Are we really going through with this?

Even with her glowing eyes taken care of, Meya still wasn’t at ease. As Gillian and four of his bandits shaved, bathed and suited up in the Crosset guards’ clothes, as she herself was scrubbed and cleaned by nine maids who also had her hair bleached and curled, making her resemble Arinel as much as possible, as Gretella and Haselle tutored her in the ways of a noble lady, which constituted mundane manners like how to walk properly, eat properly, talk properly, all the way to—to put it politely, please one’s husband in the bedchambers. Properly.

Now that the small entourage had crossed the border into Hadrian and was being led by its red-clad guards up the hill to the castle wall, the question became a constant ringing in her brain.

Really? Are we seriously even considering this? Really?

Sitting in her velvet-lined seat, surrounded by little round comfy pillows (all moldy green), measuring the steepness of the hill’s incline with her behind, Meya clenched her fists and struggled to calm her failing nerves.

Any minute now, she would step out to the Hadrian sun in Arinel’s green silk dress, greet her husband-to-be—Lord Coris Hadrian—and his family, enter a wedding ceremony with him, and—O goodly Freda, please him in the bedchambers.

Meya resisted the temptation to yank out her hair in frustration. Her head was already sore enough from all the trials it had been through with the bleach, the dye, the curling and the braidin. Her face felt as if she had dipped it in bread flour, with all the powder heaped upon it to cover up her freckles and her suntanned skin.

She’d have to be unbelieveably lucky for Lord Coris to be stupid enough to believe this Arinel was born with golden curls and porcelain white, unblemished skin, and not a disguise to ensure he wouldn’t reject her on her wedding day.

What frightened Meya most, however, is the bedchamber part. Meya knew she was coming of age, but marriage had been further from her mind than even Everglen up until now.

Ever since the Famine ended, peasant girls in Crosset usually worked the fields until halfway into their twenties before they’d finally get to marry. Unlike pretty Marin, who could marry any man her father approves of without paying the groom a single copper coin, other girls have to earn their own dowry.

Needless to say, suntanned, freckled-faced, flat-nosed, mud-smudged, pig-smelling as she was, Meya didn’t dare dream of marriage. She was saving up more to buy herself land to build a humble cottage after Dad had died and left everything to Maro. Yet, here she was, about to marry a nobleman. A nobleman, for Freda’s sake! She should be celebrating her luck, but she could only shiver in fear.

She’d never known him. Never even seen even his portrait. What if he turned out to be a sadistic lunatic? Lord Crosset was ruthless enough to use dozens of peasants as decoys simply to ensure his daughter arrived safely for her wedding. Who was to say Coris Hadrian would not be the same? What would happen if her cover was ever blown?

Still, it’s better than dying in the forest. And after all, since you were the one who came up with the plan, you should be the one to carry it out!

Though reasonable, the realization was not consoling. Unable to bottle up her insecurities any longer, Meya raised her gaze to the now brown-haired girl sitting on the carriage floor before her.

“Lady Arinel?”

Arinel’s cold blue eyes glanced up to answer her hesitant call. After the scathing remarks they had exchanged, Meya was unsure how she should carry herself before the proud lady.

“Lord Coris. What’s he like? Is he kind? Is he handsome?”

Meya eked out a timid conversation opener as she fidgeted with the cloth of her dress. The condescending look in Arinel’s eyes vanished, replaced with something much warmer, like understanding, before she averted her eyes.

“The only time we actually talked was when Baron Hadrian visited to ask my hand for Coris. I was eight, and Coris was nine. Our fathers left us to play together while they negotiated the terms.”

Arinel’s gaze became distant as she rifled through her memories, then her eyes narrowed in distaste.

“He was fat, spoiled, and a bully. The worst part? He’s smart—a prodigy, in fact. A year later, he’d command the Siege of Cristoria—and win. He’s ruthless and cunning, but it’d better serve his interests to have you believe he’s harmless and bumbling. Never underestimate Coris Hadrian.”

Arinel pinned her with her cold glare, enunciating her warning. Meya’s heart sank even lower into a rising well of dread. Arinel probably couldn’t be happier she was no longer the lucky bride of this precocious monster.

“No wonder you’re so eager to give me your name.” Meya spited through gritted teeth. Arinel met Meya’s flaring gaze with her calm, unreadable eyes, though Meya was sure there was a shadow of a gratified smirk in there. Nevertheless, to keep face, Meya had no choice but to shrug, undaunted.

“Well, I guess I’ll find out soon enough if times has changed our Lord Coris at all. When’s the wedding, by the way?”

“Tomorrow.”

