Dawn broke over the Sands, bathing Hyacinth in gold. Zier woke to find a gargantuan purple-black spider with gleaming eyes hanging over him. He reared in fright, then discovered it to be just a mosaic pattern on the ceiling.

Storing the embarrassing moment away to take to his grave, Zier flipped over and smiled at the pleasant sight that awaited him. Arinel lay asleep on the hay mattress she shared with Agnes, so close by her golden tresses spilled onto his mattress. He could steal a kiss if he strained a little, but she looked so adorable asleep.

Zier craned his neck around. Behind him, Christopher slept as if training for the coffin; face up, hands joined over his chest. Meanwhile, on the mattress next to Father and Mother’s bed, Meya tossed and turned, blankets strewn about her, Coris’s pillow in her arms.

Oh no.

Zier rose on his elbows. Perhaps Coris was a lump somewhere among those blanket folds. Nope, even Bonebags wasn’t that thin. What if he sleepwalked himself down a well? Coris never woke before dawn cracked—

Something tapped his head. Zier whipped around, then gawked at his attacker. Coris stood fully dressed, wooden sword in each hand. He motioned at the door, then tiptoed off.

“Lexi? What—”

“Shh!” hissed Coris. Tousing his bedhead, Zier groaned as he rose. He snagged his boots then edged out the door, yawning in earnest. Coris was already striding down the hallway. Zier stumbled barefoot to his side,

“Where are we—”

“Shh!”

“So what if someone hears?”

“You know where the troops train?”

“Not wherever in the Lake you’re going. Gimme those.”

Zier swiped the practice swords from Coris, stuck one down his collar and scratched his back as he led Coris down another hallway. They emerged to a closed courtyard paved with soft earth, empty but for them.

At their roots, Hadrians were blacksmiths. Coris often had Zier test modified weapons from the castle smithy or new techniques while he observed. Maybe Coris was figuring out counters for the Hyacinth Sword, or combat tactics in desert terrain.

Zier slipped a gambeson over his nightshirt and swung his sword, warming his muscles,

“So, who’s the lucky meat?” He joked as he worked through his routine. Coris was silent for a moment, then replied brusquely,

“Me.”

Zier froze, but he didn’t have much time for shock. A battle cry echoed from behind. Zier whirled around to find Coris sprinting towards him, sword raised. As his jaw dropped in astonishment, Zier instinctively selected the guard to counter Coris based on his stance (or lack thereof). He parried the swipe with one arm. Coris staggered sideways, righted himself, then came charging back with a roar.

“Brother, wait—!” Zier parried him again. Again. And again. Coris wiped sweat and dust from his flushed cheeks, storming in with a vengeance.

“Lexi, what’s the point!?” Zier cried in exasperation as he deflected another pitiful swing, sending Coris flying. As his brother struggled to sit up, Zier cast his sword aside.

“Look, if you don’t tell me what you’re trying to achieve, I don’t know how to help.” He grunted as he pulled Coris to his feet, “If you just want to vent, you’d do better hacking at a tree. If you want to learn swordplay, we drill the guards into your muscles and then we can start sparring.”

“I want to be stronger,” panted Coris as he bent double, hands on his knees, “Thicker. Wider. Taller. Like you.”

His voice strangled, he gestured feebly at Zier’s impressive physique, then hung his head and panted some more.

Zier’s heart pained as he blinked down at him. Although Coris wouldn’t say it straight out, he understood the anguish behind his drive.

“Then you push your heart and muscles harder. Eat hearty. Get sunlight and fresh air.” He clapped Coris’s shoulder then jogged in place, grinning,

“We’re going ‘round the yard, Lexi! Giddy up!” Zier aimed another slap at his back when Coris wouldn’t budge. Coris raised a hand for mercy.

“I’m out of breath, aren’t I? My bones are still rattling.” He gestured blindly at their abandoned swords, “Sparring will do, come on.”

Zier rolled his eyes,

“You really hate running, don’t you?”

“I normally delegate it to the horse,” muttered Coris as he straightened.

" ‘Course you do, donghead.” Zier cursed under his breath, shrugged off the gambeson, then nudged Coris’s elbow encouragingly, “Here, we’ll start slow. Talk with me, it’ll keep you distracted.”

Coris looked as if he’d rather swallow a live frog. Nevertheless, he breathed deeply then shuffled off, working his way up to a light jog. Zier drew level with him,

“So you told Ari to experiment on herself?”

The brothers bickered as they ran, blind to the three girls watching from the corridor. The redhead rubbed her glowing eyes as if she doubted them,

“Milady, is it normal for a girl with a bump to be…awakened…by some boys running?”

Arinel turned around. Meya watched the brothers as if in a trance, smiling dreamily as she fingered her ruby brooch, her twitchy knees chafing together. She smiled slyly,

“Some boys or one boy, specifically?”

“That boy, specifically.” Meya sighed as Coris jogged past with Zier, gaining speed as their argument heated.

When dawn wore into morn, Coris pulled off his drenched shirt; Zier followed suit. The Hadrian brides-to-be blushed, then fell giggling over each other, shushing themselves in vain to stay hidden. Two laps later, their amusement turned to terror when the brothers suddenly pounced and wrestled each other to the ground. The girls rushed in, arms flailing, screaming to reach them through their bloodlust.

Agnes hung back. She watched as her friends dragged the brothers apart and helped their respective beaus to his feet. Arinel scolded Zier while Meya grilled Coris, then swapped.

Agnesia and Persephia had never fought like so. They barely had a bond of any sort. For ten months they shared a womb, ten years they shared a room, yet they hardly spoke; Agnie too ashamed for all she was given, Persie too embittered for all that was taken.

