Before making the journey back to her study with her disgraced son, Lady Hyacinth had paused just outside the lab to hiss a barrage of commands to the guardswomen still stationed there. The moment her pounding footsteps resumed flouncing down the hallway, five hulking guardswomen marched inside, and two snatched Meya’s arms.

Since Meya had violated the Lady’s trust by evading the watch of her guards, likely with help from the Hadrians, Lady Hyacinth had deemed fit she be remanded to a prison cell until tomorrow’s decision. Amoriah did keep her word, however, and had tasked one of the guards to escort Healer Hasif back to her quarters. Two guards will remain at the lab, and the Hadrians were given access under their watch.

Meya allowed the guards to steer her away without protest, her face pale and her eyes downcast. Coris rushed to delegate tasks; he and the Baron would follow Meya; Simon and Christopher would investigate the lab; Arinel and Zier were to return to the Hadrians’ quarters, and bring the Baroness and the rest of the Greeneyes up to speed. Gillian decided he would follow and do what he could for the recovered four—the three Greeneyes, to be specific.

The Hadrians’ sitting room had been transformed into a communal bedroom for the Greeneyes. Mattresses were laid out not only for the unconscious Persephia, Cleygar and Lors, but also Philema, Tissa, Dorsea and the two page boys. The three Greeneye yeomen of Hadrian’s secret unit, who had ferried the Baron and Baroness across the desert, stood watch outside. The Hadrian family themselves would be sleeping in the adjacent room for the night.

All these, they hoped, would at least give the Greeneyes some semblance of safety amidst the ongoing threat, in a town that had little sympathy to spare.

As Zier relayed the heated exchange in Healer Hasif’s lab to Baroness Sylvia, Gillian mentored Philema and Dorsea as they carefully removed the blue glass orbs from the eye sockets of the kidnapped three.

The glass eyes, hard and excessive in size and unwilling, had produced a trail of tears, bruises and abrasions upon their entry, and so they tried their best to prevent that upon their exit. Gillian dabbed the injuries with ointment from his battlefield kit, then directed the women to lay soft, warm cloths over their eyelids to soothe the strained muscles.

Tissa simply watched, perhaps stunned by the actions of the women of Hyacinth she had strove to emulate. Agnes remained mute as Arinel held and smoothed her hand down her back.

After Zier finished his report, the Baroness excused herself temporarily to check on her human subjects and prepare for bed. Frenix and Atmund had nodded themselves off to Slumber Valley by then. Tissa was crying in a corner, commiserating with Philema, who consoled her. The former seemed to be apologizing over and over for some unknown offense. Dorsea had gone outside to chat with the Greeneye yeomen, ever the affable soul she was.

Zier slumped down beside Arinel with a thud, startling her. He met her eyes briefly, glanced at Agnes, then looked away, his head bowed and his broad shoulders hunched in shame. Arinel could guess what was weighing on his mind. She cast her eyes about the room and found Gillian propped against the wall, his glowing eyes fixed upon the young man next to her.

She gave Agnes’s arm a light, short squeeze; a warning of her absence, and a promise to return, then rose and approached the dragon mercenary.

Gillian eyed her as she chose her spot next to him. Arinel turned once more to Agnes. She hadn’t moved but for her blinking eyes.

“Will she speak again?” She whispered, remembering Gillian had seen war. He appraised her, his face impassive. His reply was curt,

“In time. If fortunate.”

Her hopes rekindled only to be dashed in the same breath, Arinel trembled as she bit back tears. As much to distract herself as to glean information, she braved another attempt at conversation,

“Where is Dockar? And Vitrius and Torbald?”

“Hibernating, I would guess.” Gillian replied without pause, “They must preserve energy for tomorrow’s journey.”

“And those you left behind in the cave? Will they manage without their leader?”

Gillian finally tore his eyes away from Zier, if only for a moment. There was a flicker of fury, then his face emptied of emotion once more. He returned his focus to his prey, the bearer of The Axel.

