The road was three days-on-horseback long from the outskirts of Hyacinth to the nearest port of the Celestel River. Fortunately, it was the year of the Miracle Fest, and the week of June that Hyacinth would deliver their finest products to supply the capital for the soon-to-come celebrations.

The Hadrians took the opening to slip into Aynor with as little notice as possible, disguised as merchants, hidden amongst dozens of barrels and crates of carmine, dates and goat cheese, which were then loaded onto three roofed barges. The ablest men lay down arms and took up oars instead, and the stowaways were wedged into whatever space was left like an afterthought.

Sir Jarl and the Blood Druid Vyrgil steered the foremost barge, which carried Gillian, and the Baron and Baroness Hadrian, attended to by the Graye sisters. The remaining Blood Druids took charge of the last barge, carrying Tissa, Dorsea and Philema.

Meya shared her nook at the back of the second barge with Coris, Zier and Arinel. Frenix was supposed to be with them, but he'd monkeyed his way over the kegs to the front, just behind the rowing Christopher. The little pain claimed he needed space to play-fight with the monster of his shadow, using Coris's straw doll, equipped with a toothpick sword Meya had molded for him.

Meya's excitement for the river voyage had long soured. After three days cramped inside a sweltering wagon, pummeled incessantly by the unforgiving terrain, her back stiff, her neck cricking, her buttocks sore, her head swimming from morning sickness, her expectations had risen so high, even the gentle, lulling sway of the water did little to please her.

Coris untied his cloak and cast it over his lap. He grinned as he caught Meya's questioning look, pulled the hems taut then flourished his hands.

"Sleep, my lady," He said, his gray eyes twinkling, "Rest thine head so weary."

Zier whistled over the sound of his harp, as Arinel giggled from her bed on his lap. Meya shot her beau a playful glare then took up his offer. She leaned on her back so as to behold his face, as he leafed through the book resting open on his other knee. An unwise decision, as it positioned her nose right below his pit.

Meya rolled onto her side, her face scrunched. Coris straightened in alarm.

"What, again?" His book fell with a flump as he lunged for the chamberpot. Meya shook her head, her nostrils pinched shut,

"No, Lexi, you stink!"

"Meya!"

Coris whined amidst Zier's roar of laughter, which met its abrupt end by Arinel's verdict,

"Oh, perish it. You both stink."

Trembling with laughter, Meya clamped her free hand over her mouth as the smelly brothers sulked. Since their disastrous first attempt in the Hyacinth Castle courtyard, Coris and Zier, undeterred, had taken to training together at every opportunity, which did not necessarily include the chance to bathe and change.

His nose thrust high, Coris crossed his arms and puckered his lips, eyes closed in denial.

"You may smell the stench of sweat, my good woman. I smell the fragrance of love."

"Whatever you say, milord."

Chuckling, Meya burrowed her cheek into the fat of his leg. He was still bony enough that his pulse drummed clear against her ear, but he was rosier, slept sounder, and no longer asked her for laudanum. Soon, he'd be strong enough for Meya to no longer constantly worry for him, strong enough to defend her and their babe, which was his goal (as revealed to her in strict confidence by Zier).

Warmth flooded her chest, having nothing to do with his arm now draped protectively around her. Meya pressed her lips to his palm. The icy taste of his skin had faded greatly.

The raft rocked to the river's rhythm. Coris's fingers fell again and again through her hair. She was drifting away, then a voice dragged her back to her aching body,

"Psst, Meya—" Frenix popped his head over the lid of a nearby barrel, "Hey, Meya!"

Coris huffed in annoyance. His hand left her hair to hook her closer jealously.

"Can't you see she's exhausted?"

"Won't take long!" Frenix whined, then whipped back to Meya, "Make me a dragon."

His demand left the three nobles deep in thought, probably picturing the dragon Meya's utter lack of artistic flair would give birth to. Meya was torn between her desire to be of use and harsh reality.

