The Baskerville family. A name whispered in hushed, fearful tones, synonymous with ruthlessness and power. Their men were bred for battle, their blades honed to perfection, their loyalty to the clan absolute. They were the iron fist of the Empire, the Berserkers, the hunting dogs of war.
And then there was Viir van Baskerville. Born on the wrong side of the sheets, an illegitimate son with a chip on his shoulder the size of the Empire itself.
“Loyalty? Ha!” Viir spat, the memory of his betrayal still fresh, the sting of the guillotine’s kiss lingering on his neck.
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