Chapter 18
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Gregor stood at the registration table in the center of the tent camp for the Dragon Council, running through his mental checklist for the hundredth time.
The perimeter wards were active and stable.
He’d set and verified the guard rotations.
Fergal’s personal security detail had been handpicked by Gregor himself.
Two men he’d vetted thoroughly and one he trusted marginally, which was the best he could manage given that he trusted exactly one person completely and that person was currently in the royal tent preparing for the most important diplomatic event of his life.
The camp sprawled across a plateau of moss-covered rock in the Swedish Arctic, a collection of camouflaged tents that blended into the landscape of rusty-brown and blue-green vegetation.
From a distance, you’d never know it was there, aided by some powerful spells.
From up close, the luxury inside the tents betrayed the occupants’ status—sheepskin rugs, solid wooden furniture, full-size beds hauled in by teleportation and sheer stubbornness.
Dragons might agree to meet in the wilderness, but they drew the line at sleeping on the ground.
The setting was strategic. No human habitation for a hundred miles in any direction.
An open terrain that made it impossible for anyone to approach unseen.
The constant wind carried scents from miles away, and the lack of tree cover meant aerial surveillance was unobstructed.
If anyone tried to attack the Council, they’d be spotted long before they arrived.
That didn’t stop Gregor from mentally running threat scenarios on a continuous loop. The threats he was most concerned about were already inside the camp.
The Murphys had arrived two days ago. King Ennis, looking so much frailer than the last time Gregor had seen him, supported by his advisor Tynan.
And behind them, the real power—Alistair, Kerry, and Dempsey.
Gregor had watched them set up their tents in the northeast corner and had cataloged every face, every interaction, every exchange of glances.
He’d spent a hundred and fifty years among men like them.
He knew their body language the way a sailor knew the sea—the currents beneath the surface, the storms building behind calm skies.
They’d greeted Fergal with an elaborate courtesy that made Gregor’s skin crawl.
All smiles and “Your Majesty” and carefully calibrated deference that was designed to make a young king feel welcome while simultaneously assessing every weakness.
Kerry, in particular, had been smooth—complimenting Fergal’s appearance, expressing condolences about Lorcan, asking questions about the Fitzgerald clan’s well-being that were really intelligence-gathering disguised as small talk.
Fergal had handled it beautifully. The regal mask he’d perfected over the past two months—polished, sharp-tongued, revealing nothing—had been flawless.
He’d matched Kerry’s courtesy with his own, deflected probing questions with legal precision, and maintained the kind of composed authority that made Gregor’s chest tight with pride.
But underneath the mask, Gregor knew Fergal was terrified. He’d felt it last night when they’d lain in the darkness of the royal tent, Fergal’s back against his chest, Fergal’s hand gripping his so tightly that Gregor’s fingers had gone numb. Neither of them had slept much.
The O’Connors had arrived yesterday. King Donál had been exactly as Gregor had expected—cautious to the point of paralysis, accompanied by his commander Oscar, who was competent in the way that a mid-level bureaucrat was competent.
They wouldn’t cause problems, but they wouldn’t help either.
They’d wait, watch, and commit to nothing until the outcome was already decided.
King Cladhaire and his brother had arrived by themselves without any entourage.
The sight of them had nearly cost Gregor his composure.
It was true then. The Doyles had resurfaced.
What the hell was going on there? The two men didn’t seem threatening—they looked diminished, older, two men clinging to titles they no longer deserved—but appearances could be deceiving.
The younger man beside him—Brennan’s nephew Andrew, who was serving as Gregor’s administrative assistant for the Council—shifted in his seat. “Commander, do you want more coffee?”
“No.” Gregor’s eyes swept the camp for the four-hundredth time that morning. Quiet. The Murphy contingent was in their tents. The O’Connors were taking a walk along the southern ridge. King Cladhaire hadn’t emerged yet. All according to pattern.
“Bit boring, isn’t it?” Andrew ventured. “I expected more…drama.”
“The drama hasn’t started yet.” Gregor didn’t elaborate.
If his years with the Murphys had taught him anything, it was that the dangerous moments at gatherings like these didn’t happen in the formal sessions.
