farmer Hild. Once the door had closed behind her, Meya sidled close to the listless Arinel, touched a few nervous fingers to her arm.

    ¡°Milady, are you dealing alright?¡±

    Arinel whirled round and threw herself into Meya as her reply. Meya wrapped her arms around her and squeezed her tight. So cold and lonesome she must be, to not jolt at Meya¡¯s burning heat and absorb it like a bone-dry sponge.

    ¡°I¡¯m proud of him,¡± she blubbered into her shoulder. ¡°He¡¯s grown so much. Just wish it could¡¯ve been¡ªa different way.¡±

    Meya nodded and smoothed her hand down her shivering back. Arinel drew several deep, shaky breaths, then stepped back and raised her eyes to catch Meya¡¯s.

    ¡°And you?¡± Meya blinked, confused, so Arinel obliged, ¡°the twins brought me up to speed. How¡¯s Coris? Are they treating him well?¡±

    Somehow, the mere mention of the name she should love lit a fire under Meya, heating the writhing chaos within her to a simmer. She let the calming cool of Arinel¡¯s hands on her arms reach her heart. Eyes on her shoes, she shrugged.

    ¡°He was cold, but he¡¯ll be fine. Fooled the king into giving him five more days, hidden away someplace safe and comfy, while they round up wise men to judge if he¡¯d be fit to agree with surgery. But of course, it ain¡¯t happening. Gillian¡¯s still gunna break him out and he¡¯ll flee for Everglen and never come back¡ª¡±

    ¡°Of course he¡¯ll come back! He must¡¯ve promised to. Zier did¡ª¡± Arinel cut in. Her naive hope as she defended Coris snapped Meya¡¯s fraying patience.

    ¡°Well, he dinnae!¡± she burst out, throwing Arinel back. Guilt overwhelmed her at the sight, and Meya turned pointedly away, breathing heavy. Her heart pounding in her head, chiding her.

    ¡°Baron Graye made me an offer, you know,¡± she said at last, her voice quiet. ¡°He¡¯ll make me Baroness. Make Dad walk like he¡¯s twenty again. Make Mum sing like a bird again. Set all my siblings free. Send them all to school in Damerel if they want to. Then no-one will speak bad of me when I focus on Greeneyes next.¡±

    Arinel¡¯s eyes widened as her cheeks drained. With a sardonic smirk, Meya raised her arm and jabbed her finger at the faraway palace.

    ¡°And he dinnae even stop me if I were to go,¡± she laughed bitterly. ¡°All he fears is I dun tell him about The Axel, that¡¯s all. All he cares is his duty, his honor. Said I should know Graye¡¯s rotten to the core. He thinks I dunno that? But what about me dad? Me mum? Me whole family? Me babe? I can¡¯t turn him down just because of that and leave them all poor! When I can change that if I just¡­forget meself?¡±

    Her words came out a whisper in the still air, as her eyes widened in remembrance and dawning realization, drawn to the cracked, mossy stone statue of a veiled, faceless woman with hands clasped in prayer, covered almost whole by the undergrowth in a forgotten corner of the garden.

    All Remember She Who Forgets Herself.

    Yes, it was a choice. ¡¯Twas always a choice, but it never was between her family and Greeneyes. It was between herself and all she loved.

    So what if Graye¡¯s aim were to punish Coris? If he knew from the beginning, what he knew shouldn¡¯t hurt him. So what if Graye would discard her after one use? So would she, once she¡¯d gotten what she needed from him. Nothing hung in the balance but her body, and it was virgin no more. She¡¯d done it once with Coris, and she¡¯d awaken victorious with the dawn.

    So, why did the mere thought of another man¡¯s touch on her skin still scare her as much¡ªor even more¡ªthan death itself?

    Arinel¡¯s eyes followed her lead to the statue. She faltered as if cowed by the sheer force of conviction Meya radiated, but she then regained her ground. She clenched her snowy fists, shaking her head.

    ¡°Meya, that¡¯s not what forgetting yourself is,¡± she said in a trembling voice that swelled and rose as she went, ¡°it¡¯s sacrificing your comfort for countless others. Upholding honor and duty even if it means abandoning your dream. Betraying your own kind so innocent lives will be saved. Giving up your titles, your riches, your legacy, your life for what is right. Like your ancestors did. Like you did! In Hadrian, in Jaise, in Hyacinth! It¡¯s not prostituting yourself to an evil man, just so you can say you¡¯ve repaid your parents!¡±

    ¡°Easy for you to say! You¡¯re all rich nobles! You dunno what ¡¯tis like to be a peasant!¡± Meya rounded on her, arms flailing, unleashing all the resentment festering inside her¡ª

    ¡°You think we all deserve the lot you¡¯ve given us? Think you lot have the right to decide who gets to be rich and who has to toil for every scrap from your table? And be satisfied with it? You think you have the right to preach of honor and dignity, while you lay on goose-down and clothe yourself in silk? So dun you dare judge me, Arinel! I am not a prostitute!¡±

    Silence fell. Arinel stood speechless, lips parted, eyes wide over bloodless cheeks. Rivulets of tears trickled down them, but just when Meya thought she¡¯d cinched victory, she pursed her lips and nodded heavily.

    ¡°You¡¯re right. I don¡¯t have the right to decide,¡± Arinel shook her head. Her whole body trembled, but still she stood proud and tall. ¡°And I¡¯ve come to realize it¡¯s not fair for us to live in excess when so many of you are lacking. To be born worthy, while you fight tooth and claw just to be seen. And we¡¯re trying to change that, but it takes time. And we blunder. And we fall. Then we try again!¡±

    She cried, pleading to Meya¡¯s stony, unwavering cold, then concluded in a whisper,

    ¡°That¡¯s why Coris took you under his wing. That¡¯s why he stands for Greeneyes. That¡¯s why he and Zier are leaving us. And I don¡¯t know if that¡¯s the best path, but I do know the easy way out is never the answer.¡±

    It¡¯s unfair. It¡¯s hard, but when is there ever honor in what is easy?

    Whispered Baroness Sylvia in her ears. As Meya stood petrified, gripped by dilemma, Arinel sagely nodded to herself. She stole the basket from her slack hand.

    ¡°Let¡¯s split. I¡¯ll find wormwood and henbane. You take lavender and peppermint. If you feel sick, let me know straight away.¡±

    Meya could only watch as Arinel plodded up the garden path, wiping her eyes as she bent to pluck ripe sprigs from their mother shrubs, struck dumb with guilt. Suddenly, voices echoed to her from deep within that forest as the sun was setting, where she and Arinel stood against one another, faced the same choice, and again walked down opposite paths.

    Life or honor. Must it always be this choice?

    <hr>

 The Choice Again

    Once she had helped Meya cobble together a pain-relieving poultice for Dad, Arinel excused herself under the guise of helping the Baron prepare for his escape. Meya knew better, however. Finding no solace and instead more headache in Meya¡¯s company, Arinel had probably decided to seek out Lady Agnes instead.

    Dad must¡¯ve told Mum about Graye¡¯s offer while she was gone. Meya had seen Dad¡¯s contempt for it. She knew Mum wouldn¡¯t react any different, so she didn¡¯t waste any breath discussing the matter. Mum and Dad must¡¯ve assumed she shared their apathy. They didn¡¯t bother bringing it up, either.

    Like Arinel, Dad simply asked how Coris was doing. Meya obliged, but left out the part about Coris¡¯s contract. She had a hunch Dad wouldn¡¯t accept the gold if he learned who it came from.

    At sunset, the innkeeper knocked on their door, delivering dinner alongside a message from Baron Hadrian. So, once they had supped, the Hilds trooped down the hallway to the Hadrian¡¯s quarters.

    It wasn¡¯t just them this time. Sir Jarl, Philema, Tissa, Dorsea and Cleygar spun around as they entered. Behind them stood Baron Kellis at his desk by the window, hands clasped at his back, staring out at the evening town dotted with streetlamps like fireflies. The Baroness sat on the chair beside him, flanked by Ladies Arinel, Agnes and Persephia.

    Kellis turned round, his blue eyes following Dad as Mum and Meya lowered him into the one spare chair set out specially for him, then left to sweep the throng.

    ¡°You may have heard. I¡¯ve been removed from my seat on the Council,¡± he said. Gasps, draining cheeks and bulging eyes from the audience proved him wrong. Kellis closed his eyes briefly, then tilted his head. ¡°And you may have noticed the absence of some among our number.¡±

    At that, the marshal and the four Greeneyes glanced about the room. Kellis obligingly paused, then continued,

    ¡°In five days¡¯ time, my sons and I will depart on a perilous quest of utmost secrecy. I cannot promise when, perhaps even if, we shall return.¡±

    A chill gripped Meya as if a cold gale had rushed past. He lied to her? Just hours earlier he promised Coris would return. Now, he wouldn¡¯t even dare promise that anymore.

    The Baron heaved a tortured sigh, his eyes on the floor as he nodded listlessly to himself.

    ¡°In the meantime, I will trust the seat of Hadrian to my sister Kyrel. And Sylvia will return to her kin in Noxx. You are all freed from my service. Lady Crosset will depart aftermorrow to see you all safely back to Hadrian.¡±

    Arinel straightened as all eyes pooled on her. Kellis took a few silent steps towards his freshly dismissed subjects, his voice lowered now,

    ¡°When Kyrel returns, she may seek you out for information on my whereabouts, my mission. You have the choice to remain in Hadrian, share with her all you¡¯ve learned. Or, you may uproot your family, bring them with you to Crosset, where Kyrel cannot reach you.¡±

    Dorsea and Tissa shared nervous looks of disbelief. Philema gripped the bosom of her tunic, eyes wide and haunted by resurrected nightmares. Cleygar turned to the similarly dumbfounded Sir Jarl as if hoping for reassurance.

    Meya, however, barely heard the words following aftermorrow. She gawked at Arinel, petrified with panic and fury.

    What was the meaning of this? She¡¯d had not the slightest whiff this was coming. Why leave? Why so soon? Aftermorrow? When Dad¡¯s leg was still paining him so badly? When he was a carriage ride away from the best healers in the land? When merchants from all corners of Latakia had just gathered with the rarest, most priced herbs and remedies?

    No, she wouldn¡¯t allow this. She couldn¡¯t!

    Yet, as she boiled where she stood, Baron Kellis calmly bowed his golden head, oblivious.

    ¡°For all the years you¡¯ve served under me, I thank you.¡± He rose slowly, genuine emotion in his wavering eyes as he studied each of his fearful subjects. ¡°You¡¯ve weathered the whims of my unruly sons, faced perils under their command. And you remain loyal. I cannot ask for more from my people.¡±

    ¡°Milord, may I ask what¡ª¡± Cleygar leaned forth in earnest.

    ¡°Milord, please. We can help¡ª¡± Dorsea beseeched.

    ¡°Greeneyes remain the heart of our quest,¡± Kellis cut them short, tender yet leaving no room for questions. He shook his head then, his expression pained. ¡°Aynor is not ready. Latakia is not ready for you. We will bring that day, but we aren¡¯t willing to lose any more of you as we fulfill our promise. This quest is our burden alone,¡±

    The Baron declared, his head hung, trembling fists at his sides. At the sight, Cleygar¡¯s reaching hand fell lifelessly. Dorsea froze with her lips parted, hands joined over her heart. Tissa heaved a mournful sigh, shoulders sagged. Clearly, they were all raring to take part, to lend their service, but their lord was casting himself alone into the dark, churning sea.

    ¡°That will be all. I apologize for cutting Miracle Fest short,¡± concluded Kellis. Before he could dismiss them to bed with a wave, Meya stepped forth. Two dozen eyes were upon her in a blink, but she kept hers fixed on the Baron.

    ¡°Milord, we¡¯re staying,¡± she declared, indicating Dad with a flourish of her hand. ¡°We¡¯ll leave with the Boszels at the Fest¡¯s end. Me father needs rest and treatment. I¡¯ll find better healers who wouldn¡¯t give up at first glance¡ª¡±

    ¡°No! I¡¯m done here. We¡¯ll leave with Lady Arinel,¡± growled Dad as he pushed himself painstakingly to his feet. Meya whipped around. Dad had left his cane leaned against his chair, but he kept his right foot afloat, and his right hand gripping the chair tight.

    ¡°Dad¡ª¡± Meya dove for the opening. Dad crushed it with his tirade¡ª

    ¡°I¡¯ll not have you waste your husband¡¯s last treasures on no fancy healer peddling fake potions for summat they know can¡¯t be cured. Save them for your babe. I¡¯ll handle meself.¡±

    ¡°Dad!¡± Meya wailed. Dad had crumpled to his chair again, from the mere effort it took to rant at her.

    ¡°Meya, you must leave!¡± Arinel strode in, eyebrows tied, a finger pointing down. ¡°The sole purpose of us leaving early, is so the king can¡¯t hold you hostage once Coris shows his true colors, so we can beat Kyrel back to Hadrian and prepare!¡±

    ¡°Fine, I¡¯ll leave! If Mum and Dad stay.¡± Meya threw up her hands, then jabbed her pointer at her parents.

