The procession of qanat holes ended as the hill began its descent to level terrain. Walls of sand rose on either side of them as the road sliced a sheer path down the slope towards a wooden bridge. A shallow, crystal-clear canal rushed by beneath it, fed with ice-cold water of melted mountain snow from two gaping mouths—the sand walls were actually the qanats' tunnel opening.

Across the bridge was a work of miracle. Grass green as spring carpeted the land. On one side of the road, dome-shaped adobe cottages rose out of the blue-gray sand, then gave way to a grove of trees tall as the most ancient oaks.

These trees were unlike any Meya had ever seen. She'd only guessed they were trees because of their olive-green leaves. Their trunks, papered with layers of petal-shaped barks, shot towards the heavens without meandering, ending in a fountain of branches bearing long, thin leaves like blades. Bunches pregnant with unripe fruit hung from the junction. Hulking Hyacinth women stepped precariously from one petal of the bark to another. They wormed their hands into the fruit bunches, tugging some out at random and flinging them to their deaths on the abyss far below.

"Date palms, my lady." Ozid explained as their carriage trundled by the wall of tree trunks. "This harvest should be ready in a month. The bunches are thinned out to allow for plumper fruits."

Meya nodded in awe. Pinching a dried date from the plate on Ozid's lap, she nibbled on the sweet sustenance—so sweet it made her eyes water—then poked her head further out, holding her breath at the daring display. The death-defying date farmers had not a single length of rope tethering them to life.

A poke from Coris distracted her and she pulled back, frowning. Coris jabbed his thumb at the opposite window with a grin. Meya's eyes followed it, then she scrambled over her snickering husband to his window.

On the side of the road she overlooked was more blue-gray adobe houses, surrounded by gardens populated by yet another race of peculiar trees. Flat leaves like milky green pieces of pockmarked, thorny unleavened dough sprouted atop one another into higgledy-piggledy towers as tall as Meya herself.

In spite of the thorns' protection, the leaves were plagued with swathes of white, mold-like fluff. Hyacinth househusbands hovered over them, scraping the disease off with metal spoons—then Meya noticed they were collecting the puffs into trays.

"Cochineal, my lady. These tiny critters feed on the prickly pear. The men collect them, boil them, dry them, crush them into carmine, and dye fabric with it. It's our most lucrative export. Some have even made their way into Hadrian Castle."

Ozid flourished a graceful hand at Meya and Coris, even though they were no longer draped in their garish home color, but in Hyacinth's calming off-white and purple.

"I thought Hadrian Red is made from the Hadrian Rose?" Meya shot an accusatory look at Coris. He nodded.

"We've had occasional shortages when the roses came down with disease. You could say there's a trace of Hyacinth in all of us."

Coris forced a grin as he shifted restlessly in the folds of his Hyacinth toga—a stark contrast to Meya's revealing attire.

"Is anything the matter, my lord?" Ozid leaned forward, a hand over his heart. Coris glanced at the puzzled Meya—the smirking Jadirah—back to the worried Ozid, then sighed and stared down at the floorboards.

"Can't I part my legs wider? It's uncomfortable." He dug his fingers into his kneecaps, looking pleadingly at Ozid. "You'd understand, surely?"

As part of their orientation, Ozid had taught them how to carry themselves—which included the proper manner of sitting. There were no taboos for women, but spreading your legs were recommended as it gave an impression of confidence and dominance. On the other hand, men were allowed to open their legs only up to a hand's width apart.

Of course, Meya had been annoyed with the men hogging up bum space at Fest tables with their leg spread. Women were shunted off to the sides, legs closed tight as Bailiff Johnsy's pursestring, straining away from their heat. It was considered their fault and their loss if a man brushed up against them. Only whores and birthing women open wide, the elders would quip.

So, men actually needed some of that added space for their little fellows to breathe? Still, not having a dong didn't justify women having to shut their legs tight as a clam, though.

Ozid had definitely received such a request before. There was a genuine look of sympathy in his eyes.

"My lord, this is part of our training in discipline and restraint. Discomfort isn't an excuse to take up more space than you're worth. A good man knows his place. He exudes humility and modesty." He then blushed, stuttering, "It's also—ah—improper—to display the bulge of your manhood. It distracts the women and welcomes—ah—unwanted advances."

