The entourage of Hadrian was almost ready to set off. Stares and murmurs followed Meya as she made her way back to Lady Crosset's white gold-gilded carriage with her new hairstyle, reeking of wood ash and vinegar as she went.

Coris stood waiting to receive her with one hand clinging onto the door frame. His grip slackened as his silvery eyes swept from her forehead down to her chin—where her hair ended—then shot back up to meet her gaze as she drew up before him. He seemed lost for a moment, then hitched up a mischievous grin. He didn't seem inclined to comment, however.

"Well? What do you think?" Meya prodded him. Coris's smile grew wider and more infuriating.

"Do you believe in vampires?"

Meya frowned, half annoyed and half amused.

"Well, if dragon-humans exist, why not bat-humans?" She crossed her arms, eyebrows raised, "What of it?"

Coris shrugged, his gaze hovering about the point where her neck leveled into her shoulder.

"Logical fallacy aside, it's just occurred to me—if vampires did exist, you've just made yourself an easy target."

"How—?"

Coris swooped over her. By the time her faculties caught up, his lukewarm breath was already caressing the curve of her neck—then it was his teeth, nipping playfully on her sensitive flesh. Meya let out an unwitting gasp of desire.

"Dinner." He breathed. The ghost of laughter in his voice jolted Meya to her senses. Seething in embarrassment, she retaliated with a subtle yet threatening prod on his sensitive place.

"Oh, Fyr!"

Coris backpedaled out of her personal space with a string of swears, glowering petulantly at Meya's triumphant smirk. Meya tilted her head, continuing as if there had been no interruption,

"Agh, don't worry. I'll get meself a steel choker and dip it in skin-colored paint. For perverted bloodsuckers to break their fangs on." After chilling Coris with the vivid imagery, she tugged at his hands in frustration, "Seriously, though. What do you think?"

"It doesn't matter what I think, does it?" Coris's reply was so instant it was unnatural. He avoided her gaze. "If you like it, then it's perfect for you."

His signature wan smile was like a coat of lacquer on his lips, and Meya's heart jolted at that all-too-familiar sign of deceit. As expected, Coris preferred her long hair. He was right, though—his preference shouldn't matter. Yet, she wasn't at ease. After all, she hadn't chopped off her hair because she liked it—she wanted to send a message.

The realization stole the breath from her lungs—before pride replaced it.

That reminded her—why would she feel the need to even ask in the first place? Why would she care whether it was perfect for her? Hair never mattered to Meya Hild—what was under her hair was what she valued.

Meya jerked out a round of nods, more to herself than to Coris.

"You're right." She nodded absentmindedly. Noticing Coris's concerned stare, she shook herself awake and reached into her pocket,

"Here. I saved it, if you want."

Tissa had gathered Meya's rich hair into a single thick braid before hacking it off. Meya levered the braid out one knot at a time, then held it out for her beau. Coris's hands trembled slightly as he cradled it in his palms.

"Thanks." He looked up with a smile so melancholic it made her heart melt. Meya hitched up a hasty grin in reply, then hurried onto the carriage.

Coris's smile sagged as soon as Meya turned her back on him. As he glanced down at the hair she had disowned, he couldn't shake the sinking realization— his infatuation with it was precisely what had prompted her to slice it off.

Being the ambitious, progressive woman she was, it must have offended her to be acknowledged simply for her feminine beauty. Even when it was not his intention in the least.

It was disheartening. Coris had decided for once to put aside duty and responsibility and propriety, to connect with others using his honest, selfish feelings and desires—the way Zier had told him to—starting with his closest friend, his love. And it had backfired.

Back to business as usual, it is.

The braid was too long and heavy to be carried in his cloak; Coris wrapped it in one of his scarves then stowed it away in Jetta's saddlebag, to be appreciated later in private. He clambered onto his steed's back and led his entourage towards food relief, yet his heart remained heavy as it was in the days they spent battling starvation. Or, perhaps, even heavier.

⏳

After cresting what must have been the hundredth dune, the roiling sea of sand finally gave way to a flat expanse of even more sand. In the midst of nondescript blue-gray, the humble oasis—with its patch of green grass and gaggle of weary trees—stood out like the Greeneye of the family. Through the heat haze, Meya could just make out a tent, bales of hay and wagons loaded with supplies, a few horses huddled into the shaded mercy of the trees, and a slim figure puttering about tending to them.

