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Guilt roiled in Everild’s stomach as he watched Udele and Willow say their goodbyes. He and Camdyn had been married for only a few months, and Everild knew their separation would be unbearable. Willow and Udele had been together for as long as Everild could remember and had never gone more than a week without seeing each other. This would be agony for both women, their bond made all the more palpable by their unwillingness to part.

“It must be done, Your Majesty,” Willow said, her fingers adjusting the hood on Udele’s cloak with careful precision. “I hate to have you leave, dearheart, but this’ll all be over more quickly with your help.”

Udele’s smile was soft but filled with resignation. “Ah, you’ve quite a lot of faith in an old woman.”

“Experienced, you are,” Willow teased, her voice fond.

“In many ways,” Udele replied with a wink, and Willow responded with a playful slap to her shoulder. The air was filled with the quiet but familiar affection between the two women.

“Just be careful,” the stable master said, his voice firm but tinged with concern.

Aldaay, though indispensable in council, would remain behind due to his less-than-impressive horsemanship. Everild knew that Camdyn would need his assistance in keeping the castle running smoothly during his absence, so Aldaay would be staying put for the time being.

“So long as this isn’t a plot to keep Gerald as your advisor, Your Majesty,” Aldaay teased, his eyes twinkling with mischief. Everild snorted at the comment. The entire situation had become so convoluted, and Gerald’s involvement was a central part of it. Dustan had assassinated the king in his bedchamber, and with Gerald’s help—whether through coercion or his own volition—he had fled the palace. Gerald claimed it had been under threat and duress, but the other advisors had quickly placed him in chains. Everild found himself conflicted about the matter. On one hand, no one should have died for the king—after all, he had been just a man, and not a particularly good one at that. But on the other hand, Gerald had been the one to encourage the king’s violent tendencies, his insatiable lust for war, urging soldiers to march to their deaths for the sake of God and the crown. And now, Gerald could not even face the consequences of his own counsel? Hypocrite. Charlatan. Everild was angry that it was his own cowardice—his reluctance to take a life—that had forced him to leave Camdyn, his beloved, for an uncertain period of time.

Camdyn stood quietly by Everild’s horse, stroking the stallion’s thick, muscular neck. The animal was broad, dark, and sturdy—like a true companion in both battle and peace. “Not unlike someone else I know,” Camdyn had once remarked with an impish smile as he gently petted the horse. The beast snorted, then curiously sniffed at the curls framing Camdyn’s face, eliciting a brief but warm smile from him. Everild’s heart ached as he watched this small, intimate moment between his husband and the animal.

Everild knew he was almost ready to depart, but an anxious weight pressed down on him. It was the same feeling he always had before battle—the gnawing uncertainty, the tangle of emotions, the tightening of his chest. Once the battle had begun, there had been no time for thought beyond survival. But it was the waiting, the standing in formation, listening for the sounds that would signal the charge—that had always been the most uncomfortable part. Now, his body felt that same anticipation, but in a different way. This time, the battle was internal, his heart and mind warring between love for Camdyn and the responsibility he felt toward his kingdom.

He had deliberately chosen not to carry a sword, instead strapping an axe to his back. This had caused a great deal of consternation among his advisors—most of whom had never seen live combat, let alone taken a life. They argued that Everild would be unprepared to defend himself should he face Dustan, or that it was unbecoming of a king to forgo the traditional weapon of a commander. How could he explain to a group of men who spent their days discussing matters of state—the treasury, trade routes, alliances—that a sword, to him, was not just a tool but a reminder of all the violence he had left behind? The mere thought of grasping the hilt would dredge up horrific memories, transforming him into a killer, a soldier first and foremost, at the expense of the man he had become. He could never return to that life.

But Camdyn had come to his defense, offering a few words that had satisfied the advisors. “A sword is for an equal, my lords. A fellow soldier, a fellow warrior. Dustan Redmane bears the wolf’s head, but he is naught but a beast, and he will be dealt with as such,” he had said, squeezing Everild’s hand for reassurance.

