The muffled shouting from the other side of the door subsided into murmurs, then gave way to the still night, leading the women in the conjoined bedroom to breathe a collective sigh of relief.

Out of the gloom, a triangle of brownish orange light blossomed from the opening door, backlighting the silhouette of a young woman with glowing green eyes suspended in thin air.

Noticing the glinting eyeballs all staring back at her, Meya froze, then added her own sigh to the pile as she closed the door softly behind her, sheepishly asking the obvious.

"So, you all heard that ruckus?"

The other girls nodded. Heloise braved a timid follow-up,

"What were they fighting about?"

Meya shook her head.

"Nah, just had a heartfelt talk."

She grumbled. After a quick survey revealed no other sufficient empty spots, she gathered her nightdress then settled down on the mat before the door. Fione edged to the foot of her hay mattress, blankets bundled around her,

"Are you sure? That sounded pretty explosive." She challenged with a hint of a grin in her voice. Meya shrugged,

"Take it or leave it, my lady." She retorted flatly as her eyes wandered the moon-bathed floor. The venom in her tone sent the room's occupants tensing up once more, especially as those eerie, glowing eyes shot up and glared knowingly at Fione. "I'm not recounting their every word to you. Not tonight—Maybe ever."

Having ended her tirade in a sullen mutter, Meya shifted sideways and stared morosely out the window. A pause of uneasy silence interluded as Agnes turned her worried gaze to Arinel in counsel. At her determined nod, the scorched lady rose onto her knees then treaded her way over to Meya. She slumped down beside her and took her hands.

"Meya, I know this may sound shamelessly demanding—" Meya succumbed to a quick glance before turning sharply back. Her sign of relent was encouraging, "—But please, forgive Lord Coris. Just once more."

In the moonlight, Arinel could see Meya's silhouette tensing in shaky resolve. Agnes squeezed her hands, pleading in earnest,

"The laudanum—it destroys our reason. It alters our very selves. It binds us to it, life and body." Her voice broke into a shudder of fearful remembrance, and Meya spun slowly towards her, eyes wide in alarm. "I'm sure he hadn't wanted to lie to you. He might have even tried to wean himself off it, but the hunger was too great for him to resist."

Agnes stared unseeing down at her lap. By the time she glanced back up, Meya had already tore her gaze away, and Agnes shook her hands in desperation.

"These following days are crucial. He'll need you as he fights the withdrawal, more than ever." She begged and reasoned, bowing to the peasant girl, who hastily grasped her shoulders to stop her,

"Please. Take pity on him, at the least."

The impatient silence washed back in to reign supreme the instant her words died. Meya gingerly withdrew her hands, having made made sure Agnes wouldn't topple face-first to prostrate before her again. Her countenance, half-lit by moonlight, was of sorrow and indecision.

"Of course I won't abandon him now, Haselle."

At long last, she reassured her with a sigh. Taking Agnes's hands in turn, she leaned against the door, behind which her troublesome beau laid awake, awaiting her return. Her weary eyes staring into space, she gave a feeble shrug,

"But, after he recovers...I dunno. It might've already been one lie too many."

Her honest verdict reverberated in the night, anticipated yet chilling nonetheless, as it could very well become the end of a dreamlike love affair that had already endured staggering odds.

"Lady Jaise is right—He's a Hadrian. He'll always have his duty, his priorities, his circumstances, which don't include me."

Meya continued in that same soft, level voice, shaking her head numbly,

"I've known from that first night. I should've been prepared to lose him at any time, but I'm not. And tonight proved just how much."

Meya shivered, probably seeing her piteous state tonight flashing by before her eyes. Having been independent and indomitable her whole life, it must have been harrowing to acknowledge how vulnerable and helpless she could be in the face of loss.

"I've never lost control like that in my entire life—and I'm not ready to go through it again." She confessed, her voice undulating through an onslaught of staunched tears, then turned away once more, ending with a resolute command.

"I need to think, so please don't pester me about this right now."

Meya's voice was undercut with such finality, even the girls of noble birth made no move to contradict, save for a large serving of fidgeting and worried glances. As if to quell the brewing dissent, Meya turned to Arinel with an abrupt demand.

"You still owe me an answer, Lady Arinel."

Arinel averted her eyes from those probing, glowing dragon orbs. Even as she knew in her fluttering heart that it was futile, she tried to evade.

"To what question?"

"I asked what was wrong with you. You've looked dreadful all day." Meya rebuffed, flat and impatient. Arinel forced out a scoff, shaking her head with a patronizing smirk.

"Don't try shifting pressure onto me; I am perfectly fine."

"Very well. If the Lady insists on playing the fool, I shall tell you myself."

