"Lady Arinel? Where's Haselle? What are you doing here?"

Meya demanded, gawking at the young woman with brown curls who had answered her summons with a loud bang that bounced the door one-and-a-half rounds into the wall. Completing the remaining half-round with a thunderous slam, Lady Crosset flounced over to Meya, pushed her down on the chair, then snatched up a comb.

"She's distraught. Grandmother's taking her straight to our carriage." She explained brusquely as her hands bustled about, dividing Meya's hair into equal portions with the comb's tapered handle. Her hands were shaking, and the comb's pointed end sliced a vicious path down Meya's scalp like a scalpel; the Ice Lady was enraged.

"What happened?" Meya winced as Arinel yanked back three sheaves of her hair and weaved them into a plait.

"Few days ago, the other Crossetian maids gave her an ointment for her burns—spiked with poison ivy!" Arinel tugged hard on the rungs of the braid to tighten them, and Meya bit back a groan of pain. The lady took no notice. She headed straight into a fiery tirade, punctuated by her own seething grunts and Meya's internal prayers.

"I could've ordered them thrown headfirst (Ow!)—into an ivy bush (Agh!)—if I had the power. Despicable! (Youch!)—After all she'd been through! (Oh, sweet mother Freda.)—How could they! (I'm going bald.)"

"You could punish them, your grace. To them, you're the real Lady Crosset. Knock yourself out." Meya commented through gritted teeth, blinking back tears. Then all emotion melted away from her freckled face, her gaze cooled as she reminded, her voice level,

"But, that aside, ought you not to have told me something?"

Arinel's hands froze. Lowering the braid she was working on, she raised her gaze to meet Meya's eyes, reflected in the mirror. Her lips quivered, forming soundless, unuttered words,

"So, Coris told you?" She breathed, eyes wide in shock and guilt. Meya did not oblige with the slightest nod, but the answer was blatant in her cold stare. Arinel sighed deeply, nodding in surrender.

"We agreed to leave it to him. He was the only witness, after all. I'm so sorry, Meya. I never knew—"

Meya studied Arinel's reflection as she dipped her head in shame. Tremors from her fingertips traveled up Meya's half-finished braid, and Meya felt her resentment abating. Arinel really hadn't known, after all. She wasn't to blame.

"Aren't you scared of me?" She asked, more to torment herself than from genuine curiosity, adding at the sight of Arinel's perplexed look, "I'm a fire-breathing, humongous monster, you know?"

Arinel chewed her lip as she articulated her thoughts and feelings into words, then sighed softly.

"Well, I'd be lying if I said the notion didn't intimidate me at all." She fiddled idly with Meya's braid, then shook her head firmly, "But I'm not scared of you, no. Weirded out? Somewhat. I guess I simply need time to get used to it. We all do."

Meya found it difficult to believe. As if sensing her cynicism, Arinel knelt down beside her chair, fingers still loosely steepled on her braid. Meya turned and met her gaze. She unfurled a faint, gentle smile.

"From what Coris told us, your first act upon transforming was rescuing him." Her voice was soft as her soothing hand on Meya's arm, her fingers sinking into the scar that was solid proof of her heroic deed.

"Dragon or human. Then or now. Your motive have always been to protect. That's what we saw when we look at you." The lady's smile widened a twitch as her voice lowered into a whisper, "It's the same with your Song, Meya. If you don't let it define you, then it won't."

So, why are you so afraid? She seemed to be implying with that casual tilt of her head. Meya gazed deep into those clear, bright blue eyes, and the sincerity she found within rattled her unsteady walls to the ground. Boiling tears bubbled up in her eyes, and she trembled with the effort of pushing them back.

"But I just wanted to be beautiful." She choked out. Arinel rose to embrace her, biting back her own tears as Meya's teardrops plummeted down the chest of her tattered dress, shoring up the full weight of her burning body propped against hers.

"Like you. Like Marin. Like Agnesia Graye. For him—"

Meya's confession tumbled feebly through her lips, having traveled all the way up from the deepest depths of her heart, where she had stored her darkest, most intimate thoughts born in moments of weakness.

As those trembling fingers clung tight to the coarse wool of her dress, the image of Zier inevitably flashed into Arinel's mind, and she understood her good friend perfectly. No further words were needed.

As they held onto each other in the stillness of dawn, a sudden inspiration washed over Arinel, followed by a moment of hesitance. Glancing down at Meya, she brushed away the tousled golden locks.

"Would you like to see her?" She crouched down and whispered into Meya's ear. "Agnesia Graye. I could introduce you to her, if you'd like."