“I can guess your aim, Lady Crosset. No, they will not rebel.” He stated firmly in that exotic Nostran accent and clumsy prose, and Arinel shivered as a wave of chill rushed down her spine, “After all, I am keeping myself close to The Axel.”

“Not as close as you’d prefer.” Arinel retorted coolly, making no further effort to hide her enmity. Gillian was an impatient and desperate personality, and he cared deeply for his brethren, halfbred they may be. Zier’s excuse would soon give way against the sheer weight of such tragedy.

Gillian did not respond. Arinel took it as a yes.

“What was your first plan? If you had found The Axel with me?” She asked. Gillian shifted slightly, crossing his arms over his chest,

“We know the Hadrians are running a Lattis mine in secret. We would hold the town hostage, and demand a share of Lattis and their manpower to create the Rota.”

“If the Hadrians have been mining Lattis, they must have been preparing traps for dragon spies.” Arinel observed, “Not to mention they have seven vassal houses. What if they sent for aid?”

“Then twenty dragons would raze Hadrian to the ground.” The dragon commander replied. Arinel hardly dared draw breath, fearing she would fan the cold, emerald fire blazing in those eyes boring into hers. He finally looked away, into what little distance they could admire through the window,

“Your marriage was the reason we came to Latakia. Our spies had been searching for Klythe Crosset ever since he disappeared. We had suspected the rumors were started by Baron Hadrian. To distract those who seek The Axel from its true whereabouts. Still, we took no chances. Until your marriage was announced.”

“You believed returning The Axel is a condition of my marriage.” Arinel breathed, understanding at last.

“We planned to intercept it before it returned to the Hadrians.” Gillian closed his eyes with a slight frown, uneasy, “Setting foot into Hadrian Castle is our absolute last resort. They are as primed for a dragon attack from within as Amplevale is for one from without. But our hunch turned out to be wrong. The Axel was not with you. I was not bluffing when I said we must improvise.”

A spasm shot across his face as he raised his hand to caress his neck, where Zier had ripped into his flesh, leaving a stark white gash of dead skin, and Arinel could not staunch her welling sympathy, as it tainted her fear for her beloved.

After all, he had followed them into the last place in the three lands dragons would want to be trapped in, and had retreated in peace. Largely out of camaraderie for the very halfling who had betrayed him. He had extended that mercy, however begrudgingly, to include humans, if only because Meya held them dear, but just how much further? How much longer did Zier have left to cower?

“He’s simply scared. If you could guarantee the procedure is safe, it won’t be difficult to persuade him.” Arinel pleaded, “How long would it take to smuggle your healer through The Pass?”

Gillian shook his head,

“We have a healer in Hadrian—a surgeon who has seen countless battlefields. He has treated dragon and human commanders alike.”

It dawned upon Arinel then. Of course! How could she have forgotten?

“Old Angus.” She breathed. Gillian confirmed with his pause of silence.

“He grew attached to a human woman from one of the western colonies. They mated and she bore him children. Twenty years ago, the colony rebelled. He feared she would be executed, and he would be called to serve. They defected. Amplevale patrols caught them. Their captain let them through, and was hanged some years later.”

That last part caught Arinel unaware. She blinked as it sunk in, then rage supplanted surprise.

“Had you known this when you slaughtered my men?” Arinel seethed through gritted teeth, hands curled into shaking fists.

“We had not.” Gillian admitted simply, his gaze downcast, “Angus’s fury was terrible when we visited that day. He had gazed into our eyes. Seen our memories, and shown us his. It was not easy convincing him. The Moonflower seed was in truth the egg of a harmless parasite. You are innocent; he could not bring himself to harm you.”