"Dragon? Ain't that quite tall of an order?" Rolling her eyes, she peeled herself from Coris's sweaty lap and swayed upright. "Fine, but you're gunna have to use your imagination a fair bit, milord."

As Frenix watched in excitement, and Coris, Zier and Arinel in slight trepidation, Meya wormed her hand deep into her money-pouch, catching the copper faces scuttling about the bottom in her fist. She withdrew and, after a deep breath, unfurled her fingers. A pool of metal, warm rust-brown with swirls of glittering silver. So deep was her concentration, she hardly noticed her audience had fallen deathly silent.

"Meya, what are you doing?" Coris whispered, his voice sharp.

"'Tis fine, Coris. I'll turn 'em back when he's done with it."

Meya hummed as she shaped the coagulating liquid into what she hoped was a passing lizard with her finger. Coris froze to stone at her reply, shaking his head in terror.

"No, you can't!"

He lunged, his long, pale fingers throttling Meya's wrist. Molten bronze sloshed from her palm, splashing onto the wooden floorboard, where it froze solid in moments.

"Fyr's Bollocks—"

Scrambling to her knees, Meya slammed her hand over the puddle as she would an irksome gnat, drinking it back in.

"Why would you do that? 'Tis me money you're spilling!" She rounded on Coris. He glared back, unrepentant.

"Because what you were about to do is akin to coining, Meya," hissed Arinel, adding at Meya's wide-eyed stare of incredulity, "It's high treason!"

High treason? For melting and recrafting a handful of coins? Meya shook her head in disbelief, eyebrows knotted at the utter insanity.

"But—" She opened her mouth, but Coris cut across her with his bony arm.

"Here," He fished his journal and charcoal pencil from the folds of his cloak, handing them to Frenix alongside a stern command, "Outside of this immediate party, this never happened, understood?"

His sharp, blazing gray eyes swept the company. Even Zier nodded, his eyebrows furrowed. Frenix glanced between them, eyes wide, his grip slack around Coris's journal. Huffing, Meya leaned in with a protest,

"Coris, I can turn them back—"

"Can you? Do you remember precisely how much of which metals were in those coins? Do you even remember how many coins there were?" Coris raised his eyebrows, his long nose inches from hers. Meya gritted her teeth, trembling in grudging defeat. Coris narrowed his eyes, his voice icier with every word,

"Only smithies given rights by royal decree can mint coins. Women have burned for shaving a handful of gold faces. For Freda's sake, what is it between you and the pyre that you just can't stay away?"

"Fine! Fine! I won't do it no more. Happy now?" Meya threw up her hands then crossed them over her bosom. She rammed her back against the barge's wall, venting her temper.

"Meya, listen to him!" Arinel scolded in an unprecedented show of solidarity with Coris. Meya cocked an eyebrow at her. She glowered back.

"You take this matter seriously, or it may very well be the last thing you'd ever do."

Those unblinking, ice-clear blue eyes delved deep into hers. Meya gulped words down her contricted throat, reminded of the last time she had failed to heed the Lady's warning. Still, Meya Hild was nothing if not tiresomely pigheaded. Especially when it came to the law.

"'Tis but a pocketful of coins. I ain't plotting to kill the king. What's with high treason and all that?"

Grumbled Meya. Coris and Arinel turned and met eyes worriedly.

"I reckon it's high time you teach her about the coin," said Arinel. Coris weighed it briefly, then shook his head.

"She won't learn in this state." He said brusquely, then nodded at the pouting Meya, slapping his leg, "Sleep. I'll explain tonight."

"Say, if we reveal Greeneyes can absorb and secrete metal, how do we stop them doing this? Say even if the majority didn't, how can we trust our money from now on?"

Zier finally broke his silence. Coris froze, then sighed heavily.

"My fears precisely." He admitted, for once agreeing with his brother, his eyebrows furrowed, "We may have no choice but to plate our coins with Lattis. I wonder how Nostra tackled this issue."

Lattis?

