Coris's tale had started off with a prologue of common knowledge: the Crosset Famine; a beguiling invitation from Bailiff Johnsy; a hunting trip gone awry.

From there, it escalated into an anecdote of chilling detail, as he described his time in Draken's kidnapping party. Then, it morphed into a fantastical account usually associated with those who have suffered blunt force to the head.

He recounted a blast of pure flames, then a gust of ice wind as metallic talons swept him off the snowy glade, skimming treetops into the sky. He showed her the melted arrow he claimed to have pulled out of the dragon's leg, right before they crashed into a cave on the mountainside. He claimed to have woken up later, to a girl with glowing green eyes and red-gold hair—Meya.

Meya might have believed it. If it wasn't for the fact that she remembered nothing of the sort. Of course not; it was just too impossible to have actually happened.

Her? Transforming into a dragon? Even the notion of Greeneyes being dragon riders who must strip down to call forth their mounts seemed plausible compared to this outlandish theory.

Meya was tempted to think Coris had been high on laudanum. Or that some of his mother's rose oil had seeped through his scalp and trickled through his skull into his brain. Yet, he seemed in control of his faculties. The gleams in his silvery eyes were bright and sharp, albeit graver, more urgent.

And, despite repeated denials from her recollections, her logic argued otherwise. Coris may not realize, but his story provided answers to the half-forgotten questions thrown in the old cupboard at the back of her mind.

Why the wound on her arm did not fully heal (and, now that she actually thought back, she was actually bitten by a snake on her right arm!). Why she had seemingly stayed home all through the Famine, even when the villagers should have been raring to lynch her whole family. Why Draken had stared awkwardly at her when asked about the Kidnapping. Why her family crest was a dragon. Straightforward, really; she was descended from them. And she was one of them.

The story left off with the start of Coris's painstaking search for her, then a bout of silence descended between them as Coris reached for a long gulp of his now lukewarm tea. A candlelight flickered at the corner of her eyes. Meya stared at him, trying to take it all in.

"So, you're saying—I'm a dragon." She said, her first comment in over a quarter-hour. Coris set down his tea with a rattling clink.

"Half-dragon, to be exact." He sighed. There was a hint of strain in his subtle movements, as if he was anticipating a fireball from Meya at any moment. "We can assume that most—if not all—of your inner organs are human. Obviously, you ingest human food and excrete—"

Coris stuttered. As they both blushed faintly, he cleared his throat in an attempt at grace,

"—Excuse me, human waste. And, judging from our nighttime escapades, I'd say apart from the heat, your—er—attributes are also human. I assume you have had menarche..."

Coris trailed off with a flourish of his hand that was probably the substitute for You get the idea. That reminded Meya of something that was bound to have arrived by now but hadn't. She gawked at the waffling young man before her as her brain whirred in panic.

No way. He's barren.

But Zier said that that might just be his imagination.

No, Coris has healers backing him up.

But he's so blessed.

So what? Size does not equal substance.

But you luuurrve it, right?

What's that got to do with—Whatever! I'm using Silfum!

Right...! Maybe it's the Silfum. Or the stress from the Heist. That's it! Stress and pungent herbal fumes wafting about my nether regions and bungling up my body's clock. Yes, that must be it.

Meya nodded to herself, relieved. Meanwhile, Coris had picked himself up and strode off to his study desk. He fetched a small journal from his secret drawer, then walked gingerly back to her side.

"On the other hand, your draconic characteristics are—here," He rifled through the pages. After a sharp intake of breath as he noticed what he had written, he flipped it close and handed it to the incredulous Meya.

Goodly Freda! He's been taking notes on me?

Meya took the journal, hands trembling with both fear and fury. The prose was clipped and precise, but still took her several minutes to read; it was comprised of long, difficult, formal words. Each item was labelled with a rose bullet, crammed around a rough pencil diagram of what appeared to be one half Meya's face, and one half dragon head, as if Coris had been adding more as he noticed new things.

Phosphorescent eyes. There was a branching line connecting that statement to Meya and the dragon's eyes. Meya didn't need to know what that first word meant to know what the nosy donghead was referring to.

