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teecupangel · 9 months ago

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Jujutsu Kaisen and Assassin's Creed crossover! What would be each assassin's curse technique? What's their domain expansion? What grade are they?

I was half-tempted to make them Cursed Spirit just for the heck of it but let’s go for them being sorcerers in general. For this one, I’ll try to make their cursed techniques and domain expansion kinda like a reference to their games… Imma try anyway XD

So let’s talk about a brief description of each for those unfamiliar with Jujutsu Kaizen:

Cursed Technique: In a nutshell, sorcerers uses cursed energy to activate their techniques and that’s why it’s called Cursed Technique.

Domain Expansion: I am probably going to screw up the explanation but the main point is a Domain Expansion is a closed ‘space’ created from the mind of the user (usually a reflection of their mind) that guarantees to amplify their curse techniques (or evolve it or mutate it) and give it a 100% hit rate. Not every sorcerer can use a Domain Expansion and it’s noted as a sign that a sorcerer has reached the top of their capability (allegedly).

Grade: Each sorcerer has a Grade that shows their ‘capabilities’ and experience with 4 being the lowest (weak or inexperienced or your family is a pile of trash dicks who is keeping you from promoting), 3 is average, 2 is above average, 1 is the highest status… unless you count Special Grade which is reserved for those who are super dangerous, mostly those with immeasurable destructive power

(Since some curse techniques are hereditary, a bit of backstory would be necessary)

Note: All Cursed Techniques/Domain Expansion names are subject to change because I am bad at naming stuff and they were all translated by Cambridge Dictionary so if it’s wrong, blame them. Also, their Grades is not their final grade but their grade when the ‘story’ starts. In this situation, I kinda like the idea of Altaïr, Ezio and Ratonhnhaké:ton being the upperclassmen to Arno, Jacob and Evie. XD

Altaïr: semi-Grade 2, barred from promotion by the Sinan Family’s Elders

The adopted child of the Sinan Family who is rumored to have killed his adoptive father, Rashid, and is said to be under investigation, barring him from promotion until further notice.

Cursed Technique: Hollow Illusions

Altaïr is able to create illusions that cannot be distinguished from reality. It cannot physically harm his opponents but real objects may be hidden in the illusions (ex: hiding a time bomb in an illusion of a person his opponent loves). He can create illusions of anything he knows and have seen and his illusions can even copy living beings down to their quirks and habits using the knowledge his opponent has about them (it’s unsure how but Altaïr believes that his cursed technique doesn’t really create illusions but infects anyone with the ‘thought’ of that illusion and invades their mind for more information). He mostly uses this to confuse or debilitate enemies while using his sword to finish them. Hollow Illusions cost a lot of energy and Altaïr can only use up to 5 average human male size illusions per day… unless he pushes himself but this comes at the cost of harming his internal organs.

Domain Expansion: مكتبة الإبداع [Library of Creation] (“Nothing is True, Everything is Permitted”)

A pure white dome with bookcases filled with books and parchments as walls. Each book and parchments correspond to the ‘laws of reality’. In this dome, Altaïr has complete control over every law that governs the universe and the living beings inside and anything that is created in this domain can be stated as ‘real’ and any ‘real’ thing in this domain can be stated as ‘illusion’ at his whim. (if Altaïr’s theory that his technique invades the mind directly then this domain’s real danger lies in Altaïr’s ability to invade anyone’s mind and change it to his will… of course, that theory has not yet been proven).

Ezio: semi-Grade 2, Auditore Family

The second oldest son of the Auditore Family, an old sorcerer family that has been one of the most influential families in their world.

Cursed Technique: Auditore Family’s Light Absorption

Ezio can use his cursed technique to absorb any source of light, amplifying his cursed energy. He uses his amplified cursed energy to coat his weapons and deal massive damage. (He can even absorb the light of a phone’s screen, it does not need to be natural light)

Domain Expansion: Teatro della Tenebre [Theatre of Darkness] (“We work in the dark to serve the light”)

His domain absorbs all sources of light inside the domain, engulfing everything into darkness. Being hit by a spotlight means being engulfed in a pillar of pure cursed energy meant to deal severe damage (ala Moonbeam) if it hits anything other than Ezio. Being hit by the spotlight amplifies all of Ezio’s attacks and acts as a shield that negates all incoming damage. The domain is also able to absorb the light outside of it, ensuring that Ezio will have unlimited energy in the domain.

Ratonhnhaké:ton: semi-Grade 2

The illegitimate son of the missing Haytham Kenway, part of the Kenway family, a branch family of the Auditore family. He strives to become a sorcerer to find the Cursed Spirit who burned his village to the ground and killed his mother.

Cursed Technique: Auditore Family’s Light Absorption

Inherited from his ‘missing’ father, Haytham Kenway, Ratonhnhaké:ton absorbs light to amplify his own body, making him faster, stronger and more durable.

Domain Expansion: I can’t find any English to the Kanien'kehá:ka language translator but just assume his Domain Expansion’s name is from his native language and it translate to “The Night Hunt” (“We work in the dark to serve the light”)

His domain is engulfed in darkness and Ratonhnhaké:ton stalks his preys in the darkness, the amplification of his body shrouding him in cursed energy that seemed to take the form of different animals. Like Ezio (and anyone with a domain expansion from the Auditore family), he can absorb more light to amplify his cursed energy from outside the domain.

Desmond: Ungraded → Grade 4 (debatably: Special Grade)

Of course, we’re going to shower Desmond with affection by making his life ‘complicated’. Desmond is born of the Miles family, a branch family of the Auditore family with William Miles, his father, as the current head of the family. He’s the cousin of both Ezio and Ratonhnhaké:ton (of differing degrees) and his birth is shrouded in mystery for one specific reason: no one knows who his mother is. His mother disappeared (or died???) when he was 3 in an incident that everyone is forbidden to talk about (all they know is that Desmond is the sole survivor) and investigations concluded that his mother’s identity never existed. He doesn’t want to be a sorcerer and he actually ran away from the Miles family… until he got into another incident where every being in a closed room with him is left dead in varying degree of gore while he slept in the middle of the room, exactly as it happened back when he lost his mother. Because of this, he’s been given to Edward Kenway to survey and, if necessary, put down.

Cursed Technique: Auditore Family’s Light Absorption – Incomplete(???)

He can absorb light, sure… but it doesn’t amplify his cursed energy at all. No one knows why. Desmond cannot even use cursed energy at all even though he can see cursed spirit. For some reason, Desmond can also absorb cursed energy itself. Edward theorizes that this is the ‘final’ form of the Auditore’s Light Absorption, to absorb cursed energy from others. But they still can’t understand why Desmond can’t use cursed energy when it’s clear that he can absorb it. Some believes this is because Desmond hasn’t mastered it while others believe it’s a drawback of being able to absorb cursed energy.

Domain Expansion: “None”

As far as everyone can see, Desmond does not have a Domain Expansion.

Edward: Grade 1, leader/teacher of Altaïr, Ezio, Ratonhnhaké:ton and Desmond’s team

The ex-head of the Kenway Family (the current head is his daughter, Jenny) who has turned to instructing students and is the current instructor of Altaïr, Ezio and Ratonhnhaké:ton. He was given Desmond because of his mastery of the Auditore Family’s Light Absorption as well as a personal favor from William Miles who was unwilling to take Desmond back (“He wouldn’t want to see me. It might just make him more uncooperative if I was to try and take him back to our family. He is safer with you than he would ever be with me.”)

Cursed Technique: Auditore Family’s Light Absorption

He absorbs light and can coat the cursed energy taken from that light in any object. His primary weapon is pistols (4 of them, in fact) and his bullets are all coated in cursed energy. He cannot create bullets made of cursed energy but his mastery over the Auditore Family’s cursed technique means he can coat anything (object, living person) with his cursed energy and can absorb light immediately. Desmond’s pistol and bullets coated with cursed energy is from him so Desmond could protect himself.

Domain Expansion: Raise the Black Flag (“We work in the dark to serve the light”)

The domain is filled with cursed energy showing as black water that Edward can use at any time but acts like acid to those inside his domain. Rotting planks acts as ‘safe ground’ to them and the domain’s walls turn into cannons made of darkness, firing blasts after blasts to all enemies in the domain.

Arno: Grade 3

The son of a veteran sorcerer who died from a cursed spirit (probably?) while on his way to get his son from the park where he was playing with a mysterious red-haired girl. He finds his father’s body and is taken in by the sorcerers soon after.

Cursed Technique: Des Sens Partagés (Shared Senses)

Arno can share senses to any target and it doesn’t have to be human. Those with cursed energy are easier to share senses with and Arno can choose to make it one-way or two-way. He uses it more for surveillance and reconnaissance, acting as a commanding officer in the field.

