“Siege defense. Specifically, how the O’Connor clan defended their compound against a dragon-slayer attack in 1402.”
Fergal leaned forward, genuinely interested despite himself. Gregor began walking through the tactical setup—the terrain advantages, the positioning of defensive wards, the use of natural barriers to channel attackers into kill zones. His deep voice was steady and precise, his thick fingers tracing supply lines and troop movements across the aged map. Despite modern conveniences, Gregor preferred teaching with old-school methods like maps instead of screens.
Fergal lasted twenty minutes.
Twenty minutes of watching those hands move across maps. Twenty minutes of breathing in leather and cedar while pretending to care about fifteenth-century warfare. Twenty minutes of Gregor standing close enough that Fergal could feel the heat radiating from his body, a furnace of barely contained dragon fire that the man seemed completely unaware of.
“You must’ve been formidable,” Fergal said, interrupting Gregor’s analysis of a flanking maneuver.
Gregor paused. “I’m sorry?”
“In combat. Back in the day.” Fergal gestured vaguely at Gregor’s frame. “Before you got behind a desk and went soft.”
The micro-twitch at Gregor’s jaw was barely visible, but Fergal caught it. Years of watching this man had made him fluent in the language of Gregor’s restraint. That twitch meantI am not rising to this bait. “The lesson is about the O’Connor defense, Your Highness, not my personal?—”
“Why don’t you ever want to spar with me?”
“That’s not relevant.”
Oh, but it was. Fergal stood, pushing his chair back. “I sparred with Ruben and his team this morning. They were decent but sloppy. No footwork, no discipline. Not much they could teach me.”
Nothing about that was a lie. Ruben—the head of the royal guards—was a man built like a bull and with the single-digit IQ of one as well. All he and his men knew was brute strength.
He circled the table slowly, coming to stand next to Gregor. Close. Too close. “I bet in your prime, you could’ve taken any of them apart in under a minute. Maybe you still can.”
“Flattery won’t distract me from today’s curriculum.”
“It’s not flattery. It’s an observation. But I wouldn’t know for sure because you refuse to fight me.” He tilted his head, studying Gregor’s profile. “Spar with me.”
“Absolutely not.”
“Why? Afraid I’ll beat you?”
Gregor’s eyes cut to him, steel-gray and sharp. “Not a chance, Your Highness.”
“Prove it. Unless the great Gregor has gone soft in his old?—”
“The training room. Five minutes.” Gregor was already rolling down his sleeves, his movements clipped and precise. The tutor had vanished, and something older and more dangerous had taken his place, sending a shiver down Fergal’s spine. “And, Your Highness? Don’t call me old again.”
Fergal grinned. He had him.
The training room was in the compound’s east wing—stone floors, padded mats, weapons racks lining the walls, the lingering smell of sweat and leather embedded in every surface. Fergal trained here every morning, but the room felt different with Gregor in it. Smaller. Charged, like the air before a lightning strike.
They faced each other on the center mat. Gregor had removed his boots and rolled his sleeves back up—apparently, forearm warfare was acceptable in combat—and stood with the easy balance of a man whose body had been a weapon for centuries.
“Rules,” Gregor said. “Controlled contact. Tap out to yield. No magic of any kind.”
“Agreed.”
“And this is a training exercise. Not a?—”
“Not a what?” Fergal raised an eyebrow.
Gregor’s jaw tightened. “Begin.”
The first few minutes were instructional, despite Fergal’s best efforts. Gregor corrected his stance twice, adjusted his guard, demonstrated a hip throw in slow motion before letting Fergal attempt it at speed. He was patient, methodical, professional. Teaching, not fighting.
Fergal hit him. Not a training tap—a real strike, fast and hard, catching Gregor’s ribs just below his guard.
