Retire to your quarters, warn Corinne

“I'll be fine.” you assure Kara. “I just need to rest, recover. And maybe have a glass of wine.”

“Just the one, mind.” the Beathan says with a gentle smile. “Spirits, never thought I'd become a scold. An' about drink, too.”

“No, you're right. It wouldn't do to overindulge. I'm sure you have things to attend to. I'll be on my way.”

“My heart goes wi' you, love.” Kara says, hugging you tight and kissing you on the cheek before departing, to go about addressing any of the problems the day's chaos has caused.

You limp back into the castle, putting what little extra speed into your gait you're able to once Kara is out of sight.

As soon as you're alone in your quarters, the door barred, you bring up your ring, desperately willing the enchanted relic to summon forth Corinne.

“Cousin!” The Spider smiles. She's crouched amidst a forest clearing, bow in one hand, her face unmasked, her pale face, wild eyes and predatory smile laid bare before you. “I take it you've contacted me regarding Tante Bezoriana?”

“H-How did you know?”

“I was hunting in the woods not far from the town gate. Heard the Beathans giving chase. Rest assured, Edward. I'll slaughter every last one of those White Torch bastards like the dogs they are. No harm shall come to Bezoriana. Or her... precious cargo, no?” Corinne promises you. From the way she's smiling, you can tell exactly how much she intends to savour picking them off, one by one.

“Don't kill them. Not if you don't have to.” you hiss tersely. “Just get Bezoriana, lose them, then get her out of Beatha.”

“Tch. Roland was right.” Corinne says. “You've gone soft. Your fondness for these primitives is beginning to weaken your resolve. They're only humans, Edward. And dedicated to the destruction of demonkind in addition. I'd probably just have to kill them later.”

“I'm ordering you, not to kill them!” you protest, panic nestling into your heart. Corinne titters.

“Edward, Edward, Edward.” the brunette says, shaking her head. “First, whatever bit of metal you wear on your head will give you no sway in the Cult. If my mother, if the Allsire himself, were here, they'd be giving my slaughter their blessing!”

“And second?” you frown.

“Second, I'm Morlandian.” Corinne cackles, blowing a raspberry at you before terminating the magical connection between the two of you.

“Damn it!” you say under your breath, your good hand clenching into a fist as Corinne's projection disappates.

Corinne was too quick to shed blood. One demon discovered hiding amongst the Beathans was bad enough, but if that demoness was suddenly rescued, her pursuers felled by some unseen hand? That could only draw further suspicion.

As much as you disliked what Corinne intended to do, you were also fearful of what may come to pass should the White Torch overwhelm Bezoriana. Doubtless they would kill her, but before then? Would they think to **** her, extract information about others like her. Visions of Bezoriana crying out your name to make the pain stop haunt you to the extent that all that will dispel them is a tall glass of wine. You follow it with another, despite what you said to Kara. Hells, you think to yourself. If things take a turn for the worse, it may very well be among your last.

You sit and stew as daylight turns to evening, until there's a powerful rapping at your chamber. Limping over to answer it, you are greeted by Donald.

“How goes it, brother?” the Beathan ruler asks. “Kara said you were in a low way.”

“And you thought...” you chuckle, buzzed from more than a few glasses of wine, “you'd come and make me feel even worse.”

“I cannae help it if seein' me makes you question your choices in life, man.” Donald smiles, slipping inside. “Nah, I came to see if I might cheer ye' up.”

With that, he holds up a bottle.

“I can see ye' got started on that yoursel', though.” he observes.

“Well, one can't have too much of a good thing.” you muse, returning to your seat and filling your glass.

“I don't know. I like cocks up me arse, but I shouldn't like a hundred of 'em in a day. Might make ma kingly duties, or fook, even walkin' a mite difficult, eh?” Donald grins.

It thrills you to hear Donald admit to it so frankly. It stirs something within you, particularly in your **** state.

Donald fills a glass and begins drinking with you. The wine he's scrounged up isn't a patch on the stuff you'd imported, in great quantities, should the war stretch on, but you're getting to the point where that's beginning to matter less and less.

“What a ballache!” Donald says, draining his first glass and swiftly getting to work on another. “As if fookin' Einar weren't bad enough, we've got demons among us now? I tell yae, man. Sometimes I wish I lived in a world without magic. Don't you?”