Domain Expansion: Sens en Bouteille (Bottled Senses) – still incomplete

He’s still working on it but his domain is meant for him and his opponents to share everything with Arno being able to choose how ‘deep’ their bond is. Arno can also take his opponents senses, debilitating them. As a last result, Arno can harm himself to harm his opponent.

Evie: Grade 3

Evie will be our Maki Zen’in, unable to see curses but still wishing to be a sorcerer. She’s considered a prodigy in her own regards and has both an inferior complex and an academic rivalry with Altaïr Ibn-La'Ahad because people like to say “If she could just use cursed energy, she would have been as good as Altaïr Ibn-La'Ahad”. The Frye family supports her and is even pushing for her to be named the heir, making them a ‘joke’ in the eyes of many other sorcerer families.

Cursed Technique and Domain Expansion: None

She uses cursed tools and is granted a more durable and faster body than even high leveled sorcerers by Heavenly Restriction. Arno usually shares his senses with her so she can see cursed spirits but she has tools to help her if Arno can’t share his senses. If she pushed herself, she can be as fast as Ratonhnhaké:ton in his domain. However, the prejudice and mocking she received as a child makes her have a hard time with mental-heavy cursed techniques like illusions.

Jacob: Grade 3

Evie Frye’s twin and a sorcerer who joined because it was ‘tradition’. He’s friendly and doesn’t seem to take anything seriously. Underneath, he believes it would have been better if he was the one that can’t see cursed energy instead of his twin. He also can’t help but think the Frye family’s support of Evie is a show of how much of a disappointment he is.

Cursed Technique: The Frye Family’s Emotional Manipulation

A cursed technique of the Frye family that can manipulate emotions of the targets, make them calm to the point of not wishing to fight or stop someone from killing them. Jacob can only target 1 target at once but the common target is usually 3. He’s still ‘learning’ the ropes as he calls it but many believes his lack of progress is either deliberate to make Evie a worthy successor or he is being hindered by his own hidden inferiority complex.

Domain Expansion: The Fall of Terror – incomplete

A domain in which Jacob can freely control the emotions of everything in it. The final form of this domain would have every being fall into complete terror, paralyzing them and, in some cases, making them harm themselves.

Bayek: Grade 1

The headmaster of the ‘school’ Desmond is sent to. He lost his son to a group of organized cursed spirits that they are still hunting down. His wife has gone missing, presumably turning rogue to hunt the same cursed spirits without waiting for the approval of the council.

Cursed Technique: Soul Fire

Bayek is able to use his cursed energy to create flames that have the same mythical properties people believe Greek Fire to have. His main weapon is a sword that is covered in his Soul Fire. This fire cannot be snuffed out for as long as Bayek has cursed energy and can melt through the toughest of metal and even the strongest barriers recorded by the sorcerers.

Domain Expansion: آكل القلوب (Eater of Hearts)

His domain is shown to be ruins with the ground submerged in water. His Soul Fire turns into a large glowing snake that attacks anything in the domain and Bayek trades his sword for a bow made of the same flames. His arrows are purely made of Soul Fire as well and he coordinates his attack with the flaming snake that hunts the domain.

Basim: Grade 2

A thief who accidentally got mixed up in all these because the one he was stealing from had an object that contained a cursed spirit. This cursed spirit killed its ‘owner’ and was about to kill Basim. It unfortunately ate his partner in crime and childhood friend Nehal. Preliminary report stated that there is no evidence of any other person at all and many believed that this Nehal has been completely devoured by the cursed spirit before Basim’s current instructor, Roshan, got to the scene and saved Basim from the same fate.

Cursed Technique: Focused Strikes

Basim marks his targets in a specific radius and teleports to each of their location to attack in rapid succession. Almost always lethal but takes a lot of cursed energy. He can only mark up to 3 targets right now but, with enough training, he will be able to mark up to 5 targets.

Domain Expansion: سجن الجن (Djinn Prison) - incomplete

A domain haunted by a djinn that attacks anything in the domain. The entire domain is surrounded by shadowy figures that stand still while the djinn stalks and attacks everyone. The djinn cannot be attacked or killed. Because of the incompleteness of the domain, the Djinn will also attack Basim if it sees him.

‘Unknown’ Domain Expansion that killed everyone in Desmond Miles’ 3rd birthday party (his father was away on business) and Desmond Miles’ old workplace Bad Weather

Sole survivor: Desmond Miles

“A Reader’s Dream”

A domain expansion that creates hooded figures that kills everything in sight with a blade on their left arm. They can be killed with one shot but more will be summoned as time passes. Each figure wears a hood, keeping their faces obscured. The domain appears like a gray area shrouded in light mist and lines will start to form all over. The more glowing lines there is, the harder for anyone or anything in the domain to move. Each time this domain is activated, it seems to be larger, as if it had been receiving cursed energy from somewhere and had been storing it. The domain itself does not show its user.

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nemo-of-house-hamartia · 1 year ago

Text

In The Heat of the Moment Chapter 5 - Awakening of the Hunter

Ch.1, Ch.2, Ch.3, Ch.4,

Words Count: 12077

Warning: Mention of Suicide; Physical Violence;

BYRON January 1868, London The wind blew in the forest around him, a subtle whisper that carried the promise of a gelid night. The gloomy penumbra of the early sunset permeated the air around him, and if not for the blanket of snow that covered all that surrounded him, he would have not been able to see anything as clearly as he did. Keeping his rifle in his hand, his grip sure and steady, despite the thick gloves around his hands, Byron Harrison let his gaze wander around with slow attention, deliberately scanning his surroundings with a precision that came from habit. Not even the crystal of snow covering his auburn lashes like lace were enough to impede his search. Thick puffs of vapor came out of his mouth, as the chilly air pricked on his cheeks mercilessly, giving them a painful red tint that had nothing to do with bashfulness or strenuous effort. Yet, nothing, not even the torpor in his arms and legs, could sway him from his task. He cared not about discomfort. He cared not about pain. All he cared about was the forest in front of him, and the prey that was hiding in it, the elusive trophy that would finally bring an end to his continuous searching. “Come out, you fucking bastard,” he whispered, turning around to get a wider visual, the crunch of the snow under his boot filling the stillness around him. “I know you are here,”

Ears were keen on capturing any sign, any hint, anything that might show him where that arsehole was hiding. His breathing was controlled, his heart steady in its beating as he slowly turned his eyes toward a silvery bush ahead of him. A low rough laughter raised from somewhere on his right. Byron raised his rifle and shot, the deafening sound breaking the surreal silence. He waited until the echo died down, as stillness had found lease once more among the trees. But he knew it was not peace. There would be no peace. Not until he had shot every single one of the bullets he was carrying with him. Not until those bullets had found their way through that bastard’s heart. Byron tensed his ears again, eyes searching with the same careful attention, waiting for a signal that he knew would come. The laughter continued, reverberating all around him. Mocking him. Deriding him. He blinked rapidly, to clear his eyes from the tears swelling up. “Show your bloody mug, you son of a fucking dog!” he growled, a sound that had nothing of human and all of the beast he was trying with all his strength to restrain. ”Show yourself!” And as always, like clockwork, the man showed himself.

His pristine blue eyes were twinkling in the dark, and what can only be described as a devilish smile was plastered on the man’s face a face crowned by dark hair, disheveled hair, hidden under a dark beaked hood. With the heavy cape of the Assassins weighing on his shoulders, the man stood between the trees, the snow crunching under his feet as he got closer to the Master Templar. Byron reloaded the rifle with quick, precise hands, took aim again, and shot. And shot. And shot. And shot. One bullet after the other flew in the darkness of the night, each of them landing straight through the heart of the mocking Assassin. The man laughed again, unfazed, and with each shot his laughter grew in intensity, to the point of sounding almost hysterical by the time Byron had finished his bullets. “You cannot kill what’s already dead, Leviathan” The words were as derisive as the tone was scornful, cutting through him like the sharpest of blades. Fury pervading every single fiber of his body, Byron took out his revolver and kept shooting and shooting in his rage, until the chamber clicked empty, and no more bullets were left. The low laughter rang all around him, echoing from every hidden corner of that godforsaken forest, reverberating through all that he was, deafening in its intensity. It got interrupted only by another deafening shot. One that Byron didn’t shoot. Straight through his heart, from the revolver that the Assassin was holding, the bullet had passed right through him. His face jerked back, just in time for his desperate eyes to see the bullet hitting its true target: ghosts, holding each other desperately, almost unrecognizable for how deformed they were in the silent scream that was leaving their mangled mouths. But Byron knew them. His soul recognized them before his eyes did.

