"Meya?"

An urgent croak disrupted the serenity of midday in the guests' chambers. Meya looked up from Ralon's Memoir to find pleading silvery eyes.

"No, Coris." She shook her head for the umpteenth time and made to return to Axel's miserable tale.

"Meya, please." Coris persisted. Meya snapped the journal shut with a flump of flattened air. It was taxing enough piecing the words together letter by letter without her supposed teacher nagging her for a sip of laudanum-laced cure every quarter-hour, too. Either Coris knocked himself out now, or she'd knock him out for him with her method of choice, which involved a few knuckles but a lot of pain.

Meya deposited the small book on the bedside cabinet. Nearby, a candle clock rose amidst the puddle of its melted flesh. Two inches or so of wax remained above the nail marking the time for the next dose of cure.

Sighing in frustration, Meya poured some water from the crystal jug into a matching goblet, then held it to Coris's parched lips,

"We've got a while to go. Have some water for now."

Coris scrunched up his face. He thrust his head back and forth on his pillow, reminding Meya of Morel's rolling pin on fresh dough. With him being so gaunt, Meya hadn't expected he'd have enough flesh on his cheeks to twist up a fit. Then again, he'd had a decade of tantrum practice as spoilt little Lord Hadrian.

"I can't sleep without it." He whined, smacking a feeble fist on the mattress. When Meya remained unmoved, he threw his head back with a growling moan, thumping with all four of his gangly limbs. A tear seeped from under his eyelid and plummeted from his cheekbone, gaining speed as it devoured dewlike beads of sweat along the way.

Meya's heart writhed at the pitiful display, but relent now, and she could have dead Coris dangling from her arms rather than demented and delirious. The dull twangs of Zier's harp floated over from the study desk, and an idea flitted by in her brain. Fists and jaw clenched, she leaned in and braved an offer,

"How about a lullaby? I'll sing you a song or two."

Lord Hadrian was not pleased. Slapping the bed with startling force, he snapped,

"I don't want lullabies! I want laudanum! Now! NOW!"

Coris's familiar scream of displeasure jolted Zier out of his happy place and straight into battle mode. He abandoned the harp he was tuning and scampered in, swinging nimbly onto the bed. He pinned his brother's flailing limbs with his knees and hands and quieted him with cooing shushes. Meya cradled his face in her palms and washed his feverish forehead with her song.

"Over the peaks of Neverend Heights—"

Even as her voice trembled with stifled tears, Zier could already feel his and his brother's tense muscles dissolving to clay from its unearthly beauty. Under him, Coris struggled drunkenly, and Zier bit his lips as he urged feeling back into his hands.

Coris stilled, sinking limply onto the bed. He was asleep before the song was over.

Zier's sigh of relief coincided with Meya's. She pressed her lips onto Coris's forehead. He clambered numbly down from atop his brother to her side, watching as she smoothed Coris's hair with both hands. Meya drew back in jolts, her face veiled by loose hair from her fraying ponytail. Still, her sobs leaked out in her shivery breaths.

Zier looked away and wordlessly held out his arm. Meya grasped it, and he helped her to the study desk for a moment of fresh air, away from the depressing vigil. He poured tea into her Jayri bowl. She cupped her hands around it, yet her red-rimmed eyes were listless and aimless. Mired, no doubt, in dilemma.

The breeze from the open window was too light to disperse the heavy, dead air around them, and Zier could only think of one thing to say to distract her.

"Meya Hild?"

He gulped as those glowing irises rose slowly to meet his, hastily avoiding her cool stare. Scratching at his own cracked and mended bowl, he mustered up his courage,

"I'm truly sorry. About—everything I said yesterday."

Meya's silence betrayed no reply. He risked a glance, but ended up lingering. Her intimidating gaze had softened somewhat, and within it, he glimpsed a warmth that was unlike Ari's loving. Somewhere between that of a mother and a friend. He settled upon older sister. She looked down at her bowl once more.

"I know you dun actually think that about me." She spun her bowl, her voice level, "You were just saying anything you could think of that would hurt Coris the most."

"But it still hurt you nonetheless." Zier argued. Meya shrugged.

"I'm used to names. Got about half a dozen back in Crosset."

