Baron Hadrian’s words weighed even heavier on Dizadh’s head than his impressive length of hair, and they led his feet down the oft-traveled hallway which held the young Lord Hyacinth’s chambers.

After every session with the boy’s mother, Dizadh would seize the opportunity to get a glimpse of the only son he knew, in the only way he knew how—through a keyhole.

Ahmundi spent most of his time in his room, assembling intricate equipment Dizadh was not educated enough to ever comprehend. The Lady Hyacinth was also mostly happy to keep him out of the public eye, as his obesity embarrassed her. Like countless women in this twisted hell of a town, she’d bought Dizadh’s seed precisely for his handsomeness to be passed down to her son. She had not expected her fat to trump his seed, apparently.

However, Dizadh was not intellectually challenged enough to not recognize danger when he saw it. The boy was tinkering with explosive gas, containing it with repurposed bits and bobs from another alchemist’s workspace.

Dizadh would gladly trade every last bangle on his arm, every last strand of gold in his hair, even the silk on his very back, for a proper alchemy set for the boy. If he would accept such shameful gold from a lowly courtesan, that was. But a peep through the keyhole was the most he could do.

Freda was not his friend today, however. Today of all days, too. Turning the corner, he spotted a guardswoman standing before Ahmundi’s door. For, of course, Ahmundi was being grounded.

Dizadh had hoped for just a glimpse, to help him with his decision. If this was any other day, he could always wait for another summons from the Lady and try again, but he simply must see Ahmundi today.

There was no other way. He’d have to go for it. He’d have to actually talk to his son.

Dizadh steeled himself with a few deep breaths, prepared his most solid excuses, then glided down the hallway towards the guardswoman.

The woman, who was nodding off and back, gawked and righted herself at the sight of him. She seemed stunned to be able to behold the most beautiful man in Hyacinth in such proximity.

“I would like to request an audience with Lord Ahmundi.” said Dizadh with a gentle smile, courteous as always. The woman’s giddy glee faded. She cast a hurried look at the door behind her then bowed her head sadly,

“Lord Ahmundi demands his privacy.”

Dizadh blinked. He stared at the door, lost for a moment, then nodded slowly.

“I see.” He accepted simply, then bowed, “Would you please inform him that his lowly servant Dizadh would be honored for a minute of his time?”

Before the woman could answer, a voice rang from behind the door,

“Let him in.”

Dizadh’s heart leaped, but a knot of worry tightened in his stomach. Was it because he heard his name? Dizadh was aware of the rumors, but he was not supposed to confirm nor deny them in any circumstance. Yet, there was no turning back now. He must tread carefully.

The door opened. Dizadh crossed the threshold inside. Ahmundi was slumped on the floor, his back against the foot of his bed. His hair was more unkempt and oilier than usual. His room, once bursting with clutter, was empty but for his bed and wardrobe. Even the worktable was gone. The eerie green lights had been replaced with regular oil lamps.

Fury burned in his bowels, but that was perhaps the furthest he could go. This was what he had feared would happen to Ahmundi. And now that it already had, what worse could be in store if he testified?

Ahmundi’s eyes had been following him from the start, calm and unreadable. Dizadh contained his anger so it would not show, then bent his knee in greeting,

“My lord.”

Ahmundi was silent for a moment as he surveyed him.

“They say you’re mine and Amara’s father.” He said. Dizadh tensed. “Is it true?”

Dizadh held back the truth on the tip of his tongue, shaking his head,

“I do not know, my lord.”

Ahmundi’s eyes widened in anguish, then hardened in exasperation.

“Why are you here, then?” He asked brusquely. Dizadh swiftly bowed to hide the unwitting spasm of pain on his face,

“I heard you would like to expose the crimes of Healer Hasif. I happen to work in the brothel where Baron Hadrian’s men were found. He has asked me to stand as witness, but first, I must ask for your permission.”

Ahmundi blinked.

“Protection, you mean?” He corrected, eyes narrowed. Dizadh shook his head, small but firm.

“No, my lord. Permission.” Ahmundi frowned, incredulous. Dizadh cast his eyes about the ringing void of a room, “I take it your mother has confiscated your possessions. I fear it might complicate matters worse should I stand.”

