The black mare groaned and snorted as Zier strode up to face her, splattering him with droplets of her drool. Her head swung in the opposite direction of her torso as she faltered on four dusty hooves. He reached out, and she nuzzled her forehead against his palm, her half-open eyes drooping close. Zier brought his free arm around her neck thick as a young tree and drew her close.

"Hang in there, big girl." He whispered as he combed down her wind-ruffled mane.

He looked up at the sound of wagon wheels crunching to a stop. Coris emerged from the grandest carriage and disembarked with a skidding thud.

Zier clung to Jetta, inhaled deeply, then turned to receive his brother's displeasure.

"What's going on? Why have we stopped?" The heir swept in, crimson cloak billowing in the breeze, followed by his redheaded mistress.

Simon led his ambling, moaning stallion by the reins into their circle. Christopher's steed, meanwhile, had given up on her legs and was on the ground, keening in apparent discomfort. Coris blinked down at her, then at his trusty mare, Jetta, horror draining color from his hollowed cheeks.

"They can barely stand on their hooves. Must be the heat or the stress from the journey." Patting his horse's neck, Simon jerked his head towards the rest of the entourage. All around, horses are either on their feet groaning, or on their side moaning, refusing point-blank to walk another step with human loads on their backs.

"All of them? At roughly the same time? For Freda's sake, Simon. Use your head." Coris rolled his eyes. Simon strove to remain deadpan, but couldn't hide the pink shine on his cheekbones. Coris shook his head, gray eyes darting about the scattered throng. "More like the hay or water is contaminated."

"Could it be Persephia poisoned them? So we wouldn't be able to pursue her?" Christopher strode in, followed by Sir Jarl, whose horse had joined the former's on the gravel. Coris stroked his tapered chin as he weighed it.

"It's possible." He doled out a few nods of approval. Simon stalked away, swearing under his breath. Coris was too immersed in the matter at hand to notice.

"This may set us back for days." He muttered. Meya reached out to prod him, but he spun around to the marshal first, "How much supplies do we have?"

Sir Jarl tore his careworn gaze away from Simon's retreating back to his young master. He cocked his head in rapid calculation.

"I'd say just enough for three days. We threw out the whole vat of spiked stew, so there isn't much to spare."

The four teens drew a collective breath of terror. Meya and Christopher met each other's gazes, pale and stricken. Coris crossed his arms, his eyes fixed on the gravel.

"Cutting it close, eh." He nodded to himself. After half a minute of deliberation, he looked up with eyes ablaze, turning first to Christopher.

"Call down those four. No more training. They must preserve their strength." He jerked his head towards the four frolicking shadows in the sky, then pulled the Lattis whistle from under his collar and offered it to the Meriton heir. As Christopher sprinted away, blowing into the metal tube, Coris grasped Meya's arms, wracked with guilt.

"Meya, I'm so sorry. I'm afraid the six of you would have to rely solely on feeding from now."

Meya followed her fellow dragons out of the corner of her eye as they headed for earth, growing larger and clearer by the second.

"We could fly to Hyacinth and bring back food." She suggested. Coris's frown deepened.

"You're still injured." He flicked an insinuating look towards her so-called site of injury—Meya's cheeks burned—then propped his hands on his waist, eyebrow raised, "Besides, how do you think Hyacinth will react upon seeing six dragons approaching?"

Meya froze, then sighed in annoyance. She'd completely forgotten about that.

"We could send a pigeon and ask them to deliver us supplies." Zier finally contributed his two latts to the pool. Coris's glare slid to him, and he deflated in relief at his brother's nod of approval.

"It'd take a day for the bird to reach them, and two days for them to reach us here." Coris gazed off into the distance, as if plans only he could see were scrawled into thin air,

"We'd have to move closer. Soon as the horses are ready, we set out. I'll send Lady Hyacinth a bird and tell them to meet us at the first qanats—Sir Jarl, please see to the horses. Have your men throw out the water and check the hay for poisonous weeds."

