Tarpaulin of all colors blanketed Hadrian's town square. From the castle's hill, it looked like an enormous patchwork cloak. May Fest was just over a week away. Merchants from all over the central west had hurried in to stake claim over the best spots and earn early-bird gold. Performers prowled every square entrance, pushing leaflets onto wide-eyed tykes as their harried mothers ushered them away.

By high noon, stomachs were growling. A queue snaked from the sausage tent to the lonely clobber's humble stall three plots away. Children crowded around a merchant as he made hand puppets spar with miniature licorice swords. Young lads cheered on a cockfighting ring. Maidens dithered over beaded shawls and embroidered headdresses. Old farmers pored over dice and cards. Merchants egged hesitant housewives to buy goods they would later realize they didn't need.

Meya sat on a roadside bench, her head swiveling like a well-oiled weathercock in a storm. She'd lived to see sixteen May Fests in Crosset; none came even close to this. Apart from the May Queen Pageant, where no one bothered to sign up because Marin would win anyway, and a May Dance, where the men would fight to dance with Marin around Freda's Fountain, May Fest in Crosset was just a week-long weekend bazaar.

It wasn't always like that. Misty-eyed adults would reminisce that before Alanna lost her Song, before the Famine polished off a third of Crosset's children, before Meya was born, Crosset's May Fest had once been just as grand as Hadrian's.

Nobody under twenty could prove that, but that didn't mean they'd let Meya get away with 'ruining' the May Fest they never knew. Meya's first and last experience of May Fest was being pelted with mud and running home crying. Meya would stay home and do the chores in Marin and Morel's place every Fest since.

Now, a decade later, far from home, under someone else's name, she could walk into May Fest like a normal person. Countless people passed by. None of them hissed vicious names at her or questioned the thickness of her skin. No pebbles or mudballs sailed her way.

It felt odd. Not that Meya minded the lack of attention, but the contrast was painful. A day of sweetness couldn't flavor sixteen years of bitterness. Or a year. Or twenty. Memories didn't work like food. Then again, even some food might be too much for honey to salvage.

Meya peered at the wooden bowl she was holding. The rich, brown drink inside rippled to tremors from the ground caused by dozens of thundering feet. A strange, sweet, milky aroma rose to her nose in wispy spirals of vapor.

She gingerly stretched out her tongue to touch the paste, then withdrew at the tart, sour taste. Yes, it smelled wonderful, but she still didn't get how the God-King of the Southern Island that Coris talked about managed to chug fifty mugs of this brown milk daily.

Coris emerged from the crowd, carrying a wooden plate of potato fritters. He answered Meya's grin and settled down beside her. Noticing the still-full cocoa bowl, he chuckled,

"Not to your taste?"

Meya shrugged with an apologetic grimace as she handed him the bowl,

"Needs more honey, I guess. A lot more."

"Or perhaps more time to ferment." Coris cocked his head, took the bowl back then offered her the potatoes, "Try this."

Meya blinked. Apart from the little black specks on top she reckoned were soot or pepper, they looked no different from the fried potatoes she'd eaten all her life.

"Thanks, I guess." Shrugging, she picked up one piece and popped it in whole without blowing; it was already lukewarm.

An earthy, oily smell gushed out, filling her nostrils from inside her mouth. Meya's eyes widened, then drooped close. A drowsy bliss coursed through her body. If the Heights had a taste, it would be this.

"Hmm," Meya chewed until the crispy crust turned to mush, savoring the peculiar scent, then sent it down her gullet with a reluctant gulp. She turned around to find Coris looking expectantly at her. She tilted her head, eyebrows tied as she struggled to explain her experience,

"There's this weird smell. Can't describe it but I love it."

"Exactly," Coris grinned, "It's topped with truffle salt."

"Truffle?" Meya gawked at the fritters, then Coris, "They say that's food from the Heights!"

"Home grown in Hadrian," Coris sang happily, "It's one of the new crops we're experimenting with, alongside grapes, mulberry, cocoa and vanilla."

"Vanilla?" Meya asked. Coris's little sly smile returned,

"That sweet smell in the cocoa? Vanilla."

Meya mouthed the unfamiliar word. Coris slithered his hand down his trouser pocket, then produced a brownish-black, shriveled-looking, curled twig as long as his hand, which he offered Meya.

