The heavy drawbridge straddling Jaise's steaming moat buckled and groaned of chronic back pain, as wagon after wagon paraded across in opposite directions behind weary horses. Unsurprisingly, and in perfect contrast to how the average human digestive tract operates, visitors in the arrivals lane were processed much more sluggishly than their counterparts in the departures.

A line of masked guardsmen armored in black fortified the gaping entrance the drawbridge had left in its wake. As Sir Jarl approached on his handsome white mare, two guards standing on either side of the gate tilted their pikes to bar his advance.

There was a brief pause as they took in the striking crimson banners and adornments on the carriages and steeds, before the guard on the left drawled, his voice filtered through the metal grille over his mouth.

"Be this the entourage of Lord and Lady Hadrian?"

"Aye." Sir Jarl affirmed, producing a scroll out of his Hadrian Red cloak and handing it to the guard. The masked man broke the seal, unfurled it, then nodded to his waiting comrade to the right side of the gate, who turned back to Sir Jarl,

"Her Grace has received Baron Hadrian's letter. She is pleased to welcome you all to our humble town." All the guards bowed and straightened up in perfect unison, then the one on the right continued,

"We understand it is of great inconvenience for those unfamiliar with our culture, but while in the open within the Black Walls, all visitors are required to wear the Jaise mask. How many are in your entourage?"

The guard leaned forth and craned his neck, as if to peer into the curtained windows of the carriages and sniff out stowaways. Sir Jarl had been prepared, however; he presented them a second, much thicker scroll, containing the names of everyone from Lord Hadrian to the youngest yeoman.

After about a minute of frantic counting, rushing in and out, and barking orders back and forth, dozens of black drawstring pouches were levered out and dispensed to the visiting party.

Jerald reached out to 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. In addition to the cool, smooth curve of the mask, her fingers brushed against several mysterious vials rolling around at the bottom.

After retrieving the mask, she 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 minuscule stone wands for painting.

Meya remembered how some of the gum farmers had decorated their masks with paint and beads, and she gulped sticky spit down her parched throat.

Fyre, where was Myron when I needed him?

Hoping for assistance, or a fellow soul lacking in artistic talent, Meya sneaked glances at the others. Arinel was sucking on the end of her paintbrush, dithering on what to draw. Over to Lady Agnes, she had ditched her old wooden half-mask and donned the shiny Jaise mask, and was now deftly applying paint to it (as one would cosmetics) while holding a mirror before her.

Gretella hadn't bothered decorating her mask, and was grumbling as she warred with the leather cord now tangled in the loose hair from her bun.

Coris was bent low over his mask, his tongue sticking out, meticulously tracing red curlicues all over the edges. Perhaps sensing Meya's stare, he glanced up and smirked, then went straight back to his art.

Cursing under her breath for a drop of spit to plummet from his tongue and ruin his work, Meya turned around and hollered at Jerald, who had picked up the reins, and was navigating the meandering, booby-trapped tunnel leading away from the main gate (Meya could've sworn she saw murder-holes in the ceiling).

"Sir Jerald, can you help me with this?"

Jerald turned around, and Meya shrank back, unnerved, as the glassy, black, empty eye sockets stare back at her. He raised his hands holding the reins in reply. Despite the lack of eye holes, he seemed to be seeing plainly.

Intrigued, Meya held her mask to her face, and what seemed to be impenetrable black glass from the outside, was somehow just as clear as the windowpanes back in Hadrian Castle on the inside.

"Goodly Freda! It's bright as day in here!" She exclaimed.

"The masks are specially made." Responded Coris's airy voice from her left. Meya turned around to him putting the finishing touches on his mask in green paint; they had breached the torchlit tunnel onto the green lawn between the two concentric walls, and daylight had streamed back in,

"The glass is transparent on one side, and opaque on the other. A strategic function for windows, come to think of it."

