Coris didn't wait for Meya to return that night. Having fulfilled his sole objective of meeting his erstwhile kidnapper, he left with Zier and Arinel for Hadrian Castle, and arranged for Draken and Deke to hitch a ride on another merchant caravan back to Crosset the following morning.

After staying the night in the Silver Jug Inn, Meya spent her last day in Hadrian with her siblings and the two Boszels, enjoying her first May Fest. Meanwhile, Coris was at home supervising preparations for their voyage to Safyre.

Father and Mother had seen fit to add Fione, Heloise, Frenix Pearlwater and Amara Hyacinth to the entourage. In the case of Fione and Heloise, it was simply part of their training. However, for Frenix, it was also 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 much less than thrilled to drop by her hometown, Hyacinth, which was the last stop on the way to Safyre. But her mother, Lady Amoriah, had insisted on Amara visiting, and it was speculated she was going through a mild case of the empty-nest blues, now that all her daughters had left for training and she was stuck with her son. Based on the rumors Coris had heard of the women of Hyacinth, this anecdote came as a slight surprise.

Still, this was nothing compared to the surprise he was about to stumble into at Bishop Riddell's lab...

*

Tenorus Riddell had always prided himself on his ability to focus on several simultaneous tasks.

While his eyes were fixed upon the rows of glass beakers at the center of his cluttered workstation, his mouth patiently explained the complex procedure to his young assistant Meya, who hovered beside him scribbling down notes.

One of his ears was tuned in to the steady drip of the water hourglass, as it chipped away at the remnants of his long wait, and yet, he still caught the gist of what the two men beside him were discussing with his other ear.

(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).

And it was that same ear that felt the vibration of approaching footsteps, before the door to his lab swung open.

His assistant and the two chitchatting audience whirled around to face the visitor, while Riddell remain bent over his alchemy vials, waiting until that signature cool, cracked voice revealed his identity.

"Sir Apollon, you sought my audience?"

Lord Coris opened so quickly; he didn't allow enough time for the men of lesser status to address him first, as was customary. Head Cook Apollon was taken aback by the visit; the three men hadn't expected Lord Coris to come down to the alchemist's lab himself, and right away, too.

"My liege, you shouldn't have." Apollon raised a feeble protest, feeling his bald crown sheepishly. Coris cocked his head, silvery eyes twinkling.

"It was a choice between reviewing the budget for my honeymoon, and pushing it onto Zier while I watch Bishop Riddell singe his other eyebrow off. I chose befitting revenge."

Coris's smile widened in relish, but there was an apologetic look in his eyes as he briefly met Arinel's gaze. At her subtle nod, 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 to wave aside the apology. Traces of affection lurked in his smoky gray eyes, even as the lines on his face remained fixed in his usual scowl, "We're still waiting on the results, anyway."

"Results?"

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

"These three beakers, my liege, contain soil samples from Amplevale being tested for nutrients." She swept a graceful hand to indicate the glass containers, which held a layer of dark brown soil steeped in different colored liquids, "Lord Amplevale had it brought over when he visited for your wedding."

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

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

The last drop of red liquid in the upper half of Riddell's water hourglass slid through the tapering tunnel, rejoining its friends below with a minuscule splash.

Straightening up as if jolted by electricity, Bishop Riddell took the roll of parchment Arinel handed him and unfurled it, revealing instructions written in black ink, interspersed with illustrations, followed by a row of paint daubs. He held it to the beakers.

"Very well. Ten minutes for Dragon Crystal. Fifteen for Alum. And 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. It was surreal. Those three minerals were the essential nutrients for all plant life. Without them, nothing would grow. And Amplevale, being situated on the volcanic soil of Neverend Heights, blessed by Freda herself, had always been ample with them.

Movement on the workstation distracted Coris. Arinel was pushing aside the three beakers, revealing two more rows of similar beakers behind.

"What about these?"

"These three, my liege, 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, "And these are the soil from the castle's estate Sir Apollon brought in."

"I've noticed our experimental vineyard is growing feeble, so I talked to Tenorus." said Head Cook Apollon, nodding at the alchemist, "And 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 unfurled scroll he had extracted from inside his cloak towards Coris, "Letter just came from Bailiff Hutten just now. I'll report to your father tomorrow morn."

Coris's eyes widened as he scanned the brief letter. At the sound of rustling paper, he turned back to the experiment. Bishop Riddell held the color chart to the six remaining beakers, eyebrows furrowed and 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."

