Templar's Creed

Chapter 36

Girolamo's curiosity piqued, he waited for the Borgia to continue. "Bayek was a Medjay, a protector of the people," began Cesare, his tone taking on an almost reverential quality. "He was a man who sought to uphold the balance in the world, to ensure that no one, not even those in the highest echelons of power, could oppress the innocent."

The story unfolded of a time when the Roman Empire had stretched its iron grip over Egypt, and a secretive cult known as the Order of the Ancients had infiltrated the highest levels of society, seeking to control the fate of humanity. Bayek had been an ordinary man, a devoted husband and father, whose world was shattered by their machinations. His quest for justice had led him down a dark and bloody path, one that would change the course of his life forever.

With the death of his son, Khemu, at the hands of these shadowy figures, Bayek had been consumed by grief and anger. Yet, in the face of such loss, he had discovered a newfound resolve, a burning desire to expose the Order's corruption and bring them to justice. He became a Hidden One, an Assassin, fighting in the name of freedom and the protection of the weak.

One by one, he had hunted down the members of the Order of the Ancients. Each death was meticulously planned, a silent whisper in the night that sent ripples of fear through the ranks of the once-unseen power brokers. His blade, the Hidden Blade, became a symbol of vengeance and hope, a tool of divine retribution that whispered the name of every innocent life stolen by their greed.

Yet, as the last of the Order fell beneath his blade, Bayek felt no catharsis, no reprieve from the anger that had fueled his crusade. The weight of his grief remained a constant, heavy as the armor he wore. The emptiness where his son's laughter had once echoed in his heart was filled with a cold, unyielding rage that knew no bounds. He had become something more than a mere man—an avenging spirit, a force of nature that would not be sated until all who sought to control the world were brought to justice.

It was in this tumultuous time that Aya, his beloved wife, looked upon her husband with eyes that held a mix of pride and fear. She saw the darkness that had taken root within him, the way the light of his soul had dimmed in the shadow of his vendetta. They had once been equals, partners in love and war, but now she barely recognized the man before her.

The argument was a storm that had been brewing for too long, a tempest of unspoken words and unvoiced fears. Aya could feel the chasm growing between them, a gaping void that threatened to swallow the very essence of their bond. "Bayek," she pleaded, her voice tight with emotion, "What have you become?"

He faced her, the Hidden Blade still in hand, the gleam of the moon casting a silver halo around his form. "I am what I must be," he said, his voice strained, "to avenge Khemu, to free Egypt from the tyranny of Rome and the Order of the Ancients."

"And what of us?" she demanded, her eyes wet with unshed tears. "What of the love we swore to each other, the life we promised to build together?"

Bayek's jaw tightened, the rage within him flaring like a wildfire. "Love is a luxury we cannot afford," he snarled. "Not when the world is ruled by the wicked, when the innocent are trampled beneath the boots of those who seek power!"

A tear slipped down Aya's cheek as she stepped back, her hand reaching for the dagger at her side. "Is this what your quest for justice has turned you into?" she whispered, her voice trembling. "A man who would kill his own wife?"

Bayek's eyes widened in horror as he watched her hand move, his mind racing. He had never meant to harm her, never wanted to be the monster she now feared. But in the heat of the moment, with the blood of his enemies still warm on his blade, he had forgotten the softness of her touch, the warmth of her love. The air grew taut as a bowstring, the silence between them as sharp as the weapon she now held.

In an instant, the world slowed to a crawl. He saw the dagger in her hand, the tremble of her wrist, the desperation in her eyes. His heart shattered like glass, realizing the depth of his folly. The very essence of what he had sworn to fight against—the corruption of power and the destruction of love—was now reflected in his own actions.

With a roar that tore through the fabric of his soul, Bayek lunged. His Hidden Blade, a silent judge, found its way to Aya's chest, a tragic end to their shared vendetta. Her eyes, once full of fire and hope, dimmed to the emptiness of the grave. The weapon slipped from her lifeless grip, clattering to the ground, a harsh echo of their shattered dreams.

The world around him faded to a crimson haze as the reality of his actions set in. The love of his life lay lifeless at his feet, a victim of his own unchecked rage. His hand trembled as he reached out to her, the coldness of her skin a stark contrast to the warmth he had felt just moments before. The taste of bile rose in his throat as he realized the depth of his betrayal.

"No," he whispered, his voice hoarse with grief. "Aya...no..." He fell to his knees, cradling her body in his arms. Her eyes, once vibrant with passion and hope, were now vacant, staring unseeingly at the starlit sky. The weight of the world, of his grief and guilt, bore down upon him like the heaviest of chains.

Girolamo watched in horror, the story of Bayek and Aya serving as a grim reminder of the cost of unbridled anger. "My lord," he stammered, unsure of how to address the raw pain that had unfolded before his eyes.

Cesare's gaze remained locked on the corpse of Petruccio, his voice a cold whisper. "Giovanni's fate would have been the same," he said, the words a knife to Girolamo's soul. "We would have taken his son, twisted him to our will, or ended him if he refused to serve."

Girolamo swallowed hard, the reality of the situation settling like a lead weight in his stomach. The death of Petruccio had been a strategic move, a means to an end to control the powerful Assassin. But as he watched the Borgia, he realized the true depth of the man's ruthlessness. There was no room for sentiment in this game of power, only cold, calculated actions.