They happened in the margins, in the private conversations, the chance encounters, the alliances formed over drinks after the official business was done.
Movement at the eastern entrance caught his attention. Two men. They were about the same height, both broadly built, but one had darker hair and radiated a calm energy, while the other was more dirty blond and had a looser, more aggressive attitude. He’d never seen either one of them.
The two guards spoke with them for a moment, accepting some kind of paper. Gregor watched their shocked reaction, and something inside him stirred. Old magic rolled over him. Powerful magic. He sat up straight. Who were these two?
The guards sent them in, and Gregor rose, as did Andrew.
“Stay here,” he told Andrew. He intercepted the two men fifty yards from the registration table, positioning himself in their path.
They stopped. The dark-haired one met his eyes directly, and Gregor felt a flicker of something—recognition, maybe, though he was certain they’d never met.
There was something about the man’s bearing, the way he held himself, the quiet intensity behind those dark eyes.
But it was the other one who held Gregor’s attention.
He couldn’t get a read on the man, nor on his dragon. Why was that?
He extended his hand, hoping they’d take the bait so he could do a quick scan. “Gregor, Commander of the Fitzgeralds.”
The dark-haired one ignored his hand, standing a little straighter. “King Erwan Doyle of the True Doyle clan. And this is my mate Rhene Hightower.”
Gregor’s world tilted. That’s why the man had looked somewhat familiar—Crown Prince Erwan of the Doyles.
Gregor immediately understood the silent challenge behind that introduction.
The True Doyle clan label meant he was challenging his father’s authority, his very right to the throne.
How very, very brave of him. Or did he not know what his father had tried to do to him?
A crowd was gathering. The announcement had carried, and men were emerging from tents, conversations dying mid-sentence. Gregor could feel the shift in the camp’s energy—the sudden alertness, the tension ratcheting up like a wire being tightened.
He pulled back his outstretched hand. “The True Doyle clan?”
“Yes.”
He delivered that one word with a composure that was either genuine confidence or an exceptional performance. Gregor couldn’t tell which, and that in itself was impressive. He could usually read anyone within thirty seconds.
“Care to explain that?” He had to keep up appearances, couldn’t let anyone know how much he already knew about this, about Erwan, about all of it. Besides, the Fitzgeralds were chairing the Council, and he had to maintain some level of impartiality, or they’d lose all moral high ground.
Erwan’s mate—Rhene—handed over a set of documents.
Gregor took them, scanning the pages with practiced efficiency.
Legal papers, meticulously prepared, laid out a claim that Cladhaire and Baoth had used dark magic to kill their own father, had attempted to murder their children, and had violated the Code in multiple documented instances.
The papers bore the official seal of Emma, the granddaughter of Seamus the Librarian, and that alone gave Gregor pause.
His blood went cold. All of this confirmed what Fergal and he had speculated on, what they had theorized about.
The documentation was detailed enough that they had credibility, especially with Emma’s signature on them.
The Doyle succession dispute was about to blow the Council wide open.
And the men accused of these crimes were sleeping a hundred yards away.
“That’s one hell of an accusation, son,” he said, his mind reeling. How did he respond to this? How could he establish neutrality while at the same time offer support for this claim to be taken seriously? How he wished Fergal was here so he’d have his sharp legal mind to weigh in.
“First of all, it’s not an accusation, as we have proof.” Erwan’s voice hardened, the tremor gone now, replaced by something steely. “And second, I’m not your son. I’m King Erwan, and you’ll address me as such.”
Gregor looked up from the papers. The young man’s dark eyes blazed with a conviction that went beyond performance.
This was real. Whatever else might be uncertain about this situation, Erwan Doyle spoke the truth with the conviction of someone who had truth and honor on his side. With the conviction of a white dragon.
And underneath that conviction, Gregor saw something else. Something he recognized because he’d spent decades watching it develop in another young man who stood too tall for his age and fought too hard for what was right and carried too much weight on shoulders that hadn’t had time to broaden.
He saw Fergal.
His mind was made up. He would stand with the White Dragon.
“My apologies, King Erwan,” Gregor said. He turned to Andrew, whose mouth was hanging open. “His papers are legit. Find a tent for him and his consort.”