Torches were left to die as morning light returned. Zier could hear the dawn shift guards as they scurried about preparing for departure. Horses whinnied and huffed as they were saddled and loaded, then settled for the peace offering of fodder and soothing brushes. Maids chattered as they distributed breakfast.

The smell of reheated stew wafted over, and Zier cut straight to the last part of his daily drill. As he circled the pell with swift sidesteps, his blunted practice sword swung fluidly through its dance. Iron door. Thrust. Strike. Withdraw. Lady's Guard. Thrust. Strike. Withdraw. Window Guard. Thrust. Strike...

Approaching footsteps broke Zier's trance. His sword rebounded from the pell, and the flow stopped. He spun around to find himself face-to-face with one Simon Amplevale and one Christopher Merilith.

"Morning, cousin." Simon hitched up his smirking grin as he tossed Zier a bread roll. Far behind him, Zier saw yeomen and maids milling around the pot over the bonfire, ladling leftover pottage into their bowls.

"Same to you, cousin." He slotted his sword into the ring on his belt, then dabbed at his damp forehead with his sleeve, wincing as he caught a whiff of his sweaty underarm.

"I need a wash. When do we depart?"

Simon shrugged.

"Don't ask me. You decide."

He thrust the papers nestled in the crook of his arm over to Zier. Zier gave them a quick sight-over. A map. An itinerary. A leather-bound journal he recognized as Coris's. He gawked at his cousin in mounting panic.

"What's all this?"

Christopher, fed up with Simon's antics, sighed and complied,

"Coris isn't feeling well. He wants you to lead the entourage in his place."

Zier blinked, processing, then resurfaced with a burst of swears.

"Why me?" He appealed to his unmoved friends. "I'm the spare. You're the heirs. You do it!" He ushered the odious paperwork to Simon. The Amplevale heir pushed them off and faltered back a step.

"No deal. Coris's orders."

Zier looked to Christopher. He seemed sympathetic, but ultimately shook his head. At the sight, the papers weighed down on his shivering arms like stone slabs. Desperate, Zier approached the two squires, his back bent and his eyes pleading.

"Please. You know I can't do this." He whispered in a crying voice as he jerked his head in the direction of Coris's tent, "This is his stuff."

Simon shrugged, merciless.

"Better study up, then. Without your wise leadership, we're sure to lose our way and starve to death in this sandy void. No pressure."

After giving his shoulder a ceremonial pat and a smile of feigned sympathy, Simon turned on his heel and strode away, a bounce in every second step, leaving Zier to holler after him.

"Oi, Simon!"

His yell of displeasure trailed off to a whining end. As the silence of dawn descended over him, Zier sank to his haunches, head bowed in despair. As if he had taken pity on his pathetic state, Christopher sighed and murmured his advice before traipsing away,

"If I were you, I would first consult Sir Jarl."

Zier perked up. His eyes followed Christopher's gravel-crunching footsteps as he drew further away, then roamed the clearing for the burly marshal. He found Roderic Jarl standing beside a boulder not far from Coris's tent, receiving reports from a yeoman. Stashing his bread in his trouser pocket, he picked himself up, uprooted the pell, then sprinted over.

The yeoman noticed him first; he paused mid-speech, eyes wide. Sir Jarl followed his gaze and turned around. He nodded at the yeoman, who hurried away to continue his duties, then dedicated his full attention to Zier.

"Yes, my lord."

Zier closed his eyes and willed his breathing to slow. He hadn't run that far, but somehow he was panting as hard as Coris after a lap around the courtyard. He bent his knees and deposited the pell with a soft flump,

"My brother's put me in charge for today, it seems?" He straightened up with a meek grin. The precariously balanced papers made an attempt to jump ship. He managed to snatch Coris's journal with the tip of his fingers.

Sir Jarl waited in silence as Zier gathered himself, his expression unreadable.

"Yes, I've been told." He stretched a slight smile. Zier's cheeks burned at that almost pitying gaze. Shaking his head, he knelt down and spread the map on the boulder, using Coris's journal as paperweight, then unfurled the itinerary.

It listed the dates they were due to arrive in Hyacinth and Safyre, and scheduled audiences with their hosts, but, much to Zier's dismay, nothing about their time in the Sands.

