Three days and nights after Lady Arinel delivered her verdict to the Jaise Court to spare Dineira's life, but strip her of the right to practice alchemy for the remainder of her days, Lord Coris had recuperated enough to sustain comprehensible conversation and exercise his usual coolheaded leadership, and thus was deemed fit for travel.

The sky of the fourth morning was a shade of lilac darker than the rolling dunes beneath it, encroached from the eastern front by the pale, milky yellow of the waking sun. A path strewn with coarse gray pebbles sliced through hillocks of blue-gray sand, which were naked and desolate but for the occasional curiously-shaped boulder or twisted, leafless tree, towards the mountains on the horizon.

Lady Jaise had relinquished her hold on Meya's hands after a showering of well wishes, and was discussing business with Coris. Arinel was the next to step up to bid her farewell, and she had come with a parting gift; inside the thin, oblong box lay a feather white as snow, trimmed to resemble the silhouette of a Snow Fern frond, its pointed tip capped with silver.

"The feather of the Snow Tern." Arinel laid a snowy, tapered finger on its delicate fibrils as her eyes caressed its contours, her expression grave, "Every Crosset would carry this on his person throughout our pilgrimage to Icemeet. It's a charm for safe travel."

Meya gripped the paper box tight when she felt her fingers trembling at the warmth spreading from her heart. Gently, she slotted it into the pocket of her cloak, joshing to cover her bashfulness.

"One has to wonder what it was doing when Gillian and his band showed up."

"Perhaps its luck was spent canceling out your Greeneye misfortune?"

"Yeah. That would explain it."

Arinel did not seem to have heard, distracted as she was as she rummaged in her sleeve. She picked up Meya's arm and deposited a cold, heavy, jagged lump into her slack fingers.

There's more?

Meya raised the mysterious trinket to catch the faint light of dawn. Its close-set terraces of charcoal-gray metal gleamed like flower petals scattered with dewdrops. Like a rose carved out of pure iron. Yet, there was a lack of symmetry and sophistication in its appearance, leading Meya to suspect it was not manmade.

"Eisenrose. It's a rare crystal found in iron mines. Father gave it to Mother to pray for her safe birth." At that, Meya glanced up to find Arinel downcast and bitter "Only half of his prayers were answered, sadly. That or his prayers had been more for me than for Mother."

"Come now. Don't be like that." Somehow, Meya found herself gathering the poor Lady into her arms. And this time, even she was surprised by her own audacity. Yet, there was no taking it back. And she realized she also did not want to. Arinel's sigh was a cool breeze flowing down her back as she rested her head on Meya's shoulder.

"Two lucky charms. Five guards, dozens of decoys and six dogs dead." Meya breathed, chuckling, "Just how unlucky am I?"

"Horrendously." Arinel confirmed without hesitation, back to her usual biting self. Meya gritted her teeth in both affection and annoyance even as relief flooded her.

"You're awfully superstitious for an alchemist, you know that?"

"Oh, shut up." Arinel's grumble was drowned out by Meya's chuckle of triumph. She tightened her embrace around her good friend, for once solemn and sincere,

"Thank you, my lady. For everything."

The Lady of Ice sniffed and squeezed her back. Her cheek chafed against Meya's as she shook her head in refusal and gratitude.

"You be safe out there." Her command was sharp and brusque, cut short by welling emotion. Meya closed her eyes with a smiling sigh.

"And you in the labs."

Arinel patted her back in reassurance, then her hands slipped away as she retreated to the protective arms of Gretella and Jerald. Still, Meya could feel her lingering gaze even as she turned around and stepped onto the waiting carriage after Coris.

Zier was perched sideways on the driver's seat. His eyes followed Meya as she helped Coris onto his cushioned bench and laid a blanket over him, then flicked away to settle upon Arinel. After one long, last look at his love, he shifted around and faced forward, his eyes trained on the winding road. There was a silent, excruciating pause as he steeled his resolve, then he finally jostled the reins, spurring the horses to a trot.

