This began as a story that was supposed to be about a few hundred words and then snowballed. Anyway, it makes more sense if you make yourself believe William was assassinated before Sibrand. Unless he was already. It's been a while since I played it.

And it's completed already so you can expect the rest of the story, if you liked this chapter that is, very soon. I kind of just want to see how its first chapter or two is/are reviewed. So, if you like it, tell me!

Enjoy!

P.S. I love reviews.

"And your father," his escort pressed as they walked along the battlements of southern Acre.

"Of little consequence," the charge replied, a cold expression settling on his tanned, European face. "He lived a full enough life, every day of it spent regarding my name with a sneer or a cruel word."

In his anger, the noble began to hasten his pace, and his escort rushed to stay with him. Among them were richly dressed people of Acre, not of denizen blood, nay, but rather the blood of the conquerors.

"Perhaps if he had concentrated on himself and his schemes rather than berating me, he could have properly defended himself against this...'angel of death' my brothers are so concerned with." His voice was halting and dismissive, and certainly not from any physical exertion.

His escort looked down and away, not wanting to remark in any way that would undermine his charge, but clearly felt the need to say something. It took him a few long moments of silence to gather his thoughts into something significant. "My liege... Do not speak of yourself in such a manner. I am sure your father thought the best of you that he was able, given his situation."

The charge halted suddenly and his escort nearly collided with him. He was dangerously silent. The escort stood stiff, uncertain whether he had said the right thing, or perhaps in the right way. Finally, his charge snorted.

"His situation," he began with a quiet chuckle. "Yes, perhaps that was it. The stress of ruling so stifling a city must have gotten the better of him." It was his father's situation that he found himself in almost immediately after arriving in Acre. Cleaning up his father's mess was one thing, but putting his intentions back on the right path and then enforcing them was another thing.

His escort gave him a compassionate sideways glance. "Conrad..." he said, to which he was given an indignant glare. Shrinking away from Conrad's gaze was easy, but recovering from the loss of his respect would not be.

As the two moved into the middle district, the city settled into a calm commotion, and a cool breeze from the sea swept over them. Conrad was silently grateful that they were not downwind from the poor district, where the bodies had been piled and left to rot. The resulting stench was, at most times, overwhelming. The Knights Hospitalier were given the task to clean them up, but were shown no interest as to how or when or if and ultimately put off the grim task for another day.

It was in the middle district where he entertained himself most days. The Teutonic Knights ruled over the land near the sea. They were much more personable than the lofty Hospitalier or the righteous Templars. When he passed them, they fidgeted, slightly intimidated, before the shriek of their master's call pulled them to the surface of a frenzied, unsettled ocean.

At such volume, Sibrand was little more intelligible than one of the late Garnier's patients who roamed the streets.

"Why are you all just standing around?"

With a deepening scowl, Conrad realized Sibrand was at the docks, closer than the noble would have preferred. Instead of turning back, however, he stood and watched as the Meister gradually lost his demeanor and slipped into a panic.

"If none of you can handle this task, I will do it myself!" he was screaming, shoving aside the dock workers. With surprising strength that belied his slender build, Sibrand picked up and threw each crate into a small boat moored to the dock. The workers nearby lingered awkwardly and wrung their hands, anticipating another verbal blow once the Master had gone through his motions.

At last, he had finished piling the crates haphazardly into the boat, and was still for a moment with his hands on his knees, breathing heavily. All at once, he remembered himself, and whirled around, stomping down the dock with purpose and a look that was borderline terror.

Conrad looked about himself with the facade of someone who was admiring the scenery, hiding the fact that he was truly looking for a way out that would not attract the Master's attention; he had no desire to discuss things such as the voices that Sibrand hears, but others do not.

This time, however, he had been too slow to avoid it.

Sibrand's voice, piercing and paranoid, marked him as a target. Even as Conrad turned his back, the Teutonic Master shouted to his knights.

"Show your respect to the Siege Lord!" When his knights merely looked at one another uneasily, his voice rose again. "KNEEL!"

They did so quickly, half-falling to their knees. Before turning to face them, Conrad forced himself to draw in a deep breath, only letting it out once he addressed the Meister. "Sibrand," he began with a false smile. "I..." What he had intended to say fell into nothingness. Usually so articulate, he found himself unsure how to speak to the man before him. After a few awkward moments and a glance from his escort, he decided to speak from his heart.

