Page 3

In the weeks that followed the king’s drunken proclamation, Everild had come to an uneasy realization—one that settled deep in his chest, tightening like a noose with each passing day.

Much of his wedding had already been planned and prepared long before his cousin had even seen fit to inform him.

The arrangements had been set in motion well before he’d been made aware of them, the decisions already carved into stone without his voice ever being considered.

Now, as he watched the flurry of activity unfold around him, the decorations being hung, the wedding feast being planned, the guest lists being scrutinized and finalized, it felt as though his future was being handed to him by unseen hands, as though his life had been bargained away by those who saw him as little more than a tool to be wielded in their pursuit of power.

If the king hadn’t drunkenly blurted out the arrangement when he did, Everild feared that he might have woken up one morning with some strange young man beside him in his bed, the man claiming to be his husband without Everild ever having been consulted or granted even the illusion of choice.

The thought made his stomach twist.

He had always known that love was a luxury rarely afforded to people like him, but he had at least expected the courtesy of being informed before he was shackled to another for life.

In the quiet moments between the endless, mind-numbing preparations, Everild found his thoughts circling around this Camdyn person—his future husband, a man who was little more than a name to him.

A former novice, plucked from the sanctuary of his monastery at the king’s and his father’s command, Camdyn seemed less like a groom and more like a pawn in a game neither of them had chosen to play.

What must it have been like for him? To spend years believing his path was set, only to be wrenched from a life of devotion and thrust into marriage with a stranger?

Everild tried to picture him, but his mind conjured only vague impressions.

He supposed Camdyn would be pious—how could he not be, after so many years of religious instruction? He would be well-educated, surely, his mind steeped in scripture and doctrine, his words careful and measured.

Everild had taken it upon himself to order the castle’s chapel scrubbed and polished, the library dusted and meticulously organized, hoping that such small gestures might ease Camdyn’s transition into this new and unwanted life.

But beyond that, Everild could only wonder.

What sort of temperament would Camdyn have? Would he be bitter, angry at being torn from the monastery? Or would he be sorrowful, quietly resigned to the fate thrust upon him? Everild wasn’t sure which he would prefer.

Anger could be argued with, fought against, countered with his own sharp tongue.

But sadness? Sadness was something Everild had never known how to face.

And then there was the question that nagged at him most persistently: What would Camdyn look like? The descriptions he had heard were frustratingly vague, repeated over and over with a maddening simplicity. Pretty.

Not handsome, not striking, not imposing.

Just pretty.

The word lingered in Everild’s mind like an unanswered riddle.

Would Camdyn be delicate and ethereal, beautiful in the way Everild’s mother had been? Or would he take after the more austere, formidable side of his family? There were no portraits of him—none that Everild had been allowed to see, at least.

And tradition forbade him from meeting Camdyn before the ceremony.

An odd custom, one that Camdyn’s people held to with almost superstitious fervor.

It was said to be bad luck for the betrothed to set eyes on each other before the vows were spoken.

Some whispered that the tradition had once been a means of concealing an undesirable match until it was too late to protest.

“I wouldn’t be surprised if they lock the church doors once you’re inside,” Dustan had muttered darkly upon hearing of the custom.

“No one’s allowed to leave until they’re bound for life.

Probably just to make sure no one runs away after meeting the monster they’ve passed off to you, cousin.”

Everild had laughed, but the unease in his chest had not dissipated.

Camdyn’s family had sent several servants ahead to assist with the wedding preparations, but when Everild inquired about his future husband, he found their knowledge disappointingly limited.

Many had only vague recollections of Camdyn as a child—memories worn thin by the passage of time.

Some had known him from his early years at the monastery, but the boy had been sent there so young that few could recall more than fleeting impressions.

They spoke of him in the vaguest of terms, describing a quiet child, well-behaved, largely unnoticed except by his mother and father.

One maid, a matronly woman who had taken charge of the castle’s laundry, had smiled wistfully when Everild asked about Camdyn.

“Oh, he was just the sweetest baby,” she had recalled fondly, shaking out a sheet with practiced efficiency.

