Prologue:

The red–robed Assasin hunkered low on the rooftops as it watched the pink–faced, panting man below run. His name was Azith Al–Ihim, and was convicted of a crime that was punishable by death. He was a traitor to the British Brotherhood. A new enemy. He needed to be destroyed.

The Assassin kept up with the staggering man easily, leaping from rooftop to rooftop, the dagger in its hand gleaming in the moonlight like teeth on a shark. Azith, the old man, who's eyes had seen too many years and deaths, yet was still afraid of his own end, zigzagged through the streets and alleyways, hoping to lose his pursuer. The Assassin kept pace easily, straying from the light of the lamps, and chose its first moment to strike very cautiously. The Assassin didn't want to cause any attention to itself whatsoever, and it waited patiently for there to be an opening in which it could strike.

After a few mere moments of waiting and debating, the Assassin finally chose to strike when Azith, whom was growing tiresome of running, slowed his pace as he neared a dark alleyway, his hand going to his chest as he sucked in breaths.

The Assassin, as silent and as graceful as a cat, descended from the roof in which it had been perched and waited, it's back pressed tightly against the wall, for the man to near. The Assassin heard his breathing before it heard his steps, and a moment later, when the man had gotten close enough, it spun, yanked Azith by his collar, twisted, and slammed him against the wall it had been waiting against. All in a swift, silent movement that was too quick for the old man to scream.

As the Assassin brought its dagger to the man's throat, Azith staggered and cried, "Have mercy, my friend, have mercy! I beg of you!"

"There shall never be mercy to men who betray their brothers and sisters for coin," snarled the red–robed Assassin, startling the man by the sound of the Assassin's voice. It seemed too feminine and soft to be that of a man.

"You're a woman?" At this, the man's voice hitched, as if he had found a loophole. He stared at the woman Assassin, a scared but sure smile gracing his old features. "Oh, God. Please, madam, I can pay you as much as you desire—"

"Don't try playing tricks, old man," snapped the woman harshly, pushing the blade against his throat so hard that blood was drawn. The man begun to cry.

"Please, I beg of you," he sobbed, becoming a truly pitiful state. "I have children, and a wife—"

"You should have thought of them before you betrayed us."

"But you don't understand! I needed the money! The Templars would've killed me!"

"You, of all people, should have known that the Assassins could have offered all the protection you would need."

Azith growled. "For how long, though? How long would I have been considered a friend–in–need, before I become a burden to them? They would have become sloppy and lazy with their so called "protection" and before you know it, I would be dead!" He raised a trembling finger to the woman. "I've seen it enough times to know, child. It took me eighty years to see."

The woman, only slightly phased by his words, sneered. "You betrayed your family," she whispered, and with that, the woman slid her blade cleanly and expertly across his throat, catching him as he sagged down the wall. His sobs were cut short, replaced with the sickening sound of gurgling blood, before he fell silent forever. The Assassin propped him against the wall, bending down on one knee as she peered at him through the thin slit in her mask that showed her eyes.

"Rest in peace," she whispered, reaching out and closing his unseeing eyes, before standing up and wiping her blade across Azith's jacket for cleaning.

"Elizabeth."

The voice came from behind her, and the woman would have jumped in a defensive stance had she not have recognised the voice as her husband's. She turned, a smile gracing her face despite her mask, and set her eyes upon her beloved.

"As always, you remain the only person to ever be able to sneak up on me," she said, her voice slightly muffled over her mouthpiece. "Though, how you do it, I shall never know."

The man before her—Charles Robin, his name was—smiled and strode towards his wife, his eyes only glancing to the body on the wall once, before taking her face in between his hands.

"Are you alright, dear?" he asked, his voice laced with concern. "Any injuries? Scratches?"

Elizabeth smiled and kissed his palm as it slid over her cheek. "I am fine, Charles," she told him, before looking at her husband more urgently. "Our daughter. Is she...?"

"Coletta is asleep," said Charles, only half–answering her unspoken question. Elizabeth frowned.

"But is she well, my love? Is she getting better? Stronger?"

"I am afraid she is..." Charles broke off with a sigh, and started again. "She hasn't improved since the last time you saw her, Beth. She is still dreadfully weak."

Elizabeth felt her heart clench at the sound of that. Their only child, only a little girl, suffering at the hands of a sickness that even the finest doctors know nothing of. How many times had the pair woken to their child's cries? How many times had Elizabeth been forced away on missions, despite her longing to stay home and care for her daughter? How many prayers had she prayed to the Man Above for her daughter?

Too many to count, was the answer.

"Beth, there is another thing." Her husband interrupted her thoughts, and the red–robed woman turned to him.

"What is it, Charles?"

"The doctor..." Charles looked to be in visible pain as he spoke the next words: "The doctor said that she may not last the week."

Elizabeth's blood ran cold, and she suddenly felt that she could probably slay a hundred more of the Brotherhood's traitors, if only to release the anger and sorrow in her heart. She looked at her husband, the man whom she loved so dearly, and saw his cheeks become wet. It caused her own tears to fall, and she lunged towards him to catch him in an embrace in which neither knew who was comforting whom, only that they had to hold each other in order not to break.

Her tears hit her husband's jacket like bullets, feeling her heart grow heavier and heavier by the second. Her precious child—their precious child!—leaving them so soon. Before even her 8th birthday. Before even the next Christmas.

The banker husband and Assassin wife held each other close, scared to death of the risks of letting each other go. The wife sobbed into her husband's chest as the husband whispered soothing nonsense into her ear, both wanting to believe the him.

Three days later, they lost their little girl.

[A\N: Hey guys! So this is my first Assassin's Creed story that I have ever posted up, and I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I have enjoyed writing it. I'll admit, I don't really have the exact details of the story down, and on some parts I will just write free-hand whatever comes to mind (though you won't know what parts they are, so I guess thats good), and I hope you all enjoy!

By the way, I am so sorry for this being so short, but it is only the prologue. I have never written an AltairXOC before, so this is my first time, so I am sorry if I have errors and whatnot in this concerning Altair and whatever.

OH, AND BY THE WAY, pleeeease do not expect this story to follow along with the actual book or Assassin's Creed game! There will be quite a few minor changes, and many, well, bigger changes to the storyline, but I hope you give (if not me, then) this story a chance!

Thank you!]