Chapter Text

September 8th, 2012, 2:00pm

Claire pulled the motorcycle into the warehouse, quickly closing the garage door behind her. Passing rows of cargo, she aimed for her usual spot by the truck—only to find a silver sedan parked there. Glaring at the unfamiliar car, she parked alongside it and cut the engine. She sat for a moment, noting the lack of plates and the odd silence surrounding the vehicle. The sedan could only mean one thing: Lucy was back with Subject 17.

A swell of bitterness rose in her chest at the thought. So the bitch finally plucked up the courage to get one of us out. She shook her head at the thought. 

Loud footsteps echoed down the metal ramp behind her, and Claire’s mouth tightened into a thin line. Glancing over her shoulder she could just barely make out Shaun, his glasses halfway down the bridge of his nose. She braced for his reaction, knowing her unapproved absence wouldn’t sit well with him. She swung her right leg over the bike, coming to stand beside it as his footsteps grew closer. Twirling the keys around her finger, she pocketed them.

“Where have you been?!?” Shaun’s voice rang through the warehouse, his British accent cutting through the air like a knife.

“Shaun, let it go. She’s been cooped up for months,” Rebecca’s voice chimed from above, tempered with sympathy. Rebecca stood on the balcony over looking the main section of the warehouse, leaning on the railing with the look of annoyance on her face.

“Missed you too, Shaun,” Claire said, her voice muffled by her helmet. She barely held back a laugh at his indignant expression—red-faced, brows knotted. She didn’t bother explaining and, instead, handed him a worn backpack as she brushed past him on her way up the ramp. He stood, momentarily stunned, as she continued to the upper deck, with Rebecca falling into step beside her.

As they entered the workspace, Claire’s gaze shifted to the far-right corner. A man lay on the queen-sized bed, staring blankly at the ceiling. Tanned skin, scar on his upper lip, white hoodie and jeans—Subject 17. A flicker of empathy crossed her mind. He looked so lost laying there in an unfamiliar place. He was one of the lucky ones though, it had only been a few short weeks since word of Desmond Miles’ capture had been reported to their team, and now here they were.

Pacing near him was a familiar figure, her blonde hair catching in the overhead light. Lucy. A chill ran down Claire’s spine. She tightened her jaw and turned away, heading for the kitchenette. Lucy —the one Clay had vouched for. He had begged and pleaded for her to believe him all those years ago. That Lucy was the one who would help them escape. But instead she had been the one who’d kept her and Clay in the dark, denying them even a chance of escape. 

She tossed her keys and wallet onto the table, then slid her helmet off, letting her bangs fall into her eyes.

“You went out for food?!” Shaun yelled, charging into the room, backpack ripped open revealing an assortment of snacks that she hadn’t had in years.

She threw him a bored look. “So what?”

“ So what ? You are one of our most valuable assets! If Abstergo catches you again, it’s over for all of us!” He was exasperated, his worry veiled by his usual bluster. Rolling her eyes, she cut him off, unzipping her jacket to reveal two 9mm pistols strapped into a shoulder holster beneath. Shaun’s mouth snapped shut at the sight. 

“I can take care of myself, Shaun.” Her tone was cool, practiced. She glanced at the newcomer and gave him a quick wink as she reached down to her boot and yanked out an 8-inch dagger, twirling it in her fingers before jamming it into the table.

“And don’t talk to me like I don’t know the stakes.” Her voice dropped a degree, barely masking her irritation with him thinking her reckless.

The room fell into silence for a few beats before Shaun sighed, taking the bag to the kitchen to unload its contents.

Claire exhaled slowly, letting the weight of the moment settle before she began unstrapping her gear. She shrugged off her jacket, revealing a fitted tank top, black jeans, and knee-high boots beneath. As she moved, her tattoo became visible—sweeping wings stretched from shoulder to shoulder, framing the Assassin’s symbol between them. It had been her first act of freedom six months ago. Other tattoos littered her body, an ornate dagger wrapped in ivy on her right forearm, a small feather behind her left ear and bands of barbed roses around her right ankle. Each held a deep significance for her.

Reaching up she pulled her blonde hair free from the tight braid she had put it in, running her fingers through it briefly to release the tension in her scalp. Though she quickly tossed it back up into the messy bun atop her head to keep it out of her face. 

“Claire,” Lucy said, her voice attempting warmth but edged with hesitation.

Claire’s gaze turned icy. “Lucy.” She didn’t bother with pleasantries, crossing her arms instead. If Lucy was affected, she hid it well, though a flicker of unease passed over her face.

“It’s… been a while,” Lucy continued, the tension between them thick and palpable.

“Could have been longer,” Claire retorted, meeting Lucy’s gaze. Images of Clay’s hopeful face surged to the surface of her mind—his desperate attempts to defend Lucy, insisting she was on their side, a supposed “good guy” in deep cover. Claire wished she had known better than to go against her own instincts. When Clay died, Claire had been driven to the edge. She could still remember the look of fear in Lucy’s eyes when she held a broken piece of glass to her throat, blood dripping down her forearm as she had clenched the glass tighter. That had been six months ago and she regretted nothing.

Lucy’s jaw clenched, before she dropped the pretense altogether. “Anyway,” she said, cutting the conversation short, “this is our new recruit, Desmond Miles.”

“William’s son.” She stated, remembering her conversation with Bill to keep an eye on his son once they got him out.

Desmond shifted uncomfortably, his eyes narrowing slightly. “Yeah, but don’t read too much into it.” His tone was clipped, a subtle warning that he wasn’t looking for a family reunion or any praise for his lineage.

“Didn’t mean to hit a nerve,” she said evenly, tilting her head, he seemed so familiar to her, like a face she had seen in a dream once but she couldn’t place.

“Something on your mind?” he asked, crossing his arms as he stared back at her.

“Just... thinking.” She leaned back slightly, her arms now crossed in mirror to his, though her posture was relaxed. “You seem familiar somehow, like we’ve met before.”

“Can’t say I remember you,” he replied, though there was a flicker of doubt in his eyes.

Claire nodded slowly, not entirely convinced. “Maybe. But we both know memory can be a funny thing in this line of work.” She glanced toward the Animus, then back at him. “Sometimes you meet people you’ve already forgotten.”

Desmond’s gaze dropped, his fingers tapping on his arm as if considering her words. “Or sometimes it’s better not to remember,” he muttered, almost to himself.

She caught it, her expression softening for just a moment. “Trust me, I get that. Memories are like ghosts, following you around whether you want them or not.”

They stood there in silence for a few beats, something unspoken passing between them. Desmond shifted uncomfortably again, as if he were brushing off an unwanted feeling.

“Come on, I’ll show you around.” She said, breaking the silence.

“Claire, we have work to do.” Lucy stepped forward and she couldn’t help but scoff.

“I think the last thing our ‘new recruit’ needs is to go back into the Animus right this second. Let him breathe for a minute.” Claire defended, walking passed Lucy  over to Desmond so he could follow her around the small apartment that they had commandeered.

Desmond looked between them, an eyebrow raised, and then gave a small shrug, falling into step beside her. Lucy opened her mouth to object, but Claire had already started walking, leaving Lucy standing there, momentarily silenced.

Claire led him down a narrow hallway past rows of dusty crates and gear. “Alright, so this place is... well, a safe house, but it’s more like a base we threw together,” she said, gesturing around at the makeshift setup. “Not exactly luxury accommodations, but it’ll keep us hidden from Abstergo.”

Desmond looked around, taking it in. “Seems secure,” he said, sounding genuinely impressed.

Claire smirked. “Yeah, well, we try.” She motioned him toward the far wall, where maps, timelines, and sticky notes were plastered in organized chaos. “And that’s Shaun’s world. Or, as he likes to call it, ‘the nerve center.’”

Desmond’s lips quirked as he studied the wall, amused at the dense web of information before him. “Impressive,” he murmured, genuinely intrigued by the depth of analysis. It was clear Shaun had left no detail overlooked.

Claire nodded, a hint of respect in her voice. “Shaun may be a pain, but he knows his stuff. He’ll be the one tracking every historical thread and mapping out our moves in the Animus, keeping us ahead of Abstergo.” She gave Desmond a quick, appraising glance. “He’s good at what he does, even if he’s always got something to say about it.”

Desmond nodded, a half-smile on his lips. “Sounds like someone I’m going to hear a lot from.”

“Count on it,” she replied, sharing a smirk.

She led him across to the other side of the room, where Rebecca’s workspace was a study in organized chaos—parts, tools, and tech monitors cluttered the desk. Rebecca looked up from a delicate wiring job and gave them a quick wave before diving back into her work.

“And that,” Claire said with a hint of pride, “is Rebecca’s domain. If it’s broken, Becca can fix it. She’s the one who keeps everything running, including the Animus units.”

Desmond’s gaze fell on the two Animus chairs positioned near Rebecca’s station. “Units? Why are there two? Abstergo only ever had one going at a time.”

Claire’s eyes sparkled with excitement. “That’s where things get interesting. Rebecca found a way to sync two ‘pilots.’ If both ancestors crossed paths in the past, then two of us can sync up and relive those memories together.”

Desmond raised his eyebrows. “So... you and I go in together?”

“Exactly,” Claire replied, her expression turning serious. “I’ll be your co-pilot.”

Desmond glanced at the Animus chairs, the tension in his posture betraying his hesitation. He looked at Claire, as if searching her expression for reassurance. “You’ve done this before?”

“Not with two pilots.” She told him bluntly. “Not like this anyway.”

Desmond's gaze flickered between Claire and the Animus chairs, unease evident in his eyes. He ran a hand through his hair, exhaling slowly. “I don’t know. I mean, the last time I was in one of these…” He trailed off, memories of his capture at Abstergo flashing behind his eyes.

Claire softened, reading his hesitation. She placed a steady hand on his shoulder. “You don’t have to go in right away, Desmond. Take your time. This isn’t Abstergo—you’re in control here.”

Desmond looked relieved, his shoulders relaxing slightly, but Lucy’s voice cut in with a sharp edge. “We can’t waste time. Desmond needs to understand what we’re up against, and the only way he’s going to do that is by getting into the Animus.”

Claire shot Lucy a pointed look, her gaze steely. “I said he doesn’t have to rush it. Shaun what's our timeline looking like?"

Shaun, who had been watching the exchange with a critical eye, adjusted his glasses and cleared his throat. “Well, considering we’ve only just rescued Desmond and he’s barely settled in, I’d say we have a bit of leeway before we’re pressed for time. We can afford to let him catch his breath—provided we get him into the Animus within the next twenty four hours."

Lucy’s jaw clenched, but she kept silent, her expression tight as Shaun continued. “There’s also the fact that jumping in too soon could backfire, especially with the psychological strain from Abstergo’s... less-than-gentle methods,” he added, casting a pointed look in Lucy’s direction.

Claire nodded, grateful for the backup. “You heard him. Desmond gets time to adjust. And when he’s ready, we’ll be here to get started.” She turned back to Desmond, offering a reassuring smile. “This isn’t just about what’s at stake out there, Desmond. It’s about keeping you safe while we do it.”

Desmond met her gaze, something like relief and gratitude flickering in his eyes. He nodded, seeming to draw strength from her words. “Thanks. I... appreciate it,” he murmured.

Lucy’s mouth opened as if to protest, but she caught the look on Claire’s face and seemed to think better of it, turning her attention to the Animus. With a sigh, she muttered something under her breath and moved toward Rebecca’s work area.

“You hungry?” Claire asked, turning to walk back into the kitchen.

Desmond’s expression shifted, the wariness melting into something more relaxed as he nodded. “Starving, actually.”

Claire led him back toward the small kitchenette, glancing over her shoulder to make sure he was keeping up. As they reached the counter, she pulled open a cabinet and rummaged through its meager contents. “Not exactly fine dining,” she admitted, holding up a couple of cans of soup and a box of protein bars. “But we make do.”

Desmond chuckled, a dry humor glinting in his eyes. “Honestly, anything’s better than the slop Abstergo was feeding me. I’ll take it.”

“Good to know your standards are low,” she teased, cracking open a can of chilli and handing him a spoon. “Here, consider it a delicacy.”

He grinned, the tension in his shoulders easing as he took the can. As they ate in comfortable silence, she noticed his gaze drifting around the safe house, lingering on the small touches that made it feel more lived-in—a map on the wall with pins stuck in various locations, a stack of books with worn spines in one corner, and a small, tattered blanket draped over the back of a chair.

“Feels more... real than I expected,” he said finally, his voice low. “I mean, I knew about the Assassins, but I always thought of them as this distant... organization. This place feels different.”

Claire nodded, understanding. “It’s because the Brotherhood isn’t just an organization. It’s a family. We look out for each other, we take care of each other. Sometimes it’s messy, and sometimes we fight like hell, but... it’s home.”

Desmond looked thoughtful, swirling the soup around with his spoon. “I guess I never really saw it that way,” he admitted. “The Brotherhood was just... the Farm for me. A compound in the middle of nowhere with way too many rules and way too much... intensity.”

Claire gave him a knowing look, sensing the undercurrent of something deeper. “I was only there for six months,” she said, her voice softening, “after my father died. It was... strange, being around people who all had this singular purpose, like they’d been born into it. I didn’t know how to fit into that.”

Desmond glanced at her, his curiosity evident but tempered by an understanding born from shared experience. “Six months, huh? I was there until I was sixteen. The whole ‘no electricity, off-the-grid, live-by-the-code’ lifestyle,” he said with a wry smile. “Thought my parents were conspiracy nuts by the end of it. Couldn’t wait to leave.”

“Sounds like you managed pretty well,” Claire replied, though she could imagine the isolation he must have felt, trapped between loyalty to family and a need to find his own way.

He laughed, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Useful skills, I guess. Managed to avoid the Assassins when they came after me. Spent a while bouncing around, hitching rides, figuring things out.” His gaze drifted, as if he were remembering the faces and places he’d seen. “Some guy I met finally told me to go to New York. Said it was the place to disappear.”

Claire studied him for a moment, surprised at the resilience she saw beneath his casual tone. “So that’s what you did,” she murmured, piecing together the quiet survival he must have endured. “Found a way to blend in, stay hidden.”

Desmond shrugged, though there was a flicker of something softer in his expression. “Yeah, but I guess you can’t outrun your own past forever.”

She nodded, understanding the weight of that statement more than he knew. “Believe me, I get it.” She paused, her gaze falling to the spoon in her hand.

Desmond’s gaze softened, lingering on her as she spoke. “Abstergo, right?” he asked quietly.

“Yeah,” Claire replied, her voice steady, though the memories stirred just beneath the surface. “They came for me before I even knew what was happening. Six years of... well, you know.” She glanced away, feeling the familiar weight of those years press on her.

Desmond gave a slow nod, a look of understanding in his eyes. “Not exactly a great initiation into all this,” he murmured, his tone edged with sympathy.

Claire let out a dry laugh, shaking her head. “No, not exactly. You know, I spent all that time trying to figure out how to survive, and when I finally got out, the world felt... alien. I’d been gone for so long, it was like I’d forgotten what normal even looked like.” She paused, then added quietly, “If there even is a ‘normal’ in this line of work.”

Desmond leaned back, his expression reflective. “I get that. Thought I could stay out, keep my head down, just live a regular life. But it’s like you said—you can’t outrun it.” He hesitated, the vulnerability in his eyes making him look younger, more uncertain. “Sometimes I wonder if I should’ve just stayed at the Farm.”

The admission surprised Claire, and she met his gaze with a look of quiet understanding. “Maybe. But I think sometimes the only way to know what you want is to walk away from it first.” She glanced around the safe house, her eyes landing briefly on the Animus. “Funny, though, isn’t it? No matter how far we go, it pulls us right back.”

Desmond smiled, though it was tinged with sadness. “Seems like it. Guess that makes us... what? Some kind of reluctant heroes?”

Claire laughed, a genuine, if brief, sound that broke the heaviness in the air. “Reluctant, maybe. But heroes? That might be pushing it.”

“Guess I’ll settle for ‘reluctant,’ then,” Desmond replied with a grin. For the first time, he seemed to relax completely, as if in her presence he’d found something that resembled camaraderie, maybe even acceptance.

The silence that lingered between them was different this time—less strained, more like the kind of quiet shared between two people who understood the weight the other carried. There was no need to fill it with empty words; life had taught them both that some truths didn’t require saying. 

Claire leaned back slightly, letting the moment settle before breaking it. With a small, almost playful nudge to his arm, she offered him an out—her voice light but not flippant, careful not to push too hard. “Well, reluctant hero,” she said, her lips twitching into a faint smile, “if you’re ready, there’s a whole world of memories waiting to be unraveled.” She gestured toward the Animus, the movement slow, deliberate—an invitation, not an order.

Desmond’s eyes lingered on her for a moment before turning to the machine. His chest rose and fell in a steadying breath, his jaw tightening as something resolved itself within him. There was still a flicker of doubt, of weariness in the set of his shoulders, but it was quickly overtaken by something sharper—determination. “Yeah,” he said, the word carrying more weight than its brevity implied. His gaze returned to hers, steady now. “Let’s get this over with.”

Chapter Text

1466

    "Ezio!! Wait, you're going too fast!" She yelled, running as fast as her little feet could carry her to catch up to the boy. Up ahead Ezio has stopped to look at her, his shoulders heaving as he caught his breath. 

    "Come on Amelia! You'll miss it!!" He told her as she got closer. But before she could reach him though he took off again. She whined, her body already feeling exhausted, she forced herself to push even harder to stay caught up. It was just after dinner and Ezio had insisted they find a good spot to watch the sunset. It was one of those months where her father had been off on business so he had left her in the care of the Auditore's. While she missed her father dearly she didn't mind staying with Ezio's family. They were her second family. 

    "Come on little one. You can make it." She heard behind her and she didn't have to look to know that it was Federico who was encouraging her. Giovanni had refused to allow the two of them to go by themselves, so Federico had volunteered to escort them to the docks.

    "I'm not that little." She protested and the elder brother laughed. He was barely winded from the exercise. 

    It didn't take long for them to reach the docks and by the time she caught up to Ezio she found him sitting on the edge of the dock, his feet dangling over the edge. She quickly joined him and leaned her head on his shoulder to catch her breath. In front of them, the sun was just beginning to set and the sight was beautiful. Oranges, purples, pinks and reds were beginning to paint the blue sky and she smiled at the warmth it brought her just to see such a thing. It would be a while before she would get the chance to do something like this again, her father was coming home in the morning and his letter had said she would be going with him on the next trip.

    "I don't want to leave." She said quietly. Ezio looked over at her with a sad look on his face, wrapping his arm around her shoulders. 

    "I don't want you to leave either. Will you visit again soon?" He asked her.

    "Father says that it could be a few years before we visit again. His business is taking him away. He says he will continue my studies on the road. He intends to stay in paris for a little while, insists I learn the language." She grumbled, kicking at the water below her feet, her toes barely touching the surface of the water. 

    "Years?" He exclaimed and she nodded her head. "Promise you will write to me?" 

    "I will write my first as soon as I get home." She smiled at him and he returned the smile before the two of them looked out over the water to watch the sun set. 

    Amelia was devastated to be leaving. It had been three months and she had grown very fond of the boy sitting next to her. He was her best friend and thinking about being away from him made her chest hurt. It was a different kind of hurt from when her father left her alone with the Auditore's. It was the kind of hurt that left her longing to see him again, to hear his voice, and hug him every chance she got. She knew though, that no matter how much time would pass between them that they would be able to pick up right where they had left off.

1474 - Eight Years Later

    The clashing of metal could be heard from outside the Tesaro Manor in Paris. To any civilian in the streets they would think that the guards were fighting someone or a father teaching his son to use a sword. In the back courtyard of the home two figures could be seen dancing on the cobblestone, locked in a rehearsed set of maneuvers. A man stood in the shadows of the doorway, watching them battle for dominance with a proud smile on his face. 

    "You are getting slow Alonzo!" The smaller figure taunted, as she landed a blow to his left side. The larger figure retaliated and returned the favor, easily getting past her defenses. 

    "And you, my apprentice, are getting cocky." The man replied. She laughed and blocked a blow aimed for her head, spinning under his blade. She came out of the spin behind him and jabbed the end of her blade into his back, a proud look on her face.

    "Or just more skilled with age." She retorted and ducked as he spun around, waving his blade as if to cut her in half. In his distraction she managed to reach up from under him and grab his wrist, bending it to the point where he dropped his sword. For a final touch she swept her leg at him as he backed up and he fell on his backside with a loud thud. She held her sword to his throat with a triumphant smirk on her face. The man in the doorway began to clap, breaking the girl's concentration. Her head snapped in his direction and she dropped her sword to the ground and rushed towards him.

    "Father!" She exclaimed, crashing into him with her arms around his neck. "Your letter said you would not be back for another week." She pulled away to look him over as she always did, to make sure he was alright. 

    "Well maybe I lied to surprise you." He replied and she gave him a right hook to his arm. 

    "What did I say about the lying?! Plus you know I hate surprises." She pouted. He laughed and put an arm around her shoulders, leading her towards the front of the house. 

    "You have improved greatly since I left." He told her, and she beamed at him. 

    "It has been two years since I last saw you." She replied and he gave her a look that she had seen before. He knew she didn't like it when he left her here on her own to train with the 'servants' but she didn't have much say in the matter. His business often took him elsewhere, and she knew that. The life of an Assassin was not a quiet one.

    "I brought you something." He told her, choosing to ignore her last comment as he led her to his study. She looked at him funny but he said nothing as he opened the door to his study. 

    The room was rather large with a fireplace at the far end and a desk that sat in the center. A picture of ancient ruins hung above the fireplace and each wall was a floor to ceiling bookshelf, each filled to the brim with books. What caught her attention though was the large mahogany chest that sat on his desk. She looked at her father with a questioning look and he nodded at her. Satisfied with that signal she ran forward and lifted the lid of the chest. She took a glance at what was inside and gasped. 

    "Father...are you sure I am ready?" She asked, turning to face him as he came to stand beside her. 

    "An assassin never finishes their training." He told her. "Now that you are of age, you are to go with me on my next assignment." He told her and she looked up at him wide eyed. 

    "I am honored." She said softly, not sure what to do with herself. Eight years of training at finally paid off and she couldn't be more thrilled for the chance to show her father what she had accomplished.

    "You need the exposure and it will do you some good to see the world outside of this Manor." He chuckled. 

    "When do we leave?" She asked, reaching into the chest to feel the fabric of the Assassins robes. 

    "Tonight." She looked up at him to make sure he was being serious and there was no mistake in his words. "Go get changed." He told her. 

    She hauled the chest upstairs with steady determination, her grip firm despite the weight. Once in her room, she set it down carefully and flipped open the lid. Piece by piece, she unpacked the armor, laying it across her bed with purpose. There were greaves and vambraces, each crafted with smooth lines and sturdy materials, a chest plate shaped to protect while allowing freedom of movement, and a shoulder guard designed to shield her left side without hindering her.

    Next came the weapons: a sleek sword, a dagger balanced for precision, and a set of throwing knives tucked into a compact leather pouch. Nestled at the bottom of the chest was the hidden blade, its mechanism gleaming faintly, its purpose undeniable.

    She changed quickly, pulling the assassin’s robes over her head and adjusting the armor until it fit snugly. The robes hung a little loose, a deliberate choice, she realized, to accommodate her growth. Fully equipped, she turned to the mirror. The figure staring back was both familiar and foreign. The weapons and armor gave her an edge she hadn’t expected, a sense of strength that startled her. She braided her hair loosely to one side, pulled the hood up, and stood taller, letting the weight of her new identity settle across her shoulders.

1476

Red. The color of anger. The color of blood. The color of failure. It was all Amelia could see as she knelt beside her father’s broken body. The metallic tang of blood filled her nostrils, sharp and unrelenting, as the pool beneath him spread to her knee and seeped into the fabric of her pants. The wound in his stomach, gaping and grotesque, told her everything she needed to know. He wasn’t going to make it.

Hopeless. She felt it clawing at her chest like a living thing, suffocating and heavy. She had taken lives before—more than she cared to count—but this was different. This wasn’t an enemy. This was her father, her guide, the man who had shaped her into who she was. To ease his passing would be merciful, but she couldn’t do it. Her hands shook just thinking about it. How could she, when she couldn’t even hold back her tears?

“Amelia…” His voice, rasping and broken, drew her out of her spiraling thoughts. His hand lifted weakly toward her, trembling as though it took every ounce of his strength. She didn’t hesitate. She dropped her other knee so she could get closer to him, uncaring of the blood soaking through her clothes, and clasped his hand in hers. It felt fragile, bones far too prominent, like holding something that might crumble if she gripped too tightly.

“I’m sorry, my dear,” he whispered, his voice barely above a breath. “It seems my time is up.”

“Papa, please…” Her voice cracked, her words dissolving into a sob as tears blurred her vision. “Don’t go. Don’t leave me.”

“I must,” he murmured, his gaze softening even as the light began to fade from his eyes. “Now listen to me. You must finish what I started. Take the codex pages to Giovanni. His family… they will help you.”

His words cut through her anguish like a blade. Giovanni. The name stirred memories she had locked away long ago, fragments of a life she had almost forgotten. She nodded, choking back her sobs long enough to stammer, “I—I will. I swear it.” The weight of guilt pressed harder against her chest. “I’m sorry, Papa. I wasn’t fast enough. I should have been here—Cesare will pay for this.”

“No.” His voice, weak as it was, carried a firmness that silenced her. “Do not waste your life blaming yourself for this or chasing after revenge. It was not your fault.” His hand lifted to her cheek, his fingers trembling as they brushed against her skin. The warmth of his touch, even slick with blood, was a small comfort in the chaos. “I am so proud of you, my daughter.”

His hand slipped away, falling limply to his side. The life in his eyes dimmed, fading to nothing. Amelia froze, her fingers clutching his lifeless hand as though she could will him back to life. But he was gone. The finality of it settled over her like a shroud, suffocating in its enormity.

For a long moment, she couldn’t move, couldn’t think. And then it came—a scream. Raw and unrestrained, it tore from her throat with a force that seemed to rip her apart from the inside. She folded over his body, her forehead pressing against the wound in his abdomen as her sobs wracked her body, blood smearing all over her pale skin. The weight of his passing, of her failure, of the life stolen from him far too soon, crushed her.

When the sun began to rise, Amelia found herself standing on the docks, the crisp morning air biting against her tear-streaked cheeks. Her bow was in her hand, a single flaming arrow nocked and ready. Out on the water, her father’s body rested atop a small wooden boat, surrounded by hay. She drew the bowstring back, her arms steady despite the ache in her heart, and released. The arrow sailed cleanly through the air, striking its mark. The boat ignited in an instant, flames licking up into the sky as the first rays of sunlight spilled over the horizon.

As the boat burned, she stood there, motionless, watching until the flames consumed the vessel and it sank beneath the water. In her hands, she clutched the family crest she had taken from his neck, the chain wound tightly around her fingers. His sword and dagger hung at her hip, the unfamiliar weight pressing against her side as a reminder of the legacy she now carried. The hidden blade, his hidden blade, rested against her forearm, oversized and awkward, but she would make it fit.

She stayed until the last embers disappeared, until the water swallowed what remained. Then she straightened, the tears drying on her cheeks as a cold resolve settled in her chest. Grief would have to wait. Her father’s dying wish, his final command, left her with no room for hesitation. She had a mission now, one that demanded everything she had.

“I guess I'm going home,” she whispered, the words carrying more strength than she felt. Her steps were steady as she turned away from the dock, the fire in her heart burning brighter than the flames that had consumed her father’s body. Giovanni would have answers. She would finish what her father had started. No matter the cost, Cesare Borgia would die by her hand.

Chapter Text

1476 - Florence, Italy

The city gates towered before Amelia, their imposing presence both familiar and foreign. She swung down from her horse with practiced ease, her boots crunching against the dusty ground as she handed the reins to a waiting stable boy. Without a word, she paid him the coin he requested, the transaction quick and mechanical. Her attention was already elsewhere—on the city she hadn’t stepped foot in for a decade.

Amelia’s gaze swept over the bustling streets ahead, a mix of nostalgia and apprehension knotting in her chest. She had grown up here, in the very heart of this city, before her father moved them to the outskirts after her mother’s death. It felt like a lifetime ago. But her destination wasn’t just anywhere—it was her original home, tucked near the Palazzo de Auditore, where her father had entrusted a group of mercenaries to guard the codex pages he had painstakingly collected over the years.

Despite the years of absence, her feet moved as though guided by memory alone. She navigated the winding streets with ease, her path instinctual, until she found herself standing in the small courtyard of her childhood home. A flicker of warmth stirred in her chest as she took it in, noting with relief that little had changed. The mercenaries had cared for it surprisingly well. The ivy along the stone walls was trimmed, the shutters freshly painted, and the faint scent of rosemary from her mother’s long-forgotten garden still lingered in the air.

Amelia didn’t bother knocking. She pushed the door open with the confidence of someone who still considered it hers and stepped inside, her footsteps echoing faintly on the stone floor. The moment she crossed the threshold, a cold blade pressed against her throat.

“Who are you, and what do you want?” a gruff voice demanded. Before she could react, the man yanked her further inside, slamming her back against the wall with enough force to rattle the door. The sharp edge of the dagger bit lightly into her skin, a silent threat that left no room for argument.

Amelia inhaled sharply, steadying herself. Slowly, deliberately, she raised her hand—open and unthreatening—and reached for the hood of her robes. With a controlled motion, she pushed it back, revealing her face.

The man’s sneer vanished instantly, replaced by wide-eyed recognition. He stumbled back as though burned, lowering the dagger with a muttered curse. “My apologies, Signorina,” he stammered, his tone now laced with regret. “I didn’t know—it’s been so long—please, forgive me.”

Amelia straightened, brushing herself off as she studied the man. Her gaze was sharp but calm, masking the irritation bubbling just beneath the surface. “You’re lucky I’m in a forgiving mood,” she said dryly, though the faintest trace of a smirk tugged at her lips.

“My father sent me,” Amelia said, her voice steady despite the knot tightening in her chest. “He passed less than a month ago.” She met the man’s gaze firmly, letting the weight of her words settle. “His dying instructions were to bring the codex pages to Giovanni as soon as possible.”

The mercenary hesitated, his expression clouding. “I fear you may be too late, Signorina,” he admitted, his voice low. “Giovanni and his sons were arrested this morning. They’ll stand trial at dawn.”

Amelia’s stomach dropped. “On what grounds?” she demanded, her tone sharp as her hands clenched at her sides.

“They didn’t say, my lady,” he replied, his eyes darting away as if to avoid the fire in hers. “We’ll learn more when the charges are announced, but I fear the worst. Rumors in the city suggest betrayal, and not all the guards are loyal to their oaths.”

Amelia’s mind raced, her pulse pounding in her ears. Giovanni’s arrest would complicate everything. If the codex pages fell into the wrong hands—or worse, were confiscated—her father’s work, his legacy, would be lost. “Where are the pages?” she asked, her urgency breaking through. She needed them secured before anything else.

“This way,” the mercenary said quickly, turning toward the stairs. Amelia followed him in silence, her boots clicking softly against the stone floor. They ascended to her father’s old study, a room she hadn’t set foot in for years. The air smelled faintly of aged parchment and dust, the room preserved as though her father might return at any moment.

The man moved to the fireplace, his movements practiced as he pressed against a specific brick in the stonework. With a muted click, a hidden panel beside the hearth slid open, revealing a narrow, dimly lit hallway. He stepped aside, motioning for Amelia to follow.

She descended the passage cautiously, her hand instinctively brushing the hilt of her dagger. At the end of the corridor, a small, concealed room came into view. A single chest rested at its center, unassuming yet clearly well-guarded. She knelt before it, her fingers tracing the metal latch for only a moment before she opened it.

Inside were the codex pages, their edges yellowed but meticulously preserved. Relief coursed through her as she carefully gathered them, rolling the pages with precision before tucking them into the hidden pocket of her robes.

Standing, Amelia turned to the mercenary. “Thank you,” she said briskly.

The man nodded without question. Amelia wasted no time, her mind already on her next steps. If Giovanni and his sons were captured, she needed to find Maria and Claudia. The trial might hold answers, but waiting wasn’t in her nature. She pulled her hood back over her head, her jaw set with determination.

Amelia stepped out of the palazzo, offering a nod of gratitude to the mercenaries who had kept her home intact. She paused at the main gate, her hands resting lightly on the worn wood as she scanned the city streets. Her thoughts churned, uncertain of her next move. She wanted to visit the Palazzo de Auditore, but the thought of being seen—looking as she did, worn from the journey and carrying the weight of her father’s death—kept her rooted in place. Instead, she resolved to approach unseen, slipping through the city as she had been trained to: from the rooftops.

Decision made, she glanced around and immediately caught the stares. Civilians gawked at her openly, some with wary glances, others with outright hostility. Her robes, dark and unmistakable, marked her as an outsider, a potential threat. Rolling her eyes at their ignorance, she turned toward the wall of her family’s palazzo. The path upward was simple enough, and without hesitation, she began her climb.

Gasps and murmurs rippled through the crowd below as she scaled the stone facade, her movements precise and fluid. She ignored the attention, focusing instead on the task at hand. As her fingers grasped the edge of the roof, she hauled herself up, planting her boots firmly on the shingles. From here, the city sprawled out beneath her, familiar and yet foreign after so many years. In the distance, she spotted the Auditore banners fluttering in the breeze, marking her destination.

She moved swiftly, leaping from rooftop to rooftop, her path taking her south toward the heart of the city. The closer she got, the more uneasy she felt, a weight settling in her chest. Upon landing on the roof of the Auditore palazzo, the sight before her stopped her cold.

The courtyard was in shambles. What had once been a place of beauty and refinement was now a ruin. Flowerbeds had been torn apart, their blooms trampled into the dirt. The main door hung askew, the hinges splintered as if it had been ripped off by brute force. The chaos was unmistakable—the city guards had done this. They had stormed the palazzo like invaders, leaving destruction in their wake.

A flicker of movement below drew her attention, and she ducked into the shadows, her breathing steady as she peered into the courtyard. A figure emerged from the broken doorway, dressed in robes much like hers. She narrowed her eyes, taking in the broad shoulders and confident stride. He was male, no doubt, but his movements lacked the fluid precision of a seasoned assassin. Was he one of theirs? Had someone sent him to free Giovanni and his sons?

“You! Halt! You’re the one who escaped!” a guard bellowed from outside the gates.

Amelia froze, her eyes darting back to the figure as he turned to face the guards. He didn’t flinch, standing his ground as he spoke. “Are you here to arrest me in my own home, as you did my father and brothers?”

The voice struck her like a thunderclap. She knew it, though she couldn’t immediately place it. The guards advanced, their weapons drawn, and the man’s hand moved to the hilt of a sword at his side.

“No,” one of the guards sneered. “We’re here to kill you, Ezio.”

Ezio. Her stomach twisted. This was Ezio? Giovanni’s second son? The innocent boy she’d once known? She remembered Federico’s quiet understanding of their father’s work, but Ezio? The last time she’d seen him, he’d been carefree, unaware of the life his family truly led. And yet here he was, wearing his father’s robes, holding his father’s sword.

The guards lunged. Ezio fought back, his blade flashing in the courtyard’s dim light, but it was clear he was new to this. His swings were strong but unrefined, his footwork clumsy. Twice, he nearly tripped over himself, narrowly avoiding a fatal mistake. Amelia watched, her heart sinking. The robes weren’t his—they were Giovanni’s. The sword, too, was his father’s. He wasn’t ready for this. He didn’t understand the weight of what he’d inherited.

Her eyes flicked to the second guard, who circled behind Ezio, blade poised to strike. Without hesitation, she acted. A knife left her hand in a blur, cutting through the air before sinking into the man’s neck. The gurgling sound of his collapse made Ezio whirl around, his eyes wide with shock.

For a moment, time seemed to stretch unbearably thin as their eyes met. Amelia’s breath hitched, her pulse thundering in her ears. Ezio's expression shifted from confusion to something sharper—suspicion, perhaps, or recognition that he couldn’t yet place. She felt exposed, as though his gaze might strip away her carefully constructed mask and reveal everything she wasn’t ready to share.

Her muscles tensed, every instinct urging her to move, to retreat before he could say or do anything to bridge the gap between them. He didn’t speak, but his grip on the sword tightened as though bracing for another attack. The tension between them hung in the air like a taut wire, threatening to snap.

Amelia broke first, spinning on her heel and darting across the roof. The tiles beneath her boots were slick with morning dew, threatening her footing, but she pushed forward. Behind her, she heard him calling out, his voice strained but persistent. She didn’t look back until she leapt across to the next rooftop.

A quick glance over her shoulder sent a wave of panic through her—he’d made it to the roof. Worse, he was gaining on her. Ezio moved with a surprising agility, determination etched into every step. Her heart pounded as she searched for an escape, knowing she couldn’t outrun him forever. She needed to disappear.

Then she saw it: a haystack tucked into the narrow street below. It wasn’t her most elegant option, but she didn’t hesitate. Without breaking stride, she launched herself off the edge of the roof. The air rushed past her, and she braced herself for impact. The landing was rough, the dry hay barely cushioning her fall. Pain shot through her ribs, promising bruises, but she ignored it.

Rolling out of the cart, she darted into a nearby alley. The shadows swallowed her whole as she pressed herself against the cold, damp wall, her breathing shallow and quiet. She didn’t have long. The telltale rustling of hay reached her ears moments later, and she knew he’d followed.

From her hiding spot, Amelia watched him. The boy she remembered was gone, replaced by a man she barely recognized. His face had hardened, the soft features of his youth now sharpened with maturity. A faint scar on his upper lip caught her attention, a mark she didn’t remember but somehow felt fitting. Even through the robes, she could tell he had grown strong, filling out in the same way his older brother Federico had. He stood in the street, turning slowly, his dark eyes scanning every corner.

Chapter Text

1476 - Florence, Italy

Amelia rolled her eyes as Ezio wandered over to the bed, his teasing tone unrelenting. He flopped down onto the pristine mattress without ceremony, the clean fabric settling beneath him. His confident smirk widened as he stretched out, arms behind his head, clearly enjoying himself.

“Comfortable?” she asked dryly from her spot by the window, crossing her arms as she watched him.

“Very,” he replied with mock sincerity, tilting his head to grin at her. Then, with a mischievous glint in his eyes, he added, “How many men have had the pleasure of being in your room?”

Amelia gave him a pointed look but said nothing, letting the silence be her answer. His grin only grew, undeterred. “Or perhaps, in your bed?”

“You would be the first, Ezio,” she replied smoothly, though the words carried a weight she hadn’t intended. They hung in the air just a second too long, enough for her to see the faint flush creep up his neck and into his cheeks as realization dawned.

“Does my virtue scare you?” she teased, tilting her head slightly, unable to resist.

He scowled, waving a hand in front of his face as if to brush away his embarrassment. “If you weren’t one of my dearest friends, this would be… different.”

Her brow arched, curiosity flickering in her gaze, but she let it slide, hiding her thoughts behind a small, knowing smile. Silence fell between them, thick with unspoken words and lingering tension. The muffled sounds of the city outside seeped through the cracks in the walls, the rhythm of life beyond a sharp contrast to the quiet in the room.

Ezio broke the stillness first, his voice softer than before. “Why are you here, Amelia? Why now, after all this time?”

The question hit harder than she expected, and she turned toward the window, her arms crossing over her chest as she stared into the night. Her gaze dropped to the floor as the emotions she had buried for weeks surged forward, threatening to overtake her. She hadn’t spoken about it to anyone—not even to herself. The grief and guilt were too raw, too sharp. And now, standing in front of the one person she trusted, it was all bubbling to the surface.

Ezio noticed the change immediately. His expression softened, and before she could step away, he was beside her. His hand rested gently on her upper arm, steady and grounding. She looked at him, her lips parting as she tried to force the words out, but her voice faltered.

“My father sent me,” she managed finally, her voice barely above a whisper. “He sent me to deliver these.” She reached into her robes and pulled out the codex pages, holding them out with trembling hands.

Ezio released her arm, taking the papers carefully. His brow furrowed as he examined them. “My father had something similar,” he murmured, his tone pensive. “In the chest where I found the papers to clear his name.”

Amelia nodded but said nothing, her arms wrapping around herself as if to shield against what she knew was coming next. She could feel his eyes on her, the weight of his thoughts as he pieced things together.

“Where is your father, Amelia?”

It felt like a dagger, sharp and unrelenting, had pierced her heart at this words. She flinched, her lips parting as if to speak, but no words came. The grief lodged itself in her throat, choking her. She looked away, her jaw tightening as she fought the tears that burned at the corners of her eyes.

“Amelia?” His voice was gentler this time, coaxing but never demanding. He stepped closer, his concern palpable. “What happened?”

She met his gaze then, and all the pain, guilt, and sorrow she had carried spilled over into her expression. Her voice cracked as the truth escaped her lips, the words breaking through the walls she had built.

“He’s gone, Ezio,” she said, her voice trembling. “My father is gone.”

The weight of her grief overwhelmed her, and before she realized it, Amelia collapsed into Ezio’s arms. He caught her easily, his strong hands steadying her as her knees buckled. She sank to the floor, the dam finally breaking on everything she had held inside. Tears blurred her vision as she looked up at him, searching his face, though she didn’t have to say a word. His expression softened, and in an instant, his arms wrapped around her, pulling her close.

Ezio didn’t ask questions, didn’t push for explanations. He simply held her, his embrace firm and comforting, as if to shield her from the storm raging inside. The quiet intimacy of the moment was enough to make her tears spill over, hot streaks tracing down her cheeks as her sobs shook her shoulders. She hadn’t cried like this since the night her father died, and now that the floodgates had opened, she couldn’t stop.

After what felt like an eternity, she finally spoke, her voice broken but steady enough to carry the weight of her confession. “He died on a mission,” she began, the words catching in her throat. “I... I was supposed to be his backup. I got distracted, and someone—” Her breath hitched. “They killed him, Ezio. Right in front of me. He died in my arms.”

Her voice faltered as the memory gripped her, raw and unforgiving. By the time she finished, her tears had slowed to a trickle, leaving only a few stray drops clinging to her lashes. Ezio lifted his hand, brushing them away gently, his fingers warm against her skin. She leaned into his touch, closing her eyes as she let herself breathe.

“You cannot blame yourself, Amelia,” he said softly, his tone steady but firm. “You did what you could.”

Her lips trembled into a small, bittersweet smile. “That’s what he said to me,” she whispered, her voice barely audible. “Before he died. He told me it wasn’t my fault.”

“And he was right,” Ezio replied, his gaze unwavering. “You cannot carry this alone. Your father wouldn’t want that.”

“I try not to,” she admitted, her voice laced with guilt. “But I was there. I should’ve done something. Anything.”

“You must not dwell on what you couldn’t change,” he told her, his words calm but insistent. “It won’t bring him back, and it won’t honor his memory. You’re here now, continuing his work. That’s what matters.”

She nodded slowly, letting his words sink in. “You’re the first I’ve been able to talk to about this.” she confessed after a moment.

“You’re the first I’ve been able to talk to about this,” Amelia admitted after a moment, her voice barely above a whisper.

Ezio’s eyes softened, the lines of concern on his face easing. “I’m glad you did,” he said gently. “You shouldn’t carry this alone.”

She nodded, her head dipping slightly as her shoulders sagged under the weight she’d been bearing for weeks. For the first time in what felt like forever, the tightness in her chest loosened, even if only a little. The quiet between them was heavy but not uncomfortable, a stillness that gave her room to breathe.

“You can always come to me, Amelia,” Ezio continued, his voice unwavering. “Whatever it is, whatever you need. What are friends for?”

She offered him a faint smile, bittersweet but genuine. “Thank you,” she murmured, her words laced with gratitude.

Ezio pulled her back into his arms, and she let herself rest against him, the steady rhythm of his heartbeat grounding her. It had been so long since she had felt this kind of closeness, this kind of safety. She didn’t realize how much she had needed it until now. For a brief moment, the world outside—the dangers, the lies, the trials to come—faded away, leaving only the two of them.

Amelia’s body grew heavier as the weight of her emotions finally began to subside. The quiet comfort of Ezio’s embrace lulled her into a fragile sense of peace. Her head rested against his chest, the steady rhythm of his heartbeat a grounding presence she hadn’t realized she needed. For the first time in weeks, the relentless tension in her shoulders eased, her grief no longer pressing so sharply against her chest.

“You’re going to fall asleep like that,” Ezio murmured softly, amusement lacing his voice as he tilted his head to look down at her.

She hummed faintly in response, her eyes already half-lidded. “Mmm, maybe,” she admitted, her voice thick with exhaustion. “It’s comfortable here.”

Ezio chuckled, a low, warm sound that made her feel safe in a way she hadn’t for a long time. “Comfortable or not, I’m not letting you sleep on the floor. Come on.”

Before she could protest, Ezio shifted, standing up and gently lifting her with him. Amelia blinked, startled, but didn’t resist as he cradled her in his arms. “Ezio,” she mumbled weakly, her head falling against his shoulder. “I’m fine here.”

“Fine is not good enough,” he replied firmly, though his voice remained soft. “You deserve better.”

She didn’t have the energy to argue. The warmth of his arms and the gentle way he carried her dulled her pride, and before she knew it, he was lowering her onto the bed. The mattress was firm yet welcoming, the familiar scent of lavender surrounding her like a memory. She shifted slightly, her body sinking into the clean sheets as she let out a soft sigh.

“Get some rest,” Ezio said, his voice quiet but steady as he tucked the blanket around her shoulders.

Amelia looked up at him, her gaze softening. “What about you?”

Ezio smiled faintly, brushing a stray lock of hair from her face with surprising tenderness. “I’ll manage. Sleep, Amelia. You need it.”

She didn’t fight him, her exhaustion too overwhelming. Her eyes fluttered closed, and within moments, her breathing slowed as sleep pulled her under.

Chapter Text

They woke early the next morning, the weight of the impending trial heavy in the air between them. Ezio led the way to the Piazza della Signoria, his steps brisk and determined. The square was already packed with civilians, their murmurs a rising tide of unease that made the air feel suffocating. Amelia stayed close behind him, her eyes scanning the throng of people as they pushed their way toward the front.

When they finally caught sight of the platform at the center of the square, Amelia’s heart sank like a stone. There, elevated above the crowd, stood Uberto Alberti alongside another man whose face she didn’t recognize. But her attention was drawn to what hung above them—the three nooses swaying ominously from the crossbeam. Beneath them, three figures stood in chains, their heads bowed.

Giovanni. Federico. Petruccio.

Amelia’s breath caught, her stomach twisting painfully. Her chest tightened as her eyes moved over the three men, the familiar faces etched with exhaustion but still holding their dignity. Even little Petruccio, barely old enough to understand the gravity of the situation, stood tall beside his father and brother.

Then her gaze flicked back to the nooses swaying in the morning breeze, and her heart plummeted. This isn’t a trial. It’s an execution.

Her fists clenched at her sides, her pulse pounding in her ears. The gathered crowd, the somber expressions of the guards, the smug set of Uberto’s shoulders—everything about the scene screamed finality. This wasn’t about justice. It was about sending a message.

“Ezio,” she whispered, her voice low but urgent. “We need to get closer.”

Ezio didn’t respond, but his body stiffened. Without a word, he began moving forward, his movements purposeful and forceful as he shoved his way through the dense crowd. Amelia followed in his wake, but despite his determination, the press of bodies was too thick. The civilians, curious and horrified in equal measure, were reluctant to budge, their collective weight making it nearly impossible to get through.

They were still too far from the platform, the crush of the crowd cutting off their line of sight. Amelia’s mind raced, her teeth clenching as the swaying nooses loomed in her peripheral vision. “Ezio,” she hissed again, more forcefully this time, but he kept moving, his shoulders rigid with barely restrained fury.

We’re running out of time. She bit the inside of her cheek, scanning the square for any kind of opening, any chance to get closer. The sight of the chains glinting in the morning sun sent a fresh wave of panic through her. She knew, deep in her gut, that they weren’t going to leave this courtyard alive unless she and Ezio acted—and fast.

The crowd fell silent as Uberto Alberti’s voice rang out over the Piazza della Signoria.

“Giovanni Auditore. You and your accomplices stand accused of the crime of treason. Have you any evidence to counter this charge?”

Amelia tensed as the crowd held its collective breath. Beside her, Ezio paused, his movements halting mid-step. She gave him a sharp push on the back, her voice hissing low. “Keep moving,” she urged. “We don’t have time to waste.”

Ahead, Giovanni raised his voice, his words carrying clear desperation. “Yes! You have it all in the documents delivered to you last night!”

Amelia saw the shift in Giovanni’s expression—realization dawning like a cold blade against his throat. He’d been betrayed.

Uberto’s response was calm, calculated, and dripping with false sincerity. “I know of no such documents.”

Ezio froze again, his body stiff with rage, but before he could react, Amelia shoved past him, her eyes blazing as she grabbed his hand. “Move!” she barked, yelling at the crowd to clear the way as she forced a path forward. Uberto’s next words sent a chill through her.

“For your crimes, Giovanni Auditore, you and your sons are sentenced to death.”

The nooses swayed in the wind as guards approached the prisoners. Amelia’s stomach twisted violently as they reached for Petruccio, but Federico stepped in front of his younger brother, shielding him. Her heart dropped as the guards grabbed Federico instead. He struggled briefly, but they dragged him to the gallows, forcing him onto the platform.

She couldn’t watch as they slipped the rope over his neck, couldn’t bear the sound of the platform dropping beneath him. The crack of the rope as it snapped taut sent a wave of nausea through her, and she clenched her fists to keep moving. Behind her, Ezio’s voice erupted in a furious shout.

“No!”

Amelia pushed harder through the crowd, her heart pounding as she drew closer. Petruccio was next. She stopped, her breathing sharp and uneven as the guards reached for the boy. The fear in his wide eyes was too much, and Amelia let out a loud, guttural bellow. The crowd recoiled, parting instinctively at the sound.

As the platform gave way beneath Petruccio’s feet, Amelia threw her knife. The blade cut through the air, her aim sharp and true. For a split second, she doubted herself, but relief flooded her when the knife severed the rope, and Petruccio fell to the ground. He hit the pavement with a cry of pain, and Amelia dashed forward without hesitation, Ezio close behind.

“Guards! Guards! It’s the other Auditore! Seize him!” Uberto bellowed, his voice rising above the chaos.

Amelia barely registered the words. “Take care of your brother!” she ordered Ezio as she unsheathed her sword. “I’ll get your father.”

Ezio hesitated for only a moment before nodding, scooping up the shaken Petruccio. Amelia didn’t wait for further protests. She leapt onto the platform, her blade flashing as she cut through the guards who stood in her way. One of them carried the keys to the shackles, and she yanked them from his belt as he fell.

Amelia reached Giovanni, her fingers moving swiftly as she unlocked his chains. Her gaze met his, the confusion in his eyes momentary as he took in her determined expression.

“Take this,” she said, pulling her father’s sword from her belt and pressing it into his hands. The polished blade gleamed even in the dim light of the gallows. “I’ll want it back.”

Giovanni gave her a grim nod, gripping the sword tightly. “You’ll have it,” he replied, his voice steady despite the chaos around them.

As soon as the shackles hit the platform with a dull clang, Amelia turned, leading Giovanni off the wooden structure. The din of shouting guards and panicked civilians filled the air. They pushed through the throng of bodies and regrouped with Ezio, who held a trembling Petruccio close to his chest. The boy’s face was pale, his wide eyes darting to the guards closing in on them.

“What now?” Ezio demanded, his voice tight, his chest heaving with adrenaline.

Amelia smirked, though her breath came in sharp bursts. “We run, of course! Go—I’ll cover you.”

Giovanni didn’t hesitate, grabbing Ezio’s arm and urging him forward. “Do as she says!”

Amelia turned on her heel, drawing her dagger with one hand while her other reached for the throwing knives at her hip. Two guards rushed toward her from the left. Her first blade flew, striking one in the throat before he could raise his sword. She sidestepped the second guard’s wild swing and drove her dagger into his gut, pulling it free in a smooth motion as he collapsed.

“Keep moving!” she shouted over her shoulder, sprinting to catch up with Ezio and Giovanni. She glimpsed them weaving through the narrow streets, Petruccio clinging to Ezio like a lifeline. A third guard emerged from an alley ahead of them, his sword raised high, and without breaking stride, Amelia threw another knife. The blade embedded itself in his shoulder, forcing him to drop his weapon with a cry of pain.

The sound of boots pounding against cobblestones echoed all around them. A crossbow bolt whistled past her ear, missing her by inches, and she ducked instinctively. Another guard lunged at her from the side, his blade slashing toward her arm. She twisted at the last second, but the blade grazed her upper arm, sending a searing pain through her muscles. She hissed through gritted teeth, using her momentum to drive her dagger into his side.

Her vision blurred briefly as the blood from her wound seeped through her sleeve, but she forced herself to keep going. The chase was relentless, the guards unyielding as they shouted orders to each other. Ezio stumbled ahead of her, nearly tripping over a fallen guard, but Giovanni caught him, steadying him with a firm hand.

“Go!” Amelia barked, her voice hoarse. “I’m right behind you!”

She threw her final knife at another pursuing guard, the blade striking true as he crumpled to the ground. Her heart pounded in her chest as she drew her sword, turning to face the two guards closest to her. They hesitated, clearly underestimating her, but she didn’t give them the chance to recover. She lunged forward, her blade meeting one guard’s with a clash of steel. Their swords locked briefly, and she shoved hard, forcing him off balance before slicing across his exposed neck.

The second guard rushed her, his swing wide and clumsy. She ducked under the arc of his blade, slicing at his knees to send him crashing to the ground. A swift kick to his chest left him gasping for air, and she turned, sprinting to catch up with the others.

The chase felt endless, her lungs burning as the adrenaline coursing through her veins began to fade. When they finally stumbled into a small, sheltered garden, Amelia let out a shaky breath. Overgrown trees and hedges provided them with cover, and a well stood at the center of the space. She leaned heavily against it, her chest heaving as she tried to catch her breath. The blood from her wound dripped steadily, staining her sleeve and leaving her lightheaded.

A shadow fell over her, and she looked up to see Giovanni crouching beside her. His gaze was piercing but curious. “Who are you?” he asked, his tone wary.

Amelia blinked, realizing her hood and mask were still in place. Slowly, she reached up and pulled them back, revealing her face. The recognition in Giovanni’s eyes was immediate, his guarded expression softening.

“Amelia… you’ve grown,” he said, his voice filled with disbelief and something close to relief. His expression darkened. “And your father?”

Her throat tightened, but she forced the words out. “He’s gone,” she said softly. “He sent me to you with the codex pages.”

Giovanni’s jaw tightened briefly, grief flashing across his face before he steadied himself. He placed a hand on her shoulder, his grip firm despite the sorrow in his eyes. “I’m sorry,” he said quietly. “For your father."

“Federico...I tried—” Amelia began, her voice cracking with guilt, but Giovanni shook his head, silencing her apology with a stern look.

“You’ve done more than anyone could ask. My family owes you a debt,” he said firmly. He held out the sword she had given him, its blade glinting faintly in the dappled light of the garden. “And I always pay my debts.”

Amelia nodded, slowly standing despite the dizziness that tugged at her. She sheathed her father’s blade, her movements deliberate as she steadied herself.

“We can’t stay here,” she said softly, her voice steady despite the exhaustion weighing her down. She turned to Ezio. “Where are your mother and sister?”

“Annetta took them to her sister’s,” Ezio replied, adjusting Petruccio in his arms, the boy’s head resting heavily on his shoulder.

“I know where that is. Let’s go,” Giovanni said, his voice commanding as he took the lead. Amelia and Ezio fell into step behind him, moving in grim silence. The chaos of the piazza was behind them, but the weight of their losses clung to them as they walked toward whatever came next.

Chapter Text

“This is it,” Giovanni said as they came to a stop in front of an unassuming building. The façade was plain, blending seamlessly with the other homes in the small square, its shutters painted a soft, weathered green. But as they stepped inside, the contrast was striking, and Amelia couldn’t help the smirk that tugged at her lips.

The interior was lavish in a way that could only belong to a courtesan’s residence. The scent of perfumed oils lingered in the air, mingling with faint hints of wine and warm spices. Red garlands draped the banister, their vibrant color glowing under the soft light of gilded sconces. The walls were adorned with elaborate paintings—some tasteful, others bordering on suggestive. Women moved gracefully along the staircase, their voices lilting as they conversed with one another. Their outfits left little to the imagination, silken fabrics strategically draped to highlight rather than conceal.

Amelia’s eyes flicked over the scene, her mind cool and analytical. Fitting, she thought. Exactly what I’d expect from the house of a courtesan mother. There was no judgment in her musings, just a faint curiosity. For all its decadence, this house was clearly a sanctuary—a refuge that had kept Maria and Claudia safe.

“Giovanni!” “Father!” The sudden exclamations drew her attention upward. Maria and Claudia appeared at the top of the stairs, their voices carrying a mix of joy and relief. They descended quickly, their skirts swishing as they flung themselves into Giovanni’s arms.

Amelia stepped back, giving the family space to reunite. The sight before her—Maria’s teary smile, Claudia’s youthful exuberance—stirred something deep in her chest. A sharp ache she didn’t want to acknowledge. She clasped her hands behind her back, her expression unreadable. You’ll never have this again, a cruel voice whispered in her mind, and she swallowed hard against the thought.

“Beautiful sight, isn’t it, Amelia?” a familiar voice spoke beside her, startling her enough to make her shoulders twitch. She masked the reaction quickly, turning to find Paola standing there, her presence as poised and graceful as ever.

“Indeed it is, Paola,” Amelia replied, her tone neutral, though her smile softened at the sight of the older woman. It had been years since they’d last spoken, but Paola’s calm presence felt like a steadying hand in the chaos.

“I understand the pain you’re feeling at this moment,” Paola said, her voice quiet but laced with empathy. “We received word of your father’s passing days after it happened. He was a brilliant man and an even better father. I am truly sorry for your loss, young one.”

Amelia’s throat tightened, but she managed a small, appreciative smile. She didn’t trust herself to say more. Paola’s words were kind, but they scraped against wounds still too fresh to bear.

“Paola! You have my thanks for protecting my wife and daughter,” Giovanni called out, stepping forward with Maria under his arm.

“It was my pleasure, old friend,” Paola replied, dipping her head slightly in a gesture of respect. Her tone was warm, though her sharp gaze lingered on Giovanni for a moment, as if silently assessing him.

Maria stepped forward then, her expression soft but resolute as she addressed Amelia. “I hear I have you to thank for my husband and youngest son’s safe return,” she said gently, her voice carrying a quiet strength.

Amelia simply nodded, offering no elaboration. Words felt inadequate. Over Maria’s shoulder, she caught sight of Ezio slipping toward the door, his movements stiff and purposeful. Her brow furrowed as she excused herself, stepping around Giovanni and Maria to intercept him.

“Ezio,” she called, her tone firm but not unkind. “Where are you going?”

He stopped, his shoulders taut as a bowstring, and turned to face her. “I can’t stay here,” he said, his voice tight with grief. “Not when my brother’s killer still lives.”

Amelia studied his face, the pain there as raw as an open wound. She understood the fire burning in him, the weight of vengeance curling around his heart. She let out a soft breath. “I understand your desire for vengeance, but Gonfaloniere is a powerful man,” she said carefully. “You’re not a killer, Ezio.”

His eyes met hers, pleading. “Then help me,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper.

Amelia hesitated, the resolve in his gaze striking a chord in her. She turned to Giovanni, silently asking for his input. He held her gaze for a moment, then gave a small, almost imperceptible nod.

Her shoulders sagged briefly before she straightened, her tone turning wry. “I suppose we’ll just have to make you one.”

“And why are you going to teach me how to kill?” Ezio asked, his gaze darting between Amelia and his family, his voice tinged with frustration.

“We’re not,” Paola interjected smoothly, stepping forward to address him directly. Her tone was calm but firm, commanding respect. “We’re going to teach you how to survive. But that is a task for tomorrow. Tonight, you rest. At dawn, we’ll begin your training.”

Ezio opened his mouth to protest, but Amelia cut him off before he could get the words out. “Ezio, you can’t expect to train properly—or even retain anything—when you haven’t eaten or slept in over a day. Get some rest,” she ordered, her voice carrying the same authority that had silenced him as a boy. His jaw tightened, but he nodded, any further protests swallowed by her unwavering tone.

Behind him, Giovanni and Maria exchanged a subtle glance, one filled with a knowing amusement. Even after all these years, Amelia still had the same effect on their son—a mix of exasperation and reluctant admiration.

Paola clapped her hands together, her decision final. “My girls will show you to your rooms. We only have two available, so Amelia and Ezio will share one, and your youngest will stay with you, Giovanni.”

Amelia felt the heat rise to her cheeks at Paola’s announcement but quickly masked it with a nonchalant shrug. “We’ll manage,” she said briskly. “And if not, he can sleep in the hall.”

Giovanni chuckled, his rich laugh breaking some of the tension in the room. “Fair enough.”

Moments later, two courtesans appeared, gracefully descending the staircase to escort the Auditore family to their rooms. Amelia followed quietly, keeping her thoughts to herself. When they reached the room she and Ezio were to share, she stepped inside and smirked at the sight that greeted her.

The space was elegant but practical, a reflection of the courtesan’s refined taste. A single bed, dressed in soft linens, dominated the room. Opposite it, a small fireplace flickered warmly, casting dancing shadows on the walls. To the side stood a folding screen, behind which steam rose from a waiting bath. Double doors on the far wall opened to a modest balcony, the cool night air drifting through the slight crack in the wood.

The courtesan gave them a polite bow before retreating, leaving the pair alone. Amelia’s smirk widened slightly as her eyes flicked to the single bed. Of course there’s only one.

“You should take the bath while it’s hot,” Ezio said, his voice breaking through her thoughts. He moved toward one of the chairs by the fireplace, settling in with a tired sigh. “I’ll bathe after you.”

For once, Amelia didn’t argue. She didn’t have the heart—or the energy—to push back. Nodding silently, she disappeared behind the folding screen, her fingers already unbuckling the straps of her weapons belt. It fell to the floor with a dull clang, followed by her assassin’s coat, which she removed with less grace than usual. As she pulled it free, a sharp hiss escaped her lips. She’d forgotten about the gash on her upper arm, the sting flaring anew as the fabric brushed the wound.

Damn it, she thought, wincing as she glanced at the crimson smear left behind. The injury had been ignored in the chaos, but now, in the stillness of the room, it demanded attention.

She stripped off the rest of her clothing, leaving a pile of black leather and fabric at her feet. Slowly, she sank into the steaming water, the heat seeping into her sore muscles. A long sigh escaped her lips as the tension in her body began to unravel, replaced by a fleeting sense of calm.

After a moment, she took a deep breath and plunged her head below the surface. The water enveloped her, muffling the world and leaving her alone with her thoughts. Her mind drifted, a treacherous whisper urging her to stay under, to let the weight of everything—her father’s death, the chaos of the execution, the impossible task ahead—slip away into the quiet. What if I just stayed here? What if I didn’t come up?

The thought lingered for a beat too long before a sharp pain flared in her arm, pulling her back. Her lungs burned as she burst through the surface, gasping for air. Water dripped down her face and shoulders as she blinked away the sting in her eyes.

The dim light of the room flickered softly, casting shadows across the walls as the bathwater lapped gently against the sides of the tub. Amelia stared at the crimson streaks swirling in the water, her injured arm bleeding more than she had realized. She frowned, watching as the blood diluted and spread like ink in water, and her mind raced. She needed to stop it before it got worse.

“Amelia?” Ezio’s voice came from beyond the screen, startling her. “Is everything alright?”

She hesitated, biting her lip. “No, actually… Um…” Her words faltered as she tried to decide how to ask for help without making the situation even more awkward. After a deep breath, she added, “Could you bring me my pack?”

There was a brief pause, and she winced at what she was asking. He’d have to come around the screen. He’d see her. Her cheeks flushed at the thought, but she had no other option. Moments later, Ezio stepped around the screen, her worn rucksack in hand. His eyes flicked briefly to her before focusing on the water.

“Your arm is bleeding,” he pointed out, his brow furrowing.

She opened her mouth to respond, but before she could, he knelt beside the tub and started rummaging through her bag. His hands moved with familiarity, easily finding the herbs and bandages she always kept tucked inside. Amelia watched him, her embarrassment and discomfort mingling with gratitude.

When he had everything he needed, he looked at her expectantly. “Let me see,” he said, holding out his hand.

Her face warmed further, but she gingerly lifted her arm from the water, droplets trailing down her skin. Ezio’s hands were surprisingly gentle as he began cleaning the wound, his calloused fingers careful against her skin. She looked anywhere but at his face, her discomfort heightened by the intimacy of the moment. She trusted him, but the closeness—the vulnerability—felt raw, especially with Ezio’s reputation lingering in her mind like a shadow.

“Thank you for what you did today,” Ezio said after a moment, his voice quieter now. “You risked your life to save my family.”

Her gaze lifted to him briefly, but he wasn’t looking at her. He focused intently on the wound, avoiding her eyes. She swallowed hard. “I would do it again in a heartbeat,” she said softly. “You’re the only family I have now.”

Ezio’s hands faltered, his fingers pausing mid-wrap before continuing with care. “I wish I’d been more useful,” he murmured, his voice heavy with guilt. “I couldn’t do anything to save Federico today.”

Amelia’s chest tightened at his words, the guilt in his voice cutting through the already fragile calm in the room. She opened her mouth to respond but found herself unsure what to say. What comfort could she offer when she carried her own failures like a second skin?

“You did what you could,” she said finally, her voice low but steady. “There’s no shame in that.”

Ezio shook his head, his jaw tightening as he finished securing the bandage around her arm. “It wasn’t enough,” he replied bitterly. His eyes flicked to hers then, raw and pained. “I watched him die, Amelia. I couldn’t do anything. I didn’t do anything.”

She looked at him, really looked at him, and saw the weight of the day pressing down on his shoulders. His hands, which had been so steady moments ago, now rested in his lap, trembling faintly. The usually confident, sharp-witted Ezio was gone, replaced by someone who looked as lost and broken as she felt.

Her free hand drifted to the edge of the tub, brushing against his knee lightly to ground him. “You think I don’t know what that feels like?” she asked quietly, her tone not unkind. “To stand there, helpless, watching someone you love slip away? I’ve been exactly where you are now.”

Ezio’s gaze softened, the tension in his body easing slightly as he met her eyes. “I didn’t know it would feel like this,” he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. “Like I failed him. Like I failed them all.”

Amelia let out a slow breath, her fingers tracing the edge of the tub absently as she considered her next words. “You didn’t fail, Ezio,” she said finally. “This wasn’t your fight to win. Not today. But now you have a choice—stay here, drowning in what you can’t change, or stand up and fight for what you still have.”

His brow furrowed, her words clearly sinking in. He stayed silent, the weight of the moment settling between them.

After a beat, Amelia shifted slightly in the water, her voice softening. “I get it,” she added. “The guilt. The helplessness. It doesn’t go away. But you can’t let it define you. Your family still needs you. Claudia. Your mother. Even Petruccio. They need you to be strong.”

Ezio nodded faintly, his eyes flickering with something she couldn’t quite name—determination, perhaps, or something deeper, more resolute. “And you?” he asked, his voice steadier now. “Do you need me to be strong too?”

She blinked, startled by the question. Her hand stilled against the tub, and for a moment, she didn’t know how to respond. “I don’t need you to be anything you’re not,” she said finally, her tone softer. “But… I wouldn’t mind having you by my side.”

A faint smile tugged at his lips, the first she’d seen since the chaos of the day began. “You’ve always been stronger than me, Amelia,” he said, shaking his head lightly. “Even when we were kids, you were the one looking after everyone. Always ready to fight.” His lips twitched into a faint smile, and she couldn’t help but return it as memories surfaced—memories of chasing off bullies for Claudia or standing up for Petruccio when no one else would.

“I’m so tired of fighting…” she admitted, leaning her head back and closing her eyes. The exhaustion of the day seeped into her bones, but for once, she felt safe enough to let it show. She could feel Ezio’s gaze on her, warm and unspoken. “But for you, for your family…” Her voice broke slightly. “It feels different. Like maybe it’ll be worth it this time. Maybe this time I can save everyone.”

A single tear escaped her closed eyes, rolling down her cheek. Before she could wipe it away, she felt the gentle touch of Ezio’s calloused finger. Her eyes fluttered open as she turned slightly into his touch, another tear slipping free. He wiped it away, his hand lingering against her cheek.

Ezio’s touch lingered, his hand warm and grounding against her cheek. Amelia didn’t pull away, letting herself lean into the comfort he offered. It was a quiet moment, one unspoken but heavy with meaning. His thumb brushed another stray tear from her skin, his expression soft, though his dark eyes carried a depth of emotion she couldn’t quite place.

“You don’t have to save everyone on your own,” he said quietly, his voice steady but gentle.

Amelia opened her mouth to respond, but the words caught in her throat. She wanted to argue, to push back against the idea that she didn’t need to shoulder it all, but the weight of the day, of the past weeks, pressed down on her. Instead, she nodded faintly, the movement barely perceptible.

Ezio let out a soft breath, almost a sigh, and finally withdrew his hand. As he leaned back slightly, her awareness shifted, and a faint blush crept up her neck. The realization hit her like a splash of cold water: she was still sitting in the bath, with him mere inches away. The intimacy of the moment suddenly felt sharper, and she instinctively shifted lower into the water, her arms crossing over her chest as though to shield herself.

She looked away, biting her lip and willing the heat in her cheeks to fade. Get a grip, Amelia. He’s just helping. But it didn’t help that the gentle sincerity in his eyes lingered in her mind, making her feel far more exposed than she was comfortable with.

The silence stretched between them, broken only by the faint crackle of the fire and the soft lapping of water. Amelia’s blush deepened as she became hyperaware of every ripple, every movement. She stole a glance at Ezio, hoping to find him distracted or perhaps ready to step away, but instead, his eyes were fixed somewhere near her bandaged arm, his expression thoughtful.

He’s not looking at you like that, she told herself firmly, but her heart still fluttered nervously in her chest. Her hands instinctively drifted toward the water’s edge, gripping it tightly as if bracing herself against the vulnerability pressing down on her.

“Ezio,” she said finally, her voice sharper than intended, though not unkind. He startled slightly, his gaze snapping to hers. “You can’t just sit there forever. I… I’m fine now.”

He blinked, and a faint smirk tugged at his lips. “Are you kicking me out already?”

“Yes,” she replied quickly, heat rising to her cheeks. “Not everyone enjoys an audience, you know.”

Ezio chuckled softly, leaning back on his heels. “Fine, fine. I’ll leave you to your privacy.” He began to stand, pausing briefly as his gaze flicked to the floor, where a pool of water and faint streaks of diluted blood had formed near his knees. “But only if you promise not to drown yourself."

Amelia froze, her breath hitching at his choice of words. She stared at him, her heart suddenly pounding for an entirely different reason. Did he know? Her throat tightened as she tried to brush it off, but his gaze, steady and far too perceptive, pinned her in place.

“I wasn’t—” she began, her voice cracking slightly. She cleared her throat, attempting to steady herself. “I wasn’t trying to drown myself.”

Ezio didn’t reply immediately, his smirk fading into something softer, more serious. He crouched back down, his hands resting lightly on his knees. “Maybe not,” he said quietly, his tone even. “But you were under the water for too long, Amelia. I heard you gasping when you came up.”

Her stomach twisted, a mix of embarrassment and unease churning within her. She looked away, her fingers gripping the edge of the tub tightly. “It’s nothing,” she muttered, her voice barely above a whisper. “I just… lost track of time.”

“Amelia.” His voice was low, but there was an undeniable weight to it. She glanced at him reluctantly, and the concern in his expression struck her like a physical blow. There was no judgment in his eyes, only a quiet understanding that felt far too intimate.

She exhaled sharply, the tension in her shoulders easing slightly as she sank lower into the water. “I wasn’t trying to…” Her words faltered, and she shook her head, frustrated with herself. “It’s not like that. It’s just… everything’s been so heavy lately. And for a moment, it felt easier to just—” She stopped herself, her jaw clenching. “…Just to let it all go,” Amelia finished, her voice trembling despite the steady tone she tried to hold. The admission sat heavy between them, the weight of it filling the room. She kept her gaze fixed on the rippling water, unwilling to meet Ezio’s eyes and see the reaction she feared—judgment, pity, or worse, disappointment.

The silence stretched, broken only by the faint crackle of the fire. Then, slowly, deliberately, Ezio reached forward. Amelia tensed, unsure of his intent, but when his hand gently cupped the back of her head, she froze. He didn’t pull her closer, didn’t speak immediately. Instead, he leaned in, resting his forehead against hers.

Ezio’s breath was warm, mingling with hers as he held her there, their foreheads touching in quiet solidarity. His hand, firm yet gentle, remained at the back of her head, grounding her in a way she hadn’t realized she needed. For a moment, Amelia forgot about the bath, the vulnerability of her state, and the countless burdens she carried. All that mattered was the steady, unspoken strength in his touch.

“You’re not done yet,” Ezio said softly, his voice low but laced with conviction. “You don’t get to give up like that, Amelia. Not after everything you’ve been through. Not after everything you’ve done for us—for me.”

Her throat tightened, his words cutting through the wall she had tried so desperately to build. She wanted to argue, to protest that she wasn’t giving up, but the truth lingered in the back of her mind, undeniable. Maybe she had thought about it, even for a fleeting moment. And maybe it had scared her.

Ezio pulled back just enough to look into her eyes, his expression firm but not unkind. “I don’t know what it’s like to feel that way,” he admitted, his dark gaze searching hers. “To feel like the weight of the world is too much. But I do know what it feels like to fail, to lose people I love. Giving up won't bring them back. It won't fix anything.”

Amelia’s lip quivered, her chest tightening as she fought the wave of emotions threatening to spill over. His hand didn’t leave her, his presence an anchor in the storm swirling inside her.

“I’m not angry at you,” Ezio continued, his voice softening, “but I can’t pretend this doesn’t scare me. You… you can’t let that darkness win, Amelia. Not you. If you’re hurting, if it’s too much, let me help you. Let me shoulder some of it. Don’t try to carry it all on your own.”

The vulnerability in his voice caught her off guard. Ezio, who was always so sure of himself, so quick to laugh off danger, was looking at her with an intensity that made her heart ache. She blinked rapidly, trying to fend off the tears threatening to escape.

“You shouldn’t have to deal with my mess,” she murmured, her voice breaking despite herself.

Ezio’s hand moved to her cheek, his calloused fingers brushing a stray tear away. “It’s not a mess, Amelia. It’s you. And I don’t mind.”

His words, so simple and yet so devastatingly sincere, broke something inside her. A single sob escaped before she could stop it, and she ducked her head, ashamed of the vulnerability she couldn’t hide. But Ezio didn’t flinch, didn’t pull away. Instead, he shifted closer, his arm steadying her as she struggled to compose herself.

“I’m glad you told me,” he said quietly, his voice steady. “If you ever feel like that again, promise me you’ll say something. To me, to Paola, to anyone who can help. Just… promise me you won’t carry it alone.”

She swallowed hard, her voice barely audible as she whispered, “I promise.”

“Good.” Ezio’s hand slid from the back of her head to her cheek, his thumb brushing against her damp skin. For a moment, he hesitated, his gaze searching hers as though committing her face to memory. Then, with a tenderness that stole her breath, he leaned forward and pressed his lips to her forehead.

The warmth of the gesture sent a shiver through her, unexpected but not unwelcome. It wasn’t the kiss of a romantic entanglement, nor the fleeting affection of a childhood friend. It was grounding, an unspoken vow that she wasn’t alone, that someone still stood firmly at her side. When he pulled back, his dark eyes held hers, steady and sure.

“Now, finish your bath before the water gets cold,” he said softly, his voice carrying an edge of humor to lighten the weight of the moment. “And remember what I said—no drowning.”

A faint, watery laugh escaped her despite the lump in her throat. “No drowning,” she echoed, her voice still shaky but steadier now.

Ezio smirked faintly, brushing his hand against her shoulder before straightening to leave. “I’ll guard the door. But if you need anything, you call for me. Got it?”

Amelia nodded, her lips curving into the barest hint of a smile. She watched him step around the screen and heard the soft click of the door as it closed behind him. The air in the room felt heavier in his absence, but the silence no longer felt oppressive. Instead, it was almost comforting, a space where she could breathe again.

She glanced at the water, her fingers trailing absently over the surface. The warmth that had soothed her muscles earlier was gone, replaced by a creeping chill that made her shiver. Her body ached, and exhaustion clung to her like a second skin, but she refused to sit in the cold any longer.

With a sigh, Amelia stood, water dripping down her skin as she stepped out of the tub. She grabbed a towel from the nearby chair, wrapping it tightly around herself. The damp air chilled her further as she moved to where her clothes were folded neatly on the bench. She dried off quickly, trying to keep her movements steady despite the ache in her arm.

Her eyes flicked to the door where Ezio had left, her mind replaying the warmth of his kiss on her forehead. It lingered there, a quiet reassurance that even in the storm of her grief, she wasn’t entirely adrift.

Chapter Text

Chapter Text

Amelia stood in the harem’s courtyard, inhaling deeply as the scents of jasmine and incense drifted through the air, mingling with the cool evening breeze that whispered through the shaded arches. The familiar hum of the place—gentle voices mingling with bursts of soft laughter—provided a momentary comfort, though her thoughts were far from settled. Her gaze shifted to Paola and Ezio, standing a few paces away. Even from this distance, she noticed the weight Ezio carried, visible in the slump of his shoulders and the exhaustion etched into the lines of his face. His eyes—normally bright with defiance or simmering with anger—were dulled now, haunted by grief he hadn’t yet learned how to shoulder.

“Amelia,” Paola called, her voice firm but kind, pulling her attention back to the present. “Go with Ezio to Leonardo’s. You know the way, and he could use the extra eyes.” There was a note of quiet assurance in her tone, a subtle reminder of the trust she placed in Amelia. That trust carried a weight of its own, but it was one Amelia welcomed. Being relied upon—being seen for what she could do—was a validation she hadn’t realized she needed.

Amelia nodded, letting a small, reassuring smile tug at her lips, though she could feel the tension still coiled in her chest. “Of course,” she replied before turning to Ezio. Her smile softened as her eyes met his, offering him a touch of warmth. “Come on. Let’s go.”

They stepped into the lively streets of Florence, leaving the cool shade of the harem behind. The marketplace buzzed with life. Vendors called out over one another, their voices a chaotic symphony as they waved vibrant fabrics and baskets of ripe fruit to draw in buyers. Amelia let her gaze sweep over the scene, soaking in the familiar rhythm of the city she had known since childhood. Every alley held a memory, every shadow a potential escape route. She moved through the crowd with an ease born of experience, her senses alert to the smallest shifts of sound and movement.

Amid her habitual scan for threats, her gaze lifted to the skyline. The rooftops and church spires etched against the deepening blue of the evening sky seemed to watch over the city, a reminder of Florence’s contradictions. Beautiful yet brutal. A place where art and danger walked side by side. Her connection to this city was undeniable, but today, it felt heavier—its familiar streets sharper, its shadows deeper—thickened by Ezio’s presence at her side.

She could feel his gaze on her as they walked, his curiosity nearly tangible in the space between them. Ezio had always been one to question, to search for understanding even when the answers might not bring comfort. She sensed the moment he finally spoke, his voice low and laced with hesitant wonder.

“You’re always watching. Like you’re expecting something.”

The comment caught her off guard. Her steps faltered for the briefest moment before she recovered, her gaze flicking to him. She considered brushing it off with a quip, something easy to deflect his attention, but there was no mockery in his tone. Just curiosity—unguarded and sincere. That sincerity cut through her usual defenses like a blade.

“When you’ve seen as much as I have,” she began softly, her voice quieter than she intended, “you learn to expect danger around every corner.” The vulnerability slipped through despite her best efforts to keep it buried. Her words hung between them, revealing more than she planned.

Ezio’s eyes lingered on her, searching her expression as if weighing the truth of her admission. His brow furrowed slightly, but he didn’t press. Instead, he nodded, his expression tinged with quiet understanding. “You sound like my father,” he admitted after a beat, his voice low. “Always on edge. Always planning.”

Amelia tilted her head, glancing at him sidelong. “Maybe your father’s onto something. Being prepared means staying alive.”

Ezio’s lips twitched faintly, though it wasn’t quite a smile. “He’d agree with you there. Though I don’t think I’ll ever be as... practiced at it as you seem to be.”

“You will,” she said simply, her tone matter-of-fact.

Ezio gave her a skeptical look but didn’t argue, his steps falling into rhythm beside hers as they navigated Florence’s winding streets.

The farther they walked, the quieter the city became. The lively chaos of the marketplace faded behind them, giving way to narrower alleys lined with the workshops of artisans. Signs hung from wrought-iron hooks above doorways, marking trades with carefully painted symbols. The air smelled of sawdust and oil now, a sharp contrast to the mingling spices and fresh bread of the market. The occasional clink of tools echoed faintly from open windows, adding a rhythmic undertone to the stillness.

Amelia stopped in front of a modest stone building. Its unassuming exterior bore a simple sign that read: Atelier di Leonardo Da Vinci. The structure seemed plain compared to the lively charm of Florence, but a quiet hum of energy radiated from within, promising invention and discovery.

“This is it,” Amelia said, stepping aside to let Ezio take the lead. “He’s... different, but you’ll like him.”

Ezio raised an eyebrow, his curiosity evident. “Different how?”

Her lips quirked into a faint smirk, playful but noncommittal. “You’ll see.”

Pushing open the door, she gestured him inside. The workshop revealed itself as a world unto its own—a chaotic symphony of creativity. Tables overflowed with blueprints, gears, and half-finished contraptions that ranged from intricate mechanisms to fantastical sketches of flying machines. Shelves sagged under the weight of thick tomes and jars of unidentifiable substances, their labels scrawled in hurried handwriting. The air smelled of ink, iron, and something faintly acrid, like singed wood.

At the center of it all stood Leonardo himself, bent over a canvas with a brush in hand. His disheveled hair and paint-smeared smock gave him the appearance of a man too absorbed in his work to bother with appearances. His movements were precise yet fluid, a sharp contrast to the chaos surrounding him.

“Leonardo,” Amelia called softly, her voice cutting through the gentle hum of the room.

He turned sharply, his intense focus melting into a bright smile. “Amelia!” he exclaimed, setting down his brush and wiping his hands on a rag. His gaze shifted to Ezio, his curiosity igniting immediately. “And you must be Ezio Auditore. Paola has spoken of you.”

Ezio straightened slightly, though his posture betrayed a hint of wariness. “Good things, I hope.”

Leonardo’s laugh was rich and genuine, instantly filling the space with warmth. “Oh, undoubtedly. Though I imagine Paola’s critiques were as colorful as ever.” He stepped closer, his sharp eyes flicking between the two of them. “Now, to what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?”

“Paola thought Ezio could benefit from your expertise,” Amelia explained, her tone taking on a more serious edge.

Leonardo’s face lit up as Ezio handed over a set of plans. He accepted them with the reverence of a man handling a rare treasure. His eyes scanned the diagrams, his fingers tracing the lines as his mind visibly raced ahead. “Ah, a hidden blade!” he exclaimed, his voice tinged with excitement. “I’ve heard of these, though I’ve never had the pleasure of working on one.” He glanced up, his expression practically glowing. “This will be a challenge—but a delightful one.”

Amelia leaned against a sturdy shelf, arms crossed, watching as Leonardo became engrossed in the plans. His enthusiasm filled the space, and for a brief moment, the tension of the day seemed to lift. Ezio, standing beside her, allowed a small smile to tug at the corners of his mouth, though his eyes remained sharp and observant.

Amelia smirked faintly as she glanced at Ezio. “Told you,” she said, her voice low but tinged with satisfaction.

Ezio shrugged lightly, his expression relaxing. “He’s... not what I expected.”

“You’ll find that’s true of a lot of things,” Amelia replied, her smirk softening into something more thoughtful. Then, as Leonardo’s murmurs of excitement filled the room, she allowed herself a small, fleeting moment of calm.

Amelia’s gaze drifted over the chaos of Leonardo’s workbench—the scattered sketches, jars of peculiar substances, and half-finished contraptions that seemed to hum with potential energy. But her attention kept returning to Ezio. He had slumped onto an old, worn couch in the corner, his head resting against the back as exhaustion overtook him. For the first time in days, the tension seemed to melt from his features. His eyes fluttered shut, his breathing slowed, and the lines of grief and anger softened into something almost peaceful.

A faint, unbidden smile tugged at Amelia’s lips, the sight stirring a flicker of something unfamiliar in her chest. She didn’t allow herself to name it but let the moment linger nonetheless.

Leonardo caught her watching. He spoke softly, his voice barely louder than the crackling of the nearby fireplace. “He looks like he could use the rest. It’s been a long time since I’ve seen anyone so... determined.”

Amelia turned to him, his perceptive words brushing too close to thoughts she’d rather avoid. She nodded, her voice low as she replied, “Everything he thought he knew is different now. He’s grappling with truths no one should have to face, and the death of his older brother still weighs on him.”

Leonardo gestured for her to join him at the workbench. She moved closer, perching lightly on the edge, her fingers tracing the wood grain of the surface as she fought to keep her focus on the task at hand. Yet she could feel his gaze on her, studying her with a curiosity that was both gentle and unrelenting.

“And you?” Leonardo asked, his tone quiet but piercing. “What burdens do you carry, Amelia?”

Her chest tightened. She stiffened, her throat constricting as memories clawed their way to the surface—memories she had spent years trying to bury beneath missions and training. The cold night air, her father’s blood staining her hands, the helplessness that had burned into rage as his life slipped away. The ache was sharp, like an old wound reopening, but the warm, dim light of Leonardo’s workshop felt strangely safe.

“You know about my father’s death from the letter I sent you,” she began, her voice steady despite the knot forming in her chest. “But I never told you who took his life.” She hesitated, the name heavy on her tongue. “It was Cesare Borgia. A Templar.” Her fingers curled against the edge of the workbench. “He’s after the codex pages—something my father protected with his life.”

Leonardo’s hands stilled over the blade he was working on, his sharp features darkening. “Cesare Borgia,” he said slowly, his voice laced with unease. “That name brings nothing but trouble. He’s ruthless, Amelia. But your father... your father was a good man. If he trusted you with this, it’s because he believed you could carry on his fight.”

His words struck a chord, stirring something deep within her—grief laced with a faint flicker of pride. She nodded slowly, her voice thick with emotion. “He did. But for me, it’s not just about the codex or the Brotherhood. It’s about making Cesare pay for what he did.”

Leonardo studied her for a long moment, his eyes filled with both sympathy and caution. “Revenge is a powerful motivator,” he said gently. “But it can cloud your judgment. Promise me you won’t let it blind you, Amelia. You’ll need all your wits if you’re going to face him.”

She took a deep breath, the weight of his words pressing against her thoughts as she forced herself to meet his steady gaze. “I promise, Leo,” she said, her voice quieter now but firm.

Satisfied, Leonardo’s expression softened, and he turned back to the hidden blade. His fingers moved deftly over the mechanism as he picked up the one she had carried for years. The wear and tear on the blade was evident, the edges dulled by time and use. He examined it with the care of a craftsman, tilting it in the firelight as if uncovering its story through touch.

“Speaking of continuing your father’s work,” Leonardo said, a faint smile returning to his lips, “your blade has seen better days, hasn’t it?”

A faint smirk tugged at Amelia’s lips, her usual humor surfacing despite the heaviness lingering in the room. "It’s gotten me out of a few scrapes,” she said. “But it could use some of your magic, Leonardo."

Leonardo chuckled softly, already bending over the blade as his hands moved with the precision of a master. The intricate mechanism seemed to come alive beneath his careful touch, the faint clicks and whirs of his adjustments filling the quiet space. Amelia watched him work, the rhythmic motion of his hands and the intensity in his expression soothing the frayed edges of her thoughts. For the first time in hours, the tension in her chest began to ease, if only slightly.

When he finally handed the blade back to her, there was a satisfied gleam in his eyes, a proud smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "There,” he said. “An upgrade for you. The blade will extend more smoothly now, with a sturdier spring. And I’ve added a small catch that holds it in place until you release it with a flick of your wrist. Should give you a little more control."

Amelia accepted the blade, feeling its new weight as she turned it over in her hands. With a flick of her wrist, the mechanism engaged, the blade snapping out with smooth precision. A faint smile played on her lips as she tested its balance, the familiar motion now imbued with an ease she hadn’t realized was missing.

She looked up at Leonardo, her expression softening with genuine gratitude. "Thank you, Leo,” she said, her voice steady but warm. “For everything."

Leonardo nodded, his smile fading slightly as his gaze drifted toward the couch where Ezio lay. The firelight played across his features, softening the sharp lines of grief and exhaustion that had clung to him like armor. "Just remember, Amelia,” Leonardo said, his tone quieter now, “this fight... it’s not one you need to face alone. Ezio may be new to all of this, but he has a good heart. He’ll fight for you, just as you’ve fought for him."

Amelia followed Leonardo’s gaze, her eyes lingering on Ezio’s sleeping form. His scowl, so often etched into his features, had smoothed into something gentler, almost boyish. The change was striking, stripping away the hardened edge of a man weighed down by loss and revealing the faint traces of the youth he used to be. A flicker of warmth stirred in Amelia’s chest—fragile and tentative, but real enough to remind her that maybe, just maybe, not all was lost.

“I hope you’re right, Leonardo,” she murmured, her voice soft beneath the crackle of the fire. “Because this is far from over.”

The silence that followed was easy, a shared understanding that didn’t need words. The flames danced across the cluttered walls of the workshop, their flickering light casting shadows over half-finished contraptions and scattered sketches. Amelia turned the hidden blade over in her hands, her thumb tracing the newly installed catch. The craftsmanship was flawless, every adjustment precise—the unmistakable mark of Leonardo’s genius. Across the room, Leonardo returned to his work, the quiet intensity of his focus offering a strange kind of comfort. She caught him glancing at her now and then, fleeting but thoughtful, as if he could sense the weight she carried and chose to let the silence speak for them both.

After a while, Amelia pushed off the workbench and moved toward the couch. She perched lightly on the armrest, her eyes drawn to the warm glow of the fire. Its heat touched her skin but did little to thaw the cold knot of determination that had settled deep inside her. She had carried her mission—her vengeance—for so long that the idea of sharing it felt foreign, even dangerous. Yet, as her gaze drifted to Ezio’s sleeping face, she felt the faint stirrings of something unexpected.

Hope.

Ezio stirred, a quiet sound breaking from him as he shifted against the worn cushions. His eyes fluttered open, heavy with sleep, and for a moment, his expression was unguarded. When their eyes met, Amelia felt her lips curve into a faint smile, the motion almost unfamiliar. It was small and hesitant, but it settled something inside her—a thread of connection she hadn’t allowed herself to feel in years.

Reaching out, Amelia let her hand rest lightly on Ezio’s shoulder, her fingers curling into the fabric of his cloak. The moment felt almost still, a rare pause in the relentless storm they lived in.

Leonardo’s voice broke the silence, vibrant with excitement. “Ah, here it is! A masterpiece, wouldn’t you agree?” He held up the blade, its intricate mechanism catching the firelight, making the metal gleam. “The mechanism extends flawlessly now—smoother and sturdier. Go ahead, test it!”

Ezio sat up fully, the weight of exhaustion falling from his frame as his attention honed in on the weapon. He strapped the blade to his wrist, testing its balance with a flick of his hand. The mechanism responded with a metallic whisper, the blade extending with deadly precision. The faintest smile crossed Ezio’s face, fleeting but genuine. Amelia recognized that look—a man reclaiming even the smallest piece of control over his fate.

It lasted only a moment.

The sharp knock at the door shattered the quiet, sending a jolt through the room. The warmth of the fire evaporated as tension settled over them like a heavy fog. Amelia’s hand drifted to her own hidden blade, her fingers curling instinctively around the cold steel. She exchanged a glance with Leonardo, his expression pale and strained.

“Ezio, stay hidden,” Leonardo said in a low, urgent voice. His usual cheer was gone, replaced by a tight calm as he moved toward the door. He smoothed his expression into something neutral—disarming, polite.

Amelia slipped into the shadows near the wall, her body coiled like a spring. Every movement was measured, deliberate, as she became a silent silhouette in the dim light. Her gaze never left the door.

It creaked open, and the figure who entered filled the doorway with his dark armor and imposing frame. But it was the emblem on his chest that froze Amelia’s breath—a serpent coiled around a cross. The sight of it dragged her back into the past with an almost suffocating force. Her father’s lifeless face. The glint of a blade in moonlight. That same cursed crest emblazoned on the armor of the man who had taken him from her.

Leonardo’s voice broke through the haze, calm but forced. “Good evening, officer. Is something wrong?”

The guard didn’t answer. He shoved Leonardo hard, slamming him into the doorframe. The older man grunted in pain, the air rushing from his lungs. The guard’s hand moved to the hilt of his sword.

Amelia moved.

She was a shadow, a ghost—silent and swift. Her hidden blade extended with a whisper of steel as she closed the distance. The guard had just enough time to start turning toward her before she struck.

She plunged the blade into his neck, driving it deep. The resistance of muscle and bone sent a shudder up her arm, but she held firm, twisting slightly to ensure the wound was fatal. The guard’s eyes went wide, a strangled gurgle escaping his throat as he crumpled forward. Blood sprayed in a hot, sharp arc as she pulled the blade free, splattering across her face and tunic. The metallic tang filled the air, cloying and thick.

Amelia wiped her face with the back of her sleeve, but the slickness only smeared the blood across her skin. Her breath came quickly as she snatched a rag from a nearby workbench and scrubbed at her face with quick, rough motions. The firelight flickered, catching the crimson streaks on the fabric before she discarded it.

The room was still again, save for the shallow breathing of Leonardo as he braced himself against the doorframe, one hand clutching his ribs. Amelia crouched beside the body, her chest rising and falling as she forced her thoughts back into the present. Her fingers brushed over the serpent crest, and the cold rush of recognition settled like a stone in her gut.

Leonardo’s strained voice broke the silence. “Thank you,” he rasped, his words tight with pain. “But we can’t stay here. If he doesn’t return, they’ll send more.”

Amelia stood, wiping her blade on the guard’s tunic before retracting it with a quiet click. Her movements were sharp, focused. “Ezio, help me move him,” she said, her tone brisk and unyielding.

Ezio didn’t move. His wide eyes were fixed on the lifeless body sprawled on the floor, his face pale and drawn. The tension in his posture betrayed his unease, his hands trembling faintly as if his mind was still struggling to process the violence he had just witnessed.

Amelia’s gaze snapped to him. “Ezio,” she said sharply, her voice cutting through the heavy air. “Focus. We don’t have time for this.”

His eyes met hers, and for a moment, he looked like a boy again—lost, overwhelmed. “You just—” he began, his voice barely a whisper.

“Yes,” she interrupted, her tone firm and unflinching. “And I’ll do it again if I have to. This isn’t a game, Ezio. Now grab his legs, or we’ll have a dozen more of them on us before we’re out the door.”

Her words jolted him like a splash of cold water. His jaw tightened, and though the unease didn’t leave his face entirely, he stepped forward and crouched beside the body. “Fine,” he muttered, his voice rough. 

Amelia was already gripping the man’s shoulders. Ezio hesitated a moment before stepping forward, his hands wrapping around the guard’s legs with a stiff resolve. Together, they dragged the body to a dark corner of Leonardo’s workshop, the scrape of boots against the floor mixing with the faint clink of armor.

The guard’s gear rattled as they settled him beneath a shadowed workbench. Amelia quickly pulled a heavy cloth from the bench, draping it over the body with efficient, practiced motions. The crimson stain on the floor beneath it spread slowly, a stark reminder of what had just unfolded. Ezio’s gaze lingered on the makeshift hiding spot, his lips pressing into a thin line. His breathing remained uneven, and Amelia noticed the faint tremor in his hands before he clenched them into fists.

“Look at me,” she said firmly, her voice steady and low. The sharpness in her tone cut through the tense air. When his eyes met hers, she softened it slightly, though there was no room for compromise in her gaze. “You can’t hesitate in this life. Not if you want to survive.”

Ezio frowned, his brows knitting tightly together. “I just—” He exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair. “I wasn’t expecting it to be so... sudden.”

“It has to be,” Amelia replied without hesitation, her expression unflinching. “You hesitate, you die. Or worse, someone else pays the price. That’s the world we’re in now, Ezio. You’re not the boy playing in the streets of Florence anymore.”

Her words were blunt, deliberate, and unapologetic. She wasn’t cruel, but she wouldn’t shield him from the reality he now faced. Coddling him would serve no purpose—not when so much was at stake.

Ezio swallowed hard, his jaw tightening as he absorbed her words. After a moment, he nodded. “I understand,” he said quietly, though the lingering uncertainty in his eyes betrayed that the understanding hadn’t fully settled in.

Satisfied, Amelia turned to Leonardo, who leaned heavily against the wall, still catching his breath. “Leo, will you be alright?” she asked, her tone gentler now.

Leonardo gave her a faint smile, though his hand remained pressed to his ribs. “I’ll manage,” he assured her, his voice steady despite the strain. “But you two need to leave. Quickly.”

Amelia glanced at Ezio, her gaze firm but not unkind. “You heard him. Let’s move.”

Ezio followed her to the door, his steps steadier now, though his shoulders still carried the weight of the moment. Amelia held the door open for a brief moment, casting a final glance back at Leonardo, who straightened as much as he could manage. Their gazes met in a silent exchange before she slipped into the cool night air.

The bustling streets of Florence greeted them, the usual sounds of twilight life carrying on as though nothing had happened. Vendors packed their stalls, calling out half-heartedly to the thinning crowds. Footsteps and muted laughter echoed in the distance, a deceptive layer of normalcy masking the undercurrents of danger.

Amelia walked with purpose, her movements swift and deliberate, but the silence between her and Ezio felt heavier than the noise of the marketplace. She glanced at him out of the corner of her eye. His jaw was tight, his expression guarded, but the faint furrow in his brow betrayed the turmoil just beneath the surface.

“Ezio,” she said softly, her voice cutting through the muted noise of the streets. He turned his head slightly but didn’t meet her gaze. “What happened back there—it’s something you’ll have to get used to. But that doesn’t mean it gets easier.”

Ezio finally looked at her, the flickering light of a nearby lantern casting shadows across his face. His eyes, shadowed by exhaustion, met hers with a mix of curiosity and something heavier. “You’ve been doing this for years,” he said, his tone quiet but edged with disbelief. “How do you... live with it? The killing?”

Amelia’s stride didn’t falter, though his question lingered between them. She kept her eyes forward, navigating the twisting alleys with ease. She had heard this question before—from younger recruits, allies, even from herself in the early days of this life. It was always the same question, but the answer never got any simpler.

“You don’t,” she said finally, her tone steady but carrying a weight she didn’t try to hide. “You learn to live alongside it. You remind yourself why you’re fighting, what’s at stake. But it stays with you. Always.” She glanced at him briefly, her face unreadable. “If it doesn’t, then you’ve lost something you might not get back.”

Ezio didn’t respond immediately. The quiet sound of their footsteps against the cobblestones filled the space instead. When he finally spoke, his voice was quieter, as though the admission pained him. “I didn’t think it would feel like this—so... personal. Even though he was just a guard, I can’t stop thinking about who he was before he wore that crest.”

Amelia slowed her pace, turning to face him fully. The soft light from a nearby lantern caught the sharp edges of her expression, but her gaze held steady. “That’s what makes you different from them,” she said. “You still see people. That’s not a weakness, Ezio. But don’t let it paralyze you. The Borgia won’t hesitate, and neither can we.”

Ezio’s jaw tightened as her words sank in. His brow furrowed, but there was a flicker of understanding—of acceptance—in his eyes. He nodded, straighter now, his steps firmer as they moved deeper into the winding streets.

Amelia kept her focus forward, her senses tuned to the shifting shadows and distant noises of the city. Florence might have been their home, but it was also a battlefield, one she had learned to navigate long ago. Ezio would learn too—sooner than he might have wanted.

Chapter Text

Back at the harem, the air was thick with the scent of incense, sweet and smoky, mingling with the gentle murmur of voices that drifted through the dimly lit halls. It was a world apart from the chaos of the city outside, a place that seemed to exist in the quiet spaces between shadows. Amelia could feel the tension in her shoulders ease slightly as she stepped through the doorway, but her mind remained sharp, thoughts turning over the events of the day.

Paola stood with her arms crossed, her posture relaxed but her eyes sharp as she waited by the entrance. The lantern light cast a golden glow over her face, highlighting the knowing smile that played at her lips as she watched Ezio and Amelia approach. It was the look of someone who had seen much, who could read the unspoken burdens written in the lines of their faces.

"You were gone for quite a while," Paola remarked, her voice low and teasing, but her gaze lingered on the weariness etched into Ezio’s expression and the tension that still lingered in Amelia’s stance.

"Leonardo likes to talk," Ezio replied with a tired sigh, a faint, wry smile tugging at the corner of his lips.

"That he does," Paola agreed, a smirk dancing in her eyes. "But I trust you did more than talk?" She gestured toward the blade now strapped to Ezio’s wrist, the hidden blade Leonardo had crafted, glinting subtly in the firelight. Ezio held up his arm, the blade catching the light as it extended with a soft click, revealing the fine craftsmanship.

Paola’s expression shifted, her smile fading into something more serious as her gaze moved from the weapon to the young man wielding it. There was approval in her eyes, but it was tempered with caution. She studied him for a moment longer, the silence settling like a heavy weight in the room. "I’ve given you the skills. Leonardo’s given you the blade. All that remains is the deed." Her voice carried a gravity that pressed against the space, a reminder that the real trial lay ahead.

Amelia stood quietly beside them, watching the exchange with a measured stillness. Her eyes lingered on Ezio, cataloging every detail of his posture and expression. His shoulders, usually carrying the defiant confidence of youth, were squared now with something heavier. Determination etched lines into his face that didn’t belong to a boy playing in the streets of Florence anymore. His jaw was tight, his lips pressed into a firm line, and his eyes—darker now than she’d ever seen them—burned with a quiet intensity.

