Hope stared at him. “You’re giving me an Assassin an Isu artifact?”
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.”
“You,” she whispered. “The traitor. Shay Cormac.”
Shay felt the old sting. Assassins. His former family. His new prey. Assassin--39-s Creed Rogue
“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.
“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.” Hope stared at him
The North Atlantic, 1752. Three months since Shay Cormac turned his back on the Colonial Brotherhood. Three months since Lisbon shattered beneath his boots.
Shay pressed it into Hope’s good hand.
Shay knelt. The blizzard howled between them. “Achilles sent a wounded girl into a winter storm, alone, to chase a rumor?” “Then I’ll see you on the ice, lass
The blizzard swallowed the wreck. Behind him, Gist called out, “Leaving her alive, captain? The lass knows our course.”
“I’m giving you truth ,” Shay said. “When you feel the earth scream, when you realize that our Brotherhood has been fumbling with forces they don’t understand… you’ll have a choice. Stay loyal to the creed and watch cities burn. Or do what’s right.”
She had become, like him, a ghost between worlds.
She had touched the carving. She had felt the tremor. And she had chosen to walk away from the creed, not toward it.