Twas an awkward moment in Lady Arinel's carriage, when Coris emerged from his shocked stupor to find himself sprawled across Meya's lap, a bottle of pungent salmiac hovering before his nostrils, and three women keeping an unblinking vigil from the opposite bench.

Coris's silvery eyes found Agnes's ocean-blue one, and the young lord picked himself upright. Meya took it as her cue to covertly slither away. Yet, before she had even edged an inch towards the door, Coris's hand landed softly on her shoulder.

"Do stay, Meya. Please."

Meya gawked at him in desperate protest. Yet, Coris's gaze was pleading as well as unrelenting. In the end, Meya was compelled to settle back down in her corner, sulking in private and sneaking wary glances as Coris struck up an equally nervous conversation with Lady Agnes.

Despite Meya's fears, Coris and Agnes were businesslike throughout their exchange. Agnes had started off with a recap of her tale (No surprises there). After apologizing to Coris for her father's sabotage of Hadrian, she plunged straight into the pressing matter of finding Persephia and Klythe. And that was where she handed the baton to Meya.

Much to her bashfulness, Meya had no choice but to lay out her half-formed plans to uncover the lost Greeneye Lady.

Having finished her ramble, she held her breath and clenched her hands, shooting shifty glances at the surrounding nobles. Though admittedly, she should've taken it as a bolstering sign that they had let her finish uninterrupted, at least.

Arinel was nodding slowly, the finger-pinch of contemplation on her chin and her elbow propped on her knee. Agnes was frowning and biting her lip, understandably conflicted; this could very well be her sister who was being lured into Meya's trap, after all.

Coris watched his long, pale fingers twiddling idly with the tiny salt vial. Finally, he nodded to himself and resurfaced with a smile.

"You could be more confident, Meya. It's a good plan." His smile vanished as he straightened up and pocketed the salt vial, glancing at each of the four women in turn,

"Let's go over the details tonight. I have to meet with Lady Jaise this afternoon. You all go take a tour of the town, then come to the castle for dinner. I'll find a way to keep our target occupied."

"Can't I go with you?" Meya bargained. She hated not being included. She'd had sixteen years of that, being underage, a girl, a peasant and a Greeneye and all. Coris blinked, then swiftly conjured up a reassuring smile.

"Oh, you'd better go walk around. It's a valuable experience." He laid a placating hand over hers, but his eyes betrayed a fleeting glimpse of apprehension. Meya narrowed her eyes.

"More valuable than the business you're gonna discuss with Lady Jaise?" At Coris's grimace, she leaned in, looming over the flustered young man, "What's going on, Coris? Why can't I join you?"

"Because you're not the real Arinel, Meya."

Meya whipped around. It was Agnes who had replied. Fixing Meya with her single working eye, she explained with a note of equal dread and awe in her voice,

"Jaisians grow up not being able to see other people's expressions and mannerisms. Naturally, they've come to recognize people by their voices alone. Despite our best efforts, lies more or less leak out through our face, body language and voice. And Jaisians are good at hearing them. Especially Lady Winterwen. One word from you, and she'd know."

Meya shivered. It was a mental pickle, alright. She wanted to be in that meeting, but there was no telling what would ensue should her cover ever be blown. Again.

"But what if the Lady invites Meya for dinner, my Lady?" Gretella pointed out, sending Coris and Agnes tensed up at the reminder. "After all, it would be against etiquette to not extend the wife of a guest an invitation to dine. Not to mention she's a woman ruler herself."

Coris frowned down at the wooden floorboards as he wracked his brain. He resurfaced with a soft sigh.

"In that case, we might have to switch back to the real Arinel for the time being—But let's leave the worrying for when that happens." He added hastily at the horrified reactions of both Real- and Fake-Arinel, squeezing the latter's sweaty hand, which had cooled to human temperature.

Meya met Coris's gaze and studied his careworn expression. She had never seen him mired in such a quandary before. Though it galled her to have to stand down while others get to do all the important work, again, Meya conceded that it might be best not to push her luck with the enigmatic Lady Jaise.

Sighing, she slithered her hand out from under Coris's and clasped hers over his instead. Clinging to the windowsill with her free hand, she poked her head out the window.

