Assassin's Creed: Destiny of Souls

Chapter 3

Claire sat at the table, her hands braced against the cold metal surface, fingers pressing into the hard surface as if she could push away the tremors threatening to break her composure. The mess hall was filled with the familiar hum of voices, the scrape of trays against metal, and the faint clinking of utensils. But all those sounds seemed muted, distant, like they were happening in another world. Here, in her own head, there was only silence and the hollow ache of grief that throbbed through her, dull and unyielding.

They'd left her here, dropped her off in a wheelchair with no explanation, her legs still numb, still refusing to obey her. She'd been dragged from the medical bay, her protests ignored, her body humiliated in a way that cut deeper than the physical pain ever could. And now, she was supposed to eat, to blend into the scene around her as though she were just another prisoner resigned to her fate.

But she couldn't. The weight of Desmond's absence felt too heavy, too consuming. She pressed her palms to her forehead, her elbows resting on the table as she bowed her head, doing everything she could to keep herself from shattering in front of everyone. She bit down on her lip, tasting blood, using the sting to anchor herself.

A quiet voice cut through her thoughts, a voice that was somehow both grounding and gentle. "Don't let them see you cry."

She lifted her head just enough to see Moussa standing beside her, his expression a mixture of understanding and sympathy. He glanced at the cameras in the corners of the room, then back at her, his gaze urging her to hold on, to stay strong. But there was no judgment in his eyes, no expectation—just a quiet reassurance that he was there.

He crouched down beside her, his face level with hers. "You don't have to do this alone, Claire," he murmured, his tone gentle but steady. "All of us are on your side." Moussa looked up, gesturing with his eyes to show her that the others were looking at her with a mix of looks, respect, admiration, understanding.

Claire's eyes darted around the mess hall, and she noticed what she'd missed in her haze of grief—other prisoners casting glances her way, their expressions a mix of sympathy and respect. It wasn't pity. It was something more, something she hadn't realized she needed until now: a silent solidarity, a reminder that she wasn't as alone as she felt. She looked back at Moussa, his steady gaze anchoring her in a way that felt almost foreign. Here, in this bleak, controlled place, he offered a kind of strength that no guard, no scientist, no piece of equipment could strip away.

Moussa's hands were gentle as he wheeled her toward the corner, his movements slow and deliberate, as if giving her time to absorb what was happening. As they moved, the stark, fluorescent light softened, casting long shadows against the cold concrete walls and creating a quiet, sheltered pocket within the mess hall. It was a small mercy, a stolen moment in the middle of captivity—a sanctuary hidden from the unrelenting gaze of Abstergo.

He positioned her in the shadows, standing close, his broad shoulders shielding her from the prying eyes of anyone who might intrude. A few other captives moved nearby, forming a loose but impenetrable line that cut her off from the rest of the room. Their presence created a barrier, a protective wall, solid and steadfast. There was no pity in their expressions, only a silent solidarity, an understanding that needed no words.

Claire leaned forward, resting her elbows on the table, burying her face in her hands as the weight of it all settled over her. She tried to hold back, tried to keep herself together, but the grief that had been clawing at her insides was too fierce, too consuming. She felt her shoulders begin to tremble, the first tear slipping down her cheek, hot and silent. Her fingers drifted to the ring on the chain around her neck, the metal cool against her skin. It was all she had left of Desmond now—a physical connection to a world that felt impossibly far away. Her thumb traced the edge of the ring, over and over, as if she could summon him back with the touch.