Chapter 1 #2
“You said, and I quote, ‘I want to understand every legal mechanism by which an incompetent king can be removed from power.’ You then added, ‘Not for any particular reason,’ which was so unconvincing that I didn’t dignify it with a response.”
Fergal grinned. “My father doesn’t read my lesson plans, does he?”
“Your father doesn’t read anything that doesn’t directly pertain to his hunting schedule or his whiskey collection.
” The words were carefully neutral, but Fergal caught the edge beneath them.
Gregor had opinions about King Lorcan that he kept locked away with military precision, but occasionally, a sliver escaped.
“Well then. Section Twelve. Enlighten me.”
For the next forty minutes, they worked through the material with the rhythm of long practice.
Gregor lectured, Fergal challenged, they debated, they circled back.
It was the part of Fergal’s day he loved most—the intellectual sparring that left his mind buzzing and his respect for Gregor growing even deeper.
The man’s knowledge was encyclopedic, but it wasn’t just memorization.
Gregor understood the why behind the Code in a way that made the ancient text feel alive and urgent.
Fergal waited until they reached Section Twelve D, which dealt with royal marriages and mating bonds, before he made his move.
“So this section essentially says that a king’s mate must be approved by the clan’s council,” Fergal said, keeping his tone academic.
“But it doesn’t specify the gender or status of the mate. Just that the council must approve.”
Gregor nodded. “The Code was written at a time when most royal matings were politically arranged, so the council approval was a safeguard against alliances that might harm the clan.”
“But it doesn’t say the mate has to be royal.”
“No. The Code is silent on the rank of the chosen mate.”
“So theoretically, a prince could mate with anyone. A commoner, a member of another clan, even someone who holds a position within the prince’s own household.”
The briefest pause. So brief that if Fergal hadn’t been watching for it with every fiber of his being, he would’ve missed it entirely. “Theoretically, yes. Though in practice, such a match would likely face significant political opposition.”
“Political opposition isn’t the same as legal prohibition.”
“No, it isn’t.”
Fergal leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. This brought him closer to Gregor, close enough to catch the faint scent of cedar and woodsmoke that clung to him. “What about age differences? Does the Code address that?”
Another pause. Longer this time. “The Code does not regulate age differences between mates. Given that dragons can live for hundreds of years, such differences are considered inconsequential.”
“Inconsequential. Interesting word choice.”
Gregor’s jaw tightened. Just a fraction. Just enough. “It’s the word the Code uses.”
“And what word would you use?”
Gregor looked at him. Those gray eyes, usually so carefully neutral, held something Fergal couldn’t quite name. Warning, maybe. Or something deeper. “I would use the word ‘irrelevant,’ Your Highness, as the topic has no practical application to today’s lesson.”
Fergal reached for the book they’d been referencing, deliberately choosing the copy that sat on Gregor’s side of the table rather than his own. His hand brushed Gregor’s as he picked it up—a whisper of contact, knuckles against knuckles—and Gregor’s fingers twitched.
“Sorry,” Fergal murmured, not sorry at all.
“Section Twelve E,” Gregor said, his voice dropping half a register. “Shall we continue?”
There it was. That drop in his voice. The same thing Fergal had noticed before—a subtle shift in pitch that Gregor probably didn’t even know he was doing. It happened when Fergal got close. Not every time, but often enough that it couldn’t be a coincidence.
Fergal opened the book to a random page, pretending to study it while his heart hammered against his ribs. He should stop. He should pull back, return to the safe ground of academic discussion, and stop testing boundaries Gregor clearly wanted to keep in place.
But Fergal had never been good at leaving well enough alone.
“Have you ever wanted something you knew you shouldn’t have?” he asked, keeping his eyes on the page.
Silence.
Fergal looked up.
Gregor was watching him with an expression Fergal had never seen before, something raw and unguarded that was gone so quickly it might’ve been a trick of the firelight. But it wasn’t.
“I think that’s enough for today.” Gregor’s voice was perfectly steady. His hands, as he gathered his books, were perfectly steady. Everything about him was perfectly, infuriatingly steady, except for the muscle that jumped once in his jaw before he locked it down.
“Gregor—”
“Same time tomorrow, Your Highness.”
He was gone before Fergal could say another word, the library door closing behind him with a soft, definitive click.
Fergal sat alone in the firelit room, the book still open in his lap to a page he hadn’t read.
Outside, the wind howled across the frozen landscape, rattling the windows in their frames.
The compound was quiet, as it always was.
A hundred dragons living in a space that felt like the edge of the world, and somehow, Fergal still felt like the loneliest person in it.
He closed his eyes and let out a long, slow breath.
His mother would’ve known what to do. She’d been warm where his father was distant, perceptive where Lorcan was oblivious. She would’ve seen right through Fergal’s bravado and found the aching thing underneath. She would’ve told him whether he was brave or just stupid.
But his mother was gone, taken by an illness that had moved so fast there’d barely been time to say goodbye. Fergal had been twelve, old enough to understand and young enough that the loss had reshaped the entire architecture of his world.
And Peter… Peter was gone too. Fergal’s memories of his older brother were strange, fractured things.
A looming presence. A voice that was too loud.
The feeling of being watched with something that wasn’t quite affection.
And then, one morning, the news that Peter had been drinking—as he often did—and had fallen and hit his head on the edge of his bedside table, killing himself.
Fergal remembered the funeral. He remembered his father’s stony face. He remembered Gregor’s hand on his shoulder, steady and warm, the one solid thing in a world that kept shifting beneath his feet.
He’d always been there. Through all of it. Every loss, every lonely night, every frozen morning in this godforsaken compound. Gregor had been the one constant in his life, and he couldn’t keep pretending that was all Gregor was to him.
He opened his eyes, staring at the chair where Gregor had sat, at the indent he’d left in the leather cushion, at the tea he’d abandoned.
He stilled.
Gregor had left his tea. In all the years Fergal had known him, Gregor had never once left a room without his tea.
A slow smile spread across Fergal’s face.
Same time tomorrow, Your Highness.
Oh, Fergal would be there. But he wasn’t going to wait until Thursday to see Gregor again.
The formal lessons were Gregor’s territory—structured, controlled, safe behind the barrier of textbooks and academic propriety.
If Fergal wanted to see the man behind the tutor, he needed to find him in a place where the armor was already down.
He picked up Gregor’s abandoned teacup and cradled it in both hands, feeling the warmth seep into his fingers.
Gregor had his routines. Early morning patrols along the compound’s perimeter.
Solitary runs through the forest. Late evenings in the small workshop behind the main building, where he maintained the clan’s old-fashioned weapons and, Fergal suspected, found the closest thing to peace that his mind allowed.
The workshop. That was where Fergal would find him.
He drained the last of Gregor’s tea. It was still warm, faintly sweet, with a hint of something smoky. It tasted like cedar and patience and all the things Gregor would never say aloud. Fergal set the cup down, squared his shoulders, and went to plan his next move.
He was done throwing pebbles at the wall. It was time to find the door.