Fergal quirked an eyebrow. “Let me? Pretty sure I’m the one in charge here.”
Gregor’s mouth pulled up at the corners, not enough to call it a full smile, but the amusement was clear. “Pretty sure we both know better.”
Fergal decided he’d fight that battle another day. Preferably when they were in private, so he could let it play out the way it inevitably would.
“The challenge is that I’ve never been to a Dragon Council,” Gregor said. “So I only know in theory what to expect.”
“I did attend five years ago, but my father refused to let me out of our tent other than for official meetings, so I didn’t see much of it.”
“You know what’s interesting?” At Fergal’s quirked eyebrow, Gregor continued, “Every Council is supposed to have official annals, recorded meeting notes. I can’t find any from after 1822.”
Fergal frowned. “But there have been Councils. I know there have been because my father and uncle always attended. Hell, I attended myself five years ago. And there are no records?”
“No official ones.”
“Care to speculate as to why?”
“I honestly have no idea.”
Fergal sighed. “One more item to add to our ever-growing list of questions.”
They spent another hour going over Council protocols, historical precedents, and political dynamics. Gregor’s knowledge was staggering—he might’ve been kept out of everything during his years with the Murphy clan and never attended one, but he’d spent the decades since devouring every piece of information he could find about inter-clan politics. He walked Fergal through the seating arrangements, the voting procedures, the unwritten rules of engagement that governed how kings interacted behind closed doors.
By the time they finished, the sun had set and the compound had shifted into its evening rhythm. Gregor gathered his materials and stood, the commander once more—formal, professional, preparing to leave the king’s office and resume his duties.
“Gregor.”
He paused at the door.
“Your things.” Fergal kept his voice casual, though his heart was beating faster than the situation warranted. “I noticed you brought your books over. And your daggers.”
A muscle twitched in Gregor’s jaw. “Security measures. It’s practical to keep weapons within reach.”
“And the books?”
“I read before sleep. You know this.”
“I do know this. I also know that your toothbrush is in my bathroom, your spare shirts are in my wardrobe, and your tea is in my kitchen.” Fergal met his gaze, holding it steady. “You’ve moved in, Gregor. You just haven’t admitted it yet.”
The silence stretched. Gregor stood at the door, caught between the public corridor and the private room, between the commander who should maintain appropriate quarters of his own and the man who hadn’t slept apart from Fergal since the night his world changed.
“It’s a security arrangement,” Gregor said, but there was no conviction behind it, and they both knew it.
“Right. Security.” Fergal allowed himself the smallest smile. “Well, for security purposes, you should know that I had Valerie bring over the rest of your things this afternoon. They’re in the wardrobe. Next to mine.”
Gregor opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. Then his jaw tightened in that way that meant he was fighting a losing battle with his own composure. “You had no right to?—”
“I’m the king. I have the right to do whatever I want, apparently. Everyone keeps telling me so. I might as well take advantage of it for something that actually matters.”
The look Gregor gave him would’ve made lesser men cower. But beneath the exasperation, beneath the rigid propriety and the military discipline, there was something else. Something warm and helpless and so deeply, painfully grateful that it made Fergal’s chest ache.
“Security arrangement,” Gregor repeated, as if saying it firmly enough would make it true.
“Absolutely. The most secure arrangement possible.” Fergal’s smile widened. “Now go do your evening patrol so you can come home.”
Home. The word landed between them with a weight neither of them had expected. Fergal hadn’t planned to say it, but there it was, hanging in the air like a held breath.
Gregor stared at him for three heartbeats. Then the corner of his mouth lifted and he turned and walked out.