“Forgive us our impertinence,” one of the men had quickly responded. “Your Royal Highness is of course correct. Your Majesty’s skill and conduct in battle are renowned. The outlaw Redmane is no peer.”

Now, however, Camdyn remained silent, brushing the mane of the horse with absent concentration. Everild gently tugged him away from the animal, tilting his husband’s chin up so that their gazes met. The look in Camdyn’s eyes held a mixture of sadness and love that tugged painfully at Everild’s heart. Without a word, they kissed—a kiss that felt far too deep and lingering for the moment, but it was their last for a while. A final taste of each other’s lips, a desperate attempt to hold on.

“I won’t be gone long,” Everild assured him, his voice soft but firm. “I’ll be back before you know it. You’ll enjoy the time away from me.”

Camdyn pouted, his voice quiet but full of emotion. “I won’t. I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

“I just want you to come back to me. Even if something happens, and you get hurt—just come home, and I’ll take care of you.”

Everild kissed his forehead, his heart swelling at the devotion in Camdyn’s voice. “If something does happen, Camdyn—go to your siblings. Cera, or Gibson.” His sister-in-law was a force to be reckoned with, strong and capable. And though his brother-in-law’s actions still hurt, Gibson was as loyal and protective as they came. He would ensure Camdyn’s safety above all else.

“But nothing will happen.” Camdyn’s voice held a tinge of uncertainty, his words more a question than a statement. He sought reassurance that Everild could not fully give, not this time.

“We must plan for every possibility, Camdyn. That’s how you win a battle,” Everild replied, his voice steady even though his heart was not.

Camdyn blinked back tears, his emotions breaking through. “I love you,” he whispered, his voice small but heavy with meaning.

Everild hugged him tightly, feeling the steady beat of Camdyn’s heart against his chest. “Do you think,” he asked softly, “that there’s anything in this world that will stop me from returning to you?”

Camdyn narrowed his eyes, his lips curling into a faint smile. “No. Anyone that tries will have to deal with me. I can be very scary.” Then he laughed, the sound a bittersweet relief in the tense atmosphere. Everild couldn’t help but laugh as well, pressing a kiss to his husband’s lips even as the thought of being apart from him, of leaving him behind, tightened his chest painfully.

◆◆◆

Udele was keenly aware of Everild’s concerns, her expression calm and assured, yet laced with the understanding of his anxiety.

“Nothing will happen to you, Everild,” she said in her usual steadfast tone, her voice a reassuring constant. “Not when I am around. There are few creatures alive that can best me, and those that can won’t get the better of my hounds. You stay with me, Everild, just like when you were a boy. We’ll draw that man out, take him down, and then we’ll come home and kiss our pretty helpmates, and that’ll be that.”

“And that’ll be that,” Everild replied, though the weight of what lay ahead hung heavily on him.

They rode west, pushing forward through the unfamiliar stretches of land, past the Capital, past the palace, and through crowds of people who seemed to stir with conflicting emotions. They clamored for justice for the dead king, an unyielding demand to see the new one—Everild—take his place. But Everild couldn’t help but wonder: had they truly mourned his cousin as a king, or had they been drawn into the spectacle of his violent end? Had the public, whose emotions seemed so raw, really felt a deep connection to the late monarch, or was it only the crime itself—the brutal murder—that stirred their hearts and ignited their anger?

The faces of the crowds were a blur, their cries and chants hanging in the air, but as they moved through the different districts, something else caught Everild’s eye. Everywhere they went, they saw his coat of arms—the royal insignia—flying high on rooftops, pinned proudly to the doors of houses, shops, and churches. It was draped from window to window like a line of laundry, fluttering in the breeze on silk, linen, or even humble pillowcases. To Everild, this was the most meaningful sight: the undeniable mark of the people’s recognition of him as king, even as they protested.

