[Current Balance: £709,747,891 3s. 6d.]
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Weeks had passed since the unexpected arrival of Helena Ashcombe and Suleiman Al Rashidi.
The Kenway Keep, a fortress of impossible grandeur, had a way of making even the most seasoned world travelers feel small, and the two Master Assassins were no exception.
They couldn't quite believe the life Alaric and the Kenways were living. It was, as Suleiman had remarked to Helena over a cup of Celestial Tea, a literal journey from rags to unimaginable riches.
Bernard and Linette were overjoyed to be reunited with their old friends from Bristol, the years melting away as they shared stories and laughter, their bond as strong as ever.
Matteo Auditore, initially wary of these newcomers, had found common ground with them, spending long hours in the library discussing the state of the Brotherhood in their respective territories.
They had, of course, been given a tour of the underground warehouse. The sight of the city of crates, the sheer, mind-boggling volume of wealth and resources, had left them speechless. Alaric, naturally, had used his Mind's Eye of the Kagura to subtly vet them during their stay, confirming their loyalty and intentions were true. They were allies, and in this strange new world, allies were more precious than gold.
Alaric sat in his private office. The room was his sanctuary, the scent of old books, rich leather, and the fragrant smoke of his cigar mingling in the air. He was in a meeting with his two oldest friends, his first disciples. Reuben and Thulani sat in plush wingback chairs before his massive desk, the three of them talking, not of war or strategy, but of simpler things…. the progress of the farm, Thulani's burgeoning relationship with Aveline, Reuben's latest literary find.
In the middle of their easy conversation, Alaric paused, his gaze lifting from his friends to the heavy oak door of the office. "Come in, Jonathan."
Reuben and Thulani exchanged a familiar, resigned glance. They were still not used to Alaric's uncanny senses, his ability to perceive things that were simply not there for anyone else. As if on cue, the door opened, and Jonathan Hugh stepped inside, his movements silent and efficient.
"Excuse me, Master," Jonathan said, walking to Alaric's desk and placing a freshly printed newspaper before him. "I reckon you might want to read this." He then turned, handing identical copies to Reuben and Thulani. "You two as well. It's… important."
Alaric picked up the paper, his eyes scanning the bold headline of The Pennmere Gazette.
'EXTRAORDINARY DECLARATION BY WILLIAM PENN
"I do hereby renounce all Allegiance to His Majesty King George of Great Britain"
By our special authority, William Penn, late Proprietor of the Province of Pennsylvania, has publicly declared his severance from the British Crown and asserts the formation of a new political Union to be styled:
THE HOLY COMMONWEALTH OF PENNMERE
Under this single banner shall unite the Provinces and Colonies hitherto under British governance, namely:
Massachusetts Bay, New Hampshire, Connecticut, Rhode Island and Providence Plantations, New York, New Jersey, Pennsylvania, Maryland, Virginia, North Carolina, South Carolina, Georgia
The said Commonwealth is proclaimed as a sovereign State, to be governed by its own Charter and Council, and to maintain peace and prosperity amongst its members.
COUNCIL TO CONVENE IN PHILADELPHIA
The first Assembly of the Holy Commonwealth is summoned to Philadelphia on the 15th of April next, where delegates from each Province will lay down the fundamental Laws and choose their chief Magistrates.
REACTIONS ABROAD
Merchants in London report grave concern at this "Bold Insurrection" against His Majesty's Government, whilst many colonists here rejoice in hopes of greater religious liberty and self‑governance.
Printed and sold by Edward Carver at the Sign of the Quill and Inkwell, Second Street, Philadelphia. 19th of April, 1715.'
Reuben's eyes widened as he finished reading, a slow, predatory grin spreading across his face. "Damn," he breathed, the paper crinkling in his grip. "So it's officially starting!"
"The Holy Commonwealth of Pennmere," Alaric mumbled, taking a slow drag from his cigar. He let out a plume of smoke and sighed. "At least it's not Pennland or Pennonya."
"War is now inevitable," Thulani stated, his deep voice a low rumble as he stared at the newspaper. "We should tell Penn to prepare immediately."
"It was always inevitable," Alaric smirked, leaning back in his chair and crossing his long legs. "And Penn's not naive enough to make all of this official without being ready." He set the paper down, his gaze moving from Jonathan to Reuben, then to Thulani, a new, sharp intensity in his eyes.
"...Well then, gentlemen," he said, his voice quiet but ringing with a finality that made the very air in the room seem to crackle. "I know for sure, the Elite Task Force is about to be deployed."
He took one last, slow drag from his cigar, the glowing tip a small, burning star in the quiet office.
"...It's time."
---Kensington Palace, London---
Chaos.
The word was insufficient to describe the state of the King's private council chamber.
The usual atmosphere of hushed reverence and calculated diplomacy had been shattered, replaced by a frantic, panicked energy.
Lords and ministers scurried about, their powdered wigs slightly askew, their faces pale with shock.
Copies of the damnable Pennmere Gazette, smuggled into London by a fast ship and now spreading through the city's coffee houses like wildfire, lay scattered across the grand council table like funeral shrouds.