Arinel’s fury abated at the sight of his genuine remorse. However, she wasn’t sure the parents of those poor men would be as forgiving. Gillian’s expression hardened then, as his eyes once again honed in on Zier,

“The aconite was aconite, however. Angus has no love for the rulers of the West. Sytus Amplevale killed the man who had saved countless of us. For two hundred years, the Hadrians bide their time as they hold our salvation in their hands. They must be reminded. They must be forced to act.”

His resentment was chilling. Once she had thawed somewhat, Arinel took a step closer, shaking her head in plea.

“Please. Give them some more time.” She whispered. Gillian did not react. A stretch of silence stood between them, as Arinel’s own fevered breaths kept time. At long last, his lips moved,

“I have sent word to Angus. He will arrive in three days.”

Having delivered his verdict, Gillian turned on his heel and swept from the room.

Meya’s prison wasn’t an architectural marvel this time around. Just your old run-of-the-mill square cell located below ground. She had not been stripped of her clothes, and was even given the privacy of solitary confinement. The walls and floor were washed with sand-colored adobe. A dressing of fairly new hay insulated her behind from the damp cold caused by the groundwater rushing below, but there was nothing staunching the cold of the night as it seeped in through the walls.

Through the rusty metal bars, Meya watched Baron Hadrian and Coris haggle with the warden for a visit, possibly a stay. As the shadows caressed her feverish arms with icy sleeves, her heart shivered in anticipation of a lonesome night, even as her body remained impervious to the cold. Still, she half-hoped Coris wouldn’t be able to spend the night. Night terrors didn’t kill, but night chills did, after all.

At long last, the warden with her blazing torch-staff led father and son down the narrow path to her cell. She slid a key into the lock, popped the door open, dipped a bow, then strode back to her table at the dungeon’s entrance to resume playing chess with her friend.

Coris rushed in and knelt down beside her, his expression careworn as his eyes roamed her face and his hand alighted on her shoulder. Meya could guess the result of the negotiation from the furrow of annoyance between his eyebrows.

“How long do we get?” She asked. Coris glanced at his father, who had just stepped silently into the cell, then met her gaze,

“Half an hour.” He sighed deeply then closed his eyes in exhaustion and shame, “I’m so sorry, Meya. I’d never imagined Amoriah could be this callous.”

Meya closed her eyes as she pressed her cheek against the back of his hand, willing herself to find solace from the familiar stinging cold. She mustn’t lose hope. She of all people could not. There were Greeneyes who depended on her to be the dreamer. For every Amoriah, there should be a Winterwen. And if Coris was living proof of anything, it was that even the most apathetic carry within them the potential to become ardent.

Baron Kellis sat down, sighing as he made himself as comfortable as he could on the sparse mat of hay.

“Hyacinth is in great peril.” He began, calling the children’s attention, “They are in great need of men. Poor women are unwed and childless, while the rich all buy seed from a handful of courtesans. Baby boys are abandoned or sold off to other towns. Countless children sired by the same men are now adults who cannot marry. Amoriah is probably desperate to win this favor from the king. I’d bet he’d promised her a battalion of male convicts. Same as Lord Crosset.”

He turned and met Meya’s wide eyes. Coris stroked his chin in thought, his gaze distant,

“An existential crisis looming on the horizon.” He muttered, then nodded, “The only way we could win is with a threat of the same scale, but urgent.”

“Amoriah knows I won’t bring the case before the king and risk this knowledge spreading to every corner of Latakia. Not when protection for Greeneyes is still a farce.” Baron Kellis added. Coris sprang up and paced,

“With every hour that passes, our chances of finding their eyes dwindle. Hasif could have had a secret ledger outside the lab she could dispose of at any moment. Without protection, Dizadh probably wouldn’t come forth and expose the brothel he works for. It could be days, weeks—months before Agnes would be ready to speak. And now that we’ve threatened both her sources of new convicts, Amoriah will likely hand Meya over to Lord Crosset. She must secure that first batch, at the least.”

