"Why are there two mattresses?"

Meya paused with one foot into the tent. Coris nudged her in with a featherlight finger on her forearm, himself trudging to the hay mattress on the right.

"I'm not fit to lie by your side. I never have been." He slumped onto it, head bowed in shame, "That didn't stop me taking advantage of your trust, time and again."

Meya blinked, surprised and miffed, which surprised her again. He was sensible enough to know he'd been scratched off her good books, but he'd also given up on winning her back even before he'd tried.

The all-too-familiar resignation rankled her. Wasn't he in the least bothered to right his wrongs? To improve himself? And Zier was saying he loved her? What a load of dung.

"'Tisn't all your fault." She settled on her mattress with a sigh, shrugging at Coris' raised eyebrow, "I pushed you into it. You're just too noble to say no. We should've taken more time to get to know each other."

Coris pursed his lips in distaste. Meya held his gaze, hoping he'd see her guilt was genuine. At last, he sighed, then a sly smile crept onto his lips,

"Does this mean our short-lived contract is back in effect?"

Meya blinked, then cracked a nasty grin.

"Yeah, go shag Arinel. I'll see if I can ask Zier to give you a merciful death."

Coris chuckled triumphantly. He saw through her act as a fruit of jealousy. Silence fell heavy and uneasy as the erstwhile lovers realized what it meant, what persisted despite it all. Wringing his hands, Coris began again,

"Since it's clear we're both attracted to each other nevertheless, what do you say we experiment with courtship?"

Meya's heart leaped, then pained at the sight of his wavering eyes poring into hers, weathering her scrutiny to convey his sincere emotions. He hadn't surrendered. Still, some kinks must be ironed out first.

"Can we call it a courtship if our parents dun even know about it? And we have no clue if we can ever wed?"

Coris bit his lips, his eyelids weighed down by defeat. Sighing, Meya leaned close,

"D'you see us getting married, having a babe, Coris? What exactly is it that you want out of this?"

"What I want, I can never have," said Coris brusquely. His voice softened as he met her gaze, "What I can have—is you by my side in some shape or form. That I already do, and I'm content."

"Well, I'm not."

Coris froze, eyes wide and fearful. Meya told herself to be steady,

"I can't have you dying on me again, Coris." Her throat constricted as she recalled his lifeless, broken form, "You have your Hadrian duty. Your betrothed. Your poor health. Your prodigal brother—valid reasons why we can't marry, and I can take all those, but this?"

Meya rattled the vial of laudanum she was safeguarding. Coris must still take dwindling amounts of laudanum to ease his withdrawal. Coris relaxed with relief when he understood the true cause of her fury. Meya doubled down to make sure her message got through,

"You could die for anything, anyone. Just not for nothing. I want a man who'll try to live until he really can't, who won't leave me unless he really has to. Who won't go behind me back in every—single—thing!" She punctuated each word with a thump on the mattress, "I told you, no more lies, no more secrets! I need to be able to trust you!"

Meya's flailing arms flopped lifelessly onto her lap, yet her eyes clung to his as she whispered,

"And if that's more than you're willing to promise, then perhaps we're never meant to be. No matter how strong our feelings are."

They locked eyes, stone gray on emerald green, his eyes blazing brighter silver with every passing breath. His fire bolstered Meya. He was no longer the dying boy she must convince to fight. He was beginning to live.

"I understand. All I ask is a chance to prove myself worthy," he said, his voice solemn as his piercing eyes. Meya pursed her lips to stop them from curving up at least. Her heart was goners, a smoldering puddle in her chest. She nodded cavalierly,

"And you shall have it."

Coris cracked a boyish smile of such pure joy, Meya turned sharply away before her cheeks grew so hot they sprouted roses. He clasped his hands,

"So, what are the rules?"

"Standard courting practices. Lovemaking is off the table. So is kissing. Holding hands and hugging permitted in emotional situations only."

"No lovemaking? Are you sure?" Coris grinned mischievously. Meya glowered,

"Dead sure."

"Understandable. The sight of my impressive manhood may hinder your ability to think straight."

If there were a furnace inside her, Meya would have burst into flames and blasted the unrepentant donghead to a cloud of sooty smithereens. She unfurled a smile lined with grinding teeth, hissing tongues of flame,

"I'm more worried about you, actually. Until I deem you trustworthy, you're not getting a taste of these—" She jabbed her thumbs at her proudest possessions. Coris sealed her lips with a gentle finger,

"—We're still courting. We shouldn't be discussing our sexual attributes so soo—Hey!"

