Haytham drummed his fingers on the wood of his desk. Candles were lit across the room, reflecting off the walls with gentle light. However, night had fallen, with the windows concealed by curtains, allowing shadows to invade, hugging in the corners of the room. Particularly a corner that stored a bookshelf of volumes. Since Haytham never had time to read any of them, he left that section abandoned. Unfortunately, that also included a statue of a knight in 12th century armor. Make that, a Templar knight.

A "gift" from his former mentor, Reginald Birch. So the memory of the man continued to haunt him from the shadows. And apparently anyone else that walked into his office at night.

However, Haytham didn't care—or perhaps tonight, found its presence convenient—as he glared at the man before him. The lowly Templar had obviously come straight from the frontier. His clothes were in tatters and stained with grime, his boots tracking mud over the Grandmaster's expensive rug (if there was a God, Haytham prayed to give him patience). Even his face wasn't pleasing to look at, with a swollen black eye and scratches on his face, the dried blood and dirt mixing together on his unshaven beard. The stench radiating off the man was another story altogether.

"So," Haytham drawled, "let me clarify all this. I gave you one job. Prevent Achilles Davenport from getting off his rotting shit pile of a manor. Instead, you and your lot chase him all over the frontier—all the while ransacking half of Massachusetts—and then you try to vandalize his home when there is nothing left to vandalize."

The mercenary flinched as the Grandmaster put emphasis on his last words, very clearly giving the message of his distaste. Naturally the bandit tried to excuse himself.

"We-we thought the place was unguarded," he stammered, "and that a raid would show 'im a good lesson. Like who's boss, ya know?"

Haytham narrowed his eyes and his voice dropped to a cold hiss. "No, I don't know. We never agreed to advance on Davenport. I'm already wasting enough money hiring you to watch him—and now I not only can I not trust your agreement to follow a contract, but your capability as well."

The man blinked. "I beg ya pardon, sir?"

"So you're telling me, that an entire band of trained soldiers can't hold their own against a lame Negro?"

The Templar mercenary's eyes widened when he caught on to what Haytham was suggesting. "N-no! It wasn't him! We were ambushed!"

"By what? A rabbit?"

"What? Uh, no! Course not!"

The man continued to fumble for words. Haytham's eyes were now slits, impatient. "Then what?"

"A native jumped us! Took out over 'alf my crew!"

"Natives? So band of them?"

"No, just one! No older than any of my mates."

Haytham wanted to slap his hand on his face. "My apologies, then, you were not attacked by a cripple. You were not attacked by a rabbit. But a single boy who happened to jump out of the forest and decided to massacre your entire group."

The mercenary's head bobbled in a nod. "Yes! We think the old man must have hired 'im."

Haytham rolled his eyes. Why would Achilles waste what little money he had on a bodyguard when there was nothing to protect? The Grandmaster read every report that came from the Davenport Manor. He was well aware of the property's deterioration. Achilles Davenport was crippled—both in body and heart. He was of no threat to the Templar Order. Haytham only sent mercenaries to remind the old man of his failures and success of the Templars. How there would be consequences if the Assassins were to ever rise again.

This mercenary was either delusional—or a very poor liar. Most likely the latter. Probably some accident befell his group and he was desperately trying to displace the blame. The Grandmaster sighed and leaned back in his chair.

"I believe that will be all," the man growled. "Your services are no longer needed. You may go."

The mercenary's eyes widened in disbelief. "I'm tellin' the truth! I swear!"

"If that is the case, then I will see it for myself. You are dismissed."

Haytham's cold gaze told there would be no further discussion. The mercenary's mouth clicked close and his body slumped in defeat. Without another word, he trudged out of the room—tracking more dirt across the floor—and exited the study. The second the door closed, Haytham let out a loud, exhausted groan. He rubbed his eyes and leaned on his desk, as if to collapse on it. Before he could, a knock came from the very door that was just closed. It took all of the man's manpower not to hiss in rage.

Instead, he called, "Come in."

The what-was-supposed-to-be-closed door opened, revealing Charles Lee. At least it was someone much more appealing to see. The Master Templar glanced at the muddy footprints on Haytham's favorite rug before looking back up, eyebrows raised. The Grandmaster waved his hand and leaned back in his chair.

"Issues with our killers for hire?" Lee mused amusedly as he took the chair across from Haytham.

