"Mmmph! Uuuumph! Mmph!"

Muffled moans and whining whimpers punctuated the quiet of night from Coris's tent. Outside, Zier, Christopher and Simon heaved and pulled limp bodies of drugged yeomen and maids from open air into their respective communal tents.

The chorus of hoof beats serenading them had long faded away; after Philema had cleaned and dressed Persephia's wounds, Agnes rode off with her sister in her arms, accompanied by Cleygar and Lors to provide protection. With luck and haste, they would deliver the Lady Graye for treatment in Hyacinth before the inevitable fever set in.

Every few seconds or so, the curtain of darkness burst apart at its invisible seams, revealing spheres and streaks of flames as Frenix busied himself awing the sleepless Amara and Atmund with his newfound dragon powers.

Meanwhile, inside Lord Hadrian's tent, Meya was suffering the consequences of her hard-earned abilities. Lying flat on her belly, she gnashed her teeth and dug all ten digits into her pillow as Coris dabbed wine-soaked gauze on her wounds.

Unbeknownst to Meya in the heat of the moment, her tug-of-war with Persephia had torn scales clean off her buttocks, leaving her bare, delicate bum to drag on a mile of sharp gravel. What was left of her skin hung loose in strips, exposing her raw, weeping flesh to thin air.

A corner of the gauze dipped into her lacerated flesh—Coris fishing out a stray piece of grit. Meya jolted. Eyes watering, she seethed through gritted teeth, tensing stiff as a dried-up earthworm as she waited out the searing agony.

Coris's clammy hand pressed gently on her hair.

"Hang in there, Anya." He worked his way through layers of thick, rich rose gold, scratching soothing circles on her scalp. As Meya relaxed, slumping gratefully down to her pillow, he added with a chuckle, "Better lift your behind next time if your scales aren't thick enough."

Meya froze, blinking, then rage clicked in. She was reduced to grinding her teeth to stop herself hammering a heel into the smug bastard's smirking face.

"Agh, shut up, you!" She strained her neck around and snapped at the donghead. Coris bent lower over his aching tummy, stifling laughter as he continued cleaning her wounds. Meya growled in her throat as she whipped back, grunting, "Tactless—ungrateful—know-it-all—Gaaargh!"

Meya curled up with a scream as Coris raked yet another bit of buried gravel out of her flesh.

"Sorry." He swooped down, blowing whispered words onto her hair, "Thank you for saving my brother."

He breathed, his voice trembling. Meya shook her head and burrowed her tear-streaked face into his shoulder, as Coris wound his arm around her. They held on until they were shivering as one, smothering the icy flames of fear with each other's grounding warmth, before moving apart.

As Coris turned his attention back to her injuries, Meya steeled herself for the worst, but it seemed at long last, her wounds were free of contaminants; dollops of ice-cold honey slopped onto her turned flesh, overwhelming the burning heat, and she melted into her pillow in contentment. Bliss was fleeting, however; by the time Meya was fully aware again, her upper legs had been mummified in clean gauze and covered with her nightdress.

Her mattress sunk from the added weight as Coris eased himself down by her side. He shone her a drowsy smile then slid her the honey jar. As Meya dug in with her bare hands, he raised a bloodstained, silver-gray, hexagonal metal plaque to the light—one of Meya's fallen scales.

Meya frowned as she suckled on her finger, watching as he rotated, flipped and rubbed her shed armor.

"Anything?"

Coris met her gaze, his eyes narrowed in thought.

"You couldn't have secreted this much metal from eating alone." He offered the scale to Meya, who took it with her unsoiled hand, a furrow deepening between his brows. "Have you been feeding? You overcame your trauma?"

Meya's fidgety fingers froze around the scale. She smiled as she planned her grand reveal.

"Nah. Just found a way 'round it." She shrugged. Coris blinked, intrigued. Meya propped herself up on one elbow and extended her hand with the scale.

"Watch."

As Coris obligingly did, Meya closed her eyes and clasped her fingers over the scale, then inhaled. The scale liquefied and seeped back under her skin, vanishing in a flash of warmth. She didn't stop there—within her mind, she conjured up the sensation of metal hardening over her skin, and willed it to life. Coris's gasp of awe was a puff of warm air brushing her knuckles, now coated with silvery metal.

Meya turned her hand around and flexed her fingers, admiring her handiwork, then grinned at her beau.

