Damascus stretched before Arkan like a living tapestry—its narrow alleys weaving between bustling bazaars, its minarets rising defiantly against the fading twilight. The air was heavy with the scent of spices, roasted lamb, and burning oil, while the calls of merchants blended with the laughter of children darting through the crowds. Yet beneath the surface of life, there was tension—an invisible chain binding the city's people.
Arkan walked among them, blending into the throng as he had been taught. His hood shadowed his features, but his eyes absorbed every detail. He saw a young boy tug at his mother's robe, begging for bread they could not afford. He saw guards in Templar livery shove aside an old cobbler whose stall dared to block their path. He saw merchants lower their voices, fearful of who might be listening.
One scene rooted him in place: an elderly woman, bent with age, pleading with a knight for the release of her son, accused—falsely, Arkan suspected—of theft. The knight sneered and spat at her feet, ordering her away.
Arkan clenched his fists beneath his robes.
> "Please, my lord," the woman cried, her voice trembling. "He is only a boy. He meant no harm."
> "Then he will learn the meaning of discipline," the knight replied coldly, striking her cane from her hand. The crowd averted their eyes, none daring to intervene.
Arkan's blood boiled. Every fiber of his being urged him to step forward, to act. Yet he knew he was not free to move as he pleased. He was still a student, not yet tempered by the Brotherhood's creed. He forced himself into silence, though the injustice burned in his chest.
As the woman stumbled away, tears staining her weathered cheeks, Arkan turned aside, whispering to himself.
> "How long will this shadow rule the hearts of men? How long must they suffer?"
The city bustled on as though nothing had happened, its heartbeat steady, indifferent to the pain of its children. But in Arkan's heart, a fire began to grow—quiet, steady, unyielding.
That night, Arkan sat atop a rooftop overlooking the city. The lanterns of Damascus glittered like a thousand stars, yet to him, they felt dimmed by the cruelty he had witnessed. His mind returned again and again to the woman's trembling voice, the knight's disdainful sneer, the boy dragged away in chains.
He spoke into the night, though no one was there to listen.
> "I walk among them, unseen… but I feel every wound they endure. I see their chains, even when they try to hide them. The Creed teaches patience, but how can patience stand against tyranny?"
The words lingered in the cool air. He remembered his mentor's teachings, the voice of the assassin who had taken him under his wing.
> "You are not here to save every life, Arkan. You are here to restore balance. Strike too soon, and you tip the scales into chaos. Strike with wisdom, and the world breathes again."
Arkan closed his eyes, trying to steady his breath. Yet in his heart, doubt gnawed. Was he strong enough to bring balance? Or was he just another lost soul playing at heroism in a war far older than him?
Footsteps broke the silence. From the shadows emerged Malik, one of the younger assassins he had befriended in the training camp. Malik carried a loaf of bread tucked under his arm, still steaming from the ovens.
> "You brood too much," Malik said with a smirk, sitting beside him. He tore the bread in half and handed a piece to Arkan. "Eat. Even assassins must fill their stomachs."
Arkan accepted the bread, though his appetite was thin. "I cannot silence what I saw today. A woman begging for mercy, crushed beneath the boots of men drunk with power. And I…" He hesitated, the weight of his words heavy. "…I did nothing."
Malik chewed thoughtfully before answering. "We are not saviors of every soul, Arkan. We are shadows, knives in the dark. If you burn with anger, you will reveal yourself. Then you will die, and the boy you wish to save will remain lost. Sometimes restraint is the greater act of courage."
Arkan turned to him, his eyes sharp. "And if restraint becomes an excuse for cowardice?"
Malik met his gaze evenly. "Then you must learn the difference. That is the heart of the Creed."
The conversation sank deep into Arkan's mind. As Malik left him to his thoughts, Arkan looked once more over the city. His path was not yet clear, but one truth hardened within him: he could not remain a passive witness. The fire within him was no longer just anger—it was resolve.
The mountains loomed like silent giants, their jagged peaks veiled in mist. Pines swayed in the bitter wind, whispering secrets to one another. Somewhere beyond the treeline, nestled against the cliffs, stood a Templar outpost—an isolated stronghold where prisoners were kept and whispers of dark dealings thrived.
Arkan crouched on a ridge, the forest floor damp beneath his boots. His heart pounded in rhythm with the rustling leaves. This was no simple errand, no courier task. This was a trial of blood and silence—the Brotherhood's final measure of his worth.
Behind him, his mentor appeared like a shadow, his voice low yet cutting through the mountain wind.
> "This is where boys become men, and where men learn whether they deserve the hood. Inside waits a knight responsible for burning a village loyal to our cause. His death will deliver justice. His feather, soaked in his blood, will mark your passage into our ranks."
Arkan swallowed hard, his throat dry.
> "And if I fail?"
The mentor placed a hand on his shoulder.
> "Then the mountains will remember your silence, nothing more. But remember, Arkan—fear is a chain. Break it, and you will fly."
The young assassin-to-be closed his eyes for a moment. Images of Damascus flashed before him: the old woman's tears, the beaten merchants, the laughter of guards over broken lives. He opened his eyes with renewed fire.
> "I will not fail."
The climb toward the fortress tested him before the blade ever would. Narrow paths curled like serpents around cliffs, loose rocks threatened to betray his every step, and watchmen stood atop torch-lit towers. Arkan moved with patience and precision, recalling every lesson: silence, agility, shadows. Twice he nearly slipped, the abyss yawning below, but determination anchored his limbs.
Reaching the outer wall, he pressed against the cold stone, scanning the courtyard. A dozen guards, their armor glinting in the moonlight. Beyond them, the knight's quarters—an iron door marked with a red cross. His target slept within.
Arkan's blade was small, almost fragile compared to their swords, but it was not the weapon that mattered—it was the will. He slipped inside like a whisper, evading torchlight, stealing through narrow passages until he found the knight alone, sprawled across a fur blanket.
For a heartbeat, Arkan hesitated. This was no training dummy. This was a man, breathing, dreaming, alive. Could he truly end a life in silence?
His mentor's words echoed: "Fear is a chain. Break it."
Arkan drew close. His blade flashed, swift and precise. The knight's gasp was muffled by death's embrace, and crimson spilled onto the sheets. Trembling but resolute, Arkan plucked a white feather from his robes and dipped it into the wound until it bled red.
When he emerged from the fortress, the mountains did not roar nor applaud. They simply stood, eternal and indifferent. But Arkan's chest no longer carried the weight of hesitation. He had stepped into the creed—not as an initiate, but as a brother.
At dawn, his mentor awaited him at the ridge. Arkan placed the feather in his hand, his eyes steady.
> "I am no longer a shadow of who I was," Arkan said. "I am Assassin."
His mentor's lips curled into the faintest of smiles.
> "Then rise, brother. For tonight, the mountains have given us a new blade."