The hallways of Hyacinth palace were deserted save for the occasional harried servant bustling by. Lunchtime was approaching, and all hands were busy preparing the Lady's daily feast.

Simon hurried back to the room he shared with Christopher and the other yeomen. Earlier, when he sidled into the kitchen for traveling supplies, the head cook snatched his old cloak, and upon it she heaped a handful of wrinkly dates, strips of dried goat meat, dried prickly pear fruits, and a log of goat cheese.

As he was returning home, he didn't need to pack most of his belongings. Just a couple shirts and water skins, and his bundle would be ready. Hopefully, the dragons wouldn't mind the added dead weight. Him and the bundle, both.

Sighing for the umpteenth time, he slid open the door. Sudden movement at the corner of his eye startled him, and he dropped his bundle with a curse. Fortunately, the short fall wasn't enough to burst its knot. He cursed again in relief and annoyance. Thought he'd be chasing after dates rolling like spilled marbles down the hallway. As if he wasn't enough of a dunce already. He looked up to see who the squatter was, then blinked in surprise.

"Coris?" He strode up to his cousin, now standing beside Simon's mattress, "Shouldn't you be with your mistress? She'll need every ounce of company you can provide after that verdict."

The crease between Coris's eyebrows deepened.

"I'll return later. My wife is enjoying a well-earned siesta after helping me rehearse for my long overdue apology."

Simon sensed the hint of cold in his airy voice. He felt tempted to retort, so he strode off to the wardrobe instead.

Coris wasn't his logical self since the peasant girl arrived. It was luck that her Greeneye cause happened to align with Hadrian's centuries-old quest, for he was no longer sure if Coris would put Hadrian's—and Amplevale's—interests first if that wasn't the case. He could understand him risking it all to protect Zier. But Meya Hild? Even Christopher agreed.

Well, that would teach Mother. Little Coris isn't so flawless now, is he?

As much as the thought gratified him, Simon chided himself. After all, his days weren't numbered. He couldn't judge what Coris should do with what was left of his. And Coris had already sacrificed his share for their people. If Lord Uncle was satisfied, perhaps it wasn't his place to toss in his two Latts. Perhaps it wasn't proper of Mother to keep relying on Coris, either. Perhaps it was high time a true child of Amplevale defended it. Lord Uncle thought that was Simon. He was too optimistic in that regard, but what could Simon say?

"Freda bless her." He snatched up shirts then stuffed them into the bursting bundle. He'd repack them properly later. He didn't feel like basking in Coris's presence longer than he must, "Out with it. Uncle sent you, didn't he?"

"Why should that matter?" For a prodigy, he could be unbelievably dense. Simon rolled his eyes then slammed the wardrobe door shut.

"Because your opinion matters to my mother. And my mother's opinion is that I should stay." He spared a moment to enlighten him, then marched back to the door—

"Simon, from my experience, it isn't always wise to please our mother's opinion."

Simon froze with his hand on the doorframe. He couldn't help but consider it. If their mothers' opinions were to be pleased, both he and Coris would not have been born. Yet, he digress—it would be wise. Perhaps they would've been better off if Freda had planted their souls in other wombs, but these were the ones she'd chosen for them. What else could he have done if not accept the mother he'd been given?

Simon let his hand fall. He couldn't hold on, his strength spent by the mere memory of his mother, the flash of her cold, judging eyes whenever she must tear her eyes away from the twins to toss a grudging sideways glance at him. The more he resembled Coris in appearance, the more he irked her. For he was his weak-willed father in personality. And she hated them both as the embodiment of her downfall.

"I could only have one mother. Wise or not, at least I have something to set store by. I'd rather have that than naught." He sighed. Despite himself, he turned back,

"My father's old, Coris." He whispered, pleading. If Coris had mercy, he'd accept it and pick no further at his story,

"Fyr will claim him soon. Once he leaves, Mother will be the only one I have left. Until Serulda marries and her husband banishes my arse to secure his seat. And since I'm in on The Axel's secret, it's either back to Hadrian for a quiet life or die screaming. Well, can't say I haven't been training."

Silence fell. The only sound was his own panting. Simon wasn't sure why he didn't simply leave. Was it because of that skeptical, almost pitying look in Coris's eyes? Was he expecting Coris to agree first? Or disagree?

