Page 43 of The Beauty and His Beast

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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