(A few months earlier)

In the loose embrace of pale fingers like spider legs, the melted arrowhead gleamed orange in the firelight and silver in the moonbeam.

Sylvia pulled up the blanket to shield her son's hand from the night chill. With a tender finger, she guided streaks of damp hair away from his sweat-peppered forehead. Coris's breath petered through his parted lips, ragged and feeble. Even under the influence of laudanum, his brows remained crinkled towards each other in apparent pain.

Sylvia lay down beside him, smoothing his hair as she whispered tender words of reassurance, even as she knew her son would not hear them. Familiar, heavy footsteps clomped on the carpet towards them. She looked up to find her husband of twenty years standing on the other side of the bed, his head bowed and his eyes downcast. His hands were overflowing with curious silhouettes, and he set them down beside their son before one could tumble and startle him awake.

"Found these stashed away in his drawer." He reached across and offered Sylvia one of them, then settled back down with a tortured sigh, his head in his hand, "How long has he been hoarding them?"

Sylvia turned it over and over in her hands, as the firelight revealed it was a baby rattle. She raised her gaze to the pile of whatnot before her husband and made out a jumble of dolls both human and animal, wooden tops, dream-catchers, and cloth balls. She whipped around to her slumbering son.

"Oh, Lexi."

Her heart throbbed in anguish as his raised voice echoed in her ears. The times they had argued. The harsh words they had traded. And all this time, he had suppressed this hopeless craving under his cold, unfeeling façade. Kellis's sigh chorused with hers.

"He wants to leave behind a child. Understandable."

"Why won't he just admit it?"

"Probably doesn't want to orphan it. Or burden it with The Axel."

Sylvia allowed silence to descend between them as she recalled, recoiled and recovered. She knew Coris wasn't to blame. She knew Kellis had never meant to harm their little boy. Yet, she couldn't shake the feeling that had Kellis been more honest, more fair and less exacting as a father—had she herself been a present mother, had she not been so distracted, so occupied with enjoying whatever was left of her youth—Coris would never have felt the need to turn the whole of Latakia against him, just to win their love and approval.

Sylvia blinked away the burning sensation in her eyes, swallowing them to the depths of her heart. She squeezed the rattle to still her trembling hands and ground herself in the present.

"We have to find him a wife." She hung her head, sighing, "But, who would willingly have their daughter marry him? Unless..."

Sylvia trailed off as the notion crossed her mind. Kellis nodded.

"Olivis Crosset would be delighted."

Sylvia tensed. She knew that tone—it was as if she could hear the calculations going on in his brain. Her grip on the rattle tightened.

"Lexi would never go through with that."

"We'll take good care of the lass. She'll be honored and respected." Kellis insisted. Sylvia shook her head, her eyes fixed upon the bed.

"It's not enough." The tip of the arrowhead peeked out from Coris's blanket, and she glared back at its challenging glint. "He's still holding out for her."

Kellis was silent for a breath. Then, he heaved another sigh. Sylvia shared his dilemma. They had choices, of course, but what use were they when all those choices had irreconcilable drawbacks? One was a known enemy. The other, Coris would refuse point-blank out of honor. Whereas the last—

One nudge at a time, Sylvia urged the ruined arrowhead out of her son's feeble grasp. The Lattis bolt was warm and damp with sweat as it rested in her palms. He had treasured the memory—and yet, he had forgotten it. It didn't make sense.

"Why can't you remember?" She mused, more to lament than to demand an answer. Kellis pressed the pads of his fingers into his forehead, as if hoping it would dull the pain.

"Dragon blood. And, as far as I know, there is but one living Greeneye in Crosset."

Sylvia froze as the inkling coursed through her like a flash of pure agony. She stared at her husband as he observed Coris in his troubled sleep, his shadowed face pensive and unfathomable.

"Why haven't you told him?" She rasped as fury curdled into a roar in her throat. Kellis shook his head,

"He doesn't remember her. And she's a peasant. What if he falls for her? He can't marry a commoner."

Sylvia was tempted to throw her head back and swear to the heights.

"What does that matter at this point? Lexi's losing hope by the day! He's dying!" She snapped, her voice cracking at the foul, poisonous taste of that last word in her throat.

"And I'm afraid, Sylvia—" For the first time, Kellis raised his gaze to face hers. His wide eyes quivered as horribly as his voice, "She may be the only thing keeping him alive. Once his wait is over—"

Silence interluded, solid and cold—so cold that Sylvia couldn't even manage a blink, as the truth in those blue eyes seeped into hers.

"Oh, Freda." She bent over her son and draped a protective arm down his back, trembling with fury, "Kellis, what have you done? What have you been giving him?!"

