112

It was Donald's fifth time babysitting. It was not some ordinary kids he was to take care of, but his nephews, more or less the worst kind of creatures he had ever set his on. One of the 1000 ways to die, if you asked him.

He tiredly held the book in his hand, and read its contents out loud to the kids who had threatened him to. Funnily enough, they weren't concentrating, but made him do it anyway.

Thirty minutes. Thirty minutes and he'd be off the misery.

”What are you waiting for, go on” the youngest nudged him without even looking up from his box of crayons.

”Sure, sure,” Donald responded tiredly and continued,

“As if tapped awake by an invisible finger, Royian blinks his eyes open, springing quickly up into a seated position. He fingers the dagger hidden away under his pillow and rests his hazel eyes on the door, argus-eyed.

His ears perk up at the faint sound of approaching footsteps—the louder it gets, the longer he holds his breath. The rattling sound of keys against the door