The memory of the guard’s death hung in the air between them, unspoken but palpable. She knew it wasn’t just the act itself weighing on him, but the image of her doing it with such practiced ease. It had unsettled him, she could tell—there’d been a flicker of hesitation in his gaze when he’d watched her wipe the blood from her face, but that hesitation hadn’t lasted. Instead, it seemed to have sharpened something inside him. If she could do it, he could too. 

The faint scrape of his boots on the floor brought her out of her thoughts as he shifted his weight slightly, his hands tightening into fists before relaxing again. He was processing, she realized. Turning over what he had seen, what he had felt, and shaping it into something that would carry him forward.

“Where can I find Uberto?” Ezio’s voice cut through the air, sharp and precise.

Paola’s gaze flicked briefly to Amelia before she answered, as if seeking her silent agreement that he was ready. "According to my girls, he’ll be attending an unveiling tonight of Verrocchio’s latest work." She paused, weighing her words. "It will be held at the Santa Croce cloister."

Amelia felt a frown tug at her brow, her mind already turning over the possible dangers of such a public setting. Her instincts warned her of the risks, of the many eyes and ears that would be present at the gathering. But she knew there was no point in voicing those concerns now. Nothing would deter Ezio; his focus was fixed, like an arrow drawn tight on the bowstring, aimed directly at Uberto.

"Thank you for taking in my family,” Ezio added, a hint of genuine gratitude softening his voice for a moment.

"Of course, Ezio. As if they were my own," Paola replied, her tone gentler, yet unyielding, a promise that she would keep them safe.

The night air was cool as Amelia crouched beside Ezio on the rooftop overlooking the Santa Croce cloister. The distant murmur of gathered guests drifted up to them, mingling with the soft rustle of leaves in the garden below. The cloister was bathed in silver light, and the gentle glow of lanterns cast long shadows across the stone pathways. Amelia’s eyes were locked on the entrance, where Uberto Alberti appeared, accompanied by figures clad in fine robes, their faces hidden in the shadows. She heard Ezio’s breath hitch as he watched the man responsible for his brother’s death. 

"Patience, Ezio," she murmured, keeping her voice low, her eyes never leaving Uberto’s figure as he made his way inside. "Follow him closely, but don’t rush. We do this right, or not at all." Ezio gave a tight nod, the muscles in his jaw clenching as he tried to steady his breathing.

As Uberto disappeared into the cloister, they moved, slipping down the side of the roof and into the shadows. Amelia stayed close to Ezio, her gaze darting between him and the surroundings, every sense attuned to the tension radiating off him. His silence wasn’t reassuring—it was heavy, coiled like a spring ready to snap. She wasn’t entirely sure he would be able to take Uberto’s life when the moment came. Would he falter?

They melted into the darkness along the edges of the rooftop, staying just close enough to watch while avoiding the notice of the guards below. The cloister’s open-air corridors stretched out beneath them, lit by the flickering orange glow of torches. The light cast long shadows that seemed to dance across the stone walls, flickering in time with the sharp voices drifting upward.

“Again with this?” Uberto’s voice rang out, cutting through the stillness.

Amelia’s eyes narrowed as she spotted the second figure emerging from the shadows below. Lorenzo de' Medici. The air between the two men was thick with tension, their words like barbed daggers.

“You have overstepped your bounds, Uberto,” Lorenzo said, his tone cold and controlled.

Ezio’s hands curled into fists beside her, and Amelia could feel the anger radiating from him, as palpable as the heat from the torches below. She reached out, her fingers brushing his arm—a silent reminder to stay focused, to stay in control.

“Who are you to speak of bounds?” Uberto’s voice was laced with venom. “You, who have crowned yourself Lorenzo de' Medici, Principe of Firenze.”

“I’ve done no such thing,” Lorenzo replied evenly, his expression unreadable.

“Of course not. Ever innocent. How convenient.” Uberto sneered, his derision unmistakable. “At least now we see how far your reach extends—which is to say—nowhere at all. It has proved a valuable lesson for me and my allies.”

Ezio’s body tensed further, his knuckles whitening as he clenched his fists tighter. Amelia glanced at him from the corner of her eye, her touch on his arm lingering just long enough to ground him before pulling away.

“Yes. Your allies, the Pazzi,” Lorenzo said, his voice sharp and biting. “Is that what this is about?”

The name struck Ezio visibly. Amelia caught the slight hitch in his breath, the way his jaw clenched harder, his entire frame tightening like a drawn bow.

“Be careful with your words, Lorenzo.” Uberto’s voice dropped, quiet but no less menacing. “You might attract the wrong sort of attention.”

The threat hung in the air, heavy and undeniable. Lorenzo’s expression didn’t waver, though his silence spoke volumes. The two men stood locked in an unspoken battle, the flickering torchlight throwing their faces into stark relief.

Amelia turned her attention back to Ezio, studying him. His face was a war of emotions: rage, grief, and something colder—something that mirrored her own when she’d taken the guard’s life earlier. He was holding himself together, but just barely. She shifted closer, her hand briefly brushing his arm again. 

“Ezio…are you sure you’re ready for this? I can…”

Ezio turned his head sharply, cutting her off with a look that silenced the rest of her words. His eyes burned with determination, though beneath it, she could still see the flicker of doubt, the faint tremor of a young man pushed too far, too fast.

“I’m ready,” he whispered, his voice taut with barely restrained fury. His gaze returned to Uberto, now pacing slowly, gesturing with deliberate arrogance as he spoke to Lorenzo. “He’s mine.”

Amelia didn’t argue, though her jaw tightened. She studied him for a moment longer, weighing the resolve in his stance, the tension coiled in his shoulders. She stepped back, her voice low but firm. “Then don’t hesitate.”

Amelia followed as Ezio led the way across the rooftops, their steps silent against the tiles. The flickering torchlight below revealed Uberto moving through the cloister, his head held high, and his body language exuding arrogance. He no longer walked with Lorenzo, but with a small entourage—two men and a woman, their murmured voices rising faintly to meet Amelia’s ears.

Ezio’s breathing was steady, but she could feel the tension radiating from him. She stayed close, her gaze flicking between Uberto and the guards stationed along the pathways below. Their vantage point gave them an unobstructed view of the unfolding scene.

“Federico Auditore,” Uberto said, his voice carrying a theatrical weight as he turned to address his companions. He spread his arms wide, his tone mockingly reverent. “A brave man. Foolish, but brave. It’s almost a pity his death was necessary.”

Ezio’s footsteps faltered, and Amelia immediately placed a hand on his shoulder, steadying him. He glanced back at her, his face taut with anger, but her silent look urged him forward. She gestured for him to move closer, deeper into the shadows of the roofline where they wouldn’t be seen.

“Necessary?” The woman in Uberto’s group spat, her voice filled with venom. “Perhaps. But allowing Giovanni to escape was a failure, Uberto. One that reflects poorly on us all.”

Uberto sneered, waving her words away as if they were nothing. “Giovanni will be dealt with in time. His precious children, however…” He let the sentence trail off with a smile that made Amelia’s stomach churn. “Federico’s death sends the message we intended.”

The two men in his group exchanged uneasy glances, one of them speaking in a low growl. “A message, yes. But Giovanni still breathes, and his boy—Ezio—hasn’t been accounted for. Loose ends, Uberto. Dangerous ones.”

Ezio’s fingers twitched at his sides, his breathing growing heavier. Amelia could feel the heat of his anger boiling over, like water threatening to spill from an overfull pot. She moved closer, her voice a sharp whisper in his ear.

“Not yet. Keep watching,” she said, her tone a mix of steel and caution.

Uberto laughed, his voice echoing in the courtyard below. “Ezio Auditore is a boy playing at being a man. Let him run. Let him hide. It will make finding him all the more enjoyable.”

Ezio stiffened, his entire body taut as a bowstring. Amelia saw it happening—the tipping point. His restraint snapped like a thread stretched too tight. Without a word, he rose from their hiding spot, his focus narrowing on the figure below.

“Ezio!” Amelia hissed, her arm darting out to stop him. But he was already gone, vaulting over the edge of the rooftop.

The air seemed to still for a fraction of a second as Ezio plummeted, landing with a solid thud on Uberto and driving him to the ground. The force of the impact sent a shockwave through the cloister, drawing startled cries from Uberto’s companions. Ezio wasted no time, his hidden blade springing free as he drove it between Uberto’s ribs, the sound of tearing fabric and flesh sickeningly sharp.

Uberto gasped, his eyes wide with shock and pain. “You…” he choked, blood bubbling at the corners of his mouth. “You dare…”

Ezio leaned in, his voice low and venomous. “This is for my brother.”

The blade twisted, and Uberto’s body jerked violently before going limp. Blood pooled beneath him, dark and viscous, spreading like an accusation on the stone floor.

Amelia dropped from the roof with practiced grace, her hand already on the hilt of her father’s sword as she scanned the area. Uberto’s companions were frozen for a moment, caught between shock and action. The woman was the first to recover, shouting for the guards as she backed away from them.

"You would have done the same. To save the ones you love," Uberto choked out, his voice a rasping whisper, thick with the finality of death. His eyes, wide with fear, locked onto Ezio’s face, seeking some last shred of mercy.

"Yes. I would. And I have." Ezio’s voice was cold, unyielding, and he leaned in, his expression hardening as he watched the light fade from Uberto’s eyes. As the final breath left the man’s body, Ezio turned, his gaze sweeping across the gathering crowd below. The anger that had driven him for so long boiled over, and he let it out in a voice that echoed through the courtyard, raw and full of pain.

"They are not dead. I’m still here. ME! Ezio! Ezio!" His words rang out, carried by the cold night air, filled with the fury and grief of all he had lost. The crowd erupted in panic, cries of "Assassino!" filling the air as guards rushed toward the scene.

Ezio yanked his blade free, rising with a look of raw determination. He met Amelia’s gaze briefly, his breathing ragged but resolute. 

The sounds of panic filled the air as the guards charged forward, their shouts blending with the frightened cries of onlookers. Amelia moved swiftly, darting in front of the first guard to reach them. Her blade flashed in the dim torchlight, intercepting his strike with a sharp clang that sent vibrations up her arm. She didn’t waste time with a counterattack, instead kicking him hard in the knee to drop him before she turned and sprinted after Ezio.

“Go, Ezio!” she barked, her voice sharp and commanding. “Don’t stop!”

Ezio didn’t respond. He was already moving, his feet pounding against the cobblestones as he ran. Amelia glanced back briefly, her keen eyes tracking the guards who pursued them, before she turned and poured all her energy into following him. The cloister fell away behind them, the chaos of the scene swallowed by the maze of Florence’s alleys.

Ezio led the way, his breathing labored but his pace unrelenting. Amelia stayed close, her steps light and deliberate even as her heart thundered in her chest. She knew the city’s layout well and trusted Ezio to stick to the paths she had drilled into him over the past few days. He veered sharply down a narrow street, leaping over a stack of barrels without slowing.

They burst into the broader streets of Florence, now quieter in the late hours but still dotted with the occasional pedestrian. The two of them ducked into another alley, slipping into the shadows as they climbed a series of low walls to the rooftops.

From above, the city stretched out before them, its spires and domes illuminated by the glow of the moon. Amelia glanced back. The shouts of their pursuers had grown fainter, but she didn’t let herself relax. Not yet.

Ezio stumbled slightly as he came to a stop on a flat rooftop. His chest heaved, sweat glistening on his brow despite the cool night air. Amelia caught up to him, grabbing his arm and pulling him down into a crouch behind the low wall that lined the edge of the roof.

She crouched in front of him, her sharp gaze locking onto his. “Ezio, breathe,” she said firmly, her voice steady despite her own exertion. Her eyes scanned him, taking in the tremor in his hands, the unfocused look in his eyes, and the streaks of blood—Uberto’s blood—that marred the front of his tunic.

Ezio’s breaths came in harsh gasps, his hands clutching at his knees as though bracing himself against the weight of what had just happened. His head jerked up suddenly, his wide, haunted eyes finding hers. “I killed him.”

Amelia nodded, her expression calm but unreadable. “Yes, you did.”

“I...” He faltered, his voice cracking as he looked down at his trembling hands. “I thought it would feel... I don’t know. Different. Better.” His gaze remained fixed on his hands, as though the act of killing was something tangible still clinging to his skin. “But it doesn’t.”

Amelia let the silence linger for a beat before moving. She reached out, grabbing his face firmly in both hands and forcing him to look at her. Her forehead pressed gently against his, her voice low and steady. “Listen to me. It’s not supposed to feel good, Ezio. If it did, you wouldn’t be the man your family raised you to be.”

Ezio swallowed hard, his jaw tightening. Her words hit something in him, pulling him back from the edge of the emotions threatening to consume him. Slowly, he nodded, his trembling subsiding though the weight of the moment remained etched across his face.

Amelia pulled back slightly, her hands falling to his shoulders before she gave him a small, grounding shake. “We’re not done yet,” she said, her tone sharpening just enough to draw his focus fully. “We need to get back to the brothel. Your family is waiting.”

Ezio took a deep breath, wiping the sweat from his brow with a trembling hand. “I can do this,” he said, though the words sounded as if he was convincing himself more than her.

“You can,” she replied, her voice firm. “And you will.”

Amelia rose, pulling him to his feet as she scanned the rooftops for any sign of their pursuers. The faint shouts of guards had grown distant, and the city below was quieting again, the chaos they’d left behind already fading into the night.

“Let’s move.”

Chapter Text

The brothel’s dimly lit entryway enveloped them as they returned, the muffled sounds of Florence’s restless streets fading into the stillness. Amelia slipped inside behind Ezio, the door closing softly behind them. Giovanni stood waiting, his shoulders rigid, his eyes sharp as they swept over the pair. His gaze paused on Ezio’s tunic, the faint smears of blood that even water couldn’t erase. Then he looked at Amelia. She met his stare with a small nod, one he returned with a tightening of his jaw. This wasn’t the moment for questions or judgment—not yet.

Maria sat by the hearth, her pale face steady despite the tension in her features. One arm stayed wrapped protectively around Petruccio, whose small form pressed against her side. Claudia lingered nearby, her hood drawn low, hiding most of her expression. Their modest clothes, plain and practical, suited their new roles—travelers stripped of their station.

“The city will be hunting us by morning,” Giovanni began, his voice low, clipped, commanding. “We leave tonight.”

He stepped forward, his presence filling the room. His eyes scanned each of them, deliberate and precise, as though taking stock of their resolve. “Ezio, Amelia. You’ll take Petruccio. Walk through the Piazza San Lorenzo. Move naturally—blend in. The guards will be looking for a panicked family, not a young couple out for a stroll with their nephew.”

Amelia glanced at Ezio, noting the way his lips pressed into a thin line, his shoulders stiffening beneath the weight of the directive. She caught the faintest twitch of amusement pulling at her own mouth, though it faded quickly when Giovanni’s attention shifted to Ezio.

“This isn’t optional,” Giovanni said, his tone firm. “Act the part. Keep your head down, your pace steady, and avoid confrontation.”

Ezio’s jaw tensed, his frustration visible in the set of his mouth, but the weight of his father’s gaze left no room for protest. He nodded sharply.

Amelia broke the taut silence, her voice dry but calm. “We’ll need to change. Blood doesn’t exactly help us blend in.”

Giovanni nodded, his focus already elsewhere. “Quickly. Pack what you need. Five minutes.”

The small room upstairs felt colder, the faint flicker of a candle throwing restless shadows across the walls. Amelia moved to the table, her hands working quickly to undo the clasps of her assassin robes. She didn’t look at Ezio, though the tension in the room made his presence impossible to ignore. The sound of rustling fabric filled the space as they worked in silence, each lost in their own thoughts.

Amelia folded her robes with practiced precision, tucking them carefully into her bag. She changed with efficient movements, pulling on the long green skirt and tying the front of her white tunic with quick, sure fingers. Her dagger found its place strapped to her ankle, hidden beneath the folds of fabric, and her father’s sword rested at her hip, secured by the thick brown belt she tightened with care. The worn coat came last, its hood pulled low over her blonde hair, shadowing her face.

Behind her, Ezio moved slower. Amelia didn’t turn, but she could hear his hesitation in the way the fabric shifted—his hands clumsy, his breaths unsteady. She tightened the straps of her bag, her movements steady as she let the silence stretch, giving him the space to collect himself.

When she finally turned, Ezio was sitting on the edge of the small cot, his tunic in place but rumpled. His bag hung limply from his hands, his knuckles white where they gripped the fabric. He looked like he was carrying something far heavier than what he’d packed.

She hesitated for a moment, then stepped closer, lowering herself to crouch in front of him. Her knees brushed the floorboards, and she reached out, her hands finding his face. His stubble was rough against her palms, and his wide eyes, full of turmoil, met hers.

“Ezio,” she said softly.

He didn’t answer. His breath hitched, the weight of the night pressing down on him in full. Amelia stayed still, her fingers light on his jaw, holding him as his chest rose and fell unevenly. He closed his eyes, his forehead dipping toward hers until they almost touched. She could feel the faint tremble in his shoulders, the tension rippling beneath his skin like a storm that refused to break.

She didn’t speak again. He needed this moment—to feel, to let it hurt without pretense. Her thumbs brushed against the rough lines of his jaw, her hands steady as she held him in place, grounding him with her presence.

His breathing evened out slowly, the shaky gasps giving way to something steadier. His hands loosened their grip on the bag in his lap, and his posture shifted as he sat straighter. After a moment, he pulled back, just far enough to look at her. His eyes held a flicker of something she couldn’t quite name—gratitude, maybe, or resolve.

She lowered her hands but didn’t move away, waiting until his nod came, small but firm.

Amelia returned the nod, her expression softening briefly before she straightened and turned toward the small table. She grabbed her bag, slipping the strap over her shoulder with a practiced motion. As she adjusted it, she heard Ezio rise behind her, his movements steadier now. The quiet that filled the room wasn’t oppressive—it was heavy, yes, but shared. It was the kind of silence that needed no words.

When she glanced back, Ezio was adjusting the hood of his cloak. His movements, though deliberate, still carried traces of grief. His face remained shadowed by loss, but beneath it, Amelia caught a flicker of something stronger—resolve. He shifted his bag onto his back and glanced toward the door, then back at her.

For a moment, his gaze lingered on her, as if searching for something unspoken. Then he stepped closer. His hand settled lightly against her lower back, the touch surprising but steady. Amelia didn’t flinch. She let the moment hold between them, the gesture carrying more meaning than either of them was ready to voice. Without breaking stride, she turned toward the door, his hand still there.

She led the way, her steps careful as she pushed the door open. The faint creak of the hinges echoed down the quiet hallway. Ezio’s touch remained steady, a grounding presence. Amelia didn’t pull away, leaning into the role they would need to play. Every sound in the brothel seemed amplified—the creak of the floorboards beneath their boots, the soft rustle of her skirt against her legs. Even their breathing seemed too loud.

At the base of the stairs, the rest of the family waited. Giovanni stood by the door, his arms crossed and his gaze sharp. Maria sat close to the hearth, holding Claudia against her side. Petruccio lay curled in her lap, his small face pale, the bandage around his ankle neat but stark against his bare skin. His toy was clutched tightly in his hands, the paint worn down from years of worry and play.

Giovanni’s eyes went first to Amelia, then Ezio. His expression darkened slightly at the faint bloodstains on Ezio’s tunic, but he didn’t comment. Instead, his tone was measured, brisk. “You know the route. Piazza San Lorenzo should be quieter this late. Stick to the main street, but don’t rush. Act natural.”

Amelia nodded, her hood casting a faint shadow over her face. “We will.”

Giovanni turned his focus to Petruccio. “Ezio, carry him. It’ll keep the limp from drawing attention.”

Ezio hesitated, the tension in his jaw visible for a brief moment, but he stepped forward without argument. He crouched in front of his brother, holding out his arms. “Come here, Petruccio.”

The boy’s wide eyes locked on his brother’s, his small voice shaking as he asked, “Is it safe, Ezio?”

Ezio didn’t answer right away. Instead, he scooped Petruccio into his arms, adjusting his weight with a soft grunt. “It will be,” he said, his voice firmer than it had been in days. “You’ll see. Just hold on.”

Petruccio nodded, his arms wrapping tightly around Ezio’s neck, his head resting on his brother’s shoulder. Amelia watched as the boy’s small fingers clutched at Ezio’s tunic, holding on with a quiet desperation that twisted something deep in her chest. He shouldn’t have had to endure this—not at his age.

Giovanni gestured toward the door, his voice low but commanding. “Go. Don’t stop until you’re clear of the district. We’ll meet at the gates before dawn.”

Ezio adjusted Petruccio one last time, securing the boy against him before glancing at Amelia. She stepped closer, slipping her arm naturally through his. The movement felt awkward at first, but she leaned into it, adding a subtle sway to her step to complete the illusion. Ezio caught on quickly, his free hand brushing hers for just a moment as if testing the boundaries of the act.

“Ready?” she murmured.

Ezio nodded. His expression was still drawn, the weight of the night clinging to him, but there was a determination in his eyes that steadied her.

Giovanni cracked the door open, peering outside before nodding once. “Go now.”

They stepped into the night, the cool air brushing against Amelia’s cheeks as she tightened her hold on Ezio’s arm. The streets were eerily quiet, the faint bark of a dog and the distant clink of guards’ boots the only sounds breaking the stillness. Petruccio stayed tucked against Ezio, his face hidden, his small body trembling faintly in the chill. Amelia felt the weight of the boy’s vulnerability keenly, but she pushed it aside, focusing instead on scanning their surroundings.

The city seemed to stretch endlessly ahead of them, cloaked in moonlight and shadow. Amelia pulled her hood lower, her gaze flicking to Ezio as they moved in unison. For all the turmoil she knew was boiling beneath his surface, he held his head high, his steps even and deliberate. Together, they blended into the silence, two figures moving through the night as if they belonged there.

Petruccio clung to Ezio, his small frame tense, his arms locked tightly around his brother’s neck. His toy was wedged between his fingers, its edges worn smooth, as if it were the only constant in a world falling apart. Ezio carried him without complaint, but Amelia felt the strain in the arm linked with hers. It wasn’t Petruccio’s weight bearing down on him—it was the crushing grief, the blood on his clothes, the loss of Federico, and the uncertain future waiting beyond Florence’s gates.

The Piazza San Lorenzo stretched out before them, bathed in the pale glow of moonlight. The towering Basilica loomed to their right, its shadow spilling across the square like a silent warning. A few vendors were packing up their carts under the wary eyes of patrolling guards. The clatter of crates and the murmur of voices mixed with the faint creak of wheels.

“Slow down,” Amelia whispered, her lips barely moving as she tugged gently at Ezio’s arm. “You’re walking too fast.”

Ezio adjusted his pace, his steps falling into a more deliberate rhythm. His fingers flexed slightly where they rested on her arm, and she felt him draw on her steadiness. She glanced up at him from beneath her hood, catching the hard edge of focus in his profile. He was trying, she realized, pushing through his turmoil with a resolve that seemed both fragile and fierce.

Petruccio stirred in his arms, his face lifting slightly from Ezio’s shoulder. “Are we safe now?” he asked, his voice small and uncertain.

Ezio didn’t answer right away. His eyes flicked toward a group of guards standing at the far end of the square. Amelia could feel his tension ripple through her as her own gaze followed his. “Almost, Petruccio,” she said softly, keeping her tone even. “Just a little longer.”

The boy gave a faint nod before pressing himself closer to Ezio, his small body shivering against the night air. Ezio adjusted his hold, pulling him tighter, his jaw clenching as his eyes scanned the square for any sign of danger.

Amelia matched his pace, her movements fluid as she guided them through the thinning crowd. Ahead, two guards stood near the edge of the square, their eyes sweeping over passersby with practiced precision. A merchant cart trundled between them, momentarily blocking their view. Amelia seized the moment, steering Ezio toward a narrow alley that veered off to the side.

The sounds of the Piazza faded as they slipped into the quieter confines of the alleyway. The air was cooler here, the shadows longer, and Amelia’s sharp gaze darted upward, scanning the rooftops for movement. She glanced back at Ezio, his grip on her arm less rigid now, though his shoulders remained tense. The effort to stay composed was etched into every line of his body.

They emerged onto a deserted street, the cobblestones slick with dew and gleaming faintly in the light of a distant lantern. Amelia slowed, her arm slipping free from Ezio’s as they paused in the shadow of a shuttered shop. The faint sound of voices reached her ears—guards, just beyond the next corner. Their patrol would bring them directly into the open stretch they needed to cross.

Her eyes flicked to Ezio. He was shifting Petruccio’s weight in his arms, the boy’s head lolling against his shoulder, his grip loosening as sleep tugged at him. Amelia’s mind raced, the tension in her chest winding tighter. They couldn’t afford a single misstep, not now, not this close.

“Ezio,” she whispered, cutting through his thoughts. His head snapped toward her, startled by the urgency in her voice.

Without hesitation, Amelia stepped closer, her hands rising to adjust Petruccio’s hood. The motion was deliberate, almost tender, and she tilted her face toward Ezio as she worked. Her voice dropped to a near whisper. “Follow my lead.”

Ezio’s brow furrowed, confusion flickering in his eyes, but he didn’t pull away. His breath hitched when Amelia leaned in and pressed a kiss to his cheek. The touch was light but deliberate, calculated for the guards who would round the corner at any moment. She felt him stiffen, his hold on Petruccio tightening instinctively as his gaze darted between her and the approaching voices.

“What are you—” he started, his voice low, but she silenced him with a hand on his chest, just above where Petruccio slept.

“Trust me,” she murmured, her tone steady and leaving no room for argument.

The guards’ voices grew louder, their boots striking the cobblestones with rhythmic precision. Amelia turned her body toward Ezio, tilting her head as though they were a couple sharing a quiet moment. Her fingers brushed against Petruccio’s back, tucking the boy’s cloak more securely around him in a motion that felt natural, almost motherly.

Ezio’s tension was palpable, but Amelia felt the exact moment he gave in, leaning into the role. His free hand rested at her waist, hesitant at first but firm enough to complete the image. He ducked his head, his hood casting a deeper shadow over his face as the guards entered the street.

Amelia’s heart thudded in her chest, but her outward calm didn’t waver. She allowed a faint smile to play on her lips, murmuring softly about the peaceful night as if the guards’ presence didn’t concern her in the slightest. Her words were meaningless, but they carried the illusion of intimacy. She didn’t dare look toward the guards, but their footsteps slowed as they passed, lingering longer than she would have liked.

Ezio’s hand shifted slightly against her waist, his grip firmer now, and she realized he was grounding himself. Petruccio stirred, his small voice muttering something incoherent, and she instinctively placed a hand on his back, the gesture as natural as it was deliberate.

“Quiet now, caro,” she whispered softly, her words meant for both the boy and the guards who might still be listening.

The guards moved on, their voices fading as their boots carried them further down the street. Amelia waited, her breathing steady despite the adrenaline coursing through her veins. She only allowed herself to step back when the silence returned, her hand falling from Petruccio’s back. Her gaze met Ezio’s, searching for any sign of how he’d taken what she’d just done.

Ezio’s gaze locked with hers, shadowed beneath the edge of his hood. The tension between them lingered, unspoken but heavy in the stillness of the street. Amelia held his stare, searching for any trace of what he might be feeling, but his expression remained closed off. Only when the echoes of the guards’ footsteps faded entirely did his shoulders drop, the faintest exhale betraying the weight he’d been carrying.

Amelia stepped back, her hands brushing absently against her skirt as she adjusted the strap of her bag. She caught a flicker of something in his face—gratitude, maybe, or embarrassment—but he said nothing. His mouth opened slightly, as though words might come, but instead, he nodded, the gesture small and deliberate. He shifted Petruccio’s weight, the boy murmuring faintly but not waking.

“You’re trembling,” Ezio said, his voice low, almost hesitant.

Startled, Amelia glanced down at her hands, only now noticing the faint tremor in her fingers. The adrenaline had seeped into her, leaving its mark in her unsteady grip. Quickly, she flexed her fingers, tucking them into the folds of her coat. “It’s just the cold,” she said, her tone calm and clipped.

Ezio didn’t look convinced, but he didn’t push. His attention turned to the road ahead, his features tightening with focus. “We should keep moving.”

Amelia nodded and moved past him, letting herself take the lead. The silence between them felt heavier now, every shadow stretching longer, every faint sound amplifying the tension that hung over them. She kept her hood low, her sharp eyes darting to every doorway and alley they passed, attuned to every flicker of movement. Behind her, Ezio’s footsteps were steady, his presence a constant as they pressed onward.

The city gates came into view just as the first light of dawn brushed against Florence’s skyline. Hues of muted gold and soft purple painted the horizon, the cobblestone road glinting faintly in the morning light. The gates themselves loomed ahead, partially open to allow early traders and travelers to pass. The faint hum of voices drifted through the still air, mingling with the occasional creak of cart wheels.

Amelia slowed, her eyes scanning the area. Three guards stood near the gate, their attention divided between a heated conversation and the occasional passerby. One leaned casually against the stone archway, his helmet pushed back to let the cool air touch his face. Another gestured animatedly, his words drawing bursts of laughter from the others. Their focus wasn’t on the road—yet.

Ezio stepped closer, shifting Petruccio slightly in his arms. The boy stirred faintly, his head turning just enough to press against his brother’s shoulder. He mumbled something incoherent before settling again, his toy still clutched tightly in his hand. Amelia’s gaze darted to the guards and then back to Ezio, her voice dropping to a whisper.

“We walk through. No sudden movements, no hesitation,” she said, her tone firm but quiet. “They’re distracted. If we act like we belong, they won’t even notice us.”

Ezio’s jaw tightened, his nod almost imperceptible. She saw him adjust Petruccio’s cloak, tucking it around the boy more securely. His fingers brushed against her sleeve as they started forward, his steps careful but deliberate. Amelia matched his pace, her heart beating steadily as they approached the gate.

One of the guards, a younger man with a scruffy beard, glanced their way briefly. Amelia kept her head tilted slightly, her face obscured by her hood. She leaned into Ezio’s arm, her movements natural, almost effortless, as though they were nothing more than a family on a quiet morning stroll. The guard’s gaze lingered on her for a moment longer than she liked, his eyes tracing the curve of her hood and the way she stayed close to Ezio. A faint smirk tugged at his lips, but he said nothing, turning back to his companions with a dismissive shrug.

Amelia’s expression remained calm, her steps fluid and unhurried. As they passed beneath the archway, she shifted her hand to Petruccio’s back, brushing against the boy in a gesture so casual it might have been an afterthought. The action was deliberate, another layer to their charade, and she felt the tension in her chest ease slightly when the guards made no move to stop them.

Behind them, the guards’ conversation continued, punctuated by occasional bursts of laughter. Amelia let out a slow breath she hadn’t realized she was holding as they cleared the gates. The open fields stretched out before them, bathed in the soft glow of dawn. The crisp air carried the faint scent of damp earth and grass, a stark contrast to the tight, smoky streets of Florence.

Ahead, a cluster of figures stood waiting at the edge of the road. The morning light outlined them, casting long shadows across the dirt path. Giovanni’s tall frame was unmistakable, his posture rigid and alert as he scanned the road. Beside him, Maria rested a protective hand on Claudia’s shoulder, the young woman keeping her face hidden beneath her hood. The sight of them, safe and waiting, sent a ripple of relief through Amelia’s chest, though she kept her expression steady.

Giovanni stepped forward as they approached, his sharp gaze sweeping over them. He lingered on Ezio, taking in the dirt streaked across his clothes and the faint smudges of blood he hadn’t been able to scrub clean. Petruccio rested limply in his arms, his small body slack with exhaustion. Giovanni’s hard expression softened slightly as his hand briefly squeezed Ezio’s shoulder before turning to Amelia.

“You made it,” he said, his voice steady but low. There was no elaboration needed. The weight of what they’d endured hung unspoken between them.

Amelia nodded, brushing a strand of hair from her face as she adjusted her bag. “The guards didn’t stop us. They were more interested in their own conversation.”

Giovanni’s eyes flicked toward the gates, his lips pressing into a thin line. “Good. But we can’t stay here long. We’ll take the eastern road—it’s quieter. Once we cross the river, we’ll be out of their jurisdiction.”

Maria stepped forward, her hand reaching for Petruccio. “Let me take him, Ezio. You’ve carried him long enough.”

“No.” Ezio’s reply was immediate, his grip tightening protectively around his brother. “I’ve got him.”

Maria hesitated, her brows furrowing slightly, but she relented. Her gaze softened as she watched her sons, her fingers brushing briefly against Petruccio’s hair. Claudia stepped closer, murmuring something Amelia couldn’t quite hear. Petruccio stirred at her touch, his eyes fluttering open briefly before closing again.

Giovanni’s voice broke the quiet. “Stay together. If anyone stops us, let me do the talking.” His gaze moved over them, lingering on Ezio and Amelia. “And keep up the act. We’re not safe yet.”

Chapter Text

TOSCANA, 1476

The sun was a smear of gold and amber as it dipped below the horizon, casting long shadows over the Tuscan countryside. The craggy hills glowed in the waning light, their beauty at odds with the tension that gripped the small group making their way along the narrow canyon road. The stillness of the land felt oppressive, like a held breath, waiting for chaos to erupt.

Amelia walked with measured steps beside Ezio, the weight of the day clinging to her as heavily as the blade strapped to her hip. Their hands brushed occasionally as they moved in unison, though neither acknowledged the contact. Ahead of them, Giovanni led the group, his posture rigid, his sharp gaze sweeping the road ahead. He was silent, but Amelia caught the occasional flicker of worry in the lines around his mouth.

Maria followed close behind, her arm wrapped protectively around Petruccio, who was cradled against her chest. His sprained ankle made walking impossible, and the weight of carrying him was shared among them in quiet turns. Maria’s face was pale, her usual elegance tempered by exhaustion, though her grip on her youngest son was steady. Claudia trudged beside her, her shoulders slumping under the strain of the journey, her hood pulled low to shield her expression.

Ezio’s jaw was set in a hard line, his free hand resting on the hilt of his sword. His eyes scanned every shadow, every bend in the road. Despite his determined stride, Amelia could feel the storm brewing in him, a volatile mix of grief and fury simmering just beneath the surface. She matched his pace, her own gaze darting from rock to tree, her ears straining for the sound of pursuit. Every gust of wind that rattled the branches above made her fingers itch to draw steel.

The road wound sharply ahead, the high canyon walls narrowing around them like the maw of some unseen beast. Ezio’s voice broke the silence, low and edged with tension. “We should be close.”

Amelia didn’t respond, but she caught Giovanni’s brief nod. His focus didn’t waver as he scanned the horizon. Behind them, Claudia let out a soft murmur of relief. “Grazie a Dio,” she whispered, leaning more heavily on Maria’s arm.

The group rounded the next bend, and Amelia’s stomach twisted at the sight that greeted them. A figure blocked their path, his fine clothes catching the last glimmers of sunlight. He stood with a calculated ease, flanked by a half-dozen armed men whose postures spoke of arrogance and cruelty. Vieri de’ Pazzi.

Amelia’s breath hitched. Her fingers curled instinctively around the hilt of her blade. She had hoped to leave Florence behind without encountering his ilk again, but here he was, his chest puffed out, his smirk sharp enough to draw blood.

“Buon giorno, Ezio!” Vieri called, his voice dripping with mockery. “Leaving Firenze so soon? And without so much as a farewell?” He stepped forward, his eyes sweeping lazily over the group. They lingered on the women, on Claudia’s weary form and Maria’s tightened grip on Petruccio. When his gaze landed on Amelia, his smirk deepened, his eyes gleaming with malice. “Ah, but what fine company you keep.”

Ezio stepped in front of her, his body tense as a coiled spring. “What do you want, Vieri?” His voice was low and brittle, each word laced with restrained fury.

Vieri chuckled, drawing his sword with a theatrical flourish. “Oh, so many things. A larger palazzo, a prettier bride... and, of course, your head.” His smirk widened, venom lacing his words. “I must offer my condolences, Ezio. The death of your brothers was... unfortunate, but necessary. Now, I’ve come to finish what Uberto could not.” He turned his gaze to Giovanni, sneering. “Your family has caused us enough trouble. And you, Amelia... Cesare has taken a particular interest in you. Shall I deliver you to him myself?”

Amelia’s grip tightened on her blade, rage curling in her chest. She stepped forward, her expression dark and unyielding, but Ezio was faster, moving in front of her.

“If you touch them—” Ezio’s voice trembled with fury, but Vieri cut him off with a wave of his hand.

“Spare me the theatrics, boy. I grow tired of this game.” He raised his hand, gesturing to his men. “Kill them. And bring me the woman.”

The soldiers surged forward, their blades gleaming in the fading light. Before Amelia could react, a stone whistled through the air, striking one of the attackers squarely in the temple. He crumpled with a groan, his sword clattering to the ground.

“What sorcery is this?!” Vieri spun around, his face contorted with rage.

“Not sorcery,” came a gruff voice from the shadows. “Skill.”

From the darkness stepped a tall man clad in worn armor, his salt-and-pepper beard framing a face hardened by years of battle. He tossed a sword to Giovanni, who caught it deftly, a grim smile spreading across his face.

“Mario,” Giovanni murmured, relief softening the sharp lines of his features.

“Kill them all!” Vieri roared, his composure breaking as his men hesitated.

Amelia didn’t hesitate. The moment Vieri’s men advanced, her blade was in her hand, the weight of it both reassuring and demanding. She moved instinctively, her feet adjusting to the unfamiliar swish of her long skirt as it caught against her legs. Fighting in it felt like trying to run underwater, every step a calculated effort. She gritted her teeth and lunged forward, her focus narrowing to the man closest to her.

He came at her with a heavy swing, overconfident in his strength. She sidestepped just in time, the fabric of her skirt brushing against his blade as it sliced through the air. Pivoting on her heel, she drove her sword into his side, the blade finding its mark with a sickening crunch. He gasped, collapsing to his knees, and she yanked her sword free without a second thought. Blood sprayed across her boots as she turned to face the next threat.

Ezio was beside her, his movements wild and unrefined. He hacked at an approaching soldier with brute force, leaving himself wide open as another man closed in from his blind side. Amelia surged forward without thinking, her sword meeting the attacker’s with a sharp clang. The impact jarred her arm, but she held firm, pushing the man back. Her blade darted out, quick and precise, slicing across his throat. He dropped with a gurgle, and she shot Ezio a quick glance. He didn’t notice her, his focus locked on the man still in front of him.

The third man came at her before she could catch her breath. He was faster than the others, his strikes calculated and relentless. Amelia’s skirt snagged on the rough terrain as she stepped back to evade him, and her frustration flared. Her breath came in sharp bursts as she deflected his blows, her wrist twisting with practiced ease. She needed an opening—just one.

He lunged, his sword aimed low, and she seized the moment. Spinning to the side, she brought her blade down hard on his wrist. He howled, his weapon clattering to the ground. Without hesitation, she drove her sword into his chest, the force of it shaking her shoulders. He fell with a heavy thud, his blood staining the dirt beneath him.

Ezio cried out, his voice raw, and she turned just in time to see another soldier closing in on him. The boy—he was still just a boy—was too focused on his own target to notice the danger. Amelia moved without thinking, her body protesting the effort as she lunged forward. Her sword struck the attacker mid-charge, the man’s momentum slamming into her and nearly knocking her off balance. She staggered, her boots slipping on the blood-slick ground, but she steadied herself in time to block another swing from the dying soldier’s knife. With a final thrust, she silenced him, her arms trembling as she withdrew her blade.

Ezio’s wide eyes darted to her, his chest heaving. He didn’t thank her, didn’t say anything at all—he just nodded, his jaw tightening as he turned back to his own fight. She didn’t need his gratitude. She just needed him to survive.

The skirmish was over almost as quickly as it had begun. Vieri’s men lay sprawled in the dirt, their blood soaking into the earth. Amelia wiped her blade on the tunic of the last man she’d struck, her breath coming in ragged gasps. She scanned the road for Vieri, but the coward was already gone, leaving his men to die in his place.

From the shadows ahead, a deep voice called out, cutting through the stillness. “Impressive work.”

Amelia’s head snapped up, her blade still clutched tightly in her hand. A tall man stepped into view, his armor battered but well-maintained. He moved with the ease of someone who had seen countless battles, his salt-and-pepper beard framing a face lined with experience. He surveyed the scene with a faint smile, his gaze landing on Ezio.

The man’s smile widened as he approached, his steps purposeful yet unhurried. “You fight well for one so young, nipote,” he said, his voice rich and warm, though tinged with weariness. His eyes flicked between Ezio and Giovanni before settling on the younger Auditore again. “But there’s room for improvement.”

Ezio frowned, his sword still gripped tightly in his hand. “Do I know you?”

The man laughed heartily, spreading his arms wide. “Do you not recognize your own uncle? It’s-a me, Mario!”

Ezio blinked, his exhaustion giving way to surprise. His posture relaxed slightly, though the tension of the fight still lingered in his movements. “Uncle Mario?” he echoed, his voice uncertain.

Mario clapped Ezio on the shoulder with enough force to make him stumble. “You’ve grown, boy! And so has that temper of yours, it seems. Good thing you have allies who know how to keep you alive.” His gaze shifted to Amelia, his sharp eyes taking her in with quick assessment. “Which brings us to introductions, I think.”

Giovanni stepped forward, sheathing his sword as he extended a hand to his brother. “It’s good to see you, Mario. Your timing couldn’t have been better.”

Mario took the offered hand and pulled Giovanni into a firm embrace. “And it’s good to see you still alive, fratello. Firenze has not been kind to our family, has it?”

Giovanni’s expression darkened, but he nodded toward Amelia, his tone steady. “Mario, this is Amelia Tesaro. She’s been invaluable to us. Without her, we might not have made it this far.”

At the mention of her surname, Mario’s face shifted from polite curiosity to recognition. His brow furrowed slightly as he studied her more closely. “Tesaro?” he repeated, his voice quiet but charged with meaning. “Your father—Matteo Tesaro?”

Amelia straightened, the sound of her father’s name cutting through the lingering haze of the fight. “You knew him?”

“Knew him?” Mario said, his grin returning, though softer now. “He was a brilliant man. A mind sharp as any blade. We fought together years ago—before the Pazzi and their Templar friends began poisoning Tuscany. He spoke of you often, you know.”

Her chest tightened at the thought of her father, the weight of his absence pressing harder in the presence of someone who had known him so well. “What did he say?” she asked, her voice quieter than she intended.

Mario’s expression softened further, the lines of his face deepening with memory. “That you were strong. That you were clever. And that you were stubborn as hell.” He chuckled, his hand resting briefly on her shoulder. “From what I’ve seen, he wasn’t wrong.”

Before Amelia could respond, Giovanni’s voice broke through. “We need to move. If Vieri was bold enough to confront us here, he may have more men waiting along the way.”

Mario nodded, his demeanor shifting back to business. “Monteriggioni isn’t far. Its walls will keep us safe, but we’ll need to move quickly.” He gestured down the road, leading the way.

Amelia fell into step beside Ezio, their pace brisk as the group began the final leg of their journey. Maria walked just ahead, carrying a now-drowsy Petruccio, whose head lolled against her shoulder. Claudia clung to her mother’s side, her face pale with exhaustion. Giovanni walked near the front, his gaze scanning the horizon for threats.

Ezio remained close to Amelia, their arms brushing occasionally as they kept pace. His grip on his sword had finally loosened, though his knuckles were still white. He didn’t say anything about Mario’s words—or about how she had saved him during the fight—but she caught the way he glanced at her from time to time, his expression caught somewhere between pride and frustration.

As they crested a hill, the lights of Monteriggioni came into view, glowing like a beacon against the encroaching night. Amelia felt her shoulders ease just slightly. They weren’t safe yet, but the promise of those walls gave her something to hold on to.

Mario led the group through the winding streets of Monteriggioni, the fortified town cradled by the Tuscan hills. The cool evening air carried the scent of cypress and freshly turned earth, a welcome reprieve from the suffocating tension of their escape. Amelia allowed herself to relax, if only slightly. The towering walls felt protective rather than oppressive, and the quiet hum of village life hinted at a fragile peace.

Ezio walked just ahead of her, his steps deliberate, his gaze scanning their surroundings. He carried himself with the same tension she’d seen during their fight on the road, his hand never far from the hilt of his sword. Behind them, Maria cradled Petruccio, her steps careful as she shielded him from the night’s chill. Claudia followed closely, her hood pulled low, her expression unreadable in the dim light.

Amelia glanced toward Giovanni, who walked beside Mario. The two brothers exchanged low words, their tones hushed but serious. She caught the occasional sharp gesture from Mario, his frustration clear even at a distance. Giovanni’s shoulders were rigid, his posture one of quiet endurance. The sight tugged at something in her chest—he looked like a man carrying the weight of too many choices and too few options.

The town itself was simple but alive with subtle energy. Cobbled streets wound toward a small market square, and the warm glow of lanterns spilled from windows and doorways. Villagers moved about their business with quiet purpose, some sparing curious glances toward the group but saying nothing. For a moment, the familiar sounds of carts creaking and soft voices offered Amelia a fleeting sense of normalcy. It reminded her of home—not the grandeur of her father’s estate, but the busy streets where she had learned to fade into the crowd.

Mario slowed, gesturing broadly toward the town as he spoke. “Eh, Monteriggioni! She’s a small town, but she has her charm. Honest, hardworking people here. None of the pretense of Firenze.” He shot Ezio a grin, patting him on the shoulder. “What do you think, nipote? It’s not the Duomo, but it grows on you.”

Ezio’s jaw tightened slightly, his gaze fixed ahead. “It’s quiet,” he said after a pause.

“That it is,” Mario replied, his voice tinged with pride. “But don’t let that fool you. This town has stood through sieges and wars. Its walls have seen more history than I can remember. And the villa?” He gestured toward the looming structure ahead, its stone facade weathered but proud. “She’s older than all of us. Built by our great-grandfather. A strange man, that one. Rumor has it he left behind secrets. Keep your eyes sharp, and who knows what you might find?”

Amelia glanced at Ezio. His expression remained unreadable, but she noticed the subtle shift in his stance as he regarded the villa. There was something in the way he looked at it—curiosity, maybe even hesitation. She doubted he was ready to feel anything beyond the grief and anger that had driven him this far, but the sight of the villa seemed to stir something deeper.

Mario continued as they approached the gates, his tone shifting from light to contemplative. “She’s a bit rough around the edges these days. All the fighting, you know. Time hasn’t been kind. But she’s home.” He stopped and turned to face Ezio. “Casa dolce casa. What do you think?”

Ezio hesitated, his gaze sweeping over the ancient stone walls and ivy-clad corners. “It’s… impressive,” he said, though his voice lacked conviction.

Mario clapped him on the back with a hearty laugh. “Impressive, eh? I’ll take that. Now, nipote, you’ve got work to do. My men in the market are expecting you. Get yourself outfitted—armor, weapons, the works. You too, Amelia. That blade of yours looks like it’s seen better days.”

Amelia opened her mouth to respond, but Ezio spoke first, his tone sharp. “I didn’t come here to train. I brought my family here to escape Firenze. Once they’re safe, I plan to take them farther still.”

Giovanni stepped forward, his voice low but firm. “Ezio, there is more at stake than you realize. You’re not ready to leave yet.”

Mario threw up his hands, exasperated. “Dio mio, Giovanni! You’ve been keeping secrets from your own son? And now you bring him here, unprepared, expecting him to carry the weight of the world? Bah! I don’t have time for this.” He turned to Amelia, his frustration melting into a wry smile. “And you—Tesaro, was it? Your father was a brilliant man. A shame what happened to him. Let’s see if we can’t put your skills to better use, eh? Go on, both of you. Get yourselves sorted at the market. Giovanni and I will have words in the meantime.”

Amelia nodded, offering a brief smile. “Come on, Ezio,” she said, nudging him gently. “Let’s see what your uncle’s men have for us.”

Chapter Text

September 8th 2012, 6:00pm

It hadn’t been long since Claire had last stepped into an Animus—only a few months—but the experience still left her rattled. The hum of the machine, the faint mechanical tang in the air, the way the edges of past and present blurred—it brought everything flooding back. The Animus had been a lifeline once, a way to escape Abstergo’s suffocating grip, but now it felt more like a tether, binding her to memories she wasn’t sure she wanted to revisit.

As the session ended and the Animus released its hold, Claire sat up slowly, her mind still caught between centuries. The cool light of the safe house settled around her like a balm, but Amelia’s world clung to her senses, vivid and insistent. She exhaled slowly, blinking hard to ground herself. It wasn’t Amelia’s wounds or pain that lingered—Amelia hadn’t suffered enough to bleed into Claire’s body yet—but the emotional weight of her memories pressed heavily against her chest.

Desmond’s voice broke the silence, pulling her back. “Hey. You okay?” His tone was soft, hesitant, and Claire could feel his gaze on her even before she turned to meet it.

She nodded, managing a small smile. “Fine,” she said, though the word felt like a placeholder for something more complicated. Her hands moved to her lap, brushing at nonexistent wrinkles on her jeans.

“You sure?” Desmond pressed, his brow furrowed. There was genuine concern in his voice, something that made Claire’s defenses waver.

Before she could answer, Lucy’s crisp, no-nonsense tone cut in. “She’s fine, Desmond. Claire’s been through this before.”

Rebecca chimed in, glancing up briefly from her console. “Yeah, but it’s not exactly a walk in the park, is it? Reliving someone else’s life, especially one as… intense as Amelia’s.”

Claire glanced at Rebecca, appreciating the subtle note of empathy in her voice. “It’s manageable,” she said, more to reassure herself than anyone else. But her shoulders ached from the tension she hadn’t noticed until now, and the faint ghost of Amelia’s resolve lingered in her thoughts, sharp and unyielding.

Desmond sat down on the edge of the Animus chair next to her, his elbows resting on his knees. “You’ve done this a lot, haven’t you?” he asked, his tone gentler now.

“More than I’d like,” Claire admitted quietly, her gaze fixed on the faint glow of the Animus. “Amelia isn’t the first ancestor I’ve experienced. And she won’t be the last.”

Shaun, standing a few feet away with his arms crossed, broke the moment with his usual bluntness. “Well, at least she’s not boring,” he quipped. “Amelia’s memories are certainly more engaging than the usual Assassin fare. No offense, Desmond.”

Desmond shot him an unimpressed look, but Claire just shook her head, letting out a faint sigh. Shaun’s comments didn’t bother her anymore; if anything, his dry humor was the only constant in the ever-shifting chaos of their lives.

Rebecca, her voice more pragmatic, cut through the exchange. “You know the risks, Claire. Bleeding Effect’s no joke. If it gets too intense, you’ll let us know, right?”

Claire hesitated for a fraction of a second before nodding. “I’ll let you know.”

The truth was harder to admit. She already felt the lines blurring—the way Amelia’s fierce loyalty to Ezio felt too personal, too familiar. But Claire kept her hands steady, her face neutral. They didn’t need to know how often Amelia’s voice whispered in the back of her mind, how easily her thoughts slid into memories that weren’t hers.

“What’s the Bleeding Effect, exactly?” Desmond asked, leaning forward.

Rebecca’s hands paused on the keyboard. “It’s when the memories of an ancestor seep into the present. Thoughts, reflexes, emotions—they start to overlap. In extreme cases, it can cause hallucinations, disorientation, even breakdowns.” She glanced at Claire briefly. “It’s why we don’t keep anyone in the Animus too long.”

“Yeah, wouldn’t want another Subject Sixteen situation,” Shaun added dryly.

Claire stiffened at the mention of Clay. The memory of him felt too raw, even now. His scribbled drawings, his fractured mind—the Animus had consumed him, left him adrift between worlds. She pressed her hands together tightly, her knuckles turning white.

Desmond caught the shift in Claire’s posture, his tone cautious as he asked, “Subject Sixteen? What happened to him?”

The room seemed to still at the mention of Clay. Claire’s hands tensed in her lap, and she felt the weight of the question pressing down like a stone. “His name was Clay,” she said softly, the words carrying a bitterness she couldn’t quite hide. “He was like us—an Assassin forced into the Animus. But Abstergo pushed him too far.”

Desmond’s brow furrowed. “Pushed him how?”

Rebecca answered, her voice sharper than usual, as if she were trying to keep her emotions in check. “Clay spent months—years—in the Animus. They barely gave him time to breathe, let alone recover. The Bleeding Effect hit him hard. He started seeing things, hearing things that weren’t there. Couldn’t tell the memories apart from his own life. He was… unraveling.”

Claire clenched her fists in her lap, her nails biting into her palms as she stared at the floor. The memory of Clay’s descent played out in her mind—the fear in his voice, the cracks in his sanity that even he couldn’t hide. “And when he started to break, they didn’t stop,” she said, her voice tight, barely above a whisper. “They put him back in the Animus to ‘stabilize’ him, but all it did was kill him.”

Desmond’s voice was quieter now, disbelief tinged with anger. “He died in the Animus?”

Rebecca nodded, the tension in her face betraying her frustration. “His body gave out before they could pull him back. Abstergo didn’t care—they just moved on to the next subject.”

The room felt too small, the air too thin. Claire’s chest tightened as the familiar wave of bitterness surged, sharp and unrelenting. She stood abruptly, the chair scraping against the floor as she pushed it back. The others turned toward her, startled, but she didn’t say a word. Her steps were quick, purposeful, carrying her out of the room before the weight of the conversation could fully settle on her.

As she reached the doorway, she heard Rebecca’s voice behind her, softer now, almost apologetic. “They were close,” she said to Desmond. “Claire and Clay. Before everything.”

Claire didn’t look back. The hallway was cooler, quieter, but the tightness in her chest didn’t ease. She kept walking, her footsteps echoing faintly off the walls. The hum of the Animus grew distant behind her, but the memories—the anger, the grief—remained, pressing at the edges of her mind.

She needed space, air, something to remind her that she wasn’t back there, trapped in Abstergo’s sterile halls. She pressed a hand to the cool stone wall, closing her eyes for a moment. Clay’s face flickered in her thoughts—his determined smile, the way he used humor to mask his fear. The last time she’d seen him, there had still been hope in his eyes, a belief that they’d find a way out. And then he was gone.

Claire pushed deeper into the warehouse, her boots scuffing softly against the concrete floor. The dim light filtering through the high windows cast shadows that stretched like silent sentinels across the cavernous space. She found a corner near a stack of forgotten crates, the wood splintered and dusty with age, and slid down to sit, her knees pulled tight to her chest. The cool wall pressed against her back, steadying her even as her thoughts swirled in restless chaos.

Clay’s memory weighed heavily, but it wasn’t the only one haunting her tonight. Her mind wandered to faces she hadn’t seen in years—Aiden and Paul. Brothers, not by blood, but in every other way that mattered. They were her teammates before Abstergo had stolen her away, and they were still out there. They had to be. The alternative was something she refused to consider.

Aiden’s grin came to her first, sharp and quick, his humor always biting but never cruel. He had been the kind to find light in the darkest of corners, his wit a weapon that kept despair at bay. He was clever—too clever, really. Always two steps ahead of their enemies, always with a plan. But plans had a way of falling apart. She clung to the hope that he was still out there, cracking jokes and fighting the good fight, even if the thought brought a pang of longing that felt almost childish.

Then there was Paul. Where Aiden had been fire, Paul was stone—calm, steady, immovable. His presence had anchored her during missions, his quiet strength something she could always rely on. She could still hear his voice, low and deliberate, guiding her through chaos. He was the one who had taught her patience, the one who reminded her that survival was a long game. The thought of him out there, still fighting, still standing, gave her a fragile thread of comfort to cling to.

Claire pressed her palms against her eyes, willing the memories to stop pulling at her like loose threads. Aiden and Paul weren’t just memories; they were a possibility. They had never been captured. They were still on the outside, still fighting. She repeated that to herself like a mantra. They’re out there. They’re alive. They have to be.

A creak of hinges cut through her thoughts, and Claire stiffened, her hands dropping to her sides. The faint echo of footsteps followed, deliberate and steady, each step stirring the dust of the warehouse. She straightened her posture, brushing her hands over her jeans as if to wipe away the vulnerability that had settled on her like a second skin.

She didn’t need to look up to know who it was. Desmond’s uneven footsteps were unmistakable, and the sharper, more purposeful stride beside him could only belong to Lucy. Their conversation drifted toward her corner, the words low but clear in the stillness of the warehouse. 

Claire stayed hidden in the shadows, her eyes following Desmond as he moved through the warehouse. Lucy’s voice had a polished edge to it, calm and firm, like she was giving orders to a soldier instead of speaking to someone who had just learned his entire life had been orchestrated.

“Abstergo’s out there, waiting for us,” Lucy said. Her tone was controlled, almost too controlled. “They’re better funded and better equipped. It’s only a matter of time before they find this place. We need to be ready for them when they do.” She gestured toward the upper levels of the warehouse, where the defense system sensors were tucked away. “I want you to activate the system. I’ll let you figure out how to reach the sensors.”

Desmond glanced upward, frowning. “So… no hints?”

“Open your eyes, Desmond,” Lucy said, her tone bordering on patronizing.

Claire crossed her arms, leaning against the cold metal wall. Subtle, Lucy, she thought. She shifted slightly, watching as Desmond sighed, rolled his shoulders, and started toward the scaffolding lining one side of the warehouse.

He moved cautiously at first, testing the integrity of the crates and railings as he climbed. His movements were awkward—half climbing, half scrambling—but there was a determination in his body language that Claire couldn’t ignore. She noted how he paused before pulling himself up to higher levels, his head tilting as though he were assessing the best route.

Halfway up, Desmond stopped abruptly, his hand gripping a steel beam for support. He blinked, his head jerking to the side as if something had caught his eye. “Uh… Lucy,” he called, his voice hesitant. “I’m seeing things.”

Claire’s brow furrowed as she watched him. His movements had grown stiffer, his gaze darting around as if searching for something that wasn’t there.

Lucy, however, barely reacted. “Do the hallucinations last longer than thirty seconds?”

“Uh… no?” Desmond said, his voice laced with uncertainty.

“Then it’s nothing to worry about. It’ll pass.”

Claire’s jaw tightened at Lucy’s dismissive tone. Nothing to worry about? she thought bitterly. She could see the strain in Desmond’s movements, the way he gripped the beams tighter than before. He was climbing higher now, his footing less sure on the narrow ledges and rusted walkways.

Desmond reached for a hanging pipe, his fingers brushing against it before he hesitated. “So, how am I doing?” he asked, his voice lighter, clearly trying to distract himself from the unease creeping in.

Lucy’s reply was swift, clinical. “You’ve picked up every single one of Ezio’s skills. The adoption rate is fantastic. Another day or two, and we’ll be done.”

Claire rolled her eyes, the sharpness of Lucy’s words grating against her nerves. Fantastic. Like this is some kind of science experiment.

Desmond made a leap to a higher platform, barely catching the edge before pulling himself up. He paused to catch his breath, glancing down toward Lucy. “All right,” he called, his voice carrying through the open space. “You’ve gotta tell me—why Ezio? Why Italy? I mean, we could’ve gone back to Altaïr. Follow him during his early years.”

Lucy’s response was slower this time, her voice almost hesitant. “It started with Sixteen.”

Desmond froze mid-step, gripping a railing as he looked down at her. “Ah, good old Subject Sixteen,” he muttered, his voice tinged with dark humor. “He repainted my room, y’know… with his blood.”

Claire flinched, the bitter joke landing like a slap. Her fists clenched at her sides as she stayed rooted in the shadows. Lucy didn’t react, her tone softening only slightly.

“I’ve been going through his files,” she said. “Vidic flagged a couple of his Animus sessions. A bunch of different ancestors, different dates and locations… ancient Africa, the Middle East… but toward the end, he became obsessed with Italy. I think he knew about the Vault. A few of the records of his later Animus sessions are missing, and the sessions that are there…” She trailed off, her voice thick with regret. “After everything the Templars put him through… after everything I put him through… it’s all scrambled. If we hadn’t pushed Sixteen so hard, we’d have all the answers already… and maybe he’d still be alive.”

Desmond’s voice cut through the growing tension. “So you’re after the Codex and the Vault?”

Lucy nodded, her composure returning. “I knew you had an ancestor in Italy who was at the center of all this.”

Claire watched as Desmond climbed the final stretch, his movements steadier now. He reached the last sensor, a faint holographic shimmer marking its location. For a moment, he stood there, his gaze distant as though something unseen was tugging at his mind. Then, with a slow exhale, he activated the sensor and began his descent.

Lucy’s voice broke through the quiet. “Alright, I think we’re done for today.”

Desmond jumped down to the lower level, landing with a soft thud. He glanced at Lucy, his expression thoughtful. “Lucy, what happened to Sixteen wasn’t your fault. You were just as much a prisoner as I was.”

Lucy hesitated, her posture softening. “Thanks,” she said quietly. “Good night, Desmond. I’m glad you’re here.”

Claire watched as Lucy disappeared into the shadows, her presence dissolving into the quiet hum of the warehouse. Desmond lingered for a moment, his gaze following her path before turning away.

Claire’s boots echoed softly as she stepped forward from the shadows, her figure cutting through the dim light of the warehouse. Desmond turned at the sound, his brows lifting in surprise.

“You shouldn’t trust her,” Claire said, her voice calm but edged with certainty.

Desmond frowned, his posture shifting defensively. “Claire? What are you talking about?”

“She’s lying, Desmond,” Claire replied evenly, her gaze steady on his. “Whatever game Lucy is playing, it’s not for our benefit. It won’t end well—not for you, and not for me.”

Desmond crossed his arms, his jaw tightening as he studied her. “And what? I’m just supposed to trust no one?”

Claire let out a dry chuckle, shaking her head. “That’s not what I said. Trust is earned, Desmond—not handed out like candy. I’ve only ever trusted two people in my life, explicitly. And it took a hell of a lot to get there.” Her tone was firm, but the flicker of something softer crossed her face. “After everything I’ve been through, it has to be earned.”

Desmond’s frown deepened. “Then why should I trust you?”

Claire tilted her head slightly, a faint smirk tugging at her lips. “You shouldn’t,” she said simply, her voice almost amused. “But I’m not asking for your trust. I’m telling you to watch your back. I’m your ally, Desmond—but trust? That’s something you’ll have to learn for yourself.”

Desmond’s eyes narrowed as he weighed her words, his shoulders still tense. “Alright,” he said after a moment, his tone cautious. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

Claire gave a faint nod, satisfied he’d taken the warning seriously. Without another word, she turned and disappeared back into the shadows, leaving him to grapple with her words and the unease they carried.

Chapter Text

September 8th, 2012. 8:00pm 

The warehouse buzzed with activity, the hum of machinery mingling with the faint sounds of traffic outside. Overhead lights bathed the space in a muted glow, their sterile white reflecting off the polished surface of the Animus. Claire wandered aimlessly, the faint scent of soldered metal grounding her in the present even as fragments of the past tugged at her thoughts.

It had been hours since she’d stepped out of the Animus, but Amelia’s world lingered like a shadow, vivid and insistent. She had grown used to this feeling—the sense of being caught between centuries—but it never fully stopped unnerving her. The memories were sharp, their edges almost too close to her own reality. Yet, for all their intensity, Claire knew how to push them back. She always did.

Her steps brought her to the far side of the room, where Rebecca was hunched over the Animus console. The technician’s deft hands moved with practiced ease as she adjusted a panel, muttering under her breath at the uncooperative machine. Tools and wires were strewn across the workbench in organized chaos, a testament to Rebecca’s unrelenting focus.

“Hey, Claire,” Rebecca called out without lifting her eyes from the console. “If you’re going to hover, you might as well make yourself useful. Pass me the pliers, would you?”

Claire smirked as she grabbed the tool from the cluttered workbench. “You sure you know what you’re doing?” she teased, her voice light, though the tension in her chest hadn’t entirely dissipated.

Rebecca shot her a mock glare, snatching the pliers with a flourish. “Do I question your abilities when you’re doing your thing?”

Claire arched a brow, leaning against the nearby pillar. “Only when you feel like it.”

“Fair,” Rebecca admitted, a wry smile tugging at her lips. She turned back to the console, tightening a loose connection with a confident twist of her wrist. “Relax. I’ve got this. The Animus won’t bite—today, anyway.”

Claire chuckled, the sound easing some of the weight in her chest. For all the chaos they dealt with daily, Rebecca’s steady presence had become an anchor. Six months ago, Claire hadn’t imagined trusting anyone outside of a handful of people. Now, Rebecca had carved her way into that small, guarded circle.

From across the room, Shaun’s dry voice broke the moment. “Ah, the engineers at work. Should we be worried, or is this one of those ‘trust me, I’m a genius’ situations?”

Rebecca didn’t even look up, her tone light but razor-sharp. “Trust me, Shaun. I am a genius. But if you’re volunteering to test it out next, I’m happy to adjust the settings—just for you.”

Claire snorted, glancing over at him. Shaun leaned back in his chair, coffee mug in hand, the picture of nonchalance. “Oh, no need for heroics,” he said, lifting his mug in a mock toast. “I’m perfectly content providing my invaluable commentary from the safety of my desk.”

“Invaluable, huh?” Claire quipped, crossing her arms. “That’s a bit of a stretch.”

Shaun raised his eyebrows in mock indignation. “Please, I like to think of myself as the glue that holds this operation together. You’re welcome, by the way.”

“More like the glitter,” Rebecca muttered, a sly grin spreading across her face. “Flashy, maybe a little entertaining, but ultimately unnecessary.”

Claire laughed, shaking her head at their banter. It was easy to fall into these moments, to let the weight of their work take a backseat for a little while. She hadn’t realized how much she’d come to rely on this strange sense of camaraderie. Six months ago, she wouldn’t have even cracked a smile at Shaun’s quips. Now, they felt almost comforting, as if his sarcasm could keep the world from unraveling just a little longer.

“Honestly, though,” Claire said, her tone softening, “I’m glad you two are around. You’re not so bad—for glitter and a genius.”

Shaun tilted his head, studying her with exaggerated seriousness. “Wait, was that a compliment, Claire? Should I mark the occasion?”

“Don’t push your luck,” she replied dryly, though a faint smile tugged at her lips.

Rebecca wiped her hands on a rag, glancing at Claire with a touch more seriousness. “Alright, the Animus should be good to go.”

Claire’s gaze shifted to the machine, its faint hum filling the space. For a moment, her reflection in the screen caught her attention, and she thought she saw Amelia’s eyes staring back at her, sharp and steady. She blinked, shaking the thought away. “Good to know. I’d rather not have any surprises in there.”

“No surprises from me,” Rebecca promised. “Your ancestors, though? That’s another story.”

Shaun smirked, swiveling his chair toward them. “No ancestor of hers has been dull so far. It’s like your lineage is a greatest hits album of Assassins.”

Claire rolled her eyes, though the comment drew a faint smile. “Not sure I’d call it a privilege. Try having three or four of those ‘greatest hits’ rattling around in your head. It’s not as glamorous as it sounds.”

Rebecca straightened, crossing her arms as she studied Claire with a faint frown. “Speaking of your ancestors rattling around… How are you holding up, Claire? Any… side effects?” Her voice was casual, but the concern behind her words was unmistakable.

Claire hesitated for a beat. She’d gotten used to Rebecca’s questions, her way of checking in without prying too deeply, but it didn’t make answering any easier.

Shaun leaned forward, abandoning his coffee mug on the desk. “Yes, do tell,” he said, his tone edging toward sardonic curiosity. “Seeing anything odd? Whispering voices? Perhaps a shadowy ancestor or two haunting the corners of the room?”

Claire exhaled through her nose, fixing Shaun with a flat stare. “I’m fine,” she said evenly, though the words rang hollow even to her own ears. She crossed her arms, as if the action could make her seem more unshakeable.

Shaun smirked. “That wasn’t exactly a denial.”

Rebecca’s frown deepened, her gaze scanning Claire’s face as if searching for cracks. “Claire,” she said gently, “if you’re seeing things, you need to tell us. We’re not Abstergo—we’re here to help.”

Claire let out a slow breath, tilting her head back as she stared at the ceiling. She’d danced around this conversation before, giving just enough to satisfy their curiosity without letting them in too much. But the weight of the day was dragging at her, and maybe, just this once, she was too tired to dodge.

“I’m seeing things,” she admitted finally, her voice low. “Not all the time, and not always clear. But yeah, they’re there.”

Rebecca exchanged a quick glance with Shaun, who leaned back in his chair, rubbing his chin. “Well, at least we’re getting somewhere. Let me guess,” he said, his tone shifting to something lighter, almost playful. “Shadowy figures, dramatic whispers, maybe a swordfight or two in your peripheral vision?”

Claire rolled her eyes, though the accuracy of his words sent a shiver down her spine. “Something like that,” she muttered. “It’s mostly Amelia right now, but there are others. Faces, fragments, things I don’t even recognize. It’s… disorienting when I focus on it.”

Rebecca’s concern only deepened. “Claire, that’s not nothing,” she said, her tone sharpening. “You’ve managed to handle it so far, but this can spiral. You know that as well as anyone.”

“I am handling it,” Claire said, her voice firm as she met Rebecca’s gaze. “I’ve lived with this for years. It’s not new, and it’s not going to break me. The trick is not letting it pull you under.” She softened her tone just slightly, as if to temper her defensiveness. “It’s like a tide. You push back just enough, and it recedes.”

Shaun tapped his fingers against the desk thoughtfully. “Fascinating,” he said, his voice edging toward detached curiosity again. “You’ve trained yourself to manage the Bleeding Effect. That’s impressive, I’ll give you that. But can you guarantee it’s something you can keep under control forever?”

Claire narrowed her eyes at him. “What’s the alternative, Shaun? Lock myself in a room? Pretend it’s not happening? That’s not an option, and you know it.”

Rebecca opened her mouth to respond, but the faint creak of the door interrupted her. All eyes turned toward Desmond as he stepped into the room, his gaze sweeping over them with cautious curiosity.

“Am I interrupting something?” he asked, his tone mild, though his eyes flicked to Claire with concern.

Claire straightened in her chair, folding her arms over her chest. “No,” she said shortly, though her tone carried enough weight to hint at the tension in the room.

Desmond’s gaze lingered on her, curiosity and worry mixing in his expression. “This about the Bleeding Effect?”

Rebecca hesitated before nodding. “Claire is experiencing some side effects” she said, her words careful.

Desmond frowned, his focus shifting back to Claire. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

Claire’s jaw tightened, but she kept her voice calm. “Because it’s not a big deal,” she said evenly. “It’s just because I’ve gone back into the Animus after months. It stirs things up, but it’ll settle. It always does.”

“And if it doesn’t?” Desmond pressed, his voice quieter but still insistent.

“It will,” Claire replied, the sharpness in her tone softening slightly as she glanced at Rebecca. “I’ve been through this cycle more times than I can count. I know where the line is. And I’m not saying that’s the right way for anyone else to handle it, but for me? This is how I get through it.”

Rebecca hesitated, looking like she wanted to argue, but Claire continued, her tone more resolute. “I know how to manage this. I don’t take risks with other people’s lives, but mine? That’s my call. Right now, what matters is finishing this.”

Desmond’s frown deepened, but he didn’t push further. “You sure about that?”

Claire gave him a faint smirk, though there was a thread of bitterness in it. “As sure as I can be. We’re wasting time standing around.”

Rebecca stepped forward, her hands on her hips. “Claire, if you think—”

“The Animus is ready, right?” Claire interrupted, glancing toward the machine.

Rebecca sighed and nodded reluctantly. “It’s ready.”

Claire stood, her boots clicking softly against the floor as she approached the Animus. She eased herself into the chair, her fingers gripping the armrests with quiet determination.

Shaun leaned back in his chair, his coffee mug in hand. “Lovely. Shall we start a betting pool on how long she stays in this time? I’m putting five quid on ‘overdoing it.’”

Claire shot him a flat look, though her lips twitched into a faint smirk. “Long enough to find what we need,” she replied coolly.

Desmond hovered near the edge of the Animus, his brow furrowed in thought. “What exactly are we looking for?” he asked, his gaze flicking between Claire and Rebecca.

“Anything that ties back to the Codex or the Vault,” Claire answered, her voice firm as the machine’s hum grew louder. “Ezio and Amelia are the key to all of this. If we don’t figure out what they knew, we’re wasting time.”

Desmond absorbed her words, his expression contemplative before he stepped toward the second Animus chair and settled in beside her.

Rebecca blinked, surprised. “You’re going in too?”

Desmond shrugged. “If it’s about Ezio and Amelia, I’m in.”

Claire didn’t look at him immediately, but when she did, her gaze softened just slightly. “Do what you need to,” she said simply, leaning back as Rebecca adjusted the Animus settings.

The light around her began to intensify, the hum of the machine growing louder.

Shaun tilted his head, his smirk returning. “Try not to get too comfortable in there,” he quipped. “We’d hate to have to drag you both out.”

Claire closed her eyes, the Animus’s pull beginning to take hold. “Don’t hold your breath.”

The world dissolved into sound and light, pulling her back into the depths of Amelia and Ezio’s lives—and their search for the truth that had eluded them.

Chapter Text

Six months had passed since their arrival, and the once-fresh wounds of their escape from Florence had faded into scars, both visible and hidden. It had taken no small amount of convincing to get Ezio to stay in the villa this long. Giovanni had insisted, his tone as unyielding as steel: You cannot protect your family without knowing how to fight. Amelia had echoed the sentiment, though her words were gentler, more coaxing. But Ezio’s stubborn pride had resisted at first, his grief still too raw, his anger burning too hot.

Now, as Amelia stood at the edge of the training grounds with Giovanni and Mario, she could see the results of those long weeks. Ezio was moving with purpose, his blade clashing against the sword of one of Mario’s men. His strikes were hard and fast, driven by that same simmering rage that had pushed him to take up a weapon in the first place. But there was still a rawness to his movements, an impatience that left him open.

Amelia’s eyes followed the arc of his blade, noting the strength behind it but also the lack of precision. He had improved—significantly—but he still fought like a man consumed by emotion rather than discipline. At least he’s not reckless anymore, she thought, though she kept the observation to herself.

“His form’s better,” Giovanni said, his voice low but carrying the weight of expectation. He stood with his arms crossed, his sharp eyes fixed on Ezio. “But he’s still overextending.”

Mario chuckled, scratching at his salt-and-pepper beard. “He’s got spirit. That’s a start. We just need to shape it into something useful. Besides…” He gestured toward Ezio’s opponent, who was already sweating under the strain of keeping up. “He’s wearing them down, if nothing else.”

Amelia let out a quiet hum of agreement but didn’t add to the conversation. Her gaze lingered on Ezio, her expression carefully neutral, though her thoughts were far from detached. She admired his determination, the way he threw himself into the fight despite his obvious frustration. He wasn’t like the others on the training grounds. They fought with precision born of years of experience, their movements honed to an art. Ezio, by contrast, fought with heart—a quality that Amelia couldn’t help but respect, even if it made him unpredictable.

“Enough,” Mario called out, raising a hand as Ezio’s opponent stumbled back, clearly winded. “You’re trying to cleave through his defenses, nipote, but you’ve got to read him first. A swordsman who doesn’t think will always fall to one who does.”

Ezio scowled, lowering his blade but not sheathing it. His chest rose and fell heavily as he wiped sweat from his brow, his dark eyes narrowing in frustration. “If I wait too long to strike, I’ll be dead before I get the chance.”

“And if you swing blindly, you’ll be dead faster,” Giovanni interjected, stepping forward. His tone was calm but firm, cutting through Ezio’s defiance like a blade.

Amelia shifted her weight, glancing at Giovanni before looking back at Ezio. She could see the tension in his posture, the way his grip on the hilt of his sword tightened as if holding on to his pride.

Amelia inhaled deeply, the weight of the warm afternoon settling around her like a second skin as she stepped away from Giovanni and Mario. The training grounds were alive with muted sounds—the clink of weapons being cleaned, the rhythmic thuds of wooden swords striking targets—but they seemed to hush as she moved toward Ezio. Her sword was already in her hand, the polished steel catching the faintest gleam of sunlight. Each step she took was deliberate, her boots crunching softly against the dirt. The subtle noise seemed to announce her intent more effectively than any words could.

Ezio glanced up, his dark eyes meeting hers with a flicker of irritation, his brows drawn tightly together. Sweat glistened on his brow, and his knuckles were white around the hilt of his sword, his frustration palpable even from a distance. His pride was a double-edged blade—one that cut just as deeply inward as it did outward.

“You’re tense,” Amelia said, her voice calm but cutting through the tension like a well-aimed strike. She stepped into the ring, the slight scuff of her boots on the ground drawing the attention of the other men training nearby. They glanced over but wisely stayed out of it.

Ezio scoffed softly, the sound almost a growl. “Tense doesn’t lose a fight,” he muttered, his jaw tight.

“No,” Amelia agreed, tipping her head slightly as she studied him. “But being reckless does.” She shifted her grip on her sword, lifting it to rest the flat of the blade casually on her shoulder. Her eyes softened slightly, but her tone remained firm. “You’re fighting like you think every strike should end the fight. But you’re not watching. Not really.”

His pride flared, evident in the way his jaw tightened further. “I am watching.”

“Are you?” she countered, her brow arching. Her stance shifted, the weight of her body leaning slightly forward. “Then show me. I’ll move slow.” She lowered her blade into a ready position, the tip angled toward him. “Watch me. Anticipate.”

Ezio hesitated for a moment, his gaze flicking to Mario and Giovanni. Both men stood silently at the edge of the ring, their expressions inscrutable. Ezio exhaled through his nose and squared his shoulders, lifting his sword to mirror her stance. “Fine,” he muttered, his tone sharp.

Amelia’s movements were deliberate, her body fluid but restrained as she closed the distance between them. She kept her blade steady, her strikes slow and calculated. “What do you see?” she asked, her voice steady, her eyes fixed on him.

Ezio’s gaze darted over her form, his brow furrowing as he took her in. “You’re light on your feet,” he said after a pause. “You’ll move quickly.”

“Good,” Amelia said with a small nod of approval. “And my blade?”

“It’s low,” he noted, his tone gaining a hint of confidence. “You’re baiting me to attack high.”

Her lips curved into a faint smile. “Not bad. But think deeper. Why would I bait you?”

His grip shifted slightly on the hilt of his sword as he considered her words. “To get me to overreach.”

“Exactly,” Amelia said, taking a slow, calculated step forward, her eyes never leaving his. “You overreach, you’re off balance. Off balance, you’re easy to counter.”

They began circling each other, Amelia’s blade darting out in measured movements, testing him. Ezio’s responses were tentative at first, his parries uneven, but with each pass, his movements grew steadier. She kept her pace deliberate, her strikes telegraphing just enough for him to track.

“Your weight shifted,” Ezio said suddenly, his tone more confident. “You’re about to strike right.”

Amelia’s smile widened slightly as her blade came from the right. Ezio moved smoothly, blocking the strike with a confidence that hadn’t been there before. “Good,” she said. “Now keep that up.”

The two of them moved in a rhythm, their swords clashing lightly as Amelia pressed him to talk through each exchange. His observations became sharper, his voice steadier. He noted the subtle cues in her body language—the faint roll of her shoulders before a feint, the almost imperceptible shift of her wrist signaling a low strike.

“Better,” Amelia said after he blocked another deliberate feint. “You’re thinking now. Reading me. But don’t overthink it. Trust what you see.”

Ezio nodded, his breathing even despite the effort. His dark eyes flickered with a challenge as he stepped closer. “So what happens when you stop moving slow?” he asked, his tone daring.

Amelia’s smirk was quick and sharp. “Then you’d better keep up.” 

Without a word, Amelia lunged, her blade slicing through the air with calculated precision. Ezio barely had time to raise his sword in defense. The first clash of steel echoed across the training grounds, drawing the attention of Mario’s men, who paused their drills to watch. Amelia’s strikes came fast and deliberate, testing the edges of Ezio’s focus. Her movements were sharp, fluid, a reflection of her years of training, while his were rougher, more instinctual.

Ezio stumbled slightly under the force of her opening attack, his footing awkward as he scrambled to parry. “Stay centered,” she instructed, her voice calm despite the ferocity of her strikes. “Don’t react to my blade—react to me. Watch my shoulders, my stance.”

Gritting his teeth, Ezio adjusted his footing, his knees bending to stabilize himself. He began to catch her rhythm, meeting her blade with his own. Amelia could see the flicker of determination in his eyes, his pride refusing to let him falter.

She pressed him harder, her strikes coming faster now, darting toward his sides and testing the strength of his blocks. “Don’t overextend,” she warned as his arm wavered under one particularly heavy strike. “If you lose control of your sword, you lose the fight.”

Ezio adjusted again, his responses growing steadier as he began to anticipate her movements. He blocked her next strike with confidence, the clang of their swords ringing out like a challenge. “You’re holding back,” he said through gritted teeth, his breath coming in sharp bursts. “Stop treating me like I’m fragile.”

Amelia smirked. “You sure about that, Auditore?” she teased, her blade darting toward him in a feint. He shifted to block high, but her real strike came low, the flat of her blade tapping against his thigh. She stepped back, giving him a brief moment to recover. “You’re still too quick to take the bait.”

Ezio scowled but said nothing, his grip tightening on his sword. He adjusted his stance, his gaze sharper now as he focused on her. Amelia nodded slightly, impressed by his resolve. “Good,” she murmured, taking a deliberate step forward. “Now, show me what you’ve got.”

Without a word, Amelia lunged, her blade slicing through the air with calculated precision. Ezio barely had time to raise his sword in defense. The first clash of steel echoed across the training grounds, drawing the attention of Mario’s men, who paused their drills to watch. Amelia’s strikes came fast and deliberate, testing the edges of Ezio’s focus. Her movements were sharp, fluid, a reflection of her years of training, while his were rougher, more instinctual.

Ezio stumbled slightly under the force of her opening attack, his footing awkward as he scrambled to parry. “Stay centered,” she instructed, her voice calm despite the ferocity of her strikes. “Don’t react to my blade—react to me. Watch my shoulders, my stance.”

Gritting his teeth, Ezio adjusted his footing, his knees bending to stabilize himself. He began to catch her rhythm, meeting her blade with his own. Amelia could see the flicker of determination in his eyes, his pride refusing to let him falter.

She pressed him harder, her strikes coming faster now, darting toward his sides and testing the strength of his blocks. “Don’t overextend,” she warned as his arm wavered under one particularly heavy strike. “If you lose control of your sword, you lose the fight.”

Ezio adjusted again, his responses growing steadier as he began to anticipate her movements. He blocked her next strike with confidence, the clang of their swords ringing out like a challenge. “You’re holding back,” he said through gritted teeth, his breath coming in sharp bursts. “Stop treating me like I’m fragile.”

Amelia smirked. “You sure about that, Auditore?” she teased, her blade darting toward him in a feint. He shifted to block high, but her real strike came low, the flat of her blade tapping against his thigh. She stepped back, giving him a brief moment to recover. “You’re still too quick to take the bait.”

Ezio scowled but said nothing, his grip tightening on his sword. He adjusted his stance, his gaze sharper now as he focused on her. Amelia nodded slightly, impressed by his resolve. “Good,” she murmured, taking a deliberate step forward. “Now, show me what you’ve got.”

Without warning, she surged forward again, her blade flashing toward his side in a deceptive arc. Ezio’s sword shot up, blocking her strike with a forceful parry that sent a vibration up her arm. Before she could recover, he pivoted, stepping into her attack and twisting his blade against hers in a sudden, fluid motion. The movement disarmed her, her sword spinning out of her grip and landing in the dirt with a dull clatter.

Amelia blinked, genuinely surprised as she stepped back, raising her hands in mock surrender. The training grounds fell silent, the onlookers holding their breath as Ezio stood there, his chest heaving, his sword angled toward her. For a moment, his expression was one of shock, as if he couldn’t quite believe what he’d just done.

Then, a slow grin spread across Amelia’s face, her eyes glinting with approval. “Not bad, Auditore,” she said, her tone warm and teasing as she bent to retrieve her sword. “Not bad at all.”

Ezio lowered his blade, a flicker of pride crossing his features. “Not bad?” he echoed, arching a brow. “I just disarmed you.”

Amelia chuckled, brushing the dirt off her sword before pointing it lightly at him. “Don’t let it go to your head,” she warned playfully. “One good move doesn’t make you a master.”

Ezio smirked, stepping back to give her space. “Maybe not, but it’s a start.”

“It is,” Amelia agreed, her tone softening as she lowered her blade. She met his gaze, holding it with an unflinching seriousness. “Remember how you were thinking in that moment. You weren’t swinging wildly or letting your frustration guide you. You read me, anticipated my movements, and acted with intent. That’s the mindset you need in every fight. Controlled, deliberate. Let the other person make the mistakes.”

Ezio nodded slowly, her words sinking in like the steady rhythm of a drum. He rolled his shoulders, straightening his stance as if the shift in his posture could anchor the lesson deeper into his bones. “I’ll remember,” he said, his voice quieter but steadier than before.

Amelia’s lips quirked into a faint smile. “Good,” she said, stepping back and gesturing toward the sparring circle. “Then let’s see if you can do that again with them.”

Mario’s booming laughter erupted from the sidelines, his voice carrying across the training grounds like a clap of thunder. “You’ve stirred the fire in him, ragazza. Let’s see if he burns or tempers!”

Ezio gave a slight shake of his head, though his lips twitched with something that almost resembled a smile. For the first time in months, Amelia saw a flicker of confidence in his expression—not arrogance, but a quiet belief in himself. It was a small thing, but it was enough to make her chest tighten with a mixture of pride and hope.

As Ezio moved back into the ring, sword raised and his focus sharp, Amelia stepped out of the circle, her heart steady but her thoughts swirling like the dust kicked up by their sparring. She positioned herself beside Giovanni and Mario, watching as Ezio faced another opponent—a wiry man with quick footwork and a wicked gleam in his eye.

Giovanni’s voice broke the silence that had fallen between them. “You are a good teacher,” he said, his tone thoughtful, almost contemplative. He stood with his arms crossed, his gaze fixed on his son as he traded strikes with the other man.

Amelia glanced at him, her expression unreadable for a moment. “I’ve had good teachers myself,” she replied softly, her thoughts drifting briefly to her own father and the long hours spent learning under his careful watch. She cleared her throat, redirecting her focus. “Ezio has the instincts. He just needs to trust himself.”

Giovanni hummed in agreement, a faint smile playing at the corners of his mouth as he watched Ezio block a rapid flurry of strikes, countering with a clean, controlled swing. “He’s learning,” he said, a hint of pride threading through his words. “Slowly, perhaps, but he’s learning.”

Mario chuckled, clapping Giovanni on the back. “Learning’s a good start! And better here than out there where a mistake means more than a bruised ego.” He turned to Amelia, his expression warm. “You’ve done well with him. You’ve got patience—more than most.”

Amelia gave a small shrug, though her gaze remained on Ezio. “He’s worth the effort,” she said simply, her tone carrying a quiet conviction. She watched as Ezio shifted his stance, his movements more deliberate now, his strikes sharper and more calculated.

That night, Amelia leaned against the cool stone railing, her gaze drawn to the distant hills bathed in moonlight. The training grounds behind her had finally quieted for the night. The echoes of clashing blades and shouted commands had faded into the low hum of crickets and the occasional murmur of guards. She exhaled slowly, letting the stillness anchor her after another grueling day.

Ezio joined her moments later, his steps slower than usual, his tunic damp with sweat. Without a word, he leaned beside her, mirroring her posture. For a while, neither spoke. It wasn’t an uncomfortable silence, but a quiet weighted by the strain of their shared burdens.

“You’ve gotten better,” Amelia said finally, her tone light but sincere. “A lot better.”

Ezio glanced at her, a faint smile breaking through his exhaustion. “You’re not the worst teacher, Lia,” he quipped, his voice holding a familiar teasing lilt. “But don’t let it go to your head.”

Amelia rolled her eyes, nudging his shoulder with hers. “Please, you’d be lost without me.”

His laugh was soft but genuine, though the weariness in his voice betrayed the toll of the day. “Lost or not, you’ve been... patient. More than I deserve, sometimes.”

Amelia didn’t reply immediately, her gaze drifting back to the hills. Her voice was lighter when she spoke again, teasing. “I think you like having someone who can keep up with you.” Then, more serious, she added, “Six months, Ezio. We’ve both worked hard to get here. But it’s not just about training anymore. This... this is our life now. Fighting in the shadows, facing down ghosts. It’s not easy, but we don’t have to do it alone.”

Ezio’s expression shifted, his teasing smile fading as her words settled over him. He studied her face, noting the weight in her gaze—the unspoken memories that clouded her eyes. “You’ve been a good friend, Amelia,” he said, quieter now. “Even when I’ve been... difficult.”

Amelia let out a soft laugh, though there was little humor in it. “You’re learning. That’s what matters. We both are.”

The silence between them returned, heavier this time. Amelia felt the weight Ezio carried—the loss of his family, the uncertainty of his future. It mirrored her own burdens in ways she didn’t dare voice aloud. Over the months, her feelings for him had deepened into something she couldn’t fully define. But she wouldn’t let those feelings distract him—not when he needed clarity more than anything else.

As the shadows grew longer, Ezio finally broke the quiet. “After everything you and my uncle have told me,” he began, his voice barely above a whisper, “there’s still a part of me that wants to leave. To take my family and go.”

Amelia’s chest tightened. She pushed off the railing, turning to face him fully. “Running won’t save them,” she said firmly, her gaze locking onto his. “You know that as well as I do. The Templars won’t stop hunting your family just because you disappear. You can’t escape this fight, Ezio. None of us can.”

His shoulders sagged under the weight of her words, his grip tightening on the railing. “I didn’t ask for this, Lia. This life, this war—it’s like stepping into a nightmare I never wanted.”

Her expression softened, her voice gentler now. “None of us asked for this,” she admitted. “But it’s ours now. We can’t change the past, Ezio, but we can fight to make sure it doesn’t destroy what’s left. And you... you can protect your family by fighting back, not running.”

Ezio turned to her, his eyes clouded with doubt. “What if I can’t? What if I lose more than I save?”

Amelia held his gaze, steady and unwavering. “You’re not alone in this. You’ve seen that. And you’ve already proven you can protect them.” She stepped closer, her voice lowering. “You’ve made it this far, Ezio. Now you need to choose whether you’re going to run from what’s ahead—or face it.”

“My father’s already made arrangements for us to leave,” he admitted after a moment, his voice faltering.

“Is that what you want?” she asked, her question quiet but piercing.

Ezio’s jaw tightened as he looked away, his silence speaking louder than words. Amelia studied him, letting the question linger before softening her tone. “Ezio, this isn’t just about what your father wants. Or even what your family might need. This is about you. What do you want?”

His grip on the railing slackened slightly, and he exhaled, the fight in him dimming. “I want them to be safe. I want them to never have to look over their shoulders again.”

Amelia nodded, her voice steady. “Then fight. That’s the only way to give them the safety they deserve.”

Ezio let out a sharp breath, his frustration spilling out. “It’s easy for you to say,” he muttered bitterly, his grip tightening on the railing. “You’ve been doing this your whole life.”

Amelia flinched inwardly but didn’t let it show. She straightened, her expression soft but unyielding. “You’re right,” she admitted. “I’ve been doing this my whole life. I was born into it. Being an Assassin wasn’t a choice for me—it was an expectation. I didn’t wake up one day and decide this was the life I wanted, but it’s the one I have. And I’ve learned that what matters isn’t whether it’s fair. What matters is what you do with it.”

Ezio’s jaw worked as he processed her words. His anger simmered beneath the surface, but there was something else there too—a grudging understanding, maybe even admiration. “So what? You just accepted it?”

Amelia’s lips pressed into a thin line, and for a moment, she looked away, her gaze distant. “It wasn’t about acceptance,” she said quietly. “It was about responsibility. I realized I had the ability to fight for something bigger than myself. That made it worth it.” She turned back to him, her tone softening. “You have that same choice, Ezio. You didn’t ask for this life, but you’re in it now. You can run from it, or you can use it to protect the people you care about.”

Her words hung between them, and Ezio looked at her, his frustration tempered by something quieter. “You make it sound so simple.”

“It’s not,” Amelia said, her voice tinged with a hint of weariness. “It’s hard, and it will hurt. But it’s worth it for the chance to protect those we love, Ezio. I promise you that.”

Ezio’s gaze flickered, his brow furrowing as her words sank in. For a moment, the air between them felt charged, filled with the weight of all the unspoken truths they weren’t ready to name. Amelia held his gaze, her heart thudding in her chest, but she forced herself to step back, breaking the moment before it could linger too long.

“You should talk to your father,” she said, her tone brisk as she gestured toward the villa. “Figure out what you really want. But don’t take too long, Ezio. Time isn’t something we have in abundance.”

Ezio nodded slowly, pushing off the railing. “I’ll think about it,” he said, his voice low but resolute.

Amelia gave him a small, encouraging nod before turning away. Her steps were steady as she walked back toward the villa, but her mind was anything but. Every word they’d exchanged played back in her thoughts, every look, every unspoken feeling simmering just beneath the surface.

She clenched her hands into fists as she reached the doorway, steadying herself. There was no room for distractions, no room for the feelings she could no longer deny but refused to act on. This wasn’t about her, about them—it was about the fight ahead, the lives they were trying to protect.

Chapter Text

The small group of soldiers led by Mario crept through the hills overlooking Tuscany. A faint breeze whispered through the trees, rustling the leaves and carrying the distant sound of rushing water. The moon hung low in the sky, casting a silvery glow over the rugged landscape, painting the hills and valleys in shades of black and gray. Shadows stretched long and eerie across the ground, turning every rock and bush into a lurking silhouette. Below them, the walls of the Castello de’ Pazzi loomed, dark and foreboding, its ancient stones bathed in moonlight.

Amelia kept her gaze sharp as they moved, her senses attuned to every shift in the shadows. Her years of training had taught her to read the signs in the landscape—the crack of a branch, the distant murmur of conversation from the guards patrolling the walls. Mario’s figure cut a strong silhouette against the dark sky, his shoulders square with the confidence of a seasoned warrior. He halted at the edge of the hillside, gesturing for the others to pause as he surveyed the castle below.

Amelia pulled her horse to a stop beside Mario, her fingers flexing on the reins. The ride had been quiet, but her mind had been far from still. Every rhythmic beat of her horse’s hooves against the ground seemed to echo with the same question: Why hadn’t he come?

Ezio’s absence sat heavy in her chest, a weight she couldn’t quite shake. She had understood his hesitation; after all, the life of an Assassin wasn’t one you stepped into lightly. Yet, as the days had turned into weeks, and now into months, she had watched him transform. The boy who had stumbled through his first sparring match was gone, replaced by a young man with fire in his eyes and a blade that moved with purpose. But tonight, when it mattered most, he had stayed behind.

She tightened her grip on the reins, her jaw clenching. It wasn’t anger she felt, not really. It was frustration—at him, at herself, at the choices neither of them had been able to avoid. You can’t force someone to fight, she reminded herself, even if every part of her wanted him to see what she saw: his potential, his strength, his place in this war.

Her thoughts drifted to their conversation the night before. The look in his eyes when she had told him running wouldn’t save his family. The way his shoulders had sagged under the weight of her words. She had spoken to him as a fellow fighter, as a friend, but the truth ran deeper than that. She cared for him, in a way that frightened her as much as it grounded her. And yet, she had no right to expect anything from him—not now, not with so much unresolved between them.

Mario slowed his horse at the crest of a hill, raising a hand to signal a halt. His broad figure was etched against the dark sky, his movements sure and deliberate as he surveyed the landscape below. The castle loomed in the distance, its towers casting jagged shadows over the surrounding countryside. Mario’s men waited quietly, their faces grim, their eyes scanning the terrain for any sign of movement.

Amelia pulled her horse up beside Mario, her gaze fixed on the fortress below. “How many men do you think he’s got inside?” she asked, her voice low but steady.

“Enough to make this a challenge,” Mario replied, his tone gruff but laced with a hint of determination. He turned to her, his weathered face set in a hard line. “Vieri’s been making life miserable for too long. It’s time we reminded him who he’s dealing with.”

Amelia nodded, her lips pressing into a thin line. “We’ll hit them hard and fast. He won’t know what’s coming.”

Mario’s faint smirk was visible even in the dim light. “That’s the spirit.” He turned to the men behind them. “We’ll regroup in the village just ahead. Rest while you can. Once we’ve planned our approach, there’ll be no turning back.”

The group moved on, descending the hillside in silence. The village lay nestled in a small valley, its narrow streets and simple homes shrouded in shadow. The air was cool, carrying the faint scent of damp earth and wood smoke, and Amelia let herself focus on the sounds of her boots crunching against gravel as she dismounted.

Leading her horse to a modest stable, she worked to steady her breathing. The tension of the night—the weight of the upcoming confrontation—pressed heavily on her. Her fingers worked deftly to tie the reins to a post, the repetitive motion grounding her in the moment.

A shadow shifted in the corner of her eye. She barely had time to turn when a voice broke the stillness. “Amelia.”

She jerked upright, her hand instinctively going to the hilt of her sword. The lantern’s faint glow illuminated Ezio’s face, his dark eyes steady as they met hers. Her breath caught, her heart hammering in her chest before recognition set in.

“Dio, Ezio!” she hissed, her voice sharp as she lowered her hand from her weapon. “You scared me.”

His expression softened slightly, a faint smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Not my intention.”

Amelia exhaled slowly, the initial shock fading into something warmer, though her voice remained steady. “What are you doing here?”

Ezio stepped closer, the determination in his gaze unmistakable. “I made my choice,” he said simply, his tone firm. “I’m not running anymore.”

Her chest tightened, a flicker of warmth breaking through her guarded thoughts. Relief mingled with something deeper—something she wouldn’t dare name. She straightened, letting her hands fall to her sides, though she couldn’t quite keep the small smile from her lips.

Amelia studied him for a moment, her eyes searching his face. She wanted to say something—anything—that could convey the storm of emotions his presence brought. Instead, she let her nod mirror his. “Good,” she said firmly, stepping back and gesturing toward the others. “You’re just in time.”

Mario approached, his booming laugh cutting through the quiet. “Decided to join the fight after all, nipote? I was wondering how long it’d take you.”

"I am taking responsibility. Vieri troubles you because of me," Ezio replied, his tone edged with guilt. He cast a glance toward Amelia, as if seeking her unspoken approval, before turning back to face his uncle.

Mario’s laugh rumbled through the quiet night, though his expression held a hint of concern. "Vieri troubles us because he is a Templar, and we are Assassins."

Ezio’s resolve hardened, his posture straightening. "Either way, I wish to help," he said, determination clear in his voice.

Mario’s expression softened slightly, recognizing the fire in his nephew’s eyes. "Va bene. Alright. Then listen closely," he said, turning back to the distant walls of the fortress. "First, we must find a way inside the city. Though it seems Vieri expects us… He has sealed the gates and sent his men to guard them. Fortunately for us, the city is larger than his host. The southern gate suffers for it. So this is where we will strike. Pronti?"

"Ready." Amelia nodded, her gaze scanning the darkened walls below, already planning their route. She could see the faint glow of torches and hear the distant murmur of guards' voices. She knew they’d need to move swiftly and quietly if they were to avoid detection.

The group moved like shadows through the night, their footsteps muffled against the soft earth as they approached the castle’s looming silhouette. The ancient walls seemed to rise endlessly into the darkness, their jagged edges cutting against the silver moonlight. Amelia’s gaze flicked to Mario as he led them forward, his broad figure moving with the ease of someone who had stormed fortresses like this countless times before. She admired his confidence but knew that success tonight hinged on more than experience—it demanded precision.

They halted at a ridge overlooking the stronghold, and Mario signaled for the group to gather. Amelia knelt beside him, her sharp eyes scanning the layout below. Every flicker of torchlight marked a potential threat, every shadow a hiding place for danger. She noted the steady movements of patrolling guards, their routes predictable but plentiful. This wouldn’t be easy.

Mario handed a bundle of throwing knives to Ezio, his gruff voice low and commanding. “Alright, kids, here’s how it’s going to work. My men and I will draw the guards’ attention. Once the chaos starts, the two of you get yourselves over the wall and open the gate. Take these,” he added, thrusting the knives toward Ezio. “Use them to take out the archers.”

Ezio took the bundle, his fingers tightening around the blades. “I’m ready,” he said, though Amelia caught the flicker of doubt in his expression.

Mario’s knowing smile didn’t falter. “Then let’s begin. All’attacco! ” His booming cry shattered the stillness, and his soldiers surged forward, their shouts breaking against the castle walls like thunder. Torches flared, and the clang of steel on steel erupted as the battle began.

Amelia tugged at Ezio’s sleeve, pulling him into the shadows along the base of the wall. She moved swiftly, her boots barely making a sound on the uneven ground. They reached the cover of the wall, and she turned to him, her voice low and urgent. “Boost me up.”

Ezio nodded, crouching to interlock his fingers. She stepped into his hands and leapt, her hands finding purchase on the rough stone. The wall was familiar territory—every climb, every motion second nature to her. In moments, she was perched on the parapet, reaching down to help Ezio up.

They crouched together, pressed against the cool stone as they surveyed the rooftop. Three archers patrolled the narrow walkway, their movements steady and unhurried. Amelia’s breath misted in the night air as she reached for a throwing knife. The weapon was balanced and familiar in her grip. She focused on the nearest target, her gaze narrowing. With a swift, practiced motion, she let the blade fly. It struck true, the archer crumpling without a sound.

Ezio mimicked her, his knife burying itself in the throat of the second guard. The last archer turned, alerted by some small noise, but Amelia was already moving. She darted forward, her blade gleaming as it caught the moonlight. A single strike to his side, and he fell.

“You’re getting faster,” she murmured, wiping her blade on the man’s tunic. Her tone carried a note of approval that she didn’t fully intend but didn’t bother to hide.

Ezio offered a faint smile, though tension lingered in his eyes. “Let’s get that gate open.”

They dropped silently into the courtyard below, landing in the shadows near the gate mechanism. The sounds of fighting reverberated around them—Mario’s men clashing with the castle guards, the air thick with the shouts of battle. Ezio darted toward the iron wheel, his hands steady as he began cranking it open. The metal groaned in protest, but inch by inch, the gate lifted.