    ¡°And do what?¡± snapped Dad. Meya spun around to his stubborn scowl, his childish challenge. ¡°You can¡¯t make me see no healer if I won¡¯t!¡±

    Meya skidded to her knees and clung to his leg for dear life, staring unblinking at his profile, for he didn¡¯t deign to stay and look her in the eye.

    ¡°One day¡ª¡± Still, she bargained. ¡°Give me one day. I¡¯ll find new healers. Hear what they have to say¡ª¡±

    ¡°I said, I¡¯m done, Meya,¡± Dad repeated, a note of grim finality in his word. His brown eyes flared, demanding her silence. ¡°¡¯Tis me leg. I decide.¡±

    They locked eyes. Although her arms trembled, she held fast as she pored into the cold, pitch-black pits that for seventeen years served so well to seal Dad¡¯s heart away from her reach, her understanding. He didn¡¯t blink, and his face held like chiseled stone, unmoved. Sapped of strength, her hands finally slipped and fell. Tears spilled down her cheeks. She climbed to her feet and staggered back.

    ¡°First Coris, then you.¡± She choked on her breath, shaking her head in disbelief. ¡°All I ever want is to help, to repay you, to be useful!"

    She burst through the door, hurtling back up the corridor. She flung herself into the room, sprinted straight for the bed but tripped halfway there and landed on something soft. A mattress. The inn had finally sent a maid with extra bedding. Perfect, nevertheless. Meya clawed her way up to the pillow, flopped down for a good loud cry, and was yet again hindered by a crackling sound from underneath.

    Sniffling, she reached for the source of the nuisance and withdrew a crumpled roll of parchment. She unfurled it, revealing ornate letters in charcoal gray ink, shining silver in the moonbeam.

    Lady Hild,

    I¡¯d like to discuss your father¡¯s condition, and your decision regarding my offer.

    Tomorrow, my whip will wait near your lodging. Whenever you¡¯re ready, simply tuck this into your hair and stand before the gates.

    I look forward to our meeting.

    G. G.

    Below the initials lay a wispy, pure white feather with an eye of similar white. Meya picked it up by the hard quill, spinning it numbly between her fingers. Soft knocks came from the door, then. Jolting, Meya stashed the letter back under her pillow and slumped down, her back to Mum as she entered gingerly with a creak.

    ¡°Meya?¡± she called, uncertain. Meya gritted her teeth, calming her thundering heart. Mum closed the door, then glided gently down to her knees by Meya¡¯s bedside. ¡°Songbird, can we talk?¡±

    It was beyond Meya to think, to decide at the moment, even for the simplest choices. She sniffed, twisting the cold sheets in her trembling grasp. Mum understood. She tucked a stray lock of hair safely behind Meya¡¯s ear, her sigh barely audible.

    ¡°Let¡¯s sleep on it for a night. We¡¯ll talk when you¡¯re ready.¡±

    Her hand slipped away, then she rose and disappeared with a flutter of her nightdress, leaving Meya alone in the dark with naught but a shaft of light from the devil.

    <hr>

    After a hurried breakfast, most of the entourage left the inn seemingly to join the festivities as usual. In actuality, their aim was to find wagons and gather supplies for the journey home.

    Dad being crippled, Meya being pregnant, the Hilds weren¡¯t assigned any duties. Not to mention as one of Coris¡¯s closest associates, Meya couldn¡¯t be seen scurrying around preparing to flee. She was confined to the lavish prison Coris provided her, chained to Mum desperately finding excuses for why Meya shouldn¡¯t worry for the family, subjected to Dad brooding in the corner, mourning his lost pride.

    Maro was ready to succeed Dad as breadwinner. Marin and Meya would marry soon. Morel was in Hadrian. Jason had agreed to take Marcus along on his caravan. Myron had begun his apprenticeship with Yorfus. With only Mistral still home, Mum could leave the house and win some bread on her own, lighten Maro¡¯s load.

    Yet¡ªshe didn¡¯t have to, nor did Maro! Nothing needed to change, yet everything would change. How could Meya not concern herself, when she was given a solution to all their troubles with her choice of husband?

    Worse, after lunch, Jason visited, accompanied by a Tyldornian healer. He brought naught with him but a belt of leather, two dozen gleaming needles of pure silver sheathed neatly in every fold.

    Dad wanted none of the bizarre treatment at first, but Jason had his trust, and a golden tongue. In no time at all, he had Dad sprawled on the mattress, the healer drilling needles into his flesh, all the way from his hip to his leg.

    Dad gritted his teeth every time a new needle sunk deep into his muscle, then softened in bliss when the descent stopped. Meya couldn¡¯t make sense of it. How could stabbing heal? But, Dad was no longer in pain. That was all that mattered.

    ¡°How is it, Mirram? Better?¡± Mum strained her neck to see past the old healer¡¯s back. Dad breathed slow, looking as if he were asleep, but he finally nodded. Mum whipped around to Meya with a smile. Laughing in relief, Meya spun to the healer.

    ¡°This is it, then?¡± she demanded, breathless, as the healer edged back and flipped his hourglass. ¡°We vent all the pain knotted up in there, and Dad¡¯s gunna prance about like a stag again?¡±

    To her horror, the healer shook his silvery-white head.

    ¡°The needles only bleed the pain. The eye of the pain remains.¡± Out of the folds of his tunic he drew a wooden doll carved and inked with countless lines and dots, each labeled with minuscule Tyldornian runes. He set it on the carpet before Meya, tapping his finger on the line slicing down the doll¡¯s back.

    ¡°The bones of his spine are crumbling. They¡¯re coming loose, grating on his nerves that connect to his legs. Were they rusty cogs in a golem, you just needed some oil and a wrench. But you can¡¯t oil a man¡¯s spine, not even with surgery.¡±

    Meya slumped back, staring numbly at the doll. Like a river, the nerve line sped from its back to its hip, branched in two, then traveled on down to its toes. They could only dig a leak for the pain, but all the while, the lake would refill and fester, and the cycle would repeat. There was no end, no panacea. Not even with surgery?

    ¡°So, he¡¯ll have to keep doing this? Every day? For the rest of his life?¡± Meya whispered, tears burning in her eyes once again. The healer simply sighed.

    Mum peered down at the rows of unused needles sparkling in their holster, then Dad¡¯s pincushion-like leg, then lastly the healer.This book''s true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience.

    ¡°Does it take long to learn this art? Doesn¡¯t look complicated,¡± she added, rather unwisely, her eyes fixed upon the needles again. The healer swelled and flushed.

    ¡°One needle out of place, and you might as well have run a sword through his heart. Why do you think I charge fees so high?¡± he snapped. Mum jolted, eyes wide in terror at her blunder. A white-hot flash of anger gripped Meya. How dare he¡ª!

    ¡°I¡¯m so sorry, Master Healer. I didn¡¯t mean¡ªI was just¡ª¡± Mum blustered. Jason shot Meya a silencing yet sympathetic look as he pinned the rearing Dad down with a hand on his shoulder. He leaned across Dad to the healer, head bowed in plea,

    ¡°They¡¯ll leave for Crosset tomorrow. Isn¡¯t there anything they can do?¡±

    The healer met Jason¡¯s similarly beady, black eyes, glanced at the panic-stricken Mum, then deflated as he understood their desperation, nodding.

    ¡°You won¡¯t find a needle-master in those parts, but there are simple exercises that may ease the pain and right the body over time. If you¡¯ll stand, I¡¯ll teach you. And you can teach him.¡±

    Mum eagerly stood up, carefully stretching and contorting her limbs after the healer¡¯s example. Even Jason followed suit, just in case. Meya, however, couldn¡¯t move. She couldn¡¯t care for such makeshift remedies, couldn¡¯t possibly be sated. Latakian herbs wouldn¡¯t work. Tyldornian arts wouldn¡¯t work. Surgery wouldn¡¯t work. What of Nostran? What of something else entirely? Something other than medicine?

    A hard, sharp tip scraped against her leg through the fabric of her pocket¡ªGraye¡¯s white peacock quill. Daybreak tomorrow, they would leave this city. This was her last chance. She must take it. She must try, at least.

    <hr>

    Meya hadn¡¯t had a night this long since the Famine, when it was supposed to be just until second sleep, and her belly was full and warm. She waited for Dad¡¯s snores to settle into a steady rhythm, for Mum to cocoon herself with Dad¡¯s half of the blanket, then rose soundlessly to her feet. She crept to the door on her toes and turned the knob, opened it as wide as it would allow her to before squeaking.

    Down the hallway, down the stairs, across the hall, out the door, across the courtyard, through the wrought-iron gates, she glided like a spirit. She couldn¡¯t feel her feet. She couldn¡¯t feel the ground pressing against her soles. She didn¡¯t know how much time had elapsed. When she came to herself, she was standing barefooted on moonlit cobblestones, a cloak over her nightdress, Graye¡¯s feather in its pocket.

    Her hands trembling, she pulled the cloak to her and drew out the feather. Her hair was undone, so she simply tucked it over her ear.

    One breath, two breaths, three breaths she waited. The square was black and white, empty but for shadow and light. Had the whip given up? Had he nodded off? Poor man had waited an entire day and half the night, after all. Should she find her way to Graye¡¯s mansion herself?

    Just as she raised her foot to take her first step into the night, the clip-clop of hoof and metal on stone echoed nearer and louder. A chunk of shadow detached from the silhouette of a large tree, washed by moonlight to reveal a charcoal-gray carriage, which glided to a stop before her. The whip dismounted and opened the door, revealing a mouth of pitch blackness.

    Shivering, yet not from the night¡¯s chill, Meya braced her foot on the ice-cold step and plunged headfirst into the dark. Familiar black cushions awaited her. The journey was long, solitary and silent, but its comfort couldn¡¯t lull her to sleep.

    As the journey wore on, Meya rehearsed her demands and conditions, what she would ask, what she would not give. Then, she¡¯d hear Graye¡¯s counteroffer that she wouldn¡¯t take nevertheless.

    She was only meeting him because she could, just so she¡¯d know she¡¯d done everything there was to be done. Turn over the remaining two thimbles to find Freda was toying. There never was a crystal to cure all ills in the first place. No hope from the beginning. She¡¯d take despair over regret as her torture.

    Yet, if so, why was she trembling? If becoming Graye¡¯s mistress in all but name was not even the last thing she¡¯d do, why was her heart shivering in anticipation?

    Before she reached the truth buried deep within, the horses slowed to a halt. Meya peered out the window. The resplendent Graye mansion in sunlight was now a pure shadow of rock, like the peaks of Greentail Ridge whence he hailed.

    Baron Graye wasn¡¯t waiting with his entourage, but a wavering light shone from a window high on the uppermost floor. The whip helped her dismount, then led her down the silent, deserted bowels of the long gallery, vacated of life with nothing but husks of history clinging to its walls, bone-white ghosts frozen in the moonlight.

    The whip stopped before the lone door with light shining underneath, then knocked. Meya told herself she was relieved when Baron Graye¡¯s voice answered.

    Graye was sat at his desk in his nightgown, his long silvery-blond hair tied back in a loose ponytail. He looked up from the letter he was writing. There was no pause of surprise before he smiled tenderly.

    ¡°You came alone.¡±

    He rose to his feet and glided down to receive Meya, motioned for the whip to bow and dismiss himself. He drew her a chair and poured her tea so she could warm her hands, then settled soundlessly back onto his seat.

    ¡°So, Coris is chained, and The Axel is in his belly.¡± He plied tea to his half-empty cup, set down the pot then met her eyes at last. ¡°He may flee or stay. One way or another, he will abandon you. His fate is sealed. Your father¡¯s is not.¡±

    At his expectant look, Meya blinked and averted her eyes, her heart pounding. This wasn¡¯t what she expected. He said he¡¯d like to hear about Dad. Yet, it seemed he¡¯d already heard everything. He¡¯d expected her. He knew she was hopeless, and so chose words to make her hope again, make her desperate. And it was working.

    Just as much for warmth as for time, Meya drew an enormous gulp of tea. The stream of heat barreled down to her stomach, pooled at the region underneath, seeped out onto her linens. She found her eyes drawn to Graye¡¯s chest, peeking from the hanging collar of his robe trimmed in gold, full and broad. She wished to see further, to be held against it¡ª

    What?

    Meya shook herself. What in Fyr¡¯s name was wrong with her? He was thrice her age, widowed with two daughters. And she was pregnant with another man. Why would she desire him?

    She knew this feeling¡ªRose Crystal.

    She glared at Graye. He appeared not to have noticed, still staring patiently in wait, miring her in doubt. Did Rose Crystal even melt in water? She should¡¯ve felt grains like sand on her tongue. But what would this mean, then? That she was losing love for Coris? Falling for another man?

    Hear his offer, then leave. He is evil. His words are lies. He won¡¯t follow through with his promises. You¡¯re just here to make completely sure with your own eyes, not just hearsay.

