Nathan had vomited twice in his room earlier. Every part of him recoiled at the thought of returning to the machine, to the arm, and facing the hauntingly beautiful yet sorrowful and unyielding gaze of Sofia Rikkin. He dreaded being thrust once more into the maelstrom of violence, passion, and contempt embodied by the Assassin Duncan Walpole.

But even more, he feared becoming like those lost souls in the Infinity Room, so he reluctantly agreed to go through with it. Sofia greeted him with a smile, expressing her relief that he had come willingly and assuring him that only a few more regressions would be needed.

Tears streamed down his face as he nodded weakly in response.

I hate Duncan Walpole. I hate his treatment of people, his arrogance, and his greed.

I hate him because he mirrors the parts of myself I despise.

And I want to be better than that.


(REGRESSION: LONDON, 1714)

Duncan Walpole's head throbbed like a hammer against an anvil, the result of yet another night wasted in excess. The pounding had become an unwelcome companion, mirroring his growing disgust with himself. Once, a visit to Blake's Coffee House was enough to rouse him from bed. Now, even the thought of their bitter brew filled him with revulsion. The coffee was strong enough to jolt his foggy mind but no longer brought the comfort it once had.

London, with its maze of over three thousand coffeehouses, had always been Duncan's playground—a place where deals were made, secrets traded, and lives ruined. But lately, each sip of coffee felt hollow. The bustling crowds and whispered rumors that once fueled his ambitions now seemed like echoes of a life he barely recognized.

His indulgences had also lost their appeal. Drinking and brothels, once his escape, now only deepened his sense of emptiness. The Rose of England tavern, once a refuge, now felt suffocating. The cheap ale clung to his tongue like rot, and the basement cockfights—once thrilling—reeked of stale blood and desperation. The raucous laughter of the regulars grated at his nerves, each sound a reminder of his hollow indulgence.

A sharp knock on his door interrupted his spiraling thoughts, amplifying the pain in his skull. He winced, hating the world momentarily, before the familiar voice of Geoffrey, his young errand boy, cut through.

"Go away!" Duncan barked, immediately regretting his harshness. His head pounded harder. He hated himself more.

"Pardon, sir, but I have a message," Geoffrey's youthful voice came from the other side. Duncan groaned, recognizing the boy's voice. He forced himself upright, squinting against the harsh light seeping through the shutters. He noticed, with some embarrassment, that he had fallen asleep in his breeches. Reaching for a coin on the elegant table beside him, he stood, holding his throbbing head, and opened the door.

Geoffrey, an innocent eight-year-old with bright blue eyes and curly blond hair, stood there, blissfully unaware of the true nature of his employers. Duncan preferred it that way; it was safer for the boy. The Creed's tenet, "Stay your blade from the flesh of the innocent," had once been a cherished ideal for Duncan. Now, it felt like a fading memory, a relic of a time when he still believed in honor. Seeing Geoffrey stirred an old guilt, a reminder of the harsh world into which children like him were born.

"Sorry to wake you, sir, but I've a message. It's important," Geoffrey said hesitantly.

Important. Duncan scoffed inwardly. Randall probably thinks it's crucial to know when one of his Assassins sneezes. Speaking felt too effortful, so he nodded, leaning against the door frame, and motioned for the boy to continue.

"He says you are to meet him for fish at one o'clock," Geoffrey said, shuffling his feet. "And, ah… you're to be sober." At Duncan's expression, Geoffrey added quickly, "If it please you, sir."

Duncan let out an exasperated groan. The message was as blunt as Randall himself. His mentor had little patience for Duncan's recent indulgences, and the demand for sobriety was a slap to the face. He had become exactly what Randall despised—a man too consumed by his vices to fulfill his duty.

"I don't think he actually said that last part, did he?" Duncan muttered.

"Erm… well, no, sir. Not the 'if it please you' part, at any rate," Geoffrey admitted.

"Good lad. Don't lie. At least not to me, eh?" Duncan tossed the boy a coin and began to close the door.

"Pardon, sir, but I was specifically instructed to wait for a reply."

Duncan cursed under his breath. "Tell him I'll be there."

"Yes, sir, thank you, sir!" Geoffrey chirped before scampering down the stairs.

Duncan leaned against the door as it shut, surveying his small but luxurious lodgings on Tottenham Court Road. Though he rarely spent much conscious time here, the opulence was undeniable. He trudged to the table, retrieving his pocket watch—a gift from his distant cousin, Robert Walpole. Despite their lack of closeness, Duncan cherished the watch as a reminder of a time before he became an empty shell living from one indulgence to the next.

It was just past ten. He had time for a bath, a trip to the coffeehouse, and a moment to shake off the lingering disgust before his meeting with the Assassin Mentor.


"Dine on fish" was code for meeting outside Mrs. Salmon's Waxworks on Fleet Street—a spectacle drawing crowds from all walks of life. For a ha'penny, visitors marveled at wax replicas of royalty and grotesque scenes of Canaanite women sacrificing children to Moloch. A life-sized figure of a crippled child stood outside, welcoming guests in grim silence.