Meya held it up to her nose. She didn't need to sniff for the sweet aroma to fill her nostrils. She inhaled deeply, then sighed in contentment. Smiling, she handed the pod back to Coris,

"This would go very well with milk and bread, don't you think?"

"Exactly," Coris pocketed the aromatic pod.

Meya was imagining her favorite pastries coupled with vanilla when the pieces fell into place. She whipped around to Coris with an accusing finger,

"So, all these stuff you had me try...?"

Coris's grin widened, showing two rows of yellowed teeth.

"Yes. These merchants—" He cast his eyes at the surrounding stalls "—are using truffles, wine grapes and silkworms grown in the castle's estate to make their products. And the King of the Southern Island just agreed to export cocoa and vanilla to Latakia through the Southmeathe Port. I'm helping Father gauge whether these would be profitable to grow in Hadrian."

Meya nodded, both awed and annoyed that the lad had used her as a guinea pig. Pouting, she motioned at the fritter plate in Coris's hand.

"Well, you're the mastermind, why don't you have some yourself?"

Coris chuckled.

"Lard doesn't agree with my bowels." At the sight of Meya's crestfallen face, he added, "I can get mash and truffle anytime back home. Go on. Don't feel bad for me."

Coris prodded her arm with the fritter plate. Meya bit her lips. She loved the fritters, but she didn't feel like munching through it alone as the poor lad watched.

"Is there anything here that does agree with your bowels?" She sprang up and scanned the vicinity, peering through the milling crowd,

"Let's see. Nothing hot. Nothing spicy. Nothing sour. Nothing oily. Nothing chewy. How about something...light and sweet?"

Meya's eyes settled upon a stall front lined with tufts of colorful cotton candy. She snatched Coris's arm and pulled him to his feet. Coris grabbed the cocoa bowl just in time before she plunged him into the fray.

Meya weaved through the crowd, eyes anchored to her destination. When you were born a peasant, battling crowds became pretty much one of your basic life skills.

They managed to squeeze their way to the storefront just as the earlier customer was leaving; a woman hitching a kicking, bawling toddler to her hip with one arm, and jiggling up the bulging shopping bag in the other to hand the vendor a coin and snatch a stick of candy floss as she walked past, all done in less than a quarter-minute.

"One latt, young lass." The old merchant chirped. Meya rummaged in her dress pocket for two bronze coins.

"There you go." She deposited them in the merchant's pale, lined palm, nabbed two rolls of leaf-green cotton candy wrapped in hair-thin, off-white flour pancakes, dropped one on the fritter plate Coris was holding, "And there you go."

Meya stuffed the end of the second roll into her mouth to free her hand for swatting aside people, then ventured off again. She breached the crowd out to the deserted area in front of the Town Hall. She let go of Coris's clammy arm, bit off the melting end of the roll in her mouth, and held the rest in her hand.

Coris set the cocoa bowl on the wall, eyeing his cotton roll. Meya gestured with her floppy roll, talking through a mouthful of half-munched green sugar,

"I know you favor green. Half your underpants are varying shades of vert. Some are older than others, granted."

"Ari!" Coris cried, cheeks flushing pink. Meya guffawed, slapping a hand over her mouth as she slurped the overflowing green mixture of sugar goo and spit back inside.

With a sigh and a grin, Coris shook his head and began nibbling on the sweet treat.

Meya polished off her roll in about as long as it took to buy it. Coris, forever the knight, quietly gave her the plate of fritters, and Meya happily obliged.

Popping a fritter into her mouth, Meya peered past the iron gates and the barren stone-paved court to the Town Hall. It was built of sandstone, with a copper-tiled roof dyed milky green by a coat of patina. Merchants and clerks walked through the arched doorway, toting scrolls and paperwork.

An empty stone plinth stood at the heart of the courtyard, bearing a gleaming copper nameplate inscribed with information on the nonexistent monument.

Meya poked Coris's arm,

"Say, what's that plinth for?"

Coris craned his neck to see past her.

"Oh," He scratched his cheek, "That used to be the statue of Maxus, the first Baron Hadrian."

Meya raised her eyebrows, intrigued.

The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

"It was made of bronze, so Father had it melted. The metal shortage here is a little worse than Crosset. We're furthest from Easthaven Port, but it's up to us to arm Amplevale Fortress against Nostra."

Again with that metal shortage. Meya churned her lips as she eyed the empty plinth.

