"Meya?"

The serenity of midday in the guests' chambers was disrupted by an urgent croak. Meya glanced up from Ralon's memoir to find pleading silvery eyes, and shook her head for the umpteenth time.

"No, Coris." She drawled wearily as she made to return to Axel's miserable tale.

"Meya, please." Coris persisted, prompting Meya to snap the journal shut with a flump of flattened air. It was taxing enough piecing the words together letter by letter without her supposed teacher nagging her for a sip of laudanum-laced cure every quarter-hour, too. Either Coris knocked himself out now, or she'd knock him out for him with her method of choice—which involved a few knuckles but a lot of pain.

Meya deposited the small book on the bedside cabinet. Nearby, a candle clock rose amidst the puddle of its melted flesh. Two inches or so of wax remained above the nail marking the time for the next dose of cure.

Sighing in frustration, Meya transferred some water from the crystal jug to a matching goblet, then held it to Coris's parched lips with an encouraging whisper,

"We've got a while to go. Have some water for now."

Coris scrunched up his face. He thrust his head back and forth on his pillow, reminding Meya of Morel's rolling pin on fresh dough. With him being so gaunt, Meya hadn't expected he'd have enough flesh on his cheeks to twist up a fit. But then again, he'd had a decade of tantrum practice as spoilt little Lord Hadrian.

"I can't sleep without it." He commenced whining, smacking a feeble fist on the mattress. When Meya remained unmoved, he threw his head back with a growling moan, thumping with all four of his gangly limbs. A tear seeped from under his eyelid and plummeted from his cheekbone, gaining speed as it devoured dewlike beads of sweat along the way.

Meya's heart writhed at the pitiful display. But relent now, and she could have dead Coris dangling from her arms rather than demented and delirious. Just then, the dull twangs of Zier's harp floated over from the study desk, and an idea flitted by in her mind. Fists and jaw clenched, she leaned in and braved an offer.

"How about a lullaby? I'll sing you a song or two."

Lord Hadrian was not pleased. Slapping the bed with startling force, he snapped.

"I don't want lullabies! I want laudanum! Now! "

Coris's familiar scream of displeasure jolted Zier out of his happy place and straight into battle mode. He abandoned the harp he was tuning and scampered in, swinging nimbly onto the bed. He pinned his brother's flailing limbs with his knees and hands and quieted him with cooing shushes, as Meya cradled his face in her palms and washed his feverish forehead with her song.

"Over the peaks of Neverend Heights..."

Even as her voice trembled with stifled tears, Zier could already feel his and his brother's tense muscles dissolving to clay from its unearthly beauty. Under him, Coris struggled drunkenly, and he bit his lips as he urged feeling back into his hands.

Coris gradually stilled, sinking limply onto the bed. He was asleep before the song was over.

Zier's sigh of relief coincided with that of Meya as she pressed her lips onto Coris's forehead. He clambered numbly down from atop his brother to her side, watching as she smoothed Coris's hair with both her hands. Meya drew back in jolts, her face veiled by loose hair from her fraying ponytail. Still, she couldn't hide the sobs leaking out in her shivery breaths.

Zier averted his gaze and wordlessly held out his arm. Meya grasped it, and he helped her to the study desk for a moment of fresh air, away from the depressing vigil. He poured tea into her Jayri bowl. She cupped her hands around it, yet her red-rimmed eyes were listless and aimless. Mired, no doubt, in dilemma.

The breeze from the open window was too light to disperse the heavy, dead air around them, and Zier could only think of one thing to say to distract her.

"Meya Hild?"

He gulped as those glowing irises rose slowly to meet his, hastily avoiding her cool stare. Scratching at his own cracked and mended bowl, he mustered up his courage and finished,

"I'm truly sorry. About...everything I said yesterday."

Meya's silence betrayed no reply, and he risked a glance, but ended up lingering. Her intimidating gaze had softened somewhat, and within it, he glimpsed a warmth that was unlike Ari's loving. Somewhere between that of a mother and a friend. He settled upon older sister. Then, she looked down at her bowl once more.

"I know you didn't actually think that about me." She spun her bowl, her voice level, as Zier blinked in slight awe and guilt. She shrugged, "You were just saying anything you could think of that would hurt Coris the most."