He returned to Ahmundi. The boy held his gaze for a moment, then his eyes roamed aimlessly around the chamber, as if remembering all that had once been,

“She gave all my research to Hasif.” He muttered, shrugging, “At least it would be of use to someone else. I was afraid she’d burn them. Better yet if she stopped experimenting on Greeneyes, too. Now that we have an alternative.”

So the boy said, yet it was impossible to not smell the bitterness in the air as he breathed. Dizadh could only dip his gaze out of respect. Silence fell, then Ahmundi blurted out,

“Have you seen Amara?” Dizadh shook his head. Sighing, Ahmundi stared out the window, “She wants to play. Don’t have the heart to explain to her why I’m being grounded this time. She’s too young for all this, Freda help us.”

He cradled his head in his hands. Dizadh sighed in agreement.

“The servants are bound to talk, my lord.” He warned, “She’ll learn of it sooner than later. If it were up to me, I’d rather the little Lady not have to be afraid for her Greeneye friends when she does. Still, you have suffered much.”

Ahmundi met his gaze, then drifted away once more, reminiscing,

“It was midsummer, the day she set off for Hadrian. Her hands were cold as ice.” He eked out a bitter grin,

“I’m grateful for Frenix. I’m relieved Ahmi had someone around her age to keep her company, watch over her in my place. It’s the least I could do for him. So, yes, you have my permission.”

He turned back with a nod. Inside Dizadh, a warm glow of pride blossomed. Although he couldn’t help but worry, it was Ahmundi’s stand, and he should respect it.

“Do forgive my audacity, but if it helps at all, I daresay your father would have been proud, my lord. Whoever he may be.”

He said, smiling tenderly. Ahmundi’s eyes narrowed as a glint like obsidian glanced out of them.

“You are our father and you know it!” He snapped, sending Dizadh jolting so hard he almost tripped on his hair,

“You’re not even making an effort to hide it. You haven’t a single thought for yourself since you stepped foot into this room. It’s all about us!”

As he watched the burning fire in his son’s eyes, Dizadh’s eyes burned. For a moment they locked eyes, then Ahmundi whispered fearfully,

“Will you be safe? Can you promise you’ll be safe?”

Dizadh bowed again,

“Your concern is most touching, my lord. I do have Baron Hadrian’s protection, if that would assuage your doubts.”

Ahmundi cocked his head, then shrugged.

“A little,” He nodded absentmindedly, then added as if unsatisfied with how he left it off, “Father.”

Tremors spread all over Dizadh, radiating from his chest. He bowed deeply, cautioning,

“It would be better for your standing, my lord, to not let it be known you have a courtesan as your father.”

“It’s common knowledge, Father. All five of us were born from courtesans.” Ahmundi argued with yet another shrug.

“No courtesan has fathered and forgotten more children than I.” Dizadh reminded him. Ahmundi shook his head,

“How could you forget them when you’ve never known them?”

Dizadh gritted his teeth. Ahmundi seemed to feel it was not his fault, but when Dizadh was young and conceited, he had knowingly sold his seed to the highest paying clients, not a thought to the consequences. As he grew older and wiser, however, he became appalled by his actions.

Yet, even after he had demanded the brothel respect his wishes to only accept pleasure clients, there was no knowing how many women had gotten away with his seed. And his heart broke at the notion of never meeting the dozens of his children scattered across Hyacinth, never knowing what had become of them.

So, from the shadows he watched over Ahmundi and Amara. Yet, even as he might never be allowed inside this castle again should he speak against Lady Hyacinth, he must do it for his children, even if it meant this would be the last he’d see of them.

“How did you become a courtesan?” asked Ahmundi. Dizadh sighed,

“I was born one, as far as I knew. The brothel is my first memory.”

A pause as Ahmundi digested the fact and all it implied. Then, a solemn request,

“Promise me it won’t be your last, at least.”

Dizadh raised his eyes to his son’s, then managed a sad little smile.

“I will try, my lord.”

Baron Hadrian and his two squires spent the rest of the day questioning the one-eyed followers of Light of Lashtiri, to no benefit whatsoever. They insisted, in suspiciously similar wording, they had donated their eyes willingly towards the betterment of Latakia. There was not the slimmest hint of a link to the kidnapped Greeneyes in the brothel. Although Dizadh had already agreed to testify, they might need more eyewitness accounts if they were to convince Lady Jaise to boycott a key trade partner.

