Chapter 8
CHAPTER EIGHT
The great hall smelled like roasted venison and wood smoke, and Gregor hated every minute he had to spend in it.
He sat at a corner table near the fire, a book in his left hand so anyone watching would see only a guard enjoying some downtime, the prince’s tutor doing what he always did—reading.
Nothing remarkable about that, other than the fact that he rarely sat in the great hall outside of meals.
The hall was winding down after the evening meal, small clusters of clan members lingering over drinks and conversation. Laughter drifted from a table of young guards near the door. An omega cleared plates with silent efficiency, his shoulders hunched as if he wanted to crawl into himself.
Duncan sat at the far end, a glass of beer in one hand, talking with two of his guard loyalists.
He looked relaxed. Expansive, even, his broad frame taking up more space than necessary, his voice carrying in a way that made Gregor’s teeth ache.
The man held court like a minor king, and the two guards flanking him leaned in with attentive postures, like devoted minions.
Gregor had been watching Duncan for forty-three minutes.
He’d arrived early, selected his position for sightlines and proximity, identified every exit, calculated three routes from his table to Duncan’s, and determined which of Duncan’s companions would need to be neutralized first if things went sideways.
The one on the left, Tobias, was bigger but slower—he favored his right knee, an old injury that would make him vulnerable to a low sweep.
The one on the right, Justin, was quicker but had been drinking steadily for the past hour, which would dull his reflexes.
This was what Gregor did. This was what he was good at. Tactical assessment, threat analysis, contingency planning. Clean, logical, precise.
It did not require him to think about the way Fergal’s eyes had gone soft three nights ago when Gregor draped his jacket over his shoulders.
It did not require him to remember the way Fergal had said his name with a tenderness that had kept him awake until dawn.
It certainly did not require him to contemplate the fact that he had wanted to kiss Fergal so badly it had taken every ounce of willpower not to.
The hall door opened, and Gregor didn’t look up because he didn’t need to.
He knew those footsteps, that quick, slightly uneven gait.
Always rushing, rarely slowing down. His pulse did the thing it shouldn’t be doing, and he let it because fighting it was a waste of energy he needed for the operation at hand.
Fergal moved through the hall with the easy confidence of a prince who belonged everywhere.
He stopped to exchange a word with one of the servants—Valerie, whose bruises had faded to a sickly yellow but whose eyes still carried the wariness of a woman who’d learned that walls could grow fists.
Fergal touched her arm briefly, said something that made her smile, and moved on.
Gregor’s chest constricted. Every single time Fergal showed that casual, instinctive kindness to someone who expected none, something inside Gregor rearranged itself into a configuration he couldn’t undo.
Focus. The operation. Duncan.
Fergal drifted toward Duncan’s table, a mug of ale in his hand that Gregor knew he wouldn’t actually drink. He was performing with his relaxed posture, that easy smile, the mask of a young prince, making conversation with his father’s advisor.
He dropped into a chair across from Duncan and asked something about the spring supply inventory.
Duncan responded with the oily deference he reserved for royalty—all smiles and “Of course, Your Highness” while his eyes calculated.
Gregor had seen that look on the Murphy alphas.
The ones who bowed lowest were usually the ones sharpening knives behind their backs.
The conversation flowed. Fergal asked follow-up questions—supply routes, storage capacity, the timeline for the next shipment, since he wanted to order some new furniture and what would be the best time.
Mundane topics delivered with genuine-seeming interest. Duncan expanded, flattered by the attention, his guard lowering incrementally with each question.
And somewhere beneath that performance, invisible to everyone in the room except Gregor, Fergal was reaching.
Gregor couldn’t see the scan happening, couldn’t feel it or sense it, but he could see Fergal.
He’d memorized the signals they’d agreed on—a hand through his hair if he needed more time, a tap on the table if he was hitting resistance, both hands flat on the surface if he needed immediate extraction.
None of those signals came. The conversation continued, smooth and natural, Duncan oblivious.
Minutes crawled by like hours. Gregor’s left hand still held his book, but his right hand was on his dagger. His jaw ached from the force of keeping it clenched, and the muscles across his shoulders had turned to iron cables.