"But it still hurt you nonetheless." Zier argued. Meya shrugged once more.

"I'm used to names." She steered away, then added a wry joke, "Got about half a dozen back in Crosset."

"And you shouldn't have."

Meya glanced up, eyes a little wider in surprise. His insistence must have finally reached through and touched her. Or it could have been his sincerity; Zier himself had been blessed with only one nickname, The Bumbling Spare—and he hated it with the fire of three suns. He couldn't imagine being pelted with half a dozen—and a couple more of his contributions, for that matter.

A tongue of candlelike heat caressed his neck, and Zier started out of his musings. Meya's rough finger traced the threadlike, scabbing gash peeking along the line of his collar, where she had snatched him last night.

"I scratched you." She muttered, a hint of shame in her dull voice. She met his gaze once more, her voice louder now, "And I've said mean things to you, too—I mean, you didn't tell him to go drug himself half-dead." She added at the sight of his raised eyebrows, then sighed and went back to tormenting her bowl, "It's not entirely your fault. I'm sorry, too."

For a few seconds, Zier could only stare and blink. Her capacity for forgiveness was overwhelming. Then again, a less tolerant woman wouldn't have been able to stand his brother's lies as much as she had. And he could tell that even she was doubting her choices.

"I prefer not to ascertain. I don't have the right to, even if I did."

Zier tensed at that unbidden voice inside his head, and he hesitated. He feared for his brother's feeble heart, should Meya ever abandon him. But Meya's kindness also shamed him from asking more of her, when she had already sacrificed so much for his liar of a brother. More to stall for time than anything, he hitched up a sly grin.

"Fyre. Now that you mention it, they're dancing before my eyes again." Zier raked his hand through his hair, clutching his crown in mock anguish. Meya raised her eyebrows, perplexed and suspicious, and Zier shook his head with a melodramatic sigh as he shed light on the nature of his suffering,

"Freda, how could one be bestowed the most heavenly of voices and the unholiest of breasts—"

Zier yowled for sweet mother Freda as Meya's talons wrung the flesh of his shoulder. It was becoming clear now where those pink sores on Coris's arms had come from.

Meya settled back in her chair, muttering through gritted teeth.

"I believe you two are brothers now."

Zier's chuckles petered out through his meek grin. Rubbing his stinging arm, he studied the sullen Meya as she slopped honey into her tea and stirred it. He remembered the way Coris had looked at her, had tended to her last night. He remembered his agony when prompted about his true feelings for her, his crippling fear at the sight of her fury. And he could no longer bear to simply observe. Drawing a deep breath, he hitched up his signature confident smirk and resumed,

"It's been a while since we last talked in private. Lots of new developments. So, what are your revised plans for you and Coris?"

Meya continued stirring as she shrugged once again.

"Dunno. All circumstances considered, we decided we'd just wing it." She said, dull and uncaring. A far cry from the sharp and determined impostor who had accepted his offer, that day by the tent. Zier blinked, alarmed as much by her revelation as her blasé attitude.

"Wing it? Doesn't sound like Coris." He challenged, eyes narrowed. Meya simply went on stirring. Frustrated, Zier leaned forth in a rare moment of seriousness.

"Look. We have until Everglen at best, then it's reality. Say we were able to persuade Lady Safyre to cooperate, Father and Mother are bound to send word. Ask about your babe-making progress. We can't keep fending them off forever."

The spoon began stalling in Meya's hand. An encouraging sign. Still, she refused to peel her eyes off the tabletop, and her voice remained neutral,

"And what does Lady Arinel say?"

Zier spasmed at the sudden mention of Lady Crosset. He hadn't had a chance to actually talk with Ari, ever since their disastrous altercation in Muldor's lab. And now, Ari had brought her mother's case to Lady Jaise, while he nursed Coris through withdrawal. He didn't even have the chance to properly apologize for his behaviour the night before; for once, he prioritized his family.

Ari would be proud, thought Zier morosely as he also set about flavoring his tea, stirring a bitter sigh into the mix,

"She'd probably tell them the truth." He shook his head, nodding mockingly as he listed off, "Reward you. Marry Coris. Sleep with him. Give him an heir. The way it should be."

