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The great hall of Everild’s castle was already bustling when they arrived, a whirlwind of activity as servants scurried around with the frenzied energy of ants, their arms laden with plates, bowls, utensils, and towering heaps of food that would soon cover the tables.

The day still had hours left, the sun hanging high in the sky and spilling golden light through the grand windows, filling the hall with a warm, welcoming glow.

Soon, the long tables would be brimming with Everild and Camdyn’s wedding guests, their laughter and voices rising in joyful chaos, the wine flowing freely as revelers jostled and crowded each other in rowdy celebration.

Though the noise and bustle would be almost overwhelming, Everild hoped it would be easier to manage here than at the church.

This was his home, a place where he felt grounded, and soon enough, the wine casks would run dry, the food would cool, and the guests would disperse.

Then, perhaps, he and Camdyn would finally have a moment of peace to rest and enjoy each other’s company.

Aldaay led them to their table at the head of the hall.

Ordinarily, their families would have sat beside them on such an important occasion, but on the day of the wedding, the newlywed couple was left to share this moment alone, a chance to enjoy their happiness in a more private, intimate way, while still surrounded by the warmth and celebration of the feast.

A single, large golden platter was set before them, where they would share their meal, while their guests sat at the two long tables in the center of the hall, their chattering voices echoing in the air.

Everild gave Camdyn’s hand a gentle squeeze beneath the table, and in return, Camdyn offered a shy smile, his cheeks coloring slightly.

They settled into their seats and watched with quiet interest as the attendants moved about, carefully filling the tables with platters of food and the seats around them with excited, eager guests.

“Do you have a garden?” Camdyn asked suddenly, his voice breaking the silence between them.

It took a moment for Everild to process the question and realize that Camdyn was speaking to him.

“No,” Everild responded, his answer coming out a little more brusque than he intended, caught off guard by the unexpected inquiry.

Camdyn’s expression faltered, and he seemed to shrink into himself, his fingers twisting together nervously.

“Oh.

I see.

Sorry… I just wondered.” He quickly smoothed the creases from his robes and lowered his hands to his lap, looking uncertain.

“My lord.”

Desperate to alleviate his husband’s discomfort, Everild reached over and placed a hand on Camdyn’s knee, offering a more reassuring smile.

“Could have one made, if you like,” he said gently, before adding, “It’s no trouble, for you.” Then, with a quieter tone, he added, “Everild.

You can just call me Everild.”

The change in Camdyn’s demeanor was almost immediate—his expression brightened, and he gave a small, relieved laugh.

“Oh, yes, I could… if it’s not too much trouble.

I—I’m quite good at gardening.

I could grow things for the household.

For you, Everild.” His words were earnest, filled with the kind of hopeful enthusiasm that made Everild’s heart warm.

“If it’s something you want,” Everild said softly, squeezing Camdyn’s knee a little more firmly.

“Then, it’s no trouble at all.”

Camdyn hummed contentedly, his gaze softening, and Everild could feel the weight of his approval, as though a quiet bond was slowly beginning to form between them, one based on simple kindness and shared intent.

As the tables around them filled with dishes of all kinds, Camdyn watched each new arrival with a curious blend of awe and confusion.

The centerpieces caught his eye most of all.

There was a whole roast pig, its brown, crisp skin glistening, sitting in a rich stew of its own blood and entrails, the tangy scent of vinegar and garlic rising from the concoction.

It looked almost as if the pig were wallowing in mud, a strange yet compelling sight.

Then there were baked ducks, their skin and feathers carefully stitched back on to make them appear alive, arranged around a pie with the ducks seemingly pecking at the crust.

But perhaps the most striking of all was a large, tall gelatin mold, transparent enough to reveal the whole, cooked fish trapped inside, swimming in a circle among sprigs of green herbs that looked like seaweed.

From the shape and design, it seemed like the gelatin was meant to be as much a work of art as it was a dish to eat.

Camdyn stared at it for a moment, clearly perplexed by the unusual sight.

He glanced at Everild, his expression one of polite disbelief.

“Will they… serve that?” he asked, his voice filled with a quiet sense of concern.

Everild watched his husband with a soft chuckle.

“The gelatin’s more for ornamentation than for eating,” he explained.

“But if you want to try it, I’ll have someone cut you a slice.”

Camdyn’s face flushed slightly, his hand waving in a quick, dismissive gesture.

“No, no.

Thank you.

It just looked… interesting,” he said quickly, though it was clear the oddity of it still lingered in his mind.

The meal began slowly, and the couple opted to sip the strong, spiced wine, which was deep red and potent—certainly nothing a monk would ever have drunk in his monastery.

