Meya Hild may be unique in various ways, but like most folks, in her formative years she had also been at the mercy of the whims of love.
A year before she landed herself a sickly young nobleman, she caught the eye of a handsome, kindhearted merchant from Meriton. In the days leading up to the Fest of Freda, they enjoyed many a game of chess in the local alehouse, as outside the snow wind howled and screeched to be let in, raring to gnaw on some digits.
Things took a turn for the unexpected when Meya didn't come home one night. Farmer Armorheim and Farmer Hild mounted a search party of yeomen and fellow farmers. They found Meya stowed away in the merchant's caravan as he prepared to leave town, knocked unconscious and trussed up along with a couple of Greeneye girls and boys from nearby manors.
The man was part of a band of Greeneye traffickers. He'd been tipped off by a debt-ridden Crossetian peasant hoping for temporary relief. Once the Greeneye children had been drugged out of their minds by Rose Crystal, he'd sell them to noblemen with unusual tastes.
Prostitution wasn't illegal in Crosset, but selling children into prostitution was. Even Greeneye children. Both trafficker and informant were hanged in the Trench the very next day.
Meya had been warned from childhood of the ordeal that befell careless Greeneyes. Sold into prostitution or dissected, their eyes slung onto amulets of luck, their blood cast upon altars in Chione's name were but the signature few among many.
Being the only Greeneye in her town, Meya felt it was simply a matter of time. But she survived, didn't remember a thing, and learned an awful yet necessary lesson. Though it gave her nightmares for the good part of a year, she didn't take it personally.
Back in her fourteenth autumn, however, it was a different matter. That one was personal. Meya was teetering on the cusp of womanhood, and she found herself with something in common to Crosset's young maidens for once:
Terron Neale. First of his name. Seventeen. Son of a bard. Slayer of flutes and shawms.
As the sound of his flute reverberated through the desolate Crosset dawn, young maidens of all value from pebble to gold would burst out their windows, a floppy hand to their feverish foreheads, before being dragged back inside by their weary mothers. Although, the fortunate few might find their mothers swooning by their side. Meanwhile, paranoid fathers and desperate local suitors would whet their sickles to a sparkle and mount them on broom handles.
Mirram Hild was no exception, perhaps the most demented of them all, even. He imprisoned Marin in Hild Cottage, kept two beady eyes on Morel and even little Mistral.
Being a breadwinner, Meya wasn't included in the house arrest, as obviously she must go out and toil in the fields. On her way to the communal pasture with her chicken one day, she caught a whiff of Terron's whistling nightingale flute. She followed the song to find the finest young lad in the three lands, perched on a rock on a grassy hillock looking out over swishing golden wheat fields.
As was the case with the fake merchant (and Coris Hadrian), all it took was one gentle smile, and the spell upon Meya was complete.
A week later, once Mirram and the boys had left for the fields, Meya to the pasture, Alanna and Morel to the market, and Mistral to Old Silmaryl's house, Marin would open the door of Hild Cottage to one Terron Neale, carrying an armful of sunflowers. He handed them to her with a flourish, then regaled her with a resplendent flute rendition of Tricia of Haventoth, as she clapped along in pleasant surprise.
Of course, he wouldn't have found Marin on her own and picked the perfect bouquet and tune without the information he'd gleaned from Meya.
Meanwhile, in the woods beyond the wheat fields, Meya crouched in her hollow hole, rubbing earth into her watering eyes, vowing never, ever to forgive Marin.
Yet, deep down, she knew it wasn't her eyes nor Marin. She was distracting herself from the obvious, much harsher truth. How could a girl ever hope to be loved by any man, if her own father didn't adore her?
It was only once she was banished from Crosset, the only home she had ever known and thus where all her worst memories were made, far from the judging eyes of her people and the shadows of her sisters, that Meya found cause for her rebellion in the need of others. She glowed soft and warm from within, no longer smothered by the sun's fire nor reflecting it with a vengeful, blinding glare.
And once she'd learned of her father's desperate attempt to save her from exile, she finally believed she might, after all, be worthy of love. So she mustered her courage and professed her heart to Coris Hadrian, and together they agreed to give their budding romance a chance.
