Evening fell once again over this little cabin he haunted alone, for the second or third time, he’d lost track. It was of no consequence. On the fifth morning, the King’s men would arrive to bring him to his trial. Whatever the verdict, it was of no consequence, either. He’d turned his focus to the far future, where pain couldn’t reach him.

The crackle of the fire swallowed the rustle of parchment as he turned the yellow, spotted page. Ink that had faded to brown relayed to him the sights and sounds of Tyldorn, the grueling voyage across the ruthless sea, the barren, wind-weathered stones and empty beaches of Everglen.

Dreaming of distant, unknown shores with all the promises of riches, of freedom, of waters of immortality, was a blessing generations of Latakians were robbed of. Being earmarked for a vessel to Everglen was something to be feared. Little boys may stow away on ships, but no further than Tyldorn. They knew what was beyond.

Now, for the first time in two hundred years, they didn’t. He’d always hated not knowing, but he knew now—where there was an unknown, there was hope. She taught him that.

His heart writhed at the memory of her smile, her Song riding on the wind. He’d lost himself as far as Everglen, and still she wouldn’t leave him. Her linen pants lay by the roaring hearth, spared by his indecision. He’d presented it to her, the night before they left Hyacinth. She’d blushed red as a rose and struck him on his sore spot. Then, she’d slipped it on, slipped out of the remainder of her clothes, and they’d made love.

He gritted his teeth against her whispers, her sighs, her tortured cries of his name, but somehow her lullaby only swelled. She approached from afar, but she was also in his skull, lulling him out of his senses. Knocks on the door, then a creak, the soft thump of a shoe on wood. A familiar shadow stretched towards his foot.

“Lord Coris?”

A voice like the chime of bells of finest crystal. A young woman stood wringing her hands in the mirror, dressed in a raggedy crimson dress. Two thick, red-gold braids hung over her breasts, reaching to her waist. Freckles peppered her full, round cheeks.

Large, acid-green eyes glowed in the falling dusk. She pleaded through them, having seen his eyes reflected in the glass. He lowered his gaze to the seafarer’s journal, imagined her reeling. His heart pained, but he’d seen the damage such an innocent, fragile young creature could wreak. What could she possibly say? After what she did to him? To his child? After what he’d said? That he loved her?

Coris stared down at his book, but didn’t read. His bone-white hand curled into a fist. He didn’t welcome her, nor did he banish her from sight.

Warmth petered from her heart with every moment silence reigned. Still, she ventured in. Whether her words would reach him, she knew not, but she must try nevertheless. She carried his child. Right now, that was his sole concern, the last frayed thread connecting their worlds she tore apart. It was the least she could do—must do—to atone.

Closer, closer she invaded. He made no move to stop her, to acknowledge her, save for his futile attempt to read his book. She’d never seen him so cold, not even to enemies. She’d thought it wouldn’t bother him. How could she have been so foolish? So cruel?

Shivering, Meya sunk to her knees, her eyes fixed on his profile like chiseled marble. Soundless tears rolled down her cheeks.

“Milord, I’m so sorry,” she whimpered. “I’ve wronged you, your brother, your parents, your child, so unforgivably. And I’d trade all the riches of the three lands for the chance to make the choice again.”

Silence. He didn’t move but for the tendon twitching in his jaw, as he dithered how long he would tolerate her audacity, crushing her heart between his grinding teeth. She didn’t have long left.

Meya scrabbled for her sleeve and pulled out a roll of parchment. It sprung open into two pieces of paper. His eyes slid her way at the noise it issued. She resisted the urge to meet them, to see his beautiful gray for one last time. He might cast her out for her daring.

She raised the papers high, covering the sight of his face, then tore them clean down the middle. The halves fell apart, revealing his wide, questioning eyes. Her strength spent, Meya let her arms fall to her lap, her eyes to his knees. He jiggled them as he often did in her presence, a sign of turmoil, of distraction. Her heart lifted a little. She chided it back to its sorry place.

“I free you from your vow, our betrothal, our contract. Everything.” She hung her head, gathering the torn slivers of his will to her middle. “And I’ll keep what’s left of ’em. I know me words dun carry no weight, but I swear, when you come home in a year’s time or ten, I’ll have your babe waiting for you, if you still want him. I’ll raise him the best I can, so he grows up smart and strong and happy, so when you come with a worthier mother for him, she’ll find it in her to love a babe born of a Greeneye whore. I hope you’ll find it in you, at least—”

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Cold, thin arms threw her into an embrace, slamming her against a bony chest. A rush of perfume filled her nostrils, the familiar smell of roses. She opened her eyes to find a shock of dark hair chafing on her neck. His cold cheek brushed against hers as he squeezed her flush to his heart.

“Lexi—!” her tongue slipped, then her tears resumed as reality sunk in. She plummeted, broke to a thousand shards in his arms.

“Lexi, I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry—!”

Again and again she sobbed, begging him to yet praying he wouldn’t forgive her but he already did. Coris drew back. His unblinking eyes scoured her from head to toe.

“Are you hurt? Has he hurt you?” he demanded. He ran his hands up and down her arms, feeling for the swell of a bruise. Meya dipped her face in shame, pressing her legs close together. It still smarted, down there.

