Leonardo da Vinci

The chants grew louder. The Sun was already setting, letting the moon meet its face with all of his grace. Warmth from the torches licked gathered people and those who were meant to be lost. Leonardo stood calmly, already accepted his fate. He didn't even look for any escape route or genius plan. All he could feel was longing in his heart. For his lost mother. For his friends. For the damn Book of Leaves that was supposed to be in the Vault. And maybe... for the Count. Lord Girolamo Riario. His old rival, papal attack dog and a man who happened to work with him the whole time in Machu Picchu. The unexpected alliance that came out to somehow be civilised. And also, an unexpected confessions in the dark of Inka's cell, that uncovered not only the truth, but also a vulnerability in both of them. Da Vinci gazed briefly at Girolamo standing by his side. Their eyes met and just for a second the artist regretted every bite, every teaser and every snarky comment he ever said towards the Count. Because, now, beside him, was standing not the proud Lord, not the pope's nephew, not the ruthless bastard that killed people for beliefs, dogma, and the Church. No. Beside him stood a man. Bare with his mind and heart with nothing more than plea in his eyes.

Machu Picchu