Meya woke to the twitter of morning birds, the warmth of sunshine filtering through the gap in the curtains, and the softness of the duck feather-stuffed four-poster bed. The air smelled fresh and clean. She drew in a deep breath, savoring its scent.

This is heaven. Pure heaven. After sixteen years sleeping on moldy hay sheets in a one-room cottage crammed with nine, echoing with Dad's snores. Still, Meya preferred the snores to the alternative, which involved her mother and one of the things children weren't allowed to do.

Speaking of which...

Meya giggled as she buried her burning cheeks into the bouncy pillow. Still, it wasn't long before her senses sharpened enough to register the lack of human presence by her side and the hair-raising, violent coughs disturbing the morning peace.

"Coris!"

Meya bolted up with a cry. Coris was bent double on the bed edge, spewing his throat down a chamber pot. After a moment of useless fretting, Meya scampered to his side, one arm holding the pot, the other running down his bony back.

After an excruciating minute, Coris calmed. When he surfaced, Meya noticed with horror the red speck in the fluid flowing from his lips.

Swallowing her panic, Meya handed Coris a goblet of water. Once he'd rinsed, she gave him a towel to wipe his face, then eased him to bed and pulled up the blanket.

Coris opened his eyes blearily. Seeing her shock, he gave her a consoling smile.

"Sorry. It happens all the time after I overexerted." His benign grin turned sly as his gaze swept over her, "Must've had too much fun with your body last night."

Meya felt like all the blood in her system had pooled on her face. She covered her chest with one hand and socked him hard on his arm with the other.

"Ow!" Surely it wasn't that painful, but from how Coris was moaning, the servants would think she'd butchered his manhood or something.

"Good grief, lady! Do you not see how sick I was?" Coris lovingly cradled the sore spot on his arm. Meya shrugged at the sight of those reproachful silvery eyes,

"I did, but I needed proof."

Pouting, Coris slithered under his blanket as he griped for her to hear,

"Isn't Lady Arinel supposed to be calm, obedient and gentle?"

"And isn't Lord Coris supposed to be fat, spoiled and obnoxious?" Meya retorted, eyebrows raised, as her heart skipped a beat. Coris froze, then nodded,

"Yes. I was fat and spoiled." His face fell as he mumbled in shame, "And obnoxious. Horridly obnoxious."

So Arinel was telling the truth? Meya laid down and snuggled close to Coris' cold chest. As his faint heartbeats drummed against her cheek, she could no longer suppress her curiosity.

"Isn't there a way to make you healthy again?"

Coris met her pleading eyes, then sighed and wrapped her in his arms.

"I'm afraid there isn't. My bowels are scarred beyond repair."

His brusque explanation conjured gruesome images in Meya's head. She shuddered,

"What in the three lands happened to you?"

Coris shifted back so they lay face-to-face. He held her gaze for a long, silent moment, his expression one of careful calculation rather than hesitance, then his eyes traveled to the Lattis coin on her necklace.

"Have you ever heard of The Axel?" He fingered it pensively. Meya shook her head, eyes glued and unblinking. Even though he had asked, Coris frowned at her as if he'd expected a yes.

Ah, crap. Is it supposed to be common knowledge among the nobility?

Meya ignored the chill trickling down her spine, staring at Coris with big, round eyes filled with curiosity. At last, Coris nodded,

"It's a treasure that has been in our clan for over two hundred years, from when our ancestor, Maxus Hadrian, was knighted. Some believe it's the reason the Wynn kings had always treated us Hadrians with respect, at times even fear. But now that the Wynns had been overthrown, no one would know the true reason why, except the incumbent Baron Hadrian. Still, that has never discouraged our rivals from trying to seize it at all costs."

Meya's hand curled into a fist on the pillow. There was no solid proof yet, but this might be what the bandits are after. And to think a casual conversation about Coris' frail health somehow led her straight to it. To think, after one night together, the Hadrian heir was sitting there, telling her everything about his clan's most coveted possession as if they were discussing the weather.

What was he thinking? Was he really this stupid? Did he trust her that much?

Never underestimate Coris Hadrian, Arinel had said. Coris would have an ulterior motive for this, wouldn't he?

