THE DOORBELL RANG, and standing on the threshold was a tall, powerfully built man—a dark gray overcoat fitted across broad shoulders, high boots creaking faintly as he planted one foot on the floor. His posture betrayed military training, and his voice carried the clipped tone of a man who never wasted words. He held an old-looking wooden box, its metal fittings yellowed with age, resting on his palms like some sinister trophy.
— Your delivery — he announced, extending the package with a mechanical gesture, without a smile and without waiting for pleasantries.
The Ipsissimus felt the strange weight of the object settle into his hands and, for the first time in many minutes, sensed a new tension spreading through his body.
— How much do I owe you? — he asked, trying to control the surprise trembling in his voice as he took hold of the package. The sound of wood against wood echoed through the room like an omen.
— You owe me a head.
The answer was short, cold, and left no room for misunderstanding.
A heavy silence descended between them, thick as cigar smoke. At last, the visitor continued with the firmness of a man setting a deadline:
— Be there tomorrow at the hour of the sacrifice. And don't forget—this is only a loan.
The words fell like a sentence.
He knew exactly what they meant, and in that chilling moment of recognition, he also knew he had no intention of keeping the object any longer than fate required.
THE IPSISSIMUS CLOSED THE DOOR calmly, as though every movement were part of some ancient ritual, then carried the package with measured steps to the dining-room table, where the lamplight cast elongated shadows across the polished wood.
He carefully removed the ribbon, peeling away the seal like a man unveiling a forbidden secret, then slid the lid aside with a faint hiss that tore through the silence.
Something lay wrapped in red velvet—a fabric reminiscent of dried blood and funeral pageantry—and he ran his fingers across its surface before pulling it free.
He unwrapped it carefully, slowly, as though each fold might unleash consequences of its own. Little by little, a rough wooden handle emerged, worn smooth by the hands that had gripped it before. At its end was a double-edged blade, cold and merciless, sharp enough to sever a man's head with surgical precision.
The blade caught the light in a razor-sharp gleam, and for an instant the Ipsissimus thought he could hear the distant echo of a guillotine—a memory conjured from ancient tales and public executions.
He gripped the weapon with both hands, feeling the brutal balance between handle and blade, and raised it above his head as though taking part in some decisive rite. The muscles in his forearms tightened, tension spreading across his shoulders, revealing an unmistakable purpose.
This was no ceremonial object.
It was an instrument of execution.
To do the job perfectly, he reflected, the victim would have to be completely immobilized, arms and legs restrained like a puppet's, the neck resting on a flat, rigid surface that would ensure the precision of the blow. Any movement, any hesitation, would turn the whole thing into a disaster.
He lowered the axe onto the table with a dull thud, metal kissing wood, then reached for the bottle of Jack Daniel's like a man seeking liquid courage to face the inevitable.
— This has all the makings of a fucking disaster — he concluded under his breath, pouring himself a double shot of bourbon, cowboy style, and watching the amber liquid stream into the glass, reflecting the light and all the uncertainties of the night.
He picked up his cell phone as though someone else's hands were touching a forbidden instrument and dialed the number committed to memory. The screen illuminated his face for a moment, carving his features into an expression of determination and exhaustion.
He called the Earl of Norfolk, and when the voice on the other end answered with its customary reverence, he dispensed with any formalities.
— Be there tomorrow. You will be the sacrifice...
The words came out short and efficient, like a precisely calibrated order.
A murmur of confirmation came from the other end.
"... Yes, sir..."
The reply sounded submissive, almost incredulous, and the Ipsissimus needed to hear nothing more.
He ended the call and remained there for a moment, staring at the now-empty box on the table, feeling the weight of responsibility—and of the violence about to be unleashed—tighten around his throat like a knot.