Prologue

September 18th

It has been a great deal of time since last I have written. The reason being, there simply has not been anything worth mentioning, until today. While on my way to join an old friend of mine in town this afternoon, I came upon two brothers of whom I had never met. They were talking in frantic whispers amongst themselves as they passed me, and when I greeted them with a simple nod it was as if I were invisible. I was not offended, but confused. Who were these stranger assassins and why were they so troubled? More importantly, what were they doing in dull ol' Manchester? When I returned home I spoke to my father about what I had seen. "Alden," he told me. "It's best not to worry about it. I'm sure they were just passing through." But something in his eyes seemed frightful. I am not sure what to think of it. Perhaps I am over speculating, but I cannot deny the unsettling feeling that has risen in me. I have been feeling restless and need answers. Tomorrow, fate willing, I will locate these assassins and find out for myself.

Faithfully, A. A. Stockham.

Alden gently closed his journal and drummed his wrestles fingers across its withered leather binding. He dimmed his gas lamp and stood, staring out his room window in the darkness. The grey light that seeped through the frosted glass was swallowed up by his coffee-black eyes. He stood there, imagining where those two mysterious strangers might be.

There was a sudden violent pounding at the door that made Alden flinch. His mother's startled yelp from the next room jolted him into a sprint down the hall. His father had reached the front door and stood extending his his arm in a halt. He wordlessly ordered Alden back into his room. He instead retreated into his parent's room.

"Mum—" Alden called, heart racing.

"Shh." She took her son's arm and they sat on the edge of her bed.

"What's happened?"

"Nothing, dear. Your father's been awaiting news of London. We just didn't know what time to expect it." She whispered reassuringly.

"What news?"

There was low murmuring coming from down the hall. They sat motionless and listened. Alden could just barely make out his father's voice, but the others were muffled.

Were you followed…what of London...damn those fools…I can't possibly make the trip tonight…George I've done all I can…Even if I was ready to leave, which I am not, I have serious problems here of my own... You are the one responsible for this…Leave someone else to watch over Crawley and go yourself...no…no…he will not go he isn't ready…alone in bloody London...no…

There was a deathly silence that lasted too long. Despite his mother's silent protest, Alden stood to press his ear to the bedroom door when it was suddenly thrusted open. Startled, he tripped falling onto his back with a clumsy thump. His father stood above him rage and fear in his gaze.

"Alden…" He exhaled helping his son to his feet. "Go to your room and pack whatever you think you may need. Then come talk to me. Quickly now, and look sharp."

Without a second in between, Alden was in his room filling a small pack with spare clothing and various tactical tools. After dressing, he paused. He looked at his journal laying neatly on his desk. Did he need it? Probably not. Was this something worth mentioning? Definitely. The hesitation was forgotten at the sound of his father's voice hurrying him. Alden grabbed the journal and delicately slid it to the bottom of the pack.

"I meant to give this to you after you had passed your final tests, however, you will be needing it now." His father said regretfully.

In his arms he cradled a black trunk with scuffed golden clasps. He set it down softly on Alden's bed then opened it hastily. He pulled out a black woolen cloak and slipped it onto his son's shoulders, pulling the pointed hood over his worried eyes. He then retrieved a deep brown leather coat which he layered on top. Finally, he pulled from the trunk a black bracer. Alden smiled, overcome with excitement- his own hidden blade. Realizing his father's worry, he fought to conceal his enthusiasm. He swiftly and expertly laced it onto his arm. His father smiled tiredly.

"I apologize for all of this."

"Father—"

"I am sorry, I don't have much time to explain. Please remember all your mother and I have taught you. Be cautious, be courteous, be clever. Go now," he instructed as he handed his son a small pouch of coins. "Run to the tracks at the foot of the village, a brother will be waiting for you. Make sure you are not followed."

"Yes, father."

"Alden." His mother rushed in taking her son into her arms. She held him tightly resting her head on his shoulder.

"May the creed guide you, my son." She breathed, stifling a sob.

With that, Alden said his farewells and dashed for the train tracks on the edge of town.

September 18th –continued

Something incredibly strange has just happened to me. At this present moment I find myself a stowaway on a cargo train headed for London. I am more than confused. I have no idea of the purpose for my trip nor do I know where I shall go once I arrive. Oddly, I am not afraid. Father just gave to me my very first custom assassin's garb, including a hidden blade! I feel invincible. What I know thus far is that I am an important messenger to the brotherhood working in London. I almost did not make it. When I reached the tracks, the train was almost past. One of father's associates, whom I believe to be one of the mystery men mentioned in my last entry, gave me a strange book that I can only guess is an atlas of some nature. I am to deliver it directly to the hands of a Mister Henry Green, and then am allowed to return home. However, I plan on exploring what London has to offer before running back home to mum and dad. This is going to be a bloody marvelous adventure.

Faithfully, A. A. Stockham