February 22nd, 1798

Three royalist leaders were captured at the Great Reduit: Jacques Hudon —a priest that had joined the royal army to defend his "Christian values" and had become known as "the angel of Contrie"—, Alexis de la Garde —a famous farmer and salesman of the old kingdom—, and Paul Antrain —a nephew of the dead King—.

Laupin was put in charge of interrogating the latter. They needed to know where General Bautzen had run off to, and what were his plans for the future.

The commander called upon Francis and Charlie to guard the door of the room where the prisoner would be interrogated. At first, there was silence. Then, a loud argument between the men inside. At last, only screams, barks, and Laupin's chill inducing voice, demanding Antrain to speak up before it was too late.

And although his methods were inhumane at best, he did manage to get a confession out of the young man. Bautzen was meeting up with the Duke of Alvern down south, so they could take over Montpierre again.

Apparently, the Duke still had enough power in his hands to do so, easily.

Those weren't good news, at all.

—Take him out of his misery —Laupin said, after leaving the room, and stepping outside. He looked pained. Disgusted with himself. And Francis understood his situation very well, because he still shared that very same feeling, deep down—. Kill that poor bastard and bury his body outside of the city, so it doesn't smell.

—Yes, monsieur —him and Charlie replied, as their superior walked away with slow steps, and both of his bloodied hands resting over his hip.

They stepped inside the room next, and felt genuinely bad for Antrain. He was tied up to a chair, beaten to a pulp, and his face was so black and bruised it was barely recognizable. There was a dog biting at his broken leg, but he wasn't moving or reacting at all. Which meant that he was already unconscious. Thank God for that. Being awake and in so much pain would have been horrifying.

—Is he even alive? —Charlie asked, as Francis grabbed the black dog by the collar and pulled it away.

It was one of the Lesser Newfoundlands' owned by General Obermann. The man loved these creatures and usually had a couple of them following him around their camps. He enjoyed their company more than he enjoyed men's. And also, the general was known to hunt during his free time, so the animals were of good use as retrievers.

—I have no idea. Check his pulse.

That, Charlie did.

—His heart is still beating. Barely —he frowned—. We should shoot him.

—Yeah, but not here. Outside. That way we don't have to clean up.

—Good point.

Francis took the dog to the hallway and allowed it to run away towards his master's newest resting spot, before helping his colleague untie Antrain, remove all of his valuable possessions from his coat, and carry him out of the building.

A few blocks away from where they were, there was a burial site. Well, that was a gentle way to describe it. In actuality, it was an enormous mass grave. Flies swarm around it day and night. The smell of decaying flesh and wet earth was nauseating. But it was kept open to the air, because the dead were still arriving. In fact, the amount of corpses in the city was so immense, that the cadets of the revolutionary army were already digging another ditch, a few meters away from it, to swallow them all. It was a dreadful, repulsive scene.

They shot him there, and threw his body over the pile with a tired grunt.

—Is this what we're really fighting for? —Francis asked—. Death? And more death?

—Well... this is the price of freedom. Of peace. Things which we are fighting for —Charlie lamented, and patted his shoulder.

—I don't think it's worth it then.

—Don't dwell on it too much.

—How can't I? Look at this! How many people are laying here? Dead? Forgotten?... How many did we kill?...

—Don't. Don't think about it —the soldier insisted—. We are paid to do this. So we have to. Not only to secure our money, our stability, our jobs... but to secure our future. If we don't do this... if we don't kill... the monarchy will return. And then it will be us, the ones laying on this grave. It will be us, with our heads under the blade of the guillotine. That, if we get lucky. Remember, they can always send us to labor camps... So we can't grant anyone our mercy. Not if they aren't on our side. Because we have to win this war. Or else...

A few months ago, Francis would have rebelled. A few months ago, he would have disagreed with those words. But both him and Charlie had seen, heard, and felt too much already. Their hearts were forever tarnished by the horrors of war. And so, he knew that his comrade was right.

He really couldn't be merciful. He couldn't think of any other result but the one at hand. Doing that would be foolish. And he no longer was a fool.

—Let's go grab dinner —he whispered, and took a deep breath in, to ground himself.

Indeed, Francis wouldn't think about the weight of his actions anymore. Because his bad deeds were piling up more and more over his shoulders and if he dared to look, to acknowledge them, he would collapse. Without a doubt, he would.

And he couldn't. Because although his friends and family were gone, Laura was gone, and he had nothing worth fighting for at home, he did have men who depended on him, and a country that was in dire need of his protection.

He couldn't buckle.

—Dinner it is.