“Noble or commoner, the role of the Lady of the House is similar. The only difference is the scale.”

Baroness Sylvia laid her spoon beside her now-empty bowl of oatmeal and raisins. One of her maids-of-honor, auburn-haired Heloise, had just brought Meya water in a metal basin and a towel, and Meya had washed Beau’s slobber off her face.

“Once Coris becomes Baron Hadrian, you’ll take my place as Baroness. Coris will take care of his land and his people, and you’ll keep his house nice and tidy for him. Your job is to manage our staff, supervise the scullery, and raise the children, yours and others alike.”

The Baroness tilted her head towards Heloise, who retrieved the basin and passed it on to a chambermaid, then swept back to resume her place at the tapestried wall with the other maids, squires and pages.

Meya had seen these boys and girls in the background since she arrived two days ago, of course, but now she studied them with more care. Heloise and the girl with the chestnut ponytail looked to be Meya’s age, but the pouting little girl with black curls looked not a day above seven.

There was a squire who looked like the healthier version of Coris, a handsome squire with a serene expression not unlike Arinel, and a fidgety pageboy of around ten years old. He had the brown skin and curly black hair of the Southern Islanders. Even dressed in plain-looking clothes, they were blessed with the unblemished skin and ideal facial attributes of nobility, and they had the refined air of the well-bred about them.

Girls of noble birth would be sent to serve older noblewomen as training in deportment, while boys would become pages and squires to learn knighthood. Say she did become Baroness someday, how was she supposed to raise them? She was a peasant girl who had had both parents to raise her, and she couldn’t grow up properly herself.

“Whenever Coris is absent, you must also take his place. So, it is imperative that you learn the manor’s accounts and law as well.”

Meya’s spirit was further dampened. Accounts and law? Goodly Freda, she didn’t even know how to write numbers!

Meya creaked out a smile and a dainty nod, despite her shivering heart. Being a lady seemed to entail much more than providing the lord with children, and Meya was delighted to learn that. Overall, it seemed an interesting job, and she was eager to learn, of course, now that she had the chance. However, what would the Baroness’s reaction be when she discovered the girl who claimed to be Lady Arinel couldn’t even write her own name?

As if she could sense Meya’s dismay, the Baroness smiled in sympathy.

“Daunting, isn’t it?” She reached out to clasp Meya’s clammy hand in hers. Meya nodded vigorously, eyes wide in desperation.Sylvia laughed, shaking her head and gazing at Meya with mounting affection.

“I could only imagine how difficult it must be for you. I myself trained from the age of seven, but by Freda, thirteen years later, and I was still a lass out of her depth when I married Kellis. And you’re barely seventeen!”

The Baroness turned and smiled at her husband, who chuckled in fond remembrance. Meya wondered how she could be so affectionate with the man who had once driven her to the point of suicide by poisoning her son half-dead. The Baroness turned back to her then, and Meya had no choice but to refocus on the conversation.

“Don’t worry. You still have time to watch and learn. And, of course, you’ll have the staff to assist you.” Sylvia nodded towards the long table in the middle of the Hall, where the staff and servants were supping with lower-ranking members of the visiting lords and ladies’ entourages.

“You’ll mainly be working with our seneschal, Sir Emery Nethan. He manages all the castle’s staff.”

Meya followed Sylvia’s indicating hand to a suave middle-aged man with long, graying black hair in a ponytail. He rested his oatmeal-filled spoon on the lip of his half-full bread-bowl, engrossed in polite conversation with a plump man in his fifties, who had a bald patch surrounded by flaxen hair and a magnificent curved mustache. Meya recognized the latter from her first day here.

“The one across him is the chamberlain, Sir Rondell. He takes care of our quarters and our wardrobe. And, of course, that’s Sir Jarl, the marshal. He’s in charge of the grounds, the stables, the men-at-arms and the craftsmen.”

Sir Jarl, a muscular, broad-chested knight with suntanned skin, downed his oatmeal as if in a race against time; Lord Zier had sent him to bring Beau in to see Meya, and he needed to catch up.

Meya sneaked a worried glance at the door. Zier had told her that Beau was a seasoned war dog, and the mutt had bounded off the moment she whispered into his ear to bring the note to Coris, but Meya had no means of knowing for sure if the message would reach its recipient. To top that, Zier had just left to bring breakfast up to Coris. Would he run into Beau on the way or in Coris’s room? How would he react?

After breakfast, Baroness Sylvia took Meya along to see her daily routine and showed her around the castle. First, she hosted a tea party in the outdoor pavilion to entertain the visiting ladies, while the Baron took the lords out to hunt game in his forest.

The pavilion was embraced by a blanket of bright red hexagonal roses reaching all the way to the keep’s wall. As the roses swayed in the breeze, from afar it seemed as if the silvery-white limewashed pavilion was floating on a rippling crimson lake.

