“What in the three lands—”

Meya raised her head and cast her eyes around. Solid darkness was all she could see. Arinel’s cold, sweaty hand was still in hers, and she reaffirmed her grip on it.

From up on the hill behind, she heard sounds of violent impact. Body on body, body on blade, body on cudgel, body on earth. Numerous voices both human and canine chorused into a chaotic din.

Meya had a good hunch of what was going on. Which one person she knew had a fondness for military dogs?

She heard padded paws scampering towards them. Damp nostrils reeking of rotten meat blew puffs of air about her face. The nose withdrew, accompanied by the creature’s enthusiastic barks. At its call, hurried human feet waded through the grass. A clammy, spider-like hand slapped onto her behind. Meya bit back a scream.

“Ari? Ari, you alright?”

That familiar voice whispered as cold, trembling hands patted up her body, trying to find her face. Meya could hardly believe her ears. Relief flooded her, and she felt her limbs turn to putty after the intense life-and-death thrill. A burning sensation rose up around her eyes and she tried with all her might to hold it in.

He came. She didn’t think he would but he did.

“Coris! Oh, Freda!” Meya gave a whispery cry as Coris pulled her into a quick embrace. Remembering those she left behind, Meya pulled apart. “I’ve got Meya here, but your family—I’m sorry—I didn’t—”

“It’s alright. You did great.” Coris cut across her, his pacifying tone undercut with stress. Meya felt a thick leather strip being ushered into her hand. “Follow Patch to Christopher. Zier’s awake?”

Meya froze, nonplussed, then decided she should save the wondering for later.

“No. I was sawing through his ropes. He didn’t budge an inch—” The words had barely left her mouth before Coris took off like the wind, leaving Meya to holler after him, cold fear gripping at her heart, “Where are you going!? You can’t see a thing!”

“Meya, we’re useless here. Let’s go get his men.”

Arinel urged in a whisper, as Patch tugged on her sleeve. Meya bit her lip to calm the fear raging in her heart. She scrambled up on all fours, crawling after the pull of the leash as Arinel held on to the hem of her dress.

After a few agonizing minutes, blundering forth in total darkness, Meya heard flowing water. Her palms slapped onto damp, sloping soil. She heard something large extricating itself from water, before a dripping wet hand grabbed her arm.

“Coris? No—Who’s this?” The voice was male and young, not unheard but not familiar either. It took Meya a moment to recognize it as Sir Christopher’s.

“It’s Arinel. And my maid, Meya.” Meya panted, prompting the hand to withdraw. The strike of a match rented the air and a lamp sprang to life before her, its wavering light casting a yellowish-brown glow upon Sir Christopher’s sharp face. Meya blinked, disoriented. Once her sight had settled, she couldn’t help blushing furiously.

The circle of light revealed dozens of soldiers wearing their bare skins. They lay on the rocky bed of the shallow rapid, their faces just breaking the surface, concealed behind the riverbank to those on the hill. Christopher himself was crouched behind a large boulder, revealing only his upper half. It wasn’t as if Meya wanted to see the rest of him, though.

The soldiers fidgeted under the water. Some creaked out sheepish, shivering grins at her and Arinel. Meya decided she should just focus on Christopher and allow them some privacy.

“My lady—Please forgive our immodest state. We need to keep our clothes dry or they’ll slow our movements.” Christopher explained in a rush, then demanded, “Thank Freda you’re safe. Where’s Coris? And the Baron? Still asleep?”

The sound of that name snapped Meya back to her fretting self.

“Yes. And that dunghead Coris—he just ran off! I’m sorry, I’ve no idea how to—I shouldn’t have let him—” Meya stumbled over her words, shame and desperation burning in her chest. Again, her apology was waved aside.

“Don’t blame yourself, my lady. You freed yourself and your maid; that made our job easier.”

Even as he reassured her, Christopher frowned in apprehension. He stared off into the emptiness before them, then up at the sky. The moon had begun to show again behind a wispy patch of thinning clouds, and the solid darkness shrouding the area has lightened to dull gray. Craning her neck, Meya could just make out the dashing silhouettes on the hill.

“The hounds will free the hostages and keep the bandits occupied. When the moon comes out again, we’ll round them up then secure your antidote. You stay hidden here. Please don’t worry.”

Christopher turned back and explained. Meya sensed the note of urgency in his voice; as soon as light returned, the hounds’ advantage will be gone. Her heart pounded at the realization.

