Today wasn't bazaar day, but Hadrian's town square was blanketed by tarpaulin of all colors. From the castle's hill, it looked like an enormous patchwork cloak.

May Fest was three days away. Merchants from all over the central-west had hurried in to stake claim over the best spots and earn early-bird gold. Performers lie in wait at every entrance to the square, pushing leaflets onto wide-eyed tykes who were soon hustled away by harried mothers.

It was high noon, and stomachs were growling; a queue snaked from the sausage tent to the lonely clobber's humble stall three plots away. Children crowded around a merchant who was making hand puppets spar with miniature licorice swords he was selling.

Young lads cheered on a cockfighting ring. Maidens dithered over beaded shawls and embroidered headdresses. Old farmers pored over dice and cards. Merchants egged hesitant housewives to buy stuff they will later realize they didn't need.

Meya was sitting on a roadside bench, her head swiveling on her neck like a well-oiled weathercock in a storm.

She had lived to see sixteen May Fests in Crosset, and none of them came even close to this. Apart from the May Queen Pageant where no one bothered to sign up because Marin would win anyway, and a May Dance where the men would fight to dance with Marin around Freda's Fountain, May Fest in Crosset was just a week-long weekend bazaar.

But it wasn't always like this. Misty-eyed adults would often reminisce that before Alanna lost her Song, before the Famine polished off a third of Crosset's children, before Meya was born, Crosset's May Fest had once been just as grand as Hadrian's.

Of course, nobody under the age of twenty could prove that. But that didn't mean they'd let Meya get away with 'ruining' the May Fest they never knew. In fact, Meya's first and last experience of May Fest was being pelted with mud and running home crying. Meya would stay home and do the chores in Marin and Morel's place every Fest after that.

And now, a decade later, far from home, under someone else's name, she could at long last walk into May Fest like a normal person. Countless people pass by before her, and none of them hissed vicious names at her or question the thickness of her skin. No pebbles or mud-balls were sailing her way.

It felt...odd. Not that she minded the lack of attention, but the contrast was painful. Sixteen years of bitterness couldn't be diluted by a day of sweetness. Or a year. Or even twenty. Memories, it seemed, just didn't work like food.

Then again, even some food may be too much for honey to salvage.

Meya looked down at the warm wooden bowl she was holding. The rich, brown drink inside rippled to tremors from the ground, caused by dozens of thundering feet. A strange, sweet, milky aroma rose to her nose in wispy, upward spirals of vapor.

She gingerly stretched her tongue out to touch the paste, then withdrew at the tart, sour taste. Yes, it smelled wonderful. But she still didn't get how the God-King of the Southern Island that Coris talked about managed to chug down fifty mugs of this brown milk every day.

Coris reemerged from the crowd, carrying a wooden plate of potato fritters. He answered Meya's grin and settled down beside her. Noticing the still-full cocoa bowl, he chuckled.

"Not to your taste?"

Meya shrugged, an apologetic grimace on her face as she handed the bowl to him.

"Needs more honey, I guess. A lot more."

"Or perhaps more time to ferment." Coris cocked his head in acknowledgement, took the bowl back then offered her the potatoes instead. "Try this."

Meya blinked at the potatoes. Apart from the little black specks on top she reckoned were either soot or pepper, they looked no different from the fried potatoes she had eaten all her life.

"Thanks, I guess." With a shrug, she picked up one piece and popped it in whole without blowing; it was already lukewarm.

An earthy, oily smell gushed up and filled her nostrils from inside her mouth. Meya's eyes widened, then droop close as a drowsy bliss coursed throughout her body. If heaven had a taste, it would be this.

"Hmmm." A low hum of pleasure rumbled in Meya's throat. She chewed until the crispy potato crust turned to mush, savoring the peculiar scent, then send it down her gullet with a reluctant gulp.

Meya glanced aside to find Coris's expectant gaze, and she tilted her head about, eyebrows tied as she struggled to explain her experience.

"There's this weird smell. I can't describe it but I love it."

"Exactly." Coris concurred with a grin. "It's topped with truffle salt."

"Truffle?" Meya repeated, bulging eyes glancing down at the fritters then back at Coris, "They say that's food from the Heights—"

"—Home grown in Hadrian." Coris corrected in a singsong voice. "It's one of the new crops we're experimenting with. There's also grape, mulberry, cocoa and vanilla."

