Meya woke to the twitter of morning birds, the warmth of sunshine filtering in through the gap in the curtains, and the softness of the duck feather-stuffed four-poster bed. The air smelled fresh and clean. She drew in a deep breath and let it peter out as she savored the scent.

This is heaven. Pure heaven. After sixteen years sleeping on moldy hay sheets in a one-room cottage crammed with nine, echoing with her father’s snores. Still, Meya preferred the snore to the alternative, which involved her mother and one of the things children weren’t allowed to do.

Speaking of which...

Recalling the events of last night, Meya giggled to herself as she buried her heated cheeks into the bouncy pillow. Yet, it wasn’t long before her senses sharpened enough to register the lack of human presence by her side, and the hair-raising sound of violent coughs renting through the morning calm.

“Coris!”

Meya sprang up to find the young lord bent double on the edge of the bed, spewing the contents of his throat down a chamber pot. After a moment of useless fretting, Meya scampered over, one arm holding the pot and the other running down his bony back.

After an excruciating minute, Coris calmed. Taking heaving breaths, he looked up, and Meya noticed with horror the reddish speck mingled in the fluid flowing from his lips.

Swallowing her panic, Meya poured some water into Coris’s goblet and handed it to him. Once he had rinsed, she gave him a towel to wipe his face with, then eased him down to bed and pulled up the blanket.

Coris opened his eyes, and, seeing the shock in hers, he unfurled a consoling smile.

“Sorry. It happens all the time after I overexerted.” His benign grin turned sly as his gaze swept over her. “Must’ve had too much fun with your body last night.”

Meya felt as if all the blood in her system had pooled on her face. Covering her chest with one hand, she socked him hard on his arm with the other.

“Ow!” Surely it wasn’t that painful, but from the way Coris was moaning, the servants would think she’d butchered his manhood or something.

“Good grief, lady! Do you not see how sick I was?” Coris lovingly cradled the sore spot on his arm. Meya shrugged at the sight of those reproachful silvery eyes.

“I did, but I needed proof.”

Pouting, Coris slithered under his blanket as he griped for her to hear.

“Isn’t Lady Arinel supposed to be calm, obedient and gentle?”

“And isn’t Lord Coris supposed to be fat, spoiled and obnoxious?” Meya retorted, eyebrows raised, even as her heart skipped a beat in fright. Coris froze, then nodded in acceptance.

“Yes. I was fat and spoiled.” His face fell and he mumbled as if ashamed. “And obnoxious. Horridly obnoxious.”

Arinel was telling the truth?

Frowning in thought, Meya lay back down and snuggled close to Coris’s cold chest. As his faint heartbeats drummed against her cheek, she could no longer suppress her curiosity.

“Isn’t there a way to make you healthy again?” Coris glanced down and met her pleading eyes. With a soft sigh, he pulled her into his arms.

“I’m afraid there isn’t. My bowels are scarred beyond repair.”

Meya shuddered as his brusque explanation brought gruesome images into her head.

“What in the three lands happened to you?”

She hissed. Coris shifted away so they were lying face-to-face. He met her apprehensive gaze for a long, silent moment, but his expression was one of careful calculation rather than hesitance. At long last, he glanced down at the Lattis coin on her necklace and fingered it,

“Have you ever heard of The Axel?”

Meya shook her head, her gaze never leaving his face as her interest piqued. And even though he himself had been the one to ask, Coris’s eyebrows furrowed into a frown, as if he had expected an affirmative answer.

Ah, crap. Is it supposed to be common knowledge amongst nobility?

As a chill trickled down her spine, Meya went on staring at Coris with innocent, curious eyes, and the young lord complied with a little nod,

“It’s a treasure that has been in our clan for over two hundred years, from the time our ancestor, Maxus Hadrian, was knighted. Some believe it’s the reason the Wynn kings had always treated us Hadrians with respect—and at times even fear. Although, now that the Wynns had been overthrown, no-one would know the true reason why, except the incumbent Baron Hadrian. Still, that had never discouraged our rivals from trying to seize it at all costs.”

Meya’s hand on the pillow curled into a fist as she fought hard to rein in shivers of fear and anticipation. There was no solid proof yet, but this might be what the bandits are after. And to think that a casual conversation about Coris’s frail health somehow led to it.

To think that after only one night together, the Hadrian heir was lying there, telling her everything about his clan’s most coveted possession as simply and openly as if discussing the weather. What was he thinking? Was he really this stupid? Or did he trust her that much?

Arinel had told her not to underestimate Coris. He would have an ulterior motive for this, wouldn’t he?

As her heart raced, Coris went on in his calm, airy voice.

