The Pleasure Lane remained active during the day thanks to tourists. Women from the progressive eastern and southern duchies, where their chastity would rarely come under scrutiny, would traverse the country for a taste of the sinful entertainment that would have been restricted to men elsewhere. Westerners and northerners weaved their way around the darker folk, gawking in mingled awe and terror at the brothels but rarely venturing inside.

The steady-trickling river of passers-by squeezed into a bottleneck in front of the largest brothel. Curious onlookers—a mixture of tourists and locals who have flocked over as the news spread—formed a circle around the entrance. Hyacinth guards barked and waved for them to clear a path. Guards filed in and out of the brothel's open doors, some carrying unconscious Dolls on stretchers, some leading out frightened prostitutes and wriggling brothel staff on foot.

The subject of most gossip, however, were the dozen-or-so hulking men with olive skin and glowing green eyes, wearing an armor of silvery scales. They stood sentry along the cleared path which led back to the palace, luminous eyes following the Dolls as they sailed by. Occasionally, one would glare at a pair of guards who were careless while handling their patient, and they would walk more in sync, or adjust their grips on the stretcher.

Inside the brothel, Winterwen Jaise walked down the dim hallway, peering behind paper screens into the emptied rooms as she passed. Hyacinth guards rushed by her from all directions, ushering along protesting clients in various stages of undress, and trembling prostitutes. At the end of the hall, she entered the doorway under the sign Dollhouse.

To the left, a muscular man with straggly black hair, glowing green eyes and a pale scar on his neck was on his knees, moving a teenage boy onto a stretcher held by two Hyacinth guards. Most of the Dolls had been carried out; around half a dozen were left. A panel in the back wall was shunted aside, allowing the stench from the washroom to permeate the air.

Winterwen waited until the Hyacinth guards had left, before approaching the man.

"Dragon, we have not met. How shall I address you?"

Lord Coris had told her his name, of course, but Winterwen thought she ought to allow the dragon to choose a moniker he preferred. The dragon worked on the next Doll, a woman in her thirties, as he waited for more guards.

"Humans chose the name Gillian for me." He said, his fingers scouring the skin around the glass eyes of the unfortunate Greeneye. There was a basin and a pile of fresh towels nearby. Winterwen knelt down and dropped a towel into the water. It was warm and soothing.

"And Winterwen for me. I hold the seat of Jaise." She handed Gillian the towel with a smile and dipped her head, "Thank you for your aid. Freda knows how many Jaisians have wasted away in this terrible place."

She cast her eyes about the room. A grim, desolate air hung about it despite the pleasant orange light. Gillian pressed the warm cloth on the woman's eye. There was a faint, squelching pop. Gillian took the glass orb from beneath the cloth, then moved on to the remaining eye.

"You sent them here." He said coldly. Winterwen tensed, then bowed her head once more. Not all the Dolls were Greeneye convicts she had sentenced, of course, but her prisoner trade with Hyacinth had no doubt fed the brothel. Like flies to a spider, which then expanded its web and ensnared innocent travelers.

Instead of punishing rapists for their crimes, Jaise exacted revenge on them, made a trade of them. Shuttled these unwanted men across the desert, reaped profit from them, milked them to feed the very crime they were punished for. It was an abuse of justice. And perhaps, this was Freda's retribution.

"That, I do not deny." Winterwen sighed, "Perhaps it is time we reconsider our justice."

Gillian didn't respond. Sighing, Winterwen prepared a warm towel for the next Greeneye.

"Kellis requested I bring my most experienced curators, but this is far beyond my worst nightmare. I counted thirty Dolls when I left the palace. We've experimented with sorting and transferring memories, but never on this scale." She shook her head, then turned to the dragon, "How about you? Does your kind study the eyes?"

"We do not disturb the remains of our dead other than to read their memories." Gillian's instant, sharp reply caught her off guard, "If we do tamper with them, it would be for vengeance, not curiosity. When it is not enough to snuff out a dragon's life, we destroy his immortal memory."

