Templar's Creed

Chapter 37

With a heavy heart, Girolamo nodded. "Venice will be ours," he vowed, his eyes gleaming with a newfound determination. "We will show no mercy to those who stand in our way."

The two men parted ways, each with a clear understanding of their roles in the unfolding saga. As Girolamo disappeared into the shadows of the night, the sounds of distant bells and the soft whispers of the river Tiber served as a haunting lullaby to the city of Florence. In the quiet, the echoes of their conversation lingered, a foreboding prelude to the storm that was about to break over Venice.

Girolamo and his loyalists descended upon the floating city with a ferocity that mirrored the raging fires they had left behind in Florence. The Venetian night was torn apart by the clang of steel and the anguished screams of those who dared to oppose them. The once vibrant streets, adorned with the riches of the world, now ran with the crimson lifeblood of the innocent and the defiant. The air grew thick with the acrid scent of burning buildings, the flames licking the stars above as if to cleanse the heavens of the darkness that had claimed the city below.

The Doge's Palace, a bastion of power and opulence, was now a fortress under siege. The Templars' war machines tore through the walls like the jaws of a ravenous beast, crushing the very stones that had withstood the tests of time. Girolamo's eyes gleamed with the light of the fires he had set, his heart beating with the excitement of conquest and the promise of power. He had become the hammer of the Borgia's wrath, and he would not rest until the final nail had been driven into the coffin of the Venetian Republic.

The city's defenders, outmatched and outmaneuvered, fought with the desperation of the cornered. Yet, every step they took was met with the unyielding might of the Templar forces. The canals ran red with the blood of the fallen, and the once-celebrated architecture now lay in smoldering ruins, a stark reminder of the cost of freedom. The screams of the dying pierced the night, mingling with the cries of the innocent who had been caught in the crossfire of ambition and greed.

The Doge, once a symbol of the city's unyielding spirit, now cowered in the depths of his own palace. He watched in horror as the flames of rebellion grew closer, the shadows of the approaching Templars stretching like the hands of doom. His rule, a bastion of stability and prosperity, had crumbled to ash in the face of the Borgia's relentless march.

Girolamo's forces swept through Venice like a plague, leaving a trail of fear and destruction in their wake. The once majestic palaces and grand canals were now the stage for a brutal dance of death, the reflection of the burning city a macabre ballet in the water's shimmering embrace. The clank of swords and the screams of the dying echoed through the night, a grim symphony of conquest and despair.

Cesare Borgia, watching from a safe distance, felt the tremors of his own power grow stronger with each passing hour. The city of Venice, once a bastion of independence and wealth, now knelt before him, the fires of rebellion smothered under the crushing weight of his iron will. His eyes glinted with cold satisfaction as he surveyed the carnage, the flames casting a hellish glow on his features. This victory was sweet, a testament to the might of the Templar Order and his own strategic brilliance.

Girolamo, his face streaked with soot and sweat, stood before the conquered Doge's Palace, the once-proud manor now a charred shell of its former grandeur. The acrid stench of burnt wood and flesh hung in the air, a grim reminder of the price of power. Yet, amidst the ruins, he could not help but feel a twinge of doubt. The whispers of the past—the tragic tale of Bayek and Aya—haunted his thoughts, a specter of the consequences that awaited those who allowed their anger to consume them.

The Doge, a man once feared and revered, was brought before him in chains. His eyes, once filled with authority, now held only defeat. As Girolamo looked into those eyes, he saw not a conquered enemy, but a reflection of his own future, should he continue down this bloody path. Yet, he pushed aside the doubt, reminding himself of the promise he had made to his lord, the promise of absolute victory.

The city of Venice, once a jewel in the crown of the Mediterranean, now lay in smoldering ruin. The grand canals that had once reflected the grandeur of the palaces were now choked with the wreckage of war. The scent of burning wood and flesh mingled with the brine of the sea, a sickly perfume that spoke of the cost of their victory. The people, those who had survived the Templar wrath, huddled in the shadows, their spirits broken, their hope extinguished.

Cesare Borgia, standing on the balcony of the conquered Doge's Palace, surveyed his new domain with a sense of grim satisfaction. His eyes scanned the horizon, where the last embers of the night's fires still danced, painting the sky in an eerie tableau of red and gold. The city had been brought to heel, its proud lion of St. Mark now a cowering beast before the Borgia eagle. Yet, as he watched his soldiers patrol the streets, their booted steps echoing in the silent night, he felt a cold emptiness gnawing at his core.

Girolamo Savonarola, his armor scarred and smudged with the soot of battle, approached with a heavy tread. His eyes met Cesare's, and in them, the future Pope saw a reflection of the darkness that had driven them to this moment. The priest had become a general, a tool of the very power he had once railed against from the pulpit. Yet, in the pursuit of their shared goals, the line between holy warrior and cold-hearted killer had grown increasingly blurred.

Their victory was absolute, but it had come at a steep price. The air was thick with the stench of burning flesh and the acrid scent of fear, a miasma that clung to the ruined city like a shroud. The streets, once teeming with life, were now a macabre dance floor for the shadows of the dead. The once vibrant canals reflected only the flickering flames that danced upon the water, casting an eerie glow that seemed to mock the living.

Cesare Borgia, the new master of Venice, stood atop the charred remains of a once-grand palace, his eyes sweeping over the city with a cold, calculating gaze. The fires of rebellion had been snuffed out, leaving in their wake a landscape of ash and despair. His heart was unmoved by the suffering he had wrought; it was a necessary evil, a step on the path to his divine vision of order.