Boris wasn't sure what he had been expecting from Ovinkaifeck. Maybe some mystical monastery where Assassins bled and battled in the shadows, disguised as a family farm to hide the war that raged within; or maybe a tucked-away hideout lined with traps, deterring the unwary Templar from a treasure trove of Assassin knowledge and history. Whatever the case, he certainly hadn't been expecting what they saw when they pulled into the driveway.

He killed the ignition, checked to make sure Lady was in her seat, and then they both sat and stared out the windshield for a long time, gathering their thoughts.

Yosof was the first to voice his surprise. "Is this it?"

Before them sprawled a dead, tangled husk of a farm, obviously abandoned long ago and beaten down by the elements until little was left but skeletons. The lone farmhouse in its center, the sole intact building on the property, sagged in on itself, like a house of cards weighed down by a stone, and the fields were overgrown with poison ivy and muck; it looked like a scene from a bland news report on a rural chainsaw massacre, not a breathless-kept secret of the Assassin Order. Empty, rotted-out silos loomed in the distance, a monument to the cold silence of the place, and rusty farm equipment littered the landscape: shovels, hoes, a tractor or two, all left for the abuse of the sun and rain.

"I guess this is it," Boris said. He wasn't sure if he was confused, disappointed, or both. "Should we look around?"

Yosof shook his head, clearly as bewildered as he was. "Are you sure this is the right place?"

"The gas station map said this is Ovinkaifeck. I'm pretty sure." Nevertheless, there was a strange feeling in the pit of his stomach as he stared at the burnt-out landscape. What had happened here? "I think we should look around."

"You sure? This place looks like the apocalypse hit early."

"I'm sure."

"…Okay, but if I step on a nail and get tetanus it's on you. I'm not up on my shots." Yosof opened the passenger door and hopped out of the truck. "Can we bring Lady? I hate the thought of leaving her in a cold car by herself."

"It might be dangerous. She's already hurt."

"But Boris."

"Just turn the heat on for her."

Yosof looked at him pitifully. "Darling."

Boris sighed. "Goddamnit." Grumbling, he jumped out of the car and opened the backseat. Lady perked up when she saw him, panting eagerly; he lifted the husky into his arms, grunting under the strain. "You know this is the second time I've lugged a giant dog around all day, right?"

"Just don't drop her." Yosof clapped him on the shoulder. "Look at you, being a good parent."

"Yes, I'm marvelous." Wincing, Boris adjusted his grip so her weight wasn't slowly draining the feeling out of his arms. "I say we visit the farmhouse first, see if there's anyone home."

"Good plan." Yosof set off at a brisk walk towards the collapsing house, and Boris trailed after him, privately wondering if his uncle had gone delirious in his final moments; blood loss could make you see heaven, as he knew from personal experience. Was this sun-bleached, ruined nightmare really where the last relics of his parents had waited for him all this time? Surely this wasn't the place.

But he felt obligated to explore anyway, just to make sure. "Let's just be careful. We don't know if this place is abandoned or not."

"It looks like no one's been here for a long time." Yosof frowned. "I wonder if something happened to them. Look how they just left all this farm equipment sitting around, like they had to drop it in a hurry."

"All you're doing is making me more paranoid." Boris carefully traversed the old fields, feeling dry soil crack under his feet; crops had not grown here for a long time. "Keep an eye out. There might be squatters around, or looters."

"Hang on." Yosof slowed down, and Boris nearly walked into the back of him. "Do you see that?"

"What?" Boris followed his gaze. "Oh. What the hell…"

An old woman was making her slow, meandering way across the barren fields towards them, picking her way through the wreckage; a walking cane tapped along at her side. "Hello, dearies!" she called, as cheerfully as if they had just wandered into a faculty picnic instead of trespassing on her property. "Can I help you boys with something?"

"Um…" Boris was completely thrown. Where did she come from? "Is this Ovinkaifeck?"

"Hasn't been for a long time, I'm afraid." The woman neared them, chuckling sadly; her eyes, deeply buried in layers of wrinkles, studied them with a keenness that was almost disturbing. Boris wondered how old she was; she struck him as the kind of person who had seen the world, and all its light and darkness. "But it was. What brings you after such an old name?"

"We're looking for someone named Hel Kronsky," Yosof said. "We were hoping someone here might know –"

"Oh, what a sweet doggie!" Beaming, the old woman ran her age-spotted hand over Lady's ears, and the dog licked her hand happily. "Nice of you boys to bring her along. I always loved dogs. Had five of them myself."

"What were their names?" Boris asked, trying to make conversation.

"Oh, you two! What funny boys you are." She patted Lady's head. "But you have a nice dog, so I won't make a fuss about you waltzing in all uninvited. What a nasty habit that is! Kindly don't do that again, darlings. I'll have to call the authorities next time, and I don't want those young spunks running all over my nice old farm."