Persie’s eye burned like ice against her fingertips as Agnes stared into its empty depths. Persie being unpredictable as she was, everyone was leery to revive her. The day before yesterday, Agnes had sat alone in the corner, stroking Persie’s hair as everyone celebrated Cleygar and Lors’ return.

They were enemies of Hadrian. They weren’t welcome, but they weren’t free to leave. They were all they had. She couldn’t let Persie waste away while she cowered in fear. She’d cowered long enough. Whatever would face them once Persie returned, she’d face it by her side.

The dragon eye nestled tenderly in her palm; Agnes turned her back on the scene and swept down the hallway.

Persie’s door was unlatched, unguarded. Agnes knew what she would find behind it, but the sight still wrangled her heart. The room, once bustling with fretful folk fussing over the three comatose patients by day, and crammed with Greeneyes huddled together for safety by night, had emptied but for her twin sister on her mattress in the corner furthest from the window.

The three Greeneye guards from Baron Hadrian’s secret unit stood watch over her, their swords pointed at her neck. They eyed Agnes as she approached.

“You will return her eye now, milady?” asked the same Greeneye with the most pronounced frown, his grip strangling the hilt of his sword.

“Yes, Vyrgil,” Agnes whispered. The words left a tart aftertaste over her tongue. She couldn’t believe she would actually do it. She offered him a rueful smile, “I don’t suppose I can ask for privacy?”

Vyrgil didn’t answer; he frowned deeper as he scoured her, no doubt searching for the eye, but Agnes saw conflict in his eyes. He looked only a few years her senior. Despite the secrecy of his post, he wasn’t always so stern; she’d seen him laugh and joke with his fellows, and Dorsea, Frenix and Atmund. After all the injustice he’d seen as he traveled Latakia to snuff out leaks in her collective memory, how did he feel, carrying out Baron Hadrian’s bidding to keep dragons secret still?

Agnes reluctantly peeled her eyes away. She was her father reincarnate; it was in her instinct to read the minds of others and sway them to her will, but she must focus on Persie now. Her sister. She must be sincere and honest and true, even when it may seem foolish. That was the one way she could mend their bond.

Vyrgil and his two friends made way as she knelt at Persie’s bedside. Trembling, she tucked away the hair over Persie’s sunken eyes and rested the glowing metal sphere over the right one. The mere thought of the act nauseated her. Swallowing, she parted Persie’s eyelids and pushed the eyeball in place.

The rustling of fabric, the slice of metal against air; Vyrgil and the other two raised their swords at the ready as the socket welcomed the ball. Agnes held her breath as Persie twitched and crinkled her eyelids. At last, she opened her eye. Agnes’s tears fell.

“Persie,” She rasped. Persephia turned to her, frowning groggily. Agnes waited, watching as memories settled in place in her widening eye. Persephia drew in a sharp breath, then bolted up and scrambled away. She collided with the forest of legs surrounding them like bars of a prison. She glanced fearfully between the three yeomen, panting. Agnes saw recognition in her eyes; she knew them.

“Persie, it’s alright. You’re safe. I struck a deal with Baron Hadrian; they won’t harm you.”

Agnes grasped her hands. Persephia spun around, jolting as if burned by the cold, struggling to keep up with both her breath and the developments.

“What deal?” She retorted waspishly. Agnes realized then she had no idea what she had to work with, what was in Persie’s head at the moment,

“What is the last you remember?”

Persephia churned her lips, probably torn between her hatred of Agnes and her need for information.

“I was flying away with Zier.” She muttered, her downcast eyes boring holes in the blanket as she wrung her brain, “Coris pursued. Christopher shot my arm and leg. I dropped Zier. Frenix shot fire at my head. I fell.”

Agnes nodded,

“You were badly injured. I rode you to Hyacinth with Cleygar and Lors in tow. The healer stole your eyes and threw the four of us in a Greeneye brothel. Coris and Gillian saved us. The Baron wanted my testimony to rescue the rest of the Greeneyes. That’s the deal.”

Her tale ended, Agnes held her breath as she held her sister’s gaze. Persephia seemed unfazed as she narrowed her eyes; she must have forgotten the entire ordeal with Hasif. At least for now. Thank Freda.

“And you?” She finally asked. Agnes blinked in surprise. Persephia sneered,

“What do you want from me this time? Let’s see—” She counted on her fingers, “You have my nurse, my governess, my tutors, my suitors, my dowry, my birthright. What’s left? The skin of my face? My favor?”

She snarled, jabbing at her face. Agnes pursed her lips, her fists clenched over the tremors as her eyes flared in determination.

“I don’t mean to steal The Axel, Persie, but nor will I let it fall to you or Father, or remain in Hadrian.” She said, cold and firm, shaking her head slowly, “The Axel was bought by the blood of Latakia. It’s not our right to decide how or if to wield it. That right belongs to Latakia.”

It became Persephia’s turn to blink in surprise. Her lips parted, she stared at Agnes. Her glowing eyes wavered with sorrow, before the sneer of derision usurped it once more. Her lips twisted into a triumphant smirk,

“Well, that’s very high and noble of you, but it’s too late.” She laughed softly then leaned close, her eyes of madness burning bright before Agnes’s own, “He knows.”

She whispered. Agnes glanced at the three Greeneyes as a chill ran down her spine. At Vyrgil’s nod, one of his friends bolted for the door, no doubt to alert Baron Hadrian of impending doom.

Persephia slumped back, half-sitting against her pillows. Her eyes answered the look of pure terror in Agnes’s eyes, but her smile no longer reached them.

“I told him where it is, told him I’d deliver it to him, that night.” She said levelly, her eyes solemn as she tilted her head towards the door, toward Graye,

“Father’s waiting, Agnes. For The Axel.”