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"Die here. He should die here, and he would certainly be willing to die here."
Medici smiled viciously. "The temple where his ancestor ascended becoming the grave of this bloodline's last descendant-how perfect is that?"
"You could practically call it a peaceful end." Sauron clicked his tongue. "A pity he didn't look enough like Alista. Otherwise, I'd love to cut off his head and stick it on the iron spike above the doorframe, so everyone who came could behold the madness of the Tudor bloodline."
Medici took out a cigarette, lit it, and took a deep drag. In a rare good mood, he bantered with his two cohabitants:
"Now that would be boring, Sauron!"
"Not one of these descendants amounted to anything. They're useless even as contingencies. What qualifies them to stand in for the Blood Emperor?"
Medici glanced at the dead Raft Pound again and rubbed his chin. "Though gouging out his eyes might work? Never mind. Without an expression, there's no spirit to it."
"Pursuing glory all the way into the grave does have something to recommend it."
The third victim of Tudor spoke. "Ultimately, he still carried that lunatic's blood. Since he couldn't fulfill his lifelong wish anyway, he might as well die in a dream of days gone by."
"Speaking of which, Medici, those scenes in his dream weren't something he imagined himself, were they?"
Medici tapped off his cigarette ash with his index finger and plopped down in another empty high-backed chair. "Of course not. I wove that lovely dream, but everything it showed was what he wanted to see in his heart. When the Pound Family changed its name, it was bound to lose part of its history. Besides, the Seven Gods kept a close eye on those people. They knew perfectly well