Now that they were approaching it, Meya noticed that the towering black wall was not painted, but tiled with polished stone mosaics, from the lightest shade of gray to the deepest of black, arranged into mesmerizing geometric patterns. As breathtaking as it was unscalable.

A line of sculpted-stone crow heads jutted out along the wall's skirt, steaming water pouring out of their open beaks into the churning moat below, amidst a billowing curtain of vapor. The faint smell of rotten eggs hung in the air. Gum trees still blanketed both sides of the road.

"What are you discussing with Lady Jaise, anyway?" Meya turned back to her beau with a frown. "Why exactly are we stopping here? Dun seem to be much for us to refill here in terms of provisions, does it? Apart from gum and water?"

Coris avoided her stare, gazing down at his hand, fondling Meya's fingers. It was obvious he hadn't meant to confide in them at all.

"There's something wrong with the soil in the West." He sighed, "Almost all nutrients have gone. Crops are withering, all the way from Amplevale to Noxx. I'll negotiate with Winterwen to sell us water from Jaise's springs to enrich the soil, buy us more time to figure out the cause. The springs came all the way from down in Fyr's Lake, so they're chock full of nutrients."

"Nutrients which used to make up the bodies of hundreds of thousands of drowned sinners. What a refreshing notion. I could already see those crops becoming rejuvenated." said Meya drily. Coris burst out a short laugh, clamped his spider-like hand on her crown, then mussed up her hair.

"And there goes the blasphemous dragon lady."

Giggling, Meya swatted playfully at Coris. There was a brief moment of levity as Agnes, Arinel and Gretella met eyes, then wordlessly and smilingly agreed to allow the couple some well-earned downtime.

"Now that you mention it, I did notice trees and plants growing feeble along the way here. But crops are doing fine here." Arinel reluctantly steered the discussion back to seriousness.

"I've noticed, too. And I've seen this before." Meya pitched in, a shadow of foreboding over her downcast eyes. As Coris blinked at her, she lifted his hand off the top of her head and plopped it on her lap, puppeteering his long, pale, clammy fingers.

"Right before the Crosset Famine, crops and trees and grass were growing yellow and feeble. Cattle and sheep and goat were running dry. Chicken and ducks stopped laying. Fruits and flowers were dropping like rain. No matter how hard we mulched the earth, we couldn't save the harvest."

A long pause followed as the audience processed the anecdote in their own way. Coris gaped at Meya, a look of dawning realization and horror in his unblinking eyes.

"Will Hadrian pull through this, my Lord?"

Gretella broke the silence, her soft voice leaden with deep-seated fear. Though she hadn't witnessed the Crosset Famine, it was obvious she had survived some other famine—or worse, famines—in her younger years. Coris started out of his trance and met her gaze steadily, though he remained paler than usual.

"The bailiff's doing all he could, but I doubt we'd be able to save this harvest." He shook his head with a sigh. "We still have the storehouse grain, though. And we caught wind of this early on. Father could order a food ration right away, and switch to hardy crops, like potatoes and turnips."

"What about the livestock? They won't have grass to graze on, and hay doesn't keep for that long." Agnes asked. Her surprising knowledge of agriculture logistics reminded Meya that she used to be trained in governing as heiress. Coris nodded; a slow, heavy nod.

"We might have to slaughter them early, to preserve their meat and fat." He fell against the cushions and closed his eyes, "And we might have to allow some hog and deer hunting in the Lord's Forest, too."

"Deer? But—they're your family's symbol!" Meya sputtered. Coris bowed his head. Arinel let out a quiet sigh of resignation.

"Zier would be heartbroken. He loves deer."

It wasn't just Zier. Meya knew, felt that as profoundly as the other four Latakians in the immediate party. Every manor, every noble clan and its people had their own symbol animal. The prospect of Hadrian being driven to butchering their own deer for food would be no less spine-chilling than the sight of Crosset's Snow Gyrfalcon torn to blood-soaked pieces by a Dark Eagle.

Meya's hands shook, unwillingly reminded of the famine she had survived. She squeezed Coris's hand, and he reciprocated. Like wagons of May Fest tourists, misfortune continued rolling in towards Meya and whatever neighborhood she'd set foot into, one after another.

Though she often tried her level best to deny and debunk it, for once, Meya couldn't help thinking it might have actually been down to her rotten Greeneye luck.

