Coris didn't wait for Meya's return. Having fulfilled his goal of meeting his kidnapper, he left with Zier and Arinel for Hadrian Castle, and arranged for the Armorheims to hitch a ride on another merchant caravan back to Crosset the following morning.

Meya spent her last days in Hadrian with her siblings and the two Boszels, enjoying her first May Fest. Meanwhile, Coris was home supervising preparations for their voyage to Safyre.

His parents had seen fit to add Fione, Heloise, Frenix Pearlwater and Amara Hyacinth to the entourage. In the case of Fione and Heloise, it was part of their training, but for Frenix, it was because being a Greeneye, the young page would probably burn Hadrian to the ground if he weren't allowed to go on such an adventure with the big boys. Figuratively and literally (You never know with that kid).

Over to little Amara, she was less than thrilled to drop by her hometown, Hyacinth, the last stop before Safyre. But her mother, Lady Amoriah, insisted Amara visit. Coris suspected she was suffering the empty-nest blues, now that her daughters had left for training and she was stuck with her son. Based on the rumors Coris had heard of the Hyacinth women, this anecdote came as a slight surprise. Still, it was nothing compared to the surprise he would stumble into at Bishop Riddell's lab.

----------------------------------------

Bishop Riddell prided himself on his ability to focus on several tasks. His eyes fixed upon the rows of glass beakers on his cluttered workstation, he explained the complex procedure to his young assistant Meya, who hovered beside him scribbling down notes.

His ears were tuned in to the steady drip of the water hourglass as he timed his experiment, but he caught the gist of what the two men beside him were discussing.

(If you must know, it was the weather, then their children's dissatisfactory choice of life partners, then the weather again, and whether it was just one of them or the other also caught a whiff of a burning smell. No one tolerated silent waiting like an alchemist).

Riddell also felt the vibration of approaching footsteps before the door to his lab swung open.

His assistant and the two chitchatting audience spun around, while Riddell remained bent over his alchemy vials.

"Sir Apollon, you sought my audience?" said Lord Coris in his cool, cracked voice. The men of lesser status didn't have time to address him first, as was customary. Head Cook Apollon seemed taken aback. He hadn't expected Lord Coris to visit the alchemist's lab himself, and right away, too.

"My lord, you shouldn't have," Apollon protested, feeling his bald crown sheepishly. Coris cocked his head, his eyes twinkling.

"It was a choice between review the budget for my honeymoon or fob it off on Zier as I watch Bishop Riddell singe his other eyebrow off. I chose befitting revenge."

Coris's smile widened in relish. He had the sense to at least seem apologetic when he met Arinel's eyes, however. Then, he turned to the most senior man in the room,

"Bailiff Mansfuld. Sorry to keep you waiting."

"Agh, nonsense," Hunchbacked old Frentis Mansfuld lifted a veined hand from his knobby cane and wave it aside. Traces of affection lurked in his smoky gray eyes, even as the lines on his face were fixed in his usual scowl, "We're still waiting for the results, anyway."

"Results?"

Mansfuld nodded towards Riddell's workstation. Blinking, Coris craned his neck to see. Apollon obligingly edged his voluminous self aside to make way. With Riddell still occupied with timing the experiment, Arinel stepped up to explain,

"My lord, these three beakers contain soil samples from Amplevale being tested for nutrients." She swept a graceful hand and introduced the glass containers, which held dark brown soil steeped in different colored liquids, "Lord Amplevale brought them over when he attended your wedding."

"The fortress's cropland has been performing poorly this year, my lord." said Bailiff Mansfuld. He raised his withered hand and counted,

"Weather ideal. No pest nor disease. No brimstone in the air. No acid rain. Tenorus has already tested the air and water samples. Nothing out of the ordinary. That leaves the earth."

The last drop of red liquid in the water hourglass slid through the tunnel, joining its friends with a minuscule splash. Bishop Riddell straightened as if jolted by electricity. He took a roll of parchment from Arinel and unfurled it, revealing instructions in black ink, interspersed with illustrations, followed by a row of paint daubs. He held it against the beakers.

"Very well. Ten minutes for Dragon Crystal. Fifteen for Alum. Twenty for Mephitic Air." His narrowed eyes flicked back and forth as he compared the colors, "No visible change in color. That means none or trace amounts."

Coris thought he must have misheard. Those three minerals were the essential nutrients for all plant life. Without them, nothing would grow. And Amplevale, built on the volcanic soil of Neverend Heights, blessed by Freda herself, had always been ample with them.

Arinel pushed aside the three beakers, revealing two more rows of similar beakers behind, calling his attention.

"What about these?"

"These three, my lord, contains the soil I had the Bailiff took from our croplands." Bishop Riddell touched a disheveled finger to the first beaker in the front row, then moved to the back row, "These are the soil from the castle's estate the Cook brought in."

"I noticed our experimental vineyard is growing feeble, so I talked to the Bishop," said Head Cook Apollon, "He told me the Bailiff's received reports from the Reeve that our crops are withering as well."

