The heavy wooden doors of the Thompson estate groaned on their hinges as they were pushed open. A blast of cold air swept into the grand foyer, scattering the dust motes dancing in the beams of the afternoon sun. Two Royal Guards walked in, their faces grim, their uniforms stained with sweat and travel.
Between them, they dragged a man who barely looked human anymore.
It was Carlos.
He was limp, a sack of broken bones and torn fabric. His feet dragged across the polished marble floor, leaving two long trails in the room. His fine military clothes were shredded, the back of his shirt stuck to his skin with dark, fresh blood. His face was pale, his eyes rolling back in his head, his mouth hanging open in a silent gasp of pain. He had survived the fifty strikes from the Royal executioner in the public square, but only just.
The guards hauled him into the center of the foyer. They didn't place him down gently. They dropped him.
He hit the floor with a wet, heavy thud.