The marshal dipped a quick bow, then hurried away. Coris turned back to Zier, who hastily stood at attention. He tilted his head at the neck-craning, loitering crowd.

"Zier, call a meeting and bring them up to speed. We must preserve as much water as possible. Instruct everyone to stay in the shade and refrain from talking."

At the prospect of the dreaded public speaking, Zier opened his mouth to protest. However, at Coris's encouraging nod, he gulped it down and eked out a slight grin. Meya urged him further with a smile, and he finally set off, taking hearty, stiff steps towards their worried subjects.

Vibrations strummed up against the soles of their feet from approaching heavy footfalls. The remaining couple whirled around to find Christopher wading back through the ankle-high heat haze, two metal-clad, horned reptiles fanned out on each flank, a dark shadow backlit by the noon sun.

Meya succumbed to a reluctant blink, mesmerized by the magnificence unfolding. She was startled awake by the crunch of boots on grit as Coris rushed ahead to meet them. Rubbing in frustration at her rosy cheek, Meya took off in a sprint then screeched to a halt—she could be carrying wee-Coris, after all. Sighing, she restrained herself to long, firm-footed strides instead.

"Dragons." Coris proclaimed as she drew level with him, twig arms thrown wide as his magnanimous smile. However, his expression then morphed to somber.

"We need you to fly to the first qanats and carry water back. Please. It should only take a few hours by flight. Simon will—"

Coris turned around, expecting to see his cousin still dutifully awaiting his command. He glanced about wildly, prompting Meya to meet eyes with Freda up in the Heights, then rounded on Christopher,

"Where's Simon?"

Christopher blinked. Then blinked again.

"You hadn't...noticed?" He asked, a crooked finger pointing in Coris's direction. Coris frowned deeper.

"Noticed what?"

Christopher spared another blink as he processed the utter idiocy of his charge, then huffed a breath of resignation.

"Never mind. What do you want him to do?" He played along, but, like the tempest he was named for, Coris had changed his mind in a blink.

"Nothing—" He trained his commanding stare on the Meriton heir instead, cocking his head at the waiting dragons, "Chris, you bring them up to speed and lead them to the qanats."

Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

Christopher stood frozen, aghast, then his expression darkened.

"No. Simon is going, and you're going to tell him yourself." He marched forth, looming like a tipping boulder over Coris. Coris rolled his eyes.

"I have matters to attend to." Lord Hadrian spun away and made to head off. Teeth gnashing, Chris stepped onto his path.

"He's your cousin, Coris! Not some servant you can summon and dismiss as you please!" He jabbed a vicious finger into his friend's bony ribcage.

"And we're about to starve here, Chris!" Coris exploded, arms flailing, "Someone must go with the dragons. One of you. Both. I don't care. Anyone with opposable thumbs and the ability to read maps. So, for the love of Freda, just go!"

Christopher opened his mouth, but bit it back in favor of one last scandalized look at the donghead, then flounced off. The dragons turned tail and trooped after him—a small one (it was obvious which one) managed to thwack Coris on the noggin with his tail as he did. Keening in fake contrition, he scampered away, wings flapping.

"I do not accept your apology, Frenix Pearlwater!" Coris hollered as he staggered upright, clutching his precious dome. Meya's eyes were stinging from lack of moisture, but she couldn't blink as she appreciated the possible father of her child in his full glory.

"Corien Alexis Hadrian. What—in these three stinking lands—was that?" She jabbed her finger at Chris's receding back. Coris whipped around, his eyes now stormy orbs swirling with madness.

"That, Maelaith, was delegation!" He snapped, one hand still fondling his ruined hair, the other pointing at the four shadows soaring into the Heights. A round of successive eye-rolling ensued, then Coris stormed towards the entourage, arms swinging in all directions,

"Please, Meya. For all we know, Simon's probably distracted by some movement in the distance and wandered off. Chris is the better man for the job, anyway—any job, actually—I should've known. You'd do better to worry about yourself. You need to recover. Get some rest."

