Cesare stood motionless in the center of the tavern, the blood-soaked knife heavy in his hand. He had just taken the lives of dozens of men—civilians, a first for him. As the commander-in-chief of the Imperial Army, this was an unprecedented and unforgivable act.
By the laws of the empire, the men in the tavern were technically innocent. No law had been broken by desecrating the body of an executed criminal, regardless of how vile their behavior had been. Yet, the scale of his actions weighed heavily on him.
But Cesare had killed them anyway. He had slit their throats, covered himself in their blood, and yet, the suffocating weight in his chest had not lifted. If anything, the sensation was tighter, like his breath was being squeezed from him.
The girl he had cherished, his most precious Eileen, had been beheaded at the guillotine. Her once-beautiful form, now a macabre display, was nothing more than a grotesque trophy for the twisted amusement of others.
