The old man heaved a resigned sigh. Sorrow was there, perhaps, but it was buried under a shell of indifference.

  Stepping onto the stool, Iphan reached up with his blade and cut the rope that had been holding the young man’s body, catching his weight over his shoulder and easing him to the ground.

  Momentarily, Iphan gazed down at his young partner, now pallid and lifeless. “You could have asked me for the Rite, my friend,” he murmured.

  Deftly, he slipped the noose off the man’s neck, noting it was a hasty overhand knot, tied in the s-style. Odd, he considered absently, for a left-handed man. Paul had been his third Nother during his sixty-odd years as a Siro.

  This tale has been unlawfully obtained from Royal Road. If you discover it on Amazon, kindly report it.

  The books never mentioned more than two pairings in a lifetime, and now Iphan needed a fourth.

  Angrily, he summoned his valet, “Gevehardt.”

  The black-haired man appeared. If he was shocked at the scene before him, he gave no indication.

  “Please alert the Council, we’ve lost our third Siro.”

  The younger man nodded curtly and left.

  Iphan already knew who it would be, there was only one candidate.

  He glanced at the calendar on his wall; three weeks until the next ceremony. He didn’t have long.