When Camdyn pulled a face after taking a sip, Everild took it upon himself to order their wine diluted with honey and water, hoping the sweetness would be more to his husband’s liking.

“Anything you want to try?” Everild asked, leaning in slightly, his voice low and gentle.

Camdyn took a long drink and looked thoughtful.

“I don’t know,” he murmured.

“I thought there might be something… more familiar? Something from home—sorry, from the monastery, I mean.

But everything here was either… I don’t know what it is, or it looked so nice that I wasn’t sure if I should even eat it.”

Everild nodded in understanding, his eyes softening as he regarded Camdyn.

“What did you eat at the monastery?”

Camdyn brightened at the question, as though the simple memories of his past provided a comfort.

“Well, oatmeal for breakfast.

Sometimes with salt and dried fish, and sometimes with honey and fruits—fresh or dried, depending on the season.” He paused thoughtfully.

“I liked it with fruit and honey, especially.

Cooked apples were the best, I thought.

And for supper, we had bread we baked ourselves that morning, with cheese.

Dinner was usually stew.

Rice, lentils, vegetables, and herbs from the garden, with a little fresh milk. I took care of the cows, actually. One of the brothers couldn’t handle them, but when I got old enough, I took over. They were sweet cows.”

As he spoke, Everild’s mind drifted to the subtle detail of Camdyn’s smooth, clear skin, and he wondered if the life of a milkmaid had something to do with it, but he quickly dismissed the thought.

Camdyn’s upbringing, filled with simple, hearty meals of grains and vegetables, seemed so different from the rich indulgence of today’s feast, and it was clear that what he really wanted now was something that would help him feel more at ease, something familiar and comforting.

Everild cleared his throat and gave his husband a smile.

“I’ll pick some dishes for you,” he said, “and you can try a little of each, see what you like.”

Camdyn blushed and nodded quickly.

“Oh! Okay.

Yes, please.

Thank you, my lord.

Everild.” He smiled shyly, a small, genuine smile that made Everild’s heart swell.

After a moment’s consideration, Everild decided on a few lighter options for their first course.

He chose a mixture of chopped beet greens, spinach, and leeks, blanched and simmered in butter and breadcrumbs.

There were roasted carrots, both orange and purple, dressed with white wine, vinegar, and herbs.

And a small bowl of rice broth, fragrant with saffron, almond, and chicken stock.

The plate was set before them, vibrant and colorful, and Camdyn looked delighted.

He picked up the bowl of broth with both hands, inhaling the steam as it curled around his face, and took a careful sip.

He hummed in contentment, eyes lighting up.

“It’s good! Would you like to try some, Everild?”

Everild took the bowl from him, their fingers brushing briefly, and enjoyed a sip of the aromatic broth.

It was rich and savory, the almond and saffron balancing the chicken stock’s earthiness.

The rice had absorbed the flavors, adding depth and body to the dish.

“It’s good,” Everild agreed, handing the bowl back, his heart light as he watched Camdyn’s joy.

They continued sharing the meal like this, sipping the broth, smiling shyly at one another as the chatter of the guests around them swelled and fell in waves.

It was a simple, peaceful moment amidst the revelry, one that they both treasured.

As the feast continued, the platters were replaced, and more food was brought out—roasts, pies, tarts, and cakes.

But soon enough, Camdyn began to notice the food disappearing, and his expression shifted into one of concern.

“They’re not just going to throw everything away, are they?”

Everild shook his head.

“No, the leftovers went to the servants first, and what was left after that would be distributed among the poor.” He watched Camdyn’s face, noting the worry that creased his brow.

“Will there be enough for everyone?” Camdyn asked, his voice full of genuine concern.

It was sweet, a tenderness that only made Everild’s heart grow fonder.

“If you’d like,” Everild said, “we can arrange for another feast’s worth of food to be prepared and given out to the people this week.”

Camdyn’s face brightened, his joy infectious.

“Oh, yes! Yes, that would be wonderful.” His smile was so pure, so full of kindness, that it made Everild feel even more certain that this life, this shared future, was the right one.

For their next course, Everild dared to be a bit bolder.

He ordered cheese tartlets, small enough to fit into Camdyn’s hand, alongside an assortment of grilled mushrooms.

The tartlets were a hit—Camdyn practically devoured an entire tray by himself, offering more to Everild with a wide, delighted grin.

And in between each small, savory treat, Camdyn devoured a dessert, a quiet indulgence that somehow contrasted with the heaviness of their meal.

They shared a whole pear, poached slowly in red wine, its deep color—dark and gleaming—like a large ruby resting on the plate, a perfect jewel of sweetness.

