One whole week shut in one's bedroom could work wonders on the human psyche. For all their differences, Coris Hadrian and Meya Hild arrived at the same state of mind: Crippling boredom.

Once Meya had agreed to let Coris tag along to her reunion with her folk, Coris set Simon to fetch a venue for their meeting and write a reply to Jezia.

As Arinel would be occupied by her post in Muldor's lab, Zier by sword practice with Sir Jarl, and Heloise and Fione by their training under Baroness Sylvia, it fell to Christopher to help Sir Bayne arrange a proper burial for the five fallen Crossetian guards and notify their bereaved families, now that the truth was exposed.

After the arrival of afternoon tea—a plate stacked high with rose-red syrup waffles, a tea set shrouded in rose-scented vapor, and rose-scented tea candles ("Very subtle, Head Cook Apollon," said Coris scathingly), the bedchamber was left to the newlyweds.

In Coris's opinion, nothing worked better to humor a sour dragoness who didn't want more reading lessons than impressing her with the machinations of a water clock, a tour of your vast gallery of canine portraits and library of rune books, or a gander at the fruits of your dearest childhood pursuit...

"And this...is my rock collection."

All that was a lie; Coris was trying to overwhelm Meya with his niche interests, so she would succumb to reading before perishing to boredom. Yet, his plan had backfired; Meya marveled at his eccentricities. That or she was so bored after a week of reading lessons that even admiring rocks was rejuvenating, or she'd cottoned on to his scheme.

"Rich boy rock collection, you mean," said Meya as she examined an iron bead the size of her thumb. Coris raised his eyebrows, and she turned around with a smirk, "Myron's got naught but riverside pebbles in his crate. Oh, and some crapstones."

She returned the iron bead to its snug bed. Coris pouted.

"Not so fast. I'm sure I have one in here somewhere," He pulled the box to himself and lifted out the layers.

"Aha."

Meya gawked. Coris had offered her what looked like dried dung carved of glittering gray clay, looking extremely proud of himself.

"You do realize you're presenting the fair maiden with fossilized dragon dung, Sir Knight?"

"It represents undying love. As time flies, roses wilt. Dragon dung turns to stone," Coris shrugged with a smile.

"Why thank you, milord. I shall cherish it. 'Tis a fine specimen of glittery doo."

Snorting, Meya turned the romantic gift between her fingers. Dragon crapstones were scattered across Latakia, but the real gold lay in their bones, scales and eggshells, made of an undecipherable combination of metals.

Historians believed dragons once lived in Latakia before migrating to Everglen. Meya had often wondered why they left. Her current guess was they'd left in fear of Lattis when the initially harmless cavemen of Latakia first learned to mine.

"Looks like powdered rock paste pressed through a sausage maker," Meya commented, then caught Coris's eye,

"What do dragons eat? They burn humans to a crisp, so I dun think 'tis us. Wait, just you. I'm a Greeneye. And we ride dragons! Pssshaaaa! 'Tis one well-done Lord Hadrian!"

Meya brandished the dragon dung stone like a seaman would a helm, blowing fire noises as she gyrated her body to imitate a slaloming eagle. Coris chuckled weakly as he fingered his lips, wringing his brain for the safest way to slither out of this conversation,

"Lord Amplevale had merchants smuggle Nostran books through the Zarel Pass. One said dragons drink from the sun as they soak in the earth."

"So...they flap about in the dirt like chickens and nap in the sun like snakes?"

"That's also my interpretation, yes."

"Must be easy raising them. Lucky Nostra."

"Not so fast."

Meya whipped around, blinking. Coris caressed his chin, his eyes narrowed,

"Dragons are enormous, powerful, intelligent creatures. They breathe fire, fly. Their bones, scales and eggs are metallic. We humans derive nutrients and minerals from plants and animals, and mining. How much earth do you think dragons have to mine to absorb what they need?"

Blood drained from Meya's cheeks, replaced by the chilling thought. Coris paced.

"Perhaps this is why dragons hoard precious metals in their caves and claim large territories—to feed their young. And perhaps, this is why Nostra wants to invade Latakia. Their true end is Everglen. Their land and colonies have been sucked dry. They can't sustain their dragon army."

