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Udele had suggested that he find something of Camdyn’s for her hounds to scent, but there was nothing. Everild had failed to think to bring anything else—not a token, a favor, or a scrap of clothing. And there was nothing left on the damned horse, not even a scrap of silk—just an empty saddle that broke Everild’s heart into pieces. He stared at it for a moment longer, as though he could somehow will it to change, to reveal something he could use, but the reality was inescapable: Camdyn was gone, and he had nothing to search with.

He rode through the forest alone, consumed with a deep, gnawing sense of anger, desperation, and dread. He pushed his horse forward with frantic urgency, each step matching the pounding of his own heart. The trees blurred around him, the shadows whispering threats he couldn’t quite grasp. His thoughts were as tangled as the woods, and all he could focus on was the hollow fear churning inside him—the fear of what he might find on the forest’s unforgiving ground.

The stallion had not fallen with Camdyn. It could not have. It couldn't have. The thought wouldn’t leave him. The horse was unharmed, its coat still shining, unmarked by blood or dirt. Everild had seen men crushed to death by their own steeds—warhorses that reared in panic and threw their riders, sometimes landing back on top of them, crushing them beneath the weight. He had seen soldiers whose mounts had trampled over them, shattering their backs in a brutal dance of chaos. But in the same breath, he had seen men thrown from panicked horses, their bodies like ragdolls, limbs twisted and lifeless, heads cracked open against rocks. And though they had been larger men, trained for battle, Camdyn was so small, so fragile in comparison. The terror twisted Everild’s insides, gnawing at him with a constant, growing panic.

If—if Camdyn was dead, then please, God, let it have been quick. The thought of Camdyn, broken and alone on the harsh ground, his small body trembling, soaked in pain, his last breath escaping in frightened sobs—Everild couldn’t bear it. The image tore at his mind, the mental picture so vivid, it was as if it was happening before his eyes.

Everild turned his head to the side and vomited violently, the breakfast he’d shared with Camdyn only hours ago rising up in his throat—the bread and butter, the eggs, the sweet, floral tea. He wiped his mouth and eyes with shaking hands, forcing himself to stifle the sob that fought its way out of his chest. It felt like punishment, cruel and unyielding. He had been foolish, thinking that their marriage could ever work, that Camdyn could live long and happily with him. How had he allowed himself to hope, to dream of a future?

When Everild reached the creek, a new thought assailed him. Could Camdyn have fallen into the water, drowned in the current? The creek wasn’t deep, but if he had been knocked unconscious… The thought of his husband’s body carried away by the water made his stomach lurch again.

Desperation fueled him as he cupped his hands around his mouth, shouting, “Camdyn!” His voice cracked and echoed through the trees, but there was no reply. He would ride up and down the entire creek if he had to, comb through every inch of this cursed forest for his husband. He would—

Then he saw him. A small figure hunched against a tree, still and unmoving. Everild’s heart stopped for a moment, the air leaving his lungs in a rush of terror. He approached carefully, each step heavy with fear, unsure of what he would do if he found his husband cold and lifeless, but then—then he saw it. Camdyn’s chest rose and fell, steady and alive.

“Camdyn!” Everild’s voice was hoarse, full of relief, yet laced with the remnants of panic.

The young man’s eyes shot open in surprise, and upon seeing Everild, his face lit up. “Everild! You found me!” he exclaimed, but then he winced in pain as Everild pulled him into a tight embrace.

“I’m sorry,” Everild whispered, holding him carefully, as if afraid Camdyn would shatter at the touch. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to—Where are you hurt? What happened?”

Camdyn gingerly held his side with one hand. “I fell,” he explained, his voice soft but steady. “When we got to the creek, the horse didn’t want to wade through, and he reared back. I fell off—sort of landed on my side. Everyone was so focused on the hunt, I don’t think they even noticed. So, I just waited here for you. And you found me!” He smiled, but it quickly faded when he tried to step forward for a kiss, only to be gently pushed back by Everild’s firm hand. Everild’s breath still reeked of sickness, and Camdyn’s brow furrowed in confusion and concern.

His husband’s face fell, and he asked softly, “Oh. I’m sorry. Did I—did I ruin the hunt after all?”

“No.” Everild shook his head sharply, feeling the tightness in his chest ease a fraction. “No, it’s just…” He hesitated, his words stumbling over one another. “When I thought you could be badly hurt, I—I was sick.” He gestured to his mouth, embarrassed by the weakness he had shown. Camdyn’s eyes widened, his face filled with guilt.