The soft, lush fruit was paired with dollops of cream, rich and smooth, making the flavors sing.

There was a delicate scattering of candied violets, their sugar coating melting away on Camdyn’s tongue like a tiny floral kiss, followed by candied citrus peels, which left a sweet, sticky film on his lips, a reminder of their sugary bite.

It was almost childlike, the way Camdyn let the treats melt in his mouth with such unabashed pleasure.

Earlier, Everild had learned of his husband's love for apples in oatmeal, so he had taken it upon himself to surprise Camdyn with a chilled apple pudding, thick and creamy from almond milk, spiced with cinnamon, cloves, ginger, and nutmeg, each spoonful warming and comforting.

He watched with quiet joy as Camdyn's eyes lit up, the first taste bringing a wide smile, a shared moment of satisfaction.

Everild felt a small pride swell in his chest, pleased by the simple happiness his effort had brought.

But the moment shifted when the roast beef arrived, its rich sauce of red wine, garlic, and pepper thickened with a hint of bread.

The scent was inviting, but Camdyn faltered at the sight.

He took a tentative bite, his fork hovering uncertainly.

His face tightened, as though something unsaid lingered between his thoughts.

“Something else?” Everild asked, his tone gentle, though he sensed something was amiss.

"There's also a stew—browned goose and onion fried in fat drippings, simmered in fresh herbs and wine," Everild suggested, but Camdyn shook his head.

"Or maybe the salmon—grilled and poached, just with salt and vinegar-soaked parsley." Still, Camdyn didn't seem interested.

“No, it’s fine,” Camdyn said, his voice strained, and for a moment, Everild could see the unease there.

“It’s just...

odd.

At the monastery, we only ate beef when we were sick, to regain our strength.

And it was never seasoned as well as this.

Brother Cenric, he—” Camdyn’s words trailed off.

His gaze drifted down, lost in thought.

“He was... He still is the herbalist. I just… I’m not there anymore.”

The weight of his loss was palpable in the soft way his voice cracked.

Everild watched as Camdyn pulled inward, his thoughts caught somewhere distant and painful.

“You loved him a lot,” Everild said quietly, and Camdyn sniffed, nodding slowly.

“Yeah,” Camdyn admitted, his voice barely more than a whisper.

“Everyone at the monastery raised me, but it was always Cenric I was closest to.

When I was small, he'd put me on his shoulders, and we’d go to the beach or walk in the forest.

Any pretty rocks or shells I found, I gave to him.

And as I grew older, he was the one I could talk to about anything.

It didn’t matter how silly the question, he’d always take me seriously.

With the other monks, sometimes I could tell they were...

irritated, but Cenric always understood.” Camdyn’s voice cracked again, his heart laid bare in the raw honesty of his words.

“He was like—” Everild murmured, finishing the thought for him.

“A parent.”

Camdyn nodded, his face softening at the memory.

The melancholy in the air thickened as Everild processed the grief, understanding that the absence of Cenric weighed heavily on his husband’s heart.

Nearby, Camdyn's father was seated among a few nobles, his face flushed with pleasure, a clear contrast to the tension earlier.

He was no longer the source of Everild’s anger and disgust, at least not at this moment.

His own fury had been tempered by the distance from the man who had sent his husband into hysterics only hours before.

The wedding had gone off without a hitch, despite the undercurrent of discomfort.

Everild’s eyes flickered back to the king and his companion, Dustan, who had approached their table.

“Here’s the happy couple,” Wilburg said in a singsong voice, his tone slurring slightly as he swayed on his feet, supported only by Dustan.

“God, but you’re a gorgeous thing, Camdyn.

We heard you were, but not like this.

If I’d known, I might have married you myself.

What do you think, Dustan?”

Dustan offered a humorless smile, his gaze lingering over Camdyn’s form with cold detachment.

“A very fine husband you found for the Beast,” he said, his words deliberate and unsettling.

Camdyn shifted uncomfortably, his hands twitching as he fumbled with his utensils.

“Um.

Thank you, Your Majesty? Lord Redmane?” he murmured, clearly unsure how to respond.

Everild’s stomach twisted in irritation, and he felt his patience wearing thin.

His voice was low, a guttural edge to it as he addressed the king.

“Just here to congratulate us?”

Wilburg grinned widely, a manic gleam in his eyes as he gestured with a wobbly hand.

“Oh, always to business with you, Everild.

Keeping me on track, as always.

That’s why—” He hiccupped, a lopsided chuckle escaping his lips.

“Oof, I think I’m pickling myself as we speak.