The scream of agony that left Byron’s mouth was primal in its pain, obscene in its rawness, a wounded animal screaming his curse to the sky in its misery. A scream that followed him in the waking world, and his eyes flashed open, as he tried to grasp for air. Beads of sweat that had nothing to do with heat were running down his brow, as he tried to readjust his view through the dark of the room. But he couldn’t. Everything appeared nebulous in front of him and, he soon realized, it was because his eyes were filled with tears. “You cannot kill what’s already dead,” He heard that voice in his ears again, a hazy memory now, still taunting him. His brow furrowed as he covered his eyes with a callous hand, trying to drown the lump of anguish that had tightened his throat to the point of making breathing torture. His whole chest felt as if hot iron pokes were nabbing at him, piercing him like merciless arrows, in a grotesque imitation of the martyrdom of Saint Sebastian. Pain was tearing him apart. Taking a long breath, he rose from his bed, oblivious to the hiemal air around him or the freezing floor underneath his bare feet. He felt nothing. Nothing at all, aside from the stupor caused by those goddamned nightmares that chased after him like rabid dogs. He headed for the drawer where a small basin sat, already filled with water, and dipped his rough hands in it splashing his face, uncaring about the gelid droplets that ran down his neck and damped his wool shirt. It felt good. It was good. Real. Almost a self-inflicted slap back to reality. Taking another deep breath, Byron allowed himself a moment longer of leniency for his soul, his mind fighting its way out of the merciless tides of dreams and memories, to anchor himself to the world, to make port where his heart could finally acquiesce once more. It came to him in the form of a silvery laughter and curious eyes and freckled cheeks. An image of gentle peace, a small flickering light in darkness: the harbinger of a warm dawn after a long hyperborean night. Despite having found his port, when he raised his gaze to look into the mirror hanging over his basin, the man looking back at him had none of his usual composed certitude.

The man in the mirror looked more like a madman: sunken eyes, dark in the soft penumbra of the room, an ocean where a perennial storm never ceased to be, dangerous waters just beneath the sea green surface; all over his face the heaviness of the years had started to show, in those wrinkles that torment and pain had chiseled mercilessly into his features. His head full of auburn hair still kept wavy and long - a quirk he carried over from his years in the Navy- had started to go gray here and there; on his beard and moustache too, time had started to make its presence known. He felt older than he looked, as if he had lived more years than the ones he had actually been granted by fate. Another deep breath. He splashed more water on his face, hoping to erase the fatigue coming from sleep. “Sleep,” he scoffed. He hadn’t been able to have a restful night of sleep in years. His eyes trained automatically toward the only photo sitting on his desk - the only personal touch in his otherwise bare bedroom- and his heart sank in his chest. He took the memento as gently as his callous rough hands allowed -careful, as he always was with anything connected to it - and caressed the small, precious faces looking back at him. He wished, with all his heart, he could see those smiles again. Hear that laughter again, smell their perfume in his nostrils, feel the solid weight of their bodies against his for one last embrace. Feeling the pain throbbing in his chest with every single beat of his tired heart - how many nights he had prayed that it would stop beating altogether, to find some respite from that life - he put the frame back to its place, hiding it from view, trying to suppress the yearning that, he knew, was the greatest enemies in the war that forever raged in his heart whenever he was awake. “You cannot kill what’s already dead, Levathian,” The voice echoed again in his ears, as it always did. Taunting him. Ridiculing his pain. “I cannot,” Byron growled, gritting his teeth as his eyes turned dark. “But I can take away your future. I can destroy your legacy, all which you held dear, just as you have done with me.”

A sudden knock on the door tore him away from his thoughts. “Yes?” he spoke, his tone curt. “My Lord? Do I have your leave to enter? Victor Dorianr’s warm voice - now a gentle murmur rather than the booming toll of a bell, as it always was - immediately put him at ease. “Come, Victor,” he allowed, as he moved away from his desk to greet the man. The door opened, and the Master Templar entered, candid fresh snow on his black hair and heavy fur-lined coat. Fastened at the high collar was his Templar cross, the metal shining even in the darkness. Byron’s eyes narrowed, tensing: Victor was there on Official Order business. He looked as the Frenchman closed the door carefully behind himself before turning to face Byron, his dark eyes inquisitive. “Forgive me for interrupting your slumber, My Lord-” “No need for apologies, Victor. You are always welcome here…and I was already awake, anyway. What’s the reason for this urgency?” “Forgive me for the late hour, but I got a telegram. From Crawley. Our wait has been fruitful. We captured two Assassins that came to the house, just as you predicted,” Byron felt his blood chill in his veins. For the first time since waking up, Byron allowed himself to smile. But there was none of the warmth that came from pleasure. “Do we know if they are the ones responsible for the explosion of Brewster’s laboratories?” The Frenchman shook his head. “Non, Monsieur, no one has started to interrogate them. Master Barclay was the one duty when the Assassins had broken into the house, and he is now holding them captive and awaiting your orders.” Byron took a deep breath, rubbing his eyes with callous fingers. Markus Barclay, the thorn in his back ever since the young man joined their ranks. He knew why the Grand Master had seen reasons to assign him under his attendance, and he knew he was the only man for the job. Still, had he had the chance to decline that obligation, he would have done so in a heartbeat, and passed instead the “honour” to Ambrose. ”Wake the rest of the men and then wait for me without. Have my carriage ready. We need to leave at once if we want to reach Crawley before sunrise,” “Very well, Monsieur,” he said, holding up for a second. “Is there something else, Victor?” “Nothing urgent or pertaining to our current mission, and you know, God forbid if I dare not pry into your privacy, Monsieur, but if I may be so impertinent, you look…harrowed,” he murmured, his voice turning as soft as the light in his eyes. “Lack of sleep, Victor,” Byron answered curtly, clearing his voice, with all the intention to not explain himself. “Nothing that laudanum cannot help with, and nothing you need to worry about. Now,do as I ordered. We mustn’t waste a minute. We need to run against the dawn.”

——————————————————————————————————

The journey to Crawley took longer than Byron cared for, but with the weather playing against them, he knew they would have been delayed anyway. At least, he thought, it had proceeded smoothly, and with Victor’s low chatter to fill the time, he was inclined to find it even pleasant. The Frenchman always managed, with his quick wit and gentle voice - almost lulling when it wasn’t so loud, it could be heard a whole town away - to distract him from his ghosts, at least for a little while. However, the moment the carriage had stopped and he had been able set foot out of it, he welcomed the cold winter air of the night against his face and the soft snow falling in big flakes all around them. Nothing like the freezing chill of darkness nipping at one’s cheeks to keep one’s senses awake and alert. His favourite hunting weather. As much as it resembled the one he always saw in his nightmare, he felt none of the helplessness that derived from the inevitable, the unchangeable. Instead, he felt all the empowerment from being awake, and in control of everything that was around him. As he walked down the empty street, the fresh snow crunching under his boots, his eyes immediately found the house - a one-floor old cottage, its red bricks appearing black in the dark of the night, the roof torn down here and there, weighting on the structure in a way that it reminded Byron of an old man carrying a basket, his back curved by life and time. All the windows were black, empty sockets on what could only be described as a dismal facade, with no sign of lanterns or candles anywhere. No one had lived there in a little while. Byron turned to look around, his eyes scouring the surroundings of the small neighbourhood, a habit he never lost since his travels in the Arctic. He saw nothing, aside from a whole line of old houses not so different from the one in front of him, nothing that would cause him to be on alert. But something in his guts - an instinct, almost an extra sense that he couldn’t explain into words - told him that there was something just staring at them, waiting in the darkness, standing as still as waters in a tranquil pond. It was a fickle feeling, almost air shimmering in a faint glow, a whisper in his ear. None of the other Templars following him gave him a sign of having felt it as well. But he could sense it all the same. “Victor,” Byron murmured, his gravelly voice echoing in the empty street.

The Frenchman was at his side at once, ready to comply with his order. “Make sure to keep the place restricted. Do not let anyone get closer to the house - no passerby, no nosy neighbours, no one. If trouble should arise, if anyone were to show their face around here-” he added, eyes cold and void as the sky above. “-you know what to do,” Victor nodded with solemnity, swallowing hard. “Oui, Monsieur,” While hearing his subordinate relay his orders to the rest of the squadron, Byron turned his attention to the house once more, hatred seeping in his chest the longer he stared at its weathered walls, as puffs of condensed breath raised from his lips with each breath he took. The place where Ethan Frye and his broods lived. His attention was soon caught by the Master Templar responsible for sending him the message, emerging from the dark door like a magpie peaking from inside its nest. “They are inside, My Lord. We were awaiting for your arrival,” said Markus Barclay, straightening his back and tilting his chin up, as he came out to welcome the older man while giving him a cocky smile. Byron answered the smile with a long impenetrable look as he walked across the threshold of the small house without a single word of greeting. Complete darkness enveloped him immediately, despite the door still being open behind him. “Light,” he whispered, and before he had the time to add anything else, two candles had been lit by the young Master Templar. The feeble trembling light brightened the small corridor, allowing Byron to get a better look at his surroundings. As nondescript as it was from the outside, the house was just as unremarkable on the inside: old walls once covered in what could only be assumed to be quaint patterns were now presenting stains from mildew, peeling off here and there to show the bare bricks; cobwebs were hanging at the corners against the ceilings, and the wind, slipping through the decaying timber of the doors, carried with it a mournful moan, almost a messenger of what was about to come. A ghostly sentinel for a family that was no more. The boards of the floor protested with each step he took, creaking as he moved toward the quarters where the two Assassins were kept prisoners. He caught a glimpse of a frame where an old small ambrotype hung: a man, not much younger than Byron himself, was sitting on an armchair, a small smirk - barely perceptible -plastered on his lips, beard unkempt and eyes twinkling with what could only be interpreted as pride. Byron’s jaw tensed, teeth grinding as he contained the ever-growing fury coursing through his veins each time he saw that smirk, the very same that taunted each night in his nightmares. He welcomed the fury, and allowed it to warm him like a blazing fire: it was a never-ending flame that kept him going ahead.