The higher Templar snorted. "If incompetence is considered as an issue anymore." Lee gave a chuckle, pitying his overworked superior. Haytham ignored it as he glanced down, back at the document he had been reviewing before he was interrupted by the insubordinate mercenary. Even though it was the tenth time he had read that letter, he still felt rage filling his veins.

"You told me Wolcott was taken care of," the Grandmaster hissed dangerously. Charles frowned, knowing immediately what he was talking about.

"I shot him myself," the Master Templar insisted. Haytham snapped, slapping a hand on his desk.

"Then who is sending letters to men targeting our property?!"

Even Charles Lee flinched at the outburst. Haytham never lost his composure. Never. Unless he was told there was a traitor on the loose. The Brit looked down at the letter again, although he had seen it so many times now, he no longer had to read its contents to know what it said:

Consider this my last contribution to your cause. Continuation of our exploits will attract unwanted attention, perhaps from my former employers, a risk I cannot take. So I will end with a final note of advice to your organization. If you wish to take action against Parliament, do so quickly. Or all of our work will be ruined.

Signed,

V. Wolcott

Haytham's grip of the paper tightened, so much the piece of parchment crumbled. His tone was slow, deadly. "Find him, and have him killed."

Charles nodded obediently, but caution lingered in his eyes. If it was one thing Haytham did not tolerate: it was insubordination. If failed to be done, the Grandmaster had no qualms doing it himself-and punishing the individual who failed in the first place. And this time that individual was Lee.

"It will be done at once, sir," the Master Templar hummed timidly, bowing his head. However, the man didn't leave. "But I am afraid this is another… complication that must be addressed."

Finally Haytham looked up from his desk "And what would that be, Charles?"

"I've come in with a report from Major Pitcairn. There seems to be complications in Boston."

Haytham raised an eyebrow. "The Nightstalker?"

Lee's face darkened. "Worse."

Months passed. The hot summer cooled into autumn. Earthen colors were then replaced by white blankets of snow, brought in by days of unforgiving blizzards. Temperatures dropped enough to bite at the skin—no matter how protected one was. Animals that once filled the forest fled to the shelter of their dens, turning the land silent and lifeless. However, the still realm couldn't be seen for long, as the days became shorter. The darkness of night shrouded over the land early, lingering into the late hours of the morning. And if the sun did rise, it would rarely show itself, hiding behind a gray sky.

Thankfully it was not one of those dreary days as Ratonhnhaké:ton stepped out of the front door of the manor. Despite a thick fog formed from his breath, he relished the tickling of heat on his face and the taste of crisp air. For the last few months, the cold had locked him in the suffocating walls of the Davenport manor. At times the house felt like a fire pit, as fires were lit in order to fight off the cold. A bit too well, in the boy's opinion. How did coatmen live in such prisons? Maybe that was why Achilles was so pessimistic.

Speaking of which, the native spotted the old man sitting in the front seat of… what was it? A carriage? The contraption, whatever it may be, was tied to a pair of horses, who snorted and pawed at the ground, fog rising from their nostrils. Curious, Ratonhnhaké:ton neared.

"Good morning," Achilles rumbled, peering at the boy beneath the rim of his hat.

The teenager nodded in greeting. "To you as well." He eyed the carriage. It was in the same state as the manor—it had certainly seen better days, as the wood was chipped and even rotting in some places, but it seemed secure enough to hold. "Taking a trip?"

The old man nodded. "I've decided to do something about the house. And you're going to help me." He gestured to the carriage with his cane. "Get in."

Instead of immediately obeying, Ratonhnhaké:ton asked, "Where are we going?"

In few times the native had seen, Achilles's lips curled in a knowing smile. "Boston."

Ratonhnhaké:ton jumped out of the carriage before it even came to a complete stop. He gasped.

Great stone structures towered above him, taller than even the walls that defended his village. They stretched as far as the eye could see, in all different shades and sizes. Some were made of wood, some were made of stone, but all of them were brilliantly painted and perfectly symmetrical. The walls were broken by translucent windows and colorful signs, random words etched onto them. But Ratonhnhaké:ton cared little for the buildings.

He watched in amazement at the people. The amount of colors people wore was astonishing, and their clothing was nothing like his people's. Men wore tight trousers with polished boots reaching their calves and buttoned vests, covered by large coats that swallowed them whole. Their hair—shades of which also varied between persons—was tied in ribbons, not a strand out of place. The women meanwhile wore dresses that reached their ankles, far longer than any Mohawk dress. Some had their feet swallowed by the folds, forcing them to raise their skirts to prevent dragging it through the dirty snow that lined the streets. Unlike the men, the women had their hair was tied close to the scalp, some even hiding it in cloth.

