1252 A.D. | Western Crescent, Britannian Territory
The first thing David noticed was how quiet it was.
The chapel echoed like a cave—stone vaults, high and ancient, blanketed in silence except for the occasional drip of rainwater that tapped against the stained-glass. Dust swirled in thin sunbeams cutting through colored saints and martyrs. He sat alone beneath one of them, a boy barely thirteen, legs drawn to his chest, watching as the morning light bent through crimson and blue panes to dance on the floor like a slow-burning fire.
He had been in the cathedral since dawn.
Father Grin had told him to rest. Told him the others would be arriving soon. Told him this was the last time he'd ever be alone—so he should enjoy it.
David, as usual, didn't listen.
Not out of rebellion. He was just… too curious.
From the first moment he'd stepped inside the sanctuary a few days prior, everything about it had felt off. Not eerie, just unfamiliar in a way that made his skin prickle. It wasn't the stone walls or the vaulted ceilings—he'd seen plenty of those in his travels with the monks. No, it was the silence. The way sound refused to carry. How voices seemed to whisper even when no one spoke.
There was a kind of weight here. Something under the surface. Something waiting.
He kicked his feet out and sighed.
"So this is what it feels like to be chosen," he muttered. "Feels kind of boring."
Father Grin appeared not long after, a bundle of bread and cheese tucked under one arm.
"Still sulking?" the old priest asked, eyebrows raised.
"I'm not sulking," David replied, dramatically flopping backwards onto the stone floor. "I'm contemplating the crushing silence of destiny."
Grin laughed. "Ah, so you've already begun your assassin training. Pretentious metaphors on day one?"
David grinned back.
The old man set the food down beside him and sat heavily on a bench, hands resting on his knees.
"They'll be here by midday. That's what the letter said."
David sat up, brushing dust from his sleeves. "How do you know this isn't a trick? What if they just want to get rid of me?"
"Then they'd have sent for the Inquisition, not the Assassins." Grin leaned closer, lowering his voice. "Besides, you've got something they want."
David blinked. "What?"
"A quiet mind. And quick hands." He reached over, ruffling the boy's hair. "And no shortage of questions. That's rarer than you think."
David gave a sheepish smile, then his expression turned thoughtful. "What if I mess it up?"
"You won't."
"But what if—"
"Then you'll learn. That's what training is for."
By the time the sun hit its highest point, they arrived.
Not through the front gates. Not on horses or in grand armor. No, they came like ghosts—shadows slipping between rays of light. Four figures, cloaked in pale robes, hoods drawn low, boots silent on the stone.
David had expected… something more dramatic. Maybe a fanfare. Or fire. Definitely fire.
But they simply appeared, as if they had always been part of the walls.
The leader stepped forward, tall and scarred, eyes like cold steel under a weathered brow.
"David Dayton?" he asked.
David stood straight. "Yes."
The man's gaze flicked briefly to Father Grin, then back. "You are to come with us. Your training begins tonight."
David hesitated only a second before nodding. "Do I get a cool hood?"
The man blinked. Slowly. Then turned and walked away.
Grin chuckled under his breath. "You'll fit in just fine."
That night, they walked.
Out of the cathedral, down through winding roads, across rivers and valleys. David didn't ask where they were going. He didn't need to. Every step felt like something sacred. Every mile, a thread woven into something larger than himself.
He watched the way the others moved—like wolves in tall grass. Never too loud. Never too slow. They didn't speak unless necessary. And even then, it was in a code he couldn't quite follow yet.
But he would learn.
Somewhere deep in his chest, past the nerves and the ache of his legs, past the memory of the family he'd lost and the priest who'd given him a second chance—David smiled.
Not because he knew what awaited him.
But because, for the first time, the road felt like his.
1252 A.D. | Masyaf Fortress
The wind howled through the stone corridor of the Assassin dormitory, threading its cold fingers through the cracks in the old masonry. David stood just inside the archway, watching the courtyard below. His hood was down, hair tousled from the long ride. He was exhausted—but not from the journey. It was the weight of anticipation that wore on him. The feeling that everything he knew was already changing.
The fortress at Masyaf was nothing like the monastery.
Where the monks spoke in riddles and silence, here the men moved with purpose. Calculated. The walls echoed with the soft clatter of steel and the constant thump of practice blades against wooden targets. Even when no one spoke, the air was alive with movement—intentional, sharp, and watchful.
It had been three days since David's arrival.
Three days of watching.
Three days of silence.
And today, he would finally begin.
A knock came at the wooden door behind him. He turned, expecting another Assassin—perhaps one of the trainers—but was greeted instead by a young woman wrapped modestly in a towel, steam still trailing from the bath chamber behind her. She looked just as surprised to see him standing there.
"Oh!" she blinked. "I thought this wing was still empty."
David, ever the opportunist, offered a grin that was more confident than earned. "Technically, I'm a temporary occupant. The future bane of tyrants and all that."
She arched an eyebrow but smiled faintly. "You're the new boy."
"David. But you can call me—"
"Late," came a voice behind him.
A cloaked figure entered—older than the others David had seen, with hard lines around his mouth and eyes that looked like they'd seen one too many failed revolutions. He gestured with a gloved hand.
"You were meant to be in the sparring circle an hour ago."
David gave a sheepish shrug. "I was—exploring."
The woman chuckled softly and disappeared into the chambers. David turned and followed the mentor without another word.
The halls twisted and branched, but his guide never hesitated. Eventually, they stepped into a wide open courtyard. Sunlight poured into the arena from above, and the sound of training echoed in rhythmic patterns. Young initiates sparred with wooden blades under the careful gaze of mentors in white and red.
At the center of the courtyard stood a ring of smooth stone, marked with faint white lines like a game board.
"This is where the Brotherhood begins," the trainer said. "Not with blades, but with awareness. With movement. With restraint."
David stepped into the light, squinting at the brightness. He looked around. The others in the circle were older—fifteen, maybe sixteen. Taller. Sharper. Hardened.
He was thirteen. Short. Grinning.
"I hope they're not too attached to their teeth," he muttered.
The first lesson was pain.
Blunt strikes. Quick falls. A palm to the stomach that stole his breath. A sweep to the ankles that planted him flat on the stone. But never once did David cry out. Never once did he beg pause. He learned with every blow—ducking quicker, bracing smarter.
He was tossed again and again, but he always stood back up.
By the end of the day, he was drenched in sweat, covered in scrapes, and breathing hard—but standing.
There was a fire in his chest now. Something fierce and bright that hadn't been there before.
That night, when the courtyard was quiet and the fortress slept, David climbed the stairs to a parapet overlooking the western valley. He leaned against the cold stone and looked out at the crescent horizon, stars scattered across the deep violet sky.
"You're still here," he whispered to himself.
Not a boast.
A vow.
Somewhere below, a bell rang softly for the night patrol. The fortress never truly slept. And now, neither would he.
Not until he earned the hood.