Creed Rogue — Assassin--39-s

She had touched the carving. She had felt the tremor. And she had chosen to walk away from the creed, not toward it.

Shay knelt. The blizzard howled between them. “Achilles sent a wounded girl into a winter storm, alone, to chase a rumor?” Assassin--39-s Creed Rogue

Shay understood.

“He always does,” Shay said quietly. He reached into his coat and pulled out a small, dented compass. Not the one that pointed north. This one had been modified by Benjamin Franklin—a useless invention that pointed not to magnetic poles, but to the nearest source of Isu energy. It was the compass that had led him to Lisbon. To the earthquake. To his damnation. She had touched the carving

He stood, turned his back on her, and walked toward the Morrigan ’s gangplank. Shay knelt

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

“Captain,” a crewman shouted over the wind. “We’ve spotted wreckage. A ship, flying the Assassin insignia.”