Fergal stopped pacing. “Someone else’s voice.”
The words landed in the quiet workshop like a blade hitting stone. “Explain.”
“Not literally. It’s more like…residue. When someone communicates with you repeatedly—instructions, directives, expectations—it leaves an imprint. Like footprints in snow. Like, I bet that if you could read my mind, you’d recognize your own voice from all the years you’ve taught me.”
Gregor nodded that he understood.
“Duncan’s mind is full of them. Thoughts that don’t originate from him, phrases that feel rehearsed rather than organic. And underneath all of it, an emotional signature that tastes like—” He searched for the word. “Obedience. Not the natural kind. The trained kind.”
“He’s taking orders.”
“He’s been taking orders for years, is my guess. Whatever he’s doing here, it’s not his own initiative. He’s a tool. A well-placed, carefully managed tool.”
“Could you identify the handler?”
Fergal’s expression darkened. “That’s where it gets complicated. I pushed deeper, tried to follow those imported thoughts back to their source, and I hit a wall. Not Duncan’s own defenses—something external. Wards placed over specific memories. They were sophisticated enough that I couldn’t even see the edges clearly. Whoever shielded him knew exactly what they were protecting against.”
“Shielded by someone with significant magical training then.”
“Very significant. The kind of training that doesn’t come from a minor clan offshoot that disbanded decades ago.” He met Gregor’s eyes. “The kind that comes from a clan that takes magical training very, very seriously.”
They looked at each other, and the unspoken conclusion hung between them like smoke.
The Murphys.
“We can’t prove it,” Gregor said.
“No. Everything connecting him to whoever placed those wards is behind that shield. I could feel the answers right there, Gregor. Inches away. And I couldn’t reach them without going so deep he’d feel me inside his skull.”
“You did the right thing.”
“I know.” Fergal dragged both hands through his hair, pulling the messy bun loose until black waves fell around his shoulders. A gesture of frustration Gregor had seen a thousand times, and that still, every time, made his fingers itch to smooth those strands back from Fergal’s face. “But it doesn’t feel like enough. Duncan is in there right now, sitting in my father’s hall, drinking my father’s ale, and he’s a puppet. And the person pulling his strings is sitting somewhere out there, laughing at all of us.”
“Not laughing. Planning. There’s a difference, and it matters. Whoever is running this operation is patient. Methodical. They’ve invested years in placing Duncan and Donovan. That kind of patience speaks to a long-term objective, not a quick strike.”
“Which means whatever they’re planning hasn’t happened yet.”
“Correct. Which means we still have time to figure out what it is.”
Fergal leaned against the workbench again, this time close enough that his arm pressed against Gregor’s. The contact was warm through two layers of fabric. Gregor didn’t move away.
“What do we do?” Fergal asked.
“What I said before. We watch. We document. We limit their access where we can. And we protect what matters.”
“That could take years.”
“Then it takes years.”
Fergal turned his head, and they were close—close enough that Gregor could see the individual lashes framing those sharp brown eyes, could count the places where his beard grew slightly thicker along his jaw. “You said what I did tonight was extraordinary.”
“I said you were remarkable. There’s a difference.”
“Is there?”
“An action can be extraordinary. A person is remarkable. The distinction matters.”
Fergal stared at him, and something shifted in his expression—the frustration and fear draining away like water, replaced by something open and raw and wondering. “You think I’m remarkable.”
