Assassins Creed Connor Saga -

“You save nothing,” Connor growled. The hidden blade clicked. Johnson fell. The first of many.

In 1804, a Mohawk elder told a story to his grandchildren. He spoke of a man in a blue coat and a white hood, who killed tyrants with his left hand and built cradles with his right. They asked if he was a hero.

“Your enemy is the Templar Order,” Achilles said. “They wear three faces: the Crown, the Merchant, and the General. Cut off one, two more grow.”

The final hunt. He had tracked Charles Lee across a continent. But to get to Lee, he had to go through Haytham. Assassins Creed Connor Saga

They met in the burning ruins of a fort. Father and son. Two men who loved the same impossible thing: a world without masters.

Connor’s hand rested on his tomahawk. “I fight for my village. My mother’s ghost. You stand with the men who lit that fire.”

The American flag flew over a nation built on the graves of his people. Washington offered him land. Connor refused. “You save nothing,” Connor growled

And Ratonhnhaké:ton, the one who lives the storm, began to rebuild.

“Not by my hand,” Connor said. “By theirs.”

“You think victory is a person you can kill,” Haytham whispered, blood bubbling from his lips. “It is an idea. And ideas are bulletproof.” The first of many

“You want revenge,” Achilles said, his cane tapping the frozen earth. “But revenge is a shallow grave. I will teach you to dig deeper.”

Connor stared into the hearth. “Then I will hold the blade by the edge.”

The wind carried the smoke of a new chimney from the rebuilt longhouse. Somewhere in the woods, a hawk screamed. And a hidden blade clicked, just once, for practice.

The snows of the Kanien'kehá:ka village melted into the mud of a false spring. Ratonhnhaké:ton, twelve winters old, watched his mother, Kaniehtírio, grind corn. The white men’s metal bird—a compass—glinted on her necklace. A gift from his dead father. A curse.

He returned to the Homestead. Achilles was dead. Connor buried him next to the apple tree they had planted together. He found a letter in the old man’s desk: “My son, I was wrong to call you a weapon. You are the hand that chooses not to strike. That is harder.”