"Six years ago, there was a heist. The first one since I could remember." said Coris in his calm, airy voice, "Being the heir, having proven my hand in the Siege of Cristoria, I was put in charge of The Axel's protection as part of my training. I couldn't stand losing The Axel and my father's favor, so I put it in my mouth and fled down the secret passageway in my room."

Meya gaped at the ridiculous story. Coris shrugged,

"Prodigy I may be, I was twelve. A young mind is susceptible to the venom of praise and expectation." He admitted with a wry grin, "I thought I was safe. As it turned out, a couple of mercenaries stumbled upon the tunnel's exit and was standing guard. I was so startled, I swallowed The Axel whole."

"You swallowed it?" Meya cried as her brain lit up. If this Axel were what Gillian was after, it would explain why he seemed so dead set on gutting his victims.

"I love food. I'm used to swallowing everything in my mouth," said Coris blandly with a tilt of his head, "Fortunately, some guards arrived, and I was saved in the nick of time, but some of the mercenaries managed to escape."

Meya shivered as she gathered her pillow to her chest. She could guess where the story was heading.

"Father wasn't taking any chances. The Axel must be taken out as soon as possible."

"But—it's not that big a deal, is it? You could just wait for your body to—get rid of it. Naturally."

Meya struggled for the right word. Though she'd slept with Coris, seen him in his birthday suit, witnessed him eating, the fact that he also must expel his stuff still felt surreal. He was a nobleman—putting all these men decked out in lavish, resplendent robes together with toilet imagery was disconcerting.

"That's the catch, it wouldn't come out no matter how long we waited." Coris shook his head,

"Surgery is banned. So, the healers gave me laxatives. Stomach massages. Prayers. Everything they could think of. Nothing was effective. In the end, Father summoned a famous healer from Meriton. He gave me a cure that made me vomit. Over and over."

Meya slapped her hand over her gasping mouth. Coris' eyes were lifeless as his low, emotionless voice,

"It was bitter. It smelled acrid, with a taste to match. I actually felt it traveling down my throat, my gullet, into my bowels, then back up again. It burned like acid and fire combined. Drinking water was torture, but it did what it was meant to. I vomited The Axel on the third night."

Meya couldn't imagine the agony of such an ordeal. Stunned silent for once, she shook her head, eyes wide and unblinking,

"That was no cure." She whispered.

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"It wasn't." Coris agreed, his voice freezing cold. He stared ahead, eyes unseeing as the past tormented him, "The healer was of fine repute—we all trusted him. I was ashamed of my blunder. I felt I had to atone, so I endured the treatment. It wasn't until I coughed blood that we all realized something was amiss. Whoever sent the mercenaries seized the real healer, sent a double to weaken me and steal The Axel. He was hung, drawn and quartered, but my future died long before him."

Coris raised his eyes and pored into hers. Meya looked away in shame. She could turn out no different from that mercenary healer. She might also end up chasing after the treasure this boy sacrificed his life to protect.

"I'd take that twofold, just so Mother wouldn't cry," Coris whispered, his voice shaking now. Meya took his hand in hers, warming it. "She sobbed day and night, cursing herself for not noticing her own child was in pain...but I wasn't exactly a child, was I?"

Coris unfurled a sardonic smile, his eyes downcast, as Meya frowned. What in the three lands did he mean by that?

"Of course you were! You're just good at lying and your mother wasn't trying to catch you." She argued from direct experience. Coris snickered softly, but Meya was still matter-of-fact as she edged closer,

"You should've told them from the start it was hurting you. Your father would've called the whole thing off right away. You're his son, for Freda's sake!"

"I am, but even I wouldn't be too sure of that," Coris cocked his head with a smile so nonchalant it unnerved her,

"I'm Father's son and heir, but The Axel is everything to Hadrian. Had Father ever suspected the healer? Would he stop him even if I were to die, if The Axel wasn't recovered? Even I can't tell. No one but Father knows what would happen to us, to our people, should The Axel fall into wrong hands. I'm replaceable. I'm a small price to pay. The choice lies with Father alone."

I am giving you a choice.

Was this why he insisted on giving her the right to decide? Because so much of his life had been decided by his duty to The Axel?

Meya gritted her teeth against the sheer stupidity, the utter pointlessness that wasted a life so privileged she could only dream of. Not to mention the lives of dozens of guards and peasants in their entourage. For what? A lump of something no one knew for sure what it was, what it did?

