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Camdyn’s hand didn’t leave his. Their fingers stayed entwined as he stood at Everild’s side, clearly aggrieved by the news he had received but still calm, collected, and so, so beautiful—the very image of a king’s consort. It was a role that fit him well, though it had always seemed distant, and yet here they were, standing side by side in this storm of grief and change.

Everild knew he needed to ensure that he was the very image of a king. The weight of the crown, though unseen, pressed on him in a way he had never truly anticipated. When Camdyn wiped the tears from his eyes, it wasn’t just a comforting gesture—it was a moment of clarity. Camdyn had also cleared the fog from Everild’s mind, allowing him to see the gravity of the situation for what it truly was. The former king was dead, murdered by his and Everild’s own cousin. The kingdom was now in disarray, and the fate of it rested squarely on Everild’s shoulders. These men—these advisors, who were only vaguely familiar to him—had arrived to inform him of his new status and to look to him for guidance. They needed him to decide the next step, to be decisive, to rise to the occasion. And Aldaay was there, with sage advice no doubt ready to burst from his lips, as was Camdyn, his beloved husband, who gave Everild all the courage he needed with a squeeze of his hand and a small, soft smile.

Everild let out a breath he hadn’t known he was holding. Once, he had commanded soldiers into battle, but it had been a long, long time since he had led anything. He had spent so many years in the shadow of others, away from the battlefield. Now, he wasn’t in charge of a battalion; he was in charge of the fate of an entire kingdom that had just experienced a regicide. This would be difficult. Stressful. But someone had to deal with the problem, and it ought to be him. He cleared his throat and barked out questions with the authority of a man who had stood at the edge of the battlefield once more, standing in the king’s tent, poring over battlefield notes and maps of enemy forces, interrogating his scouts for information. There was no room for hesitation. His people needed him now.

“Where has Redmane gone?” he asked, his voice sharp and commanding. The sharpness in his tone and the volume of his voice made the group jump, like a sudden crack of thunder.

One of the advisors answered, "We’re not entirely certain, Your Majesty. But we do know that he’s friendly with a few of the men he fought with during the war, and some have declared their allegiance to him. More than likely, he’s with one of them."

Everild nodded, the pieces falling into place. “Get me a list of these men and map out their lands. Look for his closest ally. You said it was a three-day ride to get here from the Capital at breakneck pace. Assume Redmane was riding just as fast. Whose land would he flee to?” A younger advisor nodded and scurried off with a guard for parchment and paper. Everild continued, not letting the urgency of the situation slip from his mind. “Should I be worried about his claim to the throne?”

This sent the group into another round of excited muttering, their voices overlapping and rising with anxious uncertainty. Aldaay answered with his usual bluntness, cutting through the noise like a sharp blade. “Considering he’s also a cousin, he might’ve had a leg to stand on. He could’ve challenged the line of succession, and we’d all be having a very dull conversation while staring at your family tree, trying to find the relations who’ve been removed and once-removed and tracing marriages, and so on. But he’s gone and killed the king in cold blood and ran. Forget the regicide for a moment—he’s still a murderer on the lam. Anyone who assists him is aiding and abetting a dangerous criminal. Once news of that reaches the countryside, I don’t think he’ll be able to garner much more support, my lord. Er, Your Majesty.”

Aldaay’s words rang true, as usual. Everild knew the kingdom’s people well enough to understand the weight that a murder of this magnitude would carry. If Dustan had bided his time, scrutinized their family lines, and wooed allies—he might’ve successfully challenged Everild’s claim to the throne. But the murder of the king and his subsequent flight from the Capital indicated that none of this had been planned. The events had unfolded in a chaotic, ill-conceived rush. More than likely, their fool of a king had gotten drunk once more and let slip the news that he had chosen the heir to the throne—just as he had done months ago when he had happily told Everild that he had arranged a marriage for him by stealing a novice from a monastery—and Dustan, in a fit of rage, had killed him right there in his quarters.

Everild wasn’t about to allow any support to gather for Dustan. “He might have a few allies. Let’s not give him any more. Put a bounty on his head. Give him no place to rest. No one to turn to. Let nowhere be safe.”

