Page 39 of The Beauty and His Beast

Everild’s hand found his, cold and trembling, and with the gentlest of squeezes, Everild spoke, his voice low and strained. “The king is dead.”

A gasp escaped Camdyn’s lips before he could stop it. The words seemed impossible, the very notion of them shattering the quiet of their life. The king had been young, vibrant, full of energy. The thought of his sudden death was unfathomable. “Oh, Everild—how?” Camdyn asked, the question lingering in the air, unspoken fears taking root in his heart. The king had been in his prime, lively and youthful, no older thanEverild. It didn’t make sense. A hunting accident, perhaps? Too much drink? Anything other than this.

Aldaay spoke up, his voice grim. “Murdered. By Dustan Redmane. There was a disagreement over the king’s heir.” His words were punctuated by a hollow smile that seemed to lack any true joy.

“The treacherous bastard,” one of the men growled from the corner. “His own cousin. To kill both king and kin and throw this nation into turmoil.”

Another man joined in, his voice thick with contempt. “Only reprobates would side with him—his ilk from the war, those bandits and criminals. They’ll meet the executioner’s axe.”

“God’s will will prevail,” another man stated firmly. “Blessed be the day our former regent chose the Beast as heir. No one is more suited to bring this usurper to justice.”

“His Majesty will see justice done,” came a triumphant voice. “And peace will return to this land!”

“Long live the king!” one of the group shouted, his voice rising with fervor.

The words echoed through the room like a chant, a chorus of defiance and rage. “Long live the king!” they shouted, over and over again, the sound growing louder with each repetition.

Aldaay’s voice, however, remained quiet and grim. “Long live the king,” he repeated softly, the weight of the words heavy on him.

Camdyn looked at Everild, his heart aching as he saw the toll the news had taken on him. This was too much—he knew it. The weight of the king’s death, the demands of these strangers, the pressure for Everild to take action—it was all too much. Everild’s face had drained of all color, his shoulders slumped with the burden. He was shaking, his breathing shallow, andhis eyes began to lose focus, the overwhelming nature of the situation beginning to unravel him.

Without thinking, Camdyn stepped forward, his hands trembling as he cupped Everild’s face gently in his palms. He pressed their foreheads together, blocking his husband’s view of the others, just as Everild had done for him on their wedding day when Camdyn had been afraid.

“I am here,” Camdyn whispered, his voice steady despite the storm swirling inside him. “I am with you, husband. Whatever comes next, whatever course you choose to take, I will be at your side.”

Tears spilled from Everild’s eyes, the dam breaking under the weight of everything. Camdyn brushed a tear from his cheek, his thumb gentle against his husband’s skin. He kissed Everild’s forehead, then his nose, and finally, his trembling lips, grounding him in this moment, in the present.

And then, standing firm, Camdyn spoke once more, his voice clear and unwavering, “Long live the king.”

Chapter Nine

Camdyn’s hand didn’t leave his. Their fingers stayed entwined as he stood at Everild’s side, clearly aggrieved by the news he had received but still calm, collected, and so, so beautiful—the very image of a king’s consort. It was a role that fit him well, though it had always seemed distant, and yet here they were, standing side by side in this storm of grief and change.

Everild knew he needed to ensure that he was the very image of a king. The weight of the crown, though unseen, pressed on him in a way he had never truly anticipated. When Camdyn wiped the tears from his eyes, it wasn’t just a comforting gesture—it was a moment of clarity. Camdyn had also cleared the fog from Everild’s mind, allowing him to see the gravity of the situation for what it truly was. The former king was dead, murdered by his and Everild’s own cousin. The kingdom was now in disarray, and the fate of it rested squarely on Everild’s shoulders. These men—these advisors, who were only vaguely familiar to him—had arrived to inform him of his new status and to look to him for guidance. They needed him to decide the next step, to be decisive, to rise to the occasion. And Aldaay was there, with sage advice no doubt ready to burst from his lips, as was Camdyn, his beloved husband, who gave Everild all the courage he needed with a squeeze of his hand and a small, soft smile.