"We, er, we won't," Boris said, trading flabbergasted looks with Yosof. He had no idea what to make of her. "Promise."

"Oh, but I hate sending my guests off with empty tummies. Can't have you leaving all sad and hungry, now can we? You two look positively famished." She regarded them warmly. "Do you want some cookies for the road, dearies?"

"Er –" Yosof started, but she poked him sharply with her walking cane, and he spluttered in surprise.

"That's enough out of you! Now come on, dearies, let's go inside for some cookies and milk and we'll talk. I just made a fresh batch."

"But –" Boris trailed off as she turned away from them and hobbled off towards the farmhouse. Clearly it had not been an invitation.

Yosof rubbed his side, staring after her in amazement. "What in the name of Mohatma just happened?"

"I can't tell if she thinks we're her grandchildren or she's about to call the police." Nevertheless, Boris fell into step behind her. "Let's not encourage the second option."

"You're going with her?"

"Do you have a better plan?"

"…Not really, no." Yosof hurried to catch up with him. "But I really don't think we should eat her cookies."

"They're chocolate chip, dear!" the woman sang from ahead of them, making Boris and Yosof trade startled looks; for a woman who looked to be in her nineties, she clearly had excellent hearing. "And I have some biscuits for your nice dog, too. Poor thing, she's been on the wrong end of a crossbow."

"How did you know –" Boris started, but trailed off as they stepped into the farmhouse.

It was immediately clear that the extent of the damage to the house was the sagging roof. Inside, it was warm and pleasant, lit by gas lamps and smelling strongly of the cookies baking in the oven; Boris looked for pictures, any clues of who this woman might be, but the only indications that anyone lived here at all were the baking supplies and freshly watered houseplants. It struck him as odd that such an old woman wouldn't have a single picture frame on the wall, whether of her grandchildren or her dogs or even how this ancient farm had looked a long time ago.

But before he could comment on it, the woman bustled in, humming cheerily. "The cookies should be right out, dearies. Let me fetch you two some milk."

"Thank you," he relented, setting Lady down on the floor and seating himself at the dinner table; this woman had left him so baffled that he couldn't think of anything else to do, except go along with whatever strange game she was playing. Beside him, the puzzled-looking Yosof did the same.

What I'm wrong about all of this? he wondered, watching her put on oven mitts and pull the cookies out to cool. Maybe she isn't playing at anything, and she's nothing more than a strange, friendly old lady who just so happens to live on an abandoned farm. But somehow that didn't strike him as likely. His uncle had sent him here for a reason, and that meant something was up here. His sixth sense, that strange feeling he had sometimes, was unpredictable, but it was rarely wrong.

The woman set down two plates of cookies and glasses of milk. "Here you go, dearies. Now you eat up, and then we'll have a nice chat about who sent you here."

Boris ventured to take a bite of a cookie, half-expecting it to taste like old lace or almonds, and then nearly melted; it was amazing. It dissolved like water into the sweetest, smoothest chocolate he'd ever tasted, and she had put something in the dough to give a pleasant zing, like ginger or cinnamon. "Wow," he said, after he'd swallowed and sat for a while savoring the moment. "Wow."

"Wow," Yosof agreed, already stuffing more into his mouth. "These are incredible."

"I'm glad you like them, dearie. They're a family recipe." The woman sat down at the table and leaned her cane against the wall, then peered at them with those clever eyes. "Now then. Who told you about Ovinkaifeck?"

"It was my uncle," Boris said, dabbing his chin with a napkin. "Mir Torvald."

"Mir Torvald! Oh, that rascal! I never thought I'd hear from him again." She laughed, the sunspots on her neck bobbing. "He was such a troublemaker, you know. He always used to get his little friends and steal apples from my apple tree. I used to chase him around with a newspaper until he gave them back! What a little spitfire he was."

"You knew my uncle?"

"Of course I did, dearie! He was the naughtiest boy in the neighborhood." The old woman smiled fondly at the memory. "He sent you here, did he?"

"Yes." Boris hesitated. "He's dead."

"Oh, is he?" Her smile faded. "That's very sad, dear. We shouldn't talk about sad things like that. Eat your cookies."

"But –"

"Ah, ah! Cookies first." She regarded him warmly as he took another, cautious bite. "You said you were looking for Hel Kronsky, didn't you?"

"Do you know her?"

The woman opened her mouth to respond – then stopped as a rattling sound echoed through the house. Someone was knocking on the door.

Boris surged to his feet at once, but the woman was faster. "Coming!" she announced cheerfully, picking up her cane and hobbling to answer it.

"No, wait –" Boris started, but it was too late; she had already opened the door.

Two policemen stood on the doorstep, dressed in Russian uniform and wearing grim looks. Boris immediately had a bad feeling, and it only worsened when the woman asked, brightly as ever, "Can I help you?"

