"Whatever happens, I'll protect you."

His tender smile lingered, although he wasn't here. His words warmed her heart as they did that day, but now that the novelty had subsided, Meya decided she must hate it.

Old-Meya wouldn't hesitate to protect herself. To save her life like she did in that forest, on that moor.

What have I become? What have you turned me into, Coris? A woman?

Meya's hands trembled. She set down the chamberpot in case she might drop it. After her talk with Philema, she'd wedged a mound of churned earth, horse manure and hay in the nook between three boulders, planted wheat and barley she'd nicked from the supplies wagon, then fed them daily with water from her chamberpot.

Five days later, two clumps of stringy white stalks had poked through the hay, each sprout tapering into two thin, green blades like moldy rabbit ears. The clump on the left was wheat, and the right was barley. Either Meya was expecting a boy and a girl or a babe who was two in one. Meya had no idea how that would play out in reality.

Straddling the chamberpot between her legs, Meya sank to her haunches with a sigh, tugged down her underpants, and answered nature's call. Coris had ordered a water ration, but all the retching and nips to the bushes made Meya constantly thirsty, and she'd been getting the evil eye from members of the entourage.

There was no denying it—she was pregnant. And neither could she deny the unbidden leap in her heart at the sight of those little sprouts, at the thought of carrying the essence of the man she loved inside her, nurturing it to life.

Still, the horror of giving birth, the bleak reality of raising children, the shame of mothering a nobleman's bastard aside, wouldn't that make her one of the countless women she'd scorned?

If Meya gave birth to this thing then settled down to raise it, how was she different from the scores of mediocre women across the three lands whose ultimate dream was to bear children? Like Madam Krulstaff and Madam Gretgorn? Like—Meya shuddered—Mum? She'd turn into the very thing she swore never to become at the age of three.

Oh, Freda. What would Old-Meya think? Would she be able to face her? The damage was done—Old-Meya wouldn't have batted an eyelid when the time came to choose. New-Meya had probably batted dozens in the time it took to empty her bladder.

Should she listen to Old-Meya, though? Old-Meya was bitter, lonely, stuck in a rut. Friendless and loveless. She was New-Meya now. She wanted to make a difference in these three lands, but even New-Meya couldn't do that with a dead weight hanging down her front, nor a squealing, kicking one in her arms.

The choice of ending it also came with its brand of dilemma. The babe had no soul yet, let alone a heartbeat. Still, it was a joint creation of Meya and Coris. Meya couldn't shake the guilt, the fear of possibly coming to regret it someday, knowing there was no return. Not to mention the procedure itself was grisly to picture. Would it be simple, like drinking laxative tea? Or would the healer reach inside her guts with red-hot blacksmith tongs to scrape out the thing?

Meya sensed an oncoming wave of nausea that had nothing to do with the picky-eating squatter in her belly, so she shook the idea out of her head. She emptied her chamberpot over the mound of sprouts as a farewell gift, then trudged back to camp.

It was the fourth morning after the horses' sickness came to light, and the steeds were finally back on their feet. Under Coris's leadership, the entourage thrived on water ferried from the qanats and bread traded with occasional wagons passing by, carrying rapists convicted in Jaise, headed for Hyacinth's man-brothels.

Hyacinth women captained the wagons. They were tall and muscular, with broad shoulders blanketed in ink of all colors, hair cropped close to their scalps or done away with.

Coris would venture off alone with a wheelbarrow, donning his skin-tightest trousers and most colorful tunic, his hair neatly combed back and his face lightly powdered. After a few minutes of negotiation, he'd return with the wheelbarrow laden with meat and bread, receiving sympathetic pats from fellow men for his "sacrifice."

According to one queasy-looking Christopher, Coris was the only man in the entourage who resembled the ideal Hyacinth male physique. In other words, coupled with his handsome (albeit emaciated) features, he'd be the Marin of this topsy-turvy town.

Ingratiating himself to the warden would save them a few gold coins, but was it worth the blow to his already tattered manly pride? Meya admired Coris's unwavering dedication to his duty. Still, she despised his tendency to cast aside his feelings.

Shaking her head, Meya scanned the clearing for her fellow Greeneye ladies. They were about to set off to the first qanats, where Lady Hyacinth had left them supplies and a guide, so Meya must don her Arinel disguise. So long to her mane of rose gold. Dorsea promised her innovative dye recipe would be less damaging, though, and Meya was relieved.

And she hated it. Since when had Meya Hild ever given two farts about the state of her hair?

Dorsea's head of squiggly black hair bobbed amid the small throng of women gathered around a chair. The chair had produced two additional chubby, kicking legs apart from its original four, and seemed to be emitting high-pitched protests. Meya weaved through a dozen scurrying servants to Dorsea's broad backside.

"I smell chaos. What's cooking, Latakians?"

The women spun around then moved apart, revealing a head of glossy black curls sitting atop the chair's backrest. Meya recognized it as belonging to little Lady Amara Hyacinth.

"Lady Amara demands I cut her hair against her will, and I refuse to!" Dorsea crossed her arms and thrust up her chin, brass scissors in one hand, a comb in the other. Meya nodded.

