The guard blinked. “Your Highness, Ruben is already on his way to investigate.”
Ruben. The man who couldn’t find his own ass with a flashlight and a map. Who was, most likely, completely under Duncan’s control. That wouldn’t do. He turned to Gregor. “I’m naming you commander of the Fitzgeralds, effectively immediately.”
Gregor nodded, but the guard’s mouth dropped open. “Your Highness, I’m?—”
“Your Majesty,” Gregor interrupted him, his tone frigid. “He’s King Fergal now, and your king just gave an order, son.”
The guard snapped to attention. “Yes, Commander.”
Gregor turned to the guard, and the transformation was instantaneous. The man who’d just pulled Fergal from the edge of shock became the commander—cold, efficient, lethal. “Callback Ruben and lock down the compound. No one enters or leaves. Double the perimeter guard. And no one, and I mean no one, touches the crime scene until I’ve examined it.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And find Duncan and Donovan. I want to know where they are right now. Not where they say they are, but where they actually are. Verify independently.”
The guard hesitated. “Sir, they’re senior advisors. I’m not sure I have the authority to?—”
“Consider it a direct order from the king.” Gregor’s tone left no room for discussion. “Go.”
The guard hurried out, his mind probably swimming with all the orders he’d been given.
They were alone in the library. The fire popped and hissed. The Codex lay open on the table, its pages yellowed with age, the section on emergency succession staring up at them like a prophecy.
Fergal looked at Gregor. “You think it was them.”
“Yes.” Gregor’s jaw tightened. “I also think that whoever did this will have a story ready. A convenient enemy to blame. Evidence that points anywhere but at them.”
Dragon slayers. That was what they’d say. Fergal could see it coming with the clarity of a legal argument laid out in precedent and proof. The dragon slayers killed the king, just as they’d killed dragons for centuries. Always in dragon form because their oath required that, so it fit perfectly. A tragic, unprovoked attack by an ancient enemy. Rally the clan. Close ranks. And in the chaos and grief, who would question the advisors who stepped up to guide the young, inexperienced new king?
“I need to see him,” Fergal said.
Gregor’s hand tightened on his arm. “Not yet. Let me examine the scene first…and assess the state of his body.”
“He’s my father, Gregor.”
The words came out broken, cracked down the middle by a grief that surprised Fergal with its ferocity. He’d spent years frustrated with his father, years angry at his failures and his cowardice, years wishing for a father and even more, for a king who was different. But underneath all of that frustration and anger, he was still a boy who’d lost his mother at twelve, his brother shortly after that, and who had wanted, desperately and uselessly, for his remaining parent to see him. To be proud of him. To choose him over the sycophants and the whiskey and the willful blindness.
That chance was gone now. Whatever conversation Fergal had hoped they’d eventually have—the one where the king finally listened, finally understood, finally said the words Fergal had been waiting his whole life to hear—it was never going to happen.
His eyes burned. He blinked hard, forcing the tears back. Not here. Not yet. He could grieve later, in private, when the compound was secure, the immediate threats were contained, and he didn’t have a hundred dragons looking to him for leadership he wasn’t ready to provide.
“I know he’s your father.” Gregor’s voice was so quiet that Fergal almost missed it. His hand slid from Fergal’s arm to the back of his neck—a touch so intimate and so unlike anything Gregor had ever done in a space where they could be seen that it short-circuited Fergal’s attempt at composure entirely. “And I’m sorry. I am so sorry, Fergal. But right now, I need you to let me do my job. Let me make sure it’s safe. Then I’ll take you to him myself.”
Fergal nodded because he didn’t trust his voice.
“And, Fergal?” Gregor’s hand was warm and steady against his neck, his thumb brushing the hair at Fergal’s nape in a motion that was almost certainly unconscious. “You’re the king now. Which means your safety is the single most importantthing in this compound. I’m not leaving your side. Not tonight, not tomorrow, not until I understand what happened and who’s responsible. Is that clear?”
“Crystal.” Fergal’s voice was rough, but it held. He straightened his shoulders, the way his mother had taught him when he was small. Spine first, then the rest. “Go secure the scene. I’ll be right here.”
Gregor hesitated. The conflict was visible—the tactical need to examine the scene warring with the visceral refusal to leave Fergal alone.
“I’ll be right here,” Fergal repeated. “In the library. Where the door locks, the windows don’t open, and you’ve placed enough wards to stop a small army. I’ll be fine for twenty minutes.”
The ghost of something that was almost a smile crossed Gregor’s face. “You’ve been paying attention to my security measures.”
“I’ve been paying attention to everything about you for years. One would think you’d have noticed by now.”
Gregor held his gaze for a beat, and in that brief, unguarded moment, everything he’d been hiding all morning was right there. Not behind a wall. Not locked away. Just there, raw and real and blazing, and it said everything his careful words wouldn’t.