Winterwen froze, then nodded slowly.

"Seems we Jaisians are the foremost experts, then." She mused softly, then bargained, "If we share what we know, would you and your dragons stay and assist us with these Greeneyes? After all, you keep time in dragon lives, not Greeneye. How many have passed with every minute war raged in Nostra?"

A pair of guards returned. Gillian didn't appear to have heard; he concentrated on laying the Greeneye woman on the gurney. Winterwen worried she might have offended him.

"I have Greeneye young." He said at last, staring down at the next Greeneye; another teenage boy with dark brown hair and olive skin, not unlike himself, "So do half my dragons. I do not make my pack of those who do not value every drop of dragon blood spilled. In the colonies. Or in this hovel."

Winterwen smiled in relief.

"You have an intimidating presence." She complimented, "We hope Hasif might have kept an eye of some of the victims to study their memories, but we're having trouble prying open her mouth. Perhaps you could pay her a visit?"

Gillian shook his head as he prepared to extract another glass eye.

"Dragons deal in fire. Not words."

Winterwen sighed, but wasn't surprised. Coris had warned her Gillian was not a politician.

"I tire of them often, myself." She tilted her head, "Best leave it to the Hadrians, then."

"Did we just get you out of prison to get you into another prison?"

Atmund griped as he struggled to keep up with Meya's stride, prompting little Lord Frenix to poke his head around her midriff with a scolding,

"Don't pester her, Atmund! Mommy Meya just wants to be with Daddy Donghead!"

Atmund smacked his lips shut over his burst of laughter just in time. Meya burned Hadrian Red. She spun around, glaring at Frenix and his toothy, innocent grin.

"One more word, and straight to the Hadrians' quarters you go, Frenix." She growled through gritted teeth. Frenix leaned in and glared right back.

"Go ahead, I dare you. You're going wherever I'm going. The Baroness trusted us with the safety of her grandbaby donghead dragon."

Meya threw back her head and swore at the ceiling. Heavy chains rattled against the manacles on her wrists as she fought the urge to strangle a brat. Thanks to Baroness Sylvia (possibly screaming at Lady Amoriah), Meya was finally allowed to leave her cell, provided she was chained and accompanied by a Hyacinth guard.

The warden paid no heed as she led the quarrelsome children down the hallway. A familiar figure stood waiting to receive them at the exit, decked out in her usual puffy white trousers, beaded brassiere and cloak of violet tattoos.

"Hello, Jadirah." Meya's heart lifted at the sight of her new warden. Jadirah forced a smile then bowed. The teats of her brassiere were empty, which reminded Meya,

"Sorry about the eyeballs, but I'm afraid you can't have them back."

"I understand, my lady." Jadirah turned around and set off, looking queasy. Meya braved another question,

"How did you get them, by the way?"

"The brothel uses them to pay tax or as 'gifts', my lady. You know, make business smoother?" She added at Meya's nonplussed stare, scratching her nape, "I've always thought they took them from dead prostitutes."

"Dead or not, they hold memories in them." said Meya, eyebrows raised. Jadirah frowned, troubled,

"Still, if the owner's fine with it..."

She trailed away, looking longingly at the empty sockets on her brassiere. Meya blew a miserable sigh. She kind of liked Jadirah. She had a lot in common with Old-Meya. Hopefully, in time, she would improve as Meya did.

Jadirah led them to the eastern wing of the palace, then up the spiral staircase of a prison tower. Two guards stood at the top of the stairs, pikes propped at their side. A visitor waited outside the cell; a tall woman with long black hair trailing down the back of her midnight-black cloak, crowned by a jet circlet. She turned around, revealing a glowing green eye beside a veil of glittering black crystals.

"Lady Jaise!" Meya's cry of joy came out a whisper; Winterwen held a finger to her lips just in time. She nodded towards the jail cell.