“Only ever fussed when he was left alone for too long.

The lord and lady worried he’d never learn to walk, you know, because Gibson was always carrying him around.”

Everild had tucked that away—a small, inconsequential detail, but one that made Camdyn feel a little more real in his mind.

Another day, while passing through the kitchens, Everild had overheard a cook’s assistant humming as he prepared fennel soup.

When Camdyn’s name was mentioned, the man’s voice took on a thoughtful, almost wistful tone.

“He looked like his lady mother,” the assistant mused as he sliced onions, his hands moving with the ease of long practice.

“Had his father’s coloring—brown hair, brown eyes—but his face was all hers.

A real lady, that one.

Very kind, very pretty.

It broke her heart when the boy was sent off to the monks, though.

Seems such a waste of all those years of heartache, just to marry him off anyway.”

He sighed then, dabbing at his eyes with the back of his sleeve before tossing the onions into the pot.

“Forgive me, my lord,” he added hastily.

“I mean no offense.”

“No offense taken,” Everild had replied, his voice quieter than he intended.

“I agree.”

And he did.

It was, in many ways, a tragedy.

Camdyn had spent his entire life preparing for a holy vocation, only to find himself thrust into a marriage for political and familial reasons.

And the more Everild thought about it, the more he realized how unfair it all seemed—Camdyn was being taken from his peaceful, structured life and forced into this union with someone who had done terrible things.

A man who had maimed, butchered, and killed on the battlefield.

Everild had spent years training for war, and now he was being asked to trade that life for one of peace, but peace came with its own burdens.

And yet, despite all the horrors of his past, Everild was determined to make these days as pleasant as possible for Camdyn.

The young man would never care for him—Everild knew that.

He was a broken, scarred man, shaped by years of war, with a hoarse, rough voice and a body marred by battle.

His appearance alone would likely horrify Camdyn, and Everild feared that the young man would never come to see him as anything other than a monster.

But Everild would do his best to make sure Camdyn was comfortable in his new life.

He would protect him, offer him shelter, and ensure he had no need to fear anything or anyone else.

It was one of the reasons Everild had staunchly refused the king’s suggestion to wear armor to the ceremony.

The king and his advisor, Gerald, had both been displeased by the decision, citing tradition and perceived disloyalty.

But Everild refused to meet Camdyn as the soldier he once was, as a killer in an executioner's garb.

He had cast aside his armor after the war ended, and he would not return to it, not even for the ceremony.

Aldaay, the steward sent to oversee the preparations for the wedding, had been one of the few who had not pressed him on the matter.

A small, fiery man with a sharp wit and an unwavering sense of duty, Aldaay had become quite fond of Everild over the course of their short time together.

When the king and Gerald had pressed the issue, Aldaay had calmly dismissed their objections, explaining that wearing armor to a wedding was not customary in Camdyn’s culture.

It was said to invite conflict, either through physical fights or spiritual discord.

And Everild, it seemed, had made the right choice in rejecting it.

"It’s bad luck," Aldaay had said, "and very wise of you, my lord.

Camdyn’s people don’t like to see armor at weddings—it’s a symbol of war, not of union.

A man dressed in armor might as well be declaring war on his groom."

◆◆◆

Dustan’s presence was unbearable, as it always was, but on that day, in the grandiose church draped in tapestries of the finest silks and lit by countless gleaming windows, his vitriol heightened.

It was as if the very air of the occasion made him swell with impatience and disgust, and Everild felt the tension in every word his cousin spat out.

Standing at his left, Dustan’s sneers were endless.

“They probably trussed up a sheep, this backwoods lot,” Dustan muttered with distaste, his eyes scanning Camdyn’s family and friends, who were clearly a different breed from Everild’s own people.

They wore clothes of striking fashion—although their fine garments were stained with soot and dust—and their faces were painted in eerie patterns of blue, running along their lips, down their chins, across their brows, and following the line of their noses.

The imagery was not lost on Everild; Aldaay had explained it to him in a low voice as they walked to the church.

