Marcus lay on the cold damp floor of his master suite. His face bruised and swollen. It was amazing how one man to take so much abuse yet still manage to hang on. As he was slowly coming to, he took a sharp deep breath. He thought it all a bad dream, but the strip of cloth that gagged him and the cords that bound his hands and feet told him a different story.
With a sudden rush of adrenaline, he tried to wiggle himself free.
The pair stood off to the side talking about what to do next. They turned to look down at the man squirming like a fish out of water.
“Welcome back,” Wulfric said, as he knelt down and playfully slapped the man’s face to try and fully awaken the dazed man.
He let out a muffled groan as the pair sat him up against the wall. Wulfric stood and began pacing back and forth, stopping, he turned to his partner signaling for him to continue beating the man.
Menelik, letting out a long exhale, walked over to the man and got down on a knee in front of Marucs. With his left-hand holding him up against the wall, he cocked his right arm back and swiftly struck Marcus across the face.
Marcus’s left eye, already swollen to the point of no visibility, tore open and blood began to rush out. A tooth slowly trickled out of his mouth as he sat there, haplessly.
Menelik turned to look at Wulfric, “I don’t think he can take much more. Just end it.”
Realizing they’ve lingered too long; Wulfric nodded and pushed his sweat-soaked hair back. Turning his back to Menelik and Marcus, he unsheathed the knife that was hidden in the blood-soaked wraps that served as his forearm guards.
He looked down at it and rolled it around in his hand. Slowly turning back to the pair, he took a few steps and knelt down as Menelik stood and backed away.
“Forgive me,” he whispered.
Marcus began to beg, saying he would give him anything.
“Please. I won’t tell anyone. I promise. What is it you want? Gold? Take it. I have plenty. Please, I beg o-”
Just before Marcus could finish begging for his life, Wulfric plunged the knife into his chest and quickly withdrew it. Blood trickled out of the open wound and soaked his tunic. His eyes went wide, and letting out one final exhale dropped his head.
The young German stood, “Titus sends his regards.”
The sound of the blade clinking against the stone floor echoed louder than it should have. Menelik stared down at the corpse, his jaw clenched tight, his fists still trembling from the rush of violence. Wulfric turned away, his face unreadable, though the stiffness in his shoulders betrayed the weight of what they had done.
“We need to move,” Menelik said.
Wulfric nodded silently. Together, they slipped out of the master suite, leaving behind only blood, silence, and the faint scent of fear.
The villa would remain quiet for a few hours more, long enough for the sun to rise and servants to discover the horror that had unfolded.
And when they did, when the guards came running and Titus’s steward fell to his knees in grief, someone would pick up the blade.
They would see the name carved into its hilt—worn but unmistakable.