Chapter 20 #2
Gregor didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to. Fergal could read the longing in the line of his shoulders, in the way his hand twitched at his side as if it wanted to reach for Fergal’s, but the old habit of public restraint was too deeply ingrained.
Fergal reached over and laced their fingers together.
Gregor stiffened for a fraction of a second, but then his fingers tightened around Fergal’s, and something in his posture shifted. He hadn’t fully relaxed—Fergal suspected Gregor didn’t have that setting—but he’d settled. As if a piece that had been slightly out of alignment had clicked into place.
They walked through the pack hand in hand, and no one stared.
The meeting took place in what everyone called “the main house”—a newly built farmhouse that still smelled of fresh lumber and that served as the administrative and social heart of the Hightower pack.
It had been rebuilt after burning down in the attack, the one claimed by the dragon slayers, Fergal had learned.
The kitchen was enormous, clearly designed as a communal space, and the table they gathered around was large enough to seat twelve.
Erwan sat at the head, looking like he hadn’t slept in days.
His hair was pulled back, his face drawn, his eyes haunted.
Fergal recognized the expression. He’d seen it in his own mirror during the weeks after his father’s assassination, when Gregor had been the only thing keeping him upright.
Erwan’s brothers introduced themselves. Jermon was the second oldest, an alpha with the same kind brown eyes as Erwan.
He was a father to four hatchlings, he explained, and Fergal couldn’t wait to meet them.
He hadn’t seen hatchlings in decades. The fertility rate in their clan had declined, just like in other clans.
Then came Nadiv, who had a quick smile and a joke that lightened the mood, followed by Valdis, the youngest.
Fergal bowed his head when he was introduced to Emma. “Your reputation precedes you. It’s an honor to meet you.”
She flashed him a smile. “You mean my grandfather’s reputation.”
Ah, she had spunk and wasn’t afraid to challenge an alpha—not even a king. Fergal liked that. “Word is he trained you, so that makes it your reputation too.”
Gregor pulled out a chair for Fergal—a habit so ingrained it was unconscious—then sat beside him, his posture shifting into commander mode as smoothly as a blade sliding from its sheath.
“Thank you both for everything you’ve done for the omegas,” Erwan began, his voice rough. “Sivney told me you were dealing with severe injuries among the omegas.”
“Zacharias deserves most of the credit,” Fergal said. “That omega is a force of nature. If you ever need a general, he’s your man.”
A ghost of a smile crossed Erwan’s face. “I’ve heard. He and Sivney will make quite the pair.”
A dragon omega appeared with a tray of coffee and tea, a young man with sandy hair and downcast eyes who moved through the room with the practiced invisibility of someone who wanted to go unnoticed. He set the tray down, distributed cups with silent precision, and turned to leave.
“Thank you,” Fergal said.
The omega startled, his gaze flicking to Fergal for a fraction of a second before dropping again. “You’re welcome, Your Majesty.” His voice was barely audible.
“What’s your name?” He hadn’t come with their group, so he had to be one of the former Murphy omegas who had arrived earlier.
“Simon, Your Majesty.”
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Simon.”
He nodded, and then he was gone, slipping out the door quietly. He seemed to be still carrying the ghost of whatever the Murphy clan had done to him. Poor guy.
Fergal refocused on the others. “Tell me about Rhene’s disappearance,” he said.
Erwan cleared his throat, then sighed, his eyes filling with tears.
“We sensed he was in danger and was tapping into our powers,” Jermon said, putting a hand on Erwan’s arm in quiet comfort. “Then, suddenly, the bond was severed and he disappeared. We haven’t felt him since.”
Fergal leaned forward, intrigued. “You can sense him? But he’s a wolf.”
“Their magic is different from ours, but they still have magic. Rhene especially, since he’s connected to Lidon.”
Lindon Hayes. The True Alpha. Even after Rhene and Erwan had told Fergal and Gregor all about him at the Dragon Council, that name still didn’t leave Fergal unaffected. It was as if even the mention of him had power.
“I assume you’ve tried all modern technology to track him?” Gregor asked.
Jermon nodded. “Nothing. He vanished with Jokkmokk as his last location. Our working theory is that he was taken by the dragon slayers.”
“Dragon slayer,” Gregor said. “Singular. There’s only one left, a man named Duff Bás.”
For the next two hours, they talked.
Fergal and Gregor laid out everything—Duncan and Donovan’s infiltration of the Fitzgerald clan, the fake Duff Bás email, the crossbow-bolt analysis, their theory that the Murphys had orchestrated Lorcan’s assassination and framed the dragon slayers.
Gregor explained his Murphy background concisely and without self-pity, providing context for how the Murphy clan operated—the infiltration tactics, the long-game strategy, the patient consolidation of power from within.
In return, Emma walked them through her research into the historical conspiracy—how the 1822 Dragon Council had been the turning point, how Cladhaire had revealed Erwan’s White Dragon status to the other clans and had sworn he’d reverse it.
Jermon described the ranch attack—fifteen attackers killed, crossbows designed to pierce dragon scales, Irish incantations used to immobilize him.
Fergal had already heard the story at the Dragon Council, where Rhene had shared it, but not all the details had fully registered with him then.