Coris hummed as he caressed his chin, his eyes unfocused, lost among possibilities. Meya could hardly believe her ears, her eyes. She scrambled to her knees and bolted back, wanting nothing than to flee as far from this heartless creature as Freda would allow.

"I can't believe this!" Coris spun around, nonplussed, then jumped out of his skin at Meya's scream—

"HOW DARE YOU! D'YOU WANT ME TO DIE SOONER!?"

A flash of comprehension crossed his eyes. Meya realized Coris must have simply forgotten, and her rage subsided—only to surge into a wall of flames when his fleeting guilt gave way to the familiar cold determination.

"And what other solution do you have?" He asked, a hint of derision in his voice. Meya had none. Her fear must have poked through her fury—Coris caught himself, then. His taut lips unwound. His frown melted away. He blinked, and his eyes were gentle gray once more.

"Latakia wasn't built with dragons in mind." He began, "If we were to share this land in peace, compromises must be made."

Meya didn't deign to, she couldn't bring herself to meet his eyes. Compromise. Sacrifice. Goodwill. Whatever. They were all facades for one and the same—Burden on the Land. He simply hid it better than Lasralein. Desperate, Coris reached out his hands.

"I'll consult Gillian. We'll find a safe balance. Together." He held her hands as he clung onto her eyes, pleading, "I would never knowingly harm you, Meya—"

"Unless you really had to? Until your precious babe is safely out of me—"

Meya cursed so vulgarly Arinel clutched at her heart. Zier belatedly clapped his hands over Frenix's ears.

"Meya!" cried Lady Crosset, but if Meya knew Coris, he'd be more affected by the sentiment. The realization scored a searing wound on her heart, but she swathed it with pride. And so she remained smiling as Coris paled bone-white, as his eyes blazed silver—

"You dare—" He growled.

"Have I ever not?" Meya shrugged, unrepentant, as she spat oil onto the flames, "Looks like I've struck a nerve, eh?"

She must have. Coris gritted his teeth, his lips pursed to a thin line. The sight brought a burning sensation to the rims of her eyes. Whether it was his sorrow, or his lack of protest, she wasn't sure. Meya tore her eyes away.

"You said I'd always be your priority." She said softly, her lips twisted into a mocking smile, "Guess you haven't changed. At all."

Silence. Terrible, hopeless silence. He made no move to break it, shattering her heart with every breath that passed.

"Perhaps you shouldn't have been so generous with me."

Yes, he hadn't changed. He was Lord Hadrian. He'd always been Lord Hadrian. Perhaps he had forgotten, just as she had forgotten.

"Meya, go to sleep," said Arinel at last, her voice heavy as her heart. Then, she turned to Coris, "It's her pregnant humors talking. She doesn't mean it."

"By Fyr I didn't—" Meya swore under her breath.

"Meya Hild, I'm commanding you as your Lady!"

Arinel snapped, eyes blazing, demanding obedience. After one last scorching look, Meya clambered over the sea of barrels to the front, bumping the shaken Frenix aside as she went.

Once she had dismounted and vanished from sight, Zier sighed and shook his head. Should've known to bite his tongue at the onslaught of intrusive thoughts. He sneaked a glance at Coris, and it was just as he'd expected. His brother sat slumped like a marionette cut loose from its strings, pale and downcast, his eyes unseeing. As if he sensed the concern in their staring eyes, he nodded listlessly.

"She does have a point." Words clawed their way feebly out of his lips. "The day will come when I must choose. I can't choose her over Hadrian. Or Latakia."

Silence fell as Coris sank, his head in his hands, fingernails scoring lines on his scalp.

"I'd always thought she understood. She'd always said she understood."

A warm hand on his shoulder was all Zier could give, alongside empty promises.

"She will. I'm sure she will."

Daylight slid over her back like gentle hems of a lace curtain, silent and warm. A clumsy plunge of the oar sent her wooden bed lurching forward, jolting Meya awake. She opened her eyes. Christopher remained perched on the deck, now a silhouette against the vermilion sky.