More heartening to him, however, was the wolf pelts nailed to city gates and town walls. A message of defiance, loud and clear: the inhabitants were not only unafraid but resolute. They hunted the beasts and would not yield to them. There would be no support, no safety for Dustan Redmane from the people of these towns. It was a powerful statement of unity, a reminder that while the throne might have been taken by force, the land—and its people—stood resolutely in his favor.

After passing the cities and towns, the horses galloped faster, their hooves pounding against the earth as they approached the outskirts of a small village at the edge of a dark and foreboding forest. The air thickened with the smell of pine and earth, the landscape shifting as the tall trees loomed over them. When they stopped to speak with the headman, Udele’s hounds—still tracking Dustan’s scent—snarled and growled, pacing restlessly at the lead, eager to resume the hunt. They were relentless, almost as if they too were aware of the severity of the task at hand.

Everild understood their agitation, his own impatience growing as the weight of the mission pressed on him. The sooner they ended this, the sooner he could return to Camdyn, to the life he had momentarily left behind.

“The outlaw Dustan Redmane has been here,” one of Everild’s men remarked, his gaze shifting toward the hounds still baying for their quarry. “Your lord—he has allied with him?”

The headman shrugged indifferently. “Oh, that man did, but he isn’t our lord anymore.” He gestured vaguely toward the manor in the distance, the smoke rising from its still-burning remains. “You don’t shelter a wild animal. They live in the wilds. Murdering a king—and his own kin, no less—there is no love or loyalty there. If a man wants an animal as an ally, then he'll be treated like one. It’s the way of things.”

His blunt speech made Everild think of Aldaay. A brief chuckle escaped his lips. “You remind me of a friend of mine,” he said, the words slipping out before he could stop them.

“Handsome man, eh?” The headman grinned, a flash of wit behind his weathered face.

Everild smiled in return, though it was bittersweet. “And very wise. Your people know these forests better than us. Would you help us find Redmane with their help?”

The old man stroked his beard thoughtfully, his eyes narrowing as he considered the request. “Ah, well, we were just going to let him starve to death—less risk to get the bounty that way. But if you’ll be with us, Your Majesty, then I’ll gather up a few of my people. We’ll put him down ourselves.”

◆◆◆

Everild walked alongside Udele, her hounds straining at their leashes as they led the way, their noses low to the earth, locked onto Dustan’s scent. The dogs’ instincts were sharp, guided by years of training, and they were relentless in their pursuit. Behind them, Everild’s retinue stretched for what seemed like miles, a formation of soldiers and advisors, the village’s fit young men and women, all moving with purpose and precision. The air in the forest felt dense, as if it absorbed the weight of the world. The trees grew tall and ancient, their thick canopies blocking the sunlight, casting everything beneath them into a heavy twilight. The ground was uneven, thick with roots, rocks, and fallen branches, making each step a calculated effort. It was difficult to navigate, yet it was impossible to hide. The forest held secrets, but it also knew no mercy. Dustan could not outrun them, not with the dogs and the hunting party trailing him.

They moved like a well-oiled machine, their formation unwavering, intent on flushing out the fugitive who dared to defy their king’s authority. They scoured the underbrush with methodical efficiency, eyes sharp, searching for the smallest signs: the flash of Dustan’s red cloak, the gleam of metal from his chain mail, or the faintest glint of his icy blue eyes that stood out even in the darkest woods. Every sound—every rustling leaf, every snapped twig—was amplified in the silence of the hunt, and with each step, Everild’s resolve solidified.

The walk was eerily familiar, like a forgotten memory surfacing from the depths of his mind. Once, he and his cousins had scoured these very woods in search of adventure. It had been a simpler time, filled with the excitement of discovery and the thrill of chasing after elusive creatures. The forest had been a playground, a place to lose themselves among the trees, to climb the highest branches, to pick wild blackberries and play in the cool shade. The air had smelled different back then—fresher, more innocent. The animals had been prey for their imaginations: deer darting through the underbrush, foxes peering curiously from the shadows, birds flitting between branches with a chatter of feathers. They had even hoped to see the great brown bear, a creature of legend, a symbol of untamed power that only the bravest of hearts would dare to track.