"Very well—What?" She squawked, having registered the lack of sense in that sentence. Dorsea opened her mouth to fume in more detail, but Amara beat her to it,

"I can't go home like this! Mother would kill me!" Amara squirmed in her seat, tugging and clawing at her curls. Dorsea reached out on instinct but froze just in time. A commoner couldn't lay a finger on a noble without permission, let alone restrain her.

"But you love your hair like this, don't you, milady?" She argued—verbal counsel was allowed, at the least. Amara's hands balled into fists over her hair.

"I—d-d-don't! Mother says I don't." She pulled her hair to shield her face. "Just cut it off!"

While Dorsea stood in a dilemma, a wave of murmurs rose from the surrounding women.

"What in the three lands is going on in that town?" Old Philema shook her head, arms akimbo.

"Apparently they solved it all by switching women and men, end of story." A fellow middle-aged maid tossed in a pithy quip.

"I know. Ingenious, innit?"

A younger voice piped up in support. Meya turned around, then frowned in confusion. The woman seemed barely in her twenties, with needles of golden hair tracing the shape of her skull like manicured grass and glowing green eyes. Meya couldn't remember ever seeing this woman in the entourage before.

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The stranger strode up to Amara, then crouched down with a broad smile,

"Milady, you should be happy. Hyacinth's right. It's high time we women are noticed for more than our attributes and decorations."

The woman tilted her head back and forth, her nose high and her shoulders rippling. Meya recognized that aloof manner.

"Tissa?" She blurted out.

"—who no longer bothered growing her hair back out after transforming." Tissa finished her sentence, acknowledging Meya with a wink, "They say the longer your hair, the more blood is needed to feed it instead of your brain, you know? My head feels light as a feather and my focus sharp as broken glass right now."

She dragged her fingers through her freshly-grazed-autumn-grass hair. Meya hadn't had time to weigh its merits when a light tug on her hair sent her jolting out of her skin,

"Fyr's Bollocks—Coris?"

Meya whirled around to find the Hadrian heir with his mischievous grin, holding a sheaf of her hair. Coris bowed and pressed his nose to it, leaving Meya gawking.

"Is this what you're here for?"

Eyes closed, Coris sucked in a lungful of her hair's perfume and sighed in contentment.

"Just cherishing my last moments with your rose gold before you turn into Arinel." He resurfaced with a drunken, giddy grin, which vanished when he glimpsed Amara. Her face was still shrouded behind a fountain of ebony curls that dripped crystal-clear tears.

"Amara? What's wrong?"

"I got sand in my eyes!" The little lady perked up with a roar, "You got a problem, Hadrian?"

Amara's violet eyes blazed from gaps in her seaweed-like hair. Coris reared back but recovered in a blink, a smile of mild amusement on his lips.

"Ah. I see you're adapting to your native habitat." He nodded in an attempt at feigned graveness. Dorsea was growing ever desperate.

"Please—Don't let her go through with this, milord." She joined hands in prayer over her scissors and comb, attracting Amara's death glare,

"Just cut it, will you!" She barked, jabbing a thumb at her hair.

As the gathering held its breath, Coris glanced between two starkly different yet equally stubborn faces, his expression blank. He knelt before Amara,

"Amara, we'll only be staying in Hyacinth for a few days. Your mother would understand if you left your hair the way it is. The choice is yours."

"Milord, that's not—" Dorsea protested. Coris rested his hand on her shoulder,

"Amara's still a child, Dorsea. We shouldn't force her to fight centuries of tradition if she's not ready."

He was firm but not unkind. Dorsea heaved a sigh, then jerked out a few grudging nods. Satisfied, Coris donned his sly smile once more and strode back to resume his duties, but not before leaning in for one last whiff of Meya's hair.

"So long, my precious."

Meya whipped around, but he was gone before his whispered farewell had faded, off to oversee the loading of a supplies wagon.

"Make it ugly. Like you just want it out the way when you're fighting?" Amara was describing her new hairstyle to her barber. Dorsea rattled like an overheated tea kettle bouncing on a stove.

"I can't do this! You do it." She thrust her tools into Tissa's hands then flounced off, probably to find a spot to scream in private.

"Gladly." Tissa usurped her place with a smirk. Snapping her scissors, she turned to her fellow Greeneye, "Want a cut, too, Philema?"

Philema felt her hair, still in that tousled just-woke-up ponytail.

"Oh, don't bother. I'd just cover mine up with a bonnet." She offered a quick, forced smile before hurrying off, leaving Tissa to seek other prey. At the sight of those cold, appraising eyes and gleaming scissors, the other women backed away with mumbled excuses, then scattered like the blades of Miracle Fest fireworks.

Meya found herself remaining, somehow. Tissa propped her hands on her hips, huffing in disappointment and gratification.

"What was I expecting?" She muttered. Noticing Meya, she jerked her head in Philema's direction, then combed Amara's hair into one tamable bunch.

"You know, I'd give her my womb if I could. The way she looks at kids with such longing in her eyes. Makes me gag. Do something else with your life, for Freda's sake."

