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Later that night, after the day’s bustling activities had finally settled down, Camdyn excitedly told the cooks about his plans for the charity feast. He eagerly discussed every detail, his eyes shining with excitement as he spoke, but the cooks started to look increasingly harried. Their hands were busy with last-minute preparations, and some of them gave weary glances toward him as they tried to keep up with the mounting workload.

In the midst of this, Aldaay came to find Everild. He asked to speak with him privately, and they retreated to Everild’s study for a more discreet conversation.

“You weren’t as discrete as you could’ve been this morning,” Aldaay said, his tone calm but carrying an edge of concern.

Despite the memory of Camdyn’s delighted reaction to the garden and the lingering taste of his lips on Everild’s tongue, the events of the morning were still too raw in his mind. His husband had been so vulnerable, cowering and sobbing in their bed while his father loomed over him, angry and threatening. Everild had felt powerless at that moment, watching the man who was supposed to be a protector instead become a source of fear and pain for his beloved Camdyn.

During dinner, Camdyn told him the entire story, his voice trembling as he spoke. He fidgeted nervously in his seat, his linen napkin crumpled in his lap, and his face flushed with embarrassment as he explained how his father had grabbed him. How he had hurt him—physically and emotionally. Camdyn had clearly struggled with the weight of what had happened, but he told Everild everything.

The memory of those moments still brought a wave of fury over Everild. His fists clenched under the table, his jaw tightening as he fought back the impulse to lash out. Just the thought of it nearly sent him into another fit of rage. “Think I should’ve been kinder?” he spat, his voice laced with venom. “Let him abuse my husband more before sending him away? That sorry excuse for a man was lucky Camdyn had been too upset at the time to explain exactly what happened, or he wouldn’t have left the castle alive.”

Aldaay, ever calm and pragmatic, had never been one to cower before Everild’s anger. He sighed deeply, sensing the depth of his lord’s fury. “I wasn’t saying you should’ve been tactful,” he said. “You could’ve broken every finger in that bastard’s body for all I care—but it would’ve been better to do it out of sight. An absolute asshole that man is, but a powerful one, and you dragged him out the castle gates by the scruff of his neck like a naughty kitten—right in front of everyone. He’ll view that as a humiliation. There could be reprisals.”

Everild snorted dismissively, his fury still bubbling beneath the surface. “Then let him come,” he growled. “Next time I see his face, there won’t be enough of him to feed to the hogs.”

Aldaay only nodded, his face betraying little emotion but his eyes sharp with understanding. “Just be aware, my lord,” he replied, his voice low but firm. “Not everyone conducts their business face-to-face, as you do.”

The weight of Aldaay’s words lingered in Everild’s mind long after the conversation had ended. His anger subsided somewhat, but the tension in the air remained, like an unspoken threat. While Everild would never back down from protecting Camdyn, Aldaay’s advice reminded him that the political world they now lived in was a far more dangerous game, where subtlety and strategy were as important as strength and rage.

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But the next two weeks passed with neither complaint from Camdyn’s father nor any messages from the king save the one sent when Everild’s cousins and their myriad of servants returned to the capital.

It read:

To my one true and loyal Everild,

I regret how our last meeting ended, but I understand the day’s excitement took a toll on your (very short) temper. I do feel most terribly for your lovely husband’s accident. He is very sweet, and I know you adore him most ardently (did I not make a fine choice for you, my friend?).

But you must realize that my decision is final. There is no more fitting heir than you, cousin. Gerald has already informed the rest of the advisors at the capital and we’ll make a formal announcement upon my return.

And worry not. I’ll deal with Dustan. He won’t be pleased, I know, but he’ll come around. We all might have grown apart, in our adulthood (isn’t that how it goes?) but he is still our cousin and I am certain he will see reason, just as you will the next time we meet. It will be a real discussion, no injured spouses and no spitting blood at me. Unsightly but not unusual with you, Everild.

I know better than anyone it’s not the bark one has to fear from you, but the bite.

Until we meet again,

Wilburg

He had yet to tell Camdyn about his newfound status as the king’s heir, but his husband had been so busy acclimating to his new home and the day-to-day responsibilities of maintaining a castle and charming its inhabitants—from the guards to the kitchen staff to the scullery maids—in addition to organizing the charity feast. Everild had refused to burden him with such a revelation at a time when he was already stretched so thin, adjusting to the demanding roles that came with their new life. The castle had many moving parts, and Camdyn’s enthusiasm for the feast was admirable, yet Everild could see the weight of it all beginning to settle in his shoulders. Camdyn had a quiet strength about him, but Everild was determined not to add any more stress to his life. Not yet, at least.