But now, those carefree days felt like another life entirely. Now, Everild walked the same paths, but not for sport. Now, he hunted his own flesh and blood, a man who had killed his brother—a man who, like the predators of these woods, was a danger to all who crossed his path. Dustan had become something else, something far darker and more dangerous than the wild animals they once chased. The forest no longer whispered with the voices of innocent creatures. Instead, it echoed with the weight of vengeance.

Everild’s thoughts drifted to his husband, Camdyn. A soft smile tugged at the corners of his mouth, a fleeting thought of warmth in the midst of the cold, relentless pursuit. Camdyn was everything Dustan was not—gentle, kind, the embodiment of compassion. Everild could feel the stark contrast between the two men, one driven by greed, power, and bloodshed, the other by love, patience, and the desire for peace. It made the task at hand even more unbearable. He did not want this. He did not want to walk this path of violence. But duty called. The land demanded justice.

So, let this reign begin in blood. Let Dustan’s blood water the soil, nourishing the kingdom with its sacrifice. Everild would make sure of it. The kingdom needed a ruler who would protect it, who would care for it like Camdyn cared for his garden, tending to it with patience and love. That would be Everild’s legacy. The kingdom would grow, and he would stand beside Camdyn, defending both the man he loved and the people who needed him.

“Your Majesty, might Redmane have taken off into the mountains?” one of the soldiers asked, breaking Everild from his thoughts.

Everild shook his head, a low growl escaping him. “He wouldn’t have expected the villagers’ opposition to his arrival. He’s somewhere in this forest. Scrounging for food and water. Hiding in the brush. Unable to even make a fire lest we see him. He’s trapped. Soon enough, we’ll walk right into him.”

As if on cue, the hounds began to snarl, their deep growls echoing through the trees. Spittle dripped from their jowls as they circled, their powerful muscles tensing. Udele, ever calm and in control, called the hounds back to her, but they were restless, their instincts alive with the hunt. One by one, she untied their collars, and they sprang forward, the forest floor shaking under the pounding of their paws, a chorus of howling and barking filling the air.

The pack, trained for the chase of deer and boar, was no stranger to blood, but it had never hunted a man before. Their growls grew louder, fiercer, their sharp teeth flashing as they surrounded their prey. They would trap Dustan, keeping him at the center of their circle, but they would not kill him. Not yet.

It was not long before they found him—cornered, exhausted, and irate. His fine clothes were tattered, his armor dented and dirty from days of running, his face shadowed by the stubble of a hastily grown beard. He was the picture of a man on the verge of collapse, yet his eyes burned with defiance. He gritted his teeth as the hunting party closed in, his gaze locking onto Everild’s. The two men shared a long, tense moment, the space between them charged with animosity.

“What took you so long? Had to put together a force strong enough for one man, eh?” Dustan sneered, his voice dripping with contempt. He spat on the ground. “You used to be more than enough for an army just on your own. A true soldier. Gone to seed, have you? Gone soft? I know your stomach roils at the sight of blood now, Your Majesty.” His words were a calculated insult, meant to provoke, to tear at Everild’s pride.

Everild stared at him, his expression unreadable. He had heard Dustan’s taunts before, back when they were children, and even then, he had learned to ignore them. But now, those words held no weight. He was no longer the same man who had once cared about such things. His life had changed, and Camdyn was waiting for him, miles away, far from this blood-soaked forest. Everild could not—would not—risk everything for a battle that had no meaning.

Dustan was no longer a man. Not in the eyes of society, at least. He was an outlaw, a murderer, a danger to everything Everild sought to protect. “The only quarry fit for a king is a hart of ten,” Everild said, his voice cold, his gaze unwavering. “There’s no antlers on your head. But I hear your barking. I see your fangs, and the blood on your hands. You’re that wolf that’s gone and killed a man.” He motioned for the villagers to step forward. “And we’ve found you.”

The archers, a silent line of tension, notched their arrows, each of them aiming at a single target.

