We should know what we’re killing, and why, and for whom.
He heard Maeve’s voice, as clearly as if she were sitting across from him with her tea and her sharp dark eyes. Duff setthe papers down on the table, next to the mold-covered mug, and sat in the chair that had been Maeve’s. Her chair. It still smelled faintly of her—wool and wood smoke and the lavender soap she made herself.
He should walk away. Every instinct Maeve had helped sharpen, every doubt she’d given him permission to feel, said this was wrong. He was being used. He’d been used for years. The sacred oath was a leash, and the hand holding it belonged to the very creatures he’d sworn to destroy.
But if he walked away, it was over. The Bás line ended. His father’s life would mean nothing. Every ancestor who had taken the oath, every slayer who’d died in the name of the cause, all of it would become pointless. And Duff couldn’t carry that. Not on top of Maeve and Thomas and Henry and all the rest.
And there was something else. Something that burned hotter than the dying ember, hotter than grief, hotter than the betrayal coiling in his stomach.
He wanted answers.
He wanted to understand what was really going on. Who was pulling the strings and why? He wanted to follow the trail wherever it led because that was what hunters did. That was also what Maeve would’ve wanted—not blind obedience to an oath that had been corrupted, but the truth. The actual, ugly, complicated truth.
So he’d go to Sweden. He’d set the trap and catch the crown prince and his wolf. Not for the anonymous dragon who’d sent the cream-colored envelope. Not for the sacred oath or the Bás legacy or any of the things he used to believe in with such unshakable certainty. But for Maeve. For the truth.
And for the small, desperate hope that somewhere in this mess, there was something worth believing in that wasn’t built on lies.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Gregor stood at the registration table in the center of the tent camp for the Dragon Council, running through his mental checklist for the hundredth time. The perimeter wards were active and stable. He’d set and verified the guard rotations. Fergal’s personal security detail had been handpicked by Gregor himself. Two men he’d vetted thoroughly and one he trusted marginally, which was the best he could manage given that he trusted exactly one person completely and that person was currently in the royal tent preparing for the most important diplomatic event of his life.
The camp sprawled across a plateau of moss-covered rock in the Swedish Arctic, a collection of camouflaged tents that blended into the landscape of rusty-brown and blue-green vegetation. From a distance, you’d never know it was there, aided by some powerful spells. From up close, the luxury inside the tents betrayed the occupants’ status—sheepskin rugs, solid wooden furniture, full-size beds hauled in by teleportation and sheer stubbornness. Dragons might agree to meet in the wilderness, but they drew the line at sleeping on the ground.
The setting was strategic. No human habitation for a hundred miles in any direction. An open terrain that made itimpossible for anyone to approach unseen. The constant wind carried scents from miles away, and the lack of tree cover meant aerial surveillance was unobstructed. If anyone tried to attack the Council, they’d be spotted long before they arrived.
That didn’t stop Gregor from mentally running threat scenarios on a continuous loop. The threats he was most concerned about were already inside the camp.
The Murphys had arrived two days ago. King Ennis, looking so much frailer than the last time Gregor had seen him, supported by his advisor Tynan. And behind them, the real power—Alistair, Kerry, and Dempsey. Gregor had watched them set up their tents in the northeast corner and had cataloged every face, every interaction, every exchange of glances. He’d spent a hundred and fifty years among men like them. He knew their body language the way a sailor knew the sea—the currents beneath the surface, the storms building behind calm skies.
They’d greeted Fergal with an elaborate courtesy that made Gregor’s skin crawl. All smiles and “Your Majesty” and carefully calibrated deference that was designed to make a young king feel welcome while simultaneously assessing every weakness. Kerry, in particular, had been smooth—complimenting Fergal’s appearance, expressing condolences about Lorcan, asking questions about the Fitzgerald clan’s well-being that were really intelligence-gathering disguised as small talk.
Fergal had handled it beautifully. The regal mask he’d perfected over the past two months—polished, sharp-tongued, revealing nothing—had been flawless. He’d matched Kerry’s courtesy with his own, deflected probing questions with legal precision, and maintained the kind of composed authority that made Gregor’s chest tight with pride.
But underneath the mask, Gregor knew Fergal was terrified. He’d felt it last night when they’d lain in the darkness of the royal tent, Fergal’s back against his chest, Fergal’s hand grippinghis so tightly that Gregor’s fingers had gone numb. Neither of them had slept much.
The O’Connors had arrived yesterday. King Donál had been exactly as Gregor had expected—cautious to the point of paralysis, accompanied by his commander Oscar, who was competent in the way that a mid-level bureaucrat was competent. They wouldn’t cause problems, but they wouldn’t help either. They’d wait, watch, and commit to nothing until the outcome was already decided.
King Cladhaire and his brother had arrived by themselves without any entourage. The sight of them had nearly cost Gregor his composure. It was true then. The Doyles had resurfaced. What the hell was going on there? The two men didn’t seem threatening—they looked diminished, older, two men clinging to titles they no longer deserved—but appearances could be deceiving.
The younger man beside him—Brennan’s nephew Andrew, who was serving as Gregor’s administrative assistant for the Council—shifted in his seat. “Commander, do you want more coffee?”
“No.” Gregor’s eyes swept the camp for the four-hundredth time that morning. Quiet. The Murphy contingent was in their tents. The O’Connors were taking a walk along the southern ridge. King Cladhaire hadn’t emerged yet. All according to pattern.
“Bit boring, isn’t it?” Andrew ventured. “I expected more…drama.”
“The drama hasn’t started yet.” Gregor didn’t elaborate.
If his years with the Murphys had taught him anything, it was that the dangerous moments at gatherings like these didn’t happen in the formal sessions. They happened in the margins, in the private conversations, the chance encounters, the alliances formed over drinks after the official business was done.
Movement at the eastern entrance caught his attention. Two men. They were about the same height, both broadly built, but one had darker hair and radiated a calm energy, while the other was more dirty blond and had a looser, more aggressive attitude. He’d never seen either one of them.
The two guards spoke with them for a moment, accepting some kind of paper. Gregor watched their shocked reaction, and something inside him stirred. Old magic rolled over him. Powerful magic. He sat up straight. Who were these two?
The guards sent them in, and Gregor rose, as did Andrew.
“Stay here,” he told Andrew. He intercepted the two men fifty yards from the registration table, positioning himself in their path.
They stopped. The dark-haired one met his eyes directly, and Gregor felt a flicker of something—recognition, maybe, though he was certain they’d never met. There was something about the man’s bearing, the way he held himself, the quiet intensity behind those dark eyes. But it was the other one who held Gregor’s attention. He couldn’t get a read on the man, nor on his dragon. Why was that?