She exploded. Kellis hesitated, then his eyes slid to the side. Sylvia followed them to the bedside table, where Coris's nightly laudanum vial sat glinting in the firelight. She picked it up, uncorked it and held it to her nose. Once the sickly sweet aroma of opium tincture had dispersed, for a split-second, the hidden notes of blood and metal flooded her nostrils. Her fingers trembled as she stuffed the cork back in.

"The mixture has healing properties. He's recover—"

Sylvia couldn't bear to let him finish. She bolted up and slapped the vial against his cheek. The malignant vial fell and rolled gleaming on the carpet. The baroness crumbled to a heap over her son, shaking with stifled sobs.

Kellis clenched his jaw as he waited out the throbbing pain and his wife's heartbreak. He rested a nervous hand on her river of dark brown hair—she thrust it off in disgust, burrowing her face deeper into Coris's shoulder. He tried again—

"I can't bear to lose him, Sylvia. He means more to me than my life—more than Hadrian—and definitely more than The Axel—"

"—Then let him live!" Sylvia's cry rented the silence like a clap of lightning. Silvery eyes blazed on her tear-streaked countenance. Kellis reared back, stunned. "Strike a deal with Crosset. Call in every Lady in the three lands—but let him choose—let him remember. Look at him! Hasn't he sacrificed enough already?"

Sylvia cupped their son's gaunt face in her hands as she screeched across the bed at him, then fell back onto Coris. She dried her tears against his cheek, whispering as if in mourning,

"Lexi—"

Sylvia's muted sobs rippled the suffocating silence. Somewhere in the shadows, Coris's clepsydra dripped steadily, marking the seconds as they trickled by. Kellis closed his eyes and let out a long breath. He bent down and retrieved the phial he had tampered with, then poured its contents onto the fire.

O Freda, he prayed to the goddess of the Heights, as the flames of the Lake rose to devour the potion,

Hast thou meant for this to be, then I shall accept thine destiny.

⏳

"I don't understand it. I've told you numerous times it's not your fault. You've witnessed other Greeneyes feed without consequences. What in the three lands is the problem this time?"

Coris paced back and forth, arms flailing as he fumed. Meya squeezed her hunched shoulders against her folded knees, listless eyes following his twig legs as they paraded past her and back. She was already asking herself the same question. He didn't need to add to her misery.

"I'm sorry. I dunno what's wrong with me." She rested her forehead on her knees with a heavy sigh, "I'd see flashes of the Famine and I just—I can't—I'm sorry."

The harrowing flashbacks replayed before her eyes, roused by a mere mention. Her voice rose so high, it fell and shattered to sharp sand in her throat. Too drained to put her feelings to words, Meya shook her head in frustration and curled into a tighter ball.

Zier's hand alighted on her shoulder. The sound of Coris's footsteps died. However, reprieve was brief before he stomped over and resumed nagging.

"Meya, you need to stop blaming yourself for everything that happens." His sharp voice was tinged with annoyance as he slumped down cross-legged before her, "None of this is your fault. Why is it so hard for you to accept? You were a child. It was unintentional. Even the law has exceptions for these cases. You're innocent. It's simple logic!"

Meya gritted her teeth as each angry, accusing syllable lambasted her, trying her utmost not to tremble. Yes, she knew all that. She knew she was now a hindrance—his thinly-veiled exasperation only sunk it deeper. She knew she had no reason to feel guilty—he'd hammered that into her brain numerous times, but still—

Zier's hand twitched on her shoulder, bristling at his brother's every word. At long last, he could stand it no longer—

"For Freda's sake, Brother, shut up!"

Silence. Dead and solid.

Meya could hardly believe what had just transpired. She knew Zier was losing his temper, but even then, she hadn't expected such an...honest...outburst. But it was also what she hadn't realized she needed the most right now.

She resurfaced to find Coris—wide-eyed, mouth open in mid-rant—gawking at Zier. Zier glared back, for once as imperious and intimidating as Coris in his element. It was unnerving as well as hilarious, as if the brothers had swapped bodies.

Zier jerked his chin towards Meya.

"Hold her."

Coris blinked, then shot Meya a glance. For the first time since they'd entered the tent, their eyes met. Coris's cheeks became tinged with blossoms of pink—though, judging from the intense heat, Meya was sure hers were a much deeper shade. He hastily shifted his focus back to Zier, annoyed—

"Gladly, but how is that going to—"

A dangerous glint glanced off Zier's narrowed eyes, prompting Coris to shut his trap. Then, as Meya watched, awestruck, he edged to her side and gathered her into his arms.