"Vanilla?" Meya echoed him. Coris's little sly smile returned.

"You noticed that sweet smell in the cocoa? Vanilla."

Vanilla. Meya mouthed the unfamiliar word to herself. She watched as Coris set the cocoa bowl on the bench, slithered his hand down his trouser pocket, then produced what looked like a brownish-black, shriveled-looking, curled twig about as long as his hand.

He offered it to Meya, who held it up to her nose. She didn't even need to sniff for the sweet aroma to fill her nostrils.

Meya inhaled deeply, then sighed in contentment. She handed the vanilla pod back to Coris, suggesting with a smile.

"This would go very well with milk and bread, don't you think?"

"Exactly." Coris agreed, pocketing the aromatic pod.

Meya was imagining the taste of her favorite pastries when coupled with vanilla, when the pieces fell in place. She froze, then whipped around to Coris with an accusing finger,

"So, all these stuff you had me try...?"

Coris's grin widened, showing both rows of teeth.

"Yes. These merchants—" He cast his gaze at the surrounding stalls, and Meya followed suit, "—are using truffles, wine grapes and silkworms grown in the castle's estate to make their products. And the King of the Southern Island just agreed to export cocoa and vanilla to Latakia through the Southmeathe Port. I'm helping Father gauge whether these would be profitable to grow in Hadrian."

Meya nodded, both awed and annoyed that the lad had used her as a guinea pig. Pouting in mock petulance, she jerked her chin at the fritter plate in Coris's hand.

"Well, you're the mastermind, why don't you have some yourself?"

Coris chuckled.

"Lard doesn't agree with my bowels." He rebuffed, then added when he noticed Meya's crestfallen face. "I can get mash and truffle anytime back home. Go on. Don't feel bad for me."

Coris prodded her forearm with the fritter plate. Meya bit her lip. She loved the fritters, but she didn't feel like munching through all those alone as the poor lad watched.

"Is there anything here that does agree with your bowels?" She raised her eyebrow, then sprang up and scanned the vicinity, peering through the milling crowd.

"Let's see. Nothing hot. Nothing spicy. Nothing sour. Nothing oily. Nothing chewy. How about something...light and sweet?"

Meya's eyes settled upon a stall-front lined with tufts of colorful cotton candy. She snatched Coris's arm and pulled him to his feet. Coris was spared a second to grab the cocoa bowl before being plunged straight into the melee.

Meya weaved through the crowd, eyes anchored to her destination; when you're born a peasant, battling crowds becomes pretty much one of your basic life skills.

They managed to squeeze their way to the store front just as the earlier customer was leaving—a woman hitching a kicking, bawling toddler to her hip with one arm, and jiggling up the bulging shopping bag in the other to hand the vendor a coin and snatch a stick of candy floss as she walked pass—all done in less than a quarter-minute.

"One latt, young lass."

The old merchant chirped as soon as he spotted Meya. With her free hand, Meya rummaged in her dress pocket for two bronze coins.

"There you go." She deposited them in the merchant's pale, lined palm, nabbed two rolls of leaf-green cotton candy wrapped in hair-thin, off-white flour pancakes, and dropped one on the fritter plate Coris was holding. "And there you go."

Meya stuffed the end of the remaining roll into her mouth to free her hand for swatting aside people, then ventured off again. After about half a minute, she breached the crowd out to the sparsely populated area in front of the Town Hall.

Letting go of Coris's clammy arm, she bit off the melting end of the roll in her mouth and held the rest in her hand.

Coris had set the cocoa bowl down on the wall behind, and was eyeing his cotton-roll, curious. Meya gestured with her floppy roll, talking through a mouthful of half-munched green sugar.

"I know you favor green. Half your underpants are varying shades of vert. Some are older than others, granted."

"Ari!" Coris whipped around, cheeks flushing pink in embarrassment. Meya guffawed, slapping a hand over her mouth as she slurped the overflowing green mixture of sugar goo and spit back inside.

In the end, Coris gave up. With a sigh and an amused grin, he shook his head and began nibbling on the sweet treat.

Once Meya had polished off her roll in about as much time it took to buy it, Coris, forever the knight, quietly gave her the plate of fritters, and Meya happily obliged.

