Lord Hadrian's deafening snores drowned out the song of midnight crickets when Heloise ducked inside. Using the noise as cover, she let the tent's flaps fall with a clap, heaving a sigh of relief with utmost abandon.

She looked around and scanned the tent's layout, then stuffed her mouth with her first to stifle a scream of fright.

As she lay on her mattress in the near solid darkness, Meya's eyes remained wide open; two disembodied orbs as glowing and acid-green as the third revolving in the water bowl before her.

Yet, the dragon girl did not twitch a toe nor finger, and Heloise soon calmed, reassured by the continued drone of Coris's snores. If Meya wasn't stirred by this, then nothing would wake her.

As her frenzied heart slowed, Heloise filled her lungs with a deep breath and surveyed the tent once more. As her eyes adjusted to the lack of light, darkness precipitated into silhouettes. She saw the rigid lines and sharp corners of chests and crates, and the shapeless, yielding forms of bundles of clothing.

She would need more to find what she had come for, however. With trembling fingers, she reached for her bracelet and tugged it off her wrist.

The effect was immediate. It was as if the light from her eyes had illuminated her path. Patches of darkness became riddled with gleams of silvery-gray from polished metal. Black morphed into the muddy brown of wood and the dull purple and red of carpets and blankets. Coris's and Meya's pillows, once stark white in the light of day, shone like silver, smooth against the coarse pattern of their hay mattresses. And there, just beyond the head of Coris's mattress, sat the familiar rectangular chest.

How thoughtless.

She crept towards it, one tiptoe after another. She knelt down behind Coris and tugged the chest towards her, careful not to snag it on the wrinkles of the carpet. With her thumb, she nudged up the clasp and tipped the lid over. On the wooden bed, a lone eye glowed in its hole.

Heloise knew what the obvious course of action would be, and she knew that Coris would have foreseen it. Fyre, he would have foreseen all possible courses of action she could take. However, she doubted he would have fathomed how far she was willing to go for her mission.

Heloise's hand shivered as she raised it to her eye. She circled the region, searching for the sweet spot as she recalled how Meya had done it, back at the Pearly Falls. Her finger stumbled over a pea-sized bump, barely half an inch from the corner of her eye. As she struggled to relax against mounting anxiety, she strained her eyes open as wide as her muscles would allow, and pressed the trigger.

A squelching, nauseating pop. A lukewarm, slimy weight dropped onto her palm. Like parchment sliced apart by a falling blade of obsidian, half of her world blinked out. She could no longer see the snoozing couple to her left without turning.

Swallowing the urge to vomit, Heloise wiped her freed eye dry and deposited it in one of the holes in the chest. She picked up the other dragon's eye held it against the gaping hole where her own eye had been.

After a few fevered breaths dogged by hesitation, she pushed it in.

A deluge of memories overwhelmed her. She was Persephia. Yet, he was also Evander. She had closed her eyes to welcome what should have been a lonely, peaceful death on a deserted battlefield, only to open his eyes to a stranger's life in a body that was not his.

No! I'm Persephia!

Take it out. Now! While you're still in charge!

She slapped the heel of her hand onto the button. Then, she was back in control once more. Evander's eye lolled on the carpet, its green glow hazy behind a film of clear slime. Yet, she could still sense foreign memories in her, threatening her reality. What was hers and what was another's, she was no longer as sure as she used to be. Just as she had feared, his memories had evaded her remaining eye, and she could no longer bear it.

Time for the next step of her plan. Persephia deposited Evander's eye back in its bed and retrieved hers, pressing it in place over its original home. She placed her other hand above the trigger which would eject her right eye.

Her breath petered out of her in jittery shivers. Reaction time and sleight of hand was crucial for this step. A split second's lag. One tiniest falter. And she would either be stuck with Evander's memories in both of her eyes forever, or end up a soulless doll waiting to be discovered by the asleep couple in the morning.