"So are Clardarth's and Noxx's." Bailiff Mansfuld thrust an opened letter from inside his cloak at Coris, "Came from Bailiff Hutten just now. I'll report to your father tomorrow morn."

Coris's eyes widened as he scanned the short letter. At the sound of rustling paper, he turned back to the experiment. Bishop Riddell compared the color chart against the six remaining beakers, his face scrunched in deep concentration. He sighed, laid down the chart, then shook his head.

"Slight change. Better than Amplevale, but much less than normal."

A foreboding knot tightened in Coris' bowels. After a moment of rapid thinking, he turned to Bailiff Mansfuld,

"What is Father's directive for Amplevale? Has he sent word to Meriton? or Aynor?"

"The Baron simply arranged for manure and marl in our stores to be sent to Amplevale for now." said Mansfuld, a frown of frustration brewing between his bushy white eyebrows, "But, have a look at this, my lord."

He beckoned Coris closer then slid a piece of parchment before him. A map of Latakia. It was unmarked. Coris touched a pale finger to the dot marking Amplevale Fortress, tucked away in the mountains to the west, then dragged it slowly to the east.

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"Amplevale. Hadrian. Clardarth. Noxx..."

His finger skidded to a halt as he noticed the largest dot at the heart of the map: Aynor, the capital. Then a smaller dot just above, lurking within the shadows of a mountain range: Safyre.

"I see. So that's why you wanted to see me." said Coris, nodding. Head Cook Apollon bowed,

"We're noticing the start of a pattern, my lord. But it would be no use to report to Aynor without the barest guess of what is causing this."

Bishop Riddell turned to Coris, bowing in plea,

"How rude of me to trouble you with such matters during your honeymoon, my lord, but if you would instruct your men to take soil samples along the way and deliver it back for testing?"

Coris shook his head,

"Wouldn't it be more efficient if you came along? Bring whatever equipment you need. And your assistant, too."

Oh, Zier would love this.

He shot a sharp look at Arinel, who nodded fervently, then turned back to Bishop Riddell,

"You made the right call to report to me. We must make utmost haste. If your guess is correct, we could be looking at a countrywide famine."

He turned to Bailiff Mansfuld. The old man gave a single, heavy nod. Bishop Riddell nodded vigorously, looking as anxious as enthusiastic.

"Very well, my lord. I'll pack right away." His eyes were already darting all over his lab, dithering on what he would have to bring along. Coris nodded and turned to leave,

"I'll notify Sir Jarl of the change."

Coris was closing the door when Head Cook Apollon's booming voice floated through the narrow gap,

"Just my crazy hunch, but I'd say Nostra's behind this."

Coris stilled his hand on the doorknob, pulling the door in place.

"This?" said Bailiff Mansfuld's shrill croak, "My good fellow, you must have inhaled too much mushroom fumes in that kitchen! What kind of monstrous contraption could allow man to suck the elements straight out of the soil or summat?"

Coris imagined Apollon shrugging the remark off his massive shoulders.

"Like I said. Crazy hunch. Why so stern, you old thing?"

Yet, as Mansfuld huffed and grumbled under his breath about the folly of youngsters, the argument reminded Coris of his conversation with Meya a few days ago, when she asked him about dragon diet.

"Dragons derive their energy from the sun and absorb their nutrients straight from the earth. Like moving trees."

"Maybe this is why Nostra want to invade Latakia and claim Everglen. Their lands has been sucked dry..."

Moving trees...

Sucked dry...

Could it be?

Coris raised his gaze from the bustling courtyard to the sky. He could no longer see the sun. It must have drifted below the horizon, leaving behind glowing, fiery salmon pink streaks in the darkening powder blue.

Meya would be back soon. Perhaps he could discuss with her over dinner. She'd probably have some outlandish theories for him. At least, that was how he tried to explain away the unbidden leap in his heart at the thought. He was definitely not thinking about what usually comes after dinner these past few days.

Grinning to himself, Coris let go of the brass doorknob, careful not to prod the creaking door, then started toward the stables, keeping his head low to hide his burning cheeks in the collar of his cloak. He really should be focusing on work.

Lovesick as he was, poor Coris had no idea he was about to run into an even larger, more unpleasant surprise when his dragon girl returns.

⏳

Night had fallen by the time Coris made his way back to his bedchambers on the topmost floor of the Keep, dabbing at his red-rimmed eyes with the shoulder of his cloak as he went, to the alarm of servants who spotted him.

The door was unlocked, but on the high chance the other occupant was inside, he knocked. He heard a small squeal, a clunk of something hard colliding with the floor, a rustle of clothes, approaching footsteps, then the knob turned, and the door heaved back.

Meya stood panting, her cheeks flushed, the black voids of her pupils swallowing up her glowing irises. Her fringe was plastered to her forehead with sweat, the collar of her dress askew, and the skirt rumpled.

