Morning seeped in through the window beyond the bars of Lasralein's cell at the top of the east tower. A new day had dawned, but Lasralein wasn't impatiently waiting for her enemies to return with an invitation from the king. Jaise and Hadrian could threaten Hyacinth all they liked; the fact remained that they and their precious Greeneyes would be the first to starve. So long as she commanded the loyalty of the women of Hyacinth, she had nothing to fear.

The door swung open with an oily screech, followed by the lone, heavy footsteps of her warden. Lasralein had become familiar enough with its weight, she could tell without looking. The warden stopped before her. The air smelled the same; she hadn't brought breakfast.

"Have I been freed?" asked Lasralein, eyes still closed.

"No, my lady. Lady Agnesia Graye wishes to see you."

"Lady Graye?"

Muttered Lasralein as she rose, then nodded with a smile of derision. She wondered if the silly girl simply wanted to plead for her sister's eyes, or if Coris Hadrian believed Lasralein would take his threats closer to face value if he spoke through a woman. Either way, there was no risk to her. So she allowed the warden to lead her down the spiral stairs, the bare tiles of half a dozen hallways, then finally through a door that was wooden and full, not metal bars.

The warden sat her on a cushioned chair, then swept away. The moment the door swung shut, a voice spoke,

"Good morning, Lasralein." it said, "I believe you remember my voice."

Lasralein took care to not let her thoughts show on her face. There was something familiar about the voice, but it sounded distorted, fake. Whether it was Agnesia or not, she couldn't tell; she couldn't recall a voice she'd heard just once with crystal clarity. Not to mention with all that was happening then, the memory had slipped her mind.

But should she sneak a peek, there was a half chance she'd find herself staring into glowing green eyes, and her secrets would be laid bare. For all she knew, it could even have been a ruse to pry open her eyes. So, she stretched her back taut and turned her face away from the sunlight tempting her eyelids.

"If you seek your sister's eyes, my offer for Lord Hadrian stands," she said flatly. Lady Agnesia made no noise. No uneasy shifting, no sharp draw of breath. Could she be nodding?

"Seems I'm fortunate, then." Agnesia replied. It appeared she was. "I can secure you an audience with the king, but I'm afraid by the time I've laid bare my offer, you might find you no longer wish for it."

Lasralein frowned. Even before her supposed death, Lasralein hadn't heard much of the Lady Graye aside from her budding beauty. What was more, the girl's words reeked of Coris Hadrian. Her guess was right; Coris was behind this.

"Are you familiar with The Axel?"

Lasralein froze. That was unexpected. The first in days, even. Agnesia took her alarm as a yes,

"Very well, then you know how dearly His Majesty would love to have it in his grasp at last." Fabric rustling, a waft of perfume; Agnesia had leaned close, "For over two hundred years it has made hostage of king after king. Raised a clan of lowly blacksmiths to lord over the richest croplands in Latakia."

Lasralein pursed her lips. She had guessed where the girl was headed,

"My sister's eyes hold the secret of The Axel's hiding place." Agnesia's voice was a hiss of ice wind at her ear, followed by soft, hollow laughter, "What do you think His Majesty values more? A pile of eyeballs, or the key to the Hadrians' downfall?"

At that, the knot in Lasralein's gut loosened. Perhaps she was too quick to judge. Perhaps this was Agnesia, who had tricked Coris and was acting of her own accord, for her own agenda. After all, the girl was raised by Grimthel Graye. And even Coris wouldn't wager The Axel, even for a bluff. A realization dawned on her, and she smiled in good fun.

"How foolish of you to tell me this." said Lasralein, shaking her head, "You must have forgotten—I'm experimenting on an invention for His Majesty. I might as well send word to him myself."

"I couldn't care less." Agnesia shot back. Lasralein raised her eyebrows, and so the Lady Graye explained,

"Either way, Graye would benefit. And my sister would get her memories back. I simply wanted to have you know just how priceless that particular eye is, before you hack it open for some glowing stone."