He glanced at the map. The multitude of grid lines, scales, compasses, legends, topography lines and Coris's notes overwhelmed him. He closed his eyes against the deluge.

"I...I have no clue how to do this. I don't even know when is the right time to set off." He dipped his head and sighed, gesturing feebly at Coris's tent. "My brother knows everything and he decides everything."

Roderic studied the beaten young man and took pity on him. He shook his head with a heavy sigh,

"My lord, do you think that your brother leads all on his own?"

Zier perked up. His eyes, wide and blinking, followed the marshal as he knelt down to his level,

"Do you think he alone has all the knowledge? All the experience needed to make decisions? How do you reckon he's able to do what he does?"

Those blue eyes flicked away in reluctant contemplation, then the impatient lad shrugged. Roderic could read his sullen conclusion in his eyes, and he sighed once more.

"He asks for advice." Zier whirled back, jaw slack in disbelief. Roderic nodded and narrowed his eyes, "If only you had paid attention to his briefings with us, my lord, you would have noticed that he gives less commands than he asks questions."

The marshal paused to give the young man time to digest, then continued more tenderly,

"In time, every man would fashion his own style of leadership. You don't need to strive to be your brother. Nor should you."

Zier wrung his jittery hands. He seemed lost as to how he should proceed. Roderic decided to help him along,

"Let's start with your demands, my lord. What are your goals for today's journey?"

At the guiding light, Zier seemed to come back to life. He shook himself awake and scanned the itinerary.

"Er, Coris wants us to reach Hyacinth in four days. And he wants training time for the Greeneyes along the way." He paused, eyebrows wrinkled from rapid thinking.

"Since we can only travel by day...I think we should do the training at night after we set up camp. And...we could be looking at nine dragons at maximum. So...we'll have to find a large, open space that doesn't sink underfoot."

His gush ended and he blinked as if waking from a trance. He glanced up at Roderic, stammering,

"Is...all that...possible?"

Roderic bit back another sigh of frustration at the fear in those eyes. The boy had been through much putting down, he reminded himself. He edged over to Zier's side,

"From here, we have another oasis, and the dried Lake Amaguara." He pointed out the landmarks on the map with deft, sweeping movements, "The oasis is nestled between dunes of soft sand. Not suitable for training. And the lake is barren."

Zier nodded along, brows tied in thought.

"So, we stop at the oasis to refill supplies and firewood then hurry to reach the Lake by nightfall?"

He looked to Roderic for approval, and he nodded with a smile. The boy let out his breath and sagged in relief.

"I'll have us all ready for departure by sunrise." The marshal concluded. As he made to rise to his feet, the boy stopped him with a reminder.

"Oh, relieve the Greeneyes of their duties for the day and let them rest. I bet none of them got a blink of sleep last night. Curse Coris." He muttered a jibe at his brother, "And they'll have to be up all night tonight, too."

Roderic smiled wider. That was a thoughtful touch.

"Good call, my lord. I will."

Zier bowed his head in gratitude, then picked himself up. He pinched up the chest of his tunic for a sniff, then crinkled his nose.

"I need a douse of perfume."

The boy fumbled up his papers and hightailed it to his tent without a backwards glance. Roderic shook his head, this time with a smiling sigh, then started at the voice from behind.

"Your opinion, Sir Jarl?"

Roderic spun around to find glinting gray eyes peeking from the shadows of the tent. He hitched his smile back up and cocked his head.

"He has a different approach from you, but he's quite effective." He crossed his arms as he turned and stare after the younger Hadrian brother, who had long vanished, "He should have more confidence."

Coris gave a soft sigh.

"He hopefully will after these four days. I've no doubt in his capabilities, but he's never had to deal with responsibility before. Nor has he been told that he would ever be fit for it. It's high time I make it up to him."

There was evident guilt in his voice. At the sound of rustling, Roderic turned back. In the light of dawn, he could just make out the curled form of the Greeneye girl on his charge's lap.

It wasn't his place to comment on the propriety of their relationship. At least, the girl was loyal to his liege, not to mention courageous and resourceful, and he did observe a positive change in Coris ever since she arrived.

"The Lady's anguish was heartrending to behold." He lowered his voice. Coris flinched at the reminder. The lament of the Greeneyes had echoed around the enclave through the night. "Is there anything I can do, my lord?"

