“At the time, I had no clue, since I was not high up the ranks of the clan and not privy to their deliberations. But with the knowledge I have now, it was the discovery that Erwan Doyle was a white dragon. The Murphy leadership interpreted this as a future threat and began breeding specifically for magical and combat abilities—purple and red dragons. They wanted to maximize their fighting strength.”
“And the result?”
“Weakened bloodlines from too narrow a gene pool. The occurrence of genetic congenital and physical disabilities rose considerably, and their fertility rates collapsed. By the time the clan was dissolved, clutch survival was nearly zero.” He paused.“Dishonor has a price, and it collects whether you believe in it or not.”
Duff looked up from his notebook. “You believe that? That dishonor has tangible, measurable consequences?”
“I’ve seen the evidence. The clans that violated the Code—every single one—experienced declining fertility. The ones that held to the Code fared better. Jermon’s mate had four eggs, all of which survived. That’s nearly unprecedented in recent dragon history, and it happened in a clan that’s actively working to restore its honor.”
Something shifted in Duff’s expression—not conviction, not yet, but the discomfort of a man whose framework was being challenged by data that didn’t fit. He wrote something in his notebook and moved on. “The Murphy finances. How did they fund their operations?”
The question surprised Gregor. “Why do you ask?”
“Bear with me.”
Gregor considered. “They maintained traditional dragon wealth like gold, investments, property accumulated over centuries, like their compound in the Scottish Highlands. Beyond that, I wasn’t privy to their financial operations. I was a guard. Financial matters were handled by the king’s advisors.”
“Did they have external income sources? Anything that seemed out of proportion to what a dragon clan would normally generate?”
“Not that I was aware of during my time there. But I left almost two centuries ago. Anything could’ve changed since.”
Duff set down his pen and leaned back in his chair. The careful professional manner cracked slightly, revealing something rawer underneath. “I’m going to tell you something, and I’d appreciate your honest assessment.”
Gregor waited.
“The dragon slayers have—had—benefactors. Anonymous supporters who funded our operations and donated to cover expenses for equipment, travel, safe houses, weapons, intelligence. They were regular payments, substantial amounts, routed through channels designed to be untraceable. I was told they were wealthy humans who shared our mission. Philanthropists who believed in what we were doing.”
A cold understanding began forming in Gregor’s gut, like ice crystallizing on a still pond.
“I never questioned it,” Duff continued, his voice carefully controlled. “We’d always had benefactors. It was part of our tradition to work with sympathetic humans who aided the cause. But recently, I’ve been going over the numbers in my head, and they don’t add up. The amounts were too large and too consistent for private donors. The payments correlated with specific operations. They’d increase before major actions and decrease during quiet periods, as if someone was funding us on a project basis.”
“You think the Murphys were behind it,” Gregor said because there was no point in dancing around it.
Duff met his eyes. “I think someone with dragon-level resources was funding us, and the Murphys are the most logical candidates. They had the wealth, they had the motive, and they had…” He swallowed. “They had every reason to keep the dragon slayers operational as a credible threat they could point to whenever they needed a convenient enemy. Yet at the same time, our numbers were dwindling rapidly. Too rapidly.”
The ice in Gregor’s gut spread outward. He’d theorized with Fergal about the Murphys systematically eliminating real dragon slayers while maintaining the organization as a brand. But the financial angle was new, and it was vast in its implications. “You’re saying they funded you while simultaneously destroying your organization from within.”
“I’m saying that ten years ago, we had forty-seven active members. Now there’s one. Me.” Duff’s jaw tightened. “My comrades died in freak accidents, like drowning, car crashes, or mysterious illnesses. Or they perished in operations that, in retrospect, were suspiciously well-anticipated by the targets. Intelligence that turned out to be wrong. Safe houses that weren’t safe. Ambushes that someone had to have set up in advance.”
“They were feeding you into traps.”
“And funding the operations that sent us there.” Duff’s voice was steady, but his eyes held the devastation of a man watching the architecture of his life collapse. “They needed us active enough to be useful and depleted enough to be controllable.”
Gregor let the silence stretch, giving both of them time to sit with the weight of it. Outside, the pack continued its daily rhythm—voices, laughter, the distant whinny of a horse. The normalcy of it felt almost obscene against the darkness of what they were discussing.
“I need to tell you something,” Gregor said. The decision was instinctive, not tactical, and that alone should’ve given him pause. He wasn’t a man who operated on instinct. He was a man who calculated, assessed, planned. But something about this conversation, about the rawness of Duff’s honesty, the parallel tracks of their experience, the shared understanding of being used by the same enemy, had dismantled Gregor’s usual protocols.
“As you’re probably aware, King Lorcan—Fergal’s father—was assassinated along with his brother two months before the Dragon Council. They were ambushed on their return from a flight. Crossbow bolts to the heart, professional grade, designed to pierce dragon-scale armor.”
Duff’s pen had stopped moving.
“Three days later, we received an email claiming responsibility for the assassination. It was signed by Duff Bás.”
Visceral horror passed across Duff’s face. “I was aware he and his brother were murdered, but I didn’t kill them.” Duff’s voice was low, raw, stripped of every pretense. “I also didn’t send that email or authorize anyone to use my name. I was in Europe at the time, and I can account for every day.”
“I believe you.”
The words came out before Gregor had fully decided to say them, but they were true. Gregor was looking into the eyes of a man who had just learned that everything he’d built his life on was a lie, and the devastation there was impossible to fake.