"Do you truly want that life, Simon?" said Coris finally. Simon shrugged,

"It's either that or kill Mother and the twins."

"Aunt Kyrel is deluded if she thinks Father would allow an outsider to helm Amplevale when a Hadrian male exists. Is she that sure Serulda would never lose control over him?"

"Then better you than me, I guess. Or Zier."

"Do you truly believe so?"

Simon said nothing. He couldn't be bothered whichever way. Mother would handpick a pretty idiot for Serulda, one who would be needed simply for his seed. She'd manage fine. Even if she didn't, there was nothing Simon could've done, for he was, obviously, another pretty idiot.

Coris sighed. Hopefully, he would give Simon up as a lost cause and free him from this fruitless conversation. Freda knew he'd himself given up long since. If Lord Uncle desired so, he'd go. He'd endure Mother's wrath for a few days then carry back her letter of protest. Then, life would return to normalcy. Besides, why starve at home when he could shipwreck on the way to Everglen? Simple, really.

The silence stretched on. Simon toyed with the cloth of his bundle, shivering in the melting heat of Coris's stare. Perhaps he should just leave. Could he?

"I'm becoming a father." Coris said. Simon raised his eyebrows, then shrugged.

"I know."

"That was why you didn't tell me, wasn't it?" Coris's quiet voice was tinged with guilt at his considerate gesture. Simon avoided his eyes. He could guess where Coris was headed. "You know my place is with my family. My duty is with my people. Whatever your mother says. Whatever you may feel. You should return to your father, your sisters, your people. You know that."

Simon trembled. Yes, he did. He had lost. He couldn't hide any longer.

"I don't want to go back." He shook his head. His voice came out strangled through the lump in his throat as he met Coris's gaze, begging, "I can't bear to see her disappointment when she sees it's me, not you. I can't bear to hear her predict I would fail and see her proven right. Not again."

Coris looked pained. His pity burned like white-hot metal. Simon turned pointedly away, his voice harsher now,

"My place is before you. In your harm's way. Freda gave me your stupid face for a reason. It's my purpose. It's not a good one, but it's the only one I'll ever have. It's better than nothing."

"What if it's a trial?" Coris suggested, an eyebrow raised. Simon froze, swallowing words on the tip of his tongue. Coris walked towards him, his piercing eyes fixed upon Simon.

"Simon, for seven years I believed I was too weak to sire a child, but my belief is just that—an opinion. It isn't enough to bend reality. To alter truth."

Coris stopped an arm's reach away. Simon frowned, still lost as to where his cousin was going with this,

The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement.

"Aunt Kyrel isn't a seer. Her prediction is simply her opinion. You alone have the power to shape the truth. Whether you triumph or fail, you're the one to decide, not your past defeats nor your mother's words. Unless you let them. And only once you've given your all can your worth be fairly judged."

As Simon stood frozen, stunned by both the force of his voice and the truth in his words, Coris produced a letter from the folds of his toga then handed it to him.

"I wrote this letter with Meya's help." Seeing Simon still listless, he shook it imperiously, "I reprimanded your mother for her spiteful behavior and expressed my complete confidence in you. As you said, my opinion has weight to her. Hopefully, it would keep her out of your hair while you investigate the drought."

Simon was sure he was hallucinating from desert heat and lack of sleep. It just couldn't be. Impatient as ever, Coris pushed the scroll into his free hand.

"I left it unsealed for a reason. Go ahead. Have a gander."

What choice did he have? Simon dropped his bundle then untied the scroll. His eyes grew wider the further he read. It said as much. And more. He lowered it, staring at his cousin in equal parts disbelief and gratitude,

"Lexi—" He began, and ended, his throat obstructed by emotion. For once, Coris understood. He raised his pale, gangly hand and slapped Simon's shoulder, squeezing the bundles of muscle with all the strength he could muster.

"You won't be alone, Simon." He smiled gently, and Simon saw sincerity in his eyes when he met them, "We're your family, too. Don't forget that."

Heat engulfed Simon. That was more honesty and sentimentality than he could handle in one sitting without collapsing into a shameful, smoldering heap. He cleared his throat to banish the dead air, then made a noncommittal jerk of his head.

"I should be off. The Church." He mumbled. Coris's eyes darted sideways, no doubt remembering his mis—wife he'd left behind.

