Page 1 of The Beauty and His Beast

Chapter One

Everild Reed hadn’t fought for glory or gold. At the time, he thought he’d stood for God—that the king’s cause, which he eagerly made his own, was not only legitimate but justified both on earth and in the eyes of Heaven. More than five years later, carved into adulthood by the sword’s blade and burdened with the weight of his own choices, his body a hardened knot of muscle and scarred skin, Everild knows better now. He had gone to war simply because he had been foolish—a young man looking at conflict with a boy’s naive view: half solemn duty, half reckless game. He thought it would be something thrilling, an adventure that would leave him with tales to tell and perhaps a touch of glory to savor.

Years spent in the brutality of battle had stripped him of such illusions. He is left with an understanding raw and bitter; the singular task, the only satisfaction to be found in war is simply to survive. Yet, the king had promised wealth, land, and titles to his bravest soldiers, and in his eyes, those favors belonged only to his own cousins.

Everild had known both Wilburg Claytone III, the king, and Dustan Redmane, his cousin, for their entire lives. They were once as close as brothers—attending and dodging lessons together, lost in the fantastic worlds of childhood where they played soldiers brandishing sticks as swords. Once, they fought side by side on the battlefield, united against common foes. But now, over the years, his affection for them haddiminished significantly, soured by the bloodshed and betrayal that followed. The war, which left an untold number dead and drained the last remnants of youth from Everild and countless others, had ignited from the king's bruised ego. It was only soothed when his power was reaffirmed through the sacrifice of others, marking half a decade of bloodshed, pain, and disillusionment.

Dustan, who had always been a snarling, selfish child, blossomed into something unrecognizable—a monster who wore the guise of a man. His greed for power shifted from toys and horses to the spoils of the court: wealth, titles, influence, and the favor of noble ladies. In the chaos of war, he seized power to snatch what he desired from the world, leaving destruction in his wake.

It stung—and simmered under his skin—to listen to Wilburg, still brimming with the carefree flippancy of their youth. It churned his gut to watch Dustan swagger through life with a sycophantic smile, as if the very war that had taken everything from Everild had merely been a pleasant diversion for him. The charms of their past seemed to fade into the shadows when Everild found himself in the king’s private chambers tonight, desperate for his cousin to unveil whatever treacherous scheme he had concocted this time.

Wilburg and Dustan had been nibbling on remarkably fine foods for hours, leaving the remains of the lavish dinner—chicken gizzards in rich stock, tender lamb glazed with herbs, mouthwatering cuts of cow tongue wrapped in crispy bacon, and a thick stew seasoned with hints of pepper and ginger—laying cold and untouched on silver plates scattered across the opulent table. The extravagance of it all disgusted Everild; there was a heaviness in his stomach he could not shake, whether from the heavy awareness of what it cost to get them to this point or the overwhelming abundance around him.

Dustan lounged regally on the couch, a bottle of wine in one hand, while Wilburg occupied himself near the bedpost, tossing red grapes up into the air and effortlessly catching them in his mouth, chuckling like a child playing a simple game. Everild pressed himself into a chair he had dragged close to the fireplace, staring into the flames for a moment longer than he should have. Perhaps he could lose himself in their flickering dance, finding solace in the heat, until he was beckoned to join their conversation.

And join, he must, because the king, with a smile that promised mischief, proclaimed, “I’ve completely solved it. You’ll be set for life, Everild. Acres and acres of land—you won’t be tending it yourself, of course, it’s a ways away, so we’ll leave that to the stewards to handle—but you were never made to farm, were you?” He winked, his joy stemming from some ill-conceived plan that Everild could hardly grasp. “And a fresh, young husband for you as part of the deal. Two birds with one stone, wouldn’t you say?”

The word ‘husband’ lingered in the air like a foul odor, pushing against Everild’s senses. “What?” The exclamation escaped him, his voice low and gravelly, made harsh by the echoes of battles past. Once, his roar had sent foes running for their lives; now, it was heavy with disbelief. It was a voice many had learned to dread, but Wilburg never paid his rumblings any attention.

This unexpected query cleaved the air as if it were to be an expected response, prompting the king to continue with his relentless enthusiasm. “The paperwork’s already been drawn up, so don’t worry your big, empty head about that. You’ll have a substantial annual income and a lovely little virgin to play with whenever you want.”