The moment it was wide enough, Mario’s soldiers poured through, their swords flashing as they pressed their attack. Mario strode in behind them, his presence as commanding as ever. He clapped a heavy hand on Ezio’s shoulder. “Well done! We’re in. Now, listen to me—distract the remaining guards and keep them busy. Buy me enough time to find and deal with Vieri.”

Ezio nodded, ready to obey, but Mario caught his arm, his voice hardening. “Take some of my men with you. Don’t get cocky, nipote . I’ll need you alive to finish this.”

Amelia stepped forward, her tone brisk. “I’ll take the guards near the market square. Meet me at the front of the fort when it’s done.”

Ezio’s gaze met hers, and she caught the flicker of concern there. But he nodded, his expression set. “Alright. Be careful.”

Amelia moved swiftly, slipping into the shadows. The narrow streets of the town seemed endless, their darkened windows and shuttered doors hiding secrets she didn’t have time to consider. Every guard she encountered fell to her blade with ruthless efficiency, her movements honed by years of training. 

Her breaths came steady and controlled, her mind focused entirely on her task. The small square she’d been clearing was now silent, save for the distant clash of steel and the occasional cry of pain echoing from deeper within the town. She wiped her blade on her tunic, glancing toward the direction of the fortress gates. That was when she heard it—a surge of noise, louder and more frantic than the rest of the fighting. The unmistakable clamor of a fierce battle.

Her stomach twisted as she recognized the direction. Mario.

She moved quickly, cutting through the narrow alleys toward the commotion. A sharp whistle made her freeze mid-step. She whirled just in time to see a guard stepping from the shadows, his sword raised to strike. Instinct drove her. She ducked, the blade whistling past her head, and surged forward with her dagger, driving it into his stomach. He grunted, collapsing in a heap at her feet.

Before she could recover, a second guard barreled into her, catching her off guard. They tumbled to the ground, her dagger skittering from her grip. Amelia cursed, twisting to avoid the man’s knife, his blade slicing just past her face as she wrenched free. Pain flared as the edge nicked her cheek, the sting sharp and hot. Her hand darted to her belt, pulling free another dagger, and with a forceful thrust, she plunged it into his side. The man gasped, his weight falling against her before she shoved him off and scrambled to her feet.

Her cheek throbbed, warm blood trickling down toward her jaw. She swiped it away quickly, more annoyed than anything, and retrieved her first dagger from the ground. Her tunic was smeared with blood—not her own but from the guard she had killed earlier—and she could feel its sticky weight as she moved. She barely spared it a thought as she sprinted toward the square, the sound of battle growing louder with every step.

She rounded a corner and came to a halt, taking in the chaotic scene ahead. Mario stood in the center of the square, his sword a blur as he fended off Vieri’s men. Blood slicked the cobblestones, and sparks flew as steel met steel. His booming voice rang out as he barked orders to the few soldiers still standing at his side. But the numbers were against him, and it was clear he was struggling to hold his ground.

Amelia darted forward, staying low as she approached. Her sharp eyes caught a shadow moving in the fray—a figure slipping into the square from the opposite side. Ezio. He was wielding his sword with confidence now, his strikes swift and precise as he cut through the chaos to reach Mario.

Their eyes met briefly across the melee, and without a word, they moved in unison. Amelia flanked the guards on the left while Ezio took the right, their attacks deliberate and efficient. Together, they cut a path through the skirmish, their blades striking with precision.

Amelia reached Mario first, driving her dagger into the back of a guard who had nearly gotten the better of him. Mario turned at the sound, his expression lighting up briefly with relief. “Finally, someone with timing!” he barked, parrying another blow. “You two—about time you showed up!”

Ezio arrived a moment later, dispatching a guard with a clean thrust of his sword. “Uncle,” he called, his voice steady despite the chaos. “Are you alright?”

Mario gave a sharp laugh, though it was tinged with exhaustion. “I’ve been better, but I’ll live. These bastards caught us off guard. It’s about time you got here!”

Amelia wiped her blade on the tunic of another fallen guard, glancing toward the remaining enemies still pressing the attack. “Not for long if we don’t thin their numbers,” she said sharply, her tone clipped as she moved to cover Mario’s flank.

Ezio’s gaze darted to her face, catching the fresh cut along her cheek. His brows furrowed in concern. “You’re hurt.”

“It’s nothing,” she snapped, her voice leaving no room for argument. “Focus on the fight.”

Mario clapped Ezio on the shoulder, pulling his attention back. “She’s right, nipote. No time to play nursemaid. We can handle things here, but Vieri needs to be stopped now. He’ll slip away if we don’t act quickly."

Mario turned sharply, his sword flashing as he blocked another attack. "Ezio, listen to me," he barked, his voice cutting through the chaos. "We can handle things here, but Vieri needs to be stopped now. He’ll slip away if we don’t act quickly."

Ezio hesitated, his eyes flickering between Mario and Amelia, as if weighing his decision. “Are you sure?” he asked, gripping his sword tightly.

“Go,” Mario ordered firmly, deflecting another blow with a grunt. “You’ve trained for this. Find him and end this madness!”

Ezio gave a quick nod, his jaw tightening with resolve. He glanced at Amelia one last time, his expression unreadable, before slipping into the shadows toward the fortress. The noise of the fray seemed to intensify behind him as he disappeared into the narrow alleyway.

Amelia barely had a moment to watch him leave before another attacker rushed her from the side, his blade aiming for her ribs. She spun, her dagger flashing upward to deflect the strike. Sparks flew as steel scraped against steel, the vibration jarring her arm. With a fierce twist of her wrist, she drove her blade into the man’s stomach, his scream cutting off in a wet gurgle as he collapsed to the ground.

The sharp sound of a whistle pierced the air, and Amelia instinctively ducked just as a crossbow bolt embedded itself in the wall behind her. She scanned the square quickly, catching sight of the archer reloading atop a low rooftop. Gripping a throwing knife, she sent it sailing through the air with practiced precision. The blade struck him in the throat, and he toppled backward, his body thudding against the tiles before sliding off the roof.

Amelia turned back to the fight, her movements fluid despite the chaos. Another guard charged at Mario, and she darted forward to intercept, catching him with a slash across the forearm before he could bring his weapon down. He roared in pain, swinging wildly at her in retaliation. Amelia ducked and drove her blade into his side, the strike clean and lethal. She yanked her dagger free, stepping back as the man crumpled to his knees.

Her focus on Mario’s flank distracted her from the figure closing in from behind. A sudden sharp pain erupted in her side as a blade grazed her, slicing through her tunic and drawing a searing line of fire along her ribs. She twisted, the motion pulling at the fresh wound, and lashed out with her dagger. The blade sank into the attacker’s throat, his blood spilling hot across her arm as he collapsed.

Amelia staggered, her free hand pressing against the wound at her side. Warm blood seeped through her fingers, dampening the fabric of her tunic. She barely had time to catch her breath when another soldier lunged at her, his sword slicing toward her legs. She tried to dodge, but the blade caught her thigh, cutting deep into the muscle. Pain shot through her, and she stumbled, her leg threatening to give out beneath her.

Biting back a curse, she gritted her teeth and lashed out with her throwing knife, catching the man in the eye. He dropped instantly, his weapon clattering to the cobblestones. Amelia reached for a nearby wall, steadying herself as blood trickled down her leg, pooling in her boot. She wiped the sweat and blood from her brow with her sleeve, forcing herself to stay upright.

The square was thinning now, Mario’s men gaining the upper hand against Vieri’s soldiers. Mario himself was a force of nature, his sword carving through the remaining guards with ruthless efficiency. Amelia pushed off the wall, refusing to let her injuries slow her. She moved to his side, dispatching another enemy with a quick strike to the heart.

“Secure the square!” Mario barked, his voice ringing out over the din. “Block the exits—don’t let anyone escape!”

Amelia stepped back, her breathing ragged as she wiped her blade on a fallen guard’s tunic. Her side burned, and her leg throbbed with every step, but she refused to show any weakness. “What now?” she asked, her voice steady despite the pain.

Mario’s sharp eyes flicked to her, lingering briefly on the blood soaking her tunic and the crimson trail seeping down her leg. He didn’t comment on her injuries, but his expression hardened. “Go after him,” he said firmly, before turning to push the rest of Vieri’s men into a retreat.

Blood smeared her tunic, her side ached with each step, and her leg throbbed where the cut on her thigh continued to ooze. The coppery scent of blood mingled with the acrid tang of sweat and smoke in the night air. Her hand gripped the hilt of her dagger tightly, ready for any lingering threat.

Above the chaos, her eyes caught movement on the parapet. Ezio was there, his silhouette stark against the pale glow of the moon as he faced Vieri. She froze, watching as the two men circled one another, their swords gleaming in the moonlight. The clashing of their blades carried down to the square, sharp and unrelenting.

Her heart twisted. I should be there.

Pushing past the ache in her body, she darted toward the base of the parapet, weaving through the remnants of the fray. Her side protested with every step, but she didn’t stop. Reaching the wall, she paused briefly, her hand brushing against the rough stone as she calculated her next move. The climb would be brutal in her condition, but there was no other option.

Amelia sheathed her dagger and leapt for the first handhold, gritting her teeth as she hauled herself up. Her muscles burned, and the slickness of her blood made her grip precarious, but she forced herself to keep climbing. One step, one pull at a time. The sounds of the fight above urged her on, each metallic clash fueling her determination.

Halfway up, her injured thigh grazed the stone, sending a sharp jolt of pain through her leg. She bit down on a cry, her nails scraping against the rock as she steadied herself. Keep going. Don’t stop. The mantra pounded in her head, drowning out everything else.

Finally, her hand found the edge of the parapet. She pulled herself up with a strained groan, collapsing briefly onto the cold stone before pushing to her feet. The sight before her made her stomach twist.

Ezio and Vieri were locked in a ferocious duel, their movements a blend of raw emotion and deadly precision. Ezio’s strikes came hard and fast, his fury evident in the force behind each swing. Vieri was on the defensive, his footing slipping as Ezio drove him back step by step.

Amelia leaned heavily against the parapet for a moment, catching her breath. The throbbing in her side and leg was relentless, but she shoved the pain aside and stepped forward, her eyes fixed on Ezio. She could see the wildness in his expression, the sheer hatred that fueled his every move. It was a look she had seen before, one that always preceded a moment of dangerous recklessness.

With a final, powerful swing, Ezio disarmed Vieri, sending the Templar’s sword clattering across the stone. Vieri fell to his knees, his breaths ragged, blood streaking his lips. Ezio loomed over him, his sword raised high, his rage palpable in the sharp lines of his face.

Vieri let out a wet, choking laugh. “You... would have done the same... to save the ones you love,” he rasped, his voice cracking under the weight of his injuries.

Ezio’s expression darkened, and his voice rose in a snarl, the words spilling out like venom. “Pezzo di merda! Vorrei che tu avessi sofferto di più! Hai avuto la fine che meritavi! Spero che tu bruci—”

“Ezio, basta! Enough!” Amelia’s voice cut through the night like a blade. She limped toward him, her hand clutching her side, her dagger glinting faintly in her grip. Her voice was rough but steady as she stepped between him and the fallen Templar. “He’s beaten. We do not curse the dead.”

Ezio froze, his chest heaving, his grip on his sword unwavering as he stared at her. The raw fury in his eyes met her unwavering resolve, and for a moment, neither moved. Amelia raised a hand, placing it firmly on his arm. “Show mercy, Ezio,” she said softly but firmly. “Not for him—for you. You are not like him. Don’t let him drag you down to his level.”

Ezio’s breathing slowed, his knuckles loosening on the hilt of his sword. He stepped back, the anger draining from his face, though the shadows of frustration and grief remained. He glanced at Vieri’s crumpled form, then back at Amelia, his jaw tight but his blade lowering.

Amelia turned, leaning heavily as she knelt beside the dying Templar. Her body screamed in protest, but she ignored it, placing a bloodied hand on Vieri’s chest. “Che la morte ti dia la pace che cercavi. Requiescat in pace,” she murmured, her voice low but steady.

Ezio’s voice was hoarse when he finally spoke. “He didn’t deserve that.”

“No,” Amelia agreed, her gaze never leaving Vieri’s lifeless form. “But it’s not about what he deserved. It’s about who we choose to be.”

Ezio was silent, her words weighing on him as he stepped back, letting the stillness of the parapet envelop them. Amelia rose slowly, her face pale, her breathing labored. She met Ezio’s gaze, her voice softer now. “This is only the beginning, Ezio. Don’t let anger control you.”

Chapter Text

The moonlight cast a cold glow on Amelia as she swayed on her feet, her hand pressing against her side to stem the persistent trickle of blood. Her leg ached, every movement sharp and unforgiving, but she pushed through the pain, her expression betraying none of it. She turned toward Ezio, who stood rooted in place, his gaze fixed on her with growing concern.

“You’re hurt,” he said, his voice low and steady, though it carried an edge of worry.

Amelia forced a faint smirk. “Just a scratch,” she quipped, though her voice lacked its usual strength. She swayed slightly, and Ezio was at her side in an instant, his hand steadying her arm.

“Don’t lie to me,” he said firmly, his grip gentle but unyielding. “You’re bleeding. Badly.”

“I’m fine, Ezio,” she muttered, though her knees threatened to buckle beneath her. “There’s still work to be done.”

Ezio exhaled sharply, a mixture of frustration and care flashing in his eyes. “The work can wait. You can’t.”

Before she could protest, he shifted to support her more fully, one arm bracing around her waist. His touch was careful, mindful of her injuries. “The stairs,” he said, nodding toward the far end of the parapet. “We’re not climbing down this time.”

Amelia wanted to argue, but the wave of exhaustion washing over her silenced any objections. She allowed Ezio to guide her, leaning on him as they made their way to the staircase. Each step sent jolts of pain through her leg, but she bit down on her discomfort, focusing instead on Ezio’s steady presence beside her.

As they descended, the sounds of the battle below faded into the night. The square came into view, cobblestones slick with blood and littered with fallen guards. Mario’s men regrouped, their shouts subdued now as they secured the area and corralled the last remnants of Vieri’s forces. Mario stood in the center, his sword resting on his shoulder, surveying the aftermath with a grim expression.

Ezio led Amelia to the edge of the square, his arm steady around her waist. He found a low stone bench near the remnants of a market stall, helping her ease down onto it. She gritted her teeth against the jolt of pain in her leg, her hand pressing firmly against her bleeding side.

Before she could catch her breath, an older man with a leather satchel slung across his chest approached, his steps brisk and purposeful. His weathered face was lined with concern, and his sharp eyes took in her injuries with a practiced sweep.

“I’m the doctor,” he said without preamble, kneeling beside her. “Let me see.”

Ezio stepped back to give the man room, though he stayed close, his arms crossed and his gaze watchful. Amelia leaned slightly, pulling her hand away from her side to reveal the deep, ragged gash. Blood soaked her tunic, dripping faintly onto the cobblestones beneath her.

The doctor hissed through his teeth. “You’ve torn yourself up good, haven’t you?” He glanced at her thigh and frowned. “The leg too. Both need stitching, and quickly.”

Amelia rolled her eyes, her irritation bubbling over. “It’s not that bad,” she muttered. “I’ve had worse.”

Ezio’s brows shot up, his expression skeptical. “Really?”

“No,” she admitted begrudgingly, “but I will have worse, I’m sure.”

The doctor snorted, reaching into his satchel with an air of exasperation. He held up a bloodied rag, streaked with deep crimson, and waved it in front of her. “This isn’t ‘nothing,’ woman. You’ll be lucky if you can even stand tomorrow without proper treatment. Do you want to lose that leg?”

Amelia opened her mouth, her retort already forming, but Mario’s booming voice cut through the argument. He approached, his sword resting on his shoulder, his sharp eyes narrowing as he looked her over. “Lass, sit still and let the man do his work. You’re not as invincible as you think.”

She huffed and leaned back against the stone, grumbling under her breath, but didn’t resist further as the doctor crouched beside her. His hands moved with practiced precision, cutting away the bloodied fabric around her thigh. The gash was jagged and angry, the flesh raw and swollen. He frowned, muttering something about reckless soldiers, before pulling a small vial from his bag.

“This will sting,” he warned, though there was a note of relish in his voice.

Amelia barely had time to prepare before the liquid hit her wound. A searing pain tore through her leg, and she sucked in a sharp breath, her fingers clawing at the stone beneath her. “Son of a—!”

“Language, ragazza,” Mario said with a wry smirk, though his concern was evident in the way he stood close, his sword now at his side.

Ezio stepped forward, crouching beside her. “Here,” he said, holding out his hand.

Amelia glared at him, biting back another curse as the doctor pressed a rag to her wound to stop the bleeding. Reluctantly, she grabbed Ezio’s hand, her grip tightening as the doctor threaded a curved needle. The sight of it glinting in the lantern light made her stomach twist.

“Hold still,” the doctor instructed curtly, his fingers deft as he began stitching. The first pierce of the needle sent a sharp jolt through her, and she instinctively squeezed Ezio’s hand—hard.

Ezio winced, his lips twitching into a faint grimace. “You’ve got a hell of a grip,” he muttered, though his tone was light.

“Shut up,” Amelia snapped through gritted teeth, her face pale with pain. The doctor continued, each tug of the thread making her flinch. Her breathing was shallow, her focus narrowed to the fire running through her leg.

“You soldiers,” the doctor muttered, more to himself than anyone else, as he worked. “Always thinking you’re invincible until you’re bleeding out in the dirt. Should’ve brought leeches.”

Amelia let out a strained laugh, though it sounded more like a cough. “If you come near me with leeches, I swear—”

“They’re effective,” he interrupted gruffly, knotting the thread and moving to clean the wound again. “But I’ll spare you. For now.”

Mario leaned in slightly, his expression softening. “You’ve done good work tonight, Amelia,” he said, his voice quieter. “But being one of my men means knowing when to rest. You don’t get to fall apart on us.”

Her irritation ebbed at his words, replaced by a faint flicker of gratitude. He didn’t see her as a liability—he saw her as an equal. Despite the pain burning through her, she managed a small nod. “I’ll keep that in mind,” she murmured.

The doctor moved to her side next, his hands deliberate but unyielding as he cut away the blood-soaked fabric. The jagged wound was exposed, the raw edges of flesh angry and swollen. He muttered something under his breath, pressing a clean rag against the injury to stop the bleeding.

The sharp, searing pain ripped through Amelia like a wildfire, and she sucked in a harsh breath, her nails digging into Ezio’s hand. The sting in her leg had been bad enough, but this—this felt like someone had lit a blade and driven it through her side.

Ezio shifted closer, steadying her with a firm hand on her shoulder. “You’re doing fine,” he said softly, his voice calm but laced with concern. She glanced at him, her vision momentarily blurred with tears. Her grip on his hand loosened for a heartbeat, but when the doctor pressed harder to clean the wound, the fire surged anew.

Her head dropped forward instinctively, finding purchase on Ezio’s shoulder. “Dio,” she hissed through clenched teeth, her voice barely more than a gasp. Tears pricked the corners of her eyes, and she bit her lip to stifle a scream as the doctor began stitching the wound with the same steady ruthlessness he’d used before.

But it wasn’t enough. The next pull of the needle sent a fresh wave of pain radiating through her body. Without thinking, her teeth clamped down on the first solid thing they could find—Ezio’s shoulder.

“Ah! Dio santo, Lia!” Ezio yelped, his voice breaking the tense silence. His free hand flew up in surprise, but he didn’t pull away. Instead, he laughed, the sound both pained and amused. “Is biting part of your recovery strategy, or am I just special?”

Amelia’s teeth released him, her face flushing as she fought through the haze of pain to glare up at him. “Shut up,” she muttered, her voice trembling. Her eyes glistened with unshed tears, but the corner of her mouth twitched faintly, betraying a flicker of amusement through the agony.

The doctor didn’t so much as glance up, his focus entirely on his work. “Whatever helps her stay still,” he said dryly, tying off the final stitch and leaning back slightly. “But she might owe you a drink after that one, boy.”

Amelia groaned, leaning her head back against Ezio’s shoulder as she caught her breath. “I don’t owe him anything.”

Ezio chuckled, his grip on her hand easing as the tension in the air began to dissipate. “I’ll add it to the list,” he said, his tone lighter now, though his gaze remained on her, his concern still evident.

The doctor wiped his hands on the bloodied rag, his expression weary but satisfied. “You’ll live,” he announced, finally sitting back on his heels. “But no heavy fighting for a few days.”

Mario stepped closer, crossing his arms as he eyed Amelia critically. “Will she be well enough to ride?” he asked the doctor, his tone gruff but lined with concern.

The doctor wiped his hands on a rag and nodded. “If the ride is easy and you keep her from doing anything foolish, she’ll manage. But I’d recommend she ride with someone. That leg of hers won’t handle much strain.”

Amelia frowned, already annoyed by the suggestion. “I can manage just fine.”

The doctor raised a bloody rag in her direction, his sharp gaze meeting hers. “This isn’t a debate. You’ve lost enough blood, and those stitches won’t hold if you stretch that muscle the wrong way. Either ride with someone, or don’t ride at all.”

Before Amelia could argue further, Mario nodded decisively. “You’ll ride with Ezio,” he said, glancing at his nephew. “He’s sturdy enough to make sure you don’t fall off.”

Amelia opened her mouth to protest, but the pain in her leg flared as she shifted, cutting off her retort. She sighed, her shoulders slumping slightly. “Fine,” she muttered, shooting Ezio a half-hearted glare. “But if you make a single joke, I’m walking.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Ezio replied, his smirk softening into something gentler as he offered her his arm.

The group began their trek out of the city, the quiet night broken only by the sound of their boots against the cobblestones. Mario’s men walked ahead, their voices low as they discussed securing the area. Ezio kept pace with Amelia, his arm steadying her as she limped alongside him.

For the first few minutes, Amelia tried to maintain her usual stoic demeanor, but the weight of the day’s events—combined with the sharp throbbing in her side and the dull ache in her leg—quickly wore on her. Her steps faltered, and Ezio tightened his grip on her arm, casting her a sideways glance.

“You’re slowing down,” he pointed out, his voice soft but laced with concern.

“I’m fine,” she insisted, though her voice was strained. “I don’t need—”

Before she could finish, Ezio huffed and stopped abruptly. “Stubborn as ever,” he muttered under his breath, crouching slightly.

“What are you—” Amelia began, but the words were cut off as Ezio slipped his arms beneath her knees and back, lifting her effortlessly into his arms. She let out a startled gasp, her hands instinctively clutching his shoulders.

“Ezio!” she protested, her cheeks burning. “Put me down!”

“Not a chance,” he replied, his tone calm but firm as he adjusted her weight. “You’ll thank me later when you’re not bleeding all over Mario’s horse.”

She glared at him, her fingers curling into the fabric of his tunic. “You’re impossible.”

“And you’re heavy,” he quipped, though the teasing glint in his eyes softened the remark. “Let’s call it even.”

Amelia huffed, but as the pain in her leg ebbed slightly from being off her feet, she begrudgingly let herself relax against him. The warmth of his chest and the steady rhythm of his footsteps were strangely comforting, though she would never admit it.

The walk to the horses took longer than she expected, and by the time they arrived at the outskirts of the city, she was biting back the urge to thank him. Mario stood near the small cluster of horses, barking orders to his men as they prepared to ride.

Ezio carried her to the nearest mount, a dark bay horse that pawed the ground impatiently. He set her down carefully beside the animal, keeping a steadying hand on her arm as she swayed slightly.

“Mount up,” Mario barked, glancing at Ezio. “Get her on your horse, and make sure she doesn’t tumble off halfway home.”

Ezio nodded, swinging himself up into the saddle with practiced ease. One of Mario’s men stepped forward to help Amelia, but before he could lift her, Ezio leaned down, extending his arms. “Here,” he said, his tone lighter. “Let me.”

Amelia hesitated, her pride warring with the dull throb of pain in her leg. Finally, she relented, allowing Ezio to grip her waist and lift her into the saddle. She shifted to sit sideways across his lap, her injured leg stretched out to avoid any strain.

The position was awkward at first, but Ezio steadied her with a firm arm around her back. “Comfortable?” he asked, glancing down at her.

“Not remotely,” she replied, though her voice lacked venom. She leaned slightly against him, exhaustion creeping into her limbs. “Just don’t let me fall.”

“You’ll be fine,” he assured her, his voice softer now. “I’ve got you.”

Mario mounted his own horse nearby, nodding in approval as he turned toward the group. “Let’s move out! We’ve still got a long ride ahead.”

the group set out, the sound of hooves echoed against the quiet night. Mario led at the front, his commanding voice occasionally breaking the stillness as he gave orders to his men. Ezio, however, hung back with Amelia, keeping their pace steady. The dark bay horse beneath them moved smoothly, its gait helping to soothe some of the lingering aches in Amelia’s body.

She leaned into him more than she intended, her exhaustion and injuries making it impossible to hold herself upright for long. Ezio’s arm tightened around her back, steady and protective, and she let herself relax against him. It was practical, she told herself. She needed the support. But deep down, she relished the closeness, the warmth of his presence against the cool night air.

“You’re quiet,” Ezio said after a while, his voice breaking the silence between them. It was low and gentle, meant only for her ears.

Amelia tilted her head slightly, her cheek brushing his shoulder. “It’s been a long day,” she murmured, her voice soft. “I’m conserving my energy.”

Ezio chuckled, the sound rumbling through his chest. “That’s the most polite way I’ve ever heard someone admit they’re too tired to argue with me.”

A small smile tugged at her lips, and she let out a quiet huff of amusement. “Don’t get used to it. I’ll be back to giving you hell by morning.”

“I’d be disappointed if you weren’t,” he replied, his tone light but sincere.

The gentle rhythm of the horse's movement, combined with Ezio’s steady presence, began to lull Amelia into a state of relaxation she hadn’t felt in weeks. Her exhaustion clawed at her, pulling her deeper into the warmth and quiet of the moment. She let her eyes close briefly, the aches in her body fading to a dull hum.

“You’re going to fall asleep on me,” Ezio murmured, his tone carrying a teasing lilt.

“Maybe I am,” Amelia replied, her voice barely audible. She tilted her head against his shoulder, the movement lazy and unguarded. “Not much I can do about it.”

Ezio chuckled softly, shifting slightly to make her more comfortable. “Just don’t drool. I have standards, you know.”

Amelia’s lips twitched into a faint smile, though she didn’t bother opening her eyes. “I’d say that’s asking a lot after the day we’ve had,” she mumbled.

For a while, the only sound between them was the rhythmic clopping of hooves and the muffled murmurs of the soldiers ahead. The cool night air brushed against her face, but it was no match for the warmth of Ezio’s arm around her. The scent of leather and faint traces of sweat clung to him.

Her breathing slowed, each exhale soft and even as her body relaxed fully against him. She could feel the steady rise and fall of his chest beneath her cheek, his heart pounding steadily. His presence was something she had always found to calm her but she had never been this close to him.

As sleep began to claim her, a thought surfaced in the haze of her drowsiness. She was grateful for the excuse to be this close, for the rare moment of solace they shared. It was fleeting, she knew—tomorrow would bring more battles, more chaos. But for now, she allowed herself this brief reprieve.

A small, contented smile curved her lips as her mind drifted. Ezio glanced down at her, his expression softening as he noticed the change in her breathing. He adjusted his hold, careful not to jostle her, and let out a quiet laugh, more to himself than to anyone else.

Chapter Text

The dawn was just breaking over the Tuscan hills as they approached Monteriggioni, the warm hues of sunrise spilling over the stone walls of the villa. The gates stood wide open, the faint sounds of revelry spilling out even from a distance. Mario and his men had ridden ahead hours ago, and it was clear the celebrations were already in full swing.

Amelia stirred against Ezio’s chest, blinking as the light filtered through her lashes. The ache in her side and the throb in her leg greeted her immediately, pulling a grimace to her lips. She straightened slightly, the movement drawing a wince as stiffness fought against her efforts.

“Good morning,” Ezio said, his tone light as he glanced down at her. “You’ve missed most of the ride.”

“Good,” she muttered, rubbing a hand over her face as she sat up properly. “I didn’t particularly want to remember it.”

He chuckled, slowing the horse to a halt as they neared the villa gates. “Well, the hard part is over. We’re home.”

Amelia frowned, the word home feeling strange in her ears. It wasn’t untrue, but she still hadn’t grown used to thinking of Monteriggioni as more than a stop along the way. With a sigh, she let Ezio help her down from the horse. Her feet hit the ground unsteadily, and she grabbed his arm for balance, her leg protesting the weight immediately.

“How are you feeling?” Ezio asked, his voice softening as he steadied her.

“Sore,” she admitted, taking a testing step and grimacing at the sharp pull in her thigh. “But better than last night.”

Her limp was pronounced, but she managed to walk without leaning too heavily on him. Ezio, however, stayed close, his arm at the ready should she stumble. Together, they passed through the gates, the vibrant sounds of music and laughter growing louder as they made their way into the heart of the villa.

The city square was alive with movement. Villagers and soldiers alike crowded the space, their voices mingling with the lively strains of a lute. Tables laden with food and drink stretched along the edges of the square, and the warm, savory scents of roasted meats and fresh bread filled the air.

Amelia couldn’t help but smile faintly despite her exhaustion. The sight was infectious, the people’s joy a stark contrast to the blood and chaos of the night before. She caught a glimpse of Mario at the head of a table, a goblet raised high as he toasted to their victory, his booming laugh carrying above the din.

“Looks like we’re late,” Ezio remarked, his voice tinged with amusement as he glanced at her. “Think Mario’s missed us?”

“Not likely,” Amelia replied, her tone dry. “He’s probably already told the whole city he won the battle single-handedly.”

Ezio smirked, his hand brushing lightly against Amelia's back as they moved further into the square. “We should at least make an appearance before Mario drinks himself under the table.”

Amelia huffed a quiet laugh, though the pain in her side made even that small motion uncomfortable. She straightened, determined to hold herself together, despite the burning ache in her leg and the dull throb of exhaustion coursing through her.

As they stepped into the heart of the villa, Mario’s booming voice rang out over the gathered soldiers. “Ah, here he is! Our campione, Ezio!” He spread his arms wide, a grin splitting his face as he gestured for silence among the revelers.

“All hail Ezio!” the soldiers cheered, their voices carrying through the night as they raised their tankards in salute. The square erupted into laughter and applause, the tension of the past days dissolving into good-natured revelry.

Ezio managed a small smile as he moved through the crowd, clapping a few men on the shoulder, though Amelia could see the strain in his posture. His steps were slower, his movements deliberate, as though the weight of everything that had happened—and everything yet to come—still pressed heavily on him. She stayed near the edge of the gathering, her sharp eyes following him.

Amelia leaned heavily against a low stone wall, her injured leg trembling with every attempt to shift her weight off it. Her side throbbed in tandem with her pulse, the stitches pulling uncomfortably against the torn flesh beneath. She let out a soft breath, willing herself to push through the discomfort. It had been a long night, but the sight of the celebration unfolding in the square gave her a fleeting moment of relief.

Ezio stood among the gathered soldiers, his broad shoulders illuminated by the flickering light of torches and fire pits. His movements were deliberate, his smiles brief but genuine as he clapped men on the back and accepted their congratulations. Amelia could see the strain beneath his expressions, the heaviness in his posture despite the victory. She knew that weight all too well.

“With Vieri dead, la Toscana can rest easy,” Mario declared, raising his goblet high. “Tonight, we drink to victory and to the future of Monteriggioni!”

The soldiers erupted in cheers, their voices carrying over the square. “Basta lavorare! No more work!” one shouted, his enthusiasm earning a roar of agreement.

“Si passa tutto il giorno a bere! We’ll drink all day!” another bellowed, nearly spilling his tankard in his excitement.

“And with whores!” a third added with a wicked grin, drawing another round of raucous laughter.

Amelia smirked despite herself, though the sharp pull in her side turned the expression into a wince. She gripped the wall more tightly, shifting just enough to ease the ache in her leg. The camaraderie and cheer around her were infectious, even if her body protested every attempt to move. She caught Ezio glancing at her from across the square, his brow furrowed briefly before he turned back to Mario.

Mario waved the men down, his grin fading as he motioned for Ezio to follow him. The cheer around them dimmed slightly, the soldiers returning to their revelry while their leader and his nephew moved toward the quieter edge of the courtyard.

Amelia straightened with effort, her hand braced against the wall for support. She barely had time to catch her breath before Ezio appeared at her side. “Stay here,” he said softly, his voice low with concern. “You need to rest.”

Her jaw tightened as she shot him a sharp look. “I’ll be fine,” she said, her tone clipped. “Besides, I’m not missing whatever this is.”

Ezio hesitated, his expression torn between frustration and worry. Finally, he relented with a sigh, stepping closer. His arm slipped around her shoulders, his hand steadying her as she limped away from the wall. Amelia stiffened at first, unwilling to show just how much she needed the support, but the warmth of his touch and the steadiness of his presence eased her resistance.

The walk toward Mario felt longer than it should have. Each step sent a sharp jolt through her leg, and the effort to keep pace left her short of breath. Whenever they passed an unoccupied crate or barrel, she leaned against it briefly, murmuring an irritated apology before pressing on. Ezio never complained, his arm steady and unyielding as he adjusted his pace to match hers.

By the time they reached the shadowed archways of the villa, Amelia’s cheeks were flushed with exertion, and she had to pause, gripping a nearby column to steady herself. Ezio’s hand tightened on her shoulder, his concern clear. “You don’t have to push yourself like this,” he murmured.

Mario turned to face them, his expression grim. “Ezio,” he began, his voice quieter now, “the Pazzi were only the beginning. They answer to another.”

Ezio’s jaw tensed, and his free hand curled into a fist. “Who?” he demanded, his tone sharp.

“Rodrigo Borgia,” Mario said, his disdain evident. “One of the most powerful men in all of Europe. He leads the Templar Order.”

Amelia’s stomach tightened at the name, the sharp pain in her side momentarily forgotten. She listened intently as Mario continued, her breath catching when Ezio growled, “Which makes him responsible for the murder of my brothers,” before glancing at her, “and her father.”

For a moment, Amelia’s vision blurred as memories clawed their way to the surface: her father’s kind smile, his steady voice, the blood-soaked ground where he fell. She swallowed hard, her voice low and resolute as she said, “We’ll make him pay.”

“Yes,” Mario agreed, his tone grave. “But Rodrigo Borgia is not a man to be underestimated. He will kill you if given the chance.”

Ezio’s expression hardened further, his determination unmistakable. “Then I’ll take the fight to him first. But not until every other Templar on my father’s list has fallen.”

Mario studied his nephew for a long moment, then gave a slow nod. “Where will you begin?”

“Firenze,” Ezio replied. “Francesco de’ Pazzi will share the fate of his son.”

Amelia shifted, the movement sending a dull throb through her side. She locked eyes with Ezio, her voice steady despite her exhaustion. “We’ll need a plan. No rushing in blind.”

Ezio nodded, his gaze softening slightly. “We’ll plan carefully,” he promised, though the fire in his eyes remained. “But this time, I won’t wait. I’m done letting them take everything from us.”

Mario clapped a hand on Ezio’s shoulder, offering a faint smile. “You’ve got good allies by your side,” he said, his voice lighter now. “Now get some rest. We’ll talk strategy tomorrow.”

As Mario disappeared into the shadows of the villa, Ezio pulled a folded parchment from his pocket. Amelia caught the flicker of hesitation in his movements, the way his fingers lingered on the edges of the letter.

“What is it?” she asked softly, her hand brushing against his arm.

Ezio shook his head, tucking the letter away. “Nothing that can’t wait until morning,” he murmured.

The following morning, sunlight streamed through the narrow windows of the villa, painting Amelia’s room in warm, golden hues. She stirred slowly, her body heavy with the lingering aches from the day before. The dull throb in her side and the sharp twinge in her leg were reminders of the fight—and of how close she’d come to more serious injuries.

She sat up carefully, grimacing as her stitches pulled. Her usual attire—a tunic and pants—was folded neatly on the chair by the hearth, but the thought of wriggling into them made her groan under her breath. Pulling on pants with a bandaged leg wasn’t worth the struggle. With a resigned sigh, she made her way to the wardrobe and pulled out a simple skirt. It wasn’t her first choice, but it was loose enough to accommodate her injuries.

“Perfect,” she muttered dryly as she tied the waistband with a firm tug.

Testing her steps cautiously, she found her limp less pronounced than yesterday but still significant. Her muscles ached, and the stitches burned faintly, but at least she was moving. By the time she reached the study, her hand had brushed against every wall or piece of furniture she passed, taking the strain off her leg whenever she could. When she entered, Ezio was already there, leaning casually against the doorframe, arms crossed.

His sharp gaze immediately softened when he noticed her. “Feeling better?” he asked, his voice low and sincere.

Amelia huffed, waving him off. “Better enough,” she replied. “I’m upright, aren’t I?”

Ezio tilted his head, his lips twitching into a faint smirk. “Barely. But I’ll take it.”

Rolling her eyes, she stepped past him, careful not to favor her injured leg too much. They walked together to the center of the room, where Mario and Giovanni were hunched over a large map of Italy. The parchment was spread across a weathered wooden table, its surface marked with inked notations and strange, looping symbols.

“Uncle, father,” Ezio greeted, holding up a worn Codex page. “I found another page on Vieri. Leonardo will decode it for us.”

Mario straightened, his eyes gleaming with interest. “Ah, good. There’s more—come here,” he said, gesturing for both of them to approach.

Amelia joined them at the table, her fingers brushing its edge for balance. The wall behind it was covered with pinned Codex Pages, their faded writing and cryptic symbols creating a mosaic of secrets. Her breath caught as recognition dawned.

“Other Codex Pages…” she murmured, leaning closer. “So this is where Father and Giovanni have been sending them.”

Mario nodded solemnly. “Your father managed to find and translate a few before... well, before things turned. But these,” he gestured to the wall, “were translated by someone else.”

“Leonardo da Vinci,” Ezio interjected, his tone lighter. “He’s been helping me.”

Mario turned back to the wall, pointing at the overlapping symbols. “Do you see how the words cross from one page to the next?”

Ezio leaned in, his brow furrowing in concentration. “It’s forming something beneath it all—a map, maybe?”

Giovanni stepped forward, his face lined with the weight of old knowledge. “Your uncle and I believe it’s part of a prophecy. Written by an Assassin named Altaïr. He spoke of something ancient and powerful, hidden beneath the land.”

Amelia frowned, her gaze flicking between the two older men. “And what is it?” she asked, her voice steady but tinged with unease.

“That’s the mystery,” Mario admitted grimly. “But if you’re willing to continue your father’s work, we may yet find out.”

Ezio straightened, his determination clear. “I’ll help. I’ll start with the page I took from Vieri. Leonardo can decode it.”

Mario clapped a hand on Ezio’s shoulder, offering a small smile. “Bene. You’ll leave in a week. That should give her time to heal,” he added, nodding toward Amelia.

Amelia shifted slightly, the ache in her leg making her lean more heavily on the table. Ezio’s sharp eyes caught the motion, and without a word, he stepped back and pulled out a chair. He pushed it closer to her, his expression unreadable.

“Sit,” he said simply.

Amelia raised a brow, half a retort forming in her mind, but the persistent ache made her relent. With a soft sigh, she lowered herself into the chair, muttering, “Thanks.”

Ezio smirked faintly, his attention returning to Mario and Giovanni as they continued to outline the next steps. Amelia leaned forward slightly, her gaze settling on the map. The overlapping notations and the intricate symbols intrigued her, even as a faint unease lingered in her chest.

“We’ll reconvene before you depart,” Giovanni said finally, his tone signaling the end of the discussion. “Until then, rest and prepare.”

As the older men exited the study, Amelia braced herself against the chair, steadying her breath before carefully pushing herself upright. The effort pulled at her stitches, sending a sharp ache down her side and leg. She tightened her jaw against the pain, forcing herself to stand tall.

Ezio was already at her side, his hand extended before she could take a second step. There was no hesitation in his movements, only quiet resolve. Amelia paused, meeting his gaze for a moment, before sliding her arm into his. The steady grip of his hand was a small but welcome relief.

They walked through the villa’s quiet hallways, her steps slower and more deliberate than she liked. Ezio adjusted his pace effortlessly, his arm firm beneath her hand, while his other stayed ready to catch her if she faltered. The weight of her injuries pressed against her pride, but she found herself grateful for his support—not that she’d say it aloud.

When they reached the courtyard, sunlight warmed the air, and the soft rustle of leaves in the garden broke the silence. Ezio guided her toward a shaded bench beneath a sprawling tree. She eased down onto the stone seat, exhaling a quiet sigh of relief as the pressure on her leg eased.

Ezio remained standing for a moment, watching her closely. Then, with a subtle tilt of his head, he sat beside her, his arm brushing hers as he leaned back against the bench. The quiet stretched between them, the sounds of the garden filling the space.

Amelia sat quietly beside Ezio in the villa’s garden, the dappled sunlight filtering through the trees casting shifting patterns on the stone bench. She leaned into him slightly, drawing comfort from his steady presence. It wasn’t something she would have done openly before, but after everything they’d been through—after the battle, the injuries, and the truths they were both learning to live with—it felt like the walls they kept between themselves had softened, if only for a moment.

Her voice cut through the quiet, soft yet intentional. “How are you handling it?”

Ezio glanced at her, his brow tightening. There was a flicker of something wary in his expression. “Handling what?” he asked, though the heaviness in his tone said he already knew.

She held his gaze for a moment before turning her attention forward. “Killing Vieri,” she said simply. Her voice carried no judgment, only an undertone of curiosity. “I know it wasn’t your first, but... it was different. More personal than Uberto.”

Ezio shifted beside her, his elbow brushing against hers as he leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees. He didn’t answer right away, and Amelia let the silence linger, knowing better than to press him.

Finally, he exhaled, a deep sound that seemed to pull from somewhere heavy. “I thought it would feel clearer—like justice. But it wasn’t.” His hands came together, fingers curling tightly as he stared at the ground. “Two kills. Two lives taken, and I feel no better than before. I didn’t expect this path to demand so much... so much of that.”

Amelia’s expression softened as she watched him. She nodded slightly, her voice quiet. “And now you know.”

“And now I know,” he murmured, his words edged with something too complicated to name—not quite regret, but not acceptance either. “Standing over him, it wasn’t justice I felt. It was anger. Blinding, consuming anger.”

She leaned back, her face tilting toward the sunlight as she absorbed his words. “That anger... it’s not something you can ignore,” she said after a pause. “But it can’t be the only thing fueling you. Anger burns hot, but it burns out. You’ll need something else to keep you steady through the long fights.”

Ezio turned his head, studying her face as though searching for some hidden answer. “You’ve lived this longer than I have,” he said, his voice quieter now. “How do you stop it? How do you keep it from taking over?”

Her gaze dropped to her hands, her fingers brushing the fabric of her skirt. It was a question she’d heard before, one she had answered in ways that were true but never fully complete. This time, she let the honesty come through. “You don’t stop it—not entirely. You carry it. Every face, every choice, every moment you wish you could undo. But you keep going because if you stop, someone else pays the price.”

His jaw tightened, the weight of her words sinking in as he leaned back, his shoulder pressing lightly into hers. “You said something like that after Leonardo’s shop,” he said, his tone reflective. “You hesitate, you die. Or worse—someone else does.”

Amelia nodded, a faint smile tugging at her lips. “You’re remembering.”

“I am,” he admitted. His voice steadied slightly, though there was still a flicker of uncertainty. “But it doesn’t make it easier.”

“It’s not supposed to be easy,” she said softly. “If it were, we wouldn’t be fighting the people we’re fighting.”

He was quiet again, his gaze fixed on the far end of the garden. Amelia could see the tension in his posture, the way he carried the weight of the day before like a stone lodged in his chest. She reached out, her hand brushing lightly against his arm. The warmth of his skin beneath her fingers was grounding, solid.

“You’ll get used to it,” she said, her voice gentle but firm. “Not because you want to, but because you have to. And you’ll learn how to carry it without letting it break you.”

Ezio turned his head toward her, his expression unreadable for a moment. Then, slowly, he nodded. “I’m starting to understand that.”

The quiet returned, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. Amelia leaned into him slightly, resting her head on his shoulder. After a moment’s hesitation, Ezio lifted his arm and draped it around her back, his fingers brushing her shoulder. His touch was steady, reassuring in a way that words couldn’t be.

Chapter Text

April 1478

The two years since Vieri’s defeat had been a relentless storm of pursuit and discovery. Ezio and Amelia had scoured Italy for Codex pages, following trails that seemed to vanish as quickly as they appeared. Each clue they uncovered brought them closer to unraveling the Templar secrets entwined with their pasts—Ezio's brothers, Amelia's father—but the cost was high. Their journey demanded constant vigilance, and every town, every hidden alley, carried the potential for ambush or betrayal. The world was no longer familiar; it was a battlefield. Yet, amidst the danger, their bond had deepened—a partnership forged in shadows and blood, an unspoken understanding that neither could do this alone.

Now, two years later, they were returning to Firenze.

The morning of their departure was quiet. The gates of the villa groaned open to reveal the misty hills of Tuscany, bathed in the pale gold of dawn. There were no farewells, no speeches, just the soft rhythm of hooves on stone as they rode out into the countryside. The decision to travel alone had been deliberate; subtlety was their greatest weapon, and an entourage would only invite scrutiny.

Amelia rode in silence, her hood pulled low to shield her face. Her deep blue cloak, practical and nondescript, billowed slightly in the morning breeze. Beneath it, her attire balanced utility and elegance: a tailored blouse tucked into fitted leather breeches, her waist cinched by a corset-like vest that provided both support and freedom of movement. Knee-high boots hugged her legs, and her bracers gleamed faintly in the soft light, a reminder of her role as a weapon in this ever-evolving war. Though her wounds had healed, leaving behind faint scars, a dull ache in her side lingered—a silent testament to how far she’d come.

Ezio rode beside her, his posture relaxed yet alert, his gaze constantly scanning their surroundings. His assassin robes bore the wear of countless missions, but every detail was meticulously maintained. The subtle glint of steel at his side hinted at the arsenal he carried, each weapon an extension of his skill. The Tuscan air was cool and fresh, filled with the earthy scent of pine and soil, and the rhythmic clop of their horses’ hooves offered a rare moment of calm. But the silence between them held an undercurrent of tension, the weight of their mission pressing unspoken on their minds.

The landscape around them was familiar, yet Amelia couldn’t help but notice how different it all seemed now. The carefree girl she’d once been in Firenze felt like a distant stranger, her innocence replaced by a quiet resolve. She glanced at Ezio, studying him in the soft morning light. He, too, had changed. The boyish charm she remembered had given way to something sharper, more measured. His movements carried a quiet confidence, his shoulders a mix of tension and purpose. He wasn’t just surviving anymore; he was becoming something more—a man shaped by loss, driven by justice. The sight of him, steady and sure, filled her with both admiration and something she couldn’t quite name.

They rode in companionable quiet, the sun climbing higher as the countryside slowly gave way to the outskirts of Firenze. The city’s red-tiled rooftops appeared first, glowing warmly under the afternoon sun, followed by the familiar sprawl of winding streets and bustling markets. Amelia felt a pang of nostalgia as the city unfolded before them, a strange mix of longing and unease settling in her chest. Firenze had been her home once, but now, it felt like a different world entirely.

Ezio’s expression mirrored her thoughts, his sharp eyes scanning the skyline. “Strange, isn’t it?” she murmured, breaking the silence.

He nodded, his voice low. “It feels like a lifetime ago. But also... inevitable.”

As they passed through the gates, Firenze greeted them with the hum of life. Vendors shouted their wares, children darted through the narrow streets, and the aroma of freshly baked bread mixed with the sharper scents of leather and iron. Yet, beneath the vibrancy, there was a tension—an unease that rippled through the crowd like an undercurrent. Templar influence hung over the city like an invisible shroud, its presence felt even when unseen.

Amelia adjusted her cloak, her hand brushing the hilt of her hidden blade. The noise of the market was loud, vibrant with the hum of life, but she had long since trained herself to listen for the subtleties—the murmurs that dropped too low, the scuff of boots lingering just a little too long. Firenze was alive, familiar yet different, its streets pulsing with energy and danger in equal measure. Ezio rode slightly ahead, his posture relaxed yet sharp, his gaze sweeping their surroundings. Though his expression remained calm, the faint crease in his brow betrayed his constant vigilance.

“Do you think they’ll recognize us?” she asked quietly as they turned onto a narrower street, the clamor of the market fading behind them.

“Unlikely,” Ezio replied, though there was a measured caution in his voice. “It’s been two years, and we’ve changed more than the city has. But it’s best not to give anyone a reason to look too closely.”

Amelia nodded, her grip tightening slightly on the reins. She glanced at the rooftops, the familiar sight stirring a mix of nostalgia and wariness in her chest. As they neared the heart of the city, the twists and turns of Firenze’s alleys guided them toward a place that felt like a sanctuary in an otherwise hostile world. The sight of the old wooden sign above Leonardo’s workshop brought a flicker of warmth to her expression.

“Ready to see Leo again?” Ezio asked, glancing back at her with the faintest hint of a smile.

“Always,” she replied softly, her voice carrying a note of fondness she rarely allowed herself to express.

They dismounted just outside the workshop, Ezio tying his horse to a post before turning to offer Amelia a hand. She accepted with ease, though her movements were as deliberate as ever, the faintest trace of stiffness in her side a lingering reminder of past wounds. Together, they approached the door. Before Ezio could knock, it swung open.

Leonardo appeared in the doorway, his face lighting up with unmistakable joy. “Ezio! Amelia! È un miracolo! It’s a miracle—you’re alive!” he exclaimed, stepping forward to clasp Ezio’s hand with both of his own.

Ezio smiled warmly, a rare sight that seemed to melt away some of the tension in his frame. “Still alive,” he confirmed, his tone light yet touched with weariness. “And I see you’ve been busy.”

Leonardo’s sharp eyes studied Ezio for a moment, catching the weight in his posture and the lines on his face. His smile softened. “But not unchanged, eh?” he said gently before gesturing them inside with enthusiasm. “Come, come! You must see what I’ve been working on.”

Inside, the workshop was a flurry of organized chaos. The warm light of the setting sun streamed through the dusty windows, casting golden streaks across sketches, tools, and half-finished contraptions. Amelia let her gaze wander over the familiar sight—models of flying machines, blueprints for complex mechanisms, and the unmistakable sheen of steel where hidden blades were being repaired or improved.

Ezio handed Leonardo a scroll, its edges worn and creased from travel. “I found another one,” he said, his voice carrying a subtle edge of excitement.

Leonardo’s eyes lit up as he unrolled the parchment, his fingers tracing the intricate symbols with practiced ease. “Ah, a Codex page!” he exclaimed, his enthusiasm infectious. “These symbols... Oh, they’re brilliant! Hmmm… Ancient languages layered in code… Ah-ha! Look here! It appears to be a manual—a set of instructions for new techniques.”

Amelia leaned in, her curiosity piqued. “Techniques? What kind of techniques?” she asked, her eyes narrowing as she examined the page over Leonardo’s shoulder.

Leonardo turned to her with a grin, pointing to the detailed sketches. “Assassination techniques. Ingeniously hidden in these diagrams. For example—see how this line curves? It’s not just decoration; it’s a motion. A precise movement designed to maximize efficiency.”

Ezio exchanged a glance with Amelia, then turned back to Leonardo. “Can you recreate it?” he asked, the faintest glimmer of anticipation in his tone. “I want to practice what it teaches.”

Leonardo waved a dismissive hand. “Of course! Vincenzo!” he called out to his assistant. “Set up the practice area. Ezio will need dummies.”

As Vincenzo hurried off, Leonardo turned to Amelia, gesturing toward a cluttered corner of the workshop. “Now, my dear, come. Let me see your blade.”

Amelia rolled up her sleeve, revealing the hidden blade strapped securely to her forearm. Leonardo’s brow furrowed in concentration as he examined the mechanism, his fingers moving deftly to tighten screws and adjust the spring. His voice softened as he worked. “How have you been holding up, Amelia? The road has not been kind, I imagine.”

Amelia glanced out toward the courtyard, where Ezio was already stepping into the practice area. A faint smile touched her lips before she turned back to Leonardo. “It hasn’t been easy,” she admitted, her voice quieter. “But with you—and him—I’ve managed. We’ve seen too much, done too much, to stop now.”

Leonardo paused, looking up at her with a warm smile. “You are stronger than you realize,” he said softly. With a final adjustment, he held up the blade triumphantly. “There! Good as new. Perhaps even better.”

Amelia slid the blade back onto her arm, testing its weight with a smooth flick of her wrist. The mechanism clicked perfectly, and she nodded in satisfaction. “Thank you, Leonardo.”

He beamed at her praise, clapping his hands together. “Now, go see how Ezio is faring. He’ll need your guidance to keep from tripping over his own feet.”

Amelia smirked, her mood lightening as she made her way outside. The courtyard was bathed in the warm hues of twilight, the air cool against her skin. Ezio was already deep into his practice, moving with growing precision as he executed techniques from the Codex. She watched from the shadows, her arms crossed, the faintest smile tugging at her lips.

“You’re getting better, Ezio!” she called out as he landed with a soft thud beside a practice dummy. Her voice carried a mix of approval and teasing warmth. “Just don’t let it go to your head.”

Ezio glanced over, offering a crooked grin as he caught his breath. “Care to show me how it’s done, then?” he asked, his tone playful but laced with genuine curiosity.

Amelia arched an eyebrow and shook her head lightly. “Oh, I think you can manage. But I’ll be right here to laugh if you miss.”

Ezio chuckled, turning his attention back to the final technique. He climbed to a ledge, practicing the swift movements required for a ledge assassination. She continued to observe him, noting the slight adjustments he made with each attempt. It was a steady progression, his determination evident in the way he approached the task.

When he finished, Ezio rejoined her, his breathing steady but his cheeks flushed from exertion. “Not bad, right?” he asked, a note of pride in his voice.

Amelia rolled her eyes, though her gaze softened as she looked at him. “Not bad at all. I suppose I’ll have to up my game to stay ahead of you.”

Ezio’s laugh was quiet, and the two of them settled into a comfortable silence as the city’s lights began to twinkle in the distance. The weight of their mission and responsibilities seemed to fade in that rare moment of peace. Ezio sat down beside her on the low wall, and without hesitation, Amelia leaned her head against his shoulder.

Over the years, there had been small moments like this—quiet, fleeting instances of closeness that neither of them dared to name. Amelia treasured them more than she cared to admit. They were a reprieve from the chaos, a reminder of something steady and unspoken between them. Her heart ached as she let herself sink into the warmth of his presence. She had long since realized that it belonged to him, but courage had never followed the confession. Instead, she held onto these moments, letting them sustain her.

What struck her recently, though, was how often he initiated these quiet moments now. It was subtle—an arm brushed against hers, a lingering glance—but it was enough to make her wonder if he felt the same pull. The thought both thrilled and terrified her, but she couldn’t bring herself to ask.

“Let’s head back inside,” she suggested after a while, her voice low as her gaze flicked toward the warm glow of Leonardo’s workshop. “Leo’s probably dying to show off whatever invention he’s tinkering with.”

Ezio didn’t respond with words. Instead, he stood and extended his hands toward her. She hesitated briefly, then placed her hands in his. He pulled her to her feet with an ease that belied her weight, steadying her when she swayed slightly. For a moment, their eyes met, and she froze at the softness in his expression.

“You know, Amelia,” he said, his voice quiet, almost hesitant. “I’m not sure I’d still be here without you. It’s not just about the fights. You’ve kept me grounded… given me hope. And I’ve realized—I don’t want to do this without you.”

Her breath hitched, her heart thudding wildly in her chest. His gaze held hers, open and sincere, and the warmth in his eyes made her stomach flutter. She searched his face for any sign of jest but found none.

The weight of his words left her momentarily speechless. Amelia opened her mouth, but the emotions tangled in her throat, refusing to form coherent words. Instead, she squeezed his hand, her fingers lingering in his, and let her gaze convey what she couldn’t yet say aloud.

“I’m not going anywhere, Ezio,” she finally managed, her voice barely a whisper but heavy with meaning. The words were simple, but they carried the depth of all the things she had never dared to say.

Ezio’s lips curved into a small, genuine smile, and he squeezed her hand gently in return. For a brief moment, it felt as though the world around them stilled, leaving only the two of them in the quiet intimacy of that connection.

“Amici miei! My friends!” Leonardo’s exuberant voice shattered the moment, echoing from the doorway. Amelia jumped slightly, stepping back as her cheeks warmed. “You must come quickly! I have something to show you!”

Ezio chuckled softly, his hand dropping from hers as he turned toward the workshop. He cast a coy smile over his shoulder, and she followed him inside, her heart still racing. As they entered the familiar chaos of Leonardo’s space, she couldn’t help but glance at Ezio once more, the echo of his words lingering in her mind. Something had shifted between them, and for the first time, she wondered if she might one day find the courage to let it shift even further.

Leonardo appeared in the doorway, animated as ever, gesturing for them to come inside with a wide grin. Ezio cast Amelia a coy smile before stepping through the threshold, and she followed close behind, her curiosity piqued by Leonardo's excitement.

Inside, Leonardo practically bounded to his workbench, snatching up a newly upgraded hidden blade. The craftsmanship was impeccable, the steel glinting under the soft workshop light. “Here! Try it, try it!” he exclaimed, his enthusiasm infectious.

Ezio fastened the blade to his arm with practiced ease, his movements deliberate as he tested its weight. With a flick of his wrist, the blade extended smoothly, emitting a sharp, satisfying click. A faint smile tugged at the corner of his lips as he admired Leonardo’s work. “Perfect, as always. Thank you, Leonardo.”

Leonardo waved the gratitude aside with a theatrical flourish, his grin broadening. “Non c’è di che! No problem, my friend!” His playful demeanor shifted, though, as his gaze flicked toward the workshop door. His expression grew serious, and his voice lowered slightly. “But, Ezio, remember this: Florence is a city of secrets... and not all of them are kind.”

Ezio nodded, his face thoughtful as he tucked the blade away. “There’s someone I need to meet while we’re here,” he said carefully. “I can’t approach him directly. Do you know of a way to find him?”

Leonardo’s eyes sparkled with mischief as he leaned closer, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “La Volpe,” he said, his tone laden with suggestion.

Ezio raised a brow. “The Fox…?”

Leonardo pressed a finger to his lips dramatically, his gaze darting to the shadows of the workshop as though expecting spies. “Shhhh!” he hushed, clearly enjoying himself. Then, with a grin, he added, “The Fox is clever, yes? He knows where to roam. Perhaps near the Mercato... where the thieves make their home.”

He stepped back, his grin softening into a look of genuine concern. “Sta’ attento, amico. Be careful, my friend.”

Ezio nodded again, absorbing Leonardo’s words. “Grazie, Leonardo,” he said sincerely before turning to leave. Amelia followed him, her steps light but steady as they exited into the cool night air.

Outside, the streets of Florence were bathed in moonlight, the city alive with a quiet hum. The familiar stone pathways beneath their feet stirred a mix of emotions in Amelia, and as they walked side by side through the narrow alleys, she found herself glancing at Ezio.

Amelia’s gaze lingered on Ezio as they walked, her thoughts drifting despite the cool night air brushing against her cheeks. The way the moonlight highlighted the sharp angles of his face, the quiet intensity in his eyes as he scanned their surroundings, the steady confidence in his stride—it all drew her in, and she realized with a pang that she was staring at him not as a companion, but as a woman gazing at the man who had quietly claimed her heart.

She swallowed hard, her breath hitching slightly as her chest tightened. This wasn’t new; she had caught herself looking at him like this before, but tonight, in the stillness of Florence, it felt heavier. Real. She couldn’t deny the truth of her feelings, though she knew better than to voice them aloud. It wasn’t the time, wasn’t the place. Maybe it never would be.

Ezio turned his head slightly, his sharp eyes catching hers before she could look away. He slowed his pace, his lips parting as if to say something, but no words came. The corner of his mouth lifted, a subtle smirk that softened into something gentler—curious, almost amused. “Amelia?” he prompted, his voice low, his gaze holding hers for a moment too long.

Her throat went dry, heat rising to her cheeks as she quickly cleared her throat and straightened her posture, tearing her eyes away from his. “We have a fox to hunt down,” she said briskly, her tone carrying an edge of feigned nonchalance.

Ezio’s smirk deepened slightly, though his expression remained unreadable. “Indeed, we do,” he said, his voice smooth and composed. But the way he watched her, as though trying to unravel the thoughts she so carefully tried to hide, made her chest tighten.

Amelia forced herself to keep moving, her steps brisker than before, though her heart pounded in a way she wished she could ignore. The air between them felt heavier now, charged with an unspoken tension that she couldn’t escape. She cursed herself silently—why had she let him catch her staring? And why, of all moments, did her feelings have to betray her now?

She let out a deep breath, slowing her steps just enough to regain her composure. She couldn't afford to let herself spiral—not now, not when there was work to be done. Her gaze darted to the darkened streets ahead, searching for signs of their target, her mind latching onto the mission like a lifeline. One task at a time. That was how she had survived this long. That was how she would keep surviving.

Ezio walked alongside her, his presence as steady as ever, though the occasional glance he cast her way sent another wave of heat rushing to her face. She bit back her frustration, not at him but at herself. It wasn’t his fault he could unravel her without trying. She adjusted her cloak, the fabric brushing against her arms like armor, and finally broke the silence between them.

"Leonardo said the Mercato," she said, her voice steadier now, though it lacked its usual sharpness. "We should head there first. If this ‘Fox’ is as clever as he seems, I doubt he'll make it easy."

Ezio nodded, his expression shifting to one of quiet focus. "Then we’ll have to be cleverer," he said simply, his voice calm and confident, grounding her in a way she hadn’t expected. He glanced at her again, his eyes softer now, and for a moment, the tension between them felt less heavy, more bearable.

As they continued through the winding streets of Florence, Amelia let the rhythm of their steps and the cool night air soothe her. The city felt alive around them, its secrets waiting to be uncovered. And though the weight of her emotions still lingered, she pushed them aside, locking them away for another time.

Chapter Text

As Amelia and Ezio entered the bustling village square, the sights and sounds of Florence enveloped them like a forgotten memory suddenly unearthed. After two years of relentless travel through Tuscany, the city stirred something bittersweet in Amelia—a mix of nostalgia and tension that settled deep in her chest. The aroma of freshly baked bread mingled with the sharper tang of street vendors’ spices, while the lively chatter of townsfolk rose in waves, creating a symphony of familiarity. Yet, beneath it all, the ever-present danger of their mission hummed like a distant storm.

The tranquility of the moment shattered when a young man barreled into Ezio, nearly knocking him off balance. His hand instinctively darted to his belt, but his pouch was gone.

“What? My pouch—it’s missing!” Ezio’s voice cut through the din, his sharp eyes scanning the crowd. A flash of movement caught his attention: the thief, a cocky grin plastered across his face, slipping between the bustling market stalls like a wisp of smoke.

Amelia’s gaze locked onto the pickpocket, her eyes narrowing. “Ezio, don’t let him get away,” she urged, her tone calm but urgent.

Without hesitation, Ezio bolted after the thief, weaving through the chaotic square with practiced agility. Amelia followed, her steps purposeful and light as she tracked the chase. The pursuit led them into a labyrinth of narrow alleys, where the thief ducked and darted between market stalls, kicking over barrels and scattering crates of fruit in his wake.

“Get back here!” Ezio shouted, his voice taut with determination as he dodged falling apples and leapt over debris.

“Make me!” the thief called back with a laugh, glancing over his shoulder. He knocked over a cart, sending an avalanche of pears into Ezio’s path.

Unfazed, Ezio vaulted over the obstruction with ease, his jaw set in frustration. “You’re making a big mistake, amico!” His voice carried a firm warning now. “Enough of this!”

The thief’s smirk widened as he shouted, “Why don’t you give up?” But his confidence wavered as Ezio surged forward, his longer strides closing the gap.

With one final push, Ezio tackled the thief to the ground, sending up a puff of dust from the cobblestones. Amelia skidded to a halt beside them, catching her breath as she watched Ezio pin the thief’s arm behind his back.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” Ezio said, his voice tight but composed. “Just give me back my money, and we’ll leave it at that.”

The thief squirmed, opening his mouth to reply, but a shadow fell over the scene, silencing him. “Not so fast,” came a voice—smooth, confident, and unmistakably amused.

Amelia’s eyes snapped upward, her breath catching as a cloaked figure stepped into the light. His posture was casual, almost dismissive, yet his presence radiated authority. His hood obscured part of his face, but his sharp smile gleamed in the fading sunlight. “What do you want? Who are you?” Ezio demanded, his grip tightening on the thief beneath him.

The stranger chuckled, his tone laced with mischief. “They call me many things: Murderer. Tagliagole. Thief.” He paused, tilting his head in mock consideration before his smile deepened. “But you may call me La Volpe. At your service, Messer Ezio.”

Amelia’s eyes widened slightly as the name rolled off his tongue, sparking a memory buried in the depths of her mind. La Volpe. The Fox. Leonardo’s earlier mention of the name in English hadn’t triggered anything at the time—after all, "the Fox" could have been anyone, and she’d been too focused on the task at hand to think much of it. But now, hearing it spoken in Italian, paired with the man’s confident smirk and sharp tone, it struck her with sudden clarity.

She remembered her father speaking of a man who was as elusive as smoke, a master thief who prowled Florence’s streets and knew its secrets better than anyone. Matteo hadn’t called him "La Volpe" often—only in passing, when recounting stories of his missions—but when he did, there was always a mix of respect and exasperation in his tone. “La Volpe has his uses,” he’d said once, “though you have to watch your purse around him.” She had been a child at the time, peeking around a doorway as her father regaled her mother with tales of his adventures. It felt so long ago now, but the memory flooded back with startling vividness.

Her chest tightened as she took a cautious step forward, her voice quiet but laced with awe. “La Volpe,” she murmured, her gaze steady on him. “I’ve heard stories about you... You knew my father, didn’t you?”

The playful glint in La Volpe’s eyes softened as he turned his full attention to her, his expression taking on a reverence she hadn’t expected. “Indeed, signorina. Matteo was a dear friend—a man of unparalleled skill and wisdom. We shared many adventures in these streets, dodging guards, unraveling secrets... risking everything for what mattered.” His voice dipped, quieter now, more sincere. “He would be proud to see you now, standing here as you are, with such strength and resolve. A true Assassin.”

Amelia swallowed against the lump rising in her throat, her emotions warring within her. She had grown used to burying her grief, letting it drive her rather than weigh her down, but hearing her father’s name spoken with such affection was like tearing open an old wound. She managed a steady nod, her voice soft but firm. “He taught me to fight for what’s right. That’s why we’re here—to finish what he started.”

La Volpe’s smile returned, sharper now, his gaze flicking between her and Ezio. “Then perhaps we can help each other. After all, Florence is a city of shadows, and no one knows its secrets better than a fox.”

Ezio exchanged a glance with Amelia before nodding, his expression firm. “Indeed. I need to find someone—to know where he’ll be before even he does.”

La Volpe’s demeanor shifted, his playful air replaced with a sharp focus. “Who?”

“Francesco de Pazzi,” Ezio replied, the name weighted with anger and purpose.

La Volpe stroked his chin thoughtfully, his keen eyes glinting in the fading light. “There’s word of a caravan just arrived from Roma. A secret meeting is set for sunset tonight. If you want to learn something of Francesco’s movements, that’s where you should be.”

Amelia studied La Volpe carefully, her gaze narrowing. “And where exactly is this meeting?” she asked, her tone cautious yet even.

“Ma certo,” La Volpe said with a smooth smile, his confidence unwavering. “It’s my business to know such things, and I will show you. Let me know when you’re ready.” With a flick of his wrist, he pulled Ezio’s stolen pouch from his cloak and tossed it back with a flourish. “Oh, yes. You’ll need this.”

Ezio caught the pouch mid-air and tucked it away, his lips twitching into a faint smirk. Amelia caught the glimmer of mischief in La Volpe’s eyes and felt a reluctant smile tug at her own lips. “Lead the way, then. We’ll keep up,” she said with a faint note of challenge.

La Volpe offered a quick nod and melted into the shadows, moving through Florence with an ease that spoke to his years of mastery over the city’s hidden pathways. Ezio and Amelia followed closely, navigating the cobbled alleys and scaling walls with practiced precision.

As they moved across the rooftops, La Volpe paused briefly at the edge of a tiled roof, glancing back at them. His playful demeanor gave way to a rare seriousness as his gaze settled on Amelia. “Your father once told me something I never forgot: that the strength of a family lies not in blood, but in trust and loyalty. Watching you and Ezio, I see what he meant. You fight like family—like those bound by something deeper.”

Amelia returned his gaze, a small, genuine smile tugging at her lips. “We’ve been through a lot together. It hasn’t always been easy, but... I wouldn’t trade it for anything.”

Ezio, hanging from the ledge of a nearby building, glanced her way at those words, his expression softening. “Nor would I,” he said quietly, his tone carrying a sincerity that caught her off guard.

Amelia felt her chest tighten, the warmth in his voice lingering in her mind, but she pushed it aside as La Volpe gestured toward a looming church in the distance. Its spires cut sharply against the dusk-painted sky, and its shadow stretched long across the city. “Here we are. Francesco de Pazzi is meeting his people inside that church.”

Ezio’s jaw tightened as he studied the building. “How do I get close?”

La Volpe pointed to a weathered stone mechanism near the church’s foundation. “There are catacombs beneath the city, leading to a hidden vantage point. That handle there—turn it, slide it down. The entrance will open.”

Amelia eyed the mechanism, her lips quirking into a smirk as she turned to Ezio. “Looks like it’s time to get our hands dirty again. Just like old times, right?”

Ezio smirked back, nudging her shoulder lightly as they moved toward the mechanism. “Let’s hope for fewer rats this time, amica mia. ”

La Volpe chuckled, stepping closer to Amelia. Taking her hand briefly, he gave it a firm, respectful squeeze. “Your father would be proud of you, signorina. Buona fortuna to you both.”

Ezio nodded his thanks, his determination clear as he approached the entrance. He slid his fingers into the carved grooves of the handle, the mechanism releasing with a deep, resonant rumble. As the circular opening revealed itself, he cast a quick glance over his shoulder, his lips curving into a faint smirk.

“You coming, or should I leave the rats to keep you company?” he teased lightly.

Amelia rolled her eyes but stepped beside him, her blade glinting in the dim light. “After you, Ezio,” she replied, her voice steady as they descended together into the shadows of the catacombs.

Ezio laughed softly, shaking his head as he swung his legs over the edge of the stone ledge and dropped into the shadowy abyss below. The soft thud of his boots echoed faintly in the cold air. Amelia followed closely, landing lightly beside him in the musty, oppressive atmosphere of the catacombs. The air was heavy with the scent of damp earth, mingling with the faint metallic tang of decay. Bones lay scattered across the ground—grim reminders of lives long gone—and the flickering glow of a distant torch cast distorted shadows along the uneven walls.

“Charming place,” Amelia muttered, brushing dust from her cloak and glancing around warily. “Remind me again why we’re sneaking around in a crypt?”

Ezio smirked, his eyes gleaming in the dim light. “Because someone has to keep you out of trouble,” he replied, his tone teasing but edged with affection as he led the way deeper into the narrow passage.

The labyrinthine catacombs closed in around them, the ancient stone pressing down like the weight of time itself. The walls seemed to whisper with every step, their faint echoes adding to the eerie stillness. Amelia’s hand rested on the hilt of her hidden blade, her sharp gaze scanning every shadow and corner. The further they went, the more the air thickened with the chill of the underground.

After several twists and turns, they came to a larger chamber, the high ceiling crumbling in places where roots from the world above had clawed their way through. In the center stood a rusted lever, framed by archways barely holding together. Ezio stepped forward and grasped it with both hands, pulling it with a grunt. The lever groaned in protest before a heavy metal gate ahead shuddered and began to creak open, revealing a passage that descended further into the crypt.

Amelia frowned, her unease growing. “Let’s move quickly,” she said, her voice low as her gaze flicked to the scattered bones littering the floor. “I’m not fond of being down here any longer than necessary.”

Ezio nodded, but his lips quirked into a faint smile as he glanced at her. “Afraid of a few skeletons, amica mia ?”

She gave him a pointed look, unimpressed. “No, but if anyone here is likely to wake the dead, it’s you.”

His soft chuckle echoed faintly as they continued forward. The path demanded constant vigilance as they leapt over crumbling gaps, climbed precarious ledges, and swung from weathered wooden beams that creaked ominously under their weight. The tension in the air was palpable, but it didn’t dampen their rhythm, their movements honed by years of training and trust in each other.

At one particularly treacherous section, Amelia reached for a ledge just above her, but her foot slipped on the slick stone. A startled gasp escaped her lips as she lost her balance, her fingers clawing at the cold, wet rock. Before she could fall, Ezio’s hand shot out, his grip locking around her wrist. He grunted with effort as he hauled her back onto the ledge beside him. The distance between them vanished as she stumbled slightly, finding herself inches from his face.

Her heart thundered in her chest, not just from the near miss but from the intensity of his gaze. His golden-brown eyes flickered in the dim light, and for a moment, she was struck by the depth of them—by the strength and warmth that lay beneath his stoic exterior. Letting out a shaky breath, she leaned forward, pressing her forehead lightly to his, grounding herself as her anxiety began to ebb.

Ezio’s expression softened, the sharpness of his usual focus giving way to something gentler. His hand lingered on hers, his thumb brushing against her knuckles as he held her steady. “You know, Lia,” he murmured, his voice quiet and tinged with affection, “I’d rather not have to rescue you twice in one day.”

Her lips twitched into a grin, the momentary vulnerability melting into her usual fire. “Don’t get used to it. I prefer saving myself, but... I suppose I owe you one.”

His smile widened, genuine and warm, a rare sight that made her heart skip. He released her hand slowly, his fingers grazing hers one last time before he turned to resume their climb. “I’ll keep that in mind. Just don’t give me another heart attack, alright?”

They pressed on, the musty air growing colder as they ascended to a high platform overlooking the next chamber. Below, two guards stood by a gated door, their lantern casting long shadows against the stone walls. Their voices carried faintly through the cavernous space as they muttered complaints about the cold and the monotony of their post. Ezio crouched low, motioning for Amelia to do the same. They waited, their breaths shallow, as the guards finally retreated through the gate, their footsteps fading into the distance.

Ezio signaled for her to follow. Together, they dropped silently into the shadows below, moving with practiced precision between the columns and crumbling arches. At the gate, Ezio knelt to examine the mechanism. His fingers deftly twisted the levers until the lock released with a quiet click. The gate creaked open, and the dark passage beyond beckoned. Amelia cast Ezio a knowing glance, the faintest smirk tugging at her lips.

The sound of the gate hadn’t gone unnoticed. One of the guards cursed loudly, drawing his sword as he turned back. “Merda! The door!” he hissed to his companion. “Stay here. I’ll check it out.”

Amelia signaled Ezio with a glance, and they melted into the shadows. As the guard ventured further into the catacombs, Ezio struck swiftly, his hidden blade flashing in the flickering torchlight. The second guard panicked at the sight of his fallen companion and fled down the corridor, his shouts echoing in the narrow tunnels.

Without hesitation, Ezio moved after him. Amelia followed close behind, her steps silent as they pursued the fleeing man. The guard barely had time to raise his blade before Ezio ended the chase with a precise strike. Silence returned to the tunnels, broken only by their steady breaths.

Navigating further into the depths, they encountered crumbling platforms and precarious ledges, each demanding careful footing. Ezio’s athleticism and Amelia’s measured grace carried them across the obstacles, their movements fluid and practiced. Swinging from ancient beams and scaling cracked stone, they found their rhythm, moving as one.

As they reached a higher platform, Amelia paused, casting a glance back at the sprawling shadows of the catacombs. The faint glow of distant torches painted eerie patterns on the walls, and a chill ran down her spine. “You ever think about how many secrets these places hold? How many lives have passed through here without anyone to remember them?”

Ezio joined her, his gaze following hers into the darkness. “I think about it,” he admitted. “But it’s not the dead I worry about. It’s the living.”

A faint laugh escaped her lips, the sound soft but clear in the stillness. “Fair enough. You do have a way of simplifying things, don’t you?”

He turned to meet her gaze, his expression unguarded. “Not everything needs to be complicated, Lia. Especially when there are people worth fighting for.”

The quiet sincerity in his voice caught her off guard. For a moment, the weight of the crypt faded, leaving only his steady presence beside her. She searched for a response, but before she could speak, he gestured to the path ahead. “Come on. We’re almost there.”

Up ahead, the Florentine guard they had been chasing disappeared into the tunnels, slamming a gate behind him. He carried vital information—potentially a key to the Templars’ plans—and neither of them intended to let him escape. Ezio scanned the iron bars blocking their path, frustration evident in his furrowed brow.

Amelia’s eyes darted to the shadows, her sharp gaze landing on a crumbling scaffold. “There—if we climb, we can bypass the gate. Let’s go before he gets too far ahead.”

Ezio nodded, and together they scaled the makeshift ladder. The old wood creaked but held under their practiced movements. At the top, they reached a narrow ledge running along the wall. The path was precarious, but Amelia led the way with steady confidence, her boots finding purchase on the slick stone. Ezio followed close behind, their movements synchronized from years of navigating dangers together.

The ledge opened into a broader passage, and they pressed forward, the echoes of their quarry’s hurried steps growing fainter. The chase led them deeper into the labyrinth, the guard slipping through shadowed corridors and slamming heavy gates behind him. Finally, he vanished through a large stone door, the resounding thud of its closure reverberating through the catacombs.

Amelia spotted another scaffold leading upward to a small window high above. “Up again,” she said, her voice low but firm. “He’s running out of places to hide.”

They climbed swiftly, scaling the wall with the ease of seasoned assassins. At the top, the passage opened into a circular chamber, dimly lit by scattered torches. The guard stood at the far end, now flanked by a group of Templars. Their weapons gleamed in the flickering light, their stances tense and ready.

Amelia’s hand went to the hilt of her blade, her gaze narrowing. “Looks like he brought reinforcements.”

Ezio unsheathed his sword in one fluid motion, his expression hardening. “Then let’s give them a proper welcome.”

The fight erupted in a blur of steel and shadows. Amelia moved with precision, her dagger a flash of deadly intent as she danced through the fray. One Templar swung a heavy mace at her, but she sidestepped the blow, slipping inside his guard to drive her blade into the vulnerable gap between his armor plates. She spun away as he fell, seamlessly turning to parry another attacker’s strike.

Ezio fought beside her, his sword cutting through the air in powerful, controlled arcs. He moved with the practiced ease of someone who had faced countless battles, his counters swift and unerring. Together, they whittled down the Templars’ numbers with a deadly rhythm, their strikes and defenses complementing one another.

Amelia dispatched her final opponent with a quick twist of her wrist, her dagger slicing cleanly across his throat. She turned to find Ezio standing over the last fallen Templar, his breathing steady despite the exertion. The chamber fell silent, save for the faint echoes of their movements.

“Any more surprises?” Amelia asked, scanning the room.

Ezio wiped his blade clean, his gaze shifting toward the far end of the chamber. “None that I can see, but let’s stay sharp.”

As they moved further into the passage, Amelia’s sharp eyes caught a faint glow emanating from a nearby vent. She pressed her hand against the cool stone, tilting her head to listen. “There,” she whispered, nodding toward the grate. “We can hear them from here.”

The two assassins crouched low, peering into the small opening. Beyond the vent, a group of men gathered around a table, their faces partially obscured in the dim light. Amelia’s breath caught as a familiar voice reached her ears—Rodrigo Borgia.

His tone was calm, almost amused, but each word carried the weight of a carefully crafted scheme. Amelia’s hands curled into fists, her nails biting into her palms as she forced herself to focus. Beside her, Ezio remained perfectly still, his sharp gaze fixed on their enemies. The Templars’ voices filled the air, their plans spilling into the quiet tension of the catacombs.

Chapter Text

Amelia crouched beside Ezio, her ear tuned to the sinister voices filtering through the grate. The shadows of the catacombs seemed to press closer, amplifying every word spoken below.

"Et benedictio Dei omnipotentis, Patris et Filii et Spiritus Sancti descendat super vos et maneat semper," intoned a priest, his solemn Latin blessings laced with an ominous air. The words barely registered in Amelia’s mind, their weight overshadowed by the figures gathered in the chamber below.

"Grazie, padre," Jacopo de' Pazzi said, his voice gravelly with age. He gestured toward a chest brimming with weapons as he addressed another man. “Bernardo?”

Bernardo Baroncelli stepped forward, his eyes gleaming with fervor as he gestured to the chest. “It’s all here. Swords. Staves. Axes. Armor. Bows. Our men will lack for nothing.”

Stefano da Bagnone, nervous and thin, glanced toward Rodrigo Borgia. “I take this gift to mean the Pope consents?”

Rodrigo’s expression soured, his lip curling into a sneer. “He gave his blessing to the operation... ‘as long as nobody is killed.’” His tone made it clear he found the condition laughable, almost insulting.

Ezio’s fists clenched at his sides, the tension radiating off him palpable. Amelia’s hand slid to his arm, squeezing lightly—a silent reminder to keep his focus. She leaned closer to the grate, her attention fixed on Rodrigo. The words "nobody is killed" rang in her ears, the hypocrisy of it setting her teeth on edge.

Francesco de’ Pazzi spoke next, smug satisfaction dripping from his tone. “We’re all set for the Duomo in the morning, Signore. The bait’s been laid, but it wasn’t easy. His fool brother keeps changing his plans…”

"Si!" Bernardo interrupted, his enthusiasm spilling over. "We’ll have to be there early to make sure Giuliano even gets out of bed for church tomorrow!"

Laughter erupted among the Templars, their cruel amusement echoing in the chamber. Amelia’s stomach churned, the sound twisting her insides. She glanced at Ezio, whose gaze burned with barely contained rage. But beneath the anger, she saw the worry—the knowledge that Giuliano de’ Medici, a trusted ally, was walking into a trap.

Below, Rodrigo’s cold, calculating demeanor remained unshaken. He turned to Jacopo, his sharp eyes narrowing. “What is it, Jacopo? Do you think they suspect something?”

Jacopo hesitated, his gaze flickering to Francesco. “Do not underestimate our enemies, Francesco. Or have you already forgotten how your son was murdered?”

The mention of Vieri sent a jolt of rage through Francesco. His face twisted into a snarl as he glared at Jacopo. “We’ll suffer no such surprises this time, Maestro. You have my word.” He bowed stiffly, though the tension between them was tangible.

Rodrigo waved his hand dismissively. “Molto bene. I should be off. I’ve other business to attend to before I return to Rome.” His sneer deepened, venom dripping from his words. “And to deal with certain... irritants that have eluded us. Giovanni Auditore, for one. He should have been dead months ago, and yet here we are.” He paused, his voice turning colder, more menacing. “And that little whore Amelia. Her father was an easy target, but she has proven more troublesome. My son has orders to bring her in alive. I have... questions for her. I think she’ll be more cooperative after a little persuasion.”

The words struck like a dagger to Amelia’s chest. Her breath hitched, terror and fury swirling in her chest, constricting her throat. Rodrigo’s casual cruelty, the way he dismissed her father’s life and reduced her to nothing more than a pawn in his twisted plans, ignited a fire in her. She dug her nails into her palms, the sharp sting grounding her, forcing her to steady her breathing.

Why me? What could they possibly want from me? The idea of being captured, dragged into their clutches, and subjected to their will filled her with a fear she hadn’t allowed herself to feel since the night her father was taken. Her fingers pressed hard against the cold stone beneath her, grounding herself against the rising tide of anxiety. They won’t have me. I won’t let them.

Her gaze flicked to Ezio. His jaw was tight, his fists clenched, and his whole posture radiated barely contained rage as he listened to Rodrigo outline the plot to target Giuliano de’ Medici. But beneath his fury, she caught something else—a flicker of fierce protectiveness that made her chest tighten. When their eyes met, his expression softened, and he leaned closer, his voice a low whisper meant only for her.

“They’ll never take you, Amelia,” he said, his tone steady and unshakable. “I’ll make sure of it. You have my word.”

The sincerity in his voice cut through the storm in her mind, and for a moment, it was enough to ease the weight pressing on her chest. Gratitude swelled within her, warming her against the chill of the catacombs. She swallowed hard, keeping her voice steady as she whispered back, “Thank you, Ezio. But you know I can take care of myself.”

A small smile touched his lips—lopsided, disarming, and enough to bring a faint light into the oppressive darkness surrounding them. “I don’t doubt that for a second,” he murmured. “But it doesn’t mean I won’t try.”

She held his gaze for a moment, feeling the unspoken bond between them strengthen. They’d faced too much together—fought through too many battles, uncovered too many secrets—to falter now. As Rodrigo’s twisted plans hung in the air, she felt her fear solidify into anger. They’ve taken enough. They’ll take no more.

A faint sound echoed through the halls—footsteps. Amelia’s senses sharpened instantly, her hand brushing Ezio’s arm to signal their retreat. “We need to move,” she whispered, her voice firm and resolute. “There’s no time to waste.”

Ezio nodded, and together they melted back into the shadows, silent as the specters that haunted the ancient tunnels. Their path wound through the cold, damp catacombs, their steps purposeful. Amelia’s heart ached with the memory of loss, but now, a fierce hope burned beside the anger—a hope fueled by the bond she shared with Ezio and the determination to see their mission through.

Eventually, they emerged into a grand chamber, its eerie stillness broken only by the faint crackle of ancient torches. At the center stood a richly adorned sarcophagus, the Assassin’s symbol carved into its surface. The walls were lined with cryptic symbols and designs, their meaning lost to time.

Amelia ran her fingers over the carvings, awe flickering in her expression. “It’s beautiful… and ancient. These marks—they hold a history that stretches back centuries.”

Ezio stepped forward, placing his hands reverently on the sarcophagus lid. “This must be one of the places our father spoke of—a piece of the past, hidden beneath Florence.”

Before she could respond, he turned back to the sarcophagus and pushed against the heavy stone lid. It slid open with a groan, releasing a rush of cold air steeped in centuries of silence.

Inside, the flickering torchlight revealed the carved figure of a hooded man, the Assassin’s mark still etched proudly on his chest. The weight of history pressed down on them as they rifled through the chamber, collecting the scattered florins and artifacts, items they could use or sell to fund their mission.

When they had taken all they could carry, Amelia’s sharp eyes caught sight of a ladder tucked into the shadows along the wall. “Over there,” she said, pointing it out with a quick gesture.

Ezio followed her lead, and they climbed swiftly, the rungs creaking faintly under their weight. The cool night air was a welcome relief as they emerged from the stifling darkness of the catacombs. Florence stretched out before them, its rooftops bathed in silver moonlight, a deceptive calm masking the tension that lingered in the air.

Leaning casually against a crumbling wall nearby was La Volpe, his silhouette sharp against the muted city lights. His sharp eyes glinted with intrigue as he watched them approach. “You move quickly,” he remarked with a sly grin, his tone light but probing. “I trust you found what you were looking for?”

Ezio nodded, his face tense as he adjusted the strap of his weapon. “I know where Francesco will be and when,” he said, his voice clipped with urgency. “But…”

La Volpe straightened, his grin fading. “But what?”

Ezio’s expression darkened, and he glanced briefly at Amelia before continuing. “I overheard something. They’ve amassed weapons—enough to arm a battalion. And they have the Pope’s blessing.”

La Volpe cursed under his breath, his sharp features twisting with frustration. “Typical of Sixtus. That snake is always meddling. But what’s their plan? Why so much firepower?”

Amelia stepped forward, her voice steady but edged with tension. “It’s the Medici. They’re going to strike during Sunday Mass. At the Duomo. Tomorrow morning.”

La Volpe’s expression shifted from disbelief to grim understanding, his face pale as the implications sank in. “The Medici will all be there. Along with the rest of Florence. They’re going to make their move in the middle of High Mass… public, bloody, and catastrophic.”

Ezio’s jaw tightened, resolve hardening his features. “It’s also the best chance to stop them. I can blend into the crowd, get close, and put an end to this madness.”

La Volpe frowned deeply, his concern evident despite his composed demeanor. “If they succeed… if Lorenzo falls, and Florence is lost to the Pazzi…” He trailed off, the weight of what was at stake evident in his voice.

“It will not come to that,” Ezio said firmly, his tone like tempered steel. “I promise you.”

La Volpe studied him for a long moment, his shrewd eyes searching Ezio’s face, then shifted his gaze to Amelia. Her expression mirrored Ezio’s determination, her shoulders squared as she met La Volpe’s scrutiny head-on. Finally, the thief nodded, though the worry didn’t leave his eyes.

“I hope you’re right,” he said, his voice quieter now, as though speaking more to himself than to them. “For all our sakes.”

As La Volpe disappeared into the shadows, his form melting into the night as seamlessly as he’d arrived, Ezio turned to Amelia, his expression resolute. “Come on,” he said, his voice low but commanding. “We have a lot to do before morning.” Amelia nodded, falling into step beside him as they navigated the winding streets of Florence. The city was quiet now, the distant hum of a few stragglers and the occasional bark of a dog breaking the silence. Their footsteps echoed faintly against the cobblestones, a rhythm that felt almost meditative despite the urgency of their mission. The moonlight bathed the rooftops and narrow alleys in a cold glow, and Amelia’s eyes darted instinctively to the shadows, her hand brushing the hilt of her blade. They walked in silence, their shared focus unspoken but tangible, the weight of what lay ahead pressing heavily between them.

As the Duomo came into view, its massive dome glowing under the moonlight like a beacon, Ezio slowed his pace, his eyes scanning the rooftops above. He motioned toward a nearby building, its sloped tiles offering a vantage point overlooking the square below. “Up there,” he said, nodding toward it. “We’ll have the best view from the roof.”

Amelia followed him without hesitation, the two of them scaling the walls with practiced ease. The climb was silent save for the occasional scrape of boots against stone. When they reached the top, the view stretched out before them—a sweeping panorama of the city, the Duomo’s grandeur standing tall against the starlit sky. The square below was still and quiet, but its emptiness carried the heavy promise of what was to come.

Ezio crouched near the edge, his sharp eyes scanning the streets and alleyways for any sign of movement. Satisfied that they were alone, he turned back to Amelia, motioning for her to settle in against a sturdy section of the roof. “Rest,” he said, his tone leaving no room for argument. “We’ll need our strength, and you’re taking first.”

Amelia arched a brow at him, clearly unimpressed. “You need rest just as much as I do, Ezio.”

He shook his head, the faintest smirk tugging at his lips. “I’ll wake you in a few hours. Until then, just close your eyes. I’ll keep watch.”

Her lips pressed into a thin line as she weighed the offer, her pride warring with her exhaustion. But the ache in her muscles and the weight of the day’s events won out. With a quiet huff, she slid down into a more comfortable position, her cloak pulled tightly around her to ward off the night’s chill.

As she leaned back against the roof’s support, she let her eyes drift to Ezio, who had already returned his focus to the square below. The moonlight cast his features in sharp relief, highlighting the determination etched into his expression. There was a quiet strength in the way he held himself, a steadiness that had always been there, even in the early days of their partnership. It was a strength she had come to rely on, though she rarely admitted it aloud.

The first rays of dawn stretched over Florence, painting the rooftops in hues of gold and amber, but the beauty of the moment was lost amidst the rising tension below. From their vantage point on the rooftop, Amelia and Ezio watched as the square near the Duomo filled with finely dressed nobles and commoners alike, all gathered for Sunday service. The hum of the city was overshadowed by an eerie sense of anticipation, a quiet before the storm.

Amelia’s pulse raced as she scanned the growing crowd, her sharp eyes searching for any sign of the Pazzi conspirators. Beside her, Ezio crouched low, his gaze fixed and calculating. His quiet intensity was a steadying force against the chaos that threatened to unfold.

“There,” he murmured, pointing toward the cluster of Medici allies. “Lorenzo and his wife. Giuliano’s beside them.” His voice dipped, tight with concern. “But I don’t see Francesco.”

Amelia’s heart clenched as she swept the square again, her fingers tightening around the hilt of her blade. “He’s here. I can feel it,” she muttered, her tone edged with frustration. “He wouldn’t miss this chance.”

Before they could speak further, the calm shattered. A figure broke from the crowd—Bernardo Baroncelli—his thin dagger glinting in the morning light as he drove it into Giuliano de’ Medici’s side. The young Medici gasped, stumbling back, his hands clutching at the wound as crimson bloomed across his tunic.

“Crepa, traditore!” Bernardo spat, his face twisted with hatred as he struck again. Lorenzo turned, his voice breaking with anguish as he cried out for his brother.

The chaos erupted in full force as Stefano da Bagnone emerged behind Lorenzo, his blade poised. With a sickening thrust, the dagger plunged into Lorenzo’s back, and the ruler of Florence fell to the ground, his blood staining the cobblestones. Panic swept through the square, the screams of the crowd blending with the clash of steel as chaos descended.

Amelia’s breath caught as she saw Giuliano stagger, his desperate pleas drowned out by the roar of Francesco de’ Pazzi’s rage. “Nessuna pietà, cane maledetto! Muori!” Francesco howled, his blade striking again and again with a ferocity that made even his allies falter.

Amelia’s jaw clenched, her entire body coiled with tension as she took in the scene. They were too late to save Giuliano, but Lorenzo still drew breath. Her eyes darted to Ezio, whose face was a mask of fury and focus.

“Now,” she hissed, and the two of them sprang into action.

They descended like shadows falling from the heavens, their movements swift and deadly. Ezio’s sword was the first to strike, slicing clean through a guard’s armor with precision. Amelia landed beside him, her dagger flashing as she dispatched another enemy with a quick, efficient thrust. The Templars turned in shock at their sudden appearance, but their hesitation cost them dearly.

A group of seven guards surged toward them, weapons raised, their shouts cutting through the tense morning air. Amelia met the first with a brutal slash across his throat, his weapon clattering to the cobblestones before he crumpled. Another lunged at her, blade aimed for her chest, but she sidestepped, grabbing his wrist and twisting until she heard the snap of bone. His scream was short-lived as her dagger found its mark between his ribs.

Ezio intercepted a strike aimed at Amelia’s back, his sword clashing against the guard’s blade. With a sharp twist, he sent the weapon flying and shoved the man backward, creating an opening. Amelia didn’t hesitate, her blade slicing the tendons behind the guard’s knees. He fell with a cry, and Ezio ended him with a swift downward strike.

Three more guards charged, their movements desperate and frenzied. Amelia ducked beneath a wild swing, driving her knee into her attacker’s gut before finishing him with a quick thrust. Beside her, Ezio’s blade danced through the air, parrying one strike before countering with a precise slash across another guard’s chest.

The final guard swung high at Ezio, forcing him to pivot. In that split second, another attacker lunged from his blind spot. Amelia shouted a warning, but it was too late—a blade sliced across Ezio’s side. He grunted in pain, his movements faltering as he clutched at the wound. Despite the injury, his sword struck true, driving into his assailant’s chest and sending him staggering back.

“Ezio!” Amelia’s voice was sharp with concern as she dispatched the last guard with a quick jab to his throat. She turned to him, her eyes scanning the crimson stain spreading across his tunic. “Let me see it.”

“I’m fine,” Ezio muttered, though his voice was strained. He wiped his blade clean, sheathing it with a deliberate motion that didn’t quite hide the tension in his jaw.

“Stop being stubborn.” Amelia stepped closer, her hands steady as she reached for his tunic. He didn’t resist, though his expression was tight with discomfort. Pulling the fabric aside, she examined the wound—a long, shallow gash across his ribs. “It’s not deep, but you’re bleeding. Let me—”

Her words were cut off by a weak voice behind them. “You… saved my life.” Lorenzo de’ Medici staggered toward them, his face pale, his movements sluggish from blood loss.

Ezio pushed his pain aside, steadying Lorenzo with his uninjured arm. “It’s nothing, Signore,” he said, though his voice was low with effort. “But the man who did this—Francesco de’ Pazzi—must pay.”

Lorenzo leaned heavily against Ezio, his breathing labored. “Not now… My home… There are people I trust there… Help me…”

Amelia moved to Lorenzo’s other side, slipping her arm under his to support his weight. “We’ll get you there,” she promised, her tone firm despite the urgency that laced her voice. “But you have to keep moving.”

The three of them began their slow journey through the winding streets of Florence, Lorenzo’s body trembling with each step. Amelia could feel the heat of his blood soaking through her gloves as they pressed on, the alleys around them seeming darker and more oppressive with every passing moment.

“Francesco… I’ll destroy him…” Lorenzo’s voice was a ragged growl, pain and fury intertwining in his words. “His family… their name will be erased!”

“Conserve your strength, Signore,” Ezio said firmly, though his voice wavered slightly as the strain of supporting Lorenzo took its toll on his injured side. “You can have your revenge later. For now, we focus on keeping you alive.”

As they neared Lorenzo’s home, a new wave of guards emerged, their blades gleaming in the morning light. The clash of steel rang out once more as Ezio and Amelia moved in sync, protecting Lorenzo while cutting down their enemies. Despite his wound, Ezio fought with unwavering determination, his strikes precise and unrelenting. Amelia stayed close, her dagger flashing as she dispatched attackers with brutal efficiency.

Finally, the gates to Lorenzo’s estate came into view. Amelia pushed forward, her focus narrowing to the singular goal of getting Lorenzo to safety. Ezio faltered slightly beside her, his wound slowing him, but he didn’t let it stop him. Together, they fought their way to the entrance, the last guard falling with a gurgled cry as Amelia’s blade found his throat.

Ezio pounded on the heavy wooden door, his voice sharp with urgency. “Lorenzo’s been wounded! Aprite la porta! Open the door!”

From behind the door, a guard’s voice called out, tense and wary. “What’s the password?”

Lorenzo rasped, his voice hoarse but still commanding. “Poliziano! Open the maledetta porta!”

The door creaked open, and they stumbled inside, the cool shadows of the estate a stark contrast to the heat and chaos of the streets. Lorenzo’s men rushed to their aid, carefully taking him from Ezio and Amelia’s grasp. Before they could carry him away, Lorenzo grabbed Ezio’s sleeve with a surprisingly firm grip.

“Wait,” Lorenzo said, his voice low but laden with emotion. “I am in your debt. Tell me… why did you help me?”

Ezio held his gaze, his own voice steady and resolute. “You are not the only one who lost a brother to the Pazzi. My name is Ezio Auditore.”

Recognition flickered across Lorenzo’s face, followed by a flash of sorrow. “You’re Giovanni’s son… Your father was a great man. I mourned your brother, though I didn’t know him well.”

Before Ezio could respond, a guard rushed forward, his face pale with fear. “Signore! The Pazzi thugs are storming the Palazzo della Signoria! We can’t hold them off much longer—”

Poliziano interrupted, his tone tight with desperation. “No! If they get inside, they’ll kill our allies and replace them with their own men!”

Lorenzo struggled to rise, pain etched into every line of his face. “Then my survival will mean nothing.” His eyes met Ezio’s, fierce and unyielding despite his condition. “Francesco de’ Pazzi… Help save Florence. Kill him.”

Ezio gave a single, grim nod, his expression hardening. As he turned toward the door, Poliziano stepped forward, urgency in his voice. “Signore, Francesco was seen leading men around the back of the Palazzo della Signoria. I fear he’s searching for another way in.”

Ezio’s gaze flicked to Amelia, her resolve mirrored in his eyes. Neither spoke as they turned on their heels and sprinted back into the streets. The sounds of chaos—shouts, clashing steel, and panicked cries—echoed through the narrow alleys as they raced toward the Palazzo.

Chapter Text

The run to the Palazzo della Signoria had been a blur of pounding footsteps and desperate urgency. The streets of Florence were alive with chaos—citizens shouting, guards rushing to their posts, and the distant clamor of steel echoing through the narrow alleys. Amelia and Ezio had moved as one, weaving through the madness with practiced precision until the towering silhouette of the prison loomed before them, a dark monolith against the twilight sky.

The air was thick with tension as they reached the base of the tower, the flicker of torches casting jagged shadows across the rough stone. Amelia slowed her pace, her gaze darting between the gathering mob and the guards patrolling the square. At the head of the crowd, Jacopo de’ Pazzi sat on horseback, his grim smile illuminated by the firelight as he watched the unrest he had orchestrated unfold.

Ezio’s focus remained on the tower, his jaw set with determination. He turned to Amelia, his expression expectant. She met his gaze, a flicker of frustration in her eyes as she glanced at the imposing structure.

“I’ll stay below,” she said, her tone brisk and resolute. “I’ll keep the guards busy and the path clear for your escape. You handle Francesco.”

Ezio frowned, his concern evident as he studied her. “Are you sure? I can—”

“Ezio,” she interrupted firmly, stepping closer and gripping his forearm. “I’ve got this. Go. Finish this.”

He hesitated for a moment, then nodded, his hand briefly covering hers in a silent acknowledgment of their partnership. Without another word, he darted toward the base of the tower, his movements fluid as he began his climb. Amelia watched him ascend, her chest tightening with a mix of pride and anxiety. He moved like a shadow, his hands and feet finding purchase with practiced ease, but she knew the danger that awaited him at the top.

Slipping back into the shadows, Amelia positioned herself near a cluster of barrels and crates, her eyes scanning the square for any signs of trouble. The chants of the mob rose and fell like waves, their cries of “Liberata!” echoing off the ancient stone walls. It was a volatile energy, a force that could erupt into violence at any moment, and she knew the Pazzi were stoking those flames to seize power.

Her fingers tightened around the hilt of her dagger as a group of guards marched past, their expressions grim and their weapons ready. Amelia crouched lower, pressing herself against the cool stone as they passed. One of them paused, his gaze sweeping the alley with a suspicious frown. She held her breath, her muscles coiled like a spring, ready to strike if he moved closer. After a tense moment, the guard continued on, and she exhaled slowly, her shoulders easing as the immediate threat passed.