Having wrapped up his delegation by assigning his wife to bed, he veered towards their carriage, no doubt to start on his letter to Lady Hyacinth. Meya indulged in a sigh of self-pity, then set off after him. She hadn't the slightest intention to rest, however, as she helped the feeble young man up the steps then climbed inside.

"What's a qanat?" Meya demanded as soon as they had settled around the low table. Coris narrowed his eyes and jerked his head towards the cushioned seat. Meya continued to rankle him with her innocent stare. At long last, he heaved a sigh of surrender.

"A qanat is an underground structure used to deliver water from an elevated source, usually beneath a mountain, to a settlement on lower ground." He unraveled a strip of blank parchment, weighing down its corners with writing equipment, "Vertical holes would be dug at intervals for maintenance access and air ventilation, that's where we could get water."

Meya attempted to doodle the structure in her head as she followed his esoteric explanation, then vented her impatience with a sigh. She'd bet Coris had lifted the passage verbatim from some renowned treatise. Whether he did it intentionally to bore her so she'd retire to bed, or he was too distracted to realize she could barely understand half the terms he had parroted to her, with him in his current erratic state, it was impossible to discern. But she'd be damned if she didn't try, nevertheless.

Meya watched in silence as connected letters gushed out through the nib of Coris's quill, like water from a pin-hole hose. His print wasn't stencil-perfect like usual. His hand shook, and his knuckles shone under the strain. Meya's fury calmed as she remembered the night on the moor, and realized what had caused his obnoxious side to leak out.

Coris hated derailed plans. He feared losing control of his checkerboard, as it often resulted in loss of life. It reminded him of Cristoria. Naturally, Zier was the variable he struggled to plan for the most—the selfish, impulsive spare was utterly unpredictable, even to Meya herself. But if this time it wasn't Zier, then what? Coris was scared—and suppressing it with anger, as usual—but of what?

"'Tis Persephia, d'you think?"

Meya probed. Coris shook his head as if startling off imagined gnats,

"I can't draw conclusions. Least not this early on. Heat, stress, fatigue, diet, disease, poison—anything could be the cause. I'm no equine expert." He crossed out a whole poorly-worded sentence, then resumed his desperate scribbling, "I just hope it isn't the hay. Horses must graze constantly, and there's a dearth of flora in this area that we know to be safe—"

Coris's quill danced out of his hand onto the wood with a clatter. For a breath, silence descended, heralding the ominous. Coris gaped at his latest failure, then his trembling hands moved towards his head.

"Oh, Freda. It's Cristoria all over again." He clawed at his scalp, his voice choked with suppressed sobs. Meya's hand shot out on instinct, but he whipped around before she could reach him, eyes wide and bloodshot, hyperventilating—

"Laudanum." He demanded, fingernails gouging the flesh of her arms as he rattled her in desperation, half-wheezing, half crying—"Is it time? Where is it? I want my laudanum! Please, Meya, please—I can't—I can't—"

"Yes, Coris, you can!" Meya grabbed his bony shoulders—then his cheeks, forcing him to face her, "Look at me—Coris, look at me—"

She growled through gritted teeth, but Coris did not seem to have heard, lost in his void of woes.

"I should've foreseen this. I should have—" He squirmed in her grasp, bulging gray eyes ricocheting in their sockets.

"No! No-one could've foreseen this." Meya cut across his rambling. Coris gawked up at her, lost and skeptical, and she hammered out a nod. Eyes blazing, she leaned in, her voice a vicious hiss as she shook him back to his senses, "We've got six dragons here. We won't starve. And there are bound to be other parties passing by. We could trade for bread and water."

Silence fell but for their ragged breathing, echoing after one another, falling in synchronization as they slowed. The raging tempest dissipated into clear silvery sky. Coris let out a long sigh, seeming to shrink in her hands.

