The Last Sovereign

Chapter 8

The suited man stood at the edge of the mountain plateau, his sharp silhouette cutting against the overcast sky.

"Because this place is sacred." His voice carried an almost reverent tone, the words heavy with meaning.

"Down there—" he gestured vaguely toward the unseen valley below "—men spill blood like water. But up here? No one dares disturb the mountain’s peace."

Ethan shivered, though it wasn’t from the cold.

Even from a distance, Joshua seemed untouchable, a monument of quiet strength against the raging storm.

From beneath his coat, he produced a small bottle of whiskey he just bought, its amber contents gleaming briefly before he poured a generous measure onto the grave.

The liquid darkened the snow in front of the marker, steam curling up like a fleeting spirit.

“Teacher,” Joshua murmured, his voice low but firm, carried away almost instantly by the howling wind.

The name on the gravestone was Jack Anderson, a name that had once commanded respect and fear alike.

Jack wasn’t just his mentor; he was also the father of Joshua's former wife, Molly Anderson.

He stayed like that for a long moment, head bowed, the bottle cradled in his hands.

The snowflakes clung to his dark hair, and his breath puffed in steady streams of mist.

When he finally stood, his face was a mask of quiet reflection.

“You told me to take care of Anderson for one year,” Joshua said softly, speaking to the stone as if the man it marked could hear him. “I’ve done more than that.”

His voice was steady, but his hands tightened around the bottle, the leather of his gloves creaking softly.

“The family’s back on top, Jack. The Anderson name carries weight again—not just here, but across the state. Texpanse isn’t the wasteland it was. People walk the streets without looking over their shoulders now.”

He paused, exhaling deeply. “But Molly’s right. She doesn’t need me anymore. And maybe the state doesn’t either.”

Ethan watched from below, his breath misting as he tried to make sense of Joshua’s words.

He’d heard stories, of course—whispers about how Joshua had rebuilt the Anderson empire after it had all but crumbled under its own weight.

How he had turned Texpanse from a haven for outlaws into something resembling order.

But hearing it like this, stripped of embellishment, felt different.

Joshua tilted the bottle one last time, letting the last of the wine flow onto the snow.

"Goodbye, teacher," he said, his voice barely audible.

And then, as if nature itself acknowledged the weight of his farewell, the wind surged with renewed ferocity.

Snow whipped through the air in swirling tempests, the sound like a thousand voices crying out in unison.

Joshua stood unmoving, his silhouette stark against the chaos.

Turning at last, he began his descent, his figure swallowed gradually by the storm.

The men watched in silence, the only sound the distant echo of the wind.

In perfect unison, the men drew themselves to attention, their voices ringing out in a powerful, coordinated chant.

“Farewell to the old master!”

The sound was thunderous, echoing against the mountains like cannon fire.

It carried weight—an unspoken acknowledgment of the man Joshua was leaving behind and the man he had become.

Ethan felt his chest tighten, his throat dry.

The chants faded, leaving only the whisper of the wind and the steady crunch of Joshua’s boots on snow as he disappeared from sight.

Half an hour later, Joshua emerged from the shadows at the base of the mountain, his stride purposeful as he approached Ethan's vehicle.

Without hesitation, he opened the passenger door and settled into the seat, his movements precise and unhurried.

"Let's go," he commanded, his tone calm yet imbued with a quiet authority that brooked no dissent.

Ethan, usually the epitome of a confident and imposing police officer, seemed uncharacteristically subdued.

Without a word, he slid into the driver’s seat, his hands steady yet his demeanor betraying a flicker of unease.

Suppressing the knot of apprehension tightening in his chest, Ethan exhaled slowly and started the engine.

As the car began to move, his gaze drifted forward—and what he saw made his pulse quicken.

The road ahead was flanked on both sides by lines of men in tailored suits, their postures rigid, their expressions somber.

They stood in eerie synchronization, a living corridor of respect and power.

Then, a thunderous voice shattered the heavy silence.

"Farewell to Mr. Joshua!"

It echoed like rolling thunder, first close and then farther away, amplifying with each reverberation.

"Farewell to Mr. Joshua!" "Farewell to Mr. Joshua!" The cry rose in unison, a symphony of deference that seemed to shake the very ground.

Ethan’s hands tightened on the steering wheel as he struggled to maintain his composure.

The sheer magnitude of the display made his breath hitch, and for a moment, he almost forgot to keep the car moving.

Slowly, he guided the vehicle along the road, the sound of the chants receding but their weight lingering.

A chill ran down his spine—not just because of the overwhelming demonstration of Jaguar’s influence, but because even the fearsome Jaguar bowed to Joshua.