"Mmmph! Uuuumph! Mmph!"
Muffled moans and whimpers punctuated the quiet of night from Coris's tent. Outside, Zier, Christopher and Simon heaved and pulled limp bodies of drugged yeomen and maids from open air into communal tents.
The chorus of hoof beats serenading them had long faded away. After Philema had cleaned and dressed Persephia's wounds, Agnes rode off with her sister in her arms, accompanied by Cleygar and Lors. With luck and haste, they would deliver the Lady Graye for treatment in Hyacinth before the inevitable fever set in.
Every few moments, the curtain of darkness burst apart at its invisible seams from spheres and streaks of flames, as Frenix busied himself awing the sleepless Amara and Atmund with his newfound dragon powers.
Meanwhile, inside Lord Hadrian's tent, Meya was suffering the consequences of her hard-earned abilities. Lying flat on her belly, she gnashed her teeth and dug her fingers into her pillow as Coris dabbed wine-soaked gauze on her wounds.
Unknown to Meya in the heat of the moment, her tug-of-war with Persephia had torn scales clean off her buttocks, leaving her bare, delicate bum to drag on a mile of sharp gravel. What was left of her skin hung loose in strips, exposing her raw, weeping flesh to thin air.
A corner of the gauze dipped into her lacerated flesh—Coris fishing out a stray piece of grit. Meya jolted. Eyes watering, she seethed through gritted teeth, tensing stiff as a dried-up earthworm as she waited out the searing agony.
Coris's clammy hand pressed gently on her hair.
"Hang in there, Aine." He worked his way through layers of thick, rich rose gold, scratching soothing circles on her scalp. As Meya relaxed, slumping gratefully down to her pillow, he added with a chuckle, "Better lift your behind next time if your scales aren't thick enough."
Meya froze, then rage clicked in. Grinding her teeth, she restrained herself from hammering a heel into the smug bastard's smirking face.
"Agh, shut up, you!" She strained around and snapped at him. Coris bent low over his aching tummy, stifling laughter as he continued cleaning her wounds. Growling in her throat, Meya turned away, grunting, "Tactless—ungrateful—know-it-all—Gaaargh!"
Meya curled up with a scream as Coris raked yet another bit of buried gravel out of her flesh.
"Sorry." He swooped down, blowing whispered words onto her hair, "Thank you for saving my brother."
He breathed, his voice trembling. Meya shook her head and burrowed her tear-streaked face into his shoulder. Coris wound his arm around her. They held on until they were shivering as one, smothering the icy flames of fear with each other's warmth.
As Coris turned his attention back to her injuries, Meya steeled herself for the worst, but it seemed at long last, her wounds were free of contaminants. Dollops of ice-cold honey slopped onto her turned flesh, dousing the burning heat, and she melted into her pillow in contentment. Bliss was fleeting, however. By the time Meya was fully aware again, her upper legs had been mummified in clean gauze and covered with her nightdress.
Her mattress sunk from the added weight as Coris eased himself down by her side. He gave her a drowsy smile, then slid her the honey jar. As Meya dug in with her bare hands, he raised a bloodstained, silver-gray, hexagonal metal plaque to the light—one of Meya's fallen scales.
Meya frowned as she suckled on her finger, watching as he rotated, flipped and rubbed her shed armor.
"Anything?"
Coris met her gaze, his eyes narrowed.
"You couldn't have secreted this much metal from eating alone." He offered the scale to Meya. She took it with her unsoiled hand. "Have you been feeding? You overcame your trauma?"
Meya's fidgety fingers froze around the scale. She smiled as she planned her grand reveal.
"Nah. Just found a way 'round it." She shrugged. Coris blinked, intrigued. Meya propped herself up on her elbow and extended her hand.
"Watch."