Lasralein parted her lips to form a silent "Ah". She drummed her fingers on the wood, weighing her options.

"I do not harvest from every eye." She spoke carefully, adding with a tilt of her head, "Least not at the earliest opportunity. Your sister and manservants are of special interest, since the four of you know the secret of the Greeneyes. I must know how. To prevent future...inconveniences."

Lasralein smirked, satisfied with her choice of words. Agnesia didn't respond; she was simply confirming what they'd guessed. Lasralein's drumming fingers kept time as silence smothered the room. At long last, the high priestess pulled her hand back into the folds of her robes and straightened up. Eyes still closed, she shone a faint smile on the spot she believed Agnesia was sitting in.

"Very well, Lady Graye. Though I don't need aid securing His Majesty's audience, it wouldn't hurt to befriend the white phoenix that shall rise from ashes of the stag."

Chuckling softly, she rose to her feet and rapped her knuckles on the table, signaling for the warden. As the burly woman approached her, she whispered to her newfound ally,

"Bring me here again tonight. I shall lead you to the eyes."

Silence. Perhaps Agnesia needed time to consider, but Lasralein wouldn't linger. She'd have her answer tonight, but she didn't need it. The odds hadn't changed. Only the stakes, and both were in her favor. She turned to leave, then Agnesia spoke—

"No. You will lead us there immediately."

Us?

Lasralein's eyes snapped open, priorities switching as panic replaced paranoia. She spun around. The girl sitting across the table from her had flaming rose-gold hair and glowing green eyes—Meya Hild.

But the fact she was staring straight into her eyes wasn't the most pressing threat. Something stood between them—a long, reed-thin brass tube which stretched across the room then through a hole drilled into the wall. Its near end opened into a mouthpiece, exactly where Lasralein's mouth had been moments earlier. She'd been speaking straight into the receptacle, her every word transmitted down the pipe towards—

Lasralein snatched the tube and jammed her ear against the cone. A cacophony of voices blasted her. Dozens—hundreds of people, all shouting and screaming at the same time—

"You fraud! Liar!"

"So you have mountains of eyes stashed away all along?"

"Don't let our offerings go to waste, High Priestess!"

"My daughter's waiting for her eyes!"

"Freda struck your brat blind for a reason, you rich fustilug!"

"Don't stick our eyes in your scum-crusted sockets!"

"We need those eyes for Neverend Heights!"

The furor raged ever wilder with every cry adding insult to the flames. Lasralein bolted for the door, then hurtled to the great double doors. She pushed against them with all her might, just enough to let her squeeze through the gap. She fell out, and was almost instantly slammed back in by the torrent that befell her.

"Liar!"

"Eye Thief!"

"Give us the eyes!"

"Give back our eyes!"

"Our gold! Where's our gold, eh?!"

"Charlatan!"

Lasralein fell faint against the cold wood, her eyes darting across the crowd and back and forth again. She didn't know where to look; the voices were screaming from all directions. Hundreds of people had gathered under the other end of the metal tube—a gigantic, gaping cone of brass. She recognized it as one of the ten-foot vamping horns from her temple, used to project her voice during sermons.

She also recognized faces behind the voices—rich merchants who donated to her coffers, hoping to secure dragon eyes for their eyeless children—poor faithfuls who gathered to protest for her release—Greeneyes who sacrificed one of their eyes to earn their ticket to Freda's Caldera. They screamed at her just as much as their rival factions. The scene of infighting, humiliation and manipulation of the masses reeked like no other. It was the boy's signature.

Grinding her teeth, Lasralein cast her eyes to the shadows cast by the portico. Sure enough, there stood Coris Hadrian. His empty gray eyes met hers, but there was no triumphant smile beneath them.

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"Where are the eyes, Lasralein?" He demanded as he drew near. But no, if she were to end here, it would not be on the boy's terms, nor out of defeat like Lord Cristoria. Seething, Lasralein lunged for the sword hanging from the belt of a nearby guardswoman—

"Coris, NO!"

