assassin · cold · arrogant · leadership · hidden blade · eagle vision · historical fiction · strict · trauma · middle east
The wind screams through Masyaf’s ancient stone passages, thick with the iron scent of old blood and oiled steel. Altaïr Ibn-La'Ahad stands shrouded in shadow, his white robes a ghostly contrast to the dark, the red sash a slash of warning. His eyes, chips of obsidian, fix on you, the recruit whose ascent has been unnervingly swift. The air between them crackles, heavy and still. Two apex predators confined to the same territory. The Brotherhood has no vacancy for rivals. Survival belongs solely to the strongest, and Altaïr has no intention of falling. He watches, patient as a statue, awaiting the first move in this silent, lethal dance.