"Sibrand," he began again, this time with a derisive smile and a small sigh, "News of your activities has reached even my ears so soon. Though with your constant screaming, it comes not as much as a surprise."

The Meister swallowed but, thankfully, chose to remain quiet.

"None more than I understand your concerns, your worries about safety," Conrad said. Sibrand flinched. "But you must restrain yourself from publicly executing anyone sporting the color white, my friend."

"My liege. Th-the assassin. He has already taken two of ours here in Acre and countless more in lands abroad." Sibrand practically shook. Conrad was not only confronting his zealotry, but his liege may also threaten his station as Grand Master. That was a possibility Sibrand refused to accept.

Conrad folded his arms, unconvinced.

"He comes dressed in white, like a ghost," he said with wild gestures. "I had no choice."

The Regent Lord tilted his head incredulously.

Sibrand fidgeted nervously, his eyes darting to the shadows once he had reminded himself of the assassin, the very subject of his notorious paranoia.

When silence followed, Conrad merely looked to his boots and sighed. This man – this child – was the Grand Master of the Teutonic Knights. If this was not proof that their masters were truly in control of their fates, little else would.

Conrad then brought his hand to his temple. "Sibrand... The...assassin-" he gave the Master a patronizing gesture, "-would most likely keep to the shadows, right? So as to best catch you unaware. I do not think he would walk the streets openly," he said, his voice rising in anger he barely cared to restrain, "as scholars do!"

At this point, the Teutonic Knights kneeling nearby raised their bowed heads and watched carefully. They watched Conrad.

"Liege..." Sibrand was trembling with an emotion Conrad could not place. It was not fear, not yet. It could not have been anger, unless the Teutonic Master was more arrogant than the Regent Lord had thought.

"Stay your blade and cease making a fool of yourself, Sibrand." Before the Master had a chance to react, the Regent Lord turned and stalked away as quickly as a modest pace would allow. He returned his demeanor to that of a noble, of a liege lord, of a leader, forgetting his anger just a few moments ago.

His escort, however, looked over his shoulder. Sibrand stood, mouth agape, and remained still until he caught eyes with the escort. Knowing he had been caught stupefied, he scowled and gestured angrily to his knights, who rose once again and assumed their stations.

"Keep your eyes ahead, Garrick," a voice like steel pulled the escort from his wandering eyes, "Lest you trip."

Conrad de Montferrat withdrew into the battlements for the remainder of the week, sitting within the dimly-lit chamber that was once his father's for two nights in a row. The letter on his desk bore grim news. In the moments that followed his attendant's delivery, he merely stared at the slightly crumpled parchment, sealed with red ink and inlaid with the seal of his masters.

Once opened, he found it a fascinating read. It seemed after Conrad's departure from the docks, Sibrand, paranoid and precautionary as he always was, was taken by the infamous assassin that stalked the streets of Acre. The guards found him laid out on the deck of his ship, still warm and bleeding from a puncture wound in his neck.

The letter was sent promptly, summarizing the discovery in a manner that, surprisingly to him, unnerved him slightly. The Teutonic Master would receive a proper burial, but if the tone of the letter was any indication, there would be as much emotional consideration in his earthy departure as had been given to the scholar he killed in cold blood and pushed into the sea. A pity, really. Sibrand may have been strict, loud, and crazy, but he was a loyal and effective man. More than that, even, he was in charge of the blockade to keep out the armies of outsiders as the Templars protected the holy land. Granted, the man also spent valuable resources fortifying his district against attempts at his life. It was a gesture that, in the end, proved ineffective. Perhaps with his end, those resources could go towards more productive investments.

There was but another piece of the letter that both intrigued and unsettled him. Near the end, in which the writer, anonymous, wrote that he feared... You may be next.

A ridiculous claim, he thought with a smirk. However, alone in his study, he found himself glancing at the shadows. With a sincere frown, he looked back down at the letter, then at his folded hands in his lap. Doubt was something he was used to, but this... This was different.

Why was it so ridiculous?

Conrad pulled a candle towards him on the desk, picked up the letter, and burned it swiftly. When it was done, he put a hand over his eyes and fought back the urge to call in his attendant.

William's son was not a fool, nor a failure. He was not a conqueror either, and not quite the leader his father was, but even kings had advisers. Garrick, to him, was the closest thing he had to a friend who was not bound by political pretenses. It was refreshing.

However, now was not the time for comfort. What he needed at this moment was clarity.