Chapter 18 #2
He felt the disturbance before he saw it—a ripple in the camp’s energy, the unmistakable signature of dark magic being barely contained.
Then Cladhaire was there, materializing from between the tents, Baoth a half-step behind as always.
The old king’s face was a mask of cold fury, and the air around him crackled with suppressed power.
“What the fuck are you doing here?” Cladhaire snapped at Erwan.
Gregor’s hand moved to his sidearm. Cladhaire’s proximity to two unprotected newcomers in a camp full of potential enemies set every tactical alarm in his body screaming.
“I’ve disinherited him, so he has no legal ground to be here,” Cladhaire snarled, directing this at Gregor, as if expecting the commander of the Fitzgeralds to do his bidding.
“Your Majesty, he’s got papers showing he’s claiming to be the king of the True Doyle clan. Under the Code, I have no choice but to allow him to present his claim to us.”
Gregor kept his voice even, though his mind was running scenarios at combat speed.
He couldn’t let this escalate now. They had to follow procedures, walk through the process the Code had established, or there would be no legitimacy.
He’d cited the Code deliberately. It was the one authority that superseded even kings in this setting, the one framework all clans had agreed to abide by.
If Cladhaire wanted to challenge Erwan’s presence, he’d have to do it through proper channels, not through intimidation.
Small puffs of steam escaped Cladhaire’s nostrils.
The old dragon was close to losing control, close to shifting, and if he did, the situation would escalate beyond anyone’s ability to contain it.
Around the gathering crowd, hands moved to weapons.
The tension was a physical thing, pressing against Gregor’s skin like a change in barometric pressure.
“What have you done?” Cladhaire bellowed at his son, and Gregor felt for Erwan. To have his father scream at him like that in front of everyone was a rejection of the very public, very humiliating kind.
Every muscle in Gregor’s body was tense, his mind racing at full speed. What would he do if things went south? How quickly would he be able to get to Fergal?
“You have no right to be here!” Baoth yelled at Erwan and gestured wildly at Gregor—as if that made any impression on him. “Have your guards remove these two!”
Then Erwan spoke, and everything changed.
“I am King Erwan Doyle, king of the True Doyle clan, established after my father and uncle used dark magic to kill my grandfather and others. They have also tried to have me and my brothers killed, tortured the granddaughter of Seamus the Librarian, and we have evidence of more crimes. The Code grants me the legal and moral right to lead the True Doyle clan, and I have honor and truth on my side.”
The words rang across the camp with a clarity that silenced every murmur, stilled every hand.
Gregor had heard many speeches in his three and a half centuries—from kings and commanders and revolutionaries and madmen—and he recognized the difference between rhetoric and truth.
This was truth. Raw, unpolished truth, carrying the weight of something bigger and deeper.
Cladhaire’s hand shot out toward his son, dark magic gathering at his fingertips, and before Gregor could react, Rhene had shifted.
One instant, the man was standing beside Erwan, and the next, a massive gray wolf stood in his place, positioning himself between Erwan and Cladhaire with a speed that defied physics.
The growl that erupted from his chest was deep, primal, vibrating at a frequency Gregor felt in his bones, and Cladhaire staggered backward.
Gregor’s breath caught. Not because of the wolf—though the creature was magnificent, far larger than any natural wolf and radiating a power that prickled against Gregor’s magical senses.
But because of what the shift represented.
A wolf at a Dragon Council. A wolf defending a dragon king.
An alliance that had been broken and betrayed and abandoned generations ago, standing incarnate in the bond between these two men.
“My mate is Rhene Hightower, pack alpha of the Hightower pack and brother-in-law to Lidon Hayes, the True Alpha of his generation.”
The True Alpha. The name hit Gregor like a physical blow, reverberating through every magical frequency he possessed.
The wolf standing before him radiated a power that wasn’t his own, a borrowed strength that connected him to something vast and ancient and unmistakably real.
Gregor could sense the thread of power running through Rhene that led somewhere immense, somewhere that made the hair on his arms stand up and his dragon stir with recognition.
The prophecy was true. The True Alpha had risen. He felt it in every cell of his being.
That meant that the other half had to be true as well. Erwan Doyle was indeed…
“And I?” Erwan took a breath. “I am the White Dragon.”
He shifted.
Gregor had seen dragons shift thousands of times. He’d witnessed every color, every size, every variation that three centuries of life among dragons could offer. But he had never, never seen anything like this.
The dragon that stood before them was pure white, luminous, as if lit from within by a fire that burned hotter and cleaner than any Gregor had ever encountered.
He was enormous—larger than Cladhaire, larger than any dragon in the camp—and the power that radiated from him was staggering, a wave of magical energy that washed over the assembled crowd and left every single person gasping.
“He truly is the White Dragon,” Gregor heard himself whisper. “I never thought I’d see one in my lifetime.”
This was no symbol. This was a living, breathing white dragon, standing in the middle of the Dragon Council camp with a wolf at his side, and the implications were so vast that Gregor’s tactical mind ground to a complete halt.
He turned to Andrew, who was staring at the White Dragon with his mouth hanging open. “Get King Fergal,” Gregor said, his voice sharp enough to cut through the young man’s stupor. “Now.”
As Andrew scrambled away, Gregor turned back to the scene before him. The White Dragon and the wolf stood side by side, magnificent and impossible, and around them, the Dragon Council was erupting into chaos.
Gregor positioned himself between the newcomers and the crowd, one hand on his sidearm, his body angled to provide maximum coverage.
He didn’t know these men. He didn’t know their intentions, their allegiances, or whether their claims would hold up under scrutiny.
But he knew this: a white dragon had appeared, a wolf stood at his side, and the prophecy that Gregor had studied for decades was unfolding before his eyes.
He also knew that somewhere in this camp, the men who had murdered his king were watching, and whatever plans they’d made for this Council had just been blown apart by a dragon made of light.
And most importantly, he knew that Fergal needed to see this.
Because Fergal, with his law degree and his sharp mind and his fierce, stubborn belief in justice, was about to become the most important ally these two strangers could have.
He allowed himself a few beats to marvel at the impossible creature before him. Then the commander mask slid back into place, and Gregor went to work.