    But what if I¡¯m lusting for him, as he I? Then I¡¯m an adulteress. I¡¯m no longer worthy of Coris. I should go with him, take what I could get for my family at least.

    He clasped his hands on the desk as he leaned close. She wondered how warm and tender his fingers would feel, wrapped around her breasts, smoothing down her thighs, unlike Coris¡¯s burning cold. Her heart thundered in equal parts desire and panic. It must be Rose Crystal. Please let it be Rose Crystal. She couldn¡¯t live with herself otherwise.

    Glaring unblinking at the wily baron to shut out her shameful fantasies, Meya ushered her voice through the moaning sigh building in her throat,

    ¡°What are you willing to offer, milord?¡±

    Graye nodded as if the long, awkward silence hadn¡¯t punctuated negotiations. He retreated and reached into his drawer, producing two scrolls of parchment adorned with lines of ink¡ªa contract. He set them before Meya.

    ¡°As my lawfully wedded wife, you will receive the title of Baroness Graye. I demand no dowry from you. Whereas you will be entitled to a generous stipend, which you may spend on any pursuit of your desire¡ªresearch into medicine to heal your father, reforms to establish Greeneye rights, education for the common folk...¡±

    He went on and on. Meya¡¯s resolve swayed. The things she could do with gold and power. Gold and power that Coris was giving up for a quest of honor.

    ¡°Any children you bear during this marriage will also inherit my titles and lands,¡± he continued. Meya perked up, astonished.

    "During?" she gasped, her hand flying to cradle her belly. ¡°You mean to say¡ªthis babe¡ª¡±

    ¡°Yes, the baby will be mine, bestowed all the rights and privileges of Lord or Lady Graye from the moment of its birth.¡± Graye tilted his head. ¡°Rest assured, the truth will never see the light of day.¡±

    Meya could barely breathe. She¡¯d completely forgotten her babe¡ªtheir babe. This was Coris¡¯s child, his blood he trusted with her. She couldn¡¯t do this to him. She couldn¡¯t decide without his knowing. But what about Dad? What about everyone else?

    Graye rested his hand upon hers, his ocean-blue eyes solemn as they pored deep into hers.

    ¡°There is no future for your child as a Hadrian,¡± he whispered, shaking his head. ¡°Coris would understand. At least¡ªhe would come to, in time. A man of duty would want what is best for those he sacrifices in his pursuit for honor.¡±

    Coris¡ªshe remembered how he¡¯d kiss her belly as she slept, whispered a sobbing farewell to his babe, back when he was sure she¡¯d tear it from her womb, and he¡¯d be powerless to stop her. And she remembered his tears of joy, his trembling embrace, when he realized he would actually get to become a father.

    And yet, he¡¯d taken a decision that meant he wouldn¡¯t be here to do so.

    Graye dabbed tears from her eyes, then gestured at the scrolls lying untouched before her.

    ¡°This contract will be our vows. Read every word at your leisure. The last thing I want is our marriage tainted by the slightest of misunderstandings.¡±

    Meya unfurled the contracts with numb fingers. It said what Graye did in elaborate detail. Her hands shook as she read the annual stipend. It was more gold than she could ever make in a lifetime as a farmer.

    The moment of decision had come. Meya wished her reading hadn¡¯t progressed so far under Coris¡¯s tutelage, so she¡¯d have more time to think. She could stall, perhaps, pretend to still be reading, but she still must choose. A choice that either way would change her life, and the lives of her family, forever. And one she could not return from. Everything Coris had taught her, everything she¡¯d learned. All led up to this crossroads, the choice of her lifetime.

    Her hand trembling, Meya reached for the white peacock quill, dipped it into Graye¡¯s inkwell, then scrawled her name onto both copies. The name Coris taught her to write.

    I¡¯m sorry, Lexi. I must.

    Teardrops fell onto the ink, then the quill from her hand. Graye wordlessly took the contracts and blew on them¡ªhe¡¯d already signed. He rolled them, tied them, slipped one into his drawer, then slid one back to Meya. She couldn¡¯t move to take it. She still couldn¡¯t believe she¡¯d actually done it. Signed a loveless marriage contract with Grimthel Graye.

    Graye stood and straightened his robe. He turned and shut the curtains over the window.

    ¡°Now, all that¡¯s left is to consummate the marriage.¡±

    Meya nodded listlessly as her brain whirred. Very well, she still had time. First, there was the wedding, and then the birth. She¡¯d have a year at least to prepare. What¡¯s more, if she played her cards well, she may even be able to fool Graye and avoid the act altogether. Her pregnancy was proof of consummation, anyway. She¡¯d be his wife in name only, while reaping all the fruits of his orchard.

    ¡°How soon can you arrange the wedding, milord?¡± she finally managed. Graye froze, eyebrows raised.

    ¡°Wedding?¡± he frowned. An ominous chill raced down Meya¡¯s spine. What had she missed? What tricks had he hidden in his sleeve? ¡°We¡¯ve exchanged our vows before witnesses. There¡¯s no need for a ceremony. Why prolong your family¡¯s plight over empty formalities?¡±

    Witnesses?

    Meya glanced wildly about, only just noticing the five burly knights standing sentry at the wall. Her heart pounded in her ears as blood in her extremities froze to ice. He wanted to consummate now. No. She wasn¡¯t ready. Or was she? He couldn¡¯t¡ª

    ¡°Milord, we can¡¯t just lie together and say we¡¯re married! What would folks say if you brought me to the palace tomorrow as your baroness just like that?¡±

    Meya sprang to her feet. She was tempted to sing, bend him to her will with her Song, but what if Graye had anticipated that, too? What if he rescinded his offer?

    ¡°And why would that matter?¡± Graye shrugged, looking innocently confused. ¡°All we need is for this marriage to be binding, so you¡¯ll be entitled to your stipend. And all a marriage needs to be binding is a consummation.¡±

    Meya hung her head, the image of defeat. She couldn¡¯t surrender. She must stall him.

    ¡°I need time, milord,¡± she begged. A lie, and the truth. Graye nodded, magnanimous as ever.

    ¡°As long as you can endure. Every second past is an eternity of pain for your father. Every day your belly swells, your child becomes less Graye and more Hadrian.¡±

    His inkling pierced through her like a stake. She¡¯d get nothing until she slept with him, and she couldn¡¯t wait forever nor escape. She¡¯d lost, utterly. Gambled with the devil, and stepped smartly into his trap.

    As she sat frozen, Graye circled the desk to her, slid the back of his hand down her cheek. His touch reawakened the unbidden desire pushed aside by the thought of her babe.

    ¡°Don¡¯t you wish to repay him?¡± he crooned. ¡°Don¡¯t you wish to lighten his burden? Show them all what a brave, bright, beautiful young Greeneye peasant girl could accomplish, if only Latakia had given her the chance? Don¡¯t you wish to give your baby a loving father, a warm house never in need of food, friends and toys? A birthright to the mighty fortress of Galwerth? The chance to pursue any dreams he might have?¡±

    His voice was soothing as a summer stream. His hand traveled to her collar, brushed past her medallion, tugging apart the knots of her nightdress.

    ¡°There is no need for fear,¡± he whispered. ¡°I¡¯ve held countless women, although none as young and beautiful as you. I won¡¯t hurt you, or leave you unfulfilled, unlike¡ª¡±

    ¡°Milord, your men¡ª¡± Meya protested, clinging on to her last shreds of restraint. Graye bent and licked her jawline.

    ¡°They¡¯ll bear witness to our consummation.¡±

    Shame and fear overtook lust. Meya bolted from her chair. No. Not with them here. Not with them watching. She couldn¡¯t¡ªanything but that¡ª

    Graye caught her in his arms. Meya flailed and kicked, screaming and sobbing¡ª

    ¡°No¡ªNO! NO! NO!¡±

    ¡°Meya, there is no need for shame!¡± Graye lamented. ¡°You are making a noble sacrifice. For your child, your family, your kind. You have nothing, nothing at all to be ashamed of.¡±

    His soothing voice gave her pause, and she stilled. He took the opening, pulled the last knot and parted her collar, freeing her breasts. The heat of his hands crept over the cold night air on her skin. As if he knew she was hurting, he was slow and gentle as he fondled her. Yet tantalizing, making her crave for more.

    Meya squeezed her eyes shut tight and turned away. It was all she could do. She was powerless to resist. The fight was sapped from her. Her body wasn¡¯t moving by will, but instinct. He was skilled, far too experienced, while she¡¯d only ever known the clumsy, innocent touch of young Lord Hadrian.

    ¡°Perfect. Coris is a fool to leave such beauty to rust,¡± he breathed as he caressed her nipples. Meya shuddered. ¡°Open your eyes. Have you ever examined your naked reflection?¡±

    No, she hadn¡¯t. She couldn¡¯t resist. She peeked, then stared. A tall mirror leaned against the wall. Graye held her breasts in his grasp, suckling the pain of early motherhood out of one. A cry of desire gathered in her throat at the sight. She bit hard on her lips until tears welled in her eyes from the pain and strained with all her might. Having drunk his fill, Graye dragged his tongue up her neck until his teeth found her earlobe.

    ¡°Don¡¯t. Let it out. Let yourself feel. Let yourself enjoy,¡± he commanded as he slid his hand past her middle and into her. With a mere caress of his finger, he broke her. The moan burst out in a scream, as her knees buckled. To her horror, warmth cascaded down her legs. If Freda blessed this union, she would carry his child alongside Coris¡¯s. She¡¯d actually mother twins.

    There must have been Rose Crystal in that tea¡ªlathered on his hands¡ªsomewhere. She prayed that was the case. Yet she couldn¡¯t prove it. No. She couldn¡¯t be enjoying this, couldn¡¯t be pleased. She should be suffering with dignity, should be solemn in her sacrifice. There must be no reason behind her decision but family and love.

    Lexi, I¡¯m sorry. I¡¯m so sorry.

    Yet, why should she suffer? What was she doing wrong? Why was she apologizing? She was choosing family and duty, as he would¡¯ve done¡ªwas doing¡ªwould always do.

    ¡°You deserve to savor this pleasure. You¡¯ve chosen love. You¡¯ve chosen right. And Freda is blessing you,¡± Graye supported her argument. He stripped her of her last defenses, then spun her around so his men could witness her downfall.

    Behind her, Graye disrobed. He wrapped his arms around her waist, pressed himself against the small of her back. He was ready. Tears rolled down her cheeks as she gasped for breath, for mercy.

    A knight closed his eyes and turned away, his fist trembling around his pike. One watched with lifeless eyes. Another stared past her at the wall. One gulped and gritted his teeth as he hyperventilated. One watched with eyes crossed and mouth ajar, drool inching down his chin.

    A secret, savage triumph blossomed inside her, even as her soul died. She was beautiful. For seventeen years she¡¯d been kept hidden away, priceless yet also utterly undesirable. To see men tremble with desire at the mere sight of her naked body. Even the rich, handsome, powerful Baron Graye would go so far as to seduce and poison her, take her by force, was willing to accept another man¡¯s child as his own and pass down his birthright, just to have her.

    ¡°They¡¯re watching. Give them your all,¡± Graye whispered. ¡°You can make them burn. You can make them writhe. You can make them conquer land and sea, just to drink a drop of your nectar. You have the power. Unleash it.¡±

    He bent her forward, grasp her hips, then claimed her. She closed her eyes and heard a voice that was not hers gasping and moaning, felt a body that was not hers writhing and bucking. And all she longed for was the little boy with silvery eyes like the moon, the young man whose melancholy smile would break her heart and whose cold arms would hold the pieces of her together.

    The night she signed his contract, he held her hand as he taught her letters. He was already teaching her even before she sealed their pact. He had never touched her against her will, had always defended her from her worst impulses, had always given her a fair choice. He¡¯d never asked a thing in return but her happiness¡ªthe new life she¡¯d given him was enough.

    How did it all come to this?

    Save me, Lexi...

 Savior

    King Alden was failing dismally at keeping Coris sane. Or perhaps, this was Freda¡¯s punishment for his lies.

    For two full days steeped in the solitude of a log cabin at the forest¡¯s heart, Coris tasted the desperation of the Prince of the Woodland Realm. He now decided he¡¯d rather shiver on the stones in his former cell atop the tower. At least he¡¯d have wardens and guards he could observe, appraise their intelligence, and possibly exasperate.

    He was reminded of the days in his nursery once the nurse had taken Zier away from his pinching claws¡ªa crackling fire and twine-tied bundles of firewood, a table laden with hunks of cured meat, columns of bread and pies savory and sweet, a pell-mell pile of books he¡¯d read through and tossed unceremoniously onto the bed in his pique.

    No warden stood before his door. No guard prowled the cabin¡¯s perimeters. He¡¯d only lose himself should he attempt an escape, and Alden knew Coris Hadrian was not that much of a fool.

    Dawn had just broken the sky, but Coris was already up and about, lunging a fallen stick to bash everything in sight with whatever strength his bony arm had. Zier would¡¯ve taken the opportunity to train, would¡¯ve perfected his technique and beaten his record. Coris was just channeling excess energy from his brain. There was no rhyme nor reason to his endeavor.