“These Hadrian Roses are the only ones in Latakia.” The Baroness reached down to caress those velvety petals. “They bloom all through the year, except for winter. Sir Rondell is in charge of harvesting their petals and making the Hadrian Red dye.”

The party’s guests were just as colorful. Most of the ladies had brought their teenage daughters, decked out in their clan’s unique colors and giddy with excitement as they discussed the upcoming feast. Particularly, who would the most attractive young heirs choose to be their pairs for the dance. Zier, in particular, was the target of many affections.

After that, they dropped by the scullery. Through the dizzying maelstrom of dozens of cooks, assistants and maids, Meya spotted Lady Arinel, Haselle and the other Crossetian maids standing guard over the stew vats.

Meya could do little more than fitting herself into the Baroness’s shadow, pretending to listen as she discussed tonight’s menu, the preferences and food allergies of the guests, and the procurement of supplies with Head Cook Apollon.

During the evening celebrations, the scullery would prepare food for the nobles’ feast in the Great Hall and set up a separate station in the courtyard to cook for the commoners. Thus, after they were done with the scullery, the Baroness headed next to the courtyard to supervise the food marquees. Next, she took Meya to the treasury to meet Sir Claptorpe, the treasurer, to review the budget for the wedding.

Next, the Baroness led Meya to the chapel. Though built of thick sandstone, the interior of the chapel was flooded with the light of high noon from rows of tall stained-glass windows. The sunlight filtered through tinted glass pooled on the granite floor slabs in rippling rainbow puddles.

Meya had never seen this much glass in one place before, much less stained-glass. Not even in Crosset Castle. The Hadrians really were disgustingly rich.

Stone pillars beset with ornate curlicues protruded from the walls at precise intervals. The panels in between were blanketed with paintings of the goddess Freda, and scenes from Latakia’s war of independence from Nostra.

The first panel to the door’s left, however, depicted a bizarre scene Meya couldn’t interpret. On one side was a mountain with fire rising from its summit. A flock of what seemed to be dragons of all colors were flying away from it, crossing the sea towards the mainland. The dragon in the lead was dark green, with glowing green eyes. A human knight in armor was clinging to it. The scene felt familiar to Meya.

And then it hit her. It was the insignia on an old belt buckle of Dad’s; a dragon flying over the sea! There were runes upon it, too. Meya had nicked it from Dad’s belt for a closer look one day, and Myron had told her it read We Shall Return.

Return where? The seven siblings had wondered. The Hilds had lived in Crosset and nearby manors for seven generations, and she reckoned their history went no further than that.

A string of elaborate runes unfurled on the banner painted beneath the panel. The Baroness reached out and caressed it.

"Duty and Atonement. Our motto.”

The arch of the pillars cast a shadow upon the Baroness’s melancholic face. Noticing Meya’s puzzled gaze, Sylvia composed herself then moved her hand to point at the exploding mountain,

“That’s Everglen.”

Meya’s eyes widened, though she could already guess, somewhat. The Baroness’s gaze set next upon the man hanging onto the green dragon.

“Hadrian lore has it that our ancestor, Drinian Hadrian, was a Glennian. When the Everglen volcano erupted, he stowed away on a dragon to flee across the sea and landed in Latakia, while the dragons flew on to Nostra.”

“So, the Nostran dragons came from Everglen?” Meya spun around and stared in disbelief. The Baroness’s silvery eyes glinted. “Why don’t they just land in Latakia, then? Why fly all the way to Nostra?”

Sylvia shrugged and cocked her head in agreement; having been married into the family like her, the Baroness seemed just as skeptical. Meya turned back to the painting, zeroing in on the runes she couldn’t read.

Duty and Atonement. We Shall Return. One picture, two names. How were they connected? Had her ancestors migrated from Everglen like Drinian Hadrian?

“And what does atonement mean? What do the Hadrians have to atone for? I get the duty part—that’s protecting The Axel, isn’t it? Or did Drinian explode that mountain, and that made Everglen what it is today?”

The Baroness seemed impressed with her theory. She turned to study the painting, then heaved a bemused sigh.

“That was my guess, too. The lore did not say.” Sylvia turned to eye the far side of the long hall. “There’s someone here who would be happy to discuss with you, though, if you’d like.”

Meya followed her gaze, and her eyes widened. The front rows of praying benches had been cleared away, making space to accommodate a group of youngsters. Standing before them was an old man in white and gold robes. He was mouthing a command to the young ones.

“Our chaplain, High Priest Frey. You probably recognize him.”

Meya nodded, still staring at the strange spectacle. Of course, she remembered him; that’s the lovesick old priest who married her and Coris!

“He’ll be your tutor.” The Baroness added. Meya almost choked on her breath.