But don’t worry, not tonight.

Tomorrow, or the day after.

Soon, we’ll talk.”

Everild’s lips tightened into a thin line, but he nodded stiffly, his voice clipped.

“Soon.” The king tottered back to his seat, waving for more wine, completely ignoring the heavy air at their table.

Meanwhile, Everild watched as the musicians struck up a lively tune, the clapping of guests filling the space as Camdyn withdrew deeper into his own thoughts, lost in memories of a life that no longer existed.

Everild sighed, his hand brushing through his hair in frustration as he motioned for a servant to refill both his and Camdyn’s goblets.

They had been drinking this concoction all night—a sweetened mixture that was far more water than wine now, flavored with fruits and honey, with only a dash of fermented grapes left to give it any bite.

It was far from the crisp, rich drink Everild would’ve preferred, but he had lost interest in that too.

He watched Camdyn hold out his goblet, the young servant struggling to hide his awe as he poured.

He was so absorbed by the sight of Camdyn that he nearly overfilled the cup, spilling a drop of the drink onto the tablecloth.

Camdyn offered a warm, sincere “thank you,” making the servant blush as he hurried off, clearly lost in the sight of the man he had just served.

Camdyn watched him leave, a curious look passing over his features, but Everild’s focus shifted quickly.

He couldn’t afford to be distracted for long.

Dustan, of course, saw his opening immediately.

The man leaned back in his chair, eyes gleaming with that nasty, cruel amusement that Everild had come to despise, and sneered in their direction.

“I see,” he drawled, voice dripping with mockery, “plying him now so you can plow him later.

A wise strategy.” His laughter rang out, vulgar and cruel, cutting through the room like a blade.

Camdyn shrank into himself, his face turning a deep red, eyes blinking rapidly as if trying to suppress the sting of the words.

“Congratulations, cousin,” Dustan continued, his voice an almost sing-song taunt, “Enjoy your first rut with your little lamb tonight.” Each word landed with a sickening thud in Everild’s chest.

The fury that rose in Everild was immediate, almost primal.

His fists clenched, and he bared his teeth.

He could have said so much, could have crushed Dustan’s spirit, shut that vulgar mouth once and for all, but it was all for nothing.

Dustan merely chuckled to himself, clearly reveling in the discomfort he had caused, and walked off, leaving a path of unease in his wake.

Everild’s jaw tightened, and he reached for Camdyn’s hand, intending to assure him that nothing of the sort would be taking place.

But Camdyn flinched, his body trembling as if the words had struck him harder than any physical blow.

His gaze dropped, and he muttered an apology, his voice laced with uncertainty and shame.

“I’m—sorry, my lord,” Camdyn whispered, barely audible.

His hand trembled as he lifted his goblet to his lips and drained it in one go, the motion stiff and robotic, as if he was trying to numb the awkwardness, the discomfort, the fear.

Everild’s chest tightened at the sight, his heart aching in response.

Why should Camdyn apologize? He had done nothing wrong—nothing.

It was Dustan, the bastard, who was at fault here.

And yet, the thought that Camdyn might now believe all Everild’s kindness, his warmth, was simply a way to lure him into bed gnawed at him like an open wound.

The thought made him feel sick, a wave of nausea sweeping over him as he glanced down at their half-eaten plate of beef, the sauce dark and red, pooling like blood around the tender meat.

The food—everything—felt so distant now.

He could hardly stomach the sight of it.

The noise in the hall pressed in on him, a cacophony of music, laughter, shouting, and the endless clash of drunken conversations.

The air felt thick, the heat from the large fires mixing with the body heat of the crowd, until it was almost unbearable.

The din was suffocating, the conversations spiraling into near arguments, and all Everild could do was sit there, trying to find some air, some peace, but there was none to be found.

People continued to swarm their table, eager to congratulate them, to gawk at Camdyn as if he was some sort of prize to be ogled.

The men and women who approached them were all finely dressed, their laughter polite, their words smooth and practiced.

They made Everild feel like an outsider in his own life.

These people had never bled for anything, never worn armor, never fought for their survival.

He felt out of place, dressed in his doublet, feeling heavier than ever before.

The weight of the fabric, the velvet shirt against his skin, all of it felt like a personal affront, something that made him itch with discomfort.

He wanted to rip it off, throw it to the floor, and leave it all behind.

Why was he even here? He was tired of these games, tired of the false smiles and whispered compliments.

Where were they still feeding the fires in the kitchens? How could it possibly be getting hotter? Sweat dripped into his eyes, his vision blurred.

His head swam, and his stomach clenched in unease.