Her gaze lifted to the tower once more, catching sight of Ezio as he neared the top. He moved with the grace and determination of a predator, his focus unyielding. Pride warmed her chest, but beneath it, a thread of anxiety wound tighter with every step he took. She couldn’t join him, couldn’t fight at his side this time, but she could ensure his path remained clear.

The shouts of the mob grew louder, their fervor threatening to spill over. Amelia’s grip on her dagger tightened. “Keep going, Ezio,” she whispered, her voice lost in the chaos around her. “I’ve got your back.”

Above, Amelia caught a glimpse of movement—Ezio pulling himself over the final ledge of the tower. Her heart tightened as she watched him disappear from view, swallowed by the shadows of the prison’s upper level. She couldn’t see or hear what unfolded on the roof, the chants and shouts of the mob below drowning out any sounds of struggle from above. The square was a cacophony of chaos, the fervor of the crowd masking the deadly silence of the confrontation above.

Her gaze darted between the building and the restless mob, the tension in her chest coiling tighter with each passing moment. Then, through the flickering torchlight, a figure appeared—dangling from the edge of the tower. The broken, lifeless form of Francesco de’ Pazzi swung like a macabre banner above the square, his bloodied clothing stark against the night. The chanting below faltered and faded into stunned silence as the crowd turned their eyes upward. The message was clear: Florence would not fall to the Pazzi.

Amelia remained rooted in her spot, her lips pressing into a thin line as she stared at the spectacle. A glimmer of satisfaction flickered in her chest, cold and sharp. The Pazzi had tried to claim this city, to twist its people with their lies, and now one of their leaders hung as a warning. It was a message that Florence was still protected, but it was also a grim reminder of the path she and Ezio had chosen—a path stained with blood and sacrifice.

She exhaled slowly, glancing back toward the tower. From her position, she couldn’t see Ezio, but she knew he was still up there, likely taking a moment to gather himself before descending. She stayed hidden, her senses attuned to the lingering guards and the uneasy murmurs of the dispersing mob. The tension in the square began to dissipate, the crowd slowly breaking apart as the reality of the scene sank in.

When she was certain the chaos had ebbed, Amelia slipped out of the shadows and circled around the Palazzo, searching for Ezio. She found him near the base of the tower, his silhouette barely illuminated by the dim glow of distant torches. As she approached, she noticed the way his steps faltered slightly, the subtle hitch in his stride that betrayed his fatigue.

Her brow furrowed as she drew closer. “Ezio,” she called softly, her voice cutting through the quiet.

He turned at the sound, and for the first time, she caught sight of the blood soaking his side, staining the fabric of his tunic. Her stomach twisted as she realized just how much he’d been concealing from her since the fight at the church. “You’re hurt,” she said, her tone sharper than she intended as she closed the distance between them.

Ezio offered a faint, tired smile, his hand instinctively pressing against his side. “It’s not as bad as it looks,” he replied, though his uneven stance and the crimson seeping through his tunic told a different story.

Amelia stepped closer, her eyes narrowing as she caught sight of a fresh gash across his chest, the edges of the wound glinting in the torchlight. Her jaw tightened. “Not as bad as it looks? That’s the second wound I’ve seen on you today, Ezio. And you’ve said nothing about either.”

He gave a weak shrug, his smirk attempting to mask his pain. “There wasn’t exactly time to stop and chat, was there?”

She rolled her eyes, her frustration clear as she gently took his arm to steady him. “Let’s not pretend you’re invincible. You need rest and attention before you bleed out in the middle of the street.”

Ezio winced as she tugged him toward the narrow alleyway. “You’re starting to sound like my mother,” he muttered, though his tone carried a trace of affection.

Ezio leaned heavily against her, a grimace of pain breaking into a low, rumbling laugh. “Alright? No. Deserving? Probably.” His crooked smile, faint and weary, tugged at her in a way she couldn’t quite place. Despite his charm, fatigue hung over him like a shadow, his usual confidence softened by the strain of the day.

Amelia shook her head, muttering under her breath as she slipped an arm around his waist to steady him. The weight of him against her was a stark reminder of how much he’d pushed himself. “Idiot,” she said, her voice tight but not unkind. “If I accidentally kill you, who’s going to explain it to Lorenzo? Or worse—Mario?” She tugged him forward with a mixture of annoyance and genuine concern. “Let’s find an inn before you bleed out and make this whole thing even more complicated.”

Ezio leaned into her support without protest, his steps slow and deliberate as they navigated the labyrinthine streets of Florence. The distant hum of late-night activity faded to quiet murmurs, leaving only the rhythmic echo of their footsteps against the cobblestones. The city, so familiar yet heavy with tension, seemed to hold its breath as they passed.

Ahead, the faint glow of an inn’s lantern caught her eye, the swaying sign promising warmth and safety. Without hesitation, she pushed open the door, guiding Ezio inside. The air was thick with the mingled scents of roasting meat and stale ale. A few patrons sat hunched at tables, their murmured conversations barely audible above the creak of wooden beams. The innkeeper, a stout man with a weathered face, glanced up from the counter, his eyes flicking between them with mild curiosity.

“We need a room,” Amelia said, cutting off any questions with the clipped efficiency of someone who’d seen too much for pleasantries. She pulled a few coins from her pouch, dropping them onto the counter with a soft clink. “And a bath. Quickly.”

The innkeeper nodded, sweeping up the coins with practiced indifference. “Up the stairs, first door on the left. I’ll have the water sent up shortly.”

“Good,” she said briskly, already turning back to Ezio. He leaned against a nearby column, his face pale but his smirk firmly in place. Amelia’s lips tightened into a thin line. “Let’s get you up there before you decide to charm the innkeeper into patching you up,” she muttered, slipping an arm under his once more.

Ezio chuckled faintly, though the effort made him wince. “I was just going to say how lovely this place is.”

“Keep it to yourself, smooth-talker,” she shot back, though the faintest flicker of a smile tugged at her lips.

They made their way upstairs slowly, each step an effort that tested her patience and his endurance. By the time they reached the room, she was practically dragging him. She kicked open the door, guiding him toward the small bed nestled against the wall. With a soft grunt, he lowered himself onto it, leaning back with a weary groan.

“Let me take a look so I know what I need. I’m going to run and get some supplies to get you fixedup.” She said, approaching the bed.

Amelia froze, her jaw tightening as Ezio’s words registered. Her eyes snapped to his, narrowing into a sharp glare that should have been enough to silence him. Instead, he just sat there with that insufferable smirk, looking entirely too pleased with himself despite the bloodstained tunic and the weariness etched into his face.

“ Ma che diavolo hai appena detto? ” she hissed, her voice rising as her cheeks flushed hot. What the hell did you just say to me?

Ezio shrugged one shoulder, wincing slightly at the movement, but the smirk didn’t falter. “I only meant it’s a bold move, Lia. Asking the innkeeper to draw me a bath. If you wanted to see me naked, you could’ve just said so.”

Amelia’s mouth fell open, her mind scrambling for a response. For a moment, words failed her, and all she could do was stare at him, her face burning. “ Dio d’amore e tutti i santi, ” she finally burst out, her hands flying up in exasperation. “ Tu sei insopportabile! ” God of love and all the saints… you’re unbearable!

Ezio tilted his head, his smirk softening into something closer to amusement. “I think that’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”

“ Zitto! ” she snapped, pointing a finger at him. “Shut up! Do you have any idea how ridiculous you sound? You’re sitting there, bleeding, looking at me like…” She faltered, her voice trailing off as she caught the way his warm gaze lingered on her, soft and steady, and—no. Absolutely not.

“Like what?” he asked, his voice low and teasing, his smirk deepening as though he already knew exactly how he was affecting her.

“ Come un dannato idiota, questo è tutto! ” she shot back, her words tumbling out in a rush as she tried to regain her footing. “ Like a damned idiot, that’s what! ” She spun away from him, pacing to the other side of the room as she muttered under her breath, her hands gesturing wildly. “ Non posso crederci... lui pensa... nudo... ” I can’t believe this… he thinks… naked…

Ezio, for his part, just leaned back against the headboard, watching her with a mix of amusement and something warmer, something she refused to name. “You know,” he said casually, “you’re even more charming when you’re flustered.”

That did it. She spun back toward him, her finger jabbing in his direction. “I am not flustered!” she nearly shouted. “I am trying to help you, cretino! And you’re just lying there like some—some smirking idiot! You think this is a game? You think—” You idiot!

The door creaked open, and Amelia whirled to face it, her rant cutting off mid-sentence. The innkeeper stood frozen in the doorway, a large basin of steaming water in his hands and an expression of profound awkwardness on his face.

“Uh…” He cleared his throat, glancing nervously between Amelia and Ezio. “The bath, miss.”

Amelia’s face went from flushed to scarlet in record time. “There,” she said sharply, pointing to the corner near the fireplace without looking at either of them. The innkeeper hurried to set the basin down, clearly eager to escape the charged atmosphere of the room.

“Enjoy your evening,” he muttered before backing out and closing the door behind him.

For a moment, the room was silent. Then, Ezio’s low chuckle broke the tension. “You scared the poor man half to death.”

Amelia didn’t trust herself to respond. She grabbed her cloak from the chair and stormed toward the door, her heart hammering against her ribs. “I’m going to get the supplies,” she said through clenched teeth, her voice tight and strained. “Stay here. Don’t drown in the bath. Idiota. ” Idiot.

“Of course, Lia,” he called after her, the warmth in his tone doing nothing to help the furious pounding in her chest. “Take your time.”

She slammed the door behind her, muttering a string of curses under her breath as she hurried down the stairs and into the cool night air. Her hands shook as she adjusted her cloak, the heat in her cheeks refusing to fade.

“ Maladetto uomo… impossibile… troppo carino per il suo bene, ” she muttered to herself as she made her way toward the doctor’s house. Damn man… impossible… too handsome for his own good. Damn him. Damn his smirk. And damn the way her heart wouldn’t stop racing.

As Amelia descended the creaking wooden stairs, her thoughts were a whirlwind of frustration and disbelief. Her hands tightened into fists at her sides as she replayed the last few minutes in her mind—the ridiculous smirk on Ezio’s face, his infuriating joke, and, worse, the way he’d looked at her. That gaze, warm and steady, had left her flustered and, annoyingly, unable to focus.

Her cheeks still burned as she reached the bottom of the stairs, but she forced herself to calm her expression, her hood pulled low over her face. As she passed the innkeeper, he caught her eye, offering a knowing smile that only fanned the flames of her irritation.

“Excuse me,” she said, her tone clipped, trying to ignore the smugness she thought she detected in his expression. “Where’s the closest doctor? I need supplies.”

He nodded toward the door, his hands busy wiping down the counter. “Just a few blocks east, miss. Look for the red lantern above the door. Can’t miss it.”

She gave a curt nod, muttered a thank-you, and headed for the door, her boots clicking against the worn floorboards. The cool night air hit her as she stepped outside, a welcome relief against her overheated skin. She pulled her cloak tighter and drew her hood low, her eyes darting along the quiet streets as she set off toward the doctor’s shop.

Amelia cursed herself as she walked, her breath puffing in the chill air. Her thoughts circled back to Ezio, not his ridiculous comment, but his wounds—how distracted she’d been by his charm and infuriating demeanor that she hadn’t even properly assessed how bad they were. She clenched her jaw, frustration simmering as she quickened her pace.

He’s been walking around all day like nothing’s wrong, bleeding and bruised, and I let him distract me with a stupid joke about the bath. She shook her head, her annoyance shifting inward. Stupida ragazza. You’ve seen him injured before. You’ve helped him before. Why should this time be any different?

Her boots scuffed against the cobblestones as she turned a corner, her thoughts spiraling further. The gash across his chest had looked shallow but long, and the bandage on his side from earlier at the church was already soaked through. He hadn’t said a word about the pain, of course. Ezio never did. He had a way of burying his own suffering under a mask of charm and wit, and for the most part, it worked. Until now.

Amelia’s grip tightened around the coin purse at her side as she spotted the red lantern swinging in the light breeze ahead. He makes everything a joke. Even when he’s hurt. Even when… Her thoughts caught on the memory of his smirk, the soft look in his eyes, the way he seemed entirely unbothered by the state he was in, as if nothing in the world could faze him.

“ Idiota, ” she muttered under her breath as she pushed open the door to the doctor’s shop. Inside, the air was warmer, filled with the scent of herbs and the faint metallic tang of antiseptic. She approached the counter, her voice steady and polite despite the storm of emotions churning within her. “I need bandages, alcohol, stitching supplies, and anything for pain.”

The elderly doctor behind the counter glanced at her briefly before nodding. “Rough night?” he asked as he began gathering the items.

“You could say that,” she replied tersely, her hood still low, her gaze flicking to the jars of dried herbs lining the shelves.

The doctor placed the supplies on the counter, and she handed him a few coins, her fingers tapping anxiously against the wood as she waited. With the supplies in hand, she turned and stepped back out into the night, the cool air hitting her again as she hurried back toward the inn.

Her thoughts gnawed at her as she walked, a mixture of guilt and irritation bubbling beneath the surface. She needed to focus on the task at hand, to patch Ezio up properly, but her mind kept straying back to his infuriating smirk, the warmth in his gaze, and the strange way her heart had stuttered under his attention. Get it together, Amelia, she scolded herself silently. You’re here to help him, not to get distracted by his charm.

Amelia pushed the door open quietly, stepping into the dimly lit room. The fire crackled softly in the hearth, casting a golden glow across the small space. Her breath caught as her eyes landed on Ezio. He was sitting in one of the chairs by the fire, shirtless, a blanket draped loosely over his shoulders. His head was tilted back against the chair, his damp hair slicked back from his face, and his eyes were closed, his breathing slow and even. He looked half-asleep, the tension from earlier softened by exhaustion.

For a moment, she simply stood there, clutching the supplies in her hands, unsure of what to say or do. The sight of him like this—vulnerable, quiet—struck something deep within her. Gone was the teasing smirk, the boyish charm. In its place was the man she had fought beside for years, a man who had seen more pain and loss than anyone should have to bear. The man who had become her anchor in all this chaos. The man she cared for more than she dared to admit.

She stepped forward, her movements quiet, and set the supplies down on the table beside the plates of food. The faint clatter caused Ezio’s eyes to flicker open, his gaze settling on her. A small, tired smile played at the corners of his mouth, and his voice was low and rough when he spoke. “You’re back.”

Amelia swallowed, her banter gone, replaced by a warmth she couldn’t quite name. “Of course,” she said softly, moving to kneel in front of him. “Let me see the damage.”

Ezio didn’t argue. He simply sat forward slightly, letting the blanket fall from his shoulders. The gash on his side and the shallow cut across his chest stood out starkly against his skin, both wounds still raw but no longer bleeding. Her lips pressed into a thin line as she soaked a cloth in the alcohol and began cleaning the gash at his side with slow, careful movements.

He winced slightly but didn’t complain, his eyes fixed on her face as she worked. Amelia kept her focus on the task at hand, her fingers steady despite the thudding of her heart. She could feel his gaze on her, warm and unwavering, but she didn’t look up. She couldn’t. Not when being this close to him, touching him like this, was stirring feelings she wasn’t ready to speak into existence.

“I hate seeing you like this,” she murmured, the words spilling out before she could stop them. Her hand paused on the bandage she was securing around his chest.

Ezio’s expression shifted slightly, a mix of understanding and something else—something deeper that she couldn’t quite place. “I feel the same,” he admitted, his voice low and steady. “That night, after Vieri…”

He hesitated, as if weighing whether to continue, then pressed on, his tone growing softer. “Seeing you like that—bleeding, barely able to stand, the doctor stitching you up right in front of me—I hated it, Amelia. I hated feeling so helpless.”

The admission struck her like a jolt. Her fingers stilled against his skin as his words settled between them, raw and unguarded. She swallowed hard, her throat tightening. “You never said anything,” she whispered, her voice quieter now, tinged with something fragile.

“I didn’t think it was my place,” he replied simply, his gaze unwavering. “You’ve always been so strong. But that night…” His voice trailed off, his expression softening as though the memory weighed heavily on him. A faint, rueful smile tugged at his lips. “Let’s just say I’m glad it wasn’t worse. And I don’t want to see it happen again.”

Her throat tightened at the quiet sincerity in his voice. For a moment, she couldn’t bring herself to respond, the weight of his words settling over her. Instead, she let her hands move again, resuming the careful task of cleaning and wrapping his wounds. The room was quiet save for the crackle of the fire, but the air between them felt charged, heavier than it had been moments ago.

Ezio watched her intently as she worked, his gaze unreadable but steady, like he was trying to memorize every detail of her face. When she leaned back to survey her work, her hands finally still, she allowed herself to look up at him—and froze. His eyes locked onto hers, and there was something in his expression that made her breath catch in her throat. A quiet intensity, a warmth that unsettled and comforted her in equal measure. It was as though he could see every part of her—her strength, her flaws, her fears—and accepted it all without question.

“What?” she asked, her voice barely more than a whisper, the word slipping out before she could stop it.

He shook his head slightly, the faintest hint of a smile curving his lips. “Nothing,” he said softly, his voice steady but carrying a weight she couldn’t ignore. “Just… thank you.”

The words were so simple, yet the way he said them made her chest ache. She nodded slightly, unable to speak, and busied herself with cleaning up the supplies. Her hands trembled slightly as she worked, and she hated herself for it. Pull it together, she scolded silently, but her mind wouldn’t stop spinning. She tried to focus on the task at hand, to anchor herself in the small, mundane motions, but the feel of his eyes on her was almost too much.

“You should eat,” she said after a moment, her voice steadier now as she nodded toward the plates of food on the table. “You’ll need your strength.”

Ezio chuckled softly, leaning back in the chair with a wince. “Are you going to sit and eat with me? Or are you planning to hover like a mother hen?”

Her lips twitched despite herself, a faint smile breaking through her otherwise serious expression. “Eat your food, Ezio,” she said, her tone carrying a touch of exasperated fondness. She stood and moved to the other chair, settling into it with a quiet sigh. For the first time in what felt like hours, she allowed herself to relax, though her mind was far from quiet.

The two of them ate in a companionable silence, the fire crackling softly beside them. The warmth of the food and the room began to soothe some of the tension in her shoulders, but her thoughts remained tangled. She stole glances at him between bites, her gaze drawn to the way the firelight played across his features, softening the sharp edges of his jawline and casting his dark eyes in a flickering glow. He looked so different like this—so human. Vulnerable.

But it wasn’t just him. She hated how vulnerable she felt in this moment, sitting so close to him, her walls too thin to keep the feelings at bay. She had admitted to herself earlier that her feelings for him had grown, that somewhere along the way he had captured her heart, but now, with the weight of that realization pressing down on her, it felt impossible to ignore.

She swallowed hard, forcing herself to focus on the plate in front of her. He didn’t need to know. Not now. Maybe not ever. They had more important things to worry about—a mission to complete, battles still to fight. But the thought offered little comfort. As she glanced at him again, catching the faint smile that tugged at his lips as he leaned back in his chair, she couldn’t help but hope—just a little—that maybe one day he would feel the same.

Chapter Text

REPUBBLICA FIORENTINA, 1478

The morning sun crept over the rooftops of Florence, its golden light spilling into the narrow streets as the city began to stir. Vendors bustled to set up their stalls, the scent of fresh bread mingling with the faint tang of the Arno River. The bells of a distant church rang out, their chime weaving through the early morning hum of activity.

In the quiet of their room, Amelia leaned against the small table, watching Ezio as he adjusted the loose tunic he’d donned that morning. The soft fabric hung casually against his frame, hinting at the lean strength beneath. Her eyes lingered, despite herself, on the easy way he moved, the confidence that seemed as natural to him as breathing.

“Let me see,” she said, her voice calm but leaving no room for argument.

Ezio paused, his dark eyes meeting hers briefly before he obliged, pulling the hem of his tunic up to reveal his torso. Amelia’s breath hitched at the sight of his abs, the defined lines of muscle marred only slightly by the bandages wrapped around his side. She pressed her lips together, her teeth catching her bottom lip as she fought to keep her expression neutral.

Stepping closer, she reached out, her fingers brushing against the edges of the bandages as she inspected his wounds. The gash on his chest was healing, though the rawness of the skin still made her stomach twist. The larger wound at his side was more concerning, the faint redness at the edges a reminder of just how much he had pushed himself the day before.

Satisfied, she let the hem of his tunic fall back into place and stepped away. She didn’t trust herself to speak, not with the warmth that had crept into her chest threatening to betray her thoughts.

A sharp knock at the door broke the silence. Amelia crossed the room quickly, her hand brushing instinctively against the hilt of her dagger as she opened the door. A courier stood there, his face flushed from exertion, holding a sealed letter.

“For you, signore, signorina,” he said, bowing slightly before disappearing down the hall.

Amelia broke the seal with practiced ease, her brow furrowing as she scanned the contents. “It’s from Lorenzo,” she said, glancing up at Ezio. “He wants to meet us by the Arno.”

Ezio nodded, his gaze steady. “Then we’d better go.”

They left the inn shortly after, stepping into the cool morning air. The streets of Florence were already alive with activity, merchants calling out to passersby and children darting between the stalls. Amelia kept her hood up, her eyes scanning the crowd out of habit, while Ezio walked beside her, his strides unhurried but purposeful.

The closer they got to the river, the quieter the streets became. The gentle rush of water reached their ears as they approached the Arno, the wide expanse of the river glimmering in the soft morning light. Lorenzo de’ Medici stood near the bank, his hands clasped behind his back as he gazed out over the water. The rising sun cast a golden halo around him, his silhouette calm but unmistakably weary.

“Lorenzo,” Ezio called, stepping forward with Amelia at his side.

The Medici leader turned, his expression brightening slightly at the sight of them. “Ezio, Amelia,” he greeted, his voice warm but lined with fatigue. “It is good to see you both. It seems fate has granted us another day.”

Amelia inclined her head, her gaze briefly sweeping over Lorenzo’s figure. His wounds had healed well, and though his stance carried its usual strength, a shadow lingered in his eyes—a weight she recognized too well. “You look well, Lorenzo,” she said quietly. “It’s good to see you back on your feet.”

Lorenzo chuckled softly, his gaze drifting back to the flowing waters of the Arno. “When I was six years old, I fell into this river,” he began, his voice tinged with wistful memory. “I drifted down, swallowed by darkness, certain my life was at an end. Instead, I woke to the sound of my mother weeping. At her side stood a stranger, soaked to the bone and smiling. She explained that he had saved me. And so began a long and prosperous relationship between two families: yours and mine.”

He turned to face them, his expression somber. “I am deeply sorry I could not save your father and brothers, Ezio. And Amelia,” his voice softened as his eyes met hers, “I grieve for the loss of your father as well.”

Ezio shook his head, his jaw tightening. “You have nothing to apologize for. But I believe Jacopo de’ Pazzi played a part in their deaths. The attack on you as well. I need to find him.”

Lorenzo’s face hardened, a flash of anger crossing his features. “That coward fled before we could arrest him. Slipped through our fingers like a snake.”

“Have you any leads?” Ezio pressed, his voice laced with urgency.

Lorenzo’s expression darkened. “No. They’ve hidden themselves well.”

“They?” Amelia interjected, her brow furrowing. “There are others?”

Lorenzo gave a grim nod. “Jacopo was not the only conspirator to escape.”

Ezio’s hands clenched into fists, a slow, building anger reflecting in his eyes. “If they work with Jacopo, they were surely involved in the attack on my family. Tell me their names.”

Lorenzo’s voice dropped, his tone bitter as if the words themselves were venom. “Antonio Maffei, Archbishop Francesco Salviati, Stefano da Bagnone, and Bernardo Baroncelli.”

Ezio’s resolve crystallized as he exchanged a glance with Amelia. “Bene,” he said, his voice low and determined. “I’ll go to my uncle. He has men stationed in the countryside who can help track them down.”

Lorenzo raised a hand, halting Ezio before he could move. “Wait. Before you go…” He pulled a folded piece of parchment from the inner pocket of his cloak, its edges worn with age. As he handed it to Ezio, Amelia caught sight of the intricate, ancient symbols etched onto its surface.

Ezio’s breath hitched as he unfolded the parchment, his eyes widening. “A Codex page,” he murmured, his fingers tracing the markings.

Lorenzo gave a faint smile, pride mingling with a hint of reverence. “I took it from Francesco de’ Pazzi’s files—he no longer has any use for it. I’ve always had an interest in antiquities, as did your father, Ezio.”

Ezio looked up, gratitude and intensity flickering in his gaze. “Thank you. This means a great deal.”

Lorenzo placed a hand on Ezio’s shoulder, then Amelia’s, his voice earnest and steady. “I wish you both success. Che il Signore ci protegga. (May God save us all.) Florence stands with you, as do I. You carry the hopes of many.”

Amelia nodded, her hand brushing the hilt of her hidden blade. “We won’t stop until it’s finished, Lorenzo. That’s a promise.”

“Time to visit Leo.” Amelia said, turning to Ezio as Lorenzo walked away from them.

Leonardo greeted them with his characteristic enthusiasm, a smudge of blue paint streaked across his cheek and his hands stained with ink. “Ezio! Amelia! Always a pleasure to see you both!” His eyes lit up as Ezio handed over the codex page. “Ah, and you’ve brought me another treasure! What secrets will this one reveal, I wonder?”

“This came from Francesco de’ Pazzi’s belongings,” Ezio said, watching as Leonardo eagerly adjusted his glasses and began examining the parchment. “Can you translate it?”

“Of course, of course,” Leonardo murmured, already engrossed in the intricate symbols. His fingers traced the delicate lines as he muttered to himself, his mind clearly working faster than his hands. He glanced up briefly, a warm smile breaking through his focus. “And how are you, Amelia? Still keeping this one in line, I hope?”

Amelia leaned against the workbench, arms crossed as she smirked. “It’s a full-time job, Leonardo. But someone has to do it.”

Ezio rolled his eyes, shooting her a mock glare. “I don’t recall asking for a babysitter.”

Leonardo chuckled, his laughter as warm as the sunlight streaming through the workshop windows. “You two make quite the pair, you know. Always on some grand adventure.” He turned his attention back to the codex page, his smile never fading. “Ah, these pages are truly remarkable. The brilliance of their design—whoever created these was far ahead of their time.”

Amelia watched him work, a small smile tugging at her lips. There was something grounding about Leonardo’s passion, his ability to find wonder even in the midst of chaos. For a moment, the weight of their mission felt lighter.

Leonardo tapped the page with his finger, his excitement bubbling over. “This one seems to detail a mechanism—something mechanical, I think. Once I’ve fully translated it, I’ll send word to you. It could be vital to your work.”

Ezio nodded, gratitude in his eyes. “Thank you, Leonardo. Your help means more than I can say.”

“Nonsense, my friend,” Leonardo said, waving him off with a paint-stained hand. “This is what I’m here for—to aid those who seek to do good. Now, go. I suspect you have many miles yet to travel.”

Amelia inclined her head, her smile softening. “Grazie, Leonardo. We’ll see you again soon.”

The journey back to Monteriggioni was long but uneventful, the rolling hills of Tuscany stretching endlessly before them. The familiar sight of the villa’s stone walls came into view as the afternoon sun cast golden light across the landscape. The air was cooler here, fresh with the scent of pine and cypress, and the rhythmic clop of the horses’ hooves on the cobblestones was a welcome reprieve from the chaos of Firenze.

As they entered the main courtyard, Mario stood waiting for them, his broad grin and imposing frame a reassuring sight. Arms crossed over his chest, he called out, “Welcome back, you two! I trust Firenze treated you well?”

Amelia slid off her horse, stretching her stiff limbs as she shot Mario a knowing smile. “It’s good to be back. Though I think Ezio might have a few choice words about the experience.”

Ezio dismounted with a groan, shaking his head but unable to suppress a faint grin. “Let’s just say Firenze keeps things... interesting.”

Mario’s booming laughter filled the courtyard. “Ah, Firenze always has a way of testing you. Come, you must be starving. We’ll catch up over food and wine.”

Amelia exchanged a glance with Ezio, a flicker of relief passing between them. Monteriggioni felt like a haven after the challenges of the past days, a place where they could regroup and prepare for the battles yet to come. Together, they followed Mario inside, the warmth of the villa and the promise of a meal a welcome comfort. 

That evening, the entire Auditore family gathered for dinner in the villa’s dining room. The warm glow of candlelight bathed the space, casting soft flickers on the stone walls. The table was laden with an array of roasted meats, fresh bread, cheeses, and ripe fruit, filling the air with a rich, comforting aroma. The sounds of laughter and animated conversation wove through the room, creating an atmosphere of joy and togetherness that made the meal feel more like a celebration than an ordinary supper.

Giovanni sat at the head of the table, his presence calm yet commanding, his smile soft as he watched his family. Maria’s gentle laugh mingled with Claudia’s playful teasing as she poked fun at Ezio, who bore it with his usual mix of annoyance and amusement. Federico chimed in with a wry remark, earning a chorus of laughter from the table. For a moment, everything felt untouched by the weight of their mission, the struggles they faced beyond the villa’s walls temporarily forgotten.

Amelia joined them, taking a seat beside Ezio. At first, she allowed herself to relax, leaning back in her chair as the warmth of the Auditore family enveloped her. She smiled as Claudia shared an exaggerated tale of Ezio’s early missteps during training, much to his chagrin, and as Maria recounted stories from their life in Firenze, painting a picture of a family bound by love and resilience. It was easy, in moments like this, to pretend that she, too, belonged here—that she wasn’t just an outsider looking in.

But as the evening wore on, a subtle ache stirred in her chest. She glanced around the table, taking in the closeness of the family, the ease with which they teased and comforted one another. The pang of loneliness crept in, sharp and unwelcome. Her thoughts drifted to her own parents—her father, Matteo, who had been taken from her by the Templars, and her mother, whose absence had left an ache that still hadn’t fully healed. The memories sat heavy on her heart, and the laughter at the table became a distant hum.

Excusing herself quietly, Amelia slipped out onto the villa’s balcony. The cool night air brushed against her skin, carrying the scent of pine and cypress. She leaned against the stone railing, staring out at the darkening hills, where the last light of day bled into the horizon. The faint chirping of crickets filled the silence, but it did little to calm the swirl of emotions within her.

Minutes passed, and she remained lost in her thoughts, her gaze fixed on the distant hills. The sound of soft footsteps behind her broke the stillness, and she turned slightly to see Giovanni approaching, his hands clasped behind his back. His expression was kind but curious, his eyes searching hers.

“Why do you not dine with us?” he asked gently, his voice low and measured, cutting through the quiet.

Amelia looked back out at the hills, her fingers curling around the cool stone of the railing. “I wished to give Ezio time with his family without me lingering,” she said softly, though there was a hint of sadness in her tone. “This is his home, after all.”

Giovanni stepped up beside her, resting his forearms on the railing. “Amelia,” he said, his voice warm but firm, “you are just as much a part of this family as one of my own children. In fact,” he added with a glint of humor in his eye, “I always hoped that you and Ezio would marry.”

Her head snapped toward him, her eyes wide with shock. “Marry?!” The word came out half-laugh, half-gasp, disbelief coloring her voice.

He chuckled at her reaction, the sound deep and fatherly. “You cannot deny it. I see the way you look at my son. You’ve adored him since you were a little girl.”

Amelia let out a soft laugh, shaking her head. “Nothing escapes your notice, Giovanni.”

His smile lingered, but his tone grew more serious as he studied her. “You and Ezio were much younger than your father or I ever intended when you joined the Brotherhood. But when your mother passed…” His voice softened, laced with sympathy. “Matteo thought it best to prepare you for a world that would not wait for you to grieve.”

Amelia nodded slowly, her gaze dropping to the railing. “It was the right choice. My father did what he had to do, and I never resented him for it.” She paused, her voice quieter now. “And I understand why you waited with Ezio. He deserved those years.”

Giovanni placed a comforting hand on her shoulder. “Have you told him how you feel?”

Amelia’s lips parted, but no words came at first. She dropped her gaze, her fingers tracing an invisible pattern on the railing. “There hasn’t been the time,” she admitted finally, her voice barely above a whisper. “And I don’t have the courage to pour my heart out to him while we’re still fighting these Templars. There’s too much at stake.”

Giovanni sighed, his grip on her shoulder tightening ever so slightly. “Life is too short to let such feelings go unspoken, Amelia. You know that better than anyone.”

Her smile was faint but tinged with sadness. “I don’t think adding that kind of distraction would help him right now. He needs to stay focused, and a confession like mine might only complicate things.”

Giovanni chuckled softly, his voice warm with affection. “Well, if not now, then soon. Or I might have to arrange an engagement myself.”

Amelia laughed, the sound easing some of the weight in her chest. “Giovanni, you wouldn’t dare,” she said, her eyes sparkling with a hint of mischief.

“Oh, I most certainly would,” he replied with a grin. “But I’ll leave it in your hands—for now.”

Amelia laughed again, the tension in her chest loosening further. Giovanni's ability to lighten even the heaviest conversations was something she had always admired. She shook her head, her smile lingering as she looked out at the hills once more.

“Thank you,” she said after a moment, her voice quieter, steadier. “For everything, Giovanni. For treating me like one of your own. For always looking out for me.”

Giovanni turned to her, his expression softening further. “You’ve earned that place, Amelia. My family owes you more than we can ever repay.” He paused, his voice lowering with sincerity. 

Amelia laughed again, the tension in her chest loosening further. Giovanni's ability to lighten even the heaviest conversations was something she had always admired. She shook her head, her smile lingering as she looked out at the hills once more.

“Thank you,” she said after a moment, her voice quieter, steadier. “For everything, Giovanni. For treating me like one of your own. For always looking out for me.”

Giovanni turned to her, his expression softening. “You’ve earned that place, Amelia. My family owes you more than I can ever repay.” He paused, his voice lowering with sincerity. “That day on the platform... you gave me back my youngest. You saved Petruccio’s life—and mine. I’ll never forget that.”

Amelia’s heart clenched at the memory. The chaos of the square, the shouting crowd, and the metallic tang of blood and fear still haunted her dreams sometimes. She had acted without hesitation, cutting ropes and fighting off guards with Ezio at her side. But no matter how fast or hard they fought, they hadn’t been fast enough to save Federico.

“You know I wish we could have done more,” she said quietly, guilt flickering in her voice. “If we’d been just a second faster, we could have—”

“Stop,” Giovanni interrupted gently, his tone firm but kind. He stepped closer, his hand resting lightly on her shoulder. “You did everything you could. More than anyone else would have dared. Federico… he knew the risks. He knew what it meant to stand against the Templars. As much as I miss him, I will never hold you or Ezio responsible for what happened that day. Never.”

Amelia turned to him, her eyes searching his, looking for any trace of bitterness or blame, but there was none. Only gratitude and the quiet strength of a father who had known loss too intimately.

“I don’t think Ezio forgives himself for it,” she admitted, her voice soft. “I see it in him sometimes, in the way he fights, like he’s trying to make up for not being able to save Federico.”

Giovanni nodded slowly, his gaze distant. “He carries that burden, as I do. But he’s young, and with time, he’ll come to understand that some things are beyond our control. Just as you must understand that, too.”

Amelia exhaled, the tightness in her chest easing slightly at his words. “It doesn’t feel like enough sometimes,” she murmured. “But thank you, Giovanni. For not holding it against us. For reminding me.”

Giovanni offered her a faint, understanding smile. “You and Ezio are stronger than you know. Together, you’ve already accomplished more than most Assassins twice your age. I have no doubt you’ll honor Federico’s memory in all you do.”

Giovanni’s smile grew warmer, and he gave her shoulder a gentle squeeze. “Now, I should return to Petruccio before he ropes Claudia into one of his mischievous schemes. And you—don’t stay out here too long. It’s a beautiful night, but I’d hate for you to catch a chill.”

She let out a soft laugh, the sound easing some of the heaviness in her chest. “Good luck with Petruccio,” she said, a small smile tugging at her lips. “And thank you, Giovanni. Truly.”

With a final, fatherly nod, Giovanni turned and disappeared back inside, leaving Amelia alone once more on the balcony. The cool breeze brushed against her cheeks, and she leaned on the railing, her gaze fixed on the darkened hills. The guilt she carried for not being able to save Federico would likely never leave her entirely, but Giovanni’s words had given her a measure of peace.

Chapter Text

The days at Villa Monteriggioni had stretched into weeks of preparation, training, and rest. The chaos of Firenze had faded into the stillness of the Tuscan countryside, but the fire of vengeance never waned. Every step Ezio and Amelia took on the training field, every map Mario spread across his desk, carried the weight of the names Lorenzo had given them: Antonio Maffei, Archbishop Francesco Salviati, Stefano da Bagnone, and Bernardo Baroncelli. These men were not just conspirators—they were pieces of Jacopo de’ Pazzi’s network, linchpins in the plot that had destroyed their families.

Amelia stood on the balcony of the villa, gazing out at the sprawling hills bathed in golden morning light. The peace of the moment was a fragile veil over the storm building inside her. She had waited long enough. Each passing day, the memory of Federico’s broken body, the sight of Matteo’s blood, and the cries of the crowd at the execution platform haunted her. Their mission was not one of choice but of necessity. These men had made it personal, and now they would pay the price.

Behind her, the door creaked open, and Ezio’s voice pulled her from her thoughts. “The scouts are back,” he said simply.

Amelia turned to face him, her gaze steady. “And?”

“They’ve found them.”

The words hung between them, heavy with implication. Amelia felt her pulse quicken, her hand brushing instinctively against the hilt of her hidden blade. The time had come.

Moments later, they joined Giovanni and Mario in the villa’s main hall. The air was thick with anticipation as Mario stood over a map spread across the table, his finger tracing the locations of Jacopo’s men. “The mercenaries have done their work well,” he said, his tone grim but determined. “They’ve tracked each of Jacopo’s allies to their hiding places in the countryside.”

He straightened, his gaze settling on Ezio and Amelia. “These men are cowards, hiding behind shadows and false alliances. But make no mistake—they are dangerous. You must strike decisively, and you must do it together.”

Ezio nodded, his jaw tightening as he leaned over the map. “Where are they?”

Mario gestured to the markers on the map, his finger resting on the names that had become etched in their minds. “Antonio Maffei is holed up in the hills near San Gimignano. Salviati has fortified himself in a villa south of here, while Stefano and Bernardo are scattered across the countryside. My men will guide you, but you must be cautious. These men will fight like cornered animals.”

Amelia’s eyes flicked over the map, her mind already calculating the logistics. The weight of their mission pressed against her chest, but she refused to let it show. When she spoke, her voice was calm, steady. “We’re ready.”

Mario’s sharp gaze shifted between her and Ezio, his expression momentarily softening. “I know you are. But do not forget—this is not just about vengeance. This is about securing the future. Every step you take, every blade you draw, must serve that greater purpose.”

Amelia felt his words sink in, the reminder grounding her even as her hand instinctively brushed the hilt of her hidden blade. She glanced at Ezio, his jaw set with determination, and found reassurance in the silent understanding between them. This wasn’t just about revenge; it was about ensuring no one else suffered the same loss they had.

Giovanni stepped forward, breaking his silence with a voice that carried the weight of wisdom and grief. “You’ve both come so far,” he said, his tone quiet but firm, his gaze resting on Amelia. “Amelia, you’ve shown strength that would make your father proud. And Ezio...” His eyes turned to his son, his expression softening. “You’ve become the man I always knew you could be.”

Amelia felt a pang in her chest as Giovanni’s words struck a chord. The mention of her father brought an ache she thought she’d buried, but it also ignited a flicker of pride. She straightened slightly, holding Giovanni’s gaze. “Thank you,” she murmured, her resolve unshaken.

Ezio, standing beside her, met his father’s eyes. A flicker of emotion broke through his otherwise stoic expression. “I won’t let you down, Father. Or you, Uncle Mario.”

Giovanni stepped closer, placing a hand on Ezio’s shoulder. His grip lingered for a moment, a silent show of faith and affection, before he turned to Amelia. His expression softened even further, a fatherly warmth radiating from him. “Stay close to one another,” he said, his voice low but resolute. “Trust in each other. That is how you will survive this.”

Amelia nodded, meeting his gaze with determination. “We will. Together.” Her words carried a promise that extended beyond their mission—a promise to herself that she would not let anything happen to Ezio. Not again.

The moment was broken by the sound of hurried footsteps, and a mercenary entered the room, his expression tense and urgent. “Signore,” he said breathlessly, “we’re ready. The men await your word to move.”

Mario straightened, his presence commanding as his sharp tone cut through the room. “No one moves until they’ve spoken with Ezio. Intesi? (Understood?)”

The mercenary nodded quickly. “It will be done.”

Mario turned back to Ezio and Amelia, his expression fierce, the weight of a leader visible in every line of his face. “Go. See to the mercenaries. Strike hard and fast. And make sure these bastardi know who they’re dealing with.”

Ezio slid his blade into its sheath, the motion smooth and deliberate, his focus unwavering. “They won’t escape us this time.”

Amelia adjusted her cloak, letting the hood fall over her face as she and Ezio strolled through the bustling streets of Tuscany. The scent of freshly baked bread mingled with the sound of merchants hawking their wares, the town alive with activity. They moved like shadows, blending seamlessly with the crowd as they headed toward the square. Despite the relative calm of the past few weeks, a tension lingered in the air—a reminder of the battles they had fought and those still ahead.

Ezio, walking just ahead of her, appeared at ease, but Amelia knew him well enough to recognize the sharp awareness in his gaze. His injuries from their last mission had healed, though she’d noticed the slight stiffness in his movements during the early days of their recovery. Now, he seemed fully himself again, his confidence as steady as ever.

“Looks like we have our pick of missions,” Amelia remarked, her eyes scanning the clusters of townspeople and guards.

Ezio’s lips curved into a smirk. “I say we start with something that gives us a good view of the city. What do you think, Lia?”

She rolled her eyes, nudging him with her elbow. “You just want an excuse to show off your climbing, don’t you?”

“You know me too well.” His grin widened, but it faded when they spotted a man standing near the center of the square. The figure, shadowed beneath a wide-brimmed hat, straightened as they approached, his posture unmistakably military.

The man, one of Mario’s mercenaries, stepped forward and greeted them with a brisk nod. “Salute, Ezio! (Hail!) Antonio Maffei has barricaded himself atop the city’s tallest structure—spouting scripture and loosing arrows like a madman. He’s surrounded himself with archers, so it’ll be best to deal with them before you make your move.”

Ezio’s expression hardened with focus as he nodded. “Grazie for the information. Leave the rest to us.”

Amelia’s gaze shifted toward the distant tower, her sharp eyes catching the faint movement of figures stationed at various levels. The echo of Antonio’s voice carried on the wind—shrill, fervent, and unsettling. A scowl tugged at her lips as she adjusted the straps on her gauntlets.

“I’ve never had patience for fanatics,” she muttered, her voice low as they began walking toward the tower. “And it sounds like this one is particularly fond of his own voice.”

Ezio glanced at her, amusement flickering in his eyes despite the gravity of the situation. “Then let’s make sure he doesn’t have the chance to use it much longer.”

They navigated the winding streets, keeping to the shadows as the tower loomed closer. Antonio’s voice grew louder with each step, his frenzied words ricocheting off the stone walls of the surrounding buildings.

“Citizens of San Gimignano, hear my words! You must REPENT! REPENT and seek FORGIVENESS before it is too late!”

Amelia’s teeth clenched, irritation sparking in her chest. “Does he ever stop?” she whispered to Ezio as they slipped into a narrow alleyway, staying out of sight of the guards patrolling the area. “It’s like he’s trying to convince himself more than anyone else.”

Ezio smirked, his hand resting lightly on the bracer of his hidden blade. “Let’s make sure his sermon is cut short.”

Amelia nodded, stepping back into the shadows to let Ezio begin his ascent. She watched as he climbed, his movements fluid and precise, each handhold and foothold chosen with the ease of long practice. Her heart quickened slightly—not with worry, but with the quiet tension of readiness. Her focus shifted to the guards below, her eyes scanning for any sign of trouble.

The faint shuffle of boots on cobblestone drew her attention, and she pressed herself deeper into the shadows as two guards approached, their torches casting erratic light across the alley. Her hand brushed the hilt of her dagger, steadying herself as she prepared to act.

The guards passed by, their conversations muffled by the roar of Antonio’s distant preaching. Amelia remained perfectly still, her breath held until they turned a corner and disappeared from view. Exhaling slowly, she allowed herself a brief moment of relief before her attention snapped back to Ezio’s climb.

Amelia watched as Ezio disappeared into the shadows above, his movements quick and fluid as he climbed higher up the tower. The last glimpse she caught was his faint silhouette, the moonlight glinting off the edge of his bracer. She smirked at his parting remark, but the humor faded quickly, replaced by a tension that knotted in her chest.

Now alone, she shifted her position on the nearby rooftop, crouching low to avoid being spotted by the patrolling guards. The air felt heavier here, charged with Antonio’s frenzied voice as it echoed across the square. Below her, the streets were alive with movement—Jacopo de’ Pazzi’s mob stirred restlessly, their chants rising in a disjointed crescendo. “Liberata!” they cried, their voices fervent, though the message was hollow to her ears.

Amelia’s fingers grazed the hilt of her dagger as she scanned the square, her focus darting between the guards stationed below and the distant figure of Jacopo on horseback. The sight of him, so smug and self-assured, lit a fire of anger within her. But she held back, forcing herself to breathe. Jacopo’s time would come—but tonight wasn’t the night.

Her gaze snapped upward, drawn to the faint movement at the top of the tower. Ezio had reached the summit, his silhouette a shadow against the sky. She could hear Antonio’s voice, louder now, its shrill cadence cutting through the din of the crowd below.

“Because you have STRAYED and sacrificed your liberty to that wretch LORENZO DE MEDICI!” Antonio bellowed, his words venomous. “You have lost your virtue. You have lost your dignity. You have lost your FAITH!”

Amelia clenched her fists, her heart pounding as she strained to see Ezio’s progress. She couldn’t make out his exact movements, but she knew he was there—silent, calculated, waiting for the perfect moment to strike. She shifted her weight, her breath catching in her throat as Antonio’s voice reached a fever pitch.

“By the light of the LORD, be cleansed! No grazie! I will put you on your knees, sinner—”

The voice stopped abruptly, cut off mid-rant. Amelia knew what that silence meant, and a sharp exhale escaped her lips. Her grip on the dagger loosened as relief washed over her. Ezio had done it. The fanatic’s reign of fear was over.

Moments later, she saw movement again—a limp body draped over the edge of the tower’s platform. Antonio’s lifeless form hung there, a grim warning for anyone who dared to follow his path. The sight sent a chill down her spine, but it was accompanied by a cold satisfaction. Justice, she thought. Let them see what happens when they defy us.

Her satisfaction was short-lived as her attention shifted back to the tower. The crowd below had fallen into an uneasy silence, their chants replaced by murmurs of confusion and fear. Then, from the corner of her eye, she saw him.

Ezio.

His figure emerged atop the platform, standing tall against the moonlit sky. Amelia’s heart leapt into her throat as she realized what he was about to do. Her breath hitched as he stepped forward, his arms outstretched, and leapt from the tower in a graceful arc.

For a moment, the world seemed to slow. She could only watch, her chest tightening as the wind caught his cloak and sent it billowing around him like the wings of a hawk. Her heart pounded, each second stretching into an eternity. And then, with a muffled thud, he disappeared into the hay cart below.

She let out a shaky breath, her pulse still racing as she scrambled down from the rooftop, her movements quick but deliberate. Her boots hit the cobblestones with a soft thud, and she slipped into the shadows, weaving her way toward the base of the tower where she knew Ezio would be waiting.

When she found him, he was brushing hay from his cloak, his expression calm, though there was a faint glint of triumph in his eyes. He looked up as she approached, offering her a lopsided grin.

“You’re insane,” she said, her voice half-exasperated, half-admiring.

Ezio smirked, his fingers flicking a stray piece of hay from his shoulder. “It’s not my first time, Lia.”

She arched an eyebrow, her voice dry. “Oh, really? Should I be impressed or concerned?”

He chuckled, his gaze softening. “Both, I hope.” Straightening, he adjusted the bracer on his forearm. “Federico dared me to take my first leap years ago. I hesitated—just for a moment. But when I jumped…” He paused, the faintest trace of nostalgia flickering across his face. “I felt free. Like nothing could touch me.”

Amelia’s brow furrowed, her arms dropping to her sides. “You make it sound so... simple.”

“It is,” he said lightly, though there was a sincerity in his tone that gave her pause. “You just have to trust yourself. And the landing.” He smirked again, tipping his head toward the hay cart. “You should try it sometime.”

She huffed, shaking her head. “You’re out of your mind if you think I’m jumping off a tower like that.”

Ezio tilted his head, a playful challenge in his expression. “I thought you were braver than that, Lia.”

Her lips parted, ready with a retort, but the words caught in her throat. Bravery wasn’t the issue—she’d faced Templars, fought against impossible odds, and survived. But the idea of stepping off a ledge, trusting the air and nothing else to catch her? It wasn’t fear of heights; it was fear of the unknown, the moment where control was completely relinquished.

Ezio’s smile softened as if sensing her hesitation. “One day, you’ll take the leap. And when you do, you’ll understand.”

She rolled her eyes, trying to mask the vulnerability that flickered in her chest. “I think I’ll stick to climbing down the hard way for now.”

“As you wish,” he said, his tone teasing but warm. “But you’re missing out.”

Amelia shook her head, a small, reluctant smile tugging at her lips. “I’ll survive, thank you very much. Speaking of which, let’s make sure we get out of here before someone realizes what happened.”

Ezio nodded, and together they moved through the narrow alleys, slipping back into the bustling streets. But even as the crowd swallowed them up, the image of Ezio soaring from the tower stayed with her—the sheer freedom in his leap, the unwavering trust in himself. And though she wasn’t ready to admit it, a small part of her wondered what it would feel like to take that leap herself.

Chapter Text

A few days after Amelia and Ezio had managed to take out their first target they found themselves approaching the small village northeast of Monteriggioni . The air was thick with the anticipation of the task ahead, and she could feel her heartbeat just a little faster with each step. It wasn't the first time they had taken on a mission like this, but there was something about targeting a man who wielded faith as a weapon that stirred a particular fire in her chest.

As they neared the village, they spotted one of Mario’s mercenaries waving them over. The man’s expression was serious, his eyes darting to the south, where the compound loomed against the dusky sky. He gestured toward the fortified structure with urgency.

"Over here, Ezio. We’ve found Archbishop Salviati! He’s barricaded himself inside that villa… Take some of my men. Use them to clear the fields. Then find a way over the walls so you can open the gates."

Ezio grinned, a cocky edge to his smile as he glanced at Amelia. “Hmmm… Command over my own army? A nice change of pace from the usual sneaking and stabbing. I like it.”

Amelia rolled her eyes, unable to keep the smirk from her face. “Try not to let it go to your head, Ezio. You still have to climb the walls like the rest of us.”

He chuckled, nudging her playfully. “Don’t worry, I won’t make you call me ‘General’ just yet.”

They approached the compound, and Amelia immediately spotted the guards patrolling outside the gates, as well as a few archers perched on top of the walls. The mercenaries gathered behind them, ready to follow Ezio’s lead.

“Take care of those archers, Ezio,” she suggested, handing him a few of her throwing knives. “You’ve got better aim than I do.”

Ezio accepted the knives with a flourish, giving her a mock bow. “As you wish, Lia. But I expect full credit for my work.”

She snorted softly, taking up a position behind a stack of crates as he lined up his shots. One by one, the archers fell silently from their perches, the knives finding their marks with deadly precision. When the final archer slumped forward, Amelia gave Ezio an approving nod.

“Well, at least you’re good for something,” she teased, but there was warmth in her voice that she couldn’t quite hide.

“Happy to impress,” he shot back, flashing a grin. He turned to the mercenaries, his tone shifting to command. “Alright, go! Engage the guards at the gate!”

The mercenaries rushed forward, clashing with the guards in a flurry of steel. Ezio and Amelia moved swiftly alongside them, Amelia’s blade flashing as she cut down any enemies that broke from the chaos. She moved with fluid grace, her instincts guiding her through the melee as she fought to keep their path clear.

When the guards at the gate were subdued, Ezio turned his attention to the wall. “I’ll get the gate open,” he said, glancing over his shoulder at Amelia. “Keep an eye on the rest of them, will you?”

She gave him a mock salute. “Go on, then. Try not to get yourself killed before you’ve opened the gate.”

With a smirk, Ezio began climbing the wall, using the rough stone and ledges to pull himself up. Amelia kept watch below, cutting down any guards who approached too close. She glanced up occasionally, catching glimpses of Ezio’s progress as he scaled the side of the villa. He moved with the ease of someone who had spent years honing his skills, and she couldn’t help but feel a pang of pride for him.

But there was more than just pride. Watching him work, she felt a warmth spread through her chest—a warmth that had grown harder to ignore in recent weeks. It made her heart ache in a way she wasn’t quite ready to admit, even to herself. 

“Focus, Amelia,” she muttered under her breath, forcing her thoughts back to the battle at hand.

Ezio reached the top of the wall, quickly locating the mechanism to open the gate. He gave her a quick nod before pulling the lever, and the heavy wooden doors creaked open. The mercenaries surged through, clashing with the remaining guards inside the compound.

From above, a voice rang out, dripping with disdain. “These walls have stood for a hundred years and will stand for a hundred more! Stop wasting the lives of your men! Vattene! Vattene via! (Go away!) All that awaits you here is death! Turn back!”

Amelia’s eyes narrowed as she caught sight of Francesco Salviati on the balcony, his robes fluttering in the wind like some twisted mockery of a holy man. She turned to Ezio as he landed beside her, his expression mirroring her own grim determination.

“He’s all yours,” she said, her voice low but fierce. “Show him what happens to those who hide behind false faith.”

Ezio nodded, a steely resolve in his eyes as he slipped into the shadows, working his way toward the Archbishop. Amelia followed at a distance, her blade ready should any more guards cross their path. But her focus remained on Ezio, watching his every move with a mixture of admiration and something else—something deeper that she couldn’t quite put into words.

As they closed in on Salviati’s position, the man continued his ranting, his voice filled with vitriol. “I warned you to stay away, Assassin! You should have listened! Men, prepare yourselves! The Assassin has arrived!”

Amelia’s grip tightened on her blade, her jaw clenching at the sound of his voice. The arrogance, the disdain—it reminded her too much of the other Templars they had faced, men who thought they were untouchable until the moment their lives were taken from them.

Ezio moved like a shadow, slipping past the distracted guards and climbing up to the Archbishop’s position. Salviati turned just as Ezio reached him, his eyes widening in surprise. Before he could react, Ezio’s hidden blade drove into his chest, silencing him with a swift, precise strike.

As the life faded from Salviati’s eyes, he managed to rasp out a few last words. “He knows you come for him… emerging only in darkness to meet with the others…”

Ezio’s expression softened, his voice barely above a whisper. “Ora sei libero dalla paura (Be free of your fear now.) Requiescat in Pace. (Rest in peace.)”

Amelia stepped forward as Ezio wiped his blade clean, her gaze sweeping over the fallen Archbishop. “He wasn’t worth all the effort, was he?” she said, her tone edged with bitterness. “Just another coward hiding behind the walls of a sanctuary.”

Ezio gave a small, grim nod. “One less to stand in our way. But the others still remain.”

She met his gaze, something unspoken passing between them. The weight of their mission pressed down on her, but as she looked at Ezio, she found a strange comfort in knowing that they faced this together. She offered him a small, determined smile, trying to keep her voice light. “Let’s hope the next one gives us less trouble, eh?”

Ezio chuckled softly, the tension easing from his shoulders for just a moment. “If we’re lucky. But I’m starting to think luck is never on our side.”

Amelia shook her head, a smirk tugging at her lips. “Then we’ll just have to make our own luck.”

With Salviati’s last words still lingering in the air, they turned and made their way back through the compound, their steps quick and sure as they prepared for the next stage of their mission. And even as they moved forward, Amelia couldn’t help but steal a glance at Ezio, feeling the weight of her unspoken feelings settle into her chest like a secret she wasn’t quite ready to share.

“Remind me again why we had to meet with that guy?” Amelia muttered, breaking the quiet tension between them. “Couldn’t we have just hunted Bernardo down ourselves?” Four days of traveling west of Monteriggioni had finally brought them to this town, and impatience prickled under her skin.

Ezio glanced at her, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. “Patience, Lia. Sometimes letting people talk saves time—and effort.”

She rolled her eyes, nudging him lightly with her elbow. “Easy for you to say. You actually enjoy chatting with informants. I’d rather be on the rooftops.”

“Always the restless one,” he teased, his grin widening in that way that somehow both amused and irritated her.

Amelia huffed but said nothing, her attention shifting to the market square ahead. The bustling crowd was oblivious to the hunt unfolding in their midst. As they neared the alley, one of Mario’s mercenaries leaned casually against a wall, his expression brightening when he spotted them.

“Ezio!” the man greeted, straightening from his post. “You’re just in time. We’ve got eyes on Bernardo Baroncelli.”

Ezio’s posture shifted, a subtle tension sharpening his focus. “Ottima notizia. (Excellent news.) Tell me where he is.”

The mercenary frowned, scratching the stubble on his chin. “That’s the problem. Lorenzo’s men captured him a few days back, but he escaped. We’ve tracked him here to the market, but he’s been slipping through our fingers.”

Ezio’s jaw tightened as Amelia raised an eyebrow, her lips twitching with a faint smirk. “Sounds like your quarry’s got a knack for survival,” she quipped, earning a sidelong glance from the mercenary.

“He’s nervous and desperate,” the man continued, ignoring her. “It’s only a matter of time before he makes a mistake.”

Ezio nodded curtly. “Grazie. We’ll take it from here.”

The mercenary inclined his head and stepped aside. As Ezio turned to Amelia, she crossed her arms, her smirk deepening. “Lead the way, oh master tracker.”

Ezio chuckled under his breath. “Stay close.”

They moved into the square, their steps unhurried but deliberate. Amelia’s sharp gaze swept the area, taking in the bustling stalls, shifting bodies, and sunlit rooftops. After a moment, she nudged Ezio lightly and gestured toward a building overlooking the market. “That rooftop. It’ll give you a clear view. I’ll work the crowd.”

Ezio followed her gaze, giving a brief nod before making his way toward the building. She paused to watch him scale the wall, his movements fluid and practiced, before slipping into the throng below. Her hood cast a shadow over her face as she weaved between vendors and townsfolk, her focus sharp, her senses tuned to the slightest shift in the energy around her.

It didn’t take long. A man pacing near the well caught her attention. His jerky, erratic movements and darting eyes marked him as prey—one step away from panic. Amelia moved closer, keeping to the shadows of the stalls as his murmured words reached her ears.

“… Keep moving… Always moving… Never in one place for long… If he comes… He’ll tire… He’ll lose interest…”

Her hand hovered near the hilt of her dagger as she pressed herself against the side of a cart, her sharp gaze following him. She glanced upward, finding Ezio perched on the rooftop. Their eyes met, and she gave him a subtle nod.

Ezio returned it with the faintest of smiles before moving. With a fluid leap, he dropped from the rooftop, landing behind Bernardo with the grace of a hunting hawk.

The guards flanking Bernardo barely had time to react before Ezio’s hidden blade flashed in the sunlight. One strike, clean and precise, sent Bernardo collapsing to the cobblestones. Amelia’s grip on her weapon tightened as she scanned the crowd for signs of retaliation, but the marketplace buzzed on, largely oblivious to the brief exchange.

Amelia edged closer, staying out of view but catching snatches of the conversation as Ezio leaned down toward the dying man.

“I knew you would come,” Bernardo rasped, his voice trembling but oddly calm.

“Where is Jacopo?” Ezio’s tone was sharp, demanding.

Bernardo’s lips twisted into a bitter smile. “He waits… at the church… when a meeting is called…”

Ezio exhaled softly, the weight of inevitability flickering across his face. He whispered a prayer, his voice low but steady. “Mi duole dover giungere a tanto. Requiescat in Pace.”

Chapter Text

Amelia’s entire body buzzed with tension as she and Ezio trailed Torri Jacopo through the narrow alleys of Florence. The late evening air carried a chill that bit through her cloak, but she barely noticed it, her focus pinned to the man below them. Each step felt like a step closer to their goal—a step closer to vengeance, but also a step closer to the ever-lurking dangers that had dogged them since they set foot on this path.

As they followed, Ezio whispered beside her, his tone laced with determination. “If I can stay my blade long enough to follow him, he’ll lead me to his Templar brothers. I’ll have more names for my list…”

Amelia cast a sidelong glance at him, catching the tightness in his jaw. “You say that like you’re trying to convince yourself,” she teased, her voice barely more than a murmur as they slinked through the shadows. “But don’t worry—I’m here to keep you from doing anything foolish.”

Ezio shot her a wry smile, but his expression softened for a moment, revealing a flicker of gratitude. “Just keep up, Lia. Wouldn’t want you to fall behind.”

She rolled her eyes, though the hint of a smile tugged at her lips. They moved as one through the city’s maze-like streets, blending into the darkness that wrapped around them. But as they tracked Jacopo, a strange knot tightened in her chest—a mix of anticipation, anxiety, and something she couldn’t quite name. The mission felt like a turning point, but for what, she couldn’t be certain.

Her thoughts were interrupted when Jacopo slipped through the city gates, disappearing behind a wall of armed guards. Amelia cursed softly under her breath, scanning the area. They couldn’t afford to lose him now.

“Over there,” she whispered, nodding toward a ladder that led up the side of the gatehouse. 

Together, they crept along the parapet, taking out a few guards who wandered too close, their bodies falling soundlessly into the night below.When they finally reached the other side of the wall, Amelia’s breathing was ragged, but she forced herself to keep pace. As they moved through the moonlit countryside, the cold air cut deeper, each breath sharp against the raw ache in her side. But she kept her focus on the task at hand, using the pain as a reminder of what was at stake.

They followed Jacopo to a secluded amphitheater, where he joined a shadowy group that sent a chill down her spine. Rodrigo Borgia’s voice drifted through the air, each word laced with venomous disdain, and she clenched her fists so tightly that her nails bit into her palms.

She leaned closer to Ezio, whispering, “We’ve got to get closer, see what they’re planning.”

He nodded, leading them down the embankment. The ancient stones of the amphitheater were cool beneath her hands as they slipped into the shadows, pressing themselves flat against the crumbling walls. Her muscles ached from the tension, but she forced herself to focus on the conversation unfolding below.

Jacopo groveled before Rodrigo, but Borgia’s voice remained cold, unyielding. “...Firenze remains in Medici hands, and your incompetence has cost us dearly.”

Amelia’s chest tightened with anger as she listened to Borgia’s condemnation. She remembered the pain of her father’s death, the hollow ache of loss that had driven her into this life. It took every ounce of willpower not to lunge forward, to strike down the men who had caused so much suffering. But then Ezio’s hand squeezed her arm gently, a silent reminder that their time would come. She gritted her teeth, nodding at him, though the gesture felt like a betrayal of her burning need for retribution. As they watched, Borgia’s hand moved to Jacopo’s shoulder, his voice dropping low, almost comforting—before he drove a dagger into Jacopo’s chest with a brutal thrust.

Amelia sucked in a sharp breath, feeling the horror coil tight in her gut. Jacopo crumpled to the ground, gasping for mercy. Barbarigo’s mocking laughter rang out, sending a shiver down her spine. Her heart hammered against her ribs, and for a moment, the raw brutality of it all made her feel lightheaded.

Borgia’s gaze suddenly shifted, his voice cutting through the night air like a blade. “So sorry to have claimed your prize, Assassin!” Two soldiers lunged from the shadows, seizing Ezio before either of them could react. Panic flared hot in Amelia’s chest, but she forced herself to stay hidden, her mind racing for a way to help him. “Did you honestly think I wouldn’t expect you to follow? That I didn’t PLAN for it? We’ve been at this a lot longer than you!”

Amelia’s heart thundered in her chest as the soldiers dragged Ezio forward, his struggles ineffective against the iron grip of their gauntleted hands. The amphitheater’s ancient stones seemed to close in around her, the shadows suffocating as Borgia’s words echoed in her ears.

“Kill him.”

Her breath caught. The raw authority in Rodrigo Borgia’s voice left no room for hesitation, and yet, time seemed to slow. Her mind scrambled for a plan, her fingers tightening instinctively around the hilt of her dagger. But before she could act, another figure emerged from the shadows, and her blood ran cold.

Roberto Barbarigo strode toward her hiding place, his steps deliberate, his eyes scanning the edges of the amphitheater like a predator hunting prey. Her heart pounded harder, her muscles coiled, ready to spring into action. She didn’t dare move—not yet.

And then he stopped. Right in front of her.

“Come out, little assassin,” Roberto called mockingly, his voice dripping with disdain. “I can smell your fear from here.”

Amelia didn’t move, her breath shallow as she clung to the stone wall. But it was too late. His gaze locked onto her hiding spot, and with a sharp gesture, he sent two guards to flush her out. She had no choice but to step forward, her blade drawn, her hood pulled low over her face.

Roberto’s lip curled into a cruel smile as the guards grabbed her arms, forcing her to her knees before him. His presence was overwhelming—towering, smug, and reeking of power abused. He crouched in front of her, his fingers gripping her chin roughly, tilting her face up to meet his gaze. The leather of his gloves scraped against her skin, and she clenched her jaw, refusing to flinch.

“So this is the girl who’s caused us so much trouble,” he murmured, his eyes narrowing as he studied her. “My son has been asking to get his hands on you, you know. ‘Let me have her, father,’ he says. ‘I’ll break her spirit.’” His tone was almost conversational, as though they were discussing the weather. “But now that I see you up close…”

Amelia stared back at him, her eyes burning with defiance even as her heart raced. She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of seeing her fear.

Roberto’s grip tightened, his face twisting into a sneer. “You’re not worth the effort. Pathetic little thing.” He stood abruptly, releasing her chin with a shove that nearly sent her sprawling. “Kill her,” he commanded the guards, his tone flat, dismissive, as though ordering the execution of a stray dog.

He turned his back on her, already walking away. Amelia’s mind raced as the guards drew their swords, the metallic scrape ringing in her ears. Every nerve in her body screamed for action. She locked eyes with Ezio, his struggles against his captors growing more frantic. She didn’t have time to think—only to act.

With a surge of adrenaline, she twisted her body sharply, slamming her elbow into the ribs of the guard on her right. He grunted in pain, his grip loosening just enough for her to yank herself free. Her dagger flashed as she plunged it into his neck, hot blood spurting onto her hands. The second guard lunged at her, but she ducked under his swing, rolling to grab the first guard’s dropped sword.

The fight was a blur—sharp movements, the clash of steel, the shouts of the other guards as they realized she was no longer subdued. She parried, struck, and dodged with all the ferocity of someone fighting for her life.

“Amelia!” Ezio’s voice cut through the chaos, filled with a mixture of panic and determination.

She spun toward him just as one of the guards released him to charge at her. Ezio didn’t waste the opportunity—his hidden blade found the throat of the remaining captor, and he was free.

Together, they stood back-to-back, surrounded by Borgia’s men. Amelia’s breath came in sharp bursts, her muscles burning from the effort. She glanced over her shoulder at Ezio, her eyes locking with his for a brief moment. The unspoken connection between them was stronger than ever—a promise that they would not fall here.

“Ready to ruin their evening?” she asked, her voice steady despite the odds.

Ezio smirked, his blade gleaming in the moonlight. “Always.”

The guards moved in, their swords glinting under the faint moonlight, and Amelia tightened her grip on her weapon, her back pressed firmly to Ezio’s. They turned as one, anticipating every move, striking with precision honed from countless battles together.

Amelia’s blade met steel with a satisfying clang as she deflected a strike aimed at her head, countering with a swift slash across her attacker’s arm. The guard stumbled back, but another immediately filled his place. She pivoted, her dagger slicing low as she ducked beneath the arc of his blade, her muscles straining with every movement.

The fight blurred into chaos—a symphony of grunts, clashing steel, and the shouts of Borgia’s men. Ezio’s movements were a lethal dance beside her, his hidden blade finding its mark again and again. Together, they carved a path through the throng, inching closer to the exit of the amphitheater.

And then it happened.

Amelia turned to block a blow from a guard in front of her, unaware of the second man closing in behind. Before she could react, a searing pain exploded in her lower back as his blade found its mark, driving deep just above her hip. The shock stole her breath, and for a moment, the world tilted around her.

She staggered forward, her knees threatening to buckle, but sheer willpower kept her upright. The guard pulled his sword free, and a fresh wave of pain tore through her, her vision darkening at the edges. Her dagger slipped from her grasp, clattering to the ground as she pressed a trembling hand against the wound.

“Amelia!”

Amelia’s vision swam, her breaths coming in short, ragged gasps as she fought to stay conscious. The world around her seemed muffled, distant, but Ezio’s voice cut through the haze—a desperate cry that was as much a command as it was a plea.

Her knees hit the ground, the impact jarring, but she refused to let herself collapse fully. She clenched her jaw, tasting the copper tang of blood as she bit her lip hard enough to break the skin. Tears pricked her eyes, not just from the pain but from the sheer force of her determination to survive.

With trembling hands, she reached for the sash tied around her waist. Her fingers fumbled as she untied it, blood slicking her palms and making the fabric slippery. Gritting her teeth, she forced herself to focus, her breathing sharp and uneven. She folded the sash quickly, tying a knot in the middle to act as a makeshift pressure pad.

Her hands shook as she pressed the knotted fabric against the wound, a strangled cry escaping her lips as fresh pain lanced through her body. She wrapped the ends of the sash around her waist, pulling them tight with every ounce of strength she could muster. The pressure sent a wave of nausea rolling through her, but it slowed the bleeding enough for her to think—barely.

"Stay awake," she whispered to herself, her voice a hoarse murmur. "Don’t you dare pass out, Lia. Not here."

The sound of clashing steel echoed nearby, growing fainter as Ezio methodically cut down the remaining guards. Through her blurred vision, she could see him moving like a force of nature, his strikes precise, merciless. The last of the guards hesitated, their confidence faltering as they saw their comrades fall. A few turned and fled, their hurried footsteps fading into the night.

Ezio didn’t chase them. Instead, he turned, his chest heaving, and his gaze locked on her. The sight of her hunched over, blood staining the ground beneath her, made his heart twist. He fell to his knees in front of her, his hands reaching out but hovering uncertainly, as though afraid to touch her and cause more pain.

“Amelia,” he breathed, his voice raw. “Dio mio, Amelia…”

“I don’t feel so good.” She mumbled as nausea bubbled up quicker than she could swallow it.

Amelia's words were slurred, barely audible, as her body betrayed her. The nausea hit her in a sickening wave, overwhelming in its intensity. Before she could fight it, her stomach heaved violently. She doubled over, retching, the motion tearing at the wound in her side and sending fresh spikes of pain radiating through her body.

The world blurred further, and the sound of her ragged breathing filled the air. She could barely register that Ezio was beside her, steadying her as she wavered, her body trembling from the strain. She coughed weakly, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, though her bloodied fingers only smeared more crimson across her skin.

“Lia,” Ezio said, his voice strained with fear. “Lia, look at me.”

Her head lifted slightly, her glassy eyes meeting his for a fleeting moment. There was something in his gaze—fear, anger, desperation—but it was blurred at the edges, just like everything else.

“I… can’t…” she whispered, her strength fading.

Her body sagged against him, her weight pressing into his chest as she collapsed. His arms wrapped around her instinctively, steadying her as she slumped forward. The warmth of her blood seeped into his tunic, but he didn’t care. He lowered her carefully to the ground, cradling her head as her eyelids fluttered.

Ezio’s grip tightened, his voice soft but urgent. “Stay with me, Lia. Look at me. Keep your eyes on me.”

Her gaze fluttered upward, finding his face through the haze. His eyes burned with a mix of fury and desperation, the lines of his face etched with a pain that mirrored her own. The sharp tang of blood filled her senses, and she gritted her teeth against the fresh wave of agony that wracked her body.

“I’m still here,” she rasped, her voice barely audible.

Ezio gritted his teeth, scooping Amelia into his arms as carefully as he could, though she hissed sharply at the movement. Her head lolled against his chest, her breathing shallow and uneven. The weight of her felt all too light—too fragile—in his hold, and the sight of her blood-soaked sash sent a cold wave of dread crashing over him.

“Don’t drop me,” she murmured weakly, her lips curving into the faintest ghost of a smile despite the pain.

Ezio’s chest tightened. Even now, she was trying to lighten the moment. “I would never,” he replied, his voice rough, betraying the worry he couldn’t hide.

Without wasting another second, he began to run, the cobblestones of the alleyway slick beneath his boots. The city blurred around him as his focus narrowed to one thing: getting her to safety. Her breathing was uneven, faltering at times, and every few seconds, her body grew heavier against his chest as she slipped further from consciousness.

“Amelia!” he called, his voice sharp.

Her eyes fluttered open briefly, glazed with pain. “Still… here…” she rasped, though her words were nearly swallowed by the wind.

He cursed under his breath, his legs burning as he pushed himself harder. The streets of Florence stretched endlessly ahead, and though the night was quiet, every shadow felt like a threat. He scanned desperately for anything to help speed their escape.

Then he saw it—a tethered horse near the edge of the square, pawing at the ground as if impatient to be gone. Without hesitation, Ezio darted toward it, his footfalls silent as he approached. He shifted Amelia carefully in his arms, freeing a hand to untie the reins. The horse snorted softly, stamping a hoof, but didn’t startle.

“Easy, ragazzo,” he murmured soothingly as he untangled the leather straps. With a quick motion, he swung up into the saddle, positioning Amelia in front of him. Her head lolled back against his shoulder, and he wrapped an arm around her waist to keep her steady.

Amelia stirred faintly in his arms, her weight sagging against him, and he cursed under his breath. Gently but quickly, he maneuvered her limp body, hoisting her onto the horse. Her legs hung awkwardly on either side of the saddle, and as he released her to adjust the reins, she slumped forward, her head resting against the horse’s mane.

“Stay with me, Lia,” he muttered, his voice more a plea than a command.

With a swift motion, Ezio mounted the horse behind her. He pulled her upright, her body light and unresisting as he cradled her against his chest. Her head lolled back to rest on his shoulder, her face pale in the moonlight. He tightened his arm around her waist, anchoring her securely as he leaned forward to grip the reins.

The instant he clicked his tongue, the horse sprang into motion, hooves striking the cobblestones in a rhythmic clatter. The sudden jolt of movement made Amelia shift slightly against him, her head tipping to the side before settling back onto his shoulder. Her breath was faint against his neck, a fragile rhythm that Ezio clung to like a lifeline.

The cold wind whipped around them, biting through his cloak and tugging at Amelia’s limp form. He pressed her closer to his chest, shielding her from the worst of the chill. Each stride of the horse carried them further from the city square, the familiar streets blurring into a haze as Ezio focused solely on the path ahead.

Amelia groaned, a violent shiver racking her body, her head turning slightly. “Cold…” she mumbled, her voice barely audible over the pounding of the horse’s hooves.

“I know,” he whispered, leaning closer to shield her from the wind. “Hold on just a little longer.”

Her breathing hitched, then steadied, and he glanced down to see her eyes closed again, her face pale against the moonlight. His chest tightened as a fresh wave of fear threatened to overtake him. The wound was bad—he could feel her blood soaking into his tunic, warm and sticky. But there was no time to think about that. Leonardo’s workshop wasn’t far now.

The horse skidded to a halt outside the familiar building, its sides heaving from the exertion. Ezio dismounted swiftly, cradling Amelia as he jumped to the ground. He kicked at the door with his boot, shouting, “Leonardo! Open up!”

After a moment that felt like an eternity, the door swung open to reveal Leonardo da Vinci, his expression shifting from irritation to alarm in an instant. “Dio mio, Ezio! What happened?”

“No time—she’s hurt. Badly,” Ezio said, pushing past him and laying Amelia gently on the workbench. “You have to help her.”

Amelia stirred faintly as the cool surface of Leonardo’s workbench pressed against her back. She blinked sluggishly, her vision swimming as the warm comfort of Ezio’s arms was replaced by the hard wood beneath her. The murmur of voices tugged at her senses—Ezio’s deep and urgent, Leonardo’s quick and decisive—but the words were distant, muffled by the roaring in her ears.

Leonardo’s hands worked with a precision that was both calming and terrifying, the light pressure around her wound sending flashes of pain radiating through her side. She hissed weakly, her fingers twitching as though searching for something to anchor her. She hated feeling helpless, hated the vulnerability that clung to her like a shadow.

Ezio hovered close, his form a blur in the dim light. His voice cut through the haze as he spoke to Leonardo. “I can’t stay. Roberto’s trail will go cold if I don’t move now. And I have to warn Lorenzo before the city falls into chaos.”

Leonardo’s head snapped up, his eyes narrowing. “You can’t just leave her like this, Ezio. She’s lost too much blood—she needs care.”

Ezio’s jaw tightened, his gaze flicking to Amelia’s pale face. She could feel the weight of his stare even through her half-lidded eyes. It was a look she knew well: guilt, anger, and determination all tangled together. He didn’t want to leave, that much was clear, but she also understood the unyielding sense of duty that drove him. It was a fire they shared, one that burned brighter than their own pain.

Amelia’s lips moved, her voice barely above a whisper. “Go.”

Ezio leaned in closer, his brows furrowing as he caught the faintest movement of her hand, reaching weakly toward him. “Lia—”

“Go,” she rasped, forcing the word out even as it scraped painfully against her throat. Her fingers brushed his wrist, her touch light but insistent. “You… have to.”

His expression darkened, the muscles in his jaw clenching as though he were waging an internal war. “You don’t understand. If I leave—”

“I do.” Her voice, though faint, carried a quiet strength. Her eyes flickered open, just enough for him to see the conviction in them. “But you better… come back to me.”

The faintest smile tugged at his lips, but it didn’t reach his eyes. He bent closer, pressing his forehead against hers for a moment, the warmth of his breath ghosting over her skin. “You better be alive when I get back.”

Amelia managed a shaky smile, though the effort left her breathless. She let her hand fall away from his wrist, her strength fading. “Always.”

Ezio pressed a firm kiss to her forehead, lingering just long enough for her to feel the unspoken promise in the gesture. When he pulled back, his gaze lingered on her for a moment longer, drinking in every detail of her face as if committing it to memory.

Then he turned sharply, his movements stiff with suppressed emotion. His footsteps echoed in the quiet workshop as he made his way to the door. It creaked open, spilling cool night air into the room. He paused in the doorway, his silhouette stark against the moonlight.

“I’ll be back,” he said, his voice steady but low. And then he was gone, the door closing behind him with a soft thud.

Amelia lay motionless, the silence pressing down on her like a heavy blanket. The warmth of his presence lingered, fading slowly as her eyelids drooped. Her heart ached—not from the wound, but from the weight of watching him leave.

Amelia stared at the ceiling, the dim glow of Leonardo’s workshop casting long shadows over the beams. Her breaths were shallow, sharp, each one a delicate balance between staying conscious and succumbing to the pain. She clenched her fists, her nails biting into her palms as she forced herself to focus.

“Amelia,” Leonardo’s voice called her back, gentle but insistent. “I need you to roll over so I can see the wound.”

She nodded faintly, though even that small movement felt monumental. Her body screamed in protest as she shifted, each inch dragging fire through her side. She bit down on her lip, hard enough to taste blood, and used the last of her strength to roll onto her stomach.

“Good,” Leonardo said, his hands steady but his tone tinged with concern. “You’re doing well. Just hold on.”

The sash she had tied around her waist was sticky with blood, the fabric soaked through and clinging to her skin. Amelia flinched as Leonardo’s fingers brushed against it, loosening the knot with meticulous care. He peeled it away slowly, apologizing under his breath as the motion reopened the wound slightly, sending a fresh wave of pain radiating through her body.

“Dio mio…” Leonardo muttered, his voice almost a whisper. “This is bad.”

Amelia let out a shaky exhale, her breath catching as he pressed a clean cloth gently against her side to staunch the bleeding. “No… kidding,” she mumbled, her voice weak but laced with dry humor.

Leonardo didn’t smile. He was too focused, his brow furrowed as he reached for a pair of scissors. “I need to cut the shirt away. It’s the only way to clean the wound properly.”

“Do it,” she murmured, her head resting heavily on the cool surface of the workbench.

The snip of the scissors was faint but ominous in the quiet room. She felt the fabric loosen, cool air biting against her bare skin as Leonardo worked quickly, revealing the angry gash in her side. His breath hitched slightly, a sound she caught despite her haze.

“You’re not… a doctor,” she said, her voice hoarse, though there was no accusation in it—only fact.

“No, I’m not,” Leonardo admitted, his hands trembling for the briefest moment before he steadied them. “I’m an artist and an inventor, not a medic. I’ve treated wounds before, but this…”

Amelia swallowed hard, fighting the fog threatening to pull her under. “Clean it,” she said, her voice firm despite its weakness. “As best you can.”

“I will,” he said, his tone soft but resolute. He poured water over the wound, the sharp sting sending her arching slightly off the table before she bit down on a scream. “I’m sorry. I know it hurts.”

She forced herself to take deep breaths, her fingers curling into the edge of the workbench. “I need you… to cauterize it.”

Leonardo froze, his hands hovering above her. “Amelia, that’s dangerous. The risk of—”

“It’s the only way,” she interrupted, her voice strained but unwavering. “I’ve… seen it done before. I can’t…” Her words faltered as she sucked in a shallow breath. “I can’t risk bleeding out.”

Leonardo hesitated, his indecision written clearly in the tension of his shoulders. “You’re certain?”

She nodded, her eyes fluttering closed for a moment. “Do it, Leo. Please.”

He set his jaw, nodding grimly. “Very well.” He crossed the room quickly, gathering a small iron rod and setting it into the flames of a nearby brazier. The glow of the fire flickered against the walls, and Amelia focused on its dance, trying to drown out the anticipation building in her chest.

“It’ll hurt,” Leonardo warned, his voice tight.

“I know,” she whispered. Her breath came fast now, shallow and uneven. “Just… do it.”

The minutes stretched into eternity as Leonardo retrieved the heated rod once it was ready, its tip glowing a furious orange. He knelt beside her, his hand trembling for a moment before he steadied it against her skin.

“Forgive me.” he said softly. 

The iron pressed against her wound, and for a moment, Amelia’s entire world ceased to exist beyond the fire consuming her side. The pain wasn’t sharp—it was something far worse, a molten, relentless agony that spread outward from the searing contact, igniting every nerve like dry tinder.

A scream tore from her throat, raw and guttural, filling the small workshop and reverberating off the walls. Her body bucked against the workbench, her muscles convulsing uncontrollably as the iron burned into her flesh. She clawed at the surface beneath her, her nails scraping across the wood, but there was no escape. The pain pinned her down, unyielding, all-consuming.

Leonardo’s voice was distant, drowned out by the roar of her own suffering. He murmured something—an apology, perhaps—but the words were lost to her. The acrid stench of burning flesh filled her nostrils, thick and nauseating, making her stomach churn. She sobbed, tears streaming freely down her face, blurring her vision as her head jerked back and forth in a futile attempt to escape the unrelenting torment.

Time warped, stretching into an eternity of suffering. Each second felt like an hour, each heartbeat an unbearable drumbeat of pain that echoed through her entire body. Her breath hitched in ragged gasps, the air catching in her throat as she fought to stay conscious. Darkness tugged at the edges of her vision, a siren’s call offering escape, but she clung to the shred of determination that kept her tethered to reality.

“Almost done,” Leonardo’s voice cut through the haze, soft but urgent. His words barely registered, drowned beneath the unrelenting fire in her side.

Amelia’s vision swam, the workshop blurring into a haze of flickering light and shadow. Her own screams had dwindled into hoarse cries, her throat raw and aching from the effort. She felt the iron shift slightly, pressing deeper for a brief, unbearable moment. Her back arched off the table, her body locking in a spasm of pure, animalistic agony.

The heat of the iron finally lifted, but the ghost of its burn lingered, etched deep into her nerves. Her body collapsed against the table, trembling violently as if the pain had left her muscles hollowed out and useless. She couldn’t even cry anymore—her tears had dried, leaving salty trails down her cheeks. Her breaths came in shallow, heaving gasps, each one a fragile attempt to reclaim control over her battered body.

The world around her was a blur of sensation: the dampness of sweat cooling on her skin, the sticky heat of blood smeared across her side, and the persistent, nauseating smell of scorched flesh. Her mind was sluggish, caught in the aftershocks of pain that rippled through her in relentless waves.

“Amelia,” Leonardo’s voice was closer now, steadier, though there was a strain in his tone. “It’s done. The bleeding has stopped.”

She didn’t respond, didn’t trust her voice to form words. She wasn’t even sure she could move. Her body felt disconnected from her mind, heavy and foreign, as if it no longer belonged to her. The only thing grounding her was the dull throb of the wound, a reminder of the nightmare she was still trapped in.

Leonardo knelt beside her, his movements slow and deliberate. She felt his hands brush against her forehead, pushing damp strands of hair away from her clammy skin. His touch was gentle, almost hesitant, as though afraid she might shatter beneath his hands.

“Rest now,” he murmured, his thumb brushing away the tears that clung stubbornly to her lashes. His face swam into view, his sharp eyes filled with a mixture of pity and regret. “You’re safe. Just rest.”

Amelia’s vision blurred again, and for a moment, she swore it wasn’t Leonardo’s face hovering above her but Ezio’s. The rough scrape of his calloused hands on her skin, the warmth of his breath as he whispered reassurances—she could feel it, see it, so real it made her heart ache.

“Ezio…” she breathed, the name escaping her lips in a soft, broken murmur.

Leonardo froze, his gaze flickering with something unreadable. But he didn’t correct her. Instead, he cupped her face a little more firmly, anchoring her as her eyelids fluttered, her body sagging further into the table.

“Shh,” he whispered again, his voice soft and steady. “Let yourself rest.”

Her lips parted as if to say something more, but no sound came. The illusion of Ezio’s presence wrapped around her like a cocoon, warm and safe, pulling her deeper into the haze of exhaustion. Her trembling subsided, her breaths slowing as the last threads of consciousness slipped away.

Amelia’s body went limp, her head lolling to the side as the darkness finally claimed her.

Chapter Text

Amelia's consciousness returned slowly, dragging her up through layers of darkness like a diver surfacing from the depths of a murky sea. Her eyelids felt impossibly heavy, and for a long moment, she resisted the pull of wakefulness, hoping to slip back into the oblivion where there was no pain. But the world around her insisted on coming into focus—cold air biting at her skin, the rough, uneven surface beneath her, and the jostling movement that sent dull, throbbing aches radiating from the deep wound in her back.

Her breaths came shallow and sharp as she blinked her eyes open, wincing at the harsh light that met them. The first thing she noticed was the jagged peaks of mountains cutting into a gray sky, clouds swirling low and heavy above them. Her breath caught, and she struggled to push herself upright, only for a fresh wave of pain to lance through her back. She fell back with a groan, her fingers gripping the rough surface beneath her—a cart, its splintered wood digging into her palms.

Panic clawed at her chest as she took in her surroundings. She was lying in the back of a rickety, broken-down cart, its wooden boards creaking with each bump along a rocky mountain path. Her mind raced, trying to make sense of where she was, how she had gotten here. The last thing she remembered was Leonardo’s workshop—his steady hands, his voice urging her to rest as he worked to treat the wound that had nearly killed her. And now—

No. No, no, no.

Her breathing quickened as dread coiled tight in her chest. She clutched the edge of the cart, her fingers digging into the weathered wood. Her heart pounded, and terror coursed through her veins as a single thought seized her: Rodrigo Borgia. Had he found her? Had he dragged her away from Leonardo’s care to some remote hideaway to finish what his men had started?

Her vision blurred as her panic deepened. Each breath sent sharp, shooting pain through her back, but she fought against it, forcing herself upright. The movement pulled at her wound, her bandages tightening against the sticky warmth of blood, but she ignored it. Her hands fumbled at her sides, searching desperately for a weapon, for anything she could use to defend herself. Her hidden blade was gone, her hip an empty, vulnerable space where she usually felt its comforting weight.

Her pulse raced faster as her mind conjured images of Borgia’s cruel smile, his voice dripping venom as he loomed over her. She tried to peer over the edge of the cart, but her arms trembled under her own weight, and all she could see was the dense fog that rolled through the mountain pass, swallowing the rocky path ahead. The cold, damp air clung to her skin, sending a shiver through her that had nothing to do with the chill.

“Damn it,” she hissed, her voice shaking. Her grip tightened on the cart’s edge as frustration and fear warred within her. Every muscle screamed for her to stop, to rest, but the primal urge to survive outweighed the pain. She tried again to look over the side, her head spinning as she forced herself to sit up further.

Her strength gave out, and she slumped back against the cart, her breathing ragged. Pain flared again in her back, sharp and unyielding, and she pressed her hands to the bandages in an attempt to steady herself. Her voice trembled as she muttered under her breath, “Think, Amelia, think... You can’t fall apart now. Focus.”

But focus was a fleeting thing. Her thoughts spiraled, each one darker than the last, her fear painting gruesome scenarios in vivid detail. Her breaths came in rapid, shallow gasps, her body shaking with the effort to keep moving despite her injuries.

She was steeling herself to try again, to crawl over the side of the cart no matter the cost, when a voice pierced through the fog, familiar and blessedly grounding.

“Amelia, are you awake?” Leonardo’s voice, tinged with both relief and concern, reached her through the haze. “Stay still—you’ll hurt yourself.”

Leonardo? The name echoed in her mind, and she let out a shuddering breath, her fear loosening its grip just enough for her to think more clearly. She craned her neck, finally managing to catch a glimpse of him perched at the front of the cart, his shoulders hunched against the cold wind.

Her body sagged back against the rough boards, her head hitting the wood with a dull thud. Relief washed over her like a wave, so sudden and overwhelming that she almost choked on it. Her heart continued to race, but she forced herself to take a deeper breath, letting the cold mountain air fill her lungs.

“Leo…” The sound barely escaped her lips, cracked and hoarse. The effort sent a fresh wave of pain radiating from her back, but she pressed on. “Leo…”

Leonardo’s head snapped up, his eyes wide with alarm. “Amelia?” he called, his voice tight with concern. He abandoned the tools in his hands, scrambling to his feet and vaulting into the back of the cart with surprising agility. The wood creaked under his weight, and the sudden jolt made Amelia wince, a soft hiss of pain escaping her lips.

“I’m sorry,” he said quickly, crouching beside her. His hands hovered over her, uncertain, as if afraid to touch her without causing more harm. His face was pale, shadows etched deep under his eyes, but relief softened the tension in his expression. “You’re awake.”

“Barely,” she murmured, her voice as thin as a whisper. She blinked up at him, her vision struggling to focus on the familiar lines of his face. “What… happened?”

“You fainted after… after everything.” Leonardo hesitated, his brow furrowing as his gaze dropped to her back. “You shouldn’t be awake yet. You need more rest.” He reached out to brush a strand of hair from her face, his touch light and careful. “How do you feel?”

Amelia let out a soft, humorless laugh that was more of a wheeze. “Like I got run over by a cart,” she muttered, her lips twitching in a faint attempt at a smile. “Where… are we?”

Leonardo’s jaw tightened, guilt flickering across his features. “We’re in the mountains north of Florence. The cart…” He glanced over his shoulder at the broken wheel, his lips pressing into a thin line. “It’s seen better days. I thought it best to leave the city and get you somewhere safer after everything that happened. I didn’t want to risk Borgia’s men finding you.”

“Ezio?” Her voice cracked, the name slipping out before she could stop herself. Fear rippled through her chest, panic threatening to resurface. She tried to push herself up, but Leonardo placed a firm hand on her shoulder, easing her back down.

“Shh,” he murmured, his voice calm but insistent. “Ezio is fine. He stayed in Florence—to meet with Lorenzo and track down Roberto. He left you in my care to recover, and he made me promise to keep you safe.” His other hand worked to adjust the blanket draped over her, his touch as gentle as his tone. “I sent word with my assistant so Ezio will know where we are. He’ll find us.”

Amelia stared at him, her breaths shallow as she processed his words. Relief warred with lingering dread, her mind struggling to reconcile the safety of her current surroundings with the danger still lurking in the distance. “I thought… I thought Borgia had…” Her voice faltered, the words catching in her throat. “I thought he found me.”

Leonardo’s expression softened, and he shifted closer, his hand moving to cup her face with careful tenderness. His thumb brushed away a tear that had slipped down her cheek, his voice low and steady. “No one is going to hurt you, Amelia. Not while I’m here. Ezio will be back soon—I promise.”

Her body sagged against the cart as the tension drained from her, her chest rising and falling in shallow, uneven breaths. “Thank you, Leo,” she whispered, her voice barely audible. “For everything.”

He offered her a small, weary smile, his hand lingering on her cheek for a moment before pulling back. “Rest now. You’ve been through enough, and I need you to heal.” His gaze flicked briefly toward the broken wheel. “I’ll take care of the cart.”

Amelia’s mind hovered on the edge of consciousness, the pain in her back a constant, throbbing presence that she couldn’t escape. Time passed in fractured moments—snatches of clarity where she caught glimpses of Leonardo’s worried face as he worked to change her bandages, followed by long stretches of darkness where the ache pulled her down into oblivion. She was dimly aware of his muttering, the sharp clatter of tools, and the occasional creak of the cart as he moved around her, but everything blurred together in a fog.

The cold mountain air bit at her skin, and she shivered weakly, her body trembling despite the blanket Leonardo had tucked carefully around her. Her mind drifted to Ezio, to the promise he had made before leaving her in Leonardo’s care. She clung to the memory like a lifeline, his voice echoing faintly in her thoughts: You better be alive when I get back.

She was fading again when the sound of hooves approached, distant at first but growing louder, each strike against the rocky path cutting through her feverish haze. Her body felt heavy and disconnected, each breath shallow and labored as heat rolled off her in waves. She dimly heard Leonardo call out in reply, his voice muffled, like he was speaking through water.

The hooves stopped abruptly, followed by the sound of hurried footsteps and Ezio’s voice, sharp and commanding.

“Leonardo! Where is she?”

Leonardo’s voice came closer, steady but tinged with worry. “She’s in the back of the cart. Be careful—she’s burning up.”

The next thing Amelia felt was strong arms scooping her up, lifting her effortlessly from the cart. A familiar scent—leather, faint traces of smoke, and something uniquely Ezio—wrapped around her, grounding her in the chaos. She forced her eyes to flutter open, though the effort felt monumental. The blurry outline of his face filled her vision, his expression one of raw relief and fear.

“Lia,” he breathed, his voice low and hoarse. He pulled her closer, cradling her against his chest as if he feared she might slip away entirely. “I thought I’d lost you. Dio, you’re tougher than I give you credit for.”

Her lips twitched in a faint smile, though her strength failed her before she could respond. Her head lolled against his shoulder, her fever making her too weak to hold herself upright. The pounding of his heart beneath her ear was a steady drumbeat, comforting despite the fire consuming her from within.

Ezio turned sharply toward Leonardo, his eyes narrowing as he took in the state of the cart and the exhausted inventor. “What happened after I left?” His tone carried the weight of accusation, his protective instincts flaring to life.

Leonardo raised his hands in a calming gesture, though he looked as worn as Amelia felt. “I cleaned the wound as best I could, but I am no doctor Ezio.” he explained, his voice measured but weary. “She was losing too much blood. I had no choice but to cauterize it.”

Ezio’s jaw tightened, his grip on Amelia instinctively tightening. “You what?” His voice rose, anger edging his words. “You burned her? That’s barbaric, Leonardo!”

“Ezio—” Leonardo began, but Amelia’s weak voice cut through their argument.

“Stop,” she rasped, her voice barely audible. Her hand shifted against Ezio’s chest, a feeble attempt to get his attention. “I asked him to do it… He didn’t have a choice.”

Ezio looked down at her, the anger draining from his expression as he took in her pale face and fever-bright eyes. “Lia, you—” His voice faltered, and he exhaled sharply, closing his eyes for a moment before nodding. “Fine.”

Leonardo, clearly relieved that the confrontation had passed, stepped closer, his brow furrowed with concern. “The cauterization stopped the bleeding, but about an hour ago, her fever spiked. It’s a sign of infection, and I don’t have what I need to treat her properly.”

Ezio’s expression hardened again, his focus snapping back to the urgency of the situation. “Then we don’t have time to waste. The docks—how far?”

“Not far,” Leonardo replied quickly. " But Ezio… the wheel, it’s broken. I can fix it, but I need your help,” he explained, gesturing to the damaged axle.

He hurried to the side of the cart, using his strength to lift it while Leonardo worked quickly on the repair. As they struggled with the repairs, Amelia tried to breathe through the pain, watching their frantic movements with a fading sense of awareness. But even as darkness crept at the edges of her vision, she clung to the memory of Ezio’s touch, the warmth of his breath against her skin.

Leonardo finished his work with a relieved sigh, and as she drifted in and out of consciousness she could hear them talking about the weird contraption in the back of the cart. She was still focusing on the birds singing in the tress, but they had gone quiet. 

“Ezio…the birds..” she moaned, looking at him and then to the trees.

“Shhh,” he whispered sharply, his eyes scanning the horizon.

Leonardo, sensing the shift, glanced between them, his expression puzzled. “What’s wrong?” he asked, his voice barely audible over the creaking wheels.

“We’re not alone,” Ezio muttered, his tone hardening as he caught sight of shadowy figures trailing them on horseback. Ezio scrambled quickly getting to the front of the cart grabbing the reigns. Leo jumps up on the cart next to Ezio. 

Leonardo’s eyes widened as he saw the riders gaining on them. “What’s happening!? Who are they?” he demanded, his hands clutching the edge of the cart as if it might steady his racing thoughts. 

“Rodrigo Borgia’s men,” Ezio growled, snapping the reins to spur the horses faster. The cart lurched forward, nearly tossing Amelia, if it hadn’t been for Leonardo holding her steady. 

“Why? What do they want with us?” he called out from beneath the cover, his voice muffled. 

Ezio’s jaw clenched as he urged the horses onward, his knuckles white against the reins. “I think they want us dead. Leonardo, get down!”

Leonardo immediately dropped into the back of the cart, crouching beside Amelia as the cart jolted violently over the uneven path. His hands moved instinctively to steady her fevered body, trembling and slick with sweat. Her face was pale, her eyes glazed and half-closed, murmuring unintelligible words between shallow breaths.

“Amelia, hold on,” Leonardo said softly, though his voice betrayed his rising fear. He adjusted his position, bracing her against his arm and keeping pressure on her back to steady her as the cart swayed. The heat radiating from her made his stomach turn—her fever was rising fast.

Ezio snapped the reins again, cursing under his breath. “Faster, damn it!” The horses surged forward, their hooves pounding against the dirt road, but the rickety cart wasn’t built for this pace. The wheels groaned ominously with every turn, threatening to give out under the strain.

Leonardo glanced over his shoulder, his face paling as the riders closed the gap. “Ezio, they’re gaining on us!”

“I see them!” Ezio shot back, his voice tight with frustration. His gaze darted to the road ahead, his mind racing as he weighed their limited options. They couldn’t outrun their pursuers—not in this cart, not with Amelia in this state.

Amelia stirred weakly, her fever-bright eyes fluttering open as she felt the jostling motion and the heat of Leonardo’s hand against her back. Panic flickered in her chest as the sound of shouting and the clash of steel drew closer.

Ezio spared a quick glance back at her, catching the flicker of fear in her expression. “Hold on tight, Amelia,” he warned, his voice rough with urgency. “This is going to get rough!”

The cart veered sharply to the right as Ezio yanked the reins, sending the horses onto a narrower path. Leonardo gritted his teeth, tightening his hold on Amelia as the sudden shift nearly threw them both. “She can’t take much more of this, Ezio!” he shouted, his own voice strained as he worked to keep her steady.

“We don’t have a choice!” Ezio snapped, his focus fixed on the road.

Behind them, Borgia’s men unleashed another volley. An arrow struck the side of the cart with a sharp thunk , and Leonardo ducked instinctively, his grip tightening around Amelia’s trembling form.

“They’re shooting at us!” Leonardo called out, his voice tinged with panic.

“No kidding!” Ezio growled, snapping the reins harder as he urged the horses to dodge the flaming projectiles that now littered the road. The acrid smell of smoke filled the air as one of the attackers launched a crude bomb that erupted into a burst of flame nearby.

Amelia groaned softly, her fevered mind struggling to piece together what was happening. The heat from the nearby flames seared her skin, and the motion of the cart sent fresh waves of pain radiating through her back. Her hand moved weakly, clutching at Leonardo’s arm.

Amelia’s consciousness ebbed and flowed, like the tide struggling against an unrelenting storm. The heat radiating from her own body was oppressive, her fever dragging her down into a haze where sound and motion blended into an indistinct swirl. The shouts of men and the pounding of hooves seemed distant, their urgency muted by the roar of blood rushing in her ears.

Leonardo’s hand on her back was the only anchor in the chaos, his firm yet gentle grip steadying her as the cart jolted violently. She tried to focus on his voice, but the words slipped through her grasp like water through cupped hands.

Her head lolled to the side, the world tilting as another sharp turn sent a jolt of pain through her. She caught a glimpse of Ezio at the front of the cart, his broad shoulders tense, his movements sharp and deliberate as he handled the reins. He shouted something over his shoulder, his voice fierce and commanding, but the meaning was lost in her fevered state.

The cart shuddered to a sudden halt, and Amelia’s body shifted against Leonardo’s hold. She blinked sluggishly, her vision swimming as she tried to make sense of the abrupt stillness. The sound of Ezio’s boots hitting the ground registered faintly, followed by the sensation of Leonardo adjusting his grip on her.

“Take the reins!” Ezio’s voice rang out, sharp and unyielding.

Leonardo hesitated, his hands tightening instinctively around Amelia. “Ezio—”

“Now!” Ezio barked, his tone brooking no argument.

Amelia barely registered the shift as Leonardo handed her off carefully to the makeshift bedding in the cart, muttering an apology under his breath. Her head spun as she felt the cart rock slightly, Leonardo scrambling to the front. The sound of reins snapping and the creak of wheels followed, but her focus was pulled elsewhere.