"Yes, I believe you can." One of them stepped inside, pushing her roughly. "Out of the way, Granny."

And Boris felt cold fingers pinch the back of his neck; his sixth sense, normally a quiet, lurking presence in the back of his mind, was screaming at him so loudly he could not ignore it. The message was clear.

Templars.

In disguise, yes, but that didn't make them any less dangerous, especially since he could see the pistols at their sides and the lumps of other weapons in their coats. They must have followed the truck here, or maybe they had been suspecting Ovinkaifeck was important to the Assassins and figured they'd pay these strange interlopers a visit… Either way, they were here, and Boris's fear and shock quickly hardened into cold resolve. Assassin or not, these Templars had intruded on this woman's property and home, and that made them criminals, uniforms or otherwise – the sheath on his belt suddenly felt hot, ready for action. Just one more step. One more move, and he would draw –

The policeman's eyes traveled over the dining room, taking in the rubbish and ruin, then alighted on Boris, standing by the dinner table with his hand at his belt. Yosof sat frozen beside him, eyes wide, with a cookie halfway to his mouth. "And what do we have here?" His lips coiled into a smile. "Two little baby Assassins. How precious."

"We're not –" Yosof stammered, dropping his chookie. "What are you talking about? We're just – um – visiting our grandmother –"

"Stuff it." The man gestured to his companion. "Enjoy your last meal, Assassin dogs. This bakery is closed."

Lady growled, tail swishing threateningly over the tile; Boris stood ready, all his training kicking into gear. If the man took one step closer he'd draw the blade out of his belt – not the ideal weapon, but he'd already given Yosof his good knife, and this would do in a hurry. He could use the furniture to his advantage, the chairs and the table in particular serving as excellent barricades. If he had to escape, the windows were unlatched, and the back door –

"You shouldn't have done that, sonny," the old woman said, in the epitome of warm, grandmotherly serenity. "Now I'm going to have to kill you."

She raised her cane, and a blade snapped out of the bottom. The first policeman, turned as he was towards Boris, had exactly one second to look back in surprise before she jabbed it like a pike between his shoulderblades, and then, when he doubled over with a yell of pain, buried it in his throat. He slumped over as the other policeman drew his gun, pointing it at her head. "Don't moOOACKKKK –" This as she elbowed him in the Adam's apple with a loud crunch, then spun the cane over her head and beaned him with the knoblike handle as he gasped for air, sending him sprawling to the tiles, senseless.

Calmly, she lowered her cane and brushed hair off the handle. "Well, that was unpleasant. Do you boys want any more cookies?"

Boris and Yosof gaped at her, thunderstruck. "Who the hell are you?" Yosof breathed.

"Why, I'm a Master Assassin, dear. Now finish your milk." She sat down serenely at the table, as though nothing had happened and there weren't two bodies strewn across her dining room, and leaned the cane back against the wall. "Then we can talk about your legacy."

"You're Hel Kronsky," Boris said, finally understanding. "This is your hideout."

"Oh, dearie, you really mustn't assign such a scheming mind to a kindly old lady." But now he could see the clever twinkle in her eyes. "It's wonderful to finally meet you, Boris. I've been waiting for you for a long time."

"My uncle said you had something for me." Despite spending his whole life running from Assassins, despite everything he had told himself about never getting involved, Boris couldn't help but marvel at her; this was a Master Assassin, a woman to be feared. This was Hel Kronsky, and Ovinkaifeck, this seemingly ruined farm no one had ever heard of, was her hideout, likely laced with traps and hidden from prying Templar eyes. It was the perfect place to hide – in a dilapidated, ruined corner of the boondocks, out of sight, on the grid but so remote that no one would ever bother to go there. "Do you?"

"Of course, I've been very good about keeping it for you. It's yours if you want it." Hel waved dismissively, as though it wasn't that important. "But I really am quite annoyed with you, Boris. Why did you go bringing those nasty Templars into my farm? Now I'll have to start beating them off again, and I'm sure they've set off all the traps and I'll have to go set up new ones. Good gracious, what a hassle. I might even have to move if they keep bothering me."

"Where is it?" Boris asked, determined to pursue the question. "Did my parents leave it for me? Did they know I'd come here?"

"So many questions, dearie! Have your cookies." Kronsky leaned down to feed Lady a handful of treats from her pocket, and the dog snapped them up happily. "All in good time. For now, though, I have to ask you." She straightened back up, studying Yosof keenly. "Who is this you've brought with you? Don't get me wrong, you seem like a nice young man, dearie, but you don't look like any Assassins I know."

"Oh." Boris was briefly flustered by the question. "Er – he's my –"

"Boyfriend." Yosof reached out and took his hand, squeezing it fondly. "I think that's the word you were looking for."

"…Right." Boris looked at him in mock-annoyance. "I was under the impression we weren't telling anyone."