Once his three subordinates had stolen away amid the falling darkness to Amplevale, Simon in tow, Gillian slipped off for a stakeout of the Pleasure Lane; Healer Hasif could very well use this opening to quietly dispose of evidence—namely, the Dolls. It depended on how threatened she was feeling, how threatened they were having her feel. Whether she would risk making a move and destroy evidence, or decide staying put and projecting an air of innocence would suffice.

The morning after, Coris entered the Hadrians’ chambers, where his parents, friends and subordinates have gathered for a meeting. The question of what had kept he and Meya occupied in the dreary prison cell was answered by the thick book bursting with papers, nestled under his arm.

“Good morning, all.” He strode briskly to join the congregation. Frenix’s eyes followed the book as Coris deposited it on his father’s desk.

“Have you been giving her reading lessons?” He asked, eyes narrowed.

“I have. Why? Do you take issue with that?” Coris extracted the papers from between the pages of the book. They were slightly wrinkled, covered in words written in large, clumsy, childlike print.

Frenix gawked.

“She’s in jail! And pregnant!” He cried. Coris shrugged as he scanned the pieces of paper, probably spotting patterns among Meya’s misspelled words.

“All the more reason to. Quality education works well to keep her mind off our worrisome state of affairs.” He turned to Christopher, “Speaking of which, any word from Jaise so far?”

“It’s been dead silence, I’m afraid.” Christopher shook his head, looking careworn.

“I’ve sent a letter to Fione, myself. I’m still waiting for her response.” Arinel added.

Color drained from Coris’s taut cheeks as he gritted his teeth, eyebrows lowered over blazing gray eyes.

“Don’t lose heart yet. She might simply need to be discreet to avoid alerting Lord Crosset of our movements.” Baron Hadrian comforted him. Coris glanced at his father, then nodded with a sigh. Christopher remained frowning, however.

“How could she beat the arresting party here if they’re traveling the same route? Or evade them, for that matter?”

“The Jaisians know the Sands. She may be able to waylay them. Or travel on dragonback.” Coris guessed. He stared out the window, thinking on his feet, “At any rate, we must prepare for the worst. If the arresting party arrives before Winterwen—”

Silence fell. Coris appeared to be gulping back words from the tip of his tongue. Zier had an idea what they were. Meya’s safety would take priority in such circumstances, but his brother being the way he was, he was too ashamed to voice his selfish desires.

“Do you reckon your father will lead the arresting party himself, Arinel?” He turned to Lady Crosset, who jolted, “After all, he wouldn’t risk the journey to Hadrian for your wedding, but he came all the way to Jaise on sheer force of spite. No offense.” He added hastily as Arinel blushed.

“Not to mention neglecting his duties for no sound reason. Again. Who’s watching over Crosset?” Christopher shook his head disapprovingly. Coris tilted his head towards him in appreciation,

“Exactly. We could threaten him with that. Talk about not learning from your past mistakes.”

“Given his paranoia, I think there’s a high chance he’d come in person. He’d want to see for himself that Meya is safe in his clutches.” muttered Arinel shamefacedly as she fidgeted with her dress. Coris regarded her thoughtfully for a moment. The crease between his eyebrows deepened. At long last, he sighed in defeat then turned to his parents, ensconced behind the handsome wooden desk.

“Meya proposed having Zier marry Arinel in my place, but isn’t there a better way?” At the sight of their questioning look, he rambled out his argument,

“Meya impersonated Arinel with her consent on my orders to protect The Axel. That should be more than enough to exonerate her in any fair court. As a Crossetian, Meya belongs to Lord Crosset, true, but Crosset is our vassal. Ultimately, she belongs to us. And she’s carrying my child. To top that, my marriage to Arinel hasn’t been consummated. We have plenty of ground for annulment.”

Coris threw out his arms, baffled. Baroness Sylvia shared a look with Baron Kellis, then shook her head sadly at her son,

“You’re not wrong, Lexi, but the issue here is not the law, or whether Olivis is being childish. It’s honor.”