"I as well." He sighed, then turned back and stared straight into Simon's eyes, his expression forlorn, "I'm sorry."

Simon realized from the weight of the apology that it wasn't just for this latest altercation. Heat rose to his cheeks and eyes. A smile threatened to curl his lips, so he swiftly spun away. Had Coris just taken his laudanum? Donghead was unnervingly saintly.

"Just get lost already." He tossed over his shoulder. Coris chuckled, knowing better.

"Safe journey, Simon."

Simon paused, one foot through the doorway. He tugged on the sagging bundle, then sallied forth with newfound courage,

"And you, Coris."

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

Baron Hadrian's words weighed even heavier on Dizadh's head than his impressive length of hair, and they led his feet down the oft-traveled hallway which held the young Lord Hyacinth's chambers.

After every session with the boy's mother, Dizadh would seize the opportunity to get a glimpse of the only son he knew, in the only way he knew how—through a keyhole.

Ahmundi spent most of his time in his room, assembling intricate equipment Dizadh was not educated enough to ever comprehend. The Lady Hyacinth was also mostly happy to keep him out of the public eye, as his obesity embarrassed her. Like countless women in this twisted hell of a town, she'd bought Dizadh's seed precisely for his handsomeness to be passed down to her son. She had not expected her fat to trump his seed, apparently.

However, Dizadh was not intellectually challenged enough to not recognize danger when he saw it. The boy was tinkering with explosive gas, containing it with repurposed bits and bobs from another alchemist's workspace.

Dizadh would gladly trade every last bangle on his arm, every last strand of gold in his hair, even the silk on his very back, for a proper alchemy set for the boy. If he would accept such shameful gold from a lowly courtesan, that was. But a peep through the keyhole was the most he could do.

Freda was not his friend today, however. Today of all days, too. Turning the corner, he spotted a guardswoman standing before Ahmundi's door. For, of course, Ahmundi was being grounded.

Dizadh had hoped for just a glimpse, to help him with his decision. If this was any other day, he could always wait for another summons from the Lady and try again, but he simply must see Ahmundi today.

There was no other way. He'd have to go for it. He'd have to actually talk to his son.

Dizadh steeled himself with a few deep breaths, prepared his most solid excuses, then glided down the hallway towards the guardswoman.

The woman, who was nodding off and back, gawked and righted herself at the sight of him. She seemed stunned to be able to behold the most beautiful man in Hyacinth in such proximity.

"I would like to request an audience with Lord Ahmundi." said Dizadh with a gentle smile, courteous as always. The woman's giddy glee faded. She cast a hurried look at the door behind her then bowed her head sadly,

"Lord Ahmundi demands his privacy."

Dizadh blinked. He stared at the door, lost for a moment, then nodded slowly.

"I see." He accepted simply, then bowed, "Would you please inform him that his lowly servant Dizadh would be honored for a minute of his time?"

Before the woman could answer, a voice rang from behind the door,

"Let him in."

Dizadh's heart leaped, but a knot of worry tightened in his stomach. Was it because he heard his name? Dizadh was aware of the rumors, but he was not supposed to confirm nor deny them in any circumstance. Yet, there was no turning back now. He must tread carefully.

The door opened. Dizadh crossed the threshold inside. Ahmundi was slumped on the floor, his back against the foot of his bed. His hair was more unkempt and oilier than usual. His room, once bursting with clutter, was empty but for his bed and wardrobe. Even the worktable was gone. The eerie green lights had been replaced with regular oil lamps.

Fury burned in his bowels, but that was perhaps the furthest he could go. This was what he had feared would happen to Ahmundi. And now that it already had, what worse could be in store if he testified?

Ahmundi's eyes had been following him from the start, calm and unreadable. Dizadh contained his anger so it would not show, then bent his knee in greeting,

"My lord."

Ahmundi was silent for a moment as he surveyed him.

"They say you're mine and Amara's father." He said. Dizadh tensed. "Is it true?"

Dizadh held back the truth on the tip of his tongue, shaking his head,

"I do not know, my lord."

Ahmundi's eyes widened in anguish, then hardened in exasperation.

"Why are you here, then?" He asked brusquely. Dizadh swiftly bowed to hide the unwitting spasm of pain on his face,

"I heard you would like to expose the crimes of Healer Hasif. I happen to work in the brothel where Baron Hadrian's men were found. He has asked me to stand as witness, but first, I must ask for your permission."

