The setting Sun signaled Hadrian Castle to once again throw open its heavy gates. In the vast courtyard, rowdy farmers and craftsmen sat at the long tables and drank to their hearts’ fill, as their wives gossiped, and their wee children ran on the grass. Young lovers danced arm-in-arm as minstrels belted out tune after tune on their various instruments.

Meanwhile, in the Great Hall, ruling lords and ladies stood conversing in groups, drinks in hand, while their teenage children and attendants paired up and whirl about on the dance floor.

Such a manor-wide celebration is a first for Meya. However, being the host, she must stay with the Baron, Baroness and Lord Zier, smiling and nodding as they made small talk with the guests. What’s worse, her husband wasn’t there to keep her company.

Coris hadn’t put so much as a toe outside his bedroom throughout the day. Zier reported that the poor lad had fallen back onto his pillows right after he forced the last spoonful of breakfast into his mouth.

Meya had been stuck practicing embroidery with Baroness Sylvia and her attendants for the whole afternoon. By the time she had reduced her right forefinger to little more than a bleeding pincushion, the Baroness led her to the front gate to welcome the Baron and the lords back from hunting. After that, she was whisked away by the chamberlain to dress up for the feast. There wasn’t one opening where she could sneak off to see Coris.

To make matters worse, whenever they turned up for a conversation, the guests kept asking where Coris was. Of course, the Baron wouldn’t like telling them time and again that his son was too sick even to attend his own wedding feast.

As guest after guest repeated the same questions, Baron Kellis’s mood became sourer. He would shoot dark looks at Meya once the visitors had drifted away, as if he had thought it was Meya’s fault.

Meya strived to look as contrite as she could. Well, it was her fault. She knew Coris had a good reason to not be here.

At least, she thought that was the case. Because, say Beau was up to his job and the message did reach Coris, it wasn’t likely that Coris would immediately make a noticeable move. After all, there was still a month of opportunity window left. They had only been in Hadrian three days. Meya didn’t expect Gillian would obtain enough leads on the dowry’s whereabouts to strike anytime soon.

Maybe Coris was actually just sick, Meya consoled herself, which makes it your fault anyway since your lady pillows excited him too much.

Meya blushed at the thought. Freda hadn’t been gracious to Meya with her blessings, but she was generous when it comes to her bosom department. Coris couldn’t seem to get enough of them last night, and to be honest, they were still somewhat sore.

Meya’s head, hands and chest weren’t the only painful parts of her body, however. Her stomach was starting its own riot as well.

Why isn’t the food served yet?

It had been over half an hour since the feast started. Yet, the long table in the middle of the hall remained empty. The Baroness was surveying the guests every so often, making sure they were still content. Her husband has struck up yet another conversation with a balding, beer-bellied old nobleman, Marquess Fratengarde, and she couldn’t nip away to check on the scullery.

Meya was also worried about the food, but not for the same reasons. With their measly manpower, Gillian reckoned he might have to knock everyone in the castle out when time came for the search.

Meya reckoned Gillian would use the fireplaces and torches to smoke the room with sleeping draught, but he could decide to spike the food as well. After all, every guest and most guards were gathered in the Great Hall now. It was a great opportunity to search the rest of the castle, and everyone would have to eat or drink something.

If Coris was as smart as everyone said he was, he would no doubt have realized this as well. Did he guess the food would be spiked and stopped it leaving the kitchen? Or was it Lady Arinel herself? She was working in the scullery, wasn’t she?

As Meya assumed the role of Coris and Gillian to play her own version of Heist in her brain, the Baron and the Marquess’s chat droned on.

“Yes, I understand you, my dear man. Though I have always been—still am—a skeptic of Uriel’s interpretation, this time I fully support you.” Fratengarde dabbed at his sweaty forehead with a handkerchief then waved it about to vent his frustration. “Freda’s damnation aside, we couldn’t possibly get a trade that has been outlawed for two hundred years back up in a month, could we?”

“Exactly. Our best course of action is to investigate what is happening to those ships and bring back some ores as soon as possible.” Baron Kellis added, his expression solemn. Crossing his arms, he shook his head. “And in the meantime, limit the use of metals, but His Majesty would not be pleased if we touched on his reforms.”

Despite having more pressing matters, Meya couldn’t help her mounting curiosity. The Baron had been talking about this thing with ore ships and the king’s reforms with the other lords, too. The whole thing sounded familiar...

