“Good. The sooner we piece this together, the better.” He took another sip of coffee. “Any word on Rhene?”
Gregor shook his head. “Nothing. Erwan is barely holding it together.”
The weight of that settled over Fergal like a familiar yoke. Another king carrying too much. If anything ever happened to Gregor—if Gregor disappeared the way Rhene had, vanished into the wilderness without a trace—Fergal would tear the world apart to find him. He wouldn’t eat, wouldn’t sleep, wouldn’t stop until he’d found him.
“Don’t,” Gregor said quietly, reading his expression. “I’m right here.”
Fergal exhaled. “I know. I just…”
“I know.” Gregor poured his tea and leaned against the counter beside Fergal, close enough that their shoulders touched. The warmth of that casual contact was everything.
They showered and dressed, and Fergal took a few minutes to explore the cabin properly. The bedroom was cozy—a double bed with a thick quilt, a nightstand on each side, a wardrobe that Gregor had already organized with his four identical dark shirts on one side and Fergal’s considerably more varied collection on the other. The bathroom was small but had decent water pressure, which, after three weeks of icy streams and borrowed showers, felt like the height of luxury. The kitchen had everything they needed, and nothing they didn’t, and the living area held a worn couch, a bookshelf, and a wood-burning stove that Gregor had already stocked with kindling.
It was a home. Their first real home—a space that belonged to both of them equally, without the pretense that one was the king’s chambers and the other was a “security arrangement.”
Fergal stood in the middle of the living room and let that sink in.
“Ready?” Gregor appeared in the doorway, fully dressed now, his commander persona sliding into place.
“Ready.”
The Hightower pack lands were beautiful. After months in the frozen north, the warmth of this southern green landscape felt almost tropical. Rolling fields stretched in every direction, bordered by forests and higher mountains in the distance. Horses and cows grazed in pastures, a couple of goats chased each other in a pen, and a few pigs lazily lounged in a muddy patch. Chickens were walking around freely, and Fergal caught a big tomcat chasing what he assumed was a mouse.
But what struck him most wasn’t the landscape but the people in it. Wolves and dragons moved through the compound with an ease that Fergal had never witnessed in anydragon community. An omega carrying a basket of vegetables exchanged a joke with an alpha guard, who laughed and held a gate open for him. Two dragon omegas sat on a porch, one knitting while the other read aloud from a book, their legs tangled together with casual intimacy. A wolf beta crossed the yard carrying a toddler on his hip, pausing to exchange a few words with a dragon alpha who was repairing a fence.
No flinching. No bowing. No downcast eyes or fearful deference. People were living and working together as if equality between wolves and dragons, between alphas and betas and omegas, was as natural as breathing.
Gregor walked beside him, and Fergal didn’t miss the way his commander’s sharp eyes were cataloging the same things. The subtle widening of his gaze when an omega playfully swatted an alpha’s arm. The almost imperceptible tilt of his head when two dragon omegas walked past, holding hands. The way his steps slowed for a few beats as they passed a cabin where a wolf omega sat on the front step feeding a baby a bottle while an alpha knelt beside him, adjusting a blanket with obvious tenderness.
Gregor didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to. Fergal could read the longing in the line of his shoulders, in the way his hand twitched at his side as if it wanted to reach for Fergal’s, but the old habit of public restraint was too deeply ingrained.
Fergal reached over and laced their fingers together.
Gregor stiffened for a fraction of a second, but then his fingers tightened around Fergal’s, and something in his posture shifted. He hadn’t fully relaxed—Fergal suspected Gregor didn’t have that setting—but he’d settled. As if a piece that had been slightly out of alignment had clicked into place.
They walked through the pack hand in hand, and no one stared.
The meeting took place in what everyone called “the main house”—a newly built farmhouse that still smelled of freshlumber and that served as the administrative and social heart of the Hightower pack. It had been rebuilt after burning down in the attack, the one claimed by the dragon slayers, Fergal had learned.
The kitchen was enormous, clearly designed as a communal space, and the table they gathered around was large enough to seat twelve. Erwan sat at the head, looking like he hadn’t slept in days. His hair was pulled back, his face drawn, his eyes haunted. Fergal recognized the expression. He’d seen it in his own mirror during the weeks after his father’s assassination, when Gregor had been the only thing keeping him upright.
Erwan’s brothers introduced themselves. Jermon was the second oldest, an alpha with the same kind brown eyes as Erwan. He was a father to four hatchlings, he explained, and Fergal couldn’t wait to meet them. He hadn’t seen hatchlings in decades. The fertility rate in their clan had declined, just like in other clans. Then came Nadiv, who had a quick smile and a joke that lightened the mood, followed by Valdis, the youngest.
Fergal bowed his head when he was introduced to Emma. “Your reputation precedes you. It’s an honor to meet you.”
She flashed him a smile. “You mean my grandfather’s reputation.”
Ah, she had spunk and wasn’t afraid to challenge an alpha—not even a king. Fergal liked that. “Word is he trained you, so that makes it your reputation too.”
Gregor pulled out a chair for Fergal—a habit so ingrained it was unconscious—then sat beside him, his posture shifting into commander mode as smoothly as a blade sliding from its sheath.
“Thank you both for everything you’ve done for the omegas,” Erwan began, his voice rough. “Sivney told me you were dealing with severe injuries among the omegas.”
“Zacharias deserves most of the credit,” Fergal said. “That omega is a force of nature. If you ever need a general, he’s your man.”
A ghost of a smile crossed Erwan’s face. “I’ve heard. He and Sivney will make quite the pair.”
A dragon omega appeared with a tray of coffee and tea, a young man with sandy hair and downcast eyes who moved through the room with the practiced invisibility of someone who wanted to go unnoticed. He set the tray down, distributed cups with silent precision, and turned to leave.