Beyond the oasis, what appeared to be a road made of gaping holes meandered towards a faraway town, blinking like a polished pebble at the foot of the mountain range. These holes were without doubt maintenance shafts of the qanat Coris had mentioned. With their raised, conical rims, they reminded Meya of the icky formations glued to the seashells Jason would bring back from the Southern shores. Barnacles, he said they were called. Shellfish with long, waving hair used to live within them—before they were baked to death by the sun when the tide receded. Talk about building a useless home.

As they approached yelling distance, a life emerged from the nearest hole. To Meya's slight disappointment, it wasn't shellfish, nor was it hairy—it was a Hyacinth woman. Tall, hulking and tanned, she balanced a bucket on her clean-shaven head with one hand, and scaled the ladder out of the qanat hole with the other.

The willowy man who'd been tending to the horses rushed over, arms outstretched, eager to assist. The woman marched right past him to the nearby barrel mounted on a stool, and tipped the bucket's content into it. Water flowed out of the pipe hammered into its side into the waiting barrel below, filtered and fit for drinking.

The woman spun around, headed for another trip down the hole. That was when she noticed their entourage. Bucket propped at her angular hip, she turned to face them full and waved. That was when Meya noticed her clothing—or rather, the near lack of it.

She wore white trousers, cinched at the ankles so each leg ballooned out like flaps of flesh, likely to keep out the sand. Her upper body was bare save for the elaborate cloak of tattoos on her shoulders, and the taut strings of glinting black beads restraining her breasts from jiggling as she went about her daily business. The strings coalesced at the crown of her breasts, where two eerily glowing dragon eyes sat above her teats.

Meya drew a sharp breath. Coris's hand was upon hers in a beat, but Meya slipped hers out just as quickly as her reflexes would allow. What would the woman—a Hyacinth woman, no less—think if she appeared holding a man's hand for comfort? At the mere sight of dragon eyes mounted on a brassiere?

Ignoring the fleeting look of confusion and hurt in those silvery eyes, Meya disembarked. The Hyacinth man had taken up his place beside the guide-woman. He was draped from head to toe in a hooded white toga decorated with violet curlicues. The hood served to shield his face from the harsh sun, and thus his skin retained its natural sheen of matted olive, much like Lady Jaise. Both the man and woman looked to be in their late twenties—it was difficult to pinpoint, as they looked, dressed nor carried themselves like the typical Latakian of their sex.

Meya walked side-by-side with Coris towards them. The guide-woman stepped up and bowed to her.

"Lady Hadrian." Her voice was deep and hearty. She pressed a spade-like hand to her chest, her violet-black eyes glinting, "I'm Jadirah. I serve the Lady Hyacinth. I shall escort your entourage to our humble town."

Jadirah drew her foot back, her arm outstretched towards the line of holes leading into the distance,

"We'll follow the course of the qanat, straight to Hyacinth's front gates. The journey should take two days. Ozid here, the Orientator, will educate you all on our culture along the way."

She rested her hand on the man's shoulder, her fingers tracing its contours. Ozid betrayed a grimace, dislodged it with a subtle shrug, then bent a knee to Meya.

Meya swallowed down the uneasy churning in her belly. She had been aware that Hyacinth strove to be the flipside of the norm when it came to the sexes, of course, but she hadn't expected this—she'd never been assumed to be the one in command.

How does Coris go about this leader thing, again?

She scoured her memories, then inflated herself with a deep breath,

"Very well. Thank you." She landed on that hearty voice Coris often used to receive reports, topped with a snobbish nod, then chucked the torch towards the real liege of Hadrian with a flourish of her hand, "Actually, Lord Hadrian is the one in charge. You'd do best to report to him."

Jadirah blinked, glanced at Coris, then back at Meya—then smacked her palm on her forehead.

"Oh! You're a patriarchy!" She threw her head back with a wide grin, then fell into repeated bows. "My deepest apologies, my lady. Force of habit."

Composing herself, she turned to Coris, her knees bent and her hand outstretched.

"Lord Hadrian. You're as beautiful as the rumors foretold. I'm Jadirah. Rest assured, no harm would come your way under my watch."