Coris's eyebrows crept closer in annoyance. His eyes were brewing thunderstorms streaked with lightning.

"This isn't about building character nor flaunting one's attributes to attract women, Ozid. Freda hasn't designed men to hold this ridiculous pose and you know it!" He snapped. Ozid recoiled with a gasp. Meya grabbed Coris's leg. Jadirah, however, exploded in a fit of wheezing laughter.

"With all due respect, my lord. Never heard of a man going barren from his thighs squashing his nads for too long." She shrugged at Coris's freezing glare.

"It's not like we didn't leave you any space, either. A hand's width is generous, considering how men force women to sit outside Hyacinth." She stood her hand between her thighs, then cocked her head, a sly glint in her eyes,

"Unless your package is larger than average, of course."

If there ever would be a moment Coris turned the exact shade of Hadrian Red, Meya would bet all her savings on this. Even Ozid felt it was one lewd joke too far.

"Jadirah!" He cried, but Jadirah only seemed to swell larger as if feeding on Coris's fury.

"Why the long face, my lord? It's a compliment. Freda isn't generous with her blessings. You should be proud."

"Jadirah!" Ozid hissed so viciously Meya could have sworn spit flew out through his gritted teeth. Jadirah finally relented. Heaving a dramatic sigh, she stood up and crossed over the bench,

"Oughta give Sir Jarl a hand. Man's never rode on sand." She grunted then ducked outside, no doubt to patronize the seasoned horseman with unwanted help.

Coris slumped back against the cushions, pinching the bridge of his nose as he waited out the ramifications of his outburst. As he took heaving breaths, Meya cleared away the folds of cloth clinging to his neck to ease his breathing. She noticed her hands were shaking.

It might be flattering if Meya complimented Coris's attributes in the privacy of their bedchambers as they lain together. It was not if a stranger mentioned it when Coris was the representative of Hadrian on a diplomatic mission.

He was a charismatic and selfless leader. He was a brave and loyal friend, brother and husband who strove to coax out the best in every soul he encountered except his own. And sometimes, he was an obnoxious, snobbish, melancholic git. Still, even that was much more than his manhood. And it broke her heart to see him reduced to the appendix between his legs.

Then it hit her.

We must give them a taste of their own torture. They must learn what it's like to have their being reduced to their rod and the seed it held.

So this is Hyacinth's revenge—a glimpse of it; if a castle guard could get away with insulting Lord Hadrian's dignity, what would Lady Hyacinth have in store for the common man?

"I'm so sorry you had to witness that, Ozid." Coris went back to his soft-spoken, almost poetic speech. Meya woke from her reverie to find him downcast, playing with his fingers in his lap.

"She's just doing her duty on behalf of all women—giving a man a taste of what it's like to be them. I shouldn't have been furious. This was what she'd lived through in Hythe."

"Then take it up to the men in Hythe!" Meya hissed, startling both men. As Coris gawked at her, she jabbed a finger at her head, "You've never disrespected a hair on my head, let alone a woman. How in the three lands is that fair? Unloading your past grudges onto any man who couldn't rape you back?"

Ozid gasped and grasped at his heart. Coris, however, was used to her brazen tirades.

"True, I may have never hurt a woman that I know of," He dipped his head and sighed, "But countless men have, and still are. And that's not enough. I have a prominent voice. I should raise it for the benefit of women."

Meya huffed a breath of annoyance. To Fyr with all that, she still wanted to kick Jadirah's arse for upsetting her wee donghead. Yet, even more irksome—and worrisome—was the undeniable fact that Jadirah's method had worked to raise Coris's awareness.

"Still—do we have to become their mirror just to make them see?" She turned and met Coris's gaze, "Is this the only way?"

Their eyes aligned, and Meya knew Coris heard her unspoken fear.

How would this translate to solving the conflict between humans and dragons? If oppressing the oppressor is the only path to their enlightenment, and salvation of the whole, that would mean taking Gillian's lead. Enslaving humans and trampling over Latakia on their way to reclaim Everglen.

That would be strength. That would be glory. That would be true power. That would be a man's choice. Yet, it repulsed her, like it would most women. It was what had led her to desert Gillian's madness for Coris's daydream.