As Meya gaped at her, Arinel's eyes wandered into the distance, pondering the past.

"I think it's time for the truth. I'm sure Klythe agrees."

Her cryptic musing only served to deepen Meya's frown, but Arinel was not to be deterred. With an excited grin, she picked herself up and grasped Meya's shoulders, righting her pose on the chair,

"Come on. Let's whip you up some gorgeous braids first."

⏳

"We expect the journey to take no more than ten days. First, we will be stopping for the night in Jaise to prepare for crossing the Sands of Caesonai. That should take us three days and two nights at the most, then it's Hyacinth. From there, we will cross the Blue Mountains into Safyre, which should take around four days."

Sir Roderic Jarl, the Marshal, would be leading the entourage to Safyre. Preparations seemed to have been over by the time Arinel and Meya arrived at the courtyard before the Keep. The burly warrior was standing with hands behind his back, briefing the group of castle officials, maids, manservants and yeomen assigned for the voyage on the itinerary.

Coris was standing with the other noblemen and women a little way behind Sir Jarl. He noticed Meya emerging from the open wooden door, but before he could do more than widen his eyes, Meya hastily dropped her gaze to her Hadrian Red dress. Arinel led her around the throng to the white gold-gilded carriage to the left, the same one they had left Crosset with.

Meya felt as if years had gone by since she had first stepped down from its golden stairs and set eyes on the Keep in awe. She didn't have much time for ruminating, however; Arinel was already holding the curtains aside. Hushed, frantic voices echoed from within.

After another skeptical look at Arinel, who nodded solemnly, Meya ducked inside. Her foot snagged on some sort of fabric, and she pitched headfirst.

"Agh—Whoa!" She reared back and fell against Arinel, who had grabbed her by the sleeve. After taking a moment to regain their balance and catch their breaths, Meya extricated herself then looked down at what she had tripped over.

Next to her foot, the tasseled corner of a woolen shawl trailed away on the carriage's wood-paneled floor, then climbed up what looked to be a low plateau made up of multicolored shawls, headscarves, cloaks and blankets. The pile of clothes shivered like a wretched puppy in the rain, giving out muffled sniffles and sobs.

Gretella (whom Meya had learned recently was Arinel's grandmother as well as governess), was tending to it with one arm on its leveled summit and the other in mid-air, her plump finger covered in a smudge of white ointment.

"Come now, lass. It's just an ivy rash. A few dabs of this and you'll be fine in a wink."

She cooed and coaxed as she cautiously lowered her hand, at which point the innocuous pile of shawls produced an arm and a hand. It swatted Gretella's hand away with such force the blob of cream on her finger landed with a splat on the carriage wall.

"NOOOOOOOO!" The rag-bundle screeched, pale fingers scrabbling at its hidden face and parrying away Gretella's advances. "DON'T TOUCH ME! DON'T LOOK AT ME! JUST GO! GO AWAY!"

"Wh—"

Meya opened her mouth, but then she spotted the upturned wooden mask wobbling on the floor—Haselle's mask that normally covered half of her face from view. She fell, weak-kneed, onto the moldy-green seat with a flump.

No. It can't be. How could it be?

"That's—Haselle?" Meya whispered to Arinel, eyes still glued to the piteous heap, "She—she's Agnesia Graye?"

There was a split-second of silence, which usually heralded a devastating fallout—

"NOOOOOOOOO!"

Lady Agnesia of Graye issued a harrowing scream. Meya moved a moment too late to shut the windows. Agnes rounded on Arinel, one hand tugging shawls over her ruined face, the other swiping blindly at her traitorous friend.

"WHY! WHY HAVE YOU TOLD HER? I TRUSTED YOU, ARI! WHY?"

"Agnes, we know what happened to you. To Persephia." Arinel swooped down and grabbed Agnes's trembling arms. Adding a few hard shakes of her own, she shouted over Agnes's wails, obscured behind her numerous shawls, "It's been six years, Agnie. It's time we deal with this. What's the use for putting it off?"

Agnes registered none of that. She shook her head and bemoaned.

"It's all over. I'm hideous. Don't look at me. Leave me alone. Just leave me alone."

She slid from Arinel's hands and ended up crumpled on the floor once more, clutching at her bundled head.

Meya gazed down at the desolate remnants of her husband's first love, too numbed by shock to feel anything else. With a sigh, Arinel stood up and drew back, making room for Gretella to move in and take a another turn at calming the poor thing.

"It's becoming clear, isn't it?" She continued, her fists clenched. Meya glanced at her, and saw a fire blazing in those eyes like ice-chips.