Just how long had she nodded off?

Meya sat up, ignoring protests from her creaking bones. Unfortunately, she rose too quickly. Her head swimming, she clamped her hand over her mouth at the sudden wave of nausea. Christopher spun around at her stifled retch—only, he wasn't Christopher.

Their eyes met. Coris blinked blankly for a beat, then hastily returned to rowing.

"Sorry. I'll try to row smoother."

Meya fixed her gaze on his feet, too ashamed to reply. Her lips quivered with whispered words as she mustered her courage, but he beat her to it.

"I'm sorry," Meya perked up. Coris held the oar, his eyes closed as he cooled his forehead on its handle. "I should never have suggested that. It was lazy. And beyond cruel."

Meya shook her head, sighing. As Coris resumed rowing, she edged in and linked her arms around his leg, resting her head against it.

"I'm sorry, too." She mumbled, "'Twas a low blow, that was."

"But you are right," said Coris quietly. "Should the worst come to pass, I must choose Hadrian over our child, and our child over you."

His voice trembled then stilled, the tremors having traveled to his knee she was clinging to. She tugged on his trousers, pleading through her eyes, but he rambled blindly on,

"I know how I must sound, but it's not that I don't love you. That I don't mean what I swore. You'll always come before me, but so will those who look to me to lead them—"

"Lexi, stop it! 'Tis not gunna happen. 'Tisn't fair of me to ask. I shouldn't have—I—"

Her desperation finally reached him. Meya hugged his leg close, eyes shut tight against burning tears.

Coris rowed silently on for a moment.

"Have you ever heard of Noblesse Oblige?"

Meya peeled her wet cheek from his leg and raised her eyes. Coris stared straight ahead, his profile painted glowing ember by the setting sun.

"Nobility comes with obligation. Privilege comes with responsibility. Power comes with sacrifice."

Meya nodded.

"Yeah. You told me."

"If you're to become my wife. Lady Hadrian. Baroness Hadrian—" He enunciated. Meya shivered under its weight. "We must choose as one to place the well-being of Hadrian above our own, stand loyal to the crown in Aynor and no other. Yes, we'll treat Greeneyes as Latakians same as humans. They'll be given the same rights and protection as everyone else. And subject to the same rules and penalties as everyone else."

"I understand."

"Do you, Meya?" challenged Coris with a noisy plonk of the oar. Meya cocked an eyebrow in simmering annoyance. She'd ditched her pride, tried her damnedest to make amends, for Freda's sake. Was this donghead addicted to conflict, too?

"Say a Greeneye commits high treason, will you stand by me sentencing him to be hung, drawn, and quartered alongside his human cohorts?"

"I don't believe we should sentence anyone to hung, drawn and quartered, for that matter," scoffed Meya. Coris merely hummed in amusement, as if to toy with her fraying patience. Growling and rolling her eyes, Meya heaved herself up and crossed her legs on the deck, surrendering once again to curiosity.

"Why's coining high treason, anyway? And why d'you need hung, drawn and quartered for high treason? Just chop his head off and be done!"

Coris curled a sly smile at the corner of his lips, his gray eyes shining with victory.

"With the obvious exception of Jaise, punishments often aren't revenge or justice but deterrence." Grunting, he pushed the barge forward with a mighty row.

"It is as Zier said. Imagine if you knew Greeneyes could leech gold and silver from your coins, fill them with lead, and you'd be none the wiser. What would you do if you couldn't trust the gold you'd earned? If you could no longer trade for food with it? If everyone in Latakia thinks the same?"

Meya watched Coris's oar as she pondered, the vivid scene robbing her heart of warmth as chaos unfolded. People would've to resort to trading with whatever they had—or not at all. The way it used to be. Travelers and merchants would offer a tale, a song, a bundle of silk, maybe, for shelter and dinner with the Hilds. Meya couldn't picture that being the norm, not the exception.