“I’m so sorry, Everild!” His voice cracked, and tears gathered at the edges of his eyes. “I didn’t mean to. I tried—I really tried—”

Everild’s heart ached at the sight, and without thinking, he pulled Camdyn into another hug, holding him close, careful not to squeeze him too hard. “Will I always be the cause of your tears?” he asked softly.

Pressed against his chest, Camdyn mumbled into the fabric of his shirt. “You’re not,” he said firmly, though his voice wavered. At Everild’s soft scoff, he added, “No, you’re not. This… this is all so new. Everything is so new, and I—I just don’t want to disappoint you. I don’t know how to be a good husband to you, but I’m trying. I just need to learn.”

“You could never disappoint me,” Everild said, his voice firm with conviction. He placed his hands on Camdyn’s hips, tilting his head so he could look into his eyes. “This is new to me, too. We’re learning together. How to be married. Okay?” When Camdyn nodded, giving him a shaky, yet hopeful smile, Everild pressed a quick kiss to his cheek.

“I’m a little glad I missed it,” Camdyn murmured. “I didn’t want to see the stag get killed.”

Small mercies. Everild kissed the top of Camdyn’s head, his fingers brushing through the soft, curly brown hair. “We’ll go back to the rest and show them you’re alright,” Everild said, his voice quieter now. “I’ll talk to the king. And then we’ll leave, and we’ll have the physician look after you. And I’ll have the cooks prepare dinner for us. Whatever you want.”

“Oh! Um, bread would be nice. Maybe with cheese? And lentil and vegetable stew, please.”

Everild thought briefly of the hart, its lifeless body on the ground, butchered and sliced, its flesh tossed to the dogs. He swallowed the bitter taste that rose in his throat and smiled down at Camdyn.

“Whatever you want, Camdyn,” he said softly, meaning it with all his heart.

◆◆◆

When they returned to the group, a loud cheer erupted from the gathered hunters. Udele, with a satisfied grin, patted their horse’s flank before lifting her fingers to her lips to blow a sharp whistle. The whistle echoed through the trees, releasing three piercing shrieks that sliced through the tension in the air. The call was a signal, unmistakable to all the hunters, that Camdyn had been found.

Everild dismounted with careful deliberation, his boots hitting the soft earth as he reached to steady his husband. He helped Camdyn down from the horse gently, sensing the exhaustion and uncertainty in his every movement. Everild’s men, loyal and silent, immediately gathered around them, forming a tight circle to block them from prying eyes. The two young attendants, faces flushed with embarrassment, hurried forward, babbling their apologies for leaving Camdyn behind in the woods. He merely flushed, his face turning a delicate shade of red as he tried to wave off their words, his voice trembling as he murmured his own apologies, the sting of his earlier fall still present in his quiet shame.

"My husband needs to rest," Everild barked, his voice firm and authoritative, his anger simmering just beneath the surface. "Seat him by the campfire while I speak to the king. Do not allow Lord Redmane to approach him." Some of the men glanced toward Dustan’s group, and Everild saw the dark mutterings shared among them, the suspicion clear in their gazes.

An uncertain expression returned to Camdyn’s face as Everild kissed his forehead softly, trying to reassure him despite the storm inside him. “I’ll be right back,” he promised, his voice low and tender.

“Yes, my lord,” Camdyn murmured, his voice barely audible, his gaze dropping to the ground.

The disappearance of Everild’s husband had, oddly enough, not interrupted the conclusion of the hunt. The hart, once majestic, had been stripped clean, its carcass reduced to little more than bones scattered across the ground. Udele’s hounds, having completed their work, gnawed on the bones with a quiet hunger. The head was conspicuously missing, most likely taken to adorn the king’s walls as a trophy. Farther away, Everild spotted the king’s tent—erected with obvious care, though it looked somewhat smaller than Everild’s own bedchamber. His soldiers, always vigilant, recognized the fury on Everild’s face and instinctively moved aside to allow him entry into the tent.

Inside, the sight of his cousin lounging on a pile of pillows, casually drinking from a goblet, was enough to set Everild’s teeth on edge. The king looked up from his wine, startled by Everild’s sudden presence. He stood so quickly that his goblet tipped, spilling a cascade of red wine onto the dirt floor.

“Everild! You’ve found him, then? Is he all right? I’m sorry, this isn’t how I wanted this to turn out at all—” the king began, his voice smooth, rehearsed, but there was something strained in his tone, an underlying anxiety that only served to heighten Everild’s frustration.