However, old resentments die hard. Barely a week into their whirlwind courtship, Marin denied Terron's offer for her to join his troupe as his wife and travel Latakia with him. She continued to live the one life she'd known; bolted up and alone in Hild Cottage.
Meya would never know Marin's reason for that, but one thing she knew was she would never, ever forgive her.
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The Crimson Hog was Hadrian's oldest, most popular nighttime destination for merrymaking, to locals and travelers alike. The alcohol-induced laughter of raucous diners spilled through cracks between wooden panels. Mouth-watering fumes of various dishes billowed out the chimney and windows.
Despite its age, the rickety old tavern was always worked to full capacity, and pushed to bursting point during the week of the May Fest. Peasants were allowed to travel outside their birth manors only during holidays, and anxious tourists who had been miserly for half their lives queued up at dawn to have their names down for a bowl of Old Mother Gelda's famous sausage-and-ale-stew in the wee hours of the night.
Thus, it came as no small surprise to Jason Boszel when, after he had asked for Meya's reservation, the Greeneye waiter boy led his group through the aisle between crammed tables towards a room at the back of the tavern.
There was no way a little maid girl could snatch a private room in the most famous alehouse of Hadrian during the Fest, was there?
Draken was of the same mind. Even the young ones were blinking blankly at the door with bulging eyes, then they all turned to stare at Jason, their de-facto spokesperson.
The portly merchant gulped. With a flick of his hand, he beckoned the waiter boy to lean his ear towards his mouth,
"My lad, I don't mean to be rude, but are you sure this is Meya Hild's reservation?"
The waiter, who was Old Mother Gelda's grandson, looked just as bewildered as Jason. He didn't even double-check his ledger,
"Yes, sir. Lady Hild requested privacy for her attendants, and paid with a bill." He answered slowly, glowing eyes glancing at each of Meya's motley attendants in turn.
Jason's eyes nearly popped out.
"A bill!?" He exclaimed, his voice arcing an octave higher than normal. The waiter nodded like a tired bobble-head.
"Yes, sir. Stamped with the Hadrian crest."
"Did she come by here herself? Greeneye? Orange hair? Flat nose?" Draken gestured about his face. The Greeneye boy scrunched his similarly flat nose, then shook his head,
"No, sir. She sent a representative. But there's a lady with eyes and a nose like mine and golden hair inside. She arrived with three companions a quarter-hour ago."
Jason gawked at the boy a bit more, then shared a look with Draken. With a heavy sigh, he reached for the doorknob, turned and pushed.
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A blur of golden hair rushed towards him, then the body attached to it slammed into him, knocking the air clean out of his lungs.
"Meya!" Jason cried in glee. The girl surfaced with glowing, acid-green eyes and a toothy grin. She squeezed Jezia, slapped palms with Deke, then smiled at Draken, who returned it then stepped aside for the three Hild boys.
"Maro! Marcus! Myron! M-"
Meya stopped mid-syllable once the signal from her eyes had reached her brain, and it notified her which M of the family she was about to address.
The young woman stood with an arm akimbo. Under her frilled headdress, her straight hair skimmed her shoulders in rippling blonde curtains. Her signature brown dress spread out under a worn apron spattered with what looked like old blood—and in a gruesome twist was actually Meya's blood from when she chopped off her fingertip. Her ice-blue eyes resembled Marin's but flavored with cranberries instead of honey. She stretched her lips into a cold sneer.
"What's up with the blonde tresses, Dung Curls? I say Myron still wore it best. So you'd better get shaving."
"Morel!?" Meya exclaimed, too flabbergasted to take offense. Morelia Hild raised a well-practiced eyebrow and let loose, as if she had been rehearsing for this exchange throughout her six days on the road.
"What? Do I need another permit to be in your presence, Lady Hild?"
Meya deadpanned, throwing up both hands in seeming surrender.
"Don't ask me. I don't know nuts about permits." She extracted a small lace drawstring bag from her brassiere, then waggled it before Morel's flaring nostrils and crossed eyes. Slivers of gold coins peeked out between its fine mesh—the monthly allowance she had just received from the Treasurer.
"Does coming to gloat but getting your arse shoved back in your face count as family business?"
"Girls, come on! Lay off the rotten eggs. Morel, you promised to be civil." Maro shot the seething Morel a scolding look, then turned to Meya, his expression pained,
"There's been, uh—a last-minute change."