Arinel whirled around as that harsh voice rented through the silence. Gretella had sat upright, and was shifting against the pillows supporting her curving back. She turned and surveyed the wide-eyed girls one-by-one, one brown eye reflecting the splash of moonlight on her face.

"My daughter Erina was murdered by the alchemist Dineira Sameri." Her blunt revelation drew gasps from around the room. Arinel dipped her head into her hands in shame, never one to burden others with her private affairs. Yet, Gretella went on in that same bold, ruthless manner,

"She put her and Tyberne to sleep, stole their treatise, then set the lab on fire."

Through the gaps between her fingers, Arinel saw Meya's questioning eyes, asking for proof. Naturally, Gretella had anticipated it.

"The Lady found the treatise hidden in her lab." Gretella cocked her head towards Arinel, who hastily closed her finger-blinds and cowered lower. She desperately wished for more fingers to plug her earholes, especially as Gretella added, "But the Lady is reluctant to expose her; she fears it would hinder Dineira's work on dragons."

The word ricocheted in the silence despite the heavy implications it carried. Arinel peered fearfully through her fingers. Gretella was eyeing the dumbstruck Meya, and she steeled herself for the fallout.

She had anticipated Meya's reaction. She wouldn't begrudge her friend for prioritizing the living dragonkind over some dead lab maid that happened to be Arinel's mother. Yet, she couldn't explain why she was also silently praying she would be wrong.

At long last, Meya turned to her. Arinel had been expecting hesitance. An excuse. Perhaps an apology. But all Meya had for her was disbelief bordering on exasperation.

"So that was why you were in my room? You wanted my permission to avenge your mother?" She demanded in a shrill voice, jabbing a finger towards the door, then her chest, then Arinel's. Arinel avoided those bulging eyes, and Meya swore with a curse so obscene Agnes and Heloise cringed in unison,

"Why in the three lands—You act as if nobody else in Latakia could study dragons!"

"I've said as much." Gretella sniffed. Shaking her head in annoyance, Meya sprang to her feet and marched towards the bed,

"I swear to Freda, you and Coris would make a great pair." Arinel watched her somewhat misshapen toes coming to a stop before her. Arms akimbo, the peasant girl lectured down at her unresponsive form. "Listen, Lady. I wouldn't hack through Zier's guts to liberate my kind. And I wouldn't bargain for it with justice for your mother, neither!"

"She's not my mother!" Arinel finally succumbed, the force of her outburst throwing Meya a half-step back. Seeing her confusion, she turned sharply away and took a calming breath, then explained,

"You won't understand. Your parents married for love. And your mother loves raising children." As she heard her own words, she felt weak with burning envy for the peasant girl before her. Her head bowed and her shoulders sagged as another sigh deflated her. She continued bitterly,

"My mother's different. She hadn't wanted to be a mother, and she was forced into it. I'm sure she loathed to think of herself as my mother. After all, I'm the spawn of the man who raped her."

"How do you know that?" The challenge came from Gretella this time. Arinel turned to her. Those lined features were stricken with both reproach and sorrow. Of course, being Erina's loving mother, Gretella wouldn't understand as well. No-one would understand. Which was why it was wisest to keep these thoughts to herself. Arinel shook her head with another sigh, carelessly throwing out a jaded retort.

"Isn't it obvious, Grandmother?"

Gretella's eyes narrowed on her stony face.

"In my six decades, never have I met two mothers who are alike. It's not obvious, Arinel."

She wrapped it up with a hiss so vicious, it petrified even Meya and Fione. Naturally, they wouldn't expect the ever fawning, reverent Gretella to snap at her darling little Lady.

Yet, even at her insistence, Arinel couldn't bring herself to believe. Alchemists operated on proof, and there was no proof. Just biased opinions and vague guesses. And the uncertainty brought in a wave of loneliness so freezingly cold, she curled inwards and hugged herself for comfort, trying with all her might to strangle the cry of longing, of need that threatened to burst out of her.

As she wallowed in her feelings of lacking, Gretella turned to the other girls, her level voice streaked with pride,

"My Erina was one rebellious lass. Even more so than you, I'd say." She gestured at Meya, who raised her eyebrow skeptically. And Gretella doubled down on her claim,

"Get this; I'm her mother, and I wasn't the first to learn she was pregnant; curst lass thought I'd go straight to tell Lord Crosset! By Freda, I'd have spanked her buttocks raw had she not been eighteen and pregnant. What in the three lands did she make of her own mother? Like mother, like daughter, I'd say!"

She sniped at Arinel, jolting her out of her reverie, then turned back to her wide-eyed audience,

"Sir Bayne was the first to find out. And even that was by accident."