"Poor chap." She mused with a wry grin, "His bones are probably rattling in his grave."

"His ghost hasn't come to haunt our dreams yet. Let's hope it stays that way." Coris jokingly shivered, then cocked his head towards the Hall, "Want to go for a tour?"

Meya nodded with a grin, tossing another fritter into her mouth. Coris strode around Meya to the gate, holding the inside door open as Meya passed through.

They crossed the courtyard and passed through the arched door into the main hall. Bare wooden trusses bear the weight of the high vaulted ceiling. Guild headquarters lined the three walls, bearing the insignia of their trades. The clerks were either out for lunch, tearing through paperwork at the back as the queue grew longer, or jotting down complaints from members lining up before their windows.

The blacksmith guild had the longest line, or rather, crowd. Merchants and peasants swarmed the counter like flies on dung, yelling and shaking their fists as the beleaguered apprentice boy cowered behind the counter.

"Metal shortage," sighed Coris, shaking his head, "Either prices have risen again, or someone's been hoarding. Wait here."

Coris ushered the cocoa bowl to Meya, then strode towards the guild. He stopped short of the roiling crowd and rapped on the side door.

The peeping slot behind a small grille window slid aside to reveal a pair of blinking eyes. Coris held up his Hadrian Crest. The door immediately swung open to admit him.

Coris's direct order was for Meya to stay where she was, but it was impossible to do nothing. She crept closer to the throng until she could make sense of their yelling.

"Fifty latts for a sickle! This is lunacy!" An old farmer waved his rusty sickle; his cheeks flooded with heated blood. Other farmers and shepherds echoed his sentiment.

"Not one pebble of ore has dropped on my doorstep in a month, Hemrond! It's called supply and demand!" The blacksmith roared back.

"This 'ere lad's paying us fake coins!" A heavy-set merchant woman had a struggling young man by the back of his collar, flanked by five just-as-intimidating merchant ladies.

"Storm season's a-comin' and I don't have no nails to patch me roof with!" A peasant man whined.

"Forget yer roof. Sewer behind me house's been broken for a moon. Now everything I have smells like shite!" Another man shouted over him. Fair enough, everyone gave him personal space in the middle of the throng.

"We need new pipes! My bathwater smells like metal shavings!" A housewife added, followed by several shouts of agreement.

The complaints went on and on. At first glance, all seemed random and anecdotal, as if they should've belonged somewhere else, but once filtered down, the root cause became the same. There was no metal left in town.

⏳

By the time Coris emerged, Meya had finished the fritters. He seemed surprised to see her next to the angry mob, but at last, he smiled and motioned for her to follow,

"So, what have you gleaned so far?" He asked as she fell in step with him. Meya glanced back at the guild. A senior blacksmith had taken over at the counter, hands raised as he appeased the crowd.

"Broken pipes. Stolen pipes. Fake coins. Coin hoarders. Smiths have no ores to work with. Farmers, stonemasons and lumberjacks got no tools to do their jobs. Nobody can prepare their houses for storm season, yada yada."

She left off with a weary sigh, then nudged Coris's shoulder.

"What about you? What have you got?"

"Seems like nothing more than shortage. The usual. No suspicious activity." Coris shrugged, but his eyebrows were knotted, and his eyes distant.

"There's still no directive from Meriton on what to do, so I've asked them to accept only urgent complaints for now. I'll report to Father when we get back."

"How d'you decide what's urgent?"

"Well, for example, planting season is over, so farmers won't need their tools again until the harvest in late summer. They'll have to make do with sanding and whetting rusty tools for now. But storm prepping; that's a life-or-death issue. If necessary, we might have to melt farming tools to make nails, drain pipes and roof tiles. Or we can have the peasants take shelter in the castle and strong buildings."

"Like here?" Meya suggested as they climbed the staircase to the mezzanine, where the bailiff and other officers had their workrooms. Coris nodded with another smile.

The mezzanine's metal railings had been replaced with crude wooden fences. Empty stone plinths that once carried ornate vases and statuettes lined the walls. Twin foot-shaped lighter patches between the plinths marked where suits of armors once stood; hands clasped over the hilt of their swords.

Meya pictured faceless men carrying off the suits of armor, the statuettes, and railings. Each tossed to its fiery end in the crucible. It was a gloomy scene.

Coris stopped before a marble plinth at the end of the corridor, staring fixed at the thin air over it as if he saw what was once there.