⏳

The heavy drawbridge straddling Jaise's steaming moat buckled and groaned of chronic back pain, as wagon after wagon paraded across in opposite directions behind weary horses. Unsurprisingly, and in perfect contrast to how the average human digestive tract operates, visitors in the arrivals lane were processed much more sluggishly than their counterparts in the departures.

A line of masked guardsmen armored in black fortified the gaping entrance the drawbridge had left in its wake. As Sir Jarl approached on his handsome white mare, two guards standing on either side of the gate tilted their pikes to bar his advance. They took note of the striking crimson banners and adornments on the carriages and steeds, then the guard on the left drawled, his voice filtered through the metal grille over his mouth,

"Be this the entourage of Lord and Lady Hadrian?"

"Aye." Sir Jarl produced a scroll out of his Hadrian Red cloak and handed it to the guard. The masked man broke the seal, unfurled it, then nodded to his waiting comrade to the right side of the gate, who turned back to Sir Jarl.

"Her Grace has received Baron Hadrian's letter. She is pleased to welcome you all to our humble town." All the guards bowed and straightened up in perfect unison, then the one on the right continued,

"We understand it is of great inconvenience for those unfamiliar with our culture, but while in the open within the Black Walls, all visitors are required to wear the Jaise mask. How many are in your entourage?"

The guard craned his neck as if to peer into the curtained windows of the carriages and sniff out stowaways. Prepared, Sir Jarl presented them a second, much thicker scroll, containing the names of everyone from Lord Hadrian to the youngest yeoman.

After a minute of frantic counting, rushing in and out, and barking orders back and forth, dozens of black drawstring pouches were levered out and dispensed to the visiting party.

Jerald reached out to a guard tottering behind a staggering pile of pouches, relieved him of six, distributed it to his passengers, then settled down with his own pouch and opened it.

Meya dipped her hand into her pouch. In addition to the cool, smooth curve of the mask, her fingers brushed against a handful of mysterious vials rolling around at the bottom.

After retrieving the mask, she tipped the bag upside-down. Squatty, cork-stoppered glass vials filled with red, yellow, blue, green and white dye tumbled into her lap, all equipped with minuscule stone wands for painting.

Meya remembered how some of the gum farmers had decorated their masks with paint and beads. She gulped sticky spit down her parched throat.

Fyr, where was Myron when I needed him?

Hoping for assistance or a fellow soul lacking in artistic talent, Meya sneaked glances at the others. Arinel sucked on the end of her paintbrush, dithering on what to draw. Lady Agnes had ditched her old wooden half-mask and donned the shiny Jaise mask, and was deftly applying paint to it (as one would cosmetics) while holding a mirror before her.

Gretella hadn't bothered decorating her mask, and was grumbling as she warred with the leather cord now tangled in the loose hair from her bun.

Coris bent low over his mask, his tongue sticking out, tracing red curlicues on the edges. Sensing Meya's stare, he glanced up and smirked, then returned to his art.

Cursing under her breath for a drop of spit to plummet from his tongue and ruin his work, Meya spun around to Jerald. His hands had returned to the reins, navigating the meandering, booby-trapped tunnel leading away from the main gate (Meya could've sworn she saw murder-holes in the ceiling).

"Sir Jerald, can you help me with this later?"

Meya hollered, waving her mask. Jerald turned around, mask on. Meya shrank back, unnerved, as the glassy, black, empty eye sockets stared back at her. Behind the metal grille, his lips curled into a smile, and he nodded. Despite the lack of eye holes, he seemed to be seeing plainly.

Intrigued, Meya held her mask to her face. What seemed to be impenetrable black glass from the outside, was somehow just as clear as the windowpanes back in Hadrian Castle on the inside.

"Goodly Freda! It's bright as day in here!"

"The masks are specially made." Coris's airy voice chimed in from her left. Meya turned around to find him putting finishing touches on his mask in green paint. They had now breached the torchlit tunnel onto the green lawn between the two concentric walls, and daylight had streamed back in.

"The glass is transparent on one side, and opaque on the other. A strategic function for windows, come to think of it."

After dotting one last pale green spot, Coris picked up his white quill and spelled out his name on the forehead of the mask. Meya decided to follow suit. She'd just finished inking the first squiggly line of the M with trembling hands when the carriage trundled through the inner gate into the town itself.