Popping a fritter into her mouth, Meya turned around to peer pass the iron gates and the barren stone-paved court to the Town Hall.

Its walls were built with sandstone bricks, interspersed with numerous windows. Its copper-tiled roof gleamed milky green thanks to a uniform coat of patina. Once in a while, merchants and clerks would walk in or out the arched doorway, toting varying amounts of yellowing scrolls and paperwork.

An empty stone plinth stood in the middle of the front court. There was a gleaming copper nameplate on it, inscribed with information about the nonexistent monument. Meya poked Coris's arm, then gestured at the plinth when he turned around.

"Say, what's that plinth for?"

Coris stretched his neck to see pass Meya, then his eyes widened a little.

"Oh." He scratched his cheek, "That used to be the statue of Maxus Hadrian the Founder."

Meya raised her eyebrows, intrigued, and Coris continued.

"The statue is made of bronze, so Father has it melted. The metal shortage here is a little worse than Crosset. We're the farthest from Easthaven Port, but it's up to us to arm Fort Amplevale against Nostra."

Again with that metal shortage. Meya churned her lips about as she mulled over it, then turned back to the empty plinth.

"Poor chap." She mused with a wry grin, "His bones are probably rattling in his grave."

"His ghost hasn't come to haunt our dreams, though. Hope it stays that way." Coris pretended to shiver with fear, then cocked his head towards the Hall. "Want to go for a tour?"

Meya nodded with a grin, tossing another fritter into her mouth. Coris strode around Meya to the gate, holding the inside door open as Meya passed through.

Side by side, they crossed the courtyard with Maxus's empty plinth and passed under the arched door, then Meya found herself standing in the middle of the main hall, looking up at the high vaulted ceiling supported by a row of bare wooden trusses.

Guild headquarters lined the three walls of the ground floor, bearing the insignia of their trades. The clerks were either out for lunch, tearing through paperwork at the back as the queue grew longer, or jotting down complaints from members lining up before their windows.

The blacksmith guild had the longest line—or rather, crowd. They swarmed the office like flies on dung, obscuring everything from sight, except for the conspicuous insignia of a hammer bashing an anvil. Merchants and peasants alike were yelling and shaking their fists, while the beleaguered apprentice boy cowered behind his wooden counter.

"Metal shortage." Coris's sighing voice spoke up beside her, and Meya turned around. He shook his head. "Either prices have gone up again, or someone has been hoarding. Wait here."

Coris ushered the cocoa bowl into Meya's free hand then strode towards the guild. He stopped just short of the roiling crowd and rapped on the side-door.

The peeping-slot behind a small grille-window slid aside. Coris fished his Hadrian crest out from under his collar and held it before the blinking eyes. The door swung open, and Coris disappeared behind it.

Meya knew her direct order was to stay where she was, but it was impossible to do nothing. One step at a time, her feet crept closer to the throng, until she was close enough to make sense of what they were yelling about.

"Fifty latts for a sickle! This is lunacy!" An old farmer waved his rusty sickle, his face flooded with heated blood. Behind him, other farmers and shepherds joined in.

"Not one pebble of ore has dropped on my doorstep in a month, Hemrond! It's called supply and demand!" The blacksmith roared back.

"This 'ere lad's paying us fake coins!" An outraged heavy-set merchant woman held a struggling young man by the back of his collar. She was flanked by five just-as-intimidating merchant ladies.

"Storm season's comin' and I don't have no nails to patch me roof with!" A peasant man whined.

"Pah! Forget yer roof. The sewer behind me house's been broken for a month. Now everything I have smells like piss!" Another peasant shouted over him. Fair enough, everyone had been giving him personal space in the middle of the throng.

"We need new pipes! My bathwater smells like metal shavings!" A housewife added, followed by several shouts of agreement.

The complaints went on and on and on. Though at first all seemed random and anecdotal, as if they should've belonged somewhere else, once filtered down, the root cause became one and the same:

There was no metal left in town.

⏳

By the time Coris reappeared about a quarter-hour later, Meya had finished off the fritters. The young lord seemed taken aback to see her standing right next to the angry mob, but at last, he smiled and beckoned her to follow with a tilt of his head.

"So, what have you gleaned so far?"