Coris closed his eyes and shook his head.

"You've already done it, Sir Jarl." His gaze was tender as he caressed his mistress's hair, then he resurfaced with a wan smile.

"She'll have to overcome this setback herself, but I'm sure your goodwill would no doubt hasten that journey."

⏳

Meya woke only to retch and eat. Not that she wanted to; the rising heat from the sand brought along a haze of sickness that dogged the travelers throughout the day. No-one was spewing except her, however. Her spinning head also didn't help her dwindling appetite, but Coris had threatened to bar her from training if she failed to finish at least three servings of pottage and bread per meal.

Meya couldn't have that. It wasn't that she was raring to become a dragon; she just couldn't bear to lie awake with nothing but truth for company. During the day, she'd even swapped her Lattis medallion for the hated old collar, just to force herself to fall asleep. Fyre, she might have tried Coris's laudanum if she weren't immune to it.

She needed a distraction. Anything to keep her brain occupied, or else it would stray to the shadows of the past she could not accept.

After dinner, it was finally time for training. The Hadrian brothers and the two squires led the congregation of Greeneyes and curious bystanders beyond the campsite down the barren side of Lake Amaguara. Hundreds of stars blinked sadly down on the empty expanse, missing the days far gone when their twins in the rippling water would wink back.

The slope mellowed into level terrain, and Coris stopped. He turned around and knelt down, setting the chest he had been carrying on the gravel-strewn lakebed. He nodded to Zier, who stepped forth and handed each of them a thick bundle of cloth. Meanwhile, Christopher and Simon trudged off with a lamp between them, lugging a cart laden with mats, glass bowls, more lamps, a bucket of water, and a coil of rope.

There was no point asking, as Coris would soon explain. Meya held out her bundle by the corner, and its folds fell down to reveal a cape. Its hems dragged on the ground, and it seemed wide enough to wrap thrice around her.

"You'll have to strip down before you transform. Figured you might want some protection from the wind." Zier spoke up as if he had seen her raised eyebrows. At the scandalized looks from the nine potential dragon strippers, he grimaced then glanced up at the starlit sky. His grimace deepened.

"Sorry, I thought it would be darker." He muttered. Scratching his nape, he shuffled away towards the two squires, who were setting up mats and lamps at intervals along the length of the rope, now stretched out on the ground.

Coris popped open his chest, and a streak of acid-green light called Meya's attention. Inside the chest, ensconced in wooden half-sphere holes, were nine glowing eyeballs.

Frenix skidded to his knees, his wide eyes glowing brighter with added light from the dragon orbs. Atmund hovered just behind him, curious but fearful. Lady Amara squeezed through the wall of mesmerized Greeneyes to gawk through Heloise's arm.

Coris met Meya's gaze fleetingly, then smiled at Frenix.

"Lady Jaise has graciously lent us these priceless specimens from the Library."

Frenix picked up the eye in the middle of the row, labelled Nazzar Brutus, turning it between his fingers.

"So, if we pop in one of these, we'll turn into dragons?" He asked. Coris chuckled and cocked his head.

"That's one way to do it, but it's risky. We'll only be reading them."

Coris slumped cross-legged on the ground. With a quick wave, he signaled the Greeneyes to follow suit, and they formed a half-circle around him. Gravel crunched under dozens of shoes as the humans who had come to watch settled down a little way back.

"We've discovered from prehistoric dragon eyes that dragons in nature learn how to fly, transform and feed through memories, passed down from generation to generation."

Coris gave them each an eye, then clasped his hands loosely on his lap as he lectured,

"Dragon parents would transmit their memories to fledglings and show them the dragon way of life. After dragons migrated to Latakia and attempted to assimilate into human society, it is likely they chose not to teach their offspring the dragon culture. The chain of inheritance ended, and the knowledge became lost."

As each dragon descendant processed the somber truth in different ways, Coris's gaze swept across the throng, resolute with hope.

"While we don't have dragon mentors, we have their memories. We will restart the tradition." He held out his hand to Heloise, and she lent him her assigned eye as a prop. He held it up for all to see, shaking it for emphasis.

"These eyes belonged to dragons who served in the Nostran army."

Gasps of shock and swears of disgust filled the clearing from Greeneyes and humans alike. However, Philema, the reed-thin Greeneye woman, burst into tears.