“From Maxus’s time, the Hadrians have built a reputation on honor, loyalty and mercy.” Baron Kellis explained, his voice heavy as the weight of two centuries on his shoulders,

“Reputation is a seedling slow to sprout, but it will bear fruits of the Heights to feed your descendants. It demands outrageous sacrifices to maintain, it wilts if the tiniest drop of filth tainted its water, and once blemished, it is for good. Some noble families don’t consider it worth the effort, but we must abide by the values our ancestors have chosen.”

“Why do you think Amoriah treated you with respect as she abused her own men? Why do you think I disapproved of your handling of Cristoria? Why do you think I spared Lady Firesta after she poisoned you? Why do you think Fione never begrudged you for her father’s death?”

Coris pursed his lips and dipped his head, shaken as he was reminded of the benefits he’d taken for granted in his worry for his wife.

“True, we supported the Wynns during the time of Devind the Demented mainly to protect the secret of The Axel, but also to show fealty to the king who knighted us. When Lord Crosset fell from grace, we didn’t abandon Lady Arinel for a richer bride. In return, when you fell ill, Lord Crosset was willing to proceed with the marriage.”

“Granted, we both didn’t have alternatives at that point, but how would our vassals, our allies see us, if we use coercion to bend Crosset’s knee this time?” Kellis raised his eyebrows at Coris, who nodded in defeat, “Again, son, your solution may be wisest, but it may not be the best. Meya was right. If we were to break our promise to Olivis, we must compensate him. And we must be civil.”

“I just wish I could be free of this guilt.” Coris whispered shakily, his eyes shut tight against the bitter taste in his throat. Kellis shook his head firmly,

“The guilt is mine to bear, Coris. I forced you into this marriage. Kept you from the bride you’ve chosen to bear your child. I shall deal with Crosset myself. You focus on the Greeneyes. That is your Hadrian duty.”

Coris resurfaced looking conflicted as ever. Taking a deep breath, Arinel moved closer to him, laying a light hand on his forearm.

“Don’t worry, Coris. If Father refuses to see sense, I have an ultimatum for him.” She whispered through lips numb with fear.

Ari, NO!

Zier’s heart turned to stone, then pounded in his ears. He watched with bated breath as Coris spun around, eyebrows raised, dreading what his brother might have deduced, what Arinel was willing to sacrifice. He couldn’t let her do this to herself. This was too much.

“Which is?” Coris asked.

“I can’t tell you.” Arinel shot back in an instant, releasing Coris’s arm as if his cold bit her, “But it will be sufficient. Please.”

“It’s Meya’s life, Arinel. I must know.” Coris rounded on her, his voice rising in exasperation. Arinel pursed her trembling lips but stood her ground. Zier seethed as he dithered, furious and ashamed of himself above all else.

Coris still shouldered the sin of his betrayal, he would get to marry the girl of his dreams, but he couldn’t live with it. He didn’t feel happy. He didn’t deserve the love of these brave, selfless people who would sacrifice all just so he could be selfish. He knew what he must do to make himself worthy, yet he couldn’t pry his damn mouth open.

“A secret retains its power so long as it remains one, Coris. Don’t press her further. She’s sacrificed more than enough to earn your trust.” Again, he took too long to act; Father came to Arinel’s aid. Coris snapped out of the staring match and met his sharp blue eyes.

“Of course, Father.” Sighing, he turned back to Arinel, looking sheepish, “My apologies, Arinel.”

“Apology accepted.” murmured Arinel. Yet, she refused to meet his eyes, still offended.

Zier didn’t have long to wallow in his anguish, however. The side-door banged open. Dorsea and Tissa came tumbling in, breathless and pale,

“My lord! My lady!” Dorsea gasped, glancing wildly between the bewildered Baron and Baroness, “The Lady Graye. She speaks!”

The listless figure at Persephia’s bedside turned at the sound of their entrance. Her one working eye found Arinel, who had sidestepped Atmund, Frenix and Christopher to the forefront, then filled with tears.

“Agnie! Oh, thank Freda!”

With a strangled cry, Arinel launched herself at her old friend, then broke down sobbing with relief. Tears flowed silently down Agnes’s wide, haunted eye as she trembled.

“I heard everything.” She murmured, “I’m sorry I took so long—”

“Don’t be daft, Agnes.” snapped Coris as he approached the pair. Slowly, jerkily, Agnes turned to him, her empty eye boring into his, but said nothing. For a moment they simply stared, then Coris bowed his head in shame,

“I let this happen. I’m so sorry.” He rasped, choked by emotion. Agnes shook her head slowly,

“You couldn’t have known. And—after what Persie did, what Father did—”

She broke off, having spotted Baron Hadrian. Shivering, she wormed her arm out of Arinel’s embrace and grasped Persephia’s lifeless hand on the bed, pulling herself closer to her sister.