An older advisor, gray and bearded, chuckled without humor. “I see, Your Majesty. May he bear the wolf’s head.” Everild nodded.

The label meant more than just being an outlaw—it meant to bear the wolf’s head was to become an outcast, a pariah, a danger to others who was to be hunted and killed by anyone who dared get close.

“He’s more of a rabid dog than anything else,” Everild growled. There was a particular danger in men like Dustan, men who acted only to satisfy their own desires and lashed out when something was denied to them. But Everild had killed both man and beast in his life, and if he now had to slay a monster, then so be it. Dustan should’ve been put down long ago.

His mind began to wander again, and Camdyn, ever the steady presence at his side, gave his hand another gentle squeeze. Everild was pulled from his thoughts by the simple warmth of his husband’s touch. Without thinking, he brought Camdyn’s fingers to his lips and kissed them softly. “Announce it, then. The king’s murder. That Dustan Redmane bears a wolf’s head. That I won’t have my coronation until he’s dead. And that—” He paused and looked into Camdyn’s dark, honey-colored eyes. “And that I’ll be leaving tomorrow to hunt him down myself.”

For one brief moment, Camdyn’s expression faltered, his face crumpling with concern, but he quickly schooled his features back into impassivity. His grip on Everild’s hand tightened, as if he was afraid that his husband would suddenly disappear from the study. When he spoke, his voice was steady and quiet. “Would you have me prepare supplies for your journey, Your Majesty?” Camdyn asked, his voice betraying a quiet vulnerability. Everild realized that, in that moment, it wasn’t just his words he was speaking to, but the men in the room. He was making it clear that he supported his husband’s decision, that he was ready to assist him in any way he could.

“No, Camdyn,” Everild replied, his voice firm yet tender. “It’s late. You must rest.”

Aldaay, ever the practical advisor, spoke up. “We all ought to sleep. There’s nothing more we can do tonight but speculate about the morning, and you’ve had a trying last few days, my lords. I’ll let the kitchen staff and the stable master know that you’ll be departing tomorrow, Your Majesty.”

Camdyn released Everild’s hand reluctantly. “Let me at least have your rooms prepared, my lords.”

“Your Royal Highness, there is no need—”

“Oh, please, let me help in some way.” He turned to Everild, his big brown eyes wide and pleading. It was so late, and they’d have to get up early in the morning, and Camdyn needed to sleep, but he had never denied his husband any request, and he would not start now.

Everild pressed a kiss to his husband’s lips. “As you will.”

“I’ll wait for you, husband,” Camdyn murmured. His voice was soft but unwavering. Then he turned, inclined his head to the crowd of advisors, and strode out of the room.

One of the men, after a moment of silence, said very carefully, “Your Majesty must be very pleased with this union.”

Everild couldn’t help the smile that crossed his face. He could never help but smile when he thought about Camdyn. His husband thought God had brought them together. He had said it many times. As they lay pressed together in bed, skin still hot and flushed from their exertions. Working in the garden, pulling at weeds, dirt under his nails, and the sun in his face. Relaxing in the bath, head tucked under Everild’s chin, eyes closed and humming. Everild wasn’t sure God had anything to do with it, but he erred on the side of caution. He quietly thanked God for Their divine intervention when he held Camdyn in his arms at night, lulled to sleep by his soft snores.

Everild was extremely pleased with his marriage. He was happier than he had any right to be. He had never been a man for flowery turns of phrase, had always shirked from speeches and discussions at court. But when it came to Camdyn, words came easily. He loved his husband beyond what words could express.

And tomorrow, for the first time since their wedding day, he would have to leave him.

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When he finally returned to their room, Camdyn wasn’t dozing in bed as Everild had expected. Instead, his husband gazed out the window, dressed in Everild’s velvet tunic, which had long since been repurposed into Camdyn’s favorite night robe. It looked beautiful on him; he always seemed so warm and comfortable wearing it. The color suited his pale skin, and it left his long legs on display.

The pearls rested on Everild’s desk, a small pile of precious gems next to sheets of parchment.

Everild placed his hands on Camdyn’s shoulders and kissed his cheek. “What are you looking at?”

