The warden closed Meya's wrists in a pair of iridescent, Lattis-coated shackles hung from hooks in the wall, traversed the narrow, fenced walkway to the heart of the crossroads, then scaled down the rungs jutting from the tower's dividing wall with practiced nimbleness.

As Meya followed her progress towards the bustling hallway below, cool, refreshing wind fluttered her hair from behind. She turned to face the breeze, peering through the sand-colored bars to the city outside. Under blazing sunlight, a choppy sea of flat, sand-colored rooftops blanketed the desert, all the way to the gaping mouth of the valley, which was cast in shadow by the mountains on either side.

Rising high above the waves were scores of hollow towers with beveled bars for walls. Some had four sides, like the one Meya was in. Some had six, and some as many as eight. All built of sand-colored adobe. All of varying heights. Yet her tower seemed to be the tallest—a mark of its owner's peerless wealth and authority.

The soft jangling of chains echoed into her ears, then a voice hollered across the divide,

"Oi, new girl! What's yer name? Where ya from?"

Meya whipped around to find her fellow prisoner wedged into the opposite corner of the tower. She commanded an intimidating presence; had she been upright, Meya predicted she would've stood two heads taller and twice as wide as her. Much like Meya, her arms dangled from rusty iron shackles on either side of her head—tanned, toned and thick as logs. Her bare breasts rested over twin rows of muscle. She drew up her legs and crossed them on the wooden box, which served as her seat as well as latrine, cocking her shaven head with a grin,

"I know those teats. Yer pregnant? Whatcha in for?"

Meya's cheeks burned. She wished she still had enough hair to cover her attributes. She hitched up a wry smirk, straining her already aching shoulders against gravity,

"Meya of Crosset. Impersonated a noblewoman." She called across the chasm. The woman blinked, then folded her lips and smacked a kiss of amusement,

"Ooh. Highbrow." She crooned, then added, "Name's Mithrin, by the way."

"What did you do?" Meya returned the favor. Mithrin's smile widened, revealing a sliver of yellowed upper teeth.

"Me hubby's too pretty, so I fixed that."

She topped off her vague statement with a wink, and Meya shivered even amid the heat, as her imagination ran wild inside her brain. Hoping to distract it, she turned instead to study the silent prisoner in the corner between them. An emaciated, wasted lady with long, straggly soot-colored hair streaked with white, she sat slumped and listless, glassy eyes staring into air.

"Save yer breath. That one's a goner." Mithrin advised, then elaborated at the sight of Meya's questioning look, "Stole a baby from the School for herself. Crazy, innit?"

Meya's heart lurched in equal parts pity and fear. Licking her parched lips, she asked on,

"How long she in for? And you?"

"Five years. Two left." Mithrin answered, then cocked her head at her defeated cellmate, "Twelve, two done."

Meya gawked at that.

"You sure it's not the other way 'round?" She challenged. Mithrin exploded with laughter, swaying against her bonds, then pitched the conversation back over,

"Sure as the sun. You?"

Meya deposited her weight against the wall behind with a sigh.

"I'm just here until my Lord leaves. I'll be tried for real in good ol'Crosset." A chill rushed down her spine as she was reminded of her predicament—no, theirs. Meya looked down, but all she could see were her stupid pillows; wee-Coris was still too wee for the bulge to reach past her ample breasts. Her hands trembled with a burning, torturous itch. It was the least a mother could do, but she couldn't even comfort the babe with a mere pat.

Grinding her teeth against the tide of fear, guilt and loneliness, Meya peered at the tiny heads sailing by on the hallway far below, some bare skin and some covered with short tufts of hair, as if hoping to see a familiar dark-brown head come to a stop beneath this one tower among the hundreds in this warped little town, see that familiar pale, gaunt face and beautiful silvery eyes, looking up to her with that gentle, reassuring smile. She shook her head out of it and back to reality, chastising herself for the moment of weakness.

The little wooden trapdoor of the latrine-seat chafed against her bum. She nudged the lever on the ledge with her foot, and the two halves fell away beneath her, revealing bottomless darkness—probably a pipe leading outside the tower and straight to the cesspit.

An amusing idea crossed her mind.

"Say, they realize we can chuck our shite down there, right?" She perked up and confided in her new friend, jerking her chin at the potential victims milling about like ants far below. Mithrin tilted her head left to right as she pictured the gratifying scene.

"If you could get your hands free, of course." She wiggled her tethered wrists, jangling the chains.

"How are we supposed to eat and drink?" Meya queried. Mithrin lowered her feet onto the ledge. A bowl of water, like that of Meya's, sat nearby. She nudged it before her with her foot, then cupped it between her feet.

