Meya Hild may be unique in various negative aspects, but, like most folks, in her formative years, she had also been at the mercy of the whims of love.

Just over a year before she landed herself a sickly, bookish, well-endowed young nobleman, she seemingly 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 together in the local alehouse, as outside the snow wind howled and screeched to be let in to gnaw on some digits.

Things took a turn for the unexpected when Meya did not come home one night. Farmer Armorheim and Farmer Hild mounted a search party of yeomen and fellow farmers, and she was later found stowed away in the merchant's caravan as he prepared to leave town, knocked unconscious by Lattis and trussed up, along with a couple of Greeneye lads and lasses from nearby manors.

It turned out the man was a member of a band of Greeneye traffickers. He had been tipped off by a debt-ridden Crossetian peasant hoping for a temporary relief. As a general practice, once the Greeneye children had been drugged out of their minds by Rose Crystal, he would sell them to Meriton noblemen with 'unusual' tastes.

Prostitution wasn't illegal in Crosset. But selling children into prostitution was. Even Greeneye children. And thus both trafficker and informant were hanged in the Trench the very next day.

Meya had been warned from childhood of the ordeal that occasionally befall careless Greeneyes: being sold into prostitution, or dissected then having their eyes slung onto lucky amulets, and their blood used in rituals of Chione worshipers.

Being the only Greeneye in her whole town, Meya felt almost as if it was simply a matter of time. But she survived, didn't remember a single thing, and learned an awful yet necessary lesson. Though it still gave her nightmares for the good part of a year, she didn't take it as a personal offense.

Back in the fall of 1096, however, it was a different matter. That one was personal.

Back then, Meya was teetering on the cusp of womanhood, and she found herself having something in common with 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 throughout the desolate Crosset dawn, young maidens of all categories 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. Though the fortunate few might find their mothers by their side swooning in unison.

Meanwhile, paranoid fathers and desperate local suitors were overcame by a compulsive urge to whet their sickles to a sparkle and mount them on broom-handles.

Mirram Hild was no exception, and perhaps the most demented of them all. He pretty much imprisoned Marin in their cottage, and kept two beady eyes on Morel and even then six-year-old Mistral.

Being a breadwinner, Meya wasn't included in the house arrest, as she must go out and labor in the fields. So it came as no surprise when, on her way to the communal pasture with her chickens one day, her musically-inclined ears 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 gone to 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 her favorite sunflowers. He handed her the flowers with a flourish, then proceeded to regale her with a resplendent flute rendition of her favorite folk song, Tricia of Haventoth, as she clapped along in pleasant surprise.

Of course, he wouldn't have been able to get her on her own and pick out the perfect bouquet and tune, without the inside information he had gleaned from Meya.

Meanwhile, in the woods beyond the wheat fields, Meya was crouched in her hollow-hole, rubbing earth into her glowing, watering eyes, vowing never, ever to forgive Marin.

Yet, deep down, she knew it wasn't her eyes nor Marin. She was just trying to distract herself from the obvious, much harsher truth.

How could a lass ever hope to be loved by any man, if even her own father did not adore her?

It was once she was banished from Crosset, the only home she had ever known, and where all her worst memories had happened, far away from the judging eyes of her father and the shadows of her sisters, that Meya was brave enough to bring out her full potential, and found that she was not as useless as she thought she was.

And it was once she learned that all this came to be because of her father's desperate attempt to save her from exile, that she had begun to believe once more that she might, after all, be worthy of love. She mustered up the courage to profess her heart to Coris Hadrian, and together they agreed to give their budding romance a chance.

But old resentments die hard. Especially when 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, and continued to live her life the way she had always done; bolted up and alone in Hild Cottage.

Meya knew she would never know Marin's reason for that.

But one thing she knew, was that she would never, ever, ever forgive her.

⏳

The Crimson Hog was Hadrian's oldest and most popular nighttime destination for merrymaking, for both locals and travelers alike. The alcohol-induced laughter of raucous diners spilled out from cracks between wooden panels, as mouth-watering fumes of various dishes billowed out the chimney and kitchen 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. Latakian peasants were allowed to travel outside their birth manors only during holidays, and anxious tourists who have been saving up for half their lives for this trip queued up at dawn to get 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 manage to snatch a private room in the most famous alehouse of Hadrian during the Fest, was there?

Draken seemed to feel the same way. Even the young ones were blinking blankly at the closed door with bulging eyes, before they all turned to stare at Jason, their de-facto spokesperson.

The portly merchant gulped. With a swift flick of his hand, he beckoned the waiter boy to lean his ear towards his mouth, and whispered.

"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 need to double-check his ledger; the whole thing was just that odd.

"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 almost popped out of their sockets.

"A bill!?" He exclaimed, his voice arcing an octave higher than normal. The waiter nodded listlessly, looking like a tired bobble-head.

"Yes, sir. Stamped with the Hadrian crest."