Aha! Coinage shortage! The ore ships weren’t coming back from Everglen, and Latakia was getting short on metal to make coins, tools, weapons and buildings.

Some of the lords agreed with the Baron about solving the ship problem and continuing to ship ores back from Everglen, but some were adamant about finally lifting the Mining Ban and restarting mining in Latakia, to stabilisize our ekonony, or some thingy. Unfortunately, the king was all for lifting the ban, too.

“Books and coins for the commoner, eh?” Fratengarde chuckled, as if he thought the idea was incredulous as well,

“I’ve known His Majesty since he was a little prince, I tell you. Far-sighted dreamer, he always is. But in times like this, we need eyes more grounded in the present. Take it one step at a time. He won’t get his reforms unless he could get us enough metal to survive this year.” He ended with a large swig from his mug of ale.

“Alden is young, naïve. He won’t simply give up on his ideas. I’ve been thinking that perhaps, we might need to be discreet rather than drastic.” Baron Kellis caressed his mustache, slipping an insinuating gaze at Fratengarde as he whispered. “That is where you come in, my lord.”

For a moment the two men locked knowing gazes. The Baroness and Zier seemed to have no trouble getting the secret message, too. And though she had no clue on what was going on, Meya strived to seem well-informed as well.

“I take it you are talking about my niece.” Fratengarde broke his gaze. He nodded with a heavy sigh and patted Kellis’s shoulder.

“I will try, my good man, but I can’t promise anything. Zephyr is a woman with her own mind. Very much like your fine lady here.” Baroness Sylvia blushed, swaying as she waved the casual compliment away. Perhaps it had been a trick of her eyes, but Meya felt her movements were...sluggish?

“She’s mostly kept her lips sealed, and Alden will listen to his queen when she does speak, so it all depends on her opinion.”

It was then that the same phenomenon began with Marquess Fratengarde; he swayed on his feet, his eyelids drooping halfway down before jerking up again, as if he had little control over them. His speech became slow and slurry as he waggled his wooden mug.

“So far, she hasn’t said anything, but if it turns out she backs Alden, I’m afraid there is little I can do to persuade her...”

“Sylvia!”

A split-second after Fratengarde dropped to the ground as if bludgeoned in the head, Baron Kellis dived in to catch Baroness Sylvia, who had fallen lifeless into his arms. As he tried to rouse his wife, Kellis staggered to the nearest chair, but before he could deposit her on it, he too collapsed onto the floor.

Yet, ,there were no screams from the surrounding women, nor voices of noblemen barking orders for the servants to tend to their lord. As Meya stared in horror, standing men and women teetered where they stood then crumpled to the floor.

Dancing couples had fallen onto each other. Those sitting around tables either smacked their faces into their mugs or the tabletop, or slid off to the floor. Minstrels slumped against their instruments and guards against the wall or their weapons. Maids and manservants let their drink trays crash to the ground, soaking them as they tumbled as well.

Meya felt a tug on her arm and whirled around just in time to see Lord Zier plummet to the ground by her feet, his mouth lolling open and the whites of his eyes still showing under half-shut eyelids.

In less than a minute, the lively party had been reduced to a hall strewn with passed-out, dead-drunk humans, plus one bewildered Meya Hild.

What in the three lands is going on?

Meya swiveled around, arms akimbo, eyebrows knotted in bafflement.

Eh, they must have decided to spike the drinks instead.

But if so, Meya herself had been sipping apple juice. Why was she still standing? And why had no-one warned her beforehand?

At any rate, I should probably be asleep as well.

Swift as her thought, Meya dropped her glass onto Zier, splattering the poor lad with its content, then flattened herself face-down on the cold stone, striving to keep her body as limp as possible.

A second later, footsteps approached from the hallway outside, then the double doors were thrown open. Meya prayed the crackles and sputters of the fireplace would be enough to mask the sound of her thundering heart.

The sound of metal-soled boots slapping on stone intensified as more and more pairs of feet joined the throng. It sounded like a crowd, about twenty or so pairs of feet. The congregation halted about three feet away from her.

“Trunt, have you given them the aconite?” A familiar cold voice rang in the silence.

Aconite? Meya froze in confusion. Aconite? The poison? What is that for?

She didn’t have to wonder for long. Trunt the poison guy’s voice spoke next,

“Done. Got one of ’em maids to put it in the stew.”

The stew?