Meya closed her eyes, clasped her fingers over the scale, and inhaled. The scale liquefied and seeped under her skin, vanishing in a flash of warmth. She didn't stop there—within her mind, she conjured the sensation of metal hardening over her skin, and willed it to life. Coris gasped in awe, a puff of warm air brushing her knuckles, now coated in silvery metal.
Meya turned her hand around and flexed her fingers, admiring her handiwork, then grinned at him.
"Better think hard next time before incurring me wrath." Chuckling, she willed the armor to disintegrate, revealing normal skin. Coris nodded, a thoughtful look on his handsome face.
"I see. You eliminated the risk of a drought by feeding in a limited area. Clever." He pinched the wrinkle between his eyebrows, muttering, "Why hadn't I thought of that?"
"We were so focused on moving the rock, we forgot we could just—walk around it?" Meya raised her eyebrows.
"An apt analogy, if I may say so." Coris cocked his head, pompous as ever, then heaved a sigh, "To be honest, it still bothers me to leave the proverbial rock as it is, but perhaps Zier's right—some things aren't meant to be solved. The way blood and ink don't wash off."
Meya narrowed her eyes, wracking her brain for a way to segue into their long overdue talk, but it was as if Coris had anticipated her strike,
"How did you find out, by the way?"
Meya watched as he dipped his finger into the honey jar, shame setting her cheeks alight from within.
"Dunno. I just did." She shrugged. Coris clicked his tongue then shook his head.
"Uh-uh. No more lies. No more secrets. Remember?" He reached in and pinched her nose. Meya swore under her breath at the sound of his devilish chuckling.
"Fine." She closed her eyes in grudging defeat, mumbling, "I'm gunna need a substitute Substitute."
Silence. Meya chanced a look and found Coris gawking, a finger still stuck in his half-open mouth. Her cheeks burned.
"Go on. Laugh. I'm a whore. I can't control meself." She spat, but Coris wasn't grinning back nor slurping honey. He was livid.
"Don't ever call yourself that." He hissed, raking back his hair in frustration, "See? This is why I gave you The Substitute."
Meya raised her eyebrows. Coris blew another sigh then leaned close.
"I know that's what Crosset wants you to believe, but you don't have to be ashamed of yourself here. Or anywhere." He pinned her with his blazing stare, but his voice softened as he traced his fingertip down the contour of her face, "You're beautiful. It's only normal to love yourself."
Beautiful. That was perhaps the first time in her life the word was directed towards her. As her heart writhed, Meya gently unwound her eyes from his, face still awash with heat from the turmoil within.
The idea was foreign to her. One she'd never thought to question. Born and bred in Crosset, she was taught that chastity was paramount, that pleasure must be born between man and woman, solely to bring forth new life. She'd been conditioned to take her undesirability for granted as simple truth, so she was surprised how Coris had cherished her body, had derived pleasure simply from holding her, had considered her beautiful.
Still, it was a woman's duty to be appreciated by a man. Did she have the right to appreciate herself, like Coris insisted? In Crosset, such vanity would be scoffed at and shamed. But should it?
In light of more pressing matters, Meya decided to save it for later contemplation.
"Thank you." She resurfaced with a wan smile, "In case anyone wanted to enclose me for adultery, I was thinking of you the whole time."
"Oh, Freda. Please don't tempt me." Coris slapped a hand over his eyes, chuckling wearily. Meya smiled at the endearing sight. Taking a deep breath, she took the plunge,
"Your turn, Lexi."
"For what?" Coris was still all smiles, unsuspecting. Meya gave a small shrug,
"I told you me secret. Now you tell me yours."
Coris's smile sagged. The blacks of his eyes dilated, eclipsing the gray. Color drained from his cheeks. He avoided her eyes and picked at the sheets, but Meya wasn't about to surrender,
"When Frenix mentioned the war with Cristoria. When you saw dragon-me. You looked—scared. What's going on?"
Coris tensed, cursed to stone by the mere touch of her hand on his shoulder. Meya let go. She turned away, giving him space.