His heart writhed; the words seemed more final that ever, now that they had rolled off his own tongue. Meya's silence only served to stoke the flames of anxiety engulfing him, and he hooked a finger in her sleeve to rouse her.

"The only way you'd get to be with Coris is as his mistress. The only way I might get to be with Ari is after Coris is gone." He hissed, shuddering at the cold, inevitable truth in his words. This finally caught Meya's attention; she glanced up, a shadow of defiance in her seemingly empty eyes, and Zier was bolstered to continue,

"We both know we're never going to accept that. And though Coris and Ari would, it's going to be a torture for them—both of them."

Meya lifted an eyebrow, skeptical. Zier licked his drying lips as he edged his fingers up her arm, resting his palm over her wrist. In his memories, Coris's melancholic gray eyes shone dully against the dark of night. He understood, as Coris did, that it was not one's place to demand love and devotion from another, even as one believed one would perish otherwise. Yet, he must at least make sure she knew.

"He loves you." He whispered, his voice grave. Her eyes widened and wavered as he held her gaze, "He's never going to say it, so I said it."

Meya chewed on her trembling lips, and Zier understood her dilemma. He drew back with a sigh, freeing her from his intense stare.

"I know it seems hopeless. I know you're in two minds after what just happened." He reassured her, his long fingers absentmindedly tapping the back of her hand as he chose his words, then continued with rekindled fervor,

"Still, he's not a prodigy for nothing. If you wished for it, he'd find a way." He spared his slumbering brother a long glance—hoping, praying for his uncanny ability of overcoming the impossible to find a way for the four of them, out of this dead-end path their parents had set them on. With a deep sigh, he gave Meya's hand one last squeeze, then leaned back against his chair and retrieved his abandoned, half-tuned harp, concluding in his usual wry manner,

"Just let him know whether you're still in or out, so he can start scheming—or screaming."

He added with a cock of his head, his face deadpan. Meya silently raised her eyes, watching as Zier busied himself with the knobs of his instrument, then turned to the blanketed figure on the bed. Each pluck of a string felt like a pluck on her heartstring the longer she lingered, as she remembered Agnes's plea.

It wasn't that she didn't understand their fear. She knew that right now, Coris's need was greater than hers—even though he'd brought all this upon himself. But she couldn't help feeling somewhat resentful, nevertheless. She couldn't explain why. They had reassured her that they knew she felt conflicted and betrayed. Yet, still, it was heavily implied that she should stay by Coris's side.

If Meya had to admit, she did not adore Coris any less. But she also couldn't carry on like this. Their differences in race, birth and status, their unsure future, she could handle. But she doubted she could withstand that paralyzing fear and utter despair, over and over, just with different lies. There were things that must change, before she would even reconsider plunging deeper into darkness with him.

She heaved a deep sigh, hoping to lift some weight from her heavy heart, and was disappointed. Zier had finished tuning his harp by then; he was strumming the melody of Over the Peaks of Neverend Heights, plectrums on his fingers.

Meya remembered the longing in Coris's eyes when he had mused about her Song set to Zier playing Corien's Harp. As she watched those long, tapered fingers, which resembled Coris's, pirouette gracefully across the strings, her thoughts wandered to Arinel, who was similarly ensnared by the Hadrian family's machinations, and wondered aloud.

"Why couldn't your parents have just switched Arinel from Coris to you?" The harp song died abruptly. Zier glanced up at her, eyebrows raised. Meya clarified with a shrug, "You're brothers. Makes no difference which one she marries, does it?"

Zier blinked, taken by surprise. Then, he sighed and set aside his harp. He met Meya's gaze as he fell back against his chair, fingertips loosely laced on his lap.

"For the Crossets, no. For the Hadrians, yes." His words dissolved into another heavy sigh. As Meya leaned closer, intrigued, he explained morosely,

"Coris and Arinel were promised to each other back when Coris was still healthy, and the Crossets were still powerful. It was profitable; an alliance with a potential rival house."

"But, after the Famine and the Heist, Coris became sickly and impotent. Arinel's house became destitute, and their fiefs became ours. The reason Father went ahead with the marriage, apart from honor, is because she's the only acceptable bride who's happy to marry Coris."