Curiosity overwhelmed her. Meya slid on the mask and poked her head out the window, her mouth falling open.

She had expected a town draped in the color of midnight, but the spectacle that arced into her eyes from all directions was as vibrant and eye-watering as if she had stepped into a town where May Fest never ended.

The Jaisians' flat-roofed houses on both sides of the road were blanketed with the same mosaics and dizzying kaleidoscopic patterns, but with all colors of the rainbow.

The sandstone-paved road was decorated with mosaic art, arranged into sentient suns, moons and stars. Narrow canals run parallel to the road, coursing with spring water. Pipes branched out into dwellings and shops along the way. Hot water flowed in along with excited tourists, as sewage pipes slithered out and slipped underground unnoticed.

Despite the bright colors and life, several doors were plastered with white banners sporting a triangle colored in black paint—the ubiquitous Latakian symbol of death, its colors inverted, names and deathdays calligraphed underneath.

Churning her lips, Meya retreated inside and hissed at her personal Latakian encyclopedia.

"Psst, Lexi?"

"Hmm?" Coris looked up from his mask with a raised eyebrow, which edged higher when Meya scooted right to his side and leaned close, cupping a hand over her mouth and his ear.

"Has a plague swept through here or something? I'm seeing a lot of houses with death banners." Meya whispered, not wanting to embarrass herself in front of Agnes and Arinel in case she was wildly mistaken. Coris blinked blankly for a beat, then caught up.

"Oh. That." His grin widened. Leaning back against the cushions, he cocked his head. "Those people aren't the actual dead. That's why the colors are inverted."

"Huh?" Meya frowned. She spared a second glance outside the window, just as another white banner sailed by, "Then why in the three lands—"

Coris chuckled and looped his arm around her shoulder.

"Jaisians believe it's important to always be aware of death. Every baby would be given a coffin at birth, straight from the Lord or Lady Jaise. Whenever you feel like it, you can just put up your name and preferred deathday on the bulletin."

"On your designated deathday, as you lie in your coffin, people would come to pay respects. They would deliver eulogies, speaking honestly of your good deeds and bad deeds, of their thanks or grievances, but the worst punishment of all—"

Coris unfurled his crafty grin, then leaned in and whispered in her ear,

"—is having no-one at all visit you."

Meya blew a sigh of awe through her gaping lips. She turned and marveled at the dazzling, rowdy town once more.

"Freda, I'm loving this town already." She breathed, chuckling. Coris laughed in agreement.

"If you love it now, wait 'til you see their bathhouses."

Tourists were disappearing into sandstone houses perfectly dry and energetic, and filing out with hair slicked back and shining wet, drowsy grins peeking from behind grilles, and a damp towel on their shoulders.

Meya glanced down at her chest, and felt her own cheeks flushing pink. She hadn't been able to afford a dip in the bathhouse back in Crosset, so she'd taken her baths in the river. Even then, she avoided the other girls as much as possible, and vice versa.

If her glowing eyes didn't become a subject of disgust and fear, her precocious breasts would be one for endless ridicule, gossip and scandalized looks. According to the elders, the size of one's pillows reflected the looseness of one's character. Remembering the circumstances in which she had lost her virginity, Meya had to shamefully admit that for once, they may be right.

Shoulders hunched, eyes low and chin on her chest, Meya folded in on herself. Coris blinked, alarmed. Before he could investigate, their carriage jerked to a stop.

Jolted from her reverie, Meya scrambled for the window and poked her head out again. Wagons and carriages led away before them in single file towards a circular sandstone plaza. At the heart of the jammed roundabout, stood a gigantic fountain blanketed with black mosaic and shrouded in vapor. A pillar of stone arced over the water zenith like a rainbow, Jaise's motto carved onto it in large, bold letters:

Sharper When Broken

Tourists poured out of their wagons and made their way to the fountain. Some carried jars, brass goblets, ale mugs and repurposed wine bottles. Some even toted barrels.

Jerald craned his neck to see if there were any space for edging forth. Seeing none, he sighed and turned to Coris,

"The women can get down here and have a walk around. We'll come pick you up for dinner in the castle later."

Gretella and the three girls gathered their belongings. Coris followed suit, snatching his cloak and gold.