Chapter 2 Shattered lines

The rooftops of Florence were my sanctuary—up here, above the noise and the filth of the streets, I could breathe. The city stretched out below, its stone spires and terracotta roofs tinged silver beneath the moon's quiet glow. I crouched at the edge of a parapet, looking over my shoulder to ensure I hadn't been followed.

My mind wouldn't let go of him. Darius Laurent.

His words echoed in my ears: "One day, Elara, you'll see what I see."

I hated the doubt he planted like weeds in my thoughts. My blade was my truth; my mission was my purpose. I didn't have the luxury to question my choices.

And yet…

I shook my head sharply. No. The Templar Order had spilled rivers of innocent blood, enslaving people in ways no chain could match. Their so-called "order" was built on oppression. It was my sworn duty to tear it down—one dagger, one life, one secret at a time.

From across the rooftops, I spotted the dim glow of lanterns leaking through the cracks of a warehouse near the docks—my next stop. Before Pietro Castello had fallen to my blade, he mentioned something. "The shipment arrives tomorrow. The Grand Master himself has ordered it."

A shipment. A Grand Master. Whatever the Templars were planning, I couldn't allow it.

I descended to the streets, using shadows to mask my steps as I moved toward the docks. The canals shimmered darkly under the moonlight, their quiet beauty betraying the danger that lay ahead. I had been warned by the Brotherhood that Florence was becoming a nest of Templar activity, and I was beginning to feel the truth of it.

The warehouse loomed ahead, an ugly thing of wood and iron, guarded by men in heavy leather armor. A torch-bearing sentry paced near the entrance, muttering curses at the chill. I slipped behind him, my fingers coiling around the hilt of my dagger.

One strike. Silent. Dead.

His body crumpled to the ground, and I dragged it into the shadows before slipping inside. The warehouse smelled of seawater and mold, and as my eyes adjusted to the gloom, I saw them—crates stacked to the rafters, each marked with the unmistakable crimson cross of the Templar Order.

I moved closer, crouching low as I pried open one of the crates. My pulse quickened as I saw what lay inside—rifles, powder kegs, and scrolls bearing Templar seals. A weapon shipment, no doubt meant for some conflict they planned to stoke.

"A war," I whispered to myself, dread crawling into my veins.

"Careful, Assassin. You might cut yourself."

The voice froze me where I stood, my hand halfway to my blade. I turned slowly, and there he was—Darius Laurent. He leaned against a stack of crates, his arms folded across his chest, as if he'd been waiting for me.

"You again," I hissed.

Darius smirked faintly, stepping forward into the flickering lantern light. He still wore the red-and-white cloak of the Templars, though now it hung loosely over his shoulders, the gleam of his sword catching my eye as it rested at his hip.

"You're persistent, Elara. I'll give you that."

I clenched my jaw, forcing myself to focus. "Persistent enough to stop whatever this is." I gestured to the crates with my blade. "You Templars would drown the world in blood for your order."

Darius' expression hardened, his smirk fading. "Is that what you believe? That these weapons are meant to enslave the world?"

"I don't believe it. I know it."

He tilted his head slightly, studying me as though I were a riddle he couldn't solve. "And yet you see only what you want to see. Tell me, Assassin, do you ever stop to ask why we fight?"

"Why you fight?" I scoffed, stepping toward him. "Your order fights to impose control, to strip people of their freedom and lives. There is nothing noble in that."

"And you? How many lives have you stolen in the name of 'freedom'?" His voice was calm, but there was steel beneath it. "How many men and women will you cut down before you see that you and I are the same?"

I felt anger rise like a tide within me. "We are nothing alike."

He shook his head, his disappointment clear. "I thought as much." Then, in a flash of motion, his sword was drawn, and I met him with my blade.

The clash of steel rang out through the warehouse, shattering the silence. Darius' strikes were measured, precise, but there was no hesitation in mine—I attacked with fury, aiming to drive him back, to silence his doubts with my blade.

"You're slipping," he said, parrying one of my strikes and countering with a swift slash toward my side. I twisted away just in time. "Is it because you're angry, or because you know I'm right?"

"Shut up!" I growled, slashing high.

Darius ducked, sweeping his leg toward mine. I fell hard to the ground, my breath knocked from my lungs. He loomed over me, his sword point hovering near my throat.

For a moment, we were both still, his chest rising and falling as he watched me.

"Finish it," I spat, glaring up at him.

His grip on the sword tightened—but then he stepped back, sheathing the blade. "No," he said simply.

I scrambled to my feet, my head spinning. "Why?"

"Because you're not ready for the truth," he replied, his voice low. "Not yet."

I felt rage burn through me like wildfire. "The truth? What truth?"

He didn't answer. Instead, he turned toward the crates, drawing a small vial from his belt. He tossed it toward the far end of the warehouse, where it shattered against the floor.

Fire erupted in an instant, hungry flames licking up the wooden beams.

"No!" I shouted.

"You want to stop us? Then think, Elara," Darius called over the roar of the flames. "What you saw tonight—it's only a piece of the whole."

With that, he vanished into the smoke, leaving me to stare helplessly as the fire consumed the crates. The Templars' shipment would burn, but so would the answers I needed.

I stumbled outside, choking on smoke as the warehouse crumbled behind me. The flames reflected in the dark canal waters, painting the night in shades of crimson and gold.

My hands trembled as I stood there, fury and doubt warring within me. Darius Laurent had spared me again, and worse, he had planted more questions I couldn't ignore.

What truth did he think I wasn't ready for? And why did I hate that part of me wasn't sure he was wrong?