Connor Saga - Assassins Creed

Connor drove the blade home. Then he wept. Not for Haytham—but for the boy who once wanted a father to hold his hand.

“No,” he said. “He was a man who loved too much. And that is the only kind of hero worth remembering.”

He ran. He ran until his moccasins were blood and his lungs were fire. He collapsed at the feet of a figure cloaked in white and eagle bones. Achilles Davenport, the old Assassin, looked at the boy’s fury and saw not a child, but a weapon being forged.

The wind carried the smoke of a new chimney from the rebuilt longhouse. Somewhere in the woods, a hawk screamed. And a hidden blade clicked, just once, for practice. Assassins Creed Connor Saga

One night, Achilles coughed blood into a handkerchief. “You see it now, don’t you? The Assassins fight for freedom. But freedom is a knife without a handle. Everyone bleeds.”

The war grew teeth. Connor’s ship, the Aquila , cut through Atlantic gales. He helped Lafayette at Monmouth. He scalped a Templar captain at Valley Forge. But each victory turned to ash. He killed his childhood friend, Kanen'tó:kon, who had been twisted into a Templadr slave. He watched the Patriot militia burn Iroquois villages— just like the British had done .

The elders judged Lee. Exile. But as they turned away, Connor’s blade did the work the law could not. He was no longer a boy seeking justice. He was an Assassin. And the world had no room for half-measures. Connor drove the blade home

“You fight for Washington,” Haytham said, watching the militia scatter before the redcoats. “He will sell your people’s bones for buttons. Join me. We can rule this chaos.”

The Davenport Homestead became his anvil. For a year, he chopped wood, learned Latin, and traced the hidden blade’s mechanism until his fingers bled. For another year, he ran the rooftops of Boston in the dark, learning to be a ghost. Achilles was cruel in his kindness—always reminding Ratonhnhaké:ton that the Colonial Brotherhood was dead because of men like his own father, Haytham Kenway.

Connor stared into the hearth. “Then I will hold the blade by the edge.” “No,” he said

He met his father again. Haytham Kenway, Grand Master of the Colonial Templars, elegant and cold as a steel trap. They did not embrace. They circled each other like wolves.

“Not by my hand,” Connor said. “By theirs.”

Connor lifted him. Carried him. Set him down before the Council of the Kanien'kehá:ka.