"Who is this man… is he Altaï—"
"Yes," Lucy's voice cut in gently. "Desmond, Lucy this side. That is Altaïr."
The world around him wavered, heat and stone blurring for a brief moment before steadying again. The city stretched out below—ancient, alive, unfamiliar. Desmond felt present, yet distant, as though standing behind his own eyes.
"You're reliving his memories," Lucy continued, calm and professional. "And helping us with the project. If we manage to recover enough data, enough memories… who knows? Maybe we'll make it to the Forbes list someday."
There was a hint of humor in her voice, light enough to keep the tension from tightening too much.
"For now," she added, "I just want you to focus on what's happening. Live Altaïr's memories as long as you can. When you feel you can't take it anymore, just exit the Animus. Your brain will signal it automatically."
Desmond exhaled slowly, eyes fixed on the robed figure moving through the crowded streets below. Every step felt deliberate. Every movement carried purpose.
"Alright, Lucy."
A pause.
"This better be good."
Altaïr moved at the front, his white robes brushing against ancient stone as the three Assassins approached Solomon's Temple. The structure rose before them like a scar carved into the earth—vast, weathered, and sacred to many, yet claimed by none. Beneath its towering walls lay forgotten corridors and hidden chambers, places where relics older than kingdoms were buried in silence.It was said that kings once prayed here, and conquerors bled here. Now, it guarded something far more dangerous than faith.An artifact the Brotherhood could not allow to fall into Templar hands.
Malik Al-Sayf slowed his pace, his eyes narrowing as they neared the main entrance.
"Altaïr," he said quietly,
"why do we approach from here? Al Mualim spoke of a hidden passage at the rear."
Kadar glanced between them, a faint smile touching his face.
"Brother, do not trouble him," he said lightly. "He is a Master Assassin, after all. We are but new blades. Is that not so, Altaïr?"
Altaïr did not respond.
He continued forward without hesitation, as if the question had never been asked.
The ruins swallowed them as they passed inside. Broken columns lay scattered like fallen giants, and the air grew cooler, heavier. Time itself seemed to slow within the Temple's depths. Their footsteps echoed softly, swallowed by stone and shadow.
After a while, Kadar spoke again, his voice lower now, more curious than playful.
"Altaïr," he asked, "how long have you walked this path? The life of an Assassin."
Altaïr did not turn.
"Long enough ."
Kadar smiled.
"My mother used to tell me stories," he said. "Of men who moved unseen. Of warriors who fought not for gold or crowns, but for balance. She dreamed I would become one of them."
There was pride in his voice. And something gentler beneath it.
"She would have been proud to see this day," Kadar continued. "To know I stand here now, blade at my side."
For a moment, Altaïr slowed.
"Perhaps you're not useless after all Kadar"
Kadar's smile widened.
"Then perhaps I may become a master assassin one day , just like you Altair"
A faint breath of amusement escaped Altaïr—barely there, but real.
They did not notice the shift in the air until it was too late.
Altaïr raised his hand suddenly.
"Templars," he said. "Our timing is poor."
Ahead, steel glinted in the torchlight. Armored figures moved through the chamber with urgency, their formation tight, their intent clear.
"They seek the artifact," Altaïr continued. "More desperately than we do."
Malik stepped closer.
"Then we retrieve it first and leave," he said firmly. "Before they notice us."
Altaïr's gaze hardened.
"When I give the signal," he said, "we strike. I will deal with the brute. You and Kadar take the rest."
Malik turned sharply toward him.
"Altaïr, that is not our way. We are Assassins, not soldiers. Our purpose is the artifact—not bloodshed."
"They have slain our brothers," Altaïr replied coldly. "I will not leave them breathing."
Before Malik could answer, Altaïr moved.
He surged forward, blade flashing as he closed the distance in a heartbeat. Kadar and Malik followed instinctively, steel meeting steel as the chamber erupted into chaos.
A massive figure stepped forward to meet Altaïr—a brute clad in heavy armor, his grip iron-strong. He caught Altaïr's wrist mid-strike, halting the blade inches from his throat.
The brute laughed.
"An Assassin," he said. "And a ranked one, at that. How pitiful."
His grip tightened.
"You are a strange kind. I have never seen one attack so… openly."
Altaïr struggled against the hold, muscles straining—
And then the world shook.
Stone cracked. Dust filled the air.
A section of the ceiling collapsed between them with a thunderous roar. Altaïr was thrown back as rubble crashed down, separating him from the others. When the dust settled, a wall of fallen stone stood between him and the fight beyond.
"Malik!" Altaïr shouted. "Kadar!"
Steel rang on the other side. Voices shouted. Then—silence.
Altaïr surged toward the debris, panic breaking through his discipline.
"Hold on," he called, his voice sharp with urgency. "I am coming."
Altaïr ran.
He climbed the broken wall with bleeding hands, stone cutting into his palms as he pulled himself higher. He vaulted across splintered planks that groaned beneath his weight, leapt gaps where the ground had collapsed into darkness, never slowing, never stopping.
"Kadar!" he shouted again and again. "Hold on—hold on!"
His voice echoed through the ruins, unanswered.
When he reached the other side, the fight was already over.
Kadar lay crumpled against the cold stone, his body twisted unnaturally, blood soaking into the dust beneath him. Each breath came shallow and strained, as though his lungs no longer remembered how to work. One trembling hand lifted weakly, fingers curling toward Altaïr, urging him closer.
Beside him knelt Malik.
Malik's arm was gone.
The stump had been roughly bound, blood still seeping through the cloth, but Malik did not look at it. He did not cry out or clutch the wound. His gaze was fixed entirely on his brother, unblinking, as if refusing to accept what stood before him.
Altaïr dropped to his knees.
He reached for Kadar, gripping his hand tightly, as though sheer will might keep him tethered to this world.
"I'm here," Altaïr said, his voice breaking despite himself. "I'm here."
Kadar's eyes shifted, struggling to focus, until they finally met Altaïr's. There was fear there—but also peace. Acceptance. And something softer still.
A smile, faint and fragile, touched his lips.
"For the Creed," Kadar whispered.
His voice faltered, but he forced the words out, each one a struggle.
"My mother should know I fought"
His fingers loosened.
The breath left his body.
And did not return.
Malik's shoulders trembled once.
Then he turned.
His eyes met Altaïr's—burning with grief, hollow with loss, and sharpened by an anger that words could never have carried.
He said nothing.
No accusation.
No curse.
No plea.
He didn't need to.
Altaïr understood.
The silence between them was heavy, crushing, final.
Altaïr lowered his head, the weight of the moment settling upon him like the fallen stone that had trapped them apart. Slowly, carefully, he gathered Kadar's body into his arms, as if gentleness could somehow redeem the violence that had taken him.
He held him close.
And for the first time, Altaïr Ibn-LaʼAhad felt the true cost of his pride