He wiped a hand across his forehead, but the dizziness only worsened.

He needed air.

Camdyn.

Was Camdyn even well? He was wearing so many layers, his clothes were so heavy, surely he was overheating too…

Just as he was lost in these spiraling thoughts, his attention snapped back when he saw Camdyn handing a small child, Young Aoife, back to her sister.

A smile—genuine, bright, free of the earlier tension—spread across Camdyn’s face, and for a brief moment, Everild could see the joy there.

It was fleeting, but it was enough.

His husband seemed in better spirits than earlier, and Everild tried to hold onto that small victory, but before he could comment, the siblings surrounded them like a shield wall, their voices cutting through the noise.

“You seem in much better spirits than this morning, darling,” Cera remarked, her tone laced with concern.

Camdyn’s smile faltered as he opened his mouth to reply, but the words died in his throat.

“Forgive me,” he began, but trailed off.

“I didn’t mean to cause such a scene.

But… Father…” His voice cracked, and Everild’s heart sank.

He tried to catch sight of his father-in-law through the crowd but couldn’t.

The constant bustle around him made it impossible to focus.

Where was he? He couldn’t seem to find him, couldn’t find any way to push through the rising tension in the room.

Kenelm cleared his throat.

“Well, the two of you seemed to be getting along well enough,” he commented, his eyes darting between them.

“Oh, um, yes.

I think we are,” Camdyn murmured, but his voice was fragile, uncertain.

Gibson, ever the pragmatist, cut in, his words directed at Camdyn, but his gaze was locked on Everild.

“Just remember what I told you.

As soon as you can—”

“Gibson!” Cera interrupted sharply, but it was already too late.

Everild’s patience, already fraying, snapped entirely.

He shook his head, trying to block out the noise, trying to make it all stop, just for a moment.

Their voices were like a beacon in the chaos, sharp and invasive.

Where was the exit? The thought raced through his mind, but he couldn’t think clearly.

How had he let them get so close, how had he not noticed how overrun they’d become? He was unarmed, without his armor, vulnerable in ways that made him feel exposed.

He needed out, he needed space, he needed—

“My lord? My lord! Everild!” Camdyn’s voice cut through his spiral.

Everild blinked slowly, his focus snapping back to his husband, whose face hovered before him.

Camdyn’s small hands were on either side of his head, holding him steady as his eyes filled with worry.

“You’re all sweaty and shaking.

Are you okay? Water, someone get—oh, thank you!” Camdyn quickly grabbed a pitcher and filled Everild’s goblet with cold, refreshing water.

The cool liquid cleared his head enough to focus, and Everild took a steadying breath.He straightened up, his voice firm but gentle as he spoke.

“We’re leaving.”

Camdyn frowned, confusion in his eyes.

“To where?”

“To bed,” Everild replied, cutting off any further protest.

His exhaustion weighed heavy on him, and the stress, the anger, the discomfort—it all rose within him like a wave.

He felt his body tremble, and he just needed to rest.

Let these people take the plates, the wine, the food.

They could empty the cellar, the larders, take everything.

But in their bedroom, they would find peace, silence, and rest.

With one swift movement, he stood—too fast, and the dizziness hit him again.

He grabbed Camdyn’s hand and pushed through the sea of siblings, their angry, concerned expressions fading in the distance as he stormed past them, leaving their chatter behind.

He moved with purpose, feeling the weight of their stares, but he didn’t care.

All that mattered now was getting to that bed.

As they neared the door, the king spotted them, raising his goblet high, sloshing wine all over the floor.

“Ah, well, eager to get to know one another, weren’t they? To wedded bliss!” He laughed loudly, and there was scattered applause, but Everild clenched his jaw and ignored it

He didn’t care.

Not now.

Not tonight.

He was done.

They finally reached their bedchamber, and Everild locked the door behind them, shutting out the world.

The room was quiet, prepared for them—fresh towels, water, wine.

Everything was pristine and untouched.

Everild didn’t spare a second glance at the wine bottles.

Instead, he kicked off his boots and stripped off his doublet and shirt, leaving them in a heap on the floor.

The water in the basin was cold, refreshing.

He dipped his hands in, splashing his face, the coolness soothing his racing heart, easing his panic.

He breathed deeply, slow and steady, until the tension in his body finally melted away.

But when he stood up, his thoughts finally cleared, he turned—and there, on the bed, sat Camdyn.

His husband was still in his wedding robes, his hands resting in his lap, his fingers tightly intertwined.

He looked up at Everild with wide, uncertain eyes.

His voice, fragile and uncertain, broke the silence.

“W-what would you have me do?” Camdyn asked.