Routine has two faces: one that suffocates the soul with monotony, and another that reshapes it through patience.
In the weeks following his initiation, he was known in the camp by a simple name: the Novice. He was not yet one of them, but he was no longer an outsider.
Daily Life
His tasks were humble: delivering messages between storerooms, carrying supplies to the camp's kitchens, mending climbing ropes, or cleaning the weapons of others after their missions. They were not glorious deeds, yet each held a hidden lesson. With every letter delivered, he learned to read expressions and meanings behind words. With every step through the marketplace, he learned to blend into the crowd like a shadow unseen.
One day, he was sent to the nearby village to deliver a small parcel. At the gate, he was stopped by an old woman, leaning heavily on her cane, who asked about medicine for her sick neighbor. Realizing the parcel contained a medical recipe, he paused to explain how the ointment could be prepared with common herbs. It was no heroic act, but it lit something within him: the awareness that his presence could ease another's burden, however small.
In such moments, his courage was being forged—not only in training halls, but in the quiet, unseen acts that shaped the man within.
The Great Announcement
Then came the day that would change everything: the final trial.
The master gathered him in a dark chamber and spoke with unwavering gravity:
> "You have walked among us as a shadow learning. Now you must prove you can be the shadow that decides the fate of others."
The target: a merchant named Marcus de Valery, a key ally of the Templars' trade network.
The proof: a single feather, soaked in the blood of his neck, to be placed in a sealed box at an abandoned well.
This was no mere assassination. It was a test of his very spirit. The feather was an old symbol—proof that the Assassin had struck clean and close, with no room for error.
Preparation
For three nights he barely slept. He studied the market's rhythms, the patrols of the guards, the windows of the mansion that opened and closed at fixed hours. He trained with his dagger until it became an extension of his hand.
On the eve of the mission, Lian sat beside him, watching his weary eyes.
> Lian: "This mission is not only to test your skill. It will test your soul. When you look into his eyes… what will you do?"
Novice: "I will finish it quickly. Without cruelty. I don't want to lose what I have built here."
She gave a faint smile and whispered:
> "Go… and return to us."
The Mission: Feather of Blood
Night descended. He moved through the narrow alleys until he reached the mansion. The entrance he had chosen during his surveillance was a low, forgotten window at the back.
Inside, Marcus sat alone in a chamber draped with silks. A man in his fifties, his gaze sharp, his smile that of one who believed money could buy all things. He sensed no danger until the shadow was already upon him.
The Novice advanced, steps measured, breath steady. For a moment, hesitation struck—this was no training dummy, no sparring partner, but a living man. Then he recalled his master's words: "It is not blood that makes us monsters. We kill for a creed, not for desire."
The dagger slid swiftly into the side of the neck, precise and silent. There was no scream, only a stifled gasp and stillness.
He drew the white feather from his cloak and dipped it into the blood until it was saturated, turning crimson as though aflame. That single feather would be the seal, the undeniable proof.
The Return
He slipped away as silently as he had entered, placed the feather in the sealed box at the abandoned well, and returned before dawn.
The master did not ask for details. He opened the box, saw the feather, and raised his eyes with rare gravity.
> "Today, you are no longer a Novice. Today, you are one of us."
Then Saif al-Din, who had long looked down on him, stepped forward and laid a hand on his shoulder.
> "You did it… now I see you as a brother."
It was not a loud victory, but it was decisive. He had crossed the bridge between routine and peril, between the weak boy and the trained killer. Yet within him remained a question that would not fade: how many times could his heart obey such orders… before it changed forever?