Next to the man in the hanging picture were two children, no older than twelve years of age: the girl standing straight, shoulder squared, looking ahead of herself with the same proud eyes as the man sitting beside her, her dark hair hanging in long braids at the either side of her head; the boy facing away from the girl and the man, brows knitted in a despondent gaze, mouth turned downward in a rebellious grimace, the same dark unruly hair as his father, hidden just beneath an old worn-out paperboy hat. Both children’s faces were riddled with freckles, while none appeared on the man’s sullen face. He perused those small faces with meticulous attention, almost dissecting every single detail he deemed essential, etching them in his memory. Then, he forced himself to continue walking down the barely illuminated hall, until he reached where the two Assassins had been kept captive. When Byron entered the room, his gaze was immediately trained toward the two tied-up figures sitting on the floor. He studied them intently, their tied bodies forming a stark, dire contrast against the innocence of the children’s room where they were being held. Both Assassins were in their mid-thirties and, he noticed, were donning the dark robe of their Brotherhood, the hoods lowered on their shoulders to show hard faces and cold stares in their anonymous faces. They were docile. Far too docile, for his taste. “What happened to their blades?” he asked, gazing just above his shoulder toward Markus. “Confiscated and secured downstairs, My Lord, along with all their pieces of equipment. I personally saw to that.” Byron nodded, turning to face the two captives, eyes narrowed in an attentive, silent gaze as he studied the two captives: no scratches, cuts, hematomas, or ecchymoses could be found anywhere on their person; no sign of struggle. No sign of a fight. He stared at Markus for a long moment, his face painted in a mask of wariness before redirecting his attention toward the Assassins once more. “You know who I am?” Byron’s gravelly voice was low, a whisper cutting right through the chillness of the air around him. Nothing transpired from his face, the candle in his hands painting deep shadows all across his face. The woman in front glared at him, defiant of him, but Byron could see, even in the flickering light of the candles, fear was creeping into her eyes, dancing with the rabid hatred she had each time she looked at the iron cross hanging at his neck, her attention fixated on the symbol etched at the center of it. “You are the bloody Leviathan,” she seethed, vomiting his moniker as if it were a curse underneath her breath.

Byron's lips stretched in a chilling smirk. “Then you know why I am here.”

The woman spat on the ground, the spittle just inches away from Byron’s shoes. The other Assassin, captive as well, tied next to her, shook his head at his companion, eyes silently pleading with her to stop and stay quiet. Byron’s eyes twinkled for a moment, his face impassible, calm as ever. “We know. Like we both know that you won’t let us get out of here alive. You Templars know no honour, no compassion, no clemency, not even for the one you declare to protect! All you bastards know is greed and lust for power! And you, Leviathan…you are the worst of them all. No one has ever survived an encounter with you. So why would I cooperate with you, you bastard?” Byron stood silent, untouched by those words that found no retort. But deep within, he felt his guts turning and twisting with barely suppressed rage at the sight of the two Assassins, a rage that churned like the bubbling waters of the oceans during those bleak winter storms that always stole hope from the sailors unlucky enough to find themselves at sea. His rage has nothing to do with them, but all to do with the symbol they had hanging at their belts. “It is not my… proclivity to offer mercy to your kind. It is indeed true. But-” he murmured, a smile appearing on his lips, that didn’t reach his eyes. “-I bear no ill will to either of you. All I want is a piece of information. Just one small piece of information, and you will walk away from here with all your limbs attached together. I am offering you the possibility of leaving this place alive…if you tell me all you know about the whereabouts of Ethan Frye and his offspring.” The woman spat again, gritting her teeth in ire. “Do you think me dense or soft in the head? There is no promise you can spew that I would believe, no word you say that I would trust! We will not talk! In no way in Hell, we will ever betray the Creed! You won’t know anything about Ethan Frye or his children! Never! You can torture us, cut us, and dice us to pieces, we’ll never talk, you bastard son of a who-“ The booming sound of a revolver going off shattered the air of the room, its deafening blast echoing against the worn-out walls, gunpowder filling the nostrils with its acrid smell. Byron’s steely gaze never left the eyes of the Assassin still alive, his hand still holding the smoking gun pointed toward the dead woman, now a lifeless husk, a hole the size of an orange marking her forehead where the bullet had entered, with bits of flaccid pale brain matters, blood, and splintered bones had flown all around.

Byron moved the mouth of the revolver toward the other Assassin, his face impassible in front of the spectacle of gore lying in front of him, unfazed by the blood that had sprayed against the hem of his leather coat. He barely wrinkled his nose when he felt the pungent foul odour coming from the still-bound man who, had soiled himself. Blood, gore, shit and gunpowder. A side of his life he had come to accept as normal, regrettably so. “Now…let’s try this again, shall we?” Byron asked again, his voice dropping again to a chilling murmur. “Where are Ethan Frye and his offspring?” The bounded man whimpered, his whole body encompassed by a tremor as the realization of what just happened pushed through his veins like ice. He lowered his head, keeping his eyes completely shut, keeping his breathing steady, but failing altogether. “Th-they are hiding in London,” he blabbered, the words pouring out like a river. “Ethan reached out to us yesterday and sent words about a plan to assassinate John Elliotson as the initiation for his son and daughter-” At the name of the Assassin, Byron narrowed his eyes, nostrils flaring at those words, bile burning the back of his throat. His fist clenched out of reflex, his grip growing tighter with each passing second. “How does he plan to do this?” he growled. The Assassin whimpered, eyes fixed on the mouth of the gun still pointed in between his eyebrows. “God forgive me... Oh God, forgive me,” he muttered, between one sob and the other. “We-we have an insider at Lambeth, acting as an informant. A nurse.” “Who?” Byron pressed, with steely determination in his voice. The Assassin hanged his head in shame, biting his lip until he tasted the metallic tangy taste of his own blood. “Emily Millburn,” he sobbed, wringling in the tight rope tied around him. “I beg you, do not hurt her! She is a widow, and only has her little boy as her family! Please, I beg of you! She has nothing to do with Ethan!” Byron took a deep breath, nodding as he allowed the information to settle in his mind. “We are done here,” he murmured, turning toward Markus, who was still standing there, silent witness to the whole scene, as he tried, with all his might, to make himself as small as a rat and just as unnoticeable.

Without a single word uttered, Byron handed him his revolver, his order clear in its silence. Markus’ dark eyes widened, his lips quivering as he tried to focus his attention on Byron. “Lord Harrison, I.. I don’t understand. He-He has told us what we wanted to know-” Byron stared at him longer, eyes unblinking, piercing through his resolve like a needle in the canvas.

“This is a lesson I want to partake with you, Master Barclay. A lesson about honour and loyalty,” he whispered, each word laced with indignant contempt. “I appreciate qualities like loyalty, I find it to be the very base upon which all is created. And this man, despite his questionable judgment in terms of alliances, despite being nothing more than a vermin of insignificant consequence…this man has loyalty aplenty. For. His. Creed. So much so that he had no qualms in lying, straight to my face, about a dead man’s whereabouts-” At those words, Byron saw the Assassin’s eyes go wide with inconceivable terror. “-knowing fully what the consequences would be. Knowing fully well that while loyalty has a price, defiance has an even greater cost,” Byron pushed the revolver into Markus’ hand once more. “Now, kill him, Master Barclay. I won’t ask it another time.” Markus swallowed hard as his whole face transformed, skin turning the colour of curdled milk, his body reacting almost against his will, weighting like lead. He made the mistake of looking for one moment into the eyes of the Assassin sitting on the floor. The silent plea of mercy was there, written in watery dark eyes. Markus took a deep breath, hands pervaded by an uncontrollable tremor. The gun went off again, the bullet finding its way through the skull of the remaining Assassin.

