“No.”
“I could?—”
“No.” Gregor’s voice was quiet but absolute. “Responding confirms receipt. It establishes a communication channel theycan exploit. It potentially reveals our analytical capabilities if we challenge the content. And it tips them off that we’re not buying the narrative.”
Fergal clenched his jaw. Gregor was right—tactically, strategically, in every way that mattered—but the part of him that was twenty-six years old and furious and grieving wanted to reach through that email and grab whoever sent it by the throat.
“We play dumb,” Gregor continued. “Publicly, we accept the claim at face value. Let Duncan and Donovan think their narrative is holding. Let whoever sent this think we’re convinced. The moment they believe we’re not looking at them is the moment they get careless.”
“And how long do we maintain that fiction?”
“As long as it takes.”
Patience as strategy. Gregor’s favorite weapon, and Fergal’s least favorite virtue. “Fine.” Fergal exhaled. “But I want everything we have on the real Duff Bás, if he even exists. If someone is using his name, I want to know who he actually is, where he is, and whether he’s involved or if his identity has been stolen.”
“I’ll begin the research today.”
“And I want everything on the dragon slayers—their history, their methods, their known operatives, their organizational structure. If we’re going to pretend we believe this email, we need to understand the organization well enough to ask the right questions publicly while investigating the real killers privately.”
Gregor nodded. “We’ve always had a thick file on them, obviously, but I will put some men on updating it. That won’t raise suspicion, as it would fit the narrative of us believing the dragon slayers are behind this.”
Fergal gathered the papers and returned them to the folder. “Keep me posted.”
Gregor took the folder and paused, his hand resting on it. “There’s one more thing. The Dragon Council.”
Right. The Dragon Council. The gathering of all four dragon clans—or three now, since the Doyles had been in hiding for two centuries—held every five years on a rotating basis. And it was the Fitzgeralds’ turn to lead.
“It’s in two months in the Arctic Circle of Sweden,” Gregor said. “Your father had already made all the arrangements before…” He cleared his throat. “The other clans will expect the new king to attend and to chair the proceedings. It’s tradition, and deviating from it would be seen as weakness.”
Fergal’s stomach tightened. Two months. Two months to learn how to be king, to navigate clan politics he’d only studied in theory, to face the leaders of the Murphy and O’Connor clans—one of which he was increasingly certain had orchestrated his father’s murder. “What do we know about the other leaders?”
“King Ennis of the Murphys is old and, from what I’ve heard, increasingly sidelined by his own advisors. Alistair is his commander and the real power in the clan. Kerry is their chief strategist, and he’s dangerous—smart, smooth, and completely without scruples.”
“You know them from your time with the Murphys.”
“Yes, but I also know their type. They’ll test you the moment you walk in. They’ll probe for weakness, try to establish dominance, and if they sense inexperience, they’ll exploit it.”
“Reassuring.” Fergal rubbed his temples. “And the O’Connors?”
“King Donál. Risk-averse to the point of cowardice. He’ll abstain from anything controversial and wait to see which way the wind blows before committing. His commander, Oscar, is competent but uninspired.”
“So we have the Murphys who want to destroy us and the O’Connors who’ll watch it happen.”
“Unless you give them a reason not to.”
Fergal looked at him. “What kind of reason?”
“You’re a blank canvas to them. They’ve never met you. They have no idea what kind of king you’ll be. That’s a disadvantage because you’re untested, but it’s also an opportunity because you’re undefined. They’ll come in with expectations based on your father, and if you defy those expectations, you’ll unbalance them.”
“How?”
“By being exactly who you are.” Gregor’s voice softened, just enough that Fergal felt the shift from commander to something more personal. “The man who cited the Code to his father. The man who refuses to look away from injustice. The man with a law degree and a mind sharp enough to outmaneuver anyone in that room, including me.”
Fergal swallowed against the tightness in his throat. Two weeks of being king, and this was still the thing that undid him most reliably—Gregor’s quiet, unsolicited belief in him.
“You’re attending the Council with me,” Fergal said. It wasn’t a question.
“I wouldn’t let you go without me.”
