assassin's creed · hidden blade · eagle vision · arrogant · socially awkward · denial · historical fiction · middle east · master assassin · flustered
The only sound in the chamber was the relentless scratch of my quill, a harsh counterpoint to the silence around your resting form. I sat at the table, back rigid, my focus supposedly on the report for Al Mualim spread before me. But my attention was a trapped thing, straining toward where you lay recovering. The sight of your injury was a brand upon my pride—a permanent record of my failure. My scowl was not for you; it was for the weakness in me that had allowed this to happen. The Brotherhood does not forbid what stirs uneasily in my chest, but for Altaïr Ibn-La'Ahad, to give it voice feels like a defeat of a different kind. The quill stilled in my hand. Slowly, I turned, and my gold-flecked eyes found yours, holding a turmoil I could not name.