"You fool." She blubbered, as dozens of eyes pooled on her, then buried her face in her hands again, "You naive, poor fool!"

Philema crumpled forth into her lap, sobbing herself dry as Dorsea gingerly patted her back. She looked to Coris for explanation. The young lord dipped his head.

"Philema's husband Flindel commanded the patrol guards in Amplevale. He often came across Nostran defectors stowed away in merchant caravans. He let them all through." Coris's quiet voice was labored with shame and sorrow. He closed his eyes. "His right-hand man, who coveted his position, later exposed him. And my uncle, Lord Amplevale, had Flindel executed for treason. That was fifteen years ago."

Philema sobbed louder. Meya was perplexed. Why had Flindel let those Nostrans pass when it was obvious they were soldiers and spies? Because, why would Nostran dragons who were up to any good come to Latakia? Was life in Nostra so unbearable they would risk death to escape? To a place that would shorten their lifespans, no less! What had Flindel known?

Meya looked down at the eye in her palm. She had a clue as to what atrocities this dragon might have done, for its eye to lay in Latakia. Yet, poor old Flindel had seen the need to save these dragons nevertheless. Even gone so far as to risk his life, and ultimately losing it.

Somehow, the notion consoled her. There were people who believed the likes of her should live, even after all the lives they had taken. Did that mean she also had the right to live?

"Yes, some of these eyes came from Amplevale, likely from the corpses of dragons who had fallen in the War of Independence," Coris continued amidst Philema's muffled cries, "but the rest came from across the country, from deserters and defectors who fled Nostra and lived out the rest of their lives in Latakia. Thanks to the sacrifice of folks like Flindel."

Coris bowed his head, leading the congregation in a silence of mourning. Grating footsteps approached, and Simon, Christopher and Zier reappeared by Coris's side.

Meya peered past them at the lake. Nine balls of light flickered in the blue-black void in three lines of three, each with a mat and a bowl of water huddled in its pale yellow halo. The setup looked as if it was for nine traitors who had been sentenced to death by poison.

"We chose these eyes and not Latakian eyes, because these dragons were soldiers and spies." Coris resumed, his serene gaze setting on each of the nine in turn, "They had been trained to their full ability. They know how to transform properly. It would be best to learn from them."

"What about that whistle?" Meya reminded with a frown. At the confused expressions of the Greeneyes, Coris lifted Gillian's whistle up from where it hung on a necklace, hidden underneath his collar. It gleamed in the green light from their eyes, illuminating Coris's look of immense distaste.

"I doubt I'd use it even as a last resort." He declared, his voice cold, then met Meya's puzzled gaze, "Turns out these Lattis whistles are used by human riders to control their dragons. From a young age, Nostran dragons would be trained—tortured—by its sound until they instinctively transform upon hearing it."

Silence fell throughout the clearing. Coris's hands were balled into fists on his knees, trembling with emotions still raw.

"This is why we won't be wearing these eyes. Delving too deep into the memories of these abused dragons might instill the same trauma in you." He returned the eye to Heloise, who started from her trance and scrambled forth. In her haste, she didn't seem to notice her eye was now in his left hand instead of his right. Meya blew a sigh of relief.

"Even reading them carries a risk. Winterwen told me that in the early days of the Library, curators would often go insane." Coris went on seamlessly, distracting them with sensational tales, "They had lived through too many lives and deaths, they became overwhelmed and detached from their own, and some chose to end it."

"So, h-how do we read them without going crazy?" Atmund squeaked. Coris reassured him with a steady but gentle gaze.

"Advice from curators is, above all, to always be aware. You are but an observer, seeing the world through their eyes. You may—and should—empathize with them, but don't let their emotions become yours."

Coris rose to his feet, and they followed. One by one, the Greeneyes deviated from the group and took up one of the arranged seats.

"We only need to feel the sensation of transforming. We don't need their whole lives. Maintain a clear sense of purpose, find what you need, recall your reality, and leave as soon as possible."

"Ignore your physical senses. Drain your mind of all thoughts. Become a receptacle. Dragons are drawn to dragons, and you should feel the eye trying to communicate with you in no time. Don't resist."