High body heat. No surprises there.

Immunity to substances otherwise harmful to man—i.e. dwale, aconite, etc.

Aversion and severe allergy to Lattis. Must have picked those up during the Heist.

Ability to transform into dragon and back upon contact with Lattis. Wait—He'd speculated that right after the Heist? How long had he been keeping this from her?

Grinding her lip against the ball of fiery rage roiling up inside her bowels, Meya fought against the urge to let it loose in a particular direction and forced herself to keep reading,

High affinity to metals and minerals.

To Meya's eternal embarrassment, there was an indented paragraph elaborating on that phenomena:

---i.e. Sexual desire and arousal upon physical contact with Rose Crystal.

And, predictably, below that bombshell was:

High heat in birth canal (female) serves as natural deterrent for interracial reproduction, by hindering sexual intercourse and killing semen.

---Note: can be subdued by Lattis.

Meya could only make sense of perhaps the first five words, but that was enough. More than enough.

I'll give you truth, he'd said. And once again she had given herself to him. Yet, as she concentrated upon making love to him with all the passion and tenderness in her, he was making a mental note to scribble down details of her most intimate parts in this blasted journal.

Then lastly, in ink that hadn't yet lost its gleam and seeped deeply into parchment:

Metallic bones and blood capable of melting Lattis

---Evidence: severed phalange and molten ring, preserved by Morelia Hild. Account of Gillian, Nostran mercenary, as recalled by Meya Hild.

And,

Ability to regenerate digits, limbs, and flesh

---Exception: injuries caused by Lattis.

Meya flipped the page, but there was nothing there but splotches of seeped-through ink, and reflected outlines of the previous page's contents. The right-side page was also bare. Smirking, she shook her head and closed the journal with a flump of expelled air.

"You could write a treatise." She handed it back to its owner, who took it with numb, robotic fingers. His bulging gray eyes stared at her, unsure and afraid, "I feel like an impaled beetle in some sick collection."

Coris recoiled, sickened by this side of himself he struggled to remedy.

"I'm so sorry. On hindsight, that was despicable."

Meya remained staring resolutely ahead. His apology rang hollow in her ears. She was aware that she was angrier than she had ever been in her whole life. Yet, she was trying to make sense why.

"We could've written up this list together. With your consent. If only I'd been honest with you." Coris plowed on, desperation seeping into his voice at Meya's refusal to reciprocate with forgiveness. He pushed the journal back to her. "I promised I'd give you truth. So, it's yours now. That's my only copy. Chuck it in the fireplace. Slap me with it. Do whatever you want with it."

He shook the journal, prodding her arm.

"What about that copy in your brain?" Meya asked. Coris jolted at the quiet, venomous reminder.

"I'm so sorry." He dipped his head so low the tips of his hair grazed his lap. "I swear I won't breathe a word of all this to anyone. This secret is yours to reveal."

"But this is why you insisted on following me to the Crimson Hog, isn't it?" Meya wasn't relenting. "You wanted to talk to Draken about me. Then you left right before me, Deke, Jezia and Jason came back. But I bet everyone else already knew about all this? About me being a dragon or whatever? What are you gonna do about their copies, then?"

Coris didn't reply; he simply bowed lower.

"I trusted you, Lord Coris. And time and time again you betrayed my trust."

Coris kept silent. She felt the cold emanating from his body trembling as he did. His evident contrition could not soften her, could not assuage her feelings of betrayal and hurt. It only tortured her worse.

He was a nobleman and supposed prodigy. Was it too much to expect even of the lowliest and meanest of men to treat a fellow living, thinking, feeling being with basic respect? Be it dragon, human or something in between?

Still, somehow, she strove to see his side. To understand. To seek out her responsibility in this quagmire. After all, she hadn't been fully honest with him. They had met as enemies. They hadn't remembered their past. Even now, Meya had no memory of what had happened between them during the Famine. He must have needed time to make sure. And, even once he was, it mustn't have been easy to come forth with the truth.

