40 - Revelations

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Coris's tale began with common knowledge—the Crosset Famine, a beguiling invitation from Bailiff Johnsy, a hunting trip gone awry. From there, it escalated into an anecdote of chilling detail. He described his time in Draken's kidnapping party, then launched into a fantastical account normally associated with people who have suffered blunt force to the head.

He recalled a blast of pure flames, a gust of ice wind. Metallic talons swept him off the snowy glade, skimming treetops into the sky. He showed her the melted arrow he claimed to have pulled out of the dragon's leg, before they crashed into a cave on the mountainside. He claimed to have woken up to a girl with glowing green eyes and red-gold hair—Meya.

Meya might have believed it. If it wasn't for the fact that she remembered nothing of the sort. Of course not—it was just too impossible to have actually happened.

She? Transformed into a dragon? Even the notion of Greeneyes being dragon riders who must strip down to call forth their mounts seemed reasonable compared to this bullcrap.

Meya was tempted to think Coris was high on laudanum. Or that some of his mother's rose oil had seeped through his scalp and trickled through his skull into his brain. Yet, he seemed in control of his faculties. His silvery eyes were bright and sharp as ever.  

And, despite her lack of memories, her logic argued otherwise. Coris' story provided answers to the half-forgotten questions in the old cupboard at the back of her mind. 

Why the wound on her arm didn't fully heal (and, now that she actually thought back, she was actually bitten by a snake on her right arm!). Why she had seemingly stayed home all through the Famine, when the villagers should have been raring to lynch her family. Why Draken had stared awkwardly at her when asked how Coris had escaped. Why her family crest was a dragon. Straightforward, really—she was descended from them. And she was one of them.

Coris left off at his painstaking search for her. Silence descended between them as he reached for a long gulp of lukewarm tea. Meya stared at him, trying to take it all in.

"So, you're saying—I'm a dragon." She managed. Coris set down his tea with a rattling clink.

"Half-dragon, to be exact." He sighed. His movements were subtle, strained. As if he anticipated a fireball from Meya at any moment, "We can assume that most—if not all—of your inner organs are human. Obviously, you ingest human food and excrete—"

Coris stuttered. As they both blushed, he cleared his throat in an attempt at grace,

"—Excuse me, human waste. And, judging from our nighttime escapades, I'd say apart from the heat, your—er—attributes are also human. I assume you have had menarche..."

Coris flourished his hand as if to say You get the idea. That reminded Meya of something that was bound to have arrived by now. She gawked at the waffling young man as her brain whirred in panic.

No way. He's barren.

But Zier said that might just be his imagination.

No, Coris has healers backing him up.

But he's so blessed.

So what? Size doesn't equal substance.

But you luuurrve it, right?

What's that got to do withWhatever! I'm using Silfum!

Right...! Maybe it's the Silfum. Or the stress from the Heist. That's it! Stress and pungent herbal fumes wafting about my nether regions and tipping my humors off kilter. Yes, that must be it.

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