“Go. Help Coris—Hurry!” She gasped. The squire nodded once, set down his lamp, then edged to the other side of the boulder to grab his clothes and armor.

The soldiers followed suit, clambering out of the water with their backs to the ladies and slipping on trousers. Once they were all dressed up, Christopher stepped onto the riverbank and turned to his men, all dripping wet.

“Weapons at the ready. Move out!”

With that brusque command, they dashed off. The earth trembled beneath her as thirty pairs of feet thundered into the distance. As if her courage had fled with them, a wave of fatigue overwhelmed her. Meya crawled behind the boulder and slumped against it, letting her legs fall free into the knee-deep water.

The phantom of Coris’s embrace lingered, and she hugged herself as the cold wind gusted pass, her head dipped low and her eyes shut tight. Little Patch keened as he nudged his snout against her side. Arinel edged up beside her, a consoling hand on her shoulder.

“He’ll be fine. There’s another dog with him. He can find his way.” The lady whispered, her voice tender as her touch. Meya cradled her face,

“I thought he’s never coming so I didn’t bother helping his family. What a coward—foul—selfish—”

“Meya, calm down. They didn’t blame you, in case you haven’t noticed.” Arinel shook her shoulder, frustrated. However, remembering Dockar’s words back at the castle, Meya gritted her teeth in shame, furious with herself more than anyone other.

“Oh, they will after they heard the whole story; Gillian was playing me the whole time.” Heaving a tortured sigh, Meya raised her head and leaned it against the rock. She shook her head with a sardonic grin, “Dockar’s right. My father’s right. I don’t know anything. I thought I was so smart, but I’m just...Meya.”

She concluded in a bitter sigh. It took all of what was left of her simply to utter that last word, and she closed her eyes once more, exhausted—body and soul.

An uneasy silence fell between them. Arinel’s hand twitched on her shoulder. She was trying to come up with something to make Meya feel better. The mere realization lit a flame inside her, comforting her with its spreading warmth, and Meya closed her hand over Arinel’s in thanks. She flipped around and peeked over the rock, squinting through darkness to the faraway battlefield. Beside her, Arinel followed suit.

Christopher’s men were halfway up the hill, spread out in the outflanking formation, prepared to close in. As they crept closer to the battle, Meya chewed on her thumbnail, humming absentmindedly to calm herself.

“What’s that?” Arinel’s voice interrupted. Meya jolted, almost biting her finger.

“Huh? Nothing, just my little song. Wrote it ages ago.” Meya shot the lady a fleeting glance then turned back to the drama unfolding, jesting to cover her embarrassment, “I’m gonna have the bards sing my tale someday. Figured I might as well get started early, but I don’t have enough stuff to fill another verse yet.”

“Well, Coris must have given you a lot of his stuff last night. Perhaps you should write a verse about that?”

Arinel murmured back as she peered through narrowed eyes, trying to see. Meya was leaning to get a better look, and she nearly somersaulted over the rock at that deadpan delivery of the dirtiest thing to ever come out of Lady Arinel’s beautiful mouth. Whipping around, eyes bulging, she swore feverishly.

“Chione’s Ninnies! Did you just—”

Meya was cut off by a huge gust of roaring wind that almost sent them both flying. By the time it had trailed off into a feeble breeze, light had returned to the moorland from the full moon hanging bright overhead, now free of clouds.

“Finally! Thank Freda.”

Meya exclaimed. However, the moment she clambered up over the rock, her heart froze to ice in her chest at the scene unfolding on the hilltop.

“Oh no.”

Sir Christopher and his men had surrounded the bandits’ camp, but instead of charging in, they were laying down their arms and backing away.

There was no other interpretation.

A hostage at knife-point.

“...know the demand, Lord Hadrian. The Axel for your brother.”

Gillian’s calm voice broke the silence as Meya and Arinel inched on their bellies towards the encirclement. The two girls froze and turned to stare at each other with wide-eyed horror.

Coris failed to round up the bandits and seize the antidote. To make matters worse, Gillian had managed to grab hold of Zier, and was using him as bargaining chip.

Meya swallowed down a sudden surge of fear and pushed herself to creep forward. Even as every fiber of her being screamed for her to stay where she was, she couldn’t help wanting to see what was going on. Arinel, Haselle, Gretella, Jerald and everyone else’s lives depended on that antidote.

“What about the antidote?”

Coris responded as if he could read her mind. Meya was mere feet behind Christopher’s men now. Peering through the tall grass and a forest of legs, she could see Coris standing to the right, flanked with a dozen growling, bristling dogs.

