Maybe Han was right about investing in wool underwear. 

Damien shivers as another gust of wind breezes right through him, making every hair on his body stand on end. “Hey Gerry,” he calls. “You coming with that plank or not? I’m freezing my ass out here.”

“Can it drama queen, you’re acting like you can’t magic up snowflakes just by wiggling your fingers.” 

Damien rolls his eyes. “Yeah, yeah, oh the irony. I get flak about it from Han every time it gets cold, I don’t need you getting on my ass about it too.” He cups his hands together so he can breathe warmth into them. “You coming anytime soon with that plank?”

A clatter resounds. “Gimme a second, will ya? The guys who dropped off the supplies didn’t sort shit, and I don’t know which size we’re supposed to use.”

“Does the size even matter?”

“Of course it does, you clod. Just sit your ass down and wait like a good little boy. You know all about being good, don’t you, castle poster boy?”

“Stub your toe and die.”

They could go at this all day, because Damien never knows when to quit and Gerry’s the sick kind of bastard who gets a kick out of pissing people off. But that would mean Gerry taking longer than necessary just to bring over a bunch of wooden boards, and Damien will be damned if it takes them any longer to get this done. He’s got a hundred and ten other things to do, and the last thing he needs is to spend an extra second of his precious time on Gerry. 

He picks sullenly at the grain of the rotting wooden planks they’d already taken down, already going through the rest of his schedule for today. 

Right after he’s done here, he promised to help the maids with dusting the hallway and reaching the alcoves that were too high for them. After that, it’s off to the knights barracks where some idiot got drunk the night before and thought it would be hilarious to toss all the leather guards from the armoury up onto the damn roof (apparently the culprit’s been ‘dealt’ with already by Sir Lance. Damien’s condolences to the poor bastard.) 

After that, he’s got a date with the bats in the south annex, because he’s already received several complaints from the staff about the mess they leave behind. 

What a pain in the ass. Fruit bats are always so damn chatty, it’ll probably take Damien half the day just to convince them to leave.

That said; before he can get on with the rest of his thrilling day, he’s stuck fixing a disused shed in the eastern gardens. 

Gerry’s been tasked with fixing it because he probably has nothing better to do (and because the head steward kinda has it out for him. Hale only knows why). Damien’s stuck fixing it with him because Gerry’s enough of an asshole to exploit the fact that Damien literally cannot say no to any request given to him.

It’s one part job scope, two parts image, three parts last ditch attempt at making nice; because no matter how many pleasantries you exchange with the populace, being a witch means you still get a dirty look or two every time you walk down the palace halls. 

He wishes it didn’t have to be this way, but that’s a little difficult to do when your mentor and self-proclaimed current face of magic is too much of an oddball to give a shit about public perception. 

(The child abduction accusations aren’t helping either.)

He flicks a finger idly, shooting out a gust of wind that sends splinters of wood skittering across the floor. 

He wonders how Aster’s doing with her meeting with the queen. He smiles a little at the memory of her rushing from the magic tower earlier, nearly upending her seat in her haste. 

Idiot. He hopes she made it there on time. 

Aster always seems happy when she recounts her meetings with the queen to him. It seems like they’re getting along, which is good. It’s great, really. Having a mother-in-law who actually likes you is the least anyone can hope for from a marriage. 

Doesn’t make up for the fact that the person she’s set to marry is acting like a ginormous tool at the moment, but hey, at least it’s something. Maybe Damien can knock some sense into Flynn’s thick skull before the ceremony happens. 

He leans back on his heels, hands cupped around his mouth. “I can feel the hypothermia kicking in already, Gerry Berry.”

“Don’t call me that.”

“Gerry Darling.”

“Shit stain.” 

“Light of my life.”

“Shut your mouth.”

“Fire of my loins.”

“Can you-!“ 

A sharp crack resounds, followed by a loud-

“FUCK!”

Damien jumps to his feet. That outburst of profanity sounded a little too sudden, even for the likes of Gerry. “Hey, Gerry? You alright? Don’t tell me you dropped a plank on your foot or something.”

As he rounds the shed, the first thing he sees is Gerry, face pale, fingers ashen around the plank he’s still clutching. The board in his hands looks like it’s taken a bashing, wood splintered but somehow still in one piece. 

And then Damien sees the girl. 

She’s crumpled on the ground like a puppet with its strings cut, eyes shut, snow-white hair splayed around her like fraying threads of halo. 

His blood turns to ice.

Aster.