"You're right, of course." He breathed, then clawed at his face, stammering "I-I'm so sorry, Meya. That was most embarrassing—"

Meya silenced him with a fierce embrace. Coris resisted, only to melt to her warmth. Their sighs chorused as each rested their head on the other's shoulder.

"You're shouldering dozens of lives. You're worried for Jetta. You're scared. You're stressed. We know." She combed her words into his hair with gentle fingers, then shrugged, "Still dun grant anyone the right to be the consummate arse. So, finish that letter, then go think how you'll patch it up with Simon."

"If only I had any idea how I've wronged him." Grumbled the consummate arse as he slithered down to nestle his inflated head between her sore breasts. Meya gritted her teeth in both pain and annoyance.

"You'd do better to ask him, if you're that dense." She suggested through grinding teeth, prompting Coris to seal his trap. Meya allowed him a few more moments with his beloved pillows before pulling apart.

As Coris reluctantly returned to his letter, Meya pulled out the drawer beneath the seat, hoisted up the chest sitting inside, plopped it on her lap, then unhooked the clasp. She spotted the familiar cork-stoppered vial amid the various trinkets at once. She spun around and held it up for the Lord Hadrian to see,

"Now, I'm gunna take this with me, just in case—"

Meya broke off, having just gotten a good look at the vial. When she had last administered it the evening before, it was still over half full. Coris was supposed to wean himself off the substance gradually. Yet now, only a small drop of laudanum clung to the rounded corner of the bottle.

Meya saw her hand tremble, but didn't feel it. All she felt was her heart pounding against her ribs, her pulse hammering in her ears. She allowed gravity to pull her arm down to earth, revealing Coris, slumped, frozen and pale behind his table. He shook his head, eyes wide and pleading,

"Meya, I swear to Freda. I haven't touched that vial."

Meya filled her lungs, then plunged silently into the depths of his pupils. She believed him. She retreated, witnessing as relief and gratitude inundate his eyes and flow out to light up his face. Hoping against hope that she wouldn't have to regret this choice, she creaked up a wan smile, then returned her attention to the vial. If Coris hadn't been using behind her back, then there was only one other probable culprit.

"Is laudanum poisonous to horses?" She edged back to her side of the table. Coris seemed to have reverted to his calm, calculating self, and his eyes had that familiar sharp glint in them—he had arrived at the same hypothesis.

"Laudanum is extracted from the poppy plant, which could make horses slow and drowsy in large amounts." His mask slipped momentarily as he raked back his hair, weak with relief, "Oh, thank Freda. It's the water, then."

"D'you reckon 'tis Persephia?" Meya leaned across and took his free hand. This time, Coris was willing to conclude,

"Persephia had enough sleeping draught with her to drug our whole entourage. Why would she risk sneaking into our tent to steal my laudanum, just to drug the horses?" He shook his head, narrowed, flashing eyes staring right through her, "I think it's more likely to be someone among us. Someone who had access to our tent at will, who knows where you kept the laudanum. But why?"

Coris's distant gaze flicked back to hers, frowning. Meya could only shrug, similarly stumped.

"Yeah. Seems to me all they wanted was to slow us down for a few days, but no ill intent. Why?"

Silence fell as they each wracked their brains, to no avail. Amid the stillness and smothering heat, Meya was jolted awake by the touch of Coris's hand upon hers. She looked up and found beautiful silvery eyes. His stare was intense, as if to captivate her soul, its grip as strong as that of his cold hand around hers. Its pressure was crushing, she could hardly breathe. Yet, somehow, she felt safe and at ease. He was ice, but in this moment, he radiated warmth. It was like that literary term he had taught her—a paradox.

"Whatever happens, I'll protect you, Meya." He said simply, as if stating universal truth. "You'll be alright."

Meya found herself smiling as warmth washed over her. Yes, it was the truth.

"I know, Lexi." She whispered, her hidden hand cradling her belly.

"I know we'll be."