"Brother, they've all arrived," Elias announced.
Eastiel looked up from the map scarred with potential troop movements and gave a single, tight nod. "What about Arkai Dawnoro?"
The Black Wolf King occupied a specific chamber in Eastiel's mind, one of the few lords whose respect for the Saintess had been pure, untainted by political maneuvering. Age and seniority aside, Eastiel held a deep, genuine regard for the man. He was a king in the old mold, like Eastiel's own father, Eliam.
When Eliam had finally succumbed to his old battle wounds seven years ago, Arkai had come to pay his respects. The Werelion King had been a century older, but both knew the Black Wolf's monstrous vitality would far outstrip Eliam's lifespan. In their world, strength dictated longevity as much as it did territory.
At the funeral, Arkai had sought Eastiel out. His words had stayed with him, even until today.
"Your father was one of my greatest role models. A better king than my own father ever was."