"There we go." She deposited the bowl on the seat with a grunt, lowered her legs again, then squeezed the bowl between her thighs. She looked up at Meya with a smirk, then nodded down at her rigid abdomen, "This how I got these buns."

Mithrin raised her thighs and bent down in demonstration, slurping noisily from the bowl. Meya fell against the wall with a thud, closing her eyes as despair engulfed her at the realization; there would be no clean escape for this.

Meya was no stranger to the chains, of course, but this would have to be the worst, even worse than the time she was punished in the Famine. Back then, she had the comfort of knowing it would end after ten whips. She could graze her hand on the Lattis shackles and transform, perhaps, but there was no telling what destruction she would wreak in her blind agony, what chaos she would leave in her wake, if a dragon were to take to the sky of Hyacinth.

And where would she run? How would she survive? What about Arinel? What about Coris? What about the babe she now carried? These invisible shackles were even harder to break than Lattis. Impossible, even.

To think that a week ago, her biggest worry was skinned buttocks.

Another gust of wind lambasted her, robbing more heat from the poisonous metal burning against her wrists. Its chilled touch reminded her of the ice shackles that had fettered her a mere month ago, and she had slipped through.

If only things were that simple now.

⏳

(Three days earlier)

"Whatever happens, I'll protect you."

Coris repeated with a tender smile, yet he wasn't there. His words warmed her heart, as it did that day. And, now that the novelty had subsided, she'd decided she must hate it.

The old Meya would not hesitate to protect herself. To save her own life, just like she did in that forest, and on that moor.

What have I become? What have you turned me into, Coris? A woman?

Meya's hands trembled. She thought it wise to set the chamberpot down before she would drop it. Nestled in the nook created by three boulders was a mound of churned earth, horse manure and hay. Divided down the middle, two patches of stringy white stalks poked out through the fibers of yellow hay, tapering into two green, thin blades, like a hare's ears.

On the left was wheat. On the right was barley. Either she was expecting a boy and a girl, or a babe who was two in one. Meya had no idea how that would play out in reality.

Straddling the chamberpot between her legs, Meya sank to her haunches with a sigh, tugged down her underpants, and commenced the flow. All these retching and nips to the bushes contributed to her constant thirstiness, and she'd been getting the evil eye from members of the entourage this past week.

There was no denying it now—she was pregnant. And neither could she deny the unbidden leap in her heart at the sight of those familiar little sprouts, at the notion of carrying the essence of the man she loved inside her, nurturing it to life.

Still, the horror of giving birth, the bleak reality of raising children, the shame of mothering a nobleman's illegitimate child aside, wouldn't that make her one of the countless women she had scorned?

If she gave birth to this thing then settled down to raise it, how was she different from the scores of mediocre women across the three lands, whose ultimate dream was to bear children? From Madam Krulstaff? From Madam Gretgorn? From—Meya shuddered—Mum? She would turn into the very thing she had sworn at the age of three never to become.

Oh, Freda. What would young Meya think? Would she be able to face her? The damage was done; Old-Meya wouldn't have batted an eyelid when the time came to choose. This Meya had probably batted dozens in the time it took to empty her bladder.

Should she listen to old-Meya, though? Old-Meya was bitter, lonely, stuck in a rut. Friendless and loveless. She was new-Meya now. She wanted to make a difference in these three lands—but even new-Meya couldn't do that with a dead weight hanging down her front, nor a squealing, kicking one in her arms.

The choice of ending it also came with its own brand of dilemma. The babe had no soul, let alone a heartbeat. Still, it was a joint creation of her and Coris's. Meya couldn't shake the guilt, the fear of possibly coming to regret it someday, and knowing there was no return. Not to mention the procedure itself was grisly to picture. Would it be simple, like drinking laxative tea? Or would the healer reach inside her guts with some red-hot blacksmith tongs to scrape the thing out?

At the gruesome image, Meya sensed an oncoming wave of nausea which had nothing to do with the picky-eating squatter in her belly. She shook it out of her head. After upending her chamberpot over the mound of sprouts as farewell gift, she trudged back to camp.

It was the fourth morning after the horses' sickness came to light, and the steeds were finally back on their feet. Under Coris's leadership, the entourage thrived on water ferried from the qanats, and bread traded with occasional wagons passing by, carrying rapists convicted in Jaise, headed for Hyacinth's man-brothels.

The wagons were all captained by Hyacinth women. All of them tall and muscular. Their broad shoulders blanketed in ink of all colors, their hair closely-cropped or entirely done away with.