"Then again, it must have taken a while, mustering up the will to tell me." She hitched up a bitter smile. Coris perked up, somehow even more alarmed, "You have your duties, Lord Hadrian and all. Gotta have eyes on freaks like us Greeneyes, eh? I might not have turned out different, say our roles are reversed."

"Don't justify this. You have every right to be furious." Coris argued. Meya waved it aside.

"Nah, you're a nobleman, I'm a peasant girl—And a Greeneye, to boot!"

"And does that strip you of the right to outrage? Being a peasant girl and a Greeneye didn't stop you risking your life to rescue a nobleman. Thrice. It doesn't make your dignity any less worthy of my respect—of anyone's respect!"

Meya wasn't expecting that from him. From anyone. Her head was telling her she shouldn't be this furious with Coris. After all, he was just doing what he had to do for Hadrian. For Latakia. Yet, her heart longed to believe in the truth of what he had said. That she deserved to be offended.

"I should've realized sooner. I should never have spied on you. Observed you like you weren't human."

"But I'm not human, am I?"

"Yes, you are."

"No, I'm not."

"Have it your way, but does that make any difference? Human. Dragon. Greeneye. Your body may be different, but you have feelings acute as mine. I should have respected that, but I didn't. Whatever contempt you feel for yourself, I deserve it."

Meya eyed the anguished boy warily. Why was he so desperate? What did he want from her? Forgiveness? Punishment? Or simply for her to stop blaming herself?

She couldn't find it in her to take time and figure it out. She was mentally sapped. She decided to abandon her grudge and move on with the conversation. There were more pressing issues than her blind, besotted, oft-betrayed trust in this here lad.

"Never mind. I'll save it for next time." Coris raised his eyebrows, incredulous, and she quickly added, "No, really. Don't. Do it. Again—Ever."

Meya hammered down each word like three-inch nails into wood, blazing green locked with pale silver. Her forgiveness may be swift, but the same may not be said for her trust. And she'd probably never forget. Coris gave a few deep nods in acceptance. Meya cleared her throat, resuming in what she hoped was a casual tone,

"So, I'm a half-dragon. And you're saying that all Greeneyes are like me?"

Her blank expression and level voice was undecipherable, her eyes fixed upon her hand scratching out a smudge of dried soup on her dress. Coris could only keep watch on her from his distance.

"You saw Gillian and his men that night. He and Dockar transformed into dragons upon contact with Lattis, while his men—" He flipped the journal all the way to the back cover, then handed it to Meya, "—used this Lattis whistle to transform."

Meya looked down at the foul journal once more. On the inside of the back cover, swinging from a length of torn string whose ends were glued to the leather, was a tube made of the familiar opalescent silvery metal.

A little way from the mouthpiece, a slot was carved out for a knob with intricate, minuscule, maze-like carvings. She fiddled with it, and it turned once with a clear stop, then back around. Dragon mode and human mode, she'd guess. Though how a dragon would be able to pick this thing up and blow it was anyone's imagination.

"I've sent men and hounds to scour the hill for evidence. They found this around where Gillian was standing. It probably came off when Zier slashed his neck. I reckon the Nostrans escaped partly so as not to reveal more of their secrets to us."

Meya nodded numbly. The enormity of the revelation was catching up, creeping up her fingers and toes towards her heart like frostbite. All her life, she'd known she was different, of course; everyone around her had never tired of pointing out her abnormalities. She was a Greeneye. An anomaly. A pariah. An outcast. Yet, by all means, still human. She'd gotten a few freakish, unnerving characteristics, but overall, she was still human. And though she'd rather be normal, she could live with the lot she had.

Yet, she realized now those were less quirks than symptoms. Telltale signs. Evidence of her monstrous nature. She was a dragon. And she didn't belong here. Not just in Crosset, but in the whole of Latakia.

Where should I go now? What should I do? Should I be glad? Should I want this?

As unbidden thoughts appeared one after another, coagulating in a slow yet torturous swirl of chaos inside her head, Coris's soft voice pierced the gloom like a faraway, hollow, insubstantial echo.

"All this must have come as a huge shock. I'm sorry for not letting you be the first to know. Again."