She spat as she snip-snipped away Amara's curls with contempt-fueled vigor. Meya watched as lustrous black crescents tumbled onto Amara's trembling shoulders then slid off.

"Me mother gave up her fame and freedom to become a housewife." She mused, more to herself than to Tissa, shrugging as she felt the latter's stare, "Twenty years on, still blows me mind."

Tissa snorted.

"What a waste." She shook her head with a savage grin. An unbidden surge of anger burned inside Meya. She tamped it down, but a twinge of guilt wriggled through. "Maybe that's why she lost the Song to you. Freda gave her a blessing. It's ungrateful to waste it on a humdrum life. Not like you."

Tissa shot Meya an admiring smile that she had no choice but to return, then resumed her job as the worst barber in the three lands.

Meya fondled her hair, dithering. She'd stayed this long. Tissa would expect her to chop her hair short. Imagine walking away at this point—she could already hear her rival in troublemaking, Pollinia Gretgorn, hollering Loser from way back in good ol' Crosset.

But Coris loves my hair.

And I love my hair. I love when Mum strokes it. I love when Maro musses it with a smile, when Marin kisses it, when Morel and Mistral braid it, when Myron nuzzles it for warmth, even when Marcus yanks it. I love how it keeps my neck and cheeks warm in winter. I love how Dad tidied it the day I left Crosset, gently as if every strand held all the colors of the dawn—

No! Be strong. Be different from all those useless women. Be Meya Hild.

Meya's trembling fingers stilled as they tightened around the sheaf of hair, her palm burning with fire from within.

⏳

The entourage was almost ready to set off. Stares and murmurs followed Meya as she headed towards Lady Crosset's white gold-gilded carriage with her new hairstyle, reeking of wood ash and vinegar.

Coris stood waiting, one hand clinging to the door frame. His grip slackened, his silvery eyes traveled from her forehead to her chin where her hair ended, then shot back up to meet her eyes. He seemed lost for a moment, then unfurled a mischievous grin.

"Well? What d'you think?" Meya prodded. His smile grew wider and more infuriating.

"Do you believe in vampires?"

Meya frowned, half-annoyed and half-amused.

"Well, if dragon-humans exist, why not bat-humans?" She crossed her arms, eyebrows raised, "What of it?"

Coris shrugged, his eyes hovering about where her neck leveled into her shoulder.

"Logical fallacy aside, it's just occurred to me—if vampires did exist, you've just made yourself an easy target."

"How—?"

Coris swooped over her. By the time her faculties caught up, his lukewarm breath was caressing the curve of her neck. He nipped playfully on her sensitive flesh. Meya let out an unwitting gasp of desire.

"Dinner." He breathed. The ghost of laughter in his voice jolted Meya to her senses. Seething in embarrassment, she retaliated with a threatening prod on his sensitive place.

"Oh, Fyr!"

Cursing, Coris backpedaled out of her personal space. He glowered petulantly at Meya's triumphant smirk. Meya tilted her head, continuing as if there had been no interruption,

"Agh, don't worry. I'll get meself a steel choker, dip it in skin-colored paint. For perverted bloodsuckers to break their fangs on." After chilling Coris with the vivid imagery, she tugged his hands in frustration, "Seriously, though. What d'you think?"

"Doesn't matter what I think, does it?" Coris replied so quickly it felt insincere. He avoided her eyes, "If you like it, it's perfect for you."

His signature wan smile was a coat of lacquer on his lips. Meya's heart jolted at that all-too-familiar sign of deceit. Coris preferred her with long hair. He was right, though—his preference shouldn't matter. Still, she wasn't at ease. She hadn't chopped off her hair because she liked it—she wanted to send a message.

The realization stole the breath from her lungs, then pride replaced it.

Why should she feel the need to even ask in the first place? Why should she care whether it was perfect for her? Hair never mattered to Meya Hild—what was under her hair was what she valued.

Meya jerked out a few nods, more to herself than Coris.

"You're right." She nodded absentmindedly. At Coris's worried look, she shook herself awake and reached into her pocket,

"Here—I saved it, if you want."

Tissa had gathered Meya's rich hair into a thick braid before hacking it off. Meya levered the braid one knot at a time, then held it out for Coris. His hands trembled as he cradled it.

"Thanks." He looked up with a smile so melancholic it melted Meya's heart. She replied with a hasty grin, then hurried onto the carriage.

Coris's smile sagged as soon as Meya turned her back. He studied the hair she had disowned with a sinking realization—his infatuation prompted her to slice it off.

Being the ambitious, progressive woman she was, it must have offended her to be acknowledged simply for her feminine beauty. Even when it wasn't his intention in the least.

Coris had decided for once to put aside duty, responsibility, and propriety, to connect with others using his honest, selfish feelings and desires, the way Zier had told him to, starting with his closest friend, his love. And it had backfired.

Back to business as usual, it is.

The braid was too long and heavy to be carried in his cloak. Coris wrapped it in one of his scarves, then stowed it away in Jetta's saddlebag to be appreciated later in private. He clambered onto his steed's back and led his entourage towards food relief, yet his heart remained heavy as it was in the days they spent battling starvation. Perhaps, even heavier.