The colors and designs were meant to mimic the appearance of corpses, giving their faces the pallor of death, and the ash signified that Camdyn’s old life had been burned away.

“A wedding’s as much a time to mourn as it is to celebrate,” Aldaay had said quietly, his words a reminder of the emotional weight of what was unfolding.

“Camdyn’s old life is over, dead.

His new life will be born here today, with his hands in yours.”

The words hung in the air like a death sentence.

Everild couldn’t help but feel the sting, even though he understood the sentiment behind it.

He had taken this young man from the life he knew, dragged him into a world of obligation and duty that he had no say in.

In truth, Everild had become a monster in the eyes of those who knew Camdyn best.

He could almost feel the cold glares burning into him from across the room as he stood there, helpless in the face of it all.

The idea that Camdyn’s life had been “burned away” and that he was now dead to his family—well, it stung more than Everild was willing to admit.

“They never knew him,” Everild had muttered to Aldaay when he explained the significance of the ashes.

It was a bitter truth that they could never fully understand what it felt like to be torn from everything they knew.

Aldaay had responded gently.

“He’ll be lost to them twice over, then.

Don’t worry.

At the feast, they’ll be rowdy and celebratory, all of them, celebrating the life that Camdyn is making with you.

It will all change.”

But in that moment, before the ceremony began, Camdyn’s immediate family stood in stark contrast to the vibrant, joyous atmosphere of the church.

They looked as though they belonged in another world entirely.

Their faces were drawn, grim, and hollow, as if mourning a loved one who had already passed.

Everild saw the father, tall and lean with calculating eyes that reminded him far too much of the king, and the siblings, equally tall but more muscular and strong-built, their faces equally unsettling.

Gibson, the eldest of the brothers, stood among them, his eyes narrow with hatred and fury, the intensity of his gaze as if he could rip Everild apart with a single glance.

It was clear Gibson wanted nothing to do with him, wanted to destroy him.

The second brother, Kenelm, looked uncomfortable, confused even, his gaze darting between the painted walls of the church and the guests around him, clearly out of place in that foreign environment.

The two older sisters, Aoife and Cera, wore similar expressions of quiet, resigned despair.

Yet, among all the sadness, there was one figure whose innocence offered a stark contrast.

Young Aoife, Aoife’s baby daughter, was utterly oblivious to the tension swirling around her.

She nursed happily at her mother’s breast, her tiny hands clinging to her mother’s robes, while the adults around her stared daggers at Everild, at the king, at the priest.

The girl was a bright, innocent light in an otherwise dark moment.

And then, the doors of the church swung open.

It was time.

Camdyn was brought into the church with his attendants, three veiled figures who made their way up the aisle in quiet procession.

Everild knew it was Camdyn in the center, his heart racing as he watched the young man walk toward him.

The white robes he wore were blinding in their brightness, meant to ward off any curses or dark thoughts, but it did nothing to settle the churning knot of discomfort in Everild’s chest.

Camdyn’s robes, loose and flowing, dragged across the ground with each step, the fabric catching the light as it swayed in perfect harmony with the delicate movements of the man within it.

His sash, made of silk, cinched around his waist, its intricate weave almost too much for Everild’s eyes to take in.

White stockings and slippers peeked out from beneath the hem, but it was the veil that commanded the most attention.

It was long, impossibly long, trailing behind Camdyn like a living thing, as if the veil itself was determined to cover him completely, to shield him from the eyes of the world.

The veil, Everild noticed, was no ordinary cloth.

It was embroidered with flowers, birds, and symbols of protection, all stitched by the hands of Camdyn’s family.

The imagery was delicate yet striking—blue and green flowers entwined with hawks and sparrows, all caught in a sweeping pattern of golden wheat.

The most striking feature was the large eye stitched in black, centered on the back of the veil, hovering just above Camdyn’s head.

It was the Eye of God, symbolizing all-seeing protection, watching over the young man as he stepped into his new life.

The attendants, dressed in bluish-gray garments, walked on either side of Camdyn.