The scream struck fear into Coris even more than the gleaming blade swinging before him. Meya bursted through the double doors, launching herself at the crazed priestess, but instead of plunging it into her nemesis, Lasralein turned the blade towards her eyes—

The sword fell to the floor with a dull clang, followed by sharp chimes of two metal orbs bouncing like marbles—then Lasralein herself, dropping like stone. Coris looked up to find Meya standing ashen-faced, hands raised as if to squash a gnat, breathing heavily. She'd depressed the triggers beside Lasralein's eyes and ejected them, but it was obvious she thought she was stopping the woman from killing Coris, not her memories.

Meya tore her eyes from Lasralein's crumpled form to Coris. Tears welled in her eyes. Coris gnashed his teeth and stormed towards her.

"WHAT IN FYR'S NAME WERE YOU THINKING?! SHE COULD'VE SLICED YOU IN HALF—"

"Coris, I'm sorry, I—"

"AND THERE'S A RIOT OUT HERE IN CASE YOU HAVEN'T NOTICED—"

Coris broke off mid-tantrum. The surrounding silence filled his ears, and it was as if his bowels had emptied themselves out of his nether orifices. He whirled around and sure enough, the crowd had ceased all movement. All eyes pooled on the two metal orbs rolling, gleaming, glowing green on the stone balcony.

"GRAB THOSE EYES!"

A voice yelled. The spell was broken. The crowd surged forth. Coris clawed at the eyeballs with one hand as he shoved Meya at the doors with the other. He only managed to grab one slimy, slippery orb before the crowd engulfed Lasralein's body. Dozens of hands lunged at him, even as the guardswomen pushed with all their might with their pikes.

Coris spun around and threw himself over Meya. They fell together through the doors, Coris thrusting out his arm to cushion her fall. He winced as Meya's flank lined with her metal ribcage crushed it (He was expecting the front, to be frank).

The nightmare hadn't ended. The crowd's roar rained upon the doors alongside their fists. The guards on the inside have barred the doors with an enormous plank. Yet, the doors still jolted on their hinges, the rings on the metal knobs swinging and jangling ominously. It was only a matter of time.

Coris pulled Meya to her feet. To his relief, Mother, Father, Zier, Lady Jaise and Lady Hyacinth were rushing down the hallway. He pushed the eyeball into Meya's hands then ushered her towards them.

"Go—Read it—I'll handle this—"

"You go. I'll hold 'em off. I'll transform—" Meya fought, tears spilling down her cheeks.

"Mother!" Coris cried. Without a word, Mother rushed in and dragged the struggling Meya along by her arms.

"CORIS! NO! LET ME—CORIS!"

As her screams echoed further away, Coris turned to face the barrage alongside Zier; Father and the two Ladies leading the charge. The crowd battered the doors to the rhythm of the past hammering to be let back into his mind.

No. Not again. Not Cristoria. Please let it not be another Cristoria.

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Baroness Sylvia led Meya to take shelter in the Great Hall, alongside Lady Arinel and the eyeless Greeneyes. Since then, the shadow on the sundial behind Lady Hyacinth's chair had traveled the distance of roughly half an hour. The hall hadn't welcomed new refugees since a dozen guards rushed in, bolted the doors after them then spread out behind their spider-patterned shields. The din of the riot was like a thunderstorm night; a numbing monotone with no end in sight. Huddled together, the room's occupants watched the doors, bracing for the invasion.

At long last, the din ebbed away into silence. But who stood victorious? And how many? Footsteps echoed down the hallway. From the sound of it, they came from but a few pairs of boots. The Baroness trembled as she tightened her arms around Meya and Arinel. The women jolted in unison when one of the booted men banged on the door.

"It's over! Let us in!"