Coris felt a foreboding knot tighten in his 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." Amidst the lines of concern on the bailiff's old face was a fold of frustration between his bushy white eyebrows, "But, have a look at this, my liege."

He beckoned Coris closer then slid a piece of parchment before him. It was a map of Latakia. It was unmarked, but it didn't take long for Coris to make a vague connection. He 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.

"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.

It became clear to him then, but it wasn't cause for a smile of satisfaction.

"I see. So that's why you wanted to see me." said Coris, his brain whirring for a solution. Head Cook Apollon nodded,

"We're noticing the start of a pattern, my liege. 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 his head in plea,

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

Coris waved the apology aside in exasperation,

"Wouldn't it be more efficient if you just come with us, Bishop? Bring all the equipment you need. And your assistant, too."

Oh, Zier would love this.

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

"You made the right call to notify me. We must make utmost haste. If your guess is accurate, 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 just as anxious as enthusiastic.

"Very well, my liege. I'll get packing 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 addition."

The door was already swinging close behind Coris 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 somehow suck the elements straight out of the soil or summat?"

Coris could imagine Apollon shrugging the disparaging 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, one word in particular in his tirade remained clogged in Coris's thoughts. He was reminded of his conversation with Meya a few days ago, when she had 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 merely fiery, phosphorescent salmon pink streaks in the darkening powder blue.

Meya would probably be back soon. Perhaps he could discuss it with her over dinner in their room. 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. And no, 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, as he reminded himself 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.

⏳

It was nightfall by the time Coris made his way back to his bedchambers on the topmost floor of the Keep, surreptitiously dabbing at his red-rimmed eyes with the shoulder of his cloak as he went, to the alarm of castle subjects who had spotted him.

The door was unlocked, but on the high chance that the other occupant was already inside, he knocked first. 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 slightly, her cheeks flushed, the black voids of her pupils swallowing up her glowing, acid-green irises. Her blonde fringe was plastered to her forehead with sweat, the collar of her dress was slightly askew, and the skirt rumpled.

Behind her shoulder, Coris could see the contents of his rock chest sprawled on the flagstones. A hunk of clear pink crystal winked at him in the candlelight, and the realization amused Coris such that he felt his grief subsiding somewhat.

"Sorry I'm late." He winked, a faint, sly grin tucking up the corner of his lips. Meya scowled, her whole 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 felt rough on the puffy, irritated skin beneath his eye.

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

"I'm fine." Coris sniffed, shrugging a shoulder 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.

"Wish 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 simply let Meya lead him to sustenance. And 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 the oil from their fingers as they went, Meya told him about how Morel had decided to stay in Hadrian and work for Old Mother Gelda in the Crimson Hog. After the meal, they sat side by side with their backs against the bed, gnawing on a handful of 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 both new and secondhand, and adornments her parents had sent her from Crosset, pinning each tunic over her current dress as she eagerly awaited Coris's compliment.

By far, things were all going very well, and Coris was looking forward to a night of slow burning romance, until Meya unfolded an old, 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, and Coris felt his bowels squeeze into a knot as the fabric fell to its length, revealing several 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 same cloak he had worn on that fateful day, seven years ago, and which he had wrapped around the girl before him, whose garment had been torn to shreds from her transformation. He hardly dared breathe as he stared at Meya, whose expression was scrunching into one of contemplation.

"Coris? This...this is Hadrian Red, right?" Her glowing eyes slid to him, an unsure eyebrow raised.

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

"Huh. Strange." She said, narrowed eyes peering at the stains on the fabric. She lifted it up and tilted it 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 something—"

"—That cloak is mine."

Meya spun around, eyes bulgng. Coris sat frozen, petrified by his own words, staring into air.

At first, he couldn't explain why he had said it. Then, he understood; he couldn't continue this charade any longer. 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.

Looking back, it might not feel like 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 for.

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 as she struggled to connect the dots. She glanced at the cloak, still held aloft in her loose fingers, then back to him, over and over.

"But—how—are you sure?" She lowered her arms, laying the cloak to rest 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 could comprehend the skepticism in her gaze, but the time for him to fear the inevitable was running out.

Taking another long, shivery breath, Coris reached out a dithering hand. His fingers closed around her sleeved forearms, three sinking into the choppy 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, confused and worried. He couldn't bear to look her in her blank face. He dipped his head, yet his hands remained on her arms, clinging rather than supporting.

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

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

"Remember when I told you, that a peasant girl saved me during 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 of 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 those sharp eyes. She felt as if her bowels had vanished into thin air.

"...Me?"

🐉🐉🐉