"Klythe had nothing to do with the fire that night. It was Persephia. She must have been struck by Lattis by accident, like you. That's why she transformed and burned Agnes."

"A fire broke out in Agnes's rooms. Only Persephia was there. Surrounded by flames and naked, unconscious but unharmed. Not a single burn. Agnes was nowhere to be found, dead or alive. When Persephia came to, she couldn't remember anything that had happened."

Coris's voice came back to Meya as if he was sitting right next to her. She saw his insinuating stare as if it were yesterday. So this was what he was trying to tell her. She was just buried too deep in denial to figure it out.

"I'd bet Coris's parents knew all along. They've always known Greeneyes are dragons." Arinel shook her head, then slumped down beside Meya on the cushions,

"But they kept it quiet and left everyone to their assumptions. I daresay they were hoping to protect Greeneyes, even at the risk of a war with Graye. But the longer you keep Greeneyes ignorant of their true nature, the more they and the people around them will have to suffer like this!"

Arinel gestured a frustrated hand towards Agnes's huddled form. She'd turned to face Meya full, flaring sapphires boring into subdued, dull emeralds. Meya's usually swift reflexes seemed to have been dipped in tar. She could only watch as Arinel plopped down before Agnes again, pleading and demanding,

"Agnie, I'm sorry. It's been six years. We have to tell them. We have to find Persephia. We have to help her. And I've got to get Klythe home before Father—"

Arinel broke off and hung her head, overcame by emotion. Shawls slid away as Agnes raised her head. An eye of mesmerizing ocean-blue shone from within its sunken socket on the tearstained right half of her face, which retained vestiges of her once-renowned beauty. Her left eye, meanwhile, was marred and blinded by the horrific burns that had also disfigured her left side, made worse by a smattering of angry pink hives.

Yet, as Meya gazed into those eyes, she realized that never once had she ever felt pity for the scarred girl. Not when they first met. Not even now.

Even with her strange mask on, one would notice the edges of Agnes's burns seeping out from underneath it, and to picture the extent of them.

Every morning, as Agnes deftly weaved her hair into elaborate braids, Meya had often wondered how she could still manage to keep living, had often admired how she could still find it in her to giggle at Meya's horrible jokes, to sympathize with Meya's insensitive griping about her glowing eyes.

And hadn't she always watched her own eyes shining in the mirror afterwards, then felt both ashamed and empowered? If Agnes could live with the burnt half of her face, then perhaps Meya could live with the dragon half of herself.

Agnes had probably cried and screamed and lamented. And she was still crying and screaming and lamenting. Sometimes. Yet, she was still alive and living. Regardless of their differences, their opposite backgrounds, in the eyes of Latakia, they were now both ugly girls, trying to make their way in a world where girls were supposed to be beautiful first and foremost, and little else.

Without thinking, without planning, without knowing the right words to comfort, Meya reached back towards her nape. Unclasping the necklace that held her Lattis medallion and leaving it on the seat, she slid down to her knees and edged towards Agnes.

After a quick glance, Arinel moved aside to make way. Meya settled gingerly before her supposed rival. Agnes wordlessly studied Meya's dragonlike eyes, then a melancholic smile formed on her lips.

"Your eyes are just like Persie's," She reached out and traced the corner of Meya's eye with her finger.

"Father and Mother would insist she keep her bracelet on at all times, but she'd always fling it off the moment it was just the two of us. Perhaps because I was the only one who'd never objected. Or rather, I've never said anything. At all."

Meya frowned, but Agnes was still too deep in thought to notice. Her eyes downcast, she dragged her fingers absently on her burns.

"So, I guess it was befitting punishment for Freda to have given me this scar."

"Why? You haven't done nothing bad. It ain't fair." Meya shook her head.

"Well, that's the thing, I've done nothing." Agnes looked up with a wan smile. And as Meya stared, nonplussed, her grin widened, "Nothing bad. And nothing good. As Father and Mother gave every opportunity to me and stripped everything away from Persephia. As Coris and his friends bullied and mocked Persephia behind my back. Simply because she was born with a difference. I stood by and did nothing. And said nothing. If I had a conscience, I ignored it, and told myself all was well."

A lone drop of tear seeped out from Agnes's right eye and rolled down her cheek; the tear ducts in her left eye had probably been scorched dry by Persephia's rage. Still, it did nothing to dilute the guilt and shame overflowing from her trembling voice, as she confessed her most dastardly sin,

"And to my sister. To you. To Greeneyes all over Latakia, that was probably just as bad."

🐉🐉🐉