"And you shouldn't have."

Meya glanced up, eyes a little wider in surprise. His insistence must have finally reached through and touched her. Or it could have been his sincerity. Zier himself had been blessed with only one nickname, The Bumbling Spare—and he hated it with the fire of three suns. He couldn't imagine being pelted with half a dozen—and a couple more of his contributions, for that matter.

A tongue of candlelike heat caressed his neck. Zier started out of his musings. Meya's rough finger traced the threadlike, scabbing gash peeking along the line of his collar, where she had snatched him last night.

"I scratched you." She muttered, a hint of shame in her dull voice, "And I said mean things to you, too—I mean, you didnae tell him to go drug himself half-dead. 'Tisn't entirely your fault. I'm sorry, too."

She sighed and went back to tormenting her bowl. Zier could only stare and blink. Her capacity for forgiveness was overwhelming. Then again, a less tolerant woman wouldn't have been able to stand his brother's lies as much as she had. And he could tell that even she was doubting her choices.

"I prefer not to ascertain. I don't have the right to, even if I did."

Zier tensed at that unbidden voice inside his head, and he hesitated. He feared for his brother's feeble heart, should Meya ever abandon him. But Meya's kindness also shamed him from asking more of her, when she had already sacrificed so much for his liar of a brother. More to stall for time than anything, he hitched up a sly grin.

"Fyr. Now that you mention it, they're dancing before my eyes again." Zier raked his hand through his hair, clutching his head in mock anguish. Meya raised her eyebrows, and Zier shook his head with a melodramatic sigh,

"Freda, how could one be bestowed the most heavenly of voices and the unholiest of breasts—Youch!"

Zier yowled for sweet mother Freda as Meya's talons wrung the flesh of his shoulder. It was becoming clear now where those pink sores on Coris's arms had come from. Meya settled back in her chair, muttering through gritted teeth,

"I believe you two are brothers now."

Chuckling, Zier gave her a meek grin. Rubbing his stinging arm, he studied the sullen Meya as she slopped honey into her tea and stirred it. He remembered the way Coris had looked at her, had tended to her last night. He remembered his agony when prompted about his true feelings for her, his crippling fear at the sight of her fury. And he could no longer bear to simply observe. Drawing a deep breath, he hitched up his confident smirk,

"It's been a while since we last talked in private. New developments aplenty. So, what are your revised plans for you and Coris?"

Meya continued stirring as she shrugged once again,

"Dunno. All circumstances considered, we decided we'd just wing it."

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

She said, dull and uncaring. A far cry from the sharp and determined impostor who had accepted his offer, that day by the tent. Zier blinked, alarmed as much by her revelation as her blasé attitude,

"Wing it? Doesn't sound like Coris." He narrowed his eyes. Meya simply went on stirring. Frustrated, Zier leaned forward in a rare moment of seriousness,

"Look. We have until Everglen at best, then it's reality. Say we were able to persuade Lady Safyre to cooperate, Father and Mother are bound to send word. Ask about your babe-making progress. We can't keep fending them off forever."

The spoon began stalling in Meya's hand. Still, she refused to peel her eyes off the tabletop,

"And what does Lady Arinel say?"

Zier spasmed at the sudden mention of Lady Crosset. He hadn't had a chance to actually talk with Ari since their disastrous altercation in Muldor's lab. And now, Ari had brought her mother's case to Lady Jaise, while he nursed Coris through withdrawal. He didn't even have the chance to apologize for his behaviour the night before. For once, he prioritized his family.

Ari would be proud, thought Zier morosely as he also set about flavoring his tea, stirring a bitter sigh into the mix,

"She'd probably tell them the truth." He nodded mockingly as he listed off, "Reward you. Marry Coris. Sleep with him. Give him an heir. The way it should be."

His heart writhed. The words seemed more final that ever, now that they had rolled off his own tongue. Meya's silence only served to stoke the flames of anxiety engulfing him. He hooked a finger in her sleeve,

"The only way you'd get to be with Coris is as his mistress. The only way I might get to be with Ari is after Coris is gone." He hissed, shuddering at the cold, inevitable truth. Meya glanced up, a shadow of defiance in her eyes, and Zier was bolstered,

"We both know we're never going to accept that. And though Coris and Ari would, it's going to be a torture for them—both of them."