Coris rested his spider-like hand in Jadirah's, and she dipped her head to press a kiss onto it, while Meya gawked on at the bizarre exchange. Coris was a fairly handsome lad, of course, but the subject of praise had always been his intellect and his achievements. It was as if the grownups in her village had remarked to Maro how handsome he looked instead of how much he was helping Dad out in the fields, then lauded Marin for her penmanship instead of how prettier she had become.

Then it made sense—that was because Latakia had no need for Marin's penmanship and Maro's appearance. It was just the opposite in Hyacinth. Coris's intellect wasn't welcomed here, the way Meya's beauty (or lack there of) wasn't as relevant as it would have been. Hyacinth had simply taken the difference in Latakia's treatment of men and women and turned it on its head.

But—why couldn't it have been the same for all of us? Why couldn't it have been either? Or both?

Meya had a feeling she was supposed to feel gratified, but female revenge was neither sweet nor triumphant as she watched Coris humoring their host,

"Thank you, Jadirah. I could rest easy with a fearsome warrior such as you to safeguard me." Coris pressed his hand on his heart as if to still it, then turned to shine Meya a sappy smile of adoration, "Also, Lady Hadrian is being humble. In Hadrian, though we men sit on the throne, it is common knowledge that true power lies with the women behind the curtains."

Meya dried up her well of restraint to not quirk a skeptical eyebrow at Coris. Jadirah could also see through his flattery; she forced out a queasy, almost pitying smile.

"Of course, my lord. Of course." She dipped a few hasty bows, rolling her eyes in Meya's direction as she did. She steadied her weapon—a war pick swinging at her hip—then surveyed their waiting entourage.

"If you could gather up your wom—men, my lord. We'll load the supplies." She jabbed a finger at the mountain of hay and supplies behind the tent. Coris nodded and cleared his throat.

"Simon. Christopher." The two noblemen promptly dismounted and began summoning servants left and right. Jadirah gave Coris one last bow, then swept off towards the fray.

"All yours, lovely."

She smacked Ozid in the behind as she passed him. Poor man must have jolted a foot off the sand. Feeling his rear end, he shot Jadirah's receding back a look of mingled frustration and fear.

Meya couldn't help her curiosity.

"Are you two—"

"No, my lady." Ozid cut her off, brusque and cold, then caught himself. He folded his arms over his middle, his fingers arched and stiff as his hands hovered over his tunic, the very tips of his middle fingers touching. It seemed a torturous method to restrain your hands during a speech.

"I'm Ozid, my lady. An Orientator. I'm responsible for educating visitors on our ways before they enter the city."

He wore a graceful but restrained smile—one that no doubt had gone through years of practice to ensure it wouldn't reveal one sliver of teeth too many. His voice was also unlike that of any man Meya had ever known. It was soft, light and tender—but unlike Coris. If Coris's voice was the playful, whispering, chilly wind, Ozid's was the slow, unassuming hum of a harp at night. A mix of feminine and masculine.

Ozid turned to observe the heights. The sun blazed from behind a thin veil of clouds. He drew his hand up to shield his eyes with a movement like a fluttering flower petal.

"The sun and heat would be harsher from this point on, my lady. We must hurry to reach the oasis by midday." He whirled back with a dramatic rippling of his tunic, lowering his hand to again complete the uncomfortable pose, "We'll have a few hours of respite, while we wait for the sun to sleep—I would like to hold the orientation then. After dinner, we set off again at nightfall. The same goes for tomorrow."

Ozid's gaze set upon Meya and Coris in turn in anticipation. A cursory glance at Coris revealed him still staring at Ozid, uninclined to respond. With a sigh, Meya took the lead

"Very well. Please be at ease." She hastily added. The mere sight of Ozid's rigid pose was making her arms ache.

"Thank you, my lady." Ozid bowed, but didn't relax a muscle. As Meya chewed her lips in annoyance, he turned to Coris with an apologetic smile, "Normally, I would gradually transition to reporting to the lady—men in charge tend to be resistant to relinquishing command, you see. And their wives are reluctant to take charge—but you both seem willing to adapt to our ways. Seems I'm barely needed, after all."

