Chapter 22 #2
Zack passed through at some point, moving at his usual pace, which was somewhere between brisk and supersonic.
He stopped long enough to check in with Yitro about dinner portions, ask about a bread-baking course Yitro had promised to teach, and resolve a disagreement between two dragon omegas about oven temperatures with a decisive “Use both ovens and stop arguing” that left no room for debate.
The omega was a force of nature. Barely a few weeks since he’d arrived from the Dragon Council, traumatized and malnourished and carrying the weight of everything the O’Connor clan had done to him, and he was already running logistics for the third-largest group in the pack.
At the Fitzgerald compound, an omega with Zack’s abilities would’ve spent his life serving food and lowering his eyes.
His intelligence would’ve been wasted, his leadership suppressed, his potential buried under centuries of tradition that said omegas existed to serve and nothing more.
What a waste. What a monstrous, criminal waste of talent and humanity and fire.
Fergal finished the last potato and set it on the pile. His hands were sore, his back ached from standing, and there was potato peel under every fingernail. Yet he felt more accomplished than he had after any day of signing documents and attending meetings.
Yitro inspected his work with the critical eye of a man who took potatoes seriously. “Not bad. A few of these look like they were attacked by a wolverine, but the rest are passable.”
“High praise.”
“It’s the best you’re getting. Same time tomorrow?”
“I’ll be here.”
And he meant it. Standing in this kitchen, doing simple work alongside people who treated each other as equals regardless of status or species, had felt more right than anything he’d experienced since becoming king. Maybe longer.
He stepped outside into the late-afternoon warmth.
After their time in the Arctic and years in northern Canada, the climate here still caught him off guard—the gentle heat, the green fields stretching toward the tree line, the sounds of life everywhere.
Horses in the pasture. The cry of a baby from a cabin.
The distant hum of conversation around him.
“Fergal!”
He turned around when Jermon called out to him, then waited as Jermon hurried over. “Do you have a minute?”
Fergal nodded. “I’ve got nowhere to be now that the potatoes are all finally peeled.”
Jermon shot him a grin. “I heard you made a blood sacrifice to season them.”
“There’s room for improvement for sure, but Yitro said the result was passable, so I’ll take that as encouragement.” He cocked his head, sensing that despite his light tone, Jermon had something more serious on his mind. “What’s up?”
“There’s something I’ve been meaning to ask you.
When the Murphys”—he seemed to search for words—“pretended to come to our aid when we were attacked, they could mind-speak. Alistair, their commander, spoke into my mind, and he said all Murphys could do that. But none of the Murphy omegas were trained in this, and we haven’t been able to figure it out. ”
The Murphy alphas could all mind-speak? Wasn’t that interesting?
“It’s not a common skill or gift, or whatever you want to call it.
Usually, it’s limited to people with a strong magic gift, and it’s more of a one-way street, so they can mind-speak into someone’s mind but not necessarily vice versa. ”
“Ah, okay. He made it sound like everyone could.”
“Most definitely not, and I wonder why they all can.”
“If they all can,” Jermon said. “He said so, but like everything else, I only have his word to take for it, no evidence.”
“True. I’ll ask Gregor if he knows.”
Jermon cocked his head. “He never mentioned it as something he could do? I mean, he was with the Murphys.”
Fergal squashed the wave of frustration that welled up in him at the mention of Gregor’s past. Jermon wasn’t implying anything, he reminded himself. He was stating a fact. “He never said a word about it.” He hesitated, then added, “But he doesn’t like to talk about his time there.”
“I can imagine. Can’t be good memories he has from his time there.”
“That’s putting it mildly.”
“If you could ask Gregor and see what he knows, that’d be great. It’s just one of those small things we’re trying to figure out, you know?”
Oh, Fergal knew all too well. “You guys are doing great. You’ve had so much to process, and you seem to be taking it all in stride.”
“Thank you. It’s not been easy, that much I can tell you.”
Fergal clamped a hand on his shoulder. “You have a lot to be proud of, as a prince and as a clan and pack. What you’ve built here is special. Truly extraordinary.”
Jermon’s smile widened. “It is, and I don’t think I’ll ever take it for granted. Things can change in an instant, as we’ve experienced ourselves, and tomorrow isn’t necessarily a guarantee. Morbid, maybe, but—”
“I don’t think it’s morbid to be aware of your mortality and how short life can be, not when it leads to gratitude.”
With a shared nod of understanding, they parted ways, and Fergal made his way to his cabin, greeting more pack members.
And at the far edge of the property, a familiar silhouette popped up against the trees.
Gregor was walking the perimeter with the steady, measured stride Fergal could recognize from a mile away.
Even from this distance, the sight of him settled something inside Fergal that had been restless all day.
He stood on the porch and watched the pack live its life around him, and the thought that surfaced was simple, dangerous, and true.
I could live here.
Not as a visiting king, but as a member of this community—cooking and working and arguing about oven temperatures and peeling potatoes and holding Gregor’s hand in the sunshine without a single person caring.
I could be happy here.
He tucked the thought away. It was too big for today, too heavy with implications he wasn’t ready to examine. He had a clan in Canada, responsibilities, people who depended on him. In fact, they were only staying until Rhene was back, and then they’d have to return home.
But the thought wouldn’t stay tucked. It sat in his chest, warm and persistent, like a seed that had found soil and wasn’t interested in being moved.
Fergal watched Gregor’s distant figure complete his circuit and turn back toward the cabins, and he went to meet him halfway. Time to distract himself.