As the wheels jolted and cranked to life beneath the soles of her feet, Meya leaned out of the window and waved to her comrades as she drifted further towards the next installment of her journey, until their shimmering figures at the foot of Jaise's black walls were swallowed by the swell of the hill.

⏳

There was no alternative route across the Sands, nor were there fellow voyagers, save for the occasional mountain chough with its piercing call, gliding high above.

As Meya sat with Coris's feverish, bony cheek digging into her lap, cushioning him from the constant jolts and tremors of the gravelly road as he slept, the scenery outside the carriage windows remained unchanged, save for the color of the sky, which faded from lilac to blue, then white:

Dunes of gray sand like sculpted ocean waves which seemed to absorb the color of the sky as the day wore on. Crooked trees with a few strikingly green leaves. Balls of tumbleweed rocked in the soft breeze as they huddled at the foot of randomly placed boulders.

Roughly three hours in, the dunes gave way to a vast depression strewn with pebbles and rocks: the dried lake. Two dozen or so masked men ambled about the wide nothingness with baskets on their bent backs, hacking at piles of scree with pickaxes. They were the Desert Men of Jaise, foraging for borax. Their energetic movements was a brief reprieve before the lifeless dunes returned.

Meya weathered the wait by tackling Axel's Memoir, the steady click-clacks of Agnes's knitting needles and the rasps of Heloise turning the pages of her novel keeping her company in lieu of conversation.

When the orange of dusk surrendered to a deep ultramarine glittering with silver stars, Sir Jarl finally called it a day at an oasis carpeted by short, feathery grass, with a well at its heart. By then, Meya's leg was buzzing like a hive full of bees, numb from ten hours carrying the weight of Coris's large brain.

Despite her efforts, Coris still woke up pale and disoriented; his sleep plagued, as usual, by laudanum withdrawal. Zier had had to support him down the carriage steps.

As Sir Jarl directed the squires and yeomen to refill water and pitch tents in a circle on the roadside, the maidservants cooked stew under the supervision of Heloise and Agnes. Meya, due to her lack of culinary flair and superior Greeneye night vision, was sent along with Frenix and Atmund to forage for enough kindling to fuel the watch throughout the night. By the time they returned with a wheelbarrow and three baskets laden with logs, twigs and tumbleweed, dinner was impatiently waiting.

Meya was halfway through her fourth bowl of pottage and hunk of bread when Coris rose to his feet. The chatter around the ring died down as his subjects turned to him, anticipating an announcement.

Coris apologized for his illness delaying the journey, to which the maids and yeomen murmured their compulsory forgiveness. Then, without preamble, the young lord launched into an explanation of everything that had happened during the past weeks. The heist. The drought. Their mission to Everglen. Meya's identity. The truth about Greeneyes.

As his subjects gaped and trembled and stared at each other in disbelief, Meya could only shoot horrified glances at the fellow youngsters in the know. Their pale, wide-eyed faces meant Coris hadn't warned them beforehand as well, and Meya balled her fists as she glared up at the Lord Hadrian. It was this habit of secrecy of his that irked her above nearly all else.

Coris definitely felt her stare, yet he showed no contrition. His silvery eyes glided around the circle, observing the unrest he had caused, waiting for it to settle.

"Some of you may be wondering why you have been selected for this journey. Some of you may believe it to be coincidence. It is not."

His words rang in the silence as he locked gazes with each and every man and woman in the throng,

"We all have one thing in common. Greeneyes. Be it ourselves, our blood relatives, or those who are dear to us. That is why we are here."

Coris's gaze settled at last on Meya. As she saw the flaring determination, the suppressed emotions in those eyes, Meya felt herself tremble as her heart thundered. His stare lingered on her before sweeping on,

"We now know that Greeneyes are not harbingers of misfortune. Nor are they minions of Chione. Nor are they monsters or shameful family secrets. Nor are they game to be bred and milked like cattle. They are our kin. Our countrymen. Latakians. They are us."

