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“Yeah, I’m sure.” Standing, she crossed her arms.
When he opened his mouth in protest, electricity prickled down her spine as the Raeth in front of her dropped his eyes to the floor. Rukia recognized the signs of a telepathic conversation and held her tongue—for the moment.
But that was all Isaiah had needed. When the faint tingle of telepathy vanished, he raised his eyes to meet hers once more in apology. “Another sovereign has asked for an audience here on my lands, and I must see to him.”
“If you’re planning on getting bloody again, there’s no way I’m letting you go alone.”
When Isaiah looked as if he were about to protest, Rukia merely gave him a hard stare. Sighing, he teleported the pair of them to the outskirts of town. Less than a second later, the host of his lieutenants teleported in, flanking the two of them.
Beside her, Isaiah looked every inch the menacing sovereign. His strength was undeniable, absolute, the aura of intimidation that exuded from him a constant that never ceased.
The sovereign he’d spoken of teleported in mere moments later, two Raeths by his side. It was clear who the sovereign was: the stout man in the center of the trio wore his authority like a crown.
Instantly, Rukia knew this Raeth was old—far older than even Isaiah—and the ancient look of weathered wisdom in his eyes whispered of stories built on impossible odds and unbelievable feats.
The lone female of the group was a woman of voluptuous curves and skin of rich, mahogany brown. Arms crossed at her chest, her beauty was otherworldly, a figure spoken of in ancient texts and coveted by kings and leaders of men. But her eyes held shadows, a sadness that was bone deep.
To his left was a massive male with blonde hair and a red streak at the temple, the physique of a body builder contained within a daunting frame. The blond’s eyes trailed leisurely over Isaiah’s lieutenants, but when he settled on Isaiah, a fleeting look of pain crossed his features.
Something was very, very wrong.
“Jacob.” Isaiah’s deep voice greeted from beside her, an air of welcome familiarity in his tone.
“Isaiah.” A sad smile came to his lips. “It is good to see you again so soon, youngling.”
Isaiah’s casual laugh echoed through the space around them. “No one has called me youngling in many years, my old friend.”
“Do forgive me, Isaiah, I am but an old man set in my ways.” Jacob offered him a wide smile. “Compared to me, everyone is a youngling.”
The Raeth beside her nodded in good nature. “That much is true. But do tell me, Jacob, of this favor you’ve spoken of and why you’ve asked that I assemble my lieutenants so they can hear the conversation.”
“This request concerns both your clan and mine, Isaiah.” Jacob inclined his head, the joviality wiped clean from his features. “I wish for you to challenge me for my sovereignty.”
Rukia could feel the shock of Jacob’s spoken words hit each of the Raeths by her side, but none so more than Isaiah. Disbelief and surprise etched deeply into the lines of his face, the very emotion of it recoiling off him in such impact that Rukia could feel it well deep in her soul.
“You cannot be serious.” As much as he tried, Isaiah couldn’t keep the shock from infiltrating the deep baritone of his voice.
“My time on this earth is over, Isaiah,” came the stoic words of a man fully conscious of his request. “I desire to seek the Light, and you are the only person I trust with my clan.”
Isaiah’s voice was a bare growl. “You are a sovereign, Jacob. We don’t get the luxury of choice.”
“I’ve been a sovereign for well over thirteen hundred years.” Jacob’s eyes darkened, the history of those centuries highlighting in his eyes. “You’ve been a sovereign long enough that you know the effects it has on the mind, on the soul. I know well the burdens of my position—of our position—and what it can do a man.”
“So you claim and yet you seek to add to mine?” Indignation stamped into his voice, Isaiah’s anger rising to the surface. “These are not the actions of an honorable man.”
“Forgive my selfishness, Isaiah.” A slow shake of his head. “There is no rest for a sovereign, and there can never be.”
As Isaiah’s lieutenants shifted restlessly beside him, he blew out an incensed breath. “What you ask of me is an impossibility; a break with tradition and a request that disregards the very nature of our positions. The conduit will not approve.”
“No,” Jacob narrowed his eyes, “but the conduit will accept it.”
Scoffing, Isaiah sneered at the other sovereign. “And your people? What of them?”
“They know.” Sadness underscored Jacob’s voice, his shoulders slumping a bare fraction. “While they don’t endorse my actions, they understand my reasons for seeking an end. You were one of us before you were one of them.”
Rukia’s mind finally grasped the severity of the situation. Jacob was Isaiah’s former sovereign, the man he’d served for seven hundred years before he became sovereign of the Sylth.
Her heart broke at the impossibility of the predicament in which Isaiah now found himself.