"Oh, because she didn't know the moment she saw us bickering like a married couple."

"Friends can argue!"

"Not while calling each other darling and holding hands in the car."

Boris sighed. He did have a point. "Maybe we're just really affectionate friends."

Kronsky laughed then, and both of them looked at her nervously, not sure what to expect; they were suddenly keenly aware that despite her Master Assassin status, despite protecting them and making them cookies, she might also be a zealous homophobe – you never knew with the older folks – and she could throw them off her farm anytime she wanted to, and then they would be back to square one and never learn anything about Boris's parents. But to Boris's mixed astonishment and relief, she only smiled at them kindly, apparently realizing why they had waited until now to bring it up. "Don't worry, dearies. I knew you boys were a couple. You're very cute together. I was never one for interfering with other people's love – isn't that right, dearie dog? Yes it is." She ruffled Lady's ears fondly. "What a good dog you have, too. You should keep her around."

"So can you show me?" Boris ventured. "What my parents left here?"

"We're sort of on a time crunch here," Yosof contributed.

"And if the Templars followed us, there might be more on the way…" Boris trailed off meaningfully.

"Oh, very well. If you're going to keep badgering me about it, dearies, I'll show you what I have." Kronsky rose from her chair and picked up her walking stick, even though Boris was now acutely aware that she didn't use it for walking. "Come along, dearies. We're going to the barn. And don't worry about those Templars – I have ways of keeping them out, and to keep them from following you when you leave. Where are you planning to go?"

Boris and Yosof exchanged glances. "We don't really know," Boris admitted. "We just wanted to find a safe place to hide, after we heard what you had to say."

"Well, if you'll let a kindly old woman guide you, I know a few places you can go. But that can wait for now." Kronsky hobbled out the front door, and Boris and Yosof hurried after her. "You know, Boris, I knew your parents, too. It was hard not to, of course, in those days."

"What were they like?" Boris asked. He couldn't help but be curious; they had died when he was very young. The only family he had ever known was his uncle – who obviously hadn't been a very loving presence in his life.

Kronsky smiled. "Your mother was the kindest, strongest woman I had ever met. She had the loveliest brown eyes, just like yours. And oh, how she loved music – she was an angel on the violin, that was one of the reasons your father loved her so much. For a while after you were born she'd play it over your crib so you could listen along. She was also German, did you know that? You're half-German."

Boris hadn't known that. "I never knew."

"They called her the Magpie, because her Assassin robes were black trimmed with blue and white. Such beautiful robes! I always envied them, myself. Cartier made them, and he doesn't make very many robes anymore."

"What do yours look like?" Yosof asked, apparently eager to learn more about the Assassins.

"Now, how is that your business, dearie?" But the twinkle in her eyes said she found his curiosity more amusing than irritating. "Well, if you must know, mine are a rather fetching shade of maroon. I don't wear them too much anymore, of course. They draw too much attention nowadays."

"I imagine they would," Boris said, and couldn't help smiling at the thought. Assassin robes in this day and age would probably make you look less like a deadly killer and more like a stranded Comic-Con attendee.

"Anyhow, Boris, your father – oh, bless his heart, he was the sweetest man. He could be tough, but he never spoke badly about anyone. He loved to gamble, too, but he wasn't an addict – he'd put a few bills down on the blackjack table, and when he lost it, he'd laugh, clap the winners on the back, and buy them a round of drinks before he left, to congratulate them on their luck. I'll get you next time!" She chuckled softly at the memory. "He truly was a good man. I never heard him say a mean word in his life."

Boris listened, with mixed sadness and joy. "I wish I could have known them."

"You were raised by your uncle, weren't you?"

"Yes." He looked at his shoes. "Er – he was –"

"He didn't treat you very well," she inferred, gently. "He wanted to raise you to be strong, so you wouldn't die like them. But I think he forgot to raise you right in the process."

"I think he might have gone overboard with the whole making me tough thing," Boris said. It was a vast understatement.

"It happens to many Assassins." She chuckled sadly as they neared the barn. "They want their children to better than them, and so they toughen them up – a little too much. They try so hard to be a trainer that they forget to be a father, or a mother, or an uncle." She pushed open the great barn doors. "But enough of that now. You're away from him now, and you can choose your own destiny. Come and see what I have for you, Boris."

Boris followed her, with more than a little trepidation. "This is where you're keeping it?"

"What better place to hide than the last place you would look?" Kronsky waded into a pile of hay and began shifting through it. "If you were a Templar, all vain and full of yourself, would you really want to sift through a great pile sodden pile of hay in search of an Assassin strongbox?"

No, he probably wouldn't. "Good point."

"Here we are." Carefully, she lifted a large box out of the hay pile. It was sleekly metallic, about the size of a steamer chest, but that wasn't what made Boris's heart speed up: it was the Assassin logo engraved on the lid, right above a complicated series of locks and codes.

