It must have been an hour since Coris left to pursue his fair maiden. After a lengthy discussion, Gillian and his dragons decided to conserve their energy for the night.

Every so often during their enlightening talk, Kellis had strained his ears for the echo of returning footsteps, but there were none. Either Coris and the girl had gotten themselves lost in the meandering caverns, or their torches had been spent during their talk and they had decided to tuck in, wherever they were. Knowing his son, though, it was likely the former. And so Baron Hadrian took yet another log from the bonfire and set off after the couple.

Kellis rounded the second bend, and heaved a sigh of relief. Just beyond the halo of light, lay a crumpled bundle of Hyacinth's purple-embroidered toga, topped with a crop of brown hair he recognized immediately as his son's. The boy appeared to be in uneasy sleep—the bundle rose and fell in rapid succession due to his ragged breathing. He rushed in with light, rustling steps, knelt down and swept aside Coris's fringe. Sweat drops glistened in the torchlight against fever-blushed skin.

Where is that girl?

As if she'd sensed his fury, the unmistakable sound of retching traveled to him from beyond the cavern's bend, too faint to stir the slumbering but just loud enough for a vigilant ear.

Kellis's fingers grew numb on the log. The girl retched a few times more, then fell silent. Weary, dragging footsteps echoed towards him. The girl reappeared, wiping her mouth on her scaly, metallic arm. Spotting him, she froze, eyes bulging. She drew back a step, then changed her mind and crept forward, falling gingerly to all fours.

"My lord. I-I won't claim a birthright or anything." She whispered, shaking her bowed head, "I won't tell him nothing, neither. Just let me keep it for now. Please."

Kellis couldn't yet form a reply, overwhelmed by the myriad of developments. Underneath his palm, Coris's forehead burned. He roused himself and focused on the urgent.

"What's wrong with him?" He murmured. After a disoriented pause, the girl edged over to Coris and straightened his tossed-aside blanket.

"Withdrawal, my lord. He hasn't taken his laudanum. He insisted he'll fight it for one night. So I just keep him warm."

She reached for their abandoned, half-burnt logs and laid them on the stone floor. Kellis obligingly added his torch to the pile, handed the girl his cloak, then settled down across from his son. The girl wrapped the garment around Coris then slid away to the shadows, hugging her knees to her chest, staring glumly into the fire.

"Meya, is it?"

Kellis broke the silent vigil. Glowing acid-green eyes flicked over to him, then away just as soon.

"Yes, my lord." She mumbled, curling into a tighter ball.

"I've yet to thank you for all the times you saved my son's life. Sylvia and I have given our blessing for your union. I take it Coris hasn't told you?"

Meya whipped around, eyes wide. His hunch proven, Kellis cursed his boar-headed son inside.

"But I'm a peasant. A Greeneye. Dragon." The girl hissed as if worried he'd forgotten, brows tied and shoulders tense. Kellis sighed as he studied his son.

"It happens when you're a parent. And you only understand once you become one."

Meya blinked, a look of mingled suspicion and bewilderment in her eyes. Kellis linked his fingers loosely on his lap as he gazed into the dancing fire.

"Two hundred years. Why have we done nothing? Coris asked me." He smiled wanly at the memory, "Little did he know, I demanded the same of my father. He didn't reply. Then, on the day Coris was born, and the midwife handed him to me, and I held him for the first time—"

Kellis allowed the past to wash over him, feeling the tingle of phantom warmth on his arms. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the girl moving closer, eyes round with curiosity.

"Of all the things people would tell you on the eve of your marriage, they'd never warned me what a hideous thing a newborn babe would be." He chuckled, shaking his head, "But the moment I looked upon that ugly little face, I remembered the look in my father's eyes. And I understood. He'd asked his father the same thing. And I knew the answer."

"I could no longer see the three lands. Just what was before my eyes—my son."

The girl shuddered at the force of her own words, wielded back at her. They turned as one to his slumbering son, watching as he fidgeted in his cocoon of warmth, then calming at the gentle pressure of Meya's hand on his crown. Kellis sighed,

"When I was his age, I too dreamed of ending this feud, one way or another, but whenever I look at Coris, I feel my resolve crumbling. Then, Zier came, and I became a spineless, indecisive coward. The very words I branded my father with, that my son would come to brand me with."

