Rogue — Assassin--39-s Creed

The North Atlantic, 1752. Three months since Shay Cormac turned his back on the Colonial Brotherhood. Three months since Lisbon shattered beneath his boots.

The blizzard swallowed the wreck. Behind him, Gist called out, “Leaving her alive, captain? The lass knows our course.”

She had become, like him, a ghost between worlds.

He ordered the Morrigan closer. The wreck was a schooner, its mast snapped like a chicken bone, its hull bleeding splinters into the black water. On the forecastle, slumped against a barrel of salted fish, was a young woman in a tattered white hood. She couldn’t have been older than twenty. Her left arm was twisted at a wrong angle, and frost clung to her eyelashes. Assassin--39-s Creed Rogue

“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.”

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.

Shay understood.

Shay paused. For the first time in months, a ghost of a smile crossed his face. “Then I’ll see you on the ice, lass. And I won’t miss.”

“Wait!” she cried. “What if I choose to hunt you instead?”

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. The North Atlantic, 1752

Shay felt the old sting. Assassins. His former family. His new prey.

She opened her eyes. Green, defiant, and full of a hatred he recognized—because he had once worn that same look.