After dotting one last pale green spot, Coris picked up his white quill and began spelling out his name on the forehead of the mask. Meya decided to follow suit. She had 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 ditched her pencil, slid on the mask, then poked her head out the window for a look around, and her mouth fell open behind the grille.

She had expected a town draped uniformly in the color of midnight, but the spectacle that arced into her eyes from all directions was as vibrant and eye-watering as if she had stepped into a town where May Fest never ended.

The Jaisians' 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 itself was decorated sporadically with mosaic art, arranged into sentient suns, moons and stars. Narrow canals run parallel to the road, coursing with steaming spring water. Pipes branched out into dwellings and shops along the way, and hot water flowed in along with excited tourists. Alongside them, sewer pipes slithered out and slipped underground unnoticed.

In stark contrast to the bright colors and life, however, several doors were plastered with white banners sporting a triangle colored in black paint— the ubiquitous Latakian symbol of death, but its colors inverted. Names and deathdays were neatly calligraphed under them.

Churning her lips uneasily, Meya withdrew back inside and turned to her personal Latakian encyclopedia,

"Say, Coris?"

"Hmm?" He looked up from his mask with a raised eyebrow, which edged higher when Meya scooted right to his side and leaned close, cupping a hand over her mouth and his ear.

"Has a plague swept through here or something? I'm seeing a lot of houses with death banners." Meya whispered, not wanting to embarrass herself in front of Agnes and Arinel in case she was wildly mistaken. Coris was left blinking blankly for a beat, then he finally caught up.

"Oh. That." His grin widened. Leaning back against the cushions, he cocked his head. "Those people aren't the actual dead. That's why the colors are inverted."

"Huh?" Meya frowned, incredulous. She took a brief glance outside the window. Another white banner coincidentally sailed by right then, and she whirled back with a deeper frown, "Then why in the three lands—?"

Coris chuckled, his eyes fixed upon her gleaming with affection. Looping his arm around her shoulder, he began his tale,

"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 just put up your name and preferred deathday on the bulletin."

"On your designated deathday, while you lay in your coffin, people would come to pay respects. They would deliver eulogies, speaking honestly of your good deeds and bad deeds, of their thanks or grievances, but the worst punishment of all—"

There was a slight pause as Coris unfurled his crafty grin, then, he leaned in and whispered into her ear,

"—is having no-one at all visit you."

Meya couldn't help blowing out a sigh of awe through her agape mouth at that punchline. Staring out at the dazzling, rowdy town once more, she breathed with a chuckle,

"Freda, I'm loving this town already."

Coris laughed in agreement.

"If you love it now, wait 'til you see their bathhouses."

Sure enough, tourists were disappearing into sandstone houses perfectly dry and energetic, and filing out with hair slicked back and shining wet, drowsy grins peeking from behind grilles, and a damp towel on their shoulders.

Meya looked down at her chest, and felt her own cheeks flushing pink. She hadn't been able to afford a dip in the bathhouse back in Crosset, so she'd taken her baths in the (perennially icy) 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, then her precocious breasts would be one for endless ridicule, gossip, and scandalized looks. According to them, the size of your pillows reflected the looseness of your character. Remembering the circumstances in which she had lost her virginity, Meya had to shamefully admit that for once, they may be right.

Shoulders hunched, eyes low and chin on her chest, Meya folded in on herself. Coris blinked, alarmed at that unexpected reaction, but, before he could investigate, their 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 circular sandstone plaza. At the heart of the jammed roundabout, stood a gigantic fountain blanketed with black mosaic and shrouded in vapor. A pillar of stone arced over the water zenith like a rainbow, Jaise's motto carved onto it in large, bold letters:

Sharper When Broken

All around, tourists were pouring out of their wagons and making their way to the fountain. Some carried jars, brass goblets, ale mugs and repurposed wine bottles. Some even toted barrels.

Craning his neck to see if there was any space for edging forth, and seeing none, Jerald sighed and turned to Coris.