"So, we'll have to kill dragons off, then? There's no way humans and dragons can live together? Not even in Nostra?" Meya slumped against the desk, "Where does that leave Greeneyes?"

The falling silence smothered Coris as a battle raged within. Should he tell her the truth? Should he console her with a hopeful, farfetched solution? Or should he leave her to wallow?

Meya braced her hands on the desk and hung her heavy head over Coris's rock chest, peering down its layers of riches,

"You got moonstone in here somewhere? It calms me."

Coris blinked.

"I didn't take you for the superstitious type."

Meya snorted,

"Me neither, but I'm a believer. Been experimenting with Jason's goods for years."

She spotted a drop of polished, opalescent moonstone and held it fast, soothing her roughened skin with its icy smoothness.

"Moonstone makes me calmy. Sunstone makes me sprightly. Lattis makes me dowly." Meya rhymed as she peeled back another layer, then her eyes grew round, "Goodly Freda, is that Rose Crystal?"

"It is indeed. And I'm guessing it makes you lovely?" Coris grinned innocently. Meya was flattered,

"Why yes—" Then the fireball hit, "Why you—!"

Coris managed to bust out a laugh before Meya socked him on the old spot on his arm. He snickered even as he seethed in pain, then froze at the sight.

Meya was still admiring the crystal, but her eyes had drifted out of focus as her cheeks flushed and her breathing quickened. As if in a trance, she laid the crystal on her neck, slid it down her shoulders, circled her breasts, spiraled down her tummy, then nestled it at the crest of her parted legs.

"Meya?" Coris whispered, gripped with shame as her soft moans roused the same noise in his throat; he sealed his lips and strangled it quiet.

Dragons soak in the earth; they absorb nutrients from rock and soil. As superstitions went, Rose Crystal was the stone of lust. It didn't affect humans, but Greeneyes—half-dragons like Meya—

Oh, no.

Meya slid her hands down the curve of his back, jolting Coris out of his reverie.

"Meya, what in the—"

She knelt and kissed the dimple on his middle, then journeyed downwards, dragging all thought from his head the lower she traveled. Coris gritted his teeth, but the nauseating grate of bones couldn't tear his eyes from the burning, shining trail her tongue left on his delicate skin.

The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

"Meya, give me the stone, please," Coris grasped her wrist and pried the crystal from her clutches,

"We've agreed on this. We can't do this anymore. Meya, wake up!"

The crystal dropped to the flagstone with a chiming clatter, and Coris allowed his knees to fold. Meya sat rooted as her senses returned. Her cheeks flooded with shame when their eyes met. She cooled them against her palms, breathing deeply.

"Forgive me, milord," She whispered, then shivered with nervous laughter, "Chione must've possessed me for a while there."

Her breath caught as if seized by claws of doubt. She sighed, then shook her head.

"No, 'twas me entirely." She held her breath fast as she held his gaze, then breathed through trembling lips,

"I want you."

Coris blinked, then pure joy lit his gaping eyes to life. The grips of fear slackened; her heart had room to beat again. Then, another blink, and his eyes emptied. He stood and backed away. Her heart shriveled and fell through the cracks into nothing.

"You don't, Meya." Coris shook his head, frowning, "You're confused about your father. You're scared of traveling so far from your hometown. You're worried about the Greeneyes and the dragons. Those feelings are exacerbated by the crystal—"

"And you." Meya dragged herself to her feet, clinging to his eyes to keep her there,

"You're so good to me. So kind. So understanding. So patient. But you lied to me, manipulated me, even while we were in bed together. You knew I was an impostor, but you saved me from them bandits. You spared me so I could serve under you, but you're grooming me to become a lady at your side."

Coris pursed his lips. The pain of the truth was evident in his clenched jaw and wavering eyes, fighting to be free from his rigid code of lies, logic and duty. Meya wondered if she should dare to hope. She braved a step forward.

"You promised I'll be your last, then you said you're gunna sleep with Lady Arinel. You said you'll woo her, but you've never held her eyes the way you held mine. You vowed I'm your first, but I keep hearing whispers of this Agnesia Graye. Tell me which is it, for Freda's sake?"