"Zier! Thank Freda!" Arinel clamped her hands over her mouth with a gasp, as the guardswomen lifted the plank from the metal arms on the door. Meya watched unblinking as the door fell back and in came Baron Kellis, only sighing in relief when Coris staggered in alongside Zier and Christopher.

Arinel sprinted up and launched herself into Zier's waiting arms. The Baroness surveyed her husband for injuries even as he shook his head and murmured he was well. Coris was unscathed, but pale and drenched in sweat, a haunted look in his eyes. Like the others, his clothes were rumpled and his hair windswept.

Meya gritted her teeth as she took in his state, pictured the scene that had caused it. Their eyes met, yet it still took a few moments for Coris to reel his soul in after his body. He noticed her, finally, and his eyes narrowed.

Meya shook her head, muttering,

"I should've stayed. I could've helped—"

Meya trailed away as she caught the look on Coris's face. The faint, lingering furrow between his eyebrows deepened. His eyes darkened with rage. Then, he slapped her full on the cheek.

"Coris!" "Meya!"

Christopher lunged for Coris's shoulder as Arinel swooped down on Meya. Meya barely registered her trembling embrace. Spun sideways by the force, she dragged her fingertips across the stinging, numb skin of her cheek. She shrank away into Arinel's arms even as she turned back to face him, fearful and confused.

Coris lowered his shaking hand, his eyes unblinking, never once leaving hers.

"Lasralein's dead. It could've been you." He said, his lips barely moving, his voice cold. His mouth stretched into a sardonic grin, as he raised his trembling hand once more and pointed towards the chaos he'd escaped,

"What do you think they were fighting over back there? You're a Greeneye! A woman! You're pregnant! You've never been trained to negotiate or fight! You're the last person in the three lands who should be facing that crowd!"

Coris exploded. Words failed Meya as she gaped and mouthed voiceless gibberish. Dead? Lasralein—Dead? She'd never seen Coris this furious, never dreamed he would actually slap her. All she did was save his life. Just as she'd always done. Why—How could he—

"But I—you—" She choked out.

"You had no business showing your face even if I were to die back there!" snarled Coris, a thumb jabbing at his chest, "I'm Lord Hadrian. I must be the first into the fray. I can't do that if you keep swooping in and whisking me away!"

"So you're saying all those times I shouldn't have saved your life?" Meya finally found her snark.

"You know that's not what I said." Coris retorted, his finger now jabbing before her face, "You doubted my judgment. You undermined my authority. You sparked the riot and made Lasralein a martyr! They're still counting the injured and dead as we speak!"

Dead? More dead? It wasn't just Lasralein?

In the ringing silence, the words pounded on the inside of her skull. Dead. People. Dead. And this time, she was wide awake. This time, it was obviously her doing. And Coris wasn't denying it.

Meya had no clue what face she had on; the buzzing numbness had devoured her whole face. Whatever it was, it must have been pitiful; Coris's eyes softened to their normal moonbeam gray. He peered over her head at the back of the hall, and Meya turned around to find the runes set into the decorated wall behind Lady Hyacinth's chair; mosaics spelling out three distinct words,

"Become the Fire." breathed Coris. Meya turned to him, and he echoed her. When their eyes met, he gave her a small, sardonic grin, "Fire, Meya. And the last thing I need when I'm taming a sea of fire is a blast of wind. If you ruin my plans again, I may have no choice but to send you away. For the good of the mission."

Meya couldn't believe her ears. She stared at him. And she couldn't believe her eyes. His face was marble. Pale, cold, unwavering. He meant it. It was more than she could take. More than she could stand. Tears burned in her eyes. He didn't deserve to see them—

"Meya!"

Arinel called as Meya sprinted away. She disappeared behind the doors, leaving them swinging in her wake. Arinel spared a moment to scorch Coris' eyeballs with a venomous glare, then dashed after her good friend.

Closing his eyes, Coris raised a trembling hand to his sweaty forehead and swept back his damp hair with a sigh. His hand was numb, stinging, reminding him of what he'd done.