“Just the stars,” Camdyn replied softly. “I wasn’t sure if you still wanted me to wear the pearls. I can, if you want. Do you—are you in the mood?”

If it had been any other time, any other day, Everild would’ve gladly accepted the offer to enjoy one another’s touch. But the king had been murdered, a crowd of strangers filled the castle, both of them were exhausted, and by tomorrow evening, they would already have said their goodbyes.

How long would it take to root out Dustan and his allies? First, he had to find his treacherous cousin and kill him, and then those who declared their support for his cause had to be dealt with. A siege needed to be avoided. Camdyn’s little garden was still growing, but most of the crops had been harvested. Any responsible lord would have a castle well stocked for winter. God, what a mess. This could take months if they made a mistake.

It was agony to imagine being away for that long. There would be no morning love-making, no breakfast and talk afterward, no kisses goodbye, no happy updates about the garden or the latest research in the library as they prepared for a bath, no small, soft, warm body clinging to him throughout the night.

Everild pulled Camdyn into a tight embrace. “Do you remember our wedding night?” he asked. “All you wanted was to kiss and talk.”

“I do,” Camdyn replied.

“That’s all I want now. I just want to kiss you, hold you, and fall asleep to your voice. Can we do that?”

Camdyn smiled. “Oh, yes, of course, Everild.”

It was almost shocking, the difference in their behavior. On their wedding night, Everild had been stressed beyond belief, worried about frightening his new husband, scared that he might make him uncomfortable. Camdyn had been shy, confused, and uncertain about Everild's wants as well as his own. But the two of them had been so hopeful that they could make their marriage work.

Now, Camdyn undressed him with practiced ease, waiting until Everild had taken off his boots before unbuttoning his vest and freeing him from his shirt. He carefully wrapped and set his belt on the chair as Everild stepped out of his pants.

“Now you,” Everild said. It was an easy task. Camdyn didn’t even have his leggings on; he was naked underneath the velvet tunic. But as Everild helped him shrug off the clothing, he was struck, as always, by his husband’s beauty. His skin smooth and pale, his brown curls, his large, dark eyes, his long legs. But he had changed a bit. Camdyn stood taller now, more confidently, and he was a little fuller than when they first met—the result of a healthy appetite no longer stymied by monastic asceticism. More for Everild to hold and adore. And now all the tremulousness was gone from his expression; the trust in his eyes was accompanied by desire and affection.

The sight of his husband naked and relaxed, unashamed and eager for his touch, was one that Everild would never tire of.

He placed his hands on Camdyn’s bare hips. “There you are,” Everild said with a grin.

Camdyn smiled and spread his arms wide. “Here I am!”

His husband cried out in delight when Everild picked him up—he was still so light—and twirled him around. Camdyn’s laughter was one of the sweetest sounds in the world, Everild thought, as he placed him onto the bed. He kissed every inch of his husband, ran his hands over him, trying to soak up all the little happy noises Camdyn made and the feeling of his body against his, all warmth and goodness like sunlight against his skin.

His husband merely clung to him and allowed him to indulge in the scent and feeling of his body, giggling occasionally when Everild’s beard brushed against a particularly ticklish spot. Yes, this was what he wanted, Everild mused with a sigh against Camdyn’s stomach. His lovely husband, comfortable and laughing, basking in Everild’s love. Tomorrow, they would sleep without one another, and only God knew how long it would take for them to be together again. But at least they had this gentle night of kisses, touches, and laughter to make the days following less lonely.

“Everild, kiss me, please?” Camdyn asked.

Everild’s mouth had not left his skin since they’d gotten into bed, but he knew that Camdyn meant that he wanted a kiss pressed to his lips. Ever obedient, Everild shifted so that he could leave a trail of kisses up Camdyn’s chest to his neck, to each corner of his mouth, and then to his pretty, pink lips.

It was a different kind of desire—a need to just simply hold Camdyn, to pour his affection into every kiss and caress.

Eventually, he simply rested against Camdyn, their foreheads pressed together, their breathing in sync, his husband gently stroking his back.

“You said you wanted to talk,” Camdyn murmured. “What did you want to talk about?”