"What is that symbol?" Yosof asked, as though sensing the direction of his thoughts. "Is that an Assassin thing?"

"No," Boris said. "It's the Assassin thing."

Yosof grinned. "You're actually sounding excited about this. I thought you were the one who was determined not to become one of them."

"I am," Boris said, hastening to steel his expression. "I've just never seen an Assassin relic in person before. It's interesting."

"Uh-huh. Sure."

"Here, Boris." Kronsky spun the locks and fiddled with the codes, and the strongbox snapped open. "Take a look."

Boris couldn't help it; he edged forward and peered inside, unsure what to expect. Would it be a cache of weapons and armor? Secret letters and documents? Both?

As it turned out, it wasn't any of those things; just a few wrapped packages, with a letter on top. It was sealed with red wax, and stamped with the same Assassin insignia, leaving little doubt as to whom it was intended for. Boris picked that up first, slit it open with a fingernail, and unfolded the letter inside.

"Read it," Yosof said earnestly. "What does it say?"

Boris read in silence. Then, as Yosof and Kronsky looked on, he started to blink a few times. Then he swiped at his eyes with his sleeve.

"Are you crying?" Yosof asked, awed.

"No." He blinked rapidly. "Just some hay in my eyes." He folded up the letter and tucked it into his coat for safekeeping. "Let's see what else is in there."

"Come on, read it," Yosof said. "I've never seen you cry before. I'm dying here. Was it from your parents?"

"I'll show you later." Boris wiped his eyes again, determined to maintain his composure. Then he picked up the first package, a hefty rectangular parcel the size of a toaster oven, and started to unwrap it. Yosof peered eagerly over his shoulder as he tore away the layers of brown paper and tape, until the little bundle finally fell open.

Inside was a thick black gauntlet, lined with steel and silver highlights and interspersed with glowing silver gears that gave it a steampunk look. It was an impressively gothic weapon, sleek and dark as the shadows in the barn around them, and expertly made, far lighter and more elegant than it looked. Boris opened the buckles carefully, handling it as gently as one might an infant, and slid it onto his arm. It fit like it was made for him, and when he snapped the buckles shut, a wave of something unidentifiable swept through him. There was something about its heavy, warm weight on his arm that felt… right. Familiar.

"What is it?" Yosof breathed.

"It's a Hidden Blade," Boris said, quietly. "It was my father's."

"Yes," Kronsky said, startling them both for the second time that day; she hadn't spoken in a while, clearly content to let Boris have these small, deeply personal moments to himself. "I knew he would leave it for you. He was allowed two by the Assassin Order when he graduated to Master, but always preferred to wear one. It wasn't hard to assume what he would do with the other."

"Open the next one," Yosof said. "This is amazing. We need to see it all."

Boris did. Inside the next package, this one small and so light that he nearly dropped it in his expectation of another heavy parcel, was a small, leather-bound book with the Assassin insignia stamped on the cover. He opened it, expecting some kind of secret code or a list of living Templars, then flipped through the pages, frowning. "I don't see anything. It's blank."

"That's weird." Yosof touched the paper curiously. "Maybe it's invisible ink or something?"

"Maybe." Boris handed it to him. "See what you can make of it while I open the last one."

The final package was thin and square, and also surprisingly light; he shook it experimentally, and heard something shifting quietly inside, like fabric. "This sounds strange."

"Come on, the suspense is killing me." Yosof was turning the journal upside down, sideways, and every which way, trying to figure out its secret. Kronsky watched him in obvious amusement. "Open it before I open it for you."

Boris reluctantly tore open the package, already suspecting what he would find there. Sure enough, inside was a set of thick, black robes, apparently opaque at first; but when he held them up to the light, they shimmered faintly, clearly made of something more than mere cotton. "Are these…"

"Yes," Kronsky said, voicing what he already knew. "These are your Assassin robes. Your parents must have had them made for you." She reached out and ran a liver-spotted, clawlike hand over the fabric. "And not just any robes – this is Cartier's work, the finest you could ask for. You're a very lucky man, Boris Torvald."

There was something mesmerizing about them, hypnotic and enticing. They were so purely black, like the depths of the ocean, but he could see blueish-purple glimmers in the threads, little designs weaved cleverly into the fabric: diamonds, triangles, stars. And the edges were trimmed with deep, royal blue, embroidered with diving seabirds and jackdaws. "These are beautiful."

Yosof also reached out to touch the fabric, with something like religious awe. "Your parents must have been really excited for you to be an Assassin. Otherwise they wouldn't have made you such fine robes."

"I guess so." Quietly, he folded them up and wrapped them back in the brown paper.

Yosof frowned. "You're not going to try them on?"

"Why would I?"

"Because they're yours," he said, as if it was obvious.

"No." Boris looked at Kronsky. "These are beautiful gifts, and I'm glad you gave them to me. I know my parents cared about me. But I'm not ready to be an Assassin yet."