"Yeah, second born, always second choice." Morel tutted just loud enough to distract Meya from that cryptic statement.
"Oi, if I recall correctly, I told Dad to send you instead and you sniveled at his feet for him to send me?" She sneered, green eyes glowing twice as bright. Morel smirked.
"Oh, I knew he'd never send me away. Because I'm needed." She curled a sheaf of her hair, a maniacal glint of glee in her other eye as she winked one, "I just did it so you could hear him say it to your face."
"You bi—" Meya bared her gritting teeth and marched in.
"GIRLS!"
Maro snatched Meya and Morel's shoulders, keeping them from tearing out each other's necks. Looking over Meya's head, he could see her three friends seated at the table gawking at the spectacle in bewilderment, and his cheeks burned in shame. With one hand patting the cowering Myron's hands to let go of his arm, he glared at Marcus, who seemed sullen that the upcoming wildcat prizefight was cancelled.
Still fuming, Meya stashed her gold away, then glanced about the throng.
"Where's Dad? At the inn?"
Everyone tensed up. Meya stood up on her toes, craning her neck to see behind Maro, then pulled back to stare at him. Those large, glowing eyes were brimming with hope, and as he looked into them, Maro couldn't help cursing his father. After a heavy sigh, he shook his head miserably.
"He's not here, Meya."
Those acid-green eyes widened in disappointment and pain. Meya mouthed speechlessly for a beat, then found her voice.
"What?" She managed a breathy croak of disbelief, then demanded indignantly. "Why? What have I done wrong now?"
"No, Meya, listen." Maro held up two pacifying hands, "He's been planning to come. But something came up. Real serious. Let's go sit. I'll explain everything."
Maro held her forearms, looking pleadingly into his little sister's eyes. Meya glared back, trembling and panting, then stormed away, taking her seat on the far side of the table.
To her right was a burly, handsome young man with brown hair, and a pretty young lady with curly brown hair who looked strangely familiar.
"Wait, isn't that...?" Marcus paused and leaned to whisper to Myron. Frowning, Myron shook his head.
"Nah, she's got blonde hair last time we saw her. Mighty similar, though."
"Right? Thought for a second she's the Lady." Jezia joined the gossip ring, and though outwardly unperturbed, Jason secretly agreed. The similarity was uncanny.
The Armorheims, however, were occupied elsewhere. Deke glanced furtively between Maro and Meya, fidgeting with his hands. Draken was staring at the last occupant of the room. To Meya's left, at the table's head, sat a sickly pale, gaunt young man with lank brown hair—and piercing silvery eyes.
Draken's feet seemed to have lost control, and he stumbled. The boy returned his scrutiny, a small smile upon his pale lips. Draken averted his gaze, busying himself drawing up a chair and settling down beside Deke. His heart thundered.
He knew that smile. He knew those eyes. He'd known for almost seven years. Repressed memories stirred from their sleep. Flashes of the past he struggled not to dwell on flitted before his mind's eyes.
Streaking through a forest of dead trees. Sprawled on his belly inside a ring of raging fire. A lizard-like metal-clad monster with glowing green eyes and gigantic bat-like wings. Silvery eyes flashing in the dying lamplight, as the little boy leered at him. The same eyes. The same smile.
Meya and the mysterious youngsters eyed them as they sat down across the table one by one; Jason and Jezia, Draken and Deke. Maro settled next to Deke, and gestured for his reluctant brothers and Morel to go sit on Meya's side.
After Morel had settled uneasily between Marcus and the brown-haired girl, Meya heaved an impatient sigh and threw out her hand to introduce them,
"Everyone, meet the Joplund brothers, Silvan and Sanvell." She indicated the thin boy then the burly boy, and finally the girl. "And Diana Crestine. They serve at the castle with me."
Everyone turned back to stare at Meya in befuddlement, for if there were a tally of ill-fitted pairings, castle servants and private room in the Crimson Hog would probably rank in the top ten.
Meya had definitely noticed, but chose to ignore it. She turned to pale, thin Silvan Joplund,
"This is Jason Boszel the Merchant. His daughter Jezia. Draken Armorheim the Farmer. His son Deke. My brothers Maro, Marcus, and Myron. And my sister Morel."