Tutor? Goodly Freda, I can’t read or write! What am I gonna do now?

Seeing Meya gawking at her, pure terror splayed on her face, the Baroness let out a soft laugh, then wagged a reprimanding finger.

“Don’t give me that look, young lady. I know they don’t prefer to teach girls the letters in Crosset, but here in Hadrian, you can’t escape education with marriage.”

The Baroness glided towards the last row of benches, gathered her dress then settled down, signaling Meya to scamper after her.

“When you aren’t accompanying me, you are to study Runes, Logic, Mathematics, History, Geography and the Holy Scriptures here, along with your fellow knights- and ladies-in-training.” The Baroness continued in a whisper as Meya sat down beside her, her silvery eyes now upon the group of students.

“If you’d like to play music or paint, I could hire tutors for you as well. And you must also hone your needlework with me. No buts.”

Sylvia raised a decisive finger, and Meya closed her mouth with a shudder.

Needlework. Oh, Freda. In the few weeks of embroidery Meya endured under Mum’s tutelage at the age of seven, she poked her fingers as much as she poked the cloth. Needless to say, Meya’s flower pattern was more blood and tears than thread.

Under normal circumstances, Meya would be thrilled to be going to school. Back home, the tuition was so expensive that Dad could only afford to send Myron, and girls in general weren’t allowed to study. Yet, the gift of education just had to befall her when she was trying to convince a castle full of nobles that she was Lady Arinel. Just her rotten Greeneye luck.

In lieu of pursuing the troubling matter further, Meya watched the small classroom. The pupils had divided into pairs and sat facing each other from opposite sides of a board game, arranging colorful chips on the illustrated wooden board, with a screen hiding their opponent’s positions from view.

“What is the subject now, my lady?”

The Baroness was scrutinizing each student, a tapered finger pushing up her chin.

“I’d say Logic. They’re playing Heist.”

“Heist?”

“It’s a wargame designed to train the future Baron Hadrian to protect The Axel. Still, I’d say heirs of western manors could learn from it as well. If the Nostran army ever crossed the Zarel Pass again, the west would be Latakia’s first line of defense.”

Her eyes slid back to linger on the brown-haired lad to the left, and she muttered to herself in utter weariness,

“And now I worry for the future of Latakia.”

Meya traced her careworn gaze to Lord Zier. Taking advantage of the opening while High Priest Frey was busy talking to another pair of students, with cautious fingers, the Baroness’s younger son and heir apparent stacked blue soldier chips up into tall, wobbling towers, whereas his opponent, the Coris-lookalike Meya had seen this morning, lined up miniature trebuchets and loaded them with red soldier chips. Judging from their deep red, inflated cheeks, they were trying their utmost not to burst out laughing.

“That’s Zier, of course. Fooling about as usual.” The Baroness heaved a heavy sigh, as a game of strategy wouldn’t involve blasting mini-towers with mini-trebuchets. “And Simon of Amplevale, the boys’ cousin. He serves well as Coris’s decoy. His poor mother wishes the resemblance goes deeper than skin, though.”

Meya studied Simon’s features. He did resemble Coris, except for his healthier build, pale blue eyes and carefree smirk. Pursing his lips in concentration, he hooked back a trebuchet and let fly. A red chip sailed over the screen and chafed one of Zier’s towers, which lost balance and fell to pieces.

High Priest Frey spun around at the sound of falling chips, then swatted Zier and Simon on the noggin with the copy of the Holy Scriptures he had swiped from the altar behind.

Meya stifled her laughter with immense difficulty. The handsome, stone-faced squire High Priest Frey had been talking to shook his head in disapproval, while his opponent, the girl with the brown ponytail, pretended to busy herself arranging her chips to hide her grin.

“That’s Christopher Merilith, the Meriton heir. And that’s Lady Fione of Cristoria. She’s here to ensure Cristoria would not rebel twice.”

On to the next table, the little ten-year-old page from the Southern Isles was raining fistfuls of red chips onto his half of the board, his mouth chanting the words die die die. Heloise was looking over the screen, trying in vain to talk him out of massacring his whole army.

“Frenix of Pearlwater, the wee devil. And Heloise Dunstaal from Westrell. Poor girl still hasn’t given up teaching him strategy, Freda bless her.”

At the last table sat the sullen seven-year-old girl with curly black hair, pushing pieces onto her board with dejected reluctance. Her opponent was a chapel clerk around Meya’s age who kept sweating and dropping his chips.

“Little Amara of Hyacinth. Freda help that poor clerk. She starts pelting chips at you if you’re winning.” Sylvia shook her head in dismay, then turned to Meya with a wan smile. “And we used to have your brother Klythe, of course.”

