"So—we can transform into dragons?"

Atmund Herzin began, his voice shrill and hesitant, his slight frame wire-taut with shock and trepidation. Even as Coris and Meya nodded their hearty confirmation for the fifth time, Frenix Pearlwater was still not reassured,

"And we can fly? And shoot fireballs? And our limbs can grow back? And our eyes store our memories?"

Meya rolled her eyes, her squashed cheek slipping an inch down her hand she had propped up on her elbow. Ever patient, Coris nodded once again, his benign smile still intact as he gave the dragon boys a subtle nudge forward.

"How does that make you feel?"

Atmund teetered as if caught unaware by a gust of wind, grasping the edge of Coris's study desk just in time to steady himself.

"Lightheaded—but that could have been the blood loss." He added in a sheepish rush, then froze as if seized by a sudden notion. Once he had thawed back to life, he sighed and continued glumly, "If I'd known all this sooner, I could've told Dad whenever I didn't feel like selling blood, and he probably wouldn't have forced me to."

The older teens gulped, unnerved by the dark tale relayed in such a bland, unassuming tone, and Fione deftly steered the topic away,

"These blood sellers get pricked with metal needles every fortnight. Why has nobody ever transformed? There's bound to be some Lattis in those needles." She crossed her arms, glancing at Coris and Meya in turn, then spun around at Arinel's quiet voice.

"Dineira reckoned Jaise's court officials are behind the blood traders. They've probably been told not to mix Lattis with Greeneye blood."

Though she participated in the debate, Lady Crosset seemed occupied elsewhere; her eyes stared out from her ashen face towards emptiness, their blue now deep as the evening sky they reflected. It was as if her body was reacting in the present, but her mind was still reeling from the past. Meya narrowed her eyes in concern, yet contributed her two latts to the pool as if she had noticed nothing,

"Maybe the amount of Lattis also isn't enough for our bodies to react. Took a whole arrowhead for me, according to Coris." She tilted her head towards her husband, who nodded his approval for both suggestions, then turned to young Lord Pearlwater for his input,

"What about you, Frenix?"

Frenix churned his lilac-brown lips as he rubbed the fabric of his cotton sleeve. Avoiding Coris's gaze, he blew a sigh down at his shuffling feet.

"To be honest, if it were a choice between ruler of Pearlwater and dragon, I think dragon's a bit more fun." His level voice left a bitter aftertaste in Meya's ears. He looked up at Coris, a wry grin at one corner of his mouth, then shrugged, "But, in a kinder world, I wouldn't have to choose, would I?"

"What d'you mean?" Meya blurted out, having not been privy to the young Lord's history. Frenix turned to her, then continued in that same dull, morose manner,

"I'm the firstborn. The Pearlwater seat should've been handed down to me. But because I'm a Greeneye, Father said he'd give it to my little brother instead. That's why I was sent all the way to Hadrian from Pearlwater to train." He cocked his head, sarcasm dripping from his emphasized word, then resumed his conversation with Coris with another shrug, "Makes more sense now that I know I'm a dragon. I could torch the whole castle down if I really wanted the birthright."

Frenix left off in a manner just as chillingly innocent as Atmund, who nodded in agreement. Abandoning all effort to liven up the air of bleakness now draped over the room's occupants, Coris sighed and weaved his steepled fingers together, careworn silvery eyes staring past the two pages into space.

"Though it galls me, I'd have to agree." He admitted dispiritedly, the weight of his heart evident in his sagging shoulders. He straightened up, his sharp stare piercing the three Greeneyes lined up before the desk in turn,

"You all must learn to harness your power. Though I would always be thankful for the rescue, it was fortunate you simply burned down half of Lord Crosset's forest, and that Draken and his men escaped unscathed."

Coris's gaze settled upon Meya, naturally drawing all eyes in the room to focus on her as well. Meya shifted in her seat, struggling to ward off the creeping guilt brought about by the unpleasant reminder.

"Yeah, could've been worse." She snorted, throwing her ungrateful prick of a husband a glare of ill-wishing. Turning back to her fellow Greeneyes, she surveyed their rather downplayed reactions with a look of confusion, awe and embarrassment.

"You three are receiving it much better than I did. Why, you didn't seem fettered at all, Lady Heloise?"

She singled out the young maid-of-honor, who hadn't been allowed the chance to speak, and didn't seem inclined to protest, either. In fact, from her fidgeting hands and restless rocking on the balls of her feet, Heloise seemed more desperate to be liberated from the talk than shocked and horrified. The lady started at the sudden attention, offering a forced smile as Meya's rings of glowing green zeroed in on her dimmed irises; Heloise, as always, refused to part with her bracelet.