Byron looked once more to the desolated rest of the two Assassins, his face not letting transpire a single emotion. If anyone were to look upon him, one would have thought him bored by the whole ordeal. But this would have been the furthest from the truth. He turned toward Markus, whose face was covered in sweat, mouth puckered in a grimace, about to either retch or pass out. Byron narrowed his eyes as he walked just by him, his footsteps heavy, deliberate, implacable. He stood by the Master Templar without so much as to deign him of a glance and when he spoke, Markus flinched as if slapped in the face. “I do not take insubordination leniently, nor do I condone it. Question my orders one more time and I will make sure that no one will ever find you ever again. You have taken an oath. The Grand Master has seen fit to give you a second chance and by his ordinance, I will comply with his wishes and make sure that you follow through with it; I will see you abide by it by any means necessary, or I swear on what I hold most dear in this life, I will make you regret the very day you have set foot inside the Manor. Understood?” Markus turned to look toward the man who was towering over him, his voice a squawk that died in his chest before it could even find the strength to pass through his lips. A shaky nod was all that he could muster.

Unimpressed with the response, Byron walked past him, never turning to face either the Master Templar or the slaughter of the room. As he found his way out of the small house, the silence that surrounded him was deafening. Not a single one of the Templars that had accompanied him to the small house in Crawley dared to speak or even look him straight in the eyes. As he walked in the corridor, he noticed again the ambrotype that had welcomed him inside. It took it with a swift hand and hid it in the internal pocket of his jacket. Another memento. Another step further down that path that called him each day and each night of his life. He quickly went down the corridor, and crossed the threshold, breathing in the cold air of the night with gratitude, letting it feel his lungs with its purity. Raising his face to the sky - now starting to brighten with the colours of dawn at the horizon - he closed his eyes, allowing the soft snow to fall all over him, gently caressing his skin. It was incredibly welcomed, after all that had just happened.

He let his mind clear itself, trying, as it always happened whenever violence permeated his thoughts and hung to him like a tick to a dog’s coat, to find a moment of light amidst all that darkness. To find his port again. Keeping his eyes closed, he heard Victor walk towards him, recognizing him distinctly by the sound of the man’s step, light and fluid against the snow-covered pathway. “Did you find what were you seeking, Monsieur?”

Byron shook his head, lowering his head and opening his eyes to look at the Frenchman. “Not entirely, I am afraid. Those Assassins are willing to lie even in the face of death and go to the grave to protect the whereabouts of a dead man. But the liars always weaves their best stories with truth, and we got something that the Grand Master will find useful,” “Then, a successful mission indeed, if I may be so bold,” Victor cheered, without daring to ask any details that couldn’t be shared with him. Byron appreciated his discretion, the deferential respect he had for the rules and hierarchy within the Order, his unwavering loyalty to what the Tenets of the Order prescribed, and also his penchant for brutal honesty. While most would find the lack of edulcoration in his words disagreeable, Byron was particularly grateful for it. He wished he had more men with such moral strength working for him. “A partial success, yes,” he conceded. “Nevertheless, I will return to London immediately to inform the Grand Master of the current situation and after that, God Willing, I will be able to rest,” And then, if nothing more were to happen, I will finally see her again, he thought. “Very well, Monsieur. Your commands for us here?”

Byron’s shoulders tensed once more, as he stood pensive for a moment. “Finish to search the house and find any manner of evidence that might be connected to the Assassins’ plans. Frye surely had information that would be useful to us. Keep Markus with you, Victor, and keep a close eye on him: I trust no one else but you with this particular task. And once you are done, before you head back to London-“ Byron turned to look at the small house, hatred seeping into all his being like a poison spreading in his veins with every heartbeat. "- Burn this whole shack to the ground and then spread salt upon the soil. I want to see this place erased from the face of the Earth.”

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“This is not what I signed up for, Brudenell, bloody hell,” Ambrose Harrison thought, as he rubbed his eyes trying to chase away his drowsiness, absolutely disgruntled. Again, he cursed under his breath the man who had sponsored him when he had first been offered a spot in the Templars, taking a cigarette out of his pocket and tapping the filter against the tin box before lighting it up. The first taste of tobacco felt good against his tongue, but not enough to brighten his mood. The day had yet to start properly - the sun was barely rising upon the horizon - and he was yet to have a cup of strong coffee to chase the excess of the night before away. But that hadn’t stopped the news from arriving sooner than he liked. And he had liked that news even less once he got to White Chapel to witness them in person. He still couldn’t believe it. Kaylock had been taken down by a couple of miserable ratbags with more brawns than brains, half his gang was dead against the track of the train station, and the other half scattered the Devil only knew where. He knew he would be in for a long day.

He let out a low growly sound of displeasure as his gaze embraced the corpses of all the members of the gang that had been slaughtered during the gang fight, while his men were busy shouting away curious passersby and bribing away any “peeler” that might have come snooping around to report to Whitehall Place. Not that it would matter, considering the amount of officers that were already on the Grand Master’s own payroll. Still, he thought, a few more quid spent on those blokes -with more mouth to feed than hair on their balls- were a good way to ensure absolute silence and discretion. That or a gun against their head. He was open to either solution indistinctly. A flash of brilliant red at the corner of his eyes caught his attention. Blighters. Splendid. 'Old Man’ Roth had sent some of his dupes to help with the works. “Oi! Lads!” He shouted to the group of newcomers. “Chop-chop, we don’t have the whole mornin’! Start lookin’ around and see if you find anythin’ - ANYTHIN’- that might lead us to understand how the bloody fuck we ended up like this!”

“My my, such reprehensible language, Master Harrison,” Ambrose heard a low husked voice reprimanding him. “I do wonder what your brother would think of such…crude display of uncouthness,” It took Ambrose every smidgen of patience to not roll his eyes to the sky at the sound of that voice. Instead, he straightened his back and turned around to face Phillip Starrick, all wrapped in a heavy wool coat lined with slick black fur, his golden cross hanging from the bandeau around his neck. Despite being incredibly early in the morning, the young man appeared to be as fresh as a rose, and -Ambrose couldn’t stop himself from thinking it - just as pretty. “I’m here to bring results, Lord Starrick, not playin’ the elegant Lord,” he grumbled, turning to blow the smoke of the cigarette away from the young aristocrat. “What are you even doin' here? Don’t you “My Lords” usually wake up after the cock has sung its tune?” “Why, Master Harrison, you offend me with your words. I am a most diligent worker, and when the news reached the Manor, the Gran Master saw me fit to oversee the operations alongside you. Consider these Blighters I brought with me as a gesture of goodwill toward a fruitful partnership in discovering what happened here,” he murmured, giving the older man a long look before turning toward the gruesome spectacle in front of them. “Do we have any lead about who caused all of this?” Ambrose shook his head, returning the younger man's look. “Not yet, M’lord. My men are workin' on interrogatin' whoever witnessed the whole fight. We tried to circumscribe the Station, but we arrived too late and whoever caused this mayhem had already left,” Phillip listened intently, his periwinkle eyes gazing with attention around him.

“My Lord! My Lord!” Ambrose heard his name being called from the other side of the railway. One of his own -Bradley, judging from the booming voice - was running toward him, his usually good-natured face now a mask of barely contained stress. “What is it, lad?” “My Lord, you need to come at once,” he gasped, between one breath and the other. “We-We have found it. Kaylock’s body. It’s…It’s-” Ambrose stood silent for a moment, taking a deep breath, and clenching his jaw in frustration. “Show him to me,” he murmured. Then he turned toward Phillip. “I advise you stay here, M’lord. It might be a gruesome affair, the lot of it,” The young Aristocrats waved his hand as if to dismiss his concern. “Fret not, Master Harrison, I am not a delicate daisy that cannot hold the sight of a corpse,” he murmured, shaking his golden curls with a pretentious look etched on his oval face. “It wouldn’t be my first,” Once again Ambrose fought the impulse to roll his eyes to the sky, and answer him with a mordant remark; instead, he refocused his attention on the young lad and followed him to the location where Kaylock’s body had been found, his thoughts redirecting toward the gang leader. So the man had indeed been killed after all.

For a brief moment, Ambrose had hoped not: their differences notwithstanding, Rexford Kaylock had been a good friend of his, always ready for a brawl down at the pits, always up for a wager and he was yet to meet a man that could hold his beer like he did. But despite the man’s cunning, Ambrose knew that his penchant for playing with his food before eating it would have been his ruin, sooner or later. Once in front of the corpse of the man who had once been his friend, Ambrose said nothing, his face almost impassible if not for the furrowing of his thick brows. Now he understood the distress on Bradley’s face. Kaylock hadn’t been just killed: he had been slaughtered. Nose was broken with such strength the bone was showing from the skin; slashes all over his upper body, and open wounds showing the shiny sinew and the bundle of muscles, in some places so deep that you could see the indentation of the weapon even on the bone. He couldn’t determine if it had been a butcher knife or a smaller blade to cause all that. All he could see was that the stroke had been deliberate, unforgiving, inexorable. Ambrose turned toward Bradley and took him aside, bringing him closer enough to preserve the secrecy of his words. “Take away his body and see that he’s buried properly,” his voice was just high enough to be heard by the man. Ambrose took two pouches filled with money and gave it to him. “Give this to his widow and this one to the undertaker, and make sure to have some of my men guardin' his grave after the burial, at least until we figure out who in the fuckin' hell has done this." “Understood, My Lord,” Bradley nodded, lips thin in a grimace of distress as he left to do as he had been ordered. Ambrose growled, taking out another cigarette and lighting it up, hoping to calm his annoyance down.