Why? The women of his village always showed the length of their hair, whether it may be braided or not. The only thing the colonists had in common was their skin, which was as pale as the snow around them.

But apparently no one cared for their appearance, going about their business. The entire street, which was also laced with stone, was filled with travelers, rushing back and forth. Some chattered eagerly with others, sharing gossip. Some called at the top of their lungs holding papers, as if advertising themselves. Others called from stands filled with food of all different kinds, drawing crowds to observe the materials. The mass would only be broken when a lone horse or carriage charged through, forcing the sea of people to split. The hooves of the animals clacked loudly on the paved road, even above the noise of people, accompanied by a snort or a whinny.

Ratonhnhaké:ton dared to inhale, taking in the scents around him. Nothing like the smells of the forest, which were always fresh and earthen with the aroma of flowers drifting on the breeze. There was no such thing here. The sharp stench of feces and piss was the first the assault his nostrils, along with a rotting smell, making the poor boy gag and waved the air in front of his face.

Suddenly a pale woman crossed in front of Ratonhnhaké:ton, completely ignoring his existence. However, the native noticed hers, observing the strange thing she held over head. He vaguely remembered Achilles called it an umbrella. Why was she using it? It wasn't even raining! He meant to look away, but his eyes instead fell to her chest. By the Great Mo—

Suddenly there was a sharp pain came from the back of his head, provoking a startled cry.

"Don't stare," Achilles hissed. Obviously he noticed what the teenager was observing so intently.

Immediately the boy's cheeks reddened and he glued his gaze to the ground, hands together in obedience. Assured his pupil was disciplined, Achilles turned away.

"Come," he ordered.

He limped away, leaning on his cane. The snow made a poor support, making his progress harder. It didn't help there was still a bite in the air, no doubt creating additional pain in his leg. At least he could be assured the ice would be melting soon, as winter was drawing to its close. Seeing the extent of Achilles's weakness during the cold months, Ratonhnhaké:ton loyally stayed by his side, but right now his mind was elsewhere.

"This place is incredible!" he exclaimed. "The people, the sounds and smells. I could walk these streets for days and know half its wonders."

"I thought the same as you upon a time," Achilles replied, though his tone didn't share the same excitement. "But these days, I much prefer the quiet of the countryside."

"But there is so much life here. So many opportunities."

Achilles turned solemn as he looked ahead. Ratonhnhaké:ton followed his gaze to notice a well-dressed white man glaring at the old man.

"For a few, my boy. For a few," Achilles mumbled. The strange look he wore disappeared as he regarded his apprentice once again. "Hancock's Store is close to here. You're to buy the items on this list." A paper materialized in the old man's hand as he handed it to Ratonhnhaké:ton. "Tell them where the carriage is and they'll see that it's loaded. Understood?"

"Yes," the teenager nodded.

"Good." That was when a plump bag appeared in Achilles's hand, jingling with coins. Ratonhnhaké:ton accepted it, but couldn't help raising his eyebrows. So heavy! His mentor ignored his expression as he went on. "You're also going to need a new name. Your skin's fair enough that you might pass for a Spaniard or Italian. Better be thought as that than a native. And both are better than I."

"That is not true," Ratonhnhaké:ton refused.

What made Achilles any different than the people here? After all, he did take in the native as his apprentice and sheltered him in the brutal winter months, even if he was reluctant and still was. And he was once the proud leader of a powerful Brotherhood. If anything, Achilles was better than them. However, the old man thought otherwise.

"What's true and what is aren't always the same," he said sternly.

Ratonhnhaké:ton sighed, knowing he could not convince the stubborn man otherwise. He wisely chose to address what Achilles originally wanted. "What would you call me, then?"

Achilles squinted his eyes as he analyzed Ratonhnhaké:ton from head-to-toe. The boy tried not to squirm under his gaze.

"Connor…" he decided, a strange tone filling his voice. Suddenly the old man nodded, as if satisfied with himself. "Yes, that will be your name."

Connor. So he was Connor now. No longer was he a boy from the forest, but an Assassin-in-training. The teenager stood still for a minute, playing with the name in his head. However Achilles as impatient, the old man pressing his cane against the small of his back.

