“Dragon-slayer patterns.”
“Historically associated with dragon slayers, yes.” Gregor’s tone carried a careful emphasis on “historically associated” that told Fergal everything about what Gregor actually thought. “The weaponsmith confirmed that these bolts were designed to pierce scaled armor at distances under fifty yards, which is consistent with the position of the shooters relative to the landing site.”
“So on the surface, it looks exactly like a dragon-slayer attack.”
“On the surface, it’s textbook.”
Fergal leaned back. “And beneath the surface?”
Gregor glanced at the door, a habit he’d developed since the assassination, always checking, always assessing. “The craftsmanship is too good. Dragon slayers have been in decline for decades. Their resources are depleted, their numbers diminished. These bolts required expensive materials, specialized equipment, and significant expertise. That’s inconsistent with an organization on its last legs.”
“Unless they had outside funding.”
“Or unless someone else made the bolts and wanted them to look like dragon-slayer work.”
They held each other’s gazes for a beat. This was a conversation they’d had over the past two weeks in whispered exchanges in their bedroom, in coded language during official briefings, in the silent communication of two people who’d learned to read each other’s expressions with the fluency of a shared language.
They both knew what they suspected. They both knew they couldn’t prove it.
“There’s something else,” Gregor said. He pulled a printed page from the folder and slid it across the table.
Fergal picked it up. It was an email sent to the clan’s official address, the one used for diplomatic communications between clans. He read it once, then again, automatically dissecting every word.
Dear King Fergal,
So young, and yet you are king, thanks to the bolts that pierced your father’s and uncle’s armor. By the way, you’re welcome for killing your uncle as well. We’re pretty sure he would’ve taken the throne otherwise instead of you. It’s yours. For now.
We have sworn a sacred oath to eliminate all dragons and will not rest until our holy mission, until this righteous campaign is fulfilled. So you may want to watch your back, young king.
Until we meet again,
Duff Bás
Fergal set the paper down.His hand wanted to tremble, so he flattened it against the table and held it there until the impulse passed. “When did this arrive?”
“This morning. I intercepted it before it reached anyone else.”
“Good.” Fergal stared at the signature. Duff Bás. The most legendary name in dragon-slayer history. A name that had been used to frighten dragon children for centuries—the boogeyman made flesh, the killer in the dark. “This is what Duncan and Donovan have been waiting for. The official claim. Now they can point to this and say, ‘See? We told you it was the slayers.’”
“Yes.”
“How convenient that they were already pushing that narrative before this email existed.”
“Very convenient.”
Fergal picked up the email again, forcing himself to read it with the analytical detachment of a lawyer rather than the raw grief of a son. “The language is strange. It’s a weird mix of colloquial modern language and the formality of centuries ago.”
“Agreed.”
“And the delivery method. Email?” Fergal almost laughed. “A secret society that’s survived for centuries by staying invisible suddenly sends a traceable digital communication to a diplomatic address?”
“Also agreed.”
“And the signature.” Fergal tapped the name at the bottom. “Duff Bás. That’s like signing a ransom noteThe Boogeyman. No real operative would use the most famous name in their organization’s history. It’s designed to frighten, not to communicate.”
Gregor’s eyes held something that looked almost like pride. “You’d have made an excellent intelligence analyst.”
“I’m a lawyer. Same skill set, fewer weapons.” Fergal set the email down and met Gregor’s gaze. “I want to respond.”