“Six years ago, there was a heist. The first one since I could remember. Being the heir, and having proven my hand in the Siege of Cristoria, I was put in charge of The Axel’s protection as part of my training. I couldn’t stand losing the Axel and my father’s favor, so I put it in my mouth and fled down the secret passageway in my room.”

Meya couldn’t help gaping at the ridiculous story. Coris shrugged, nonchalant.

“Prodigy I may be, I was twelve. A young mind is susceptible to the venom of praise and expectation.” He added with a wry grin. “I thought I was safe. As it turned out, a couple of mercenaries had discovered the tunnel’s exit and was standing guard. I was so startled I swallowed The Axel whole.”

“You swallowed it?” Meya exclaimed, as her brain lit up with realization. If this Axel was what Gillian was after, it would explain why he seemed so intent on gutting his victims and searching them inside out.

“I love food. I’m used to swallowing everything in my mouth.” Coris admitted blandly with a tilt of his head. “Fortunately, some guards arrived, and I was saved in the nick of time. But some of the mercenaries managed to escape.”

The air weighed heavier on Meya’s head as an ominous inkling took shape in her head. She could already guess where the story was heading.

“Father wasn’t taking any chances. The Axel had to be taken out of me as soon as possible. For my own and The Axel’s safety.”

“But—it’s not that big a deal, is it? You could just wait for your body to—get rid of it. Naturally.”

Meya struggled to find the appropriate term. Though she had slept with Coris, had seen him in his birthday suit, had witnessed him eating, the fact that he also must expel his stuff still felt—surreal. After all, he was a nobleman, and she couldn’t dispel the belief that the noble folk were supposed to be different.

“That’s the catch; it wouldn’t come out no matter how long we waited.” Coris shook his head, his eyes now downcast.

“Surgery is banned. So, our healers simply prescribed laxatives. Stomach massages. Prayers. Everything they could think of. Nothing was effective. In the end, Father summoned a famous healer from Meriton instead. He gave me a cure that made me vomit. Over and over.”

Meya’s eyes widened. Coris’s eyes were now just as lifeless and haunting as his low, emotionless voice.

“It was bitter. It smelled acrid—with a taste to match it. I could feel it traveling down my throat, my gullet, all the way into my bowels, then back up again. It burned like acid and fire altogether. It was torture to drink water. But it did what it was meant to do. The Axel came out on the third night.”

Meya could hardly believe what she had heard, could barely imagine the agony he had been through. After a moment of stunned silence, she shook her head, still staring at Coris with eyes wide and unblinking.

“That was no cure.” Her voice came out a mere whisper, and it surprised her.

“It wasn’t.” Coris’s voice was freezing cold as his eyes stared ahead, unseeing as the past tormented him. “The healer was renowned, and I had always been such a whiny, spoiled thing. By the time anyone realized I was in real pain, the damage was done. Turns out whomever sent the mercenaries had siezed the real healer and sent a double to weaken me and steal The Axel. He was hung, drawn and quartered, but my future died long before him.”

Coris’s gaze slid back to meet hers, but Meya looked away in shame, as her heart and head plummeted into a turmoil. She had been so immersed in his tale, she had just realized she could be no different from that mercenary-healer. She might also end up chasing after that same Axel this boy sacrificed his life to protect.

“Still, all that was nothing compared to seeing Mother cry.” Coris continued. His whispered voice shook, and Meya took his hand in hers as he shuddered at the painful memory.

“She was sobbing day and night, begging on her knees for Father to stop. But Father wasn’t to be swayed. She threatened to take her life, so he had her restrained and watched.”

“You could’ve told him it was hurting you, that—that poison.” As if to distract herself from her niggling conscience, Meya argued hotly, squeezing Coris’s cold hand and shaking it in frustration. “Of course he’d believe you. You’re his son, for Freda’s sake!”

“Ari, I may be his son and heir, but The Axel is everything to Hadrian.” Coris countered, his gaze weary, but his stupid calm simply served to make her madder.

“I don’t know, to this day, if Father had ever suspected the healer, if he would stop him even if I were to die, so long as The Axel wasn’t recovered. No-one but Father knows what would happen to us, to our people, should The Axel fall into wrong hands. I’m replaceable. A small price to pay. We had no choice but to trust Father’s decision.”

Coris sounded as if he was pleading for her to understand, yet there was a sliver of bitterness weaved into his voice, and it calmed her somewhat.

I am giving you a choice.

Meya was reminded of Coris’s generous pact to her last night, and she gritted her teeth against the sheer stupidity, the utter pointlessness that wasted a life so privileged she could only dream of. Not to mention the lives of dozens of guards and peasants in Lady Arinel’s entourage.

