It was such an obvious question. Eileen belonged to Cesare. As long as he didn't discard her, she would never dream of leaving his arms.
When Eileen nodded slowly, the strength drained from Cesare's hand. The stiletto fell to the floor with a sharp, metallic thud.
Those eyes again, empty and desolate, like a ruined land, shattered, with nothing left…
The man touched Eileen's neck with his blood-stained hand, gently tracing the marks he had left on her skin. He ran his fingers slowly over the bruises before closing his eyes for a moment.
- Why…
His uneven breathing calmed as he looked into Eileen's eyes again.
Why didn't you resist?
Her quiet question hung in the air as Eileen parted her lips to answer.
There must be… a reason…
She wanted to say that she believed the man had a reason for everything, that she trusted him blindly. But her voice, broken and hoarse, couldn't form the words. Cesare stopped her from continuing.
— Please promise me, Eileen.
His voice was full of despair, like that of a man cornered on the edge of a precipice.
Promise me you won't die because of me.
He had asked something similar before, but it was a promise Eileen found difficult to make. Still, as Cesare asked for her word, she had no choice but to agree.
The moment he uttered his promise, Cesare pulled her into his arms, holding her tightly. Eileen felt a slight tremor. At first, she thought it was her own body trembling, but she soon realized the sensation was coming from the man.
Without thinking, Eileen wrapped her arms around him in return. Her body, barely clinging to life, cried out in exhaustion and pain.
Still, she couldn't help but hold him tightly. Cesare, in silence, pulled her even closer.
As the tension eased, her vision began to blur. Her body, having exhausted every last drop of energy, signaled its limit. Fighting the drowsiness that overwhelmed her, Eileen whispered to him in a voice so soft it was almost inaudible.
That she was fine. That nothing hurt.
His voice, hoarse and weak, struggled to carry the words, but they seemed to float away, never reaching Cesare. The last image he saw before losing consciousness was his eyes, still filled with the desolation of a devastated land.
The relentless sound of the rain pounding against the window tormented Cesare's ears. The storm showed no sign of abating, hammering against the glass as if to emphasize the chaos within. The man, with an impassive expression, watched the drops slide down the pane before turning his gaze to Eileen, who lay unconscious on the Archduchy's bed.
He brought her back after she fainted, fearing that if she remained asleep in that brick house, he might do something unspeakable again. After carrying her lifeless body back, he carefully wiped the blood from her face with a damp cloth, changed her clothes for clean ones, and laid her down to rest.
He stood by the window, alternating his gaze between Eileen and his palm. The hand he had mutilated with a stiletto was already almost healed. By tomorrow, the wound would disappear without a trace.
Still, although the injuries disappeared quickly, that didn't mean he was free from pain. Every time reality seemed blurry, the man would mutilate himself again. Pain was one of the few ways to remind himself that this world—where Eileen existed—was real.
He stared at his palm for a long moment, a bitter smile forming on his lips. The more he remembered the moment he wrapped his hands around Eileen's neck, the more his mind became entangled, mixing memories of reality and illusion in a chaotic mess. The increasingly intense rain outside only further clouded his thoughts.
It rained on the day little Eileen slept in the Emperor's palace room, on the day he killed her in the brick house room, and on the day he visited the tavern where her severed head was displayed.
His memories, tangled and distorted, needed to be forcibly reorganized. He recalled the time before he went back in time, when he returned victorious from the war, only to discover Eileen's death.
When he discovered that Eileen had been decapitated, it all seemed unreal. It was as if he were trapped in a nightmare, clinging to the vain hope that, upon waking, Eileen would be alive again, breathing as if nothing had happened.
But Cesare eventually realized the truth, that this was not a nightmare, but a brutal reality.
The day he visited the tavern where Eileen's decapitated head had been displayed was a stormy day. A clear sky turned into a downpour in an instant. The man, soaked to the bone, entered the tavern. His knights, dressed in ordinary clothes, followed close behind, drenched as well. The tavern keeper rushed to them, carrying a handful of dry rags.
Cesare grabbed a towel, casually drying himself as he surveyed the surroundings. The largest tavern on Fiore Street was packed despite the bad weather. Observing the bustling patrons, the tavern owner cast several nervous glances at him.
Although he had removed the hood from his cloak, his tall stature made him stand out in the crowd. His knights, with their faces uncovered, attracted even more attention.
Cesare ignored the stares, handing a coin to the tavern keeper before being led to a seat. When he and his entourage entered, the patrons watched them curiously, but soon returned to their lively conversations.
The place, saturated with the smell of alcohol and debauchery, vibrated with intoxicated patrons. Men with eyes gleaming with lust were already half out of their minds, lost in a haze of drunkenness.
They hurled vulgar jokes at the singer who was performing in the center of the room, laughing scandalously. The woman, enduring the harassment, continued her song with an impassive expression.
'How can I go back to that day? You remain so vivid in my memory. You are still so clear within me…'
Cesare examined the faces of the patrons. Until then, he had only intended to gather the necessary information and leave that place quickly.
Then he overheard a conversation about Eileen.
Cesare's gaze fell abruptly on one of the men. The drunkard, oblivious to the crimson eyes fixed on him, continued his vulgar display, making a lewd gesture with his hand.
— Ah, I got there too late, so it was already a total mess, but damn, it was still good. I bet the tavern owner made a fortune that day. They must have collected all the money in Fiore — no, in the whole capital!
The men's laughter grew louder as they added their own cruel comments. They described how the tavern owner had difficulty keeping the executed woman's dead eyes open and how they thought she was ugly when she was alive.
For them, no noblewoman, regardless of her status, could ever compare to the allure of the executed woman. They lamented that, had her body not decomposed, they would still be enjoying her, and her head displayed as a grotesque trophy. Even now, her story remained a constant topic of conversation among the regulars.
Cesare listened to every word, absorbing their cruel taunts and mockery. The more he listened, the more his anger swelled. Finally, he burst into a chilling laugh.
He laughed for a while, the sound both disturbing and menacing, before slowly pushing his chair back and standing up. Without saying a word, he walked over to the men who were still reveling in their vile jokes about the condemned young woman.
The men shuddered, startled by the sudden approach of the tall figure. Cesare's gaze swept across their table and settled on the long carving knife that lay there.
Without hesitation, Cesare picked up the knife.
The loudest of them let out a short, surprised sound, putting his hand to his throat. That was his last moment.
The knife slid once more, and a fountain of blood followed. The man's body tumbled backward as the tavern echoed with a crash. The bustling place fell into a deathly silence.
In the chilling silence, Cesare's knights sprang into action. Lotan, Diego, and Senon quickly blocked all exits from the tavern, cutting off any possibility of escape. Meanwhile, Michelle leaped onto the stage, grabbed the only woman present, the singer, and roughly pushed her into a corner, keeping her out of danger.
And so, the massacre began.
This was the beginning, the first day that the sword, once a symbol of protection for the Traon Empire, turned against its own people.
(Elisa: Cesare has my silk cloth all to himself)
To be continued…