Their presence was meant to protect him, to shield him from any harm, and to confuse any malevolent spirits that might seek to steal him away.

Everild felt a pang of guilt, knowing that Camdyn’s true friends were not there with him.

The people who had shaped his life, who had known him and cared for him, were far away in the monastery.

Those attendants were strangers to him, just as Everild was.

As Camdyn was led up the steps and placed before Everild, he hesitated for a moment.

His hands trembled as they rested at his sides, and Everild’s heart ached as he noticed the soft, stifled sounds coming from behind the veil.

The young man was crying.

It was a horrible realization, one that struck Everild like a cold wave.

His throat tightened as he watched Camdyn’s shoulders shake, his body hunched in distress.

He wanted to do something, to comfort him, to reach out and tell him everything would be alright, but the overwhelming weight of the ceremony, of the eyes of the church upon them, prevented him from moving.

The priest cleared his throat pointedly, sending Everild a sharp, meaningful glance, silently reminding him that the time had come.

With trembling hands, Everild reached for the veil.

He lifted it slowly, the fabric heavy in his hands, as the weight of the moment pressed down on him.

The shock was palpable, like a wave crashing over the entire congregation, rippling from the front of the church where Everild stood to the very back, where the more distant guests murmured in confusion.

There was a sudden intake of breath, a collective gasp, as the veil was lifted completely, revealing the face of Camdyn.

Dustan was the first to break the stunned silence, his voice harsh and undignified as he let out a squawk of disbelief.

He had spoken so many times of Camdyn’s appearance, claiming it with the air of one who knew it all, but now that the moment had arrived, even Dustan could not hide the shock that laced his voice.

They had said Camdyn was pretty, yes—that much had been agreed upon by everyone, spoken of with casual ease.

But the word wasn’t enough.

It never was.

The truth of it hit Everild like a blow to the chest: Camdyn wasn’t just pretty, he was absolutely, impossibly beautiful.

Camdyn’s eyes were huge, bright, and a deep amber color, like dark honey glinting in the sunlight.

But these eyes were not clear and calm—no, they were red-rimmed, tearful, filled with emotion that Everild could see but not fully comprehend.

The long, delicate lashes that framed those eyes were wet, the tears still clinging to them as though they were too afraid to fall away.

His hair was a tangled mop of brown curls that tumbled down past his ears, wild and untamed, as though he had no control over the way it fell.

Camdyn’s lips were soft, the kind of pink one only saw on flower petals in the early morning light, almost too beautiful to be real.

Freckles dusted his face like constellations in a dark sky—small, scattered marks that added to the sweetness of his appearance, making him seem like he didn’t belong here, like he was a figment from a dream.

A poet would have written sonnets about the vision of him standing there.

A painter would have abandoned everything to capture the image of Camdyn in a perfect work of art.

But Everild? He was no artist.

The beauty before him was wasted on him, and all he could do was stare, stunned and helpless, as words died on his tongue.

The inspiration that struck him was not poetic—it was instinctive, fierce, protective.

A surge of anger and helplessness rose in him as he watched Camdyn’s trembling figure.

The terror in Camdyn’s eyes gripped him, twisting inside him, igniting something far deeper than any admiration could.

This man—this beautiful, trembling man—did not deserve this.

Everild couldn’t tear his gaze away, terrified that if he did, Camdyn would disappear.

His betrothed—his future—could vanish just as easily as a fleeting dream.

But the longer he looked, the more unsettling it became.

He wanted to help, to fix things, to somehow ease the anguish that was so clearly written across Camdyn’s face, but he found himself paralyzed, unable to move by the heavy weight of uncertainty, by the unsettling vulnerability that Camdyn had shown him.

Then, there was a flutter of movement around him and the sound of low murmurs.

Camdyn’s attendants were busy adjusting his veil, folding it into a cloak, pinning the brooches to the front of his robes.

Camdyn flinched at the touch, his body quivering with distress as each pin was pressed into place.

The simple act of arranging the veil into something more manageable should have been a quiet, routine moment—but in the context of this overwhelming, emotionally charged atmosphere, it only intensified Camdyn’s trembling.