Why was she so disturbed by his plight when it had nothing to do with her? Why did the mere thought of stealing The Axel now repulse her so much, when it was her only path to survival? Coris was in storytelling mode. She should exploit it, wheedle The Axel's new hiding place out of him, but she couldn't bring herself to.

"All this for one stupid Axel?" Meya hissed, disgust dripping from every word. Coris had slipped on his calm, saintly mask, smiling wanly.

"It's alright. We still have Zier."

Those reassuring words, it seemed, were meant for himself as much as her. Was he hoping Zier would be his replacement as heir? He was happier than anything, he said, but how did he actually feel? Was he also fooling her, the way he fooled his poor mother?

Coris slipped under his blanket, signaling the end of his talk.

"I don't think I'll be able to go down for breakfast." He murmured, then stifled a yawn, "Now, if my parents ask, we haven't consummated the marriage, understood? I'll take care of the bedsheets."

Meya raised the blanket. Seeing droplets of virgin blood spattered on the white linen, she felt both embarrassed and sad. Coris had taken her virginity, but seeing proof with her eyes rammed home the enormity of what she'd done. She couldn't even do it under her own name, couldn't even tell a single soul about it, and now Coris was asking her to destroy all proof of it.

Coris sat up and gathered her frozen body into his arms.

"I'm sorry. I couldn't bear to take your future just yet." He murmured into her shoulder. He retrieved something from a drawer in the nightstand, then clasped her hands in his.

"Don't worry. This is proof of what we did last night."

Meya gasped when his hand left hers. The brooch glinted in the dim morning light, its base made of silver shaped into a Hadrian Rose, embedded with a solitaire ruby. Mistletoe vines of peridot bound the rose, pregnant with shimmering mother-of-pearl berries. It was the most beautiful piece of handicraft Meya had ever laid eyes on, although she wasn't sure she'd ever have the chance to wear it in the open.

After their first night, the man would give his wife a trinket to thank her for becoming his, and as proof of the consummation. Coris seemed to have appreciated her efforts to pleasure him last night, at least.

"Thank you, Lord Coris."

Meya whispered, hands trembling. Coris gave her a slow, deep kiss, before succumbing to the bed's embrace. He beamed her a sleepy smile, closed his eyes and was out cold within two breaths. His bare chest rose and fell as if to a steady, imaginary beat. Meya was left alone as harsh reality crept back in, engulfing her.

So, what now?

Meya closed her hand over the brooch, her eyes to the sight of the snoozing young man. Drip, drip went the water clock. Time was closing in. At the first opening, Gillian would want to talk to her and learn what information she had gleaned. She must make her decision then.

Meya bit her lips against the pressure. She'd been up most of the night dithering over which side she should choose. Though she'd offered Gillian help to loot Hadrian Castle for the dowry—which could turn out to be The Axel—her newfound conscience was overriding her survival instincts.

Coris had talked of his own accord, and she'd let slip every opening she could use to coax out more information. He'd known her for but a day, yet he'd trusted her enough to confide in her. He'd once been selfish and spoiled, but ultimately, he'd chosen the future of Hadrian's people over his own. Not to mention the Hadrians had saved Meya and the people of Crosset from the Famine, too.

From the looks of it, Coris did have a heart behind those ribs. If he trusted her, perhaps she could trust him, too? It was better than entrusting her life to bandits who had already killed five of her comrades without shedding so much as a drop of sweat.

But, Gillian—he was a Greeneye like her. He had told her things she ought to know about her kind, had helped her with the troublesome collar. He'd even promised to take her to meet his fellow Greeneyes, sort of.

Speaking of which, what did he mean when he said the dowry would let Greeneyes live anywhere? Was he doing all this to carve out a better life for Greeneyes like her?

But why? What made Gillian so unhappy with the status quo? Besides being the village pariah, Meya's life as a Greeneye wasn't that bad. As Meya insisted time and again to Dad, most of her misfortunes were brought upon her by her own choices, not her eyes.

Sure, it would be delightful if she could walk through the village without being pelted with eggs and insults and tripped into mud puddles, but it wasn't as if her life would improve much without her glowing eyes.