“You’re always sorry,” Everild rasped, his words cutting through the air like a blade. His anger was barely contained, the pressure building inside him with every word. “What did you have to discuss with me? Talk and be done with it. I’m taking my husband back to our castle.”

Wilburg looked as though he wanted to argue, to push back against the demands, but he hesitated, clearly weighing his next move. With a resigned sigh, he set the goblet down on a side table and drew himself upright, a king who had momentarily lost his composure but was quickly regaining it. “Yes. Well. I wanted to talk about the future of the kingdom,” he said, his voice carrying a weight that immediately put Everild on edge.

Everild stared at him in silence, waiting for the king to elaborate. His cousin took a moment, gathering his thoughts, before speaking again.

“My successor,” Wilburg finally said, his words slow and deliberate, as though measuring their impact.

Everild’s expression remained unchanged, the silence between them heavy.

“I’ve thought quite hard about it,” Wilburg continued, an air of uncertainty creeping into his voice. “I’ve… made a decision. Gerald is probably confirming it with the other advisors as we speak.”

Everild’s mind raced. Was this about an adoption? Or perhaps a pregnancy? The king had certainly had his share of lovers over the years—men and women alike—but none who had ever seemed to hold a special place in his heart or family. Everild could feel the tension building in his chest, his suspicions rising as he tried to read his cousin’s intentions.

Unsure how to respond, Everild simply nodded, his voice cold. “Congratulations. To your dynasty. May it be long and storied.”

His cousin smiled, a look of genuine satisfaction crossing his face as he leaned back into the pillows. “Ah, it will be now, I think. I need someone respected, someone who will hold onto all the gains we’ve made—strengthen them, even. Someone who can truly unite the people,” Wilburg said, his tone turning a bit more earnest. “Camdyn’s father is one of the richest men in this kingdom, and his family’s old and well-loved. Their people are wild—they’ve never willingly bowed to me, but they’ll gladly bow to you with one of their own at your side.”

A cold shiver ran down Everild’s spine. His heart lurched in his chest. “What?” he asked, his voice hoarse. “What?”

Wilburg’s eyes gleamed with a mixture of calculation and expectation. “You can’t be a proper king if you don’t have the right consort, cousin,” he said, his tone condescending yet certain. “Didn’t I say I would take care of everything for you? A pretty, pious husband. The support of his family and their allies, money, soldiers. That summerhouse his father threw in for good measure. And a kingdom. That’s as good a present as any, isn’t it?”

The words hit Everild like a blow to the chest. “No, I can’t. I won’t. Why? Why me?” he asked, his voice thick with disbelief.

“Who else would there be?” Wilburg countered, his expression puzzled, as if the answer was so obvious it should be unquestioned. “You’re my cousin. You’ve been my lifelong companion. I’ve always sought your advice and your thoughts, haven’t I? You’ve never steered me wrong. And you’ve supported me, fought for me. Who else would I choose?”

The thought of Dustan entered Everild’s mind, sharp and unwelcome. “Dustan?” he asked, the very idea repulsing him, though he knew it wasn’t an impossible consideration. In terms of bloodlines, he was just as legitimate a choice as Everild, if not more.

Wilburg hesitated for the first time, his smile faltering. “I’ll admit, I discussed that with Gerald. But… He’s not popular, with many of the other lords and ladies. Or the officers, really.”

“Neither am I,” Everild snapped back, his patience running thin.

“Ah, but, you see, there’s been some—some accusations. Conduct during the war, some bedroom rivalries, that kind of thing,” Wilburg explained quickly, the words tumbling out. “I’ll tell him my decision, but I wanted to wait to tell you, first.” His eyes darkened slightly as he continued, “And besides, he’s not who I wanted. You’re to be the king, Everild.”

“I won’t accept. I’ll refuse it,” Everild growled, his words laced with venom. The very thought of wearing the crown made him feel sick. He had never sought it. As a youth, all he cared about had been swords, wrestling, and avoiding his lessons. As a soldier, he had only wanted to survive. And now? Now, he just wanted Camdyn. He wanted to see him smile, to hold him.

Wilburg’s face flushed a deep, angry red. “Well, really now, Everild. You’d plunge us into a succession crisis? A civil war? You’d splinter the kingdom, bring bloodshed back to our shores? You’d do that to our people? You’re the best choice for the future of this land, cousin. I thought you’d be happy. I thought you’d thank me.”