The sound of the brooches securing his robes seemed impossibly loud to Everild, amplifying the painful silence that hung between them.

The priest, however, didn’t seem to notice—or care.

As soon as Everild had lifted the veil and revealed the tear-streaked face of his betrothed, the priest resumed his recitation, his voice ringing out with a practiced, steady cadence.

The words he spoke were hollow to Everild, who was still rooted in place, his heart aching at the sight of Camdyn’s distress.

The priest carried on as though Camdyn’s sobs weren’t echoing through the chapel, as though the visible fear in his eyes was just another part of the ceremony to be ignored.

Camdyn’s gaze flickered from Everild’s stunned stare to the king’s, to Dustan’s, who still wore an expression of wide-eyed astonishment, and then to the guests, their faces mirroring the same shock and disbelief.

But in the sea of astonishment, one group stood apart.

Camdyn’s family.

His siblings were filled with barely contained rage.

Gibson, the eldest brother, stood on the edge of control, his hands clenched at his sides, his posture rigid.

If Everild hadn’t known better, he would have said Gibson looked like a man on the brink of violence, as if he might break free from the others holding him back and charge forward in an attempt to take Camdyn away from all of this.

Kenelm, the second brother, was no less agitated but less able to mask his confusion.

He looked torn, as though he didn’t know where to direct his anger, nor how to react to what was happening in front of him.

But Camdyn’s gaze didn’t stay on them for long.

His focus shifted to his father, the towering figure of a man whose clenched jaw, reddening face, and narrow, hateful eyes were fixed solely on Camdyn.

His expression wasn’t directed at Everild—not at all—but at the son he had failed to understand, the son who, at this moment, couldn’t hold back the sobs that wracked his body.

It was a moment too much for Camdyn.

The last shred of control snapped, and he broke into loud, heart-wrenching sobs, unable to keep it in any longer.

And yet, the priest pressed on.

His voice rose, louder, more insistent, as though Camdyn’s tears didn’t matter, as if this was all a part of the normal flow of things.

Everild felt his chest tighten as he watched the man continue his sermon without a hint of mercy, without a shred of compassion for the trembling soul before him.

This was too much.

The heat in the church was stifling, the crowd oppressive, and the weight of the entire situation was beginning to crush Everild from all sides.

There was too much—too much emotion, too much expectation, too much fear.

He glanced at Camdyn again, and the sight of him—tears running down his cheeks, shoulders shaking—broke something inside Everild.

The overwhelming pressure of the moment, the stifling, suffocating air, the crowd of strangers, and the crushing reality of his own rage made him snap.

“Shut up.” His voice was rough, harsh, louder than he intended, but it silenced the priest immediately.

The man stumbled to a halt, eyes wide with surprise, his mouth hanging open in shock.

Camdyn’s breathing caught in his throat, and he inhaled sharply, then quieted, his body trembling even more violently than before.

He stared at the floor, his head bowed in a mix of shame and fear.

The weight of the situation pressed down on Everild, and his heart ached in his chest as he watched Camdyn collapse into himself.

But there was no time for hesitation now.

Everild turned toward the priest, his eyes blazing with a fury that he could not contain.

He stepped so close that their noses almost brushed.

“You don’t speak again,” he said, his voice slow and deliberate, each word carrying the weight of an order.

“Until I give you permission.”

The priest’s face paled, and he nodded frantically, his eyes wide with fear.

The authority in Everild’s voice left no room for argument.

The priest did not dare protest.

Everild hesitated for just a moment before moving toward Camdyn again, his steps slow and deliberate.

He saw Camdyn’s shoulders shaking faintly, his breath hitching in soft hiccups that broke through the quiet, the delicate sound of distress.

Every instinct in Everild urged him to reach out and offer some sort of comfort, to make the moment better, to calm the storm of emotions brewing between them.

But he knew that first, he needed to get Camdyn to look at him, to acknowledge him, to find some small thread of connection before he could do anything else.