For what? A lump of something that no-one even knows for sure what it could do?

She couldn’t fathom why she was so disturbed with Coris’s plight when it had nothing to do with her. She couldn’t explain why the mere thought of stealing The Axel now repulsed her so much, when it was the only way to ensure her own survival. Coris was in storytelling mode. She should capitalize on it and press him about The Axel’s new hiding place, but she couldn’t bring herself to do it.

“All this for one stupid Axel?” She finally spoke—spat, rather. Coris had slipped on his calm, saintly mask once more, smiling wanly.

“It’s alright. We still have Zier.”

Those reassuring words, it seemed, was meant for himself as much as for her.

Meya could finally make sense of what he said to her on her first day here. So, Coris was hoping Zier would be his replacement as heir? He was happier than anything, he said. But what was he actually thinking?

Coris slipped back under his blanket, signaling the end of his talk.

“I don’t think I’ll be able to go down for breakfast.” He murmured, calling Meya’s attention. Stifling a yawn, he pinned her with a solemn stare, “Now, if my parents ask, we haven’t consummated the marriage, understand? I’ll take care of the bedsheets.”

Meya raised the blanket to check. Seeing the droplets of blood spattered on the white, she couldn’t help feeling both embarrassed and sad at the same time.

She knew Coris had taken her virginity, but seeing the proof with her own eyes seemed to ram the fact home, emphasizing the enormity of what she had done. It pained her that she couldn’t even do it under her own name, couldn’t even tell a single soul about it. And now Coris was asking her to destroy all proof of it.

As if he had sensed her uneasiness, Coris sat up and gathered her rigid body into his arms.

“I’m sorry. I couldn’t bear to take your future just yet.” He murmured into her shoulder, then moved away. He retrieved something from a drawer in the bedside table, clasped her hands in his and left it on her palm.

“Don’t worry. This is proof of what we did last night.”

Meya let out a small gasp as the brooch glinted in the dim morning light. Its base was made of silver, shaped into a Hadrian Rose and embedded with a solitaire ruby, entwined by mistletoe vines made of peridot, with shimmering mother-of-pearl berries. It was one of the most beautiful pieces of handicraft she had ever laid eyes on. Although, she wasn’t sure if she would ever have the chance to wear it in the open.

Meya had heard that sometimes, the man would give his wife a trinket after their first night to thank her for becoming his, and as proof of the consummation. At least, Coris seemed to have appreciated her efforts to pleasure him last night, and she was grateful for the gift.

“Thank you, Lord Coris.”

Meya whispered, hands trembling. Coris gave her a slow, deep kiss, before sinking back down to the bed’s embrace. Beaming her a bleary smile, he closed his eyes and was out cold within seconds, his bare chest rising and falling as if to a steady, imaginary beat, leaving Meya alone in the harsh reality that had begun creeping back to engulf her.

So, what now?

Closing her hand over the ruby brooch, Meya turned and studied Coris’s listless frame. She heard the faint ticks of the large clock by the fireplace. Time was closing in. At the first opening he had, Gillian would want to talk to her and learn what information she had gleaned. She must make her decision before then.

Meya bit her lips against the pressure. She had been up for most of the night dithering over which side she should choose, and though she herself had offered Gillian help to loot Hadrian Castle for the dowry—which could turn out to be The Axel—her newfound conscience was overriding her survival instincts.

Coris had talked of his own accord, and she had let slip every opening she could use to wheedle out more information. He’d known her for but a day, and yet he had trusted her enough to confide in her. He had once been selfish and spoiled, but ultimately, he had chosen the future of Hadrian’s people over his own. Not to mention the Hadrians had saved Meya and the people of Crosset from the Famine, too.

From the looks of it, Coris did have a heart behind those ribs. If he trusted her, then perhaps she could trust him to help her out? It was better than entrusting her life to bandits that have already killed five of her comrades without shedding so much as a drop of sweat.

But, Gillian—he was a Greeneye, like her. He had told her many things she ought to know about her kind, and he had helped her out with the Lattis collar. He’d even promised to take her to meet his fellow Greeneyes—sort of.

Speaking of which, what did he mean when he said the dowry would ensure Greeneyes could live anywhere? Was he doing all this to carve out a better life for Greeneyes like her?

Why?

Meya couldn’t figure out what would make Gillian so discontent with the status quo. Apart from being the village pariah, Meya’s life as a Greeneye wasn’t that bad. As Meya had insisted time and again to Dad, most of her misfortunes were brought upon her by her own choices, not her eyes.