Then Fergal’s hand twitched. It wasn’t one of the agreed signals. It was involuntary—a sharp, reflexive jerk of his fingers against the table, like someone touching a hot surface. Small enough that Duncan, mid-sentence about grain storage, didn’t notice.
Gregor was on his feet before thought caught up.
He forced himself back down, gripping the edge of the table hard enough that the wood creaked under his fingers.
Fergal hadn’t given the distress signal.
The conversation was still flowing. But something had happened, and Gregor’s money was on Fergal discovering something that shocked him.
Another two minutes. An eternity. Then Fergal stretched, pushed back from the table with an apologetic smile, and made his excuses about documents he needed to review before morning. Duncan nodded, wished him a good evening, and turned back to his companions without a second glance.
Fergal walked out of the hall. His pace was unhurried. His expression was pleasant. His hand, the one that had twitched, was curled loosely at his side.
Gregor gave it five minutes. He flipped a few more pages, then yawned demonstratively and made his exit.
The corridor was empty. The compound was settling into its evening routine—guards changing shifts, servants finishing the last of the cleaning, the distant clang of someone in the armory.
Gregor moved through it all on autopilot, his body navigating the familiar route while his mind ran scenarios.
The workshop door was unlocked. He’d stopped locking it weeks ago, a concession he refused to examine. He stepped inside to find Fergal already there, leaning against the workbench with his hands braced on the edge and his head hanging between his shoulders.
Gregor closed the door, locked it, and activated the privacy ward in one smooth sequence. The moment the magical seal settled around the room, Fergal’s composure cracked.
“He’s worse than we thought.” Fergal’s voice was thin, scraped raw. He looked up, and the color had drained from his face, leaving his brown eyes too dark against pale skin.
Gregor crossed to the workbench and leaned against it beside Fergal. Close enough that their arms almost touched but not quite. “Tell me.”
Fergal pushed off the bench and paced—three steps one way, three the other, a caged version of the restless energy that usually propelled him through the compound’s corridors at twice the speed of anyone else.
“The surface was what we expected. Ambition, contempt, the usual ugliness. He thinks my father is weak. He thinks I’m a naive idealist playing at politics.
He thinks omegas exist to serve and breed. Charming individual.”
“And underneath?”
Fergal stopped pacing. “Someone else’s voice.”
The words landed in the quiet workshop like a blade hitting stone. “Explain.”
“Not literally. It’s more like…residue. When someone communicates with you repeatedly—instructions, directives, expectations—it leaves an imprint. Like footprints in snow. Like, I bet that if you could read my mind, you’d recognize your own voice from all the years you’ve taught me.”
Gregor nodded that he understood.
“Duncan’s mind is full of them. Thoughts that don’t originate from him, phrases that feel rehearsed rather than organic. And underneath all of it, an emotional signature that tastes like—” He searched for the word. “Obedience. Not the natural kind. The trained kind.”
“He’s taking orders.”
“He’s been taking orders for years, is my guess. Whatever he’s doing here, it’s not his own initiative. He’s a tool. A well-placed, carefully managed tool.”
“Could you identify the handler?”
Fergal’s expression darkened. “That’s where it gets complicated.
I pushed deeper, tried to follow those imported thoughts back to their source, and I hit a wall.
Not Duncan’s own defenses—something external.
Wards placed over specific memories. They were sophisticated enough that I couldn’t even see the edges clearly.
Whoever shielded him knew exactly what they were protecting against.”
“Shielded by someone with significant magical training then.”
“Very significant. The kind of training that doesn’t come from a minor clan offshoot that disbanded decades ago.” He met Gregor’s eyes. “The kind that comes from a clan that takes magical training very, very seriously.”
They looked at each other, and the unspoken conclusion hung between them like smoke.
The Murphys.
“We can’t prove it,” Gregor said.
“No. Everything connecting him to whoever placed those wards is behind that shield. I could feel the answers right there, Gregor. Inches away. And I couldn’t reach them without going so deep he’d feel me inside his skull.”
“You did the right thing.”