His familiar cold enveloped her. His faint pulse tapped against her arm—and Meya's embarrassment faded along with the chaos in her brain. She leaned her head against his chest and closed her eyes at the touch of his palm on her hair.

As she adjusted to the rhythm of Coris's heart on her cheek, she felt Zier's hand on her lap. She turned and found warm, sincere blue eyes staring at her. He flicked Coris a sharp look, as if ordering him to pay attention, then turned back to her,

"You don't have to rush it, alright? Take all the time you need."

Meya cocked her head. Zier's voice wasn't gentle like Coris's. It was just his usual dry, barking voice. He also wasn't smiling. He simply stared into her eyes, blunt and perhaps a little dumb.

Yet, there was a soothing quality about him. Something that had been lacking from Coris, and Meya had only realized she had always needed, but never could pin down. Was it understanding? Was it the willingness to listen? Was it the reprieve only a fellow lost, wayward fool could provide?

Whatever it was, Meya was tempted to follow its urging—yes, perhaps she should take the time to figure herself out—if only for a moment, before the same old shame won over. The need to please. The need to always be useful—to compensate for being born a Greeneye.

"We dun have time for this. I must sort this out now." Avoiding Zier's gaze, Meya pulled away from Coris and made to stand up, desperate for some action to distract her from her thoughts. She'd barely lifted her bum off the carpet when four hands pushed her back down and pinned her in place. The two brothers were united for once.

"I'm sure we can find another way." Zier shrugged, answering Meya's raised eyebrow with an undaunted grin, "You wanna make our job easier? You take care of your heart." He prodded said organ with a long, tapered finger.

"—Brain, actually." Coris piped in, left out and eager to rejoin the club. Zier rolled his eyes.

"One more word, Lexi, and I swear—"

Coris took the hint and retreated backstage. Zier made sure he had dutifully resumed smoothing a hand down Meya's back, then leaned back in with an offer,

"D'you want to talk about it?"

Meya studied those patient, honest eyes, biting her lips to hold in the words and trembling from the effort. Her nerves failed, and she shot a covert glance at Coris. Zier deduced her dilemma, and he frowned in disapproval.

"Just tell him what you're thinking." He jerked his chin at Coris, his eyes narrowing, "It's your feelings that matter now. Not his."

Coris's arm around her shoulders shifted. He was tense, but also eager and prepared. It was the final push Meya needed.

"I understand 'tis not my fault—" Meya turned and faced Coris, steeling herself not to avert her eyes, pleading for him to understand, "But I can't help feeling guilty anyway. All those people died at me hands! They had faces. They had names. I know them! I can't just ignore me conscience. You can't just tell me it's not me fault and expect me to forget them!"

She couldn't hold back. She was shouting, choking and crying at the same time. Meanwhile, Coris had grown pale as marble and just as stiff. He stared unblinking at her, fear and guilt tainting his wavering silver—but Meya chose not to delve into it for now. For once, she must allow herself to be the priority. Her face burned with self-hatred and tears stung in her eyes. She cowered behind her hands.

"What kind of monster would brush off hundreds of dead people and move on? I wouldn't be able to live with meself."

Her energy spent, Meya let her hands fall and stared unseeing into empty air,

"I wish I could promise it'd get better with time. But I dun think 'tis summat that's ever gunna change." She closed her eyes, lips pursed in stubborn determination. "I'm sorry. 'Tis who I am. I'm not gunna change that."

Coris's hand trembled on her arm, then stilled. Meya turned back to Zier. He nodded and gave her leg a brief squeeze.

"There's no need to apologize. You're not wrong to feel that. You're human—Well, half-human—but—you get what I mean."

Zier shrugged, scratching his nape sheepishly. Somehow, Meya found herself laughing—her first genuine, spontaneous laugh in days. The relief was contagious—Coris gave a nervous chuckle, and Zier snickered. An awkward pause followed as Meya's senses returned. She reviewed the events of the prior few minutes in her head, blushing harder the further she went.

"D'you still want to talk? D'you want us to stay?" Zier asked.

Meya turned to Zier, with his raised eyebrows and innocent, staring blue eyes, then Coris, who hastily conjured up his usual tender smile, then looked down at her lap as she considered the offer.

Once again, she was calm and determined, the Meya Hild who could find a solution to any setback. Once she had decided on where she stood, what she would bend and what she would not surrender, and let it be known, she could move forward with direction. She shook her head.

"I could do with some time alone." She met Zier's gaze and dipped her head, "Thank you—and you, Coris."

She turned to Coris with a smile and squeezed his arm in gratitude, then watched as the two brothers rose to their feet and filed back outside, allowing her some privacy.

🐉🐉🐉