Okay, I know, I know - this is NOT my Hallowe'en episode. But due to my unforseen illness I am an episode behind, and I've decided that it will be the next one up, I swear.

Thirty-two hundred. Will Vandom lay back on her slightly lumpy matress, and desperately closed her eyes.

Roughly thirty-two hundred rebels, in hiding, nearly eaten alive by Larveks. Will couldn't sleep, as she felt the cool air of the morning, and the rush of adrenaline was still scorching her bones, so that if she lifted her hand, it shook visably.

Prince Phobos had been planning a massacre. Everyone would be dead. Caleb would be dead. She could remember every face that she'd barely glanced at; every look of anticipation. Few, but still a notable mass of children had been pushed to the front of the crowd.. The audience. So that they could get a better look, as two boys killed each other. As Aldarn killed Caleb.

All those screams and laughs and cheers. No one had been shouting for Caleb. And she'd almost felt herself being swept into the crowd alike so many of the children who were throwing fists into the air. A sport. A theatrical. That was what Prince Phobos had turned Life into. And what made it hardest was that Will had been into Caleb's room, and she had seen clothes folded on a table. Caleb didn't even have anything to lose. To miss.

Will thumbed the stone on her left wrist with her right hand. Well.. He didn't have anything important. But Will had been into the castle, where Prince Phobos surrounded himself with glamor, and she'd nearly been fooled by the roses. His smile was alluring; something that beconned one's trust, and crushed it before you'd realized it had been given. He was mocking them. Playing with them. Cavigor was the truth, and Prince Phobos was a lie. With features that belonged carved with cherubs, and a soul she was sure he'd have sold to the devil..

Will Vandom was not about to take this.

...

Prince Phobos had been disappointed by the turn out. He'd half expected Will Vandom to show up, having had somehow outsmarted his efforts, and read his mind.. Or his Book.

And it had started to drizzle, and as much as Elyon had seemed disappointed, he knew it was because she was cold. She wanted to get out of the rain.

He'd almost mistaken himself with pride for her, most recently in her mirror. Not for forgiving her friends, but for the fact that someone like Elyon had actually managed to find the friends who were chasing him to save her. Such a dull little thing, and apparently Princess Elyon Escanor was attempting to black-mark the Royal line forever: she'd added common thievery to her escapades; he'd be sure to list it under attempted-interbreeding in her achievements when he wrote an obituary.

Oh yes, it would work well, as he'd seen her lie and steal and cheat, and all that she had left was to kill. Her fascination with himself was merely a bonus point to her pathetic drivelling life. At least he had some accomplishment, that wasn't filthy and rotten. And he was being sentenced to this fate; Elyon was only choosing her own lifestyle of deciet and infidelity.. And he wondered of her plans? Was she expecting a series of nuptials, or a darkness of clandestinity, whereof she would become anigmatically impregnated and then off and marry her own son? Either way, he'd laugh if she dared call him cruel as he pulled her soul from within her.

Hypocracy would only be another fine addition, yes, and if she prithee'd for self mutilation he would on no respects challange himself to stop her. Elyon could do what she liked. He still wasn't going to pay heed of her.

prithee'd - pleased (past tense of 'prithee' as 'pray thee', as 'pray you', as 'please')