"I could tell, dearie. I don't want to force anything on you." She rested a gentle hand on his shoulder, suddenly coming out of her cool Assassin persona and back to her warm, grandmotherly self. "Dearie, you've been through much, things I can only imagine – and I've been alive far longer than you have. But this is a great purpose, a thing far beyond yourself. Your parents did not leave you these gifts so you could hide away and hoard them, for some unknown day in the future when you commit to your destiny. Your parents gave them to you because they knew their blood, the blood of Assassins and justice, ran in your veins. You can change the world, Boris, and free thousands of people from the tyranny of the Templars. With these gifts, you have been given the power to save lives. Do you really want to hide that away?"

He stared at the floor, saying nothing.

"You are an Assassin, Boris Torvald. Whether or not you choose to wear that robe and that Hidden Blade, and join the Order and bring it back from the brink of destruction where it now hovers, is up to you. But you cannot deny where you come from. This is your past, and if you choose, it can also be your future."

"What do you think, Boris?" Yosof asked. "What are you going to do?"

Boris looked at the robes, wrapped back up in their parcel. The purple-black glow of the threads winked back at him, and his parents' letter suddenly felt very warm in his pocket. And the weight of the Hidden Blade on his arm seemed to multiply a thousandfold, the hot metal pressing against the inside of his arm less of a comfort and more of a curse. "I… I don't know."

"You're afraid." Hel Kronsky spoke gently now. "What are you afraid of?"

"Nothing. I'm not afraid of anything. I just –"

"The truth, Boris."

"No." In a moment of sudden decision, he unbuckled the gauntlet and slid it off, then wrapped it back up in its parcel, too. Only then did he heft both packages into his arms. "I'll take these, because my parents gave them to me. I'll look at them, and I'll think about them. But I can't promise anything. I won't make that choice now, when I might regret it later."

"If that's what you want, dearie." Kronsky watched him with something like sadness. "I'm glad you came for them, Boris. That, at least, is a good sign. You deserve to have them, whether you commit to our path or not. And if you ever change your mind – if you do decide to join the Order – then come back here and find me, and I can tell you where to go next."

"I'll think about it," Boris said, and he meant it. "I promise I will. Whatever I decide, I'll let you know, and if I say no… if you want to take these back… give them to another Assassin who deserves them…"

"No. Assassin or not, they are yours. I would not take your parents' legacy from you. But you have a choice to make now." She opened the barn door. "I wish you well in whatever you decide, Boris Torvald. No one should ever be forced to make this choice, but I hope you make it wisely."

"Thank you. I will."

They stopped by the farmhouse to pick up Lady, then headed back to the truck. Hel Kronsky stood in the field, watching them, as they hopped into the car and shut the door, ready to leave Ovinkaifeck behind.

"You're going to think about it?" Yosof asked, the moment the engine started. "That's all? That's it?"

"What?" Boris frowned at him as he pulled out of the driveway. "That's all I could promise. I was being honest."

"Boris, you can't be serious. You're always telling me how you wish your life could change. Isn't this what you've always been waiting for?"

"You know how awful my uncle was to me." Boris eased the car out onto the road. "I'm not going to agree to join his Order just because my parents left me some nice gear and wrote me a letter. If the Assassins could produce a man like him, maybe they're not all the good guys."

"Well, no one organization is all good people, but that doesn't mean you can just reject the whole thing! You said it yourself, they're the freedom fighters! The good guys!"

"Yosof, I don't want to talk about this right now."

"Why not? Why the hell not? This is your big chance, and you just said to a Master Assassin's face that you would think about it!"

Boris stared at him, surprised. "Why are you getting so worked up about this? You just learned Assassins and Templars existed."

"Because you shouldn't judge all Assassins based on your uncle. That's not fair to them. Hel Kronsky obviously isn't a violent sociopath –"

"How do we know? She certainly did a number on those Templars. I don't think they'll be going home to their families."

"You know that's different!"

"How so? Maybe I don't want to kill people just because they're on the other side, Yosof, did you ever consider that? Maybe I'm not a killer!" This last part came out louder than he'd intended, and the whole car went quiet; even Lady put her ears back, whining in alarm.

Finally Yosof spoke, quietly. "I get it now."

"Do you?" Boris pulled into a motel parking lot; it was getting late, and he needed to rest and clear his head. "You understand me?"

"Yes, I do." Yosof watched him as he put the car in park and yanked the keys out of the ignition. "You don't want to kill people. You don't think you can. And Assassins have to kill people. That's what you're afraid of – the guilt."

Boris jumped out of the car and heaved their luggage out of the trunk, snapping out the travel handles. "We'll talk about this later, Yosof."

"That's what you say when I'm right." Yosof picked up Lady and followed him into the motel, their suitcases clattering on the sidewalk. "I'm right, aren't I?"