The level of focus in the room was so intense, the very air seemed to be holding its breath. Gretella wetted her dry lips then went on,

"Sir Bayne was a child of rape himself." She revealed amidst horrified gasps from the girls, and Arinel couldn't help setting aside her long-held beliefs and accepting new information for once,

"He didn't try to persuade or punish Erina, even when she made no secret of what she was planning to do. All he did was bring her to see his mother, Lady Arynea."

As if she knew Arinel was listening, Gretella's gaze slanted to her, and the next part of her tale was directed at her.

"Sir Bayne told me that all Erina had feared was that she would not love the babe. But after talking with his mother, Erina decided by herself to keep the babe, and the Lady persuaded Lord Crosset to let her continue practicing alchemy safely."

Arinel felt as if her heart was slowing to a stop. It was unbelievable. Yet she craved to believe. Gretella heaved a deep sigh, her distant eyes now brimming with guilt,

"Bishop Tyberne never once complained. He did everything possible to make sure Erina was safe. All these years I blamed him, when I should've known she could never have died because of his carelessness."

The old lady broke off, overcome by guilt, sobbing into her hands. Arinel couldn't help but peel them gently from her tearstained face, warming them between hers. Gretella pulled out a hand and clasped it over hers. A puddle of her tears formed on it in no time.

"Erina told me she'd name you in honor of Lady Arynea if you were a girl, and Bishop Tyberne if you were a boy." She choked out. And Arinel's eyes widened as the realization hit her.

Her name. Why had she never noticed? It was so similar to her aunt's. Derived from the same rune of light, arinn. Just as the Lady had been a light for her mother in her darkest time, Arinel herself was also her light.

As the truth permeated every inch of her being, like a warm, spreading mass of light, driving away her lonesomeness, she heard Gretella's voice as if from faraway.

"She decided on the names herself. I stumbled onto the entry in her diary, dated barely a week before that day."

Arinel raised her eyes and followed Gretella as she twisted away and reached for the bedside cabinet. From the open drawer, she extracted a small, nondescript book, then rested it on Arinel's trembling hands.

"Had I known you have always carried this doubt within you, I would have given this to you sooner."

Gretella confessed guiltily. Arinel leafed through the pages one at a time, yet her hands were shaking so hard, she could barely make out the words on white linen in the faint moonlight.

There were dates and margin scribbles. There were alchemic formulas and hidden love letters; even as she served as a mistress to her father, she had begun an intimate affair with Sir Bayne. There were also explicit drawings; Erina had meticulously documented changes in her body throughout her pregnancy.

She had noted how some music she had been treated to by the castle minstrels seem to elicit a flutter, or a flurry of sickening kicks from baby Arinel, and how Arinel had stirred to her voice as she went about her day.

And Arinel couldn't help blushing at her grumbling entries of how her swelling belly hindered her spells of pleasure with Sir Bayne, and her unabashed, at times borderline blasphemous fantasies that she hoped would enhance their performance.

Grandmother was right; Mother was even worse than Meya.

But if anything, it made Arinel even more fiercely proud of her.

She was unafraid and unapologetic and ever curious. And she, despite it all, ultimately loved Arinel. The more she read, the more she ached to know, the more she burned with resentment for the woman who had taken her wonderful mother from this world...from her...so soon.

"Erina had never once blamed you." Gretella concluded, her voice squeaky and choked with tears. She had tugged up the frilly collar of her nightdress to dab at her eyes. She shook her head, reminiscing, lamenting,

"She was selfless...fearless...tireless. Even as Freda punished her for daring to challenge sacred truths, pushing the restraints of women...she believed neither a babe nor a lord nor a god would stop her from what she wanted."

Gretella buried her face in her dress, overcome by grief. Arinel thought she would not surface for a while, but then she looked up and stared into her eyes, chastising weakly,

"So why would you ever let doubt stop you?"

"Grandma—"

Gretella's arms received her as she fell into her embrace, her trembling shoulders soaking up her spilling tears. Through her nightdress, she could feel the callouses on Meya's hand chafing lightly on her back, as Agnes's smooth palm slid down her hair. And she collapsed in relief.

All her life, she had kept her fears to herself. She wasn't brave enough to reveal her wounds even to her family or the boy she loved, so that they could help treat them.

Like a shell she had lived as they festered and scabbed within her. Without a mother to assure her that she was loved, that she was worthy of life, that she wasn't wrong for being born, she sought closure by living to please others, putting their wishes above her own.

That in itself was not an evil, of course, but one could only give so much, before one would be left empty and bone dry.

So, for once, Arinel decided to take. To let their shared tears fill her husk of a self into a living soul. For once, her wishes would take priority. One must stand for at least something, no matter at what cost, if one were to truly be alive. And one of those things was honoring her mother's legacy.