"The women can get down here and have a walk around. We'll come pick you up for dinner in the castle later."

He turned to address Gretella and the three girls, who in response began gathering their belongings. Coris followed suit, snatching his cloak and gold.

"I'll accompany them for a while." He explained as he sprang up, looping the drawstring of his moneybag around his belt and fastening it. Slipping on his mask, he ducked outside and jumped down first, then helped Jerald ease the women down, starting from Meya, then Agnes, Arinel and Gretella.

Arinel's mask was adorned with drawings of flowers and herbs, whereas Agnes had inked a stunning outline of a white peacock, with his elaborate tail cascading down her left cheek.

Though Coris hadn't uttered a thing, Meya could already feel her face roasting beneath her mask. Looking pointedly away, she picked up the hems of her dress and stalked off aimlessly, all too well aware of the lonely, ugly "I" smack in the middle of her forehead.

By the time Coris had caught up with her, Meya found herself skidding to a halt before one of the dozens of roadside stands. This particular shop was 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 laid out before her on a threadbare rug, while her glass mask shone like the rows of glazed pottery also available for sale.

Her pottery were unlike any Meya had ever seen. If Meya had to describe them, she would say they were more like broken shards of clay glued together by gold, silver and copper.

She knelt down and selected a bowl to examine, 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 in acknowledgement of his presence, setting the bowl down and roughly surveying the rest of the goods on display, "Makes me think of glass."

Coris picked up a miniature spearhead on a leather cord, and pressed its tip gently against the flesh of his pale index.

"Jaise's most lucrative export is volcano glass blades. Favored by assassins and healers alike." He regaled her with his vast knowledge as he loved to,

"Obsidian reveals its deadliest edge only when broken. Sharper and thinner than even the finest steel. Hence the motto."

"Could the same be applied to people, though?" Meya challenged. Setting down the obsidian flint, Coris pursed his lips in thought, then cocked his head.

"Well, you know the saying; What doesn't kill you makes you stronger."

"That poison didn't make you stronger." Meya raised her eyebrows in jest, realizing only too late that Coris couldn't see. Coris was taken aback, then he snickered.

"Not physically; mentally." He corrected wearily. Meya shook her head with a chuckle.

"I know! I'm just messing with you. But, seriously though, why would you want people to break you?" She pressed. From his frozen posture, Coris seemed to be blinking, and Meya explained herself,

"Each time glass breaks, it loses a part of itself, and it gets smaller, and sharper, more of a danger to everyone who handles it. And, even if you try to put it back together, it just falls apart."

Coris went still for a beat, then he turned away to explore the array of merchandise. He let his hand roamed for a while, before choosing a handle-less, 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 that what is broken could become whole again, and their scars are what makes each of them unique."

Meya looked up from the cracked cup she was appraising, intrigued. Coris's smile widened, then he tilted his head.

"Some men prefer to lead sheltered lives, and remain forever whole and unscathed. Whereas the unfortunate are born on the mouth of hell, and the adventurous seek out the steepest cliffs. Many would fall and shatter, but only the remarkable few would pick up the pieces of their lives, and rebuild it into a unique work of art."

As Meya pondered over those words, Coris turned to ask the vendor for the price. He extricated a silver coin from his pouch and handed it to the old lady, then clasped his hand over the green-and-gold cup and Meya's slack fingers.

As if he could sense Meya's eyes gawking at him, he whispered as 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 before them, rising up amidst the band of milling crowds, then led her by 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, her eyes following the jet of water to the fountain's crest. Then, she felt Coris's icy hand slipping away. She whirled around, and Coris was already a few steps apart.

"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."

With that, he turned around and strode back towards their carriage (which had barely inched forward). Meya stared after his back until the last fluttering sliver of his crimson robe vanished into the doorway, absently fingering the icy, smooth surface of the cracked cup, which had not warmed to the touch of his bloodless hands.