"Enough." Boris smiled tightly at the motel greeter. "Room for two and a dog, please."

Yosof was silent as he took his keys and headed down the hallway towards their room. Only when they were inside, and Boris shut the door and deadbolted it behind them, did Yosof venture, "Maybe you don't have to kill people, Boris."

"Right. Because Assassins just sit down and make daisy chains with Templars when they get upset." Boris threw his suitcase into a chair and flopped down on the bed, sighing deeply. "I hate how well you can read me."

"It's my superpower." Yosof set Lady on the floor and arranged blankets to made a dog bed for her, then laid gently down beside him, taking his hand. "It's okay, Boris. You'll figure it out. You just need to decide where you stand in all of this. Would you be willing to kill if it meant protecting me?"

"Of course I would." Boris closed his eyes, nestling against Yosof's shoulder. "I would kill a hundred Templars for you, darling."

"Well, there are probably a lot of other couples out there like us, who love each other so much they'd die if they had to. And the Templars are out there killing them without a second thought. Don't you want to stop that, even if it means you'd have to kill a few of them to do it? If a Templar ever tried to hurt me, wouldn't you stab them in the throat in a heartbeat? Apply that feeling towards when they try to hurt other people."

Boris considered this. "Yosof, you might have a point."

"I'm always right, darling." Yosof kissed him fondly. "Does that mean you'll think about it? For real?"

"…Maybe." Boris sighed. "I'm just afraid. What if I go to kill a Templar, and I freeze up and can't do it and get myself killed? What if that gets you killed? Or some other poor innocent who was counting on me?"

"You won't freeze up." Yosof played with his fingers, drawing circles on his palm with his thumb. "I know you wouldn't. If some Templar out there pointed a gun at a little girl, you would break his neck without hesitation."

"I probably would." Boris sighed. "I wouldn't like it, though."

"Well, no one does. I bet Hel Kronsky doesn't. But sometimes you have to, if it means keeping other people – innocent people – safe. Sometimes you have to end a life to save ten more."

"You might just be right, Yosof."

"I always am." Yosof pressed gentle kisses against his neck. "You know, I really did miss you."

"Did you now." Boris feigned exasperation as Yosof snuggled closer to him, kissing his collarbone. "See, I didn't really miss you that much. You're honestly just not that special to me."

"Oh, come on. You know you love me."

"I'm really tired, too." Boris rolled over, yawning exaggeratedly. "So very, incredibly tired…"

"You asshole," Yosof said. "Come here and kiss me already."

"Nope. Good night." Boris turned off the light on their dresser and rested his head on the pillow. "Too tired."

"Boris."

"Sweet dreams!"

"BORIS."

He pretended to snore quietly.

"Fine." Yosof rolled over with a deep sigh. "Good night, you stupid stubborn Assassin."

"Good night."

There was a brief moment of silence. Then Yosof said, "If you keep pushing me away like this, I'm going to become a Templar just to spite you."

"Well, then I'd have to kill you."

"I'd kill you first."

"No you wouldn't. I'd strike in the middle of the night, like – this!" Boris tackled him, and Yosof yelled in surprise. "Die, Templar scum!"

"Assassin dog!"

As it turned out, pretending to kill each other made for an excellent prelude to slightly more recreational activities, and all thoughts of destiny and Assassins and Hidden Blades went completely out of Boris's mind for a while. It wasn't until morning rolled around, and Boris stirred first, blinking blearily at the red numbers on the alarm clock – six-thirty – that his thoughts returned to the two packages sitting in the corner of the room, the robe and the Hidden Blade, waiting for his verdict. They seemed to wait for him, asking a silent question: Are you ready?

But those could wait a little while longer. He looked to his left instead, watching Yosof snooze beside him, half-dressed and disheveled; somehow it made him look even more beautiful, with his hair wild and clothes in disarray, tangled up in the blankets and snoring quietly into the pillows. It was so hard to believe sometimes, that this man was his; sometimes he still woke up confused at finding him there, because surely Yosof, with the warm brown eyes and the brightest smile he'd ever seen, couldn't be his.

That was enough sentimentality, though – he had a decision to make today, the most important decision of his life. He rolled out of bed, careful not to wake the snoring Yosof, and went hunting for his clothes. Halfway through zipping up his jeans, he stopped, because a strange, insane thought had just occurred to him. What if…

He unwrapped one of the packages, unfolded the beautiful, inky-black robes. They were soft and warm as he slid them on, carefully doing up each small buckle and button; some of them were hard to reach, and a few were in odd places, revealing hidden pockets and sheaths that were clearly designed for throwing knives and concealed weapons. He pulled the pointed hood over his head, and then he just stood there and stared at himself in the mirror for a while, admiring how the black-and-blue cloak looked on him; he looked powerful, dangerous, like someone to be feared. He looked like an Assassin.

