“But it doesn’t say the mate has to be royal.”
“No. The Code is silent on the rank of the chosen mate.”
“So theoretically, a prince could mate with anyone. A commoner, a member of another clan, even someone who holds a position within the prince’s own household.”
The briefest pause. So brief that if Fergal hadn’t been watching for it with every fiber of his being, he would’ve missed it entirely. “Theoretically, yes. Though in practice, such a match would likely face significant political opposition.”
“Political opposition isn’t the same as legal prohibition.”
“No, it isn’t.”
Fergal leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. This brought him closer to Gregor, close enough to catch the faint scent of cedar and woodsmoke that clung to him. “What about age differences? Does the Code address that?”
Another pause. Longer this time. “The Code does not regulate age differences between mates. Given that dragons can live for hundreds of years, such differences are considered inconsequential.”
“Inconsequential. Interesting word choice.”
Gregor’s jaw tightened. Just a fraction. Just enough. “It’s the word the Code uses.”
“And what word would you use?”
Gregor looked at him. Those gray eyes, usually so carefully neutral, held something Fergal couldn’t quite name. Warning, maybe. Or something deeper. “I would use the word ‘irrelevant,’ Your Highness, as the topic has no practical application to today’s lesson.”
Fergal reached for the book they’d been referencing, deliberately choosing the copy that sat on Gregor’s side of the table rather than his own. His hand brushed Gregor’s as he picked it up—a whisper of contact, knuckles against knuckles—and Gregor’s fingers twitched.
“Sorry,” Fergal murmured, not sorry at all.
“Section Twelve E,” Gregor said, his voice dropping half a register. “Shall we continue?”
There it was. That drop in his voice. The same thing Fergal had noticed before—a subtle shift in pitch that Gregor probably didn’t even know he was doing. It happened when Fergal got close. Not every time, but often enough that it couldn’t be a coincidence.
Fergal opened the book to a random page, pretending to study it while his heart hammered against his ribs. He should stop. He should pull back, return to the safe ground of academicdiscussion, and stop testing boundaries Gregor clearly wanted to keep in place.
But Fergal had never been good at leaving well enough alone.
“Have you ever wanted something you knew you shouldn’t have?” he asked, keeping his eyes on the page.
Silence.
Fergal looked up.
Gregor was watching him with an expression Fergal had never seen before, something raw and unguarded that was gone so quickly it might’ve been a trick of the firelight. But it wasn’t.
“I think that’s enough for today.” Gregor’s voice was perfectly steady. His hands, as he gathered his books, were perfectly steady. Everything about him was perfectly, infuriatingly steady, except for the muscle that jumped once in his jaw before he locked it down.
“Gregor—”
“Same time tomorrow, Your Highness.”
He was gone before Fergal could say another word, the library door closing behind him with a soft, definitive click.
Fergal sat alone in the firelit room, the book still open in his lap to a page he hadn’t read. Outside, the wind howled across the frozen landscape, rattling the windows in their frames. The compound was quiet, as it always was. A hundred dragons living in a space that felt like the edge of the world, and somehow, Fergal still felt like the loneliest person in it.
He closed his eyes and let out a long, slow breath.
His mother would’ve known what to do. She’d been warm where his father was distant, perceptive where Lorcan was oblivious. She would’ve seen right through Fergal’s bravado and found the aching thing underneath. She would’ve told him whether he was brave or just stupid.
But his mother was gone, taken by an illness that had moved so fast there’d barely been time to say goodbye. Fergal had beentwelve, old enough to understand and young enough that the loss had reshaped the entire architecture of his world.