Perhaps that was why women seldom ruled. Women had no stomach for harsh reality—for doing what needed to be done.

Meya was born from humans. She had human family and friends—and a human mate. And time and again, she had betrayed her kind's interests for them. She sold Gillian out for Coris. She turned down surgery for Zier. She persuaded Arinel to bring Dineira to court in spite of her dragon research. She chased down Persephia to save Zier.

Like the woman she was, she cared more for the minority before her, her found family, than the majority, her true family. And she didn't know which choice would make her hate herself more.

Traitor or heroine. Dragon carcasses or human corpses.

⏳

Hyacinth's imposing gray wall of mud and clay was smooth, seamless and seemingly impregnable, save for the open iron gates in the center. The wagons from Hadrian were parked on the drawbridge straddling the moat. All that stood between them and the hulking immigration guards was a wagon—rather, a cage mounted on wheels—shuttling rapists to the man-brothels.

As an immigration officer—yet another clean-shaven, muscular Hyacinth woman—prowled each side of the wagon, namelist in hand, taking stock of the prisoners, Meya looked out the window at the locals parading by her carriage.

She followed their journey across the bridge and off the side of the road towards a nondescript arrangement of boulders. A dozen men and women had already formed a ragged enclave. Some knelt and fell forward, pressing their foreheads to the sand. Some stood and waved their hands backwards as if scooping air up to wash their faces.

No, not air—smoke.

Tendrils of smoke rose beyond the stones, the wispy gray contrasted by the backdrop of blue sky. Meya peered into the gaps between ballooning pants and fluttering togas. A small fire danced before the rocks, shooting out of the earth itself.

"The Eternal Fire, my lady. Legend has it that a miner started it by accident, and it's been burning since. Four hundred years and counting."

Meya froze but for a series of skeptical blinks.

"Somebody must be sneaking firewood under there." She turned back to Ozid with a mischievous smile. The orientator giggled.

"Alchemists discovered it is in fact flammable air—the term is gas, I believe." He tapped his finger to his chin. Meya turned to Coris with a raised eyebrow, and he nodded; a promise to educate her later in private, "It is colorless and odorless. Countless miners and qanat diggers lost their lives to explosions and cave-ins because of that."

"Have you found a solution, then?" Coris asked with a wry grin. "Or did the Mining Ban render it irrelevant first?"

"Interestingly, my lord, the solution brought about the Hyacinth of today. Before the Ban, Yasint's economy relied on mining in the Sands and the Blue Mountains—until gas leaks began to plague the tunnels in the years leading up to the women's revolt. Then, a budding alchemist, Lashtiri Hasif, invented the green crystal—a heatless, fireless source of light. She allied with the Yasint sisters and withheld the knowledge from men. Women set foot into the mines and worked their way to freedom, while men cowered from the invisible threat."

One word in particular roused her suspicion. Meya flicked Coris a quick look.

"Green, huh. What's it made of?" She leaned forward, eyes narrowed to slits. Ozid shook his head with a secretive smile.

"To this day, the knowledge resides with the Hasif clan only, my lady. Of course, after the Mining Ban forced us to turn to new sources of income, the crystal's importance faded. Only qanat diggers use it nowadays, and even they are dwindling. The Hasifs moved on to new inventions and remain prominent alchemists in service to the Hyacinths."

The carriage wobbled and resumed trundling across the bridge. With a jolt, Ozis poked his head out the window. Jadirah's voice floated inside as she greeted her peers at the gates; they let them through with whistles and waves.

Meya reached inside her pocket, fingering the dragon eyes she had nicked from Jadirah's brassiere. Hopefully, Frenix's painted marbles would hoodwink her until they were well on their way through the valley—Hopefully, this would be the worst of their fears.

Coris's cold hand closed over hers. Free of Jadirah and Tissa's judging eyes, Meya felt safe to indulge herself.

"Hope we're just being paranoid." She whispered. Coris squeezed her hand tightly.

"Hard to tell paranoia from valid suspicion by this point."