Ozid smiled. This time, Meya was sure it was finally genuine, and responded with her own.

"Nonsense! We have much to learn." Beckoning for Ozid to lean in, she cocked her head in Jadirah's general direction. "For a start, why does she cap her teats with those?"

Ozid blinked, wide-eyed, but soon caught on.

"Ah. That, my lady, is to ward off any ill fortune willed by the evil eyes—otherwise known as Greeneyes." He unfurled a mysterious smile, then cocked his head, "And what better to deflect it with than itself?"

At the permission given by Meya's flourished hand, Ozid bowed then ascended the steps into their carriage, leaving Meya to share an incredulous look with the equally bewildered Coris.

If Greeneyes could wish ill upon human folks just by staring, there'd be mountains of corpses back in ol' Crosset even before The Famine struck, each and every snuffed out in gruesome yet ingeniously creative fashion. Meya's imagination did run wild, after all.

⏳

"Wouldn't you agree, my lady?"

Jadirah called over as she helped Dorsea into the breast covering provided for tourists, so they could blend in without drastic leaps—a strip of coarse white cloth just wide enough to cover the nipples. In contrast, her unruly Southerner hair had been tamed—tucked under a purple headcloth with a tail trailing down her nape, which signaled their status as visitors and also provided protection from the harsh sun.

Meya strained her neck around, left arm halfway out of her sleeve. After a two days' journey, they were finally approaching the gates of Hyacinth. The women of Hadrian were spread out behind a barricade of wagons and carriages, changing into Hyacinth fashion. The men were undergoing a similar ordeal on the other side of the road, just with Ozid as their instructor.

"With what, Jadirah?"

The hulking woman smirked, then jerked on the ends of Dorsea's breast-cloth to tighten the knot.

"That the penis is the most unsightly creation ever bestowed upon the human body." She announced amid scandalized gasps from surrounding women. Dorsea probably would've joined in if she weren't wheezing for breath.

Meya's cheeks tingled as color rushed up towards them. Not that she was squeamish about the thing—having grown up alongside two younger brothers and lain with a man too many a time—she'd just never heard a woman utter the word with such brazenness in her seventeen years.

"I must admit, it is startling at first sight, but one becomes used to it." She shrugged, pulled her left arm free then began tugging out the right. Jadirah cocked her head,

"And yet, they're allowed to flaunt it. Accentuate it with those ridiculous codpieces and fitted trousers. Chisel them onto statues. Craft them into trinkets. They're allowed to walk the three lands naked but for a loincloth, while women are told every part of our bodies is either ugly, sinful or filthy, and must be shrouded—unless you're a whore or a statue, of course."

Meya froze. Something didn't fall in place.

"You live in Hyacinth. How come you knew all that?" She spun around to face Jadirah fully. Jadirah's eyes glinted, relishing her own mystique.

"I was born and bred in Hythe, my lady. Under the rule of one of the most disgusting men in the three lands—Xavius Fratengarde." She spat out the name with venom. After sending Dorsea pitching forward with a forceful shoulder-slap, she set off walking among the scattered women, seeking out those who might need assistance,

"After the sisters Ardehah and Nazebab seized the Yasint seat from their deranged brother, and Ardehah announced retribution on men—scores deserted her. All the men left, of course—but also some women who still longed to be oppressed. They followed Nazebab through the valley and built Sufayr—Safyre in the Latakian tongue—to be a town where man nor woman exist. What nonsense." She rolled her eyes with a snort.

"Geezers, cripples, boys and babies were all the men Yasint had left. So, Ardehah built the man-brothels and collected men most deserving of revenge from across Latakia—rapists—to provide quality seed and repopulate the town. Castration and death are too swift, too merciful. We must give them a taste of their own torture. They must learn what it's like to be used as a plaything or a broodmare. To have their being reduced to their rod and the seed it held—the way it had been for our sheath and our womb."

"Then, she renamed the city to the Latakian tongue—Hyacinth—and opened the gates to any woman who seeks to be reborn free from the oppression of men. That continued to this day. I am one of those reborn women."

Jadirah turned back, a smile of pride on her lips. Meya realized she was still stuck in the act of freeing her right arm. She shrugged her dress off her shoulders and slipped her leg into the baggy white Hyacinth pants.