"Better think hard next time you feel like incurring my wrath." Chuckling, she allowed the armor to disintegrate, revealing normal skin once more. Coris nodded, a thoughtful look on his handsome features.

"I see. You eliminated the risk of a drought by feeding in a limited area. Clever." He pinched the wrinkle between his brows, muttering, "Why hadn't I thought of that?"

"We were so focused on moving the rock, we forgot we could just...walk around it?" Meya suggested with a raised eyebrow.

"An apt analogy, if I may say so." Coris cocked his head, pompous as ever, then heaved a troubled sigh, "To be honest, it still bothers me to leave the proverbial rock as it is, but perhaps Zier's right—some things aren't meant to be solved. The way blood and ink don't wash off."

Meya narrowed her eyes at those reminiscent words, wracking her brain for a way to segue into their long overdue talk, but it was as if Coris had anticipated her strike.

"How did you find out, by the way?"

Meya watched as he dipped his finger into the honey jar, blinking as shame set her cheeks alight from within.

"Dunno. I just did." She shrugged. Coris clicked his tongue then shook his head in disapproval.

"Uh-uh. No more lies. No more secrets. Remember?" He reached over and pinched her nose. Meya swore under her breath at the sound of those devilish chuckles.

"Fine." She closed her eyes with a huff of grudging defeat, mumbling, "I'm gonna need a substitute Substitute."

Silence. Meya chanced a glance and found Coris gawking, a finger still stuck in his half-open mouth. Her cheeks burned.

"Go on. Laugh. I'm a whore. I can't control myself." She spat, tearing a savage smirk in challenge, but Coris wasn't smiling back nor slurping honey—he was livid.

"Don't ever call yourself that." He hissed, then raked his hair back in frustration, "See? This is why I gave you The Substitute."

Meya raised her eyebrows. Coris blew another sigh then leaned closer.

"I know that's what Crosset wants you to believe, but you don't have to be ashamed of yourself here. Or anywhere." He shook his head, pinning her with his blazing stare, but his voice softened as he traced a fingertip down the contour of her face, "You're beautiful. It's only normal to love yourself."

Beautiful. That was perhaps the first time in her life the word was directed to her. As her heart writhed, Meya gently unwound her eyes from his, face still awash with heat from the turmoil within.

The concept was foreign to her. One she had never thought to question. Born and bred in Crosset, she was taught that chastity was paramount, that pleasure must be born between man and woman, solely to bring forth new life. She had been conditioned to take her utter undesirability for granted as simple truth, so she was surprised how Coris had cherished her body, had derived pleasure simply from holding her, had considered her beautiful.

Still, it was a woman's duty to be appreciated by a man. Did she have the right to appreciate herself, like Coris insisted? In Crosset, such brazen vanity would surely be scoffed at and shamed. But should it?

In light of more pressing matters, Meya decided to save it for later contemplation.

"Thank you." She resurfaced with a wan smile, then cocked her head in jest, "In case anyone wanted to enclose me for adultery, I was thinking of you the whole time."

"Oh, Freda. Please don't tempt me." Coris slapped a hand over his eyes, shaking his head as he chuckled wearily. Meya smiled at the endearing sight. After a deep breath, she took the plunge.

"Your turn, Lexi."

"For what?" Coris was still all smiles, unsuspecting. Meya gave a slight shrug, her voice tender.

"I told you my secret. Now you tell me yours."

Coris's smile sagged as the blacks of his eyes dilated, eclipsing the rings of wavering gray. Color drained from his cheeks. He dipped his gaze and picked at the sheets, but Meya wasn't inclined to surrender.

"When Frenix mentioned the war with Cristoria. And when you saw dragon-me. You looked...scared. What's going on?"

Coris tensed, cursed to stone by the mere touch of her hand on his shoulder, and Meya let go. She turned away to give him space.

"Come to think of it, you still haven't told me what really happened in The Axel Heist, too."

Coris was already strained to his limit; instead, he trembled under the pressure. Meya inched her hand forward and touched the back of his hand with a nervous finger. He looked like a little house built of strands of hay, as if the slightest nudge would send him collapsing in on himself. Yet, there was no better time to gain entrance; at his most vulnerable, he was also at his strongest. He wouldn't crumble.