    A chorus of footsteps joined his own, and Coris froze mid-swing. He spun around. Three hooded figures approached from the wall of trees, likely the daily batch of guards carrying more unneeded provisions, but why this early? And why were their hands bare? Was he being moved, instead?

    Coris gripped the rod tight in his sweaty hand¡ªhe wasn¡¯t allowed any weapons. His visitors drew close enough for the firelight to reach their faces. A jolt of fear sliced through his arm, and he dropped the stick with a clang.

    A man with silky curtains of white-blond hair framing his square-jawed face and ocean-blue eyes glinting on ghostly white cheeks, accompanied by two burly, gray-clad knights.

    Calming his ragged breaths, Coris bent his knees and retrieved his stick, unblinking eyes fixed on his old nemesis.

    ¡°How did you find this place?¡± he snapped. Graye¡¯s lips stretched into a benign smile of amusement as he tilted his head, answering jovially,

    ¡°You should be more worried of why.¡±

    Coris cocked an eyebrow. An ominous chill crept down his spine. He watched as Graye raised his arm and reached into the hanging mouth of his sleeve. From it he produced what appeared to be a cloth of dark, purplish red. He held it to his cheek, nuzzled his nose against it, eyes closed in bliss, a sigh rumbling in his throat as he savored its perfume.

    ¡°Fine fabric, soiled by sin,¡± he commented as if he saw Coris¡¯s look of utter confusion. Like a beast alerted of fresh meat, his eyes snapped open, then he cast the cloth at Coris¡¯s feet. ¡°I think you¡¯ll recognize the stench of a female in heat.¡±

    Coris glanced down. The cloth unraveled, revealing a lace trim and a curious silhouette. It was a pair of fine linen pants, similar to the set he¡¯d bought for Meya before they departed Hyacinth, for comfort and ease of cleaning during her pregnancy. It looked disheveled and damp in the flickering light, and indeed emanated a faint yet sharp odor he was familiar with.

    And yet, for Freda knew how long, he stood and stared, uncomprehending. The truth was there before his eyes, but his head seemed to be falling asleep, protecting him from its fatal blow, while his heart pounded a tattoo in his veins, desperately waking it. Memories of their last meeting invaded his stupor, Graye¡¯s offer to Meya, her anguished pleas, her fear, her despair, her desire.

    No, it can¡¯t be. Impossible. She would never¡­

    Yet, there the proof lay. Yet, he knew her greatest weakness, the void she carried in her heart always, that this man would fill with his brand of poison.

    No. No. Oh, Freda. Oh, please. Anything at all. Anything but this. Please no¡­

    The cry curdled in his throat, swelled into a scream that filled his head to burst as he lunged forth with all his might, stabbing his wooden sword straight for that gaping mouth echoing with laughter.

    He¡¯d sever that forked tongue, pound those pointed teeth to dust, rip those whispering lips hissing lies clean off his flesh and burn them to ash for every moment they dared taste her lips, her skin, her hair. He¡¯d rub the embers in those eyes, blind them for daring to look upon her with lust, purge the memory of her unclothed body from them. He longed to tear out his nose, his ears, his fingers one by one for the same crime. Yet, all he managed was howl and kick and flail in vain, pinned by limbs like steel as his hated enemy simply watched.

    Graye reached into his sleeve again, straightening the pocket within.

    ¡°Do not fret. I shall love my new wife and child as I have my old,¡± he said serenely, then met Coris¡¯s eyes with a small smile. ¡°Farewell, Corien.¡±

    He turned on his heel and swept away, prompting his guards to fling Coris deep into the bowels of his prison then follow in his wake. The door swung close, leaving him in the sputtering final breaths of dying flames.

    Coris hooked his nails into the floorboards and dragged himself to her, what he had left of her, tears blinding him, sobs suffocating him. He pressed the soiled garment to his chest as he rolled and writhed, howling and wailing as he had never done, hoping for something, anything to cling to, a shred of hope.

    For even if he could, erasing Graye from the face of this land would not satisfy him, would not bring back what was lost. For it was his own doing, his fault. He¡¯d failed her. It was he who brought her onto this road, then failed to protect her from its dangers. The wind under her wings that lifted her so high towards the Heights, then let her plummet to the black depths of the Lake.

    ¡°Why, Meya? Why?¡± He called out weakly in his delirium, and an echo in his heart replied.

    You know why. You know why.

    Yes, I do. Yes, I do.

    ¡°Meya. Meya¡­!¡± He moaned over its scathing hiss, but she wouldn¡¯t respond to save his soul, leaving him to burn in his guilt.

    ¡°I¡¯m sorry. I¡¯m so sorry. Meya¡­¡± He whimpered. Tears rolled down his cheeks into his ears. He was deaf to his own voice. His lips were numb and his throat parched. He couldn¡¯t be bothered to move, reach for water.

    The fire gasped its last, then darkness claimed it. The cold, silent wave of the Black Lake flooded him where he lay listless, his strength spent. He held her remnants to his heart, keeping it warm and safe. The embrace he should¡¯ve given her was now the most he could do, would ever do.

    <hr>

    The nail hit the glass with a jarring chime that rent the air and woke Alanna with a start. Used to anticipating the church bell and the cock¡¯s crow, she was mired in confusion until she remembered where she was.

    She whipped around to her husband. Mirram didn¡¯t appear to have heard, grudgingly enjoying the deepest sleep of his life, thanks to a gobletful of sleeping draught. She¡¯d wake him when it came time to board the wagon and depart for home, otherwise he¡¯d shred whatever remained of his legs trying to help out.

    Once she¡¯d guiltily wrapped Mirram with the blanket she¡¯d hogged, Alanna flipped over and reached for the half-spent candle-clock by the bed. Its circle of light fell upon an empty mattress where her daughter should have been.

    Her ever-fearful mother¡¯s heart skipped a beat. She swung the light around to the garderobe. No rustle of fabric, no sound of flowing water came from the thin wooden door. No Meya hanging halfway out the window, retching her guts down a bucket. Her heart sank as her worst fears came true.

    Despite her best efforts at consolation, Meya didn¡¯t seem convinced all would be well. Poor lass must¡¯ve run, hidden herself away somewhere, hoping Lady Crosset would be forced to leave without them. Oh, goodly Freda. Imagine the flame and fury when Mirram finally found her.

    Alanna sprang to her feet, brandishing the candle as she whirled, casting its light on every nook and corner. No Meya. No Meya. Not there. Nor there.

    ¡°Meya?¡± she called, unsure, then cried against the silence, ¡°Meya! Meya, where are you, lass?¡±

    Rustling from the bed. She scurried to the garderobe, yanked the door open and poked her head inside. She knew but she must be sure.

    ¡°What is it?¡± Mirram called. Alanna wheeled around, chest heaving, eyes wide. She managed one word¡ª

    ¡°Meya¡ª!¡±

    A blink, then his deep brown eyes darted to Meya¡¯s empty mattress. He edged forth, raring to rise.

    ¡°She with the Hadrians?¡±

    Alanna paused only to leave the candle on the windowsill then pelted for the door. Down the hallway she flew, crashed her fist on the Hadrians¡¯ door until it opened, spilled gibberish onto the half-awake Lady Agnes. No, Meya wasn¡¯t inside. No, no-one had heard or seen her after Alanna. Lady Arinel mentioned the church as her potential refuge. She clattered down the stairs. Innkeeper was just coming through his door. One eyeful of her face shoved against his as she swooped down on the counter, and he knew her demands.

    ¡°Saw her through my window just as I tucked in for second sleep. Left in a carriage¡ªthat gray one from yesterday.¡±

    Gray.

    Surprise. Confusion. Disbelief. Crippling fear. The maelstrom of terror one word could bring. She faintly heard thundering feet all clattering to a halt on the stairs over her pounding pulse in her ears. She bulled through the double doors as a girl¡¯s voice cried out Mirram¡¯s name. The courtyard was empty, desolate blue as the waking sky.

    ¡°MEYA¡ª!¡±

    She screamed into the still air, bile searing like fire in her throat. As if Freda heard her, a carriage rolled up the gravel, gray as ash over crumbling firewood. She watched its door with bated breath. She couldn¡¯t see a shadow behind the glass in the meager light. Please be Meya. Please be Meya. But the figure that emerged was a stranger. No flaming red-gold hair. No blazing green eyes. No tattered dress. No freckled cheeks and wry smile. Just a reed-thin young man prim and gray as the wagon that bore him over.

    He ascended the few steps that separated them as behind him the whip lugged out ornate chests and set them on the ground, some with clinking thuds of gold coins, some with muffled sighs of costly fabric. Alanna fixed her gaze on the road ahead and prayed he¡¯d sweep past her, headed for his unknown lord still resting inside, but he paused before her. His blue eyes settled upon someone nearby.

    ¡°Mirram and Alanna Hild?¡±

    Alanna whipped around then back. Mirram stood ashen-faced by her side, caneless, hanging to the stone pillar for support. He must¡¯ve nodded, for the messenger bowed then continued,

    ¡°The Baroness Graye, upon her marriage to Baron Graye, claims the titles and rights afforded to her station.¡± He flourished his hand at the carriage. The whip bowed then resumed unloading chests of riches from within. ¡°She would like for you to join her in Graye residence, so she could personally share this auspicious news with her beloved parents.¡±

    His last words slapped Alanna awake. Parents? Baroness Graye? Since when have she birthed a baroness? Would this nonsense end already, so she could storm over to that church and pull her boar-headed daughter home by the braids?

    Her head screamed the answer at her, but her heart was feverishly pounding blood up to drown its voice, leaving nothing but echoes in her ears.

    ¡°Us?¡± she sputtered, eyes scouring the courtyard as if the mysterious baroness would materialize somewhere. ¡°Who¡­but¡­what¡­?¡±A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

    The messenger must¡¯ve anticipated or been forewarned of her reaction. He produced a tied and sealed scroll, which he presented to her.

    ¡°The contract, signed and sealed between your daughter and Baron Graye himself. Legally binding and witnessed. He hopes it will be enough to reassure you.¡±

    My daughter?

    Marin, Morel, Meya, Mistral¡ªthe names streaked by in her head. But it couldn¡¯t be. Marin was at home, so was Mistral. Morel was in Hadrian. Meya was, as usual, holed up somewhere causing mayhem, hoping Alanna wouldn¡¯t find her too soon. And yet, her hands trembled, and she broke open the scroll, and she read the contract as Mirram edged in for a look.

    Words arced into her eyes like knives from rivers of ink. Grimthel, Baron of Graye. Maelaith Aine Hild. Marriage. Titles. Baroness of Graye. Rights. Duties. Stipend. Birthright. Child. Consummated. Witnesses. Maelaith Aine Hild, again. Then, above it, a scrawled signature in childlike handwriting she¡¯d only seen once but already knew by heart.

    MAELAITH AINE HILD

    Her hands trembled harder as she ran her fingers over the shiny ink. No warmth remained in it, yet it was brand new. She read again from the top, this time taking in the words in between, weaving a tale as old as time. An old nobleman taking a young, beautiful peasant girl for his mistress in all but name, lavishing upon her his riches and luxury. Thud, thud, thud went the chests of gold and jewels, as if she were watching a sideshow in the stadium, raring to burst out from behind curtains with her opening act.

    Yet, no laughing audience surrounded her. And the name to be read out and ridiculed was a name she knew, one she had chosen. Her daughter. Maelaith. Her darling May Queen. Her wee songbird. Stripped bare and splayed on a bed. Ravaged by a crooning beast as his minions watched and lusted. Tears streaming down her cheeks as her lifeless eyes stared unseeing. She did not fight, as she must endure. She must endure if she wanted to¡­help.

    All I ever want is to help. To repay you. To be useful.

    She screamed and screamed and screamed as the truth sunk into her, the parchment crushed against her chest as she shattered and crumbled to the ground. She screamed so she couldn¡¯t hear any other voice in existence, so all she felt was the pain of her throat splintering, her eardrums cracking, her forehead splitting against stone. She¡¯d rather suffer all those for eternity than a heartbeat of the other. She hated the anguished sobs and the stubborn hands trying to hold her, distract her from her insanity. She must delay it, the inevitable, for as long as she could¡ª

    ¡°MEYA! MEYA! MEYA¡ª!¡±

    Over and over, Alanna bawled her daughter¡¯s name. Beside her, old Mirram Hild crumpled to his knees, listless, broken. As the messenger, the whip, the innkeeper stood and watched in bewilderment.

    Kellis shook his head, his heart writhing. He had no daughter. He would never feel, never understand their brand of torture, would never find the equivalent in his two sons. And yet, he also did, a tenth of what they were experiencing, perhaps. For seven years, he¡¯d known of the girl, asked after her in reports from Blood Druids, tasked them to watch over her, did what little he could to reward her for saving his son, rescued her in the nick of time from the clutches of traffickers.

