Caesar sat alone in his quarters, the dim light of the oil lamp casting long, trembling shadows against the stone walls. The room was utterly silent — too silent — save for the soft ticking of the clock and the faint rustle of the cloth lying before him. His posture was rigid, shoulders tense, and his sharp eyes burned with a mix of fury and disbelief.
On his desk rested the thing that had arrived not an hour ago, wrapped neatly inside a dark, bloodstained cloth. His hand hovered above it, fingers trembling, before he finally unwrapped the contents with deliberate slowness.
What lay inside made his stomach twist.
It was Johanna's head. Her face — once confident and calculating — was frozen in an expression of sheer horror. Her eyes were wide, her mouth open as if she had died mid-scream. The faint traces of frost still clung to her pale skin.
Caesar's jaw clenched.
