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 summer 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 amidst the 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 couldn't help peeking through the gap between her carriage's 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; what 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, then, and 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. As she stared down at her fidgeting hands on her lap, her lips moved,

"Father once infamously 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,

"You could 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, but then Agnes resumed, and she shoved it aside,

"Father had promised the church that he would offer up all his daughters but his firstborn to their service. It was fortunate that 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 expected to marry power and make Graye prosper, while Persie was to leave for the nunnery at twelve. It's always been that way."

Despite their differences, Meya perfectly understood what Agnes was conveying. 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, and 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 shake his head in disapproval, 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; the 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, her respect for the potbellied old monk skyrocketed whenever this happened.

Agnes's tale continued,

"Six years ago, when King Alden has just 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 that sudden 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; they 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." Agnes droned on in that same cool, bland voice. Her ocean-blue eyes were boring holes into the carriage wall over Meya's shoulder,

"King Alden approached Father and struck a deal with him; he wanted the Axel, or at least information on why 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 in her seat, instantly alert. She could feel Gretella tensing up beside her. Arinel was staring unblinking at Agnes's profile. The air was heavy and silent except for bated breaths. Meya felt she could already guess where this was going.

"After that, Father sent me and Persie to Hadrian to train under Baroness Sylvia. He suggested we befriend Coris and Zier. We assumed they were to be our future husbands. Foolishly, I must say."

Agnes spat out the twist, rebuking her naivety. She glanced up at Meya's nonplussed expression, then shook her head with a sigh,

"Father actually meant to spy on them. Learn more about them through our letters. He used us to determine which brother would be the better pawn to turn."

Agnes's fists clenched and trembled. And 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 and exploited by her own father into such a dangerous 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."

Shivers rattled Agnes's voice, as she remembered the fear and uncertainty her father had abandoned her and her sister in, and 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 this time.

"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 meant to confess her sins. I didn't know then, but she had 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 lengthy pause this time, gulping and taking short, quick breaths, and Meya realized she was battling the trauma of the memory that was drawing near. Pressing her palm over her eyes, she finally obliged,

"Mother wrote that Persie was actually born before me. She silenced all the midwives and maids that 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 in anguish, cursing the Graye parents under her breath. Meya could only blink at that shocking revelation. Dragging in a long, shivery breath, she breathed out in a whisper,

"Persephia found that letter, didn't she, my lady?" She guessed, and Agnes recoiled as if whipped, "That's 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...it..."

The whole world around Meya fell deathly silent then. The only voice she could hear was Agnes's, piercing through the dizzyingly violent maelstrom of shattered memories. The glint of moonlight on an iridescent arrowhead. Her own 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 came straight out of a nightmare, what happened after. I remember it clearly." Agnes's dead-looking eyes stared unseeing over her lowered fingertips,

"Persie didn't so much as transformed as...morphed into a dragon. She was screaming—then she was roaring. It was like she was being poisoned. Then, there was a flash of white light. Then—it happened so fast. Her bones elongated and her skull changed shape. Her skin stretched along with them, and metal oozed out of all 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 fire, 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. Especially as she heard the next part of Agnes's story. The most important part.

"Then Sir Klythe came in. The Baron 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—"

Agnes broke off, gaping eyes unblinking as she shuddered wretchedly, recalling the stone-melting heat that had brushed past her. Her hand unwittingly flew to the burnt half of her face. Arinel's hand hovered over her forearm, ready to stop her at the slightest notice.

"I don't remember what happened after very well." Agnes's voice quivered as she clutched tight 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 bad that sometimes I just asked 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 was again sobbing in earnest. She shook her head vigorously, flinging hot tears about her. Meya gazed on 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 that 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, her usually clear, bright blue eyes dimmed by sorrow. Agnes sobbed harder,

"I know." She bent low as if mourning, her forehead almost brushing her lap, "And I know now that 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, but 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 with a labored sigh,

"Sir Klythe sent us a letter every month. The last we heard from him was on Arinel's seventeenth birthday."

She picked up the tale where Agnes left off. From the tone of her voice, Meya felt she was just as fond of the young knight as her own granddaughter. He must have been a decent man.

"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. And maybe some alchemy scrolls for Arinel, too."

The old woman tilted her head at her charge. Her hand was still soothingly smoothing Meya's crown, but her gaze was downcast and distant.

"His ship left Easthaven Port, and it wasn't seen since. It never returned from Everglen."

Meya fell heavily against the cushions, staring from Gretella to Arinel. She had discussed the sunken ships with Jason, Jezia and Deke, of course. She had worried about the lost ores and 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, and the hundreds of families seeking closure amidst 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 clenching once more, even as tears spilled from her eyes, now squeezed shut.

"He's still out there." She forced out, her voice harsh, as if to bolster her confidence as well as everyone else's, "Ashes or alive, we have to bring him home to Father."

At that, Arinel sprang up and swept swiftly over to Meya. As the peasant girl gawked, 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." She suggested. Meya's eyes grew wide, but Arinel pressed on regardless, her voice 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—You and Persephia, if we found her. Please!"

Meya glanced 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 remain undeniably familiar. Little Lord Coris Hadrian was frowning and shaking his head, utterly uncomprehending. Yet, there was no disgust nor fear in his eyes. Only awe and confusion.

"You saved me." The spoilt young Lord breathed, still shaking his head in disbelief, "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,

"This famine ain't your fault. It ain't fair for Johnsy to drag you into our mess."

The rotund boy blinked, glancing down at his swollen, three-tiered belly as he digested it. When he looked back up, 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..." He paused, surprised by his own newfound empathy, then bowed his head in respect, "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 the people of Hadrian and the troops of Amplevale have to ration our bread, we will feed Crosset."

Coris's eyes gleamed with determination, even as his willful voice faded along with the memory. Meya still couldn't recall the events that had led up to this exchange. Still couldn't feel the things she had felt that had spurred her to do the unthinkable. Yet, the fact remains that in becoming the monster she feared, she had saved her whole 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, Meya.

Coris had said. And Meya was beginning to understand, to believe in those words. Hadn't there been people—many 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, the same way 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 flashed in her memory, and Meya understood it now, in a new light. Seven generations—or more—of Greeneye blood, and none the wiser about it. Sooner or later, they would have to return to where they started to forget everything.

Enough lives, human and dragon, had been lost for nothing. Enough dragons have 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 was 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.

Arinel's plea still rang in her ears. Meya frowned uneasily at the notion that had been niggling at her for a while. And she was quite sure Coris had known about it for some time, too.

"About Persephia..." She began hesitantly. Feeling the stares of the three noblewomen now fixed upon her, she hitched up an awkward grin.

"I think we've already found her."