"Perhaps I need time for it to sink in." She braved a guess as she incessantly fingered her bracelet, then gave a slight tilt of her head towards Meya, "Ever since I've seen you take out your eye, I've begun to realize we're not exactly human, but I hadn't imagined we would be something different altogether."

"It could also be that you're all still deciding whether to believe it." Coris suggested sagely. As if he had sensed Meya's questioning look, he turned around and elaborated, "When I told you the truth, Meya, I had solid proof. You've also actually transformed. You remembered inconsistencies in your past, and you were able to connect the dots. It was irrefutable. I say once these three have experienced their dragon forms, the truth would impact them at full force."

Coris flourished a hand at the aforementioned three as he spun back in his chair. Frenix gawked at Coris's fingers, pale and thin as tallow candles, exchanged a look with Atmund, who shuddered and shook his head vigorously, then back at Coris's glinting eyes, excitement and incredulity bursting out with his words.

"Are you saying we'll have to transform like her, too?!"

"Unfortunately, yes." Coris's affectionate grin brimmed with genuine amusement. Leaning back in his chair, he rested his hand on Meya's rigid arm as she gaped at him, his reassuring pressure focused right over the scar from Krulstaff's arrow.

"Of course, our means of transformation would not involve pain like living death. I'll meet with Lady Jaise tomorrow to glean whatever information she has on dragon transformation."

Coris reached for a loose roll of parchment on the desk then smoothed it out, revealing a map of Latakia. As his subjects crowded around him, he traced a spindly finger on the dotted line of a trade route leading to the eastern duchies, pausing to tap at large dots indicating landmarks and towns,

"The following day, we set off for Hyacinth. If we're lucky, we'll have five days in the Sands of Caesonai to train in relative privacy. After replenishing supplies in Hyacinth, we'd leave behind most of the entourage and pass through the valley of the Blue Mountains. That would give us three more days of training before we enter Safyre."

The surrounding audience nodded and murmured their yes, my lieges, lifting their hands from the margins of the map, which feebly curled back to roughly its earlier tightness. Coris decided to lend the poor thing a hand, glancing at Frenix and Atmund as he twisted the map into a rod-thin roll.

"That would be all for now for you two." He deposited the map at the foot of a pile of books, then clasped his hands and met the boys' blinking eyes with a benign smile, "I believe little Amara expects you for playtime? Better not keep your lady waiting, my fellow knights."

"I'm a knight?" Atmund parroted, his voice a mere breath of disbelief, whereas Frenix had gone a feather's flight ahead of his new friend.

"Can we tell her we're dragons?"

"I'll leave the decision to you." Coris cajoled back in kind after an involuntary jolt, cocking his head in good fun, "Though I'm afraid impressing her with your dragon physique would have to wait until we're well in the Sands."

Frenix smirked, satisfied with the offer. Having roused the still ogling Atmund with a sharp elbow jab in the arm, he sprinted towards the door, the masked Jaisian boy in tow. Now that he was to venture outside his hometown, Atmund would have to tolerate the sight of the naked face. He was allowed to keep his face private for as long as he preferred, though.

The poor door and doorframe were still disoriented from their shattering collision, when Christopher whipped around to his charge, a streak of white-hot fury highlighting his pale cheeks.

"What are we training them for, exactly, Coris?" It was obvious from his strained voice he had tried his utmost to sound plainly curious and not demanding—and failing dismally, he decided he should just let loose—

"I know you're infatuated with your new mistress and you'd like to further her cause, but shouldn't our priority be the mining crisis? The crop failings in the west?"

"Chris!" Fione cried, aghast. Simon grasped his friend's arm, echoing her in an imploring hiss as he risked a fearful glance at Coris. Christopher shook him off, his handsome features twisted by unmasked disgust as he chastised his liege,

"Amplevale is heading fast towards a famine. Simon's mother—your aunt—is pregnant. And she's worried her baby wouldn't come out right!"

"I told you, Mother's being her hysterical old self. Lord Uncle's sent over provisions. They'd be fine."

Simon wearily pacified his fellow squire. Yet, even as he defended his cousin's selfish pursuit, his blue eyes were determinedly looking anywhere but Coris. Silence reigned but for Christopher's rapid breathing, as Coris stared serenely back at him, waiting. Only once the remnants of his outburst had ebbed away did Lord Hadrian speak,

"I'm training them for our voyage to Everglen, Chris."

Meya could almost see the name scrawled out across Christopher's wide-eyed, pallid countenance, as well as those of Simon, Fione and Heloise. Unsurprisingly, as their current post covered only so much ground as Safyre. As far as the squires and maids-of-honor were concerned, the Baron's son was demanding half a country, across a sea and beyond the horizon further than what their duty entailed.