    For the past few weeks, he¡¯d known her, accepted her as his daughter-in-law, looked forward to her marriage to his son and her coming into his clan, her birthing his first grandchild. She was innocent and kind of heart, stubborn, fiery. A dangerous combination rare in women of noble blood, as few could survive court intrigue long with such temperament, without a sharp man just as pure-hearted to protect her. Or even with him.

    Breath left his lungs as his thoughts stumbled upon his son. Sylvia¡¯s fingers were claws of ice rattling his arm. He turned to her and found Coris¡¯s eyes looking to him for hope, for consolation.

    ¡°We must go to him! We must warn him, please!¡± Sylvia gasped through her tears. ¡°If Graye finds him first, I couldn¡¯t bear¡ª!¡±

    Kellis looked to the Heights through a haze of tears. Two fires raged inside him. Were they discovered, it would jeopardize their entire scheme. He pleaded to all the eyes of the sky, of tormented souls of man and dragon alike who still knew no rest, who still waited impatiently for duty to be fulfilled, for unjust to be atoned.

    Just a day. A day longer. He needs me. Now more than ever before.

    <hr>

    Dawn broke. Birds sang. Wind blew. Leaves flutter. Time flowed on, heeding not, caring not. Regardless how much one struggled and strove, one¡¯s existence meant naught in the grand scheme of being but pain and suffering.

    He couldn¡¯t save anyone. He couldn¡¯t even save himself.

    What was the purpose, then, in enduring? If all life had left to offer was to wallow in his uselessness? His waste of resources?

    Fatigue shielded him for now. Dulling his senses, drowning out torturous thoughts, delaying the permanence of truth. But when his strength returned and his mind cleared, how much would it hurt? Like a stake driven through his heart, yet he couldn¡¯t die? The wisest and only escape was death. In death, he would no longer feel, no longer know, but how to die with no laudanum to quietly ease him into eternal sleep?

    His limbs lay dead and heavy as lead, but at least his eyes could still roll. Morning light lit his little cabin gray, reflecting from his mirror to lay upon the bundles of firewood.

    He could perhaps nudge the mirror so it fell on its face and shatter into a dozen pieces. Hopefully one would be just the right size to fit in his palm, but would it be sharp enough for a quick, painless cut? Would he be brave enough to muster the force needed to saw through his own flesh and split open his vein? How long must he watch his blood flowing to puddle around him, feel it drenching his clothes? What if he changed his mind during the wait, then realize there was no turning back?

    There must be a quicker, more effortless way. Quick as an impulse, too quick for fear and instinct to react. His eyes slid to the door. There was a little pond outside, but getting up and crawling there was such a bother. Water must be ice-cold, too. Drowning took time. He would soon try to swim free of Fyr¡¯s clutches. Perhaps he would succeed, perhaps he wouldn¡¯t, but either way he would be scared.

    His eyes strayed next to the firewood. Thick ropes bound them that he¡¯d need to untie. Then, he¡¯d need to get up, fetch his chair, reach for the beam¡­

    Even dying was a hassle. Yet, there was nothing else to occupy him but his thoughts, and he must waylay them at all costs. He¡¯d just do what little he felt like for now.

    He tugged on the end of the rope until the stack of wood tumbled onto the floorboards, splintered noisily into a dozen split logs. Caring not, he dragged the length of twine onto his chest. He¡¯d make that simple noose used for trapping game, one that tightened with pull. Despite his battalion of dogs, he¡¯d never much cared for hunting, but what was the hurry?

    Grudgingly, he raised his head so he could slide one end of the rope under his nape, then raised both to his bleary eyes. Hopefully this would be long enough¡ªit would vex him greatly to have to pull apart another bundle of wood.

    The rope was coarse and stubborn, slipping from his sweaty fingers, springing undone as he bent it into a loop. What next? Under? Over? Around? How many rounds until it would hold? Or would it snap and he¡¯d end up breaking his face and kneecaps on the floor?

    Suits you right for never bothering to attend a hanging for once in your short, miserable life.

    He grunted and growled. The door banged open, and morning light blinded him. Two shadows wavered in the blazing white, inexplicably familiar. Good, they could help him figure this out. Goodly Freda, he was so pathetic he even needed help dying¡ª

    The quivering silhouettes settled into crisp curves and bright colors. Man and woman draped in flowing cloaks. The woman¡¯s hood fell to reveal dark brown hair. She froze, then dove like a hawk with an earsplitting scream to match¡ª

    ¡°NOOOOOOOOOOOO¡ª!¡±

    Fingers like burning bones pried the rope from his hands, tugged it free from around his neck. Before he could even think to scold her for intervening, she slapped him senseless across the cheek.

    ¡°Sylvia!¡± The man swooped in, hoping to put himself between Coris and the crazed lady. She shunted him aside and yanked Coris up by the collar, rattling his eyes out of his sockets as she screeched into his face,

    ¡°WHAT WERE YOU THINKING? WHAT IN FYR¡¯S NAME WERE YOU THINKING?¡±

    The sharp, burning pain jolted him awake. Coris blinked sudden tears out of his eyes. Blurry shapes settled into Mother¡¯s beautiful face, twisted with fury, but how could it be? She couldn¡¯t, shouldn¡¯t be here. How? Why was she?

    ¡°Mother?¡± he breathed, half-expecting his sigh to blow the mirage away and return him to solitude, but she lingered. Her anger melted at his voice, and she crumbled instead into tears, her palm now cold and soft against his searing cheek.

    ¡°Oh, Lexi,¡± she moaned, shaking her head as she cradled his face. ¡°My poor Lexi. I¡¯m so sorry. I¡¯m so, so sorry¡ª¡±

    Words swallowed by sobs, she launched herself forth and wrapped him in her arms, pressed his head against her chest. She was warm, and soft, and smelled of roses. Her heart beat strong on his cheek. Again and again, her lips brushed against his hair.

    She loved him. The same mother who¡¯d never wished for his existence, who¡¯d tried to rid her womb of him before he¡¯d had a chance to prove his worth, who¡¯d refused to let him feed from her breast. Mother loves me. For the first time in his life, he truly believed, knew, was sure yet couldn¡¯t find words to describe, nor reason to justify. He couldn¡¯t die. He couldn¡¯t. He didn¡¯t want to. He still hadn¡¯t been loved by her long enough.

    ¡°Mama,¡± he gasped. She started¡ªhe¡¯d never called her so before¡ªthen tightened her embrace in acceptance. He spluttered in relief, ¡°I¡¯m sorry. Apologies. Chione must¡¯ve possessed me¡ª¡±

    Mother shook her head and smoothed her hand down his hair.

    ¡°She¡¯s not worth it. She¡¯s not worth you, Lexi,¡± she hissed through gritted teeth. At the reminder, Coris stiffened and pulled free.

    No. She didn¡¯t know Meya. She didn¡¯t understand, would never understand, yet how dare she blamed her? This was his fault. Entirely his fault.

    Silence fell, bristling, fearful. He kept his eyes fixed on Meya¡¯s linens, lying abandoned on the floor amid the ruckus, his heart pounding in guilt as much as anger. Mother sat petrified, watching him, nervous yet adamant in her judgment.

    Father knelt and sat, a firm hand on Mother¡¯s shoulder signaling her to retreat. Slow, gentle, quiet. Coris raised his eyes to his piercing blue. There was no resentment beneath the calm, only sadness. Father would listen, would forgive, would know where it all went so wrong.

    ¡°What should I have done, Father?¡± he whimpered, tears welling in his eyes as memories echoed to him. Of happier times. So fresh, so new, yet so far away as a different life.

    ¡°She saved my life. I¡¯m supposed to repay her. I¡¯m supposed to protect her, protect our babe, but I can¡¯t betray my duty. I can¡¯t forsake all those people. I can¡¯t let their fate fall into wrong hands.¡±

    He held her linens flush to his heart, cherishing its smoothness, remembering the feel of her skin beneath it. By Freda, how he missed her. How in the three lands could he survive?

    Father¡¯s hand wrapped easily around his thin shoulder, finding purchase in the deep recesses of his collarbone.

    ¡°Son, you owe her your life,¡± he began, his voice tender. ¡°Not to give to her to wield for her own ends, but to live true and give unto others what she¡¯s given you. That is how you honor her.¡± He shook him as he uttered each word. Coris froze as the simple realization dawned on him.

    ¡°A life on your deathbed you will look back to with pride. A life any son would strive to live by. Recorded not in golden ink, but passed down by the breath of those whose lives you bettered.¡±

    Coris hung his head. Father was right, yet from his hands dangled what was left of Meya Hild. The girl he loved, mother of his child, savior of his soul. Price of his noble quest.

    ¡°At the cost of hers,¡± he blurted out. Father waited for him to finish. His eyes traveled as he reminisced. Their fateful meetings, their deal, their friendship, their courtship, a bond like no other. He shook his head, mourning it.

    ¡°I was her mentor. She trusted me to guide her. An emerald in the deep I crafted and mounted on a band of gold, lost to a twisted man. She would¡¯ve been better off left alone. I should¡¯ve never offered her the choice. Should¡¯ve let her go that night but I so loved¡ªlove her¡ª¡±

    He gasped as renewed sobs choked out his voice, clapped his hands over his spilling eyes in shame. He knew this would happen. Of course, it could only end this way. He¡¯d feared it would come to this. He would curse all that strayed near him to ruin. That was why for so long he resisted her pleas, but ultimately it was his selfishness that doomed her. Too dastardly a coward to turn her free. Wily enough to trap her with promises of purpose and safety. It was his fault. All his fault¡ª

    ¡°What you created together would¡¯ve been better off not ever being? Truly?¡± Father whispered fiercely. He took his other shoulder and shook him again, harder this time, then harder still when Coris squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head. ¡°How many lives have you saved together? Yours and hers, too? The love you had for her, she for you? The change you brought? The child you made?¡±

    A flash of cold strangled him as he remembered. Oh no. Oh, Freda. How could he have wished such things upon his babe? How could he, of all people¡ª?

    As he stilled, shivering, Father¡¯s grip slackened to comforting. His voice was once more gentle,

    ¡°Yes, you¡¯ve failed her. Such is the curse of a mentor. You can point the way, but in the end, she must choose which path to walk. You learn from your mistakes, and walk your path.¡±

    Fear crept over his heart as Coris digested those words. Did this mean he must give up on Meya? Was there truly nothing he could do to salvage the situation? To help her? The wisest and only choice was to abandon her, move on with his life?

    ¡°Where do you think you¡¯ve gone wrong?¡± Father¡¯s voice pierced his reverie, and Coris leaped for the saving grace. If he found the cause, then he could correct it. There may yet be hope left. There must still be a way¡­

    So he delved deep into his heart, and far into the past, examining every detail, every moment, every word. Glimmers here and there coagulated into the glaring truth he¡¯d overlooked, ignored. In favor of a dream.

    ¡°I reckon¡­I¡¯d never truly known her,¡± he breathed, numbed by his own revelation. ¡°All I had were scraps of memories, but I filled in the rest over the years. So much so that nothing she could¡¯ve done could¡¯ve shattered that fantasy.¡±

    He shook his head as Meya¡¯s tearful face flashed before his eyes, her sobbing voice pleading for him to reconsider, their rows, her deep-seated resentment. For seven years, he dreamed of her as the dragon that saved its own hunter, a girl whose kindness knew no logic, who gave faith to him, a boy who¡¯d never known love. And her impressive feats¡ªin Hadrian, in Jaise, in Caesonai, in Hyacinth¡ªserved only to prove that beyond doubt. Then her parents returned. And out emerged a side of her he¡¯d never seen¡ªno, looked past.

    Meya was perfect. Meya was the solution. Meya could do no wrong. Meya could never fail. For he loved her, and she loved him. And he needed that to live, so he willed her into being.

    ¡°I couldn¡¯t understand. She was scared. Of being poor and hungry. She wanted to help her family. I couldn¡¯t understand. She was my savior. Brave, selfless, beacon of hope. I gave her a speech. I should have held her and listened. I brushed aside her fears. Graye used them to seduce her.¡±

    Father nodded deeply, his grasp tightening on his shoulder.

    ¡°And you won¡¯t make the mistake again.¡±

    Coris managed a nod. His heart lifted slightly, although there was no reason to believe he wouldn¡¯t, no proof history wouldn¡¯t repeat, other than that Father said so.

    Mother edged near again, her hand clasping over his. He let her, his fury long faded into guilt. She loved him. She couldn¡¯t help resenting Meya.

    ¡°There is little you can do for your babe now. Least until you return. But I¡¯ll keep watch over him. Until his Dada comes for him. You can rest assured,¡± she whispered. Coris turned and met her eyes, mustering his courage.

    ¡°And Meya?¡±

    He couldn¡¯t help it. Despite what she almost cost him, what she did to his babe, what he now knew of her, he still truly loved her. He was exasperated beyond words, heartbroken beyond mending, but he didn¡¯t hate her. Not at all.

    Mother¡¯s eyes hardened to iced steel. Still, he pleaded, until at last she sighed and dipped her head.