"That was low, Brother." Zier broke the silence. Coris surfaced to find his blue eyes narrowed in disdain.

"You had no business showing your face yourself." He took a menacing step closer, "Could've let the crowd do the job and there would've been no bloodshed. You put yourself in harm's way when you know Meya's nearby and she's going to intervene. You know it's your fault just as much as hers. You're just venting on her—"

"—Enough, Zier." Father cut in, exhausted but final. Zier stalked away, fuming. Coris felt the heat of Father's gaze, but he was too ashamed to face him. Zier was right. He couldn't accept that history had repeated itself, that there was even one perfect ending where the deaths and suffering he should've foreseen didn't happen.

But say Meya was to blame for all this, he still had no right to strike a woman. Had Farmer Hild or Maro ever struck her, even? Would she fear him forever now? Would her broken heart ever heal? Would she ever forgive him? Should she?

Coris eyed the doors, hesitant. Before he could muster his courage, Father continued,

"Amoriah spilled this blood. Not you. Not Meya." Coris gaped at him. He cocked his head at Lady Hyacinth's empty chair.

"She owns this castle. She let those followers gather, made it so our only choices are to surrender to them, or sacrifice them."

The truth chilled Coris to the core, then a sinking realization consumed him in flames. He glared at his father, hands clenching into fists.

"So you knew? You knew this would happen? That people would die?!" He whispered through gritted teeth. Father stood firm, answering his fire with stone.

"I know it could happen. I didn't think it would." He closed his eyes with a sigh, and Coris caught himself. "I thought we could contain the riot. Lasralein's reaction was in her nature, but Meya's was beyond my expectations. I underestimated the girl's fear for you. I am the one to blame."

Father pursed his lips and turned away, staring at the sunlight streaming in through the windows. Coris gaped in horror. He shook his head, pleading.

Father took the blame to save his sanity. If their misstep was not considering Meya, the burden of the blame should have been tenfold on Coris. He should've known her better than them all combined. He should've warned her, have her understand. He should've asked Arinel, Zier, anyone to keep a hold on her. He should've—

As if he sensed his stubborn guilt, Father turned back with a weary sigh,

"You cannot always predict every outcome, son." He said gently, "Change is rarely ever bloodless. I asked if you two were ready for the consequences. This is why."

Coris hung his head. He thought he'd understood, having walked past the children he burnt to a crisp in Cristoria, almost losing Agnes to save Zier, and sacrificing Beau for it in the end. Then, he realized he'd never truly understood until that moment the dust settled upon those lifeless, broken bodies. He made this choice as a leader on behalf of countless faceless people. Not a child playing war games or protecting his brother. And, for the first time, he failed.

"What if you'd known? Would you have warned us? Would you have given us time to find a better way?" He asked, even as he knew both answers would torture him with regret just the same.

"My one condition is you, Coris. I said I'd see you to Everglen if it were my last. And I'd send you home with your head a ringing void if you so choose. What do you make of me?"

Father snapped, indignant. Mother patted his arm soothingly as she shot Coris the look. Coris glimpsed pain in Father's blue eyes, and he gritted his teeth against the swell of emotion clogging his throat.

"I'm sorry, Father. I shouldn't have doubted you." He whispered, bowing. Father sighed and shook his head dismissively.

"What if Gillian breaks our alliance over this?" Christopher mused softly. Coris felt his guts twist into knots. Gillian would not like this. That was an understatement.

"It's humans I'm more worried about at the moment." Father sighed as he peered across the hall at Lady Hyacinth's throne, "Amoriah could use this as an excuse to drive us out of Hyacinth. It might've been her plan from the start, even."

Father turned his back to them, thumbs hooked under his belt, his head tipped back. This signaled he was deep in thought, and he preferred the company of Mother alone.

Mother caught Coris' eye and nodded at the door, and Coris obligingly left. Unlike Father, he was more worried about dragons at the moment. One female dragon, to be exact.

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