"Breaking the status quo could mean anything for the future of Hadrian. It was as Gillian said—" Meya whirled back, eyes wavering as the realization dawned upon her. Kellis shook his head, "There's no foreseeable benefit for us Hadrians. Either we destroy Latakia or humankind, or we surrender the one bargaining chip that has kept us alive and prospering for two centuries. I can't leave my boys to face that life. I can't forsake my people, but nor can I forsake yours."

Meya hung her head, teeth grinding, no doubt torn between two bloodlines racing in her veins. Kellis gazed aimlessly ahead, haunted by illusions of memories he weren't proud of.

"I tried my damnedest to distance myself from my sons. To resent them, see them as mere tools, means to an end, obligations forced upon me by my forebears. I hoped it would give me the will to do what is needed to be done."

"And yet, two decades later, I still can't bring myself to act. And you've seen what my sons have done to win my love, to escape the burden I'll soon pass on to them. If only I had the guts to pick a side, I would've at least been able to save one."

Emotion drowned away the rest of his words. The fire seized the opening to interrupt with cracks and sputters. Meya turned away and stared into its depths, pondering.

"So, you're saying—" She began, her voice quiet, a hand caressing her middle, "If I want Coris to follow through with saving dragons, I shouldn't tell him, my lord?"

She stared into his eyes, knuckles glowing white in the meager light as her grip tightened. Kellis shook his head.

"As a father, I only have the right to decide what I believe is best for my son, while he is unable to choose. But Coris is a man now. A father. And you're a wife, and a mother." The girl's eyes wavered in horror at the grim reminder. Kellis gestured at her level belly, "This child is yours and his. And this land would be yours—and then your child's to live. Your choice is yours to make, but the consequences will not only be yours to shoulder."

Meya hung her head, sinking under the weight of endless, obscure possibilities. Kellis's resolve to live and let live softened at the sight, and he decided to give the girl a little nudge in the direction he deemed right.

"Why won't you tell him?" He asked, though he could somewhat guess the cause. Tears welled up in the girl's eyes.

"He—he's always saying he doesn't want children." She kneaded her eyelids with the back of her trembling hand, sniffling, shaking her head,

"I don't want to force him to be a father out of some sense of duty. I don't want the babe to grow up feeling as if he had to become something he thought his dada would love. Because I know what that's like. Trying to be useful, be a good woman, the Song of May Day. So Crosset would accept me. I don't want that life for my child, too."

Kellis felt her words hammering onto his heart, and clenched his fists to brace against the onslaught. That had also been—still were—the lives of his sons. And how could he die in peace if he allowed that to be the life of his grandchild, as well?

He let his eyes roam across the blinking stone facets of the cave wall, selecting the words with which to guide, to advise the troubled young soul,

"Sylvia and I have been married for twenty years. Ours weren't a union of love; we barely knew each other before, but only once did we come close to divorce."

He closed his eyes as he struggled to swallow the bitter taste in his throat. He felt the heat of the girl's glowing eyes burning on his face, and he dipped his head in anguish,

"I learned Sylvia had been aborting our children—thrice—when she was about to abort Coris."

Meya slumped back, color draining from her freckled cheeks. She whipped around to Coris, unnerved at how narrow a stroke of fate his very existence was. Kellis blew out a long, tortured breath; no matter how many times he'd remembered it, the notion still chilled him to the core,

"It wasn't because she was denying me children that had angered me. I was hurt—devastated—that she'd kept it a secret from me."

The girl turned back to him, eyes unblinking, drinking in every word,

"I know she didn't love me—at least, not yet. I know she didn't trust me. I know it would've been her who must carry those children for ten months, then risk her life to bear them. Still, they were my blood as much as her flesh. And we are man and wife. We could've discussed our options. We could've decided to wait until she was ready, until our parents had passed—anything. Just together. Willingly." He pressed a hand to his eyes, tremors leaking into his voice, "At least, it probably wouldn't have pained Coris this much if that had been the case."

Meya pursed her lips, stifling sobs as tears dripped from her chin. She turned and combed Coris's tousled hair, fingers trembling, especially at Kellis's warning.