One of the carriage’s wheels rolled over a bump in the road. Caught unawares, Meya almost toppled headfirst out of her seat. Throwing her hand out to the carriage wall to regain her balance, Meya gaped at the still serene lady.

“Tomorrow?” She cried, indignant. “And you only thought to tell me now?”

“You didn’t ask.” said Arinel flatly, as if she couldn’t care less how much trauma the belated notice would inflict upon her maid-turned-mistress. Before Meya could start screaming her guts out, the carriage screeched to a halt, sending Meya rolling off her seat once more. Curse that stupid bandit at the reins.

“Her Grace, the honorable Lady Arinel of Crosset.”

Then came the ringing announcement from Sir Jerald. Arinel shoved Meya back against the backrest just in time for the carriage door to swing open. Meya was tempted to shake off the bump on the back of her head, but a hand had already reached out to her from the host.

Meya’s gaze follow the proffered hand up the arm to its owner’s smiling face. He was a young man perhaps a few years younger than her; his waifish build was barely an inch taller than Meya. His dark brown hair was lank and dull even under the late morning sunshine, clashing horribly with the gleaming stripes of colorful silk on his tunic. Its baggy sleeves made his spare frame seemed even thinner. He had sharp, beautiful silvery eyes, and a well-proportioned face that might have been handsome—if only his yellowish, sickly pale skin didn’t seem stretched taut over his cheekbones.

Oh, goodly Freda. Poor lad looked ill and underfed. He was most likely not Lord Coris, but his fifteen-year-old younger brother. Arinel had told her his name is Lord Zier.

Meya had heard tales of sibling rivalry among noblemen, but she couldn’t imagine why Baron Hadrian would fatten his heir like a pig for winter and leave his spare to starve.

Even as questions and disbelief swirled in her head, Meya took Lord Zier’s clammy, spider-like hand and clambered out into the morning light.

The first sight that greeted her eyes was not the people gathered in welcome but the imposing, impressive stone fortress towering above, adorned with crimson flags fluttering in the light breeze. Warm-looking torch-fires flickered behind colorful stained-glass windows dotting the grim gray. The green lawn she was standing upon spread as far as her eyes could see into manicured flower courtyards, fountains, a fruit orchard, and a stone-paved training arena, all contained in a four-foot-thick wall and a moat twice as wide.

Meya shivered as the cold and weight of the stones she must challenge bore down upon her, then shifted her gaze to study the castle’s inhabitants. Standing flanked by numerous red-clad maids and guards was a family of three she reckoned were the remaining Hadrians.

The tall, broad-chested middle-aged man with wavy golden hair flowing to his shoulders and a mustache was probably Baron Kellis. The brown-haired woman with a kind smile and sharp silver eyes was probably his wife Baroness Sylvia.

And finally, that tall, burly, healthy-looking young man with shiny brown hair, sparkling blue eyes and a broad, cheerful smile—that must be the Hadrian heir, Lord Coris. Her—Arinel’s—husband-to-be.

Meya scrutinized the young man as Lord Zier led her by the hand over to his family. Puberty had worked wonders on the notorious young heir. He was certainly not overweight. Nor did his excited grin betray evil or ill temperament.

And my, isn’t he a hunk!

Meya was sorely tempted to turn around and gloat at her unfortunate lady, but she could only smile daintily to her new family. Once Lord Zier stopped his footfalls, Meya curtsied as gracefully as she could, the way Gretella had taught her. Behind her, her subordinates followed suit.

“Welcome to Hadrian, Lady Arinel. We are honored to receive you. How was your journey?”

Baron Kellis stepped forth with a warm smile, closing the gap. Even with the training and the warning she had received, Meya was stunned. Never had she been in such close proximity to the lord of the manor or his family, much less being directly addressed. Fortunately, a small foot kicking the back of her leg brought her back to her senses just in time.

“My journey was—smooth, my lord. Thank you—so much—for your concern.”

Meya managed a jittery reply. Her smile sagged slightly at the sight of the Baron’s raising eyebrows. To ward off his suspicions, she swiftly turned to his family members.

“Baroness Sylvia.”

The regal woman replied with a smile just as gracious as Meya curtsied for her. However, her radiant smile morphed into an expression of pure terror when Meya next addressed the young man standing beside the Baroness with full confidence.

“Lord Coris.”

Coris’s mouth fell open into a perfect, comical O. Unfortunately, in her haste, Meya had already turned to the lad who had led her from her carriage.

“Lord Zier.”

Zier was still smiling, but his smile seemed to have been the earlier one frozen in place. Done with the formalities, Meya allowed herself a soft sigh. When she turned back to the Baron, however, she almost jumped in fright. His blue eyes had become terrifyingly icy as he stared at the boy next to Meya. The Baroness looked almost in tears as she glanced back and forth between her poor sickly son and her devilish husband. The servants cowered in fright.

