“Wait!” she cried. “What if I choose to hunt you instead?”
“A chance. That compass will lead you to a small temple off the coast of Anticosti. Inside, you’ll find a carving of a man holding a sphere. Touch it. Feel what I felt.”
Hope’s lip trembled—not from cold, but from the crack in her conviction. “He said the ends justify the means.”
The North Atlantic, 1752. Three months since Shay Cormac turned his back on the Colonial Brotherhood. Three months since Lisbon shattered beneath his boots. Assassin--39-s Creed Rogue
“What’s your name, lass?”
The blizzard swallowed the wreck. Behind him, Gist called out, “Leaving her alive, captain? The lass knows our course.”
Shay knelt. The blizzard howled between them. “Achilles sent a wounded girl into a winter storm, alone, to chase a rumor?” “Wait
She had touched the carving. She had felt the tremor. And she had chosen to walk away from the creed, not toward it.
And somewhere in the frozen North, the ice cracked a little wider, waiting for the next fool who believed that history belonged to the righteous.
Hope stared at him. “You’re giving me an Assassin an Isu artifact?” Inside, you’ll find a carving of a man holding a sphere
He never saw Hope Jensen again. But months later, a weathered compass arrived at a Templar safehouse in New York, wrapped in a torn piece of white fabric. No note. No explanation.
Shay felt the old sting. Assassins. His former family. His new prey.
“You,” she whispered. “The traitor. Shay Cormac.”