    ¡°I¡¯ll do what I can.¡±

    Coris smiled through his tears, melting to a puddle in relief. He fell weakly into her arms, resting his heavy head on her chest.

    ¡°Thank you, Mother. Thank you¡ª!¡±

    Mother held him as he cried. His child still lived. His love still lived. Hope still lived. He would return and set things right. When the time was right.

    <hr>

 Baroness Graye

    Ice and heat woke her, although she didn¡¯t remember falling asleep, to a body drained dry and heavy as stone. Soft sheets cushioned her, cold against her skin, as sunlight burned her from above.

    A sudden breeze dragged its icy caress across her middle. She jolted, squeezed her legs together, scrabbled feebly in the dark for her blanket. The bed was endlessly vast, despairingly empty. The last thing she wanted to do was open her eyes so the blazing sun could scorch them, but she couldn¡¯t bear being so naked.

    She flipped onto her belly, burrowed her face into her pillow, then creaked open her eyelids. She was sticky all over, in particular between her legs, like she did after every night of passion with Coris.

    Coris.

    The name jolted her to her senses like a douse of water. Meya bolted upright, heart racing, eyes frozen wide open.

    Faces¡ªBaron Graye, the watching knights, her own in the mirror. Sounds¡ªGraye¡¯s whispers, her moans and cries, her screams of bliss, rustling of shed garment, creaking of wood, meeting of flesh. Smells¡ªtea, perfume, sweat, the stench of lust, his seed flowing down her skin, taking root, branding her. Eyes, watching, unblinking. She couldn¡¯t take it any longer. She needed rest. Her knees buckled. The world careened. He didn¡¯t stop, flung her onto the bed, stabbed her, again, again, again. Eyes, still watching. He dragged his tongue across every inch of her skin. Again, she summited, yet couldn¡¯t feel, not even the heat of tears sliding down her cheeks. She couldn¡¯t move. Her body had drifted just beyond her grasp. Eyes, unblinking on looming shadows. He splayed her limbs for them to see as again he ravaged her¡ª

    Her head spun, and she dove from long experience. She reached under the bed, but this wasn¡¯t Coris¡¯s room. Chamberpot. Where¡¯s the chamberpot? Tears threatened to spill from her eyes as acid barreled up her throat. She leaped for the light and emptied her bowels out the window.

    Spent, hollowed out, she sunk to the floor, knees folded high, arms wrapped over her chest. She seared down there with every move. Coris would never push her this far. Graye¡¯s ooze had become one with her skin. She couldn¡¯t see it, yet she felt it. His stench smothered her nostrils. She rubbed until she was red raw. It wouldn¡¯t go off. Water. I need water. Yet, even all the water of the Celestel couldn¡¯t scrape off the nightmare of his touch reaching deep inside her.

    No. No. NO!

    Whimpers grew into wails of despair, yet no-one was here to heed her, even to scold her to silence. Why? Why was there no-one? Her whole family was always just across the hearth. Coris was always right beside her.

    What have I done? Oh Freda, what have I done?

    Her curling toes crushed fabric of some sort between them. Meya opened her eyes. Draped down the side of the bed was a silken dress of pure white, embroidered with charcoal-gray thread, lined with lace.

    A circle of curtains stood at the heart of the room, likely shrouding a bathtub lined with sponge, filled with steaming hot milk, scattered with rose petals. Should she tug the tasseled rope next to the bed, a crowd of servants would burst inside, toting warm, fluffy towels, armed with an array of potions for her skin and hair, ready to wait on her every need.

    This is what I¡¯ve done. This is the fruit of my labors. This is my life now.

    Baroness Graye. Lady Hadrian no more. Baroness Graye.

    She whispered to herself, over and over, yet she trembled as the words echoed in her head, as she pulled the resplendent dress to her and pressed it flush to her bosom. She rocked back and forth, struggling in vain to staunch the tears flowing down her cheeks.

    Baroness Graye. Baroness Graye. Baroness Graye.

    <hr>

    Meya bathed and dressed herself, as she¡¯d always done. Even braided and pinned her hair the best she could. Unlike Coris, she still couldn¡¯t numb herself to being served like a helpless babe by folks who until recently had been her equals¡ªsometimes even superiors. Even sitting in carriages while whips shuttled her around made her uneasy, unless it was with Coris, Arinel or other nobles.

    She stepped out to last night¡¯s hallway, now lit dazzling bright by the morning rising at full force, then at once almost crashed into the same maid in gray from ereyesterday. She¡¯d probably come to press her ear to the door, see if Meya was at long last awake.

    Poor girl was terrified to see her clean and fully dressed. She led Meya downstairs to the same tea-table at the end of the gallery, then scurried off with a harried promise of breakfast.

    Baroness, the girl had called her, over and over. She couldn¡¯t be over a year younger than Meya. The voices still chorused in her head, when a bowl of steaming wheat porridge landed before her with a clink and a waft of cinnamon, followed by jars of cream, sugar and raisins. Meya followed the hand up the arm to find one of Graye¡¯s older male servants from her last time here. Probably the butler.

    ¡°Thank you, sir.¡± Yet again, habit tricked her into bowing. Meya sprung upright, slipping on her best Arinel voice. ¡°Where¡¯s the Baron?¡±

    The butler arranged silverware neatly next to her napkin, then straightened with a courteous smile.

    ¡°Off to fulfill his Council duties, my lady. He said you¡¯d had a rigorous night, and has instructed us to let you rest your fill.¡±

    Meya¡¯s face burned as she drooped in shame. She spied on Graye¡¯s clock with many faces. Unfortunately, none of them seemed to tell the time on the land of Latakia. She returned glumly to the white gruel in her bowl. She felt cold dollops hitting her cheeks, trickling down her throat, spilling down her front, sliding down her thighs. Her bowels churned and heaved. She scrabbled for the spoon, gripped it so tight its cold seeped through to the bones of metal under her skin.

    ¡°Before he left, the Baron arranged for gold, jewels and fine fabric to be sent to your parents at the Dragon¡¯s Crossing, and also took the liberty of inviting them to meet you here,¡± the butler prattled on, seemingly unaware. Meya¡¯s heart froze, then plummeted into a void when the sharp neighing of horses blew in through the tall windows. The butler perked up, his face bright.

    ¡°Splendid timing! That must be Icari, back with them already.¡±

    Sure enough, not long after, the far door opened. In came the whip, Icari, and the fearful messenger boy, and no more. Meya couldn¡¯t decide if she was relieved or crestfallen. She wasn¡¯t ready to meet them. Not yet.

    ¡°Where¡¯s Mum and Dad?¡± She bolted up when they came in talking distance. For a moment, Icari didn¡¯t seem to have heard, then he raised his unblinking blue eyes to her, his face pale and haunted as the messenger behind him.

    ¡°Sir Mirram and Madam Alanna would like me to convey they are grateful for your generosity,¡± he regurgitated words like a golem, shaking his head numbly, ¡°but they cannot accept your gifts, nor your invitation, as they know not of Baroness Graye.¡±

    Silence fell. Meya gaped at Icari, as he, the butler, the errand boy stared expectantly back at her. Time seemed to have slowed, but of course it was in actuality just her head. Yet, why was she caught off guard? This was Mum and Dad! The Mum and Dad that for seventeen years she¡¯d seen reject every last coin of copper not earned through a hard day¡¯s work. She knew how they¡¯d react. She should know better than any how to convince them¡ªforce them to accept her gold, yet she didn¡¯t.

    Yet, there was no sense in putting it off. Graye was right¡ªevery second past is an eternity of pain for Dad. She¡¯d have to face Dad sooner or later, if she wanted to help him.

    Meya drew a deep breath, then heaved a long sigh.

    ¡°Right.¡± She nodded slowly, then met eyes with the waiting Icari.

    ¡°Prepare the carriage. I¡¯ll meet them myself.¡±

    <hr>

    By the time the Dragon¡¯s Crossing came into view halfway down the street, stalls had lined the wayside and shops were busy with their first wave of customers.

    Women waved as they rushed to join their similarly-dressed friends grouped under streetlamps and signposts, giggling behind their hands as they cast their eyes surreptitiously to the object of gossip.

    Did some of them freeze and eye her carriage as it sailed past, then fell into hushed, solemn discussions?

    Meya¡¯s cheeks burned. Her trembling hands clenched into fists as she reached for the curtains, but if she slammed them shut, wouldn¡¯t that give them scolds free rein? Wouldn¡¯t word spread faster of the new Baroness Graye?

    Wouldn¡¯t you want that?

    Her head challenged, snide, brazen. Her heart seethed, but then the wheels slowed to a stop and the door swung open. Meya roused herself, took Icari¡¯s hand and descended.

    Three handsome carriages were out on the courtyard. Whips prepped their horses as servants loaded chests onto the back and tied them tight. Maids streamed after a noble lady through the inn¡¯s double doors. A plump, gold-encrusted merchant stood consulting his books beside his ride. At the sound of her boot clapping onto stone, they glanced around, then away too quickly to have been disinterest.

    Meya surveyed the scene, pausing at each of them, but all that did was prompt them to plunge with fervor deeper into whatever they were doing. As if they knew something she didn¡¯t, like someone had died and she had stumbled in wearing blazing Hadrian Red.

    She glared at Icari, but he¡¯d scrambled onto his seat. He slashed his whip and the horses trotted off, leaving Meya alone in the ray of sunlight, as shadows scurried and whispered around her.

    Mum. Dad.

    Meya shook herself back to focus. She marched through the thick silence, up the stone steps, onto the landing. Something on the white marble seized her feet.

    A smudge of brownish-red. A puddle of blood, trampled dry in the chaos.

    Whose?

    She bulled through the doors and up the stairs. The hallway echoed her footsteps back to her. She raised her fist to knock, then realized she hadn¡¯t thought of a word to say. What had Graye told them? How had they reacted? Such that everyone knew her just from the gray carriage rolling in a second time, that much was certain. Did that blood had anything to do with her? Was it Mum? or Dad? How in these three rotten lands would she know what to do with it if she didn¡¯t know what ¡®it¡¯ was?

    Her pulse pounding in her head, her fevered breaths burning her nostrils, Meya squeezed her eyes shut and rapped on the wood. A pause, then a familiar voice answered,

    ¡°Come in.¡±

    Jason?

    Why didn¡¯t Mum or Dad answer themselves? Why can¡¯t they?

    She entered. Dad sat by the bed, back to her. Behind him, a sliver of copper hair, and a pair of blanketed legs. He pressed a white cloth to her forehead, then wrung it in a basin of water. It was soaked red.

    Mum?

    Jason sat across from Dad, his bald patch reflecting the sunlight. His eyes widened, then he shot a look at Dad. Dad didn¡¯t seem to notice. He rinsed the cloth and dabbed Mum¡¯s forehead again.

    How hard did she hit her head against that marble? How many times?This novel''s true home is a different platform. Support the author by finding it there.

    Horror chilled her blood to ice. Yet the teardrop burned as it sped down her cheek. Just tell them you¡¯re fine. Everyone will be fine. She wetted her lips.

    ¡°Mum? Dad? I¡¯m back,¡± she called, shrill and unsure. No reaction. Jason sat back and lowered his eyes, listening. Step by step, she toddled further inside. It was like walking against a wall of thorns. It was clear what they heard, how they took it.

    ¡°Dad, we need his gold.¡± She was right behind him now, just a reach apart. She couldn¡¯t bring herself to touch him. ¡°Please, you gotta take it.¡±

    Dad picked up a bandage, wound it around Mum¡¯s head. Jason shook his head, but she couldn¡¯t surrender here. Not ever. Not in the face of what was at stake. Not after what she sacrificed.

    ¡°Dad, all my life, you told me we gotta work hard, be honest, dun take no easy money. Look where¡¯s it got us, what good it¡¯s done us.¡± Her voice grew, sharp and harsh with frustration. She folded to her knees, crying in plea. ¡°Please. For once. We can¡¯t always do what¡¯s right.¡±

    Dad had secured the bandage. He took Mum¡¯s hand with his bloodied ones, his head bowed.

    ¡°Dad!¡± Meya screamed. Jason met her eyes, frowned and shook his head. But how long must she wait? How would time help?

    Panting, Meya returned to Dad, waiting. He raised his head, and her heart lifted.

    ¡°Me wife needs rest,¡± he said quietly, his voice hoarse. ¡°Leave us.¡±

    No! Please!

    Her breathing quickened at her impending defeat, as her gamble was turning to waste. No, it couldn¡¯t end like this. She¡¯d come too far. She must salvage something. She whipped around to Mum, saw her pale, empty face and glassy blue eyes through Dad¡¯s hunched form.

    ¡°Mum!¡± she cried. Alanna didn¡¯t twitch a toe. Jason stood and circled the bed to her, hand outstretched.

    ¡°Come, lass.¡± He took her arm and pulled her along. She shook it free. He caught it again, clung tight.

    ¡°They need time.¡±

    There was such fierceness, such finality in Jason¡¯s voice, such that she¡¯d never heard in her life. He¡¯d clamp her mouth shut and throw her out if need be. She twisted and tugged, craned her neck, struggling for anything, any argument at all. She took too long. The door had closed in her face, and she was back in the hall.