Meya peered through the bars inside. Sitting against the far wall was Lasralein Hasif, her short hair tousled, her violet tunic crumpled and lopsided. Standing before her, his back to Meya, was Coris.

Coris showed no signs of having sensed their arrival. Neither did Lasralein. She seemed to be meditating; her eyes closed and her face impassive.

"Why won't she open her eyes?" Meya whispered. Frenix and Atmund crowded around her for a gander.

"She's afraid we'll read her memories." Winterwen murmured back, "It's not as simple to read an eye in a living host. You must have eye contact, and trick them to concentrate on the memories you want to read."

The stale air of inaction was smothering Meya. Gnashing her teeth, she made to join the questioning,

"Prop her eyes open with some toothpicks. I'll give her a staring match."

"Fyr's Bollocks, no!" Jadirah grabbed Meya's arm, explaining hastily as Meya glowered up at her,

"You don't understand, my lady. Hasifs are second only to Freda and Fyr here. People worship them. You can't lay a finger on them, let alone a toothpick! Honestly, I'm surprised her followers aren't kneeling at the gates threatening to fast themselves to death already."

So this was why Coris bothered questioning Hasif, when he could've just have Meya pluck her eyeballs out and read them. Pouting, Meya extricated her arm from Jadirah's death grip. Coris's voice echoed across the chamber, then, cold as midwinter,

"You will not be fed. Nor can you feed. There's no use preserving your energy. Where have you hidden the eyes?"

Lasralein shook her head with a smile.

"I've made my terms crystal clear. I'll reveal their hiding place once I've had an audience with His Majesty."

Meya's heart skipped a beat. Lasralein kept some of the eyes? Her relief was eclipsed by frustration, however, for Lasralein was wielding the knowledge as collateral. For the chance to plead her case before the King, no less.

"Hyacinth will starve before you get a glimpse of Aynor." Coris hissed, cold hatred dripping like venom from every word, enraged as Meya had never seen him. Then again, Meya hadn't seen Coris face an enemy who remained so serene in his presence. Even Gillian wasn't what she'd call nonchalant. It was as if he'd met his match.

"Will she?" Lasralein smiled; an unnerving, pleasant smile, "Our flora and fauna thrive in the harshest climate Latakia has to offer. Our goats provide the richest cheese yet subsist on so little. We have mountains of dates and prickly pear. Our women won't starve anytime soon. Your tourists, your convicts and your men will be first to fast. By the time we cast them to the mercy of the Sands, they'd be too weak to survive the journey home."

Lasralein described in that calm, singsong voice she once preached to Meya with. Her smile stretched wider. She cocked her head.

"Or, we could battle. You're welcome to test the will of Hadrian's men against the disciples of Lashtiri. Pity, you're such a beautiful young man. Well-endowed as well, I've heard. I'd love to feel you writhing beneath me, have your pregnant mistress watch as I rake your naked body over the scorching sand, milk your seed as I bury you alive. Then, I'll gouge out her eyes to share with my women. The memory of your rape will keep Hyacinth entertained for millennia. And so would your son's, if we were fortunate."

Meya's bowels burned as the nauseating scene played in her head, at the sight of Lasralein's crazed, bulging eyes, her tongue caressing her white, bared teeth. Fury consumed terror, only to give way to a new, inexplicable fear.

She trembled as Frenix and Atmund huddled against her. Her instincts screamed for her to barge in, pull Coris out of harm's way, ram Hasif's head against the wall until she was reduced to a bleeding pulp. Winterwen's hand clamped down on her shoulder like claws of ice.

"It was our hatred of men that burned the oasis dry." on Lasralein jeered, for Coris, to his credit, hadn't flinched a hair, "My Greeneyes are willing to die for a place in the Heights, my women for the song of screaming men. How far are you willing to go to avenge a handful of Greeneyes?"

