For years, at least once a week Cyril was waking up in the morning from the same dream: he was sharpening his sword and polishing his breastplate; his horse was grazing oats next to his brothers' horses, the men's voices were saying prayers and wine was being drunk in memory of those who were absent but who were waiting in the wind and shadow for tomorrow when their ghostly troops are joined by those who will give their lives in upcoming battle. In this dream, he knew the morning would bring the sound of hooves and the clatter of armour and in the unmoved formation they would be waiting for the command to charge. He will be waiting. Blood will sing in his heart the songs of glory and the old cloaked skeleton will take off her bony mask to show the face of a young woman whispering promises of everlasting love. He knew that by the end of the day, he would take her hand and pass the gates of the kingdom of heaven. Or he would clean his sword one more time, looking at one more sunset.The vision would sometimes end softly and quietly with the morning light, sometimes the sound of a thousand arrows would wake him up to the drums of hale hitting the roof of the miserable cabin that now was his home. Every time he would lie with his eyes closed, listening to his wife's breathing and coming to terms with the fact he would never be this man, never again. His sword was sold, he was stripped of his knighthood his horse was dead.He, the former warrior and a nobleman was a scorned executioner who lives outside the town's walls, with the ugliest woman he has ever seen. She was the only person who pitied him. He was the only person who pitied her.

Cyril was not a hot-tempered man so the fact that William Wright did cross the line would be considered a valid point if William Wright did not belong to a well-established self-adoring circle of influential men. He had used years of service to become Duke August's sidekick and plough his way towards rewards and an easy life.Cyril was the only surviving child of Sir Julius of Agrippina Minor a town in the duke's province. Julius lost his life in the battle of Ratiobona when the lands were retaken from the Germans. His family was proud to be one of the oldest clans of knights in the whole Emporium. It was said that one of Cyril's ancestors was with the emperor Romulus in Ravenna when he defeated Odoacer over half a millennium ago and before that, in the year 325, the famous Cyril the First, as the family called him, was a personal scribe of His Eminence Lucifer during the Council of Nicaea when he spoke against the so-called "heresy of Trinity".With such a rich family history, Cyril's lineage itself was a reason for pride. The estate and wealth were not significant nowadays, but it was enough for a small family Cyril hoped he one day would have. The wars with German tribes diminished the clan remarkably, thus making Cyril the only successor both of wealth and immaterial legacy.Duke Augustus used to be a good lord in his youth. Now old and spoilt by soft fat covering his tall body, wealth gathered through the years and fake admiration both from beautiful women and greedy male admirers, he changed into the very thing he despised in others when he was younger. A fat swine. He listened only to flatterers and surrounded himself with yes-men. As a duke and commander, he still had to take part in every battle with the barbarians from the east so he did so from very far from the fighting line, never paying attention to those who were winning and dying in his name unless they belonged to his close circle of favourites. Like that northern man, whose grandparents came from the island of Britannia, William Wright.Knights like Cyril and simple soldiers could only expect a few casual words of praise for the effort, wounds and sacrifice.Cyril and his brothers-in-arms did not fight for praise or gain. They did it for the homeland and the honour. Campaign after campaign, battle after battle, bloodshed after bloodshed. Meantime people like William Wright would comfortably live their lives, and return in shiny armour without a scratch. After the last combat, Cyril was recovering for a month from the wounds, with broken ribs and an injured head. When he got well, in some godforsaken tavern, near a miserable town of Mimasium, he stepped in on his way home, he met a man from his group. One of Augustus' friends, lazy and arrogant but rich and powerful William. Right away the man approached the knight with a mocking grimace and a turkey thigh in his hand."What the fuck is wrong with you? More scars on your ugly face, huh? And you walk like a granny with tits hanging by her ankles, hahaha! That was a good one. You see, you have always been a bit stupid" he said poking Cyril with a greasy finger. Cyril tried to pass him by but William Wright stepped in front and blocked the narrow passage between tables."Just move aside, man. Let me be. I just want to rest and go back home.""Home? That burrow in Agrippina Minor? I got me another luxury villa after the campaign. How? Because I know how to do politics. You stupid lot think you will gain something by fighting? New scars and lame legs, that's all you take back every time. I feel sorry for you, Daryl or Beryl or whatever, but I thank you. Because..." he leaned towards Cyril and filled his nostrils with the smell of moonshine and a bad stomach. Cyril managed to push him away and sat by a far table but William Wright followed laughing more and more openly, mimicking Cyril's limp. He stood above the knight eating his meat and wiping his greasy fingers on his coat."Because you do all the shit for me, loser! Heh heh heh! And me? Instead of swinging my sword, I whisper a word or two into the right ears and I always get what I want. A naive lot like you make money and privileges for people like me." He leaned closer and finished with a whisper:"That's why sweet ladies like certain lady Kunigunde choose men like me. She refused you two years ago, didn't she? You won't taste her lips the colour of Iberian wine nor will you feel her lovely chest next to yours. She likes men with a future and money. She liked my kisses and my fingers in her hair, pulling violently while she bent her sweet neck with excitement. But, alas, I got bored of her. She thought, silly girl, that a gift of virginity would buy her a golden ring. Are you upset? I see you are upset. No need to cry over a used woman."

