The city itself held its breath as the City Watch was clade in all the arms they could muster. Even the knights and n.o.bility had been roused in the dead of the night. What was once patrols of two, was now bolstered into groups of five. As the sun peaked over the white horizon, it became more obvious how scared they were.

Quinn's Wood had been destroyed.

The news had been a spark in the night. From the story told to Desmond by Lord Gulley, survivors had arrived in the night. They had ridden all-day to get here, and with it, news of the destruction. Of the dead. Of the horrors. Lord Gulley had been restless as he reported to the prince. While he showed little respect for the unwanted Third Prince; he still handed him an official report. One addressed to his father, Emperor DrakeFang.

Desmond watched as a patrol marched past him. Their eyes distrusting and tired. He nodded to them as he turned into the square. Unlike the previous days, it was empty as well. The lack of other people made the city fell colder. He crossed the vast empty s.p.a.ce to the Ivory Pavillion, the large tavern that had occupied an entire corner of the square.

As he walked through the courtyard, he was greeted by a much warmer atmosphere; It reminded him of a late autumn night. What also greeted him, was the sight of his brother, sitting across from Cyril. Both of them were furiously chugging down drinks. Mai and Priscilla sat beside them, urging the young angel on as she was spilling the contents all over herself in panic.

A moment later, Randol slammed the mug down on the courtyard table.

"Ha!" He cheered.

Cyril was still chugging furiously, but she couldn't contend with the Prince. He, who'd fought alongside knights and soldiers. He, who'd partook in festivities with them. He, who'd drink a drunk under the table. It was like a man racing a toddler - it just was unfair. A moment later, she brought the mug down on the table as she fought not to spill the drink. She only managed that for a moment, then; she spit it all out off to her left into the snow.

A waft of beer hit Desmond.

"This is horrible!" Cyril cried. "Why would you drink this?!"

"You didn't say anything with the first three." Randol laughed. "Why this one?"

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"Becuase I was too focused on beating you!" Cyril said.

"You only drank three and a half out of six," Randol pointed out. "You didn't seem too focused."

"T-This isn't fair!" Cyril cried out as she slapped the table. "I demand you revoke this and we try something else!"

"A deal is a deal," Randol smirked, pleased to have one-upped the G.o.ddess.

Cyril's lips pursed as her nostrils flared. It was then that Desmond noticed a bucket of food refuse was on the ground next to the table. She brought it up and slammed it on the tabletop. Her clear honey eyes glared at him for a moment, then she raised the bucket to dump it over her snowy hair.

"Wait!" Randol cried out and gripped the bucket's lip before the contents could spill out. "I was only joking! I wouldn't make you do that!"

"But you didn't revoke the deal!" Cyril said as she held the bucket still.

It never budged, no matter how much effort Prince Randol put into it. Desmond could see his muscular arm puff slightly.

"I only meant to teach you a lesson!" Randol said. "I would never sully a woman's honor with such pettiness!"

"I gave my word," Cyril said with conviction. " 'Whoever loses, dumps it over themselves. Cross our hearts, and hope to die'. We even did a pinky promise."

"This is ridiculous!" Randol huffed. "You can't be serio---"

He paused for a moment.

"You really are serious..." Randol said.

"My father always told me that a promise is a promise," Cyril said. "If people are to trust your word, you must never break a promise. In that sense, never make a promise you never planned to keep. While we didn't shake hands to seal that promise, we did a pinky shake. Its still the same thing."

"... I agree." Randol said, not quite believing it.

"What are you guys--" Desmond, along with everyone else, froze.

The prettiest girl they've ever seen - dumped the whole bucket load of food over herself.

— ⊥ —

Desmond's room was tense as he and Mai sat on the bed; Randol sat across from them, at the desk.

Mai stared blankly at her feet, lost in thought. Desmond sat forward, with his elbows on his knees and his foot tapping the floorboards nervously. Randol folded the letter up and began to burn it against a lit candle by the window. He had no reason to keep it, and he would not leave it. It was a request, a rather forceful request. To a.s.sist him in combating the new threat in the north. The undead.

"Did he ask you personally to help?" Randol asked.

"No, he only briefed me on what happened when I went to inform him of our departure," Desmond said. "Did he ask for our help?"

"He did," Randol confirmed. "He wants me to help him defend the city. He believes the horde will be coming down the road within the day. He sent scouts north in the night, and they'd probably be here by now."

"What are you going to do then?" Desmond asked.

"Not a.s.sist," Randol stated and dropped the last piece of burning letter out the window into the snow.

"Shouldn't we help, though?" Desmond asked.

"Of course, but we still have our own duties to attend to," Randol looked to the two on the bed. "Such as reporting the destruction of our group."

Mai's hands gripped her pants tightly.

"We have no choice," Randol said. "I'll have Cyril stay here, and have her give us something of value to placate the n.o.bility."

"Are you forgetting she isn't one of us?" Mai looked up.