    Jason released her, but planted himself before the door. Meya showed him her cold shoulder as she caught her breath, her heart racing in her ears. After a moment, he reached out and took her arm gently.

    ¡°Are you hurt, lass?¡± he whispered. ¡°Did he¡ª¡±

    He broke off, gulped then spoke no more. Meya¡¯s heart melted. Jason had Jezia. She knew what he feared.

    ¡°No!¡± She rushed to clasp his hand in both of hers. His beady black eyes swam with tears. She shook her head. ¡°No, I-I was willing. I¡¯m fine.¡±

    Somehow, that was just as bad. Jason gawked, unblinking, heartbreak in his eyes. Then, his face hardened. His eyebrows lowered over his narrowed eyes.

    ¡°Meya, do you realize what you¡¯ve done?¡± he rasped. His words sank like needles into her heart. A small voice inside her head echoed him, a voice she often heeded above all else yet now strove to ignore. Meya hitched a wry smirk as she shrugged.

    ¡°What¡¯s best? My best?¡± She pressed her hand to her chest, as if Jason was being laughably dumb. Jason flushed deep red.

    ¡°Best?¡± he spat, incredulous, a pudgy hand jabbing behind him, underlining each word. ¡°Selling your body for gold? That¡¯s what¡¯s best for you?¡±

    ¡°For them!¡± Meya cried, stabbing her finger at the door in kind. ¡°For me brothers! Me sisters!¡±

    ¡°AND THEY DON¡¯T WANT IT!¡± Jason roared. Meya staggered, heart pounding. She¡¯d never seen him so livid, never heard him even shout. Catching himself, Jason spun away and covered his face, sighing wearily.

    ¡°Why, Meya?¡± he moaned. He shook his head, then surfaced and clamped his hands on her shoulders, rattling her. ¡°Why do you always need to give them what you want them to want? What you think they should need?¡±

    Meya frowned at his bizarre question. She didn¡¯t understand. No, she understood. She didn¡¯t know the answer. Jason freed her then paced, rambling, arms flailing as he went.

    ¡°Can you imagine what Mirram¡¯s thinking now? That he failed so completely as a father, he forced his daughter to sell herself to save the family? What would folks think when they see you like this? When they see your father, your mother, your brothers, your sisters? Living in comfort off your torture¡ª¡±

    ¡°I DUN GIVE SHITE WHAT THEY THINK SO LONG AS¡ª¡± Meya screeched over the thundering voice of conscience in her head.

    ¡°WELL, THEY DO!¡± bellowed Jason, a finger pointed at the door. ¡°AND YOU CAN¡¯T MAKE THEM THINK OTHERWISE!¡±

    The door next to Dad¡¯s banged open. A familiar face hung from the doorframe, adorned with wide blue eyes rimmed in red and a long, black ponytail, likely startled by her father¡¯s voice. Jason whirled around.

    ¡°Jezia?¡± Meya breathed, on pure impulse. She¡¯d no idea what to say next. Fortunately, Jezia saved her the misery. After a blink of surprise, her face darkened and her eyes flashed with rage.

    ¡°Don¡¯t talk to me, you whore!¡± she snarled.

    ¡°JEZIA!¡± Jason yelled, but Jezia had already disappeared and slammed the door. And with her went the strength in Meya¡¯s legs. She crumpled to the floor.

    ¡°Meya¡ª!¡±

    Jason swooped down, a light hand on her shoulder. Meya shook her head to reassure him, eyes still staring, reeling. Of all people, she¡¯d expected Jezia would understand, would say she¡¯d chosen right. Jezia, who¡¯d always declared women were as good as men, and they could do anything they set their mind to. Who¡¯d always decried the unfair rules and morals women were bound by. Who¡¯d cheer and laugh and egg her on no matter what mischief, what scheme. Rebellious, fearless, loyal Jezia. Why? What was different this time? When all she did was still for Mum and Dad, for her family?

    Why, Meya?

    Jason¡¯s question rang in her head. Silk lay cold against her skin. Smooth, airy. Cold as ice. Meya shook her head, tears falling pitter-patter onto her lap, lingering in dew-like drops.

    ¡°I just want Mum and Dad to have nice things, like I have,¡± she whimpered, tugging at her dress. ¡°I took everything when I came. Took Mum¡¯s Song. Gave everyone Greeneye blood. Took May Fest. Gave Crosset famine. I just wanna give something good. But Dad never takes nothing.¡±

    She curled in on herself, her head on her knees, rocking from the force of her stifled sobs. She was empty, hollow, drained. She¡¯d given everything, had nothing left to give. A smile would¡¯ve been enough to fill her to the brim. A father¡¯s pride, a mother¡¯s joy, a village¡¯s welcome¡ªlove. The one permission she needed for her very existence.

    Jason settled beside her, his hand warm on her frozen skin.

    ¡°Meya, parents are meant to give to their children, never take.¡± His grip tightened. ¡°They gave you life, and that is for life.¡±

    He shook her shoulder, emphasizing each word. Meya met his eyes, uncomprehending, disbelieving. He sighed and leaned closer.

    ¡°You were never a burden to them.¡± He shook his head as he cradled her cheeks, his hands trembling. ¡°They brought you here. They made you. Their flesh, their blood. They decided. Jezia took her mother¡¯s life to come here, and I would never dream of ever once blaming her one whit, and so would my wife!¡±

    His voice grew to a cry, hoarse from the salt of tears burning his throat. Meya gaped as her tears resumed, but not out of grief. Jason¡¯s eyes traveled.

    ¡°Mirram came to me that night, once you cried yourself to sleep.¡± He shook his head. ¡°You should¡¯ve seen. He was proud, so proud of you. Talked on and on of all the great good you did in every town you set foot into. He was so happy you¡¯re becoming a mama, and you found a good man to love you. Never seen him smile like that since¡ª¡±

    He started, swallowed. The words on the tip of his tongue carved her heart out like a red-hot metal ladle. As if he knew, he laid his comforting hands on her shoulders again.

    ¡°That was enough, Meya. More than he¡¯d ever think to ask of you. You don¡¯t have to put yourself through this.¡±

    His voice echoed in tandem with the past, reminding her of who she once was, what she¡¯d been, what she¡¯d become. Jason hadn¡¯t changed, Dad hadn¡¯t changed, making the contrast all the more stark. She¡¯d once been so young, so innocent, so lively, so brave. Grew from sworn enemies to best friends with a haughty ice lady. Fell madly in love with a boy who left her for three years then found him again and he gave her a babe in her belly. She foiled evil schemes, saved people, learned to fly, made friends and allies across the west. She danced with her prince in the royal garden with porridge down her front, singing tales from centuries past. And now, now she¡ª

    The girl in Graye¡¯s mirror flashed before her eyes. And she shattered like glass.

    ¡°JASON¡ª!¡±

    Jason held her, rocked her, patted her hair as she crumbled against his chest. And the emptiness filled up a little. He was always wise, always kind, always forgiving, always there when Dad wasn¡¯t, always would be. Just because she was his daughter¡¯s friend. That was enough for him.

    ¡°You have a good heart, Meya. Too good for your own good,¡± he sniffed, then drew apart and locked her eyes with his, solemn. ¡°It¡¯s not too late. You¡¯ve lost nothing. He is nothing. He can¡¯t take anything from you. Call off the marriage. Return all his treasures. Tell them what happened, everything. Then apologize.¡±

    He motioned towards the door. He made it sound so simple, so sure. Meya shivered, fear coursing down her spine.

    ¡°Dad wouldn¡¯t forgive me never. Coris won¡¯t take me back. Me babe won¡¯t have a father, and now I might have Graye¡¯s babe, too, and he won¡¯t have a father, neither!¡± She rattled Jason, panting in rising dread. Jason smoothed his hand down her back, calming her, his eyes kind and true.

    ¡°They¡¯ll still have you. And all of us. All will be well, Meya.¡±

    Meya didn¡¯t believe him, but if the worst came to pass, she¡¯d still have Jason. She could take it. She could endure. She could survive. She must, for her babies.

    She closed her eyes and chanted to herself, as tears flowed down her cheeks. A door opened again, far away this time, followed by light, steady footsteps. Meya surfaced to find the willowy form of Lady Crosset gliding down the hallway towards them.

    ¡°Milady?¡± she sputtered as Arinel drew near. ¡°You¡¯re still here?¡±

    Arinel gave a small shrug, the amount allowed for a noble lady.

    ¡°We all are,¡± she corrected, tilting her head at the hallway behind her. ¡°They won¡¯t leave without their Lady Hadrian.¡±

    An aching warmth swelled up her throat, choking Meya. Sir Jarl. Philema. Dorsea. Tissa. Cleygar. They¡¯d journeyed with her this far. She didn¡¯t think she meant anything to them, so much so they¡¯d wait for her. For her to come back. After what she did to their lord. To herself.

    Arinel reached into her sleeve and produced a scroll of parchment.

    ¡°I found this in Coris¡¯s chests.¡± She extended it to her. ¡°I took the liberty of cracking the seal. When I saw the heading, I dared not pry further, but your signature¡¯s on it. Do you know of this?¡±

    Jason raised his eyebrows at Meya, and she started from her trance.

    The contract! She¡¯d almost forgotten Coris¡¯s parting remarks. The deal was struck back when she was his servant, and he her liege. He couldn¡¯t have promised a grand reward, not enough to lift her entire family into wealth and keep them there at least, considering her job was simply to be Arinel¡¯s decoy. It was the opportunity she was after, then. The chance to rise above the station she was born into.

    If only that remained her one concern in life.

    Memories of carefree times brought tears to her eyes again. Meya gritted her teeth to staunch them.

    ¡°Yea¡­yea, must be our contract,¡± she croaked, cocking her head. ¡°His copy. I got one, too. Coris said I should have you look at it once he¡¯s gone. Summat about my rewards for services rendered.¡±

    Arinel paused, blinking, then her eyes bulged like hatching quail eggs.

    ¡°Contract?¡± she repeated, her voice climbing the octaves. Meya nodded gingerly, bowels churning. Arinel stormed over, shaking the parchment under her nose. ¡°Meya, have you ever bothered to read it since?¡±

    Meya gawked at the unfurling scroll. What trick had Coris hidden between the lines this time? Was there no reward, after all? Had he swindled her into doing his bidding? Was that the lie he felt compelled to confess before he left?

    What more can you do to ruin my life for loving you, Coris Hadrian?

    Fury and fear blasting within, she took the parchment with numb hands and unraveled it.

    Lines of his familiar neat handwriting, in familiar blood-red ink, yet the words weaved a tale entirely foreign to her.

    This wasn¡¯t what they¡¯d agreed on. This wasn¡¯t even a contract.

    Last Will and Testament of Corien Alexis, Lord of Hadrian

    I, Corien Alexis, Lord of Hadrian, being of sound mind and memory, declare this to be my will, and thereby revoke any and all wills and codicils I previously made.

    To Zieren, Lord of Hadrian, I leave what little of my personal effects he will see value in¡ªmy trusty mare Jetta, my sword, bow, shield and armor, and my collection of precious stones.

    To Simon, Lord of Amplevale, I leave my collection of rare toys, to be distributed in due course as seen fit to his siblings. I also leave him my wardrobe.

    To Christopher, Lord of Merilith, I leave my beloved hounds, in hopes he will maintain them to the best of his ability. I also leave him my collection of quills.

    To Bishop Vectare Frey, I leave my gallery of prized paintings.

    To Bailiff Frentis Mansfuld, I leave the cache of Damerelli wine bottled on the day of my birth, which shall be ready on my day of majority, this coming thirteenth of July.

    To Sir Grenveld Apollon, I leave the Book of Recipes compiled by my grandmother, the late Lady Elnara of Noxx, in hopes he will continue to cook scrumptious meals my family so enjoy.

    To Maelaith Hild of Crosset, my ward and savior, I leave the contents of my vault at the Church of Hadrian. I also leave her my library of books and writings, and my collection of jewelry, excluding the wedding ring, which is to be returned to my mother, Sylvia, Baroness of Hadrian. Should my mother predecease me, the ring shall pass to my brother, Zieren, to be given to his future bride.

    Upon coming into possession of these properties, all beneficiaries are entitled to trade or dispose of them as they see fit unless otherwise stipulated.

    I sign my name to this instrument as my last will, this twenty-first day of April, Latakian Year 1100, at Hadrian Castle.

    Signed, Corien Alexis Hadrian

    Witnessed, MAELAITH AINE HILD

    Her own name, her own handwriting, scrawled at the end. His nonchalant voice rang in her head over the scratch of his quill,

    ¡°I¡¯ll write down two copies of everything I said, and we each keep one. This should prevent both of us from reneging on our deal.¡±

    ¡°Once we sign our names, the contract will become official. Anything you¡¯d like to add or set straight?¡±

    All this time, he had lied. Lied through his teeth with a smiling face as he wrote. The one lie he¡¯d made no attempt to hide, and yet the one she¡¯d never caught a whiff of. She¡¯d only need to read the damned thing once, then all his secrets would be bared.