Everild rolled off of him and settled against the pillows, pulling Camdyn into his side to cuddle as they always did. What to discuss? Something happy and sweet. Something to think about in their time apart—to look forward to.

He asked, “What will you show me first when we get to the monastery?”

Camdyn’s face lit up. God, how beautiful he was. “Oh! We’ll have to meet the Abbot first and foremost. And then Cenric, of course, you must meet Cenric. He’ll like you, don’t worry. And then the rest of the monks—Brother David, Brother Trian, all of them… After we pray in the chapel, maybe I could show you my old clochán? There won’t be much there, but—it’d be nice for you to see where I lived all those years. And—and then down to the beach? That was my favorite place. I'd like to watch the waves with you, Everild. Depending on when we go, there might be seaweed on the shore. I could show you how we collect and dry it. We could make soup. I think you’d like it. With the vegetables and legumes, it’s very filling, and with Cenric’s spices, it’s so flavorful—“

It was a wonderful image. Camdyn’s childhood home, the people who raised him and loved him, the places he walked, ran, swam, and spent his time, where he grew into the man that Everild adored with every fiber of his being.

He pulled Camdyn close so that his lips brushed his husband’s ear. “Camdyn?”

Camdyn looked up at him through long, dark lashes and with a contented smile. “Hm?”

“I love you.”

His husband stilled in his arms. His eyes grew wide, his smile wider. “You—you do?”

Of course, Everild did. How could he not? It was impossible not to love Camdyn. But he repeated, as softly as he could, “I love you.”

Camdyn’s expression transformed into something remarkably gentle and tender. “Oh. Oh, Everild. I love you, too. You know that, right? I love you so much.”

With a shaking hand, he cupped Camdyn’s cheek. He ran his thumb along Camdyn’s lower lip, plump and moist from their kissing. “I know. And I’m happy. I’m so happy you love me.”

His husband said, quite seriously, “How could I not love you, Everild?”

Pure joy welled up inside Everild’s heart. It bubbled out of his throat in a peal of laughter. His lips found Camdyn’s once more, and he kissed him again, and again, and again.

Tomorrow would come, but tonight was theirs.

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In the early morning light, Camdyn resolutely went to the chapel for his prayers, as he did every day before any important event. It was his quiet moment to focus, and to seek guidance for Everild’s journey. Standing in front of the altar, he whispered a prayer, his voice soft but firm in the sacred space. “I’ll pray to God for your health, and your safety, and that you complete your task in a timely manner, and that you will come back to me shortly.” The words were sincere, filled with a deep, unshakable love and hope. He closed his eyes for a moment, breathing in the serenity of the chapel, before standing to leave, his heart heavy with the knowledge that Everild was leaving soon.

After his prayer, they gathered for breakfast in the great hall, which was already teeming with activity by the time they arrived. The kitchen staff worked furiously, preparing supplies for Everild’s departure, while also making sure the group of misplaced advisors were fed and ready to continue their duties. The clatter of plates, the bustle of feet, and the low murmur of voices filled the room, but through it all, Camdyn could only focus on his husband. Everild was leaving, and he couldn’t stop worrying.

Camdyn fretted over the smallest details. His hands moved quickly, packing Everild’s things as though they could somehow ensure his safety. “I’m packing tea leaves,” Camdyn said, his voice thoughtful, as he carefully spooned piles of earthy, aromatic black tea leaves into a small container. “I know you don’t care for the taste, Everild, but Edwin said it was good for you. Goodness, I can wrap up a few lemons as well, but how am I going to get the honey in there—would a small jar be too cumbersome? I don’t want it to break and leave you with a mess to clean.” His voice trailed off, lost in his thoughts, hands still moving, as he worked to pack everything that could be needed.

Aldaay, always one for practical matters, raised an eyebrow at him. “You’re aware that His Majesty isn’t going on a picnic, yes, Your Royal Highness?” Camdyn glanced at him with a small, worried frown, but Everild shushed Aldaay with a quiet, affectionate smile. He knew that Camdyn’s worry was an expression of love, a love he cherished deeply. The small things, the little extras that Camdyn packed—each carefully chosen item was another small symbol of his devotion. Everild’s heart swelled with love for his husband, knowing that Camdyn wanted nothing more than to ensure he would be safe and comfortable while he was away.