Meya couldn’t believe what she had heard. Gillian had meant to kill everyone in the castle by spiking the food with aconite. Fortunately, her folk in the kitchen have found a way around it by putting everyone to sleep and delaying the food.

Dead or asleep, no-one would be able to hinder their search for the dowry anyway, so overall there was no harm done, but how could she ever trust Gillian now?

It was one thing to steal to feed your hungry family. It was entirely different to murder dozens of people doing so. This was insanity, utter insanity.What should she do now?

“The stew, you say?”

As Meya struggled to rein in her shivers of cold dread and horror, Gillian’s ice-cold voice void of mercy answered Trunt’s eager report. An excruciating silence fell as Trunt allowed some time to register the lack of food on the tables.

“Explain to me, Trunt, why they are all asleep when not a dish of food is in sight, and when I have ordered you to put aconite, not sleeping draught, into the food?” Gillian’s voice was so soft and serene, it was chilling.

“I―I saw to it that she put it in, sire. I really did. I dunno how―” Trunt stammered.

“Then bring them here and squeeze the truth out of them! What are you waiting for? Go!”

At that final snarl, Trunt scampered back outside. Gillian turned and barked another command to his men,

“If it’s not the scullery maids, then it’s her. Where is Meya Hild? Find her!”

Meya steeled herself against the jolt of pure fear coursing through her body, praying to Freda for protection as the bandits scattered off and fussed about examining every guest. If they found out she was the only one still awake, of course they would assume she was behind this, even though she was also at a complete lost as to how it all came about.

A pair of boots lumbered over and halted by her. Warm air caressed her cheek as a rough hand turned her head up from the ground and brushed aside her golden locks. Perhaps, with all the beautifying, he wouldn’t recognize her?

Meya held tight onto her only hope. That was, until the bandit lifted up her eyelid. Though it was too swift for him to notice Meya’s startled eye focusing on him, it was more than enough,

“Green eyes. It’s her.” He muttered to himself, then hollered, “Over here, commander!”

Stupid, cursed eyes of doom! I swear, if I survive this, I don’t care if I have to stick my head in a chamberpot filled with poo for three days, if that would dye my eyeballs freaking brown!

A heavy, eerie silence descended as twenty men gathered around her. The pressure and terror of twenty ogling pairs of eyes threatened to crush Meya flat.

“She faking, right?” One of them piped up. Another one prodded her waist with the tip of his boot. Meya tried her utmost to remain limp and unresponsive.

“Read her, Torbald.” Gillian commanded. Before Meya could prepare herself for whatever was coming, Torbald had knelt down by her side and pulled up her eyelids.

Glowing green eyes stared into hers, both breaking contact only to blink. Unlike Gillian, Torbald’s gaze was warm, and Meya willed her eyes to convey her honest plea to him. At long last, he released her from his scrutiny and raised his gaze to his leader,

“She knew nothing, sire.” He reported, his voice firm. Gillian gave a nod of satisfaction and spun away to face the door, as Meya melted in relief. Torbald rested his rough, calloused hand on her shoulder.

“You stay asleep now, little lass.” He whispered, then chuckled at the sight of her frown. “Wouldn’t wanna blow our secret, eh?”

He added with a wink. Meya blinked, puzzled. What did he mean, their secret? And, come to think of it, one look in the eye, and they believed she wasn’t involved, just like that?

Torbald did not answer, nor did he have the time to; footsteps echoed from outside, and he straightened up to receive their expected company.

Trunt reappeared at the door, stringing the reluctant Lady Arinel along with a tight grip on her arm. Meya’s heart thundered once more as she closed her eyes. She had been cleared of all charges. Now she feared for her lady. Once the nearing footsteps had died down, she cracked one eye open a slit just to see what was going on, then shut it once more.

A panting Trunt stood in front of Jerald, Arinel, Gretella, and the other five guards and nine scullery maids. Facing Gillian, he gestured with his chin towards Arinel.

“‘ere, sire. The maid I gave the bag to. If anyone’s tamperin’ it’s gotta be ’er.”

There was a brief pause that Meya guessed was Gillian taking a good look at the maid, broken by a sickening sound of gagging and sputtering which was unmistakably Gillian heaving Trunt off his feet by the collar.

“You fool! Of all the maids in that kitchen, you handed it to Lady Crosset?”