To be honest, though, at this point, she couldn't decide which was worse.

No good would come out of delaying. At long last, she held her breath and pressed.

Her right eye popped out of its socket just as her left eye slid back in. For a moment, she was disoriented. She had felt around her left eye, located the minuscule node, and depressed it. Next thing she realized, her right eye was rolling on her lap.

Persephia had not the slightest clue what had transpired during the time her left eye was absent. Nevertheless, according to her meticulous plan, rehearsed over and over in her mind in the preceding hours, the sight was proof she had succeeded. Still, to be sure, she scoured her memories, and discovered nothing there that shouldn't have been.

Relief flooded her, seeping out in the form of thankful tears. Now that the most daunting step was over, all that was left were finishing touches and covering tracks. Out of her pocket, Persephia extracted the empty eye Coris had handed her and slotted it into the cavity.

Dry metal scraped against her sockets as she rolled her eyes around, and she closed her eyes to allow time for host and dweller to adjust and lubricate. Once the stinging pain and grating sensation had subsided, she returned the chest to its original spot, stashing her tainted eye in her pocket as she rose.

With no more than a last, fleeting look at her none-the-wiser adversaries, she swept back out into the night.

She had secured her means of escape. Now to seize The Axel.

⏳

"My dragon's boring. He just flies around the sanctuary with his mama all day, every day. The End."

Little Lord Frenix lay stretched with his belly on the warm sand. His head propped up on one arm, he tossed the cloth ball he had just received from Heloise over to Atmund. The infant toy gave out a merry jangle which clashed horribly with his dejected pout.

It was dinnertime. They had stopped for the night at yet another oasis still in the middle of nowhere. Members of the entourage freely picked the preferred turf upon which to rest their weary bums, and amiable company with which to dine. Meanwhile, the nine Greeneyes were cloistered next to the vat of reheated stew with the two Lord Hadrians, taking turns discussing their experiences using Coris's so-called Bard's Bell.

"Mine too. But it's a she." Atmund mumbled. He recoiled at the sudden shift in focus from around the circle, then his voice grew stronger, "I-I-I like it, though. I was scared when she flew for the first time, but the wind felt great. And there's beautiful meadows and blue sky. I'd be happy to live like that forever."

The masked boy trailed away with a dreamy smile, which soon turned into a troubled pout.

"We can't go outside the sanctuary, though. My head hurts whenever we go too near the fence. I dunno why. So, yeah, it does get boring after a while."

"Right? It's great they had a happy life, but I want some action!" Frenix agreed, cleaving a piece of diced carrot in half with his spoon. Coris shook his head, laughter petering out of his narrow nostrils.

"Believe me, you wouldn't. Least not the Nostran brand of action." He answered Frenix's raised eyebrows with a sly smirk, "I had the curators select dragons with peaceful childhoods for you two. Hopefully, you'll get the hang of feeding and flying during their time in the sanctuary. Pick up transformation and fire-breathing in training camp. Then, we move on to application in reality."

"What? We won't get to see them go to war?" Frenix slammed a fist onto the ground. Coris rolled his eyes.

"Frenix, you're ten."

"You were ten when you won the war with Cristoria."

"I gave orders from a distance. It's not even remotely comparable."

"You know I could just jump ahead to after my dragon joined the army, right? And you'd never know." Frenix unfurled a nasty grin. Coris responded with a smirk.

"I've expected no less." Frenix's smile sagged and added to Coris's widening grin instead, "I've asked the curators to transfer only non-traumatizing memories from the original eyes into empty eyes for you two. And I trust the rest of us know better than to share."

Coris's glare swept across the circle, each syllable sizzling with menace. Atmund curled in on himself, sheltering from the tension. Frenix shook with stifled tantrums.

"You stinking donghead!"

"I'd welcome worse, if only to keep your innocence intact." Coris accepted the compliment with as much reaction as a whitewashed wall, then his frown deepened, "You don't want to see a carnage, Frenix, trust me."

