Chapter 12
CHAPTER TWELVE
Two weeks. Fourteen days of being king, and Fergal still flinched internally every time someone called him “Your Majesty.”
He sat at the head of his father’s conference table—his conference table now, though it still smelled like Lorcan’s pipe tobacco and probably would for years—reviewing the security report Gregor had prepared.
Around him, the trappings of kingship pressed in from every direction: stacks of documents requiring his signature, a schedule so packed it made his previous life look leisurely, and a constant stream of clan members who needed decisions, reassurance, or both.
The morning had already included a meeting with the head of household about funeral arrangements that Fergal kept postponing because he couldn’t face the finality of them, a briefing from the supply team about winter provisions, and a tense conversation with Valerie.
She had cautiously, tremblingly asked whether the new king intended to continue his father’s policies regarding omega discipline.
“No,” Fergal had said, and the woman had burst into tears right there in the corridor. He’d stood there, awkward and heartbroken, while she apologized for her outburst and he apologized for every year she’d spent being afraid.
It was barely noon, and he was already exhausted.
The security report was thorough, as was everything Gregor produced.
Twelve pages of perimeter analysis, guard rotations, threat assessments, and recommendations, compiled with meticulous precision.
Fergal had read it twice and was halfway through a third reading because his brain simply refused to take in the information.
A knock at the door. “Come in.”
Gregor entered, and Fergal’s chest did the thing it always did, that involuntary expansion, as if his lungs needed more air simply because this man was in the room.
Two weeks of sharing a bed hadn’t diminished the effect.
If anything, it had intensified it because now Fergal knew exactly what it felt like to fall asleep with Gregor’s arm around his waist and wake up with Gregor’s heartbeat against his back.
The distance between that private warmth and this public formality was a chasm he had to cross dozens of times a day.
“Your Majesty.” Gregor’s voice was perfectly neutral, his posture professional. The commander reporting to his king, nothing more.
Fergal pressed his lips together to suppress the smile that wanted to form.
Gregor’s public persona was flawless. No one looking at him would suspect that six hours ago, his face had been buried in Fergal’s hair while his arm held him close enough to feel every breath.
The man could compartmentalize with a precision that was simultaneously admirable and infuriating.
“Commander. Sit down.”
Gregor sat across from him, placing a folder on the table between them. “The analysis of the crossbow bolts is complete.”
Fergal straightened. They’d sent the bolts to a human expert—one who specialized in historical weapons and had no idea his clients were dragons. The results had taken ten days.
“The bolts are hand-forged,” Gregor said, opening the folder.
“Custom work, high quality. The tips are a tungsten-steel alloy specifically designed for maximum penetration at close range. The fletching is synthetic, modern materials, but the design is based on historical patterns dating back to the fifteenth century.”
“Dragon-slayer patterns.”
“Historically associated with dragon slayers, yes.” Gregor’s tone carried a careful emphasis on “historically associated” that told Fergal everything about what Gregor actually thought.
“The weaponsmith confirmed that these bolts were designed to pierce scaled armor at distances under fifty yards, which is consistent with the position of the shooters relative to the landing site.”
“So on the surface, it looks exactly like a dragon-slayer attack.”
“On the surface, it’s textbook.”
Fergal leaned back. “And beneath the surface?”
Gregor glanced at the door, a habit he’d developed since the assassination, always checking, always assessing.
“The craftsmanship is too good. Dragon slayers have been in decline for decades. Their resources are depleted, their numbers diminished. These bolts required expensive materials, specialized equipment, and significant expertise. That’s inconsistent with an organization on its last legs. ”
“Unless they had outside funding.”
“Or unless someone else made the bolts and wanted them to look like dragon-slayer work.”
They held each other’s gazes for a beat.
This was a conversation they’d had over the past two weeks in whispered exchanges in their bedroom, in coded language during official briefings, in the silent communication of two people who’d learned to read each other’s expressions with the fluency of a shared language.
They both knew what they suspected. They both knew they couldn’t prove it.
“There’s something else,” Gregor said. He pulled a printed page from the folder and slid it across the table.