Coris hastily jerked his finger away from Meya's chomping teeth. Meya growled in annoyance,

"You started it, donghead!"

Their eyes met. Their lips parted but words had died. In that frozen split-second, all seemed forgotten but pure desire. The young lovers tore their welded eyes apart with great effort. Meya panted as her pulse pounded in her ears, avoiding Coris' eyes at all costs.

The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

"Wish Arinel were here," she mumbled.

"Wonder if Zier would chaperone," Coris muttered. Meya cast her eyes about the tent, hoping for some other distraction, as banter seemed to be serving the opposite purpose.

"You brought Heist?" Coris shook his head. "Chess?" His eyes lit up. Meya hitched up a sly grin, "We can play a match or two. For old times' sake."

"I see you're prepared to be annihilated," Coris steepled his fingers before his pitying smile.

"Underestimating me already?" Meya sneered as sweat oozed along her hairline. She hadn't touched a pawn since gamble chess almost landed her in a Greeneye brothel.

"Coris Hadrian does not over nor underestimate. He simply estimates with precision."

"And exaggerates."

"How impertinent. I'll make sure to include that in our next vocabulary drill. Along with impertinent."

Meya trembled from the effort not to kick his smart arse across the desert. Smirking, Coris edged to his chest and rummaged for the chessboard.

Maybe we can pull this off, after all, Meya reassured herself as Coris set up the miniature battlefield with deft fingers, we can learn to be friends before man and wife.

Alas, it was not to be. In typical Freda fashion, Coris broke the sacred silence of friendly competition after just five turns in,

"Meya, there's—something I've been keeping from you."

Meya looked up. She remembered Coris' terror, that time Simon asked about the drought in Amplevale, that time she told him about the Crosset Famine. She couldn't decide if she should feel betrayed or gratified.

"I know," Meya fell back on her propped arms, deadpan but for a raised eyebrow, "Is it singular or plural?"

Coris winced, then dipped his head,

"I wasn't even doing it for your sake. I was worried it would derail my plans, if you reacted like last time." He cradled his head,

"In the end, I'm no better than those I condemned. I planned to exploit your powers. Zier's right. I'm the monster, not you."

Meya narrowed her eyes as fear gripped her. What horrors had he kept from her now? Surely nothing could be worse than learning you were a dragon, could it?

"Old habits are hard to shake, I guess. At least you're taking a step forward." She tried in vain to remain nonchalant, but still her voice trembled, "Is this why you brought five more Greeneyes? They're backup in case I won't fly you to Everglen?"

Coris blinked, a look of hurt in his eyes. He shook his head,

"No, I've just realized this after we left Hadrian. It's still a theory—I don't have proof yet." He met her eyes solemnly, "But no matter what the truth is, just know that it's not your fault."

As silence descended between them, freezing fear permeated every inch of her. If Coris touched her then, she might've felt cold to him. Shivering, Meya willed every last ounce of courage for her numb lips to thaw,

"Tell me, Coris."

Coris sagged under the pressure. His head bowed over the abandoned chess match, he whispered,

"Meya, I—I think you may have actually brought about the Crosset Famine."

----------------------------------------

Silence descended but for the roar of the night wind pummeling the tent walls. The leather rippled at the corner of her eye, as did the gleams in Coris' eyes.

Meya had heard this before, countless times. She'd never contested it, but she'd never once believed in it. She would've done the same this time had it not come from him. The man who urged her kind to rise above the prejudice hammered into their heads their whole lives.

"What makes you think that?" She whispered. As if she still held out hope there would be a pitfall in his theory. Coris squeezed his joined hands, his eyes roaming the bare gravel at their feet.

"You said the crop failings in Crosset began after you were flogged at the town square. From what I've heard, the Famine was limited to Crosset. Neighboring manors had regular harvests. They reported nothing of the sort."

Church bells rang in her head, but the connection remained out of reach, shrouded by her soul's last attempt to preserve her sanity.

"My theories are—One, in a moment of vengeful rage, you may have wished for Crosset's demise. Or two, your battered body may have reacted to your fear of death, tried to heal your injuries, and overcompensated."