“No, not in ways you can see.” She shook her head, admitting feebly. His hands stilled on her arms, and instead trembled. She shifted away from his touch, wrapped herself in her claws. She’d taken many baths. She still couldn’t wash him off. He refused to wash off—

“Lexi, I’m filthy. I’m dirty all over.” She sputtered. Eyes—watching. They’d seen her naked. They’d seen her climaxing, heard her moaning, smelled her desire thick in the air. She couldn’t undo it, couldn’t make them not see, not hear, not smell. Graye had tasted her, fondled her, invaded her, flooded her. She couldn’t erase the memory of her from him. Her chest collapsed under the pressure. She panted for breath.

“They saw me—he made me—before his men—and I came—I can’t help it—you warned me—I didn’t listen—!”

Again, Coris caught her before she spiraled deeper into the void. He smoothed his hand down her hair to her back, again and again. His cold soothed her, anchored her to the present. His touch was firm, willing. He wasn’t disgusted as he should be, even as Graye’s ooze caked her like scales, even as she’d felt lust for him—

“And I didn’t listen,” Coris sighed. Meya froze, confused. He nodded as if he saw. “You were right. I’ve never known hardship, hunger, fear. I’ll never understand what you lived through, and I didn’t try. I was selfish to assume so much of you. To demand you sacrifice so much, suffer so much.”

He traced the curve of her face with his knuckles, shaking his head as he took in the ruin that was what was left of her. His voice cracked as tears burned his throat, and his mask of serenity shattered.

“I’m sorry, Meya. I’m so sorry. I could never protect you when it mattered most.”

Meya closed her eyes as she burrowed her nose against his palm, shaking her head.

“No. ’Tisn’t your fault. ’Tisn’t your fault, Lexi.” Renewed tears choked her voice. He pressed a kiss on her forehead.

“I love you,” he breathed. On her cheek, his hand tensed and shook, as his voice grew loud and sharp. “And of course I still want our babe. He’s our babe and you’re the mother and no-one else! Don’t you dare spout such bullcrap again. Ever. In this life. You hear me? Do you hear me, Maelaith Hild?”

He snatched her shoulders, rattled her from her wallowing as he snarled in her face. After all she said, all she did. More tears spilled from her eyes.

“Yes—yes, I hear you,” Meya stammered, then mumbled into her chest, “I love you, too.”

The sheer hubris of her. Yet, his hand was once more tender when he caressed her face. She opened her eyes. His silvery eyes were unblinking, filled with longing, with awe.

“You’re still beautiful,” he rasped. “As pure as the day I first met you. My May Queen. My dawn. My Aine.”

He sealed his vow with a kiss on her lips, and she was back under the spring sun before the stone steps of the church. A maiden draped in a flowing blue dress, crowned with orange blossoms, flowers in her hands as showers of rose petals fluttered down her hair, fresh off the first kiss of her life. He pressed his hand to her belly, spread his fingers as far as they would allow him to, hoping to feel even the tiniest bulge, the softest rise, yet finding none.

“I wish I could be there. Every day of it,” Coris choked out, his voice thick with tears. He drew apart and held her eyes with his flaring gray, vowing, “I’ll come back. I’ll come home, I swear!”

Finally, he promised, but Meya was no longer to be so simply satisfied. A wave of calm had washed over her, bringing with it clarity such as she’d never experienced. She knew what must be done, and come what may, she trusted all will ultimately be well.

“Coris, there’s another way,” she said quietly.

As she expected, a flash of annoyance streaked by in his gray eyes. He heaved a sigh, resigned by her boar-headed optimism. Meya gathered his hands in hers and held them fast as she held his eyes.

“Just once more. Trust in Latakia, as you trust in me,” she whispered, shaking his hands in plea. “Tell King Alden the truth. Tell them all the truth. If a secret retains its power so long as it remains so, then strike at its heart.”

Coris’s eyes widened at her proposal, then his jaw clenched. He shook his head and pulled away.

“Truth belongs to he who speaks first,” he breathed through numb lips, haunted eyes staring through her as if she were air. Meya shook her head.

“No, it belongs to all,” she corrected. Coris didn’t budge—so used to keeping secrets, living a lie, that simple honesty scared him out of his mind. She cradled his face, forced him to suffer her as she hammered out,

“Let them know. Let them help. Vyrgil’s right—We’re great in number. We have those who love us. Wherever we came from, whatever happened back then, Latakia’s our home now. The gods forced us out of Everglen for a reason. Sent us all here so we’ll learn to live together. So, please, just one try. If it dinnae work out, I’ll go to Everglen with you, and take our babe, too. And everyone who wants hope, who believes we can make peace!”

Her cry alone echoed back to her. He didn’t yield a minim, stubborn as she’d always known him to be. Meya rested her forehead against his, wilting in a long sigh that emptied her lungs.

“You’re me only hope, Coris,” she breathed. “Your father and Gillian—they won’t ever allow it. But you—you’ve always been so brave, so just, so full of dreams. I know you’ll understand. You’ll always do what’s right.”

Silence followed. He sat still as death. Yet, Meya held on to her hope, her faith in him. She refused to let go, to surrender. Her final bet, and she’d wagered all she was worth that this time, he wouldn’t let her down.

At last, Coris heaved a sigh that seemed never-ending. His hands shifted, but only to gently urge her into his embrace. He rested his head upon her shoulder, then his lips murmured against her ear,

“What is your plan?”

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