"What happened in Cristoria?" Meya leaned in once more. Her protective hand crept over his and embraced it, "Why did you come to Crosset during the Famine? How did you become...you?"

Coris shook his head, his eyes dead and unseeing.

"I didn't become anything. I've always been a monster."

"You're not."

Coris didn't respond to that, and she bit her lip in desperation.

"Please, Coris. You know everything about me, but I barely know you." She squeezed and shook his pale, lukewarm hand, pleading "You're in pain. And I want to help."

A battle of wills raged, long and silent as it always was, but at long last, those silvery eyes rose and held hers in return. It was not surrender, but a plea for a willing ear.

"My grandfather died when I was a year old." Coris began. His eyes roamed aimlessly as his fingers compulsively pinched lint from the bedsheet.

"Father was young when he took the Hadrian seat. Mother, even younger. Father still wasn't ready for his duties. Mother still wasn't ready for me when she became pregnant with Zier. I'd get a few glimpses of them on a lucky day, but I wasn't lucky very often."

His lips twitched into a mocking grin. At the sight of his lifeless gaze, his emaciated profile, Meya reined in the tears stinging in her eyes and silently reaffirmed her grip.

"By the time I was three, I already knew the Holy Scriptures by heart and taught myself chess. The nurse wasn't prepared for such a precocious child. She'd leave me with books and sweets while she doted on Zier. He was a simple, quiet, beautiful, blue-eyed babe."

His smile was a jumble of emotions as he recalled baby Zier, his eyes glazed with a mix of bitter jealousy and warm love—only to be overwhelmed by crushing shame. He dipped his head, sinking under its weight.

"I had infinite energy. I needed an outlet. I wanted to be noticed, to see some reaction. So, I tried hurting Zier. After the nurse separated us, I started screaming and throwing things. Perhaps I was hoping my parents would hear."

"Tisn't your fault." Meya whispered, tears falling free as she shook her head. Coris shrugged and grinned, his expression empty.

"When I was four, my grandparents came to visit from Noxx. They scolded Mother because of how fat and spoiled I was. After that, Mother settled down and took care of us. But I know Mother. She'd rather be somewhere else. Doing anything else. Than being my mother."

That's not true, instinct tempted Meya to refute. Don't think that. But she bit her tongue in time. Coris was telling his truth and, ugly as it was, it was true—Meya had spent her brief spell with Baroness Sylvia in awe of the woman; she wasn't the type to settle for housework and child-rearing.

"I'm the firstborn. Father made me because there's a role for me to fulfill." Coris was no longer smiling as he moved on to the Baron Hadrian—his downcast face was stricken with shame.

"I have to do him proud. So he could trust Hadrian to me without qualms, but in school, I'm terrible with the sword, the lance, the bow—with any weapon. The other boys bullied me. I had no friends. I commanded no respect nor loyalty. I hoped for a chance to prove myself."

"Cristoria?" Meya guessed. Coris nodded.

"Cristoria has always been a difficult vassal. The year I turned ten, they declared freedom from Hadrian's demesne. When negotiations failed, I asked to follow Father to war. He just wanted me to observe and learn. Of course, I had much more in mind."

"Father fell gravely ill just before we reached Cristoria. The knights wanted to bring him back to Hadrian, but the healer feared he'd succumb along the way. There's only one solution—we must take Cristoria Castle as swiftly as possible and treat him there."

"I seized command. It was harvest season—impossible to surround and starve the castle out. I ordered the cavalry ahead to sack the village, seize the croplands and granaries. The people were in the midst of the harvest; they hadn't evacuated inside the castle. They fled to the wall, demanding entry. Lord Cristoria was familiar with this tactic. Even with the prospect of his people starving or being massacred before his wall, he didn't yield."

A survivor of famine, Meya bit her lips in horrified anticipation. Coris betrayed a wan smile of lingering pride for his old ingenuity,

"It was all within my expectations. I ordered my men to hurl food over the moat to the people, along with rhetoric. Turn them to our side and against each other. I suggested they single out wives and children of castle guards and leave them to starve. And they did."

"After two days, a guard finally broke and opened the sally port for us at night. Once we had infiltrated the castle, victory was swift. Father recovered in Cristoria before we headed back."

Coris fell silent and continued scratching trails of dried honey off the jar, signaling the end of his first tale. Meya frowned as she mulled over it.