He didn’t want to be there. He didn’t want to be there at all, playing nanny to the young Blighters who had still to make their bones in the field, and, on top of that, counting the dead after whatever the hell had occurred in the night. A disaster, in his opinion, more than avoidable, had that stupid man listened and stood put, as he had been ordered, instead of getting more and more tangled up with whatever bollocks he had found himself into. Bloody affair, the lots of it. The sound of cold wind blowing did nothing to soothe his spirit or cover the shouting of the people busy working on the site - all myrmidons from his own regime - to bring away the corpses and, in a miraculous turn of faith, find someone still alive with the answers they sought. Ambrose stood a moment longer to oversee the young Blighter when he heard the rustling of a heavy cloak just beside him. When he turned, he found Phillip gazing intently toward the group of men who were carrying Kaylock’s corpse away. “Quite the gruesome spectacle, judging from how the leader of this borough has been rendered.” The aristocrat murmured, his periwinkle eyes observing without fear. “Kaylock wasn’t killed by a dabbler. The pisspot that did this knows how to wield a knife,” “Any theories?” “Not as many as I wished. My money is on a showdown, maybe a settlement of scores between Kaylock’s men and some goddamn Clinkers. They’ve been a pain in the arse lately, so I wouldn’t rule out an escalation. Anyway, until we figure this out, I gave the order to have Keylock’s body to be guarded after his burial.” “I didn't know that corpse snatchers were still residing in the East End of our fair city?” “They don't," Ambrose retorted, putting out his cigarette with his shoe. " No, what I fear is that people might take revenge against him. I don’t put it above them to desecrate a corpse. At this point, I can’t exclude anything. What about your voices, Master of Secrets? Any hint?” Phillip smirked at that name, shaking his golden ringlets. Ambrose couldn’t help but notice how they resembled the colour of ripe wheat in summer. “Forgive me, m’lords,” they both heard a voice behind them.

Ambrose turned and saw young Zachary Handerson approaching them, a small bowler hat in his hands in deferential respect, his fresh face crossed in distress. Ambrose shook his head, almost imperceptibly. The young boy couldn’t be a day over twelve. He knew he had joined the Blighters out of necessity and need for money, and after a talk with Old Man Roth, he had been assigned to Kaylock’s men. But Ambrose could see that the lad had a gentle heart, and was not accustomed to all that violence. He had no place among them, and yet, here he was, doing the job of a man when in truth, he was no more than a child. “What do you need, lad?” Ambrose enquired, his voice much softer than usual. “Forgive me, M’lord,” Zachary fumbled in his words. “I- I was the one that gave the alarm when the whole chaos happened. I was here when the fight started,” Ambrose’s brows raised in surprise, as he turned fully to face the young man, his attention entirely devoted to the young urchin. “Did you see what happened?” “Aye, sir,” the child murmured, raising his eyes but immediately turning them down when they met Phillip’s haughty gaze. Through some gentle nudging from Ambrose, the youngling was able to recount all that he had seen, all that had happened.

Both men listened intently, keeping whatever comments they had for themselves. “It was a bloodbath,“ Zachary ended his tale, cheeks pale from having to remember everything his young eyes had seen. “And those who didn’t die, become turncoats! They all rallied behind the young Rook, sir!” "The Young Rook, you say?” asked Ambrose, his bushy eyebrows frowning. “Aye, sir! That’’s what they called themselves - the chap and the missy- Rooks! Bloody furies, the two of them were! They swooped in with their men and even sized Keylock’s old train!” the young lad said, his face animated at the memories. Ambrose exchanged a look with Phillip, their expressions a mirror. “I assume it would be too much to ask the direction the train has taken?” said Phillip, his words tinged with frustration. When no answer came from the boy, Ambrose gently dismissed him with a few golden coins for his help and looked as he quickly retreated into the bustling crowd, the shock of the recent events still etched on his face. “It appears we have a new player in this war of gangs,” murmured Phillip. “Nothin' to be concerned about. I'll regroup as many Masters as I can and have them surveillin' each of London’s main stations. A train can't vanish out of thin air like that. They’re bound to resurface again.” “- assuming that those miscreants are still well within the city borders. We must find out who is controlling these “Rooks” and what their intentions are. We need to ascertain if this was a single instance or if it is part of something much greater,” Ambrose stared at the young aristocrat at the younger man. “You think this could be connected to the Assassins,” Phillip kept his silence, turning to look toward the trains that were still parked in the station. “I have my theories, yes,” he murmured, as his eyes scanned the surrounding before turning and walking toward the entrance of the train station, Ambrose walking at his side. “Lift the circumscription and see that your men bring order around here as fast as they can. We have already attracted far too much attention than what the Grand Master would have liked.”

“What about you, Master Starrick?” “I will need to have a word with Roth regarding his men,” murmured Phillip, as he walked toward the carriage parked just outside the station, awaiting for him. “We need to find a replacement for Kaylock, and if it is true that these peons have turned coats and joined these “Rooks”, we will need more discipline as well,” With a subtle movement, Ambrose grabbed the young aristocratic’s wrist, slowing him down in his walk. “Phillip, wait," he whispered. “We need to talk,” Phillip turned to look at him with indignation burning in his light eyes. Yet, Ambrose noticed the blushing appearing on the younger man’s cheeks, as it always did whenever he called him by his first name. "It's “Lord Starrick” for you, Master Harrison," he hissed, as he looked around to make sure that no one saw them. "And no, we don't need to talk. Not now. Not ever!" The older man smirked underneath the bushy mustache, lowering his eyelids with a look that said everything and yet nothing. “We do, Phillip. You and I have unfinished business,” Phillip yanked his arm away from the other man’s grasp. Their eyes met for a moment too long: forest green against periwinkle blue. For a moment, Ambrose felt as if he was looking at the immensity of the sky on a clear sunny day. “No we do not, Master Harrison! We have nothing unfinished! Now, if you will excuse me-“ “I can’t let you get back to Roth, Phillip. The man is off his chump.” Phillip’s nostrils flared in disdain at those words.

“I would mind your words, Master Harrison. You are not the Grand Master, to dispense tasks and commands as it pleases you, nor your are my superior in rank. Maxwell Roth has been a trusted associate of the Order, long before your tenure, and I will not have you disrespecting him or question the Grand Master’s decision." Phillip shot back, his voice filled with aggravation. Ambrose sighed, frustration building up in his chest. The Young Lord could be as stubborn as he was cunning, whenever it came to the man responsible for training all the Templars’ underlings. And he never knew how he felt about that stubbornness, what motivated it. And he wasn't sure he wanted to know, lest he was not to like the answer. "Very well, “Master Starrick",” he blurted, his voice tinged with mockery. “Go back to all your affairs! But don't let your pride blind you! Do not trust Roth! His loyalty may be as wavering as that of the men that today have sworn fielty to the Rook, and mark my word, we will all pay the price if that loyalty will fail." Phillip's expression shifted to one of contemplation, and for a moment, Ambrose saw a flicker of doubt in those usually steadfast eyes. But it was quickly replaced by determination, a brand new flame burning bright. "I'll handle my responsibilities, Master Harrison," Phillip replied, a steely resolve in his voice. "As you should handle yours. Good day to you," As Phillip walked away, Ambrose watched him go without following him any further. He took out another cigarette, and lit it up, hoping that tobacco -the sweet poison he couldn’t go without - would also help tainting the swirling feelings that Ambrose always kept sealed and well hidden behind the guise of authority and duty.

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Byron felt nervous. He had been to Starrick Manor innumerable times throughout the years - certain times with such regularity, the Grand Master oftentimes jested that he should consider taking up residency directly inside the Manor; and yet, that time, it felt different. Uneasiness stirred within his chest as he clutched the small package he was holding with attentive carefulness in his hand— a collection of rare tomes of her favourite tales—and he took a moment to gather his thoughts. Three years. It had been three years since he had last seen her. Three years of letters, three years of incertitude in not knowing how she was in fact faring, if she was safe and sound, protected, loved as she had been loved within those walls. Three long years since his protégé had to flee the country because the danger in London had stricken too close for comfort. He gritted his teeth at the memory, his hand closing in a tight fist. Never the Assassins had been so bold. Never so foolish as to try something that most would have thought to be a suicide. A reckless move for which he had made sure they would pay. In full. But not enough. Not enough.