"Greeneyes are capable of the same heights of miracles, and the same bowels of atrocities as humans." Coris turned to her at long last, his sharp eyes piercing deep into hers at his dire warning, "It will happen, Meya. We must be ready."

Meya hung her head, mourning the undeniable truth, but the change in scenery soon distracted her. To the left, a small pier hung from the grassy slope of the riverbank, reeling in boats and rafts. Light from lamps mounted on poles glowed in the gathering dark. Tents and stalls spilling with goods dotted the roads on both sides, crowding denser the further along they went.

A dark stone column rose from the heart of the river, parting the stream in two like a delta. To the right, rafts and barges sailed past, treading the waters they'd traveled down, back up to the northern duchies. To the left, fellow new arrivals fell into step with them, jostling to be first into the capital.

As they hobbled their way forward, lamplight from surrounding boats pooled on the column, revealing a marble statue of powdered blue-gray—the color of the Wynn Kings of old, shaped into a woman—veiled, faceless, hands clasped over her bosom. An arch of reed crowned her, stalks of grass twisted into Aynor's motto:

All Remember She Who Forgets Herself

On they sailed, yet the words captured her still. Meya tilted her head back, then around, her eyes lingering, her brows knotted as the sinews of the arch itself.

"I've always wondered—who is she?" She mused aloud. Coris shrugged in empathy.

"I'd always assumed it simply rhymes. As of recently, my bet is it refers to Freda—Or, whomever she may have been."

"Freda? What d'you mean?" Meya whipped around. Coris cocked his head.

"Chione rained fire and brimstone from the Heights. So Freda guided Latakas Wynn to drive her away." He met her gaze with eyes narrowed, "What if Chione was the dragon queen?"

Meya's eyes wandered as her thoughts took her to times long faded, then widened as the faint connections sharpened.

"Of course. Rutgarth." She breathed, nodding vigorously to herself, "And who would've known how to defeat a dragon but a dragon from Everglen? Freda was a Greeneye. She betrayed the Lattis secret to King Latakas, let him take credit, then disappeared. To keep dragons secret. So they can live in Latakia?"

She turned to Coris. At his solemn nod, she let her mind drift just a little further,

"She forgot herself. And so, all remember her—as the Goddess Freda."

Even as Coris voiced his silent support, Meya couldn't help but sigh at the grim conclusion. She glanced at her haversack. Stowed within was Axel's memoir and remaining eye.

He gave his life for his sacrifice to remain in vain two centuries on. And what of poor Flindel, hung for saving dragons fleeing war? Or folks like Dizadh? Friar Tumney? Or even—Dad? Gracious, righteous folk who gave whatever and whenever they could—often more. Only to quietly fade into time, their tales unsung.

Meya shook her head, cold fire burning in the pit of her tummy.

"She's still forgotten, though." She muttered. Coris turned around, eyebrows raised. Meya shrugged, "If all this was true, nobody knows her name, so All didnae remember, did they? What a filthy lie. What's the use if you're forgotten? After all you've done? All you've sacrificed?"

Coris fell silent for a long while, so long Meya thought he'd agreed. Yet, just as she lowered her guard, he attacked,

"If I wouldn't have remembered you. If we wouldn't have met again. If I wouldn't have saved Crosset. If you would've died in the attempt. If you'd known, would you still have rescued me that night?"

Meya froze, blinking, caught unawares. Before she could think, Coris went ahead and answered himself,

"You would. You had. Because you knew full well all those would likely have been the case. Or, it had simply never occurred to you." Again, Coris pierced her with his willful, heart-chilling stare, then melted it with a warm, adoring smile.

"All that mattered to you was that I was alive. That's the use, isn't it?"

He looked so sure, so sincere, Meya couldn't help but answer in kind. Her smile sagged the instant Coris turned his back on her and focused on rowing. Sure, young Meya would've saved little Lord Coris without a second thought, pure and naive and foolish as she was. But would present Meya be as brave? As selfless? She dreaded the truth.