Ezio’s face appeared suddenly at the side of the cart, his dark eyes fierce and filled with something she couldn’t quite name—anger, determination, fear. He reached for her hand, his fingers rough but warm as they curled around hers.

“Lia,” he said, his voice low but firm, cutting through the haze. “You hold on. Do you hear me? You fight.”

Her lips parted, but no sound came. She blinked slowly, her fever-bright gaze locked on his.

“I will meet you at the docks,” he continued, his grip tightening briefly. “Stay alive for me.”

Her fingers twitched weakly in his grasp, a silent acknowledgment of his words.

Ezio released her hand, his expression hardening as he turned back to Leonardo. “Go, now!”

Leonardo didn’t waste another second, snapping the reins as the cart lurched into motion again. Amelia felt the movement distantly, her body too weak to fight against it.

Ezio’s figure grew smaller in the distance, his hand already reaching for the hilt of his blade as he turned to face their pursuers. The last thing Amelia saw before the darkness pulled her under was the unwavering resolve in his stance, a silent promise that he would find his way back to her no matter the cost.

Chapter Text

Amelia’s eyelids fluttered open, the warm glow of daylight filtering through the slatted wooden shutters of an unfamiliar room. Her mind felt clearer than it had in days, the oppressive haze of fever finally lifting. For a long moment, she lay still, her body heavy against the soft cot beneath her, listening to the faint sounds of the harbor outside—a distant hum of voices, the creak of ropes against masts, and the rhythmic slap of waves against the docks.

The air was cool, carrying the faint scent of salt and herbs. She shifted slightly, a dull ache radiating from her back, reminding her of the injury that had brought her here. Turning her head slowly, she took in her surroundings. The room was small but tidy, its simple furnishings suggesting the home of a practical man. Shelves lined the walls, filled with glass jars and bundles of dried plants, their labels scrawled in a handwriting she didn’t recognize. A wooden stool sat beside the cot, a folded blanket draped over its seat.

Her gaze drifted downward, settling on the neatly wrapped bandages around her torso. The care with which they had been applied spoke of skilled hands. Her fingers reached up and brushed over the cloth, the faint pressure sending a dull throb through her side.

Amelia exhaled shakily, relief flooding her chest as her mind pieced together fragments of memory. Leonardo’s panicked voice, the jolting ride in the cart, the oppressive heat of her fever—it all felt like a distant nightmare now. She pressed her hands against the coarse wool of the blanket draped over her, grounding herself in the present.

The sound of approaching footsteps broke her reverie. A moment later, the door creaked open, and a middle-aged man stepped inside. His dark hair was streaked with gray, and a pair of spectacles rested precariously on the bridge of his nose. His hands were smudged with ink and herbs, and he carried himself with the calm authority of someone used to crises.

“Ah, you’re awake,” the man said, his voice warm but professional. He set a small tray down on the stool beside her, its contents clinking softly—vials, a bowl of steaming water, and a roll of fresh bandages. “How are you feeling?”

Amelia blinked at him, her voice rasping as she spoke. “Better, I think,” she said dryly, though there was a faint smile on her lips. “Where are the men I was traveling with?”

The man returned her smile, adjusting his spectacles as he spoke. “They’re at the docks, securing passage for you to Venice. You gave them quite a scare, but they’ll be relieved to hear you’re awake.”

Amelia nodded faintly, the words settling over her like a soothing balm. The knowledge that Leonardo and Ezio were nearby, safe, eased the tension that had coiled in her chest. She shifted slightly, trying to push herself upright, but the sharp ache in her back made her falter.

The man stepped forward immediately, his hands hovering near her shoulders. “Careful,” he cautioned gently. “You’ve been through a lot. Here, let me help you.”

Amelia bit her lip against the discomfort, allowing him to guide her into a sitting position. The movement was slow and deliberate, each shift of her body bringing a fresh wave of soreness. Once she was upright, she leaned heavily against the wall, her breaths coming in shallow bursts as she adjusted to the change.

“Thank you,” she murmured, glancing at him.

He nodded with a kind smile. “You’re stronger than most, your friend told me he cauterized your wound and you managed to stay awake until he was done.” 

He gestured to a small bundle of folded clothes on a nearby chair. “I found these among my late wife’s belongings. They’re simple, but they should fit well enough to get you to Venice.”

Amelia’s throat tightened slightly at his words, but she nodded, her expression softening. “I appreciate it. Truly.”

The doctor retrieved the clothes and unfolded them, revealing a plain linen blouse and a sturdy wool skirt. He handed them to her with a reassuring look. “I’ll help you if you need it. You shouldn’t strain yourself too much.”

“I think I can manage.” She said, setting the clothes on her lap. 

The doctor inclined his head, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “Very well. I’ll give you a moment to yourself. But if you need anything, call out—I’ll be just outside.”

Amelia nodded, watching him retreat toward the door. The soft click of it closing behind him left her alone in the small room, the quiet broken only by the faint sounds of the harbor outside. She exhaled deeply, her hands brushing over the folded clothes in her lap. The fabric was simple but clean, carrying the faint scent of lavender and something older, like time itself.

After a moment of stillness, she swung her legs carefully over the side of the cot, wincing as the motion pulled at the wound in her back. She paused, letting the ache settle before she bent down slowly, her fingers brushing against something sturdy resting near the floor. A pair of well-worn boots sat neatly beside the bed, their leather scuffed but serviceable. Next to them, draped over the chair where the clothes had been, was a weathered leather jacket.

Amelia ran her hand over the jacket, the material soft under her fingers. The weight of it felt reassuring, like armor against the fragility of her current state. She slipped her arms into it carefully, the motion tugging at her bandages and sending a sharp twinge through her back. She gritted her teeth, breathing through the discomfort as she tugged the jacket closed. It hung a little loose on her frame, but it would do.

Next, she tackled the boots. Sliding her feet into them proved easier than lacing them, her hands trembling slightly from the exertion. But she managed, knotting the laces tightly before testing her footing on the uneven planks of the floor. The boots felt solid, grounding her as she stood.

The room swayed briefly, her vision darkening at the edges, but she steadied herself with a hand on a nearby pillar. She took a few deep breaths, willing the darkness to recede. As soon as her vision cleared again she shook her head to make sure that it was gone.

Her gaze shifted toward the door, drawn by the promise of fresh air and a world beyond this room. She shuffled forward, every step deliberate, her breath hitching as pain flared with each movement. Reaching the door, she hesitated briefly before gripping the handle and pulling it open.

The sunlight outside was blinding, spilling into the dim room like a flood. Amelia squinted, blinking as her eyes adjusted. She stepped forward, the salty breeze hitting her face and filling her lungs with air that tasted of freedom.

The doctor appeared almost immediately, his brows furrowing as he caught sight of her. “Amelia, what are you doing?” he asked, his tone a mix of concern and exasperation. He moved toward her quickly, his hands raised as if to usher her back inside. “You shouldn’t be up—your body needs rest!”

Amelia waved him off, her jaw tightening against the pain that lanced through her with each step. “I can’t stay cooped up in that room,” she said firmly. “I just need a moment. Some air.”

The doctor sighed, his expression shifting between frustration and understanding. He crossed his arms, watching her carefully as she made her way to the small bench tucked against the side of the house. “At least sit,” he insisted, gesturing to the bench. “If you insist on being out here, don’t overdo it.”

Amelia nodded, lowering herself onto the bench with a slow, measured movement that still sent a sharp twinge through her back. She sucked in a breath, exhaling it slowly as she leaned against the wall, the cool surface offering some relief. Her eyes fluttered shut for a moment, the breeze off the harbor brushing against her skin like a balm.

When she opened them again, her gaze drifted toward the docks in the distance. The bustle of activity caught her attention—sailors hauling crates, ropes being coiled, and the distant hum of voices rising and falling with the rhythm of the waves. She scanned the scene absently, until her eyes landed on a familiar figure.

Ezio stood near the edge of the docks, his stance confident, his presence commanding even from a distance. Leonardo was beside him, gesturing animatedly as he spoke. The sight of them filled her with a sense of relief so profound it nearly brought tears to her eyes. They were safe.

But then her gaze shifted to the woman standing with them. She was striking—her posture regal, her auburn hair catching the sunlight as she spoke with the ease of someone accustomed to being heard. Her attire was far too fine for the rough docks, and she held herself with an air of authority that suggested she wasn’t merely a passerby.

Amelia’s heart twisted at the sight. From her vantage point, she could see how close the woman stood to Ezio, her hand resting lightly on his arm as she spoke. There was an air of confidence in her posture, and the easy, almost playful way she leaned toward him made Amelia’s chest ache.

“Who is that?” she asked softly, her voice laced with an unintentional sharpness.

The doctor, who had been hovering nearby, glanced toward the docks. “Ah, that’s Caterina Sforza,” he said, his tone carrying a note of respect. “The Countess of Forlì. She’s a powerful ally, one not afraid to wield her influence—and her blades, when necessary. She must be helping your friends secure passage to Venice.”

Amelia’s stomach tightened at his words. She couldn’t tear her eyes away from the scene, watching as Caterina laughed, the sound carried faintly on the breeze. Ezio’s smile grew, and he leaned slightly closer as they spoke. Leonardo, ever the mediator, gestured emphatically between them, but Amelia barely registered his movements.

She knew Ezio. She knew his charm, the way his easy confidence could draw people in. But seeing it now, seeing him so at ease with Caterina, stung in a way she hadn’t expected. Her hand tightened on the edge of the bench, the ache in her back momentarily forgotten as she struggled to quell the emotions rising in her chest.

Then, as though sensing her gaze, Ezio turned. His sharp eyes swept over the bustling docks before landing on the doctor’s home. His expression shifted the moment he spotted her, his brows furrowing in surprise and concern. For a moment, neither of them moved, the distance between them feeling like an eternity.

Amelia forced herself to sit straighter, ignoring the flare of pain as she met his gaze. She wouldn’t let him see the ache in her chest, the unspoken questions swirling in her mind. She didn’t have the strength for jealousy—or the right.

Ezio said something to Leonardo and Caterina, gesturing toward the house. The countess’s expression flickered briefly with curiosity before settling back into a composed smile. As Ezio started toward the house, his movements purposeful and quick, Amelia exhaled slowly, steeling herself.

Amelia kept her gaze steady as Ezio approached, each of his long, purposeful strides closing the distance between them. She refused to let her inner turmoil show, even as the sharp ache in her back threatened to pull her focus. The pain was a distraction she almost welcomed; it grounded her, anchoring her thoughts away from the fluttering jealousy that had taken root in her chest.

Ezio reached the bench, his dark eyes scanning her intently. Up close, his expression was unreadable—equal parts concern and relief, with a hint of something she couldn’t quite name. He stopped a few paces away, his hands resting lightly on his hips as though he were bracing himself.

“You should not be out here,” he said, his voice low but firm. “The doctor told me you needed rest.”

Amelia offered a faint smile, though it didn’t quite reach her eyes. “I’ve had enough of lying in bed. I needed air.”

Ezio’s brow furrowed, his gaze flicking over her as if to assess the damage she had done to herself by being out of bed. “Air, sì, but not at the expense of your recovery. You’ve barely survived as it is.”

“I’m fine,” she said, though her voice lacked conviction. She straightened slightly, a wince flashing across her face before she could stop it.

“Amelia.” His voice softened, but the weight of her name carried his frustration and concern. He stepped closer, lowering himself to crouch before her so their eyes were level. “You are not fine. You were burning with fever when I left. Do not pretend with me.”

“Ezio, I’m fine.” She reached forward and grabbed his hand so she could press it to her forehead. “See, no fever.”

Ezio’s hand lingered on her forehead for a moment, his palm warm and rough against her skin. His dark eyes studied her intently, his brow furrowed with a mix of lingering doubt and reluctant acceptance. He exhaled sharply, pulling his hand back as he straightened.

“You’re stubborn,” he muttered, though his tone lacked the bite it usually carried. His gaze softened slightly. “No fever, perhaps, but that doesn’t mean you’re fully healed.”

Amelia shrugged lightly, the movement causing a faint twinge in her back that she hid behind a steady expression. “I’m stronger than I look, remember?”

Before Ezio could retort, the doctor stepped forward, clearing his throat. “She’s right about the fever—it’s gone, and that’s a good sign,” he said, his voice calm but firm. “Her wound is healing, though it will take time before she’s fully recovered. That said, she’s strong enough to travel, provided she takes precautions.”

Ezio turned to the doctor, his brows knitting together. “How long before she’s truly healed? I need to know what we’re dealing with.”

The doctor’s gaze flicked to Amelia before he answered. “A deep stab wound, especially one that’s been cauterized, can take several weeks to heal enough for regular movement—possibly months for complete recovery. The cauterization stopped the bleeding and likely prevented worse infection, but the tissue will take time to rebuild.”

Amelia crossed her arms, ignoring the ache that followed. “I’ll be fine. A few weeks isn’t an eternity.”

The doctor shot her a warning look before continuing. “She’ll need to avoid overexertion and make sure the wound stays clean. I’ll prepare a supply of herbs and bandages for the journey—things to keep the wound clean and stave off infection. And if it starts to reopen, she’ll need to stop immediately.”

Ezio’s jaw tightened, his protective instincts warring with the reality that they had no choice but to keep moving. Finally, he nodded, his attention returning to Amelia. “Fine. But you will not push yourself beyond your limits. If I see you falter, we stop. Understood?”

Amelia held his gaze, her lips twitching in a faint smile. “Understood.”

The doctor, sensing the tension had eased, stepped back and began listing the supplies he would gather. Amelia’s eyes followed him briefly before shifting back to Ezio, who remained standing before her, his arms crossed as though guarding her from herself.

“I’ll be fine,” she repeated, her voice softer now. “You’ve got enough to worry about without adding me to the list.”

Amelia’s breath caught at Ezio’s words, her chest tightening as her heart fluttered unexpectedly. You’re the reason it exists. The statement echoed in her mind, carrying a weight she hadn’t anticipated, a depth that left her momentarily unmoored. Warmth crept into her cheeks, and she quickly looked down, focusing on smoothing the edge of her jacket as if the motion might steady her.

Ezio, either unaware or unwilling to acknowledge her reaction, shifted his stance. His gaze remained steady, distant now, as though he had already moved on from the moment. His earlier warmth and concern seemed to fade, replaced by an air of cool detachment. It was subtle at first—a stiffening of his posture, a slight hardening of his jaw—but it was enough to make Amelia feel the shift like a blow.

“I won’t,” she said quietly, her voice steadier now, though her heart still raced. She glanced back up at him, her lips curving into a slight frown as she looked at him.

He nodded once, satisfied, though the tension in his shoulders didn’t ease. “Good.”

Amelia looked down at her hands, her fingers fidgeting with the edge of her jacket. The change in Ezio’s demeanor left her off balance, the warmth of their earlier exchange now feeling like a distant memory. She tried to tell herself it was nothing, that his stoicism was just a part of who he was—a defense mechanism in the face of uncertainty. But the ache in her chest wouldn’t go away, and she couldn’t shake the feeling that she had somehow lost something important.

Ezio gave a brief nod, his gaze returning to Amelia. “Ready?”

Amelia nodded, drawing in a steadying breath as she prepared to stand. The movement sent a jolt of pain radiating through her back, and before she could push herself fully upright, Ezio’s hands were there—firm and steady—gripping her elbows to help her. His touch was as sure as always, but there was a certain detachment in it now, as though he were fulfilling an obligation rather than offering comfort.

Once she was on her feet, she gave him a faint, grateful smile, hoping for some flicker of warmth in return. But Ezio’s expression remained unreadable, his eyes lingering on her briefly before he let go and stepped back. Without a word, he motioned for her to follow, his movements brisk and efficient.

Amelia swallowed the lump forming in her throat and fell in step beside him. Their walk to the docks was cloaked in an uncomfortable silence, broken only by the distant murmur of the harbor and the crunch of gravel beneath their feet. Ezio’s pace was measured, his presence steady, but the cold air between them was palpable. She glanced at him a few times, searching his face for some sign of the man who had spoken so fiercely to her only days ago. But he remained stoic, his focus fixed ahead, his thoughts seemingly far away.

Her heart twisted painfully. She told herself it was nothing—Ezio had always been singularly focused when it came to the mission. Still, his aloofness gnawed at her, the lack of his usual warmth leaving her feeling unmoored.

When they reached the docks, the bustling activity provided a welcome distraction. Sailors barked orders as crates were hauled aboard the waiting ships, the air thick with the brine of the sea. Amelia’s eyes scanned the crowd until they landed on Leonardo and Caterina standing near the gangplank of a modest vessel. Leonardo’s animated gestures were unmistakable as he spoke to Caterina, his hands moving with the kind of fervor reserved for problem-solving.

Leonardo spotted them first, his face lighting up with relief. “Ah, there you are! I was beginning to worry.” He stepped closer, his gaze immediately shifting to Amelia. “How are you feeling?”

Amelia opened her mouth to answer, but Ezio’s curt response cut her off. “She’s strong enough to travel.”

Leonardo’s expression tightened slightly at Ezio’s tone, but he nodded nonetheless, his shoulders relaxing a fraction. “Good. We’ve secured passage to Venice, thanks to Caterina.” He gestured toward the woman standing a few paces behind him.

Amelia’s gaze shifted to Caterina, who stepped forward with a poised, effortless confidence that was impossible to ignore. She was striking, her auburn hair catching the sunlight and her sharp, intelligent eyes studying Amelia with interest. Her smile was warm, though there was a subtle edge of appraisal beneath it.

“You must be Amelia,” Caterina said smoothly, her voice carrying a melodic grace. “I’ve heard much about you.”

Amelia hesitated for the briefest moment before reaching out to shake Caterina’s hand. Her grip was firm despite the exhaustion weighing her down. “All good things, I hope,” she said, injecting a lightness into her tone that felt at odds with the ache in her chest.

“Of course,” Caterina replied with an unwavering smile, though her gaze flicked briefly to Ezio. “Ezio speaks highly of you.”

Amelia’s heart sank, though she forced her lips into a polite smile. The words should have reassured her, but the glance Caterina directed toward Ezio felt almost intimate, a silent exchange that Amelia wasn’t privy to. She nodded, her voice quieter. “Thank you for helping us.”

Caterina waved off the gratitude with a graceful gesture. “It’s the least I could do. We all have our roles to play in this fight, do we not?”

Ezio, who had remained silent through the exchange, suddenly gestured toward the gangplank. “We should board,” he said, his voice clipped. “The sooner we leave, the better.”

Caterina inclined her head and stepped aside, her smile lingering as her eyes followed Ezio for a moment before she returned to Leonardo’s side. Amelia glanced back as they made their way onto the ship, catching Caterina’s easy laugh as she exchanged words with Leonardo. The ache in her back was sharp, but it was nothing compared to the growing weight in her chest.

Amelia turned her gaze forward, keeping her eyes on the deck as they boarded. The coldness in Ezio’s demeanor and the easy rapport between him and Caterina gnawed at her, an unwelcome companion to the physical pain she already endured. She couldn’t help but wonder if she’d done something wrong—or if Ezio was simply building walls she couldn’t climb.

Chapter Text

September 9th, 2012, 4:00am

The low hum of the Animus faded into silence, leaving Claire adrift in the liminal space between memory and reality. Her body felt heavy, as though the weight of Amelia’s pain still clung to her. Slowly, she blinked her eyes open, the muted glow of the warehouse flooding her senses. She shifted slightly, and a sharp, searing ache flared in her back. Her breath hitched as she pressed her hand against the phantom pain, the memory of Amelia’s wound sharper than she’d expected.

“Ah,” she hissed, her fingers digging into the chair’s armrests. “What the hell…”

“Take it easy,” Rebecca’s voice came from her right, calm but firm. Claire turned her head slowly, spotting the technician standing near the Animus console, arms crossed. “You’ve been in there for hours. Your body needs time to adjust.”

Claire’s head dropped back against the chair, her breaths shallow as the ache in her back slowly ebbed. “What time is it?” she asked, her voice rasping with exhaustion.

Rebecca glanced at the clock mounted on the wall. “Just past four a.m. You and Desmond were both in there longer than I wanted. I pulled you out before you burned yourselves out.”

Claire’s eyes fluttered closed for a moment as she processed the information. The phantom wound still throbbed faintly, but she straightened slowly, biting back another hiss of pain. “I’m fine,” she muttered.

“No, you’re not,” Rebecca countered, stepping closer. “You’ve been tense for hours, your vitals were all over the place, and your body’s clearly feeling the strain. You need to sleep, Claire. You’ll be no good to anyone if you keep pushing yourself.”

Claire let out a slow exhale, brushing her bangs out of her face. “I know,” she admitted, though the admission grated on her pride. “What about Desmond?”

Rebecca gestured toward the sleeping area. “Same deal. I kicked him out of the Animus too. He’s already in bed.”

Claire raised an eyebrow, glancing toward the far side of the room where the single full-sized mattress was tucked against the wall. She dragged herself to her feet, her movements slow and deliberate to avoid aggravating the phantom pain in her back. Rebecca hovered for a moment, but Claire waved her off.

“I’ve got it,” she said, her tone sharper than she intended. She softened it with a faint smile. “Thanks, Rebecca.”

Claire approached the bed, her body heavy with exhaustion, her mind still sluggish from the hours spent in the Animus. She didn’t say anything, didn’t feel the need to. Words seemed unnecessary, and she didn’t have the energy to string them together anyway. Desmond lay on the far side of the bed, sprawled out but still awake, his dark eyes flicking toward her as she slipped under the covers without hesitation.

The mattress dipped under her weight, and the blanket settled softly over her legs as she shifted onto her side, facing him. The air between them was quiet but charged, the kind of silence that didn’t demand to be filled. Desmond’s gaze lingered on her for a moment before his lips curved into a faint smile.

Claire’s eyes caught the subtle movement of Desmond’s lips, the faint smile that flickered there. It was fleeting, almost hesitant, as if he wasn’t sure whether to let it settle or let it fade. She studied him in the dim light, her own exhaustion dulling the sharpness of her usual defenses.

“You okay?” His voice broke the silence, low and rough from fatigue but laced with genuine curiosity. The scar that cut through his lip moved with the words, drawing her attention briefly before she forced herself to look back at his eyes.

She considered the question, the weight of Amelia’s memories still pressing heavily on her chest. The ache in her back, though phantom, felt startlingly real. And now, Ezio’s coldness toward Amelia lingered like an unspoken void in her own heart. She felt hollow in a way she couldn’t explain, a quiet ache that had nothing to do with physical wounds.

“Yeah,” she said finally, her voice soft, almost muted. “I’m fine.”

He didn’t look convinced, his gaze steady and searching. She resisted the urge to shift under the scrutiny, holding his eyes even as her body screamed for rest.

“You don’t look fine,” he said, matter-of-fact but not unkind.

Claire let out a short laugh, though it lacked her usual edge. “Neither do you,” she countered, her tone teasing but quiet.

Desmond smirked faintly, the motion tugging at his scar. “Fair enough.”

Silence fell again, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. Claire shifted slightly, her back protesting the movement, and she let out a soft hiss of breath before stilling. The phantom pain ebbed and flowed, a cruel echo of the injury Amelia had endured. Desmond noticed, his brow furrowing as he propped himself up slightly on one elbow.

“You’re in pain,” he said, his voice steadier now. It wasn’t a question.

Claire sighed, her fingers brushing absently over her side where Amelia had been stabbed. “It’s not real,” she said, though her tone lacked conviction. “Just… echoes.”

Desmond studied her for a moment, his dark eyes shadowed with something she couldn’t quite place. “Bleeding Effect?” he asked.

“Something like that,” Claire admitted, her gaze falling to the blanket between them.

Desmond let out a slow exhale, his chest rising and falling as the silence stretched. Claire watched him for a moment longer, her thoughts swirling. There was something comforting about his presence, even in its rawness. He wasn’t trying to fix her, wasn’t pressing her to open up more than she wanted to. He just existed beside her, steady and grounding in a way she hadn’t expected.

Finally, she let her head sink deeper into the pillow, her body relaxing by degrees. Her exhaustion was impossible to ignore now, pulling her closer to sleep with every breath.

“Get some rest,” Desmond said softly, his voice barely audible over the faint hum of the warehouse.

Claire nodded faintly, her eyes growing heavier as she shifted, turning toward him. The movement sent a faint twinge through her back, but she barely registered it, her body too tired to protest further. She curled her arms close to her chest, her fingers gripping the edge of the blanket as if anchoring herself against the lingering weight of Amelia’s memories.

The warmth of the blanket, combined with the steady rhythm of Desmond’s breathing, began to lull her into the edges of sleep. She could feel her mind drifting, the haze of exhaustion overtaking her. But just as she was slipping under, there was a soft movement beside her.

His hand.

It came up hesitantly, pausing for the briefest moment before his fingers brushed against her forehead. Claire’s lashes fluttered, her breaths evening out as his touch ghosted across her skin. He pushed her bangs gently to the side, tucking them away so they no longer fell into her eyes.

The gesture was so small, so tender, it almost didn’t register. But even through the fog of near-sleep, she felt it, her chest tightening faintly at the unspoken care in the motion. Her grip on the blanket loosened slightly, her body relaxing further as the ache in her back faded into nothingness.

Desmond didn’t say anything. His hand lingered for just a moment before retreating, leaving only the faintest warmth behind. By then, Claire had already drifted off, her features softening as sleep claimed her fully.

September 9th, 2012, 10:00am

The faint gray light of dawn crept through the warehouse’s high windows, casting soft shadows across the room. Claire stirred first, her body reluctant to pull away from the warmth of the blankets and the strange sense of peace that had settled over her during the night. For a moment, she kept her eyes closed, savoring the quiet, the hum of machinery in the distance, and the faint scent of old wood and salt lingering in the air.

Her back ached faintly, the phantom pain from Amelia’s wound still present but dulled, manageable. She inhaled deeply, letting the steady rhythm of her breathing ground her before she opened her eyes.

Desmond was still beside her, lying on his back with one arm draped over his stomach, the other resting loosely at his side. His face was relaxed in sleep, the tension that often lingered in his brow smoothed away. The faint scar on the right side of his mouth caught the early light, adding a rough edge to his otherwise calm expression.

To her surprise—and perhaps relief—there was a comfortable distance between them, their bodies separated by a narrow stretch of mattress. Despite the shared space, it was clear they’d unconsciously maintained boundaries, a silent acknowledgment of the unspoken lines neither was ready to cross.

Claire let her gaze linger on him for a moment longer, taking in the quiet vulnerability that sleep had brought to his features. There was something about seeing him like this—unguarded, still—that made her chest ache faintly. She pushed the thought aside, turning her attention to the faint chill in the air as she shifted under the blanket.

Her movement stirred Desmond, and his eyes fluttered open, hazy with sleep at first before sharpening as he took in his surroundings. His gaze landed on her, and for a moment, they simply looked at each other, the silence between them carrying the weight of an unspoken understanding.

“Morning,” he said finally, his voice rough with sleep.

“Morning,” Claire replied, her tone soft, almost hesitant. She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, her fingers brushing the spot where his hand had lingered the night before. “Did you sleep okay?”

Desmond shrugged slightly, sitting up and rubbing the back of his neck. “Better than I expected, considering everything.” He glanced at her, his eyes lingering for a beat before he looked away. “You?”

Claire nodded, her lips curving into a faint smile. “Yeah. Same.”

They lapsed into silence again, the quiet between them comfortable but still heavy with the weight of the previous night. Claire swung her legs over the side of the bed, planting her feet on the cold floor as she stretched carefully, mindful of the ache in her back.

Desmond followed suit, standing and running a hand through his hair. He looked at her again, his expression thoughtful but unreadable. “You sure you’re okay?” he asked, his tone gentler now, more sincere.

“I’m fine,” she said, meeting his gaze. The words felt steadier this time, less like a deflection and more like the truth. “Really.”

They shared a small moment of levity, the weight between them lifting slightly, though it didn’t fully disappear. Desmond shifted his stance, his gaze dropping to his rumpled hoodie and jeans. He tugged at the hem of his shirt with a grimace, a hint of self-consciousness creeping into his posture.

“Is there… any chance I can grab a shower?” he asked, his voice carrying a note of tired hopefulness. He ran a hand through his hair, his fingers catching in the unruly strands. “Feels like it’s been forever.”

Claire’s expression softened at his words, the vulnerability in his tone catching her off guard. She nodded, brushing past the awkwardness that lingered. “Yeah, sure. Follow me.”

She turned toward the door, leading him out of the small sleeping area and into the quiet expanse of the safe house. The air was cooler here, the hum of the warehouse lights overhead steady and faint. They moved past rows of old crates and supplies piled haphazardly against the walls, the faint scent of oil and dust filling the air.

Desmond trailed a step behind her, his movements slower, almost cautious, as though he was still adjusting to the strange normalcy of his surroundings. Claire glanced over her shoulder at him, her voice breaking the silence.

“Water’s hot, but the pressure’s hit or miss,” she said, her tone casual. “I’ll grab you a towel and some clean clothes.”

Claire turned on her heel, leaving Desmond near the bathroom door as she made her way toward the storage area where she kept the duffle bag. The bag had been a last-minute purchase, a hasty errand run when Lucy had informed them about Desmond’s impending arrival. Claire hadn’t thought much about it at the time, just another task to tick off the list. Now, though, she was grateful for her foresight.

The bag was tucked under a workbench near the back of the warehouse, its canvas material slightly dusty from being stashed there for days. She crouched to pull it out, brushing it off as she hoisted it onto the bench. The zipper made a soft metallic rasp as she opened it, revealing a mix of men’s clothing—plain shirts, sweatpants, jeans, and even a couple of hoodies. Nothing fancy, but practical enough for someone who’d been ripped out of whatever life he’d managed to build for himself.

Claire grabbed a black t-shirt and a pair of worn but clean jeans, folding them neatly before adding a simple gray hoodie on top. She rifled through the bag for a moment longer, pulling out a pair of socks before zipping it shut again. Slinging the clothes over her arm, she made her way to the linen shelf, retrieving a fresh towel to complete the bundle.

Returning to the bathroom, she found the door still shut, steam faintly seeping from beneath it. The sound of running water was muffled but steady, a quiet reminder of the momentary reprieve Desmond was getting after everything he’d endured. Claire hesitated for a second, balancing the folded clothes and towel in her arms before setting them down just outside the door.

She straightened, brushing her hands against her jeans as she called out, “Clothes and a towel are outside the door. Don’t slip and break your neck.”

Desmond’s muffled laugh came from within, warm and tinged with amusement. “Thanks. I’ll try not to add to the list of things to worry about.”

Claire smirked faintly, though he couldn’t see it. “Appreciate it,” she said, her tone light but sincere. She lingered for a moment longer, listening to the sound of the shower before turning away and heading back toward the main area of the safe house.

As she walked, her thoughts wandered, unbidden, back to the moments she’d shared with Desmond that morning—the quiet vulnerability in his voice, the way he’d glanced at her with something almost like gratitude. It was strange, this connection they seemed to be building. It wasn’t forced, wasn’t something either of them had sought out, but it felt... solid. Steady. Like they were finding some small measure of comfort in each other’s presence, even if neither of them would say it aloud.

Claire shook her head, pushing the thought aside as she reached the kitchenette. She busied herself by tidying up, her hands moving automatically as her mind settled into the rhythm of the safe house. She didn’t linger on the feelings swirling in her chest—there would be time to make sense of them later.

Chapter Text

Claire stepped into the main room, the faint warmth of the warehouse's makeshift living space welcoming her as she rubbed her hands together absently. The dim glow of the monitors bathed Rebecca’s workspace in a soft blue light. The faint hum of the equipment filled the air, a constant background noise that had become oddly comforting over the months.

She headed for the kitchenette, her movements deliberate and methodical as she reached for a mug and poured herself a cup of coffee. The dark liquid swirled as steam rose lazily into the air. She wrapped her hands around the mug, savoring the heat against her palms as she brought it to her lips for a careful sip.

"Finally up, huh?" Rebecca’s voice pulled Claire’s attention. She looked up to see Rebecca standing near her workstation, leaning casually against the console with a faint smile on her face.

"Sort of," Claire replied, her tone dry but not unfriendly. She took another sip of coffee before setting the mug down on the counter. "Desmond’s grabbing a shower. Figured I’d caffeinate before the day really kicks off."

Rebecca nodded, pushing herself off the console and crossing the room to join her. There was a glimmer of something in her eyes—anticipation, or maybe just relief. "Good timing," she said. "I’ve got some news you’ll want to hear."

Claire’s brow furrowed as she leaned back against the counter, crossing her arms over her chest. "What kind of news?"

Rebecca’s smile widened, and she reached into her pocket, pulling out a small tablet. "I’ve been working on tracking down Aiden and Paul, like you asked. Finally managed to get a lead on them last night." She held the tablet out for Claire to see, her voice carrying a note of pride. "And before you ask, yes, I double-checked. It’s legit."

Claire’s stomach twisted, a mix of nerves and excitement surging through her chest as she took the tablet. Her fingers hovered over the screen for a moment before she tapped it, bringing up the most recent message. Her eyes scanned the text, her heart racing as the words began to register.

"It’s from Aiden," Rebecca said softly, stepping back to give Claire some space. "He sent it late last night. I didn’t want to wake you, but I figured you’d want to see it as soon as you were up."

Claire stared at the screen, the familiar cadence of Aiden’s words jumping out at her like an old song she hadn’t heard in years. He was alive. He was okay. And he’d reached out. Her grip on the tablet tightened as a thousand thoughts flooded her mind, each one vying for her attention.

"Claire," Rebecca said, her voice cutting through the haze. "I know this is a lot, but... take your time. Read it, let it sink in. We’ll figure out the next steps together."

Claire nodded slowly, her throat tight as she forced herself to take a steadying breath. "Thanks, Rebecca," she murmured, her voice quieter now. 

The screen loaded slowly, and Claire felt her pulse quicken when she saw the sender's name: Aiden. It had been years since she’d seen it, and the sight of his name was like a punch to the gut. Memories surged back—training sessions, late-night conversations, moments when he’d kept her grounded in a world filled with chaos. Aiden had been there for her after her mother died, taking her under his wing along with Paul. They were the brothers she’d never had, always watching out for her, even after she chose to fight the Brotherhood’s battles alongside them.

But after her capture by Abstergo in 2007, everything changed. Aiden had been forced to watch helplessly as they took her away, and since her escape, there had been no contact. Until now.

Claire took a steadying breath, her thumb hovering over the email before she finally opened it. The screen filled with Aiden’s words, each line pulling her deeper into emotions she hadn’t let herself feel in years.

Subject: Aiery… You’re Alive.

Claire—

Rebecca reached out to me three days ago, told me you escaped. Six months ago, she said. Six months, and I had no idea. That’s on me. I didn’t look hard enough. I didn’t fight hard enough. I thought I’d lost you, Aiery. Five years. Five goddamn years of nothing. Not a whisper, not a trace. And then I get an email out of nowhere telling me you’re alive, telling me you’re safe, telling me you’re fighting again.

You don’t know what that did to me. Relief isn’t a big enough word, but it’s all I’ve got. Relief that you’re out of their hands. Relief that you’re back with people who can protect you. And yeah, maybe a little bitterness too. You didn’t call. You didn’t reach out. I get it. You had your reasons. Doesn’t make it easier to swallow, though.

God, Claire, do you have any idea what it’s been like? Paul and I have been running missions non-stop, but the moment you vanished… everything fell apart. I couldn’t focus. I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t even say your name without losing it. Paul kept me together, mostly. Told me you’d find a way, that if anyone could, it’d be you. But I didn’t believe him. I didn’t want to believe him because it hurt less than hoping.

And now here you are. Alive. Whole. Fighting. The way you always do.

Rebecca didn’t tell me much—she’s careful like that—but I don’t need the details. I don’t care how you got out or what it took. I just need to know you’re okay. That you’re… you.

I’m not asking for anything, Aiery. I just wanted you to know you’ve still got me. Always. I don’t care what it costs or where it takes me—I’ll be there if you need me. No questions, no hesitation. Just… let me know you’re okay. Please.

Take care of yourself. And don’t be stubborn about it for once, yeah? You’re not invincible. You’re just you. And that’s more than enough.

Aiden.

Claire’s fingers trembled as she finished reading, the words sinking into her chest like weights. Aiery. He was the only one who called her that, a nickname born of years of familiarity and some long-forgotten joke she couldn’t even remember the origin of. She could hear his voice in her head as she read the words, could see the faint smirk he always tried to hide when he teased her. But there was no teasing in this message, no bravado to mask the rawness of his emotions. This was Aiden stripped bare, and it made her stomach twist.

Her grip on the tablet tightened, her mind racing with the memory of him—his sharp eyes, the way he moved like he was always ready for a fight, the quiet intensity that had always made her feel safe. He’d been her rock once, her constant, and she’d thought of him every day since her escape. But reaching out to him? That had felt impossible. Too dangerous. Too painful.

And now, here he was, laying himself bare in an email she hadn’t expected to see.

“You okay?” Rebecca’s voice pulled her out of her thoughts, gentle but laced with curiosity. She was watching from her workstation, her expression cautious.

Claire nodded, though her throat felt tight. “Yeah,” she managed, her voice steadier than she expected. 

Claire stared at the screen a moment longer, her fingers hovering over the keyboard. Aiden’s words stayed with her, their sincerity both comforting and overwhelming. She had no idea how to put everything she wanted to say into words, but she knew she couldn’t leave him waiting—not after everything he’d said.

She let out a slow breath and began typing, her fingers moving hesitantly at first but gaining confidence as the words came together.

Subject: I’m okay.

Aiden—

I don’t even know where to start. I’m sitting here staring at this email and trying to find the right words, but nothing feels like enough. I guess I’ll start with the obvious: I’m okay. Really, I am. The first few months after I got out were rough, but Rebecca, Shaun, and Lucy helped me find my footing again. And now there’s Desmond—our newest “recruit.” He’s still adjusting, but he’s good, Aiden. He’s sharp. Determined. He’s going to make a difference. I can feel it.

You don’t know how much it means to me to hear from you. I thought about reaching out a hundred times, but… I didn’t know if you’d even want to hear from me after everything. Part of me thought it’d be easier for you and Paul if I just disappeared, if you didn’t have to worry about what happened to me. I never wanted to be a weight around your necks.

But hearing your words, knowing you’ve been out there this whole time… it’s overwhelming. I don’t know how else to describe it. It’s like a part of me that I thought I’d lost is suddenly here again, and I don’t know what to do with it.

You’re right—I didn’t call. I didn’t reach out. And for what it’s worth, I’m sorry. It wasn’t because I didn’t care. I thought about you and Paul every single day. I wondered if you were safe, if you were still fighting, if you even thought about me. I missed you. Both of you. More than I can put into words.

It’s been five years, Aiden. Five years since everything fell apart. I don’t know if things will ever go back to the way they were, but knowing you’re out there, knowing you’re still fighting… it helps. It makes me feel less alone in all of this.

Thank you for saying what you did. For reminding me that I still have people who care. You have no idea how much that means to me. I’ll hold onto your words, and I promise I’ll do my best to take care of myself. I’m stubborn, sure, but I’m not invincible. You’re right about that.

Before I wrap this up, I need to ask you something. It’s about my brother. Have you seen him? Heard anything about him? I know it’s been years, but if there’s even a chance he’s out there… I just need to know he’s okay. If you can, keep an eye out for him. Please.

Take care of yourself, Aiden. And thank you. For everything. Always.

Claire (Aiery)

She hit send before she could second-guess herself, leaning back in her chair with a long exhale. Her hands were trembling, her chest tight, but there was also a strange sense of relief. It wasn’t everything she wanted to say, but it was enough for now.

Rebecca glanced up from her workstation, her brow raised. “You sent it?”

“Yeah,” Claire replied, her voice quieter than usual. “I sent it.”

Rebecca offered her a small smile. “Good. He deserves to know you’re okay, Claire. And I think you needed this as much as he did.”

Claire nodded, her fingers brushing over the edge of the tablet. “Yeah,” she said softly, her thoughts already drifting to what Aiden might say when he wrote back.

The sound of approaching footsteps drew Claire’s attention from her swirling thoughts. She glanced up just as Desmond appeared in the doorway, his damp hair sticking up in messy spikes, a towel slung around his neck. His hoodie was gone, replaced by a plain gray t-shirt from the duffle bag she’d left for him, and his jeans hung just slightly lower on his hips, likely still loose from wear.

Desmond’s steps were unhurried as he crossed the room, his eyes scanning the setup with mild curiosity. His gaze landed on Claire, and he offered her a small, tired smile before heading to the kitchenette. Grabbing a mug from the counter, he poured himself some coffee, the rich aroma wafting through the air.

“You look like you’ve been deep in thought,” Desmond remarked, his voice quiet but carrying the faintest note of teasing as he leaned against the counter.

Claire let out a soft chuckle, though the weight of the email she’d just sent still lingered in her chest. “You could say that,” she replied, wrapping her hands around her own coffee mug. “I was just… catching up with my original team.”

Desmond raised an eyebrow, his expression unreadable. “Your original team?”

She nodded, her tone lightening as she continued. “Aiden and Paul. We worked together before everything went to hell. They’re like brothers to me.” She paused, a faint smile tugging at her lips. “They looked out for me, taught me everything I know. I wouldn’t have made it this far without them.”

Something flickered across Desmond’s face at her words, subtle but unmistakable. His jaw tightened briefly, and he glanced away, taking a sip of his coffee to mask the reaction. “Sounds like they’re good guys,” he said finally, his voice carefully neutral.

“They are,” Claire said, her voice softening. “It’s been years since I’ve heard from them, but Rebecca tracked them down. Aiden sent me an email this morning.” She hesitated for a moment, then added, “It’s good to know they’re still out there.”

Desmond gave a small nod, though his eyes didn’t quite meet hers. “That’s… good,” he said, his tone quiet. “Glad you have people like that.”

Claire studied him for a moment, sensing the slight shift in his demeanor but choosing not to press it. Instead, she took another sip of her coffee, letting the warmth spread through her.

“Well,” she said after a beat, setting her mug down on the counter. “I guess it’s my turn to grab a shower. If you hear anything interesting from Shaun or Rebecca, let me know.”

Desmond’s lips twitched into a faint smirk, the tension easing slightly from his features. “Sure thing. Just don’t expect the water pressure to magically fix itself.”

Claire rolled her eyes, a flicker of humor in her expression as she made her way toward the bathroom. The door clicked shut behind her, and for the first time that morning, she let out a slow breath, feeling the weight of the conversation lift ever so slightly.

Chapter Text

September 9th, 2012, 12:00 pm

Claire gathered herself and moved toward the bathroom, grabbing her towel as she tried to shake off the weight of her conversation with Desmond. She needed a reset, and a hot shower seemed the best way to scrape away the tension clinging to her like smoke after a fire.

The bathroom was small and industrial, with pipes crisscrossing the walls and a slight metallic tang in the air. Claire let the water cascade over her, tilting her head back as the warmth seeped into her muscles. Her breath evened out, the steam curling around her like a cocoon, but then came a jolt—a faint, almost imperceptible tug at the edges of her mind. It caught her off guard. Her hand flew to her side instinctively, pressing against the spot she knew too well: a wound she hadn’t received but felt as vividly as if it were hers. That familiar, disorienting pull, a shift that seemed to tighten her focus yet leave her unsteady—Amelia.

Her eyes snapped open. Shutting off the water, she snatched the towel from the hook, her heart beating faster than it should. Wiping the steam from the mirror, her breath hitched.

The face staring back at her wasn’t entirely hers.

Amelia’s piercing gaze stared through her, full of fire and determination, her features etched with a fierceness Claire didn’t recognize as her own but felt deep in her bones. It was fleeting—there for a split second before disappearing—but the impact lingered like a phantom touch. Claire staggered back a step, her breath catching as panic surged through her chest. She felt an icy knot form in her stomach, her pulse roaring in her ears. It wasn’t just the reflection. It was the way Amelia had looked at her—challenging, accusing, as though daring her to act.

Without thinking, Claire’s hand curled into a fist, and frustration and fear collided in a sharp, impulsive burst. Her fist slammed into the mirror. The crash of glass filled the small space, shards flying and catching the light as they scattered across the sink and floor. Her knuckles stung sharply, a biting pain that yanked her back from the haze of memory—or whatever it had been.

She stumbled back, staring at her hand. Blood welled up from the fresh cuts, bright and vivid against her pale skin, trickling in thin lines down her fingers. The pain was sharp and real, a physical echo of the chaos in her head. It tethered her to the present, the pulse of her injuries beating in time with her racing heart.

Claire pressed her free hand against the edge of the sink, its cool, solid surface anchoring her like a lifeline. She closed her eyes, forcing herself to breathe deeply, steadily, as the panic ebbed into a dull thrum. Her thoughts were scattered, fragments swirling in her mind like the broken pieces of the mirror now glittering on the floor.

After a long moment, she opened her eyes again. The reflection that stared back was unmistakably hers this time, though it was fractured, split into jagged shards of glass still clinging to the frame. The sight felt fitting—she and Amelia were both fractured, their lives colliding in ways she still didn’t fully understand.

Her gaze fell to her bleeding knuckles. Blood bloomed against the pale fabric of the towel she grabbed, staining it with a dark, blossoming red. She focused on the sting of the cuts and the warmth of the blood, letting them pull her thoughts away from Amelia’s lingering presence. As she dabbed at her hand, the motions were methodical, measured—steps she could control when everything else felt impossible to grasp.

A soft knock broke the tense silence, jolting Claire’s focus back to the closed bathroom door. She stiffened, clutching the towel tighter around herself.

“Claire? You alright in there?” Desmond’s voice filtered through the door, low and muffled, but unmistakably concerned.

She hesitated, weighing whether to brush him off or face the inevitable. The shattered mirror, the blood soaking into the towel wrapped around her knuckles—it wasn’t something she could keep hidden for long. With a resigned breath, she pressed her injured hand more firmly against the towel and turned the knob.

The door swung open, and Desmond’s gaze fell on her immediately. His six-foot frame towered slightly as he leaned against the doorway, dark eyes scanning her appearance with a mix of alarm and restraint. The dampness of her hair framed her face, droplets trailing along her collarbone, and her towel—knotted securely but leaving her feeling far too exposed—barely reached her thighs. His attention quickly shifted to the blood staining the fabric and the jagged shards of the broken mirror behind her.

“I, uh… need the first aid kit,” Claire said, her tone steadier than she felt. She met his gaze head-on, daring him to comment.

For a second, Desmond lingered, his lips parting as if he might ask something, but he thought better of it. Instead, he nodded, stepping back to allow her room to exit. “Right. I’ll grab it for you.”

As he turned toward the small storage cabinet, Claire stepped out of the bathroom and into the open area of the safe house. The sound of her bare feet against the floor seemed louder than usual, and the faint hum of machinery only highlighted the awkward quiet. Her path to the bed cut across the main space, where Rebecca and Shaun were working. Both glanced up at the movement.

Rebecca’s gaze lingered, a mix of concern and curiosity in her wide eyes. “Everything okay?” she started, but Claire’s pointed look cut her off before she could press further.

Shaun, ever the tactful one, froze mid-gesture. His glasses slipped slightly down the bridge of his nose as his gaze darted over her once—quick, polite, and a little startled—before he cleared his throat and turned sharply back to his monitors. “Right. Not looking, not asking,” he muttered under his breath.

Claire kept her chin high, walking purposefully despite the heat creeping up her neck. Her injured hand was tucked tightly against her side, the faint ache keeping her focus as she approached the bed. She didn’t slow until she reached it, exhaling softly as she sat at the edge, the towel still knotted securely around her.

Desmond returned a moment later, first aid kit in hand. He crouched slightly as he handed it to her, their height difference all the more noticeable up close. His sharp, dark eyes flicked to her injured hand before settling on her face. “Here,” he said simply, his voice calm but edged with unspoken questions.

“Thanks,” Claire muttered, gripping the kit tightly. She turned away, fumbling to pull the duffle bag from beneath the bed with her good hand. Desmond straightened, giving her a moment of privacy, his broad back blocking any stray glances from the others in the room.

Her towel clung awkwardly as she bent to grab clothes from the bag. She tugged a pair of sweats up under the towel first, then quickly pulled a loose t-shirt over her head, careful not to jostle her injured hand. The towel slipped free as she adjusted the shirt, letting it fall unceremoniously to the bed.

Claire sat back down, her focus shifting to the first aid kit as the adrenaline that had propelled her through the bathroom incident began to fade. The throbbing ache in her hand grew more pronounced, the physical discomfort grounding her even as the sting of embarrassment lingered, hot and insistent.

Desmond broke the silence first. “Do you… need help with that?” His voice was casual, but his expression betrayed something softer—a flicker of concern that felt uncharacteristically open.

She sighed, irritated with herself for using her dominant hand in the heat of the moment. “Yeah. Sure,” she said reluctantly, holding it out toward him.

He moved closer, lowering himself onto the edge of the bed beside her. For someone of his size, his touch was unexpectedly careful. His hands, roughened by years of work and conflict, dwarfed hers as he unwrapped the makeshift bandage, his fingers brushing lightly against her skin.

“You really did a number on yourself,” he muttered, inspecting the cuts with a slight grimace.

She huffed out a humorless laugh. “You could say that.”

He smirked faintly, reaching for an antiseptic wipe. “This’ll sting.”

“Just get it over with,” she snapped, though her tone held no real bite.

As he dabbed at the cuts, Claire flinched, the sharp sting drawing her breath in through her teeth. “Sorry,” Desmond murmured, his movements precise and deliberate. Despite his size and often brusque demeanor, there was something about the way he handled her injury—patient, almost tender—that made her feel more exposed than she liked.

“What’s that, seven years of bad luck?” she joked weakly, trying to lighten the air between them.

“Don’t jinx yourself,” he replied, his chuckle low and warm.

The sound softened the tension, and Claire found herself managing a small, wry smile. For the first time since the incident, she met his gaze fully. Gratitude flickered in her eyes—not just for his help, but for his ability to make the moment feel less suffocating. The pain in her hand was beginning to dull, replaced by the steady rhythm of his movements as he carefully wrapped her knuckles with gauze.

“Thanks,” she said, her voice quieter now. It felt strange, even vulnerable, to let him see her like this—wounded, unraveling, haunted by a past that wasn’t entirely her own.

Desmond secured the bandage with a final twist, his fingers lingering for just a second too long before he released her hand. “I’ve got you,” he said simply, his voice low but steady. “And next time you feel like punching something… maybe give me a heads-up first?” He grinned, his tone teasing, though his eyes carried a sincerity that made her chest tighten.

Claire rolled her eyes, but the faint smile that tugged at her lips betrayed her. “Noted.”

For a moment, that seemed to be the end of it, but then Desmond tilted his head slightly, his expression shifting into something more serious. “What did you see?” he asked quietly, his dark eyes flicking up to meet hers before returning to her bandaged hand.

Her smile faded, the weight of his question pressing down on her like a sudden storm. She hadn’t expected him to ask, and for a moment, she considered brushing him off. But there was something in his gaze—steady, genuine, and curious—that gave her pause.

“It was… strange,” she began slowly, her fingers absentmindedly tracing the edge of the gauze. “I don’t usually get blindsided by the Bleeding Effect. I can feel it coming, prepare myself. But tonight, it was different. It felt like she was right there, closer than she’s ever been.”

Desmond leaned in slightly, his brow furrowing. “Like she was… real? Like you were looking at her instead of yourself?”

Claire nodded, her chest tightening at the memory. “Yeah. For a moment, it wasn’t just a reflection. It was Amelia—her face, her eyes. Everything was so vivid, so clear. I forgot who I was, where I was. I just… reacted.”

He was quiet for a long moment, his gaze steady on hers. “Do you think there’s a reason for it? Something she’s trying to show you, or tell you?”

Claire hesitated, the question striking a nerve she wasn’t sure she was ready to face. She’d wondered about it before—whether Amelia’s presence was a guide, a warning, or simply an echo of a life she couldn’t escape. But answers had always eluded her, leaving her with more questions than she knew what to do with.

“Maybe,” she said softly, her voice tinged with uncertainty. “Maybe she’s trying to help me. Or maybe… she just wants me to remember. To make sure I don’t forget what she went through.”

Desmond nodded slowly, his expression thoughtful. “It’s a lot to carry,” he said after a beat, his voice low but heavy with understanding.

Claire looked at him, realizing that he did understand—maybe more than anyone else could. He knew what it was like to carry another’s legacy, to shoulder the weight of lives and choices that weren’t entirely your own. The realization settled between them, unspoken but tangible, a fragile connection that felt as real as the bandage wrapped around her hand.

“Yeah, it is,” Claire agreed, her voice barely above a whisper. Then she glanced at Desmond, her expression softening. “Do you want to get out of here for a bit?”

Desmond’s eyes widened slightly, the question catching him off guard. A flicker of surprise crossed his face before something warmer replaced it, something close to gratitude. He glanced around the safe house—the cold, unyielding walls, the ceaseless hum of machinery, the faint smell of stale air that seemed to permeate everything. It wasn’t just a place; it was a reminder. Of confinement. Of constant vigilance. Of the life he hadn’t chosen but was trapped in all the same.

“You’re serious?” he asked, his voice quiet but tinged with a hope he couldn’t quite mask.

Claire nodded, her lips curving into a small, mischievous smile. “Yeah. You’ve been stuck in places like this for too long. I think we both have. Let’s take a break. And I’ll even let you drive.”

He chuckled softly, the sound easing some of the tension in the air. “That’s a hell of an offer. I think I’m way overdue.”

He didn’t need to say more. She could see it in the way his shoulders eased, the way his eyes lit up just a little at the prospect of something other than fluorescent lights and mission updates. And truthfully, she needed it as much as he did. The safe house wasn’t just physically stifling—it gnawed at her, a constant reminder of the life she was living. The life that wasn’t hers to begin with.

The two of them moved through the winding corridors, passing rows of metal shelving stacked with supplies, desks cluttered with reports and half-empty coffee mugs, and walls lined with corkboards pinned with maps and grainy surveillance photos. Every detail of the place grated on her nerves. It was too familiar. Too suffocating. The reminders of Amelia were everywhere—her legacy, her choices, her burdens. It was like living in the shadow of a ghost she couldn’t outrun.

The garage offered a reprieve. Her motorcycle sat parked beneath a dim overhead light, sleek and quiet, a machine that whispered freedom even while surrounded by the constraints of their reality. Claire walked toward it, pulling a spare helmet from a nearby shelf. She turned, tossing it to Desmond with an easy grin.

“Think this’ll fit?” she asked, watching as he caught it effortlessly.

Desmond turned the helmet over in his hands, his expression softening as he traced the worn edges with his fingers. “It’s been a while since I’ve been on a bike,” he murmured, almost as if speaking to himself.

Claire tilted her head, intrigued. “So you know how to handle one?”

“Yeah,” he said with a sheepish grin. “Got my endorsement a few years back. Thought it’d be fun.” He hesitated, his grin faltering into something more rueful. “That’s actually how Abstergo found me the first time. Fingerprint for the license. Not my brightest moment.”

Claire laughed, the sound light and genuine. “Good thing I’m not one to hold grudges over past mistakes,” she teased. Then, with a wink, she straddled the bike, her hands finding the handlebars with practiced ease. “Besides, I’ll make sure we don’t do anything too reckless. At least, not enough to get us flagged.”

Desmond chuckled, shaking his head as he fastened the helmet. “I’ll hold you to that,” he said, stepping forward and swinging a leg over the bike. He settled in behind the handlebars, his hands gripping them like he was reacquainting himself with something he’d almost forgotten how much he loved.

Claire leaned closer, her voice light but steady as she pointed out the clutch and gear shifts, though it was obvious he didn’t need the reminder. He looked over his shoulder at her, his eyes glinting with an energy she hadn’t seen in a while.

“Ready?” he asked, his voice carrying a spark of excitement.

“Ready,” she replied, sliding her arms around his waist. The warmth of him beneath her hands was reassuring, a reminder that there were still things outside the cold, calculated world of the safe house.

They weaved through the labyrinth of narrow alleys and quiet streets, the motorcycle’s engine a low purr beneath the evening’s stillness. The city glowed with its own quiet rhythm, neon signs blinking against the darkness and streetlights stretching their long, wavering shadows across the pavement. Desmond handled the bike like it was second nature, his movements fluid and sure, as if he were rediscovering something he hadn’t realized he’d missed.

When they reached the open road, the hum of the city dissolved into the roar of the engine and the rush of wind. Desmond twisted the throttle, and the bike surged forward with a satisfying growl. Claire leaned into the momentum, tilting her head back and letting the cool night air wash over her. For the first time in ages, she let herself focus on the present—the rhythmic vibration of the bike beneath her, the steady warmth of Desmond’s presence, and the world around her fading into a streak of motion and light. It wasn’t freedom, not entirely, but it was close enough to pretend.

As the city lights dimmed in the distance, the road opened up, the artificial glow softening into the shadows of the outskirts. Desmond turned onto a narrow, winding road that climbed steadily upward, the headlights carving out a path through the encroaching dark. Finally, he pulled off onto a quiet overlook, where the land dropped away to reveal the city below, glittering like constellations scattered across the earth.

The sun hung low in the sky, spilling streaks of fiery orange and deep red across the horizon. Desmond cut the engine, the sudden silence settling heavily around them, broken only by the faint hum of the city far below. He removed his helmet and raked a hand through his hair, exhaling slowly as he took in the view.

“I forgot what it feels like to be out like this,” he said after a moment, his voice quiet, almost reverent. “Feels… real.”

Claire slid off the bike, setting her helmet on the seat, and leaned against the handlebars. Her gaze drifted out over the shimmering expanse of lights below. “Sometimes you need to be reminded,” she murmured, “that there’s more to the world than…” She gestured vaguely, encapsulating the cycles of hiding, running, and fighting.

Desmond glanced at her, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “Thanks for this. I didn’t realize how much I needed it.”

She returned his smile, softer but genuine. “Neither did I.”

The quiet that followed wasn’t awkward; it felt natural, a space for reflection as the colors of the sunset deepened. Desmond shifted slightly, as though debating whether to speak, before finally breaking the silence.

“How’d you end up in all this?” he asked, his tone curious but gentle. “Being an Assassin, I mean.”

Claire laughed, a short, dry sound that carried both amusement and something heavier. “Born into it,” she said, crossing her arms as she leaned back against the bike. “My dad was an Assassin. He died when I was three, so I don’t really remember him. My mom tried to keep me out of it after that—she wanted a normal life for me. She even remarried when I was eleven. Had my little brother a year later.”

Desmond listened intently, his eyes softening as she spoke. She didn’t usually talk about her family, but something about the quiet hillside, the fading sun, made it easier to let the words come.

“For a while, we managed to live like normal people. Or at least as normal as you can when you’re always looking over your shoulder,” she continued. “But when I was seventeen, Abstergo found us. They never stop looking, do they?”

She smiled, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “My mom… she sacrificed herself so we could get out. My brother and I split up after that. It wasn’t safe to stay together.”

Her voice faltered slightly, and she looked out at the horizon. The colors of the sunset blurred, and for a moment, she was back there—running, hiding, trying to survive.

“That’s when Aiden and Paul found me,” she said finally, her voice quieter now. “I was seventeen, barely holding it together. They pulled me into the Brotherhood, trained me, gave me something to hold onto. Something to fight for.”

Desmond didn’t interrupt, his expression unreadable but attentive. His posture shifted slightly, leaning toward her, his focus entirely on her words.

“And your brother?” he asked gently after a pause.

Claire shrugged, though the gesture felt forced. “We haven’t seen each other since. We keep tabs from a distance, but that’s it. It’s safer that way.”

For a moment, neither of them spoke. The distant lights of the city twinkled like stars, and the weight of her story lingered in the air between them. Desmond finally broke the silence, his voice low.

“That’s a hell of a lot to grow up with,” he said. “Losing your family, having to run. Do you ever wish… it could’ve been different?”

Claire’s lips curved into a faint smile, one that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “All the time,” she admitted. “But wishing doesn’t change anything, does it? This is the life I’ve got. I’ve made my peace with it. Mostly.”

Chapter Text

September 9th, 2012, 8:00 pm

As they rolled back into the safe house, the rush from their escape slowly faded, replaced by the harsh, unwelcoming sterility of the underground facility. The hum of computers buzzed faintly in the background, and the dim, fluorescent lights cast cold shadows over the industrial walls, a stark contrast to the freedom and warmth of the open road. Desmond cut the engine, the bike settling into silence, and he took a deep, grounding breath, looking over at Claire, his face a blend of satisfaction and apprehension. He knew, and she knew, what was likely waiting for them inside.

Desmond swung his leg off the bike and turned to her, offering his hand. Claire raised an eyebrow, amused at his chivalry, but took his hand, allowing him to help her down. His grip was firm yet careful, and for a brief moment, the warmth of his touch was an anchor in the otherwise sterile, unyielding environment of the safe house. When she was firmly on her feet, they lingered in silence, their helmets still in place, reluctant to fully surrender the fleeting freedom they’d just tasted.

Finally, with a small sigh, Claire reached up and unclipped her helmet, lifting it off and running a hand through her hair as she looked around, grounding herself back into their reality. Desmond followed suit, pulling off his own helmet, his hair slightly tousled, the faint scent of cool night air still clinging to him. They exchanged a look—half a smile, half a knowing glance—both steeling themselves for the reaction they were about to face.

Before either of them could speak, a voice sliced through the air, sharp and dripping with irritation. “Well, well, if it isn’t our very own Bonnie and Clyde,” Shaun drawled, his tone thick with sarcasm as he stepped into the room.

Claire stifled a groan, exchanging a glance with Desmond. “Here we go,” she muttered under her breath, her voice low with weary resignation.

Shaun strode forward, arms crossed, his brow furrowed in mock disapproval as he looked them over. Rebecca leaned against a nearby table, arms crossed too, though her expression was softer. There was a flicker of relief in her eyes, but it was quickly overtaken by a frustration that she didn’t bother to mask.

Then there was Lucy.

Her calm, polished exterior was fraying at the edges. Her blue eyes were sharp and cold, her lips pressed into a thin line. She stood rigid, her hands clenched tightly at her sides, and the tension in her posture was palpable. When she spoke, her voice was tight, controlled, but the anger beneath was unmistakable.

“Do you two have any idea how reckless that was?” she demanded, her tone cutting through the room like a blade. “Walking out the front door, no warning, no plan. We’re in the middle of a mission that could decide everything, and you just… leave?” Her eyes flicked between Desmond and Claire, her frustration barely contained. “Do you have any idea what kind of risk you put all of us in?”

Desmond opened his mouth, ready to explain, but Claire cut in before he could. Her voice was cool, edged with defiance. “We’re fine, Lucy. In case you hadn’t noticed, we came back in one piece, no tail, no trouble.”

Lucy’s jaw tightened, her composure cracking just enough for a flash of anger to show through. “It’s not about you being ‘fine,’ Claire. It’s about the fact that you thought you could just disappear and not tell anyone. What if something had happened? What if Abstergo had found you? How are we supposed to fight this war if you two decide the rules don’t apply to you?”

Claire took a step forward, her smirk sharp and cutting. “You really think you’re in charge here, don’t you?”

Desmond glanced at her, his brow furrowing slightly in concern, but she didn’t stop. She took another step closer to Lucy, her voice low but laced with fire. “Let me remind you, Lucy, I didn’t survive five years in Abstergo’s custody just to have someone else tell me what I can and can’t do. I’ve had enough of being told where to go and how to live. I won’t be caged again—not by you, not by anyone.”

Lucy’s fists clenched, her knuckles white as she stepped closer to Claire, refusing to back down. “This isn’t about control, Claire. It’s about trust, about the team. We’re supposed to work together, to rely on each other, but how am I supposed to do that when you pull stunts like this? You put everything we’ve worked for at risk.”

Claire’s laughter was sharp, almost bitter. “Trust? You want to talk about trust? That’s funny, coming from you.” Her gaze bore into Lucy’s, fierce and unrelenting. “You don’t trust me, and I sure as hell don’t trust you. You’ve been playing games since the moment I got here, and don’t think I haven’t noticed.”

For a moment, the air seemed to still, the weight of her accusation hanging between them. Lucy’s eyes narrowed, her polished mask slipping just enough to reveal a flicker of something—panic, anger, or perhaps guilt—before she schooled her expression.

“This isn’t about me,” Lucy said, her voice steady but cold. “It’s about the mission. It’s about all of us staying alive long enough to see this through. If you can’t understand that, then maybe you shouldn’t be here.”

Desmond stepped between them, raising his hands slightly as if to defuse the situation. “Alright, that’s enough. We’re not getting anywhere with this.”

Claire’s jaw tightened, her eyes never leaving Lucy. “Stay out of it, Desmond,” she said sharply. “If she wants to throw accusations around, she can deal with the consequences.”

Rebecca, who had been watching silently, finally pushed herself off the table and moved forward, her voice cutting through the escalating tension. “That’s enough! Both of you!” Her gaze swept between Claire and Lucy, her tone brooking no argument. “This isn’t the time, and it sure as hell isn’t the place.”

Shaun clapped his hands together, breaking the tension with an exaggerated sigh. “Well, now that we’ve cleared that up, can we get back to the mission at hand?”

Lucy’s eyes darted to Shaun, her jaw tightening as though she wanted to snap back at him, but she held her tongue. Instead, she cast a sharp glance at Desmond and Claire, her lips pressing into a thin line. Without another word, she turned on her heel and strode out of the room, her boots clicking sharply against the floor as she disappeared through the doorway.

The silence that followed was thick, charged with the tension left in Lucy’s wake. Claire let out a slow breath, her smirk fading into something closer to frustration as she folded her arms across her chest.

“Well,” Shaun said, breaking the quiet, his voice laced with dry amusement. “Now that the air’s nice and thick with unresolved hostility, shall we get back to business? Wouldn’t want to fall behind schedule, after all.” He leaned casually against the console, his smirk unwavering.

Desmond shot him a look, somewhere between exasperation and amusement. “You really know how to read the room, Shaun.”

“Part of my charm,” Shaun replied, tapping the side of his temple with a finger. “But seriously, the faster we dig through these memories, the less time we give Abstergo to get ahead of us. So… back to the Animus?” His gaze flicked between Desmond and Claire, arching a brow expectantly.

Claire let out a small, humorless chuckle, the simmering tension in her shoulders easing as she looked at Desmond. “Ready to dive back in?” she asked, her tone light but layered with an unspoken reassurance. Without waiting for a response, she began making her way up the stairs, brushing past Lucy, who was still watching her with a scrutinizing gaze.

From where she was, Claire caught the faint, amused look Desmond was giving her—a look that said more than words, carrying a trace of shared humor and the weight of all they’d been through together. She raised an eyebrow, a silent acknowledgment of the ordeal they’d just faced. He trailed behind her, the faint hint of a smile still on his face, though his expression grew more contemplative as they reached the top of the stairs.

As they stepped into the quieter part of the safe house, the hum of voices and equipment fading behind them, Desmond leaned in slightly, his voice low enough that it felt like a whisper shared only between them. “You really know how to keep things… lively,” he murmured, a playful gleam in his eyes.

Claire smirked, glancing over her shoulder as they walked side by side. “Lively’s one word for it. Someone’s gotta remind them that we’re not just pawns in some endless game of chess.”

They exchanged a brief smile, a moment of mutual understanding that felt like a small rebellion against the tightly wound expectations that bound them. But as they reached the narrow corridor leading to the Animus room, the atmosphere between them began to shift, growing heavier with the anticipation of what lay ahead.

Desmond’s gaze lingered on her as they slowed, his eyes searching her face as if looking for any hint of hesitation. “You sure you’re good to go back in?” he asked, his voice softening, laced with genuine concern. “I know this isn’t exactly easy on you either.”

Claire met his gaze, her expression resolute but softened by a flicker of something unguarded, a hint of vulnerability. “The fresh air… it helped. Cleared my head.” She hesitated for a moment, then added, her voice almost too quiet, “And I’ll admit, it’s easier with you here.”

A faint smile curved Desmond’s lips, and she caught the warmth in his eyes, the tension in his own shoulders easing. “Glad to be of service,” he replied, a softness in his voice that hinted at more than he was saying.

They stepped into the main room, the cool glow from the monitors casting a blue light across the space. Rebecca was already there, adjusting settings with the practiced ease of someone who knew the machine better than anyone else. As they entered, she looked up, her gaze flickering between them with a quiet, assessing look before she offered them a small, reassuring nod.

Without a word, Claire settled into a chair beside the console, her fingers brushing over the edge of the interface as she prepared herself. The quiet hum of the Animus filled the room, a sound she’d come to associate with a strange mixture of dread and purpose. She focused her gaze on the interface, feeling the silent pressure of their collective mission weighing down on her, a reminder that this was bigger than all of them.

Desmond eased himself onto the Animus platform, adjusting himself with a calm familiarity that belied the strain etched into his expression. He lay back, exhaling slowly, as if bracing himself for the memories he would soon relive.

Shaun slipped into the room, his usual smirk softened as he took up a spot near Rebecca. He leaned against the wall, arms folded, giving Claire a sidelong glance. “Well, let’s see what surprises today brings,” he said, his sarcasm tempered by an undercurrent of genuine curiosity.

Rebecca finished her adjustments, her fingers dancing over the keyboard before she glanced up, her voice just loud enough to cut through the hum of the Animus. “You know,” she said, a hint of mischief in her tone, “I think they would make a cute couple.”

Her comment hung in the air for a beat too long, and Shaun’s exasperated sigh broke the silence with a sharp smack as he swatted her shoulder. “For god’s sake, Rebecca, now is not the time,” he muttered, his tone a mix of irritation and reluctant amusement.

Claire couldn’t help but let out a faint, amused snort, the sound barely audible as she settled into her seat. She caught a glimpse of Desmond’s faint grin before the Animus began to activate, the steady hum growing louder as the memories started to pull him under. His breathing evened out, his expression growing still as he surrendered to the flood of ancestral echoes waiting to be uncovered.

Chapter Text

The ship rocked beneath Amelia’s feet, each gentle sway an unwelcome reminder of her fragile state. Every step sent a dull ache through her back, a sharp echo of the wound she was trying—and failing—to ignore. The salty breeze was bracing, its cool edge a small mercy against the nausea rolling in her stomach, but the sour churn of seasickness refused to fully abate. She gripped the railing until her knuckles ached, her eyes fixed on the horizon as if sheer willpower could steady her insides.

Behind her, the muted sounds of the crew filled the air: the scrape of rope on wood, the low murmur of voices, and the rhythmic groan of the ship as it cut through the water. Leonardo’s lively chatter drifted up faintly from below deck, his words muffled but familiar. It should have been comforting, but her thoughts were elsewhere—focused on the brooding figure at the far end of the deck.

Ezio.

Since boarding the ship, his warmth had vanished, replaced by an unsettling detachment. He kept his distance, his words clipped and impersonal when he bothered to speak at all. It was a sharp, undeniable shift, and Amelia was done pretending not to notice.

A sudden lurch of the ship sent her stomach twisting, and she winced, bracing herself against the railing as her breath came in shallow bursts. Her back throbbed mercilessly, each wave of pain flaring from the stab wound that was still far from healed. The burn from the cauterization only added to the misery, a raw ache radiating through her body.

“Dio mio, Amelia, sit down before you fall overboard.”

Ezio’s voice cut through the air, sharp with irritation. She turned to find him striding toward her, his dark eyes narrowing as they locked on hers. His expression was unreadable, but the tension in his jaw betrayed his frustration.

“I’m fine,” she snapped, though the words felt hollow even to her. Weakness made her feel exposed, vulnerable, and the last thing she wanted was his pity—or worse, his judgment.

Ezio stopped a few paces away, his arms crossed as he assessed her. “You are not fine,” he said flatly. “You’re pale, shaking, and clearly in pain. When was the last time you had those bandages changed?”

Amelia straightened, gripping the railing tighter as if it could anchor her resolve. “I said I’m fine,” she repeated, her tone brittle. She avoided his gaze, focusing instead on the endless horizon. If she could just hold out, maybe she could convince him—and herself—that she was stronger than she felt.

Ezio sighed, sharp and exasperated. “You’re impossible,” he muttered. In a single, decisive motion, he stepped closer and reached for her arm. “Come. You’re going below deck.”

Amelia jerked her arm free, her glare cutting like a blade. “I’m not going anywhere. I need the air.”

Ezio’s patience visibly frayed, his eyes darkening as his tone dropped. “The air isn’t going to heal your wound or keep you standing if you collapse, donna testarda. Stop being foolish.”

Her temper flared, chasing away the exhaustion for a brief, defiant moment. “Foolish? You’re the one brooding like a storm cloud all day. Maybe you should worry about yourself for once and leave me be.”

Ezio’s jaw clenched, his frustration now etched into every line of his face. “I’ve had enough of this,” he said sharply. Before she could react, his hand closed around her elbow—not harshly, but with a firmness that brooked no argument. “You’re going below deck. Walk, or I’ll carry you.”

“Let go of me!” she hissed, twisting in his grasp, but her body betrayed her. The ship’s motion and her weakened state made her movements clumsy, and a sharp twinge shot through her back, forcing her to stumble. Ezio tightened his hold immediately, steadying her with practiced ease.

“Stop fighting me,” he snapped, his voice low and edged with steel. “You’re coming below, adesso. Whether you like it or not.”

Her anger burned bright, but exhaustion and pain smothered it quickly. “Damn it, Ezio,” she growled, but her words lacked the venom they needed. Her pride warred with her body’s limits, and she hated that she was losing.

Ezio didn’t respond. His grip was unyielding as he guided—half-dragged—her toward the hatch. By the time they reached the narrow stairs, Amelia’s legs trembled with the effort to keep moving, and nausea clawed at her throat. She gritted her teeth, swallowing down her frustration and the bile threatening to rise.

The moment her boots touched the floor of the cramped cabin, the air felt heavier, thick with the faint smell of salt and damp wood. Ezio released her elbow but pointed firmly at the small cot tucked against the wall.

“Sit,” he ordered, his tone leaving no room for protest.

Amelia opened her mouth to protest, but a sudden surge of nausea stole her breath. She clamped her lips shut, swallowing hard, and moved stiffly to the cot. Lowering herself onto it sent sharp, jarring pain through her back, each movement a cruel reminder of the wound that refused to heal quietly. Her breaths came fast and shallow as she gripped the edge of the cot, her knuckles tight against the effort of keeping herself composed.

Ezio crouched in front of her, his sharp gaze taking in her pallor and trembling hands. “You’re seasick,” he stated, his tone softening slightly as though acknowledging it aloud might temper its impact. “And in pain. Why didn’t you tell me?”

Amelia clenched her teeth, her pride battling the vulnerability clawing at her. “I didn’t want to give you the satisfaction,” she muttered, her voice hoarse and unsteady. She shut her eyes tightly, hoping to block out the relentless swaying of the ship and the humiliation that threatened to rise alongside her nausea.

Ezio exhaled sharply, his frustration seeping through. He ran a hand through his hair, the gesture as much to calm himself as to emphasize his exasperation. “You are the most infuriating woman I have ever met,” he said, though his voice lacked venom. He reached for a small water flask on the nearby shelf and pressed it into her hand. “Drink. Slowly.”

Amelia cracked her eyes open, her gaze meeting his briefly before shifting to the flask. Her pride screamed at her to refuse, but the dryness in her throat and the persistent churning in her stomach won out. She took a small sip, the cool water soothing for a fleeting moment, though the turmoil inside her remained.

As she set the flask aside, Ezio had already begun unrolling a clean set of bandages from a pouch. His movements were deliberate, his expression unreadable. He held up the roll. “Your bandages,” he said flatly.

“I can do it myself,” Amelia replied, though the faint waver in her voice betrayed her own doubt.

Ezio raised an eyebrow, his look bordering on incredulous. “You can barely sit upright,” he countered, his tone dry but firm. “Don’t argue.”

She turned her head away, her lips pressing into a tight line. Her silence was answer enough, and Ezio moved behind her with quiet determination. His hands brushed her shoulders as he untied the laces of her blouse, his touch purposeful but gentle. The tension between them thickened, the air growing heavier with unspoken emotions that neither of them dared name.

As the fabric peeled away from her wound, Amelia hissed softly, the dried blood pulling against tender, raw skin. Ezio muttered a low curse in Italian under his breath, his fingers hesitating before he continued. “This should have been changed hours ago,” he said, his voice tight.

“Maybe if you weren’t so busy acting like a stronzo del cazzo, you’d have noticed,” Amelia bit out, her words cutting despite the trembling in her voice.

Ezio froze, his jaw tightening as he let out a slow, measured breath through his nose. His fingers resumed their work, steady despite the irritation threading through every precise movement. “Stronzo del cazzo?” he repeated, his voice deceptively calm. “This, from the woman who nearly collapsed on the deck because she was too stubborn to ask for help?”

Amelia’s fists curled against the cot, the flare of pain in her back only fueling her defiance. “I didn’t ask for help because you’ve been ignoring me all damn day!” she snapped, her voice rising despite her exhaustion. “Why bother when you act like I don’t even exist?”

Ezio’s hands paused for the briefest moment before he reached for the salve. Scooping some onto his fingers, he shook his head, a bitter laugh slipping through. “Ignoring you? I am the one ignoring you?” He worked the salve onto her wound with careful precision, his voice hardening with each word. “I was giving you space—trying to let you rest—and this is how you repay me?”

She twisted slightly to glare at him over her shoulder, the motion pulling sharply at her wound. She ignored the pain, her frustration boiling over. “Space? Is that what you call this cold, distant act? You’ve barely said two words to me since we boarded this ship. If you think that’s helping me, you’re even more clueless than I thought.”

Ezio’s brow furrowed, his lips pressed into a tight line as he leaned closer, his voice dropping to a tense murmur. “And what would you have had me do, Amelia? Hover over you? Fuss over every little step you take? You yell at me for not taking care of myself, yet here you are, doing the exact same thing. Maybe I thought you’d appreciate not being smothered for once.”

Amelia’s glare sharpened, her anger flaring anew. “I wouldn’t need smothering if you hadn’t shut me out!” she shot back, her voice cutting through the cramped cabin. “And don’t you dare turn this around on me. You’ve been like this ever since you spoke to Caterina. I’m not blind, Ezio—I see the way you look at her.”

Ezio’s hands stilled, his fingers hovering just above her back. His eyes narrowed, dark and unreadable, and when he finally spoke, his voice was cold. “This is not about Caterina.”

“Then what is it about?” Amelia demanded, her breaths coming faster as her anger tangled with the lingering pain in her chest and back. “Tell me, Ezio. Tell me why you’re acting like this, because I can’t keep guessing.”

Ezio’s jaw worked as though wrestling with words that refused to come easily. When he finally spoke, his voice was quieter but no less sharp, laced with raw emotion. “You almost died, Amelia. Do you understand that? You nearly bled out in my arms, and I was powerless to stop it. Do you have any idea what it feels like to watch someone you care about slip away and be unable to do anything?”

The intensity of his words cut through her anger like a blade, leaving her stunned. The weight of his confession settled between them, thick and inescapable. Amelia’s mind reeled, unbidden memories of her father surfacing with cruel clarity—his blood pooling on the cobblestones, her frantic attempts to stop the flow, the way his eyes softened with resignation just before he told her to run.

Her hands clenched tightly in her lap, trembling slightly as she fought to steady her breath. “I do,” she said softly, her voice barely audible over the creak of the ship. “I know exactly what that feels like.”

Ezio’s hands froze against her back, her words hitting him with equal weight. He didn’t need her to explain; he already knew. She had told him once, in halting, broken sentences, about the day she lost her father—the helplessness of pressing her hands against his wound, the terror as his life slipped through her fingers.

Ezio’s jaw tightened, and his hands resumed their work, gentler now, his movements almost reverent. “I haven’t forgotten,” he murmured, his voice low. “Not a word.”

The shroud of the memory hung heavy over Amelia, her throat tightening as she drew a slow, shaky breath. The ache in her back dulled, overtaken by the guilt that twisted in her chest. “I’m sorry,” she whispered, her voice trembling. “I didn’t realize… I didn’t think that’s what this was.”

Ezio let out a soft sigh, his hands stilling briefly. “You don’t need to apologize,” he said, his tone quieter now, his irritation replaced with something gentler. “You weren’t wrong—I have been distant. But it wasn’t because of Caterina or anything else you imagined. It’s because I saw you lying there, bleeding, and for a moment, I thought…”

His words trailed off, the unspoken fear lingering in the air. He didn’t finish, but Amelia understood. She had felt it too—the paralyzing terror of losing someone when they mattered most.

“You thought you were going to lose me,” she said softly, finishing the sentence for him. Her voice was steadier now, though the ache in her chest hadn’t subsided. She turned slightly, wincing at the movement, and met his gaze. “But shutting me out doesn’t protect either of us, Ezio. It just makes it worse.”

For a moment, his dark eyes held hers, unguarded in a way they rarely were. There was a vulnerability in his gaze that she hadn’t expected, a flicker of something raw and unspoken. “It’s not easy for me to let people in,” he admitted, his voice low. “But with you… it’s different. And that terrifies me.”

Amelia’s anger melted away, replaced by a deep, aching understanding. She reached out, her fingers brushing lightly against his hand where it rested on the edge of the cot. His skin was warm beneath her touch, steadying in its quiet reassurance. She took a slow breath before speaking, her voice soft but resolute. “I’m sorry, Ezio. I’ve been an ass.”

Ezio raised an eyebrow, a faint smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth despite the weight of the moment. “That is one way to put it,” he said dryly, his tone lacking any malice.

A weak smile pulled at Amelia’s lips, though the guilt still lingered. “I mean it,” she continued. “I lashed out because I was hurt and frustrated, but that doesn’t excuse it. You’ve been carrying this fear, and I didn’t see it. I jumped to conclusions instead of just asking what was going on.”

Ezio’s gaze softened, his hand turning to grasp hers fully. His grip was firm but gentle, a silent acknowledgment of the truce between them. “You had reason to be upset,” he admitted, his voice steady. “I wasn’t exactly making it easy for you to understand.”

Amelia shook her head, her thumb brushing absently over his knuckles. “That doesn’t mean I had to be so cruel,” she said, her voice quieter now. “But Ezio…” She hesitated, searching his face. “You have to tell me next time. I can’t read your mind. If something’s wrong, if you’re hurting, I need you to say it. Because if you don’t, how can I react any differently?”

Ezio exhaled slowly, his dark eyes holding hers with an intensity that made the words unspoken between them feel almost tangible. “You’re right,” he said after a moment, his voice weighted with sincerity. “I should have told you.”

“We both need to be better,” Amelia replied, her voice firm despite the lingering exhaustion. “You need to tell me what’s bothering you, and I need to stop assuming the worst.”

Ezio nodded slowly, his grip on her hand tightening just slightly, as though anchoring himself to the moment. “Agreed,” he said, his voice quieter now. “We’ve both handled this poorly. For that, I am sorry.”

Amelia let out a shaky breath, the nausea still twisting uncomfortably in her stomach. As the ship rocked with a larger swell, her body tensed involuntarily, and her free hand moved instinctively to her abdomen. Her other hand slipped from Ezio’s grasp as she gripped the edge of the cot for balance, her breaths coming shallow and rapid.

Ezio’s brow furrowed instantly, his attention sharpening as he noticed her distress before she even had a chance to register it fully. “Amelia,” he said, his voice low but firm, the urgency unmistakable.

Amelia opened her mouth to respond, but the sudden surge of nausea twisted her stomach like a vice. Her body tensed, a cold sweat breaking out across her brow. She barely registered Ezio’s swift movement as he darted to a nearby shelf, grabbing a bucket and crouching back in front of her just as she doubled over.

The first wave hit hard. She retched violently, the sound raw and painful as her stomach convulsed. Ezio held the bucket steady, his movements firm and purposeful, anticipating her collapse before she could even process what was happening.

Her trembling fingers gripped the edge of the bucket, knuckles white as another heave wracked her body. The sharp pain in her back flared, shooting through her like fire. She groaned, her voice hoarse, the agony of the wound and the sickness merging into one miserable blur. “Damn it,” she managed to croak between ragged breaths.

Ezio didn’t flinch. Without a word, he reached for the ribbon tied neatly around her wrist. His fingers moved deftly, slipping it free in one fluid motion before gathering her hair with practiced efficiency. He tied it back securely, his movements precise and unfaltering, keeping the blond strands away from her face as she retched again. Her body shuddered with the force, muscles spasming in rebellion.

“Thank you,” she whispered weakly, though her voice was nearly swallowed by another surge. Each heave sent fresh waves of pain radiating through her torso, her stomach wrenching until it felt like there was nothing left. “I hate this,” she groaned, her frustration raw in the quiet space between retches.

Ezio’s voice was calm, steady in a way that seemed impossible given the moment. “Breathe,” he instructed softly, his hand brushing lightly against her back—not forceful, but present, a subtle reminder that she wasn’t alone. “Slow, when you can.”

She let out a pitiful noise of acknowledgment, gripping the bucket as if it were the only thing keeping her upright. Her body betrayed her again, the convulsions wringing out every last ounce of her strength. Tears pricked at her eyes, her vision blurring as the mix of pain, humiliation, and exhaustion threatened to overwhelm her.

Ezio didn’t move, his presence unwavering as he knelt beside her. “It will pass,” he said quietly, his tone neither dismissive nor pitying. “Let it run its course.”

Finally, the spasms began to ease. Her breathing slowed, shallow and uneven as she leaned heavily against the bucket. The ribbon tied in her hair pulled lightly against her scalp, a gentle reminder of Ezio’s steadying touch. She groaned softly, her voice carrying a faint note of relief as the worst of the nausea began to subside.

Ezio took the bucket from her hands without hesitation, standing and moving it aside with a quiet efficiency that didn’t linger on the mess. When he returned, a damp cloth was in his hand, cool water dripping faintly from its edges.

“Let me,” he said simply, his voice soft but resolute. Without waiting for her response, he crouched in front of her again and pressed the cloth to her face. The coolness was an immediate balm, soothing the sweat that clung to her skin and easing the flush in her cheeks.

Amelia blinked at him, her exhaustion too great to muster a protest. The sensation of the cloth was a small comfort, its clean, faintly salty scent cutting through the lingering nausea. She sighed, her shoulders sagging as her body began to relax in slow, cautious increments.

Ezio worked with a quiet, deliberate care that felt oddly intimate. He cleaned her hands next, the damp cloth brushing over her trembling fingers. His gaze flicked to hers briefly as he worked, his expression unreadable but focused. “Better?” he asked, his voice low.

Amelia nodded weakly, her voice barely audible. “Better,” she rasped, though her body still felt heavy and drained.

Satisfied, Ezio set the cloth aside and straightened slightly. His dark eyes lingered on her for a moment, searching her face for any lingering discomfort. “You should rest,” he said, his tone firm but without judgment. “Do you want to lie down, or would it help to be back on deck? The horizon might settle your stomach.”

Amelia hesitated, her mind sluggishly weighing the options. The thought of lying down was tempting—her body ached in ways that begged for stillness. But the thought of staying in the cramped, stuffy cabin made her stomach churn anew. The open air, the horizon stretching endlessly before her—that might be the only solace her body needed.

“I want to go back up,” she said finally, her voice hoarse but resolute. “I don’t think I can stay down here much longer.”

Ezio inclined his head, extending a hand to her. “Slowly, then,” he said, his tone softened now. “One step at a time.”

Amelia took his hand, her grip weak but determined. He steadied her as she stood, his free arm brushing lightly against her back, carefully avoiding her wound. The climb to the deck was slow, each step deliberate as her trembling legs fought to carry her weight. Ezio remained close, his hand never leaving her arm as he guided her upward.

When they emerged into the open air, the cool breeze hit her face like a blessing. The salty tang of the sea was sharper here, the wide expanse of water meeting the horizon in a soothing, unbroken line. Her knees wobbled briefly, but Ezio’s firm grip steadied her before she could falter.

He guided her to the railing, his movements patient and assured. Amelia leaned heavily against it, her free hand resting lightly on her stomach as she focused on the steady horizon. The nausea lingered but had lost its edge, fading into something manageable.

Ezio moved beside her, his arm sliding around her waist, anchoring her against the swaying ship. His other hand rested on the railing, steady and strong, offering a silent support she hadn’t realized she needed. Without thinking, Amelia let her head drop onto his shoulder, too drained to resist the simple comfort of his presence.

For a moment, neither of them spoke. The rhythmic crash of the waves below filled the silence, the wind tousling the strands of hair Ezio had tied back earlier. Amelia closed her eyes briefly, focusing on the sound of the water and the steady rise and fall of his breathing. The queasiness in her stomach ebbed further, replaced by a tentative calm that settled deep within her.

Chapter Text

The canals of Venice glimmered under the golden light of the rising sun, their tranquil waters reflecting the city’s intricate architecture as the ship glided toward the bustling docks. Venice unfolded before them like a dream, its maze of narrow alleys, stone bridges, and shimmering waterways alive with the sounds of morning. Merchants called out their wares, their voices mingling with the cries of gulls and the rhythmic lapping of water against weathered piers.

Amelia clung to the railing, her knuckles pale as she struggled against the stubborn nausea that had clung to her throughout the journey. The unyielding grip of seasickness had left her weakened, feverish, and more aware of the wound at her side than she cared to admit. Her cloak hung loosely over her shoulders, failing to shield her from the damp morning chill. She shivered, unsure if it was the cold or the gnawing unease that caused the tremor.

Ezio stepped closer, his movements calm and measured as he placed a hand against her back. His touch was steady, offering wordless reassurance. “How are you holding up?” he asked, his voice low and laced with concern, his eyes searching hers.

Amelia forced a faint smile, unwilling to let her discomfort worry him further. “I’ll manage, Ezio. I’m just glad we’re here at last.” Her gaze shifted to the city ahead, trying to anchor herself in its beauty rather than the storm in her stomach. “Venice looks… impressive.”

Ezio nodded, though his expression remained shadowed with concern. He hesitated before reaching out to brush a strand of loose hair from her face, his touch lingering longer than necessary. The warmth of his hand against her chilled skin caught her off guard, and for a fleeting moment, she leaned into the gesture, finding comfort in the small, tender act. But the moment passed quickly, and she straightened, taking a deep breath to steady herself.

Behind them, Leonardo bustled about, oblivious to their quiet exchange. His cheerful energy seemed untouched by the fatigue of travel as he began collecting their belongings with a wide smile. “Ah, Venezia!” he exclaimed. “The city of inspiration! It’s even more magnificent than I remembered.”

Before they had taken more than a few steps onto the docks, a man approached them with a formal but friendly demeanor. His manner was efficient, his nod respectful. “Messer da Vinci?” he asked.

Leonardo turned, his face lighting up. “Yes, that’s me!”

The man offered a slight bow. “Buongiorno e ben arrivato. I am Alvise. Il Signor Dona’ has asked that I escort you to the workshop. Are you ready?”

Leonardo’s smile widened. “Absolutely. Lead the way!”

The group followed Alvise as he wove through the winding streets and over the ornate bridges of Venice. The air was rich with the scent of fresh bread, sea salt, and faintly lingering smoke from early morning hearths. Amelia lagged slightly behind, each step sending a twinge of pain through her side where her healing wound protested the movement. Though she tried to mask her discomfort, Ezio slowed his pace, falling in beside her with an unspoken steadiness that calmed her fraying nerves.

Alvise, unaware of her struggle, gestured enthusiastically toward the sights around them. “Ah, Venezia! What other city is so beautiful, so stable, so proud of her heritage? Let me show you her wonders! The Rialto Bridge, for instance!” He extended an arm toward the elegant structure spanning the Grand Canal. “Behold the unity and ingenuity it represents! A true symbol of Venetian pride.”

Amelia nodded politely, trying to focus on his words, but her mind was heavy with exhaustion. The city was undeniably stunning, its beauty amplified by the morning light, but an inexplicable sense of unease clung to her thoughts like a shadow just out of sight. Something about the thrumming energy of Venice felt… unsettled.

As they reached the lively marketplace, Alvise’s voice faltered. A group of armed soldiers had cornered a merchant, their armored presence casting an unmistakable tension over the vibrant scene. The clang of a sword striking the merchant’s counter made Amelia flinch, her hand instinctively brushing against the concealed blade beneath her cloak.

Ezio’s jaw tightened, his dark eyes fixed on the altercation. “It seems Venice has its share of troubles,” he muttered, his tone low and edged with frustration.

Amelia’s voice was quiet, but her words carried weight. “It’s no different from Firenze—or anywhere else,” she said, a faint bitterness in her tone. “Power always finds a way to corrupt.”

Alvise cleared his throat, clearly eager to steer them away from the confrontation. “Come, let us continue the tour… elsewhere.”

Leonardo, ever the optimist, seemed determined to lift the mood. He paused by a stall displaying wooden figurines. “Look at this!” he exclaimed, his childlike enthusiasm unshaken. “Isn’t it amazing? Would you mind buying it for me? I… ah… left my money with the bags.”

Amelia chuckled softly despite herself, her amusement a brief reprieve from her unease. But her smile faded when a group of men rushed past them, one of them brushing roughly against her shoulder. She stumbled, her balance faltering until Ezio’s hand shot out, his firm grip steadying her. She gave him a grateful glance, though her hand trembled slightly as she adjusted her cloak.

“Careful, coglione!” Ezio barked after the runners, irritation flashing in his eyes. One of them—a woman—paused briefly, smirking before disappearing into the crowd. Ezio muttered a curse under his breath as he checked his coin pouch. “Looks like we’ve made a warm first impression.”

Amelia shook her head, her voice tight with fatigue. “I think I’ve had enough of Venice’s ‘charms’ for one day.” She pressed a hand to her side as the pain flared again. Ezio’s gaze softened, but he didn’t press her. Instead, he kept a protective distance as they continued through the labyrinthine streets.

At last, Alvise stopped in front of an ornate door. “Here we are—your workshop, Ser da Vinci! We spared no expense to ensure it rivals your workspace in Firenze. May you find great success within these walls, and may Venezia bring you the inspiration you deserve!”

Leonardo clapped Alvise on the back with a grin. “Grazie, Alvise. Your hospitality is most appreciated!”

As Alvise took his leave, Leonardo turned to his companions with an eager smile. “Well, my friends, here we are! Care to come in and see the wonders awaiting us?”

Ezio shook his head, his gaze distant as it lingered on the silhouette of the Palazzo della Seta. “Maybe later. I need to visit the Palazzo and arrange an audience with Emilio.”

Leonardo hesitated, concern flashing across his features, but he quickly masked it with a reassuring nod. “As you wish. But should you need a place to rest—or another Codex page—my door is always open.”

Amelia offered Leonardo a faint smile, her voice soft with gratitude. “We’ll keep that in mind, Leonardo. And thank you—for everything.”

Leonardo reached out, his hand resting briefly on her shoulder, the warmth of his gesture contrasting the chill of the morning air. “Take care of yourself, Amelia. Venice is not always as gentle as her waters.”

Ezio lingered beside her, his gaze sweeping over her pale face. “Are you sure you’re up for this?” he asked, his voice low, a murmur meant only for her ears. “You’ve been through a lot.”

She hesitated, her fingers brushing the edge of her cloak as if it could shield her from the weight of his concern. “Actually,” she admitted, her tone wavering slightly, “I think it’s best if I stay with Leonardo. That ship ride wasn’t exactly smooth sailing, and I still feel… off.”

Leonardo, ever the attentive friend, stepped closer. “Of course! My workshop is your home for as long as you need it, Amelia. Come, I’ll get you settled.”

Ezio nodded, his gaze lingering on her as if weighing her decision. “I’ll check in on you later,” he promised, his words steady but tinged with something unreadable. “Get some rest.”

Amelia managed a small, tired smile. “Be safe out there,” she said softly, her voice barely above a whisper.

“I will,” he assured her, offering one last glance before striding off into the winding streets of Venice.

Leonardo guided Amelia into the workshop, his arm supporting her gently as they crossed the threshold. The space was a riot of creativity—paintings in various stages of completion adorned the walls, blueprints covered the tables, and the faint, sharp scent of oil paints hung in the air. Despite the clutter, the workshop exuded warmth, its chaos oddly comforting.

“Here,” Leonardo said, leading her to a worn but inviting couch positioned near a modest fireplace. He carefully eased her down onto the cushions, his usual buoyant energy tempered by an unexpected tenderness. “Rest here. I’ll fetch some blankets. You’ll be warm and comfortable in no time.”

Amelia let her head fall back against the couch, the tension in her body slowly ebbing as the fire’s heat began to seep into her skin. She watched as Leonardo bustled about, his movements quick and efficient, a man entirely in his element.

True to his word, Leonardo returned moments later, draping a soft blanket over her shoulders. “There,” he said with a satisfied smile. “Now, all you need to do is rest. No arguments, no protests.”

Amelia chuckled faintly, the sound dry but genuine. “I wouldn’t dream of arguing, Leonardo. Not right now.”

He stepped back, his expression light but tinged with concern. “Good. Because I’ll be here to make sure of it.”

As the fire crackled softly in the hearth, its warmth wrapping around her like a cocoon, Amelia felt her eyelids grow heavy. The ache in her side dulled to a faint throb, and for the first time since leaving the ship, she allowed herself to truly relax. The sounds of the workshop—Leonardo humming absently to himself as he sketched, the scratch of quill on parchment—lulled her into a deep, dreamless sleep.

The days that followed passed in a quiet rhythm, the workshop becoming both a sanctuary and a prison for Amelia. The wound on her side ached less with each passing day, though it remained a constant reminder of her fragility. Leonardo doted on her with an energy she found both endearing and exasperating. He insisted on frequent meals, ample rest, and, when her strength permitted, light exercises to ensure her recovery was progressing.

Though her body grew stronger, Amelia found her mind restless. She spent her days perched by the workshop’s wide windows, watching the canals hum with life. The gondoliers’ songs floated up to her, mingling with the chatter of merchants and the clatter of footsteps on stone. Venice was vibrant, alive in a way that both comforted and taunted her—so close, yet still out of reach.

It was on one of these restless nights, with Leonardo fast asleep in the adjoining room, that Amelia decided she could no longer ignore the lingering questions about her wound. She needed to see it for herself, to confront the damage and assess how far she still had to go.

The workshop was quiet save for the faint crackling of embers in the fireplace. Amelia eased herself up from the couch, careful not to disturb the blanket that had cocooned her. Her steps were slow and deliberate as she crossed the room to Leonardo’s desk. Among the scattered blueprints and tools, she spotted a small, round mirror propped against a stack of parchment.

Her fingers hovered over it for a moment before she picked it up. The glass was smudged, the frame slightly dented, but it would serve. Taking a deep breath, she carried it over to the fireplace, where the flickering light was just bright enough to see by.

Amelia eased the fabric of her nightshirt up, baring her side. The movement was hesitant, her breath catching as the cool air brushed against her skin. She angled the mirror, tilting it until the reflection of her wound came into view.

The cauterized wound stared back at her, a thin, jagged line no longer than the width of her palm, just below her ribs. The surrounding skin was inflamed, the edges raw with a reddish-pink hue that faded into the paler tones of her stomach. It was clean, healing steadily, but the angry mark left behind was a stark reminder of the near-fatal strike.

She traced the line with a trembling finger, feeling the uneven texture where the blade had entered and the burn from Leonardo’s heated iron had sealed the wound. The memory came rushing back: the searing pain, the acrid smell of burning flesh, her desperate command for him to act despite his hesitation.

Her stomach twisted at the memory, and for a moment, she felt the same helplessness she’d experienced that night in Forlì. Amelia had always been proud of her resilience, her ability to push forward no matter how dire the circumstances. But now, staring at this wound, she couldn’t shake the vulnerability it represented. It wasn’t just the physical pain—it was the reminder of how close she’d come to losing everything.

Amelia let out a shaky breath, tilting the mirror to examine the surrounding area. Bruises had faded to faint yellow-green shadows, and the swelling had subsided. But even though the worst was behind her, the sight of the wound left her feeling fragile in a way she hated.

“Amelia?”

She hadn’t heard the door to Leonardo’s workshop open and she jumped, dropping the mirror. The mirror clattered against the wooden floor, the faint sound echoing in the quiet workshop. Amelia’s heart leapt into her throat as she spun around, clutching her side in reflex as the sudden movement pulled at her wound.

Ezio stood just inside the door, his silhouette illuminated by the faint glow of moonlight spilling through the windows. His brows furrowed as he took in her startled expression and the mirror now lying face-down on the floor.

“Easy,” he said, his voice low and soothing as he stepped forward, hands raised in a gesture of peace. “I didn’t mean to frighten you.”

Amelia exhaled shakily, pressing a hand to her chest as if to steady the rapid thrum of her heartbeat. “You shouldn’t sneak up on people like that,” she muttered, her tone sharper than she intended.

Ezio bent to retrieve the mirror, brushing it off carefully before placing it on the table. He glanced at her side, where her nightshirt was still partially lifted, exposing the now-visible wound. His gaze lingered, his expression darkening. “You shouldn’t be on your feet this late, let alone fussing over that,” he said, his tone edging toward reproach.

“I wasn’t fussing,” she shot back, though the slight tremble in her voice betrayed her nerves. “I just… I needed to see it for myself.”

Ezio’s frown softened, though his concern didn’t waver. “And? Did it tell you anything you didn’t already know?”

Amelia hesitated, her hand falling to her side as she avoided his gaze. “It’s healing,” she admitted, her voice quieter now. “And ugly.”

Ezio raised an eyebrow at her comment, his lips twitching faintly into the barest hint of a smile. “Ugly? I don’t know about that,” he said, his tone lighter now. “It looks like a battle scar to me. Proof that you survived something most wouldn’t.”

Amelia scoffed softly, though her fingers unconsciously brushed the edge of the wound. “That’s a poetic way to describe something that looks like a bad butcher job.”

Ezio crouched beside her, carefully picking up a few shards of the mirror scattered across the floor. The dim light caught the glint of glass in his hands as he worked with deliberate care. “It’s not the scar itself that matters,” he said, his voice quieter now. “It’s the story it tells—and the person it belongs to.”

Amelia stilled, her breath catching briefly at the sincerity in his words. She glanced at him, his profile lit by the flickering firelight, and felt the familiar tug in her chest that she refused to name. “You always know how to say just the right thing, don’t you?”