"So, at ten years old, you saved your father's life, won a bloodless war, and avoided a massacre." She attempted a recap, her frown deepening, "What are you hung up about?"

Coris dipped his head lower.

"It wasn't bloodless." His hand trembled under hers, prompting Meya to clasp her free hand over it.

"It was easy to learn strategy from history tomes, to scheme and command from the safety of my tent. After we had stormed the castle, I left camp with my father and walked through the village. For the first time, I saw war."

Coris rested his forehead atop their bonded hands.

"My men raided in the middle of the night. People were asleep. I remember the sight, the smell, the lack of a sound. Houses burnt to the ground. Humans charred to a crisp. Fathers and mothers with babies in their arms. Children my age, trapped under their collapsed roof—"

He broke off. Meya felt moisture seeping onto her hand from his burning eyes. She leaned over him, pressing her nose into his hair as he wept in earnest.

"I should've realized then. I wasn't ready for this. I might never be. But to accept that would mean accepting failure. If only I'd known there was more than one way to rule—"

"When Lord Cristoria realized who had defeated him—a ten-year-old boy, he took his own life." Meya drew a sharp breath—she couldn't stop herself in time, and Coris shrank further, disgusted with himself, "Perhaps, if I hadn't taunted him so heartlessly, Fione would still have a father."

"Fione?" Meya breathed in disbelief as she recalled the eccentric Lady, only remembering now from whence she'd hailed. Coris straightened up, his puffy and bloodshot eyes staring ahead.

"It didn't end there. Father remained comatose for weeks. I couldn't leave him unprotected and send the troops home first. Not in the midst of vengeful Cristorians."

"You didn't have enough food to feed everyone, since you interrupted Cristoria's harvest." Meya breathed, blanching in horror. Coris nodded.

"I couldn't ask for relief from surrounding manors—they could come with reinforcements instead. As we wait for food to arrive from Hadrian, I had to send the old, the injured and the sick outside the wall to starve."

As Coris sat paralyzed by the harrowing memory, Meya turned away and wiped her tears on her pillow.

"I thought my father was disappointed in me because our victory wasn't perfect. Now I realized he was probably disappointed in himself; in his absence, I've become a monster." Coris shook his head with a rueful grin. "Had I realized that, I wouldn't have accepted Bailiff Johnsy's invitation."

"To...hunt game?" Drying her eyes, Meya croaked, skeptical.

"Yes." Coris turned to her. Again, she glimpsed that fear in his eyes. "You."

Meya mouthed, speechless in utter bewilderment. What was all this about? All this time, she'd thought he'd simply strayed into their midst, a naive little boy lured by the prospect of entertainment, perhaps a bit of adventure. Instead, he had come knowing and prepared—to hunt her?

Coris must have felt her hand twitching above his. As if to save her the trouble of deciding, he withdrew his hand and turned away. Meya was left to stare after his steely profile. Before she could decide whether to explain—if she could; she didn't even know what to think, yet—he went on.

"Johnsy claimed slaying the escaped Greeneye would end Freda's damnation. It was a lie, of course, but I'd suspected the Famine was unnatural. For one, nearby manors weren't affected. Some families' gardens and lands, aside from your family's vegetable patch, yielded crops throughout autumn; the Armorheims, the Gretgorns. People you're on good terms with."

"Crosset wasn't in our demesne. We were still recovering from the war, and supplies were tight. I decided I'd do my part in capturing the culprit, study Greeneyes and their powers in the process. It was the profitable option. The opposite of Cristoria."

Coris unfurled a wan smile, then hid his face in his hands, his voice cracking,

"And I was saved by the dragon I came to slay."

Meya's heart writhed with guilt. Would she have done the same, had she known what he was there for? But one thing was for sure; she still didn't regret it. She simply did what she believed was right, had hoped for nothing in return. And she had saved both him and Crosset. As the sight of the anguished young man reflected in her eyes, her chest filled up with warm relief. It didn't matter. He was no longer that despicable being—he had proven that with his bravery tonight, in this moment. And she was simply happy to have him by her side.

Coris shot her a covert glance when he felt her approaching heat. He didn't flinch away, but nor did he reciprocate; still too ashamed of his actions.

"Once I was back in Hadrian, I tried my best to make amends. But I couldn't avoid the consequences of my past."

"Zier." Meya sighed. Coris tilted his head, adding.

"And Cristoria."