They were approaching the heart of Aynor now. Shops had given way to wattle-and-daub houses, floors teetering dangerously over the water, crammed so close to their neighbors that their eaves touched, as endless strings of locals and tourists filed past the gaps.

Ahead loomed a bridge of brick and stone, groaning under the weight of hundreds of parading feet. It was but the first of six bridges over the Celestel, stitching two halves of the city in place, decorated with tinsels of glass in all shapes—teardrops, diamonds, spheres, stars that flashed in the lamplight—all shaded with glass stained with every color in Freda's rainbow.

Meya's spirits couldn't help but lift. As they passed under the bridge's arch, she stretched her arm as far as her joints would allow, touching her fingertips to the swaying glass drops.

On each of the six bridges, the light of the six duchies would unite with the light of Aynor to celebrate the Miracle Fest. Each Duke would send his best merchants with the finest products to peddle on his duchy's bridge decorated by the hands of his best artisans. On the last day of the Fest, after the King's fireworks, festival-goers would cast their vote for their favorite bridge.

Coris straightened once the bridge was behind them. He hung back for a moment, admiring the display, then sallied forth, chanting as he rowed,

"Fireworks from Aynor. Glass from Easthaven. Stones from Hythe. Candles from Icemeet. Lanterns from Damerel. Water from Aquar—"

"—and mushrooms from Meriton." interrupted Meya, disgruntled, as they approached Damerel's bridge, festooned with paper lanterns of all colors, shapes and sizes. Up next would probably be Aquar, with their orbs of shimmering blue algae water and mother-of-pearl lanterns. Another favorite for the popular vote. Chuckling, Coris mussed her hair in jest,

"Come now. They're testament to the richness of our woodlands. And they rhyme. That's always a plus, right?"

"Then how come we never win?"

"Agh! Them barbarians simply cannot comprehend the edible romance that is glowing mushrooms." Coris rolled his eyes, waving his free hand before his nose as if to fan away the stench of the uncultured, then his eyes bulged at the gloomy sight of the third bridge—a black-dark silhouette spotted with clumps of cold blue and green glows.

"Shining shrooms—There's our bridge!" He cried, then spun around with a breathless demand—

"Kiss me!"

"What!?" Meya gawked. Would've made more sense if he apologized then corrected it to kick, even. Coris jittered in place in frustration.

"It'll show them! Kiss me!" He whined, snatching Meya's hand and dragging her to her feet.

"No!" Meya jerked her wrist free, blushing furiously in the eerie light.

"For Freda's sake! Don't you want Meriton to win for once?"

"We're farmers on a raft peddling cheese from Hyacinth—For Freda's sake!"

"Precisely! That's just how persuasive Meriton's shrooms are!"

"'Tisn't them shrooms I'm kissing, donghead. How persuasive are you?"

"Persuasive? Woman, I'm poetic!" Coris threw up his hands in exasperation, then dived headfirst into his offering—

"Your eyes shine eerie as fungi lit aglow.

Your voice gnaws on my skull like worms in oak ole.

You conquer my heart like mold on bread grows.

You'll bring the death of me like poison slow—"

The limerick ended there—Meya had launched herself at Coris with a kiss full on his rhyming lips. Coris responded with rivaling passion, casting away his oar in favor of Meya's waist. The lovers twirled round and round on the deck, lost amid the thousand lights of Latakia—until that old feller on the nearby boat chucked the oar back and knocked Coris upside the head, followed by a string of curses. Unfortunately, due to the crowding in the river, Coris had pitched the oar smack into the old man's face.

Giggling, fondling (Coris's) head, the two embraced and swayed to the beat of the river as they sailed through the remaining bridges to the heart of Aynor, creating memories of their first Miracle Fest—and first Miracle Fest together.

(Author's note)

How wonderful for this chapter to fall on this time of year.

Merry Christmas and Happy New Year, everyone!