Gillian, Dockar and five of the bandits stood facing Lord Hadrian from across the clearing. Their guard uniforms were torn and bloody. A nasty gash on Gillian’s arm wept as he brandished a strange cutlass that curved backwards—like a crescent—to Zier’s neck. The no-man’s-land between them was strewn with the barely stirring forms of twenty hounds of various breeds, as well as a dozen moaning men.

Meya scrutinized Lord Zier for an opening and found none; the arc of Gillian’s blade fitted the curve of Zier’s neck so snugly it was unnerving. The young lord himself, though, was not particularly disturbed; Zier’s head lolled to the side. The whites of his eyes peeked out from under his half-shut eyelids. His mouth had fallen ajar. His arms hung limp at his sides as his bent legs dragged on the earth. The strain on Gillian’s muscular arm was evident as he pinned the young man to his body and held him upright.

The sight hammered home the hopelessness of her situation. Forget escaping—they wouldn’t be able to even rescue Zier in time. Coris would be forced to choose between his brother and her. It didn’t take a genius to figure out who he’d choose.

“Very amusing, young lord. You’re not expecting us to adhere to the conditions after what happened here, are you? No. It’s your brother or the antidote. Your choice.”

Gillian’s seething retort confirmed Meya’s fears, and she gritted her teeth hard to keep from trembling.

“Surely, there must be something else you want besides The Axel? That I could trade for the antidote?”

As Meya hung her head, Coris continued negotiating, hands held high and bare. Though his expression remained benign and undaunted, his eyes flickered between his brother and the man holding him hostage.

“I’m afraid there isn’t—at least not something you can provide.” Gillian twitched up a mirthless smile as he shrugged, uninterested. Coris cocked his head, still full of camaraderie as he persisted.

“Perhaps I could once I learn more about you. Why did you believe The Axel isn’t in the castle?”

“We have our methods of making sure.” Gillian held his cards close to his chest.

“I had assumed you were our old guest, but your accent is not that of a Latakian.” Coris observed with a mild smile. Gillian’s frown spasmed in apprehension, especially as Coris pressed on,

“What would Nostra want with The Axel? For over two centuries it has been in Hadrian. Where have you been for all this time?”

“Believe whatever you want.” Gillian cut him off, his knife twitching as he continued, his voice icy. “Enough with your futile attempts at keeping me humored. Your brother is not waking up! You know as well as I do why!”

Coris turned, if possible, even a shade paler. His gray eyes grew wide, and his hands trembled as he stared at Gillian, for once speechless. Yet Gillian narrowed his eyes as he pressed his knife to Zier’s neck, still wary.

“The Axel is made of Lattis. Lattis emits invisible energy waves that restore natural balance in the human body. Those close to it will be immune to the effects of sleeping draughts and poison. The purer it is, the more powerful its energy.”

Meya’s eyes bulged at that new sliver of information from the experienced Greeneye, which sent her brain whizzing with a myriad of questions.

The human body, he said? So, if Lattis protected humans, did that mean Greeneyes like her...weren’t human at all?

A chilling sensation traveled down Meya’s spine at the realization, as her brain cast about for questions, excuses and reasons to both support and contradict it.

Mum and Dad are humans. Maro, Marin, Morel, Marcus, Myron and Mistral are all humans.

How come I’m a Greeneye? Why am I the only Greeneye in my whole town?

Am I even born from Mum and Dad?

Am I even born in this country?

Is this why Dad hates me so much?

As those frantic voices chorused into a din in her head, Gillian’s voice flowed through her ears, sounding tinny as if he was far away.

“On the slight chance that your brother is faking, we’ll know soon enough.” He hitched Zier up and angled his wrist, ready for the kill. Coris stiffened in alarm. Dockar stepped up beside him, a glinting glass bottle filled with clear red liquid in his aloft hand.

“I’ll slice through his neck one sinew at a time, and Dockar here will keep on emptying the antidote vial, until you make up your mind. It would be wise to make your decision swift.”

The world had fallen silent. Events seemed to be proceeding at half-speed. Dockar uncorked the vial and tilted it. The red liquid inched towards to the vial’s beak. As Coris watched helplessly in horror, Gillian moved the tip of his knife to the far side of Zier’s neck, then pressed it down—

“I give up! I GIVE UP!”

Coris yelled, his voice cracking and choked with sobs. Gillian relaxed his grip on the knife as Dockar flicked the bottle upright, both staring at the panting Coris, who had crumpled to his knees, arms held high in surrender. His red-rimmed eyes were damp, his voice shaky as he announced his decision.

