It was nightfall by the time Coris made his way back to his bedchambers on the topmost floor of the Keep, surreptitiously dabbing at his red-rimmed eyes with the shoulder of his cloak as he went, to the alarm of castle subjects who had spotted him.

The door was unlocked, but on the high chance that the other occupant was already inside, he knocked first. 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 slightly, her cheeks flushed, the black voids of her pupils swallowing up her glowing, acid-green irises. Her blonde fringe was plastered to her forehead with sweat, the collar of her dress was slightly askew, and the skirt rumpled.

Behind her shoulder, Coris could see the contents of his rock chest sprawled on the flagstones. A hunk of clear pink crystal winked at him in the candlelight, and the realization amused Coris such that he felt his grief subsiding somewhat.

"Sorry I'm late." He winked, as a faint, sly grin tucked up the corner of his lips. Meya scowled, her whole 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 felt rough on the puffy, irritated skin beneath his eye.

"Coris, what's wrong? You been crying?"

"I'm fine." Coris sniffed, shrugging a shoulder 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.

"Wish 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 simply let Meya lead him to sustenance. And 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 the oil from their fingers as they went, Meya told him about how Morel had decided to stay in Hadrian and work for Old Mother Gelda in the Crimson Hog. After the meal, they sat side by side with their backs against the bed, gnawing on a handful of 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 both new and secondhand, and adornments her parents had sent her from Crosset, pinning each tunic over her current dress as she eagerly awaited Coris's compliment.

By far, things were all going very well, and Coris was looking forward to a night of slow burning romance, until Meya unfolded an old, 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, and Coris felt his bowels squeeze into a knot as the fabric fell to its length, revealing several 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 same cloak he had worn on that fateful day, seven years ago, and which he had wrapped around the girl before him, whose garment had been torn to shreds from her transformation. He hardly dared breathe as he stared fixed at Meya, whose expression was scrunching into one of contemplation. After a pause of silence, she asked up, hesitant.

"Coris? This...this is Hadrian Red, right?" Her glowing eyes slid to him, an unsure eyebrow raised. Thawing, Coris forced out a jittery reply,

"Yes. Yes, it is."

Meya looked even more confused. Frowning, she turned back to the mangled cloak,

"Huh. Strange." She commented, narrowed eyes peering at the stains on the fabric, as she lifted it up and tilted it 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 something—"

"—That cloak is mine."

Meya whirled around, not believing her ears at first, only to find Coris pale and frozen, petrified by his own words, silvery eyes staring into empty air.

He couldn't explain why he had blurted it out at first. Then he understood it was because he couldn't continue this charade any longer. 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.

Looking back, it might not feel like 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 for.

As his resolve solidified, Coris's eyes flicked back to face Meya's nonplussed stare. He inhaled, long and deep, then let go, and continued quietly.

"I left it behind in Crosset. During the Famine."

Meya blinked repeatedly, struggling to connect the dots. She glanced at the cloak, still held aloft in her loose fingers, then back to him, over and over.

"But—how—are you sure?" She trailed off. As her eyebrows moved higher, her arms slowly lowered, laying the cloak to rest on her lap. There was not the slightest spark of remembrance in her wide eyes. 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 could comprehend the skepticism in her gaze, but the time for him to fear the inevitable was running out.

Taking another long, shivery breath, Coris reached out a dithering hand. His fingers closed around her sleeved forearms, three sinking into the choppy 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, a look of both confusion and concern in her luminous eyes. Somehow, he couldn't bare to look her in her blank face any longer. He dipped his head, yet his hands remain on her arms, more clinging now than supporting.

"Meya, I'm very, very sorry for keeping this from you. I just needed to be sure—No, I was being a coward. I have no excuses."

Coris shook his head forcefully. On his palms, the circles of warmth from Meya's arms glowed steady, as did the heat of her gaze on the top of his head.

Calming his fretting heart with yet another deep breath, Coris finally raised his gaze. He began, slow and tired,

"Remember when I told you, that a peasant girl saved me during the kidnapping, and I was looking for her, three years ago when you met me in Crosset?"

Meya nodded, hesitant, eyebrows raised, still having not the vaguest idea of where this conversation was going. But Coris's gaze remained focused on her. For a moment, she thought he had frozen, lost in thought, then she noticed the inkling in those sharp eyes. And she felt as if her bowels had vanished into thin air as she forced out in a strangled voice,

"Me?"