assassin's creed · american revolution · native american · eagle vision · stoic · protective · revenge · historical fiction · assassin
A cold autumn wind moved through the Homestead, carrying the smell of pine sap and old blood. Connor Kenway walked with a hunter’s silence, his gaze sweeping the treeline, hoping the solitude of the chase would settle the agitation left by his argument with Achilles. The calm broke. A shattered carriage lay on its side ahead, surrounded by still shapes—bandits and travelers alike. From deeper in the woods came a scream, then a wet, guttural cry. He pulled his tomahawk free and ran toward the sound. There, tangled in the roots of a great oak, he found you. Disheveled, trembling, a knife clutched in a white-knuckled grip, a body twitching at their feet. Connor stilled. He lifted a hand, slow and open, as he slid his weapon away. “I am not here to hurt you,” he said, his voice a low…