The trouble with Meya was, despite all appearances, she was spoiled and self-centered. She refused to do things she didn't like, or that seemed irrational to her. She hated the responsibility women would take up to support their families—housework, cooking, handiwork and weaving. And, in trying to avoid her duty, she landed herself into all manners of trouble.

For instance, working in the fields back when Crosset law still forbade women from working, because it would anger Freda and cause a famine—and actually causing a famine. It was as if Freda had a point to prove. The Famine resulted in one hanged bailiff, one disgraced Lord, and a nobleman kidnapped and almost ransomed for food.

Come to think of it, Lord Crosset did mention that Arinel's betrothed was the one who was kidnapped.

So, indirectly, she caused Coris' kidnapping?

Meya beamed the snoozing Coris a silent apology. Farmer Armorheim led the kidnapping squad back then, under Bailiff Johnsy's orders. He said Coris had narrowly escaped.

When asked how a chubby little boy managed to slip free of a dozen grown men armed with crossbows and pitchforks, however, Draken would fall silent and avoid Meya's large, glowing green eyes. Then, he would simply shrug and continue that after he escaped, Coris generously asked Baron Kellis to share food and help Crosset survive the winter.

But how? What happened? Why wouldn't Draken tell?

Meya shook herself out of it. She could decipher Coris' mysterious escape later. Once she'd gotten rid of this poison.

Meya glanced at her chest. Underneath the fair skin over her heart was a thin, tapering oval patch, like a petal-shaped birthmark.

Yesterday, before entering Hadrian, they stopped by to see Old Angus, Trunt's Greeneye friend. Apothecarist by day and Poisoner by night, he had everyone in the entourage drink water with a single black seed in it. The seed of the Moonflower, he called it.

The parasitic flower would bloom in the body of the host, one petal at a time, for one moon cycle. Once it had fully bloomed, it would secrete a poison that would kill its host. It was a Nostran army poison. Mercenary type. Angus told her all this because there was little chance of her finding an antidote here in Latakia.

On the other hand, Arinel chose the poisonous Snow Fern spores for Gillian and his men. The Snow Fern was the Crosset Clan's symbol, and the Crosset Green dye was derived from its crushed spores. As the Snow Fern could only be grown up north in Icemeet and imported to Crosset, finding a cure in the central-west would be near impossible. The secret to collecting and neutralizing the spores for use in clothing also lay with the Crosset Clan's dyer alone.

But, back to the present—who should Meya choose? She liked Coris. Very much, indeed. He was a kind, gentle, amusing lad. And she loathed the thought of betraying him. But Gillian was a Greeneye, the first one she had ever known, and she didn't want to betray him as well.

Still, she couldn't stomach Gillian's style of operating. Was it necessary to kill all those people? Being a fellow Greeneye didn't stop Gillian poisoning her along with the others in the entourage, either.

Perhaps the best Meya could do was give Coris a heads-up, whatever Gillian planned to do, and leave it to their smart brains to duke it out. Make it a fair duel, but how could she warn Coris without alerting Gillian?

Meya shot a wary eye at the door. The easiest option would be to shake Coris awake and confess it all to him here, but she could never be sure if one of the bandits weren't standing out there with his ear on the keyhole, listening to her every word.

No, she needed to communicate soundlessly. With ink and paper and letters. Then slip the message to Coris without the bandits knowing.

She couldn't read or write. She must sneak out and find someone who could, and find a means to deliver him the message. How could she pull this off?

Meya scanned the room. Books, shelves, desk, armor, fireplace, clock, wardrobe, paintings—

Her scouring eyes chanced upon the largest painting at the center of the opposite wall, the portrait of a handsome white greyhound draped in a Hadrian Red cloak pinned with numerous medallions. A golden coin hung from its collar, engraved with letters Meya couldn't read. A scroll of paper sticking out of the thick leather strip lit a spark in her brain.

I put it in my mouth and went down the secret passageway in my room.

Meya lit a distinguished candle then tiptoed around the room. She hugged the walls, her eyes on the flickering flame. After about a quarter hour, she saw the smoke yearning towards the gap behind a painting of a stone arch leading away to an abandoned, overgrown garden. Despite the stress looming over her head pressing down heavier by the minute, Meya creaked a devious grin.

Now to find the one person who could write her a letter.