Coris remained still. Lasralein's goal wasn't to intimidate him; she was goading him to strike her, give her fuel to stir her disciples into a riot. Meya longed to scream his name, to warn him, but she must trust him.

Coris was silent for a long time. Then, he shook his head. His face, Meya imagined, wore an expression of pure disgust.

"It wasn't your hatred." He said, slow and icy, "It was the will of the Greeneyes your prophet Lashtiri lured to a slow and painful death in the Blue Mountains. For a handful of glowing stones. I've seen a Greeneye strike her village with famine. I know a dragon's wrath when I see it."

Meya's eyes widened in horror, as the sickening truth in those cryptic words dawned on her. Yes, it made sense. If Lashtiri Hasif harvested the first batch of Green Crystals and sealed the secret within her bloodline for centuries, it meant her first victims had never been found. If the land upon which Hyacinth now stood was once fertile, then those trapped, blind, mindless, starving Greeneyes must have sapped it dry, before the poisonous air in the mines killed them.

"Is it not enough to harvest their souls and erase their existence? You must also claim their vengeance as your own?" Coris backed away in disgust, "You besmirch the image of Freda. You're a stain on the grace of the women of Latakia, and a traitor to your kind."

Lasralein simply smiled. Coris spun on his heel and headed for the door. He froze, having spotted Meya.

Their eyes met. She must have looked scared, for the ice in his eyes melted away and his face softened. He stepped through the doorway, and pulled her into his arms.

Coris hardly uttered a word throughout the afternoon, but his silence was camouflaged by the bustle of activity. Hyacinth Palace's great hall was cleared out to make way for the fifty-odd eyeless Greeneyes rescued from the brothel, laid out on blankets in three neat rows. Healers and nurses were called in from the hospital to feed and clean their lifeless bodies. Baroness Sylvia led the Hadrian women to assist them. Zier and Arinel joined her.

Meanwhile, Lady Jaise's curators raided Hasif's lab and carried the vat of memory-jelly, the bowls of eye shells and green crystals, and the jars containing intact eyeballs to the Lady's quarters. Alongside Gillian and the Nostran dragons, they faced the painstaking endeavor of separating the memories and restoring them to the mended eyes.

Over to Baron Hadrian, he was busy in his quarters, dashing out letters to other manors in Meriton, and the capital of other duchies across Latakia, asking for lists of missing Greeneyes to help identify the victims. Letters also arrived from Hadrian; reports and appeals his officials had compiled in his absence. Coris and Christopher took care of them. Meya, hands still shackled, couldn't do much besides watch and learn.

The chaos died down as evening rolled in. After a light dinner of dates and goat milk, Meya excused herself and dropped in next-door to check on the Graye sisters, did an orbit of the depressing great hall, then returned to the Hadrians' quarters.

The room was empty when she entered. Meya reckoned all four Hadrians were next door with their wards and was about to join them, when she noticed the open balcony doors. In the deep-blue darkness, she could hardly make out the thin silhouette leaning against the balustrade, his cloak fluttering in the night wind.

Meya's chains jangled as she crept up beside him. Coris didn't turn around. Sighing, Meya followed his gaze to the ultramarine sea of flat-roofed houses below. Yellowish lights filled rows upon rows of square window-holes. Meya felt as if they were spirits in the Heights, looking down upon a sky blanketed with Miracle Fest lanterns.

Meya leaned her head against Coris's arm, tickling the back of his icy hand idly.

"Can't always win first time 'round, can you?" She whispered. Coris ignored her, so she nudged him, "Have another go tomorrow. I still think you have the bestest tongue. In more ways than one."

Coris turned around, eyes bulging. Meya greeted him with a sly, insinuating smile. She watched as his eyes traveled to the region below her midriff, then turned and pressed her front against the railings, hiding the area from view.