"I have no intention of pleasuring my wife in Safyre while Latakia is being drained of its lifeblood. From both the eastern and the western front."

Paying no heed to the predicament he had landed his subjects in, Coris laid out his argument in his cool, biting manner. Apparently, he had not been so magnanimous as to let their earlier insubordination pass unaddressed.

"Lady Jaise would ramp up supply of mineral-rich water to the most affected settlements in Meriton. All manors would coordinate to ration food. We would also dispatch spies into Nostra and investigate their movements. Meanwhile, I would mount a mission to Everglen and bring back those missing ore ships."

"You suspect Nostra?" Christopher shrank back, his eyebrows creasing in a frown of incredulity.

"The crop failings began in Amplevale and spread eastward. One would naturally assume it could have originated in Chione's Lair and traveled through the Zarel Pass." Coris readily offered his rationale, not flinching even a hair. His patronizing tone had Simon shaking his head in annoyance,

"We know that, Coris! But how could Nostra possibly cause a famine?" He leaned in and propped his hand on the desk, stressing in frustration, "They're mere humans, like us. Even their dragons couldn't have sucked the nutrients out of the earth itself. Not with Neverend Heights in the way!"

"Your father's book, Simon." Coris unfurled his ace, and Simon froze in remembrance. His victory established, Coris pressed on, tapping a finger on the polished wood,

"We can assume dragon research has progressed much further in Nostra than in Latakia. They may have discovered a strategic use of the dragons' ability to absorb nutrients from the soil. We couldn't afford to dismiss any theory."

Coris's final word clapped down like thunder, his gray eyes blazing white. As the four noble servants drew back and met each other's eyes, digesting the astounding revelations and selecting the more delectable morsels upon which to plan their next move, Meya stared at Coris's stricken profile.

Coris had glanced at Meya before hurriedly pacifying Simon. Even in that split-second, Meya could have sworn she saw fear in those unbreakable eyes. The same fear he had betrayed when she lifted up his old bloodstained cloak that night. Was he hiding something from her again? Had Simon mentioned something he did not want her to mull too deeply over?

As Meya kept watch, Coris straightened up and resumed, his voice now soft, yet still with a serrated ice edge.

"Our old friend Gillian is a dragon from Nostra." The mere mention of their old enemy wrenched his audience out of their thoughts like the snap of a finger. Even Meya must grudgingly set aside her misgivings for the time being.

"This famine—and perhaps even the missing ships—could be an attack on Latakia from the Nostran Emperor, possibly to claim a share of Everglen's resources." Coris's sharp eyes settled upon each of them in turn, "But, providing he's alive, it could also be Gillian's plan to hold Hadrian hostage."

Coris paused, and so did his sweeping gaze. The others followed it to its destination, and found Zier pale and blinking, his breathing accelerating in ominous premonition, which was mercilessly confirmed with his brother's grave conclusion;

"In exchange for The Axel."

Meya felt as if air itself had frozen solid, even with the windows opened wide, as the brothers held their gaze. At long last, Zier broke away and stared down at his feet, creaking up a deformed grin,

"I was hoping you wouldn't bring that up."

Coris closed his eyes and sighed deeply, his woven fingers tightening against each other as the tide of traumatic memories rose within him.

"I have no choice but to. Now that we know its importance, we have to bring it out. For your own safety."

A barking laugh rented through the charged silence. Coris's eyes snapped open to find Zier shaking his head in bitter hilarity,

"My safety?" The younger Hadrian spat with a sneer, still shaking his head in derision, "You're cutting my stomach open and rummaging through my innards for a dragon eye. If you're sacrificing me just so the dragons could build this Lattis-cancelling contraption, then at least have the decency to say it like it is!"

Zier's voice rose into a snarl, swallowed by the sound of his fist slamming onto the desktop. Collective gasps rose from Heloise and Arinel, as the others shrank back in alarm. Meya found herself back in that infuriating dilemma of not knowing which brother she should thwack first.

Coris, meanwhile, had not wavered in the slightest. He closed his eyes, not out of exhaustion like before, but with grim determination. His jaws were set, and his cheekbones shone white as the knuckles of his fingers. When he opened his eyes once more, his pale silver soft and warm as moonbeam had darkened to iced steel. His voice was void of emotion.

"Yes. I'm asking you to undergo a surgery to save the humans and dragons of Latakia."

Zier staggered back as if lightning had streaked down and tore up the ground before him. His once brazen blue eyes were now fearful and pleading.

"Surgery?" He breathed hoarsely, stammering in disbelief at his brother's cruel ultimatum, "But—it's hardly ever been done. And most of the test subjects died—they died, Brother! The Royal Council banned it for a reason!" He cried stridently. As Coris met his little brother's beseeching gaze, his blank gray remained solid as his unwavering decision.