Coris's shout echoed over to Meya as he paced around them. Meya drew in a deep breath, plopped the eye into the water bowl, then settled back and tried to clear her head. As she concentrated on its bobbing motion, the cold, the howling, the razor-sharp slice of the wind on her skin numbed to nothingness. So did the jab of pebbles poking up under the mat on her buttocks. The stars dimmed...

Total darkness, bursting with heat. She used to love this, but it had become more and more cramped. Impatient blows from the outside. Her world toppled and rolled. She scrabbled with her four limbs, carving welts as her claws dragged down the curved surface.

A claw sunk through, and her black world lightened to dull gray. Cool air tickled at her nose. She kicked and punched at the opening, wanting more. Next thing she knew, she had flown headfirst into something hard and warm that shifted under her. Her world was still dull gray, but she felt cold air enveloping her.

A shadow engulfed her vision. Something touched her forehead. Suddenly, the world was bright and full of color. She saw her large clawed, armored foot planting firm on the pile of pure, silvery ore. She drew in and felt a warm, refreshing stream course through her veins from her paw. The pile of ore disintegrated into nothingness.

And then, she was back in her dull gray world, and her foot felt nowhere near as big as it had been seconds ago. The shadow retreated, then pressed down on her paw. She felt the smooth, curved surface of the thing she had just broken out of chafing against the soft, grubby sole of her foot.

The shadow hissed. She didn't understand what it said, but she knew what it wanted. She drew in. The smooth, cold thing melted and rushed into her, oozing out of her skin and coagulating into a protective coat. She felt the tire from the earlier struggle subside, and she no longer felt the cold of the air.

Meya finally understood what she was experiencing.

She was a dragon hatchling, and her mother had just taught her how to digest her own metallic eggshells for her first meal and set of scales. The dull gray was probably because her eyes hadn't even opened yet.

Ah, crap.

This was way too early. How long did it take for dragon eyes to fully develop? Hours? Days? Weeks? How long would she have to lie staring at this gray void?

This is torture, this is!

I have to get out. How do I wake up?

Recall your reality.

As her body moved of its own accord, Meya struggled to feel the reality she had been in through the fabricated senses enveloping her. Coris's voice. Stars. Cold. Howling. Wind. Footsteps—

Then, she was blinking freely and breathing by herself again. Coris was pacing by. Having spotted her open eyes, he paused and knelt down with a worried frown. His eyes were the same gray as the world she had narrowly escaped.

"Are you alright?" He whispered.

Still shaken, Meya averted her eyes and nodded. Taking a deep breath, she stretched out her leg and shook her foot free from the slipper, touching her bare sole on the gritty lakebed.

Time for a test.

Meya closed her eyes. She could hear food humming to her; the soil here was rich, steeped with minerals as the lake evaporated. She longed to feel that warm and nourishing river spreading through her body again. She braced her foot against the sharp gravel, willing it to melt and flow into her pores.

All of a sudden, she was feverish, hungry, battered and bruised, gasping for life on her bloodstained mattress beside the hearth. Mum was weeping somewhere. She saw the bare earth just beside her mattress, and she strained her limbs to touch it. Nourishing warmth entered her, flowing over her wounds and refilling her veins—

More—she needed more—

No...NO!

"Meya!"

Coris's cry pummeled her ears as she pitched forth and regurgitated the three servings of pottage and bread all over her dress, mat and bowl. The deluge petered away to a sour, burning aftertaste in her throat. Meya coughed as she panted, falling against Coris's chest. His heart was thundering as fast as her own as he cradled her in his arms. She heard strident voices and crunching footsteps. Zier's perfume billowed into her nostrils along with the stench of her own sick.

"I'll be with you in a minute."

Coris whispered, torn and anguished. He passed her to his brother and strode away, shouting commands and reassurances to the other Greeneyes.

"Hang on."

Zier grunted, then heaved her up from the ground. It was all Meya could do to hook her fingers in his shirt as he scaled the slope back towards the campsite.

The memory of the Famine, once blocked by fever and trauma, had retreated along with the irrational fear and nausea. She couldn't understand it. She knew she couldn't possibly create another famine in an honest-to-Freda desert. But it was as if something inside her didn't and forbade her from suckling on even one paw-sized patch of dirt.

It was as if something deep, powerful, out of her conscious control, was overriding her mind.