"Did she come by here herself? Greeneye? Orange hair? Flat nose?" Draken leaned in, gesturing about his face as he described Meya's most distinct features. The Greeneye boy scrunched his flat nose as he recalled, 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 already inside. She arrived with three companions a quarter-hour ago."

That last bit wasn't helping things in the least. After gawking at the waiter a bit more, Jason turned and met Draken's eyes. Then, with a heavy sigh, he reached for the doorknob, turned, and pushed.

The first thing Jason noticed was a blur of golden hair, before the body attached to that hair slammed into him and knocked the air clean out of his lungs.

"Meya!" Jason cried in glee when the girl looked up, revealing glowing acid-green eyes and a toothy grin. He laughed as the lass shot off to squeeze Jezia and slap palms with Deke, then smiled at Draken, who returned it then stepped aside to make way 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—and in a gruesome twist was 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, having not recalled seeing her name in Jezia's letter. 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—the 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...a 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 whirled back to sneer at her sister, 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 b....!" Meya bared her gritting teeth and marched in.

"GIRLS!"

Maro snatched Meya and Morel's shoulders, keeping them from tearing each other's necks with their gleaming fangs. 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 remembered something was missing. She glanced about the throng.

"Where's Dad? At the inn?"

The gathering tensed up as one. 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.

"He's not here, Meya."

Those acid-green eyes widened in disappointment and pain. Meya mouthed, speechless for a beat, then found her voice.

"What?" She managed a breathy croak of disbelief, then demanded, indignant, "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 gently, pleading with his little sister's eyes. For a moment Meya glared back, trembling and panting from her outburst, then she 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 strikingly familiar.

"Wait, isn't that...?" Marcus paused and leaned to whisper to Myron, who was frowning in confusion, then 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. Though by all appearances still deadpan, Jason secretly agreed. Yes, the similarity was uncanny.

The Armorheims, however, were focused on someone else. Deke shot furtive glances between Maro and Meya, fidgeting with his hands. Draken, meanwhile, 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—and piercing silvery eyes.

For a second, Draken's feet seemed to have lost control, and he stumbled. The boy was also looking back, a small smile upon his pale lips, and Draken averted his gaze, busying himself drawing up a chair and settling down beside Deke. But he could feel his heart thundering.

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's eyes rolled back to stare at Meya in puzzlement, for if there were a tally of ill-fitted pairings, "castle servant" and "Private room in the Crimson Hog" would rank among the top ten.

There was no way Meya didn't notice, but she chose to ignore it. She turned to pale, thin Silvan Joplund and began firing out their names.

"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—or at least pretending to be—smiling and following Meya's hand as she talked. Diana avoided their gazes and pulled her headdress down over her eyes. Silvan was just nodding along but not listening; 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, and Draken couldn't help wondering.

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 none-the-wiser companions proved it was not worth it. They were all still staring at that Lady Arinel-lookalike, except for Deke, who seemed to be having some kind of mental prizefight.

Concern for his son overtook fear for himself, and Draken turned his full attention to Deke. 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?" Her attention 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 observed shrewdly. She raised her eyebrows; her stare drilling holes into Maro's pupils. The eldest Hild son shifted uncomfortably.

"Um, no...He..." Maro glanced down at the tabletop, scratching his suddenly itchy nape. Finally, he looked up with a heavy sigh. Meeting Meya's gaze, he revealed quietly,

"Marin's pregnant, Meya."

A brief yet solid silence followed. Draken glanced around when he felt Deke tense up. He followed the boy's anxious gaze to Meya. The lass had gone stock-still in shock, freckles standing out against colorless cheeks.

"With who?" She forced out a hoarse follow-up, 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 the 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 it was as if 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 continued, her soft and level voice haunted with the ghost of a chuckle.

"Meya..." Maro began then left it hanging there, unsure of what to say. Meya went on, cocking her head in scathing amusement.

"I must say. That's one Fyr of an over-do. There's no need to go and get knocked up. The good old fever would've done it."

At that, 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. Meya gave an insolent shrug, and Maro found himself shouting in appalment. "She's our sister, Meya! Dad's got no choice!"

"Oh yes, he has!" Meya sprang up, snarling into a reeling Maro's face. "And he chose her!"

Meya's heavy panting was the sole sound in the room. For perhaps half a minute, she locked eyes with her brother, arm raised and a finger pointing in the direction she assumed on instinct Crosset would be. She lowered it in jolting, halting increments, still staring daggers at Maro's pained expression.

"You have no idea what I've been through these few weeks." Meya hissed through gritted teeth. Then, she shook her head with a challenging 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 glance at Marcus and Myron, who tensed and paled, respectively, then sneered at Maro.

"She—and her kid—and that bastard—can all go drown in Fyr's Lake."

And with that, Meya kicked her chair aside and stormed towards the tavern's back door, shutting it with a slam to snuff out Maro's desperate voice calling after her as she slipped out into the rowdy night.