Coris caught himself, blushing crimson. Meya nearly suffocated herself trying not to bust her guts laughing. She felt the heat of Coris's glare on the back of her head. At long last, he sighed wearily.

"Thanks, Meya."

Meya returned his smile, then sighed herself as she flopped onto the balustrade.

"Jadirah said Hasif was kicking and bawling like a baby all the way up the prison tower. Not a trace of any of that back there, huh." She snorted.

"It was an act. She wanted word to spread, rally her followers to protest. How better than to paint herself a helpless victim with the loudest colors on her palette?" said Coris with unabashed disdain. His elbow on the banister, he cradled his forehead in his hand, "We've been fooled. The church holds true power in this town, not the seat."

Meya nodded slowly, lost in thought.

"I've been wondering, how come the Hyacinth women are stronger than the men?" She asked.

"Probably a mixture of nurture and mate selection." As usual, Coris's matter-of-fact reply had Meya turning to him, eyes round,

"Hyacinth women are drawn to frail, effeminate men who pose no threat to them. They then give birth to frail sons. Those sons would be raised with less resources than their sisters. They're kept in the shade, while their sisters run and spar in the desert sun. While their sisters climb date palms, they scrape cochineal from prickly pears."

"If we actually go to war, d'you think they'd beat our men?" Meya asked. Coris thought for a moment, then shook his head firmly.

"Weak seed creates weak daughters, too. Not just sons." He turned and met her gaze as if to reassure her, "Amoriah sees this. That's why she's desperate for quality seed. She knows, even in the Sands, her best warriors would fall short of foreign men soon. If they haven't already."

"Hyacinth believes men and women are equal in every which way, so women could replace men without trouble. But women are daughters of Freda, men sons of Fyr, and the gods themselves are incomplete. Existence is born of creation and destruction. Blood is made of seed and water. Hyacinth's lifeblood will run dry without their men."

As Meya pondered over his wisdom, Hasif's words infiltrated her train of thought, filling her heart with shame.

"D'you think it's the same with dragons? Is there any need for my kind to share the soil of Latakia? So we're not just parasites?"

Coris froze, then whirled around, gray eyes flashing silver with fury,

"Don't ever think that. Don't you dare think that!" He leaned in and hissed onto her nose, his hands shaking her arms. Meya rolled her eyes and heaved a sigh.

"I know, Coris! But look at Nostra." She jerked her head to the west. Or what she felt was the west, at least, "The only reason they're invading all those colonies is because dragons flocked over there for shelter, when Freda meant for us to die off when she destroyed Everglen. So humans could replace us, because you're her true children."

"And since when have you cared what Freda thinks?"

Meya mouthed gibberish, lost for words. Coris leaned so close, his flaring eyes were about the only things she could see.

"There's no use debating times long past unless you could change them. Least not for me." He shook his head slowly, his eyes never once leaving hers, "You were born on this land. You worked this land. You have family on this land. You and your baby have as much right to exist on this land as any human, and I will do what I feel is just."

With one last glower, Coris turned away, glaring morosely at the town below, his hands clenched so tightly on the banister, his knuckles shone white even against his pale skin. As Meya watched the familiar sight of her donghead fuming, a warm glow bloomed at the heart of her, its heat growing to fill her to the tips of her fingers and toes, and she smiled under the weight of her guilt.

For though she still didn't believe in his words, she knew she someday surely would. She knew and trusted that he was, as he usually was, right. And, in the worst case scenario where he weren't, considering the size of his head, he'd torch a town or two to make himself right, probably.

She had made her decision.

"Lexi?"

Coris turned, eyebrows raised. Meya sucked in a deep breath for courage as she held his gaze.

"Maybe this isn't the time, but since you've mentioned it,"

Coris's eyes followed her hand as she rested it on her middle. A flash of fear crossed his face. He clenched his jaw as if bracing for the worst. The sight sent a jolt of pain coursing through Meya, and she dallied no more,

"I'm keeping the babe."