The journal slipped from Meya's unfeeling fingers, landing on the bare floor with a muffled chime of metal, stone and leather.

"I'm—I'm a dragon." She unfurled a wide, shaking grin, one with no joy in it. She trembled so hard, even her voice became jittery,

"So, the folks back home were right. I'm a monster. Not a harbinger of misfortune. Not Chione's minion. Just plain old big, ugly, flying, fire-breathing, murderous monster."

"No—You're not—You're not a monster." Coris attempted to correct her, but the desperation in this evident lie only served to underline the cruel truth, scoring a line on her heart like a metal quill. His cold hands on her arms burned like icy steel.

"You're just another living being. Like me. You've seen Gillian and his men. You've seen Frenix. You've seen Heloise. You've seen Old Mother Gelda and her grandson. We all have dragon blood in us. You're just like everyone else."

"No, I'm not." Meya muttered, shaking her head, "I'm not."

"Meya, please."

Meya shrugged him off and sprang up, pacing restlessly.

"Why? Why me?" She demanded of unseen deities lurking in thin air, fingers tangled in her hair. She broke into a half-run, as if she hoped it would shake away this malediction in her blood. As if she could somehow escape the draconic half of her body.

"Why is it me that inherited this from my parents? Why didn't any of my siblings get this? Why isn't anyone in Crosset like me?"

"Meya, there's nothing wrong with being a dragon. You're still the same as you always have been."

Coris struggled to find words to comfort, to reassure, but, even as pure human as he was, he knew they were empty and irrelevant. He didn't answer her questions. He couldn't prove his statements. He couldn't understand how she was exactly feeling. He didn't know what she wanted. For perhaps the first time in his life, Coris didn't know what to do except stand there, helpless, silent, as she tore herself to pieces before him.

"Even my own mother couldn't hug me for longer than two breaths. My wet nurse was Draken's cow, because no nursing mother in the whole of Crosset could stand to hold me. Everywhere I went, folks chuck rotten eggs and fling mud at me because my eyes freak them out. I can't even lie with a lad without hurting him. How gruesome is that? What kind of girl burns men when they get inside her?"

Meya covered her face with her hands. Tears trickled out between her fingers and dripped from her chin. She crumpled to her knees, shaking her head, fevered whispers renting through the still night air.

"I never wanted this. I don't want this. Isn't my life difficult enough already? Why can't I just be born normal? What have I done wrong, Freda? Why?"

With a ringing wail of despair, Meya fell onto the cold flagstones. Slapped awake from his stupor, Coris rushed over,

"Meya!"

He heaved her up by the shoulders. She was conscious, but her eyes were squeezed shut. Her hands had left her tear-streaked face and were now tearing and clawing feebly at the bosom of her dress, as if trying to flee from her own skin. He locked her fingers in his. Her back burned like a sheet of iron on his chest, yet he gritted his teeth and held tight without the merest twitch.

"I'm here. I'm here with you. I'm not leaving. You're not a monster. You're my rescuer. You're my friend. You're the May Queen. You're not alone. There are many, many people like you, out there."

Meya's tears fell thicker and faster.

"We're going to Safyre and Everglen. We'll find more Greeneyes. We'll learn more about your folk. And we're going to help them. All of us. If it's the last thing I do. Please—Please—"

Coris didn't know what he wanted her to do. And whether he should want it. But what was he expecting? Back when she'd first transformed and he'd explained the truth to her, she had simply brushed it to the back of her mind, preferring to focus more on ensuring their survival, then she'd forgotten it.

Here, now, however, there was no urgent threat to distract her, nowhere and no reason for her to run. And he was fumbling to keep her shattered self in one piece between his thin arms. All he knew was he must keep holding her, never letting go, even as she burned like fire on him.

Be brave as she had been for you.

⏳

After what felt like hours, Meya's sobs subsided. She allowed Coris to help her back to the bed, and they slept with their backs to each other, as they usually did. Unlike the previous few nights, however, Meya had left her Lattis medallion on the bedside cabinet, and she had shoved Coris off to the opposite edge of the bed, as far away from her heat as possible as she sulked herself to sleep.