Byron relaxed his jaw and shoulders, as he tried to relinquish the raging energy that always pervaded him each time he thought about that night. He took a deep breath and allowed himself to focus once more on what was ahead of him, as he resumed his walk toward the doors of the library. He allowed himself to take a quick glance in the mirror and adjusted a small lock of hair that had fallen out of place, before turning toward the library once more. The closer he got to that room -one of his favorite places in the whole Manor- the more he could hear the soft melodious voice of a violin coming from behind the wooden panels. A distant melody, a gentle one, beckoning him like a siren, inviting him to leave all that worried him behind. “Angels We Heard on High”. Byron allowed himself the indulgence for a tiny smile: a little out of season, considering that Christmas had passed already, but he knew that, if it was for her, she would be playing Christmas songs and carols all year round. He knew that, if it was up to her, she would have all the lands constantly covered in a soft blanket of gentle powdery snow, protecting everything from the bitter frost, as flora and fauna alike would wait until the warm kiss of Spring came to wake them all up again. He opened the door, ever so slightly, and felt his heart leaping in his chest at the sight of the young woman who was playing the violin, eyes closed as always to let herself be entirely transported away in the land of arpeggios and symphonic poems, the melody coming straight out of her soul, as if she was indeed singing the praise of this life to the Angels above. His dear Dorothea.

After the immense tragedy that had burned his heart and rendered it just ashes, she had been one of the reasons why he hadn’t lost his path, why he hadn’t lost his way amidst desperation and discomfort. His Morning Star, the herald of Dawn after the long cold winter night that was his grief. A purpose, after all that had been lost. Sitting on the sofa, just opposite the young woman, was her cousin Phillip, his whole attention focused on her as a good-natured smile made his sharp face much more amiable than what he usually presented to the world. A gentle grin, ever so sweet in nature, appeared on Byron’s lips, before he even realized it; but he had no intention of stopping that smile from growing larger. Because in truth, what he saw in front of him were the echoes of a moment long gone: a memory of two young children who would sit on that sofa together as they read for hours through Byron’s old journals of his time in the Arctic, bombarding him with questions after questions, their curiosity insatiable. It was a familiar sight, the comfort of a long lost home and family finally found again, of peace sought after a long journey across the whole sea that was his life. Odysseus finally returning to Ithaca, prepared to find peace for his tired heart.

Careful now in opening the door as quietly as possible, he put a finger in front of his lips when he saw Phillip turning to look at him. The young man smirked and nodded, keeping his silence. Byron took his hat off with respect and placed the small package as he awaited for the young woman to finish her song, her fingers dancing along the strings with the easiness that came from practice. Such a soothing sight, it was. As the last notes flew in the air, he finally spoke. “This sound was incredibly missed, Princess,” he murmured, his gravelly voice just loud enough so that she would hear him without startling her. “Byron!” Dorothea turned to look at him, eyes wide in surprise as her whole face seemed to be lit up by his mere presence. Without hesitation, Dorothea left her violin and bow on the nearby table and ran to the Master Templar. With careful attention- as gentle as his own strength allowed - Byron took the young woman's hands in his and brought them to his lips, softly placing a long kiss on her knuckles. “Oh, how I missed you! My eyes see with joy! My heart sees with joy!” she murmured, eyes twinkling with barely contained tears of unbounded happiness at the sight of her mentor, after so many years far away from one another. “As do mine, darling child. As do mine.” he whispered back, feeling a small lump forming in his throat at the sound of her voice, his heart swelling in his chest. “Thank you for bringing her home safe and sound,” he whispered to Phillip, his voice filled with a gratitude he couldn’t contain, his eyes not leaving Dorothea’s silvery ones for a single moment. The young man raised his brows in surprise at the gentle tone and responded with a small bow of his head. “I just did what every devoted man would do for his beloved family,” He chuckled, before turning to look at his cousin. ”Well, Dora dearest, I thank you for gracing me of your time and company this evening, but it is high time I return to my duties and shall take my leave." “Oh, cousin, please! Do not leave just yet!” she pleaded. “No no, I do insist, dearest. Besides, I believe you and Master Harrison will have a lot to discuss, after three years away. But-“ and he turned to refer to the older man, his periwinkle eyes piercing the Master Templar’s sea-green eyes. “If you were to spare a few moments for me afterward, I have something to discuss with you regarding our latest endeavors,” Byron’s jaw tightened, his teeth grinding together. Despite the placid calm of his voice, the urgency in the young man’s gaze couldn’t be denied nor ignored. “As you wish, Lord Starrick.” He conceded. “Splendid! I shall await you then. I have a few details to discuss with Aunt Annette before - we truly should take into consideration renovating the library in Dover,” he turned to face Dorothea once more and kissed her hand amiably, before smiling one last time. “Sleep well, darling Cousin. I will call you soon,”

Then, nodding to Byron, he took his leave, closing the door behind him. Byron’s eyes immediately found Dorothea’s again, and he felt warmth once more spreading from his chest to the rest of his whole body. “I have missed you, Byron,” She giggled, daring to engulf him in the tightest embrace her arms allowed. “These halls were empty without your laughter to fill them, Princess,” he murmured, returning the embrace in full. He dared to lay a small kiss on the braid on the crown of her silvery blond hair, resting his lips against her hair a moment longer. With eyes closed, he allowed himself to be completely enveloped by her presence, to stop time and thoughts from running around in his mind, to live in that small moment of warm joyous innocence. To feel her breathing, healthy, alive, safe, and sound. Cradling her face in his hands, he examined her thoroughly, his stormy sea green eyes piercing straight into his protégé’s as he looked at every small wrinkle, every freckle, every single detail of her face with almost punctilious attention. A frown appeared on his heavy brows when he found the small scar under her eye, white and healed after so long. He blocked the memories from returning to him before she could read them all over his face. “You look thin, Dora. Have you not been fed while in Sturefors?” he murmured instead, his voice sounding more like a growl than a whisper, as his gaze fixed on her cheeks, not as round as he remembered them to be. Dorothea shook her head, with a sad smile. “I have been, Byron. My family at Sturefors has taken the greatest care of me during my sojourn there. But the Famine hit us. It hit us all. The last two winters were the most cruel I had ever had the misfortune to experience, but we were lucky. The food was less than what we had when I first arrived, but we still had food.” She paused for one moment, lips trembling at the memories that came flooding her of all the people she had seen dead on the side of the street, starvation, and the unforgiving winter cold the cruel executioners of their fate. “So many others didn’t.”

Byron pursed his lips in a grimace of utter displeasure at the news, the grip around her tightening almost out of instinct. He had always been against her departure from London, three years prior, believing that with him around, no hurt could ever come to her. But he had been powerless in front of the Grand Master’s will, his hands bound as he himself had to put her on a ship and send her to hide deep in the forest of the North. And now, he wasn’t happy to see her return less than she had been before. “Why didn’t you write to me about this?” he whispered, his voice stern in his question. “To what end? Not even you and your strength of will could ever stop the turn of the Seasons, or Nature and her whims, my dearest mentor,” she jested, hoping to see the deep frown on his brow disappear altogether. “I could have arranged for your return, Dora. You know that all I needed was one word from you - one command - and I would have come and brought you back home myself. The Baltic Sea, with all its maelstroms and currents, would have not stopped me. You know that.” “I know,” she acquiesced with a nod, a bashful grin appearing on her face. “I know, Byron. No woman on this Earth could ask for a better Mentor and Guardian; No woman could ask for a most formidable Bulwark. But I could never ask that of you. You had duties here that were far more important than having to personally come and collect me. How could I ever deprive the Grand Master of his Right Hand?” Byron took a deep sigh, before returning her grin with a lenient smile of his own. He gently patted her cheek with his hand - large enough to cover her whole face - in a reassuring gesture. Had it been to comfort her or himself, he didn’t know. “You are wise, young one. And stubborn, if I do say so myself,” he added, eliciting a silvery laughter in Dorothea. “ But yes. You here now, and I will personally see that we shall bring you back to good health,” “You sound exactly like Father now,” she giggled, her laughter returned by a small, tired smile. He saw her looking up at him and saw a sad light appear on her face, as her eyes looked at his face with attentive care, mirroring the way he had been gazing at her a moment earlier. He knew what she was seeing because he saw the same thing each time he gazed into a mirror: the deep black shadows that had appeared underneath his eyes; the wrinkles on his forehead that didn’t disappear when his face wasn’t frowning; the scar on his cheek and nose, a memento of the fight that should have brought him peace, but did not. “Time hasn’t been kind to you as well, Byron. What happened to you?” she asked, bringing her small hands to his face in a comforting gesture. “The last three years have weighed on me like the Sky on Atlas’ shoulders,” he thought, stopping his words from reaching his lips. He sighed, slumping his shoulders ever so lightly and shaking his head. “We both have faced our deal of misery during your absence, Dora,” he just murmured, covering her hands with his and pressing them against his cheeks, as he tried to grasp all the comfort from that gentle touch, a balm for his restless soul. He didn’t dare to add anything, not wanting to let his burden become hers.