Ezio looked up at her then, his dark eyes meeting hers with a warmth that sent a shiver down her spine. “Not always,” he said with a faint, rueful smile. “But I’m trying.”

They worked together in silence for a moment, gathering the rest of the mirror’s shards. Ezio reached for a small cloth to wrap the pieces in, his movements steady and efficient. When the last fragment was safely tucked away, he rose and held out a hand to her.

Amelia hesitated before taking his hand, her fingers brushing against his briefly as he helped her to her feet. The warmth of his palm sent a flicker of steadiness through her, grounding her in the moment. She straightened, adjusting her nightshirt to cover her side, but the weight of Ezio’s gaze lingered, making her feel both exposed and inexplicably safe.

“Come,” he said, gesturing toward the couch. His tone had softened, the edge of concern replaced with quiet insistence. “You shouldn’t be standing around like this.”

Amelia nodded, her body suddenly aware of its own fatigue. She allowed him to guide her to the couch, her steps slow but steady. Before sitting down, she reached for a blanket folded neatly over the back of a nearby chair. She draped it around her shoulders, pulling the soft fabric close as she eased down onto the worn cushions with a faint sigh.

Ezio didn’t step away as she expected; instead, he moved to the other end of the couch and sat down. His presence filled the small space, comforting in its quiet strength. The firelight cast soft shadows across his face, highlighting the slight tension in his expression as he watched her settle.

She tilted her head, studying him as she adjusted the blanket around her shoulders. “How’s Venice treating you?” she asked, her voice soft, though a spark of curiosity flickered in her tired eyes. “What have you been up to while I’ve been… stuck here?”

Ezio’s lips curved into a faint smile, and he shifted slightly, resting one arm along the back of the couch. “I’ve been keeping busy,” he said, his voice carrying the hint of a tease, as if he was intentionally withholding details. But then he relented, his expression turning more earnest. “I’ve met a few… colorful people. Rosa and Antonio. They run the Thieves’ Guild here.”

Amelia’s eyebrows rose. “Thieves’ Guild? That sounds like an interesting crowd.”

“It is,” Ezio replied, a chuckle slipping through his words. “Rosa is sharp-tongued and quick as a shadow. Antonio has a knack for seeing through people and plans that would make even a seasoned strategist jealous. They’re not what I expected—but they’re good allies.”

Her curiosity deepened as she leaned forward slightly, the blanket slipping from one shoulder as she rested her forearms on her knees. “And you trust them?”

“As much as one can trust thieves,” he said with a smirk, but his tone held a note of sincerity. “They have their own reasons for opposing the Templars. That’s enough for now.”

Amelia nodded, a faint smile tugging at her lips. “It sounds like you’ve been busy.”

Ezio’s gaze softened, lingering on her face. “I’ve also been making plans—for tomorrow.” He paused, letting the words settle before continuing. “I want you to meet them. Rosa and Antonio. It’s time you saw more of Venice than Leonardo’s workshop.”

Amelia’s heart leapt at the suggestion, excitement sparking beneath her weariness. She pulled the blanket tighter around her shoulders, sitting up straighter. “Finally,” she murmured, her voice betraying her eagerness. “I was starting to think you’d leave me here to gather dust.”

Ezio’s smile widened, the faintest hint of amusement lighting his features. “I’d never leave you behind, Amelia.”

The weight of his words lingered in the air, a quiet assurance that filled the space between them. For a moment, neither of them spoke. Then, in an uncharacteristic gesture, Ezio shifted closer, reaching out to adjust the blanket that had slipped from her shoulder. His touch was careful, almost hesitant, as if he was afraid of overstepping some unseen boundary.

“You should rest,” he said softly, his voice quieter now. “Tomorrow will come soon enough.”

Amelia met his gaze, her heart thudding in her chest at the closeness between them. She wanted to say something, anything, but the words caught in her throat. Instead, her fingers fidgeted with the edge of the blanket, the firelight playing across her knuckles as she wrestled with a sudden thought.

The exhaustion pressing on her was undeniable, but more than that, she felt a pull—a quiet yearning for the comfort she’d denied herself for so long. Slowly, tentatively, she shifted her position. Her heart pounded as she swung her legs up onto the couch, her movements measured, testing the waters. Without meeting Ezio’s eyes, she lowered her head to rest in his lap, her hair spilling loosely across his thighs.

The moment stretched taut, and Amelia felt every second of it. She braced herself for rejection, for an awkward retreat, but none came. Instead, Ezio stiffened slightly, a flicker of surprise crossing his features. His hand hovered uncertainly above her hair, as if unsure whether to move. She closed her eyes, willing herself to stay still, to let herself take the risk.

Then, with an exhale that sounded almost resigned, his fingers brushed lightly against her hair, tucking a loose strand behind her ear. His touch was tentative at first, but it softened as he let his hand linger, stroking her hair back from her face with a tenderness that sent a wave of warmth through her.

Amelia let out a quiet sigh, her breath evening out as the fire’s glow and Ezio’s steady presence wrapped around her like a cocoon. Her heartbeat thundered in her ears, each beat a reminder of how uncharted this territory felt. But she didn’t pull back. Instead, she sank into the moment, letting the tension in her body melt away.

Ezio’s hand rested gently on her shoulder, the weight of it grounding her in a way she hadn’t expected. “Rest, Amelia,” he murmured, his voice barely more than a whisper. “You’ve earned it.”

His words hung in the air, soothing and final. For the first time in days, Amelia felt herself relax completely. The ache in her side seemed distant now, eclipsed by the quiet, unexpected comfort of him. She didn’t dare open her eyes, afraid that doing so might break the fragile spell they’d created.

The fire crackled softly, its warmth casting a golden glow over the room. Ezio’s steady breathing became the rhythm she latched onto, his presence an anchor in the stillness of the night. And as her thoughts drifted, sleep began to pull her under, her last conscious thought a quiet, unspoken hope that this fragile closeness might last just a little longer.

Chapter Text

The cool breeze of the Venetian morning brushed against Amelia’s skin as she followed Ezio through the labyrinthine streets. The city was alive in a way she had yet to experience firsthand—the gondoliers’ songs echoed softly over the canals, merchants called out from their stalls, and the distant splash of oars against water created a melody that was uniquely Venice. Yet beneath the vibrant surface, Amelia sensed a quiet tension, as if the city itself braced for something unseen.

She caught a glimpse of Ezio ahead of her, his stride purposeful. The determined set of his jaw was familiar, yet the way his gaze softened when it flicked back to check on her was new, unspoken but reassuring. Despite the lingering soreness from her wound, Amelia felt stronger—more herself. She pulled her cloak tighter against the breeze and quickened her steps, determined not to fall behind.

Their destination was an unassuming courtyard nestled between two weathered buildings. Shadows stretched long across the cobblestones, and two figures stood waiting in the half-light. Antonio de Magianis stepped forward first, his sharp, angular features illuminated as he approached. He moved with an easy confidence, the kind of grace that spoke of both street smarts and an instinct for survival.

“Ah, Ezio!” Antonio greeted warmly, his voice carrying a note of amusement. “You’ve brought a guest this time. Please, come in.” His keen eyes darted toward Amelia, his smile widening into something both charming and calculating.

Beside him, a young woman leaned casually against a low wall, her dark hair falling in loose waves over her shoulders. She studied Amelia with open curiosity, a cocky smirk playing on her lips. Rosa exuded a casual bravado that Amelia immediately respected, her stance as self-assured as a seasoned fighter’s.

Ezio gestured toward the two of them. “Amelia, this is Antonio de Magianis, leader of the thieves in Venice.” He nodded toward Rosa. “And Rosa, one of his best.”

Antonio inclined his head with a sweeping gesture of welcome. “So, this is the infamous Amelia I’ve heard so much about. Welcome to Venice, signorina. Any friend of Ezio’s is a friend of ours.”

Amelia offered a polite nod, though her sharp gaze took in the subtle way Antonio’s eyes lingered on her, as if sizing her up. His charm seemed effortless, but beneath it, she sensed the practiced precision of a man who missed little. “Grazie, Antonio,” she replied. “Ezio’s spoken highly of you and the work you do here. It’s good to finally meet you.”

Antonio’s smile didn’t falter, but there was a flicker of acknowledgment in his expression. “It’s not often we welcome visitors with your reputation into our fold. And if Ezio vouches for you, well, I imagine you’ll be quite the asset.”

Before Amelia could reply, Rosa stepped forward, her grin widening as her gaze dropped to the faint bandage visible beneath Amelia’s cloak. “Ezio said you’ve had a rough time lately.” Her tone was teasing but not unkind. “He’s been eager to see you back on your feet.”

Amelia held Rosa’s gaze, a smirk tugging at her lips. “And I hear you’ve been teaching Ezio a few tricks. Think you could spare a lesson or two for me?”

Rosa’s grin deepened, and she gave an approving nod. “I like her,” she said, glancing at Ezio. “You might just fit in around here, signorina.”

Amelia felt a quiet thrill of satisfaction at the words, though she only replied with a slight incline of her head. Ezio, standing beside her, placed a hand lightly on her shoulder. The gesture was steadying, grounding, and Amelia felt her pulse quicken at the unexpected warmth in his touch. She glanced at him briefly, catching the faintest hint of a smile before he turned back to Antonio and Rosa.

“Antonio and Rosa have been critical in helping me prepare for what’s next,” Ezio explained, his tone carrying the weight of trust. “They’ve agreed to work with us to take down Emilio Barbarigo. His influence is strangling Venice, but with their help—and yours, Amelia—we stand a chance.”

Antonio stepped closer, his expression sharpening. “We’ve regained our strength, Ezio, thanks to you. Now, it’s time to act. Emilio is powerful, but he is not untouchable. Together, we can topple him.”

Rosa crossed her arms, her smirk taking on a sharper edge. “It’ll take precision—and a bit of flair,” she added with a wink at Amelia. “You think you’re ready for that, signorina?”

Amelia straightened, the ache in her side momentarily forgotten. “You’ll find I’m full of surprises.”

Ezio’s hand lingered briefly before he let it drop, stepping forward to stand beside Antonio. “Tell us what needs to be done,” he said, his voice steady. 

They slipped into the Venetian night, their steps merging with the shadows as they climbed to the rooftops. The cool breeze carried the faint sounds of the city below—a murmur of voices, the occasional splash of water against stone—yet up here, the air felt thinner, more tense. Amelia winced as a sharp pull radiated from her wound when she hoisted herself onto the ledge. She gritted her teeth, swallowing the discomfort. There was no room for weakness now. The mission demanded her focus, and she refused to be the one to falter.

They spread out along the edges of the Palazzo, moving like phantoms in the dark. Amelia’s movements were deliberate, her breathing even as she crept toward the first archer perched atop a platform. The shadows wrapped around her like a second skin, concealing her as she closed the distance. A flash of steel, a quick, silent strike, and the archer crumpled. She caught his weight before it could thud against the wood, dragging him into the cover of the shadows. Her heart thudded against her ribs as she straightened, scanning the city below for signs of alarm. All clear.

On the other side, Ezio moved with his trademark precision, his steps light and fluid as he dispatched each target with practiced ease. Watching him work was like watching a maestro conduct a symphony; every motion had purpose, every strike was flawless. Amelia couldn’t suppress the flicker of pride that welled up in her chest—pride and something deeper, unspoken. She shoved the thought aside. Later, perhaps, she could allow herself to linger on what it meant. For now, there was only the mission.

When they regrouped near Antonio, Amelia’s attention was drawn to Rosa. The thief lounged with effortless confidence, her sharp grin making her presence impossible to ignore. Her eyes lingered on Ezio, her expression laced with a teasing familiarity that prickled at Amelia’s nerves. But Ezio’s demeanor remained unshaken, his focus locked entirely on the task at hand. His professionalism was unyielding, and Amelia felt a small, irrational spark of satisfaction flare in her chest. She fought to suppress the smirk tugging at her lips when she caught Rosa’s gaze. You’re not the only one who knows him, signorina.

“Well done, Ezio! Everything is going according to plan,” Antonio declared, a rare note of excitement threading his voice. “As we speak, my men are replacing the archers you’ve removed. The path to the Palazzo is clear.”

Ezio nodded, his sharp gaze sweeping toward the Palazzo’s high walls. “The way may be clear, but Emilio’s guards still patrol the building. We’ll need a distraction.”

Ugo, standing at Antonio’s side, stepped forward with a nod. “Use my men. We can draw the guards away and create an opening for you.”

Rosa, leaning casually against a nearby column, chimed in with a wry grin. “And when you storm the place, don’t forget everything I’ve taught you, Ezio.”

The familiar tone in her voice made Amelia’s jaw tighten involuntarily, though she kept her expression carefully neutral. It wasn’t her place to feel possessive. Rosa was confident, capable—exactly the kind of ally Ezio would value. Even so, Amelia couldn’t ignore the faint rush of relief when Ezio merely offered Rosa a polite nod, his focus never wavering from the plan.

“Sii cauto, Ezio,” Antonio said, clapping Ezio on the shoulder with an approving smile before turning to Amelia. His tone softened as he addressed her. “And you, signorina. Be careful out there.”

Amelia returned his smile with a measured one of her own, her eyes sparking with quiet determination. “We’ll be careful. You have my word.”

The Venetian night wrapped around them like a cloak as Ezio and Amelia moved through the city, their steps merging seamlessly with the shadows. The rooftops became their domain, a silent stage for their mission. The palazzo’s walls loomed ahead, its guards patrolling with measured precision, their torchlight flickering against the ancient stone.

Ezio paused at the highest vantage point, gesturing for Amelia to join him. She reached the ledge moments later, her movements fluid and deliberate. Together, they surveyed the palazzo below. Guards paced the grounds, their patterns methodical, but the subtle commotion from Antonio’s thieves was already beginning to shift their focus.

“Ready, Lia?” Ezio asked, his voice low, barely a breath against the cool air.

“Just try not to get too far ahead of me,” she replied, her lips quirking into a faint smirk.

Ezio chuckled softly, the sound almost lost in the breeze. “I wouldn’t dream of it.”

They slipped back into the shadows, navigating the rooftops toward the Palazzo della Seta. Their steps were silent, their movements a study in precision. Amelia’s hand brushed the hilt of her dagger, the cool metal a reassuring weight against her palm. Ezio signaled with a quick nod, and they descended, using the cover of Antonio’s men to bypass the gate guards. The distraction worked perfectly; the guards were drawn away, leaving gaps in the patrol.

Ezio moved ahead, swift and sure, dispatching two soldiers with a fluid motion that was over before it began. Amelia followed closely, her eyes scanning the shadows for any lurking threats. When she spotted movement, she stepped lightly, her blade striking true and silently. She dragged the guard’s limp body into the cover of the shadows before pressing forward.

They regrouped at the wall, where Ezio began to scale its surface with practiced ease. Amelia followed closely, her movements precise as they ascended, the lantern-lit streets of Venice spreading out below them like a living map. The air was cool against her skin, the faint scent of salt and stone rising from the city’s canals.

When they reached the rooftop, they crouched side by side, their gazes locking on the scene within the Palazzo. Through a nearby window, Emilio stood rigid, his posture betraying unease as he argued with Carlo Grimaldi. Ezio’s expression hardened, his hand instinctively brushing the hilt of his hidden blade.

“Stay close,” he murmured, his tone low but firm.

“Always,” Amelia replied, her voice steady. She moved to cover his flank, her eyes sweeping the shadows for movement as her senses sharpened with focus.

Inside, Carlo’s voice rose, cutting through the tension. “Your little house of cards is crumbling, Emilio.”

Emilio’s reply was sharp, but the tremor beneath his words betrayed him. “A minor setback. It will be dealt with. Antonio and his thieves—”

“Antonio is the least of your worries,” Carlo interrupted with a sneer. “It’s the Assassin you should fear.”

Ezio’s lips twitched into a fleeting smirk as he glanced at Amelia, who rolled her eyes in silent amusement. Together, they moved into position. With a subtle signal from Ezio, it was time to act.

Ezio slipped through the window with a predator’s grace, landing silently inside. Amelia followed close behind, melting into the shadows as Ezio confronted their target. The confrontation was swift, the tension in the room palpable as Emilio’s defiance turned to desperation.

“Do not be afraid,” Ezio said softly, his voice tinged with something that might have been regret.

Emilio staggered, blood staining his lips as he rasped, “I sought unity… stability… order.”

“But at too great a cost,” Ezio replied, his tone steady. For a fleeting moment, his expression shifted, as though he understood Emilio’s motives—or mourned the necessity of his death. But the Assassin’s mask soon returned. “Non trovo alcuna gioia in questo, ma non c’è altro modo. Requiescat in pace.”

As Emilio’s body crumpled to the floor, Ezio knelt briefly in prayer, his head bowed. Amelia stepped forward, her senses on high alert. A flicker of movement in her peripheral vision caught her attention—a guard creeping toward them, blade glinting in the dim light. Before she could react, the whistle of an arrow sliced through the air, striking the guard square in the chest. He fell, lifeless.

Amelia’s gaze darted upward to see Rosa perched on a nearby ledge, her bow in hand and a playful grin lighting her face.

“Sorry! We couldn’t resist,” Rosa called, her voice laced with amusement as she gestured toward the gate. “Come! Let’s open it for Antonio.”

Amelia gave Rosa a nod of thanks, though her jaw tightened slightly at the way Rosa’s grin lingered on Ezio. But Ezio, ever focused, had already turned his attention to the next task. Together, they descended to the lower level, where Rosa joined them in unlocking the gates. Antonio’s men surged into the Palazzo, tearing down Emilio’s banners and reclaiming the space in a flurry of triumphant energy.

Antonio approached, his face lit with gratitude. “Seta is fallen, and Emilio is no more! All thanks to you, Ezio!” His voice carried over the shouts of celebration. He stepped forward, clasping Ezio’s hand with genuine admiration. “Tell me, Ezio... How can I repay you for your service?”

“Money’s always nice,” Ezio quipped, though the weariness in his voice hinted at the toll of the night.

Antonio chuckled, motioning for one of his men to hand over a small but heavy pouch. “Easy enough. What else?”

Ezio’s expression darkened, his tone turning serious. “Emilio was meeting with a man named Carlo. He looked to be a government official. Do you know him?”

“Carlo Grimaldi,” Antonio replied, his smile fading. “He sits on the Council of Ten. Why do you ask? What are you up to?”

Ezio exchanged a glance with Amelia, her nod subtle but resolute. He turned back to Antonio, his tone final. “I have a meeting to attend.”

Chapter Text

A pair of men—one notably rotund and draped in an opulent cape—stood at the edge of a square, their voices low but edged with urgency. Ezio caught Amelia’s eye and gave a subtle nod, signaling her to follow. She returned the gesture, her expression hardening as she slipped into the shadows beside him.

“Where’s Emilio?” the larger man demanded, irritation sharpening his tone.

“I told him to be here,” Carlo Grimaldi replied, his words clipped and defensive.

“You told him yourself? In person?” the other man pressed, suspicion clear in his voice.

“Yes, myself, in person,” Carlo snapped, his composure beginning to fray. “I’m concerned that you don’t trust me.”

Amelia pressed her back against the wall, moving with careful precision as they edged closer to their targets. She caught Ezio’s eye, smirking faintly as if to say, They’re cracking under the pressure already. Ezio’s lips twitched in subtle amusement before his focus returned to the conversation ahead.

As Carlo and his companion resumed walking, Amelia and Ezio moved in tandem, their footsteps silent as they melted into the darkness. They blended seamlessly with the scattered groups of courtesans and idle shadows lining the streets. Every so often, Carlo glanced nervously over his shoulder, but Amelia was already ducking behind a pillar or slipping into an alley. Her movements synchronized effortlessly with Ezio’s, their silent coordination a testament to how well they worked together.

Their quarry stopped again, this time in a smaller square where they met two more figures. One was an old man draped in rich, heavy robes, his posture rigid with authority. Beside him hovered a younger man with a protective air, his sharp eyes scanning their surroundings. Amelia and Ezio took cover beneath a nearby arch, their ears straining to catch the conversation.

“ Buon giorno, cousin. Signor Carlo, ” the old man greeted, his tone deceptively warm.

The rotund man frowned, his impatience clear. “We thought Emilio would be with you—”

“Emilio is dead,” the old man interrupted flatly, his voice devoid of emotion.

The reaction was immediate. Shock and fear rippled through the group, shattering their earlier confidence.

“What? How—?” the larger man stammered, his bravado slipping like a mask.

Carlo’s face contorted in panic. “The Assassin... The same one who hunted down the Pazzi! He’s here, in Venezia—and he’s brought that whore, Amelia Tessaro.”

Amelia’s jaw tightened, but a thrill coursed through her at the clear unease in Carlo’s voice. Their presence had rattled the Templars, and she shot a glance at Ezio. His jaw was set, his expression unreadable, but he gave her a brief nod, sharing in the small victory.

The old man—Marco—spoke again, his tone cold and measured. “ È così. Silvio—did you not know? The Assassin could be anywhere. He could be here right now, and we might not even know it. He struck Emilio down inside his own palazzo. ”

The rotund man, Silvio, muttered angrily, “And what of our plans?”

“There is no longer time for subtlety, my brothers,” Marco said with finality. “We must act now.”

Carlo’s voice wavered with desperation. “But, Marco, I’m so close. A few more days. If I can just—”

“No,” Marco interrupted sharply. “It happens this week.”

Ezio and Amelia exchanged a meaningful look. The timeline had been set, and every detail of their plans had to be reported back. Amelia’s fingers brushed the hidden blade at her side, her mind already racing with strategies.

As the group moved again, they were joined by another figure, a middle-aged man named Dante, his demeanor stolid but alert. Amelia and Ezio kept pace, their movements seamless as they wove through the winding streets and quieter squares. The salt of the nearby sea lingered in the air, cooling the night, but Amelia barely registered it. Her focus remained on their targets—and the man she hated most who awaited them at the docks.

When they arrived, a shadow detached itself from the gloom, stepping into the dim light. Rodrigo Borgia. His presence was as suffocating as Amelia remembered, his voice sharp and commanding. She stiffened, her hand curling tightly around the hilt of her dagger. Beside her, Ezio reached over, giving her hand a firm, grounding squeeze. Not now. His silent message was clear.

“Enough with your inane prattle!” Rodrigo snapped, his dark gaze sweeping over the group. “The choice of Doge was never yours to make. And you were never given permission to act on your own!”

“Forgive us, Maestro,” Marco murmured, bowing his head in deference. “We wish only to serve.”

Rodrigo’s gaze hardened, his calculating expression sending a chill down Amelia’s spine. “The plan is this: Doge Mocenigo will die tonight. Once the deed is done, Marco shall take his place.”

Marco’s eyes gleamed with pride. “ Vi ringrazio umilmente, Maestro. ”

Before Rodrigo could continue, Carlo hesitated, his gaze darting nervously toward his companions. “Maestro... there is something else you should know.”

Rodrigo’s eyes narrowed, his tone sharp. “What is it, Carlo?”

Carlo swallowed hard, his voice trembling as he spoke. “Amelia Tessaro… she’s alive.”

The words hit like a thunderclap. Rodrigo’s expression darkened, his eyes narrowing into slits as he turned slowly toward Carlo. The weight of his gaze made Carlo shrink back, his bravado crumbling under the silent fury radiating from the Templar leader.

“Alive?” Rodrigo repeated, his voice low and venomous. “I was assured she was dealt with. My men assured me she was dead. ” His words dripped with icy malice, the calm before an inevitable storm.

“She was—at least, we thought—” Carlo stammered, his face pale as Rodrigo’s anger turned fully on him. “But she’s here in Venezia. She and the Assassin struck down Emilio. I saw them with my own eyes.”

Rodrigo’s jaw tightened, his composure slipping just enough to reveal the simmering rage beneath. He clenched his fists, his voice a controlled growl. “Incompetence. Everywhere I turn, incompetence! You fools allowed her to survive, and now she threatens everything we’ve built.” He straightened, his cold gaze sweeping over the group. “She won’t escape again. This time, I’ll see to it personally.”

Amelia’s breath quickened as she watched the scene unfold, fury burning in her chest. Hearing him speak her name with such venom, as though she were nothing more than an obstacle in his grand scheme, only steeled her resolve. Her fingers tightened on the hilt of her dagger, but Ezio’s steady hand kept her rooted in place. Not yet, his silent presence reminded her.

Rodrigo’s voice dropped, colder now as he continued. “The plan remains the same. Doge Mocenigo will die tonight. And Marco will take his place. There must be no blood spilled—no evidence left behind. It must appear as though he goes quietly.”

“ Certo, Maestro, ” Carlo stammered, though his voice quivered with fear.

Amelia bit the inside of her cheek to suppress the anger threatening to boil over as Rodrigo laid out the final details of their vile plan. Poison, deception, and murder—each word a testament to the Templars’ cruelty and their reach. Her hatred for Rodrigo burned hotter with every passing second.

Finally, as the conspirators began to disperse, Rodrigo disappeared into the shadows, leaving his underlings to carry out his orders. Amelia released a slow, controlled breath, her anger simmering beneath the surface. Ezio’s hand found hers again, his grip firm and reassuring. She squeezed it back, the unspoken promise between them clear: They wouldn’t let this stand.

“Let’s get this information to Antonio,” Ezio murmured, his voice low and tense.

Amelia nodded, her gaze hard and determined as she met his eyes. “We can’t let them get away with this, Ezio. They’re going to destroy everything if we don’t stop them.”

Ezio’s expression softened slightly, his fire still burning bright. “We won’t, Amelia. Not as long as I draw breath.”

Beside her, Ezio’s expression remained tense but focused as they moved through the bustling streets. He cast brief, assessing glances her way—a habit he hadn’t yet dropped since her injury. Though she appreciated the concern, it grated at her. She’d spent years learning to push through pain and discomfort, and the last thing she wanted was to be treated as fragile. But she kept her thoughts to herself. If she voiced them, he’d only worry more.

As they neared the rendezvous point, a familiar, playful voice rang out ahead. “ Salute, bello mio. Come stai? Back to see me already?” Rosa’s tone was honeyed, her words aimed squarely at Ezio.

Amelia’s jaw tightened before she could stop herself, a sharp, instinctive reaction to the flirtation. She glanced sideways at Ezio, half-expecting a cheeky grin or some return banter. But to her surprise—and satisfaction—he didn’t take the bait. Instead, his expression remained serious as he nodded once to Rosa.

“ Desolato, Rosa, but I’m not here to play,” he replied, his voice calm but clipped. “I need to speak with Antonio. It’s urgent.”

A small, triumphant smile tugged at Amelia’s lips, though she quickly pushed it away. It wasn’t her place to feel possessive, and yet the jealousy curled tightly in her chest before she forced it aside.

Rosa, unfazed, turned toward a nearby alley and called out, “Antonio! Ezio’s here!”

Moments later, Antonio emerged from the shadows, his face lined with the exhaustion of a man constantly navigating danger. He gave Ezio a firm nod of acknowledgment before glancing at Amelia. His sharp eyes softened slightly as he offered her a brief, polite nod.

“Ezio,” Antonio began, his tone edged with concern, “is everything alright?”

“No,” Ezio said bluntly. “Carlo Grimaldi and the Barbarigo are in league with the one they call The Spaniard. They plan to murder the Doge and replace him with one of their own. If they succeed, they’ll control Venezia—and her fleet.”

Antonio let out a bitter laugh, shaking his head. “And they call me a criminal.”

Leaning against a nearby post, Amelia crossed her arms, her sharp gaze fixed on Antonio. “They’ll call anyone a criminal if it suits their purpose,” she said, her voice steady. “But it doesn’t change the truth—or what they’ve done. Are you with us?”

Antonio’s expression hardened, the resolve in his stance clear. “You have me—and the support of my men.”

Rosa, grinning, interjected, “And women!” Her eyes flicked briefly to Amelia, a teasing glint in her gaze.

Amelia rolled her eyes but couldn’t quite suppress the faint smile tugging at her lips. She was starting to warm to Rosa, though she wouldn’t admit it aloud. “Let’s hope you’re as good at fighting as you are at talking,” she quipped lightly.

Ezio’s gaze shifted between them, his lips twitching with the hint of a smile. “ Grazie, amici, ” he said, his gratitude evident.

Antonio’s tone grew more somber as he stepped closer. “But Ezio, I must warn you. The Palazzo Ducale isn’t like the other places you’ve infiltrated. It’s the most heavily guarded building in Venezia.”

Amelia shot Ezio a sideways glance, already anticipating his answer. He didn’t disappoint.

“Nothing is impenetrable,” Ezio replied with quiet confidence, his voice carrying the kind of certainty that had seen them through countless dangers.

Rosa laughed, her tone light and teasing. “This is why we like you, Ezio.”

Amelia busied herself with checking the straps of her hidden blade, ignoring the slight flush creeping up her neck. But when Ezio placed a hand lightly on her back, guiding her toward the Palazzo, she froze for a moment. His touch was brief, almost imperceptible, but it sent an unexpected warmth through her. Rosa, catching the gesture, raised her eyebrows slightly. To Amelia’s surprise, Rosa’s sharp expression softened into something closer to understanding, a knowing smile tugging at her lips.

Embarrassed, Amelia ducked her head, focusing on her steps as they followed Antonio through the winding streets. She didn’t need to be an Assassin to know that romance—and the attention it brought—would always leave her blushing.

The grandeur of Venice surrounded them as they reached the Piazza San Marco. Tall shadows stretched across the cobblestones, and the soft glow of lanterns lit the square. Antonio’s gaze swept over the scene before he began speaking, his tone tinged with melancholy.

“This business with the Doge... Terrible. But treachery like this no longer surprises me. When I was a child, we were taught that the nobles were just and kind. I believed it, too,” he said, his voice carrying the bitterness of a man who’d been disillusioned. “But if you are not born one of them, acceptance is impossible.”

Amelia listened quietly, her arms still crossed as her gaze swept the bustling square. She understood his bitterness all too well. “It’s always the ones who think themselves above others that cause the most suffering,” she murmured, her voice low but resolute. “We see it every day.”

Antonio’s gaze lingered on Amelia for a moment, a flicker of understanding passing between them before he turned to Ezio. “So I ask you, Ezio—who are the true nobles of Venezia? Men like Carlo Grimaldi and Marco Barbarigo? No! I say we are: the thieves, the mercenari, the whores. While we work to save this city and its people, the nobles seek to make it their plaything.”

Ezio’s expression softened, a rare look of agreement crossing his features. “Then let’s show them what true nobility looks like.”

They arrived at the edge of the Piazza, where Antonio gestured toward the Palazzo Ducale. Its grand facade loomed over the square, glinting faintly in the fading light. “We need to scout the Palazzo carefully, see it from every angle. We just might find a way in. There’s a tall Campanile behind the Palazzo—or perhaps we could climb the back of the Basilica. What do you think?”

Amelia crossed her arms, her gaze assessing the imposing structure. “The front door is out,” she remarked dryly, earning a low chuckle from Antonio.

“ Va bene! We’ll try the front door as well, saputello (wise ass),” Antonio teased. But his smile faded as their eyes swept over the heavily patrolled grounds, the sheer number of guards making the task ahead clear.

They moved in silence, tension simmering in the air as they scouted the area. Climbing to the top of a nearby tower, they gained a better view of the Palazzo’s defenses. Antonio gestured to the many archers stationed around the building, his tone grim. “Look at that. Archers everywhere.”

Amelia squinted against the glare of the fading sun, her hand shielding her eyes. “And the walls are impossible to climb on this side. They’ve covered every angle.”

Antonio muttered a curse under his breath as they moved toward the Basilica. He pointed to a path up the scaffolding, hope flickering in his voice. “ Bene. We’re in luck. Looks like there’s a clear path to the roof of the Basilica. Shall we?”

Amelia exchanged a glance with Ezio, who gave her a subtle nod. Together, they began the climb. Each pull upward was a reminder of the challenge ahead, but Amelia grit her teeth and pressed on, determined not to be left behind. Though slower than her usual pace, she reached the top not far behind the others. Ezio was waiting to help pull her onto the roof, his hand firm but lingering slightly longer at her waist. She didn’t comment, though the gesture settled something unspoken in her chest.

As they reached the edge, the three of them crouched low, watching the scene below unfold. Carlo Grimaldi stood with the Doge, Giovanni Mocenigo, his voice rising in desperation.

“Don’t you understand what I’m offering you, Signore! Listen to me, please! Or this will be your last chance!”

The Doge’s response was sharp, full of righteous anger. “How dare you!”

Amelia’s stomach twisted with unease, her instincts pricking as she watched Carlo’s frantic gestures. The conversation below carried on, tense and urgent, but before they could catch more, the two men disappeared from view.

Antonio let out a frustrated breath, gesturing toward the impenetrable fencing and the guards stationed at every corner. “We’re running out of time! There’s no way through this fence—and guards are everywhere. Diavolo! ”

Amelia bit back a curse, glancing at Ezio for guidance. He was silent, his expression distant as he stared at the rooftops. Pigeons fluttered and cooed in the fading light, catching his attention.

“It’s impossible!” Antonio exclaimed, throwing up his hands in exasperation. “There’s no way in or out for men—only birds!”

Ezio’s eyes brightened, a spark of realization flickering in his expression. A slow, knowing smile spread across his face. “Yes... birds.”

Antonio blinked, his confusion plain. “Where are you going now!?”

“To see my friend Leonardo,” Ezio replied, turning sharply on his heel with a determined stride.

Chapter Text

The air of anticipation thrummed through Leonardo’s workshop, a tangible current of nervous energy. Leonardo paced back and forth, his fingers tapping rhythmically against a rolled-up blueprint as his brow furrowed in thought. Amelia leaned against a cluttered workbench, arms crossed, her gaze fixed on the strange contraption that dominated the room. It looked like something out of a fever dream—a skeletal frame of wood and stretched fabric, crafted with Leonardo’s signature precision. Its design was undeniably elegant, but the notion of it soaring through the skies felt more like a dreamer’s fantasy than reality.

Ezio stood beside Leonardo, his posture radiating determination and barely contained excitement. Amelia knew that look too well. It was the same expression he wore before every reckless leap of faith, every impossible stunt that left her caught between exasperation and admiration. She watched him for a moment, her concern gnawing quietly at her. Ezio never hesitated to hurl himself into danger, but this time felt different—riskier. Her gaze flicked from the glider to his resolute face, and she let out a quiet sigh.

“I need your help, Leonardo,” Ezio said, his tone cutting through the charged air. He gestured toward the contraption with a sweeping motion. “Does it work?”

Leonardo blinked, caught off guard. “What? What are you asking?” His gaze darted between Ezio and Amelia, as though searching for reassurance.

Ezio’s impatience showed in the taut set of his shoulders. He repeated, slower this time, “Does—it—work, Leonardo? Can it fly?”

Leonardo ran a hand through his disheveled hair, a nervous chuckle escaping him. “I don’t know... It’s only a prototype. An idea. It’s not ready yet.” His words hung heavily in the air, clashing with the urgency of their mission.

Amelia pushed off from the workbench, stepping closer. She arched an eyebrow at Leonardo, her tone lightly teasing despite the knot of unease tightening in her chest. “You’ve got to have some idea if it’ll get him off the ground, Leonardo. You don’t just build a giant bat without some kind of plan.” Her voice carried a playful edge, but the tension in her shoulders betrayed her worry.

Leonardo shook his head, his expression caught between pride and unease. “No! It’s too dangerous. To test it, you’d have to leap off a tower! Who would be mad enough to do a thing like that?”

Ezio turned to face him fully, the reckless gleam in his eye as familiar to Amelia as the sound of her own heartbeat. “Leonardo... I think you just found your madman.”

Amelia groaned, rolling her eyes. “Of course, you’d volunteer for this! Do you ever think about your own safety, Ezio?” She tried to keep her tone light, but her worry seeped through. It was a familiar pattern—he leaped into danger without a second thought, and she was left holding her breath, hoping for the best.

Ezio shot her one of his crooked grins, the kind that made her heart skip in a way she hated to admit. “You know me, Amelia. Why start now?”

She shook her head, biting back a reluctant smile. There was no changing him. Ezio would always dive headfirst into peril, and she’d always be the one watching from the edge, her nerves fraying with every daring leap. “Just try not to die, idiota,” she muttered, her tone softened by the undercurrent of worry she couldn’t fully mask.

The sun dipped low over Venice, casting a golden glow across the labyrinth of canals and terracotta rooftops. From their perch atop a tall building, the city sprawled beneath them in glittering splendor. The wind tugged at their clothes, carrying with it the briny tang of the sea. Leonardo fussed over the glider’s wings, his hands trembling as excitement warred with nerves. Amelia stood back, her arms wrapped tightly around herself. She couldn’t look away from Ezio, who stood near the edge, readying himself for the impossible. Pride swelled in her chest at his courage, but it was tangled with a gnawing dread. The thought of him plummeting from such a height made her breath catch.

“How does she work?” Ezio asked, his tone light, though the seriousness of the moment weighed heavy in his stance.

Leonardo glanced up, his expression a collision of hope and doubt. “Have you ever watched a bird in flight? It’s not about being lighter than air... It’s about grace and balance! You must use your body’s own weight to control your elevation and direction.” He hesitated, as if his own words didn’t fully convince him. Meeting Ezio’s gaze, he added softly, “Good luck, Ezio.”

Amelia bit her lip, her gaze fixed on Ezio as he stepped to the edge, gripping the glider’s handles with white-knuckled determination. Their eyes met, and for a heartbeat, she saw a flicker of unspoken words pass between them—a plea for caution, a promise to return. Her lips curved into a faint, wavering smile as she nodded, even though her heart felt like it was wedged in her throat.

Ezio nodded back, his resolve unshaken. Without another word, he launched himself into the void. The glider caught the wind, its wings spreading like those of a great bird. For a few breathtaking seconds, he soared above the city, his form silhouetted against the sky. Amelia’s breath hitched, awe momentarily overtaking her fear. He was flying—really flying. Leonardo’s dream brought to life.

But then the glider faltered. It shuddered in the air, dipping and swaying as Ezio struggled to maintain control. Panic flickered across his face, and the contraption lurched dangerously to one side.

“Leonardo, he’s—!” Amelia’s voice broke, panic threading through her words as she gripped the railing in front of her. Her knuckles turned white as she leaned forward, her breath caught somewhere between her lungs and her throat.

“He’s losing altitude!” Leonardo exclaimed, clutching the edge of the platform as he watched the scene unfold.

The glider tilted sharply, careening into a rooftop below with a dull crash. Amelia’s heart seemed to plummet with it. Her stomach twisted, but she forced herself to keep her eyes locked on the wreckage, desperate for any sign of movement. Relief hit her in a wave when she saw Ezio stir amid the tangle of wood and fabric. She let out a shaky breath and turned a sharp, exasperated look at Leonardo, who raised his hands defensively, his expression a sheepish blend of apology and amazement.

“Are you all right?” Amelia called, her voice threading between teasing and genuine concern.

Ezio glanced up from the wreckage below, raising a hand in a sheepish wave. “I’m fine!” he called back, his voice carrying a mix of relief and exasperation. “Just… maybe a little bruised.”

Amelia exhaled, only now realizing she’d been holding her breath. A smile broke through her worry, the kind of smile that felt unbidden but welcome. “You lunatic,” she muttered under her breath, though the warmth in her eyes softened the bite of her words. “You’ll be the death of me one day.”

Leonardo, still pale from the close call, let out a nervous laugh. “That’s Ezio for you... Always testing the boundaries of what’s possible.” Despite his attempt at humor, his lingering anxiety was impossible to miss.

Amelia shook her head, her gaze following Ezio as he began making his way back to them. He had an infuriating talent for leaping headfirst into chaos and somehow walking away relatively unscathed. It was maddening—and yet, it was also part of what made him Ezio. She crossed her arms as he approached, masking her lingering relief with a mock-stern expression. “Next time you decide to fling yourself off a building with nothing but a pair of wings, you’re taking me with you. I want to see what all the fuss is about.”

Ezio’s grin widened as he brushed a few stray feathers from his tunic. “You’ve got yourself a deal, Amelia. But for now, I think we’ve all had enough excitement for one day.”

Leonardo, oblivious to the irritation creeping into Ezio’s tone, rushed forward with a burst of enthusiasm. “I can’t believe it! It worked! You flew, Ezio! You flew!”

Ezio sighed, rubbing a sore spot on his shoulder. “Sì... but not very far,” he muttered, his tone dry. Amelia couldn’t resist a quiet chuckle—it wasn’t often that Ezio was brought down a peg, and she found the sight strangely endearing.

Leonardo, unbothered by Ezio’s grumbling, was already rifling through scattered blueprints on his workbench. “What were you expecting? The machine wasn’t designed for distance.” He waved his hand dismissively, his excitement undimmed. “All right, let me go over my notes. Perhaps I can find a way to extend the duration of the flight.”

Amelia arched an eyebrow, sidling closer to Ezio as he joined her at the edge of the room. “Flying not quite as easy as it looks, is it?” she teased, her tone light but laced with amusement.

Ezio shot her a sidelong glance, a hint of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “I’d like to see you give it a try, bella mia,” he countered smoothly, the casual endearment slipping out before he could stop it. The warmth in his voice made her pulse skip, and she brushed it off with a smirk, tucking the unexpected feeling away for later.

Before Amelia could retort, the sound of hurried footsteps broke the moment. Antonio burst into the room, his stride laced with urgency. “Ezio! My men tell me Carlo has the poison. We must hurry.”

Ezio straightened instantly, his playful demeanor replaced by sharp focus. He gestured toward Leonardo with a nod of his head. “Antonio, this is Leonardo. The master inventor… who built this... this...” His voice dropped to a mutter, annoyance thick in his tone. “Pezzo di merda!”

Amelia clamped a hand over her mouth, stifling a snort as Antonio raised an eyebrow. It was no secret that Ezio’s respect for Leonardo was genuine—though moments like this tested it thoroughly.

Leonardo spun around, his expression wounded. “Hey! It’s not the machine’s fault... It’s mine.” He gestured toward the blueprints, frustration bleeding into his voice. “I’ve checked and rechecked my designs. It’s just impossible! I don’t know how to extend the flight... Ah, che idea del cazzo!” His irritation spilled over as he grabbed a handful of papers and threw them into the fireplace.

Amelia’s eyes followed the crumpled notes as the fire consumed them. She opened her mouth to say something when a stray, charred sheet fluttered up from the flames, carried by an updraft of heat. Leonardo’s expression shifted in an instant, his frustration replaced with dawning realization.

“EUREKA!” he shouted, leaping back to the workbench with renewed energy. “Of course! Genio!”

Antonio, watching Leonardo’s sudden burst of activity with a bemused expression, shook his head. “What is he doing now?”

Amelia stepped closer to the fire, curiosity stirring as she observed Leonardo scribbling furiously. “Looks like inspiration has struck,” she murmured, casting a glance at Ezio. “Let’s hope it’s not another plan that involves leaping off rooftops.”

Leonardo whirled around, his face alight with enthusiasm. “Heat rises! It needs fire! Heated air under its wings will lift the machine... That’s how we’ll do it!”

Ezio folded his arms, his skepticism evident as he studied Leonardo. “Leonardo... What good is one fire going to do?”

Leonardo waved his hands, his gestures as grand as his ideas. “Not one fire, Ezio. A dozen! Scattered across the city, their heat will carry you all the way to the Palazzo Ducale.”

Antonio, catching on, nodded slowly. “How…? Oh, capisco! My men could handle that… But you’re forgetting about the guards.”

Amelia, her gaze flicking between Antonio and Ezio, stepped into the conversation. “And that’s where we come in, right? Clear out the guards, make way for the fires.”

Ezio nodded, his jaw tightening as determination settled back into his features. “Don’t worry. I’ll take care of them.” He turned to Amelia, his sharp confidence softening as his eyes met hers. “Think you’re up for a few more skirmishes, amica mia?”

A reassuring smile tugged at Amelia’s lips, though the weight of the mission pressed heavily on her shoulders. “I wouldn’t have it any other way, Ezio.”

Antonio clapped Ezio on the shoulder, a wry smile breaking through the tension. “I’ll give the order for my men to move in behind you. They’ll hold the locations and light the fires the moment the sun dips below San Marco.”

The air over the rooftops of Venice hummed with anticipation, the sky deepening into shades of indigo as night took hold. Fires set by Antonio’s men flickered like scattered embers, their warm glow casting shifting patterns of light across the city below. Amelia stood with Antonio and Leonardo, her arms crossed as she watched Ezio making final adjustments to the glider. The skeletal frame, with its stretched fabric and delicate design, looked both fragile and fearless against the backdrop of the city’s silhouette. Her gaze lingered on the distant shape of the Palazzo Ducale, a stark reminder of how much was riding on this moment.

Ezio tightened the straps of the contraption with practiced ease, his expression calm but resolute. Amelia tried to match his composure, but unease gnawed at her. The risks of what he was about to do were impossible to ignore: flying through the night, dodging arrows, and depending on Leonardo’s invention to stay aloft. Yet, underneath her anxiety was a quiet, stubborn belief in him. He always found a way. He had to this time too.

Antonio’s voice broke her thoughts. "It’s time."

Leonardo stepped forward, his energy a mix of pride and nerves. "You’ve done it, Ezio! It’s beautiful!" He gestured towards the glider, his voice almost reverent. "Fly from fire to fire. The heat will lift you back up. But remember, you must catch the updrafts from each one."

Ezio nodded, his gaze flicking between the scattered fires and the Palazzo. "Bene. Got it."

Antonio’s tone grew serious, his hand resting lightly on the hilt of his dagger. "Be careful. Archers are stationed on the rooftops. Avoid their arrows, or this will be a very short trip."

Ezio’s mouth quirked into a grin, the kind Amelia knew all too well. "I wish there was a way to use my sword while flying."

Leonardo paused, his fingers tapping against his chin. "Well... your feet are free. If you can get close enough—without, of course, catching an arrow—you might... kick them off the rooftops?"

Ezio’s grin widened, mischief sparking in his eyes. "Now there’s an idea."

Amelia’s chest tightened, the playful exchange doing little to settle her nerves. As Ezio stepped closer to the edge, his hands gripping the glider’s handles, she moved forward and caught his arm. "Ezio," she said softly, her voice steady but laced with concern. "Just... be careful, alright?"

He turned to her, and for a brief moment, his determined expression softened. Gently, he reached up, brushing a loose strand of hair from her face. His fingers lingered, warm against her cheek. "You know me, Amelia. I’ll be back before you know it."

A faint smile tugged at her lips despite herself, and on impulse, she leaned up and pressed a kiss to his cheek. "For luck," she murmured, stepping back before he could respond.

Ezio’s grin returned, and with one last glance at Antonio and Leonardo, he turned towards the edge. A deep breath, a single step, and he leapt into the night. The glider’s wings caught the rising heat from the fires, lifting him higher into the air.

Amelia’s breath hitched as she watched him ascend, the glider silhouetted against the glowing city below. He moved like a shadow across the rooftops, a fragile but determined figure defying gravity. Her heart pounded, matching the steady rhythm of the wings as they carried him toward the Palazzo Ducale. Beside her, Antonio and Leonardo watched in tense silence, but Amelia found herself whispering a silent prayer. He had to make it. He always did—but the weight of what lay ahead never felt heavier.

With Ezio gone, the night seemed to stretch thinner, quieter. The crackle of distant flames and the sporadic shouts of guards drifted up from the streets below, filling the stillness. Antonio gestured for Amelia to follow, and together they moved to a safer rooftop with a clear view of the Palazzo Ducale. Rosa joined them, her usual playful air subdued as she settled alongside them.

For a moment, the three stood in silence, their eyes scanning the flickering skyline. Then Rosa glanced at Amelia, curiosity flickering in her expression. "So, Amelia," she began casually, though her tone carried a hint of something deeper, "how long have you and Ezio been working together?"

Amelia stiffened at the unexpected question, her fingers tightening briefly around the edge of her cloak. "A few years," she replied carefully, keeping her gaze forward. "It feels like forever." The words felt thin, inadequate to explain the bond between her and Ezio—how it had grown, twisted, and anchored them through countless dangers.

Rosa tilted her head, studying her for a moment before a smirk curved her lips. "He’s loyal to you, you know. Obvious in the way he looks at you. I’ll admit, I was a little jealous at first... But I can see now his heart’s already spoken for." Her laugh was soft, lacking its usual edge. "I’m sorry for flirting with him earlier. I didn’t realize."

The words struck like a stone skipping across still water, each ripple disturbing Amelia’s composure. Her mind raced, fumbling to process what Rosa had said. Loyalty was one thing; loyalty was easy. But this? It was heavier, sharper. Her heart stumbled, then quickened, though she worked to keep her voice steady. "It’s... complicated," she said finally, glancing away. A heat crept up her neck. "We haven’t... talked about any of that."

Rosa’s expression softened, her smirk giving way to something more genuine. "Maybe you should. Life’s too short, especially for people like us."

Amelia opened her mouth to reply, but Antonio’s voice cut through the moment, his tone somber as he shifted the subject. "Your father... Matteo. He was a great man. Helped a lot of people back in the day. I always thought he’d be proud of what we’ve managed to do here in Venezia." He paused, his expression tinged with concern. "How is he? I haven’t heard from him in years."

The mention of her father struck like a dagger, slicing through the fragile calm she’d held together. Amelia’s jaw tightened, and she drew a steadying breath before responding. "He... He died, Antonio. A few years ago now. The Templars... they got to him."

Antonio’s face fell, regret and sorrow threading through his features. He reached out, resting a hand on her shoulder. "I’m so sorry, Amelia. I didn’t know."

Amelia nodded stiffly, working to keep her voice steady as she fought back the emotions threatening to surface. "Thank you. But I think he’d want me to keep fighting—to help Ezio and the others put an end to all of this." Her voice wavered, but she pushed through, her words resolute.

Antonio’s hand lingered briefly before he gave her shoulder a supportive squeeze. "He would. And you’re doing him proud, Amelia."

She offered him a tight, controlled smile, grateful for his kindness but unwilling to let herself linger on the pain. Straightening her shoulders, she shifted her focus to the Palazzo Ducale. Against the glow of the city, Ezio’s silhouette was just barely visible, moving like a shadow through the sky. Her determination sharpened. "I should get closer to the Palazzo," she said, her tone turning brisk, businesslike. "If something goes wrong, he’ll need help making his escape."

Rosa nodded, stepping back and gesturing toward the edge of the rooftop. "Stay safe, Amelia," she said, her voice quiet but sincere.

Amelia shot them both a brief nod and slipped into the shadows, her mind honing in on the task ahead. The city streets were teeming with soldiers, the tension palpable as she moved like a phantom through the narrow alleyways. Her thoughts lingered on Ezio—the way he faced the impossible with unyielding resolve. She could only hope that luck, for once, would be on his side.

She reached her position, tucking herself into the shadows near the Palazzo’s edge. The cool night air carried the distant hum of unrest, punctuated by crackling fires and the occasional barked order. Her heart pounded in her chest as she scanned the skies for any sign of him. Minutes dragged by, each one heavier than the last. And then, a dark figure appeared against the firelit horizon—Ezio, the glider silhouetted as it swooped toward the Palazzo.

She held her breath, willing him to make it. But even as she watched, her pulse hammering in her ears, she braced herself for what might go wrong. Whatever happened, she would be there to fight alongside him, as she always had.

Amelia pressed her back against the cold stone wall, her breath catching as she strained to hear beyond the pounding of her own heartbeat. Every second felt like an eternity, the tension building as she scanned the alley below. Movement caught her eye—a figure slipping through the shadows, his pace urgent but controlled. Ezio. Relief and dread swirled together as he emerged into the dim light, his breath ragged, tension etched into his features.

“Ezio!” Her voice was low but sharp, carrying her urgency. She stepped forward, closing the distance between them.

His gaze snapped to hers, and for a fleeting moment, relief flickered in his eyes before frustration swallowed it. “They saw me,” he said, his voice taut with restrained fury. “They found the body.”

Her stomach knotted. “Then we have to move. Now.” She reached for his arm, pulling him further into the shadows as the sound of guards’ shouts echoed closer. “There’s a route by the eastern canals. If you’re fast—”

“They’ve locked down every street,” he interrupted, shaking his head. His eyes darted toward the growing noise. She could see the conflict within him—the instinct to stay and fight against the reality that he couldn’t.

Amelia tightened her grip on his arm, her voice steady despite the chaos pressing in around them. “You don’t have a choice. If they catch you, it’s over. You need to disappear.”

For a moment, he hesitated, his jaw clenching as the weight of the decision hung heavy between them. Finally, he nodded, his voice rough with reluctance. “You’re right.” He paused, his gaze locking on hers. “But I hate leaving you here like this.”

She forced a small, brave smile, even as her chest ached at the thought of him leaving. “I’ll be fine. Antonio and Rosa need me here to keep things steady. I’ll make sure the Templars don’t gain an inch. You just focus on staying alive.”

The silence that followed was heavy with everything they weren’t saying. The shouts of the guards grew louder, but Amelia couldn’t pull her eyes away from his. Her hand reached up instinctively, her fingers brushing against his cheek. The moment was quiet, fragile, as if the weight of the world around them had been briefly lifted. “Promise me,” she whispered, her voice barely audible over the noise. “Promise me you’ll come back.”

His expression softened, the hard edges of his determination giving way to something raw and unguarded. He covered her hand with his own, his thumb brushing against her knuckles as he leaned into her touch. “I promise, Amelia. No matter what it takes, I’ll come back.”

Her smile wavered, the knot in her throat threatening to tighten. “Good. Because when you do,” she added, her voice trembling just enough to betray her, “I’ll probably be knee-deep in trouble without you.”

His laugh was soft, a quiet exhale tinged with sadness. “I wouldn’t expect anything less.”

The guards’ footsteps were dangerously close now, but Amelia couldn’t bring herself to move. Her chest ached with an emotion she couldn’t fully name, a pull she couldn’t ignore. Without thinking, she stepped closer, her hands framing his face. His eyes widened briefly, surprise flashing across them before something deeper took hold—a vulnerability she rarely saw in him. Her thumbs brushed against the rough stubble of his jaw, and she could feel the quick rhythm of his pulse under her fingertips, mirroring her own.

“Amelia…” he began, his voice rough with emotion, but the words faltered as she leaned up on her toes. Their lips met, and the world around them dissolved into silence. The kiss was anything but gentle—it was fierce, desperate, a collision of everything they couldn’t say. Her hands tightened against his jaw, and she felt his breath hitch before his arms wrapped around her, pulling her closer.

For a moment, there was no danger, no mission, no city in turmoil—only the heat of his embrace and the steady strength of his hold. His lips moved against hers, urgent but careful, as if he was trying to etch the memory into his soul. Time slowed, every second heavy with the weight of goodbye and the promise of return.

When they finally broke apart, their foreheads rested together, their breaths mingling in the narrow space between them. She kept her eyes closed, afraid that if she opened them, the moment would shatter.

“Amelia…” His voice was barely a whisper, thick with everything he couldn’t say.

She shook her head, her hands still resting lightly against his face. “Go, Ezio,” she said softly, her voice breaking as the tears she fought to hold back stung at the corners of her eyes. “Now. Before I change my mind.”

He nodded, though his hands lingered on her arms, as if he couldn’t quite let go. “I’ll come back to you,” he vowed, his voice low and fierce. “No matter what.”

“You better,” she whispered, her lips curving into a bittersweet smile. “I’ll be waiting.”

Ezio’s gaze lingered on her for a heartbeat longer before he stepped back, his hands slipping away from hers. With one last look, he turned and vanished into the shadows, the alley swallowing him up as if he’d never been there.

Amelia stood frozen for a moment, her hand brushing against her lips, the warmth of his kiss still lingering like a brand. But the sound of guards’ voices jolted her back to reality. Her heart clenched as she forced herself to move, slipping into the shadows and preparing to face the danger ahead.

The city was alive with tension, the crackling of fires and shouts of commands echoing off the narrow stone streets. She positioned herself strategically near the Palazzo’s edge, keeping her breathing steady despite the rapid beat of her heart. Her goal was clear: draw the guards’ attention and give Ezio enough time to disappear.

She stepped into view just long enough to catch the eye of the advancing soldiers. “There she is!” one barked, pointing toward her with his sword. “Don’t let her escape!”

A faint smirk tugged at her lips. “Catch me if you can,” she called, her voice laced with defiance.

She darted down a narrow alley, the guards’ heavy footsteps close behind. Her movements were sharp and precise as she led them deeper into the labyrinth of Venice’s streets. When the first guard lunged at her, she sidestepped with practiced ease, slamming the hilt of her dagger into his side before spinning away. Two more came at her, their blades gleaming in the dim light. She parried their strikes, the clash of steel ringing in her ears as she fought to keep them at bay.

But the guards were persistent, their strikes relentless as they forced her to retreat further into the alley. One managed to get close enough to swing his sword toward her back, the flat of the blade striking hard against her ribs—right where her old wound still ached. The impact sent her to her knees, pain shooting through her side like a lightning bolt. She gasped, clutching the wall for support as the guards closed in.

“Got you now, assassin,” one sneered, raising his sword for the final blow.

Before he could strike, a sharp whistle cut through the air. An arrow embedded itself in his throat, and he crumpled to the ground without a sound. Amelia glanced up just in time to see Rosa step into the alley, her bow already nocked with another arrow.

“Step away from her!” Rosa commanded, her voice fierce as she loosed her second arrow. It struck another guard in the chest, and he fell with a strangled cry. Antonio’s men surged into the alley behind her, weapons drawn, overwhelming the remaining guards with brutal efficiency.

Amelia pushed herself to her feet, leaning briefly against the wall to steady herself. Rosa reached her side, her expression a mix of concern and admiration. “You really don’t know how to quit, do you?” Rosa said, sliding her bow over her shoulder.

Amelia gave her a faint smile, her breath still coming in short bursts. “Not my style,” she replied, though her voice was tight with the lingering pain. “But thanks for the assist.”

“Did Ezio escape?” Rosa asked her.

Amelia nodded, her breathing beginning to steady as she leaned against the wall. “He’s gone,” she whispered, her heart clenching.

Chapter Text

September 12th, 2012, 8:00pm

Claire's eyes fluttered open, the pale glow of the room blurring around her. Her head felt heavy, and a dull ache pounded behind her temples—a familiar sensation after spending too long in the Animus. She took a deep, shaky breath, grounding herself in the present, and as the memory of the last moments in Ezio’s world settled, she made a decision.

She lifted her hand from the armrest of the Animus chair and slowly detached the interface. The room felt colder than she remembered, a stark contrast to the heat of Venice’s sun. She looked over to where Desmond lay in the other chair, still locked in his dreamlike state, reliving Ezio’s memories. She knew he needed to stay in there, to see what came next, but for now, she needed a break. Their ancestors had gone their separate ways, and she was glad for the break.

Rebecca looked up from her workstation, her fingers hovering over the keyboard, ready to pause or adjust as needed. “You’re back,” she said, her voice gentle but alert. “Ezio and Amelia’s paths diverged in the memory sequence. I’m giving Desmond a chance to catch up with you, so I’ll need to adjust your sessions a bit.”

Claire nodded, stretching her arms, her muscles tight from lying in the Animus for so long. “How long will that take?” she asked, her voice still groggy.

Rebecca glanced at her monitor, tapping a few keys with practiced precision. "Depends on how long it takes Desmond to get through the next few memories without too much desynchronization," she said. "But I’d guess we’ll have a decent window before you’re back in sync. Maybe a few hours?”

Claire exhaled, relieved to have a break. The Animus left her feeling hollow sometimes, as if she was living in a world within a world, and it was only in moments like these that she could shake off that feeling of blurred identities. The lingering remnants of Amelia’s emotions and memories clung to her, and she rubbed at her temples, hoping to dull the edges.

Rebecca watched her with a concerned look, her hands still poised over the keyboard. “You should get some rest, Claire. Those memories take a toll on you more than anyone else. Sleep, drink some water—do something other than keeping all of Venice's drama running through your head.”

Claire let out a soft laugh, but she nodded, appreciative of Rebecca’s gentle insistence. “You don’t have to tell me twice. I’ll try to actually sleep instead of pacing around this place,” she said, pushing herself up from the chair. As she stood, the ache in her muscles deepened, and she stretched, feeling the pull of exhaustion settle over her.

With a yawn, Claire turned toward the plush queen bed in the corner under the window, the only thing Claire considered a luxury in the safehouse, that and the coffee. It was darker outside than when she went in and a light rain kissed the glass.

Claire paused for a moment, gazing out the window as the gentle patter of rain met the glass. The soft rhythm was soothing, a small piece of calm that felt worlds away from the tension and intensity of her memories in the Animus. She allowed herself to take it in, watching the water trace lines down the window, blurring the city lights beyond. It was a small comfort, but she clung to it.

With a quiet sigh, she settled onto the bed, feeling the familiar softness of the blankets as she sank back. Pulling them up, she closed her eyes, letting herself slip into the quiet darkness of the room. Outside, the rain grew a little heavier, and the cool night air drifted in from the crack in the window. She could almost imagine herself in another place, another life—one where the shadows of the past didn’t cling to her so tightly, where her thoughts weren’t tangled with Amelia’s memories and the mission that waited for her.

Her mind drifted back to the last scene she’d witnessed: Ezio walking away, his face carrying the same solemn resolve she’d seen in her own reflection so many times. It lingered with her as she drifted off, that look of resilience mixed with the sadness of separation, of choices made and paths taken.

But sleep didn’t bring the peace she sought. As Claire’s mind loosened its grip on reality, the quiet rhythm of rain faded, replaced by the stark memory of a night much colder, much darker.

She was running.

Claire’s pulse thundered in her ears, a fierce, staccato rhythm as her boots slapped against the wet pavement, the sound swallowed by the narrow, twisting alleyways around her. Every breath burned in her chest, a sharp reminder of the effort it took to stay ahead, to keep moving, to survive. Behind her, his footsteps were a relentless drumbeat, never faltering, never fading. She could feel his presence pressing in, the weight of it crushing, a dark, unyielding shadow that clawed at her heels.

Aiden and Paul weren’t with her; she had watched them fall. She had tried to get them back up, her voice raw as she’d yelled their names, but they hadn’t responded. He’d been brutal with them, his moves precise and devastating, calculated to hurt but not kill. They lay somewhere behind her, unconscious and broken, left as silent reminders of how easily he could dismantle her world. The only option now was to keep running, to put distance between her and that shadow.

Her body ached, her muscles burning from the desperate sprint, but she wouldn’t stop. Couldn’t stop. He’d hunted her for years, waited for this moment, lurking in the edges of her life, patient as a viper coiled and ready to strike. And now he was here, closer than he’d ever been, his pursuit relentless, his determination a dark storm that she could feel bearing down on her.

Claire slipped around a corner, nearly losing her footing on the slick ground, her pulse hammering in her throat as she tried to shake him. But as she glanced back, dread clawed at her heart—there he was, a dark silhouette against the faint, grimy glow of a streetlamp. Her escape routes were dwindling, the walls pressing in around her, the alleys narrowing, closing her off. She was running out of time, running out of chances.

“Claire,” his voice echoed through the alley, a low, venomous murmur that slid like ice down her spine. “You’ve only made this harder for yourself.”

Her mind screamed at her to keep moving, but her body had frozen, adrenaline crashing against the suffocating weight of fear. She was trapped. She knew it. Somewhere in the deepest part of her mind, she’d known from the start that he wouldn’t let her go. She backed up slowly, trying to keep distance between them, but he was already there, his broad frame filling the narrow alley, blocking out the slivers of light, the last remnants of hope.

He moved with a terrifying ease, his steps slow, deliberate, savoring the moment as he closed in on her. She tightened her fists, her knuckles white, forcing herself to remember her training, to remember that she was still capable of fighting. She lunged forward, fists flying, every ounce of strength she could muster pouring into each hit. Her knuckles connected with solid muscle, the satisfying crack of impact rippling through her bones, and for a moment, she thought she’d made him falter.

But he didn’t move, barely even flinched. His hand shot out, catching her wrist in a crushing grip that sent pain searing up her arm, a shockwave that stole her breath. She struggled, twisting, trying to free herself, but his strength was overwhelming, an iron vice that left her powerless. His free hand snaked up, fingers curling around her chin, forcing her to look at him. His face was obscured by shadow, but she could see the glint of cold amusement in his eyes, a sick satisfaction that twisted her stomach.

“You really thought you could escape?” he murmured, his voice a low taunt laced with dark delight. “After all this time, all these years of hiding? You’re mine, Claire. I’ve waited too long for this to let you slip away now.”

She snarled, wrenching against his grip, but he only tightened his hold, his fingers biting into her skin with bruising force. His face drew closer, his breath hot against her cheek, his voice a cold, mocking whisper. “Keep struggling. It won’t change a thing. You’re alone now, Claire. Just you and me.”

The walls seemed to close in around her, the narrow alley collapsing, warping, until she was no longer outside but in a sterile, blindingly bright room. Metal restraints clamped around her wrists, biting into her skin as she strained against them. The glare of fluorescent lights bore down on her, illuminating every inch of the cold, impersonal room that reeked of antiseptic and control. Abstergo. She was back in Abstergo’s clutches, locked in their sterile grip.

He stood before her, watching her struggle with a twisted, unhinged satisfaction. His smirk was a cruel slash across his face, a mockery of every ounce of resistance she’d ever fought to hold onto. He reached out, adjusting the restraints, pulling them tighter until the metal bit into her skin, drawing blood. Claire clenched her teeth, fighting back the cry of pain that threatened to break free, refusing to give him the satisfaction.

“Not so defiant now, are we?” he taunted, his voice a venomous purr. “All that fire, all that stubbornness—where is it now?” He leaned in, his face inches from hers, his eyes alight with a manic intensity that made her stomach twist. “I want to see how long it takes before you break, Claire.”

He gripped her jaw, forcing her to meet his gaze, the touch brutal, possessive. Her defiance flared, a final act of rebellion as she spat at him, her eyes blazing with hatred. He wiped his face slowly, his expression darkening, his eyes gleaming with something darker, colder. His hand shot out, delivering a brutal slap that left her head reeling, her vision blurring as pain exploded across her cheek.

“You’ll regret that,” he hissed, his voice a low, dangerous growl. He stepped back, his gaze raking over her, assessing, savoring her vulnerability with a hunger that made her skin crawl. “I’ll strip that fight right out of you, piece by piece.”

The room twisted again, the walls closing in, the restraints tightening, suffocating her as the sound of his laughter filled the air, a cruel, mocking sound that echoed through her mind, filling every corner with his presence, with the weight of his control.

Claire’s vision blurred, her head throbbing as she tried to shake off the pain from his slap, but he was already looming over her again, his face shadowed, cold, and merciless. She could see the faintest smile on his lips, twisted and cruel, as he reached down, fingers grazing her arm, tracing the lines of her muscle with an eerie fascination.

“You’ve been such a pain to track down,” he murmured, his voice low, almost tender in its menace. His grip tightened around her arm, and she gritted her teeth, fighting the rising panic as she twisted, trying to pull free. His hold only grew stronger, his fingers digging into her skin until she felt bruises bloom beneath his touch. “Abstergo wants you alive, that much is true,” he whispered, his breath hot against her ear, “but they didn’t say you had to be in one piece.”

With a sudden, brutal yank, he lifted both her cuffed arms up and over her head, forcing them past their natural range of motion. Claire’s vision blurred instantly as white-hot pain seared through her shoulders, both joints wrenching out of place with a sickening pop. The agony was blinding, an unrelenting wave that pulsed with each heartbeat, leaving her gasping, her teeth clenched so tightly she thought they might crack. Her whole body shook, every nerve on fire, her legs barely holding her upright as she struggled to draw in a single, shuddering breath.

Dark spots danced at the edges of her vision, the pain distorting everything as he leaned in closer, his twisted smile hovering just inches from her face. His fingers pressed into her mangled shoulders, adding pressure that sent shockwaves of pain through her entire body, his voice dripping with satisfaction. “There it is,” he whispered, his tone low and laced with mockery as he watched her agony with cold fascination. “That’s the look I’ve been waiting for.”

Her vision tunneled, but she forced herself to keep her eyes open, fighting against the haze of pain. A strangled gasp escaped her, the only sound she could manage as the fiery agony in her shoulders rendered her nearly mute. She was raw, utterly exposed, her body betraying her in a way that left her vulnerable and utterly at his mercy.

His grip tightened as he knelt down, bringing his face close to hers, his eyes glinting with cruel glee. “You thought you were untouchable, didn’t you?” he sneered, his words a venomous hiss. “All those years of hiding, running, thinking you were safe.” He leaned even closer, his voice lowering to a deadly whisper. “And now? Now, you’re mine.”

The mocking smile twisted into something colder, darker, as he stood, keeping her arms suspended cruelly above her head. Her knees buckled, her vision a blur of pain, and she could barely make sense of his words, each syllable punctuated by the relentless ache in her arms. The ground felt like it was slipping away, but she held on, clinging to the frayed edge of consciousness.

With one last, deliberate twist, he dropped her arms, leaving them to hang uselessly at her sides, the pain still thrumming through her shoulders. She barely registered his movement as he leaned down, catching her around the waist, hoisting her effortlessly over his shoulder like a sack of grain. The shift in weight sent another stab of pain shooting through her, and a low, involuntary moan escaped her lips as her body finally began to give in to the relentless agony.

The world faded around her, the last thing she felt was the brutal grip of his arm around her as her mind slipped into darkness, her body mercifully giving in to the pain.

September 12th 2012, 7:00 am

“Claire!” Desmond’s voice broke through the haze, but it sounded distant, muffled, like she was underwater. She jolted again, her limbs snapping into motion as instinct and panic took over. The nightmare was still vivid in her mind, her body reacting before her rational mind could catch up.

A shadow loomed near her—close, too close. Her fight-or-flight instincts screamed, and she chose fight. With a guttural sound, she lashed out, her hands finding purchase on something solid. Desmond barely had time to react as she grabbed his arm, twisting it with surprising force, and pulled him forward onto the bed.

“Claire! It’s me! Wake up!” Desmond’s voice was strained as he tried to steady himself, but she didn’t seem to hear him. Her grip was unrelenting, her body coiled with tension.

She moved with fluid precision, shifting her weight and hooking her leg over him. Before he could resist, she had pulled him halfway onto the bed and locked him in a chokehold, her forearm pressing hard against his windpipe. Desmond’s breath hitched as the pressure built, his hands immediately going to her arm, clawing at it in an attempt to free himself.

“Claire, stop!” he rasped, his words strangled.

But her mind was somewhere else, her eyes wild and unseeing. The nightmare still had her in its grip. Her strength was startling, and Desmond struggled to find leverage as she dragged him further onto the mattress. One of his legs dangled off the side, his weight awkwardly distributed, making it harder to counter her hold. The edges of his vision began to blur, and panic flared in his chest.

Rebecca’s voice cut through the tension from across the room. “Desmond, do something! She’s going to crush your windpipe!”

Desmond gritted his teeth, trying to think through the haze of pain and oxygen deprivation. He planted his foot against the bedframe, using it to push himself up and twist his body just enough to alleviate some of the pressure. His fingers dug into her arm, forcing it up slightly to give him space to breathe. He used the momentum to roll them both, the movement breaking the chokehold but sending them crashing into the mattress.

With a surge of desperation, Desmond pinned her wrists to the bed, his weight pressing her down. “Claire! Wake up!” he shouted, his voice hoarse, the words laced with frustration and concern.

Claire’s body bucked beneath him, her strength catching him off guard as she nearly threw him off. Her legs kicked out, trying to find purchase, her movements frantic and uncoordinated. Desmond adjusted his grip, shifting his weight to keep her pinned. He could feel the tremors in her muscles, the raw adrenaline driving her.

“Claire!” he barked again, his voice sharp this time. He leaned closer, his face inches from hers. “Wake up dammit!”

Her eyes locked onto his, and for a moment, there was no recognition, just the wild, feral look of someone trapped in survival mode. But then something shifted. Her breath hitched, her movements stilled, and her expression crumpled as reality crashed down on her.

Claire’s chest heaved, her body going rigid beneath Desmond’s hold. Awareness flickered in her eyes like the first spark of a dying fire, growing brighter as her gaze darted from his face to her own hands, her fingers still curled like claws. A horrified gasp broke from her lips as the adrenaline drained from her limbs, leaving her trembling.

“Desmond…” she breathed, her voice barely audible, the name catching in her throat.

But the sight of him—his disheveled appearance, his neck flushed red with angry marks where her arm had pressed against him—shattered the remnants of her fight-or-flight haze. Her stomach twisted violently as she realized what she’d done.

“No,” she whispered, her voice trembling. Her body jerked as if recoiling from the memory of her actions. Before Desmond could react, Claire tore her wrists free from his grasp with a desperate twist, the sudden movement throwing him off balance. She scrambled backward, her knees dragging across the sheets until her back hit the cold wall with a muted thud.

Her breath came in shallow, rapid gasps as she pressed herself against the unyielding stone, the chill biting through her shirt and grounding her. Her wide eyes stayed locked on him, her mind cataloging every detail with sharp clarity. Desmond sat on the edge of the bed, one hand rubbing his neck, his face flushed from exertion. His dark hair was a mess, sticking out in unruly tufts, and his shirt was rumpled, the fabric pulled askew in their struggle. He coughed, his voice rasping as he tried to catch his breath.

“Claire…” he started, his tone gentle despite the hoarseness, but she wasn’t listening.

Her gaze dropped to her own arms. A series of shallow scratches ran along the inside of her forearm, faint red marks left by Desmond’s nails in his desperate attempt to free himself. Her hands shook as she stared at them, her mind replaying the moment over and over. The raw pressure of her hold on his neck, the rasp of his strained breaths, the panic in his eyes—all of it slammed into her at once, leaving her nauseated.

She clutched her arm as if trying to hide the evidence of what had just happened, but the sting of the scratches only deepened her guilt. Her chest tightened, the whirlwind of emotions threatening to drown her. Fear. Shame. A sickening sense of betrayal—toward herself and toward Desmond, the one person who had tried to wake her.

The room felt too small, the walls pressing in on her. Rebecca, Shaun, and Lucy stood frozen near the Animus stations, their faces pale with varying degrees of shock. Rebecca had a hand over her mouth, her concern palpable. Shaun’s usual sarcasm was replaced by stunned silence, while Lucy took a tentative step forward as if afraid to startle her further.

“Claire,” Desmond tried again, softer this time. He remained seated, his movements slow and deliberate, like someone approaching a wounded animal. “It’s okay. You’re awake now. It’s over.”

His words only made her chest tighten further, her breath hitching painfully. “I could’ve killed you,” she whispered, her voice shaking with disbelief. “I—I didn’t know it was you. I couldn’t stop—” Her words broke off, a shudder running through her as she squeezed her eyes shut.

“Hey.” Desmond’s voice cut through the spiral, firm but not unkind. She opened her eyes to find him looking at her, his expression steady despite the redness around his throat and the exhaustion in his posture. “You didn’t kill me. You didn’t even come close. I’m fine.”

“You’re not fine!” she snapped, her voice cracking under the weight of her emotions. Her gaze dropped to his neck again, the faint marks standing out like a brand against his skin. “I did that. I hurt you.”

Desmond tilted his head, his expression softening despite the lingering discomfort evident in his features. "Yeah, you did," he admitted, his voice low and steady, free of judgment. He rubbed at his neck absently, the redness still stark against his skin. "But, Claire, I’m still here. And you stopped—when you realized, you stopped."

His words did little to ease the tightness in her chest, the weight of what had almost happened pressing against her ribs like a vice. Her breathing quickened again, her gaze darting around the room as if searching for an escape. 

Desmond glanced toward the others, their presence a silent weight in the room. Rebecca’s worried eyes met his, and Lucy shifted uncomfortably, clearly unsure of how to proceed. Shaun opened his mouth as if to speak, but Desmond raised a hand, cutting him off.

“Can you all give us a minute?” Desmond asked, his voice quieter now, the rasp still evident. “I’ll handle this.”

Rebecca hesitated but nodded, her gaze flicking to Claire one last time before she turned to leave. Lucy touched Shaun’s arm, steering him toward the door. He muttered something under his breath, but for once, it wasn’t loud enough to decipher. The sound of the door clicking shut left the room heavy with silence.

Desmond exhaled, running a hand through his messy hair. He shifted on the bed, scooting closer until he could lean back against the wall beside her. He didn’t press too close, leaving enough space between them to avoid adding to her discomfort, but his presence was steady, grounding.

Claire’s breathing was still uneven, her eyes darting between her scratched arm and the floor as if she couldn’t quite decide which deserved more attention. Desmond tilted his head toward her, his voice softer now. “Claire.”

She flinched at the sound of her name but didn’t look at him.

He tried again. “Talk to me. What did you see?”

Claire sat motionless against the wall, her knees drawn to her chest as Desmond’s question hung in the air. Her breathing was shallow, each inhale trembling slightly as she weighed how much to tell him. She didn’t meet his gaze, her eyes fixed on her trembling hands.

“It wasn’t just a nightmare,” she began, her voice low and brittle, as if each word carried the weight of what she had been running from. “It was... a memory.”

Desmond straightened slightly, his brow furrowing in concern, but he didn’t interrupt. He waited, giving her the space she needed.

“I was with Aiden and Paul,” she continued, her voice growing steadier but no less heavy. “We thought we were careful, keeping low, staying ahead of them. But... he found us.”

The word hung between them like a shard of ice. She didn’t need to elaborate for Desmond to understand who “he” was—an Abstergo agent who had haunted her life and her nightmares alike.

“They never stood a chance,” she said, her voice cracking slightly. Her hands curled into fists against her knees, the memory flashing before her eyes. “He came out of nowhere—fast, brutal. Took them both down before I could react. Aiden tried to fight back, and Paul... Paul didn’t even have time to draw his blade.” She closed her eyes briefly, the image of her fallen friends burned into her mind. “He didn’t kill them. He didn’t have to. He just... left them there. Broken.”

Desmond’s jaw tightened, but he stayed quiet, his hands resting on his knees as he listened.

“I ran,” she admitted, the word tasting like ash in her mouth. “It was the only thing I could do. I screamed their names, tried to make them get up, but... they didn’t move. And he just followed me, like it was some kind of game. No matter how fast I ran, no matter how many corners I turned, he was always there, always a step ahead. I could feel him closing in. Every breath I took felt like it might be my last.”

Her shoulders shook as she drew in a ragged breath, the cold wall at her back doing little to steady her.

“When he caught me...” Her voice faltered, her gaze finally shifting to Desmond’s. The flicker of pain and fear in her eyes was enough to make his stomach churn. “He didn’t waste any time. He grabbed me, twisted my arm—I heard it pop before I even felt the pain.” Her hand instinctively brushed her shoulder, the memory of that searing agony still vivid. “He dragged me back, like I was nothing. Like I wasn’t even worth the effort it took to subdue me.”

Desmond’s hands clenched into fists at his sides, the idea of anyone treating Claire that way sparking a low burn of anger in his chest. But he kept his voice calm when he finally spoke. “What happened after that?”

She let out a bitter laugh, though it held no humor. “After that? He made sure I couldn’t run again. Slammed me against the wall so hard I couldn’t breathe. Then he... he dislocated both of my shoulders, just to make a point.” Her words grew quieter, the bitterness giving way to something more vulnerable. “He wanted me to know how powerless I was. He wanted me to remember it.”

“Jesus fucking Christ. What a sadistic fuck.”

Desmond let the silence hang heavy between them for a moment, his jaw tight and his eyes dark with anger. Not at her—never at her—but at the invisible ghost of the man who had done this, the one who still haunted her. He took a slow breath, forcing himself to release the tension in his clenched fists. His gaze softened as he turned to Claire, her small, trembling frame pressed against the wall as though it could shield her from the memories.

“You didn’t deserve that,” he said quietly, his voice steady but laced with emotion. “No one does.”

Claire’s fingers curled tighter around her knees, her head bowing slightly. “But it happened,” she murmured, her tone flat, resigned. “And I can’t take it back. I can’t undo it.”

Desmond shifted closer, the bed creaking under his weight. He didn’t reach for her—not yet—but his presence inched nearer, grounding, steady. “No, you can’t. But that doesn’t make it your fault. What happened wasn’t because you were weak, or because you didn’t fight hard enough. It’s on him. Not you.”

Her shoulders sagged slightly at his words, the weight of them cutting through the storm raging in her head. Still, she didn’t look up. “I just... I can still feel it, Desmond,” she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper. “The way he looked at me, like I wasn’t even a person. Like I was something he could break and leave behind.”

Desmond’s throat tightened. He wanted to say something, to somehow erase the pain etched into her voice, but words felt woefully inadequate. Instead, he reached out slowly, deliberately, until his hand hovered near hers. He didn’t force the contact, waiting for her to bridge the gap.

After a long, trembling breath, Claire’s hand shifted. Her fingers brushed his, hesitant at first, before she allowed herself to grip his hand. Her touch was cold, shaking, but she held on tightly, as if anchoring herself to something tangible.

Desmond squeezed Claire’s hand gently, his warmth steady against her cold, trembling fingers. Her question hung in the air, fragile but sincere. His gaze softened as he met her eyes, the raw emotion there striking something deep within him.

“I’m fine,” he said, his voice quieter now, the rasp in his throat less noticeable. He tilted his head slightly, the ghost of a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Takes more than that to knock me down.”

Claire let out a shaky exhale, the faintest hint of relief flickering across her face. She lowered her head, her grip on his hand tightening briefly before she spoke again. “I’m sorry,” she murmured, her voice thick with emotion. “For everything. For... hurting you. For dragging you into this.”

Desmond shifted, leaning back slightly to balance himself before nudging her hand gently with his thumb. “You didn’t drag me into anything,” he said, his tone calm but resolute. “We’re in this together, remember?”

Her chest tightened at his words, but this time it wasn’t entirely from guilt. There was something grounding in the way he said it, a reminder that even in her lowest moments, she wasn’t alone. She let her head drop forward slightly, her forehead brushing against his shoulder before she allowed herself to lean into him fully.

“I don’t know what I’d do if...” Her voice faltered, her breath catching, but she didn’t pull back. The weight of the morning’s events pressed against her chest, the echoes of her nightmare blending with the lingering tension of what she’d nearly done. “I could’ve really hurt you.”

Desmond turned his head slightly, resting his chin lightly against the top of hers. He kept his movements careful, his presence steady and unyielding, like a shield between her and the storm in her mind. “You didn’t,” he reassured her, his voice soft but firm. “And even if you had, Claire, I know you’d never mean to.”

Desmond shifted slightly, wrapping his arm around Claire’s shoulders with a careful, deliberate motion. His touch was warm, grounding, and she sank into it, letting herself rest against him more fully. For a moment, she stiffened under the unfamiliar closeness, but the tension gradually eased from her body as she let out a shaky breath.

His arm tightened slightly, just enough to remind her that he was there, solid and steady. “I’ve got you,” he murmured, the words barely above a whisper.

Chapter Text

September 12th 2012, 12:30 pm

Claire stirred, the faint murmur of voices pulling her from the haze of sleep. The world came back in fragments—the subtle hum of electronics, the soft rustle of fabric, and a warmth that contrasted sharply with the cold edges of the safehouse. She blinked, her eyes heavy, the dim light of the room casting muted shadows along the walls.

Her head rested against something solid, and as the haze cleared, she realized she was sprawled across Desmond’s lap. Her cheek pressed against his thigh, and his arm was draped lazily over her side, his hand just brushing the curve of her ribs. The faint rise and fall of his breathing added an unfamiliar sense of ease to the moment. On his other thigh, a tablet rested next to her head, the glow of its screen catching her attention. His fingers moved absently across it, scrolling through what looked like a stream of emails.

He didn’t seem to notice she was awake—or maybe he didn’t mind. Claire’s heart stuttered as she replayed the earlier events in her mind. The nightmare. The fight. His voice pulling her back to reality. And now this.

She swallowed hard, torn between pulling away and staying as still as possible. Movement felt impossible anyway, her limbs heavy from exhaustion and the emotional toll of the morning. Instead, she stayed quiet, her ears picking up the faint conversation on the other side of the room.

“She was like an entirely different person,” Rebecca said, her voice soft but laced with concern. “I’ve seen fight-or-flight reactions before, but that? That was pure survival mode.”

“Well, what do you expect?” Shaun replied, his tone more measured than usual. “You don’t come out of whatever she’s been through without scars, physical or otherwise. People don’t just wake up one day perfectly fine after that.”

“Shaun,” Lucy interjected, her tone sharp but not unkind, “this isn’t about theorizing trauma. What matters is how we move forward. Desmond handled it as best as anyone could, but we need to be ready in case it happens again.”

“In case it happens again?” Rebecca’s voice rose slightly, incredulous. “You’re already expecting a repeat of this?”

“No,” Lucy said, her voice calming. “But I think we’d be fools not to consider the possibility. The Animus digs up things we don’t always realize we’ve buried. Claire’s memories... they’re different. More connected. That comes with risks.”

Claire’s chest tightened as their words sank in. She’d known they would talk about it—of course they would—but hearing it laid out like this made her feel exposed, even as she remained silent.

Desmond shifted slightly beneath her, his thumb brushing the edge of the tablet as he tapped something on the screen. His movement startled her, but his voice remained quiet, steady as he finally spoke. “You’re not wrong,” he said, not looking up. “But don’t act like she’s broken. She’s handling more than most people could.”

Rebecca’s voice softened. “We know, Desmond. We just worry.”

“She doesn’t need you to worry,” he replied. “She needs you to trust her.”

Claire’s throat tightened, the words cutting deeper than they should have. She closed her eyes, unsure whether she wanted to laugh bitterly or cry. Trust. How could they trust her after what had just happened? She wasn’t even sure she trusted herself.

“Fine,” Shaun said after a pause, his tone clipped but devoid of its usual edge. “Let’s hope you’re right.”

The conversation shifted then, the voices growing fainter as they moved farther into the room. Claire’s hand twitched against the blanket draped across her, the first conscious movement she’d made since waking. Desmond’s arm shifted slightly in response, his hand brushing against her side, but his gaze stayed on the tablet.

“I know you’re awake,” he said after a beat, his tone light but not teasing.

Claire froze, her breath catching. She tilted her head slightly, enough to see his face. His eyes remained on the screen, but the faintest hint of a smirk tugged at the corner of his lips.

“How long have you known?” she asked, her voice hoarse from disuse.

“Since you started breathing like you were trying not to,” he replied, finally glancing down at her. “Didn’t want to say anything and freak you out.”

Her gaze flicked to the tablet, the emails on the screen a blur. “What are you doing?” she asked, deflecting.

“Rebecca dumped a bunch of files on me,” he said, shrugging. “Updates, logistics, all the stuff she usually keeps running in the background. Figured I’d catch up while you slept.”

Her lips parted as if to respond, but no words came out. Instead, she shifted slightly, pulling herself into a sitting position beside him. Desmond’s arm fell away as she moved, but he didn’t comment, his eyes following her with quiet attentiveness.

“You should’ve moved me,” she said finally, brushing a hand through her hair.

“And risk you waking up pissed off again?” he replied, raising an eyebrow. “Not a chance.”

Despite herself, Claire let out a small laugh, the sound barely audible but real. She caught the faint grin that spread across his face, and for a moment, the tension in her chest loosened just enough for her to breathe easier.

Desmond chuckled softly, breaking the silence. “I think you need some coffee,” he said, rising from the bed with an exaggerated stretch. His arms reached high over his head, pulling the hem of his shirt up just enough to reveal a sliver of skin. Claire caught the way the fabric lifted, her eyes drawn—almost against her will—to the defined line of his hips, the faint shadow of muscle disappearing beneath the waistband of his jeans. The sharp V at his lower abdomen was barely visible, but it was enough to make her pulse jump unexpectedly.

She tore her gaze away, her cheeks warming slightly, but her traitorous eyes flicked back as he rolled his shoulders, the casual motion making it impossible to ignore how ridiculously attractive he was. His shirt settled back into place as he turned toward Rebecca’s workstation, oblivious to the way he’d derailed her thoughts entirely.

“Stay put,” he said over his shoulder, glancing back at her with an easy grin. “I’ll get you a cup.”

Claire blinked, her brain catching up to his words a half-second too late. She forced a nod, gripping the edge of the blanket draped over her lap to ground herself. She’d had her fair share of run-ins with attractive men—her job demanded it at times—but there was something about Desmond’s effortless confidence, the way he moved without pretense, that made her insides twist in unfamiliar ways.

“By the way,” he added as he reached for Rebecca’s monitor, his voice cutting through her distracted thoughts, “you’ve got an email from Aiden. It popped up while you were out.”

The mention of Aiden snapped her attention back, the reminder crashing through the brief haze Desmond had stirred. Her heart skipped as a different kind of tension settled over her. She reached for the tablet at her side, sliding it into her lap with steady hands despite the sudden knot in her stomach.

Claire opened her inbox, her breath hitching when her eyes landed on the subject line: Callum.

She hesitated for the briefest moment, her pulse thrumming in her ears as she tapped the email open. The anticipation made the room feel unbearably quiet, her focus narrowing to the words that unfolded before her.

Airey,

I located your brother.

He’s been arrested. They got him on charges of manslaughter, claiming he killed a pimp in cold blood. I’ve tried to pull what strings I can, but it’s rough. The case is moving fast—he’s got a court hearing scheduled in a few days. From what I’ve gathered, it sounds bad, Airey. They’re pushing for a conviction, and if they get it, Callum’s looking at a long sentence.

I’ll keep digging to see if I can find anything to help, but... I thought you should know. I’m here if you need anything, if there’s anything I can do. Though it would be nice to know where you’re at. William isn’t disclosing your whereabouts for ‘safety’ reasons. I swear if I see that man in person I might hurt him for keeping it a secret.

We miss you Airey.

Aiden

The words blurred together for a moment, her mind struggling to process the weight of them. She read it again, and then a third time, her stomach sinking further with every pass. Callum. Arrested. Manslaughter. It didn’t make sense. It couldn’t make sense. Her brother wasn’t... he wasn’t capable of something like that. Not Callum.

She barely registered Desmond’s return until the warm scent of coffee wafted over her. He placed the cup gently into her hands, his gaze flicking from her pale face to the screen in her lap.

“Everything okay?” he asked, his voice low and cautious.

Claire didn’t respond immediately. Her fingers tightened around the coffee mug, the ceramic edge biting into her palms. Her lips pressed into a thin line as she stared at the email again, as though willing the words to rearrange themselves into something less catastrophic.

“Claire?” Desmond prompted, setting his own mug down on the nightstand as he sat beside her. His knee brushed against hers lightly, a grounding presence.

She exhaled shakily and set the mug down on the edge of the bed before passing him the tablet. “Read it.”

Desmond frowned but took the device, scanning the email quickly. His brow furrowed deeper with each line, his grip on the tablet tightening slightly. When he was done, he set it aside and looked at her, his expression unreadable.

“Your brother,” he said slowly, testing the words. “He’s...”

“They’re accusing him of murder,” Claire finished, her voice flat but trembling just beneath the surface. “Manslaughter. A pimp. Aiden says it’s bad, Desmond. Really bad.”

Desmond leaned back slightly, his arms resting on his knees as he considered the information. “Do you think it’s true?” he asked carefully.

Her head snapped up, and for a brief moment, the fire in her eyes cut through the fog of shock. “No,” she said firmly. “Callum would never. He might get into fights—he’s not perfect—but murder? No. It had to have been self defense or an accident.”

Desmond nodded, not pushing further. “Aiden says the case is moving fast. What’s the plan?”

Claire shook her head, frustration mounting as she tried to form coherent thoughts. “I don’t know. What can I even do from here? We’re practically off the grid. I can’t exactly just walk into a courtroom without putting us all at risk. Callum doesn't even know about all this. For all he knows I'm the bigger sister who abandoned him after mom died."

Claire’s voice cracked slightly, and she bit down hard on the emotion threatening to spill over. She clenched her fists in her lap, the tension making her knuckles ache. The memory of the day she had last seen Callum came rushing back, vivid and unrelenting. The chaos, the fear, the betrayal—it all resurfaced, dragging her under like a riptide.

“That day,” she said after a moment, her voice quieter now, “the day our mom died—it was a goddamn mess. I told you before what happened after Aiden and Paul found me but…what happened before they found me was a nightmare.”

Desmond didn’t say anything, but his gaze stayed on her, steady and patient. His silence urged her on, giving her the space she needed.

“She knew what Abstergo wanted,” Claire continued, her words growing sharper as the memories sharpened in her mind. “Her DNA, her memories—it was all tied up with the Brotherhood, and she knew they’d come for her. She...” Claire hesitated, swallowing the lump in her throat. “She took herself out of the equation before they could. Suicide. She left a note telling my stepfather what to do next.”

Desmond frowned, the weight of her words settling over him. “What did the note say?”

Claire’s lips twisted into a bitter smile, her voice laced with a grim edge. “She told him to kill us. Me and Callum. Said it was the only way to keep us out of Abstergo’s hands.” Her fists clenched tighter, the memory of that night playing out in vivid detail. “She didn’t trust anyone to protect us. Not the Brotherhood, not the world, not even herself. So she handed my stepfather a gun and made it his responsibility.”

Desmond’s jaw tightened, and he opened his mouth to say something, but Claire held up a hand, stopping him. “I was already training by then,” she said, her voice growing colder as she pushed through the memory. “I knew what the Brotherhood was, what it meant to be part of it. So when he came for me, I fought back.”

She drew in a shaky breath, her gaze distant. “It wasn’t... pretty. I was a teenager trying to fend off a grown man. I got a few hits in, but he overpowered me eventually. He slammed me into a wall, knocked the wind out of me, and just when I thought it was over—just when I thought he was going to pull the trigger—Callum came home.”

Desmond leaned forward slightly, his brows furrowing deeper as he listened.

“He walked in on us,” Claire continued, her voice quieter now. “I remember the look on his face. Confused, scared, but he didn’t run. Not at first. He grabbed a chair, a goddamn chair, and hit my stepfather with it. Gave me just enough time to grab a knife.” She paused, her throat tightening. “I told him to run. I screamed at him to get out of there. And he did. He ran.”

She stared down at her hands, her nails digging into her palms. “I haven’t seen him since. I’ve kept tabs on him over the years, but I’ve stayed away to keep him off Abstergo’s radar. I thought it was the right thing to do. Let him have a normal life. Let him stay free of all this... chaos.”

Desmond was quiet for a moment, the weight of her story hanging heavy between them. Finally, he said, “But now he’s in trouble. And you’re thinking maybe staying away wasn’t enough.”

Claire nodded, her throat too tight to speak. She felt the familiar ache of guilt settle in her chest, a constant companion she’d carried for years.

Desmond shifted closer, his voice steady but not without its own edge of determination. “Look, I don’t know Callum, but from what you’ve told me, he sounds like a fighter. If he’s anything like you, he’s not going to go down without a fight.”

Claire let out a bitter laugh. “That’s what I’m afraid of. He doesn’t have the resources, the training—he doesn’t even know what he’s up against. What if Abstergo finds him in prison? I don’t want him to suffer the same fate as me.”

"Then email Aiden back. See what he can dig up. We may be 'off grid' but we can still know what's going on out there." Desmond said, putting a hand on her back and rubbing comforting circles. 

Claire stiffened at Desmond’s touch, surprised by the sudden warmth of his hand on her back. It wasn’t unwelcome—just unfamiliar. She wasn’t used to leaning on anyone, emotionally or otherwise. But the steady, comforting circles he traced against her tense muscles felt grounding, like an anchor pulling her from the storm of her thoughts.

“You’re right,” she murmured, her voice quieter now. “Aiden wouldn’t have reached out if he didn’t want to help. I just... It’s hard to think straight when it comes to Callum.”

Desmond gave a slight nod, his hand never pausing. “That’s exactly why you need to let Aiden help. He’s out there. He’s got resources and connections. Hell, he even mentioned my dad.”

Claire exhaled sharply, a bitter edge to her laugh. “Your dad doesn’t exactly scream ‘helpful,’ Desmond. From what I’ve heard, he’s about as warm as an ice pick.”

“Yeah, well,” Desmond said with a wry smirk, “he’s not going to win any Father of the Year awards, that’s for sure. But he’s the Mentor of the Brotherhood, Claire. If anyone can pull strings, it’s him. And whether he likes it or not, he’s got a responsibility to protect people like Callum—people connected to us. To this.”

Claire tilted her head slightly, letting the words sink in. She hated the idea of relying on William Miles, a man she’d only heard about through whispers and secondhand stories. But Desmond was right. If William’s influence could help, it was worth considering. Still, doubt lingered.

“You really think he’d help?” she asked, glancing up at Desmond. “He and I don’t exactly have the best track record.” 

Desmond raised an eyebrow, leaning back slightly as he studied her expression. “What kind of track record are we talking about here?”

Claire sighed, letting the tablet rest on her lap. Her gaze drifted toward the ceiling as memories of her time at the farm surfaced, unbidden and bittersweet.

“Let’s just say William and I... never saw eye to eye,” she began, her tone dry but edged with lingering frustration. “He’s always been so rigid—‘the mission comes first,’ ‘trust the system,’ ‘don’t question the Brotherhood.’” Her lips pressed into a thin line. “I questioned everything. I still do. He didn’t like that.”

Desmond smirked faintly. “Yeah, that sounds like him. The guy doesn’t exactly appreciate free thinkers.”

Claire gave him a sidelong glance. “I’d call it more than not appreciating. I think he actively hated it. I was always in and out of the farm, you know? Between missions with Aiden and Paul. But every time I was there, we butted heads. He treated me like some rebellious kid who didn’t understand the stakes.”

“Were you?” Desmond asked, his voice laced with curiosity rather than judgment.

She hesitated, then shook her head. “I don’t think so. I mean, I knew what was at stake. My mom drilled that into me before she... before everything happened. But William acted like questioning tactics or disagreeing with him was some kind of betrayal. Like I wasn’t allowed to have a different perspective.”

Desmond rested his elbows on his knees, listening intently. “Let me guess. You called him out.”

Claire gave a bitter laugh. “Every chance I got. He wanted things done his way, and I wanted to prove there were other ways to get the job done. Safer ways. Smarter ways. We clashed constantly, especially when it came to how much risk we were supposed to take on. He thought I was too soft. I thought he was too cold.”

Desmond didn’t push. Instead, he offered her a small, understanding nod. “He’s not perfect, Claire. Far from it. But if it’s about Callum, I think he’d help. He may not be warm and fuzzy, but he does care about keeping people out of Abstergo’s hands. That’s the one thing you can count on with him.”

Claire chewed on her bottom lip, her fingers tracing the edge of the tablet absently. “Maybe,” she conceded softly. “But I wouldn’t even know how to ask Aiden to approach him. How do you tell someone like William Miles that you need his help when you’re not even sure he remembers you exist?”

Desmond shrugged, his expression shifting to something almost playful. “You let Aiden figure that part out. He’s the one who mentioned my dad in the first place, right? Sounds like he’s already got an angle.”

A faint smile tugged at the corner of Claire’s lips, though it didn’t quite reach her eyes. “You make it sound so easy.”

“It’s not,” Desmond admitted, leaning forward slightly. “But you’ve got people willing to help. Aiden, me—hell, even Rebecca and Shaun, as much as he loves to complain. You don’t have to do this alone.”

Claire glanced at him, her chest tightening at the sincerity in his voice. She wasn’t used to this—this kind of unwavering support. It both comforted and unnerved her.

Finally, she nodded and turned her attention back to the tablet. “Okay. I’ll email him back. See what he can dig up.”

Desmond gave her shoulder a light nudge. “Good. And don’t hold back. Tell him what he needs to know to get my dad on board.”

Claire exhaled slowly, her fingers moving across the screen as she began drafting her reply.

Aiden

I’ve read your email over and over, and it still doesn’t feel real. Callum—arrested, charged with manslaughter? It’s like the ground’s been ripped out from under me. Thank you for finding him, for keeping tabs on him all these years. I can’t imagine how hard that must’ve been, and I don’t know how to begin repaying you for it.

I don’t believe for a second that he killed someone in cold blood. He’s always been quick to protect others, but murder? No. There has to be more to the story—self-defense or something else entirely. But with the case moving so fast, we don’t have time to wait for answers.

You said William isn’t disclosing my location. I’ll save you the frustration—I'm in Italy, hiding out with Rebecca, Shaun, and Lucy.

There’s someone else here, Desmond. He’s new to all this but sharp, capable—and he’s William’s son. I know you’re rolling your eyes already, but Desmond suggested something, and it makes sense: ask William for help. I know he’s not exactly warm and fuzzy, but he’s the Mentor. If anyone can pull the right strings for Callum, it’s him. Even if he doesn’t care about me, he’ll care about protecting someone connected to the Brotherhood.

I need you to reach out to him. If anyone can navigate this mess and get William involved, it’s you. I hate asking you for this, but Callum doesn’t have time for me to sit here and hesitate.

Let me know what you find. And please, be careful. If Callum’s arrest is tied to Abstergo, they could already be watching.

Always,

Aiery

Claire hovered over the “Send” button, rereading the email one last time. Her finger lingered for a moment before she finally clicked it, the message disappearing into cyberspace. She exhaled sharply, setting the tablet down on the bed beside her and rubbing her hands over her face as if she could wipe away the tension clinging to her.

Desmond, seated close enough to read her subtle movements, broke the silence. “Aiery,” he said, his tone laced with curiosity and a faint smirk. “I’ve been holding off on asking, but… what’s with the nickname? Doesn’t exactly scream Assassin.”

Claire let out a tired chuckle, dropping her hands to her lap as she glanced at him. “That’s a story for another time,” she said, her voice light but guarded, the corners of her mouth twitching into a small smile.

“Come on,” Desmond teased, leaning back against the wall, his arms crossed. “You can’t drop something like that and not at least give me a hint.”

Claire shook her head, a real smile breaking through the weariness this time. “Patience, Desmond. You’ll just have to wait and see.”

“Fine,” he said, feigning a dramatic sigh as he pushed off the wall to stand. “But I’m holding you to that.” He glanced at the tablet still sitting on the bed, his expression softening. “You did the right thing, Claire. Aiden will figure something out. And if William gets involved… Callum has a chance.”

