Assassin's Creed: Destiny of Souls

Chapter 10

In the stark light of the mess hall, Claire sat alone, head bowed, her mind drifting far from the bland food on her tray. Her hair fell like a shield around her face, obscuring her from the crowded room's monotony. Each bite was mechanical, tasteless. Her thoughts looped through a familiar pattern: planning, calculating, reliving regrets, feeling the ever-present ache in her muscles from her nights spent rebuilding herself in silence. This small reprieve—the garden and mess hall—was supposed to offer her some solace, but it rarely did. Today, her mind lingered on a quieter ache. She remembered that Callum's birthday had been just yesterday. Fourteen years gone, and she still knew that detail by heart.

The quiet murmur around her shifted, drawing her out of her thoughts. Her gaze snapped up, her heart suddenly hammering as she saw him—just feet away, standing in the doorway, looking disoriented, his face both familiar and foreign. It was Callum, right there, in front of her. His eyes, wide with a mixture of suspicion and defiance, scanned the room, landing nowhere in particular. He looked so much older, but some part of him was still the same boy she remembered, the one she'd tried to protect, to distance herself from. Her heart twisted painfully. She wanted to call out to him, but her voice caught in her throat, tangled in shock and years of silence.

As Claire watched from her seat, her fingers gripped the edge of her tray so tightly her knuckles turned white. She felt caught in a surreal mix of longing and dread, her heart pounding against her ribs. Moussa's casual gesture toward her table cut through the haze clouding her mind.

"How about here, sir?" Moussa suggested, his voice nonchalant, though Claire could see the glint in his eyes—a look of quiet understanding. The words seemed innocent, polite even, but there was a subtle undertone she knew well, one that spoke volumes. Callum, however, seemed too wary, too overwhelmed to catch it.

Callum's gaze swept across the room, his brow furrowing in suspicion as his eyes fell on her table, lingering briefly before moving on, not recognizing her beneath the shadow of her hair and the years that had stretched between them. She held her breath, willing herself to stay still, to blend in, even as every nerve in her body urged her to reach out, to close the impossible distance between them.

Then an Abstergo attendant slid up to Callum's side, all polished professionalism and that false warmth she'd come to despise. "What can I get you, Mr. Lynch?" the attendant asked, flashing an overly wide smile. "It's an open menu, but we do recommend the chicken."

Claire watched, unable to tear her eyes away, as a faint, defiant smirk tugged at the corner of Callum's lips—a smirk that was so distinctly him it stirred something painfully familiar in her chest. He hadn't changed as much as she'd feared. "I'll have the steak," he replied coolly, his voice carrying a note of dry amusement that felt like a rebellious undercurrent against the too-bright, too-clean surroundings.

Moussa chuckled beside him, giving an approving nod. "Steak for the pioneer," he commented, his tone somewhere between humor and respect, as though Callum had passed an unspoken test. Claire could feel Moussa's gaze flickering over to her, sensing his quiet support, his readiness to intervene if the moment called for it.

Callum turned to Moussa, suspicion in his narrowed gaze, his wariness evident. "Who are you?" he demanded, his voice edged with distrust. Claire's breath hitched as she took in the scene, feeling every bit of tension that radiated from her brother's stance.

"They call me Moussa," he answered, his smile relaxed, his manner impossibly easy considering the weight in the room. "But my name is Baptiste." He paused, letting the words sink in, before adding with a faint grin, "I'm dead 200 years now. Voodoo poisoner. I'm harmless." Moussa shrugged, his gaze dancing between Callum and Claire, lingering on her for a split second longer as if to gauge her reaction, to measure the weight of emotions she was barely keeping in check.