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Edith followed Andre into the prison, her heart slightly uneasy. Andre was there to interrogate an aristocrat prisoner who had led troops in the Vendée rebellion, and she insisted on coming along to watch.

The aristocrat was chained to a chair, his once opulent garments now tattered and stained with varying shades of blood. It was obvious that the prolonged torture had left him barely clinging to life. He kept his head lowered, with his long, sharp nose, his features easily evoking thoughts of a hawk.

Upon hearing their footsteps, he only raised his gaze to fixate on the girl. His pitch-black pupils seemed to glow with an eerie gloss under the dim candlelight, as if he had a fever.

Even if she hadn''t known his identity beforehand, Edith could tell from his arrogant and cruel air his sinful blood in a flash.

Through his eyes, she glimpsed an elegant yet savage history – of breathtaking palaces and ornate heraldry, of thunderous cavalry battle cry and horn blasts; but it was also a history of dungeons in ancient castles and Inquisition, of burning stakes and dry bones of millions of serfs.

She could imagine how this man would have rested his elbows on the velvety table, leisurely smoothing the gold-threaded cuffs of his sleeves, courteously discussing about suppression and slaughter... It made the girl feel dizzy and almost faint.

Seeing her discomfort, Andre signaled for her to step back and approached the caged beast himself, speaking to him in a cold, impassive tone:"Your resistance is fut