The head bandit roared in exasperation. Even under such dire circumstances, Meya was left stifling a roar of laughter. Poor Trunt. Arinel would have been the only one in that kitchen smart enough to recognize poison when she saw it. Not only that, she had also thwarted Gillian’s massacre.

“Why does it matter who gets the draught and what is spiked, lowlife?” Arinel’s cold voice usurped Trunt’s intelligible whimpers. “The guests are asleep. As planned. Now go search the castle to your heart’s fill. We shall head back to our posts.”

A long, deafening silence followed. Meya chanced a second peek.

Gillian was glaring at Arinel, the muscles on his scarred, paper-white face taut and his dark-green eyes cold and calculating. Finally, his lips stretched to form a tight grin.

“No, Lady Crosset. I’m afraid I can no longer trust you not to interfere.” His voice was as soft and serene as ever, but the menace mingled in it sent shivers running down Meya’s spine.

Gretella pulled Arinel into her embrace. Sir Jerald stepped up to shield them both, tense with ominous premonition. Gillian’s smile grew wider.

“And yes, my lady. It does matter greatly. As my plan had never been to leisurely scour the whole castle for the dowry. I had meant for Lord Hadrian to deliver it to me willingly.”

Meya’s strength flowed out of her and seeped away into the carpet at the numbing realization. Gillian had planned to hold all these people hostage, bargaining the antidote in exchange for The Axel. She had miscalculated his true motive, had trusted in his camaraderie, and had it not been for Arinel’s intervention, she would have been responsible for all these innocent lives.

As she lay there, stiff and cold as a skeleton, Gillian’s command echoed tinny and distorted,

“Lady Crosset. Meya Hild. Lord Zier. The Baron and Baroness. Tie them up. We’re moving out.”

Gillian strode for the door. The bandits dashed towards Arinel and Meya. Wrenched back to reality, she closed her eyes and played dead. As much as she longed to take action, she was powerless and overwhelmed. It was best for her comrades for her to let these heartless bandits believe she was still their ally.

“Lady! No! Lady!”

“Let go of me. Let go! Grandma!”

“Stop! You lowlife! Scum!”

Gretella and Arinel screamed. A bandit yanked Meya’s arms behind her and looped twine around them. Jerald’s voice joined the din of shrieking maids as the five Crosset guards unsheathed their swords, but nothing followed; outnumbered four to one, that was the farthest they could go.

Meya longed to do something, something to help, as it was her who had landed them all in this catastrophe. Yet, as always, when it truly mattered, she was at a complete loss for bright ideas. The shame, the guilt was such that she couldn’t muster the will to wag a finger. The bandit tying her pulled her upright, and Arinel screamed the question ringing in her head,

“What in the three lands are you doing? Do you not want the antidote?”

All the chaos died. Meya sneaked a look and had to close her eye just as soon; Arinel was standing before her, panting, both arms locked by a bandit behind. She was glaring at the bandit who was holding Meya.

“Meya Hild is smart, but she knew too little of the world. And herself.” The bandit spoke, his voice brimming with a smirk. Meya recognized him as Gillian’s rat-faced second-in-command, Dockar. “There is only one poison to our kind.”

Meya felt as if the ground had opened up below and swallowed her whole into abyss, as she recalled Gillian’s mysterious smirk, back when she suggested the antidote swap.

It all made sense to her then. The reason she was unaffected by Arinel’s sleeping draught.

They’re all Greeneyes. Their bodies must have been different from normal people. The only poison that could kill them was Lattis. If aconite couldn’t kill Greeneyes but could kill normal humans, then Lattis could protect normal humans while killing Greeneyes?

The dowry is The Axel. The Axel is made of Lattis. If The Axel is inside someone, it would protect him from poison? That’s why Gillian poisoned everyone; whoever is holding The Axel would not be affected!

Gillian had kept his promise. He had meant to spare her and take her to join their kind, but the same could not be said for everyone else. The moment Meya made that pact was the moment she sentenced the deaths of all these people who had trusted in her.

There was nothing, nothing she could do, as Dockar’s chilling last remarks rang loud and clear in her ears.

“But you needn’t worry. Since Meya Hild honored her end of the deal, we’ll uphold ours as well.” For the first time, Dockar’s voice was undercut with tension, and Meya realized he wasn’t comfortable with Gillian’s decision to rescue her.

“All you have to do is be a good little lady while we wait for Coris Hadrian to hand over what we came for, then we’ll deliver the requiem for the whole Hadrian family in one fell swoop.”