"Come to think of it, you haven't told me what really happened in The Axel Heist, too."
Coris was already strained to his limit. Instead, he trembled under the pressure. Meya inched her hand forward and touched the back of his hand with a nervous finger. He felt to her like a house built of strands of hay, as if the slightest nudge would send him collapsing on himself. Yet, there was no better time to venture inside. At his most vulnerable, he was also at his strongest. He wouldn't crumble.
"What happened in Cristoria?" She leaned in. Her protective hand crept over his, embracing it, "Why did you come to Crosset during the Famine? How did you become...you?"
Coris shook his head, his eyes dead and unseeing.
"I didn't become anything. I've always been a monster."
"You're not."
Coris didn't respond. Meya bit her lip in desperation.
"Please, Coris. You know everything about me, but I barely know you." She shook his pale, lukewarm hand, "You're in pain. I wanna help."
A battle of wills raged, long and silent as it always was, but at long last, those silvery eyes rose and held hers in return. Not surrender, but a plea for a willing ear.
"My grandfather died when I was a year old." He said. His eyes wandered as he compulsively pinched lint from the bedsheet.
"Father was young when he took the Hadrian seat. Mother, even younger. Father wasn't ready for his duties. Mother wasn't ready for me when she fell pregnant with Zier. I'd get a few glimpses of them on a lucky day. I wasn't lucky that often."
His lips twitched into a mocking grin. Meya reined in the tears stinging in her eyes and silently affirmed her grip.
"By the time I was three, I knew the Holy Scriptures by heart. I taught myself chess. The nurse wasn't prepared for such a child. She'd leave me with books and sweets while she doted on Zier. He was a simple, quiet, beautiful, blue-eyed babe."
A jumble of emotions tainted his smile as he recalled baby Zier, his eyes glazed with a mix of bitter jealousy and warm love—then crushing shame. He dipped his head, sinking under its weight.
"I had infinite energy. I needed an outlet. I wanted to be noticed, to see some reaction. So, I tried hurting Zier. The nurse separated us. I started screaming and throwing things. Perhaps I was hoping my parents would hear."
"'Tisn't your fault." Meya whispered, tears falling free. Coris shrugged and grinned, his face empty.
"When I was four, my grandparents came to visit from Noxx. They scolded Mother because of how fat and spoiled I was. After that, Mother settled down and took care of us. But I know Mother. She'd rather be somewhere else, anything else. Than my mother."
That's not true, instinct tempted Meya to argue. Don't think that, but she bit her tongue in time. Coris was telling the truth and, ugly as it was, it was true—Meya spent her brief spell with Baroness Sylvia in awe. She wasn't the type to settle for housework and child-rearing.
"I'm the firstborn. Father made me because there's a role for me to fill." Coris was no longer smiling as he moved on to Baron Hadrian, his downcast face stricken with shame.
"I must do him proud, so he could trust Hadrian to me. But I'm terrible with the sword, the lance, the bow—with any weapon. The other boys bullied me. I had no friends. I commanded no respect, no loyalty. I hoped for a chance to prove myself."
"Cristoria?" Meya guessed. Coris nodded.
"Cristoria has always been a difficult vassal. The year I turned ten, they declared freedom from Hadrian's demesne. When negotiations failed, I asked to follow Father to war. He just wanted me to observe and learn. I had much more in mind."
"Father fell gravely ill just before we reached Cristoria. The knights wanted to bring him back to Hadrian, but the healer feared he'd succumb along the way. There's only one solution—we must take Cristoria Castle swiftly and treat him there."
"I seized command. It was harvest season—impossible to surround and starve the castle out. I ordered the cavalry ahead to sack the village, seize the croplands and granaries. The people were in the midst of the harvest. They hadn't taken shelter inside the castle. They fled to the wall, demanding entry. Lord Cristoria was familiar with this tactic. He knew his people would starve or be massacred before his wall. He didn't yield."