Dustan’s face twisted in frustration, a strange mixture of a growl and a whimper escaping him. “You think you’re going to make a good king? You were slow of speech when we were children, and now you can barely say a few sentences without spitting blood. Think people will cheer for the fucking Beast?”

“A ruler is for their people,” Everild replied, his voice steady, unwavering. “My duty is always to protect them, whether they like me or not.” The former king had done nothing but sate his own hunger for power. Dustan was no different, but he was worse, crueler. Everild had learned that much long ago.

He thought of Camdyn again, his words from days past echoing in his mind: “My husband says that I’m a good man, so I’ll be a good king. He might have too much faith in me. But I’ll do my best to be better than the last one. And I already know that I’m a better man than you.”

With that, he gave the signal. Udele whistled, and the dogs returned to her side, their task complete. “Don’t hit his face,” Everild ordered. “His body will hang in the Capital’s square along with anyone who helped him.”

Dustan’s expression shifted, a flicker of disbelief flashing in his eyes. He was silent now, his anger muting into something more dangerous: resignation. He glared at Everild, his jaw clenched, the sound of his breath a low, guttural growl.

The archers fired in unison.

◆◆◆

The villagers slaughtered a pig for Udele’s hounds to feast on and another for Everild’s retinue. It was a generous gesture, one that surprised Everild. He was taken aback by their hospitality, especially given the harshness of the winter. "You needn’t have done that," he exclaimed, his voice tinged with surprise. "I don’t want to take away from your winter stores." The weight of his words lingered in the cold air, but the headman merely flashed him a toothy grin, his eyes gleaming with a quiet satisfaction.

"Well, we’ll be able to buy up plenty of supplies with the bounty from the wolf’s head, won’t we?" The old man’s words were said with a kind of cheer, as if the community’s needs and the victory were one in the same.

Everild nodded, still processing the gesture. "Of course. I won’t forget your help." His voice held a sincerity, but there was a shadow of uncertainty behind his words, as though he didn’t quite know what to make of their generosity. He paused, before continuing with a more pressing question. "You wouldn’t happen to know where your former lord fled, do you?"

The headman’s smile faded slightly as he looked towards the bloody sack that contained Dustan’s lifeless body. "Hoping to add to the display?" he chuckled, his voice rough with age and experience. He waved off Everild’s query with a wry expression. "Apologies, Your Majesty. If we’d known your plans, we wouldn’t have burned him in the manor."

Everild, his mind still racing from the recent events, wasn’t sure how to respond to that. The idea that Dustan’s body was now little more than a charred relic, destroyed before it could be properly dealt with, weighed heavily on him. It was almost as if the world had been stripped of any pretense of order. Instead of voicing his discomfort, Everild shifted his focus. "Should I appoint a new lord for you all?" he asked, his voice carrying the weight of his new role.

"Go right ahead, go right ahead," the headman responded, with a casual wave of his hand. "If we don’t like them, we’ll take care of them ourselves, eh?" There was a gleam of mischief in his eyes, a deep-seated pride in his community’s self-reliance.

Yes, Everild thought to himself, Aldaay would get along well with these people. They were resourceful, unbowed by the weight of authority. He almost felt a flicker of hope, wondering if perhaps there was a path forward for his fractured kingdom.

As evening fell and the sounds of the village quieted, Udele found Everild sitting alone next to Dustan’s body. He was lost in thought, staring down at the remains of the man who had once been his cousin, his family. Udele lowered herself onto the ground beside him, her movements slow and deliberate, as though she, too, understood the gravity of the moment.

"Mourning your cousins?" she asked, her voice gentle, yet filled with a quiet knowing. Everild let out a snort, half-amused, half-sad. "You all loved each other once," she added, her words carrying the weight of nostalgia. "It used to be the three of you running down those castle halls."

"When we were very small," Everild conceded with a sigh, his voice soft and distant. "When we were happy, and curious, and all we ever wanted to do was play." The memories came rushing back—before the war, before the betrayal, before Dustan had murdered the king, before everything had shattered. "Perhaps I’m mourning the children they once were." He looked down at the ground, lost in thought.

