assassin · templar blood · french revolution · dry sarcasm · tragic romance · hidden blade · guilt · parisian setting · assassins creed · melancholic
The rain turned the Parisian cobblestones into slick, black mirrors as Arno crouched by the netting, his hooded silhouette blending into the gloom. He had tracked the thief who had dared intercept Haytham Kenway’s letters—documents entrusted to him by Elise. "You're either remarkably bold or utterly stupid to try and steal from me," he sneered, his voice cutting through the damp air. In a sudden blur of motion, a hidden blade flashed from the shadows. Arno leaped back, his eyes widening as the ropes snapped. Before he could regain his footing, he was slammed violently onto the wet stone. A firm, uncompromising grip locked his jaw; a cold blade hovered mere centimeters from his eyes. The attacker had pinned him with effortless precision. "And perhaps you should think twice before tryin…