"Alright then, off you go," he ordered.

Ra—Connor obeyed, walking off into the streets of Boston, alone.

Achilles should have been more specific when he said "near here." Connor scoured the sides of the buildings, looking for any signs for Hancock's Store. So far nothing. It was no exaggeration when he said Boston was endless. Suddenly the boy eyed a tall, decorated building in front of him, a tower emerging from the roof. The Customs House. Achilles mentioned it when they first arrived.

He cocked his head. That would be a good view to see the city… He took a step towards the structure, only to stop at a shout.

"Oi! Lobster!" a harsh voice yelled.

Connor glanced over to see a man charging across the street, headed straight for the building. The native followed his gaze to see two men in bright red coats with pristine white trousers, muskets resting on their shoulders. The redcoats glanced at the man that caught their attention, one of them narrowing his eyes.

"May I help you?" the man sneered. Apparently he was a "lobster." Whatever that was.

"For the past week you and your cronies have been harassing me and invading my house," the coatman seethed, coming to a halt in front of the lobster. "And I come back today, to find your soldiers in front of my own home, telling me I no longer belong there. My own home!"

"That's because you didn't pay your dues. Discuss it with your collector."

"Those dues were already paid! You have no right to trespass onto my property and take what is rightfully mine! Is this how things work in London? You knock any door you come across and make yourself at home, regardless who may be livin' there? Or is this just for us common folk? Just because we are born across the sea doesn't we don't have English blood and lesser than you."

Connor just blinked at the man's rant, not really knowing what to make of it. Achilles took time to describe him to the current state of politics, including the people that were foreign to his land came from another, loyal to the British Crown. But now, it seemed that wasn't as much the case, as the raging coatman had explained. His outburst had attracted an audience, people in the plaza passing and sending curious glances. They immediately noticed the man's red face as he invaded the guard's personal space, who was now bristling at the insults. The soldier's partner took a step forward and intervened.

"You should have more respect," he sneered. "You and your lot would be speaking French right now if it wasn't for us."

"Respect? Why would anyone have respect for pompous arses like you?"

Connor was suddenly reminded when he was attacked by the bear all those months ago. A sense of dread had overwhelmed him before the beast attacked, and it was only his sharp instincts that saved his life. He felt the same now, sensing the tension rolling across the air in waves, waiting patiently to crash down and drown unsuspecting victims. The native swallowed.

This place, Boston, was completely different than his valley, but it obeyed the same rules. There were predators and prey, and nature responded to the presence of danger. There was a bear, and it was about to be angered. And Connor responded by leaving the plaza as quickly as possible, ignoring the heated gathering of hungry predators.

Connor stepped into the store, which was considerably warmer than the chill outside. He looked around. It was a single room made of wood, save for a wall of windows that were foggy from the difference of temperatures. The walls were lined with shelves filled with trinkets of all different kinds, many of which Connor did not have a name for.

"You lost?" a gruff, accented voice snapped.

The boy jerked from his stupor and glanced at the source. He was met with a plump man easily two times his size, an oversized blue coat wrapping around his body. He leered at the teenager from behind the counter, as if he couldn't decide if he was a bug or not. Connor ignored the look as he neared the counter, holding out the paper Achilles gave him.

"I need the items on this list," he said. He set it down, but the man didn't give it a glance.

"Will you be paying with coin or trade?" he demanded.

It was then Connor pulled out the large bag Achilles had given him. He turned it over, spilling dozens of silver coins onto the surface with a metallic song. Immediately the man's eyes gleamed and a greedy smile pulled on his lips. It was only then he gave attention to the list.

"Some of these things I have. Some I don't," he mused. "Lumber's hard to come by now that my supplier's up and gone. Where do you want this delivered?"

"Our wagon is next to the Customs House," Connor replied.

The man nodded. Without another word, he wrapped his arm around the pile of coins, like a barrier between it and Connor. He slid the entire stack to his side, giving a quizzical look at his customer. The boy said nothing. Achilles had tried to explain the prospect of money to him, only to give the native headaches. It was confusing to say the least. Why did they have to worry about exchanging metals when they could just exchange the materials? However, he made no comment, not wanting to look like a fool.

With a nod of farewell, Connor stepped outside the store. He immediately realized something was wrong.

