Succession

Sergei sniffed the air like a predator searching for food it senses but cannot see. He scowled. Jacobe had not yet drawn near. He looked around his humble dwelling, as he had for untold decades, and then into the distance, up to the palace sitting high on a hill on the edge of town, a lavish abode whose halls he remembered, whose responsibilities now haunted him like the curse that had so long ago driven him away.

Sergei had been hungry for a very long time. He sniffed the air again, disappointed with the result. Where could he be? He looked to the mahogany box on the mantle and then to the fire, nearly dead, and decided to add another log. While he needed no fire, Jacobe was mortal and would no doubt find the air too cold for his liking.

Sergei had chosen this apartment as much for the view of his birthright as for the humble facade that served to conceal his secret. The size of his private dwelling above the various and transient shops of the town’s central square would have shocked the merchants and customers who worked and shopped below. It was the perfect place for an immortal to hide. For how often do men in cities work and shop on the street level, never wondering or stopping to imagine who might walk the halls above?