Major Thomas scrutinized the prisoner seated across from him:
About forty years old, average in appearance, ordinary in demeanor. Apart from his sturdy arms and broad shoulders—which hinted at a life surrounded by plenty of meat, milk, bread, and physical labor—he bore no other distinguishing features.
In fact, it was precisely this physique, so obviously different from the undernourished bodies of urban poor, that marked him as an obvious target—eventually leading to his capture.
"I think we can save each other some time, Mr. Kapufen." Major Thomas began speaking, his tone calm but commanding: "You know what lies ahead—execution by hanging as a traitor, or survival as a foreign spy. Two paths are before you. The choice is yours."
Alonso's Adam's apple bobbed up and down. He coughed weakly a few times, his voice hoarse as he pleaded: "Could I have some water? I haven't had anything to drink in two days."
Major Thomas instinctively glanced toward the false baron beside him.