Lord Coris, on the other hand, was acting odd. He was mouthing in desperation, looking like a trout out of water. His finger jabbed the air in his brother’s direction, then at his left ring finger.

Meya frowned as she tried and failed to decipher his code. Chilling cold trickled down her back as the Baron’s glare fell in temperature. She must have messed something up spectacularly, right?

“Pleasure is ours, Lady Crosset. I’m Coris Hadrian.”

Meya turned slowly towards the new voice issuing from her right, dread curling in her stomach as realization sank in.

Yes, there was no mistaking it. The lad who had spoken was the one standing next to her, the same one who had held her hand and led her over to Baron Hadrian. The sickly, pale, wraith-like short-stack had just introduced himself as Coris Hadrian.

Oh goodly Freda, save my skull.

Stupid, stupid, stupid! Of course your betrothed must be the one to receive you at your carriage’s door, idiot lass! How could you possibly think his brother would have done it, you biggest dolt in the three lands?

Swearing feverishly inside her head, Meya stood rigid with fear and embarrassment, still gaping at the pale young lord. As if he hadn’t noticed, Lord Coris proceeded to heap praise upon her blank head.

“So long have I awaited the arrival of my betrothed. You are a heavenly sight to behold, my lady.”

As he babbled with calculated fluster, Coris gave her hand a surreptitious squeeze, hard enough for the pain to snap Meya back to her senses.

“L—Lord Coris?” Meya breathed. Coris gave her an encouraging smile and the slightest nod that his father wouldn’t notice.

“I—I have waited so long for you as well, my lord. You are just as charming and noble as the rumors foretold, too.”

Meya barely knew what she was blabbering, but Lord Coris smiled gently in response. There was not a trace of fury nor malice in his eyes. If Arinel’s story was to be believed, it was miraculous how a few years’ time could turn the devil into a living albeit sickly embodiment of sainthood.

His smile was kind, understanding and forgiving. It was the kind of tolerance she seldom received from her father, and Meya couldn’t tear her eyes away from those beautiful silvery eyes. At the same time, guilt and uncertainty lurked at the edges of her reverie—would there be a nobleman this decent? Though she was relieved Coris didn’t appear to be the nightmare Arinel had foretold, half of her hoped he would give her ammunition to justify looting his castle.

On they stared, neither willing to break apart, until a barking, joyous laugh rang out amidst the crushing silence, breaking the enchantment.

Meya blinked, returning to reality as if waking from a deep sleep. The young couple whipped around to Baron Hadrian, who was clapping and grinning ear-to-ear, immense satisfaction painted across his handsome features.

“I see you two have become acquainted. Very well. Coris! Lead the lady and her entourage to their quarters. After a good rest, we shall hold a feast to celebrate this wondrous union.”

The Baron held out his elbow for the Baroness to cling to, then turned and marched back towards the wooden double-doors, his younger son and his subjects following in his wake. Coris squeezed Meya’s hand once more, signaling her to walk. Heaving a relieved sigh, Meya made sure everyone else was still staring ahead before whispering out of the corner of her mouth,

“Lord Coris, I’m terribly sorry. That was foolish of me.”

Meya chanced a covert glance at the thin boy walking alongside her. Coris was still smiling as ever, but this time, there was something off.

“Please don’t trouble yourself over it, my lady. After all, it’s an understandable mistake, but if it means that my brother looks stronger than I do, then I’m happier than anything.”

Meya frowned at his incomprehensible reply. Coris seemed content with it, however; he lowered his gaze and smiled at the ground, a smile Meya felt looked rather melancholic.

As much as it niggled her, Meya didn’t have the time and capacity to contemplate Coris’s mystery. Half of the guards walking behind her were murderous bandits who had proven themselves capable of killing any number of lives for their goal. Flowing in her veins was a poison that would end her life in a month, unless she exchanged the unknown dowry for the antidote. Yet, surrounding her was an unyielding stone fortress of the mightiest clan in the central-west, and she had not the slightest idea what or where that dowry was. Could she really make it out alive?

As cold fear crept down her body at the realization that her days were numbered, Meya registered the unnatural cold of Coris’s hand enveloping hers, and a mysterious voice from the past came rushing back.

You are worth more than a pig—or simply your mother’s song, Meya. Don’t ever think otherwise.

Meya bit her lip as she reminisced those words she could always recall, from the boy who had given her the raw emerald stone. Her resolve hardened and crystallized like the verdant gemstone itself.

No, she couldn’t die yet. Not before she found him again. And, this time, she was going to show him he was right. The next time they met, she’d be worth much, much more than a pig.