To be perfectly honest, though, Camdyn did not seem particularly stressed. In fact, Everild marveled at how his husband carried himself with such grace amidst the chaos. He had quickly grown adept at preparing food, so much so that he was grudgingly allowed into the cook’s domain, where he worked alongside the staff with an enthusiasm that often left the head cook grumbling but also begrudgingly impressed. Camdyn woke up well before dawn each day, assisting the cooks, taking inventory, and ensuring that everything was in order. His passion for food was clear, and it seemed to delight him in a way that Everild had not expected. A collection of staples and dry goods began to form—cured meats, containers of grain, beans, and legumes, dried fruits, and woven rush baskets, which would soon be filled with fresh bread. Some of the dishes from their wedding banquet were also in the works, bringing with them memories of the night they had vowed to never let go of each other. It was in these small moments, Everild realized, that their bond was strengthened.

Every day, Camdyn came to him with a shy request for something—cheese, beef, goose, oranges, violets. Everild had granted every single one, and he cherished the delighted smile that Camdyn gave him each time, a smile that brightened even the darkest corners of the castle. There was something about those moments that made everything feel right in the world, like they were creating something beautiful together, bit by bit. Even when the demands of their new life seemed overwhelming, these simple acts of care reminded Everild that they were building something worth fighting for.

One afternoon, as they sat together in the castle’s library, Aldaay remarked dryly, “Some people buy their husbands pretty jewelry, but four whole cows and eight sacks of oranges will do just as well, I suppose.” He’d been reviewing the castle’s expenses, and the numbers were starting to pile up in a way that would make most advisors anxious.

The comment made Everild pause. He hadn’t thought much about the more extravagant gifts he could give his husband, but the idea of jewelry suddenly sparked his imagination. “Do you think Camdyn would like a necklace?” he asked, the thought of his husband adorned with something more than just the simple, finely made clothes he already wore capturing his attention. Aldaay groaned and rolled his eyes in response, but Everild could not shake the image of Camdyn in court robes, gemstones sparkling from around his neck and encircling his wrists. He would look ethereal, like something out of a dream.

Everild filed the idea away for another time. Maybe, when the charity feast was behind them, and after his husband’s hard work had been celebrated, he would surprise him with such a gift. It would be a symbol of how much he treasured the man who had come into his life like a bright light, someone who had made even the coldest corners of the castle feel warm.

The only hiccup in their plans came after Everild had officially procured the local church as the venue for the charity feast. Outside, they would have a package of goods for each of the visitors—dried meat, loaves of bread, and fruits—and inside, tables would be laden with food for the guests to pile upon a trencher and enjoy with their own silver tankards filled with wine. “You’ve made allies of the city’s silversmiths, at least,” Aldaay had remarked, noticing the elegant tankards and other silverware that were now being prepared. However, a group of irritated nobles sent a worried letter to Everild, explaining their concerns that the masses would not respect the sanctity of the church. They feared the holy site would be left in shambles after the feast.

Everild had been more than ready to dismiss their complaints. “Let them eat shit,” he’d muttered under his breath, his patience wearing thin. But after Camdyn chided him for his language, he reluctantly agreed to meet with the group of nobles.

A few days later, they gathered in the great hall to discuss the matter. As Everild received respectful, if somewhat fearful, greetings, the group of nobles seemed completely charmed by Camdyn when he arrived with a tray of sweetmeats and wine. One of the men kissed his hand, his eyes shining with admiration, expressing how overjoyed he was to finally meet Camdyn in person. The kiss lingered for a moment too long, before the man kissed Camdyn’s hand again.

And again.

It was only when Everild let out a low, guttural growl that the man hastily returned to his seat, clearly unnerved by the dangerous glint in Everild’s eyes.

The nobles’ arguments mirrored the contents of the letter they had previously sent. They praised Camdyn’s generosity and piousness—of course, they couldn’t help but mention his beauty as well, several times—but insisted that he was unaware of the dangers he was about to unleash upon one of God’s houses. They feared an overcrowding of ill-mannered, unwashed masses would desecrate the sacred ground.

Camdyn, however, only stared at them, his expression incredulous. “What is the Church but a sanctuary for those in need?” he asked, his voice steady and clear. “Would you rather have it be an empty, pretty building than one that gives succor to the people? Items can be replaced, and structures can be repaired, my lords, but people’s lives cannot. Is it not your duty as great men to use your resources to ease the lives of others?”

The nobles, gently admonished by this beautiful, devout young man, were left speechless. Slowly, they gave their blessing and, at Camdyn’s insistence, left with the tray of sweetmeats as a gesture of goodwill.

Once the last of the nobles had disappeared from sight, Everild allowed himself to grin. “You handled that very well, Camdyn.”

Aldaay cackled from his corner, amused by the whole affair. “Hard to argue about God and church with a former novice, eh?”

Camdyn shrugged, a playful glint in his eye. “Ah, well. I learned from the best. No one can argue quite like a group of monks. Especially when it’s about food…”

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Once the well-regulated chaos of the post-wedding feast ended, they fell into an easy routine, and the days became a steady rhythm of familiar tasks.