"Honesty is vital to any lasting partnership. If you both don't possess enough trust to be fully honest, enough patience to negotiate a compromise, your marriage would always be this torture you're feeling now, doubling and tripling with every secret you add. Holding hands would always feel as if you had poison dripping from your sleeve. In that case, it might be better to let go early on, while you still could."

Meya's hand jolted at the heartwrenching, yet tempting suggestion. Kellis allowed silence to reign, and the lass ample time to weigh her options.

"Coris and Lady Arinel have decided they will not marry. Do you have any alternatives?"

He continued in a brighter tone. Meya's eyelids fluttered like gossamer wings as she woke from her thoughts, caught off guard by the sudden change of subject. She met his gaze briefly, then turned to Coris.

"Yes, my lord, but—" She turned back and faced him full, glowing eyes blazing with determination, "That would depend on how much you're willing to sacrifice. For your sons."

Kellis raised his eyebrows at the challenge in those narrowed eyes, chuckling. Finally, she was showing him why Coris had chosen her to aid him in his quest.

"You'd be surprised." He unfurled a devious grin. Meya reciprocated in kind, before loud rustling and moans from the far side of the ring wiped their smiles clean off their faces. The Baron and Greeneye girl spun around with a start to find sleep-deprived Lord Hadrian rolling about, rubbing his eyes in annoyance, whining,

"Is this a matter of significance? Can't you see I'm trying to—" At the sight of Kellis, the boy's eyes flew all the way open. He bolted up, hastily snatching the tumbling folds of clothes to cover his naked torso.

"Father?" Coris croaked, color blossoming on his gaunt cheeks, gawking eyes darting between his old man and dragon maiden. Kellis belted out a hearty laugh.

"Absolutely, son. I'm getting to know my daughter-in-law." He tilted his head at the furiously blushing young lady, then resumed his interrupted conversation,

"So? Your proposal, Meya Hild?"

Coris frowned, but not for long; he stared deep into those glowing green eyes, then his sharp mind filled him in the rest, as she laced her fingers between his.

After a deep breath, Meya turned back to Kellis and unveiled her plans...

⏳

Long before the sun had commenced her crawl up towards the horizon, members the newly-minted alliance departed for the Windcatcher City.

With seven humans in want of transport, Gillian agreed to have his subordinates who would later be heading for Amplevale—Dockar, Vitrius and Torbald—carry them back in dragon form alongside himself and Meya. Unsurprisingly, the humans wouldn't be riding the dragons but clinging onto their front legs.

With darkness as their cover, they took off on a low, leisurely glide skimming the top of the sand dunes. They could've shot high above the clouds, of course, but the humid cold and buffeting wind would freeze the humans' frail lungs. Even at the humble speed and height, Coris was already shivering against Meya's underbelly in his bundles of cloth. She adjusted her arms, pressing him more snugly into her warm skin. To her right was Gillian with Baron Hadrian and Zier in each arm, and to her left was Vitrius with Lady Arinel and Jerald. Bringing up the rear, the frailer Dockar and old Torbald each took Simon and Christopher, respectively.

The sky lightened to pale hyacinth, revealing the walled city blinking just beyond the rippling sea of sand. The dragons touched down behind a row of sand dunes and resumed their human disguise, then the congregation slogged their way up to the travellers' road leading to Hyacinth's town gate. As part of Meya's plan, Baron Hadrian had sent word of her surrender, and Meya found Hyacinth's sleep-deprived guards-women waiting for her with seething smiles and swinging chains.

When Coris threatened to be chained alongside her in the wheeled cage and paraded back to the palace, the guards relented. Still, Meya and the four additional "Greeneyes" must walk among the populace on foot, while the noble, human guests were allowed to lounge on palanquins balanced atop the mighty shoulders of Hyacinth women.

The outrageous arrangement triggered yet another heated lecture from Coris, before he announced he would join Meya and her brethren on the ground, forcing the rest of the group to follow suit.

Though even Zier didn't seem inclined to gripe, Meya couldn't help dipping her head in apology at her human comrades as two guards steered her forward, squeezing each of her arms in their gigantic hands.