“A queer thought.” you muse. “One could just as readily imagine the world without running water, or the changing seasons.”

“Ach, don't give me that philosophical shite!” Donald smirks. “It's just... Me and Kara trained for years, right? To fight wars, to defend our land and those pledged to us from treachery and attack. I'm told the Deanians pulled a flamin' snake out of a bottle, and it was powerful enough to bring down the gate.”

“Well it was more than one bottle, but that's the general gist of it, yes.” you say glibly.”

“Now tell me Edward, and I'm all ears if you've got any serious answers, what drill are ma men supposed to run, to let them defend against that?”

You shrug. Donald downs more wine.

“An' all that for some hopeless rescue of a useless boy. Fookin' Einar. How can hope tae fight a man you can barely understand?”

“This... is why other kingdoms generally have court mages, advisors...” you gently remind your friend.

“And then if you survive the fightin' and the magic, there's demons lyin' in wait!” Donald exhales. “In my own camp. Moira... did you know she flirted wi' me, once? Spirits, the thought of what could've been. Beddin' down with a demon...”

Amidst your genuine concern for the Beathan, you can't help but chuckle inwardly at his last remark. Little did he know...

“T-to change the subject, I've made progress with our attempt to bring Hjordis on side” you tell him.

“Aye, so there's some good news at least.”

“It took some doing,” you slur “But Madeleine has agreed to an audience with her.”

“Talk about a meetin' o' the minds, eh?” Donald says dismissively. “I'm sure that'll be right productive, a monster talkin' to a loony. Well what about her da's skull?”

“Seki does not seem agreeable to it, but...” you hesitate, considering whether you should divulge what you mention next. “I think I may have an inroad with her son, Khaliq.”

“Oh yes. Handsome lad, if a bit spindly.” Donald reminisces. “What's your angle, Ed?”

“I, er, walked in on him. Dressing in the gown of a noble lady.” Donald lights up at this, it seeming to stir something within him.

“Didyae now?” the Beathan purrs. “Tell me everything.”

You fondly relay the encounter to him, the young prince's nervousness, his poise, how things had been progressing before the two of you were so rudely interrupted by Seki with tales of Deanian attacks.

“Ach, something could defiitely come'a this!” the Beathan says excitedly. “Gordon was jus' sayin' to me and Jana in bed last night, he looked the type.”

“You and Lord Gordon?” you say playfully, an eyebrow raised. “I'm shocked, shocked and scandalised.”

“Aye, I'm sure you are.” Donald chuckles. “Mind you, I hope you're no' as free wi' my secrets as ye are wi' young Khaliq's.”

“Donald, who is he to me, ultimately?” you say, touching him assuredly on the knee. “You and me, we're family.”

“We... don't have tae be. Not completely.” the Beathan says, his breathing growing heavier, as he reciprocates your touch, albet higher up your thigh.

A few painful seconds pass, the two of you staring into each other's eyes, before it happens. Neither of you seem to make the first move, but seconds later your mouths are joined.

You feel the not unpleasant prickle of his ginger beard, feel the reassuring strength of his hands gripping your back. Your tongues meet and joust, as he elicits a soft moan from you, tender, more feminine than you would've liked.

Your better judgement and your sense of obligation to Kara tell you to stop, to pull back. But there's something comforting in the kiss. You let it go on a moment or two longer than you really should've, like a sleeper unwilling to quit the comfort of his toasty bed, before withdrawing.

“We shouldn't.” you say, your cheek still pressed to his, feeling his hot breath. “I promised Kara.”

“Aye? What kind a' promise were you makin' then, regarding me?”

“Before we wed, I told her anything between the two of us, that it was over.” you inform him. Donald pauses in his affections a moment, thinking, before resuming.

“What say yae to this?” he suggests. “We take tonight, come whatever happens, as the opportunity tae say, what's that Morlandian expression, bon voyage, to whatever it was between us. Come sunrise, we're brothers, and friendly kings.”

“We can't...” you whine. “I gave my word.”

“Edward,” Donald tantalises you. “Just say yes. I pick yae up, carry you into the bedroom. We make sweet love one last time.”

You clench your hand around his neck. You want this, genuinely. Hells, you're so hard right now, Donald must be aware exactly how much you do. But you had given your word, to Kara.