Coris closed his eyes and turned away as if desire had set her glowing green ablaze. He reached out a trembling hand, brushing his fingertips on the ruby brooch pinned inside her sleeve,

"You gave me your virginity. You saved my life. I'm bound by name and duty to protect and atone." He whispered.

"But you gave your vow for that. And you saved my life first," Meya argued, shaking her head stubbornly, "I want to be more than your duty. And I know 'tisn't duty alone what binds you."

She caught his wrist and ran her thumb down the grooves on the back of his hand. He was so cold, so thin. Her burning skin meant she was seldom touched. When people touched her, it was mostly to hurt her.

Coris was colder than all those people, but that First Night, he'd held her so tenderly, so protectively; even in his frail, clammy arms, she felt warm and safe. And less alone.

She longed to feel it again—to be loved, to be cared for, to be appreciated, to be desired by his true self he'd revealed that night, untainted by layers of deceit.

"I want you for you," She smiled bitterly, "I know—'tis been mere days. I'm just a lowly peasant girl. Not even a maiden at that. I know what you must think of me. I've no clue what my heart needs, but I've no doubt what it wants. I want you."

Her hand slipped away. Coris held onto currents of air empty but for her phantom heat. He'd waited for the girl with hair soft as duskfall that held the colors of dawn to break this seven-year night, so his raft could sail to Fyr's Lake. That was all he'd wanted, to meet his savior and reward her. Then die.

He wouldn't greed for more, wouldn't taint her with his lust, wouldn't disgust her with his feelings. She was pure and full of promise. He, a monster drowning in the very moat he'd filled with blood.

Yet, she desired him. She, too, had lied to and manipulated him. She was human, imperfection. He should be allowed to desire her.

The fabric of her dress was fine and brittle; it crumpled where the crystal chafed it. He knew what lay beneath; he raised his eyes so the memory wouldn't tempt him. Drown that dress and the chambermaid who picked it. The lines of her breasts pushed against the sheer cloth. He'd often rested his throbbing head there, let her pulse lull him to sleep, refusing to part. Perhaps it had to do with Mother.

He urged his hand forward. Meya's voice stopped him,

"I know we might never become nothing, but I want to make the most of it while it lasts, find our way as we walk. But if you dun want the same, please, just give me the truth. So I can be on my way."

Truth.

Truth was they had more than days to their history. Truth was this crisis was far more encompassing than roof beams and a Lattis ball in Zier's guts. Truth was he wasn't fit to be her mentor. He was spoiled, cowardly, selfish. A liar, manipulator and schemer with a dozen faces melded to his skin. He was no longer sure if his real face remained or if there was one to begin with. He didn't even dare to tell her what she must know.

But truth was also that for the past seven years, she'd been his rope to cling to as he strayed between life and death. Although faceless, nameless, fleeting the memory of her had been, the thought of finding her again kept him crawling for life as his body burned from the inside out.

Perhaps, he could at least let her know that. Then perhaps she would stay awhile, and he would crawl a little further.

He trailed his fingers down the curve of her face, pressed his thumb to her lips, watched as it paled under his touch. A breath, then he plunged in,

"I'll give you truth."

Meya closed her eyes as his lips captured hers. Coris flung her down on the desk, sweeping off papers, rocks, books and stationery to make way.

He slid her nightdress over her head. Meya flinched as the spring breeze dragged its icy sleeve across her breasts. His parted lips traced a winding road just as cold from the dip of her belly button to her nipple. She gasped for breath.

Coris slid his hand between her thighs, fumbling for his way in. Meya weaved her fingers between his and guided him, writhing as her heart hammered a tattoo on his palm.

As he continued to rouse her, eager to please, Meya groaned and twitched, impatient. Coris chuckled as he loomed over her, tucking stray curls behind her ear.

"Very well, let's proceed. Don't forget to relax."

Meya opened her eyes when his cold retreated. She watched, mesmerized, as he undressed at his leisure, backlit by the sunshine streaming in through the window. Coris caught her spying. His beautiful gray eyes twinkled silver over his sly smile.

"Hope it dun hurt this time," Meya whispered, blushing. Coris paused with his shirt shrugged halfway down his shoulders. He blinked, then rolled his eyes.