Meya lifted an eyebrow, skeptical. Zier licked his drying lips as he edged his fingers up her arm, resting his palm over her wrist. In his memories, Coris's melancholic gray eyes shone dully against the dark of night. He understood, as Coris did, that it was not one's place to demand love and devotion from another, even as one believed one would perish otherwise. Yet, he must at least make sure she knew.

"He loves you." He whispered. Her eyes widened and wavered as he held her gaze, "He's never going to say it, so I said it."

Meya chewed on her trembling lips. Zier understood her dilemma. He drew back with a sigh, freeing her,

"I know it seems hopeless. I know you're in two minds after what just happened." He absently tapped the back of her hand, carefully selecting his words, "Still, he's not a prodigy for nothing. If you wished for it, he'd find a way."

He spared his slumbering brother a long glance—hoping, praying for his uncanny ability of overcoming the impossible to find a way for the four of them, out of this dead-end path their parents had set them on. With a deep sigh, he gave Meya's hand one last squeeze, then leaned back against his chair and retrieved his abandoned, half-tuned harp,

"Just let him know whether you're still in or out, so he can start scheming—or screaming."

He concluded wryly. Meya silently raised her eyes, watching as Zier busied himself with the knobs of his instrument, then turned to the blanketed figure on the bed. Each pluck of a string felt like a pluck on her heartstring.

She remembered Agnes's plea. It wasn't that she didn't understand their fear. She knew that right now, Coris's need was greater than hers, even though he'd brought all this upon himself. But she couldn't help feeling resentful, nevertheless. She couldn't explain why. They had reassured her that they knew she felt conflicted and betrayed. Still, it was heavily implied that she should stay by Coris's side.

If Meya had to admit, she did not adore Coris any less, but she also couldn't carry on like this. Their differences in race, birth and status, their unsure future, she could handle. But she doubted she could withstand that paralyzing fear and utter despair, over and over, just with different lies. There were things that must change, before she would even reconsider plunging deeper into darkness with him.

She heaved a deep sigh, hoping to lift some weight from her heavy heart, and was disappointed. Zier had finished tuning his harp. He was strumming the melody of Over the Peaks of Neverend Heights, plectrums on his fingers.

Meya remembered the longing in Coris's eyes when he had mused about her Song set to Zier playing Corien's Harp. As she watched those long, tapered fingers, which resembled Coris's, pirouette gracefully across the strings, her thoughts wandered to Arinel, who was similarly ensnared by the Hadrian family's machinations.

"Why couldn't your parents have just switched Arinel from Coris to you?" The harp song died. Zier looked up, eyebrows raised. Meya shrugged, "You're brothers. Makes no difference which one she marries, does it?"

Zier blinked, then sighed and set aside his harp. He fell back against his chair, fingertips loosely laced on his lap.

"For the Crossets, no. For the Hadrians, yes." He dissolved into another heavy sigh. Meya leaned closer, intrigued. "Coris and Arinel were promised to each other back when Coris was still healthy, and the Crossets were still powerful. It was profitable—an alliance with a potential rival house."

"But, after the Famine and the Heist, Coris became sickly and impotent. Arinel's house became destitute, and their fiefs became ours. The reason Father went ahead with the marriage, apart from honor, is because she's the only acceptable bride who's happy to marry Coris. No lord would want to waste his dowry marrying his daughter to a nobleman who likely wouldn't give her a son in the few years he has left."

"So, you're saying—" Meya whispered as the cold realization dawned on her, steeling herself against shivers. Zier nodded, shoulders sagging under the weight of his woes.

"Either Coris miraculously became strong again, or I'd have to marry for the both of us." He closed his eyes and sighed again, "My wife must bring in twice the dowry, and give me twice the number of surviving sons. Ari's house has nothing to offer. Worse, her family carries a blood malady. That's what killed her sisters."

Zier trailed away. Meya felt a pang in her heart at the blunt truth—if even Arinel wasn't good enough for Zier, then what chance did she have with Coris?

"So, either way, Coris can't marry me, can he?" She unfurled a spiteful smile. Zier turned sharply towards her, and her grin widened, "Because I'm a peasant girl?"