Ahmundi blinked.

"Protection, you mean?" He corrected, eyes narrowed. Dizadh shook his head, small but firm.

"No, my lord. Permission." Ahmundi frowned, incredulous. Dizadh cast his eyes about the ringing void of a room, "I take it your mother has confiscated your possessions. I fear it might complicate matters worse should I stand."

He returned to Ahmundi. The boy held his gaze for a moment, then his eyes roamed aimlessly around the chamber, as if remembering all that had once been,

"She gave all my research to Hasif." He muttered, shrugging, "At least it would be of use to someone else. I was afraid she'd burn them. Better yet if she stopped experimenting on Greeneyes, too. Now that we have an alternative."

So the boy said, yet it was impossible to not smell the bitterness in the air as he breathed. Dizadh could only dip his gaze out of respect. Silence fell, then Ahmundi blurted out,

"Have you seen Amara?" Dizadh shook his head. Sighing, Ahmundi stared out the window, "She wants to play. Don't have the heart to explain to her why I'm being grounded this time. She's too young for all this, Freda help us."

He cradled his head in his hands. Dizadh sighed in agreement.

"The servants are bound to talk, my lord." He warned, "She'll learn of it sooner than later. If it were up to me, I'd rather the little Lady not have to be afraid for her Greeneye friends when she does. Still, you have suffered much."

Ahmundi met his gaze, then drifted away once more, reminiscing,

"It was midsummer, the day she set off for Hadrian. Her hands were cold as ice." He eked out a bitter grin,

"I'm grateful for Frenix. I'm relieved Ahmi had someone around her age to keep her company, watch over her in my place. It's the least I could do for him. So, yes, you have my permission."

He turned back with a nod. Inside Dizadh, a warm glow of pride blossomed. Although he couldn't help but worry, it was Ahmundi's stand, and he should respect it.

"Do forgive my audacity, but if it helps at all, I daresay your father would have been proud, my lord. Whoever he may be."

He said, smiling tenderly. Ahmundi's eyes narrowed as a glint like obsidian glanced out of them.

"You are our father and you know it!" He snapped, sending Dizadh jolting so hard he almost tripped on his hair,

"You're not even making an effort to hide it. You haven't a single thought for yourself since you stepped foot into this room. It's all about us!"

As he watched the burning fire in his son's eyes, Dizadh's eyes burned. For a moment they locked eyes, then Ahmundi whispered fearfully,

"Will you be safe? Can you promise you'll be safe?"

Dizadh bowed again,

"Your concern is most touching, my lord. I do have Baron Hadrian's protection, if that would assuage your doubts."

Ahmundi cocked his head, then shrugged.

"A little," He nodded absentmindedly, then added as if unsatisfied with how he left it off, "Father."

Tremors spread all over Dizadh, radiating from his chest. He bowed deeply, cautioning,

"It would be better for your standing, my lord, to not let it be known you have a courtesan as your father."

"It's common knowledge, Father. All five of us were born from courtesans." Ahmundi argued with yet another shrug.

"No courtesan has fathered and forgotten more children than I." Dizadh reminded him. Ahmundi shook his head,

"How could you forget them when you've never known them?"

Dizadh gritted his teeth. Ahmundi seemed to feel it was not his fault, but when Dizadh was young and conceited, he had knowingly sold his seed to the highest paying clients, not a thought to the consequences. As he grew older and wiser, however, he became appalled by his actions.

Yet, even after he had demanded the brothel respect his wishes to only accept pleasure clients, there was no knowing how many women had gotten away with his seed. And his heart broke at the notion of never meeting the dozens of his children scattered across Hyacinth, never knowing what had become of them.

So, from the shadows he watched over Ahmundi and Amara. Yet, even as he might never be allowed inside this castle again should he speak against Lady Hyacinth, he must do it for his children, even if it meant this would be the last he'd see of them.

"How did you become a courtesan?" asked Ahmundi. Dizadh sighed,

"I was born one, as far as I knew. The brothel is my first memory."

A pause as Ahmundi digested the fact and all it implied. Then, a solemn request,

"Promise me it won't be your last, at least."

Dizadh raised his eyes to his son's, then managed a sad little smile.

"I will try, my lord."