His face was as empty as the plinth he admired, but his eyes brimmed with nostalgia. Meya gave him some personal time, then mustered her courage,

"What was there?" She whispered. For a moment, Coris didn't seem to have heard, but then he answered just as softly,

"Corien's Harp."

Meya's eyes widened.

"Corien? But that's your—"

Coris side-eyed her with a slight grin.

"Corien was Drinian's cousin who died in Everglen before the migration. That's all we know about him. There's nothing left of him but his harp. When Mother was pregnant with me, she longed to hear the Harp's Song, so I'm named after him."

A wistful smile tugging at his parched lips, he chuckled,

"When I was younger, whenever Father took me here, I'd sneak off to pluck the harp then run and hide. You know, just to annoy the old men?"

They shared a sad little laugh. Coris turned back to the air harp as silence fell. Meya wasn't sure if it was curiosity or sympathy that compelled her to speak,

"You wanted to say something, right? Back at dinner that day?"

Coris turned to her with a puzzled look.

"Your father wants to keep the Mining Ban. King Alden wants to lift it. You side with the King, so the Baron doesn't want to talk to you about it?"

Coris's eyes lost focus as he thought back, then widened. The gloomy aura over him dissipated, and his pale face brightened,

"You noticed?" He asked excitedly, then shook his head and muttered grumpily, "If only Zier were half as attentive."

"So, what were you going to say?" Meya asked. Coris huffed in frustration,

"What I've been saying for months. We must resume mining in Latakia now, which...is heresy in Hadrian, of course." He shrugged, looking careworn,

"Maxus was a founding father of the Mining Ban alongside King Edward and the High Priest. And every Baron Hadrian, every Wynn King, every High Priest since honored their legacy."

"But now we have a Corbyn for a king."

"Exactly. And he questions that legacy."

Coris leaned closer, his voice lowered,

"And I question that legacy. Amplevale is our one line of defense; the moment Nostra sees a crack in our wall, they'll storm the Pass. We must keep Amplevale armed at any cost. Unfortunately, catastrophe is often the best lobbyist. Such is the flaw of men."

A dangerous, ruthless gleam crossed Coris's eyes, now stormy gray. Meya steered the conversation away before he chanced upon a reckless idea,

"What's the reason, anyway? What's wrong with mining? All those lords honestly don't believe it'd bring about Freda's damnation, do they?"

"Of course, they don't." Coris smirked wryly, "But Father's lie, they believe. Father accused the King of exaggerating the ore ship crisis so he'd have an excuse to seize the lords' lands and centralize mining."

"Centralize?"

"It means the King controls mining across Latakia, instead of each lord having authority over his demesne. Back in the time of First King Latakas, the tribes and clans relinquished control over their fief, trusted their might to the one King so he may unite Latakia and defend her from Nostra."

"But it's been two centuries since Nostra attacked last. And Devind the Demented proved that much power may be too great to be contained in one man. The bond of trust was broken. We supported Alden Corbyn's rebellion on the condition that once we sat the crown on his head, he doesn't interfere in our demesne."

"Ah...And since King Alden overthrew Devind precisely because he had too much power, he'd be a dirty hypocrite if he wants to centralize mining himself? And the lords are afraid he's following in King Devind's footsteps?"

"Exactly."

"But, it's been what, ten years? Why hadn't the lords started mining in their lands already? If King Alden couldn't interfere anyway, so what if they broke the Ban?" Meya argued.

"My father is why," replied Coris with a sardonic smirk. Meya raised her eyebrows, blinking.

"Freda's blessing is like rain. Some lords have no ore veins on their demesne. Some have ore veins poisoned by Lattis and have no way to refine them. These lords support the Ban because they fear what may happen if their blessed neighbors can finally mine. And they have Hadrian and Amplevale's might behind them."

"But what about Hadrian, then? What have we got from Freda?"

At that, Coris lowered his glinting eyes to her chest. Meya followed and found her Lattis coin, gleaming rainbow in the sunlight streaming through the windows. Her eyes widened,

"Lattis?"

Meya half-hoped Coris to say he was jesting, but he nodded. Bells rang in her head, then. Meya grasped the ruby brooch on her chest, unpinning it with hasty, fumbling fingers.

"This knife. It's made from Lattis, isn't it?"