Fergal picked it up. It was an email sent to the clan’s official address, the one used for diplomatic communications between clans. He read it once, then again, automatically dissecting every word.
Dear King Fergal,
So young, and yet you are king, thanks to the bolts that pierced your father’s and uncle’s armor. By the way, you’re welcome for killing your uncle as well. We’re pretty sure he would’ve taken the throne otherwise instead of you. It’s yours. For now.
We have sworn a sacred oath to eliminate all dragons and will not rest until our holy mission, until this righteous campaign is fulfilled. So you may want to watch your back, young king.
Until we meet again,
Duff Bás
Fergal set the paper down. His hand wanted to tremble, so he flattened it against the table and held it there until the impulse passed. “When did this arrive?”
“This morning. I intercepted it before it reached anyone else.”
“Good.” Fergal stared at the signature. Duff Bás.
The most legendary name in dragon-slayer history.
A name that had been used to frighten dragon children for centuries—the boogeyman made flesh, the killer in the dark.
“This is what Duncan and Donovan have been waiting for. The official claim. Now they can point to this and say, ‘See? We told you it was the slayers.’”
“Yes.”
“How convenient that they were already pushing that narrative before this email existed.”
“Very convenient.”
Fergal picked up the email again, forcing himself to read it with the analytical detachment of a lawyer rather than the raw grief of a son. “The language is strange. It’s a weird mix of colloquial modern language and the formality of centuries ago.”
“Agreed.”
“And the delivery method. Email?” Fergal almost laughed. “A secret society that’s survived for centuries by staying invisible suddenly sends a traceable digital communication to a diplomatic address?”
“Also agreed.”
“And the signature.” Fergal tapped the name at the bottom. “Duff Bás. That’s like signing a ransom note The Boogeyman. No real operative would use the most famous name in their organization’s history. It’s designed to frighten, not to communicate.”
Gregor’s eyes held something that looked almost like pride. “You’d have made an excellent intelligence analyst.”
“I’m a lawyer. Same skill set, fewer weapons.” Fergal set the email down and met Gregor’s gaze. “I want to respond.”
“No.”
“I could—”
“No.” Gregor’s voice was quiet but absolute. “Responding confirms receipt. It establishes a communication channel they can exploit. It potentially reveals our analytical capabilities if we challenge the content. And it tips them off that we’re not buying the narrative.”
Fergal clenched his jaw. Gregor was right—tactically, strategically, in every way that mattered—but the part of him that was twenty-six years old and furious and grieving wanted to reach through that email and grab whoever sent it by the throat.
“We play dumb,” Gregor continued. “Publicly, we accept the claim at face value. Let Duncan and Donovan think their narrative is holding. Let whoever sent this think we’re convinced. The moment they believe we’re not looking at them is the moment they get careless.”
“And how long do we maintain that fiction?”
“As long as it takes.”
Patience as strategy. Gregor’s favorite weapon, and Fergal’s least favorite virtue.
“Fine.” Fergal exhaled. “But I want everything we have on the real Duff Bás, if he even exists. If someone is using his name, I want to know who he actually is, where he is, and whether he’s involved or if his identity has been stolen. ”
“I’ll begin the research today.”
“And I want everything on the dragon slayers—their history, their methods, their known operatives, their organizational structure. If we’re going to pretend we believe this email, we need to understand the organization well enough to ask the right questions publicly while investigating the real killers privately. ”
Gregor nodded. “We’ve always had a thick file on them, obviously, but I will put some men on updating it. That won’t raise suspicion, as it would fit the narrative of us believing the dragon slayers are behind this.”
Fergal gathered the papers and returned them to the folder. “Keep me posted.”
Gregor took the folder and paused, his hand resting on it. “There’s one more thing. The Dragon Council.”
Right. The Dragon Council. The gathering of all four dragon clans—or three now, since the Doyles had been in hiding for two centuries—held every five years on a rotating basis. And it was the Fitzgeralds’ turn to lead.
“It’s in two months in the Arctic Circle of Sweden,” Gregor said. “Your father had already made all the arrangements before…” He cleared his throat. “The other clans will expect the new king to attend and to chair the proceedings. It’s tradition, and deviating from it would be seen as weakness.”