His sharp voice echoed in the graveside stillness. In a rare moment of sincerity, guilt twisted Coris's pale features for all to see; even Frenix was finally compelled to relent.

The reek of trauma rolled off his shoulders, like creeping tendrils of invisible fog that Meya could sense with painful ease. She reached for his hand, clamped tight over his kneecap—just as he raised it and gestured towards Dorsea. The Southerner maid jolted and blushed. She straightened up, receiving the ball from Atmund.

"My dragon is a male, too." She smiled at Frenix, then the whole circle, jittery with nerves, "He was among the lucky ones, he got to stay with his mother until he was ready before he joined the training camp—all the dragons there were male, somehow. Then, there was this selection ceremony—" She scratched her cheek and eked out a halfhearted smile,

"Human girls from another training camp came to pick male dragons as their mates. From what I learned, they'd ride them into battle and have Greeneye children with them—same goes for female dragons and human boys."

"Ugh! Gross!" Meya denounced, then grimaced at the gawking eyes now upon her, "Separate your mount and your mate, for Freda's sake!"

"Gladly, my dragon lady." Coris accepted, resulting in an inevitable pinch on the old sore spot on his arm. "—Ow! Meya!"

A flurry of nervous giggles swept the throng as the Meya turned pointedly away from the petulant Coris. Dorsea blew a covert breath of relief, then rolled the ball off. It came to a stop at Lors' boot. The old yeoman bent down to retrieve it with a grunt.

"Same for me. The girl who picked me was inconsolable. Cried through the whole first night." He shook his head, heartbreak in his weary eyes, "Wasn't ready to be a mother, and she already had a human lover. It was harrowing to watch. Could've been my daughter."

There was a pause as his audience processed the chilling truth in their own manner. Tissa, a blonde maid who looked not a day above twenty, tilted her head back and forth.

"Why would Nostra want Greeneye babies? Aren't pure dragons more powerful?"

Coris caressed his chin with a pale finger.

"If I were to guess, they have different strengths. Greeneyes are smaller than purebred dragons, true, but they have more tolerance to elemental Lattis." He cocked his head towards Meya, who felt her cheeks heating as all eyes inevitably pooled on her.

"Meya took a crossbow bolt in her arm, yet retained her mental and physical functions. All it took to incapacitate Gillian was a shallow cut from a thumbnail blade. Even Lattis waves emitted by Hadrian's underground lode might have clouded his judgment as well."

"So, you're saying, my liege; dragons are suited for battle, and Greeneyes are suited for spying?"

"Exactly."

Tissa churned her lips, contemplating.

"That would explain it." She reached for the Ball, "My dragon is training in a camp for spies and assassins because she doesn't want to go to war. All her fellows are Greeneyes, so she has no friends. They resent her. Like they resent their parents."

Tissa's brusque voice was dark as her downcast face. She handed the ball to the nearby Cleygar. He spun the ball between his sausage-like fingers as he stared into space,

"My dragon was already old and living in Latakia. He doesn't seem to have any memories after leaving training camp. He still remember how to fly, transform and breathe fire, but he never did any of those. Took up farming. Lived alone in Clardarth. No idea what happened to his rider. Or him."

He ended with a shrug, then looked to his lord for some closure. Coris nodded, his eyes wandering and his hand trembling on his knee. This time, Meya was quick enough. His icy knuckles shifted against her heated palm, finding a nook of solace.

"I would guess he may have been traumatized or suffered too many Lattis wounds in war. Or, he may have erased his memories, using a mixture of Lattis and his blood." His head bowed, Coris closed his eyes, "Either way, the past was too painful to relive."

Again, silence fell, and Meya bristled with annoyance. One look around the ring was enough for her to sense something amiss that she wasn't a part of. What was Coris hiding from her this time? Or was it common knowledge but she'd been too busy staying alive to pick up?