The air was colder, making the hairs on the boy's skin stand on end and shivers to crawl across his body. But it was not from the weather. Connor could feel the bear breathing on his neck. He looked around to see chaos on the streets.

Travelers that once took their time through the city ran in all directions, panic and fear in their eyes. Red-coated men filled the streets, either bellowing at the top of their lungs, flailing like a confused animal, or quarreling with the townspeople. Connor blinked as he watched one soldier shove a man against a wall, only for the citizen to snatch the musket and shove back, invoking a dangerous game of tug-of-war.

A crowd made of both citizens and soldiers was racing down the street. Wasn't that towards the Customs House? The panic filling the air was seeping into his veins. He jogged after the group, not failing to notice more chaos. More people were shouting and fighting, with merchandise spilled onto the street. Connor dared to slow when he reached the plaza from before, only to find it much more crowded.

People filled every space of the square, many of them bellowing and throwing angry fists in the air. However, some stood confused, like they had no idea what was going on or were expecting to see something else. These people kept glancing at the tower's bell, which filled the air with loud clangs. By the marketplace at the edge of the street, Connor jumped at the sound of crashing as citizens tore the stands apart. Literally.

"I have to find Achilles," Connor mumbled to himself. He forced his way through the crowd, trying to avoid contact and flailing limbs. Thankfully he spotted a hunched, familiar figure. Achilles didn't even acknowledge him as the winded boy came to his side. "What happened?"

"That's what we're going to find out," the old man replied. "Come on."

Despite his slow pace earlier, the ex-Assassin hobbled speedily across the plaza, closer to the Customs House. The crowd was thicker here. The duo paused at its edge. Connor glanced at the steps of the state house, only to notice the two soldiers from before were gone. In their place were new ones, and more of them. Up to a dozen. Each had their musket trained in front of them, the bayonets inches away from the line of people. One man stood apart, unarmed, looking over the crowd with a panicked expression.

"I say again, disperse!" he shouted over the noise. "Congregating in this matter is forbidden!"

"We're not going anywhere, bug!" a man retorted.

"Why don't you go back to England?!" another shouted.

"No good can come from this chaos!" the soldier, obviously the commander, insisted. "Return to your homes and all will be forgiven!"

"Not until you've answered for your crimes!"

"If you want us gone, why don't you just shoot us? You damned cowards!"

"We ain't scared of you!"

The insults came one after another, blurring together to make it impossible for Connor to decipher any of them. He didn't have to, as suddenly an iron grip captured his arm.

"There," Achilles hissed under his breath. Connor followed his gaze. His eyes widened to what he saw.

Haytham Kenway.

The Templar Grandmaster wore the same cobalt coat in his portrait, completely free of tears or stains. A tricorne hat of the same shade rested neatly on his head, with a polished sword clipped to his belt. His hair, which had been shown as dark brown, was instead silver, but still tied back in the same crimson ribbon. He stood tall and straight, arms folded behind his back. He held his chin high as he scanned over the crowd, eyes cold and calculating.

"That's… my father?" Connor breathed.

The man Connor wondered about for every spare moment of his life, and dreamed of one day meeting—speaking to him, was a matter of feet in front of him. Yet he was so far out of reach. And this man, he looked nothing like he imagined him to be. Could they really be related?

"Yes," Achilles confirmed. "Which means trouble is sure to follow. This crowd is a powder keg. We can't allow him to light the fuse."

Connor shifted his weight as he felt his stomach knot. He looked back to Haytham, only to notice a figure next to him. It took him a second look to realize it was a woman. Unlike the long dresses he had seen, she wore a dark brown coat, buttoned up except for the upper chest, showing pale, ivory waistcoat underneath. A pair of leather bracers covered her forearms. Black trousers clung to her legs, her calves swallowed by dark leather boots.

Her skin was pale, but not as much as the other colonists. It was dark enough to see the startling white mark of scars on her face. One was a curved line around her left eye like a crescent moon. Another was a jagged line from her lip to her chin, like someone meant to strike at her neck but missed. Dark, long hair cascaded down her back, strands lashing like whips in the wind. Her dark brown eyes were sharp and piercing, like the tip of a dagger.

"Who's that?" Connor asked.

Achilles followed his gaze. Immediately the old man froze, every muscle tensing to allow Connor to see the veins under his skin.

"Selah…" the mentor breathed, voice barely audible.