The boiling rage inside Everild erupted like a storm. “Should’ve thought of that before making me your heir, then, you fucking moron,” he roared, his voice thick with fury. “As selfish and stupid as you’ve always been. Not once in your life have you thought of anyone but yourself. The future, the people—you just don’t want your reign to end with you as a footnote in history. The king who brought nothing but violence and death, who cared for nothing but meat and wine and a good fuck. You’re a jester in your own court. I know your motives. So does God. When you die and face Them for all the lives you’ve ruined, beg for Their mercy. You’ll get none from me. Any love I had left for you, I dropped onto that beach with my armor. It’s probably at the bottom of the sea now. Go look for it there, if you want it so much.”

When he was done shouting, his chest heaved from exertion, his throat raw. The blood had rushed to his head, and there was a coppery taste in the back of his throat, as if he had tried and failed to bite his own tongue. With a snarl, Everild spat onto the grass, his anger still simmering just beneath the surface.

Wilburg, ever the pragmatist, gave him an odd, almost amused smile. He poured himself another glass of wine, then held it up to Everild. “You see, though? That’s something I’ve always admired about you, Everild. You only ever speak the truth, and you suffer no fools. A very fine king you’ll be.”

◆◆◆

The rest of the hunting party avoided Everild’s gaze as he left the king’s tent. He could feel their eyes on him, even if they didn’t dare meet his. His words, though perhaps not intelligible in the chaos of his rage, had certainly been unmistakable in their intensity. He could still hear the echo of his own voice ringing in his ears, the sharpness of his roar cutting through the air. The party’s tense silence only confirmed what had just transpired.

Everild stole a quick glance at Dustan, who stood apart from the others, watching him with narrowed eyes filled with suspicion. Everild couldn’t help but feel the weight of that gaze, but he had no time to dwell on it. He had more pressing matters to attend to.

As he approached his own men, even they couldn’t hide the wary glances they cast his way. Their unease was palpable, the tension in the air thickening with every step he took toward them. Udele, who had been tending to her dogs, paused in her motions. She was gently soothing the anxious animals, no doubt disturbed by the outbursts that had reverberated through the camp. “Everild?” she asked, her voice laced with concern.

He held up a hand to stop her, shaking his head as he did so. His mind was still reeling from the confrontation with the king. He couldn’t afford to focus on anything else right now.

At that moment, his gaze shifted to where Camdyn sat near the fire, wrapped in a blanket for warmth. As soon as he saw his husband, the worry on Camdyn’s face was unmistakable. The man stood and hurried toward him, his steps quick and urgent. “What’s happened, my lord? Are you okay? We heard you yelling.” Camdyn’s voice trembled slightly with concern, and his wide eyes were filled with questions.

“Later,” Everild muttered, his voice sounding rough and strained. He had pushed himself too hard in the tent, his anger getting the better of him. When he cleared his throat, the sharp sting of pain shot through him, and it was almost impossible to form the words he needed. “Back to the castle,” he continued, trying to steady his voice. “To the physician. For you. Then we’ll talk.”

Camdyn nodded quickly, his expression softening. “Yes. Yes, of course, my lord.”

Everild didn’t waste any more time. He quickly ensured that Camdyn was safely on the back of his horse before he mounted himself, settling carefully behind him. With a light pressure of his heels, Everild urged the horse into motion, guiding it slowly and steadily toward the castle. Their attendants followed, keeping their distance to allow them privacy, but they stayed close enough to assist if needed.

Everild kept his pace slow and deliberate, careful not to agitate Camdyn’s injuries, the weight of the day’s events still pressing heavily on his shoulders. He couldn’t help but think about the strange, unexpected turn his life had taken. Only a month ago, he had been so sure of his path—serving the king, a life of duty and honor, perhaps even rising to the position of a trusted advisor. But now, he found himself in the unimaginable position of not only being married to Camdyn but also having him be bound to him as the future prince consort. It was a role he had never envisioned, a responsibility he had never asked for, yet here it was, inescapable.

Quite a path for one’s life to take, Everild thought, his mind wandering as the castle grew closer with every passing mile. From a prospective cleric, uncertain of his future, to this—a prince consort, a husband, a man caught in the web of politics and destiny.

Camdyn leaned back against him as they rode, the soft weight of his body comforting in its quiet presence. He sighed deeply, and Everild instinctively held him tighter, offering what little protection he could. The road ahead was uncertain, but for now, all he could focus on was the man in his arms and the promise he had made. Whatever happened next, Everild knew he would stand by Camdyn’s side, no matter the cost.