"Wow," Yosof said, from behind him. "They look even better when you're wearing them."

"I didn't know you were awake." Boris turned as Yosof came up beside him, barefoot and smiling triumphantly. "Yes, I'm wearing the robes. You don't have to look so smug about it."

"I'm not smug." Yosof draped an arm across his shoulder, kissing his ear. "You look good, darling."

"…I kind of do, actually." Boris strapped on the Hidden Blade, surprised to find that it matched the color perfectly; clearly his parents had designed them to go together, a complete outfit. Now he looked even more mysterious, and deadly. "I mean, it's a little tacky and excessive, obviously, but… you have to admit it's got style."

"I have a feeling that if you wore all that into the hotel lobby, you'd get tackled by security." Yosof leaned against him fondly. "But still. Does this mean…"

Boris took a slow breath. "We're going back to Ovinkaifeck."

"Yes!" Yosof pumped his fist in the air. "I knew it! See, I know what I'm doing."

"You seduced me just for this, didn't you?" Boris grinned as it dawned on him. "You tricky bastard."

"What? Maybe I just like you." But Yosof smiled slyly as he picked up his suitcase. "Come on, tiger. Let's go tell Hel Kronsky you're ready for action."

"Don't call me that," Boris said, undoing the buckles and shrugging off the robes. "It's demeaning."

"Cutie-pie?"

"Definitely not."

"Sweetheart it is."

"Could you not?"

"Of course, honey. I would never."

"For the last time, I am an Assassin. I am a creature of the night. You will fear me!"

"Cutie-pie." Yosof kissed his cheek. "Now take that Hidden Blade off so we don't get mobbed in the elevator, grab Lady, and let's head back to the creepy old farm in the middle of nowhere to learn how to kill people."

"You make it sound so weird and culty."

"Oh, because this isn't a murder-cult you're joining?"

"It's a morally correct murder-cult. There's a difference."

"Right, of course there is."

They left the motel hand in hand, Yosof with a new spring in his step. "I have a murder-cultist boyfriend now! Look at me moving up in life."

"If you call it that in front of Kronsky, she's going to gut you with her cane."

"Let her try." Yosof struck a dramatic pose as Boris loaded their suitcases into the car. "Maybe I'll become an Assassin too. Maybe I have cool, murdery ancestors too."

"Well, we can test that." Boris closed the trunk and climbed into the driver's seat. "Do you ever get weird feelings about situations? Like a tingling on the back of your neck, or a strange feeling in your gut?"

"Sometimes. But that's kind of being human, right?"

"I mean all the time. Frequently. Like you're attuned to what's going on around you in a weird way."

"Well, never to that level." Yosof frowned as they pulled out of the parking lot. "I mean, I've noticed that about you. Like how you knew the cabin was burning before we saw the smoke. But I've never been psychic like that."

"It's not being psychic. It's… hard to explain."

"So psychic, basically." Yosof grinned as Boris turned a corner onto a dirt road. "You're psychic."

"I… feel things. That's different from seeing the future."

"Right." But Yosof looked thoughtful now. "Do you really think I could be an Assassin, too? Maybe we could be a badass pair of killer kings, ruling the streets together. That'd make for a great movie, wouldn't it?"

"Do you want to?"

"Maybe I do." Yosof watched trees flick by out the windows. "But I guess you have to have special blood, don't you? I'm probably just a nobody."

"Well, there have been plenty of Assassins who didn't have strong bloodlines and still rose to greatness." Boris racked his memory, searching for examples. "Like Henry Green."

"Who was that?"

"An Assassin in Victorian London. He mentored the famous Master Assassin twins, Jacob and Evie Frye, and helped them retake London from the Templars. And he was Indian, like your mother's side of the family."

"Ooh, that sounds cool." Yosof looked delighted. "So there have been Indian Assassins? Tell me about more of them!"

"Well, there was also Arbaaz Mir…"

Boris regaled him with stories of famous Assassins as they drove back to Ovinkaifeck, about Ezio Auditore da Firenze and Altaïr Ibn-La'Ahad and Connor Kenway and all the others who had been lost to the annals of history. All the while Yosof listened attentively, fascinated and absorbing information, but more so overjoyed by this new energy in Boris's eyes, in his demeanor, the new spark that had seemingly lifted him out of his usual, half-depressed, grim state. Now he spoke animatedly, gesturing with vigor as he told the story of Ezio's hunt of the Borgias and the secrets of Leonardo da Vinci. There was something new about him, as though he'd found a new purpose and had reason to be happy again. Now he had someone to tell about all of this. Now he had a mission, and a destiny.

But, more than anything else, he had something that he had been searching for his entire life, something that first Yosof, then Hel Kronsky, and now his parents had given him. He had something that hiding away in the wilderness, cowering from the world, could never have provided.

Now he had something to live for.