With careful, trembling hands, Everild reached out, cupping Camdyn’s tear-streaked face with his large, rough palm.

The touch was gentle, tentative, as though he might break something if he moved too suddenly.

Slowly, he lifted Camdyn’s chin, encouraging him to meet his eyes.

The young man stared at him, his dark, wide eyes as round as saucers, still filled with shock and fear.

He did not pull away, did not shy from the touch, and for that, Everild was grateful.

It was a small sign, but it was enough to give him hope that he might be able to help, to do something to stop this overwhelming terror.

Everild wiped away a tear that streaked down Camdyn’s cheek, his thumb grazing the soft skin.

The action was a simple one, but it felt as if the whole world was contained in that small, intimate gesture.

His voice was barely more than a whisper as he spoke, the question slipping from his lips before he could stop it.

“What’s wrong?” It was a vague question, one that did not even begin to scratch the surface of everything wrong with this situation.

There were volumes to be written on the absurdity of the circumstances, the cruelty of it, the way everything had been forced together—this marriage, this ceremony, this life.

Historians, philosophers, and scholars would argue about the injustice of it all for generations.

They would debate what aspect of the arrangement was the most heinous: taking a young novice who had devoted his life to God and forcing him into a marriage with a man like Everild, whose name was stained by blood, or perhaps Everild’s own outburst earlier, the way he had threatened the priest.

It was all wrong.

But in the midst of this overwhelming turmoil, something shifted in Camdyn’s gaze.

It was so subtle, Everild nearly missed it—a small shift, a flicker of understanding, of acknowledgment.

It was as if Camdyn had come to some sort of decision in his mind, something that was both a concession and a plea.

“I’m sorry,” Camdyn whispered, his voice nearly drowned out by the rest of the sounds of the chapel, but Everild heard it.

“I’m so sorry.

I’m scared.”

The admission was quiet, but it cut through Everild like a blade, leaving him raw.

He leaned in, instinctively drawing closer to the young man, his lips near Camdyn’s ear.

He whispered in return, his voice soft but firm, stripped of all pretenses.

“So am I.

I’m terrified.”

The words hung in the air between them, an unexpected vulnerability shared.

Everild felt his heart ache as he spoke, his own fear mingling with Camdyn’s, making them equals in their uncertainty.

The moment lingered for a heartbeat, and Camdyn’s eyes were wide, filled with a mix of confusion and wonder, as if he had not expected to hear those words, much less feel a kindred fear in the man standing before him.

For a moment, Everild feared that Camdyn might collapse, overwhelmed by the weight of it all, by the shared terror in their confessions.

But then, something remarkable happened.

Camdyn’s whole demeanor shifted.

The tension in his shoulders evaporated, the color slowly returning to his cheeks as he straightened a little, his posture more relaxed.

The tears still clung to his lashes, but his expression changed—it softened, became calm, almost curious.

And then, as if something inside him had clicked into place, he reached up to gently touch the hand that still cupped his face.

His fingers grazed Everild’s palm, and he leaned into the touch, the motion tentative but trusting.

His lips parted slightly as a soft, tremulous smile curved onto his face, and his eyes—those deep, dark eyes—held something that Everild could not quite name, but it stirred something deep within him.

Hope, maybe.

Trust, too.

In that moment, Camdyn looked at him not with fear, but with the beginnings of acceptance, of something more than the terror that had gripped him for so long.

“Oh,” Camdyn murmured, the realization dawning on him.

The soft sound sent a tremor through Everild, and he felt his chest tighten.

This—this was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen.

The way Camdyn’s expression shifted from fear to something sweeter, more hopeful, and how that trust was directed at him.

How it made him feel like he was not alone in this strange, difficult moment.

Everild swallowed hard, blinking back the rawness in his throat.

He cleared his voice, forcing himself to focus on the present.

“Can we continue?” he asked, his voice thick with the emotion he did not want to let show.

Camdyn looked up at him, his eyes still wide but now softened by the flicker of something more vulnerable.

“Yes, please,” he murmured, and Everild felt a weight lift from his shoulders, replaced by something lighter, something that felt almost like relief.

