Arinel's heavy green fur-lined cloak joined the tottering pile of glinting accessories on Meya's arms, and 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 couldn't help wondering if the noble folk ever felt tired of wearing the same color palette every day.

Though Meya was often told one's dress was a mark of one's status, 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.

"Lady, I understand your resolve, but I couldn't see how this would work. I'm sure we could do something with her hair, but her eyes would be a dead giveaway."

Haselle glanced at Meya's eyes, which also called everyone's attention towards them. Meya saw her chance to back out, but Arinel's old nurse spoke before she could utter a word.

"She's hoodwinked us all the way here, hasn't she? She probably has her methods of hiding that monstrous light." The nurse, whose name was Gretella, glared at Meya out of the corner of her eye in distaste, and Meya cursed herself for not speaking up faster.

Sighing, Meya beckoned Haselle over with a jerk of her head, and heaved Arinel's belongings onto her arms. She trudged over to the back of the supplies wagon and bent down to retrieve her collar, now hanging in two halves joined with a hinge, cursing her luck under her breath. As if drinking poison and cooperating with bandits to infiltrate a castle wasn't bad enough, she had to do it all while wearing the danged collar, too.

Once she had strode back to reclaim her spot, Meya lifted up the ice-cold collar and clamped it around her neck, securing it with the clasp. She saw the wonder and awe in the surrounding Crossetians' eyes as she felt her senses dull, her brain slow down and her limbs become sluggish, as if she was trying to swim through a pool of concentrated slime.

The head guard reached over and felt her forehead with the back of his hand, and he didn't jerk it away with a grimace as one would when feeling a scorching fever.

"I could wear this, but I assure you it's not going to work." Meya shrugged, her expression as tired as she felt. Seeing everyone's puzzled gaze, she clarified.

"Lattis makes me slow and weak. I'm going to need every spark of my brainpower to convince Lord Coris I'm his betrothed. With this on, I wouldn't even be able to braid my hair."

"It's all in your head, lass. You look perfectly normal." The head guard, whose name was Sir Jerald Bayne, contradicted with a shrug, and Meya couldn't help growling in her throat in frustration. She glanced over at Gillian, who should care most about the success of this crazy plan. The head bandit studied her with a thoughtful look in his eyes, then gestured with a jerk of his chin for her to follow and started off towards the forest.

Meya pointed at herself, puzzled, but Gillian had already disappeared into the midst of tangled trees.

Meya wasn't sure if she should follow. On one hand, she was sure he was a Greeneye, just like her, and she was dying to talk more. But, 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.

Seeing Meya glancing at the men digging a hole for the bloody corpses, whose faces were covered with white handkerchiefs, Jerald strode over and laid a hand on her shoulder, his other hand tightening around his sword handle. The blood on the blade was still shining wet.

"I'll be right behind you, lass."

Meya gave him a look of thanks, then ventured after Gillian into the privacy of the trees. By now, the sun had set and darkness was falling fast. Maid and guard followed the sound of Gillian's heavy footfalls crunching on leaves and earth. When it halted, Jerald nodded in reassurance, and Meya emerged alone into a small clearing under a circular hole in the canopy.

Gillian was already on his knees, a wooden bowl on the ground before him and a knife blade digging into his bloody palm. As Meya stared in confusion, he squeezed his hand to hasten the flow, then whispered without looking up.

"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 his other gloved hand, and Meya undid the clasp on her collar with numb fingers, handing the metal band over as if in a trance, her eyes bulging in utter bewilderment.

"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 reckoned with your intellect, you would have already figured it out long since." He wound the cloth several times over his bloody palm and tied it tight, then covered it with the thick leather glove. Meya understood the need for over-the-top protection with his next sentence,

"Lattis is poison to the likes of us."

Meya's mouth fell open. She couldn't help it. All this was so new, so eye-opening, so assuring for her. For her whole life, she had 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 wasn't imagining the cold and the heaviness the Lattis collar gave her. Then along came this fellow who helped her out with her lifelong difficulty. Though it was a bummer that he was a murderous bandit. Typical Freda.

Meya gazed on, enraptured, as Gillian dipped the knife into the blood then brought it over and touched it on the Lattis band. The blade sunk through like knife on butter, slicing off a small square from the edge of the band.

Realization hit Meya then, and she gasped in excitement.

"And only our blood can destroy it?"

Gillian nodded. He picked up the Lattis piece and added as he sanded off the sharp corners with his bloodied knife,

"And vice versa."

Meya raised her eyebrows, hooked with curiosity. Gillian went on 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? Meya felt the strength left her legs. All this time, she had strapped that loathsome metal band over the biggest artery on her neck, not knowing a single cut could kill her as effectively as wolfsbane?

Gulping with difficulty through her constricted throat, Meya looked on as Gillian punched a small hole through the now smooth-edged, rounded Lattis piece, using a thin twig dipped in his blood.

"How did you know all this?" She whispered in awe.

"I live among my kind." Gillian replied with a shrug. He glanced up at her, eyebrows raised. "Judging from how the townspeople and the lady recognizes you, you're probably the only one around here?"

Gillian's gaze, though as cold and unreadable as ever, contained a gleam of understanding, and Meya found herself reluctantly trusting him more and more. She shrugged in return,

"I guess. There was one in Noxx but he died five years ago. He gave me that."

Meya gestured towards the bloodstained collar, now lying abandoned on the stone slab. For the first time, Gillian seemed interested.

"Do you know his name?" Meya frowned, trying to remember.

"I think it was Marsant."

Gillian fell silent for a moment. He had that same look on his face as when Meya told him her name. At long last, he nodded without a word. He handed the Lattis coin to Meya, and Meya felt no different as her fingers brushed its icy surface. She took out her necklace and 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. She reached out to retrieve it.

"Say, once this heist is over, can you take me to them? The Greeneyes you live with?" Meya found herself blurting out. Gillian turned back to her, his hand pouring the contents of the bowl down to the undergrowth, and she went on, enthusiastic. "They're in Latakia, right? You don't sound like a Latakian."

Gillian studied her for a long, silent moment, his expression unfathomable in the falling darkness. Then, for the first time ever, he gave a slight smile bursting with determination that bordered on fanatic.

"If we find that dowry, then we could be anywhere you want to be." He replied, his voice soft and calm as ever, "Latakia. Nostra. Everglen. Take your pick."

With that, he strode off into the trees, leaving Meya to rush after him, hoping he wouldn't notice Jerald hiding just out of earshot.