Sanvell was the only one fully attentive—or at least pretending to be—smiling and following Meya's hand as she talked. Diana avoided their gazes and pulled her headdress down over her eyes. Silvan nodded along, but his eyes were on Draken. And Draken was beginning to suspect Meya was the only one still sticking with this futile fake-name thing.
Those silvery eyes twinkled at him in the torchlight.
It couldn't be possible.
That thing carried him away.
And wasn't he fat as a pig for winter?
Yet, there was no mistaking those eyes.
They said he escaped back to his father. He survived.
Coris Hadrian. That was his name.
The certainty was overwhelming. The boy was watching his every twitch, and Draken wondered if he should risk sending a signal. A quick furtive glance at his companions proved it wasn't worth it. They were all puzzling about that Lady Arinel lookalike—except for Deke, who seemed to be hosting some kind of mental prizefight.
Concern for his son overtook fear for himself. But before he could ask the lad what was wrong, Meya finished her roll call.
"Got all that memorized? Good. What's up with Dad?" She snapped right back to Maro, who jolted. "He sick? Or was it Mum? Couldn't be that bad, could it? Since you guys are here."
Meya raised her eyebrows; her stare drilling holes into Maro's pupils. Maro shifted uncomfortably.
"Um, no. He—" Maro looked down at the tabletop, scratching his nape. Finally, he looked up after a heavy sigh.
"Marin's pregnant, Meya." He said quietly.
A brief yet solid silence followed. Draken whipped around when he felt Deke tense up. He followed the boy's anxious gaze to Meya. The lass had gone stock-still, freckles standing out against colorless cheeks.
"With who?" She blurted out hoarsely, eyebrows tied in disbelief. Marcus shrugged a glum shoulder.
"That's the thing. Nobody knows." Meya whipped around to her younger brother, who went on in that same dull tone. "And Marin won't tell until Dad promises to let her marry the father no matter what."
"The whole manor's been hounding her. Flinging mud. Calling names. You know, your usual pariah set. So she's hiding out at Draken's place for now." Myron mumbled, adding another shrug to the pool.
Meya's expression was more of incredulity than sympathy.
"Mum sneaks out at night to bring her food, but she's not talking to anyone but Dad. And she's refusing to eat." Marcus shook his head, his distant gaze rife with frustration and worry. "Never seen Marin act up like this before."
"Me neither." Maro admitted miserably. "And I've seen her since we were both babes."
"Must really love that donghead." Morel sniffed, topping it with a savage smirk.
Silence fell again after that, but everyone could sense the storm of charged air crackling around Meya. All eyes were on the middle Hild girl, whose expression was blank and flat, yet her eyes were growing colder as her fist on the table clenched tighter and her knuckles shone whiter. A sardonic grin stretched the corner of her mouth.
"I should've expected this. It's always her, isn't it? It just has to be her." She said, her soft, level voice haunted with the ghost of a chuckle.
"Meya—" Maro trailed off, unsure what to say. Meya cocked her head in scathing amusement.
"I must say. That's one hell of an over-do. There's no need to go and get knocked up. The good old fever would've done it."
Maro bolted up and threw down the gauntlet.
"You don't seriously think she meant for this to happen, do you?!" He leaned towards his sister, hissing fiercely. Meya gave an insolent shrug, and Maro found himself shouting, "She's our sister, Meya! Dad's got no choice!"
"Oh yes, he has!" Meya sprang up, snarling into Maro's face. "And he chose her!"
Meya's heavy panting was the only sound in the room. She locked eyes with her brother, pointing in the direction she assumed on instinct Crosset would be.
"You have no idea what I've been through this past week." She hissed through gritted teeth, then unfurled a mocking grin.
"So, forgive me for not giving a fart who Marin's been whoring with, or what names they're calling her, or what stuff they're throwing at her, or how many days she could go without eating. I've had it for sixteen years, and I don't see you guys making a fuss." Meya shot a poisonous look at Marcus and Myron, who tensed and paled, respectively, then sneered at Maro.
"She—and her kid—and that bastard—can all go drown in Fyr's Lake."
Meya kicked her chair aside and stormed towards the tavern's back door, shutting it with a slam, snuffing out Maro's desperate voice calling after her as she slipped out into the rowdy night.