"We must rid ourselves of our prejudiced beliefs, before we can ever hope to move forth. Against an enemy as mighty as Nostra, we must defend Latakia as one people. As we once did. And triumphed. They have dragons and riders. We have Latakians. Only Latakians."

Those powerful words of truth echoed like an icy wind rushing through the conclave. The pale figure before her seemed to shine so brilliantly against the night, that Meya's eyes burned even as she shivered, as if her dragon half had softened in gratitude, whilst her human half tensed in shame. She closed her eyes and turned away. She couldn't allow this. She couldn't be falling for him all over again so soon when she had promised herself not to.

Coris turned abruptly to select members in the throng, calling them forward,

"Cleygar. Lors. Tissa. Philema. Dorsea."

Meya's eyes snapped open, and she stared along with the others at the blinking yeomen and maids. That was when she first noticed their lack of a nose bridge, and their emerald-green eyes glinting in the firelight. And she clenched her fists once more in equal parts awe and annoyance, as realization dawned on her.

Oh, Freda. He'd planned all this? Since when? Was it after she egged him to find a way around their banishment? So, he had taken her advice. And it had been his plan all along to sneak away to Everglen with dragons and solve the resources crisis, even before he had told her the truth that she was one? He'd gone so far as to handpick this many Greeneyes for the entourage and groom them for the mission.

How arrogant. How overconfident. How...exasperatingly ingenious...

Coris's voice softened along with his gaze as he addressed the five newly-introduced Greeneyes, who had duly stepped forth into a loose line before him.

"I know this is daunting. We still know so little about this power we have. All I ask is for you to accept yourselves. We will learn to live with it. Together."

"Like it or not, there is no changing who you are. You may take it as a curse or a blessing. Take it whichever way you see fit."

Coris paced slowly from Cleygar, a brown-haired, stocky yeoman in his early thirties, to Dorsea, a scullery maid who resembled Morel in her age and curvy build, but with the Southern Isles' squiggly black hair and nut-brown skin.

"However, the fact remains that you are bestowed with the power to traverse sky and sea. To level mountains and scorch the earth. You have the right to wield it for your own good, for the good of Latakia, or not at all—And to never be judged for it." He added sharply, and his gaze grew gentle as his eyes swept over the five, then to Heloise, Frenix, Atmund, and finally Meya, even as his voice remained solemn,

"Your only responsibility is to learn, survive, and prosper."

As the blaze of his sincere, tenacious eyes arced into hers, Meya felt her resolve crumbling once more, and avoided him. Coris gave her space; he dipped his head and turned back to the five Greeneyes, his tone lighter now as he moved on from a rallying cry to simple closing notices.

"Tomorrow, we will be free of Jaise's territory, and out of sight of their Desert Men. We shall commence training then. Be sure to feast and rest to your hearts' fill. If it is fine by you all, I'd like to allow my fellow humans to observe the training as well. Hopefully, it would be of some benefit to their loved ones back home."

The five Greeneyes glanced at each other, initiating a chain of nods which ended at Lors, the oldest yeoman who looked to be around Dad's age, with his graying chestnut hair and mustache. Naturally, he took the mantle of leader and bowed, eliciting a smile of relief and gratefulness from his liege.

For the first time, Meya had a glimpse of Coris's leadership in action. Of course, as Lord Hadrian, it was within his right to have his subjects consent to anything. Yet, his kindness and humility reached through to them, inspiring loyalty and courage in even the downtrodden, beaten and bitter Greeneyes. His charisma was moving and fearsome at the same time. Such that Meya couldn't blame Zier as he cursed under his breath,

"Fyr, he'd better live. I could never do this."

Meya allowed herself a faint smile, shaking her head as she studied Coris's profile. Her best friend's voice rang in her ears as she passed on his words,

"Sometimes, you gotta do something you hate, for the sake of the people you love."

🐉🐉🐉