⏳

Behind the walls, the Hyacinth townscape blanketed the sand all the way to the skyline. On both sides of the crowded dirt road, adobe domes had been replaced by flat-topped adobe houses. Some were one-room dwellings of the modest, while some spread and conjoined into sprawling complexes. Some piled up to three stories high. Staircases snaked along the walls, leading up to balconies and rooftops, where hung laundry flapped and billowed in whichever direction the hot breeze was blowing.

Shooting high above the chaos, basking in the blazing sun, were hundreds of towers with bars carved into their sides. Most were rectangular. Some were other shapes with five, six or eight sides (Meya was sure the latter three had lengthy proper names, but only snobs like Coris would use them).

Ozid told her they were windcatchers, designed to catch the cool wind and funnel it down to the rooms below, and provide the rising hot air a venue to escape. Cool air blew occasionally from within shops on both sides of the road, as their carriage trundled past, supporting his claim.

Hyacinth househusbands milled about, frequenting vendors with vegetables and meat for sale. Unlike tourists and castle officials, who wore white and violet, the local men dressed in tie-dyed fabric which came in all shades of red. Crimson, scarlet, vermilion, rose and purple psychedelic patterns stood out from resisted white canvas, embellished by embroidery.

Most men wore their hair long. Some had slung babies on their backs. Others led along children who scream for their grocery-laden fathers to buy them date-sugar candies, molded into various shapes and dyed bright red. Heat-weary tourists licked on melting blocks of rich, frozen goat cream sprinkled with chopped dates and skewered onto sticks.

A church loomed into their midst. It didn't resemble the churches in Meriton, but its ornately carved pillars flanking the arched doors, its towers and turrets topped with mosaic-plated domes, its altar of eternal fire sitting smack before the entrance nevertheless coupled to exude that familiar heavy, imposing, taciturn aura.

As they approached, Meya made out the inscription on the arched lintel. One half was written in Hyacinth runes—little more than squiggles and dots to Meya. The other was in Latakian.

Become the Fire.

Meya mouthed. As always, Ozid noticed her frown.

"Do not simply fight fire with fire. Become the fire. The philosophy of our founder, Ardehah Yasint. The path to sure victory over your oppressors is to learn from their ways, and best them at what they do."

"Won't that make you the oppressor, justifying the oppressed's cause to best you back in future?" Meya quirked a skeptical eyebrow.

"If they were stronger, then they would have deserved that victory." Ozid gave a sad smile and cocked his head, "War and mankind are inseparable, my lady. Like fire, each side would burn ever brighter and consume the other, until their fuel is exhausted. But, unlike regular fires, the human fire never runs out of fuel."

At that, Meya shrugged with a savage grin.

"Humans breed like rodents." She quipped, despite the hollow feeling eating at her heart.

A crowd had gathered at the church's steps, spilling onto the road, shaking fists and screaming obscenities. The object of their chagrin—a woman with long black hair, naked but for the paint of rotten vegetables and mud dotting her shivering torso, hanging by her wrists from a pillory. As Meya watched the familiar sight, a fresh handful of mud spattered the condemned's face, dripping off with her tears.

"What's her crime?" She breathed, more to lament than inquire.

"Fallen back on the old ways, is my bet." Jadirah poked her head outside the window with a smirk of glee. She'd come back inside; Sir Jarl insisted he could drive on sand.

A priestess stood tall on the steps, scantily dressed in violet-embroidered fabric, head swathed in violet cloth. She jabbed her finger at the prisoner.

"This vain, shallow woman took the sacred cloth to hide her hair, and preach the old ways to our students." Her voice boomed across the square. "Not only that—she has allowed men to bestride her, like a she-dog in heat! Knelt before them, pleased them with the very lips she prays to Freda with! Has she no pride?"

"No!" The crowd jeered.

"Has she no shame?"

"Shame!" The crowd parroted.

"Is it her intention to undo centuries of progress this great city has won with the blood of countless women?"

This time, responses were varied.

"Shame!"

"Shame on you, man-loving she-dog!"

"Drown in the Lake!"

The woman cowered and sobbed as the barrage resumed. Pebbles, spoiled fruit, mud, shite—Meya could tell by the pong wafting through their window, and she trembled with fear, fury and shame.

She had done those things, and worse—she enjoyed it. Was this the reason behind the violet turban? To separate tourists so they wouldn't be accidentally subjected to Hyacinth's standard?