The light streaming through the great hall’s windows caught Camdyn just so, making his curls seem almost auburn in the morning sun. His big, brown doe eyes sparkled, and his lips, slightly parted, shone as though inviting Everild to do nothing but kiss him. Camdyn was truly beautiful in that moment, caught in the soft, golden light, a picture of grace and love that Everild could never tire of looking at.

Everild moved, taking the small jar of honey that Camdyn had carefully wrapped in linen for safekeeping, and placed it into his satchel. With one hand, he cupped Camdyn’s face and pulled him in for a long, deep kiss. Camdyn sighed, his breath warm against Everild’s lips, and melted into his arms. The kiss was a moment of perfect tenderness, a connection that was both simple and profound. They had no words to express the depth of their love, but in that kiss, it was all said.

Aldaay made a disgruntled noise in the background, but the rest of the household had grown used to their lords’ displays of affection. They simply went about their business, packing sun-dried fruits, meats, hazelnuts, and wheels of hard, aged cheese for the journey ahead. The smell of the food, the rustle of leather and linen as supplies were carefully stored—everything else was a blur to Camdyn as he reluctantly pulled away from Everild.

The advisors, however, had no such experience with displays of affection, and when the two men parted, they stared at them from their table, faces shocked, flustered, and scandalized by the intimate moment they had just witnessed. One advisor, the younger one who had gone off to map out Dustan’s potential escape routes, tentatively approached them. “Forgive me, Your Majesty. Your Royal Highness. I don’t mean to—interrupt—” He stumbled over his words, clearly unsure of how to proceed after witnessing such a personal moment. “I believe I’ve charted the outlaw Redmane’s most likely location. There’s a lord to the west, near the mountains, who fought alongside him during the war. I’m certain he’s there.”

Everild’s voice, gruff as always, cut through the awkward silence. “What makes you sure he wouldn’t try to flee across the border? Or to another ally?” His questions were direct, but the advisor seemed to understand that they were not dismissive—Everild was simply seeking the most complete answer to formulate the best plan.

The young advisor replied confidently, “He wouldn’t try and flee, Your Majesty, because then whatever tenuous claim to the throne he has now would be lost. And there are a few others who are friendly with him, but they reside in more populated areas. I doubt Redmane would take the risk of riding through those cities alone. Not when he’s gone and murdered a king. He’d be torn apart by a mob. The lord’s land in the mountains—it’s a bit farther away, and the road is more difficult to travel, but he’s a skilled rider. He’ll be there, I’m sure of it. That’s where you need to be.” He cleared his throat before adding, “That is, if you think that’s the best course of action, Your Majesty.”

Everild gave a curt nod, impressed by the advisor’s detailed and confident response. He considered the options carefully before making his decision. “Send a battalion of soldiers to each of the lords that have made public their support for Redmane. Have them march through the cities and towns on their land, but they’re not to loot or pillage a single shop or home. Have them tell the elders that they are merely searching for the murderer and would-be thief Redmane and that their lord is suspected of hiding him. Then have them surround the lord’s manor and wait.” His throat had grown raw and rough from the discussion, and he cleared it, reaching for his cup. Camdyn returned with a fresh cup of black tea sweetened with honey, and Everild thanked him, even though he grimaced at the taste. The warmth of the tea soothed his throat, but it did little to ease the heavy burden on his mind.

The advisor waited patiently for Everild to finish his tea. When Everild handed the cup back to Camdyn, he added, “I’ll go to the mountains with my huntswoman. If Redmane is there, then Udele and her hounds will track him down. If not, we’ll keep looking—manor by manor, lord by lord.”

The younger advisor nodded, but then asked, “What will be done with those lords that supported Redmane, Your Majesty?”

Everild’s expression darkened, the weight of the question pressing down on him. There was really only one answer in a situation like this. Dustan had forced his hand, and now his reign would be stained with blood. His voice was a low growl as he spoke, the words heavy with finality. “Their bodies will hang in the Capital square alongside their murderous friend.”

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