Coris began as she fell in step with him. Meya glanced back at the guild—a senior blacksmith had already taken over at the counter, both hands raised and lips parted wide as he pacified the crowd, before turning back and reporting her findings.

"Broken pipes. Stolen pipes. Fake coins. Coin hoarders. Smiths have no ores to work with. Farmers, stonemasons and lumberjacks got no tools to do their jobs. Nobody could prepare their houses for storm season. Et cetera, et cetera."

She left off with a weary sigh, then nudged Coris's shoulder.

"What about you? What have you got?"

"Seems like nothing more than shortage. The usual. No suspicious activity." Coris shrugged, but his brows were tied in a knot, his gaze distant. With a sigh, he turned to Meya.

"There's still no directive from Meriton or Aynor on what to do, so I've asked them to accept only urgent complaints for now. I'll report to Father when we get back."

"How d'you decide what's urgent?" Meya asked. Coris cocked his head.

"Well, for example, planting season is over, so farmers won't need their tools again until the harvest in late summer. They'd have to make do with sanding and whetting rusty tools for now. But storm prepping; that's a life-or-death issue. If necessary, we might have to melt farming tools to make nails, drain pipes and roof tiles. Or we could have the peasants take shelter in the castle and strong buildings."

"Like here?" Meya suggested, following Coris up the central staircase to the mezzanine, where the bailiff and other officers had their workrooms. Coris nodded with another smile.

There were several things off with the mezzanine; metal railings had been replaced with crude wooden fences. Empty stone plinths that once carried ornate vases and statuettes lined the walls at uniform intervals. Twin foot-shaped lighter patches between the plinths indicate where suits of armors once stood, hands clasped over the hilt of their swords.

In her mind's eye, Meya pictured faceless men coming in and carrying off the suits of armor one by one—then the statuettes—then the railings. Each and every tossed to their fiery end in the crucible. It was a gloomy scene.

Coris stopped before an empty marble plinth at the end of the corridor, staring fixed at the thin air over it, as though he could picture the size and shape of what was once there.

His flat, emotionless face was unreadable, yet his eyes were filled with nostalgia. Meya decided to give him some personal time, before mustering up the courage to ask.

"What was there?"

Coris gave no reaction whatsoever, but then answered just as softly.

Meya's eyes widened. Isn't that...?

"Corien? But that's your—"

Coris side-eyed her with a slight grin, then his eyes flicked back to the nonexistent harp, his quiet voice rippling the still silence.

"Corien was Drinian's cousin who died in Everglen before the migration. That's all we know about him. And there was nothing left of him but his harp. Mother longed to hear the Harp's song while she was pregnant with me. So I'm named after him."

A reminiscent smile tugged Coris's parched lips as he went on with a chuckle.

"When I was younger, whenever Father took me here, I'd sneak off to pluck the harp, then run and hide. You know, just to annoy the old men."

He turned to Meya, and they shared a sad little laugh. Then Coris turned back to the air-harp once more. Silence fell again, and Meya wasn't sure if it was mere curiosity or sympathy that made her blurt out.

"You wanted to say something, right? Back at dinner that day?"

Coris turned around with a puzzled look, so Meya clarified.

"Your father wants to keep the Mining Ban. King Alden wants to scrap it. You side with the King, so the Baron doesn't want to talk to you about it?"

Coris's eyes lost focus for a beat as he thought back, then widened in comprehension. The gloomy aura hanging over him vanished. His complexion seemed to brighten up in an instant, as if he had been bursting to talk with someone for months.

"You noticed?" He asked, excited, then shook his head and muttered grumpily. "If only Zier were half as attentive."

"So, what were you going to say?" Meya pressed. Coris blew out a frustrated breath.

"What I've been saying for months. We need to start mining in Latakia now, which...is heresy in Hadrian, of course." He shrugged, looking careworn as he elaborated for the clueless Meya.

"Maxus was the first Baron Hadrian and he supported the Ban, and somehow every Baron Hadrian followed him. Whenever any King tried to lift the Ban, they would lobby the Council to shoot him down."

Coris shook his head in frustration, then leaned towards Meya and continued in a low voice.

"You've seen how bad it's getting. How widespread this is." He jerked his head towards the hubbub downstairs. "We need a warning. A disaster. Catastrophe is the best lobbyist. Such is the flaw of men."