The image of them—two bright-eyed children—still clung to his memory. Dustan with his dark hair, and Wilburg with his blond locks, both of them always by his side, both of them carefree and innocent, dressed in tunics stained with the juices of wild berries they’d pick near the castle. They would tumble on the grass, laughing and shrieking, their voices rising in the air. How had they gone from that to what they had become?

Dustan had grown cruel, intentionally callous, aggressive in his brutality, and Wilburg, despite his jovial nature, had only ever cared for his own pleasures, his laughter echoing even as others suffered for his amusement. The war had done something to all of them, something that they could never undo.

And then came the war—ruthless and unforgiving. It had stripped the flesh from Everild’s body and the ease from his mind, leaving him scarred, mentally and physically. It had taken away any remnants of the love he had once felt for his cousins. They had thrived in battle, found joy in it, while Everild had longed for peace, for an end to the endless violence that seemed to follow him wherever he went. He hadn’t wanted the throne. He had never wanted this life. All he had wanted was a quiet place to rest, away from the screams, the bloodshed, the constant fear.

"We killed each other," Everild murmured, his voice tinged with bitterness. "Dustan murdered the king, and then I had Dustan slaughtered." He let out a bitter laugh, one that lacked humor. "Did you ever imagine this would happen when you watched the three of us explore the woods together? That we’d die at one another’s hands? That one day I’d be the last?" He shook his head, as though the weight of his words was too much to bear.

Udele was silent for a long moment, her face unreadable. Then she spoke softly, her voice steady. "Only God knows what’s in store for anyone, Everild. I can’t say I ever expected this would be one of our hunts, but—" She paused, furrowing her brow, as though searching for the right words. "You’ve always been a good lad. You’ve only ever tried to do what’s right. They thought you a warrior for your strength and size, and I daresay you were more than decent at it, but—you know the reason you get along with that pretty husband of yours? You’re both gentle creatures. Made for nurturing and caring and defending others. So, no, I can’t rightly say that this is where I thought I’d be sitting one day, but it is so, and I’ll gladly follow you wherever you continue to lead me, Your Majesty."

Everild chuckled weakly, trying to mask the sorrow in his heart. "Have you been talking to Camdyn?" His voice cracked slightly, strained from the emotions churning inside him. He hiccupped, wiping at his eyes, and managed a small, pained smile. "He’s always telling me ridiculous things like that." Udele’s hand, worn and weathered, gently rested on his shoulder as he hung his head, unable to stop the tears that flowed freely.

A storm of emotions raged within him. Udele’s words were too kind, her trust in him too much, far more than he felt he deserved. He was the king now, but he never wanted to be. His family was gone, and somehow, he wasn’t sure if he was supposed to feel more sorrow than he did. Throughout the kingdom, Dustan’s allies—those who had fought alongside him, who had reveled in the brutality of the war—were being hunted down, dragged from their manors and castles, and executed. And yet, as each one fell, Everild felt a sickening satisfaction that he didn’t know how to reconcile with his conscience.

He missed his husband. The ache in his chest was a constant, gnawing reminder of the life he had left behind. All he wanted was to return to Camdyn, to see his garden, to sit with him in peace, to talk about everything and nothing at all, to hold him and feel his warmth, to sleep beside him, to kiss him, to feel like something in this broken world could still be right.

It was thoughts of Camdyn that finally stopped the tears. The pain in his heart didn’t fade, but his mind cleared, a sense of clarity settling over him. There was still much to do, and he couldn’t do it alone. He needed Camdyn at his side. Above all else, he was Camdyn’s husband, Camdyn’s lover, Camdyn’s friend. No crown, no title, no throne could replace that bond.

“Udele,” he rasped, his voice thick with emotion. "Go back home. Kiss your wife. Then have them send Camdyn to the Capital. I need to prepare for the coronation, and I won’t be crowned king without my husband at my side."