Not yet. Not just yet. He wanted, for a moment longer, to preserve that sweetness of temper and innocence of spirit that had already been taken away from her, three years prior. He wanted, for a moment longer, to feel as if the world was a hopeful place, untouched by sufferance, immaculate in its candor: a pristine dawn, with the promise of a glorious day ahead. When he saw her eyes turning sad and her lips pouting, he gave her a small smile and patted her cheek. “Do not be troubled for me, dearest child. Such is life.” he whispered, daring to give her a small kiss on her forehead. “But now, no more talk of sorrow or sadness. these rooms have been left bereft of your voice for far too long. So, if you would be so kind as to entertain a request from your old Mentor, and fill these ears with joyous chatter and a peaceful melody, you would make me immensely happy.” Dorothea pursed her lips, eyebrows frowning in apprehension. “But I do not wish to keep you from your business with Phillip, By-“ but the old man brought a finger to her lips, gently silencing her. “Whatever he has to say, it can wait. This cannot, my Princess.” He murmured with a warm smile. "Not after three years." Dorothea’s frown transformed and her round face lit up with sweet, uncontrollable mirth. Without even waiting for him to sit down, she quickly picked back up her violin and bow, ready to comply to Byron’s wishes. Gracing him with another smile, eyes and nose crinkling in her joy, and taking a small bow, Dorothea started her melody, one that was dear to both their hearts. A lullaby of the North.

A lullaby about cold winds and chilling waters, of rocky mountains and green forests that met the slate-blue churning sea…of memories and answers so deeply hidden, one would need to get lost before being able to find them. Byron took place on the small couch, letting himself sink in the cushion, feeling as if all that was weighing him down was suddenly being lifted up from his shoulders by those notes that had started to fly like birds in Spring. He couldn’t remember when it had been the last time he had sat and just listened to music, without shunning it from his heart. It almost felt as if a lifetime had passed, a whole horizon away. But after so long, he felt as if he could finally be able to fully breathe once more, to breach through the waves and stop fighting that tide that was always there, in each of his thoughts, ready to swallow him whole and drag him in open dark waters. His low baritone voice found its way out of his throat, humming at first, then louder, accompanying her violin with a song, a soft smile appearing on both their lips. "Yes," he thought, looking at her with soft eyes filled with a sentiment that he thought was long buried under the snow of his grief. "The Harbinger of Dawn indeed."

——————————————————————————————————

Time had passed far too swiftly. After almost two hours of complete bliss, entrapped as he had been between her tales of her adventure in the North and reading together the books he had brought her, Byron had bid Dorothea goodnight. He had promised her that they would travel together to Dover soon, for a small outing at sea together, just like how they used to when she had been but a young child, all cooped up in the halls of that Manor that faced the sea. After so many promises he had to uphold for duty, he was finally content to keep a promise that didn’t involve hunting down those bloody Assassins or finding a way to set his business in order. The moment he closed the door of the library behind himself, however, he felt the darkness of the hall fall on him the same way rain poured during that gloomy autumn afternoon, when the sun would not show itself at all and would set over the horizon far too soon. He wished for a moment to not have granted Young Lord Starrick his time, if anything, to preserve that moment of peace a little longer. But his word was binding, for better or worse. When he raised his eyes, he immediately found the young man waiting at the end of the hallway, standing against the stained glass window that faced the inner garden, where the orangery stood, a lit cigarette in hand. At the sound of rustling robes, Phillip raised his face, and looked intendedly toward Byron, as he approached him: despite having seen forty-five springs already Byron Harrison still stood tall and powerful as he had done in youth, even more so after the years spent at sea had chiseled him into a man of exceptional hardness of spirit, one that rivaled the strength of his character and the potency of his body. Eyes like the storms, and fiery auburn hair, wavy like the ocean on a windy day, it always felt as if Poseidon had deigned to walk the Earth, bringing with him the full strength of the Oceans. Phillip couldn’t help but look at him with eyes filled with reverential respect. He had no trouble imagining why people whispered his name with either deference or terror laced in their voices: Byron Harrison was someone that one would always want on their side, for good or for worse, and if by misfortune, his favour was to be lost, to pray to God for a quick painless deliverance, instead. “Thank you for acquiescing to my request for a small interview, Lord Harrison, I know how much it would cost to cut your time with Dorothea short,” Phillip murmured, keeping his voice low as he offered him a cigarette.

Byron shook his head, refusing the offer. “What do you seek of me, Lord Starrick?” he muttered. “I assume your brother has informed you about what happened today?” Byron shook his head, eyes narrowing as his shoulders tensed. “Kaylock is dead. The Blighters that reported to him had all but disappeared and according to witnesses, they have joined side with someone called “The Rook”. Not only this, but from what my sources have related to me, there had been chaos in the factories and we have lost our stronghold, Spitalfield. It appears we-“ he cleared his throat, uncomfortable. “-we no longer have control over White Chapel." Byron listened intently, unblinking, as Phillip reported to him all that had happened. A whole borough lost. “Has the Grand Master been informed about this?” It was Phillip’s time to shake his head. “While the severity of our loss is considerable, we are still evaluating if this “Rook” and his gang are just miscreants trying to cause mayhem in White Chapel alone as a borough, or if this is indeed the Assassins trying to officially strike and breach into the city.” Byron turned pensive, and brought his large hand to his chin, stroking his auburn beard. First Croydon, with Ferris and Brewster killed, and the Piece of Eden lost. Now Kaylock and White Chapel. While not the most important of the boroughs under their control, Byron could see trouble brewing. “We need to recover all the men we have lost,” he murmured, after a long moment of silence. “We cannot let our numbers dwindle. Speak with Roth. Have him send out scouters to pick up more men and intensify the training of the lads that will join the Blighters from now on. We will need to raise their wages as well,” Phillip’s lips curled in a grimace of abhorrence. “Why paying them more? They are just scum, Master Harrison. Parasites that would sell their own mothers and wives and daughters, if they can get a profit from it. Why giving them more resources that we can instead reinvest in something more fruitful?” Byron looked at the man with eyes void of any light, chilling in their gaze.

“Your disdain for them clouds your judgment if you think of them as nothing more than fleas on the coat of a dog, an annoyance. Disposable. Unimportant. Never forget that these men are paid to do our bidding, but there is no loyalty to us if not the one our purse can buy. And they have numbers on their side, and this, combined with their desperation is their greatest strength, whether they realize it or not, and it can prove to be the cause of a whole pandemonium, if not controlled.“ He took a deep breath, before talking again. “Never underestimate what desperation could make a man do. As for this “Rook”…I assume you have already sent out your “ghosts” around the city to gather more information?” Phillip nodded, a light of solemnity painted on his sharp features. “Good. I will speak with the Grand Master at the earliest and discuss a proper strategy.” "I will ensure to keep you informed of any new information that may come to my attention." "Very well," he murmured, and with a small bow, he took his leave, making way toward the stairs that would lead to the ground floor. But he stopped before he could descend, clenching his fist. “Lord Starrick.” “Yes, Master Harrison?” “Not a word to Dorothea,” he murmured, his tone one that didn’t allow the possibility of compromise. After the young man nodded in agreement, Byron finally took his leave, his heart heavy. Not yet, he thought, looking above his shoulder, toward the library. Not just yet.

[PREVIOUS CHAPTER - Homeward Bound ]

[NEXT CHAPTER - "The Wager" ]

*pokes head out of the borrow*

OMG I AM FINALLY DONE. I AM FINALLY DONE.

It was so LONG overdue, but allow me to finally present the latest chapter!!

Ngl, I am so happy to be done with this, and I am so happy with how it turned out!! And I am so happy to finally start to introduce my Templar Squad! I don't know how to explain, but it makes me feel like the story is truly starting rolling! :)

Dear gods, this is truly one of the longest chapters I have ever written! It started as a small chapter, I was envisioning maybe 6k words. I DIDN'T EXPECT TO END UP WITH DOUBLE THAT NUMBER.

good gods, i feel like my brain is mush lolol

But anyway, I truly hope you will like reading it as much as I loved writing it!

--Nemo

#assassin's creed #assassin's creed syndicate #Assassins #templars #jacob frye #dorothea starrick #Byron Harrison #Phillip Starrick #Ambrose Harrison #In The Heat Of The Moment #my ocs #Nemo Writes #Mostly Ocs for this chapter but it's needed #the story develop in parallel lolol

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