Sure, it would be delightful if she could walk through the village without being pelted by eggs and insults and tripped into mud puddles, but it wasn’t as if her life would improve much without her glowing eyes.

The trouble with Meya was, despite all appearances, she was quite spoiled and self-centered. She refused to do things she didn’t like, or that seemed irrational to her. She hated the responsibility all women would take up to support their families—housework, cooking, handiwork and weaving. And, in trying to avoid her duty, she landed herself into all manners of trouble.

For instance, working in the fields back when Crosset law still forbade women from working, because it would anger Freda and cause a famine—andactually causing a famine. It was as if Freda had wanted to ram her point home.

A famine that resulted in one hanged bailiff, one disgraced Lord, and a nobleman kidnapped and almost ransomed for food.

Come to think of it, Lord Crosset did mention that Arinel’s betrothed was the one who was kidnapped.

So, indirectly, she caused Coris’s kidnapping?

Meya turned back to beam the snoozing Coris a silent apology as she recalled more of the famine. Farmer Armorheim had led the kidnapping squad back then, under (the now dead) Bailiff Johnsy’s orders. He said Coris had narrowly escaped.

When asked how a chubby little boy managed to slip free of a dozen grown men armed with crossbows and pitchforks, however, Draken would fall silent and avoid Meya’s large, glowing green eyes. Then, he would simply shrug and continue that after he escaped, Coris nobly asked Baron Kellis to share food to help Crosset survive the winter.

But how? What happened? Why wouldn’t Draken tell?

Meya shook herself out of it. She could decipher Coris’s mysterious escape later. Once she had gotten rid of this poison within her.

Meya glanced down at her chest. Underneath the fair skin over her heart was a thin, tapering oval patch, like a petal-shaped birthmark.

Yesterday, before entering Hadrian, they stopped by to see Old Angus, Trunt’s Greeneye friend. Apothecarist by day and Poisoner by night, he had everyone in the entourage drink water with a single black seed in it. The seed of the Moonflower, he called it.

The parasitic flower would bloom in the body of the host, one petal at a time, for one moon cycle. Once it had fully bloomed, it would secrete a poison that would kill its host. It was a Nostran army poison. Mercenary type. It was obvious Angus told her all this because there was little chance of her finding an antidote here in Latakia.

On the other hand, Arinel chose the poisonous Snow Fern spores for Gillian and his men. The Snow Fern was the Crosset Clan’s symbol, and the Crosset Green dye was derived from its crushed spores. As the Snow Fern could only be grown up north in Icemeet and imported to Crosset, finding a cure in the central-west would be near impossible. The secret to collecting and neutralizing the spores for use in clothing also lay with the Crosset Clan’s dyer alone.

But, back to the present—what should Meya choose? She liked Coris. Very much, indeed. He was a kind, gentle, amusing lad. And she loathed the thought of betraying him. But Gillian was a Greeneye, the first one she had ever known, and she didn’t want to betray him as well.

Still, she couldn’t stomach Gillian’s style of operating. Was it necessary to kill all those people? Being a fellow Greeneye didn’t stop Gillian poisoning her along with the others in the entourage, either.

Perhaps the best Meya could do was to give Coris a heads-up, whatever Gillian planned to do, and leave it to their smart brains to duke it out. Make it a fair duel. Yet, how could she warn Coris without alerting Gillian?

Meya shot a wary eye at the door. The easiest option would be to shake Coris awake and confess it all to him here, but she could never be sure if one of the bandits wasn’t standing out there with his ear on the keyhole, listening to her every word.

No, she needed to communicate soundlessly. With ink and paper and letters. Then slip the message to Coris without the bandits knowing.

She couldn’t read or write. She must sneak out and find someone who could, and find a means to deliver him the message. How could she pull this off?

Meya surveyed the room. Books, shelves, desk, armor, fireplace, clock, wardrobe, paintings—

Meya’s gaze settled upon a particular painting, the largest one in the center of the opposite wall. It was a picture of a handsome white greyhound draped in a Hadrian Red cloak pinned with numerous medallions. From its collar dangled a golden coin engraved with letters Meya could not read. A scroll of paper was sticking out of the thick leather strip.

A spark lit up in her brain. And she also recalled a vital piece of information Coris had mentioned in passing.

I put it in my mouth and went down the secret passageway in my room.

Grabbing a distinguished candle and lighting it, Meya tiptoed around the room, hugging the walls with her eyes on the flickering flame. After about a quarter of an hour, she noticed the smoke yearning towards the small gap between the stone wall and a painting of a stone arch leading away to an abandoned, overgrown garden. Despite the stress looming over her head pressing down heavier by the minute, Meya creaked a devious grin.

Now to find the one person who could write her a letter.