“I’ll give you The Axel. Give me my brother. Please.”

Oh no. Poor, poor Arinel.

Meya whirled around to Arinel. The lady was trembling all over. Her eyes were downcast but dry, and Meya could tell she was trying her best to keep it together. She turned and answered Meya’s gaze. The lack of blame in her sorrowful eyes left Meya lost for words.

Would things have turned out different if she hadn’t switched places with Arinel? Was there anything else she could’ve done? Was there still hope at all?

With a forlorn sigh, Arinel rested her hand on Meya’s. They were icy cold.

I hope you use it well.

Once more, Meya heard Arinel’s words, back when she had given Meya her name. Perhaps that was also the lady’s last command for her.

“No.” Meya shook her head, words tumbling out in shivery gasps. “No. We’ll track down Old Angus. He’ll have more antidote on hand. You’ll be alright.”

Arinel forced out a sad little smile. Meya pulled her in for a tight hug, feeling her silent tears seeping into her shoulder.

No. It can’t end like this. This isn’t right. Either we all die together or we all live together. How can I be the only one to live? What would I say to their families? “I’m a Greeneye. Everyone else dies but I don’t?” How can I live with myself from now?

Meanwhile, Coris made his way towards Gillian, slapping one hand on his sunken middle.

“It’s with me.” He shouted. “It’s been inside me all this time.”

Meya’s attention snapped back to Coris. Fury writhed in her stomach as her hands curled into fists.

So, The Axel never came out of Coris? So, he was lying? What exactly had happened back then? Was there even a heist? Was he even poisoned? What in the three lands was the truth anymore?

The instant before Meya could jump up, sprint over, wring Coris’s neck and shake the innards out of him until he spat it all out, the unmistakable, sickening sound of blade gouging flesh rented through the silence. A spurt of dark blood backdropped by moonlight, followed by Dockar’s yell.

“Gillian!”

Meya whipped back to Gillian. The mighty bandit staggered back, one hand clamped over his bleeding neck. Meanwhile, his supposedly asleep hostage had shaken himself free of his slack grasp.

Zier whirled around to Dockar. Taking advantage of his split-second petrified shock, he kicked the stoppered vial out of his hand, sending it spinning through the air towards Coris, who dove to catch it.

Without the barest pause, Zier launched himself at Dockar, brandishing what seemed at first glance to be his bare fist—then the metallic gleam of a tiny blade reflected in the moonlight.

Meya’s little brooch-knife had dropped straight into Zier’s palm.

“Lattis! Look out!”

Gillian bellowed, still clutching his neck, his face twisted in pain. Too late, however. With a vicious slash, blood sprayed from a gash on Dockar’s chest.

The thumbnail blade was too small to inflict a serious wound on anyone, much less two full grown, muscular, battle-hardened men. Yet, Gillian and Dockar seemed as if they were being burned alive from inside out. They thrashed and bucked, howling and screaming like demented beasts, scrabbling at their wounds.

Zier had sprinted back to Coris and urged him back to his feet, and both brothers were staring in confusion at the terror unfolding. Gillian’s men who were still standing retreated towards their leader, swords raised to ward off enemies. One of them raised a metallic tube on a leather cord to his lips. A shrill, lifeless cry pierced the air, succeeded by blinding flashes of pure white light.

A chorus of animalistic roars shook the very ground. By the time they had shaken away the dancing spots in their eyes, solid darkness had descended once more; a cloud had probably blocked out the moon again. The only lights came from twenty pairs of glowing green eyes surrounding them in mid-air, high above their heads.

The sight sent flashes of disjointed memories arcing into Coris’s eyes. A metallic arrow shooting into the gloom—a young girl’s shriek—a forceful gust of wind—heat from the ring of fire closing in on them—icy metallic talons that heaved him over treetops into the night sky—crash-landing into a mountain cave—a girl with glowing, acid green eyes, wearing only her mane of red-gold hair, singing him to slumber with a voice like the birds of the Heights, as he trembled in her burning-hot embrace...

“Over the peaks of Neverend Heights,

Where birds of a feather they circle up high...”

“Get down!”

Zier’s yell wrenched Coris away to the present. He obligingly flattened himself on the grass. Gusts of night wind lambasted them from leathery wings beating in tandem, raining chunks of torn grass and dirt as the green-eyed creatures tore into the air. Icy talons grazed Coris’s back as they shot away into the night, towards the west.