A brief silence descended as Zier struggled for a consolation, a solution. Then, his face lit up,

"There's one thing I could think of—" Zier blurted out. Despite herself, Meya looked up.

"We go to Everglen, and bring back those ore ships. We give you credit, and you're recognized by the king for services to Latakia in a time of great need. Then, he might reward you with titles and lands, like Edward II did for Maxus—"

Zier broke off. He looked up to find Meya's cool gaze and bitter smile waiting for him.

"Yes. I'm a woman and a Greeneye. That'd be a catch."

Zier froze, then sighed and nodded in defeat.

After a war had ended, a distinguished soldier may be knighted by his lord. A humble merchant, through generations of hoarding wealth, funding wars, and marrying daughters to destitute power, could pave the way to nobility for his descendants, but not himself.

Even in Maxus's case, the decision to knight him must have been just as much out of fear and necessity as a reward. Meya knew now why, for two hundred years, the Wynn Kings who succeeded Philip the Usurper had stopped shy of going against the Hadrians—should the Hadrians ever betray them and return The Axel to the dragons, it could spell the end of Latakia.

And if it was rare even for a man like Maxus to rise above the station he was born into in his lifetime, then what chances did she, a peasant girl and a Greeneye, have of becoming a true Lady? Of marrying the heir of a powerful noble house? Of being bestowed titles and land to rule? Of being accepted and respected as an equal?

If such things were possible, there wouldn't have been a need for fairytales like Tricia of Haventoth to placate the fruitless dreams of brighteyed young maidens. In this land, worth was decided by birth, and Greeneye peasant girls were not destined for greatness.

"I know you're infatuated with your new mistress."

"Like your beloved half-breed mistress!"

Those demeaning words, though not directed at her, echoed still in the back of her mind. Arinel was a noblewoman, so she was the wife. Meya was a peasant, so mistress was the most she could ever hope to be. No matter how many lives she had saved—her liege's included. Or how much she would contribute to Latakia's cause. Or even as Coris regarded her as his only Lady Hadrian.

It's not fair.

Meya's hands clenched into fists on the cold polished wood. If there was one thing she hated more than wasted privilege, it was injustice. It was why she had railed time and again against the unjust laws Crosset imposed upon Greeneyes. It wasn't just to earn her own dowry. She was fighting for what was rightfully hers.

"How much better Latakia could have become, if more people like you had had the chance we've been given?"

Coris was right. Freda knew how many Greeneyes there were—how many people there were—who could be just as or even brighter than Meya herself. This wasn't just about her getting to marry Coris. This was about showing all those nobility and royalty and the king and queen that they were all worthy. That they all deserved the opportunity to rise and prosper. Man or woman, noble or common, dragon or human. The way Coris had seen her potential, had given her a chance and a choice.

If anything, the setback had galvanized her resolve. She would journey to Everglen, bring back the lost ships and erase—or at least erode—this stigma surrounding her people. From her destination on the horizon, her Song would have the king's ears, even for a fleeting moment. So that though she herself may never receive a thing in return in this lifetime, she would lay the first stone on the path towards a better future for all the downtrodden.

As her will solidified, Meya's smile softened with the warmth of hope, and her eyes sparked a mischievous glint.

"Still, brilliant scheme, milord." She turned back to Zier with a smirk, "Guess I'm with you two troublesome brothers to Everglen and back."

"What about the catch?" Zier raised an eyebrow. Meya's smile widened, undeterred,

"As I've told your brother, Lord Zier—the thing about catches, all you have to do is lay low, and a loophole will show up someday."

Her eyes wandered towards the window, to the same cloudless spring sky she had always looked upon back in Crosset, and she tilted her head as her grin turned melancholic,

"Granted, some might take a lifetime to find. Some might end up swallowing you alive. But nothing's never all for naught."

Even when you had expected nothing in return. Or perhaps precisely because of that.

Meya chuckled to herself. Lady Agnes was right. In more ways than she had thought. Then, she turned around at Zier's voice,

"So, you're saying you'll marry Coris?"

Meya rolled her eyes and snickered, amused and just a little bit annoyed,

"That's another story, milord."