"I know it's a great risk, Zier. I know you're scared." His words were hollow as the depths of his pupils, void of empathy, as he plowed on with pure logic,

"But we are in Jaise, the town known for crafting the sharpest blades known to man; obsidian. With Lady Jaise's support, we have alchemists at our disposal. We could carry out research on blood transfusion. Sleeping draughts. Infection treatment. We could make it safe and painless."

"You know sleeping draughts don't work on me!" Zier snapped. "Are you planning to draw my entrails alive?"

"Because you've only ever swallowed them."

The feuding brothers whirled around at Arinel's quiet, lifeless voice. Lady Crosset remained half-immersed in her thoughts, her eyes staring aimlessly into space. Yet, she continued as if she could sense the eyes of the whole room now trained onto her.

"Healers have proposed that the nose is a more direct path to the brain than the stomach." She droned, "If we could create a potent sleeping draught that could be inhaled like incense, it wouldn't have to pass The Axel in your stomach before reaching your head."

At long last, Arinel raised her gaze. She looked first and solely at Zier, and tears of guilt quivered in her ice blue.

"My mother and her master were experimenting on this, the day they died. They were distilling sweet oil of vitriol for use in surgery when their lab exploded." She whispered, her voice trembling.

"A copy of their unfinished treatise survived the fire. Dineira...showed it to me today. She was Tyberne's apprentice at the time."

As if she had reached her breaking point, Arinel turned sharply away. Her shivering hands twisting the fabric of her tattered peasant dress, she concluded weakly,

"The research has been banned. But, with Lady Jaise's support, we might be able to continue it without the Council's knowledge."

As the echoes of her voice died, a silence so dreadful and chilling not even Coris dared to dispel cascaded onto them. After what must have been a dozen Miracle Fests, Zier shook his head slowly and hobbled back, away from Arinel.

"I can't believe you, Ari." He croaked, his healthy complexion now drained of color in its entirety. Raising a trembling hand to point at his brother, he cried out in anguish at his beloved's seeming betrayal, "You're actually helping him to kill me in my sleep!?"

"Have you not been listening, Zier?!" Exasperated, Coris slammed his palms on the desktop and sprang to his feet, frowning in repugnance as if he thought his brother was being deliberately obtuse, "We're going to improve the procedure. We're not blindly drugging you and carving you up with a glass knife. We will do whatever it took to ensure you would be safe!"

"Then go kill those dragons that have been attacking our ships and draining our soil!" Zier yelled, his trembling finger jabbing wildly at thin air then at his belt buckle, as Coris reared back, stunned,

"Two hundred years! This blithering Axel's been stolen from those monsters by my idiot forebear. And they only chose to show up now to claim it back?"

Zier threw out his arms. His trembling smile of derision stretched his cheeks taut over his high cheekbones, as he rounded upon each of his friends and family, challenging them to contradict. Yet, in his eyes, still, the same shadow of fear lay cowering, whimpering for mercy,

"What if it turned out The Axel wasn't what they wanted? The Bumbling Spare needlessly died for The Prodigious Heir's misled cause! A befitting end! Oh, no—we've forgotten. The heir is dying! Who would continue the Hadrian line now?"

Silence held its firm grip as the spare's wide, crazed eyes swept across the throng. Zier whirled around to Coris, who had remained unflappable all through his soliloquy,

"This metal ball—" He snarled, his voice choked with sobs, a shaking hand gouging hatefully at the flesh of his stomach, then tore at his crimson cloak, "and this Hadrian blood—are the only parts of me you—" He thrust an accusing finger at his brother's long nose, then lashed it about him like a whip, "—or anyone—has ever cared about!"

Coris waited out the storm as if he were an empty dam—or rather, an unfeeling wall. And the tempest's stillness only served to fan the flames. Zier faltered back, shaking his head, disbelief and disgust masking the evident pain in his eyes.

"You haven't changed. You don't give a damn how many pawns you'd have to lose, if it would win you the Heist! First yourself. Then Agnes. Then Ari. Then Beau. And now me! " His slashing hand landed with a sound clap upon his chest, then stabbed at the descending night outside the window,

"Everything you've ever done is for duty. For that cursed Lord Hadrian title. You don't know love. You don't know fear. You don't know mercy. You're a coldblooded monster. Like your beloved half-breed mistress. And I was a danged fool to think you could ever be a brother!"

And, with that scorching remark still reverberating in the air, and the ears of those who bore witness, Zier Hadrian swept from the room, slamming the door behind his billowing cloak of blood red.