Meya unsheathed the tiny blade, then her breath caught. The once razor-sharp knife was dull and distorted, half-melted as if licked by white-hot flames.

Blood of a Greeneye is the only known method of refining Lattis. Lattis melts readily in it.

Meya's hand trembled. She'd seen what this thing could do to Greeneyes—to people like her.

But what exactly are us Greeneyes? Why does Lattis hurt us but not...them?

Meya sneaked a glance at Coris, speaking as casually as she could,

"Zier barely even scratched them, and they were screaming like they were being burned alive. And then they fled..." Meya glanced left and right to check if the coast was clear, then leaned in with a whisper, "...on dragons?"

Meya held her breath as she locked eyes with Coris. Did he see the same thing she thought she saw? After what felt like three Miracle Fests, Coris gave a curt, almost invisible nod.

Strength left Meya's legs. She slumped against the wall, massaging her temples.

"This might explain why Nostra attacked Rutgarth back then. If Lattis could be used against dragon riders, they wouldn't allow Latakia to mine it," reasoned Coris. Meya was only half-listening. A single word echoed in her brain, ricocheting like a crazed bird caged.

Dragons. Dragons. Dragons. Dragons. Dragons.

That mural in the Hadrian Chapel. Those glowing, acid-green eyes of the dragons migrating from Everglen. Eyes like hers. Twenty pairs of those same eyes glowed in the dark. Last night. On that hill.

What if all the dragons hadn't flown to Nostra? What if some of them, like Drinian Hadrian, decided to settle halfway in Latakia and bond with humans as dragons and riders?

But if Greeneyes were dragon riders, how would she explain herself being born a Greeneye while her siblings and her parents were ordinary people with normal eyes?

"Maxus was a blacksmith in Rutgarth. He survived the Fall but was captured. The Nostrans imprisoned him for ten years, before he escaped back to Latakia with The Axel. He received an audience with King Edward. Not long after, the Mining Ban was announced."

Meya snapped out of her reverie.

"Wait, the Ban wasn't announced right after Rutgarth was attacked?"

Coris leaned in so close their foreheads touched,

"That's why I'm sure The Axel has something to do with it, but why ban mining if our only weapon against dragons is under our feet? Unless..."

Coris froze, his eyes losing focus.

"Unless what?" Meya prodded.

Coris held up his hand, leaving Meya to rock restlessly on the balls of her feet. Then, he folded four fingers, pointing at Meya's chest.

"Maxus and King Edward weren't trying to fight dragons." He began slowly, poring deep into her eyes,

"They were trying to protect the dragons. From us."

Protect? Dragons?

Meya opened her mouth, but no words came out. Why would dragons need protecting? Who'd want to protect dragons? They were dragons, for Freda's sake! They could melt mountain faces with one fiery breath, let alone a puny human.

Suddenly, the floor shook and tilted. Meya screamed as she flung herself against the wall and squeezed her eyes shut. She felt the cold from Coris's body above her, shielding her.

The quake lasted a few breaths before the world stilled. Meya trembled as she peeled herself from the wall and fell against Coris's chest.

"It's alright. It's gone now. Everything's fine." His soft voice flowed over her like a calm breeze as his clammy hand smoothed her hair.

"What in the three lands was that?" Meya demanded, voice shaking as hard as her hands twisting Coris's tunic. Coris shrugged nonchalantly,

"Just an earthquake. 'Tis no big deal."

"No big deal!?" Meya snapped, pushing away from Coris. He looked both surprised and on the verge of busting his guts laughing.

Meya's cheeks burned. She turned sharply away, having just realized she was the only one screaming in the whole building. The busy buzz downstairs droned through the ordeal as if nothing had happened.

"We feel quakes from Neverend Heights here in the far west. The volcano's still puffing brimstone."

Coris explained, his voice rippling with laughter, then walked back towards a door at the end of the hallway,

"I'll meet with Bailiff Mansfuld. You have a look around. Nothing much to see, though."

He said with a wink as Meya blinked blankly, then spun around and strode off.

A sharp crack echoed from above. Meya looked up. One end of a wooden truss had broken free and was free-falling towards Coris.

"Coris! Get Out!"

Meya screamed as she launched herself at Coris. The flat of her palms slammed into his bony back, pitching him face-first to the floor.

Coris whipped around, wide-eyed in horror. The heavy plank landed a decapitating blow to Meya's nape, then darkness consumed her.