At the head of it all, King George I was a volcano of contained fury. He stood stiffly by the tall window, his back to the room, staring out at the manicured palace gardens, his hands clasped so tightly behind his back that his knuckles were white.
"How?" he finally bit out, his voice a low, dangerous growl, his German accent thick with rage. "How in God's name has this happened? An entire continent of colonies… gone. Just like that."
He spun around, his eyes blazing with a fury that made several of the ministers flinch. "I was told all was well! I was told the colonies were stable, profitable! That Penn was a spent force, a toothless old Quaker crying about his broken deals!"
Lord Ashworth, a man whose face seemed permanently etched with worry, stepped forward hesitantly. "Your Highness, perhaps the reports are exaggerated. We must confirm this news. For Penn to have united all thirteen colonies, from Massachusetts Bay to Georgia, so quickly, so secretly… it seems impossible."
"Impossible!?" the King roared, striding towards the table and snatching up one of the newspapers. He slammed it down, the paper cracking under the force. "It is printed for all the world to see! This is not a rumor, my lord, it is a declaration of war! To publish such a thing means the support is already secured! It means while we were listening to your reassuring reports of 'stability', Penn was forging a new nation behind our backs!"
His eyes widened, a terrible, dawning realization crossing his features. He looked around the room, at the faces of his advisors, his Templar allies. "The reports… they were all positive. No unrest in New England, stability in the middle colonies, profits in the south…" His voice dropped to a chilling whisper. "We have been deceived. From the very beginning."
He let out a sharp, humorless laugh. "They played us for fools."
The King's fury erupted. "Deploy the fleet!" he shrieked, his voice cracking with rage. "Every available ship! Every regiment! I want an army sent to the New World! I want Philadelphia burned to the ground! I want Penn's head on a spike above the Tower of London! I will not have this… this Commonwealth… mock the authority of the British Empire!"
A heavy silence followed his outburst. It was Finch, the high-ranking Templar, who dared to speak, his voice a calm, cold anchor in the storm of the King's rage.
"Your Highness," he began, his tone respectful but firm, "an immediate, full-scale deployment may be… unwise."
"Unwise!?" the King rounded on him.
"We still have Bristol to contend with," Finch stated plainly. "It remains a thorn in our side, a defiant port openly allied with the French. Our naval resources are already stretched thin blockading the channel. To send a significant portion of the fleet across the Atlantic now would leave us vulnerable here, at home."
The mention of Bristol was like throwing oil on a fire. The King's face contorted with a fresh wave of fury. He grabbed a heavy, silver inkwell from the table and hurled it against the wall, where it shattered, spattering dark ink across a priceless tapestry.
"Bristol! Always Bristol!" he screamed, his composure completely gone. "This is all connected! That man… that Kenway! He is the source of this poison! He starts the fire in Bristol, then vanishes, only for his benefactor Penn to start another, larger one across the ocean!"
He stopped, his chest heaving, his wild eyes fixing on the terrified faces of his council.
"We are the strongest kingdom in the world!" he roared, his voice filled with a desperate, wounded pride. "And we cannot even manage our own affairs!?"
---Viceroy's Palace, Mexico City, New Spain---
In contrast to the panicked fury gripping London, a quiet, confident satisfaction settled over the Viceroy's Palace in Mexico City. The air, warm and dry, carried the distant sounds of a city revitalized.
The food shortages that had plagued the provinces were easing, thanks to the steady stream of grain arriving from the north. In the shipyards of Veracruz, the sound of hammers on wood echoed day and night as a new fleet, funded by Pennmere gold and built with Pennsylvanian timber, began to take shape. Hope, a commodity that had been in dangerously short supply, was returning to New Spain.
Fernando de Alencastre stood on his private balcony, a copy of The Pennmere Gazette held loosely in one hand. He gazed out at the horizon, where the peaks of the distant volcanoes were silhouetted against the clear blue sky. A slow, genuine smile touched his lips.
"Pennmere," he murmured, the name feeling solid, real. "A good name for a kingdom."
He took a slow sip of his morning chocolate, the rich, bitter taste a familiar comfort. He had taken a great risk, allying himself with this fledgling nation, this upstart Quaker and his enigmatic, impossibly powerful young associate. But the rewards were already proving to be immense. His people were being fed, his defenses were being strengthened, and for the first time in a long time, New Spain felt like a partner in its own destiny, not just a distant, exploited vassal of a European crown.
He thought of Alaric Kenway. The memory of their meeting, of the young man's casual dismissal of his titles, of the quiet, absolute power he exuded, still sent a faint shiver down his spine. He was a force of nature, a player operating on a level Fernando couldn't fully comprehend, but one he was profoundly grateful to have on his side.
He set his chocolate down and picked up a quill, dipping it into the inkpot on his writing desk. He pulled a fresh sheet of parchment towards him. The time for quiet, back-channel diplomacy was over. Penn had made his move, a bold, public declaration that had set the world on a new course. It was time for New Spain to make its own position clear.
"...Bueno," Fernando mumbled to himself, a determined glint in his eye as his quill began to move across the page, drafting a formal proclamation. "I will now also announce our alliance, so that Britain will have to think twice before they bare their teeth."
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