"Hence why I insist on more preparation."

Meya shook her head. Smiling fondly, she reached over and tugged his trousers down just a little. Jolts of bliss coursed through Coris from her playful caress.

"It dun make no difference with how blessed you are. So why wait?"

Coris blinked in awe and surprise. Her voice was higher, sweeter—the same voice that had echoed across the moonlit moor; the Song of May Day. He was blessed, indeed, to have been graced by such a heavenly voice.

Meya breathed deeply and willed her limbs to unravel, closing her eyes. Steeling himself, Coris bent and kissed her yearning lips, then moved to close the gap. He'd barely made his way in when he scrambled out with a yell.

"Fyr! It's so hot!"

Meya's eyes flew open. She stared in confusion, then swore under her breath,

"My Lattis!" She unknotted her legs from his waist and sprang up, "Wait—I'll find it!"

Meya fell to her knees, rooting through scattered papers and whatnot for her medallion as Coris watched, bewildered.

If dragons kept their heat when disguised in human form, how had they mated with humans to create Greeneyes like Meya?

The answer was Lattis. Meya had worn it all the times he claimed her. The metal must have become known to mankind far earlier, long before Rutgarth. Yet, who was the one to discover its power against dragons? How had that knowledge been lost?

Coris shook himself. He could crack that Miracle Egg later. He wasn't trying to impregnate Meya. He just wanted to make love to her.

Meya was still searching desperately for her coin. The sight rankled Coris. This was Meya's first time with him as her true self. She should be free to be just as she was. She shouldn't have to put out her fire so she wouldn't scorch him.

As a Greeneye, she was forced to repress a part of her to blend in and survive. It had led her to deride and reject herself. To think so lowly of herself. To trade her virginity on impulse to feel ordinary and appreciated. And he was perpetuating that cycle.

Coris mustered his strength, swept Meya into his arms, then toppled headfirst onto the desk. Fyr, he couldn't carry an ordinary lass, let alone a dragon lass with metal bones.

Cursing under his breath, he grabbed her hips and pulled her close.

"Coris, wait—You'll hurt yourself!" Meya skidded back, "Coris—"

Her protests melted into a cry of pain and ecstasy as they moved as one. Her fire repelled his attacks, yet he relentlessly came charging back. As he dug his fingers into her cheeks, she dug her nails into his damp hair in anticipation.

Almost there. Almost there.

But Coris was at his limit. He fell on top of her, panting.

Meya fell back. As she lay panting on the tabletop, she swallowed the aching disappointment. Making love was beautiful but not as simple and smooth as girls her age had imagined it would be. Coris was just as much a greenhorn as her, and they still struggled to reconcile their differences.

Coris peeled himself off Meya and raked back her wet golden locks, frowning as he peered down at her.

"Did you...?" Meya shook her head. Coris's face fell. He slid off and slumped heavily onto his chair.

"I'm sorry. It's always like this. I couldn't last long." He muttered through gritted teeth, his face hidden behind trembling fingers. Meya smiled as a rush of affection and gratitude swept into her heart. The lad had given his all, which was more than enough.

"Come now. You did pretty good. 'Tis the heat. One more time with the coin?" She tilted her head, suggesting coyly. Coris looked half-dead on his cushioned behind. He shook his head, eyes closed and chest heaving, streaks of dark hair pasted to his forehead with sweat.

"I'm sorry. I don't think I can go again 'til tomorrow."

"Dun sorry me. It ain't no biggie." Meya slid off the desk and climbed onto his lap. Coris gave her a few tired, affectionate head pats.

Meya snuggled close. Her thighs had dried. Not one drop of his seed would survive that oven.

Yes, Zier, I have all these thoughts flying around my head every time I bed my girl.

And I can't tell her about any of them, not even that I'd lied most dastardly to her face.

It isn't Jason Boszel I want to talk to; it's Draken Armorheim.

And it isn't the shortage I want to talk about.

Memories flashed past his eyes of the night he was rescued from his kidnapping by a dragon. As he stroked Meya's hair and counted the moments between her fevered breaths, Coris buried his face in the crook of her neck, shame and anguish burning in his bowels.

It's you, Meya.