Meya blinked, a little taken aback at the comment that came out of nowhere. Remembering she was supposed to be Arinel, the Lady with a missing brother and two dead sisters, she adopted what she hoped was a wistful smile.

Wishing to steer the topic well away from dangerous waters, Meya glanced back at the young lords and ladies, casting about for anything to ask. Her gaze fell upon Zier as the only person she had directly interacted with. That was when something out of place caught her attention.

That’s right; the other lords and ladies all came from other towns to train. Why was Zier staying at home? Not to mention Coris as well?

“My lady? Why aren’t Lord Coris and Lord Zier training elsewhere?”

Meya felt the Baroness tense up, and chanced a glance at the still silent woman. Sylvia’s eyes stared ahead, unblinking and unseeing as she struggled with herself, swallowing and taking quick, shallow breaths. Meya was on the verge of taking it back when she complied, her voice strangled by unshed tears.

“Well, I guess it’s obvious in Lexi’s case.” Sylvia’s trembling hands twisted the crimson silk of her elaborate dress, and Meya’s anxious gaze flitted between them and her now paper-white face. “They both trained under Baron Grimthel of Graye. Up until the heist.”

“When Coris swallowed The Axel?”

Sylvia whirled around to her, eyes wide.

“Lexi told you?”

Meya hesitated, then nodded. A new name has joined the ever-growing Must-remember list in her brain, and her interest was piqued, but seeing Sylvia so troubled, she wasn’t sure if she should let her continue. The Baroness nodded to herself, then heaved a sigh,

“Yes. It was around the time your brother disappeared, actually. Kellis suspected Baron Graye was behind it, that he set his daughter, Lady Agnesia, to charm Lexi, and that Lexi tried to steal The Axel to please her. He pulled the boys out of training after the fiasco.”

Meya gaped. Coris had told her he swallowed The Axel to keep it safe. Yet, his mother was painting a different picture, one that made much more sense, and Meya wondered why the notion never crossed her mind.

Coris was lying?

Meya felt as if she was sucked down a quicksand hole on the road of time; events seemed to be progressing sluggishly.

“Coris was protecting The Axel, not stealing it!” She heard her own indignant voice as if from the end of a tunnel, distant and echoing, and she wasn’t sure if she believed it.

“Only Freda and Lexi himself know the truth of what transpired that night.” The Baroness countered, her voice dead, her unfocused gaze filled with sorrow borne of a mother’s love for her child. She shook her head, her eyes haunted by her unpleasant past.

“Of course, I don’t love my son any less, but my husband is a born Hadrian. So is Lexi. And the Hadrian men’s duty is to The Axel alone.”

Sylvia’s voiced trembled with bitter fury; she still hadn’t forgiven her husband. Meya didn’t know what to think. Coris had seemed so sincere, so honest and kind. He didn’t look like the type that would cook up elaborate lies just to make himself look good.

Even though they had known each other for mere days, somehow it pained her that Coris would see the need to lie to her, when she could understand why he would want to steal The Axel. How frustrating it would be, having to sacrifice all that one held dear without even knowing why.

But, did Coris lie? Did he mean to steal The Axel? He didn’t seem bothered while he told her of the heist. In fact, the way he recounted it, it was as if it had happened to someone else. Or, at the least, he didn’t believe he was in the wrong.

And, seeing as Meya had just let Coris in on her secret, this revelation couldn’t have come at a worse timing. Could she trust him? What would she do now?

“What happened to Agnesia after that?” Meya decided she should contemplate it later in private. The Baroness looked even more reluctant. She swallowed hard.

“She—was staying in Hadrian as my attendant.” She wrung her hands, her eyes downcast. It seemed as if she had been bursting to confide in someone but was bound by duty not to.

“There was a nasty fire in her quarters. We couldn’t save her.”

The Baron ordered Agnesia’s death!

Meya felt the strength leave her legs as the implied truth sank in. She was thankful she was sitting. The two women locked gazes, sorrowful silver upon horrified emerald.

“I’m telling you all this, because you are now part of our family.” The Baroness whispered. Her hand was ice-cold as she took Meya’s hand, her eyes pleading. “The Axel is now your duty as well. I must impress upon you how important it is.”

Meya met the Baroness’s intense stare, her emotions in a turmoil. The Baroness’s dress, like Meya’s, was Hadrian Red. She felt the weight of the ruby Hadrian Rose brooch, pinned to the chest of her undershirt. She remembered the five guards and the decoy entourage, killed by Gillian and his men. She remembered Coris’s haunting eyes as he recalled his three nights of torture. And she must now add Lady Agnesia Graye to add to the death toll.

She remembered the white pavilion amidst the sea of Hadrian Roses. The rippling lake of vivid red flowers was now a sea of blood, as she wondered how many more would have to die in the name of The Axel.

And whether that would include Meya herself as well.