As Meya skewered each and every of her fellow Greeneyes with narrowed eyes, Cleygar pushed the ball onto Philema, nudging her knobby elbow with his.

Philema gawked at the proffered ball, then Coris, then Cleygar, unsure. But, at the yeoman's pleading nod, she straightened up and swallowed, her voice hoarse,

"My dragon is still alive. Lives in Jaise with her rider and their children. They—they are among the last defectors Flindel let through."

Philema held Coris's eyes. It was clear she'd deduced he was behind this, but there was no malice in those glowing eyes.

"I had no clue what my husband had been doing until the day he was arrested. Me being a Greeneye, he must have thought it too dangerous to involve me." Her hollowed cheeks tensed and twisted, wracked with emotion. "We never had the chance to talk it over. He told me to flee to Hadrian, said everything would be fine. That's the last thing he ever said."

With a strangled cry, the widow hid her face in her hands, rocking in place. Dorsea caressed her arm and Tissa took her hand; she grasped Tissa's fingers and clung to Dorsea's sleeve in return.

"It's been so hard—all these years—knowing I'm the reason he died." She dabbed away tears with the heel of her hand, but then she turned to Coris and creaked out a wan smile, "But, seeing all these lives he'd saved—it helps me hate myself a little less."

Philema succumbed to sobs again and spoke no more. Coris turned to Meya. His smile was triumphant and his eyes gleamed with confidence, but Meya bit her lips in uneasiness.

He'd planned all this. He believed converting Philema would convince Meya to let go of her guilt as well. But, for once, Coris was wrong. It wasn't that simple. Survivor's guilt, murderer's guilt—they couldn't be compared.

Meya opened her mouth, but Coris's attention was already elsewhere. He leaned across Dorsea and rested a comforting hand on Philema's knee.

"I'm sure it would make Flindel happier than anything, to see Greeneyes reclaiming their lost ways." His soothing voice masked the guile in those honeyed words. He straightened up, addressing the rest, "How about we demonstrate what we've learned so far? Let's start with feeding, shall we?"

Seven Greeneyes plus Zier whipped around and glowered at Coris, who blinked in confusion. Meya was tempted to hammer some sense into his brain—literally. Poor Philema wasn't even half-done crying, and he was moving on with the training? Had anyone ever taught this lad tact?

Still, as the self-proclaimed and as yet largely unacknowledged leader of this dragon liberation front, Meya was obliged to project an image of unity with her most avid patron. Filling her lungs, she stretched out her leg and shook off her silken slipper.

The heat of a dozen staring eyes engulfed her. Meya closed her eyes and willed her frenzied heart to calm, so she could hear the hum of the earth. As she braced her foot on the yielding sand, her throat seared at the memory of acid and bile combined barreling up her gullet. Gritting her teeth against fear, Meya pushed her foot into the sand.

—No, not sand. She looked up at what she had stuck her foot into and saw a mound of dry, flaky earth piling twice as high as herself. She peered past the man-made hill to the gaping brown crater. A jumble of heads, torsos, arms and legs carpeted its floor. As she gazed on, more bodies were tossed into the mix. One—two—three disfigured, famished children. Weeping parents. Flies and gnats swarmed the air. Crows circled and screeched, then settled down and sliced their beaks into rotting flesh—

"Meya!"

Coris's yell was proof she had again emptied her stomach. The past retreated the way it had attacked—sudden and seamless. Meya found herself on all fours, face to face with her impressive puddle of spew. Had she chugged down that much soup? The cacophony of panicking voices was not helping her nausea.

"Oh, Freda!"

"Are you alright?"

"Where's the healer? Get the healer!"

"We dun have no more healer. The Bishop's in Jaise!"

Meya closed her eyes and fell back on her behind, hoping to shut out the din. She felt as if she was drifting away from her body—floating and numb. Then, Zier's familiar strong arms slid under her back and knees and heaved her up, carrying her to peace and reprieve.

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