Despite his promise to train Zier, Coris would venture off alone with a wheelbarrow, donning his skin-tightest trousers and most colorful tunic, his hair neatly combed back and his face lightly powdered. After a few minutes of negotiation, he'd return with the wheelbarrow laden with meat and bread, receiving sympathetic pats on the back from fellow men for his "sacrifice".

According to one queasy-looking Christopher, Coris was the only man in the entourage who resembled the ideal Hyacinth male physique. In other words, coupled with his handsome (albeit emaciated) features, he'd be the Marin of this topsy-turvy town.

Ingratiating himself to the warden would save them a few gold coins, true, but was it worth the blow to his already tattered manly pride? On one hand, Meya admired Coris's unwavering dedication to his duty, but she despised that tendency to cast aside his own feelings in the process.

Shaking her head as she reminisced, Meya scanned the clearing for her fellow Greeneye ladies. They were about to set off to the first qanats; Lady Hyacinth had left them supplies there, along with a guide—and Meya would have to don her Arinel disguise once more. So long to her mane of rose gold. Dorsea promised her innovative dye recipe would be less damaging, though, and Meya was relieved.

And she hated it. Since when had Meya Hild ever given two farts about the state of her hair?

Meya noticed Dorsea's head of squiggly black hair bobbing amid the small throng of women gathered around a chair. The chair had produced two additional chubby, kicking legs apart from its original four, and seemed to be emitting high-pitched protests. Meya weaved her way through a dozen scurrying servants to Dorsea's broad backside.

"I smell chaos. What's cooking, Latakians?"

She made her presence known with a bright greeting. The women spun around then moved apart, revealing a head of glossy black curls sitting atop the chair's backrest. Meya recognized it to be that of little Lady Amara Hyacinth.

"Lady Amara demands I cut her hair against her will, and I refuse to!" Dorsea crossed her arms and thrust up her chin, brass scissors clutched in one hand and a comb in the other. Meya nodded along to her report.

"Very well—What?" She squawked, having just registered the lack of sense in that sentence. Dorsea opened her mouth to fume in more detail, but Amara's whine beat her to it—

"I can't go home like this! Mother would kill me!" Amara squirmed in her seat, tugging and clawing at her curls. Dorsea's hands shot out on instinct, but froze just in time—a commoner couldn't lay one finger on a noble without permission, let alone restrain her.

"But you love your hair like this, don't you?" She argued; verbal counsel was allowed, at the least. Amara's hands balled into fists around her hair. She pulled them like curtains to shield her downcast face.

"I—d-d-don't! Mother says I don't." She choked out, voice thick with tears, then topped it with a shrill command, "Just cut it off!"

As Dorsea stood paralyzed in a dilemma, a wave of murmurs overtook the ringing silence from the surrounding women.

"What in the three lands is going on in that town?" Old Philema shook her head, arms akimbo.

"Apparently they solved it all by switching women and men, end of story." A fellow middle-aged maid tossed in a pithy quip.

"I know. Ingenious, isn't it?" A younger voice piped up in support. Meya turned towards it, then frowned in utter confusion. The woman seemed barely into her twenties, with needles of golden hair tracing the shape of her skull like manicured grass, and glowing green eyes—but Meya couldn't remember ever seeing this woman in the entourage before.

The stranger strode up to Amara's front, then crouched down with a wide smile,

"My lady, you should be happy. Hyacinth is right. It's high time we women are noticed for more than our attributes and decorations."

The woman tilted her head left and right as she chattered, her nose high and her shoulders rippling. Meya recognized that aloof bearing then, and she blurted out, unsure—

"Tissa?!"

"—who no longer bothered growing her hair back out after transforming." Tissa confirmed without a hitch. She acknowledged Meya with a side-eye, then flicked over a wink, "They say the longer your hair, the more blood is needed to feed it instead of your brain, you know? My head feels light as a feather and my focus sharp as broken glass right now."

Having said, she dragged her fingers through her blanket of freshly-cut autumn grass hair, as if to underline her statement. Meya hadn't had time to weigh its merits, before a light tug on her hair had her jolting out of her skin.

"Fyr's Bollocks—Coris?!" Meya whirled around to find the Hadrian heir with his mischievous grin. He held a sheaf of her hair in his aloft hand. Meya gawked, incredulous, as he bowed and pressed his nose to it, "Is this what you're here for?"

Eyes closed, Coris sucked in a lungful of her hair's perfume and sighed out his contentment.

