Templar's Creed

Chapter 49

The first step was to leave New York, to find a place where the Brotherhood wouldn't expect him to go. Shay made his way to the docks, the scent of saltwater and tar heavy in the air. The ships groaned and creaked in the harbor, their masts standing tall against the night sky. He spotted a merchant vessel with sails emblazoned with the Templar cross. It was risky, but he knew that the Templars would be his best chance for protection.

Shay approached the ship's captain, a gruff man named Morrison, who eyed him suspiciously. After a tense negotiation, he agreed to take Shay on board. The captain wasn't fooled by Shay's ruse; he had seen the telltale signs of an Assassin's training. But he also recognized the potential in Shay's disillusionment and offered him a chance to join the other side.

The journey to the Templar stronghold was fraught with danger. The sea was unforgiving, and the air was filled with the tension of their shared secret. Shay couldn't shake the feeling that he was being watched, even though he knew that the crew had orders to keep their eyes on the horizon. Every creak of the ship's timbers, every gust of wind that filled the sails, made him jump. His dreams were haunted by the faces of the men and women he had once called friends, their accusations of treachery ringing in his ears.

When the ship finally docked in the foggy harbor of the stronghold, Shay stepped onto the damp wooden dock with a heavy heart. The fortress loomed above him, a bastion of order in the chaotic world he had come to know. The stone walls, etched with the Templar cross, stood tall and proud, a stark contrast to the crumbling edifices of the city he had just left behind. The guards eyed him warily, their hands resting on the hilts of their swords.

Morrison led him through the winding corridors, the echo of their footsteps the only sound in the vast, dimly lit space. Shay's eyes darted around, taking in the grandeur and the stark efficiency of the place. He felt like a wolf in a cage of steel, but the cage offered a semblance of safety that he hadn't felt since he had turned his back on the Brotherhood.

The grand hall was filled with Templars, their robes fluttering in the chilly draft that found its way through the ancient stones. They spoke in hushed tones, their faces a tableau of suspicion and curiosity. The Grand Master, Haytham Kenway, sat at the head of the room, his piercing gaze fixed on Shay as he approached. Haytham was a man of refined tastes and a sharp intellect, a stark contrast to the brutish stereotype of the men he now called enemies.

"You've made quite the entrance, Shay Cormac," Haytham said, his voice a low purr that carried the weight of authority. "What brings you to our doorstep?"

Shay's heart hammered in his chest as he stepped before the Grand Master. He had to convince these men that he was one of them now, that he shared their vision of a world free from the chaos the Assassins wrought. "I bring a warning," he said, his voice steady. "The Brotherhood has gone astray. They seek power for power's sake, not the freedom they claim."

Haytham studied him, his eyes sharp as a hawk's. "And why should we believe you?"

Shay took a deep breath, the scent of candle wax and dust filling his nostrils. He knew he had to be convincing, had to make them see the truth that had been hidden from him for so long. "Because I was one of them," he confessed, dropping the hood from his head. The room grew quieter, the whispers of the Templars hushed as they took in the revelation. "I've seen the lies they spread, the lives they ruin in the name of their so-called 'freedom'. They are the very tyrants they claim to fight against."

Haytham leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers. "Tell me, Shay, what changed your heart?"

Shay's gaze never wavered from Haytham's as he recounted the missions that had led him to question the Brotherhood's motives, the innocents he had seen suffer in their quest for power. His voice grew stronger with each word, fueled by the conviction that now burned within him. He spoke of the artifacts the Assassins sought, the chaos they unleashed in their wake, and the cold realization that their methods were no better than those of the tyrannical forces they opposed.

The Grand Master's expression remained unreadable, his eyes boring into Shay's soul as he listened. The tension in the room was palpable, the air thick with the anticipation of Haytham's response. When Shay had finished speaking, the hall was silent but for the crackling of the fireplace. Haytham stood, his movements deliberate and measured. He walked around the table, stopping in front of the young man who had once been an enemy.

"Your words are compelling, Shay," he said, his tone thoughtful. "But words alone do not forge alliances. You will have to prove yourself to us, to show that you truly stand with the Templars."

Shay nodded, his jaw set. "I understand. What must I do?"

Haytham's eyes searched his own, weighing his resolve. "You must hunt down the very people you once called brothers and sisters. Prove to us that your allegiance is true."

Shay took a moment to digest the gravity of what he was being asked. He had killed before, but always in the name of what he believed in. Now, the very thought of turning his blade on his former comrades made his stomach churn. Yet, he knew he had no other choice if he wanted to expose the corruption within the Brotherhood and prevent further suffering.

"I will do what is necessary," he said, his voice firm. Haytham nodded, a flicker of approval in his gaze. "Good. You will be given new tools, new resources, and a new purpose. Welcome to the Order of the Templars."

The next weeks passed in a blur of training and preparation. Shay learned the ways of the Templars, their history, and their creed. The stronghold buzzed with activity as he honed his skills, adapting to their methods of combat and espionage. He was issued new weapons, ones that didn't bear the insignia of the Brotherhood. The air of the training grounds was filled with the clang of swords and the thud of fists on punching bags, a symphony of discipline and power.