"So—we can transform into dragons?"

Atmund Herzin began, his voice shrill. His slight frame was wire-taut with shock and trepidation. Coris and Meya nodded their hearty confirmation for the fifth time. Yet, Frenix Pearlwater was still wary.

"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 again.

"How does that make you feel?"

Atmund teetered as if caught unawares by a gust of wind. He grasped the edge of Coris's desk just in time to steady himself.

"Lightheaded—but that could have been the blood loss." He froze as if seized by a sudden notion, then 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.

"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." Fione deftly steered the topic away.

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

Arinel suggested. Yet, 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 reeling from the past. Meya narrowed her eyes in suspicion.

"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. Coris nodded, then turned to young Lord Pearlwater.

"What about you, Frenix?"

Frenix churned his lips. Avoiding Coris's gaze, he blew a sigh 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, "But, in a kinder world, I wouldn't have to choose, would I?"

"What d'you mean?" Meya asked. Frenix turned to her, then continued in that same dull, morose tone,

"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, then turned to 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, Coris sighed and weaved his steepled fingers together.

"Though it galls me, I'd have to agree." 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 eyed Meya, which naturally drew all eyes in the room to 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 threw her ungrateful prick of a husband a glare of ill-wishing, then turned to study her fellow Greeneyes in confusion, awe and embarrassment.

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

Heloise jumped. The young maid-of-honor 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.

"Perhaps I need time for it to sink in. 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." She offered a forced smile, fingering her bracelet nervously.

"It could also be that you're still deciding whether to believe it." Coris suggested sagely. At Meya's questioning look, he explained, "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. Once these three have experienced their dragon forms, the truth would impact them at full force."

Frenix gawked at Coris, exchanged a look with Atmund, who shuddered and shook his head vigorously, then back to Coris, eyes sparkling with excitement.

"Are you saying we'll have to transform like her, too?" He pointed at Meya.

"Unfortunately, yes." Coris shone him an affectionate grin. 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 wouldn't 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 eyed 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 met the boys' blinking eyes with a tender smile, "I believe little Amara expects you for playtime? Better not keep your lady waiting, my fellow knights."

"I'm a knight?" Atmund breathed, astonished.

"Can we tell her we're dragons?" Frenix had other concerns.

"I'll leave the decision to you." Coris quickly recovered his smile after an involuntary jolt. "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. He roused the still ogling Atmund with a sharp elbow jab, then sprinted towards the door, the masked 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 door slammed close with a shattering collision. 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 was trying his utmost to sound plainly curious. And, failing dismally, he 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. Simon grasped his friend's arm, echoing her in an imploring hiss. Christopher shook him off, his handsome features twisted by unmasked disgust.

"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 friend. Yet, he was determinedly looking anywhere but Coris.

Silence reigned but for Christopher's rapid breathing. Coris stared serenely back at him, waiting. Once the remnants of his outburst had ebbed away, he finally spoke,

"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. Not surprisingly, as their current post covered only so much ground as Safyre. As far as the squires and maids-of-honor were concerned, Coris 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." Coris continued coldly.

"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 frowned, incredulous.

"The crop failings began in Amplevale and spread eastward. Common sense would dictate it originated in Chione's Lair and traveled through the Zarel Pass." Coris argued flatly. Simon rolled his eyes in annoyance.

"We know that, genius! But how could Nostra possibly cause a famine?" He leaned in and propped his hands on the desk, "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 reminded him. Simon froze in remembrance. "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 gray eyes seemed to momentarily blaze white. 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. Meanwhile, Meya narrowed her eyes at Coris's stricken profile.

Coris had glanced at Meya before hurriedly pacifying Simon. And in that split-second, 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?

As Meya kept watch, Coris straightened up.

"Our old friend Gillian is a dragon from Nostra." The mere mention of their old enemy jolted his audience out of their thoughts like the snap of a finger. Meya 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. 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 its aim to find Zier pale and faint, bracing for the worst, which didn't spare him.

"—In exchange for The Axel."

Air itself seemed to have frozen solid, even with the windows opened wide, as the brothers locked eyes. Zier broke away first. He stared down at his feet, a twisted grin on his lips,

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

Coris closed his eyes and sighed deeply, his woven fingers tightening against each other.

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

Zier burst out a barking laugh, jolting Coris awake.

"My safety?" The younger Hadrian spat then sneered, 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 slammed his fist onto the desk. Heloise shrank back, alarmed. Arinel glanced between the two brothers, hands grasping her chest. Fione stood rigid and blinking. Simon and Christopher shot worried looks at each other, unsure how to defuse the conflict. Whereas Meya found herself back in the infuriating dilemma of not knowing which Hadrian brother she should thwack first.

Coris hadn't wavered in the slightest. He closed his eyes, not out of exhaustion, but grim determination. His jaws were set, 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 now void of emotion.

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

Zier staggered as if lightning had tore up the ground before him, his once brazen blue eyes now fearful and pleading.

"Surgery?" He breathed, gawking in disbelief at his brother's cold, blank face, "But—it's hardly ever been done. And most of the test subjects died—they died, Brother! The Council banned it for a reason!"

"I know it's a great risk, Zier. I know you're scared." Coris's consolation rang hollow as the depths of his pupils. A crease appeared between his eyebrows.

"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. "Do you plan to draw my entrails alive?"

"—Because you've only ever swallowed them."

A quiet, lifeless voice interrupted. The feuding brothers whirled around, along with the rest of them. Arinel stood rigid, eyes unfocused, shocked by her own decision. Yet, she went on even against her will, like stuttering clockwork,

"Healers have proposed that the nose is a more direct path to the brain than the stomach. 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."

Morsel by morsel, Arinel thawed. She turned to Zier, tears of guilt quivering 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 bowed her head and covered her face with her hands, her voice muffled,

"A copy of their unfinished treatise survived the fire. Dineira—showed it to me today. She was Tyberne's apprentice at the time. 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 died, a silence so dreadful and chilling not even Coris dared to dispel cascaded onto them. Zier shook his head slowly and hobbled back, away from his beloved.

"I can't believe you, Ari." He croaked, pale with disbelief. Tears dripped from Arinel's chin as he raised a trembling hand to point at his brother, shouting, "You're actually helping him kill me in my sleep!?"

"Haven't you been listening, Zier?" Exasperated, Coris slammed his hands on the desktop and sprang to his feet, "We're going to improve the procedure! We're not blindly drugging you then carving you up with a rusted knife." He conducted each beat with a slam. "We will do—whatever it takes—to ensure—you're—safe!"

"Then go kill those dragons attacking our ships and draining our soil!" Zier yelled, his finger stabbing wildly towards the window, then at his belly. "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?"

He threw out his arms, a demented smile on his lips.

"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 crazed eyes swept the throng. Zier spun back to Coris, who remained unflappable all through his soliloquy,

"This metal ball—" He gouged 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 jabbed an accusing finger at his brother, then lashed out 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. The tempest's stillness only served to fan the flames. Zier faltered, shaking his head, disbelief and disgust masking his pain.

"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! Everything you've ever done is for duty. For that cursed Lord Hadrian seat! 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 my brother!"

With that scorching remark, Zier Hadrian swept from the room, slamming the door behind his billowing cloak of blood red.

🐉🐉🐉