Coris shot Father an apprehensive glance. Although unwitting, the sisters had fed Baron Graye crucial intelligence that almost led to Hadrian’s downfall. Since it was up to the father to protect his children from his sins, it might actually harm Hadrian’s name more to spare the life of a known enemy. Last time, Father let Persephia live to keep the secret of the dragons. This time, he must find an equally good reason. Mere mercy was not enough.

Father regarded the cowering young woman, his face expressionless, then nodded.

“It was just as much for our benefit as yours.” He said quietly, “I spare your lives, in return for your testimony. To save my men.”

He glanced at Cleygar and Lors, slumbering nearby, as Agnes seemed to melt to a puddle. She knelt before his feet, touching the hem of his robe to her forehead, sobbing in earnest, until Mother took pity on her and ordered her to stand, as she was now her ward. She did as she was told, but not before kissing the hem of Mother’s gown as well, then returned to her seat at Persephia’s side, gulping for breath and wiping her blotchy face. After a few minutes, she calmed enough to resume conversation with Coris,

“Is there any hope of separating the memories in that vat?” Coris nodded slowly. He’d received the same question from Meya, and they’d been discussing possibilities during his time in her cell.

“Jaise’s library curators filtered out traumatic memories in dragon eyes for Frenix and Atmund.” The two boys turned to him at the sound of their names. “There should be a way.”

Agnes nodded with more fervor, emboldened by the notion.

“There’s a slim chance Hasif still keeps one of their eyes, incriminating it may be.” She laid eyes on the three prone figures beside her, prompting the rest to follow suit,

“The moment Persie was awake, Hasif was by her bedside, preaching, persuading her to join the church. Greeneyes are a burden on this land, she said. They migrated here from Everglen, competing with Latakians for land and food, contributing to drought and famine. So, it’s only fitting during a resources crisis that Greeneyes pay their due with flesh and blood.”

Coris blinked, then clenched his fists. White-hot fury coursed through his veins as he remembered Meya, and all she had suffered. Despicable. Preying on their insecurity, their guilt and desperation to belong, leveraging her status as a fellow Greeneye to gain their trust. Or had this monster actually believed in what she preached?

Agnes shook her head, her eyes staring ahead and unseeing, lost in the nightmare,

“Persie wouldn’t hear a word of what the three of us were trying to tell her. Hasif almost had her converted, up until she asked to borrow her eyes for an experiment.”

Philema gasped. Frenix looked livid. Atmund trembled. Agnes went on as if possessed,

“Obviously, Persie asked what would happen to her body while she was unconscious, and the memories in her eyes. That’s when Hasif knew—we know what her other victims didn’t, that dragon eyes house their memories.”

Agnes shuddered, then a fresh stream of tears tumbled down her cheek. As Arinel hugged her, she choked out, her voice growing shriller and breathier,

“She turned nasty. Called us heretics. Screamed for her followers to seize us. Pluck out their eyes. Lend their bodies to the brothel as punishment. She took one from each pair—to read them, no doubt. Learn where our knowledge came from. What else we knew. I thought I’d be silenced on the spot, but it was difficult to dispose of a body inside the palace. She had me smuggled out along with the others—they’d kill me at the brothel. I convinced them to spare me. They forced laudanum down my throat. If I were addicted, I wouldn’t flee. Or perhaps they hoped the withdrawal would kill me. Dizadh saw everything. He had these three smuggled out of the Dollhouse before they were—”

Agnes crumpled, sobbing and screaming, and said no more. Coris watched numbly as Mother rushed to the door, calling for the Greeneye guards of the secret unit to find something to pacify her, grant her the dreamless sleep she deserved.

It nauseated him, the fact that he had forced Agnes to relive the horror she had just escaped. Yet, he might need to ask her to do it again tomorrow. He hoped he wouldn’t have to. Freda have mercy, he prayed Dizadh and Ahmundi’s testimonies would be enough. He couldn’t put her through this again. If anyone deserved to forget, it was her.