Templar's Creed

Chapter 31

"Kill him," Cesare ordered, his tone devoid of emotion. "Or are you too soft to take a life when it is offered to you?"

Giovanni's eyes narrowed, his gaze flickering between the sneering face of the Borgia and the wide-eyed terror of his former ally. He knew this was a test, a twisted game played by the new puppet master of the Templars. But he would not be swayed by such ploys. The blade in his hand was for justice, not for serving another's twisted sense of power.

"You expect me to be your executioner?" Giovanni's voice was a low, dangerous rumble, a thundercloud of fury threatening to unleash its wrath. "Your father's death was your doing, not mine."

Cesare's smile grew colder, more predatory. "Kill him, or I will," he said, his hand hovering over the sword at his side. "Make your choice, Assassin. Will you spill the blood of a Templar to satisfy your petty grief?"

Giovanni's gaze remained fixed on Carlo, whose eyes were now pleading for mercy. He could see the fear, the desperation in the man's face, and for a moment, his hand wavered. Yet, he knew that this was a test, a cruel ploy to manipulate his pain. With a snarl, he turned back to the smug figure of Cesare Borgia.

"You think you can control me with fear and death?" he spat. "You know nothing of me or the cause for which I fight!"

Cesare's smile was chilling, a stark contrast to the fiery rage that burned in Giovanni's eyes. "Your cause is meaningless, Assassin. The world does not bend to the will of those who hide in the shadows, nursing their wounds and plotting in the dark. It is time for you to choose a side, either you stand with me and help shape a new world, or you stand in my way and are crushed beneath the wheels of progress."

Giovanni's hand tightened around his sword, the weight of his decision heavy upon him. The room was a tableau of fear and anger, the air thick with the promise of bloodshed. Yet, amidst the chaos, something within him remained steadfast—his sense of right and wrong, the very core of his being that had led him down this path of vengeance.

It was then that a new voice pierced the tension. "Cesare," called out a figure rising from the seat behind the table"what game is this?" It was none other than Francesco, his expression a mix of confusion and concern as he approached the new leader of the Templar Order. "Why offer our enemy such a prize?"

Giovanni's eyes flicked to his old enemy, his blade still pointed at Carlo's chest. Francesco's  bearded face lined with age and a hint of wariness. Yet, there was a firmness in his stride that spoke of experience and strength of character.

"Cesare," he began, his voice a gentle rumble that belied the steel in his gaze. "What is the meaning of this? Why would you hand one of our own to this... this creature?"

Cesare's smile never faltered, his eyes cold and calculating as they met the concerned gaze of his former mentor. "A demonstration of power, Francesco," he replied, his voice as smooth as silk over a blade. "Giovanni here seems to think he can play by his own rules, dance around us like a mayfly. It's time to show him the true might of the Templar Order."

Francesco's expression grew grim, his hand moving to the hilt of his sword. "If you wish to challenge him, do it with honor," he said firmly. "Giovanni is a formidable opponent, but he is not a monster. He is a man driven by loss and anger, much like ourselves."

Cesare's eyes narrowed, his smile slipping for the briefest of moments. "You speak as if you pity him," he hissed. "He is the enemy of everything we stand for. He must be destroyed."

Francesco took a step back, his gaze never leaving the cold stare of the young Borgia. "And what do we stand for?" he asked, his voice steady. "Is it not the same as the Assassins—peace, freedom, and a world free from the corruption of tyrants?"

Cesare's smile grew even more predatory. "Our means differ," he said, his eyes flicking to the cowering Carlo. "Giovanni's methods are crude, chaotic. We bring order, stability."

"And what of the lives you've destroyed?" Giovanni's voice was a whip crack in the tense silence, the very embodiment of the chaos he represented. "What of the families you've torn apart?"

Francesco's eyes searched the shadows, his gaze resting briefly on the still form of Jacobo de' Pazzi before returning to the cold, unblinking stare of the Borgia. "We do what must be done," he said, his voice a rumble of thunder. "But I will not see you play games with the lives of our comrades, not for the sake of your twisted power plays."

Giovanni's gaze never left the young tyrant before him, the rage in his eyes a living flame that seemed to burn brighter with each passing second. "You speak of order," he said, his voice tight with contempt. "Yet all you bring is death and destruction."

Francesco's hand tightened around the hilt of his sword, his patience wearing thin. "Kill him," he said, his voice a low growl. "He has meddled in our affairs for too long, and I tire of his interference."

Giovanni's gaze never left Carlo's terrified eyes. The weight of the decision hung heavy in the air, each second stretching into an eternity. In that moment, he understood the depth of the corruption that had consumed the Templar Order. They had become what they had once sought to destroy—murderers masquerading as bringers of peace.

With a sudden, explosive motion, he flung Carlo aside, sending the disarmed man sprawling to the ground. The Templars around them tensed, ready to pounce, but Giovanni's blade remained poised, the tip now pointing at the heart of the sneering Borgia. "I will not be your pawn," he roared, the fury in his voice shaking the very walls of the chamber.

Cesare's smile never wavered, his eyes gleaming with a cunning that belied his youth. "So be it," he said, his voice cold as ice. "You refuse to serve, so you shall be destroyed."

With that, the room erupted into a maelstrom of steel and fury. The remaining Templars, driven by fear and loyalty, descended upon Giovanni like a pack of rabid dogs. Yet, amidst the chaos, there was an eerie calmness to his movements—each strike of his blade met with precision, each step calculated to evade the onslaught.

Cesare's eyes gleamed with the thrill of battle as he engaged Giovanni. His swordplay was elegant, a dance of deadly intent, yet it was clear that he was holding back—enjoying the cat-and-mouse game he had orchestrated. As they circled each other, blades clashing in a symphony of steel, Carlo struggled to his feet, his own sword forgotten in his desperation to flee.

Giovanni's movements were a blur, each step a silent promise of death. The air was filled with the clang of steel, the scent of fear and sweat. Yet amidst this chaos, something strange was happening—his rage was being cooled by the very presence of the man he had come to destroy. There was something... almost familiar in the way Cesare moved, the way his eyes gleamed with a cold, detached fury that mirrored his own.

Cesare's blade was a serpent's strike, fast and deadly. But Giovanni was ready, his own blade a flash of silver, parrying and riposting with a precision that spoke of years of training and a lifetime of anger. Yet, even as they danced their macabre dance, a figure slipped away from the melee, unnoticed by all but the keenest of eyes.

It was Carlo, his fear now overriding his loyalty to the man who had once been his mentor. He stumbled towards the shadows, his breath ragged, his eyes darting back to the fight with every step. He had seen enough bloodshed for one night, had felt the cold embrace of the grave too closely. Yet, fate had other plans for him.

Cesare's sword was quick and lethal. As Carlo reached for the shadows, he was caught in the crossfire of the two warriors. The blade intended for Giovanni's heart found a new home in Carlo's back, a cruel twist of fate that painted the cobblestones a deeper crimson.