"Just cherishing my last moments with your rose gold before you turn into Arinel." Letting her hair fall free, he resurfaced with a drunken, giddy grin, which vanished after one glimpse at Amara. Her face was still shrouded behind a fountain of ebony curls, which dripped crystal-clear drops of tears.

"Amara?! What's wrong?"

"I got sand in my eyes!" The little lady resurfaced with a roar, "You got a problem, Hadrian?"

Amara's violet eyes blazed from gaps in her seaweed-like hair. Coris reared back, but recovered in a blink. His lips unfurled a smile of mild amusement.

"Ah. I see you're adapting to your native habitat." He nodded in an attempt at feigned graveness. Dorsea was growing ever desperate.

"Please—Don't let her go through with this, my liege." She joined hands in prayer over her scissors and comb, attracting Amara's death glare to her instead,

"Just cut it, will you!" She barked, sounding all of a sudden twice more masculine, jabbing a thumb at her still feminine hairstyle.

As the gathering held its breath, Coris glanced between two starkly different yet equally stubborn faces, his expression blank. After a pause, he knelt down before Amara,

"Amara, we'll only be staying in Hyacinth for a few days. Your mother would understand if you leave your hair the way it is. The choice is yours."

"My liege, that's not—" As Coris straightened up, Dorsea stepped forth with a protest, but was halted by her master's hand on her shoulder. Coris's gaze was sympathetic as he shook his head.

"Amara's still a child, Dorsea. We shouldn't force her to fight centuries of tradition if she's not ready." He reminded, firm yet not unkind. The earnest maid heaved a sigh, then jerked out a few grudging nods. Having dissolved the conflict, Coris donned his sly smile once more then strode back to resume his duties—but not before leaning in for one last whiff of Meya's hair.

"So long, my precious."

Meya whipped around, but he was gone before his whispered farewell had faded, on his way to oversee a supplies wagon being loaded.

"Make it ugly. Like you just want it out of the way when you're fighting?" Meanwhile, Amara was describing her new style to her barber. Dorsea rattled in place like an overheated tea kettle bouncing on a stove.

"I can't do this! You do it." She snapped, thrust her tools into Tissa's hands then flounced off, probably to find a good spot to scream in private.

"Gladly." Tissa usurped her place behind Amara with a smirk. Snapping her scissors, she turned to her fellow Greeneye, "Want a cut, too, Philema?"

Philema's hand flew up to feel her hair, still in that tousled just-woke-up ponytail.

"Oh, don't bother. I'd just cover mine up with a bonnet." She offered a quick, forced smile before hurrying off, leaving Tissa to seek other prey. At the sight of those cold, appraising eyes and gleaming scissors, however, the other women backed away with mumbled excuses, then scattered like the blades of Miracle Fest fireworks.

Meya found herself remaining, somehow. Tissa propped her hands on her hips, huffing in both disappointment and gratification.

"What was I expecting?" She muttered. Noticing Meya's gaze, she jerked her head in Philema's direction, then set to work combing Amara's hair into one tamable bunch. "You know, I'd give her my womb if I could. The way she looks at kids with such longing in her eyes. Makes me gag. Do something else with your life, for Freda's sake."

She spat as she snip-snipped away Amara's curls with contempt-fueled vigor. Meya watched as those lustrous black crescents tumbled onto Amara's shoulders, then slid off from the tremors of the little girl's suppressed grief.

"My mother gave up her fame and freedom to become a housewife." She mused, more to herself than to Tissa, shrugging as she felt the latter's stare, "Twenty years on, still blows my mind."

Tissa snorted in shared derision.

"What a waste." She denounced, shaking her head with a savage grin. Meya felt an unbidden surge of anger inside her. She tamped it down, but a twinge of guilt still managed to wriggle through, especially at Tissa's tirade, "Maybe that's why she lost the Song to you. Freda gave her a blessing. It's ungrateful to waste it for a humdrum life. Not like you."

Tissa shot Meya an admiring smile that she had no choice but to return, then returned to her job as the worst barber in the three lands, leaving Meya to fondle her hair, mired in a quandary.

She'd stayed this long; Tissa would expect her to chop her hair short. Imagine walking away at this point—she could already hear her rival in troublemaking, Pollinia Gretgorn, hollering loser from way back in good ol' Crosset.

But Coris loves my hair.

And I love my hair. I love when people braid it for me. I love how it keeps my neck and cheeks warm in winter. I love how every strand seems to carry the dawn in it—

No! Be strong. Be different from all those useless women. Be Meya Hild.

Meya's trembling fingers stilled as they tightened around the sheaf of hair, her palm burning with fire from within.