He extended his hand, hoping they’d take the bait so he could do a quick scan. “Gregor, Commander of the Fitzgeralds.”
The dark-haired one ignored his hand, standing a little straighter. “King Erwan Doyle of the True Doyle clan. And this is my mate Rhene Hightower.”
Gregor’s world tilted. That’s why the man had looked somewhat familiar—Crown Prince Erwan of the Doyles. Gregor immediately understood the silent challenge behind that introduction. The True Doyle clan label meant he was challenging his father’s authority, his very right to the throne. How very, very brave of him. Or did he not know what his father had tried to do to him?
A crowd was gathering. The announcement had carried, and men were emerging from tents, conversations dying mid-sentence. Gregor could feel the shift in the camp’s energy—the sudden alertness, the tension ratcheting up like a wire being tightened.
He pulled back his outstretched hand. “The True Doyle clan?”
“Yes.”
He delivered that one word with a composure that was either genuine confidence or an exceptional performance. Gregor couldn’t tell which, and that in itself was impressive. He could usually read anyone within thirty seconds.
“Care to explain that?” He had to keep up appearances, couldn’t let anyone know how much he already knew about this, about Erwan, about all of it. Besides, the Fitzgeralds were chairing the Council, and he had to maintain some level of impartiality, or they’d lose all moral high ground.
Erwan’s mate—Rhene—handed over a set of documents. Gregor took them, scanning the pages with practiced efficiency. Legal papers, meticulously prepared, laid out a claim that Cladhaire and Baoth had used dark magic to kill their own father, had attempted to murder their children, and had violated the Code in multiple documented instances. The papers bore the official seal of Emma, the granddaughter of Seamus the Librarian, and that alone gave Gregor pause.
His blood went cold. All of this confirmed what Fergal and he had speculated on, what they had theorized about. The documentation was detailed enough that they had credibility, especially with Emma’s signature on them. The Doyle succession dispute was about to blow the Council wide open. And the men accused of these crimes were sleeping a hundred yards away.
“That’s one hell of an accusation, son,” he said, his mind reeling. How did he respond to this? How could he establishneutrality while at the same time offer support for this claim to be taken seriously? How he wished Fergal was here so he’d have his sharp legal mind to weigh in.
“First of all, it’s not an accusation, as we have proof.” Erwan’s voice hardened, the tremor gone now, replaced by something steely. “And second, I’m not your son. I’m King Erwan, and you’ll address me as such.”
Gregor looked up from the papers. The young man’s dark eyes blazed with a conviction that went beyond performance. This was real. Whatever else might be uncertain about this situation, Erwan Doyle spoke the truth with the conviction of someone who had truth and honor on his side. With the conviction of a white dragon.
And underneath that conviction, Gregor saw something else. Something he recognized because he’d spent decades watching it develop in another young man who stood too tall for his age and fought too hard for what was right and carried too much weight on shoulders that hadn’t had time to broaden.
He saw Fergal.
His mind was made up. He would stand with the White Dragon.
“My apologies, King Erwan,” Gregor said. He turned to Andrew, whose mouth was hanging open. “His papers are legit. Find a tent for him and his consort.”
He felt the disturbance before he saw it—a ripple in the camp’s energy, the unmistakable signature of dark magic being barely contained. Then Cladhaire was there, materializing from between the tents, Baoth a half-step behind as always. The old king’s face was a mask of cold fury, and the air around him crackled with suppressed power.
“What the fuck are you doing here?” Cladhaire snapped at Erwan.
Gregor’s hand moved to his sidearm. Cladhaire’s proximity to two unprotected newcomers in a camp full of potential enemies set every tactical alarm in his body screaming.
“I’ve disinherited him, so he has no legal ground to be here,” Cladhaire snarled, directing this at Gregor, as if expecting the commander of the Fitzgeralds to do his bidding.
“Your Majesty, he’s got papers showing he’s claiming to be the king of the True Doyle clan. Under the Code, I have no choice but to allow him to present his claim to us.”
Gregor kept his voice even, though his mind was running scenarios at combat speed. He couldn’t let this escalate now. They had to follow procedures, walk through the process the Code had established, or there would be no legitimacy. He’d cited the Code deliberately. It was the one authority that superseded even kings in this setting, the one framework all clans had agreed to abide by. If Cladhaire wanted to challenge Erwan’s presence, he’d have to do it through proper channels, not through intimidation.
Small puffs of steam escaped Cladhaire’s nostrils. The old dragon was close to losing control, close to shifting, and if he did, the situation would escalate beyond anyone’s ability to contain it. Around the gathering crowd, hands moved to weapons. The tension was a physical thing, pressing against Gregor’s skin like a change in barometric pressure.
“What have you done?” Cladhaire bellowed at his son, and Gregor felt for Erwan. To have his father scream at him like that in front of everyone was a rejection of the very public, very humiliating kind.
Every muscle in Gregor’s body was tense, his mind racing at full speed. What would he do if things went south? How quickly would he be able to get to Fergal?
“You have no right to be here!” Baoth yelled at Erwan and gestured wildly at Gregor—as if that made any impression on him. “Have your guards remove these two!”
Then Erwan spoke, and everything changed. “I am King Erwan Doyle, king of the True Doyle clan, established after my father and uncle used dark magic to kill my grandfather and others. They have also tried to have me and my brothers killed, tortured the granddaughter of Seamus the Librarian, and we have evidence of more crimes. The Code grants me the legal and moral right to lead the True Doyle clan, and I have honor and truth on my side.”
The words rang across the camp with a clarity that silenced every murmur, stilled every hand. Gregor had heard many speeches in his three and a half centuries—from kings and commanders and revolutionaries and madmen—and he recognized the difference between rhetoric and truth. This was truth. Raw, unpolished truth, carrying the weight of something bigger and deeper.
Cladhaire’s hand shot out toward his son, dark magic gathering at his fingertips, and before Gregor could react, Rhene had shifted. One instant, the man was standing beside Erwan, and the next, a massive gray wolf stood in his place, positioning himself between Erwan and Cladhaire with a speed that defied physics. The growl that erupted from his chest was deep, primal, vibrating at a frequency Gregor felt in his bones, and Cladhaire staggered backward.