As if struck by a sudden notion, Coris paused in his tracks then dropped to one knee before the Baron, whispering desperately,

“Father, I don’t think we have a choice. We must send word to the King, seize Hasif and her church before they could move. And we can stall Lord Crosset’s men if we have Meya stand as witness.”

The Baron shook his head.

“You’re placing a blind wager, Coris.” He warned, his voice taut as he locked eyes with his son, “We don’t know the king’s stance on Greeneye lives. We don’t know what he has in mind for that contraption, what it means for Latakia and his throne. Alden craves progress, remember. What if he decided every Greeneye in Latakia were worth sacrificing for a new source of fuel?”

Defeated, Coris hung his head. Meya’s heart writhed in shame and guilt at the sight. It was all her fault. For meddling when she was only meant to observe first. She’d bet everything she had—and more, that she’d nail Hasif to the crucifix with whatever she found in that lab. Just when things were taking a turn for the better, she’d brought them all collapsing down. And she was dragging Coris into the depths of the Lake with her.

“My liege. Coris. I’m so sorry.” The men spun around at her strangled voice choked with sobs. Meya couldn’t bring herself to look them back in the eye. She hid her face and shook her head side to side,

“I saw those eyes, cracked open like eggs. Then Hasif returned. I just couldn’t think of any other way. I was afraid she’d destroy the evidence if I left the lab.”

Coris had evolved; his arms enveloped her in a blink. He rocked her as she wept, a hand patting her hair.

“Olivis will likely be satisfied with your offer. There may still be hope yet.” The Baron reminded softly. Meya sniffed as she shook her head.

Back in the caverns, Meya had proposed a plan, a last resort if Lady Hyacinth rejected their offer and Lord Crosset proved impossible to reason with: Arinel would marry Zier, who would give up his name and claim to the Hadrian seat, and their firstborn son would continue the Crosset line.

Apart from lost opportunity in the hefty dowry and fruitful alliance Zier could have secured by marrying a more powerful, wealthy lady, it was a wager against Fyr himself; there was no knowing whether Coris had enough years left in him to take the Hadrian seat and sire a son.

Both Coris’s mother and his aunt, the pregnant Lady Kyrel of Amplevale, were on the cusp of their last childbearing years. If Kyrel’s baby turned out to be a girl, the survival of the Hadrian line would be in peril. And, alongside it, the secret of The Axel. The Hadrians could no longer take their sweet time; there may not be a next generation to bear this duty.

And it was all for her. All because of her. The weight of their sacrifice was suffocating her.

Meya pressed a trembling hand to her middle. She couldn’t let the Baron and Coris go through with this. Not anymore. She could only hope the babe would come to understand.

“There might be another way.” She forced out at last. The air in the room seemed to still as the men focused on her as one, “I’ll bring in Lady Jaise.”

Father and son remained silent, awaiting an explanation. Meya gathered her courage and raised her eyes,

“Winterwen is a staunch ally of Greeneyes. All Amoriah is worried about are food and quality seed. Jaise is the hub of Hythe, Hyacinth’s only means of trading with the rest of Latakia, and their one stable source of men. Without Jaise, Hyacinth starves. Winterwen might be the only one who could pressure Amoriah to close that brothel.”

Eyes wide, Coris turned and shared a look with his father, his face alight with renewed hope. However, Meya lowered her face once more. She must speak now, before she would succumb to fear,

“Amoriah saved us from starvation in the Sands. And I’m bringing famine to her doorstep.”

She said quietly, grimacing at the bitter taste of her betrayal, as she remembered Jadirah and Ozid. And that Mithrin, even. Even as unpleasant some of them undeniably were, they were uninvolved.

“I don’t want to hurt Hyacinth’s friendship with Hadrian anymore than I already had.” She turned to the nonplussed Coris, a pleading look in her eyes, “I know you’d stand with me, but I don’t want you to get involved. Please, Baron Hadrian. You must call off the deal with Lady Amoriah and distance yourself from me. I’ll flee with Dockar’s party and find refuge in Jaise.”