The priest seemed to recover from the sudden shift in the atmosphere, though it was clear he was not entirely happy about what had just transpired.

He opened his mouth as if to protest, but when he saw Camdyn’s shy, apologetic look, his expression faltered.

Camdyn’s long lashes fluttered up toward the priest, and in that brief glance, he offered a silent apology, a quiet plea for the ceremony to continue.

Everild nodded curtly, a silent command to the priest to move forward.

The priest, still a little stunned, cleared his throat and adjusted his posture, then stammered, “J-just a bit of nerves, was it.

It happens, it happens.

L-let’s continue on, shall we?”

And so, the ceremony continued.

When the moment came for them to exchange vows, Everild reached out and took Camdyn’s trembling hands in his, the connection grounding him.

He waited for the priest to bless their union, his grip tightening slightly when the priest took the white cloth embroidered with ivy and tied their wrists together, symbolizing their eternal bond.

The cloth was soft, the ivy’s meaning clear: love that was undying, rooted in faith and strength.

Then, the priest sprinkled blessed rosewater over their heads, baptizing them into this new life together.

The rosewater was thick with perfume, and Everild couldn’t help but wrinkle his nose at the strong floral scent.

He glanced at Camdyn, expecting to see a similar reaction, and instead found him biting his lip, trying to suppress a laugh.

There was something about that look in Camdyn’s eyes—something light, playful—that made Everild smile.

He wondered for a moment if, in some strange way, they had both found some small measure of joy amid the chaos.

Finally, the priest called for them to seal their union with a kiss.

The words felt heavy in the air, charged with expectation, and Everild saw the immediate tension in Camdyn’s face.

The young man blanched, his fingers tightening around Everild’s hand.

He looked up at him, eyes wide with panic.

“I—I can’t—not in front of—of anyone.

Everyone. Please.”

It was a small issue, one that Everild could easily resolve.

Without thinking, he placed his hands gently on either side of Camdyn’s face, his palms large enough to shield him from the gazes of the entire chapel.

He pulled Camdyn close so that their foreheads touched, their breath mingling, and the world seemed to narrow to just the two of them.

“Just me, now,” Everild said, his voice low but full of reassurance.

Camdyn’s eyes flickered, then softened, and a small smile tugged at the corners of his lips.

As if the world had disappeared, they shared the moment in quiet intimacy.

Camdyn closed his eyes, lashes fluttering against Everild’s cheek as he waited for the kiss.

Everild leaned in, pressing a soft, chaste kiss to the tip of Camdyn’s nose.

The action was a simple one, but it made Camdyn’s brow furrow in confusion.

Then Everild moved lower, pressing their lips together.

The kiss was gentle at first, tentative, as if both of them were navigating this uncharted territory together.

Camdyn was soft, shy, and Everild could tell by the way he held his head that he was inexperienced.

It was possible this was his first kiss. But even so, Camdyn did not hesitate. His hands found Everild’s chest, pressing against him gently, and Everild, in turn, moved his hands to Camdyn’s hips, grounding him, offering a stability that Camdyn might need in this moment.

When they finally parted, it was slow and careful.

Camdyn was flushed, eyes heavy-lidded, lips parted and wet.

The sight left Everild speechless, his heart pounding in his chest.

Camdyn exhaled softly, and the sound he made—low, rich, almost like a moan—sent a shiver down Everild’s spine.

He couldn’t help but squeeze Camdyn’s hips, holding him close.

They were broken from their moment by the priest, who coughed awkwardly, clearing his throat as he turned to the audience.

“You have witnessed the creation of this new union,” he announced, his voice shaky but loud.

“Now, you shall watch these men take their first steps together in holy matrimony.”

Camdyn glanced at Everild once more, searching his face for guidance, and Everild offered a small nod of encouragement.

He took a moment to adjust Camdyn’s cloak, ensuring it was properly pinned, then linked their arms together.

Slowly, they began their walk out of the church, stepping into the world together, one uncertain but hopeful step at a time.

◆◆◆