Behind her shoulder, Coris saw the contents of his rock chest sprawled on the flagstones. A hunk of pink crystal winked at him in the candlelight. Coris felt his grief subsiding in amusement.

"Sorry I'm late." He winked, a sly grin tugging at the corner of his lips. Meya scowled, her face blushing even deeper than her original hair color. Then, she noticed his nose and cheeks looked healthier than usual. Her hand shot towards his face. The pad of her thumb chafed the puffy skin beneath his eye.

"Lexi, what's wrong? You been crying?"

"I'm fine." Coris sniffed, shrugging as if to nudge his grin up, "I've just dropped by Beau's grave. Let him know we'll be away."

Meya wrapped her arms around him. He found her heat both soothing and energizing.

"We could've gone together." She murmured, then tugged him gently by the arm, "Come on. Dinner's just here. Your mother had them whip up all your favorites."

Coris couldn't tell due to the gunk in his nose, so he let Meya guide him to sustenance. They were indeed his old favorites. Coils of pasta doused in melted better, dusted with pepper, white truffle and grated cheese. Slabs of duck liver sandwiched between halves of sourdough muffins. A clay pot holding cold pumpkin soup, its subtle yellow surface decorated with a spiral of rich milk. Not a sliver of green in sight. An indulgence befitting of his last meal in Hadrian.

As they supped, munching and slurping oil from their fingers, Meya told him how Morel had decided to stay in Hadrian and apprentice in the Crimson Hog. After the meal, they sat with their backs against the bed, gnawing on Morel's homemade nougats. Meya showed him the shawl her baby sister Mistral had knitted for her birthday, and perused through the bundle of clothes, new and secondhand, and adornments her parents had sent her from Crosset. She pinned each tunic over her current dress, eagerly awaiting his compliment.

By far, things were going very well. Coris was looking forward to a night of slow burning romance, until Meya unfolded a tattered crimson cloak from the pile. Its vivid color jerked Coris awake from his drowsy calm like a slap to the cheek.

Hadrian Red.

Meya raised it up before her, a look of mild surprise on her face. Coris felt his bowels twist into a knot as the fabric fell to its length, revealing opaque patches of what was, unmistakably, blood.

Dragon blood. This dragon's blood, to be exact.

Coris reminded himself. There was no mistaking that size, cut, fabric and color. It was the cloak he had worn that fateful day, seven years ago, and which he had wrapped around the girl before him, whose dress had been torn to shreds from her transformation. He hardly dared breathe as he stared at Meya. Her face was scrunched in thought.

"Coris? 'Tis—'tis Hadrian Red, innit?" She turned to him, an eyebrow raised.

"Yes. Yes, it is." Coris forced out as he thawed. Frowning, Meya turned back to the mangled cloak,

"Eh, strange." She narrowed her eyes at the bloodstains, then tilted the cloak about, examining it from all angles, "Where in the three lands did Mum get this? Why'd she buy me a soiled robe, and this small, too? Did she reckon I could wear it as an apron or summat—"

"—That cloak is mine."

Meya spun around, eyes bulging. Coris froze, petrified by his own words, staring into air.

He couldn't explain why he'd said it. Then, he understood. He couldn't continue this charade. He couldn't keep putting off telling her what she needed to know. Not when he had promised both her and her family and friends that he would give her the truth. Not when a new crisis was creeping near, one that might have something to do with her kind and might affect them all.

In hindsight, it might not be the best time. But if not now, then when? He had put this off for long enough, telling himself it was for her own good, when it was actually to protect himself. To maintain the comfortable status quo. The very thing he rebelled against his father over.

As his resolve solidified, Coris turned back to face Meya. He inhaled, long and deep, then let go.

"I left it behind in Crosset. During the Famine."

Meya blinked, struggling to connect the dots. She glanced at the cloak then back to him, over and over.

"But—how—are you sure?" She rested the cloak on her lap, yet her eyes never left his. There was not the slightest spark of remembrance in them. Of course. As far as she knew, they had nothing to do with each other before, apart from his latest visit three years ago. He understood her suspicion, but the time for him to fear the inevitable was running out.

Another long, shivery breath, then Coris reached out a dithering hand. His fingers closed around her sleeve, three sinking into the crater carved into her flesh by Grogan Krulstaff's arrow. He rose to his feet, leading her gently onto the bed. Meya was still gawking at him. He couldn't bear to look her in her blank face.

"Meya, I'm very sorry for keeping this from you. I just needed to be sure—No, I was being a coward. I have no excuses."

He shook his head. The circles of warmth from Meya's arms glowed steady on his palms, as did the heat of her gaze on the top of his head.

"Remember when I told you, a peasant girl saved me from the kidnapping, and I was looking for her, three years ago when you met me in Crosset?"

Meya nodded slowly, eyebrows raised, still having not the vaguest idea where this conversation was going. Coris's eyes remained fixed upon her. She thought he had frozen, lost in thought. Then, she noticed the inkling in his eyes. She felt as if her bowels had vanished into thin air,

"Me?"