The Oaken Standard is well lit with many sigil chandeliers hanging from the exposed wooden rafters. The walls are covered in a walnut-stained oak panels, with shields bearing the crests of noble families hung from each section. Booths line the right wall, only broken by a large crackling hearth; tables for four are scattered about in the middle; and a long bar, staffed by six women, is on the left side.

  The pub is half full, but every stool at the bar is taken.

  The three brothers approach Arn Skyldwyr, who sits drinking by himself at a table for four in the back corner.

  "Well, well, well." Gyores Dornytter plants his hands on the table. "Did the ice queen let you go willingly, or did you gnaw through your leash?"

  Arn looks up at Gyores and sets the metal stein down. He can feel the foam bubbling on the hairs of his upper lip. "She left for the washroom and will be back shortly. I am frozen to the chair." His voice is monotone.

  Gyores shakes his head. "Oh no, oh oh oh no." He steps back and runs a hand down his face. "It's my brother's, your cousin's, last day as a free man, and you brought Faerthryne with you?"

  "I jest. Faerthryne is at home," Arn laughs. "I am allowed to go out by myself as long as I bring her something back. She likes surprises as long as they're expensive." He digs into his coat pocket. "I stopped at Toulest's Jewelry earlier today—since I had to leave at about 14:30—and the owner, Leakh, somehow knew about Faerthryne and I."

  Dyder nods, "He knows everything. It's terrifying."

  Arn continues. "I stepped in, and he looked at me and said, 'My, my, Arn Skyldwyr, some might say you're a lucky man, others would say you are here to pay the cost. Fear not! I have just what will please Faerthryne." Arn removes a light blue velvet case from his pocket. "I'm only going to show this quickly." He opens it.

  Inside, sitting in the plush lining, is a white-gold brooch in the shape of a snowflake; the edges are lined with moonstone, and in the center sits a sizable sapphire.

  Arn closes the case, only letting the others see for a fleeting glance, and carefully returns it to his pocket.

  "By Our Lady, Arn. How much do you spend when you go out by yourself? she's going to get you put in debtors' prison," Osmund asks.

  "I've only gone out twice without her; the first time I got her a hat, which wasn't much, only about a full-gold, this was more, about twelve."

  "I've seen girls like that; she's testing you," Gyores wags his finger, "This whole year is going to be her seeing how much you are willing to spend on her. Are you going to tell her 'no' at some point?"

  "Gods no," Arn shudders at the thought of it. "She'll put me in a block of ice and shatter it."

  The three brothers laugh and finally sit down.

  "When does she want you back by?" Gyores says with a smug grin.

  This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

  "23:30." Arn answers.

  "Oh, she actually gave you a curfew?"

  "Uh-huh."

  "Why the beard?" Osmund asks.

  "Why do you think? She's completely devoid of heat. It feels strange when she touches you." Arn says. He usually has some lighter stubble, but he started growing it out since Faerthryne decided to stay—and it grew in fast.

  "You'd think thighs like that would be warmer." Gyores says. "Dyder, how were—"

  Dyder looks at his brother through a knitted brow; he knows who Gyores will name, and it won't be Ilsenyla. "Silence."

  Gyores, with a smug grin plastered on his face, raises his hands in defeat and gives them a little wave.

  One of the barmaids walks over and plops herself down in Gyores's lap.

  "I've missed you; where did you go? just left me without a goodbye." Luthalwyna Eloannah Humel wraps her arm around Gyores's neck. She had recognized him the moment he walked in and had taken an early break. Kissing him on the cheek, she rests her head on his shoulder; his coat smells faintly of cheap perfume, but not of hers. She was used to this by now; to her, their relationship was not one of love or affection, but one of consistency. She felt wanted by him, even if the 'him' was simply a shallow, lecherous cad.

  "I'm sorry, Ely; I transferred from the Queen's Guard to the Herst's army. I'm in the Crown Isles less and less now." Gyroes runs a hand down the skirt of her uniform, taking moment to linger on the frilled hem about halfway between her waist and knee, then he places his hand where he really wants it to be: on her thigh. He adores the uniforms here and knows he is not the only one.

  Osmund looks at the scene, jaw slack, gawking. He was not shocked at the display between this woman and his brother; in fact, he usually expects far less from Gyores. He was shocked because the woman was familiar, with her ash blonde hair, freckle-covered face, and blue-gray eyes. She was the spitting image of ?ppolonia Humel, except a few years older.

  "What are you doing with the sister of a priestess!" He says.

  "Shush." Luthalwyna dismisses Osmund with a wave of her hand. "I don't want people knowing that Lony is my sister—it will reflect poorly on her."

  Dyder changes the subject; he has no desire to get caught up in the Humel family affairs nor Gyores's degeneracy. "How is the army? Did Father give you a nice, cushy rank?"

  Gyores scoffs. "Of course not; he started me at the bottom, as a page. It's humiliating. I spent a half-maiden shoveling stables."

  "Sounds like Romyll," Arn chuckles.

  Luthalwyna rolls her eyes; Gyores is not the kind of man she would want to influence young pages on how to be chivalrous.

  "I expect he is only doing this because he knows I will be able to go straight to Knight of the Queen—I have the training already." Gyores says.

  "Hope springs eternal," Dyder says.

  "You don't think so?"

  "You're deluding yourself if you think he won't make you work for it, Gyores."

  Gyores runs a hand down his face. "I'm half-sick of the food."

  "Don't worry, I'll bring you boys out something nice when my break is over." Luthalwyna says.

  "Thank you, Ely." Gyores responds.

  "How come I don't get this kind of treatment, 'Ely'? I always tip you more than kindly; you never come and sit in my lap." Gelox Aikskyld yells. He had spotted Eloannah from across the bar, and jealousy had easily gotten the better of him.

  Gyores looks over his shoulder to the man, who is slowly approaching with a drunken swagger, bumping into tables and chairs as he waddles.

  "Go get Aelura to sit in your lap." Luthalwyna retorts, tapping the back of her hand at Gelox.

  "I bet you're cheaper than two good apples in winter."

  "If you treated your wife better, she might just do it for free."

  "Which one? I've tipped you enough that if your father were alive, he would consider it a dowry." Gelox pauses, "Luthalwyna."

  Luthalwyna jumps out of Gyores's lap and snatches Arn's stein. Storming over to Gelox, she hits him across the head with it. The dented stein hits the ground with a loud clatter. She scurries back to the table, placing the four men between herself and Gelox before he has time to react.

  Barmaids stop where they are, patrons set down their drinks, and kitchen staff peek out through the hinged half-door and the pass-through window—the Oaken Standard goes silent.