Her smile faltered, but she nodded. “I hope you’re right.”

Chapter Text

VENICE, 1486

The air was thick with revelry, the narrow streets of Venice transformed into a sea of color and chaos. The masked faces of nobles and peasants alike blended together under the glow of lanterns strung overhead. Music echoed down the alleys, mingling with bursts of laughter and shouts from drunken revelers. But for Amelia, there was no celebration—only the sharp edge of her mission and the pounding of her heart as she darted through the crowded streets.

Clutching the satchel close to her chest, she ducked into an alcove to catch her breath. Her crimson cloak, chosen to blend in with the Carnavale colors, fluttered around her as she pressed herself against the cool stone wall. She glanced down at the bag she’d stolen, the weight of it far heavier than its size suggested. Inside were the documents Antonio needed—the list of names and masks that would grant entry into Marco Barbarigo’s exclusive masquerade.

“Amelia,” Antonio had said earlier that evening, his voice low but urgent. “We’ve been playing this game for two years. Everything we’ve done to weaken Marco’s hold—it hasn’t been enough. This party is our best chance. If we know who’s attending, we can infiltrate it, and finally take him down.”

Amelia had nodded, determination hardening her resolve. She had spent every moment since Ezio’s departure working alongside Antonio to undo the damage Marco had inflicted on Venice. Every success felt like a drop in an endless ocean of corruption. But this—this could change everything.

Her thoughts snapped back to the present as the sound of shouting drew nearer.

“There!”

She cursed under her breath. The Templar courier had been faster than she’d expected, raising the alarm before she could fully disappear. Now, she had more than drunken revelers to contend with—guards were closing in.

Amelia ducked into the crowd, her masked face blending easily with the revelers around her. She moved with purpose, weaving between costumed dancers and stumbling nobles, her every step calculated. The documents were too important to lose.

“Fan out!” a guard barked from behind, his voice cutting through the music.

Her pulse quickened, her mind racing as she searched for an escape. The canals weren’t an option—too exposed. The rooftops would be faster, but getting there without being seen would be a challenge.

She spotted a narrow alley ahead, the shadows deeper there, the crowd thinning. She slipped into it, the sound of her boots muffled against the damp cobblestones. The alley twisted and turned, leading her toward the edge of the district. If she could just—

A figure stepped into her path, their silhouette tall and imposing against the flickering light of a distant torch. Amelia skidded to a halt, her dagger already in her hand.

The man stepped closer, his face obscured by a hood. “Amelia,” he said, his voice low and familiar, the single word stopping her cold.

Her breath caught as recognition dawned. “Ezio?”

He pulled back his hood, revealing the sharp lines of his face, softened slightly by the passage of time but no less striking. His dark eyes locked onto hers, a flicker of surprise and something deeper passing through them.

“What are you doing here?” she asked, her voice sharp despite the tumult of emotions rising in her chest.

“I might ask you the same,” he replied, his tone measured but tinged with amusement. His gaze flicked to the satchel clutched in her hands. “Though it seems you’ve been busy.”

Amelia stiffened, the urgency of her mission warring with the shock of seeing Ezio again after two years. Her mind scrambled for a coherent response, but before she could form one, his expression shifted—his eyes darted past her shoulder, his posture tensing.

“Guards,” he said sharply, his tone cutting through the noise like a blade.

Before she could turn to look, his hand closed around her wrist. The touch was firm, commanding, and utterly familiar. “Move!”

Amelia barely had time to tighten her grip on the satchel before Ezio was pulling her through the alley. She stumbled for half a step before falling into stride, their boots echoing against the cobblestones as they wove through the labyrinthine streets of Venice.

The shouts of the guards followed them, closer now, and the crowded streets offered little refuge. Ezio’s grip didn’t falter as he led her down another twisting passage, his movements swift and instinctive. Ahead, he spotted a haystack tucked beneath an overhang, a perfect sanctuary for the moment.

“Here,” he muttered, steering them toward it. Without hesitation, he pushed her forward, following a split second later as they both dove into the stack. The musty scent of straw surrounded them, muffling the sounds of the crowd and the guards’ distant shouts.

Amelia hit the bottom of the stack with a soft thud, her breath catching as Ezio’s weight settled on top of her. He braced himself above her, one arm on either side of her head to keep from crushing her completely. Their faces were inches apart, his dark eyes locked onto hers in the dim light filtering through the hay.

“Stay still,” he whispered, his voice low and firm, his breath warm against her cheek.

Amelia swallowed hard, her pulse hammering in her ears. It wasn’t just the adrenaline of the chase—it was the proximity, the unspoken tension that had been simmering since the last time they’d seen each other. Two years, and all the words they hadn’t said hung thick in the air between them.

She forced herself to focus, to push past the disorienting pull of his gaze. “Ezio,” she whispered, her tone somewhere between exasperation and curiosity, “what are you doing back in Venice?”

His lips quirked in a faint, fleeting smirk, but there was an edge to his expression. “I could ask you the same thing,” he replied, his voice just as quiet. “But I think your satchel explains plenty.”

Amelia rolled her eyes, though the movement felt strangely weighted with him so close. “That’s not an answer.”

He held her gaze for a moment longer before his smirk faded, replaced by something more serious. “I heard things,” he admitted, his voice quieter now, almost reluctant. “About Marco. About you. I couldn’t stay away.”

Her breath hitched, but before she could respond, the sound of boots clattering against cobblestones broke through the haze. The guards were closer now, their voices sharp and barking orders.

Ezio’s attention snapped back to the present, his body taut above hers as he listened. He shifted slightly, his weight pressing against her just enough to remind her of their precarious position. “They’re searching the side streets,” he murmured, his tone calm but decisive. “We’ll wait until they pass.”

Amelia nodded, her heart pounding as the voices grew louder, then began to fade again. In the quiet that followed, her awareness of their closeness returned, sharper than before.

“Two years,” she said softly, her voice barely audible. “And you just… show up. Like nothing happened.”

Ezio’s gaze flicked back to hers, something unreadable in his expression. “A lot happened, Amelia,” he said, his tone low but insistent. “I didn’t come back to pretend otherwise.”

Amelia stared at him, her chest tightening as a storm of emotions surged within her. Love. Anger. Relief. Bitterness. It all swirled together, threatening to spill over as she fought to keep her voice steady. Two years. Two years of wondering, worrying, waiting. And now here he was, acting as if those years hadn’t carved a chasm between them.

She bit down on the inside of her cheek, forcing herself to stay calm, to keep the edge out of her voice. “You could’ve fooled me,” she muttered, her tone sharper than she intended.

Ezio’s eyes narrowed slightly, though he didn’t move. “I never meant to be gone that long,” he said, his voice low but steady. “Things… got complicated.”

“Complicated,” she repeated, the word bitter on her tongue. “You said you’d lay low for a few months. Six, maybe. Not vanish for two years without so much as a letter.”

Ezio winced, the flicker of guilt in his eyes impossible to miss. “I know,” he admitted. “And I’m sorry, Amelia. Truly. But I couldn’t risk drawing attention to you. To any of you. The Templars were hunting me, and I couldn’t let them use my trail to find you.”

Her jaw tightened, her fists clenching at her sides. “And you think it’s been any safer here? Marco’s been tightening his grip on Venice ever since you left. Every step we’ve taken to weaken him, he’s countered. People are suffering, Ezio. People are dying. We needed you.”

His gaze softened, the weight of her words sinking in. “I know,” he said quietly. “And I’ve been working to fix it. To gather what we need to finally take the fight to them. That’s why I’m here now.”

Amelia scoffed, a harsh, humorless sound. “Now?” she echoed, her voice rising slightly before she reined it in. “Two years later, and you decide to show up in the middle of Carnavale? What changed?”

Ezio’s hand twitched, as if he wanted to reach for her but thought better of it. “I heard about Marco’s masquerade,” he said. “The Templars’ plans. I couldn’t stay away knowing what was at stake.”

She laughed bitterly, shaking her head. “You couldn’t stay away,” she repeated, her tone dripping with sarcasm. “Convenient.”

“Amelia—” he began, but she cut him off, her voice trembling with the effort to keep her emotions in check.

“Do you have any idea what it was like?” she asked, her words sharp and laced with the pain she’d kept buried for so long. “Waiting. Hoping. Wondering if you were even still alive. I thought I’d be fine, Ezio. I thought I could handle it, but then the weeks turned into months, and the months turned into years, and I started to wonder if you’d ever come back at all.”

Her voice broke on the last word, and she cursed herself for letting him see just how much his absence had hurt her. But she couldn’t stop now. The dam had broken, and the words poured out like a flood.

“You left, and I kept fighting because I had to, but don’t you dare act like you didn’t leave a hole behind,” she said, her eyes flashing with anger and unshed tears. “Don’t you dare act like it didn’t matter.”

Ezio’s expression hardened, his guilt giving way to something more resolute. “It mattered,” he said, his voice low but fierce. “Don’t think for a second that it didn’t. Every day I was gone, I thought about you. About what I left behind. And it tore me apart, Amelia. But I had to make sure I could come back without putting you at greater risk.”

She opened her mouth to argue, to push back against his words, but the intensity in his eyes stopped her cold. He meant it. Every word. And as much as she wanted to stay angry, to hold onto the bitterness that had built up over the years, she couldn’t ignore the raw sincerity in his voice.

The sound of the guards’ voices had faded completely now, the chaos of the chase giving way to an almost suffocating quiet. But Amelia barely noticed. All she could hear was the pounding of her heart, all she could see was the man above her—the man she’d loved for so long, even when she hadn’t wanted to.

“I didn’t mean to hurt you,” Ezio said, his voice softer now. “And I know I can’t change what’s already happened. But I’m here, Amelia.”

Amelia’s jaw tightened as she stared up at him, her chest twisting with everything she couldn’t bring herself to say. The sight of him—so close, so familiar, and yet so achingly distant—only sharpened the bitterness she’d been holding back. She shoved her hands against his chest, forcing him off her.

“Get off me,” she snapped, her voice cutting through the fragile quiet.

Ezio complied immediately, rolling to his feet with a smoothness that irritated her even more. He extended a hand to help her up, but she ignored it, pushing herself to her feet with a quick, jerky motion. The straw clinging to her cloak was the least of her concerns as she turned away from him, clutching the satchel tighter.

Without a word, she reached behind her belt, her fingers finding the larger pouch where she kept her masks. She pulled one out—a sleek, fox-like design with sharp edges and dark accents—and slid it over her face. It clicked into place with practiced ease, hiding the turmoil in her expression.

Ezio watched her, his brow furrowed as if he wanted to say something, but she didn’t give him the chance. From the same pouch, she retrieved her backup mask—a simpler one with a neutral design—and thrust it toward him without a word.

He hesitated for a moment, his eyes flicking from the mask to her face. Then, understanding her unspoken command, he took it from her hand. “Grazie,” he said quietly, his voice heavy with meaning.

She didn’t respond. Instead, she adjusted the straps of her satchel, her movements brisk and efficient. The carnival noises in the distance felt like a mockery of the tension hanging between them, each burst of laughter and cheer amplifying the storm in her chest.

“Let’s go,” she said curtly, not bothering to look at him as she started toward Antonio’s hideout. The weight of her emotions pressed down on her, but she refused to let them show. Not now. Not when there was so much at stake.

Ezio fell into step beside her, his presence annoyingly steady. She could feel his eyes on her, could sense the unspoken words lingering on the tip of his tongue. But he didn’t speak, and for that, she was grateful. She wasn’t ready to hear whatever excuse or apology he thought would make everything better.

The alleyways twisted and turned, the flickering light from the carnival fires casting shifting shadows along the walls. Amelia kept her pace brisk, her focus locked on the path ahead. The satchel felt heavier with each step, its contents a reminder of why she couldn’t afford to get caught up in personal grievances.

Still, her mind betrayed her. Memories of him flooded back—his laughter, his warmth, the way he’d made her feel seen in a way no one else ever had. And then there was the memory of that kiss, the one she’d been replaying in her mind for two years. It had taken all her courage to close that gap, to show him what she felt. And then, just as quickly as the moment had come, he’d vanished.

Her fingers tightened around the strap of her satchel as she clenched her jaw. She’d spent so long trying to convince herself that she didn’t need him, that she was better off focusing on the fight. But now, with him walking beside her as if no time had passed, she felt the cracks in her resolve widening.

“Amelia,” Ezio’s voice broke the silence, tentative but firm.

She stopped abruptly, her shoulders stiffening as she turned to face him. “What?” she asked, her tone sharper than she intended.

“Why are you so angry?”

Amelia stopped in her tracks, her whole body rigid as Ezio’s question hit her like a blow. She turned to him, her heart pounding, and without a word, she grabbed the front of his tunic, yanking him into a shadowed alley. The sudden movement caught him off guard, but he didn’t resist as she shoved him roughly against the wall.

“Why am I angry?” she hissed, her voice low and trembling with barely restrained emotion. “You disappear for two years, Ezio. Two years! And then you have the audacity to ask me that?”

Ezio reached up to pull off the mask she’d handed him, his movements slow and deliberate. He held it loosely in one hand, his dark eyes fixed on hers with an intensity that only fueled her anger. “Amelia—”

“No,” she cut him off, her fingers flying to the straps of her own mask. She ripped it off and tossed it to the ground, her chest heaving as she glared at him. “You don’t get to talk right now. You don’t get to waltz back into my life and pretend everything is fine.”

Her voice cracked, but she pressed on, the dam she’d held together for so long breaking under the weight of everything she’d carried. “I kissed you, Ezio. I kissed you, and you kissed me back. And then you left . No explanation. No goodbye. No letter. Do you have any idea how that felt? How much I agonized over what I’d done? I thought—” She broke off, shaking her head as tears stung her eyes. “I thought I scared you off. I thought I ruined everything.”

Ezio’s face softened, guilt and pain flickering across his features. “Amelia, I—”

“Don’t,” she snapped, her voice rising despite herself. “Don’t try to explain it away. Because here’s the thing, Ezio.” She stepped closer, her voice dropping to a near whisper as the emotion she’d been holding back for years finally spilled out. “I have loved you for as long as I can remember. Since I was a little girl, I’ve looked up to you, admired you. Not just for your skill or your courage, but for you . For the way you always find a way to smile, even when the world is falling apart. For the way you throw yourself into the fight, not because you want glory, but because you want to make things better. For the way you treat people—like they matter, like they’re more than their scars and their mistakes.”

Her voice wavered, but she kept going, each word sharper and more vulnerable than the last. “You make me feel like I can do anything, Ezio. Like I’m more than just some broken girl with too much anger and not enough sense. And for two years, I’ve been trying to move on, to bury those feelings because I thought you didn’t want me. But I can’t. I can’t stop loving you, no matter how much it hurts.”

The silence that followed was deafening, the noise of the carnival a distant hum compared to the pounding of her heart. Amelia’s hands trembled at her sides as she waited, her chest aching from the rawness of her confession.

Ezio didn’t wait for her to say anything else. He couldn’t. The storm in her eyes, the crack in her voice—it broke something in him, shattered the restraint he’d been clinging to since the moment he saw her again. He closed the distance between them in a single step, his hands cupping her face as though she might vanish if he let go.

Then he kissed her.

It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t measured. It was fierce and consuming, all the words he hadn’t been able to say pouring into the press of his lips against hers. He backed her against the opposite wall of the alley, his body pinning hers as his fingers slid into her hair, anchoring her to him.

Amelia gasped into the kiss, her hands flying up to grip his tunic. She clung to him, her anger melting under the onslaught of emotions he was unleashing. The world around them—Venice’s revelry, the distant echoes of music, the murmur of masked strangers—faded into nothing. There was only him. Only this.

Ezio deepened the kiss, his movements desperate, as though he were trying to make up for every second he’d been away. His teeth grazed her lower lip, his breath hot against her skin, and she shivered, her heart hammering in her chest. Her fingers twisted in the fabric of his tunic, pulling him closer even as her mind raced to catch up.

When he finally broke away, they were both breathing hard. His forehead pressed against hers, his hands still cradling her face. His voice was low and rough, his words tumbling out in a rush. “Amelia, you didn’t scare me off. You never could. I left because I thought it was the only way to protect you. I thought if I stayed, I’d bring the Templars down on you, and I couldn’t live with that.”

She opened her mouth to respond, but he cut her off, his thumb brushing over her cheek. “I was wrong,” he said fiercely, his dark eyes burning into hers. “Leaving was a mistake. The worst mistake I’ve ever made. Because I love you. Not just for the way you fight or the way you care about people, but for everything you are.”

His words came in a rush, the dam inside him breaking as completely as hers had. “You’re brilliant, Amelia. Fierce and loyal and so full of fire that it terrifies me sometimes. I’ve loved you since the moment you came back into my life, fighting for my family, for my cause, like it was yours. Like we were yours.”

Amelia’s breath caught, her heart splintering at the rawness of his voice, the honesty in his gaze. He leaned in again, his lips brushing against hers in a softer, slower kiss that sent a shiver down her spine. This time, it wasn’t just desperation—it was a promise.

When he pulled back, his hands slid down to her shoulders, his grip steady and grounding. “I came back for you, Amelia,” he said quietly, his voice shaking with emotion. “Because I can’t do this without you. I don’t want to.”

Her hands loosened their grip on his tunic, sliding up to rest against his chest as she searched his face. The anger and bitterness she’d held onto for so long cracked under the weight of his words, leaving only the raw, aching truth she couldn’t deny any longer.

“I’ve waited for you,” she whispered, her voice trembling. “I’ve loved you for so long, Ezio. And it hurt, not knowing if you’d ever come back.”

His hands tightened on her shoulders, his jaw clenching as he closed his eyes briefly. “I’m here now,” he murmured, his voice heavy with regret and determination. “And I’m not leaving again.”

Amelia swallowed hard, her throat tight with emotion, and nodded. “You’d better not,” she said, her voice unsteady but laced with a hint of the fire he adored in her.

Ezio’s lips curved into a faint smile, and he leaned down to press a kiss to her forehead, lingering there for a moment before pulling back. “We’ll talk more later,” he said, his voice softer now. “Right now, we have a mission.”

She let out a shaky laugh, her hands sliding down from his chest. “Right,” she said, the weight of the satchel at her side reminding her of the task ahead. “The documents.”

Chapter Text

Amelia could hardly keep the smile off her face as they walked through the shadowed streets of Venice. The night was alive with the colors and sounds of Carnavale, but none of it seemed to reach her. All she could feel was the warmth of Ezio walking beside her, his presence grounding and thrilling all at once.

Her heart was still racing, though for entirely different reasons now. Every time her hand brushed against his, she felt a jolt of something electric—a reminder of the kiss, of the words they’d shared in the quiet of that alley. She risked a glance at him, and despite the darkness and the mask hiding half his face, she could tell he was smiling.

"Leonardo’s workshop isn’t far,” he said, his voice casual, though there was a softness to it that hadn’t been there earlier.

Amelia nodded, her fingers brushing the strap of the satchel at her side. “You still have Codex pages, don’t you?”

Ezio chuckled, the sound low and familiar, sending a shiver down her spine. “Only one left. I’ve been meaning to deliver it for a while. But I got... sidetracked.”

She arched an eyebrow at him, though there was no real bite behind her expression. “Sidetracked, huh? I hope it’s worth the wait for Leonardo.”

“I think he’ll forgive me,” Ezio said, his grin widening.

Amelia laughed softly, shaking her head as they continued through the winding streets. She felt light—like she’d been carrying something heavy for so long that she’d forgotten what it was like to be free of it. The tension that had simmered between her and Ezio for years was gone, replaced by something warmer, steadier. For the first time in what felt like forever, she wasn’t just fighting to survive—she was letting herself feel.

Leonardo’s workshop came into view, its warm light spilling out onto the cobblestones like a beacon. Amelia’s smile grew as she followed Ezio to the door. He knocked lightly, and after a few moments, the familiar sound of Leonardo’s voice called out from inside.

“One moment!”

Amelia leaned against the doorframe, her gaze flicking to Ezio as they waited. “You think he’s working on something wild again?”

“When is he not?” Ezio replied, his tone laced with fond amusement.

The door creaked open, and Leonardo’s face lit up at the sight of them. “Ezio! Dio mio!” he exclaimed, rushing over with open arms. “You’re alive! Quick, come in! Come in!”

Leonardo’s workshop was as chaotic as ever, cluttered with half-finished inventions, scattered sketches, and the faint scent of oil and parchment. The moment they stepped inside, Leonardo looked up from his latest project, his face breaking into an expression of pure delight.

“Is it true? They say you killed the Doge?” Leonardo asked after he had closed the door to his shop.

Ezio held up a hand, halting the enthusiastic greeting with a faint grimace. “I was trying to save him, Leonardo. But the truth matters little. I failed. And now I’m the most wanted man in Venezia.”

Leonardo’s brow furrowed briefly before his cheerful demeanor returned. “Ah, well, it is Carnevale, no? You are fortunate the city is full of masks!” His gaze flicked to Amelia, and he smiled knowingly. “And I see you both have come prepared.”

Amelia chuckled softly, shaking her head. “I don’t think even Carnevale can save him from every bounty hunter in Venice.”

Ezio smirked. “I’ve managed so far.”

Leonardo clapped his hands together. “So, what brings you here? Surely not just to say hello?”

Ezio reached into his tunic and retrieved the codex page, holding it out. “I have something for you, Leonardo.”

The inventor’s eyes lit up as he took the page, his excitement bubbling over as he studied the intricate designs. “ Ohhh! More of the Codex!” he marveled, his hands tracing the lines of the page with reverence. “Aha... This one’s quite complex... Hmm... It’s a new design, my friend... A mechanism for your wrist, but not a blade... In fact, it seems to be a kind of arma da fuoco —a firearm, but as small as a hummingbird!”

Amelia leaned closer, intrigued by Leonardo’s description. “A firearm? On a wrist gauntlet? That sounds... dangerous.”

Leonardo grinned, already engrossed in the challenge. “Dangerous, yes, but brilliant! Just imagine, Amelia. A weapon so compact yet so effective. Truly a marvel of engineering!”

It took Leonardo several hours to construct the device, the workshop buzzing with his energy as he tinkered and adjusted, muttering calculations under his breath. Amelia watched him work with a mixture of amusement and awe, occasionally catching Ezio’s gaze from across the room. They exchanged subtle smiles, the kind that spoke volumes without words.

When the mechanism was finally complete, they stepped outside to the canal, where the evening sun painted the water in hues of gold and orange. Leonardo set up a line of dummies on the opposite bank, their crude forms swaying slightly in the breeze.

Ezio strapped the new device to his wrist, testing its weight and balance before raising his arm to aim. “Let’s see what this thing can do,” he said, his voice tinged with anticipation.

Amelia stood beside Leonardo, her arms folded as she tried to mask her curiosity. The air was thick with the smell of saltwater and wood smoke, and the sounds of the city hummed in the background. When Ezio fired, the sharp crack of the pistol rang out, echoing across the canal. The bullet hit its target dead center, splintering the dummy’s chest with precision.

Amelia couldn’t stop the grin that spread across her face. “Not bad,” she called out, her tone teasing. “Looks like you haven’t lost your touch after all.”

Ezio turned to her, a playful gleam in his eye. “Care to try your hand at it, bella mia ?” he said, his voice carrying that familiar warmth that made her heart skip.

She shook her head, though the fondness in her expression softened her refusal. “I’ll leave the showboating to you, for now. But don’t get too cocky, Ezio. I’m still a better shot with a bow.”

Leonardo chuckled, clapping his hands together. “Enough competition, you two! Ezio, you’ve done well, but I sense there’s more behind your return than just testing new toys. It’s about the Doge, isn’t it?”

Ezio’s expression grew serious, his playful demeanor fading as he nodded. “Yes. Marco Barbarigo has to be stopped.”

“We’re headed to see Antonio once we’re done here,” Amelia added, her voice steady with purpose. “The masquerade is our chance to get close to him. These documents”—she gestured to the satchel—“might be the key.”

Leonardo nodded, his excitement tempered by understanding. “Then I won’t keep you. But be careful, both of you.” His gaze lingered on Amelia, a flicker of concern softening his tone. “Venice cannot afford to lose you.”

Amelia smiled, touched by his words. “We’ll be fine, Leonardo. And thank you—for everything.”

As they turned to leave, Ezio adjusted the new weapon on his wrist, his steps falling in sync with Amelia’s.

The air in the Dorsoduro district was rich with the heady scent of wine and the hum of lively conversation, mingling with the earthy undertones of canal water winding like veins through the city. The sun had dipped low, painting the narrow streets with an amber glow that stretched shadows across worn cobblestones. Venice, with its vibrant chaos and dark undercurrents, had etched itself into Amelia’s soul over the years she had spent navigating its secrets. She adjusted her hood, the fabric brushing against her cheek—a familiar comfort, though it did little to calm the steady thrum of focus driving her forward.

Beside her, Ezio moved with his usual fluid confidence, the mask obscuring his features, but not his presence. She felt it—sharp and steady—like a shadow that always knew how to blend into the light. Their footsteps echoed softly as they wove through the bustling alleys, their mission pulling them toward Antonio. But beneath the urgency of their task, Amelia could feel the weight of something new between them, unspoken and fragile.

The streets buzzed with life: courtesans laughing behind painted fans, merchants haggling over final deals before nightfall, and the faint strains of a lute drifting from a nearby tavern. It was a symphony of distraction, but Amelia’s sharp gaze caught the edges of danger that lurked beneath. The city had changed since the new Doge seized power, his rule tightening like a noose. Templar influence crept through Venice like a slow poison, and Amelia felt it thrumming under her skin as they pressed on.

As they stepped into the courtyard of the brothel—a place Amelia had come to see as a second home during Ezio’s absence—the familiar scents of perfume and wine filled the air. The low murmur of voices and the soft strum of a lute spilled out from behind velvet curtains, mingling with bursts of laughter from the courtesans. For all the weight of her worries, a flicker of familiarity brushed against her, the warmth of this place momentarily softening the edges of her tension. Venice might have been steeped in hardship, but its charm still wrapped around her like the evening mist.

Antonio’s voice rang out, warm and rich, cutting through the low hum of the room. His laugh followed, carrying a charisma that always seemed to fill whatever space he occupied. Despite the turmoil outside these walls, the brothel had become a sanctuary, its light-hearted energy a reminder that some things could still endure.

Ezio pulled open the doors, stepping into the room with a quiet authority that commanded attention. He reached up to remove his mask as they neared Antonio, his movements unhurried but purposeful. Even in the relaxed atmosphere, Amelia noticed the way his gaze swept over the room, keen and alert, a subtle tension coiled beneath his confident demeanor. She followed him, pulling off her own mask as they stepped into the light.

"Antonio. We need to talk," Ezio said, his voice cutting through the din with an edge of urgency. The chatter in the room quieted, courtesans pausing mid-laughter to glance curiously at the reunion unfolding before them.

Antonio’s expression shifted from casual curiosity to wide-eyed surprise as he turned to face them. "Ezio!? Ezio Auditore!" he exclaimed, his grin broadening as he clapped a hand on Ezio’s shoulder with a hearty laugh that seemed to echo through the space. "Teodora, meet the most... ahem... talented man in all of Venezia!"

Amelia lingered a step behind, her sharp gaze flicking over the familiar faces of those she had worked alongside in Ezio’s absence. A small smile tugged at her lips as she inclined her head respectfully toward the woman standing beside Antonio—Sister Teodora. Her reputation as a matron with a biting wit and a deep well of compassion preceded her, and her knowing smile as she regarded Ezio betrayed a mix of amusement and curiosity.

"Madonna... Ah! 'Sister' Teodora," Ezio said, his tone slipping into an easy charm as he turned to her, a faint smirk playing on his lips. "I never imagined you as a religious type."

Teodora’s smile grew, her expression warm but tinged with mischief. "That depends entirely on how you define religion, my son," she replied smoothly, her voice carrying a playful edge. "It’s not just men’s souls that call for soothing."

Amelia watched the exchange, a small flicker of amusement crossing her face despite the tension that still lingered in her chest. Ezio’s charm was as natural as breathing, but she saw past it now—to the subtle hesitation beneath, the way his shoulders carried a weight she hadn’t noticed before. Their confession was still so new, and the uncharted territory between them left her both exhilarated and unsteady.

Antonio, ever the charmer, gestured grandly, his arm sweeping to encompass the entire room. "Come! Join us, Ezio! Have a drink! Meet the ladies!" His tone softened as he turned to Amelia, his expression warm. "You too, Amelia. You’ve been working yourself too hard. Even a guardian angel needs rest now and then."

Amelia offered a wry smile but shook her head, the weight of their mission pressing harder against her shoulders. "Maybe later, Antonio. First, we need to—"

A piercing scream ripped through the air, sharp and raw enough to freeze the room in an instant. Amelia’s head snapped toward the staircase, where a woman clung to the bannister, her knuckles white, her face pale and streaked with tears. Her voice trembled with terror, breaking as she cried out, "Murderer! Butcher! He sliced Lucia and stole her money!"

The words sent a jolt through Amelia’s body, her blood turning to fire. She barely registered Ezio tensing beside her, his hand already moving to his hidden blade. Her focus narrowed to the figure that came barreling down the staircase a moment later—a man with wild, darting eyes and blood-slicked hands, his breaths ragged as he pushed his way toward the door.

Amelia didn’t surge forward immediately. Her fury burned cold and calculated as she reached into her belt, her fingers finding the familiar grip of a throwing knife. With deadly precision, she hurled it through the air. The blade struck true, embedding itself in the back of the man’s ankle with a sickening thunk. He cried out in pain, stumbling and collapsing onto one knee, his momentum halting as he clutched at his leg.

The sound of his scream cut through the stunned silence, and the room seemed to hold its breath. Amelia didn’t wait. With the fluid grace of years spent honing her skills, she closed the distance between them in a heartbeat. Her hand gripped the back of his tunic as she hauled him off the ground like a rag doll. His feet barely scraped the cobblestones before she slammed him into the rough stone wall with brutal force. His head struck the surface with a hollow thud, and he let out a strangled gasp, dazed but still conscious.

Amelia’s hidden blade shot out from the bracer on her forearm with a sharp, metallic click, the cold steel pressing against his throat before he could even think of fighting back. She leaned in close, her voice a venomous whisper, her words slicing through the tension like the blade she wielded. "Don’t move," she hissed, her breath hot against his cheek. "You even think about breathing wrong, and I’ll slit your throat where you stand."

The man whimpered, his wild eyes darting around the room, searching for salvation that wouldn’t come. His breaths came in panicked bursts, his chest heaving as blood seeped from the wound in his ankle, pooling on the ground beneath him. "W-who are you?" he stammered, his voice shaking with a mixture of fear and desperation. "Get away from me! I—"

"You what?" Amelia snarled, cutting him off as she pressed the blade harder against his throat. The sharp edge bit into his skin, drawing a thin trickle of blood. Her voice dripped with disdain, her anger barely held in check. "You’ll kill again? You think I’ll let you walk out of here after what you’ve done?"

The man’s expression shifted, his terror giving way to a pathetic attempt at defiance. "It wasn’t my fault!" he spat, his words cracking under the weight of his cowardice. "She laughed at me! She deserved it! You don’t understand—she made me—"

Amelia’s patience snapped. Her blade plunged into his throat with a swift, practiced motion, cutting off his words with a wet, choking gurgle. Blood bubbled up from the wound, spilling over her bracer and staining the cobblestones a deep, vivid red. His eyes widened in shock, his body jerking once before going limp. She stepped back, letting him collapse to the ground in a lifeless heap.

The metallic tang of blood hung thick in the air, mingling with the soft gasps and murmurs of the onlookers. Amelia’s chest heaved, her breath coming fast as she wiped her hidden blade clean on her cloak. She stood over the body, her eyes hard, her pulse still pounding with the adrenaline of the kill.

“Remind me to never piss you off.” Antonio said from where he stood beside Sister Teodora.

Sister Teodora stepped forward, her features softening as she inclined her head. “You have our gratitude, Amelia. You’ve saved another of my girls.”

Amelia nodded, offering a tight smile. “Just doing what I had to. He wasn’t going to hurt anyone else,” she replied, glancing toward the man’s body, now being dragged away by Antonio’s men. She took a breath, willing her racing heart to slow, even as the adrenaline still buzzed in her veins.

Antonio shook his head, a wry grin on his lips. “Why is it wherever you go, trouble follows?”

Amelia let out a soft, humorless chuckle, running a hand through her hair. “It’s a gift, Antonio,” she said, the hint of a smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth. “But we both know there’s more to worry about than just a single man with a blade. This city’s changed, and not for the better.”

Before Antonio could respond, Ezio’s voice cut in, serious and focused. “Antonio. I trust you know why I’m here?”

The shift in Ezio’s tone drew Amelia’s attention back to him. She could see the tension in his posture, the sharpness in his gaze. There was a weight there—something that went beyond their reunion, something that pressed heavily on both of them. She watched as Antonio’s easy demeanor slipped away, replaced by a look of understanding.

“I imagine to rid Venice of Marco Barbarigo?” Antonio said, his smile turning grim. “But really, Ezio, we did this once already! And this new Templar Doge is a bigger culo than the last. Nevermind that he NEVER leaves the Palazzo.”

Sister Teodora interjected, her voice smooth and confident. “Yes. Except... for tonight. Marco wouldn’t dare miss Carnevale.”

Ezio’s brow furrowed, his curiosity piqued. “How do you know this?”

Teodora’s lips curved into a knowing smile. “In fact, he’s throwing the biggest party of them all. But getting in won’t be so simple. You’ll need a golden mask for entry. And before you think about forging one, keep in mind, each mask is numbered.”

Amelia reached into her satchel, her movements deliberate, the weight of its contents a steady reminder of their purpose. The room grew quieter as she pulled free a bundle of papers, bound tightly with a leather cord. She held it out, her eyes meeting Antonio’s with a mix of satisfaction and resolve.

“Not to worry,” Amelia said, her voice calm but edged with determination. “I’ve already taken care of that.” She tossed the documents onto the nearby table, the stack landing with a satisfying thud.

Antonio’s expression shifted from intrigue to surprise as he stepped forward, untying the cord and spreading the pages across the table. His sharp eyes scanned the list, flipping through quickly before breaking into a grin.

“Well, well,” Antonio said, his voice rich with approval. “A list of the golden mask holders. I underestimated you, cara mia.”

Antonio’s grin widened as he leaned closer, tracing a finger down one of the pages. “Names, numbers, even addresses,” he mused. “Perfect. With this, we can secure a mask and get you inside.”

“And once inside?” Ezio asked, stepping forward, his arms crossed as his eyes scanned the documents.

Antonio’s grin slipped away, replaced by a more somber expression. “Once inside, you’ll be on your own. The Palazzo will be crawling with guards, and Marco won’t make it easy. He’ll be expecting someone to try something.”

Teodora’s steady voice cut through, calm yet commanding. “The Carnevale is both a blessing and a curse. The chaos will provide cover, but only if you move carefully. The Templars will have their eyes everywhere, watching for the slightest hint of trouble.”

Ezio nodded, his brows drawing together in thought. “And the masks?” he asked, his voice low and measured.

Amelia stepped forward, her finger tracing one of the names on the list. “I’ve already chosen my target. There’s a merchant in the San Polo district—loud, arrogant, and careless with his possessions. He won’t even notice his mask is gone until it’s too late.”

“And me?” Ezio asked, his tone both curious and focused.

Amelia turned to him, her lips curving into a faint, knowing smile. “For you, they’re holding carnival games in the main square. Win all four, and you’ll earn yourself a mask.”

Ezio raised an eyebrow, his confidence showing through a smirk. “Games? That almost sounds like fun.”

“Don’t get too distracted,” Amelia replied, her voice tinged with both teasing and caution. “We don’t have time for you to bask in glory.”

He chuckled softly, stepping closer to her. The warmth in his eyes softened the sharp edge of his confidence. “I’ll be quick. Shall we meet back here?”

Amelia nodded, her focus momentarily shaken as Ezio reached out, brushing his fingers against her cheek. His touch was light, but the gesture carried a weight that made her pulse quicken. His hand trailed down to her jawline, his thumb brushing against her skin with a tenderness that contrasted with the chaos swirling around them.

“You worry too much,” he said softly, his voice dipping into something more intimate.

“Someone has to,” she replied, her tone softening, though she fought to keep her composure. “Especially with you.”

His grin widened, but it was gentler now, touched with something deeper. Without giving her a chance to retreat into her usual guardedness, he leaned down and pressed a kiss to her forehead. The warmth of his lips lingered, and when he pulled back, his hand slipped to her waist, holding her there for a moment longer.

“Ezio—” she began, but he silenced her with a kiss, his mouth capturing hers in a way that left no room for hesitation. It wasn’t rushed or desperate, but it carried an urgency all the same—a promise, a reassurance, and a claim all rolled into one. Amelia’s breath hitched as her hands instinctively gripped the front of his tunic, pulling him closer.

When he finally pulled away, his forehead rested against hers, his breath warm against her lips. “Stay safe,” he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper.

“You too,” she replied, her voice steadier than she felt.

Chapter Text

Amelia slipped into the San Polo district under the cover of the lively Carnavale, the city’s jubilant chaos providing the perfect backdrop for her mission. The streets were alive with music, laughter, and the clinking of wine glasses, and costumed revelers packed the narrow alleys, their masks glinting in the warm glow of the lanterns strung overhead. Amelia moved among them like a shadow, her own mask blending seamlessly into the sea of vibrant colors and intricate designs.

Her target was easy to spot—a merchant whose booming laugh carried over the din of the crowd. He was a portly man in a gilded mask adorned with swirling patterns of gold and crimson, standing out even in the decadence of the Carnavale. He waved his arms theatrically as he regaled a small group of listeners with exaggerated tales of his wealth and influence, his golden mask marking him as one of Marco Barbarigo’s esteemed guests.

Amelia observed from the edge of the square, her sharp eyes following the merchant’s every movement. His carelessness was exactly as described—his leather satchel, bulging with coins and documents, hung loosely at his side, the strap threatening to slip off his shoulder with each flamboyant gesture. He was drunk, his words slurring slightly as he tipped his glass too far and spilled wine down the front of his silk doublet.

Perfect.

Amelia melted into the crowd, her movements fluid and unassuming. She positioned herself strategically, her path crossing near the merchant’s entourage. A drunken noble stumbled in her direction, and she used the distraction to slip closer, her lithe form weaving through the throng unnoticed.

Timing was everything.

The merchant turned to speak to another reveler, his attention fully diverted. Amelia moved like water, her fingers brushing against his satchel for the briefest moment before she slipped the golden mask free. The weight of it was satisfying in her hand, its edges cool against her gloved fingers. Her movements were so seamless, so precise, that the merchant didn’t even pause in his tale.

Amelia didn’t linger. She pocketed the mask in one smooth motion and blended back into the crowd, her steps measured and calm. She moved as if she belonged, her confidence ensuring no one gave her a second glance.

Amelia made her way toward the main square, her steps light and purposeful. She knew Ezio would be in the thick of it, and while she trusted his ability to handle himself, curiosity—and a touch of concern—drew her to see how he was faring. The golden mask she’d secured was tucked safely into her satchel, its weight a subtle reminder of her success. The din of the square grew louder as she approached, the sounds of cheers and laughter spilling into the streets.

When she reached the edge of the square, her sharp eyes quickly found him. Ezio stood at the center of a circle formed by cheering revelers, his posture loose yet ready, his mask pushed up just enough to reveal the intense focus in his expression. He was facing off against a burly opponent in the final game—a hand-to-hand combat match designed to entertain the drunken crowd. Amelia’s heart clenched as she watched the scene unfold.

The fight was supposed to be straightforward, but she quickly noticed the guards stationed around the perimeter. Their presence was more than ceremonial; their calculating glances and subtle gestures to the referee hinted at something far more sinister. This wasn’t a fair match. They wanted Ezio to lose.

The crowd roared as the referee barked out the rules, though it was clear they meant little. Amelia’s sharp gaze tracked every movement as the fight began. Ezio’s opponent charged at him with all the grace of a bull, swinging heavy fists with brute force. Ezio dodged and weaved, his movements a study in precision, but the opponent was relentless.

Then came the cheap tricks. A well-placed shove from one of the guards as Ezio passed too close to the edge of the ring. The opponent feigned stumbling, only to land a low blow when Ezio adjusted to help him recover. Amelia’s jaw tightened as she saw Ezio take the hit, his face twisting in pain as the crowd cheered obliviously. A welt blossomed on his cheek, darkening quickly into a bruise.

Despite the underhanded tactics, Ezio held his ground. His strikes were calculated, each movement honed to perfection. He ducked under a wild punch and countered with a swift jab to the ribs, sending his opponent staggering. The crowd erupted as Ezio landed a final, decisive blow, dropping the man to his knees. Amelia allowed herself a faint smile, her chest easing with pride and relief.

The referee stepped forward, his voice booming as the crowd leaned in with anticipation. “And the winner is—Dante Moro!”

Amelia’s satisfaction evaporated, replaced by a cold fury as she heard the name. Dante Moro, Marco Barbarigo’s personal bodyguard, wasn’t even in the match. Yet the golden mask, the prize Ezio had fought for, was handed over to a smug, towering figure on the sidelines. Dante accepted it with a theatrical bow, his lips curling into a smirk that Amelia wanted to slap off his face.

Ezio’s expression darkened, his fists clenching as the crowd shifted focus, oblivious to the injustice. Amelia watched as he scanned the square, his sharp gaze landing on her. Even from a distance, she could see the simmering annoyance in his eyes. He pushed through the crowd, his movements deliberate, and met her on the edge of the square.

“That was… enlightening,” he said dryly, his voice low enough to be drowned out by the noise around them. His cheek was already swelling, the bruise dark and angry against his skin.

Amelia raised an eyebrow, tilting her head slightly. “I saw,” she replied, her tone equally measured. Her fingers itched to reach out and touch his injured face, but she resisted, knowing he wouldn’t appreciate the attention. “They didn’t even try to hide how rigged it was.”

Ezio’s jaw tightened, his frustration evident. “Marco’s games, Marco’s rules. I should have known.”

Amelia glanced toward the square, her sharp eyes finding Dante Moro. He was laughing with a small group of elites, the golden mask glinting in his hands. “We’ll get it back,” she said firmly, her voice steady with resolve. “But not here. Not now.”

Ezio nodded, his gaze softening slightly as he looked at her. “Let’s go,” he said, his voice quieter now. “The brothel is safer.”

Amelia led the way back to the brothel, her steps purposeful but measured as she navigated the crowded streets. The Carnavale continued around them, vibrant and chaotic, but the tension simmering between her and Ezio cut through the revelry. She glanced back at him once, catching the way he pressed his fingers to his bruised cheek, the movement casual but revealing. Her lips twitched into a faint smirk despite herself.

"You’ll live," she said lightly, the teasing lilt in her voice breaking the silence.

Ezio gave her a wry glance, his expression a mix of irritation and amusement. "Barely," he replied, his voice dry but carrying that familiar warmth that always seemed to linger beneath the surface. "It was a cheap shot."

"Several, actually," Amelia countered, her smirk deepening. "But you handled it. Even if they tried to rob you of the victory."

He let out a low chuckle, though his jaw tightened at the mention of Dante Moro. "Bastardo," he muttered, his tone darkening briefly. "He’ll get what’s coming to him."

Amelia didn’t respond, but the gleam in her eyes said enough. They moved in companionable silence after that, the narrow alleys of Venice guiding them back toward the sanctuary of Antonio’s brothel. The sounds of the Carnavale began to fade as they approached, replaced by the softer hum of muted conversations and the gentle strumming of a lute from within.

Amelia stepped into the brothel with Ezio at her side, the familiar blend of perfume and muted chatter washing over her. The soft glow of lanterns cast warm light across the space, illuminating velvet drapes and gilded furniture. The comforting atmosphere, however, did little to ease the tension thrumming beneath the surface.

Waiting for them near the hearth were Antonio and Sister Teodora. Antonio, now sobered but visibly tired, stood with his arms crossed, his face etched with a mixture of concern and frustration. Beside him, Sister Teodora maintained her usual composed demeanor, though her sharp gaze flicked between Amelia and Ezio, taking in the bruises and subtle signs of strain with a keen eye.

"Finally," Antonio greeted, his voice tinged with exasperation. "I was beginning to think you’d decided to enjoy the festivities."

"We had a slight delay," Amelia replied smoothly, glancing at Ezio, who offered a faint shrug as if to say, What can you do?

Teodora stepped forward, her tone gentle but firm. "I trust you both have the masks?"

Amelia reached into her satchel, producing the golden mask she had secured earlier. The intricate design glinted in the firelight as she handed it over to Teodora. "I got mine without any issues," she said, her voice steady. "Ezio, however—"

"Was robbed," Ezio cut in dryly, earning a raised eyebrow from Antonio. "The games were rigged, and Dante Moro walked away with the mask. A convenient outcome for Marco Barbarigo."

Antonio cursed under his breath, shaking his head. "Typical. The Templars control every aspect of this city. You should have known, Ezio."

Ezio’s expression hardened, but before he could retort, Teodora held up a hand to forestall any argument. "We don’t have time for blame," she said firmly. "The Carnevale is already underway, and Marco won’t stay at the party indefinitely. We need to act tonight."

Amelia glanced at Ezio, her mind racing. The thought of Dante Moro parading around with the mask made her blood boil, but Teodora was right. Time wasn’t on their side. She let out a breath, her decision made. "Take mine," she said, holding the mask out to Ezio.

Ezio blinked, his brow furrowing. "Amelia, no—"

"You need it," she interrupted, her tone brooking no argument. "We can’t afford to waste time getting another. I’ll find another way in."

Ezio hesitated, his hand hovering over the mask as he searched her face. "You’re sure?"

"Positive," she replied, her voice steady, though her heart raced at the prospect of improvising her way into the Palazzo. "I’ll blend in with the courtesans. No one will look twice at me in their company."

Antonio’s expression shifted from surprise to a slow, approving nod. "It’s not a bad plan," he admitted, though his tone carried a note of caution. "But it’ll be dangerous. You won’t be able to go dressed and armed as you are now.”

Amelia stared at Antonio, her jaw tightening at his words. "Danger is nothing new," she replied tersely, though the thought of changing her attire clearly soured her mood. Her eyes flicked to Sister Teodora, whose knowing smile indicated she had already anticipated this conversation.

“Come with me,” Teodora said, gesturing toward one of the rooms at the back of the brothel. Amelia followed, her steps slow and reluctant as the reality of her plan began to set in.

Inside the room, Teodora motioned toward a neatly folded dress laid out on a chaise. Amelia’s eyes widened slightly as she took in the outfit. The bodice was intricately embroidered but scandalously low, its structure barely covering what modesty required. The short, high-low skirts revealed more leg than she was comfortable with, and the entire ensemble seemed designed to command attention—not exactly ideal for someone accustomed to working from the shadows.

"Teodora," Amelia began, her voice edged with irritation. "This dress… doesn’t exactly leave much to the imagination."

Teodora smirked, her expression calm but amused. "That’s the point, my dear. If you’re to blend in, you need to look the part. Courtesans are not shy creatures. Confidence is their weapon."

Amelia sighed heavily, pinching the bridge of her nose. “Confidence is easier with a blade strapped to my thigh and my chest covered.”

"You’ll manage," Teodora replied smoothly, handing the dress to Amelia. "You have the figure for it, and no one will dare question your presence. Besides," she added, her tone turning softer, "you’re more than capable of handling yourself. Clothes don’t change that."

Reluctantly, Amelia took the dress and changed behind a privacy screen. As she slipped it on, she felt the skirts swish against her thighs, the short hemline in the front making her painfully aware of every step. She adjusted the bodice, her fingers tugging at the fabric in an attempt to ensure it stayed in place, but there was no escaping the fact that one wrong move could cause an embarrassing slip.

She emerged from behind the screen, her arms crossed over her chest as she glared at Teodora. "If I sneeze, this whole thing is going to fall apart."

Teodora laughed softly, shaking her head. "You’ll be fine. Stand up straight. Own it."

Amelia shot her a look but did as instructed, standing tall and pulling her shoulders back. The confidence Teodora mentioned slowly seeped in as Amelia studied her reflection in the mirror. Though the outfit made her feel exposed, she couldn’t deny that the effect was striking. She looked like someone who belonged at the Carnevale—a woman who could command attention and move through the Palazzo unnoticed.

Ezio’s gaze lingered, unapologetically raking over her form. He leaned casually against the edge of a table, his arms crossed, but there was nothing casual about the way his eyes followed her every step. When their gazes locked, he straightened, his smirk widening into something devilishly charming, something that made her simultaneously want to smack him and sink into the ground to avoid the intensity of his attention.

Amelia held her chin high, feigning indifference, but her cheeks betrayed her with the faintest flush. She stopped a few steps away from him, crossing her arms over her chest, though it only made her feel more exposed. "If you’re done staring, we have a mission to prepare for," she said, her tone clipped but lacking real venom.

Ezio pushed off the table and closed the distance between them with his signature fluid grace, his smirk never faltering. "Staring?" he said, his voice low and laced with amusement. "Amelia, I am admiring. There's a difference."

"Is that what you call it?" she replied dryly, though her heart betrayed her by skipping a beat as he drew closer.

Ezio tilted his head slightly, his eyes gleaming with a playful edge. "This look suits you," he murmured, his voice dropping just enough to make her breath hitch. He reached out, his fingers lightly brushing her bare arm, the touch sending an unexpected shiver down her spine. "Though, I admit... it's not quite what I’m used to seeing you in."

"Because it’s impractical," Amelia shot back, trying to sound firm but failing to hide the waver in her voice. "And ridiculous."

Ezio’s grin deepened. "Ridiculous? Hardly. I’d say it’s... captivating." His hand found her waist, his touch firm but unhurried as he pulled her flush against him. Amelia’s breath caught, the sudden proximity making it impossible to ignore the heat radiating off him. His other hand came up, his fingers brushing a stray curl from her face before trailing deliberately slow along her jawline.

"Ezio," she warned, though it came out weaker than she intended. Her eyes narrowed, but the faint quirk of her lips betrayed her.

He leaned in, his voice dropping to a teasing murmur. "Forgive me, Amelia, but it’s difficult to focus when you look this... distracting." His gaze flicked downward, unapologetically lingering on her exposed collarbone and the swell of her chest before returning to her eyes. The heat in his gaze made her stomach flip, and the corner of his mouth twitched in satisfaction as he caught her subtle reaction.

"Keep your eyes where they belong," she said, though her voice lacked conviction. She placed a hand on his chest, intending to push him back, but he didn’t budge. Instead, he placed his hand over hers, holding it in place as he looked at her with a mixture of playfulness and something deeper—something that made her pulse race.

"They are exactly where they belong," he murmured, his voice soft but undeniably suggestive.

Amelia let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding, her fingers curling slightly against his chest. She hated how easily he could unnerve her, how his charm had a way of slipping under her defenses no matter how hard she tried to steel herself against it. But she refused to let him see just how much he affected her.

Before she could retort, Antonio's voice cut through the tension, sharp and full of amusement. “Ah, so this is what’s been keeping the two of you so busy,” he said, striding into the room with his usual swagger, a grin stretching wide across his face. “Amelia, you finally told him, I see. Took you long enough.”

Amelia’s face burned, the blush creeping all the way to the tips of her ears as she whirled on Antonio. “Antonio,” she hissed, her voice low and warning. “Now is not the time.”

Antonio ignored her, his grin widening as he turned his gaze to Ezio. “She was practically mooning over you when you first left Venice,” he said, his tone almost conspiratorial. “I’m impressed she lasted this long without smacking you for being so dense.”

Ezio chuckled, the sound deep and warm, as he glanced down at Amelia, clearly savoring her mortification. “Dense? Perhaps,” he said, his tone unapologetic, “but in my defense, she didn’t exactly make it easy. I needed a little… encouragement.”

Antonio raised an eyebrow, a gleam of curiosity sparking in his expression. “Oh? Do tell.”

Ezio smirked, the mischief in his eyes glinting even brighter. “She shoved me into an alley,” he began, his tone casual yet laced with unmistakable pride. “Quite forcefully, might I add. Then, with all the fire and passion I’ve come to expect from her, she confessed she’d been in love with me for years.” He leaned slightly toward Antonio, as though sharing a great secret. “It was dramatic, heartfelt… and thoroughly effective.”

Amelia groaned audibly, her hands flying up to cover her face. “Ezio!” she snapped, her voice muffled by her palms.

Antonio burst out laughing, his amusement booming through the room. “I knew it!” he declared, pointing a triumphant finger at her. “I knew you couldn’t keep that locked away forever. Bravo, my dear! Bravo! I only wish I’d been there to witness it.”

Amelia groaned louder, trying to burrow further into Ezio’s side as though the ground might mercifully swallow her. “Antonio,” she hissed from the safety of her hands, “if you don’t stop talking, I’m going to regret sparing you all these years.”

Ezio laughed again, his hand on her waist pulling her just a touch closer. He glanced at Antonio, unbothered by her embarrassment and clearly enjoying the moment. “To be fair,” he said lightly, “I’m not sure even she expected it to come out like that.”

Amelia made a faint sound of protest and finally dropped her hands, her face still flushed with mortification. “I hate you both,” she muttered, glaring first at Antonio and then up at Ezio, though her scowl was softened by the faintest hint of a pout.

Antonio grinned, utterly unrepentant. “Oh, don’t worry, Amelia. It’s all in good fun. But honestly, I’m proud of you. It’s about time you stopped glaring at him from across rooms and actually did something about it.”

“ Antonio, ” Amelia growled, her warning tone sharper this time.

Ezio chuckled, his hand sliding up to rest lightly between her shoulders as though to calm her. “Relax, amore mio. You’ll give yourself away.” He bent his head slightly, his lips brushing her temple in a fleeting yet affectionate kiss. “And besides, I rather like the idea of you shoving me into alleys. It’s… invigorating.”

Amelia sighed heavily, clearly torn between further irritation and giving up entirely. “You’re impossible,” she muttered, though her voice lacked real venom. She stepped slightly out of his hold, brushing invisible dust from her skirts as though to reclaim her composure. “We have work to do.”

Antonio raised both hands in mock surrender, his grin never faltering. “Fine, fine. I’ll leave you two lovebirds alone. For now.”

Ezio’s smirk widened, his voice dropping to an amused murmur. “Lovebirds. I do like the sound of that.”

Teodora, who had been quietly observing the exchange with a knowing smile, finally stepped forward, her composed tone cutting through the lingering amusement in the room. “Indeed, the Carnevale waits for no one,” she said smoothly. “If you’re done teasing poor Amelia, we should focus on the task at hand.”

Ezio’s smirk softened into something more serious, though his hand lingered briefly on the small of Amelia’s back as he turned his attention to Teodora. “We’re ready,” he said simply, his voice steady and resolute. “Tell us what we need to do.”

Chapter Text

The lively hum of the Carnevale engulfed them as Amelia, Ezio, and a small group of courtesans made their way into the heart of the festivities. Lanterns swayed gently in the breeze, casting a warm glow over the throngs of masked revelers dancing to the cheerful tunes of lutes and tambourines. The air was thick with laughter, the clinking of wine glasses, and the occasional burst of fireworks illuminating the Venetian sky.

Amelia adjusted her bodice for the hundredth time, her fingers tugging discreetly at the fabric in a futile attempt to feel more covered. Her discomfort was obvious, though she kept her head high, refusing to let it show on her face. Beside her, Ezio moved with the ease of someone who had walked these streets a hundred times. His mask, intricate and gilded, fit him perfectly—an air of confidence that seemed to draw every eye in the square.

The courtesans surrounded them, their skirts swishing with every step. Amelia had expected teasing, but instead, she was met with quiet, encouraging words from the women who walked beside her.

“Chin up, cara,” one of them whispered, her hand brushing Amelia’s arm lightly. “Confidence is everything.”

Another leaned closer, her tone playful but sincere. “You look stunning. They won’t know what hit them.”

Amelia managed a small, grateful smile, though the weight of countless stares burned against her skin. Her discomfort wasn’t just from the dress; it was the way people looked at her—openly, shamelessly, their gazes lingering too long. She wasn’t used to being on display like this, and it took every ounce of her training to keep her stride steady, her expression composed.

Ezio must have noticed, though he didn’t comment. Instead, he drifted just close enough that his presence became a subtle shield, his movements deliberately unhurried as if to remind her she wasn’t alone.

“Relax,” murmured one of the courtesans at her other side, her voice low enough for Amelia to hear without drawing attention. “You’re doing fine. Just follow his lead and let us handle the rest.”

Amelia nodded slightly, her fingers brushing the folds of her skirt as they moved deeper into the crowd. The Palazzo loomed in the distance, its grand structure glowing like a beacon against the darkening sky. Marco Barbarigo’s masquerade was in full swing, and the golden masks of the elite gleamed like stars among the sea of revelers.

As they entered the central square, the weight of the crowd seemed to press in closer. Revelers parted to make way for the courtesans, their gazes lingering on the women as they passed. Amelia caught snippets of murmured admiration, whispers that would have made her bristle under different circumstances. Now, she let them slide off her, her focus narrowing on the task ahead.

One of the courtesans placed a hand lightly on Amelia’s wrist as they slowed near the edge of the square. “Stay close to him,” she said softly, her gaze flicking toward Ezio. “If anything goes wrong, we’ll draw the attention away. That’s what we do.”

Amelia gave a tight nod, her eyes following Ezio as he moved toward the Palazzo’s steps, his posture relaxed but his focus razor-sharp. She couldn’t help but admire how effortlessly he blended into the crowd, his confidence radiating in every step. He caught her gaze for a brief moment and offered a small, almost imperceptible smile. 

At the gates of the Doge’s estate, the guards stepped aside, letting Ezio and Amelia through with barely a glance. The courtesans with her giggled and whispered, their voices mingling with the music, and she followed their lead, letting the performance come naturally. She cast a glance back at Ezio as they entered the crowded courtyard, watching as he moved alongside them, his posture relaxed yet alert.

The party was in full swing, the wealthy and the powerful gathered in clusters beneath the opulent decorations of the courtyard. Lanterns cast pools of golden light across the faces of the revelers, and the air was thick with the scent of wine and roasted meats. Amelia kept her head low, mingling among the courtesans while keeping an eye on Ezio. The sound of laughter and clinking glasses surrounded them, but beneath the surface, tension simmered.

Ezio’s jaw clenched as his eyes locked onto Marco Barbarigo, standing on a stage just beyond the edge of the dock, preening like a peacock before the crowd. The man radiated smugness, his voice booming over the festivities as he addressed the gathered guests.

“Benvenuti! Welcome, my friends, to the grandest social event of the season!” Marco spread his arms wide, basking in the attention of the crowd. “At peace or at war, in times of prosperity or paucity—Venezia will always have Carnevale!”

Amelia sidled closer to Ezio’s side, keeping her voice low as she spoke. “He’s not leaving that boat anytime soon, is he?” She could see the wheels turning behind Ezio’s eyes, his frustration evident in the way his fingers twitched at his side.

“ Merda, ” he muttered under his breath, glancing between Marco’s pompous figure and the guards that lined the docks. “I’ll have to swim out there.”

Sister Teodora, who had slipped in beside them, shook her head sharply. “I wouldn’t try it. You’d be spotted right away.”

Ezio’s frustration flared, but he held it in check, his tone clipped. “Then I’ll fight my way out th—”

“Wait,” Amelia interjected, her eyes brightening with an idea. She gestured subtly to Ezio’s wrist. “Your pistola ! The one Leo made you. It’s as loud as those explosions. Time it right, and you’ll walk out of here unnoticed.”

Ezio considered her words, a slow smile creeping across his lips as he nodded. “I like the way you think.” He glanced back at Amelia, his expression softening for just a moment. “Stay close to the girls. I’ll be back before you know it.”

Amelia caught his hand briefly, squeezing it tightly before letting go. “Just don’t miss, Ezio. We’ve come too far to botch this now.”

He gave her a wink, slipping into the crowd with the fluidity of a shadow. Amelia watched him go, her heart pounding harder than she cared to admit. There was always risk in what they did—risk she’d grown accustomed to—but tonight felt different. Tonight, she felt every second stretch out like an eternity, waiting for the moment when everything could go wrong.

She fell in step with the courtesans, forcing herself to keep up the charade as they danced and mingled with the guests. Her laughter was forced, her gaze darting constantly toward the dock where Marco continued his speech, oblivious to the danger that lingered just beyond the flickering light of the lanterns.

The tension tightened in her chest as she caught a glimpse of Ezio positioning himself, his movements calculated and precise as he waited for the right moment. The fireworks crackled above, and for a moment, all sound seemed to fade as he raised the pistol, aiming with a steady hand.

The shot rang out, a crack that blended seamlessly with the booming fireworks, and Marco’s triumphant speech cut off abruptly. He staggered, clutching his chest as the crowd gasped, chaos erupting in the blink of an eye. Amelia forced herself to turn away, blending back into the revelers as panicked shouts filled the air.

She could see Ezio already making his retreat, slipping toward the water’s edge with practiced ease. But the guards were already closing in, drawn by the commotion. Amelia took a deep breath, her muscles tensing as she prepared herself for what came next.

“Sister Teodora, take the girls and go,” she whispered fiercely. Teodora gave her a nod, before pulling. Dagger from her skirts and pressing it into her palm. Amelia gave her a quick nod of thanks. She followed after Ezio as quickly as she could. Though with only a single dagger on her when realized she wouldn’t be of much help.

Amelia watched as Sister Teodora herded the courtesans away from the growing chaos, slipping into the shadows with their skirts rustling like whispers against the night. Amelia's heart thudded in her chest, the adrenaline coursing through her veins making her feel alive and on edge all at once. She couldn’t stand idly by while Ezio risked his life alone. With only the dagger Teodora had given to her, she slipped through the side streets, following the path she’d seen Ezio take.

Amelia moved swiftly through the labyrinth of side streets, her heart pounding as the distant chaos of the Carnevale echoed behind her. The dagger Teodora had pressed into her palm felt reassuring, but she couldn’t ignore the unsettling sense of vulnerability without her usual arsenal of weapons. She’d never been one to sit on the sidelines, and the thought of Ezio facing danger alone only steeled her resolve.

As she rounded a corner, the glint of torchlight caught her eye. A small group of guards loomed ahead, their movements purposeful as they fanned out across the narrow alley. Amelia ducked into the shadows, pressing herself against the cold stone wall. She watched, her breath steady but her muscles tense, as they passed by without noticing her.

She emerged from her hiding spot, but as she took another step forward, a shout rang out behind her.

“Hey! You there!”

Amelia turned sharply, her eyes locking onto a trio of guards approaching fast. Her grip on the dagger tightened, but before she could react, one of them was already on her. His sword swept downward, striking her hand with brutal precision. The dagger clattered to the ground, spinning out of reach. Pain flared in her wrist, but she didn’t have time to dwell on it before another guard grabbed her roughly by the arm.

“Where do you think you’re going, bella?” the man sneered, his breath sour as he leaned in close.

Amelia twisted in his grip, aiming a sharp elbow to his stomach, but her momentum was stopped abruptly when another guard shoved her hard against the wall, face-first. The rough stone scraped against her cheek, and she let out a sharp hiss of pain.

“Feisty, isn’t she?” one of them remarked with a laugh, his tone dripping with mockery.

Amelia’s mind raced as she felt the weight of the guards pinning her against the wall. Her usual calm under pressure warred with the panic clawing at the edges of her mind. She needed to think fast.

Amelia barely had time to draw in a breath before the guard pressed himself against her, his body pinning hers firmly against the cold, unyielding stone. His weight was oppressive, the smell of sweat and sour wine on his breath nauseating as he leaned in close to her ear.

"Such spirit," he drawled mockingly, his free hand roaming down her side before groping her ass. "Let’s see how long it takes to break you."

Amelia thrashed against him, her muscles straining as she tried to free herself, but his grip only tightened. The laughter of the other guards echoed behind her, fueling her desperation. Her movements earned her a hard shove, her chest slamming against the wall with enough force to knock the air from her lungs. She let out a choked gasp but refused to stop struggling.

"Still fighting, huh?" the guard snarled, his tone laced with irritation and cruel amusement. He grabbed a fistful of her hair, yanking her head back painfully before slamming her face forward into the wall. The impact was sharp and brutal, and she felt the sickening crunch of her nose breaking. Warm blood began to drip down her lips and chin, the coppery taste flooding her mouth.

Amelia’s vision blurred for a moment, her body trembling from the pain, but she refused to give in. She twisted again, her fists balling at her sides, trying to elbow him, kick him—anything to stop what she knew was coming.

The guard laughed low in his throat, his hand tightening on her hip. “Oh, I like it when they squirm,” he said, his voice thick with vile intent. His fingers fisted in her skirts, yanking them up over her thighs as the others cheered him on.

A wave of cold panic surged through Amelia, but it was cut short by the sudden, deafening crack of a gunshot. The sound reverberated through the narrow alley like thunder, silencing the guards' laughter in an instant.

The man pressing against her jerked back violently, his weight disappearing as he crumpled to the ground with a heavy thud. A fresh spray of blood coated the cobblestones beneath him, a bullet wound clean through the back of his skull.

Amelia stumbled forward, her hands bracing against the wall as she gasped for air. Her skirts fell back into place as she turned, her vision still swimming from the pain in her head. The remaining guards looked around in a panic, their weapons half-drawn as they searched for the source of the shot.

“Amelia!” Ezio’s voice cut through the tension, sharp and commanding.

Her gaze snapped to him, relief flooding her chest. He stood at the end of the alley, his pistol still raised, its barrel trailing a faint wisp of smoke. His mask obscured part of his face, but the cold fury in his eyes was unmistakable.

Ezio didn’t give the guards a chance to regroup. He fired again, the shot finding its mark in the throat of the second man. The guard gurgled as he dropped to his knees, clutching his neck before collapsing in a lifeless heap.

The third guard hesitated, his hand shaking as he fumbled with his sword. “Wait, please—” he stammered, but Ezio was already closing the distance. In a flash, his hidden blade shot out, plunging into the man’s chest with ruthless precision. The guard let out a strangled gasp before falling limp, joining his comrades on the blood-slicked ground.

Amelia pressed a hand to her nose, trying to stem the flow of blood as Ezio stepped over the bodies. His expression softened as his eyes scanned her for injuries, his free hand reaching out to steady her.

“Amelia,” he said, his voice low but urgent. “Are you all right?”

“Broke my damn nose.” She whimpered, blood seeping through her fingers. 

Amelia sucked in a shaky breath, her bloodied fingers gently probing her nose. The pain was sharp and blinding, making her eyes water, but the uneven shift of the bone beneath her touch confirmed what she already knew—it had to be set, and it had to be done now.

Ezio watched her, his brow furrowed with concern as she muttered, “I need to set it. I don’t want it to heal crooked.”

He stepped closer, his hands finding her hips, steadying her with a firm but gentle grip. His voice was low, grounding. “Let me help.”

She shook her head, blinking away the tears blurring her vision. “No, I have to do it myself. Just… hold me steady.”

Ezio’s hands tightened slightly, his thumbs brushing against her sides in an almost soothing gesture. “I’m here,” he said, his tone steady, though his gaze flicked nervously between her bloodied nose and her determined expression.

Amelia took a deep breath through her mouth, her chest rising and falling as she braced herself. Her fingers found the crooked bridge of her nose, the touch sending fresh spikes of pain radiating through her skull. She winced, muttering a string of curses under her breath. “Damned guards… this dress… this whole bloody night…”

Ezio’s lips twitched, but he kept his focus. “Amelia,” he said, his voice laced with both amusement and concern. “Do it before you talk yourself out of it.”

She shot him a glare, though it lacked real heat, before squeezing her eyes shut and gripping her nose firmly. With one swift, decisive motion, she pushed the bone back into place.

A sharp, gut-wrenching pain exploded through her face, and she let out a loud, visceral cry that quickly devolved into a torrent of curses. “Figlio di una vacca! Dio maledica questo dolore! Merda!” Her words spilled out between gasps, her entire body trembling as her knees threatened to buckle.

Ezio’s grip on her hips tightened, keeping her upright as she sagged slightly against him. “Steady,” he murmured, his voice soft yet firm, his hands a solid anchor as she rode out the pain.

Amelia blinked hard, willing the tears streaming down her cheeks to stop, though they mingled freely with the blood that still trickled from her nostrils. Her head throbbed, and her entire face felt like it was on fire, but the sharpness of the pain began to dull slightly, leaving behind a deep, aching thrum.

She took a shuddering breath, wiping at her cheeks with the back of her hand, smearing blood and tears across her skin. “It’s done,” she said hoarsely, though her voice still carried the faint tremor of pain.

“You, mia bella donna, are a terrifying mess. Let’s get you back to the bordello before more guards find us.”

Amelia snorted, though it came out more like a pained huff through her battered nose. She managed a crooked smirk, her lips quirking despite the sharp ache radiating across her face. “I’ll take that as a compliment,” she rasped, her voice thick and raw. “But don’t think I’m letting you carry me.”

Ezio chuckled softly, his hands lingering on her hips for a moment longer before he stepped back, his sharp eyes scanning their surroundings. “I wouldn’t dream of it,” he said, though the warmth in his tone belied the worry etched into his features. “But you’re going to stay close. No more playing the hero tonight.”

“I don’t play at anything,” she muttered, bending to retrieve the dagger Teodora had given her. Her fingers trembled slightly as she gripped the hilt, but her movements were steady as she straightened. The streaks of blood and grime on her face, paired with the smudged tears, made her look like something fierce and untamed—a force that had been through hell and still refused to back down.

Ezio glanced at her, his gaze lingering for a moment too long. There was something unreadable in his expression, a mix of admiration and frustration that made her shift uncomfortably under his scrutiny.

“What?” she snapped, though there was no real heat in her voice.

He shook his head, a faint, rueful smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “Just wondering how you manage to look like a warrior goddess while covered in blood and bruises.”

Amelia groaned, rolling her eyes even as a faint flush crept up her neck. “Shut up, Ezio.

Ezio raised a brow, his smirk deepening, but he wisely said nothing more. Instead, he pulled a small cloth from his belt, stepping close enough that Amelia instinctively stiffened.

“What are you doing?” she asked, her voice wary as her fingers tightened around the dagger.

“You’re a little too… memorable at the moment,” he replied smoothly, gesturing toward her face with the cloth. “We can’t exactly parade you through Venice looking like this. Trust me.”

Before she could protest, Ezio carefully tilted her chin upward, his gloved hand gentle but firm as he began dabbing at the blood streaked across her cheeks. The cloth came away darkened, but he worked methodically, his touch surprisingly tender despite the efficiency of his movements.

Amelia winced as he brushed against the scrapes on her forehead and chin, the stinging making her grit her teeth. “Could you be a little less thorough?” she muttered, though her voice lacked its usual bite.

Ezio chuckled softly, his breath warm against her skin as he worked. “You’ll thank me later, amore mio . I’m doing you a favor.”

Amelia huffed, but she let him continue, her gaze darting away as she blinked back the lingering moisture in her eyes. The intimate proximity felt strange, unnerving in a way that left her heart skittering in her chest. She could feel the warmth radiating from him, the steady calm of his presence in stark contrast to the chaos she’d just endured.

When he finished, he stepped back, surveying his handiwork with a critical eye. “There. You still look like you’ve been through a fight, but at least you won’t turn every head on the street.”

“Wonderful,” Amelia deadpanned, though the corner of her mouth twitched with the hint of a smile. “Now I’ll just blend right in with the other bruised and bloody courtesans.”

Ezio ignored her sarcasm, shrugging off the elegant cape that draped his left shoulder. The rich fabric shimmered faintly in the lantern light, its deep red hue catching the gold trim that lined its edges. He stepped forward again, this time wrapping it carefully around her shoulders, ensuring it covered her like a shawl. The fabric was heavier than she expected, but the warmth was a welcome comfort against the night’s chill.

“This should keep the stares to a minimum,” he said, pulling the edge of the cape up to form a makeshift hood that cast her face in shadow. His hands lingered briefly on her shoulders, his gaze meeting hers with a quiet intensity. “You’ve been through enough tonight, cara mia . Let’s get you out of here.”

Chapter Text

Amelia nodded, the weight of the night pressing down on her as she allowed herself to lean slightly into Ezio’s side. The warmth of his cape and the steady presence of his arm around her made her feel grounded despite the pounding in her head and the ache radiating across her face.

Ezio guided her through the twisting alleys of Venice, keeping to the shadows as they navigated the quieter backstreets. The distant din of the Carnevale faded into a muted hum, the occasional burst of fireworks illuminating their path briefly before plunging them back into darkness. His arm tightened around her, holding her close as if to shield her from the world, though he moved with his usual light-footed grace, ever alert for signs of danger.

Amelia kept her gaze low, the makeshift hood of Ezio’s cape helping to obscure her face from any wandering eyes. Every step sent a dull throb through her skull, the aftershocks of pain making her movements sluggish. She gritted her teeth, determined not to let it show, but the gentle squeeze of Ezio’s hand on her waist told her he wasn’t fooled.

As they moved further into the shadows, away from the prying eyes of the city, Amelia’s strength began to wane. The adrenaline that had fueled her earlier was now ebbing, leaving behind the sharp aches and exhaustion of the night. She sighed softly, her head dipping forward before she caught herself, but Ezio noticed.

Without hesitation, he adjusted his hold on her, pulling her closer under his arm. “Lean on me,” he murmured, his voice low and steady.

Amelia hesitated for a moment, her pride warring with the sheer relief his offer provided. Finally, she relented, letting her head rest against his shoulder. The warmth of him was a balm against the chill of the night, and she allowed herself to sink into the comfort of his presence.

Ezio didn’t comment, though his grip on her waist tightened slightly, his movements slower and more deliberate to match her pace. He led her through the narrow alleys with the ease of someone who knew the city as intimately as the back of his hand. Each step felt smoother, less labored, as she let him take some of her weight, trusting him to guide her safely.

The occasional burst of light from the fireworks illuminated the planes of his face, highlighting the sharpness of his jawline and the quiet determination in his expression. Even in her haze of exhaustion, Amelia couldn’t help but admire the unwavering focus he carried, the subtle protectiveness that radiated from him without words.

The warm glow of the brothel’s lanterns was a welcome sight as Ezio guided Amelia inside. The familiar scent of perfume and soft murmurs of conversation greeted them, though the room fell briefly silent when the courtesans caught sight of Amelia’s battered face. Concern rippled through the crowd, but no one approached, sensing the tension in Ezio’s protective stance.

Sister Teodora appeared almost instantly, her sharp gaze sweeping over Amelia with practiced efficiency. “Dio mio,” she murmured, stepping closer and cupping Amelia’s chin gently to tilt her face toward the light. “What happened?”

Ezio’s jaw tightened as he spoke, his voice low and steady but laced with barely restrained anger. “I found her surrounded by guards. They were about to…” He trailed off, his teeth clenching audibly before continuing. “Let’s just say I was lucky I got there when I did.”

Teodora’s expression darkened, her lips pressing into a thin line as she studied Amelia’s injuries. “Bastards,” she muttered under her breath before turning her attention fully to Amelia. “And your nose… You set it yourself?”

Amelia nodded faintly, her voice hoarse but tinged with pride. “Didn’t have much of a choice.”

Teodora raised an eyebrow, her expression shifting to one of reluctant admiration. “Impressive. Most would have fainted before they managed it.” She released Amelia’s chin with a sigh, her touch gentle as she brushed a stray curl away from the younger woman’s face. “But you’ve had a rough night. You need rest.”

Ezio glanced at Teodora, his tone softening slightly as the tension in his shoulders eased. “Is there a room?”

Teodora nodded. “Already prepared. I had a feeling you two would need it after the night you’ve had.” She motioned to one of the courtesans standing nearby. “Have a bath drawn and bring up some food. And wine.”

The courtesan nodded quickly, disappearing down the hall as Teodora gestured for Ezio and Amelia to follow her. She led them up the staircase and down a quieter corridor, the opulence of the brothel muted in this private section. Teodora pushed open the door to a spacious room lit by the soft glow of several lanterns. A fire crackled warmly in the hearth, and a large, clawfoot tub was already being filled with steaming water by two courtesans.

Amelia sank onto the edge of the bed as soon as they entered, the soft mattress a welcome reprieve from the hard cobblestones of Venice. She let the cape fall from her shoulders, her hands trembling slightly as she rested them on her lap. The pounding in her head had dulled to a steady thrum, but exhaustion weighed heavily on her.

Ezio watched her closely as she sat, his brows furrowing at the slight tremble in her hands. Without a word, he crouched in front of her, gently prying one of her hands from her lap. His touch was firm but tender, grounding her in a way that made her shoulders relax just a fraction.

“You’re shaking,” he murmured, his voice low and steady.

Amelia’s lips parted as if to respond, but she hesitated, her gaze dropping to where his hand enveloped hers. She couldn’t bring herself to deny it—her body was trembling, the combination of cold, exhaustion, and the lingering fear from her encounter with the guards taking its toll. Finally, she let out a shaky breath and nodded.

“I’m cold,” she admitted quietly, her voice barely audible over the crackling fire.

Ezio’s eyes softened, though the firm set of his jaw remained. “Then let’s get you warm,” he said simply, his gaze flicking to the steaming bath. He rose to his feet, still holding her hand as he guided her toward the tub.

Amelia hesitated as they reached the edge, her free hand coming up to grip the neckline of her dress. “Ezio,” she started, her voice wavering slightly. “Would you… stay?”

Her words hung in the air for a moment, and she felt his eyes on her, sharp and searching. She swallowed hard, feeling exposed not by the idea of the bath but by the vulnerability her request carried. “I just… I don’t want to be alone right now,” she added, her voice barely above a whisper.

Ezio didn’t hesitate. He nodded once, his expression steady and without judgment. “Of course,” he said, his tone gentle. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Relief flooded her chest, though she tried to hide it as she turned back toward the bath. Her fingers fumbled slightly as she began to untie the ribbons of her dress, her exhaustion making even the simplest tasks feel insurmountable. She felt the heat of Ezio’s presence behind her before his hands came up, his fingers deftly working at the ties.

Amelia stiffened slightly at first but relaxed as his touch remained respectful, his movements efficient as he helped ease the fabric from her shoulders. She stepped out of the dress with a quiet sigh, the warmth of the room settling over her as she dipped into the steaming water.

The heat enveloped her instantly, soothing her aching muscles and sending a shiver down her spine. She leaned back against the edge of the tub, her eyes fluttering closed for a moment as she let the tension seep out of her body. 

Ezio lingered near the tub, his gaze steady as he watched Amelia begin to relax in the warm water. She leaned back, her eyes closed, the steam curling around her like a protective veil. Her skin was flushed from the heat, and though the bruises and scrapes on her face were still visible, the bath seemed to take some of the weight off her. 

“You look like you’re about to fall asleep,” he said softly, his voice laced with both amusement and concern. Amelia cracked one eye open to glance at him. “Maybe I will. The water’s warm, and I don’t have to think about anything right now.” Her voice was soft, her usual sharpness dulled by exhaustion. 

Ezio smiled faintly and began to shrug out of his leather bracers and gloves. Amelia’s eyes widened slightly when he pulled his tunic over his head, revealing the planes of his chest. She quickly averted her gaze, a flush rising to her cheeks as she focused on the swirling water around her. 

“Ezio, what are you—” 

“I said I’m not leaving you alone,” he interrupted, his tone calm but firm. “You’ve been through enough. And I’m not going to just stand here while you soak in blood and grime. Move forward."

Amelia hesitated, her pulse quickening as she watched Ezio climb into the tub behind her. The water rippled around him, the heat rising in fragrant steam. Her mind raced, torn between the surreal intimacy of the moment and the trust she had grown to place in him. She had seen men unclothed before, sure—but to feel him this close, his body warm and solid in the water, was entirely new.

She inhaled sharply as his legs settled on either side of hers, her back to his chest. The heat of his skin pressed against her through the water, and the steady rhythm of his breath brushed faintly against her damp hair. Her senses heightened, every detail flooding her at once—the scent of soap mingling with his natural musk, the faint scrape of calluses on his fingers as he gently adjusted her position.

“You’re tense,” Ezio murmured, his voice warm and low, sending a shiver along her spine.

“I wonder why,” she quipped, though the retort came out softer than she intended. Her muscles were tight, her body instinctively curling inward as she tried to acclimate to the closeness.

Ezio chuckled, the deep rumble of his laugh reverberating through his chest and into her back. “Relax, Amelia. I’m just here to help.”

He reached for a soft cloth and began to run it gently over her shoulders, the warmth of the water amplifying the soothing pressure of his movements. The cloth moved slowly, deliberately, across her skin, washing away the dirt, blood, and chaos of the night. She let out a shaky breath, her eyes closing as her mind quieted for the first time in what felt like hours.

Ezio shifted slightly, leaning to grab a pitcher from the side of the tub. The motion brought his chest flush against her back for a moment, his skin slick and warm against hers. She froze briefly, her breath catching at the unfamiliar sensation. Her heart raced, but Ezio’s voice broke through her thoughts, calm and steady.

“Tip your head back,” he said softly, holding the pitcher above her. “I don’t want to get water in your eyes.”

Amelia hesitated, then obeyed, tilting her head back against his shoulder. She squeezed her eyes shut as the warm water cascaded over her hair, the gentle weight of it soothing against her scalp. Ezio’s fingers followed, threading carefully through her hair as he worked the water through, rinsing away the grime.

She couldn’t stop the sigh that escaped her lips, her body sinking slightly lower into the water as the tension began to melt away. Ezio’s hands were methodical, his touch firm yet unhurried, and for a moment, the world outside the bath seemed to fade entirely.

When he was done, she straightened slightly, feeling the water’s warmth envelop her anew. But before she could shift away, Ezio’s hands found her shoulders again, guiding her gently back until her head rested against his chest.

“Ezio,” she began, her voice hesitant.

“Shh,” he murmured, his lips brushing against the top of her head. “Just rest.”

Amelia’s body went still, the quiet command in his voice leaving no room for argument. She let her head relax fully against him, the curve of her neck fitting naturally against his shoulder. The cloth returned to her skin, this time moving across her face with the utmost care. His fingers guided the rag over the dried blood and scrapes, careful not to aggravate the bruises that had started to bloom around her eyes.

Her eyelids fluttered closed, her breath evening out as the gentle rhythm of his movements lulled her. The sting of the scrapes didn’t matter; it was the tenderness in his touch that reached her. Ezio pressed a kiss to her shoulder, the warmth of his lips lingering against her skin. Then another, just below her ear, the contact sending a wave of warmth pooling in her chest.

Amelia’s eyes opened slightly, her cheeks flushing as his words washed over her. She didn’t respond immediately, the weight of his gaze and the sincerity in his voice leaving her momentarily breathless. He leaned down, his lips brushing hers in a kiss that was as gentle as it was sweet, the kind of kiss that spoke of gratitude, care, and unspoken promises.

Ezio pulled back slightly, just enough to whisper against her lips, “Sei bellissima.” The words, soft and full of conviction, sent a new flush of warmth over her already heated skin.

Amelia’s breath hitched, her gaze searching his face for any hint of teasing, but all she found was sincerity in his dark eyes. “You keep saying that,” she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper. “I’m not sure I believe you.”

Ezio’s arms shifted, the rag forgotten as he gently wrapped them around her waist. His fingers pressed lightly against her sides, pulling her closer until her back was fully against his chest. She felt utterly enveloped—by the water, his warmth, and the strength of his hold. “Then I’ll keep saying it,” he replied simply, his voice steady. “Until you do.”

Amelia let out a soft, disbelieving laugh, the sound trembling slightly with the emotions that roiled beneath the surface. She leaned her head back against his shoulder, her damp hair brushing against his collarbone. Her nose still ached, and her body bore the marks of the night’s brutality, but here, cocooned in Ezio’s arms, she felt safe in a way she hadn’t allowed herself to feel in years.

Ezio’s lips found her shoulder again, pressing a lingering kiss to her damp skin. The sensation sent an unfamiliar ripple of heat pooling low in her stomach, and she shifted instinctively, her body brushing against his beneath the water.

The moment her body shifted, Amelia froze. Something solid and warm pressed against her, and she stiffened in confusion. The sensation was entirely new, unfamiliar in its weight and the way it seemed to thrum with a life of its own. Her breath caught as her mind raced to process the feeling, a strange heat sparking low in her belly. She moved slightly, curiosity edging into her motions as she tested the sensation again.

Ezio’s sharp intake of breath shattered the quiet, and his hands clamped down on her hips with a sudden firmness that sent a jolt through her. His grip wasn’t rough, but the strength in it was unmistakable—a wordless plea for her to stop.

“Please don’t move,” he said, his voice low and thick, the edges of control fraying around the words.

Amelia’s heart pounded, her body going rigid as she felt his forehead drop to her shoulder. His breath was hot and uneven against her damp skin, the tension in his frame radiating into her. She realized, belatedly, what she was feeling pressed against her—the physical manifestation of his reaction to her, to them, to everything about this moment.

“Oh,” she breathed, her voice barely audible over the gentle slosh of the water around them. Her cheeks burned, heat flooding her from head to toe as the intimacy of the realization washed over her.

Ezio let out a low groan, a sound caught between frustration and something deeper. His fingers flexed against her hips, as if he was trying to ground himself, to pull back the control she had so easily unraveled. “Amelia,” he murmured, her name carrying a raw edge that made her stomach flip. “You’re… testing my patience.”

She swallowed hard, her breath shaky as she tried to form words. “I—I didn’t mean to—”

“I know,” he cut her off gently, his lips brushing against her shoulder, the tenderness of the gesture at odds with the tension in his body. “But I need you to stay still.”

Amelia nodded quickly, her body still as her thoughts swirled. Her own reactions—her racing heart, the warmth pooling in unfamiliar places, the way her skin seemed to come alive under his touch—confused and overwhelmed her. Yet, even in the whirlwind of sensation and embarrassment, she felt safe. Completely and utterly safe.

Ezio’s grip on her hips loosened slightly, his hands moving to wrap around her waist again. His touch was steady, grounding, as though reminding her that he wasn’t going anywhere. His lips pressed to the top of her head, lingering there for a long moment before he exhaled deeply, his breath rustling her hair.

“I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable,” he said softly, his tone laced with a quiet sincerity that made her heart ache.

“You didn’t,” she whispered, her voice carrying a mixture of honesty and vulnerability. “I just… didn’t realize…” She trailed off, unsure how to finish the sentence.

Ezio’s chest rumbled with a soft chuckle, though there was no mockery in it. “Didn’t realize what?” he prompted gently, his lips brushing against her temple as his arms remained steady around her.

Amelia’s face burned, and she shook her head slightly, her damp hair brushing against his skin. “Never mind,” she muttered, her voice barely audible.

He didn’t press further, sensing her unease. Instead, he let the quiet between them settle again, his hands moving in slow, soothing strokes along her waist. The stillness was comforting, a moment stolen from the chaos of their lives.

After a while, Ezio shifted slightly behind her, his breath warm against her ear. “Amelia,” he murmured, his voice low and thick. “The water’s getting cold. You should dry off before you catch a chill.”

Amelia blinked, startled out of the haze of warmth and closeness. She realized he was right—the bath, once steaming, had cooled significantly. She hesitated, her body stiffening slightly against his as she caught the undertone in his words.

Ezio sighed softly, his forehead pressing briefly to the back of her head. “And, if I’m being honest,” he admitted, his voice tinged with a mix of frustration and humor, “I’m not sure how much more I can take of you pressed against me like this.”

Her cheeks flushed crimson at his admission, and she quickly nodded, unwilling to make him any more uncomfortable. “Right,” she said, her voice tight as she shifted forward, trying to create some space between them. “I’ll, um, get out.”

Ezio released her, his hands falling away from her waist as she moved. The absence of his touch left her feeling exposed and uncertain as she slowly rose from the water, careful not to slip. As she stepped out of the tub, droplets of water ran down her body, glistening in the firelight. She grabbed a nearby towel, wrapping it tightly around herself, but not before Ezio caught a full view of her.

He didn’t mean to stare—truly, he didn’t—but the sight of her left him utterly speechless. Her damp skin, the graceful curve of her waist, the strength in her posture despite her obvious exhaustion—it was all too much. He groaned softly, a low, involuntary sound of frustration and longing, and leaned his head back against the edge of the tub, closing his eyes as if to block out the temptation in front of him.

Amelia, hearing the sound, glanced over her shoulder, her brows furrowing slightly. “Ezio?” she asked, her voice uncertain.

“Nothing,” he replied quickly, though his voice was strained. “Just… hurry and dry off.”

She bit her lip, unsure whether to feel self-conscious or flattered. Deciding not to dwell on it, she turned her focus to drying herself off, her movements quick but careful. The towel was warm and soft against her skin, a small comfort after the chill of the bath.

The quiet was broken by the soft creak of the door opening. Amelia froze, clutching the towel tighter around her body as a courtesan entered, carrying a tray of food. The woman didn’t say a word, her eyes flicking briefly between Amelia and Ezio before she walked gracefully to the small table in front of the fire. She set the tray down, arranging the plates and wine decanter with practiced efficiency, then turned and exited the room as silently as she had come.

Amelia let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding, glancing at the tray. The smell of warm bread and roasted meat drifted toward her, reminding her of how hungry she was. She turned back to Ezio, who still sat in the tub, his head tilted back and his eyes closed.

“Ezio,” she called softly, her voice tentative.

His eyes opened, dark and focused as they met hers. For a moment, the intensity of his gaze made her feel as though the room had grown smaller, the air thicker. But then he smiled, softening the moment, and gestured toward the table.

“Go ahead,” he said. “I’ll join you in a moment.”

Amelia hesitated a moment longer, her gaze lingering on Ezio as he reclined in the tub. The tension that had hovered between them earlier seemed to have melted away, replaced by a quiet intimacy that both soothed and unsettled her. With a small nod to herself, she turned to the pile of clothes left for her.

The skirt was simple yet well-crafted, the soft fabric slipping easily over her hips. She tucked the tunic neatly into the waistband, its loose fit draping comfortably over her still-damp skin. It wasn’t her usual attire, but after the night she’d endured, clean, dry clothes felt like a gift.

At the table, she poured two glasses of wine, the deep crimson liquid catching the firelight as it swirled in the goblets. Taking a seat, she sipped slowly, savoring the warmth that spread through her chest, easing some of the tension in her shoulders. The soft sound of water shifting behind her drew her attention, and she glanced back toward Ezio.

He stood, water streaming off his body in rivulets, and for a moment, she froze. Amelia had seen naked men before—Venice was hardly a place of prudish modesty—but seeing Ezio like this was different. He wasn’t just another body; he was him. Strong, self-assured, and undeniably captivating.

Her gaze betrayed her, traveling over his broad shoulders and down the lean, muscled expanse of his chest. Scars marked his skin like faint echoes of past battles, and her breath caught as her eyes lingered on the defined lines of his abdomen. When her gaze drifted lower, realization struck her like a bolt, heat rushing to her cheeks. The sheer presence he exuded—every inch of him—was enough to leave her both overwhelmed and curious.

“Amelia,” he muttered, his voice rough and low, pulling her from her thoughts. “If you keep looking at me like that, I’m going to lose whatever self-control I have left.”

Her face burned hotter than the fire crackling nearby. She snapped her gaze back to her wine, clutching the goblet as if it were the only anchor she had. Her heart pounded, and she swallowed hard, willing herself to act normal—whatever that meant in this moment.

Behind her, she heard the faint rustle of fabric as Ezio dried himself. She didn’t dare look again, though the vivid image of him lingered, imprinted on her mind. The strength in his frame, the way the firelight had illuminated the planes of his skin—it left her feeling a mix of fascination and unease she couldn’t quite name.

The silence stretched between them, thick and charged, as she took another sip of wine. The warmth of the drink spread through her, loosening some of the knots in her chest. She picked absently at the food on her plate, though hunger eluded her. The quiet shuffle of footsteps signaled Ezio’s approach, and she glanced up as he joined her.

Now dressed in loose trousers and a linen shirt left open at the collar, he exuded a casual confidence that only seemed to heighten his presence. Damp strands of his hair curled slightly at the edges, and the firelight danced across the sharp lines of his face. His sleeves were rolled up, revealing the sinewy strength of his forearms. He carried a calm amusement in his expression, though his dark eyes held an intensity that made her pulse quicken.

Ezio sank into the chair opposite her, leaning back slightly as he reached for his wine. His movements were unhurried, deliberate, as if the tension from earlier had evaporated—or as though he had already mastered it. For a while, neither of them spoke, the soft crackle of the fire and the occasional clink of goblets filling the space between them.

Amelia toyed with her food, her appetite nonexistent, though she tried to focus on anything but the weight of Ezio’s gaze. It wasn’t invasive or casual but something deeper, something that made her feel exposed and strangely seen.

Finally, he broke the quiet. “Amelia,” he began, his tone measured. He swirled the wine in his goblet, his gaze flicking briefly to the flames before returning to her. “Have you ever… laid with someone?”

The question stopped her cold. Her fork hovered halfway to her mouth before she set it down carefully, her fingers tightening against the edge of the plate. Her heart leapt to her throat as she stared at her lap. “Why would you ask me that?” she said, her voice soft but guarded.

Ezio didn’t flinch at her tone. “I mean no disrespect,” he said, his voice steady yet gentle. “I ask because… I don’t want to assume. Tonight… after everything we’ve been through…” He trailed off, searching for the right words. “I need to know if I’ve made you uncomfortable.”

Her chest tightened at the sincerity in his voice, the way he seemed genuinely concerned for her feelings. Taking a deep breath, she set her trembling hands in her lap, trying to steady herself. “No, Ezio,” she said at last, her voice soft but clear. “You haven’t made me uncomfortable. You’ve been… kind. Gentle.”

Ezio nodded slightly, his shoulders easing as a faint smile curved his lips. “I’m glad to hear that,” he said, his tone warm. “But you still haven’t answered my question.”

Amelia bit her lip, her gaze dropping to the goblet in her hands. She turned it slowly, the motion giving her something to focus on. “No,” she admitted quietly, the word hanging between them. “I haven’t.”

Ezio’s expression didn’t shift, though his silence felt thoughtful rather than surprised. “Not because you didn’t have the chance, I’m sure,” he said gently, his usual charm laced with a rare note of understanding. “But because you didn’t want to.”

She nodded faintly, the gesture almost imperceptible. “My life hasn’t exactly… allowed for that kind of closeness,” she said, her voice low and careful. “It’s not that I didn’t want to, but I never had the time. Or let anyone close enough.”

Ezio leaned forward slightly, resting his elbows on his knees as his dark eyes studied her intently. “Until now?” he asked, his voice dropping to a near whisper.

Her breath caught, her eyes snapping up to meet his. The firelight flickered, casting warm, shifting shadows across his face, accentuating the sharp angles of his jaw and the quiet intensity in his gaze. His question lingered, weighty and unspoken, pressing gently against the walls she had built around herself.

Her lips parted as if to answer, but no words came. She didn’t know how to respond—how to put into words the swirl of emotions his presence stirred within her. Ezio had always been steady, a constant in the chaos of her life, but now that steadiness felt different, charged with something she couldn’t quite name. Something she wasn’t sure she was ready to face.

“I—” she began, but her voice faltered. Lowering her gaze, she stared at the goblet in her hands, the wine swirling crimson and gold in the firelight. Her fingers tightened around the glass, grounding herself in its solidity.

Ezio waited patiently, his silence as steady as his gaze. The room seemed to narrow around them, the crackle of the fire and the faint hum of the city beyond the brothel’s walls the only sounds. It was as if the world itself had paused, leaving only the two of them.

Finally, Amelia exhaled, her shoulders sinking as she set the goblet on the table. “I don’t know,” she admitted, her voice barely audible. “I never let myself think about it before.”

Ezio’s brow furrowed slightly, his head tilting as he regarded her with quiet curiosity. “Because you didn’t want to, or because you were afraid to?” he asked, his voice gentle, careful not to press too hard.

She hesitated, her fingers fidgeting in her lap. “Both,” she said after a moment, her cheeks burning as she added, “It’s easier to focus on surviving than to think about what I might want.”

Ezio leaned back slightly, though his gaze didn’t waver. The firelight painted soft shadows across his face, his expression contemplative yet kind. “That makes sense,” he said quietly. “Your life has been anything but simple. You’ve had to fight for everything—every moment, every breath.” His voice softened further, dropping to a note so sincere it made her chest ache. “But you deserve more than just survival, Amelia.”

Her eyes lifted to his, startled by the quiet conviction in his words. There was no judgment in his expression, no pity—only an unshakable belief that she was worthy of something greater. The weight of his gaze unnerved her, piercing through her defenses and reaching a part of her she hadn’t known was vulnerable.

She didn’t know how to respond, her hands twisting the fabric of her skirt as if it might anchor her. Silence stretched between them, heavy with possibility. Ezio leaned forward again, his elbows braced on his knees, watching her with that same steady intensity.

“Have you ever explored your body?” he asked, his voice so calm and steady that it took her a moment to register the question.

Heat flooded her cheeks, and she stiffened, her gaze darting to the fire. “What kind of question is that?” she muttered, her voice edged with embarrassment.

“A fair one,” he said, a gentle note of playfulness softening his tone. “I’m not trying to make you uncomfortable, Amelia. I just…” He paused, choosing his words carefully. “I want to understand you. All of you. And I want you to understand yourself.”

Her heart pounded, each beat reverberating through her chest. She had spent years building walls, keeping her thoughts and feelings locked away, never allowing herself to dwell on desires she thought she couldn’t afford. The idea of exploring that part of herself—of being seen in that way—felt foreign. And terrifying.

“No,” she said at last, her voice quiet but resolute. “I haven’t. I’ve never… thought to.”

Ezio nodded slowly, his expression softening, as though her answer confirmed something he’d already suspected. He straightened in his chair, the firelight casting a golden glow over his thoughtful features. “That’s nothing to be ashamed of,” he said gently, his voice carrying no judgment, only quiet understanding.

Amelia looked away, her cheeks burning as her fingers toyed with the fabric of her skirt. She didn’t know how to feel about his question, about the honesty it had pulled from her. Control had always been her shield, her way of keeping vulnerability at bay. But now, with Ezio’s steady presence and the warmth of his words, that shield felt fragile, cracking under the weight of her wavering resolve.

Ezio leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees as he studied her. His gaze was intense, not invasive but deliberate, as though he were considering every word before he spoke. The silence stretched between them, heavy with unspoken tension. Finally, he stood, his movements fluid and purposeful, and took a slow step closer.

Amelia’s eyes flicked up to him, her fingers stilling. Her breath hitched as he knelt before her, his broad shoulders level with her knees. The firelight flickered, casting golden shadows across the sharp lines of his face and the softness in his eyes. He rested his forearms on his thighs, his posture relaxed but his attention entirely focused on her.

“Amelia,” he said, his voice low and warm, “do you want me to show you what exploring your body can feel like?”

Her heart slammed against her ribs, her cheeks flushing as his words sank in. She swallowed hard, her throat dry, her mind scrambling to make sense of the intimacy of his offer. There was no pressure in his tone, no expectation—only a quiet, unshakable confidence that left her simultaneously curious and unmoored.

“I…” she began, but her voice faltered. She looked down at her hands, her fingers twisting nervously in her lap. “What if…” She paused, inhaling deeply before trying again. “What if I don’t know what I want?”

A faint smile touched Ezio’s lips, softening the intensity of his gaze. “Then we’ll go slowly,” he said simply. “You tell me what feels right, what feels good, and I’ll follow your lead.”

Her breath hitched again, her pulse thundering in her ears as she absorbed his words. No one had ever seen her like this—unguarded, uncertain, vulnerable. But with Ezio kneeling before her, his presence steady and his voice so impossibly gentle, she felt a fragile flicker of trust she couldn’t ignore.

She nodded slowly, her voice a whisper. “Okay.”

Chapter Text

Ezio held her gaze for a moment longer, his expression open and calm, as if to reassure her. Then, with deliberate care, he reached for her hands, his palms warm and roughened from years of battle yet surprisingly gentle. His thumbs traced slow circles across the backs of her hands, grounding her as her breathing quickened. “We’ll go at your pace,” he murmured, his tone as steadying as his touch.

Amelia nodded again, her chest rising and falling with uneven breaths. Her heart pounded—an unfamiliar mix of nerves and anticipation leaving her unsure but willing. She closed her eyes when he asked, the quiet authority in his voice making it easy to obey. Without sight, every sound, every touch felt magnified—the faint crackle of the fire, the soft rustle of fabric, the steady rhythm of her own heartbeat.

“Start here,” Ezio murmured, guiding her hands upward. His movements were slow, careful, as he brought her fingers to rest against her collarbone. The faint brush of her fingertips against her skin sent a shiver down her spine. “Feel your own warmth. Your strength.”

She hesitated, then allowed her hands to move, tracing the curve of her collarbone tentatively. The sensation was new, strange in its intimacy. Beneath her fingertips, she could feel the soft rise and fall of her breath, the steady thrum of her heartbeat. She had never stopped to notice her own body this way—never thought of it as something worth knowing.

“Just let yourself feel,” Ezio said softly, his voice low and soothing. “There’s no rush.”

Her lips parted slightly as she continued, her hands exploring with more confidence. Her fingers brushed over her shoulder and trailed along the hollow of her throat. Each touch heightened her awareness, unfamiliar but not unwelcome. For the first time, her body didn’t feel like a tool for survival; it felt like her own.

Ezio’s hands left hers, the absence like a whisper of cool air against her skin. But then his touch returned, this time on her arm. He ran his fingers lightly from her wrist to her elbow, his movements unhurried and calming. “Do you feel that?” he asked, his voice a soft hum.

She swallowed hard, nodding. “Yes,” she whispered.

“That’s you,” he said simply, his tone carrying quiet reverence. “Your body has carried you through everything—the pain, the chaos, the fights. It deserves to be understood. To be cared for.”

Amelia’s chest tightened at his words, the weight of them settling over her like a balm and a challenge all at once. Tears pricked at the corners of her eyes, but she blinked them away, focusing instead on the sensations unfolding. The warmth of Ezio’s fingers, the steady rhythm of her breath—it all felt sharper, more vivid, than anything she could recall.