“You can’t be serious—” Coris objected hotly,

“You and your family have done enough for me, Coris.” Meya cut across him, gentle yet final. She eked out what she hoped was a playful grin, cocking her head,

“Delegation, remember? I’ll deal with Hasif and her stupid church. Arinel’s working on the anesthesia, and Gillian will smuggle the surgeon in. Dockar will deal with the drought in Amplevale. We’ve wasted enough time here. You must leave me and move on. Go to Everglen. Find Klythe. Bring back the ore ships and win support for my people. I’m counting on you!”

Meya pleaded in desperation. Coris refused to meet her eyes. He kept shaking his head, jaw clenched so hard he was trembling, his eyes darting about in their sockets as he wracked his brain for something else, anything else. At long last, he turned back to her with steel in his gaze.

“Either we go together, or we stay.” He said coldly through gritted teeth, then his eyes narrowed as he glimpsed defiance on her face, “Those ships have been lost for months. A few days longer wouldn’t make much difference. But Greeneyes are rotting away in that brothel as we speak. My priority lies here!”

“You mean you don’t trust me to handle this?” Meya retorted, offended, then jolted when Coris burst out in exasperation,

“I can’t lose you again, is what I meant!”

Silence. A ringing silence so heavy and numbing it sapped every last ounce of strength from her. Despite her best efforts to tamp down the raging chaos within her, Meya felt her eyes burn as she stared at the panting, heaving, downcast figure before her. When he finally spoke, his flat voice still quivered with barely suppressed emotion,

“Go to Jaise. Bring Winterwen in. It’s a brilliant plan, curse it! I promise I won’t get Hadrian involved. Just let me go with you.”

Coris resurfaced, his voice a hoarse rasp by them. His gray eyes blazed silver as they bore into hers, reflecting light from the wall-mounted torches outside. And Meya allowed her tears to fall free. He reached in and dried them with his thumb, then turned to the Baron,

“Please, Father.”

For a long, silent moment the Baron studied the young ones, who held their breath in unison. Then, his impassive mask unraveled. His once icy blue eyes softened. Instead of his son, he turned first to Meya,

“Hadrian stands with you, but not just you.” He shook his head slightly, clarifying,

“We stand for basic human decency. And for our duty to atone. My ancestor promised Axel Hild on his dying breath, that we would end this tragedy, and we have dragged our feet for two hundred years. We will cower no longer.”

He reassured her in a voice tender and warm as the whisper of candlelight. Meya gaped in disbelief, her eyes following his towering form as he rose to his feet. Coris emulated her.

“I’ll send word to Lady Jaise,” the Baron confirmed simply. His blue eyes lingered awhile on Meya’s middle, then flicked over to Coris,

“Son, meet me in my quarters later. We need to discuss Amplevale.”

Coris bowed his head in reverence and gratitude, then stood up for a proper send-off. The Baron wrapped his cloak around himself, then swept from the cell. When the echoes of his father’s receding footsteps no longer reached them, the young lord took a few steps forth, then leaned his forehead against the metal bars, releasing a long sigh that seemed never-ending.

Meya studied him in the silence. He seemed weak with relief yet wracked by fear. His outburst still rang in her ears. She recalled his confession of love, and realized she could no longer stand to hide,

“Lexi?”

Coris started, then spun around, eyebrows raised. Meya drew in a long, long breath and forced herself not to avert her eyes,

“There’s something you must know,” Her voice sounded strangled as her breathing quickened, and Coris’s eyebrows crept towards each other in concern as they rose higher and higher behind his fringe. Meya cast about for a quip, a sarcastic spin to perhaps ease the tension. She came up empty. Shaking her head, she squeezed her eyes shut in frustration and prayed for the best,

“There’s no wittier way to put this,” she sighed, “I’m pregnant.”