She opened her eyes. Green, defiant, and full of a hatred he recognized—because he had once worn that same look.
“A chance. That compass will lead you to a small temple off the coast of Anticosti. Inside, you’ll find a carving of a man holding a sphere. Touch it. Feel what I felt.” Assassin--39-s Creed Rogue
“What is this?” she asked.
Hope’s lip trembled—not from cold, but from the crack in her conviction. “He said the ends justify the means.” She opened her eyes
“He always does,” Shay said quietly. He reached into his coat and pulled out a small, dented compass. Not the one that pointed north. This one had been modified by Benjamin Franklin—a useless invention that pointed not to magnetic poles, but to the nearest source of Isu energy. It was the compass that had led him to Lisbon. To the earthquake. To his damnation. That compass will lead you to a small
Shay felt the old sting. Assassins. His former family. His new prey.
He ordered the Morrigan closer. The wreck was a schooner, its mast snapped like a chicken bone, its hull bleeding splinters into the black water. On the forecastle, slumped against a barrel of salted fish, was a young woman in a tattered white hood. She couldn’t have been older than twenty. Her left arm was twisted at a wrong angle, and frost clung to her eyelashes.