Ezio’s hand moved again, resting gently on her side just above her hip. He didn’t rush or push, his touch asking for permission as much as his words. “May I?” he murmured, his voice low and careful.

Her breath caught, the question hanging in the air between them. The fire crackled softly in the background, the room otherwise still, as though the rest of the world had paused. She opened her eyes, meeting his steady, unwavering gaze. His expression carried no expectation, only quiet patience and reassurance.

“Yes,” she whispered, her voice barely audible but steady enough.

Ezio nodded, a faint smile softening the sharpness of his features. His palm lingered for a moment, its warmth seeping through the thin fabric of her tunic. Then, slowly, his fingers began to move, gliding upward along her ribs in a deliberate motion that sent a shiver coursing through her. He stopped just below her breast, his thumb brushing the fabric lightly, a touch that made her pulse stutter.

Her breath hitched, her body instinctively tense with the unfamiliar sensations. No one had ever touched her like this—not with such care, such reverence. Her mind raced, but Ezio’s steady movements anchored her, unraveling some of her unease.

“Breathe,” he murmured, his voice a soothing hum. “Just focus on what you feel.”

Amelia exhaled shakily, her fingers gripping the edge of the chair as though it were her only tether. His hands were impossibly gentle yet undeniably certain as they continued their slow exploration. His fingers traced the curve of her side, brushing just beneath her breast, the deliberate pressure sending ripples of heat through her.

His touch moved again, his fingers skimming the base of her breast through the fabric of her tunic. The contact was light, almost tentative, as if waiting for her to stop him. She didn’t. Instead, she inhaled deeply, releasing the breath slowly as her shoulders relaxed just enough to lean into the moment.

Ezio’s hands stilled, his thumbs brushing the tunic just below her breasts. He watched her closely, his dark eyes soft but intent, as though cataloging every flicker of expression. Then, with deliberate care, he pulled his hands away, resting them lightly on her knees. The absence of his touch left her skin tingling, her breath uneven as she struggled to process the new and overwhelming sensations.

Without a word, Ezio spread her knees gently, his hands firm yet careful, as if ensuring she still felt in control. He shifted closer, kneeling between her legs, his movements unhurried. The firelight painted his features in warm, golden tones, highlighting the sharp lines of his jaw and the quiet intensity in his eyes. Every action seemed to carry unspoken reassurance: You can stop this at any time.

Amelia’s heart raced as she looked down at him, her fingers curling against the edge of the chair for stability. Heat radiated from him, mingling with the warmth of the fire, the closeness amplifying every sensation. Her pulse thrummed loudly in her ears, a mix of anticipation and nerves making her breaths shallow and uneven.

“Amelia,” he murmured, his voice low and steady, like the first rumble of a distant storm. His fingers brushed her cheek, his touch featherlight, before cupping her face with a tenderness that made her breath catch. “I need you to tell me if this is too much.”

Her lips parted, but the words refused to form. Instead, she shook her head faintly, the motion barely perceptible. Her eyes searched his, and in his gaze, she found no pressure, only reverence and patience that made her feel seen in a way she never had before.

Ezio leaned in slowly, deliberate in every motion, as though giving her every opportunity to pull away. When their lips met, the kiss was soft, a hesitant brush that sent a shiver through her. His lips were warm and firm, moving with a care that made her chest ache. She had been kissed before, but this felt different—intentional, purposeful, and filled with a depth she couldn’t quite name.

Her hands relaxed their grip on the chair, one lifting hesitantly to rest on his shoulder. The kiss deepened slowly, Ezio’s other hand sliding to the back of her neck. His fingers pressed lightly against her skin, guiding her closer as his head tilted to deepen the connection. His breath mingled with hers, the warmth of his body enveloping her completely, leaving her feeling unmoored and undeniably alive.

Amelia’s breath quickened as the depth of Ezio’s kiss consumed her. The warmth of his lips and the steady pressure of his hand on the back of her neck grounded her in the moment, even as unfamiliar sensations threatened to overwhelm her. Her fingers curled against his shoulder, seeking a firmer hold, her pulse a rapid drumbeat as her nerves ignited with something both enticing and uncharted.

Her hands shifted hesitantly, trembling slightly as they slid down the sinewy strength of his arms to the lean muscles of his torso. Her palms came to rest on his hips, the fabric of his trousers warm beneath her touch. The intimacy of the moment—the heat of his breath mingling with hers, her fingers exploring his form—tightened something deep in her chest. Yet, she didn’t pull away.

Instead, she scooted forward in the chair, bridging the small distance between them. The movement pressed their bodies flush against one another, her knees brushing his sides. The solid warmth of his chest against hers was grounding and electric all at once, a closeness she hadn’t realized she craved until now.

Ezio’s hand shifted from her waist, gliding up the curve of her back with an ease that made her shiver. He found the base of her neck, his fingers brushing over her skin with a reverence that sent goosebumps cascading down her arms. His hand slid higher, tangling gently in her hair. His grip was firm but never forceful, a gesture both steadying and thrilling.

Her breath hitched as he tilted her head back, the gentle pull exposing the vulnerable line of her throat. The openness of the gesture should have unsettled her, but instead, it sent a rush of warmth flooding through her, settling low in her belly. Her fingers tightened instinctively on his hips, digging into the fabric as though she needed to hold onto him to keep herself steady.

Ezio’s lips left hers, trailing a deliberate path along her jawline. Each kiss was soft yet intentional, leaving a lingering heat against her skin. He moved slowly, his breath warm and intoxicating as he made his way to the curve of her neck. There, his lips lingered, brushing against the sensitive hollow just below her ear. The sensation sent a ripple of shivers down her spine, and she tilted her head further, unconsciously granting him more access.

“Amelia,” he murmured against her skin, her name a low hum that seemed to reverberate through her. His voice carried affection, desire, and something deeper—something unspoken yet undeniable. In that moment, it felt as though the world had shrunk to just the two of them.

Her chest rose and fell in uneven rhythms, her breaths coming faster as his lips continued their slow, deliberate journey. He kissed along the column of her throat, his hand in her hair holding her steady as her body responded with a raw intensity that left her unmoored. His lips moved lower, tracing the curve of her neck until he reached the edge of her tunic at her collarbone.

Her hands tightened on his hips, her nails pressing through the fabric as her body reacted to his touch with a mix of surprise and pleasure. She couldn’t suppress the soft sound that escaped her lips, a quiet admission of how alive and attuned she felt beneath his care. Every nerve seemed to hum, his warmth, his strength, and his closeness igniting a fire in her she hadn’t known existed.

Ezio’s lips lingered at her collarbone, pressing a slow, deliberate kiss to the delicate spot. Then, he pulled back slightly, lifting his gaze to meet hers. His dark eyes held a mixture of tenderness and heat that sent her pulse racing anew. His hand in her hair relaxed, his fingers brushing lightly against her scalp in a silent reassurance.

“You’re so responsive,” he murmured, his lips curving into a faint smile. His voice was soft but filled with awe, as though her reactions were a gift he hadn’t expected. “Tell me if this is too much.”

Amelia shook her head quickly, her breath catching as she tried to compose herself. “It’s not,” she said softly, her voice trembling with honesty. “It’s not too much.” Her fingers flexed against his hips, holding him tighter, as if to reinforce her words.

Ezio’s smile softened, the warmth in his gaze never wavering as he leaned forward once more. “Good,” he murmured, his voice a quiet promise. Then his lips found hers again, the kiss deeper this time, and she melted into him completely. Her hands pulled him closer, the heat between them intensifying as the fire crackled softly in the background.

Ezio's hands slid from her hair, trailing a slow, deliberate path down her neck and along her shoulders. His touch was light yet purposeful, igniting sparks beneath her skin wherever his fingers roamed. Amelia's breath hitched as his palms skimmed over her arms, tracing the lean lines of muscle before moving inward to the front of her tunic.

His fingers paused at the laces, and he pulled back from the kiss just enough to meet her gaze. The unspoken question hung between them, his eyes searching hers for any sign of hesitation or discomfort. Amelia swallowed hard, her heart pounding a frantic rhythm against her ribs. But beneath the nerves, a deeper yearning had taken root—a desire to be seen, to be touched, in a way she never had before.

Slowly, she nodded, granting him permission to continue. Ezio's lips curved into a faint smile, his expression soft with understanding and reverence. With deft movements, he began to loosen the laces of her tunic, his fingers brushing against her skin with each careful tug. The fabric parted gradually, revealing the valley between her breasts inch by tantalizing inch.

Cool air whispered across her newly exposed skin, raising goosebumps in its wake. Amelia shivered, though whether from the chill or the intensity of Ezio's gaze, she couldn't be sure. His eyes roamed over her with open admiration, taking in each new expanse of skin as though committing it to memory.

When the laces were undone, Ezio's hands slid beneath the fabric, easing it off her shoulders with a gentleness that made her heart ache. The tunic pooled around her waist, leaving her upper body bared to his gaze. Instinctively, Amelia's arms twitched, an old impulse to cover herself rising to the surface. But Ezio's hands found hers, interlacing their fingers and squeezing reassuringly.

"You are exquisite," he murmured, his voice low and rough with emotion. "Every part of you."

His words washed over her like a balm, soothing some of the uncertainty that coiled in her chest. Slowly, she relaxed, allowing him to guide her hands to rest on his shoulders once more. His palms skimmed up her arms, over her shoulders, and down her sides, mapping the contours of her body with a reverence that stole her breath.

When his hands reached her breasts, Amelia inhaled sharply, her fingers tightening on his shoulders. Ezio paused, his touch featherlight as he gauged her reaction. His thumbs brushed the undersides of her breasts, tracing the delicate skin with a care that made her shiver. Slowly, he cupped her breasts fully, their weight fitting perfectly in his palm.

Ezio's hands gently cradled her breasts, his thumbs brushing over her nipples with a touch so light it was almost reverent. Amelia gasped, the sensation unlike anything she had ever felt before. Sparks of pleasure radiated outward from where his fingers caressed her sensitive flesh, igniting nerve endings she didn't even know existed.

His dark eyes watched her face intently, cataloging every hitch of her breath and flutter of her lashes. "Amelia," he murmured, his voice a deep, soothing rumble. "You are magnificent."

She couldn't find the words to respond, too overwhelmed by the onslaught of new sensations. Her body felt alive in a way it never had before, every inch of her skin tingling with awareness. Ezio's hands continued their slow exploration, kneading her breasts with a gentle pressure that coaxed soft, breathy sounds from her lips.

When his thumbs circled her nipples again, more firmly this time, Amelia cried out, her back arching instinctively into his touch. The coil of heat in her belly tightened, an ache building between her thighs that she didn't fully understand. All she knew was that she craved more—more of his hands on her body, his lips against her skin.

"Ezio," she managed, her voice thin and needy to her own ears.

He smiled at that, a soft, knowing curve of his lips. Leaning in, he pressed a kiss to the hollow of her throat before trailing his mouth lower. Amelia held her breath, scarcely daring to move as he blazed a path of wet, open-mouthed kisses along the slope of her breast. When he closed his lips around one straining peak, she whimpered, her fingers tangling in his hair to hold him close.

Ezio lavished attention on the sensitive bud, his tongue swirling and flicking until she was panting and squirming beneath him. His hand continued to massage her other breast, rolling and plucking at her nipple until it was just as hard and aching as its twin. The dual sensations were almost too much to bear, stoking the flames of her arousal higher and higher.

"Ezio," she gasped again, tugging gently at his hair.

He released her nipple with a soft pop, lifting his head to meet her gaze. His eyes were dark with desire, the warmth in them sending fresh shivers down her spine. Slowly, he began to kiss his way lower, his lips blazing a trail of fire across her stomach. Amelia's muscles quivered and jumped beneath his touch, her breath coming in short, sharp pants as he neared the waistband of her skirt.

“May I?” Ezio's fingertips skimmed along the fabric at her ankles, his touch light and questioning. Amelia's breath caught, her heart pounding a frantic rhythm against her ribs as she looked down at him. His gaze held hers, patient and warm, silently awaiting her permission to continue this intimate exploration.

Swallowing hard, she gave a shaky nod, her fingers flexing against his shoulders. "Yes," she whispered, her voice trembling but certain.

A soft smile curved his lips, his eyes reflecting tender reassurance. With deliberate slowness, he began to ease the fabric up, revealing her skin inch by tantalizing inch. Amelia shivered as the cool air met her heated flesh, goosebumps prickling across her thighs.

Ezio's hands were gentle as he guided the fabric past her knees, his finger grazing her bare flesh as he bunched the material of her skirt at her hips.

Amelia's breath caught in her throat as Ezio's hands slid up her bare thighs, his touch igniting sparks beneath her skin. Her legs trembled, the muscles quivering under his palms as he gently parted her knees. The vulnerability of the position made her pulse race, but the tenderness in Ezio's eyes soothed her nerves.

He leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to the inside of her knee. Amelia gasped at the sensation, her fingers curling into the armrests of the chair. Ezio's lips curved into a smile against her skin before he began to trail a path of slow, open-mouthed kisses up her inner thigh.

He paused in his attack on her thighs, reaching up to gently reposition her on the chair. Gripping her hips, Ezio slid Amelia further down in the chair, her back arching slightly as her body adjusted to the new position. His hands were firm but careful as he guided her legs, draping her knees over the armrests and spreading her wide before him. The cool wood pressed into the backs of her thighs, a stark contrast to the heat radiating from Ezio's touch.

Amelia's breath came in shallow pants, her chest rising and falling rapidly as she looked down at him through hooded eyes. The openness of the pose, her most intimate parts bared to his gaze, sent a rush of vulnerability and excitement coursing through her veins. Her fingers gripped the edge of the seat, seeking an anchor amidst the sea of new sensations.

Ezio's thumbs stroked the sensitive skin where her thighs met her core, his touch feather-light yet deliberate. Amelia's breath hitched, her pulse pounding in her ears as his fingers glided closer to her most intimate place. She had never been touched there before, not even by her own hand. The anticipation coiled tightly in her belly, a mix of nerves and an unfamiliar but growing ache.

His eyes held hers, dark with desire but also soft with reverence. "Amelia," he murmured, his voice low and soothing. "Trust me."

She nodded, not trusting herself to speak. Her body trembled as his thumbs brushed over her outer folds, parting her gently. The first touch of his fingers against her most sensitive flesh sent a jolt through her, a gasp escaping her lips.

Ezio stroked her slowly, his touch whisper-soft as he explored the slick heat of her arousal. "So wet already," he praised quietly, wonder coloring his tone. "You're perfect, Amelia."

His words sent a shiver down her spine, the intimacy of his praise making her feel exposed yet cherished. Ezio's fingers continued their slow exploration, gliding through her folds with a gentleness that belied the intensity of her body's reaction. Each brush of his fingertips against her sensitive flesh sent sparks of pleasure radiating outward, stoking the ache that had settled deep in her core.

Leaning forward he captured her mouth with hers at the same moment his thumb found the small bundle of nerves at the apex of her thighs.

When Ezio's thumb brushed over that sensitive nub, Amelia cried out, the sound muffled by his kiss. Her hips jerked instinctively, seeking more of that exquisite friction. Ezio swallowed her gasps, his lips moving against hers with a tender intensity that left her breathless. His thumb circled her most sensitive spot, applying a gentle but steady pressure that made her tremble.

Amelia's hands flew to his shoulders, her nails digging into his skin through the fabric of his shirt as she clung to him. Each deliberate stroke of his thumb sent waves of pleasure crashing over her, the sensation unlike anything she had ever experienced. Her body felt alive, every nerve singing with a blissful tension that coiled tighter and tighter in her core.

Ezio's kiss gentled, his lips brushing over hers in featherlight caresses as he eased back just enough to watch her face. His eyes were dark with desire, the reverent intensity in his gaze making her feel cherished and seen in a way she never had before. His thumb never ceased its attentions, circling and stroking her sensitive flesh until she was panting.

Amelia's breath came in short, sharp gasps, her chest heaving as Ezio's touch unraveled her. The pleasure was almost too much to bear, a relentless tide that threatened to pull her under. Her head fell back against the chair, her lips parting on a silent cry as his thumb pressed more firmly against that bundle of nerves.

The pressure inside her built to an almost unbearable peak, her muscles tensing as she teetered on the edge of something momentous. Ezio seemed to sense her impending climax, his thumb moving faster, circling that sensitive nub with unerring precision. Amelia's thighs trembled, her toes curling as she hovered on the precipice of ecstasy. Ezio's thumb continued its relentless circling, each pass over that sensitive bundle of nerves sending jolts of electric bliss coursing through her body. Her breath came in ragged pants, her chest heaving as the coil of tension inside her wound tighter and tighter.

"Let go, Amelia," Ezio murmured again, his voice a deep rumble that seemed to reverberate through her. "I've got you."

His words were the final push she needed. With a sharp cry, Amelia's body convulsed, the coil snapping as waves of intense pleasure crashed over her. Her back arched off the chair, her fingers digging into Ezio's shoulders as she shook and trembled. Ezio's thumb gentled its pressure but never ceased its movements, guiding her through the crest of her climax with tender dedication.

Amelia was only distantly aware of the broken sounds spilling from her lips, lost as she was in the overwhelming tide of sensation. Her thighs clenched around Ezio's hand, her body quivering as the last waves of her climax rolled through her. Ezio eased his touch, his thumb stroking her gently as she came down from the high. Her breathing was ragged, her skin flushed and damp with perspiration. She felt raw, exposed, yet utterly sated in a way she had never known before.

Ezio leaned in, pressing a tender kiss to her inner thigh. "Breathe, Amelia," he murmured against her skin. "Just breathe."

She dragged in a shuddering breath, her chest rising and falling rapidly as she struggled to regain her composure. Ezio's hands skimmed soothingly over her thighs, his touch grounding her as the world slowly came back into focus. When she finally opened her eyes, she found him watching her with a look of such open adoration it made her heart clench.

"That was..." She trailed off, struggling to find words to encompass the magnitude of what she had just experienced. "I never knew it could feel like that."

Ezio smiled softly, his eyes warm with understanding. "You deserve to feel pleasure, Amelia. To be cherished and worshipped." His thumbs stroked gentle circles on her thighs as he spoke, the touch soothing and reverent. "Your body is a marvel, capable of such exquisite sensations."

Amelia felt heat rush to her cheeks at his praise, a mix of shyness and wonder filling her chest. No one had ever spoken to her like this, with such open appreciation and tenderness. It made her feel vulnerable yet valued in a way she hadn't known she craved.

Ezio's hands glided up her body, skimming over her hips and waist before coming to cradle her face. He leaned in, brushing his lips against hers in a kiss that was soft and sweet. Amelia sighed into the contact, her own hands lifting to rest on his chest, feeling the steady thrum of his heartbeat beneath her palms.

When he pulled back, there was a glint of mischief in his eyes, tempered by the ever-present warmth. "And that, mia cara, was only the beginning." His voice was a low purr, full of promise and anticipation. "There is so much more I want to show you, but not tonight. You need rest. We both do.”

Ezio helped her sit up carefully, his hands steadying her as her legs shifted back to center. He tugged the hem of her skirt down gently, ensuring her modesty before guiding her trembling hands to tie her tunic closed. The vulnerability of the moment lingered in the air, softened by the warmth in his gaze and the care in his movements.

Without a word, Ezio stood and scooped her into his arms, lifting her as though she weighed nothing. Amelia's arms instinctively looped around his neck, her cheek pressing against his chest as she heard the strong, steady rhythm of his heartbeat. The room seemed quieter now, the crackling fire the only sound accompanying their shared stillness.

Ezio carried her to the bed, his steps slow and deliberate. He laid her down with the utmost care, tucking her beneath the soft covers before slipping in beside her. The bed dipped slightly under his weight, but his movements were unhurried, ensuring her comfort above all else. As he settled, he pulled her close, his arm wrapping securely around her waist while her head rested against his shoulder.

His fingers began to trace soothing patterns along her back, grounding her in the intimacy of the moment. “Amelia,” he whispered, his voice low and filled with emotion. “I love you. More than I ever thought I could love anyone.”

Her breath caught, and she tilted her head to look at him, her blue eyes meeting his. The flickering firelight cast golden shadows over his face, softening the sharp lines of his features and illuminating the sincerity in his expression. He pressed a kiss to her lips, his hand coming up to brush her hair out of her face.

Amelia’s chest tightened at his words, a storm of emotion building inside her. She stared at him for a moment, as if trying to memorize every detail of his face—the warmth in his eyes, the softness of his smile, the way he held her as though she were the most precious thing in his world.

“I love you too,” she said softly, her voice trembling but steady with conviction. Her fingers curled against his chest as if to anchor herself to the moment. “You are my entire world, Ezio. You’re the reason I fight, the reason I keep going.” Her voice broke slightly, but she continued, the words spilling from her heart. “I didn’t think I could feel this way about anyone… but you… you’ve shown me so much more than I ever thought possible.”

Ezio’s expression shifted, his eyes darkening with emotion as her words washed over him. He brought a hand to her face, cradling her cheek with a reverence that made her breath catch. Slowly, he leaned in and pressed a tender kiss to her forehead, his lips lingering there as though sealing a silent promise.

“Amelia,” he murmured, his voice thick with emotion. “You are more than I deserve, yet all I’ll ever want.”

She felt the sting of tears at his words, her heart swelling with an intensity she could hardly contain. But before she could respond, Ezio shifted, brushing his fingers soothingly along her temple. “You need to rest,” he urged gently, his voice firm but warm. “Close your eyes, I will be here when you wake.”

Amelia hesitated for a brief moment, her mind still reeling from the vulnerability they had just shared. But as she looked into his eyes, saw the unwavering care and love reflected there, she allowed herself to relax. She nestled closer to him, her cheek resting against the broad expanse of his chest. His arms tightened around her, holding her as if to shield her from the world.

The steady rhythm of Ezio’s heartbeat beneath her ear was a soothing anchor, lulling her into a sense of calm she hadn’t felt in years. As the fire crackled softly in the hearth, the weight of the day’s events began to slip away, replaced by the quiet comfort of his embrace.

“I’ll always fight for you,” she murmured sleepily, her voice barely more than a whisper. “For us.”

Ezio smiled softly, pressing another kiss to her hair. “And I for you,” he replied, his voice a quiet vow. “Always.”

As Amelia rested against Ezio's chest, the steady rhythm of his heartbeat beneath her cheek anchored her. Sleep tugged at her, warm and insistent, but her mind lingered on the quiet intimacy of the moment. She felt the protective weight of his arms around her, the way his hand occasionally skimmed gently along her back as though to reassure himself she was still there.

Ezio.

His presence wrapped around her like a shield, his warmth filling spaces she hadn’t realized were empty. He had become her constant—her light in the chaos, her reason to fight not just for survival but for something that felt deeply, achingly real. She had told him she loved him, had finally spoken the words she had carried for so long, and the truth of it settled over her now, immense but freeing.

Chapter Text

SEPTEMBER 13th , 8:00pm

Claire lay in the Animus chair, her body trembling as the final echoes of the memory faded. Her hands shook, her fingers flexing involuntarily as though trying to grasp something intangible. Heat pooled low in her belly, the flush spreading up her neck and cheeks, and she couldn’t stop the shiver that coursed through her. Her skin felt hypersensitive, her breath shallow, chest rising and falling as if she’d just run a marathon.

She groaned softly, closing her eyes and pressing her hands to her forehead. It didn’t help; if anything, the images became sharper in the dark—the feel of Ezio’s hands, the intensity in Amelia’s gaze, the overwhelming intimacy that had consumed them both. It was too much.

Drawing her knees up to her chest, she curled in on herself as she lay back, trying to regain some semblance of control. Her mind buzzed with confusion and arousal, the experience of Amelia’s vulnerability and desire bleeding into her own. This was not how she wanted to feel, not now, not ever—but the Animus didn’t care about her wants.

She shifted, turning her head instinctively toward Desmond. His chair reclined beside hers, and he was stirring, blinking his way back into the present. She hadn’t intended to look, but when her eyes landed on him, she froze. His cheeks were flushed, his chest rising and falling with the same unsteady rhythm as her own. Her gaze flicked downward, and her breath hitched. His pants were unmistakably tented, the fabric straining in a way that sent her stomach into freefall.

Desmond sat up abruptly, his movements stiff and jerky, like someone caught in a dream they didn’t want to acknowledge. He hunched forward, planting his elbows on his knees, his hands clasping together as if he could physically hold himself together. The pose hid most of his arousal, but not all. The tension in his body told Claire he was just as affected as she was—if not more.

She wanted to look away. She needed to. But then his eyes lifted, and for the briefest of moments, their gazes collided.

Desire burned in his dark eyes, raw and unguarded, as they swept over her. His jaw tightened as his gaze traced the curve of her legs drawn up beneath her, the rise and fall of her chest, the way her lips parted as though caught mid-gasp. Claire felt that look like a physical touch, her body responding with a jolt that made her curl tighter.

She couldn’t hold his gaze. It was too much, too intense, too real. Turning her head, she fixed her eyes on the ceiling, willing herself to focus on anything but the heat of his stare or the ache pooling in her core. Her hands clenched into fists against her thighs, her nails biting into her skin as she tried to steady her breathing.

She was hyper-aware of Desmond now, of the way his presence filled the room like a gravitational pull she couldn’t escape. It wasn’t just attraction—it was hunger, a sharp and unwelcome ache that reminded her of everything she had locked away in the dark corners of her mind during her years of captivity. Before Abstergo, she’d been no stranger to moments like this; she’d drown herself in the heat of a stranger’s body to forget the weight of her missions. But this was different. This was Desmond. And the weight of that difference made it unbearable.

“Claire,” Rebecca’s voice cut through the charged silence, startling her. Claire sat up abruptly, her knees dropping as she looked toward the tech. Rebecca glanced between them, her brows furrowed in faint suspicion but said nothing about the tension in the room. “You should hit the shower and get geared up. We’re running low on supplies, and Shaun’s already griping about it.”

Claire seized the lifeline, nodding quickly. “Yeah. Shower. Got it.” Her voice came out more clipped than she intended, but she didn’t care. She needed to escape the Animus room, escape the suffocating presence of Desmond and the aftermath of Amelia’s emotions still running wild in her veins.

Grabbing her duffle, she bolted for the bathroom without a backward glance. As the door closed behind her, Claire braced herself against the sink, her knuckles white as she gripped the edge of the porcelain. Her reflection stared back at her, cheeks flushed, eyes too bright, lips still parted. She felt exposed, unraveled in a way she hadn’t been in years.

Claire fumbled with the faucet, twisting it sharply to blast cold water into the sink. The rush of icy water splashed over her trembling hands, but it wasn’t enough to quiet the storm raging under her skin. Her body still thrummed with unwanted heat, the vivid sensations from the Animus memory refusing to fade.

She needed more.

Without hesitating, she turned toward the shower, yanked the handle, and stepped in, still fully clothed. The cold spray hit her like a slap, drenching her tunic and pants instantly. The fabric clung to her skin, heavy and suffocating, but the chill was a welcome shock. She gasped, pressing her hands flat against the tiled wall as the water poured over her. Her breath came in shallow, rapid bursts, the cold biting at her arms and legs, but it wasn’t enough to extinguish the ache coiling in her core.

Her hair stuck to her face, water streaming down her temples and neck, but she didn’t care. Her soaked clothes felt oppressive, and she began peeling them off with shaking hands. She tugged at the hem of her tunic, pulling it over her head and tossing it to the floor with a wet slap. Her pants followed, sticking stubbornly to her legs before she managed to shove them down. The rush of cold water against her bare skin sent a shiver coursing through her, but it was still better than the suffocating heat she’d felt moments ago.

Claire leaned against the wall, her forehead pressing into the cool tile as the water streamed over her back and shoulders. She closed her eyes, willing herself to focus on the sensation—the icy droplets rolling down her spine, the sharp sting of cold on her flushed cheeks. Her breathing began to slow, the relentless heat inside her dimming under the assault of the cold.

But it didn’t go away entirely.

The memory of Desmond’s gaze lingered, the way his eyes had traced her body with a hunger that mirrored her own. It made her stomach twist, her fingers curling into fists against the wall. She pressed her thighs together, trying to ignore the insistent ache there. She hated this feeling—the vulnerability, the need clawing at her, the way her body betrayed her resolve.

She slid down the wall until she was sitting on the shower floor, her knees drawn up to her chest. The cold water cascaded over her, soaking her hair and pooling around her legs. She rested her forehead on her knees, her wet arms wrapping tightly around them. The chill had dulled some of the fire, but it hadn’t extinguished it. She could still feel it simmering beneath the surface, like embers waiting to ignite.

Her mind flashed unbidden to the Animus memory—the way Ezio had touched Amelia, the care in his hands, the way her body had responded with such raw, unguarded need. The sensations had been so vivid, so visceral, that Claire couldn’t help but feel them as her own. And Desmond... God, she had seen how it affected him too.

The thought of him, sitting just feet away from her with that same burning intensity, made her stomach flip. She groaned softly, lifting her head and letting the cold water pound against her face. She didn’t want this. She didn’t want to feel this way—about Desmond, about anyone. Not after years of shutting herself off, burying every trace of her own desires in the darkness where they couldn’t hurt her.

Claire’s nails scraped against the tiles as she clenched her hands into fists, her breath shuddering out of her. The icy water did little to cool the ache deep in her core, the tension coiling tighter with every passing moment. Her thighs pressed together, seeking some kind of relief, but it wasn’t enough. Her body wouldn’t let her ignore the need that had taken root, a need that refused to be dismissed.

Her fingers trembled as she hesitated, her head resting back against the cool wall. For years, she had trained herself to lock away every desire, every craving, every part of herself that could be considered vulnerable. And yet here she was, stripped bare and undone by sensations that weren’t even hers to begin with. Or maybe they were—maybe the Animus had only awakened something she’d been ignoring for far too long.

“Just... get it over with,” she muttered to herself, her voice barely audible over the rush of water. She closed her eyes, her hand drifting down her damp skin, tentative and uncertain. Her palm brushed over her stomach, slick with cold water, before trailing lower. Her fingers hovered at the apex of her thighs, her body trembling with a mix of nerves and need.

When her fingers finally slipped between her legs, she inhaled sharply, her touch sending a spark of relief coursing through her. She circled slowly, cautiously, her movements unpracticed from years of neglect. Each brush of her fingers against her sensitive flesh coaxed a shiver from her, her breath hitching as the tension began to unravel.

She rested her forehead on her arm, her other hand gripping the edge of the wall as her movements grew steadier, more deliberate. The cold water cascading over her only heightened the heat blooming inside her, the contrast sharpening every sensation. Her hips shifted instinctively, her legs parting slightly as her fingers found the rhythm her body craved.

A quiet moan escaped her lips, muffled against the tiles, as the ache in her core transformed into something sharper, brighter. Her thighs quivered, her body straining as she chased the release she so desperately needed. The Animus memory played behind her closed eyelids—the tender reverence in Ezio’s touch, the way Amelia’s body had yielded to him. And the way Desmond had looked at her, as though she were the only thing in the world.

The thought of Desmond sent a new wave of heat rushing through her, her movements quickening as her body arched into her own touch. Her breaths came faster, the coil inside her winding tighter with each stroke until it finally snapped. A muffled cry escaped her, her body trembling violently as waves of release crashed over her. The tension that had gripped her for what felt like hours melted away, leaving her boneless and shaking on the shower floor.

The water was still frigid, pouring over her skin like needles, but now it only added to the shivers racking her frame. She leaned back, her chest heaving as she tried to catch her breath. Her legs felt weak, her arms trembling as she dragged herself up enough to reach the shower handle.

With a twist, she turned the water to warm, the icy spray gradually giving way to soothing heat. The warmth seeped into her skin, easing the remaining tension in her muscles and replacing the chill with a comforting, languid warmth. She stood shakily, bracing herself against the wall as she let the water wash over her.

Claire reached for the bottle of shampoo on the shower ledge, pouring a generous amount into her palm. The warm water cascaded over her, easing the tension still lingering in her muscles. She worked the shampoo into her hair, her fingers massaging her scalp in slow, deliberate circles. The repetitive motion was grounding, giving her something to focus on beyond the tangled mess of emotions swirling inside her.

The scent of the shampoo, clean and herbal, filled the steamy air, helping to clear her mind as the lather built. She tilted her head back under the spray, the warm water rinsing the suds away and leaving her hair sleek and clean. Repeating the process with conditioner, she let it sit for a moment before rinsing again, the heat of the water a soothing balm against her skin. By the time she was done, the oppressive weight of her thoughts had dulled to a manageable hum, the chaos no longer as sharp-edged.

Turning off the shower, she was met with a sudden, almost deafening silence after the steady rush of water. Claire wrung out her hair with her hands, water dripping down her back as she stepped out onto the cool tile floor. She grabbed a towel from the rack, wrapping it snugly around herself before moving to the sink. Wiping a patch of steam from the mirror, she stared at her reflection.

Her flushed cheeks had lost some of their heat, though a light pink still lingered. Her damp blonde hair framed her face in limp strands, her blue eyes clearer but shadowed by the weight of the Animus memory—and Desmond. The ghost of his gaze burned behind her eyes, a detail she couldn’t seem to shake. She let out a heavy sigh, running a hand through her wet hair. She didn’t have the time or luxury to linger on it. There was work to do.

Claire dried herself quickly, the towel soft against her skin as she rubbed it over her arms and legs with brisk efficiency. The motions were sharp and purposeful, as if moving fast enough could ward off the thoughts pressing against the edges of her mind. Wrapping the towel around her body again, she dug into her duffle bag, laying out the pieces of her disguise.

First, she blow-dried her hair until it was mostly dry, the warm air crackling in the small bathroom as she worked in silence. Once her hair was sufficiently tamed, she pinned it back tightly, securing each section with precision. The motions were almost meditative, grounding her in the here and now. Her fingers moved deftly, the familiar task offering her a semblance of calm.

She reached for the brunette wig, its sleek strands a stark contrast to her natural blonde. Adjusting it carefully over her pinned hair, she smoothed the edges into place until it sat just right. With her hair hidden, she turned her attention to the rest of her attire, assembling the outfit with deliberate focus.

The bulletproof vest hugged her torso snugly, straps and buckles cinched tight over a fitted black long-sleeve shirt. Its weight was familiar, a small comfort that steadied her frayed nerves. The leather shoulder harness came next, its twin holsters cradling the 9mm pistols she slotted into place with practiced ease. The added weight grounded her, each piece fitting together like an extension of herself.

She shrugged into her black trench coat, the heavy fabric falling just past her knees, its folds concealing the thigh holsters strapped securely to her legs. The trench coat's weight and movement felt natural, a second skin designed for anonymity and protection. Claire tugged on her fingerless black gloves, flexing her hands to test their fit. The bruises from her earlier fight throbbed faintly under the leather, a sharp reminder of her encounter with Lucy.

Her boots were next, the tall black pair hugging her calves snugly. Inside, she slid an 8-inch blade into its sheath, hidden but easily accessible. Once they were on, she adjusted the straps around her ankles, her movements precise and purposeful.

Finally, she pulled on the black mask, covering the lower half of her face and leaving only her eyes visible. Raising the hood of her trench coat, she let its shadow fall over her brow, shrouding her features in darkness. In the fractured mirror, the transformation was complete. She looked less like herself and more like a wraith—anonymity draped in layers of black and shadow.

For a moment, she barely recognized the woman staring back at her. The reflection was a stranger, yet every detail was a calculated extension of who she needed to be. Beneath the armor and disguise, though, she was still Claire—the woman who had survived Abstergo, who had fought to reclaim her life and carve out a purpose.

Her gaze lingered on the mirror, softening briefly as she thought of Aiden and his unyielding loyalty. The storage unit, untouched for years, had been waiting for her because of him. That quiet, unwavering act filled her with a rare sense of gratitude, cutting through the simmering anger that still lingered from the day’s events.

Taking a steadying breath, Claire lowered her mask and adjusted the brunette wig one last time. Her movements slowed as she pushed back her hood, catching her reflection for just a moment longer. Then, without hesitation, she turned and stepped out of the bathroom, her resolve solidified and her body cloaked in readiness.

As Claire entered the room, the air seemed to shift subtly, the quiet hum of the hideout’s activity pausing as everyone took her in. Desmond leaned against the counter in the kitchen, his arms crossed over his chest, a neutral expression masking the storm brewing behind his eyes. But Claire felt it—his gaze, heavy and heated, tracking her every movement.

The tactical outfit felt both protective and exposing under the intensity of his stare. The fitted bulletproof vest, the weapons strapped to her body, the calculated precision of her disguise—these were all layers of her armor, but Desmond’s look made her feel as though he could see beneath it all. His lips twitched slightly, as if he wanted to say something, but he held back, letting the weight of the moment settle between them.

Claire barely spared him a glance, keeping her expression cool even as her pulse betrayed her, hammering against her ribs. She crossed the room with deliberate steps, each one measured, as though her control of the situation could erase the memory of the Animus and the lingering heat that now simmered between them.

Shaun, seated casually at the nearby table, was the first to break the silence. His smirk was as sharp as ever as he gave her a slow, exaggerated once-over. “Well, Assassin Barbie,” he drawled, “glad to see you’re looking… let’s say, fierce. Did you plan the whole ‘avenging angel’ aesthetic, or is that just natural flair?”

Rebecca shot Shaun a warning look, but Claire didn’t rise to the bait. Instead, she offered a tight smile, adjusting the strap of her holster. “Better to look the part than stumble around like an underprepared historian,” she replied, her voice even but edged with just enough bite to make Shaun feign a wounded expression.

“You wound me,” he said, placing a hand over his chest as if struck. “Truly.”

Rebecca rolled her eyes but smiled. “Ignore him. You look great, Claire. Ready for this?”

Claire nodded, her focus narrowing to the task ahead. “Always.” She moved toward the kitchen to grab her gear, hyper-aware of Desmond still leaning there, his posture deceptively casual. His arms were still crossed, but the tension in his shoulders betrayed him. As she approached, his gaze sharpened, like he was trying to memorize every detail of her before she walked out the door.

For a moment, she hesitated, their proximity forcing her to acknowledge the silent charge between them. She kept her eyes trained on the bag she was reaching for, but she could feel his presence, the quiet weight of his focus like a hand pressing between her shoulder blades.

“Be careful out there,” Desmond said, his voice low, softer than she’d expected. It wasn’t an order or a casual farewell—it carried something heavier, like an unspoken plea.

Claire glanced up, her blue eyes meeting his. For a fraction of a second, the rest of the room disappeared, and it was just the two of them. His dark eyes burned, the desire from earlier not entirely hidden, but tempered now with something deeper, something raw and unguarded. It made her stomach twist, an ache blooming low in her belly that she refused to acknowledge.

“I always am,” she said, her voice steadier than she felt.

Claire slipped the strap of her bag over her shoulder, her movements deliberate, though her fingers trembled slightly with the effort to keep her composure. Desmond’s dark gaze didn’t waver, still holding hers with an intensity that felt like a physical weight. The space between them seemed to hum with unspoken tension, and she could almost feel the heat of his body even though he hadn’t moved.

Without breaking eye contact, she reached up and pulled her mask over her face. The soft fabric settled into place, obscuring the lower half of her expression. She adjusted it quickly, her hands moving with practiced precision, then tugged her hood up over her head. The shadow it cast across her features felt like a shield, a way to reassert her control and create some much-needed distance.

Turning away from him, she forced herself to exhale slowly, calming the rapid beat of her pulse. "Don’t wait up," she added lightly, her voice muffled slightly by the mask but steady nonetheless.

Desmond’s smirk flickered back, faint but unmistakable, though his eyes betrayed something deeper. "I’ll try not to," he said, his voice low and rough around the edges.

Claire didn’t look back, stepping toward the door where Rebecca was waiting, her hands resting casually on her hips. Rebecca gave her a small, approving nod and motioned toward the exit. “Let’s move.”

Claire followed her without hesitation, her boots thudding softly against the floor. As she stepped out into the night, the cool air washed over her, biting at her exposed skin and helping to clear her mind. Still, she couldn’t entirely shake the feeling of Desmond’s gaze on her, lingering like a phantom touch that refused to fade.

Chapter Text

SEPTEMBER 13th 2012, 10:00pm

The streets were quiet, their footsteps muffled by the steady hum of city life in the distance. Claire and Rebecca split off with a brief nod, their paths diverging as they moved with practiced ease toward their respective targets. The faint glow of streetlights barely pierced the darkness as Claire slipped through back alleys and shadowed corners, her movements swift and silent, blending into the night with practiced precision.

Claire’s destination was a small, nondescript gun store on the city’s outskirts. She approached with caution, noting the security cameras, the heavy iron bars over the windows, and the metal grate that covered the door after hours. It looked ordinary enough to anyone passing by, but Claire knew the back rooms held a wealth of supplies that the front displays barely hinted at.

With her leather-gloved hands, she slipped a lock-pick from her pocket, carefully maneuvering the picks into the lock with steady, practiced movements. Within moments, the lock clicked open, and she eased the door open, slipping inside as quietly as a whisper.

The interior of the shop was dark, illuminated only by a dim emergency light in the corner. The faint smell of gunpowder lingered in the air, mingling with the scent of oiled leather and cold metal. Shelves lined the walls, filled with rows of ammunition, magazines, and various firearms, each one meticulously labeled and stacked.

Keeping her movements efficient, Claire scanned the shelves, loading her bag with boxes of 9mm rounds and a few extra clips. She moved with precision, selecting only what she needed, mindful of the limited time they had. Her heart pounded in her chest, the adrenaline familiar and almost comforting. This wasn’t the first time she’d had to scavenge supplies under pressure, but each trip carried the same sense of danger—the lingering awareness that one misstep could cost them everything.

As she packed the last box of ammunition into her bag, a flicker of movement outside caught her eye. Her muscles tensed, every nerve on edge as she moved to the corner, her gloved fingers lightly gripping the handle of one of the pistols holstered beneath her coat. But it was just a stray cat, slipping through the shadows as it scrounged for scraps. She exhaled, steadying her heartbeat before making her way back to the exit.

A few blocks away, Claire met Rebecca at the rendezvous, her bag weighted with fresh ammo. Claire spotted Rebecca standing near the curb under a broken streetlight, her own bag slung casually over her shoulder. The faint glow of a nearby neon sign painted her features in flickering red and blue, making her look both relaxed and ready for anything. Claire adjusted the strap of her own bag, her eyes darting to check their surroundings one last time before approaching.

“Everything good?” Rebecca asked, her tone light but professional.

“Yeah,” Claire replied, her voice muffled slightly by her mask. “Got what we needed. Let’s move.”

Rebecca nodded, and together they made their way to the silver sedan Lucy had brought back earlier. The car was parked inconspicuously near a row of abandoned buildings, its paint dull in the dim light. Rebecca climbed into the passenger seat without a word, tossing her bag into the back. Claire slid into the driver’s seat, her movements fluid and purposeful.

The engine hummed to life with a low growl as Claire turned the key. The interior of the car was cool, the faint scent of leather and a hint of Lucy’s perfume lingering. Claire adjusted the rearview mirror and flicked her eyes toward Rebecca, who was already pulling up a tablet, her fingers moving deftly across the screen.

As they pulled onto the road, the silence in the car was thick, broken only by the hum of the tires on the pavement. The city’s glow faded behind them as they moved toward the outskirts, the buildings thinning out into stretches of open road and scattered industrial sites. The night felt vast out here, the stars muted by a faint haze, the horizon a distant blur.

Rebecca leaned back in her seat, her tablet resting on her lap. After a moment, she broke the silence. “You know, I had the Animus feed up earlier,” she said casually, her voice cutting through the quiet. “Caught the whole... interaction between Ezio and Amelia.”

Claire’s hands tightened on the steering wheel, her knuckles whitening under her gloves. She didn’t respond immediately, keeping her eyes on the road, but her stomach twisted at Rebecca’s words. The images were still too vivid in her mind, too raw, too personal. And knowing Rebecca had seen it made her skin prickle with unease.

Rebecca glanced at her, catching the tension in Claire’s jaw. “Hey, relax,” she said, her tone more playful now. “It’s not like I was spying on you. It’s kind of my job to monitor the sessions, remember?”

Claire forced a breath through her nose, willing herself to focus. “I didn’t realize how... detailed the feed would be,” she admitted, her voice quieter than usual.

“Oh, it’s detailed,” Rebecca said with a smirk, leaning her head back against the seat. “Like, really detailed. You two—well, Ezio and Amelia—sure gave me a lot to work with tonight.”

Claire shot her a look, her cheeks heating despite herself. “Rebecca.”

“What? I’m just saying.” Rebecca raised her hands in mock defense. “You can’t tell me it didn’t feel... intense. Like, I know it’s not technically you , but come on. You’re human. And that memory was... whoa.”

Claire’s grip on the wheel tightened again, her thoughts swirling as Rebecca’s words brought everything rushing back. The Animus memory, Desmond’s heated gaze, the unshakable tension that seemed to cling to her skin like a second layer. She didn’t want to talk about it, didn’t want to analyze how it had affected her—or how it had affected Desmond.

“It’s nothing,” Claire said finally, her tone clipped.

Rebecca snorted softly. “Sure, nothing. Whatever you say.” She paused, studying Claire for a moment before continuing in a more thoughtful tone. “You know, I think Amelia and Ezio... they really meant something to each other. That kind of connection, it’s rare.”

Claire swallowed hard, her eyes fixed on the road ahead. She didn’t respond, didn’t trust herself to say anything without revealing too much. Instead, she focused on the rhythm of the drive, the steady hum of the engine, the cool night air brushing against her face through the cracked window.

Her thoughts, however, refused to settle. Every time she tried to push the memory aside, it resurfaced—Ezio’s touch, Amelia’s vulnerability, the sheer intensity of it all. And then there was Desmond. His presence lingered like a shadow at the edge of her mind, his dark eyes and the way he’d looked at her etched into her memory.

The car dipped slightly as they hit a patch of uneven road, jolting Claire back to the present. The clock on the dashboard glowed faintly, reading 1:03 a.m. as the sedan rumbled up to the warehouse. Claire parked with precision, cutting the engine and letting the quiet hum of the cooling motor fill the air. She didn’t hesitate. Stepping out, she grabbed both bags—one from the backseat, the other from the trunk—and slung them over her shoulders. The weight didn’t bother her; if anything, it was grounding, a reminder of her purpose.

The warehouse was dimly lit, the stark fluorescent bulbs above the stairwell casting long shadows across the concrete walls. Claire climbed the stairs with brisk determination, the bags bumping lightly against her sides. The metal railing was cool beneath her gloved fingers, the clang of her boots on the steps echoing faintly in the empty space. Each step felt like a small battle against the memories that lingered, Amelia’s emotions and Desmond’s unshakable presence refusing to fade.

At the top of the stairs, she pushed open the heavy door to the living space. The warm, faintly musty scent of the warehouse greeted her, along with the low murmur of voices. Lucy and Shaun were seated at the table, their faces illuminated by the stark glow of a desk lamp. They glanced up as she entered, Shaun raising an eyebrow as Claire dropped the bags onto the table with a muted thud.

“Ammo, extra clips, and a few other surprises,” Claire said evenly, stepping back as Lucy and Shaun immediately began rifling through the bags.

Shaun gave a low whistle of approval. “Efficient, as always.”

Claire didn’t respond, already unbuckling the straps of her vest. She kept her movements methodical, her focus shifting to the room as a whole. Across the space, sprawled on one of the makeshift beds, was Desmond. The sight of him sent a ripple through her already frayed composure.

He looked freshly showered, his damp hair curling slightly against his forehead. A tight, worn t-shirt clung to his chest, the fabric stretched over the lean muscle that Claire had tried very hard not to notice earlier. He wore sweatpants slung low on his hips, his long legs stretched out casually as he rested against the wall, a tablet balanced in his hands. Despite his relaxed posture, his dark eyes lifted the moment she entered, tracking her like a predator sizing up its prey.

The car dipped slightly as they hit a patch of uneven road, jolting Claire back to the present. The clock on the dashboard glowed faintly, reading 1:03 a.m. as the sedan rumbled up to the warehouse. Claire parked with precision, cutting the engine and letting the quiet hum of the cooling motor fill the air. She didn’t hesitate. Stepping out, she grabbed both bags—one from the backseat, the other from the trunk—and slung them over her shoulders. The weight didn’t bother her; if anything, it was grounding, a reminder of her purpose.

The warehouse was dimly lit, the stark fluorescent bulbs above the stairwell casting long shadows across the concrete walls. Claire climbed the stairs with brisk determination, the bags bumping lightly against her sides. The metal railing was cool beneath her gloved fingers, the clang of her boots on the steps echoing faintly in the empty space. Each step felt like a small battle against the memories that lingered, Amelia’s emotions and Desmond’s unshakable presence refusing to fade.

At the top of the stairs, she pushed open the heavy door to the living space. The warm, faintly musty scent of the warehouse greeted her, along with the low murmur of voices. Lucy and Shaun were seated at the table, their faces illuminated by the stark glow of a desk lamp. They glanced up as she entered, Shaun raising an eyebrow as Claire dropped the bags onto the table with a muted thud.

“Ammo, extra clips, and a few other surprises,” Claire said evenly, stepping back as Lucy and Shaun immediately began rifling through the bags.

Shaun gave a low whistle of approval. “Efficient, as always.”

Claire didn’t respond, already unbuckling the straps of her vest. She kept her movements methodical, her focus shifting to the room as a whole. Across the space, sprawled on the single makeshift bed, was Desmond. The sight of him sent a ripple through her already frayed composure.

He looked freshly showered, his damp hair curling slightly against his forehead. A tight, worn t-shirt clung to his chest, the fabric stretched over the lean muscle that Claire had tried very hard not to notice earlier. He wore sweatpants slung low on his hips, his long legs stretched out casually as he rested against the wall, a tablet balanced in his hands. Despite his relaxed posture, his dark eyes lifted the moment she entered, tracking her like a predator sizing up its prey.

Claire’s heart gave an unwelcome lurch, but she forced herself to keep her steps measured as she moved toward the bed—the only available seat in the cramped living space. She sat down carefully at the foot of the bed, putting as much distance between herself and Desmond as possible. Her back was rigid, her focus pinned on removing her gear piece by piece.

The silence between them was palpable, broken only by the faint rustling of Lucy and Shaun sorting through the supplies at the table. Claire started with her coat, shrugging it off and draping it over the corner of the bed. Her hands moved to unbuckle the holsters strapped to her thighs, her fingers working efficiently even as she felt Desmond’s gaze burning into her.

She was hyper-aware of him, of his nearness, the warmth of his body radiating faintly in her direction. She tugged at the straps of her boots, biting back a sigh of relief as she slipped them off and placed them neatly beside the bed. The room felt too warm, the air thick with an unspoken tension that made her throat dry.

When her hands moved to the base of her wig, she hesitated. The pins securing her real hair beneath felt suddenly insurmountable, her nerves fraying under the weight of Desmond’s steady attention.

“Let me help,” Desmond said, his voice low and even, cutting through the haze in her mind.

Claire tensed as Desmond’s voice cut through the thick silence, the low timbre sending an involuntary shiver down her spine. Before she could respond, she felt the bed shift as he moved behind her. Her breath hitched when she realized he wasn’t sitting beside her—he was positioning himself directly behind her, his legs bracketing hers as he settled onto the mattress. The deliberate closeness sent her pulse racing, though she did her best to mask it.

“Relax,” he murmured, his tone soft but firm, as if coaxing her into compliance. His hands were already at the base of her wig, his fingers brushing lightly against the nape of her neck. The contact was gentle, almost reverent, and Claire’s shoulders sagged despite herself.

She clenched her hands in her lap, her jaw tight as she tried to focus on anything but the heat radiating from his body. His fingers worked efficiently, easing the wig free with careful precision. The tension in her scalp lessened immediately, and she couldn’t suppress the soft exhale of relief that escaped her lips.

Desmond set the wig aside and leaned in slightly, his breath ghosting against the back of her neck. “You’ve got more pins in here than I expected,” he said, a faint note of amusement in his voice.

“They keep everything in place,” Claire replied, her voice tighter than she intended. She hated how breathless she sounded, hated how her body reacted to his nearness despite her best efforts to ignore it.

“Let’s get them out, then,” he said, his hands already moving to the pins buried in her hair.

One by one, Desmond pulled the pins free, his fingers brushing against her scalp with a gentleness that made her chest tighten. The repetitive motion was soothing, almost hypnotic, and Claire found herself leaning into his touch without realizing it. When the last pin was removed, her hair tumbled down in loose, damp waves, the release of tension making her sigh softly.

Desmond’s hands didn’t move away. Instead, his fingers began massaging her scalp, his thumbs pressing lightly into the tender spots where the pins had been. The sensation was divine, a welcome relief after hours of tension, and Claire’s head tipped forward slightly, her guard slipping for just a moment.

Then it happened. An involuntary moan escaped her lips, low and soft, before she could stop it.

Desmond froze for half a second before a low chuckle rumbled in his chest. “That good, huh?” he teased, his voice warm and tinged with amusement.

Claire’s face burned, mortification flooding her system as she sat up straighter, pulling herself out of his reach. “I—shut up,” she snapped, though her voice lacked its usual sharpness. She couldn’t bring herself to look at him, her gaze fixed stubbornly on the floor.

Desmond leaned back slightly, giving her space, but the amused smile on his face remained. "Alright, alright," he said, raising his hands in mock surrender. "I’ll keep my hands to myself. For now."

Claire shot him a glare, though the heat in her cheeks betrayed her irritation. She stood abruptly, her movements sharp as she stepped away from the bed. The lingering warmth of his proximity clung to her, her skin tingling where his fingers had worked so expertly. She needed distance, needed to shake the unsettling mix of mortification and something far more dangerous that churned in her chest.

Desmond watched her rise, his gaze steady but unreadable. His casual posture on the bed seemed at odds with the intensity in his eyes, the way they tracked her as though waiting for her next move. “You good?” he asked after a moment, his tone quieter now, less teasing.

Claire nodded, though her jaw tightened. “Fine.”

He tilted his head, his brow furrowing slightly. “You sure? If you want to talk about earlier... you know, the Animus session—”

“No.” The word came out sharper than she intended, cutting him off. She exhaled through her nose, forcing herself to soften her tone. “No. I don’t want to talk about it.”

Desmond sat up straighter, his arms resting loosely on his knees. He didn’t press her, didn’t push for an explanation, but his dark eyes remained locked on her, steady and unyielding. “What do you want, then?” he asked, his voice carrying a note of curiosity that was impossible to ignore.

Claire crossed her arms over her chest, her fingers digging into her sleeves. The tension in her shoulders coiled tighter, the remnants of Amelia’s vulnerability and desire still clinging to her like a second skin. She needed an outlet, something to burn through the restless energy threatening to consume her.

“I’d rather hit something,” she said finally, her tone flat but resolute.

Desmond’s lips quirked into a slow, knowing smile, his earlier amusement giving way to something sharper. He stood fluidly, the effortless grace of his movements making Claire’s pulse tick up a notch. “That,” he said, his voice carrying a quiet challenge, “can be arranged.”

Chapter Text

The warehouse’s open space felt colder at night, the concrete floor hard and unforgiving beneath Claire’s bare feet. Shadows stretched across the walls, thrown by a single overhead bulb that swayed gently from a distant draft. The muted hum of the city outside was the only sound accompanying the faint rustle of movement as Claire and Desmond prepared for their sparring match.

She stood near one of the makeshift workout benches, her hands deftly wrapping themselves in the worn fabric of sparring tape. Her knuckles throbbed faintly, the cut from earlier pulsing as the tight material pressed against it, but she ignored the sting. The sharp edge of pain felt grounding, almost welcome after the turmoil of the evening. She focused on the task, keeping her hands steady even as the charged atmosphere between her and Desmond refused to dissipate.

Across from her, Desmond mirrored her movements, his head slightly bowed as he wrapped his hands. The muscles in his forearms flexed subtly with each pass of the tape, the quiet tension in his frame betraying his focus. He was dressed simply, a fitted t-shirt and loose workout pants that hugged his form in all the right ways, making it impossible for Claire not to notice. She hated how aware of him she was, how his presence filled the space like a tangible force.

When Desmond straightened, his dark eyes flicked to her, catching the moment she adjusted the tape over her injured knuckles. “You sure about this?” he asked, his tone light but tinged with concern. “I don’t want to make that worse.”

Claire’s lips twitched in a small, humorless smile. “I’m not that fragile.”

“Never said you were,” he replied, his gaze lingering on her hands for a beat before sliding up to meet her eyes. “Just don’t want you using that as an excuse if I win.”

She snorted softly, shaking her head. “Let’s see if you even get that far.”

Desmond’s grin was wolfish, his confidence exuding an easy charm that made her grit her teeth. He leaned against the nearest support beam, watching as she reached for the straps of her bulletproof vest beneath her shirt. The air shifted slightly as she hesitated, her fingers lingering at her back before she moved with quiet efficiency.

Her movements were deliberate as she reached behind herself, unzipping the back of the vest. The faint rasp of the zipper filled the silence, and Desmond’s gaze sharpened, tracking every motion as though it were a deliberate performance. Claire tugged the vest free from beneath her shirt, the fitted material clinging briefly to her form before she tossed it onto the bench beside her. Her long-sleeved shirt shifted as she straightened, molding to her body in a way that left little to the imagination.

Desmond didn’t bother hiding his reaction. His eyes swept over her, darkening as they lingered for just a second too long on the curve of her waist, the taut lines of her torso. When his gaze finally returned to hers, there was no denying the heat simmering in his expression.

Claire raised an eyebrow, her lips quirking in a wry smirk. “You good, or do you need a minute?”

Desmond’s grin widened, the faintest hint of color creeping into his cheeks. “I’m good. Just making sure you’re not hiding any more armor under there.”

“Funny,” she said dryly, crossing the space to stand across from him. “Let’s get this over with.”

He stepped forward, matching her stance as they squared off. The distance between them felt charged, the air heavy with unspoken tension that had been building since the Animus session. Desmond raised his taped hands, his expression serious now, though the flicker of amusement in his eyes never quite disappeared.

“Ready?” he asked, his voice low.

Claire nodded, her focus narrowing to him, her body coiled and ready.

The sparring match began with a tense, deliberate silence. Claire moved first, testing Desmond’s reaction with a quick jab toward his midsection. He sidestepped effortlessly, his feet light on the cold concrete as he shifted his weight, his arms already raised to counter. She followed with another jab, her movements precise and fluid, each punch a calculated test of his defenses.

Desmond blocked her easily, his forearm deflecting her strike as he slid closer. His footwork was smooth, almost too confident, as though he were holding back to gauge her skill. Claire gritted her teeth, narrowing her focus. She wouldn’t let him think she was predictable. Pivoting sharply, she feinted a left hook before sweeping her right leg in a low arc toward his knee. He saw it coming just in time, stepping back to avoid the impact, but she noted the flicker of surprise in his eyes.

Her bare feet pressed against the unyielding concrete, her stance firm as she pressed forward again. Desmond’s style was fluid, almost casual, his strikes sharp but never reckless. He moved like he knew exactly where he wanted to land each hit, and she hated how good he looked doing it. His muscles shifted beneath his t-shirt with each dodge and block, the faint sheen of sweat starting to glisten under the overhead light.

Claire dodged his counterpunch by ducking low, twisting her torso to avoid his fist. She used the momentum to sweep back up, aiming a punch at his ribs. This time, she connected. Her knuckles hit solid muscle, the impact reverberating up her arm. Desmond grunted softly, his body twisting to absorb the blow, but he recovered quickly. His expression sharpened, his jaw tightening as he lunged toward her.

She barely had time to block his next strike, his fist grazing her forearm as she redirected his energy. The force sent her stumbling a half-step back, but she recovered smoothly, her weight shifting to her back foot as she reset her stance. Desmond didn’t let up, closing the distance with a series of sharp jabs that forced her to retreat further. His strikes were fast, deliberate, leaving her little room to counter.

Claire’s pulse thundered in her ears, her breath coming faster now as she dodged and deflected. Her injured knuckles throbbed beneath the tape, but she refused to let herself falter. When Desmond aimed a low kick toward her shin, she jumped back just enough to avoid it, her balance precarious for a split second. He pressed the advantage, stepping into her guard with another punch aimed high.

This time, she anticipated his move. As his arm extended, she twisted her body sharply, using his momentum against him. Her hands shot out, gripping his wrist and shoulder as she dropped low and swept her leg behind his. The motion was swift and fluid, the force catching him off guard. Desmond’s legs buckled, and he hit the ground hard, the impact echoing in the empty warehouse.

Claire straightened quickly, satisfaction sparking in her chest as she watched him roll onto his back, his forearm braced against the floor. She couldn’t deny the thrill of seeing him momentarily vulnerable, his chest rising and falling as he adjusted to the sudden shift in power.

But Desmond wasn’t done. Before she could fully retreat, his hand shot out, catching her ankle in a firm grip. The move was quick, almost playful, but effective. With a sharp tug, he pulled her off balance, her body pitching forward as she lost her footing.

She tried to twist mid-fall, her instincts guiding her, but it wasn’t enough. She landed hard, her palms slapping against his chest as she sprawled over him. The impact knocked the breath out of her, her hair falling loose around her face as she scrambled to recover. Her knees straddled his hips, the proximity jarring and impossible to ignore.

Desmond froze beneath her, his hands still loosely gripping her ankle where it had slipped free. His chest heaved against her palms, the warmth of his body radiating through the thin fabric of his shirt. For a long, breathless moment, neither of them moved. The tension that had simmered between them throughout the fight now crackled like a live wire, impossible to ignore.

Claire’s gaze flicked up, meeting his. His dark eyes burned with something she couldn’t name, his pupils wide and his expression unreadable. The air between them felt heavy, charged with unspoken words and a heat that had nothing to do with the sparring.

Her breath hitched, her fingers still pressed against the firmness of his chest. She could feel his heartbeat beneath her palms, steady but strong, as though it echoed the rapid thrum of her own. The realization sent a ripple through her, making her hyper-aware of how intimately their bodies were pressed together.

Desmond’s lips parted slightly, his gaze dipping briefly to her mouth before snapping back to her eyes. His hands loosened their grip on her ankle, but they didn’t move away, lingering as though he wasn’t quite ready to let go. Claire’s pulse hammered in her ears, her body tense with the effort to stay composed despite the overwhelming pull between them.

She should move. She should say something. Anything to break the spell that seemed to hold them in place. But instead, she stayed frozen, caught in the moment, unable to look away from him.

The charged silence stretched between them, the tension so palpable it felt like the warehouse walls were closing in. Claire’s breath was shallow, her heart racing as she tried to make sense of the magnetic pull that kept her frozen in place. Desmond’s gaze stayed locked on hers, his dark eyes filled with something unspoken, something dangerous and intoxicating. His hands loosened their grip on her ankle completely, but they still lingered, as if unsure whether to let go.

Just as the moment seemed on the verge of tipping into something neither of them could take back, the sharp sound of footsteps echoed through the warehouse.

“Oi, lovebirds! Thought you were sparring, not getting cozy,” Shaun’s voice cut through the tension, dripping with sarcastic amusement.

Claire snapped back to reality, the spell broken. She scrambled off Desmond, her movements rushed and awkward as heat flooded her face. She could feel Shaun’s smirk without even looking at him, the smug satisfaction practically radiating from his tone.

Desmond sat up slowly, rubbing the back of his neck as he cast a quick glance at Claire. She avoided his eyes, focusing instead on brushing imaginary dust off her pants as she stood.

“I didn’t realize sparring included... pinning each other to the floor,” Shaun continued, clearly enjoying himself. Rebecca and Lucy appeared behind him, Rebecca’s brows raised in mild amusement while Lucy’s expression was sharp, almost accusatory.

“We were sparring,” Claire snapped, her voice taut as she forced herself to meet Shaun’s gaze. “Until someone decided to trip me.”

“Right,” Shaun drawled, his smirk widening. “Looked like a proper takedown to me.”

“Enough,” Lucy said sharply, cutting Shaun off. Her blue eyes zeroed in on Claire, her tone cold. “We have more important things to focus on than whatever this is.” She gestured vaguely between Claire and Desmond, her disapproval clear.

Claire’s eyes narrowed as Lucy’s words settled in the air, sharp and judgmental. The tension in the warehouse shifted, darkened, the previous heat between her and Desmond replaced by a colder, more volatile energy. Claire stepped forward, her movements deliberate, her jaw tightening as she met Lucy’s gaze head-on.

“You have something to say, Lucy?” Claire asked, her voice low but simmering with challenge. “Because it sounds like you’ve got a problem.”

Lucy’s expression didn’t waver, her arms crossing over her chest as she straightened her posture. “I do have a problem,” she replied coolly, her tone as sharp as the blade she carried on her hip. “This isn’t some playground, Claire. We’re fighting a war. Maybe if you spent more time focusing on that and less on… distractions, we’d all be in a better place.”

The insinuation struck hard, and Claire’s fists clenched at her sides. “Distractions?” she repeated, her voice rising slightly as anger flared in her chest. “You mean like you playing both sides and pretending you’re still one of us?”

Desmond shifted uncomfortably at her side, his hand twitching as though he wanted to step in, but he stayed silent, watching the scene unfold with a wary expression.

Lucy’s calm veneer cracked for a split second, her jaw tightening as her eyes darkened. “You have no idea what you’re talking about,” she said, her voice dangerously low.

“Oh, don’t I?” Claire took another step closer, her movements quick and purposeful. “I’ve had plenty of time to think about it—about you—since Abstergo. All those times you could’ve done something, anything, to help Clay or me, and you didn’t. You let them experiment on us, Lucy. You stood by while they broke him, and then you just let them throw me into isolation like I was nothing.”

“Enough, Claire,” Lucy snapped, her voice cutting through the space like a whip. Her composure faltered, the mask slipping to reveal the frustration bubbling beneath. “I didn’t have a choice. You think it was easy for me? Do you think I wanted any of that to happen?”

Claire barked out a humorless laugh, the sound sharp and bitter. “No, you didn’t have a choice, right? That’s your excuse for everything. ‘It was out of my hands.’” She took another step forward, now toe-to-toe with Lucy. “You had the choice to be a bridge, to be a lifeline for us. Instead, you cut us off. And when Clay died—when he fucking died, Lucy—I felt it. Every goddamn second of it. And where were you? Watching from the other side of the glass?”

Lucy flinched at that, her mask cracking further. “I couldn’t save him,” she said, her voice softer now, but no less strained. “I couldn’t save either of you. Do you think I don’t live with that every single day?”

“Spare me the guilt trip,” Claire shot back, her voice rising. “You didn’t even try. You let them turn him into a broken shell, and when he was gone, you let them pump me full of drugs and lock me away like I was some kind of failed experiment. You were supposed to help us, Lucy. You were supposed to be on our side.”

The air between them was electric now, the tension spiraling out of control. Rebecca and Shaun exchanged uneasy glances from the sidelines, their usual banter forgotten as the scene unfolded.

“I did what I had to do to survive,” Lucy hissed, her voice sharp. “You think you’re the only one who suffered? You think you’re the only one who lost something? Grow up, Claire. The world doesn’t revolve around your trauma.”

Claire’s anger erupted like a storm. She lunged forward, shoving Lucy hard enough to send her stumbling back a step. “Don’t you dare talk to me about growing up,” she snarled, her voice shaking with rage. “You don’t get to stand there and act like you’re the victim.”

Lucy recovered quickly, her expression icy as she squared her stance. “And what are you going to do, Claire? Take another swing at me? Go ahead. Show everyone exactly how much of a liability you are.”

That was the breaking point. Claire moved without thinking, her fist snapping out and connecting with Lucy’s jaw in a brutal, precise strike. Lucy staggered but didn’t fall, her eyes flashing with fury as she retaliated. Her hand shot out, grabbing Claire by the shirt and yanking her forward before slamming her knee into Claire’s stomach.

The fight was explosive, raw and untamed. Claire recovered from the blow with a sharp inhale, twisting her body to drive her elbow into Lucy’s side. The impact forced a grunt from Lucy, but she didn’t back down. She retaliated with a punch aimed at Claire’s mouth, the force sending Claire stumbling back her lip splitting.

“Stop it!” Desmond shouted, stepping forward, but neither of them listened. The fight escalated, both women locked in a brutal exchange of blows that left little room for mercy. Claire’s movements were wild but precise, years of training evident in every strike, while Lucy’s counters were calculated, each move designed to exploit an opening.

It was Desmond who finally broke through the chaos. He surged forward, wrapping his arms around Claire from behind and pulling her back just as she raised her fist to strike again. “Claire, enough!” he barked, his voice firm as he held her struggling form.

Lucy stumbled back, her breathing heavy, her lip split and bleeding. Her hand went to her hip, and before anyone could react, she drew her gun, the cold metal gleaming under the overhead light as she leveled it at Claire.

The room fell into a stunned silence.

“Get away from her, Desmond.”

Claire’s eyes snapped up, narrowing as she took in the cold glint of metal aimed at her head. Lucy held the gun with unsettling precision, her hand steady, her expression a storm of barely contained fury and something more desperate.

Desmond froze, his grip tightening on Claire’s waist. “Lucy, what the hell are you doing?” His voice was low, edged with alarm. Beside them, Rebecca and Shaun went still, shock transforming their faces as they registered the gleam of the muzzle aimed directly at Claire.

Claire stood rigid in Desmond’s grasp, her breath coming in sharp, ragged bursts as Lucy’s gun glinted in the faint light. The cold weight of the standoff pressed down on the warehouse, turning the air heavy and oppressive. For a moment, no one moved—time itself seemed to stretch as the three of them locked in their positions.

“Lucy,” Desmond began, his voice strained but steady, “put the gun down. This doesn’t need to go any further.”

But Lucy didn’t waver. Her hand was steady, her finger brushing the trigger as her icy blue eyes locked onto Claire’s. “Get away from her, Desmond,” she repeated, her voice tight with warning. “This is between me and Claire.”

“Oh, you’ve got that right,” Claire hissed, her body tense as a coiled spring. Her voice was venomous, cutting through the suffocating silence like a knife. “After everything you’ve done, this is definitely between us.”

Desmond tightened his arms around her waist, trying to ground her, to keep her from lunging forward. “Claire, don’t—”

But it was too late. Claire ripped herself free from his grasp with a force that startled even him. She didn’t rush Lucy—there was no reckless charge, no explosive outburst. Instead, she began to walk toward her, slow and deliberate, each step echoing against the concrete floor. Her gaze was locked on Lucy, unblinking, unwavering.

“Claire,” Desmond warned, his voice sharper now, but she didn’t stop.

Lucy’s grip on the gun tightened, the barrel steady as Claire closed the distance between them. “Don’t come any closer,” Lucy said, her voice low and dangerous. “I will shoot.”

Claire let out a bitter laugh, the sound hollow and cold. “Oh, I’m sure you will. You’ve done worse, haven’t you, Lucy? Left people to die. Stood by while they suffered. Hell, you probably think you’re doing the right thing right now, don’t you?”

“Shut up,” Lucy snapped, her mask of control slipping for the first time. “You don’t know what you’re talking about. You don’t understand—”

“I understand perfectly,” Claire cut her off, her voice rising. Her face was inches from the barrel now, the cold metal just shy of brushing her forehead. “You’re a coward. You chose your side, and it wasn’t us. It was never us.”

The room was deathly silent, the weight of Claire’s words hanging heavy in the air. She took another step closer, until the muzzle pressed against her forehead, the metal cold and biting. She looked at Lucy with a steely, unyielding gaze, her voice low and taunting.

“I fucking dare you to pull that trigger,” Claire whispered, her lips curving into a mirthless smile. “Put me out of my misery, if it makes you feel better.”

The tension stretched taut between them, the silence crackling with the weight of every unspoken word. And then, just as Claire saw the flash of intent in Lucy’s eyes, the sound split the air—

BANG!

The shot reverberated through the warehouse, impossibly loud, and Claire felt the air sear past her head as the bullet missed by inches, smashing into the wall behind her. The shockwave rocked her back, her ears ringing with the force of it, the world reduced to a high-pitched whine and a haze of flying debris.

Desmond lunged forward, catching her before she could stumble, his arms steadying her as the muffled world began to solidify again. He was speaking, his voice urgent, but she could only catch fragments, the sound drowned out by the lingering echo of the shot in her ears.

Lucy stood there, chest heaving, the gun clutched tightly in her hand, her expression wavering between anger and something dangerously close to regret. Desmond’s gaze hardened, and his voice cut through the haze, anger stark in his tone. “What the hell is wrong with you, Lucy?”

Lucy’s gaze lingered on Claire, her face pale, eyes wide with a look that was somewhere between shock and terror. Her hand trembled slightly, the gun now lowered to her side, and for a moment, she looked like someone waking from a nightmare. The realization of what she’d almost done—how close she’d come to crossing an irrevocable line—washed over her face, and her lips parted in what might have been the start of an apology, a whisper that barely formed as her gaze flicked nervously to Desmond, then back to Claire.

Claire caught the faintest murmur from Lucy as she backed away, but her head was still spinning, the ringing in her ears drowning out the words. Lucy’s lips moved, forming what might have been a hurried, regretful apology, but the words were lost in the haze. Her expression was unguarded, raw with something Claire had never seen in her before—a deep, rattling fear, almost as if she were horrified at herself.

Without waiting for a response, Lucy turned sharply on her heel, muttering under her breath as she pushed past the others, each step quick and tense as she left the warehouse, her form disappearing through the door. Her footsteps echoed through the stillness, fading as the warehouse settled back into silence.

As the disorientation slowly cleared, Desmond’s voice broke through, his hands steady on Claire’s shoulders as he guided her back to reality. “Claire, are you okay? Talk to me.”

She nodded, though her mind still reeled from the intensity of what had just happened. 

Claire blinked, struggling to clear her vision, to focus on Desmond’s face, the worry etched deep in his features. The high-pitched whine in her ears was finally fading, replaced by the steady, grounding thud of her own heartbeat. She let out a shaky breath, nodding once, even as the shock continued to ripple through her.

“I’m fine,” she said, her voice rough, raw from the tension. “Just… my hearing’s a little shot, that’s all.” She pushed herself upright, leaning back against the cold, rough wall, feeling the tremor in her hands as she pressed them to her knees, her fingers curling against her legs to hide the shaking. Desmond knelt in front of her, his expression torn between worry and frustration, his hands hovering as if he wanted to reach out but didn’t quite know how.

“Claire… what the hell was that?” His voice was hoarse, disbelief undercutting the words, and any hint of his usual humor had vanished. Behind him, Rebecca and Shaun stood in stunned silence, shock mirrored in their wide eyes, their postures stiff.

Rebecca, typically composed, looked like she’d witnessed something surreal and horrific, her arms crossed tightly as if holding herself together. Her mouth opened, but no words came, and she shook her head slightly, trying to process the scene. Shaun, usually quick with sarcasm, was at a loss, his brows knitted in an uncharacteristically serious frown as he adjusted his glasses, his gaze darting to the warehouse door where Lucy had vanished moments before.

Claire drew in a slow, unsteady breath, trying to ground herself, but her mind was a storm of memories and raw emotions. The ache in her chest was sharp, a reminder of her years trapped in that Abstergo facility, of the faces she had left behind, the faces she’d failed to protect. She had tried to bury those memories, but now, with everything that had just unfolded, they clawed their way to the surface. And Desmond’s eyes held questions she wasn’t sure she could answer.

Claire’s breath hitched as she pushed off the wall, her fingers brushing over the raw edge of her split lip. Her fingertips came away stained with a faint smear of blood. She stared at the crimson streak for a beat too long, her mind replaying the moment when Lucy’s fist had connected, the sharp crack and the metallic tang in her mouth. It wasn’t just the pain—it was the betrayal. The audacity. The sheer nerve of it.

She looked up, locking eyes with Desmond. “You want to know what that was?” she said, her voice hoarse but edged with a simmering fury. “That was years of lies catching up with her. That was her true colors showing.”

Desmond opened his mouth to respond, but Shaun interrupted, stepping closer with an incredulous look. “Claire, come on. She didn’t exactly keep her cool, but pulling a gun on you doesn’t make her some kind of double agent. It makes her human. Flawed, sure, but human.”

“Human?” Claire spat the word like it burned her. “Is that what we’re calling it now? Being ‘flawed’? Leaving someone to rot in a cell? Standing by while your so-called allies are tortured, experimented on, killed —is that just ‘being human’ to you, Shaun?”

Rebecca stepped forward, her voice gentle but cautious. “Claire, you’ve been through hell. We all know that. But Lucy… she’s one of us. She’s been in the fight longer than any of us. She’s made sacrifices too.”

“Sacrifices,” Claire echoed bitterly, a sharp, humorless laugh escaping her. “You think she sacrificed anything? She didn’t lose anyone—she handed them over. She let Abstergo do whatever they wanted while she stood by and watched. And then she had the nerve to act like she cared.”

The warehouse was silent except for the ragged sound of Claire’s breathing. The words had spilled out before she could stop them, raw and jagged, cutting through the heavy air. She could feel their eyes on her, a mix of disbelief and unease, but she didn’t care. The dam had broken, and there was no stopping the flood.

“Do you have any idea what it was like in there?” she continued, her voice cracking under the weight of her anger. “Do you know what it feels like to have someone you trusted—someone who was supposed to help you—turn their back on you? To hear them tell you to ‘stay strong’ while they hold the key to your freedom and refuse to use it?”

Rebecca looked stricken, her lips parting as if to speak, but no words came. Shaun shifted uncomfortably, his arms crossing tighter over his chest as he avoided Claire’s gaze. Even Desmond, who had been steady and unwavering, looked shaken, his brow furrowed as he processed her words.

“I don’t know the details,” Shaun said, his tone unusually subdued, “but I do know Lucy. And whatever you think she did, I’m sure there’s more to it than you realize. She wouldn’t just… abandon someone like that.”

Claire turned on him, her eyes blazing. “Wouldn’t she? You don’t know her like I do. You didn’t see her standing there, calm as ever, while Clay bled out in front of me. You didn’t hear her excuses, her rationale for why it wasn’t ‘the right time’ to help us. You didn’t feel her tase me after I fought my way through half the facility trying to survive.”

The weight of her words hung heavily in the air. Shaun’s frown deepened, and even Rebecca’s shoulders sagged slightly, the confidence in her posture faltering. They didn’t want to believe her. Claire could see it in their faces—the stubborn clinging to the idea that Lucy was still on their side, still one of them. But the cracks were there, subtle but undeniable.

Rebecca finally found her voice, though it was soft, almost pleading. “If what you’re saying is true… if Lucy did those things… then why would she be here now? Why stay with the Assassins? Why risk her life for the cause?”

Claire let out a bitter laugh, shaking her head. “You think this is about the cause? Lucy doesn’t care about the Brotherhood. She’s here because she’s playing both sides. Because it’s easier to hide in plain sight than to run. And because she knows if I go down, I’ll take her with me.”

“Christ,” Shaun muttered, running a hand over his face. He looked like he wanted to argue, to say something sarcastic or dismissive, but the uncertainty in his eyes betrayed him.

Desmond finally spoke, his voice calm but firm. “Claire, if you’re right—if Lucy’s really not who she says she is—then we’ll figure it out. But right now, you need to focus. That shot could’ve killed you.”

Claire’s fingers brushed against her temple, where the bullet had grazed, leaving a faint, stinging warmth. Her hearing was still muffled on that side, a dull ringing that refused to fade completely. She looked down at her hand, at the smear of blood on her fingertips from her lip. She dabbed at the cut absently, her mind racing.

“Yeah,” she said quietly, her voice barely audible. “It could’ve.”

She looked up at Desmond, her gaze hardening. “But it didn’t. And that’s not the point. The point is, if you keep trusting her, it’s not a question of if she’ll betray us again. It’s when .”

Desmond didn’t respond immediately, his jaw tightening as he studied her. Behind him, Rebecca and Shaun exchanged uneasy glances, the seeds of doubt clearly taking root despite their attempts to stay neutral.

Claire exhaled sharply, pushing herself to her feet. Her legs felt unsteady, her body still humming with adrenaline, but she forced herself to stand tall. “Believe what you want,” she said, her voice colder now. “But when the time comes, don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

With that, she turned on her heel and walked away, her steps echoing through the warehouse as she headed for the exit. The tension in the air was suffocating, but she didn’t look back. She couldn’t. Not when the weight of her past—and the betrayal she couldn’t escape—was threatening to crush her.

Chapter Text

September 14, 2012, 3:00 AM

Claire lay face down on the bed, her battered body sinking into the mattress. The ice pack pressed against her split lip and bruised cheek, numbing the sharpest edges of the pain but doing little to quiet the storm in her mind. The fight replayed in disjointed flashes—Lucy’s voice sharp with disdain, the fiery heat of her own anger, the feel of Lucy’s hand striking her, and then the chaos that followed. It churned in her thoughts, a mess of emotions that left her chest tight and her throat burning.

Tears seeped silently from the corners of her eyes, dampening the pillow beneath her. She kept her breathing even, careful not to betray the turmoil to anyone who might glance her way. But when she drew in a shaky breath, it hitched despite her best efforts. The sound must have carried because the weight of the bed shifted slightly, and a warm hand settled gently on her back.

She stiffened instinctively but didn’t move. Desmond. Of course it was him. His touch was tentative, as though he wasn’t sure if it was welcome, but it remained steady, his thumb brushing small, soothing circles against the fabric of her shirt. He didn’t speak—he didn’t need to. The quiet presence was enough to let her know he was there, watching over her in the way he always seemed to do without asking for acknowledgment or thanks.

The tears didn’t stop, but they slowed, the raw ache in her chest loosening ever so slightly under the weight of his quiet reassurance. She let her eyes close, breathing in the faint scent of antiseptic and old wood that clung to the safe house.

In the next room, the faint clatter of mugs and the low hum of conversation drifted in from the kitchen. Shaun and Rebecca were brewing coffee, their murmured voices a quiet counterpoint to the warehouse’s stillness.

“Think she’ll be back soon?” Shaun’s voice carried just enough to be heard. His usual sarcasm was muted, replaced with a note of concern that wasn’t typical for him.

Rebecca’s reply was softer, more measured. “I don’t know. Lucy needed space, but… this isn’t sustainable. They’re going to have to figure this out before it gets worse.”

“Define ‘worse,’” Shaun muttered, and Claire could almost hear the dry arch of his brow in his tone.

The sound of Rebecca’s sigh was barely audible. “You know what I mean. We’re already at each other’s throats enough as it is. They need to get on the same page, or…” She didn’t finish the thought, but the weight of what she left unsaid lingered.

Claire’s fingers curled slightly against the sheets beneath her, guilt threading through her exhaustion. She’d lost control—again—and now her fractured relationship with Lucy threatened to splinter the team. They couldn’t afford this, not now, not when everything was already teetering on the edge of disaster.

Desmond’s hand on her back pressed a little more firmly, his warmth seeping through the fabric and grounding her in the present. She drew in a slow, measured breath, steadying herself.

The bed shifted again, and Claire felt Desmond’s weight settle beside her. She tensed, unsure of his intentions, but his presence didn’t press against her. Instead, he lay on his side, the mattress dipping slightly as he adjusted to get comfortable. For a moment, the only sounds were the faint murmur of Rebecca and Shaun’s conversation and the soft rustle of fabric as Desmond moved.

His voice broke the silence, low and careful. “Do you want me to leave?”

Claire didn’t answer right away. She didn’t know what she wanted. The tears had stopped, but the ache in her chest remained, a heavy knot of guilt, frustration, and shame that no amount of ice or antiseptic could soothe.

“No,” she whispered finally, her voice cracking just enough to betray the vulnerability she tried to hide. “You don’t have to go.”

Desmond stayed quiet, but she could feel him shift closer, his warmth a steady counterpoint to the cold numbness she’d wrapped herself in since the fight. His arm reached out, hesitating for just a moment before he slid it gently around her waist. The movement was slow, deliberate, as if giving her every chance to pull away. When she didn’t, his hand rested lightly against her stomach, the weight of it comforting but not confining.

Claire’s breath hitched, but she didn’t move. The closeness was startling, but it wasn’t unwelcome. It was grounding, a reminder that she wasn’t entirely alone in this mess she’d made.

“You don’t have to do this,” she murmured, her voice muffled by the pillow.

“I know,” Desmond replied softly. “But I want to.”

The sincerity in his tone chipped away at the walls she’d built around herself. His arm tightened slightly, pulling her back against his chest. His body was warm, solid, and steady in a way that made her feel like she wouldn’t fall apart if she let herself lean into him.

Claire exhaled slowly, the tension in her shoulders easing as she allowed herself to relax against him. She felt the steady rise and fall of his breathing, the rhythmic thrum of his heartbeat against her back. It was soothing, lulling her into a sense of security she hadn’t felt in longer than she cared to admit.

“I messed up,” she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper. “With Lucy. With all of it.”

Desmond’s hand shifted slightly, his thumb brushing an absent pattern against her side. “You were angry,” he said simply. “And you had every right to be. But… yeah, maybe it got out of hand.”

Claire huffed a humorless laugh. “Understatement of the year.”

He chuckled softly, the sound vibrating against her. “Okay, yeah. But it’s not all on you, Claire. Lucy’s got her own issues, and she knows how to push buttons. Doesn’t mean you don’t deserve to be heard.”

Claire’s throat tightened at his words, the knot in her chest loosening just enough to let her breathe a little easier. “I just… I can’t forgive her,” she admitted, her voice breaking. “Not after what she did. Part of me hopes she is working for Abstergo because the alternative that she IS our aly and she still did nothing makes it so much worse.”

Claire’s hand trembled slightly as she reached up, her fingers brushing the edge of the ice pack pressed against her cheek. The cold had numbed the ache, but it had also started to feel distant, like a barrier between her and everything she couldn’t confront. Slowly, she peeled the ice pack away, letting it drop onto the pillow beside her. The sensation of the air against her skin was sharp, bringing her back to the present.

She shifted, turning slowly in Desmond’s arms, her movements hesitant as though afraid of breaking the moment. His arm loosened just enough to allow her to move, but it didn’t leave her completely. She rotated fully, her back leaving the solid plane of his chest as she settled onto her side to face him. Her legs curled slightly, drawing up between them as she searched his face.

Desmond’s expression was calm, his dark eyes steady as they met hers. There was no judgment in his gaze, no expectation—just a quiet understanding that left her feeling exposed but not vulnerable. His hand, still resting lightly against her waist, remained steady, a silent reassurance that he wasn’t going anywhere.

“I mean it,” she said, her voice low but firm, the raw edges of her frustration and grief cutting through. “If Lucy’s really still on our side… how do I even begin to make sense of that? How do I work with her, fight with her, after everything? I’d rather believe she’s a traitor. At least that would make sense.”

Desmond’s brows furrowed slightly, his fingers flexing gently against her side as though trying to ground her. “I can’t imagine what it was like for you,” he admitted, his voice steady but soft. “But I don’t think it’s as simple as good or bad, loyal or traitor. People… they make choices. Sometimes terrible ones. Doesn’t mean they don’t regret them.”

Her jaw tightened, her chest heaving with a sharp breath. “Regret doesn’t change what she did. Regret doesn’t bring Clay back. It doesn’t undo the fact that I had to fight my way out of that hellhole while she stood by and let it happen.”

Desmond stayed quiet, his gaze never leaving hers. He didn’t try to argue, didn’t try to talk her down. Instead, he just listened, his presence steady in a way that made the anger and hurt roiling inside her feel less overwhelming.

Claire’s voice cracked as she continued, the words spilling out like a wound she couldn’t close. “I begged her, Desmond. I begged her to help us, to help Clay. And she just… she turned her back. She let them take everything from us. How am I supposed to forgive that? How can I even look at her without feeling like I’m about to snap?”

Desmond’s hand moved, his palm brushing her side in a way that was both soothing and deliberate. “Maybe you’re not ready to forgive her,” he said quietly. “Maybe you never will be. And that’s okay. But carrying all this anger? Letting it eat at you? That’s not fair to you.”

Her lip quivered, her throat tightening as the weight of his words hit her. “I don’t know how to let it go,” she whispered, her voice raw. “Every time I look at her, I see him. I see the blood. I feel the pain of losing him all over again.”

Desmond’s grip on her waist firmed just slightly, his thumb brushing an absent circle against her hip. “You’re not alone in this, Claire,” he said, his voice steady. “You don’t have to figure it out all at once. And you don’t have to carry it by yourself. Not while I’m here.”

Claire’s breath hitched at his words, the steady warmth of Desmond’s presence pressing against the raw edges of her emotions. The vulnerability she fought so hard to bury surfaced in waves, her walls crumbling under the weight of his quiet reassurance. For a moment, she stayed frozen, her body taut with the effort to hold herself together. But the exhaustion—the anger, the grief, the overwhelming loneliness—finally won out.

Her trembling hand reached up slowly, almost hesitantly, until her fingers brushed the fabric of his shirt. The soft material bunched beneath her grip as she curled her hand into a fist, clutching at it like a lifeline. She didn’t meet his eyes, her gaze fixed somewhere between them, but her voice, when it came, was raw and unsteady.

“I hate feeling like this,” she murmured, her fingers tightening in the fabric. “Like I’m falling apart. Like I’m never going to be whole again.”

Desmond didn’t pull away, didn’t even flinch at the weight of her words. Instead, his hand on her waist shifted slightly, his palm pressing just a little more firmly against her side. It wasn’t forceful, just grounding—a silent reminder that he was still there, that she wasn’t adrift in this on her own.

“You’re not falling apart,” he said softly, his voice steady but filled with an ache that mirrored her own. “You’ve been through hell, Claire. Anyone would feel this way. It doesn’t make you weak. It just makes you human.”

A sharp, bitter laugh escaped her, though it held no humor. “Human,” she repeated, the word tasting foreign on her tongue. “I don’t feel human, Desmond. I feel like I’ve been hollowed out. Like everything that made me who I was got ripped away, and now all that’s left is... anger. Pain. And whatever the hell this is.” She gestured vaguely to the space between them, her hand shaking.

Desmond’s eyes softened, his free hand coming up to gently brush a strand of hair away from her face. The touch was featherlight, almost reverent, as though he understood how fragile the moment was. His gaze didn’t waver, holding hers with a quiet intensity that made her chest ache.

“This,” he said, his voice low but certain, “is you surviving. Even when it feels impossible. Even when it hurts like hell. You’re still here, Claire. That’s not nothing.”

Her throat tightened, and she shook her head, her fingers still gripping his shirt like it was the only thing keeping her tethered to reality. “Sometimes I wonder if it would’ve been easier if I hadn’t made it out. If I’d just... stayed there. Let them win.”

The words slipped out before she could stop them, and the silence that followed was heavy, suffocating. Desmond’s hand froze for a fraction of a second, his grip on her waist tightening imperceptibly before he shifted, his brow furrowing.

“Don’t,” he said, his voice sharper than before but still gentle. “Don’t go there. You made it out because you fought for it, Claire. Because you’re stronger than they ever gave you credit for. Don’t let them take that from you.”

Claire blinked, startled by the firmness in Desmond's voice. His words cut through the haze of her self-doubt, but they also dredged up memories she had tried to bury deep—memories she rarely allowed herself to confront, let alone share. The rawness in his tone felt uncomfortably close to something she hadn’t experienced in a long time: someone caring enough to call her out.

She swallowed hard, a bitter laugh escaping her lips as she looked away. “You sound like Aiden,” she muttered, her voice barely above a whisper. “And Paul.” Her lips twisted into a humorless smile. “They used to say the same things to me. Right after they found me in the bathroom, wrists bleeding out all over the tile.”

Desmond froze, the weight of her words settling like a stone between them. His eyes searched her face, his expression shifting from shock to something deeper—pain, concern, and understanding all tangled together.

Claire wasn’t looking at him anymore. Her gaze had dropped to her wrists, her fingers curling slightly as though trying to hide them. But the scars were there, faint but unmistakable, etched into her skin like a permanent reminder of her darkest moment. She didn’t flinch when Desmond’s hand moved, his fingers wrapping gently around her wrist.

He lifted her hand slowly, his movements deliberate and careful, giving her every opportunity to pull away. When she didn’t, he turned her wrist over, exposing the pale, raised lines that crossed her skin. His thumb brushed over one of the scars, the touch light but reverent, as though he were trying to memorize the story it told.

“You promised them, didn’t you?” he said softly, his voice steady but laced with an ache that mirrored the one in her chest. “That you wouldn’t go down that road again.”

Claire’s throat tightened, and she nodded once, her gaze still fixed on the scars. “I did,” she whispered, her voice cracking. “I promised them I’d keep fighting. That I’d find a reason to keep going, even if I didn’t know what the hell it was.”

Desmond’s grip on her wrist tightened slightly—not enough to hurt, just enough to ground her. “And you did,” he said firmly. “You found a reason. You made it out, Claire. You survived.”

Her eyes flicked up to meet his, and for a moment, the raw intensity in his gaze made it hard to breathe. “I don’t know how to do this,” she admitted, her voice trembling. She glanced between them, her meaning clear even without the words to explain it fully. “I don’t know how to... let someone in. To trust this. To trust you.”

Desmond’s expression softened, his thumb still tracing idle patterns over her wrist. “You don’t have to know how,” he said quietly. “Not all at once. This—whatever it is—it doesn’t have to make sense right now. It doesn’t make much sense to me either. Something about sharing Amelia and Ezio’s memories has shifted something for me…for us…blurred the lines in ways I don’t understand.”

Desmond’s words hung in the air between them, heavy and unspoken, but there was a tenderness in his eyes that made Claire’s breath catch. She couldn’t place it—whether it was the shared history, the rawness of the moment, or something else entirely—but there was something undeniable in the way he held her. It was as if he wasn’t just here for her, but with her, a quiet understanding passing between them in the stillness of the room.

Her pulse quickened, and the vulnerability she had been fighting to contain broke free in that moment, like a dam finally giving way to the pressure of years of grief and guilt. She hadn’t expected him to say those words, to speak with such conviction. For the first time in what felt like forever, she allowed herself to feel something other than the bitter tang of failure that had been lingering on her tongue for so long.

Desmond’s hand shifted from her wrist to the side of her face, his thumb brushing away the tears that had once again started to trace silent paths down her cheeks. His fingers were warm, gentle, and she couldn’t bring herself to pull away. His touch was a lifeline, a promise, even if it was one that neither of them fully understood. It didn’t need to make sense. Not yet. Not now.

She closed her eyes for a moment, trying to steady her breathing, feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath her ear as he held her close. The tension between them had eased, but the weight of everything still lingered in the air, unspoken but never far from their minds.

“Desmond,” she whispered, barely audible, but the name was enough. It carried the weight of everything—her pain, her confusion, her reluctant need for him. She wanted to say more, to explain, but the words caught in her throat. There were no words that could make sense of what she was feeling, of what this was.

His response was simple, yet it carried the gravity of everything he had yet to say. He pulled her closer, his arm slipping gently around her back, the warmth of his embrace making her chest tighten in a way that was both comforting and overwhelming. And then, without a word, he pressed his lips to her forehead—soft, tender, and full of something Claire didn’t have the strength to name.

The gesture was so small, so quiet, but it felt like a promise in that moment—a promise of something she wasn’t ready to face, but perhaps, with time, could. His lips lingered there for a second longer, and when he pulled back, his hand remained on her face, his thumb gently brushing across her cheek, as if trying to erase the sadness there, even if just for a moment.

“It’s okay,” he said softly, his voice thick with sincerity, though his words were simple. “You don’t have to have all the answers right now. You just have to be here. With me.”

Claire’s eyes fluttered open, meeting his once again. The intensity in his gaze hadn’t faded, but there was a quiet warmth there now, a flicker of something more. Something she wasn’t ready to admit, but could no longer ignore.

Chapter Text

September 14th, 2012, 10:00 AM

Claire blinked awake, the soft light filtering in from the small window, casting a gentle glow over the room. Her mind took a few heartbeats to catch up with the reality of the moment—and then she froze. She was nestled tightly against Desmond, her head tucked beneath his chin, her face pressed so close to his that she could feel the warmth of his skin, the steady rhythm of his pulse beneath her cheek. The rise and fall of his chest was a constant reminder of his presence, grounding her in a way that made her heart flutter despite the panic that surged through her.

Her arms were tucked close to her chest, sandwiched between them, and the warmth of his body surrounded her like a barrier against the cold, the chaos, and the darkness that often clung to her thoughts. For a moment, everything outside their little cocoon seemed distant and muffled, as though nothing else existed but the quiet comfort of this stolen peace.

A surge of shock washed over her, her muscles tensing instinctively. Every trained reflex screamed at her to pull away, to escape, but as the rush of adrenaline subsided, Claire realized something that made her pause—her heartbeat quickened with the realization. She hadn’t dreamed. For the first time in as long as she could remember, her sleep had been completely dreamless—free from the usual parade of haunted memories and fears that lingered in the shadows of her mind.

The stillness of her thoughts felt almost foreign to her, and she didn’t want to disrupt it. She didn’t want to wake from this brief, precious reprieve. The safety she felt—real and unexpected—unsettled her, but at the same time, she couldn’t deny the relief it brought. It was as if the quiet warmth Desmond offered had somehow warded off everything that usually tormented her mind during the night. The temptation to stay there, in the comfort of his presence, was almost overwhelming.

She let her eyes close again, just for a moment, savoring the feeling of his steady breathing and the gentle weight of his hand resting lightly against her back. His presence felt like an anchor—quiet, solid, and unspoken—and it was enough to still the storm inside her, even if only for a few minutes longer.

But then, the soft murmur of voices nearby made her heart leap in her chest. The reality of her situation slammed back into place. She could feel the heat rise to her face, the blood rushing to her cheeks with embarrassment and a sudden rush of vulnerability.

“Should we wake them?” Rebecca’s voice carried, low and teasing.

“Oh, absolutely not. This is far too entertaining,” Shaun’s voice replied, laced with his usual sarcasm but undercut with a hint of amusement. “Let’s give our resident stoic assassin a few more minutes in her cocoon of denial.”

Claire’s cheeks flamed, but she couldn’t bring herself to pull away. The steady rhythm of Desmond’s breathing beneath her ear, the warmth of his hand on her back, the comforting weight of his body next to hers—it was enough to make her want to stay in this moment, despite the teasing comments from the other room.

Desmond’s breathing shifted, and she felt the slight change as his head tilted, his eyes meeting hers. For a brief, fragile moment, he didn’t move, and neither did she. Their eyes locked, a flicker of surprise and understanding passing between them—a wordless exchange that made Claire’s heart skip in her chest.

“Hey,” he murmured softly, his voice still rough from sleep, but warm and unguarded. “You alright?”

“Yeah,” she whispered back, her voice barely audible, reluctant to break the fragile peace they had found. She didn’t want to move, not yet, not when everything about this moment felt so unfamiliar and fragile. She felt safe here, and that was more than she had allowed herself to feel in years.

Desmond’s hand shifted slightly, settling more firmly against her back as though sensing her hesitation. The movement was subtle but reassuring—his silent support grounding her when her thoughts felt too loud, too chaotic. His presence was an anchor, steadying her in a way she hadn’t realized she needed until now.

Shaun’s voice, ever present, shattered the moment. “Oh, please, don’t mind us,” he called, his tone dripping with mock innocence. “We’re just here, watching this whole soap opera unfold.”

Desmond rolled his eyes, his hand still resting against Claire, not letting her go just yet. His voice shifted to playful exasperation as he replied, “The next safe house better have a door.”

“Yeah?” Claire asked, pulling just enough away so she could glance up at him fully. “Do you foresee this happening more often?”

Desmond smirked, his hand still on her back, his fingers warm against her skin. "Given the way you’re clinging to me, I might start to think that’s a real possibility," he teased, his eyes glinting with a playful warmth that softened the sharpness of the moment. He was teasing, but there was an underlying sincerity in his gaze, one that made Claire pause before she responded.

But before she could, her attention was yanked away by an unexpected sensation—sharp and sudden. The clarity of the world around her seemed to fade. Or, more accurately, it was a lack of clarity—a strange, almost unsettling silence in her right ear.

Claire’s hand shot to her head, her fingers brushing over the side of her face. The sensation was not what she expected. The absence of sound wasn’t just the usual dullness of her tired mind—it was a physical block, something more tangible, as if something was missing, something she couldn’t quite place.

Her heart skipped a beat, and she hesitated, the world shifting beneath her as she tried to make sense of the muted reality around her. She lifted her left hand and snapped her fingers next to her right ear, expecting the sharp, familiar sound to fill the air. But it didn’t come with the clarity she was used to. Instead, there was only a soft, muffled crackle, a weak echo that barely registered in her brain. The silence that followed was deafening in its contrast, and Claire’s stomach dropped in disbelief.

Sighing heavily, her shoulders slumped in defeat as the full weight of the situation sank in. The tinnitus in her right ear flared up again, the constant ringing buzz that had been quietly present since the moment Lucy had fired the gun point-blank past her head seven hours ago. It wasn’t terrible—not a complete loss of hearing—but enough to make her feel unbalanced, disconnected from the world in a way that unsettled her. A mild vertigo swept over her, and she steadied herself, feeling the hum in her ear grow louder with each passing second.

She exhaled again, a mix of frustration and resignation, before slowly pushing herself to her feet. The motion wasn’t graceful. Her legs wobbled beneath her, and before she could catch herself, a wave of dizziness hit. The world tilted, spinning just enough to make her feel like the ground beneath her was shifting, a dull ache in her temples amplifying the disorienting effect.

Without warning, strong hands steadied her, firm and sure on her hips. Desmond’s voice, low and concerned, whispered against her ear, “Whoa, easy there.”

Claire swayed for a moment longer, blinking rapidly as she tried to regain her bearings. The dizziness only worsened as she took a shaky step forward, but then she felt his chest pressed against her back, his body solid and warm, offering stability where her own legs failed her. She instinctively leaned back into him, her hands gripping the edge of his forearm as her breath steadied.

She hadn’t even realized how much she needed the support until the vertigo started to subside, leaving her breathless but grateful for his grounding presence.

Desmond’s hands remained on her hips, his grip firm but gentle. “You okay?” he asked, his voice close, the concern in it rare, but genuine.

“Yeah,” she muttered, blinking again as if trying to clear the fog in her mind. “Just a little dizzy. I’m fine.”