There were some muffled cries and soft pleas.
Peter Strauss stood in the center of the room, looking remarkably crisp in a blood stained vest that he had worn for two days. He was a man possessed by a singular, gnawing question: Why?
Ever since the soldiers had intercepted a group of wanderers whispering Moon's name near the perimeter, Peter hadn't known a moment of peace. He was a man who thrived on control, and not knowing was a disease he couldn't cure with medicine.
He had interrogated every wanderer, beggar, and low-life marauder caught near his walls, but his methods and those of Cassius' right hand, Tigan_ were perhaps too ineffective. The suspects kept dying before they could provide the answers.