By the time they ventured onto the thoroughfare, the sun had already risen free of the Blue Mountains' shadow. Meya knew from experience that it was schooltime. As artisans and merchants bustled around arranging their storefronts, young girls came charging out from doors and alleys on Meya's right-hand side of the street, clean-shaven and draped in purple-embroidered white togas, toting copies of the Holy Scriptures. Fathers came trooping down the hill towards Meya, leading their kicking, bawling daughters. They saw their children off at the school's entrance—a gap in the mile-long wall on the left side of the street, crowned with an imposing sandstone arch. Some shot dirty looks at the teenage girls hunkered nearby, gnawing on dates and chucking pits at passing young men, along with whistles and jeers.

"Ow!"

Meya whirled around at that familiar cry. Coris was rubbing his cheek. His eyes found the owner of the invisible traces of date sugar and spit now on his skin in a tall, muscular young woman who looked to be around Meya's age. Even as she wore the school's embroidered toga, she lounged against the flaking adobe wall with no regard for how harder her father would have to work to scrub the dirt off the white fabric.

"Hey, gorgeous. Where you from?" She called, prompting her surrounding friends to whoop and crow. Her eyes zeroed in on the region not far below Coris's midriff, "Betcha got a solid five hundred down there."

A second round of applauding cheers befell the woman as Coris flushed crimson, even as he'd known enough to feign total obliviousness and hasten his feet. Seething, Baron Hadrian tugged up his sword. Sunlight glanced off the silvery hilt, silencing the hoodlums for good—or while they remained in sight, at the least.

Her arms trapped, Meya pitched in with her own healthy serving of glare. Fixed by her glowing, allegedly ill-wishing eyes, the louts scattered like peas in a popped pod into the school. Yet, Meya's fury lingered in the pounding of her heart in her ears, as did their words.

"Five hundred?" She raised an eyebrow at the guard on her right, arms trembling in their grasps, itching to break free and check on her poor husband.

"Latts—for a pump." The guard added at the blank look on Meya's face, then added again, "—of his seed. Pop out a child, bump up a rank, they say. It's a promotion criteria. If it were a boy and you couldn't pay dowry, you could leave it in front of the school."

She motioned with her head towards the school's seemingly unending adobe wall. Coincidentally, a young boy—Meya knew because he had some length of hair—was prowling that particular stretch of wall with his reed broom, sweeping date pits strewn about its skirt into his dustpan. His dusty, wrinkled uniform was a far cry from the blazing white togas of the Scripture-toting girls passing by him through the arched doorway.

"Agh, five hundred's nothing." The other guard's voice traveled to Meya like an echo from the other end of a tunnel, "They're bidding by the thousands for Dizadh's load these days."

"By Freda, that's insanity." The first guard guffawed.

"Well, he ain't getting younger. Old man's been pumping for decades. He's running himself dry fathering the whole danged town."

As the two women dragged Meya on, chortling over her head, Meya's eyes remained upon the boy. It was likely he was one of those abandoned children, cast aside after they had exhausted their worth to their parents.

She imagined the school had begrudgingly took him in, and, when he was old enough, set him to work to pay for bread and bed and books. She remembered the days in front of the church back in Crosset, watching parents turned away by Friar Tumney slouching off with their unwanted baby girls, no doubt to raise them up with resentment.

What if the child had been a Greeneye? Would they have even ventured out to the church and risk exposure for the slim chance of getting rid of it legally? Would the school have simply left it there to hopefully die of exposure in due course? Though Meya knew she would never do such things to her own child, it would've been but one less baby living unwelcome and unwanted in Freda's cruel lands.

⏳

The doors to Hyacinth Palace's Great Hall trembled with echoes of the conflict within as they approached. The guards threw the doors open and marched in, dragging Meya between them, and the once muffled, strident voices now blasted her at full force—

"Sylvia, please! I have a deal to fulfill. I can't spare my women for your search!"

Lady Hyacinth was no longer lounging lazily upon her throne but bent forward, appealing in frustration to her counterpart. Baroness Hadrian stood adamant on the dais, her raised voice traveling the length of the hall as she brandished a shaking finger down at Amoriah.

"Four of my people under your care are missing! Meanwhile Olivis is dragging you into his childish feud with some peasant girl. Need I draw up a map to remind you whose army is nearer to Hyacinth?"