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It all happened so quickly that the guests and diners in the tavern didn't realise what was going on until the guards were called. Cyril stood up, grabbed the man, hit him with a fist and threw him on a nearby bench. William Wright didn't utter a word nor did he move.The judge who was sent to the scene declared a broken neck and instant death. Cyril was put into shackles and transported to the town of Asteropolis for the trial led by William Wright's cousin Stephanus.Stephanus had a very similar personality to his relative. He also liked to use the law to his advantage and loved showing his dominance over men he knew, in the darkest and most obscure dungeons of his conscience, were generally better than him. Despite that he had never been close to William - as a matter of fact, William's death pleased him - It was his plan not to take any extenuating circumstances under consideration. The trial was short and Cyril was sentenced to death by beheading, his sword and titles taken away, and his family house and heritage given to the victim's closest relative. It's worth noting that a few weeks later, in Augustus' palace, Stephanus trying to keep his face straight and speaking unnecessarily loud, expressed surprise that the said relative was him.

Cyril spent two nights in a dungeon saying goodbye to his life and apologising to his noble ancestors before he was dragged to the scaffolds. There, to his disappointment, he was told the town's executioner had died and he was given the dishonouring offer. Take the newly vacant position and live your life as an executioner, or wait in the dungeon for your death.If it wasn't for Anne, the more miserable being than him, he would not find the strength to carry on. He would certainly choose death. What is life worth if your honour is taken away from you? Even the want for revenge did not suffice. Stephanus was beyond his reach, he had already broken the proud man that Cyril used to be. Why dream of justice when the chances are low, next to none? The law has always been and will forever be in the favour of the wealthy and those related to authorities. No, revenge was not enough. His anger was not enough. He has lost everything, everything he has ever had and has ever been.He could hardly hear the words of "pardon". He was told he could keep his life if he took the "generous" offer to replace the deceased executioner. He didn't want it, he wanted to choose death.Then as a final mockery, she was added to the offer, like a scrap on the market the seller wants to get rid of."Take my daughter for a wife and we'll let you live!" shouted a textiles merchant with a grin on his plump mouth."Oh yes, take our pretty Anne and we will thank you, sir". The merchant's wife joined her husband in the farse. People applauded this wholeheartedly. Someone run to the merchant's house to fetch his daughter, Anne.Cyril still in shackles standing on a platform saw the mob's mean faces and heard amused whispers. The woman that was dragged in front of the scaffold was so ugly his mouth twitched in a grimace. The first thing to notice was bad and crooked teeth protruding from her mouth with no lower jaw. When she moved her head Cyril saw the chin was there but so tiny and receded it gave the girl an awful look of deformity. Her hair was plain and grey, her nose was big with wavy contour, eyes small with almost no eyelashes. She was skinny and drooping and frightened. There was blood on her ears that already carried a few scars, her lips had a massive bruise stretching to her cheek. She was so ugly and miserable.And then he saw why her face was so hideous. It was for the smallpox scars covering the skin densely and feverishly from the forehead through the eyelids and cheeks and down the neck. Not many people he has seen so severely disfigured by the disease. Only those who were struck by it when death has already claimed their parents, siblings or spouse. Then in their desolation, the bereft victims would scratch their skin without any sense or need for control, driven by a frantic itch. On the other hand, any child with a loving parent would be taken care of, their hands would be carefully wrapped into layers of straps, nails gently filed, for the night arms would be fastened to a bedframe. Every step should be taken to prevent this self-harm.Anne was standing in front of the scaffold next to her father and her mother, with smallpox scars, the reminders of the child she used to be, the one who impudently refused to die despite the efforts her family made.That day Cyril did not want to live. He wanted this horror to end. He did not want to listen to the mockery, to the offer made by the judge and the people of this town. It was ugly and rejected Anne that woke him up from his despair. He kept looking at her and realised his life did not belong to him solely. He had no hope in him but he became the only hope for the woman he did not know nor she him. If he dies, she stays in her unloving parents' house, bitten and mistreated. If he agrees to not commit this lawful suicide, becomes an executioner and takes her with him - she will not suffer more. She will still go hungry and experience all the hardships of life, yes, but he will not treat her like a slave. Pity overtook his mind and he agreed.