Everild let out a breath he hadn’t known he was holding. Once, he had commanded soldiers into battle, but it had been along, long time since he had led anything. He had spent so many years in the shadow of others, away from the battlefield. Now, he wasn’t in charge of a battalion; he was in charge of the fate of an entire kingdom that had just experienced a regicide. This would be difficult. Stressful. But someone had to deal with the problem, and it ought to be him. He cleared his throat and barked out questions with the authority of a man who had stood at the edge of the battlefield once more, standing in the king’s tent, poring over battlefield notes and maps of enemy forces, interrogating his scouts for information. There was no room for hesitation. His people needed him now.

“Where has Redmane gone?” he asked, his voice sharp and commanding. The sharpness in his tone and the volume of his voice made the group jump, like a sudden crack of thunder.

One of the advisors answered, "We’re not entirely certain, Your Majesty. But we do know that he’s friendly with a few of the men he fought with during the war, and some have declared their allegiance to him. More than likely, he’s with one of them."

Everild nodded, the pieces falling into place. “Get me a list of these men and map out their lands. Look for his closest ally. You said it was a three-day ride to get here from the Capital at breakneck pace. Assume Redmane was riding just as fast. Whose land would he flee to?” A younger advisor nodded and scurried off with a guard for parchment and paper. Everild continued, not letting the urgency of the situation slip from his mind. “Should I be worried about his claim to the throne?”

This sent the group into another round of excited muttering, their voices overlapping and rising with anxious uncertainty. Aldaay answered with his usual bluntness, cutting through the noise like a sharp blade. “Considering he’s also a cousin, he might’ve had a leg to stand on. He could’ve challenged the line of succession, and we’d all be having a verydull conversation while staring at your family tree, trying to find the relations who’ve been removed and once-removed and tracing marriages, and so on. But he’s gone and killed the king in cold blood and ran. Forget the regicide for a moment—he’s still a murderer on the lam. Anyone who assists him is aiding and abetting a dangerous criminal. Once news of that reaches the countryside, I don’t think he’ll be able to garner much more support, my lord. Er, Your Majesty.”

Aldaay’s words rang true, as usual. Everild knew the kingdom’s people well enough to understand the weight that a murder of this magnitude would carry. If Dustan had bided his time, scrutinized their family lines, and wooed allies—he might’ve successfully challenged Everild’s claim to the throne. But the murder of the king and his subsequent flight from the Capital indicated that none of this had been planned. The events had unfolded in a chaotic, ill-conceived rush. More than likely, their fool of a king had gotten drunk once more and let slip the news that he had chosen the heir to the throne—just as he had done months ago when he had happily told Everild that he had arranged a marriage for him by stealing a novice from a monastery—and Dustan, in a fit of rage, had killed him right there in his quarters.

Everild wasn’t about to allow any support to gather for Dustan. “He might have a few allies. Let’s not give him any more. Put a bounty on his head. Give him no place to rest. No one to turn to. Let nowhere be safe.”

An older advisor, gray and bearded, chuckled without humor. “I see, Your Majesty. May he bear the wolf’s head.” Everild nodded.

The label meant more than just being an outlaw—it meant to bear the wolf’s head was to become an outcast, a pariah, a danger to others who was to be hunted and killed by anyone who dared get close.

“He’s more of a rabid dog than anything else,” Everild growled. There was a particular danger in men like Dustan, men who acted only to satisfy their own desires and lashed out when something was denied to them. But Everild had killed both man and beast in his life, and if he now had to slay a monster, then so be it. Dustan should’ve been put down long ago.

His mind began to wander again, and Camdyn, ever the steady presence at his side, gave his hand another gentle squeeze. Everild was pulled from his thoughts by the simple warmth of his husband’s touch. Without thinking, he brought Camdyn’s fingers to his lips and kissed them softly. “Announce it, then. The king’s murder. That Dustan Redmane bears a wolf’s head. That I won’t have my coronation until he’s dead. And that—” He paused and looked into Camdyn’s dark, honey-colored eyes. “And that I’ll be leaving tomorrow to hunt him down myself.”

For one brief moment, Camdyn’s expression faltered, his face crumpling with concern, but he quickly schooled his features back into impassivity. His grip on Everild’s hand tightened, as if he was afraid that his husband would suddenly disappear from the study. When he spoke, his voice was steady and quiet. “Would you have me prepare supplies for your journey, Your Majesty?” Camdyn asked, his voice betraying a quiet vulnerability. Everild realized that, in that moment, it wasn’t just his words he was speaking to, but the men in the room. He was making it clear that he supported his husband’s decision, that he was ready to assist him in any way he could.

---