Meya started. Was it the tent flapping? It sounded like the clap of the whip when it broke through fabric and split her flesh. Chains with links thick as her thumb erupted in jingling giggles as she fell onto the stake, clinging for balance. She gritted her teeth over the bridle's bit and tasted metal. Was it from the rust or the blood oozing out of her tongue? Or both? The whip came down again. Again. The once sharp claps had become waterlogged, slippery.

She wrenched her eyes open against the pain. Lord Crosset—spiteful old man with empty eyes like ice-chips. His three daughters all had them, too, and she loathed them all. All around her, the crowd jeered. They flung brown mud at her. It slid off her red. Somewhere, Mum screamed and sobbed for mercy, for restraint, for the chance to take the blows in her place.

Lord Crosset always heard Alanna's Song—it was the only thing he chose to. Rage boiled inside her like never before.

If I'm getting the whip and the bridle anyway, I might as well have earned them.

Icy fingers on her arms pulled Meya back to the present. Coris was hovering over her, pale with worry. Her elbows had buckled from the force of the truth, and she was hanging halfway on her back.

Avoiding his gaze, she picked herself up and warded off his fretting hands.

"Go on."

After a wary pause, Coris nodded in defeat. He settled beside her on the mattress,

"In any case, with your dragon ability to absorb nutrients from the earth, you absorbed all nutrients in Crosset's soil into yourself. That would explain why you were fully armored when you transformed, that night you rescued me. Even when you were fed human proportions of food all your life, and had weathered months of starvation."

Coris didn't seem inclined to ask which it had been—vengeance or fear. Meya turned away in relief. She couldn't bear to see his disgust, not when she was already disgusted enough with herself.

She longed to crawl out of her skin and inhibit anyone else, anything else. Fyr, even a rat might be preferable. A rat never killed dozens of its kin out of sheer spite. There was no taking back what she'd done, no redemption. Even death wasn't enough to escape this sin. Their blood would follow her to Fyr's Lake, she'd sink to its bowels, and she deserved it.

"Like I said, it's just a theory, and none of this is your fault, Meya."

Coris' voice barely reached her, like a breeze on tar. She struggled to believe. She knew she should believe it, but she didn't want to believe it.

"You were a child. You didn't know better. You were treated unjustly. You were in great pain. You were never taught about your powers, let alone to control them. You were scared, angry, and no one can blame you for that. Not even Fyr himself."

Coris shook her arm, desperate at the sight of her listlessness.

"But now that you've grown and we know better, we must make sure this will never happen again. As I've said, your only duty is to learn to control it."

Meya nodded listlessly. She remembered the insults the villagers hurled at her, that day as she dangled from the Ice Pillory.

"Well, guess that's one thing the folks back home got right all along, eh." She chuckled, shrugging even as she felt Coris' glare, "I mean, I wouldn't want hundreds of deaths on my hands if I could help it, but now that I know for sure 'twasn't Freda's damnation, that I wasn't wrong for working in the fields, the truth did set me free. Only to stab me in the back out of spite. Typical Freda."

"It's not—your—fault, Meya!" Coris hammered out. He tore at his hair in frustration, cursing, "Oh, Fyr."

Meya knew what he was thinking, and she tugged on his sleeve to stop him. Still, she didn't know if she regretted hearing the truth—if she would hear it again if she had the choice to go back.

Guilt was too terrible to bear. Hope was nowhere in sight. And Meya dealt with it the one way she knew best—sarcasm.

"So, looks like I can wipe out a whole town with sheer willpower." She chuckled, then cocked her head, "That's going on the list next to lizard limbs and burning off dongs."

Coris let loose a string of curses. Meya had never heard him curse this long, but it seemed she'd lost the capacity for surprise, numbed by hatred for herself. Suddenly, his arms bound her, tugging her into his embrace. She fought as she felt she'd begun to thaw againsr the cold of his bony chest.

"I dun think—this counts—as an emotional situation." She grunted, panting from the struggle, but for once, Coris trumped her with his masculine strength.

He buried his face into her shoulder, whispering through gritted teeth,

"You forgave all of us." He tightened his embrace, "Now forgive yourself."

At his command, Meya let go. Overwhelmed by her tide of anguish and grief, she couldn't hear quiet sobs leaking from the women's tents. Nor the crunching footsteps of sleepless Greeneyes as they slunk away to the privacy of solid darkness. Throughout the night, for the first time in millennia, the desolate plains of Caesonai echoed with the lament of dragons.