The laughter that erupted from the couch felt jagged and cruel. Dustan, always the self-serving jester, chimed in, “You can only play with a virgin once.”

Wilburg, with the exuberance of childhood, slapped his knee, laughter bubbling up like champagne. “Ah, true, very true! But imagine the adventures you’ll share with him, Everild. He was destined to be a cleric!”

Everild shook his head, his shock warring with a creeping sense of dread. “A cleric?”

“Indeed! The youngest in the family, pledged to a life of piety and austerity. His share destined for the monastery. It would have been a pity—but lucky for us, his father was eager to secure a place at court, rather than by God’s side. The boy marrying one of the king’s most favored warriors? It practically came with an additional house! We can summer there together, if you’d like. And they say the boy is quite pretty, besides.”

Dustan sneered, taking delight in the notion as if it were a game. “What, prettiest among a crowd of monks? Naturally! His only competition is a bunch of scraggly old men. Virginity won’t hold any value if you can’t stomach to take it from him. Is his monastery known for their beer brewing, at least?”

Wilburg, ever the kingly caretaker, feigned concern. “Oh, I never asked. Wouldn’t that be lucky, Everild?” And when silence lingered, he stood taller, frowning as if challenging Everild’s apparent indifference. “Aren’t you happy, cousin? I thought you would be elated. I promised I’d take care of everything for you.”

Everild remained silent, allowing the crackling of the fire to fill the space between them. This was no mere misunderstanding; it was a painful unveiling of the loyalty that had been twisted into disregard.

He should have known something so absurd would follow from the man he once called a brother. Wilburg was manythings: impatient, laid-back, quick to anger, but above all, he was genuine, true to his word. He had vowed to eliminate his kingdom's enemies, and he had done so, albeit at the cost of countless lives. He had sworn that Everild would be rewarded for his valor in the war, for his loyalty and steadfastness in the face of death.

Yet here they sat, amidst a feast so lavish it turned Everild’s stomach, and instead of expected gifts ripe for the taking—a mill or a herd of sheep, perhaps—his cousin had plucked a young cleric from his sanctuary and handed him a wedding proposal alongside the glittering promise of land.

A wreck of a man, broken by the weight of his own choices, Everild pictured the boy, fresh from his holy cloister, standing beside him. How could Everild himself ever be worthy of affection or tenderness? A body littered with scars, a soul stained with memories of violence, and a voice that caused those around him to cower in fear. Would the boy want to touch him? Would he recoil in disgust, recognizing the cruel world Everild was steeped in? No amount of land could mend those wounds.

Everild thought bitterly of how he would have preferred to make a deal with an ancient fae or a shrewd devil. At least those paths had warnings etched in stone—in the tales of old—for the folly that awaited him.

Wilburg’s hand then settled softly on his shoulder, the warmth flooding back with memories of innocent times. But the concern on his cousin’s face only deepened the chasm within him, familiar and aching. “Everild,” he called, voice warm and pleading, “You’re the best of men. You deserve this, cousin.”

But words stuck in Everild’s throat, swallowed whole by the bitterness of truth he neither wanted to share nor acknowledge.

“Leave him be,” Dustan chided as he rose from the couch, grinning like a wolf. “Can’t you see he’s speechless?Struck dumb by his good luck. To Everild, and his little cleric.” He drained the wine bottle in one woozy motion, smashing the empty glass to the ground with a cacophony of shards, laughter spilling from his lips like poison.

Everild shrugged off the king's touch and made for the door, feeling the weight of expectations pressing down like an anvil. With every crunch of broken glass beneath his boots, he realized he was trapped in a world where he no longer belonged.

“To a lifetime of wedded bliss!” Dustan shouted behind him, the mirth ringing hollow and oppressive.

Everild gritted his teeth, slamming the door behind him with a resolute finality, as if to reclaim the last vestiges of his own will. Outside the door, the silence clung to him, a blanket of dread woven with uncertainty about what was to come, as he faced the chilling reality of the life laid out before him.

Chapter Two

Camdyn was so absorbed in his work that he didn’t notice the riders arriving. The act of copying even the simplest manuscript was an intricate, painstaking process, and the one he had been working on for nearly a month was no exception. It had no colored borders, no illuminations or elaborate designs—just a clean, precise transcription of another work, its black ink made from oak galls carefully applied in a steady hand. Yet, despite the simplicity, it was a project that had taken up nearly all his attention, with only a small gathering of parchment to show for all his efforts.

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