Zier shook his head, a savage grin twisting his lips, his blue eyes downcast and distant.

"No lord would want to waste his dowry marrying his daughter to a nobleman who likely wouldn't give her a son in the few years he has left."

"So, you're saying..." Meya whispered as the cold realization dawned on her, steeling herself against shivers. Zier nodded, shoulders sagging under the weight of his woes.

"Either Coris miraculously became strong again, or I'd have to marry for the both of us." He closed his eyes and sighed again, visibly deflating as he did. "My wife must bring in twice the dowry, and give me twice the number of surviving sons; Ari's house has nothing to offer. Worse, her family carries a blood malady. That's what has killed her two sisters..."

Zier trailed away. Meya felt a pang in her heart at the blunt truth she had deduced from their discussion; if even Arinel wasn't good enough for Zier, then what chance did she have?

"So, either way, Coris can't marry me, can he?" Her lips unfurled into a spiteful smile. She saw Zier turning sharply towards her out of the corner of her eye, and her grin widened. "Because I'm a peasant girl?"

Her muttering voice was tainted by a bitter laugh. A brief silence descended as Zier struggled for a consolation, a solution. Then, his face lit up,

"There's one thing I could think of—" He blurted out, his wide eyes unfocused. Somehow, Meya found herself glancing up. Zier gulped and gathered himself, then continued,

"We go to Everglen, and bring back those ore ships." He tapped a finger on the tabletop as if to illuminate each beat of his plan, "We give you credit, and you're recognized by the king for services to Latakia in a time of great need. Then, he might reward you with titles and lands, like Edward II did for Maxus—"

Zier broke off. He looked up to where Meya's cool gaze and bitter smile lay awaiting him. At the sight of his draining cheeks, Meya cocked her head with a little sigh.

"Yes. I'm a woman. That'd be a catch."

Zier went frozen for a moment, then sighed and nodded in defeat.

After a war had ended, a distinguished soldier may be knighted by his lord. A humble merchant, through generations of hoarding wealth, funding wars, and marrying daughters to destitute power, could pave the way to nobility for his descendants, but not himself.

Even in Maxus's case, the decision to knight him must have been just as much out of fear and necessity as a reward. Meya knew now why, for two hundred years, the Wynn Kings who succeeded Philip the Usurper had stopped shy of going against the Hadrians; should the Hadrians ever betray them and return The Axel to the dragons, it could spell the end of Latakia.

And if it was rare even for a man like Maxus to rise above the station he was born into in his lifetime, then what chances did she, a peasant girl and a Greeneye, have of becoming a true Lady? Of marrying the heir of a powerful noble house? Of being bestowed titles and land to rule? Of being accepted and respected as an equal?

If such things were possible, there wouldn't have been a need for fairytales like Tricia of Haventoth to placate the fruitless dreams of brighteyed young maidens. In this land, worth was decided by birth, and Greeneye peasant girls were not destined for greatness.

"I know you're infatuated with your new mistress."

"Like your beloved half-breed mistress!"

Those demeaning words, though not directed at her, echoed still in the back of her mind. Arinel was a noblewoman, so she was the wife. Meya was a peasant, so mistress was the most she could ever hope to be. No matter how many lives she had saved—her liege's included. Or how much she would contribute to Latakia's cause. Or even as Coris regarded her as his only Lady Hadrian.

It's not fair.

Meya's hands clenched into fists on the cold polished wood. If there was one thing she hated more than wasted privilege, it was injustice. It was why she had railed time and again against the unjust laws Crosset imposed upon women and Greeneyes. It wasn't just to earn her own dowry. She was fighting for what was rightfully hers.

"How much better Latakia could have become, if more people like you had had the chance we've been given?"

Coris was right. Freda knew how many Greeneyes there were—how many women there were—who could be just as or even brighter than Meya herself. This wasn't just about her getting to marry Coris—if she ultimately decided she wanted to, that was; this was about showing all those nobility and royalty and the king and queen that they were all worthy. That they all deserved the opportunity to rise and prosper. Man or woman, noble or common, dragon or human. The way Coris had seen her potential, had given her a chance and a choice.