Each morning, Camdyn rose before dawn to attend the early prayers at the chapel. The stillness of the early hours and the quiet of the empty halls gave him time to center his thoughts and connect with the faith that had long been a part of him. By the time the bells rang for breakfast, he was back in their bedchamber, where Everild awaited, already up and preparing for the day. They shared their morning meal together in the warmth of the chamber, the bustle of the castle still distant, as the sun’s first light crept over the horizon.

After breakfast, Everild turned his attention to the daily duties of ruling. He carefully reviewed the guard reports from the previous day, making notes and ensuring that everything was in order. There was always something to discuss with Aldaay, who often joined him for updates on the surrounding lands, the state of their holdings, and any potential threats. Once those matters were settled, Everild took his customary walk around the castle’s perimeter. The sound of his boots echoing through the corridors, his sharp eyes inspecting the walls and gates—ever vigilant, ever aware of the weight of his responsibilities.

Meanwhile, Camdyn immersed himself in the tasks that occupied his days. He spent long hours in the library, studying texts on a variety of subjects, from history to botany. His curious mind was insatiable, eager to learn and grow in the new world he found himself a part of. But his interests didn’t stop at books. When the weather allowed, he would practice his horsemanship with Willow. Riding through the open fields, he honed his skills, becoming more confident in the saddle each day.

The afternoons were dedicated to receiving petitioners. The great hall became a place of both opportunity and tension, as those who sought Everild’s ear came with their requests, their complaints, or their proposals. Camdyn, always by his side, offered silent support, his presence a calming influence on his husband’s sometimes short temper. With every gentle smile, every soft touch of encouragement, he steadied Everild as the petitions unfolded—knowing when to speak and when to remain quiet, allowing his husband the space to lead.

After the last petitioner had left, the couple separated for a short time. Camdyn would head to the garden, which they had tilled and planted together, despite the lack of growth. His patience was unwavering, though he did joke that perhaps the earth was a bit stubborn. "We just need to give it time," he would say with a wink, trying to lift Everild’s spirits. Meanwhile, Everild would catch up on the mountain of reports that Aldaay continued to compile—details of trade, politics, and local affairs that demanded his attention.

As evening drew near and Camdyn returned from his gardening efforts, a smile on his face despite the hard work, Everild would have a warm bath waiting for him. The simple pleasure of relaxing together after a long day was a cherished part of their routine. Dinner followed, a quiet affair with just the two of them. They would share their thoughts on the day, talk about their plans for the future, and simply enjoy the comfort of each other’s company. When the meal was done, they would undress and fall into bed, tangled together under the covers, whispering of dreams and hopes for tomorrow.

It was bliss. It was more than Everild could have asked for. For the first time in his life, he felt truly at peace. And for Camdyn, the soft, unhurried pace of their life together was everything he had dreamed of since the day they met. There was no greater joy than this—a shared life, built on love and understanding.

Yet, despite this contentment, there was still one issue that lingered in the back of Everild’s mind: the lack of letters from the monastery.

For weeks, they had heard nothing. No letters from Camdyn’s father, who had only sent one letter—an apology addressed to Everild alone, blaming a misunderstanding for the emotional turmoil he had caused. Everild had burned it without a second thought, unwilling to keep a letter that did not acknowledge the pain it had caused. He could not bring himself to entertain the idea of mending ties with someone who had treated his husband so cruelly.

But Camdyn seemed undeterred by the lack of communication from his father. He found solace in the letters from his sisters, particularly Aoife’s frequent updates about Young Aoife’s antics, which never failed to make him smile. The letters from his brothers, however, seemed less than inspiring. “Gibson and Kenelm have hired a tailor for me,” he remarked one day, casually as he sat at Everild’s desk to pen a response. “That’s Kenelm’s wedding present—another set of clothes. I think I’d rather see a milliner, though. A hat for garden work would be nice.”

Everild chuckled at the thought, agreeing that a hat for the garden would indeed be a practical and thoughtful gift. He made a mental note to add it to the growing list of things he intended to buy for Camdyn, a list that seemed to grow longer with every passing day. The thought of surprising his husband with something new, something special, filled him with warmth.

Still, the lack of news from the monastery gnawed at him.

“I’ve sent Cenric a letter every chance I’ve gotten,” Camdyn confessed one morning over breakfast. His eyes were downcast, the uncertainty of the situation weighing heavily on him. “I thought perhaps I’d have received at least one by now. But then, it is so far away…”

Everild placed a hand over his, his voice steady and reassuring. “It is. But you’ll get them all at once. That’s how it always is. More than likely, they’ve just gotten stuck somewhere along the way. Bad weather, or a blocked path. Soon enough, you’ll be drowning in them.”

Camdyn looked up at him, a small smile playing at his lips. “Really?” His voice held a hint of hope. “I just have to keep waiting, then.”

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