Templar's Creed

Chapter 5

He parried my blows with ease, his movements fluid and precise. Each block sent tremors down my arm, and with each parry, he pushed me back. It was as if I was a novice facing a master, my every move anticipated, every weakness exploited. The room grew smaller as he advanced, his blade a silver blur that seemed to dance around mine.

"You're too young to understand the weight of the world," Richard said, his voice calm amidst the clang of steel. "The decisions we make are not for personal gain but for the greater good."

He pushed me back, his blade a silver blur, each parry a silent rebuttal to my accusations. The force of his blows sent me stumbling, and with each step, I felt the gap between us widen, not just in skill but in understanding. His movements were those of a man who had seen the darkest depths of humanity and had come to accept the harsh truths that lay beneath.

"You fight with passion, but without strategy," Richard said, his voice a low rumble, his eyes never leaving mine. "The Templars are not the monsters you believe them to be. They are men of God, willing to make the hard choices for the salvation of our people."

He stepped forward, his blade a silver streak in the candlelight, and with a flick of his wrist, he disarmed me. The force of his blow sent me sprawling across the floor, my sword clattering away. I struggled to regain my footing, my breaths coming in ragged gasps. The room spun around me, the candles flickering like stars in a tumultuous sky.

"Your rage is your downfall, Altaïr," Richard said, his voice a gentle chastisement. He offered a hand to help me up, his gaze filled with something that looked almost like pity. "You fight with the heart of a lion but the mind of a lamb. The Templars are not your enemy, we share a common goal."

Still reeling from the king's sudden appearance and revelation, I stared at his outstretched hand, hesitant to accept his help. "How do you know my name?" I demanded, my voice a hoarse whisper.

Richard's grip tightened around the hilt of his sword, his gaze never leaving mine. "We are not as blind as you may think, Altaïr," he replied, a knowing smile playing on his lips. "The whispers of the streets carry more truth than the lies of the court."

The revelation sent a chill down my spine. This king, this holy warrior, knew of me and my deeds. He had seen through the veil of shadows that I had worn so carefully. "Then you know what I seek," I murmured, the anger draining from me, leaving only a cold determination.

"The apple does not fall far from the tree," Richard said, his eyes searching mine. "Your father was a great man, a true warrior of the faith. His legacy is not forgotten, nor is it lost on you."

The mention of my father sent a jolt through me. Umar Ibn-La'Ahad, the man whose name I bore, whose footsteps I had so desperately tried to follow. His legacy was both a gift and a curse, a shadow that loomed large over every step I took. I took a deep breath, pushing aside the tumult of emotions that threatened to overwhelm me. "My father was a member of the Order," I said, my voice tight with restraint. "But his death was shrouded in mystery."

Richard's gaze softened slightly, his grip on his sword loosening. "Your father was a great man," he said, his voice tinged with respect. "He was a warrior who gave his life for a cause greater than himself." His words hung in the air, a stark reminder of the weight of the path I had chosen.

With renewed fury, I lunged at the king once more, driven by a desperate need to prove myself. Yet, his blade remained an unyielding barrier, each clang of steel against steel a silent rebuke to my impulsiveness. His movements were economical, precise, a dance of deadly intent that seemed to laugh at my ragged, untutored rage.

Again, I found myself on the defensive, his blade a serpent that coiled and struck with the speed of lightning. Each blow sent shockwaves through my body, a stark reminder of the chasm that lay between us. His every parry was a lesson in patience and strategy, his eyes never leaving mine, as if he could read the very thoughts that fueled my anger
.

The room grew smaller, the air thick with the scent of burning candles and the acrid smell of fear. Yet, it was not fear for myself that filled me, but for the world that seemed to crumble around us. The Templars' grip grew stronger, their influence like a cancer that spread unchecked. And here was their champion, a king whose cause was as noble as it was misguided.

I tried again to attack him, my blade a silver arc in the candlelit room. But Richard, ever the seasoned warrior, blocked my path with a grace that belied his bulk. His sword was a living extension of his will, a silent sentinel that denied me my vengeance. Each clang of our weapons was a symphony of defeat, a reminder that my rage was no match for his experience. The air grew heavy with the scent of sweat and burning wax, the candle flames flickering with each parry and thrust.

My movements grew more frantic, my breaths more ragged, but Richard remained unshaken, his blade a constant in the chaos. His eyes never left mine, a cold, unyielding blue that saw through the storm of my anger. With each failed blow, the weight of my failure grew heavier, a leaden cloak that threatened to suffocate me. Yet, even in the face of such a formidable opponent, I could not let go of the hope that burned within me, the hope that I could somehow right the wrongs that had been committed in the name of the Templars.

I took a step back, panting, my eyes never leaving Richard's. His sword remained pointed at my chest, a silent warning to not try again. "Your cause may be just," I spat out, my voice thick with exhaustion, "but your methods are those of tyrants and thieves."

The king's gaze didn't waver. "We are all pawns in a game much larger than ourselves, Altaïr," he said, his voice a low rumble. "The ends justify the means."

With a snarl, I threw caution to the wind and attacked again, my blade a silver streak in the candlelit darkness. Yet, Richard's parry was swift, his blade moving almost of its own accord. Each time I struck, he countered with ease, his movements a silent rebuke to my anger. The air grew thick with the scent of sweat and candlewax as we danced, a deadly waltz that saw me slowly but surely being outmatched.

The room grew smaller with each failed blow, the walls closing in on me like the jaws of a predator. I could feel the desperation clawing at my chest, my breath coming in ragged gasps. And yet, even as the king's blade drew closer, I could not find it within me to concede. With a roar, I threw myself at him, my blade a blur of steel and fury. But it was no use. His sword met mine with a resounding clang, sending sparks flying like a thousand stars in the night sky.

My legs trembled beneath me, my arms grew weak, and the anger that had fueled me began to wane. The stark reality of my failure hit me like a cold, hard slap. Richard's blade hovered over me, a silent sentinel of my defeat. "This is not over," I spat out through clenched teeth.

With a swift move, I twisted away from the king's sword and sprinted towards the shadows of the chamber. My boots echoed on the stone floor, the sound a mocking reminder of my retreat. I could hear Richard's heavy footsteps behind me, his measured breaths a testament to his control. The candlelight flickered, casting long shadows that danced on the walls as I wove through the corridors of the bureau.