A survivor of famine, Meya bit her lips in horror. Coris betrayed a wan smile—lingering pride for his old ingenuity,
"It was all within my expectations. I ordered my men to hurl food over the moat to the people, along with rhetoric. Turn them to our side and against each other. I suggested they single out wives and children of castle guards and leave them to starve. And they did."
"After two days, a guard broke and opened the sally port for us at night. Once we had infiltrated the castle, victory was swift. Father recovered in Cristoria before we headed back."
Coris fell silent, scratching trails of dried honey off the jar. Meya frowned as she mulled it over.
"So, at ten years old, you saved your father's life, won a bloodless war, and avoided a massacre." She summarized, her frown deepening, "What're you hung up about?"
Coris dipped his head lower.
"It wasn't bloodless." His hand trembled under hers. Meya clasped her free hand over it.
"It was easy to learn strategy from history tomes, to scheme and command from the safety of my tent. After we stormed the castle, I left camp with my father and walked through the village. For the first time, I saw war."
Coris rested his forehead atop their bonded hands.
"My men raided in the middle of the night. People were asleep. I remember the sight, the smell, the lack of sound. Houses burnt to the ground. Humans charred to a crisp. Fathers and mothers with babies in their arms. Children my age, trapped under their collapsed roof—"
He broke off. Moisture seeped onto her hand from his burning eyes. She leaned over him, pressing her nose into his hair as he wept,
"I should've realized. I wasn't ready for this. I might never be. But to accept that was accepting failure. If only I'd known there's more than one way to rule—"
"When Lord Cristoria saw who had defeated him—a ten-year-old boy, he threw himself off his tower." Meya drew a sharp breath. Coris shrank further away, disgusted with himself, "Perhaps, if I hadn't taunted him so, Fione would still have her father."
"Fione?" Meya breathed, only remembering now whence she'd hailed. Coris straightened, his eyes puffy and bloodshot.
"It didn't end there. Father was comatose for weeks. I couldn't leave him unprotected and send the troops home. Not in the midst of vengeful Cristorians."
"You didnae have enough food to feed everyone, since you interrupted the harvest." Meya blanched in horror. Coris nodded.
"I couldn't ask for relief from surrounding manors. They could come with reinforcements instead. As we wait for food from Hadrian, I had to send the old, the injured, the sick outside the wall to starve."
Coris sat silently, paralyzed by the memory. Meya wiped her tears on her pillow.
"I thought my father was disappointed in me because our victory wasn't perfect. Now I realized he was probably disappointed in himself. In his absence, I've become a monster." Coris shook his head with a rueful grin. "Had I realized that, I wouldn't have accepted Bailiff Johnsy's invitation."
"To—hunt game?" Drying her eyes, Meya croaked.
"Yes." Coris turned to her. Again, she glimpsed that fear in his eyes. "You."
Meya mouthed, speechless. What was this? All this time, she'd thought he'd strayed into their midst, a naive little boy lured by the prospect of entertainment, a bit of adventure. Instead, he had come knowing and prepared—to hunt her?
Coris must have felt her hand twitching. He withdrew his hand and turned away. Meya was left to stare after his steely profile. Before she could decide whether to explain—if she could—she didn't even know what to think, yet—he went on,
"Johnsy claimed slaying the escaped Greeneye would end Freda's damnation. It was a lie, of course, but I'd suspected the Famine was unnatural. For one, nearby manors weren't affected. Some families' gardens and lands, aside from your family's vegetable patch, yielded crops throughout autumn—the Armorheims, the Gretgorns. People you're on good terms with."
"Crosset wasn't in our demesne. We were still recovering from the war. Supplies were tight. I decided I'd do my part. Capture the culprit, study Greeneyes and their powers. It seemed profitable."
Coris smiled mirthlessly, then hid his face in his hands, his voice cracking,
"And I was saved by the dragon I came to slay."