Connor blinked. Selah? The woman was speaking in a hushed tone with Haytham, their heads close together. Suddenly she nodded and her gaze hardened. She snatched a musket from a nearby soldier, ignoring his stunned look, before slipping away. Haytham looked back to the crowd, ignoring her departure.

"You have to follow her," Achilles ordered, his voice low.

"But—"

"But nothing! Go!"

With a nod, he hastily ducked through the crowd, following the woman's trail. She disappeared in a dark alleyway, weaving through people in her way. Connor did the same. He watched as she stepped to turn in a corner, but suddenly snapped her gaze over her shoulder. The native ducked in a cranny of a building. Only using one eye, he watched the woman narrow her eyes, as if she knew he was there. But instead of nearing him, she walked out of sight.

Connor gulped and built up his courage, following. He turned the corner to see a ladder against the wall of a building, away from prying eyes. It led to the roof of the structure. The woman was already halfway up it, scaling at a rapid pace despite she still clutched the musket. It was only when she disappeared onto the roof Connor dared to scamper up the ladder as well.

Immediately the noise of the riot rose to meet his ears, filling the air. He glanced down to see a perfect view of the entire plaza, even the steps of the Customs House. The warrior looked over to see the woman crawling across the roof, body lowered to stay out of sight. The boy ducked behind a chimney, staying of her sight. The woman paused at the edge of the roof, kneeling. She brought the butt of the musket to her shoulder and cocked her over the barrel, bayonet pointed at the crowd below. Connor's heart leaped in panic. No! She was going to fire at the civilians!

He didn't hesitate. Ripping his tomahawk from his belt, he charged for the Templar. He raised his weapon to bring it down on her head… only for the woman to whirl around. Connor hissed in pain as something sharp sliced into his cheek. Thankfully momentum was on his side, allowing him to ram into the woman and pin her to the roof. The force made her lose her grip on her knife, having the blade clatter off the roof.

"Your plot has ended," Connor snarled.

"That's what you think," the woman replied, sneering.

What? The native saw a flicker of movement in the corner of his eye. He looked to his right and was greeted with a horrific scene.

Charles Lee. The man stood on the roof on the opposite side of the street, not bothering with hiding. He stood straight and confident, more so than Haytham. Connor's blood froze as he saw his eyes gleam in the same maliciousness as that day in the forest; a smug, nasty grin on his face. He raised his pistol in the air, pulling the trigger.

Immediately a sharp thunder filled the air.

Connor looked back down at the plaza to see one of the soldiers had fallen and was out cold, struck by a tossed stone. However the commander had looked around wildly at the sound, and failed to see the action. He saw his fallen comrade, his eyes widening with disbelief. Quickly replaced by fury.

"Damn you!" he roared. He pointed at the crowd. "FIRE!"

The soldiers didn't hesitate. Connor watched in horror, helpless, as the line of weapons fired. Several bangs filled the air with flashes of light, immediately followed by screams. Several bodies fell to the ground. Immediately the riot turned into a stampede, people running away as a single mass. Citizens were shoved out of the way and onto the ground, only to be trampled.

Bile rose to Connor's throat. No…

Suddenly the warrior gagged as something slammed into his stomach. His back crashed onto the roof, his head spinning. Standing over him was the woman, her eyes cold.

"That will teach you to interfere with our plans," she growled.

Without warning, she dashed out of sight. Immediately Connor leaped to his feet, but it was too late. The Templar was gone. Seeing no sign of her, he glanced down back at the Customs House. He wished he hadn't.

Haytham, whom had remained unmoving the entire event, suddenly lunged towards a soldier. He grabbed the man's arm, getting his attention. Instead of speaking, Haytham pointed—right at Connor.

The Assassin apprentice ran.

Historical Trivia: The Boston Massacre occurred on March 5, 1770. The argument grew heated and attracted a crowd. Fearing the masses, reinforcements were called in, who tried to quell the people, who were on the verge of rioting. Making it worse, the church bells were rung, which signalled fire, drawing many more people from their homes. Eventually a rock was thrown, striking a soldier in the head and knocking him unconscious. Mistakened he had been killed, the commander ordered the soldiers to fire, killing five unarmed civilians and injuring several others.

So that's what actually happened and my version. I pretty much mixed my own and Ubisoft's interpretation. The scene between the soldier and the citizen should've been reversed. It was the soldier who didn't pay his debt, and the man was demanding payment.

Tell me what you guys think!