    Yet, he knew her well. He knew she¡¯d trust him like a fool. He knew she was above such heartless negotiations. So he waited, and prayed. Cursed her, thanked her. He half wanted her to know, half wanted to die with the truth. That he loved her, had since that day she swept him into the sky. That all he wanted was to hear her sing, see her fly, once more before he died. He was too scared to let her know as he lived. Too scared she would leave if she ever learned just how much he loved her.

    You bastard. You idiot. You monster. You angel.

    My lord. My friend. My love. My Lexi.

    I¡¯m sorry. What have I done? I¡¯m sorry, Lexi. I¡¯m so sorry.

    It was too late. There was nothing she could do. He¡¯d never forgive her. He shouldn¡¯t. This was her life now. A life without the man who loved her above all else.

    Against her heart she crushed their so-called contract. Tears spilled from her eyes, screams of despair from her throat. Arms embraced her from Arinel and Jason, but nothing would ever fill the gaping void he left. There¡¯d never be another like him, nor another heart to replace the one she¡¯d given him.

    Lady Hadrian had died.

 Corien and Maelaith

    Evening fell once again over this little cabin he haunted alone, for the second or third time, he¡¯d lost track. It was of no consequence. On the fifth morning, the King¡¯s men would arrive to bring him to his trial. Whatever the verdict, it was of no consequence, either. He¡¯d turned his focus to the far future, where pain couldn¡¯t reach him.

    The crackle of the fire swallowed the rustle of parchment as he turned the yellow, spotted page. Ink that had faded to brown relayed to him the sights and sounds of Tyldorn, the grueling voyage across the ruthless sea, the barren, wind-weathered stones and empty beaches of Everglen.

    Dreaming of distant, unknown shores with all the promises of riches, of freedom, of waters of immortality, was a blessing generations of Latakians were robbed of. Being earmarked for a vessel to Everglen was something to be feared. Little boys may stow away on ships, but no further than Tyldorn. They knew what was beyond.

    Now, for the first time in two hundred years, they didn¡¯t. He¡¯d always hated not knowing, but he knew now¡ªwhere there was an unknown, there was hope. She taught him that.

    His heart writhed at the memory of her smile, her Song riding on the wind. He¡¯d lost himself as far as Everglen, and still she wouldn¡¯t leave him. Her linen pants lay by the roaring hearth, spared by his indecision. He¡¯d presented it to her, the night before they left Hyacinth. She¡¯d blushed red as a rose and struck him on his sore spot. Then, she¡¯d slipped it on, slipped out of the remainder of her clothes, and they¡¯d made love.

    He gritted his teeth against her whispers, her sighs, her tortured cries of his name, but somehow her lullaby only swelled. She approached from afar, but she was also in his skull, lulling him out of his senses. Knocks on the door, then a creak, the soft thump of a shoe on wood. A familiar shadow stretched towards his foot.

    ¡°Lord Coris?¡±

    A voice like the chime of bells of finest crystal. A young woman stood wringing her hands in the mirror, dressed in a raggedy crimson dress. Two thick, red-gold braids hung over her breasts, reaching to her waist. Freckles peppered her full, round cheeks.

    Large, acid-green eyes glowed in the falling dusk. She pleaded through them, having seen his eyes reflected in the glass. He lowered his gaze to the seafarer¡¯s journal, imagined her reeling. His heart pained, but he¡¯d seen the damage such an innocent, fragile young creature could wreak. What could she possibly say? After what she did to him? To his child? After what he¡¯d said? That he loved her?

    Coris stared down at his book, but didn¡¯t read. His bone-white hand curled into a fist. He didn¡¯t welcome her, nor did he banish her from sight.

    Warmth petered from her heart with every moment silence reigned. Still, she ventured in. Whether her words would reach him, she knew not, but she must try nevertheless. She carried his child. Right now, that was his sole concern, the last frayed thread connecting their worlds she tore apart. It was the least she could do¡ªmust do¡ªto atone.

    Closer, closer she invaded. He made no move to stop her, to acknowledge her, save for his futile attempt to read his book. She¡¯d never seen him so cold, not even to enemies. She¡¯d thought it wouldn¡¯t bother him. How could she have been so foolish? So cruel?

    Shivering, Meya sunk to her knees, her eyes fixed on his profile like chiseled marble. Soundless tears rolled down her cheeks.

    ¡°Milord, I¡¯m so sorry,¡± she whimpered. ¡°I¡¯ve wronged you, your brother, your parents, your child, so unforgivably. And I¡¯d trade all the riches of the three lands for the chance to make the choice again.¡±

    Silence. He didn¡¯t move but for the tendon twitching in his jaw, as he dithered how long he would tolerate her audacity, crushing her heart between his grinding teeth. She didn¡¯t have long left.

    Meya scrabbled for her sleeve and pulled out a roll of parchment. It sprung open into two pieces of paper. His eyes slid her way at the noise it issued. She resisted the urge to meet them, to see his beautiful gray for one last time. He might cast her out for her daring.

    She raised the papers high, covering the sight of his face, then tore them clean down the middle. The halves fell apart, revealing his wide, questioning eyes. Her strength spent, Meya let her arms fall to her lap, her eyes to his knees. He jiggled them as he often did in her presence, a sign of turmoil, of distraction. Her heart lifted a little. She chided it back to its sorry place.

    ¡°I free you from your vow, our betrothal, our contract. Everything.¡± She hung her head, gathering the torn slivers of his will to her middle. ¡°And I¡¯ll keep what¡¯s left of ¡¯em. I know me words dun carry no weight, but I swear, when you come home in a year¡¯s time or ten, I¡¯ll have your babe waiting for you, if you still want him. I¡¯ll raise him the best I can, so he grows up smart and strong and happy, so when you come with a worthier mother for him, she¡¯ll find it in her to love a babe born of a Greeneye whore. I hope you¡¯ll find it in you, at least¡ª¡±You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.

    Cold, thin arms threw her into an embrace, slamming her against a bony chest. A rush of perfume filled her nostrils, the familiar smell of roses. She opened her eyes to find a shock of dark hair chafing on her neck. His cold cheek brushed against hers as he squeezed her flush to his heart.

    ¡°Lexi¡ª!¡± her tongue slipped, then her tears resumed as reality sunk in. She plummeted, broke to a thousand shards in his arms.

    ¡°Lexi, I¡¯m sorry. I¡¯m sorry. I¡¯m so sorry¡ª!¡±

    Again and again she sobbed, begging him to yet praying he wouldn¡¯t forgive her but he already did. Coris drew back. His unblinking eyes scoured her from head to toe.

    ¡°Are you hurt? Has he hurt you?¡± he demanded. He ran his hands up and down her arms, feeling for the swell of a bruise. Meya dipped her face in shame, pressing her legs close together. It still smarted, down there.

    ¡°No, not in ways you can see.¡± She shook her head, admitting feebly. His hands stilled on her arms, and instead trembled. She shifted away from his touch, wrapped herself in her claws. She¡¯d taken many baths. She still couldn¡¯t wash him off. He refused to wash off¡ª

    ¡°Lexi, I¡¯m filthy. I¡¯m dirty all over.¡± She sputtered. Eyes¡ªwatching. They¡¯d seen her naked. They¡¯d seen her climaxing, heard her moaning, smelled her desire thick in the air. She couldn¡¯t undo it, couldn¡¯t make them not see, not hear, not smell. Graye had tasted her, fondled her, invaded her, flooded her. She couldn¡¯t erase the memory of her from him. Her chest collapsed under the pressure. She panted for breath.

    ¡°They saw me¡ªhe made me¡ªbefore his men¡ªand I came¡ªI can¡¯t help it¡ªyou warned me¡ªI didn¡¯t listen¡ª!¡±

    Again, Coris caught her before she spiraled deeper into the void. He smoothed his hand down her hair to her back, again and again. His cold soothed her, anchored her to the present. His touch was firm, willing. He wasn¡¯t disgusted as he should be, even as Graye¡¯s ooze caked her like scales, even as she¡¯d felt lust for him¡ª

    ¡°And I didn¡¯t listen,¡± Coris sighed. Meya froze, confused. He nodded as if he saw. ¡°You were right. I¡¯ve never known hardship, hunger, fear. I¡¯ll never understand what you lived through, and I didn¡¯t try. I was selfish to assume so much of you. To demand you sacrifice so much, suffer so much.¡±

    He traced the curve of her face with his knuckles, shaking his head as he took in the ruin that was what was left of her. His voice cracked as tears burned his throat, and his mask of serenity shattered.

    ¡°I¡¯m sorry, Meya. I¡¯m so sorry. I could never protect you when it mattered most.¡±

    Meya closed her eyes as she burrowed her nose against his palm, shaking her head.

    ¡°No. ¡¯Tisn¡¯t your fault. ¡¯Tisn¡¯t your fault, Lexi.¡± Renewed tears choked her voice. He pressed a kiss on her forehead.

    ¡°I love you,¡± he breathed. On her cheek, his hand tensed and shook, as his voice grew loud and sharp. ¡°And of course I still want our babe. He¡¯s our babe and you¡¯re the mother and no-one else! Don¡¯t you dare spout such bullcrap again. Ever. In this life. You hear me? Do you hear me, Maelaith Hild?¡±

    He snatched her shoulders, rattled her from her wallowing as he snarled in her face. After all she said, all she did. More tears spilled from her eyes.

    ¡°Yes¡ªyes, I hear you,¡± Meya stammered, then mumbled into her chest, ¡°I love you, too.¡±

    The sheer hubris of her. Yet, his hand was once more tender when he caressed her face. She opened her eyes. His silvery eyes were unblinking, filled with longing, with awe.

    ¡°You¡¯re still beautiful,¡± he rasped. ¡°As pure as the day I first met you. My May Queen. My dawn. My Aine.¡±

    He sealed his vow with a kiss on her lips, and she was back under the spring sun before the stone steps of the church. A maiden draped in a flowing blue dress, crowned with orange blossoms, flowers in her hands as showers of rose petals fluttered down her hair, fresh off the first kiss of her life. He pressed his hand to her belly, spread his fingers as far as they would allow him to, hoping to feel even the tiniest bulge, the softest rise, yet finding none.

    ¡°I wish I could be there. Every day of it,¡± Coris choked out, his voice thick with tears. He drew apart and held her eyes with his flaring gray, vowing, ¡°I¡¯ll come back. I¡¯ll come home, I swear!¡±

    Finally, he promised, but Meya was no longer to be so simply satisfied. A wave of calm had washed over her, bringing with it clarity such as she¡¯d never experienced. She knew what must be done, and come what may, she trusted all will ultimately be well.

    ¡°Coris, there¡¯s another way,¡± she said quietly.

    As she expected, a flash of annoyance streaked by in his gray eyes. He heaved a sigh, resigned by her boar-headed optimism. Meya gathered his hands in hers and held them fast as she held his eyes.

    ¡°Just once more. Trust in Latakia, as you trust in me,¡± she whispered, shaking his hands in plea. ¡°Tell King Alden the truth. Tell them all the truth. If a secret retains its power so long as it remains so, then strike at its heart.¡±

    Coris¡¯s eyes widened at her proposal, then his jaw clenched. He shook his head and pulled away.

    ¡°Truth belongs to he who speaks first,¡± he breathed through numb lips, haunted eyes staring through her as if she were air. Meya shook her head.

    ¡°No, it belongs to all,¡± she corrected. Coris didn¡¯t budge¡ªso used to keeping secrets, living a lie, that simple honesty scared him out of his mind. She cradled his face, forced him to suffer her as she hammered out,

    ¡°Let them know. Let them help. Vyrgil¡¯s right¡ªWe¡¯re great in number. We have those who love us. Wherever we came from, whatever happened back then, Latakia¡¯s our home now. The gods forced us out of Everglen for a reason. Sent us all here so we¡¯ll learn to live together. So, please, just one try. If it dinnae work out, I¡¯ll go to Everglen with you, and take our babe, too. And everyone who wants hope, who believes we can make peace!¡±

    Her cry alone echoed back to her. He didn¡¯t yield a minim, stubborn as she¡¯d always known him to be. Meya rested her forehead against his, wilting in a long sigh that emptied her lungs.

    ¡°You¡¯re me only hope, Coris,¡± she breathed. ¡°Your father and Gillian¡ªthey won¡¯t ever allow it. But you¡ªyou¡¯ve always been so brave, so just, so full of dreams. I know you¡¯ll understand. You¡¯ll always do what¡¯s right.¡±

    Silence followed. He sat still as death. Yet, Meya held on to her hope, her faith in him. She refused to let go, to surrender. Her final bet, and she¡¯d wagered all she was worth that this time, he wouldn¡¯t let her down.

    At last, Coris heaved a sigh that seemed never-ending. His hands shifted, but only to gently urge her into his embrace. He rested his head upon her shoulder, then his lips murmured against her ear,

    ¡°What is your plan?¡±

    <hr>