Meya's heart writhed with guilt. Would she have done the same, had she known what he was there for? But one thing was for sure—she still didn't regret it. She did what she believed was right, had hoped for nothing in return. And she had saved both him and Crosset. As the sight of the anguished young man reflected in her eyes, her chest filled up with warm relief. It didn't matter. He was no longer that despicable being. He had proven that with his bravery tonight, in this moment. And she was simply happy to have him by her side.
Coris sneaked a glance when he felt her approaching heat. He didn't flinch away, but nor did he reciprocate, still too ashamed of his actions.
"Once I was back in Hadrian, I tried my best to make amends. But I couldn't avoid the consequences of who I've been."
"Zier." Meya sighed. Coris tilted his head, adding.
"And Cristoria."
Meya blinked. A wave of chill washed down her spine—
"What d'you—you're not saying—they poisoned you?" She cried.
"It wasn't Baron Graye who sent the fake healer. It was Fione's mother, Lady Firesta of Cristoria." Coris closed his eyes, sighing softly, "I didn't dare tell my parents I was in pain. They would've deduced The Axel wasn't inside me, so Father kept increasing the dosage to overcome The Axel's power. Up until the third day, when I started vomiting blood."
"So, all that about your father—you made that up?" Meya hissed through gritted teeth. Coris's cheeks twitched.
"I was suspicious of you. I hoped to win your sympathy and trust. Mislead you about The Axel's whereabouts."
Meya turned away. Her heart raced. Disgusted. Furious. So, even then, he had lied?
"I actually felt sorry for you, Coris." She shook her head, a sardonic smile on her lips, "I know I was your enemy, and you did what you had to do, but—did you really have to go that far?"
"I'm sorry."
Meya turned back. He was slumped, downcast. He made no move to excuse himself, and the sight of his genuine remorse softened her somewhat.
"Is that why Fione's in Hadrian? As your hostage?" She picked up the conversation, a gesture of begrudging forgiveness. Coris nodded.
"I begged Father not to declare war on Cristoria, to spare the healer. But, to make sure they wouldn't betray us again, he had Fione handed over."
"So, now that you're sick, your parents know the truth?"
"Father guessed The Axel was trapped somewhere in my bowels. I don't know if he was lying. At any rate, he gave up trying to take it out, and increased security for me. I'm not allowed to leave the castle unless necessary—not that I can." Coris added bitterly.
"But—you came to Crosset, three years ago." Meya said. Coris looked up with his signature melancholic smile.
"Of course. It could be my last chance to find you."
He whispered. His silvery eyes captured hers, lingering with longing, brimming with gratitude and guilt, then fleeing in shame.
"Duty and Atonement." He muttered, his head bowed, "That is what I live for. No more."
Silence fell. Meya studied the hunched, wretched creature before her. He sat there, awaiting hatred and ridicule. Or perhaps to see her draw back and never stray near again. Receiving neither, he made to rise and leave, only to be stopped by her hand on his arm.
Meya pulled herself up. Standing on her knees, she cupped his face in her palms.
"Well, then." She breathed, a crooked smile on her lips as Coris gaped at her, his eyes wavering, "I'm afraid you're gunna have to live forever."
He saw through her words to the truth in her eyes, and Hadrian's unyielding wall succumbed. Meya held Coris as he sobbed into her shoulder. His chest heaved as he breathed. His claw-like fingers dug into her hair, clinging onto its scent and feel, seeking purchase, as if to ground himself in what remained in the face of all he never had, all he had lost, all he had destroyed. She held him tight as her tears fell down his back.
It would be too simple—an insulting exaggeration—to say she knew him fully now. It wouldn't surprise her if that endeavor would take her entire life or longer. Perhaps it was the same for everyone. Yet, despite her hatred of long, grueling work, she knew now that for him, and him alone, she was willing to do what it takes. And vice versa.
That was when she realized she hadn't simply fallen for—but truly loved—Coris Hadrian.
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