Duncan eyed the wax figure when he felt his Mentor's unmistakable presence behind him, followed by the cold voice he had come to expect.

"You're late."

"Damn you, I'm here now," Duncan retorted, turning to face the Mentor. "And sober. That should count for something."

Randall stood before him, his iron-gray hair and pale blue eyes as hard and unyielding as ever. Known for his sharp discipline rather than humor, his lips were pressed into a thin, severe line.

"It counts for less every time, Duncan. If you speak to me like that again, it will be the last time."

Duncan stepped away from the lines of people crowding to enter the waxworks. "You wouldn't kill a Master Assassin just for colorful language," he said, his tone challenging.

"No," Randall replied, his voice calm but firm, "but one who is unreliable, erratic, disrespectful, and drunk half the time?"

"Even so," Duncan muttered, though his confidence was waning.

Randall sighed deeply, clasping his hands behind his back as he looked out over the bustling street, the noise of the crowd blending with the clatter of horse-drawn carriages. "What happened to you, man? Thirteen years ago, when we first met, you were on fire. You wanted to make a difference, to make things better." He shook his head, his pale blue eyes clouded with something close to sorrow. "You despised everything the Templars stood for—their exclusivity, their need to control everyone and everything. You believed in freedom."

"I still do," Duncan snapped, his voice hard. "But open your eyes, Randall. The powerful are smarter than us, craftier than we give them credit for. Look at the damned Templars—ruthless, yes, but clever. They know how to keep the people content while they pull the strings. Free clinics, orphanages, food for the poor—all bait for the sheep. And the sheep lap it up without question, so long as they get their fill."

He stepped closer, lowering his voice, but his eyes remained intense. "Think of it like the Empire's slave ships, Randall. Sugar and tobacco for England's tables, cotton for their backs, gold in their coffers. But who asks where it comes from? No one. All they see are the riches in front of them. Behind it all, people like us die in the shadows, or worse—forced into chains to build this world. And the people? They just dig in, oblivious, never questioning the blood that bought their comforts."

Duncan's gaze darkened, a sneer curling at his lips. "The Brotherhood talks about freedom, but what freedom is that? Who are we truly freeing? The ones with power will always find a way to tighten their grip, and the masses… they won't care as long as their bread is buttered."

"Duncan, I understand your frustration," Randall said, his voice carrying a rare edge of weariness. His usual calm was strained, and his eyes reflected a depth of concern rarely seen. "You're right—powerful men are indeed shrewd and manipulative. They know how to placate the masses, distract them with bread and circuses, while they amass their fortunes and tighten their control."

He looked out at the bustling street, his gaze thoughtful. "But that's exactly why our work is crucial. The Templars may cloak their tyranny in charity and indulgence, but it's our job to cut through that veneer. We work in the shadows not for glory, but to undermine their control and protect those who are unaware of their chains."

Randall turned back to Duncan, his expression softening but remaining resolute. "We don't get monuments or accolades, Duncan. We work to make sure that there are some who see beyond the facade, who understand that the struggle for freedom is not just a lofty ideal but a daily battle. You're letting yourself be consumed by the very vices that should be beneath you."

Duncan's gaze fell to the ground, a mix of anger and resignation simmering in his eyes. "What's the point if all we do is chip away at the edges? The powerful always win, and the rest of us—"

"Don't become a lost cause," Randall interrupted sharply. "If you give in to despair, you abandon the very principles you once fought for. The Creed is not about winning every battle; it's about standing firm even when the fight seems endless."

Duncan felt a hot wave of fury surge through him and he tamped it down. the same tiring response every fucking time. It sounds good in theory, but theory doesn't change the reality Walpole sees every day. If all the Brotherhood's efforts are just shadows on the wall, how do they even know they're making a damn difference? he forced it back with practiced control.

He sighed, forcing a note of contrition into his voice. "My apologies, Mentor." He placed a hand over his heart and gave a mock bow. "I am here, and I am sober. What is it you need from me?"

Phillip's gaze was as piercing as ever, his voice steady and authoritative. "I have a new assignment for you. We've received word from Ah Tabai in Tulum. There are reports of another Sage emerging, and Ah Tabai has requested our assistance, along with others, to locate and assess this new threat."

Ah Tabai, the Mayan Assassin and Mentor of the Brotherhood in the Caribbean, was known for his exemplary skills and dedication. Born to an Assassin and raised within the Brotherhood, he had consistently proven his worth in reports and instruction. Randall had previously discussed the need to bolster connections with the Caribbean Brotherhood, recognizing that the New World—still in its formative stages—would inevitably become a battleground of influence for the Templars. Thus, it was imperative for the Assassins to establish a strong presence there to counterbalance and monitor their activities.

"We don't have a strong presence in the New World yet—at least not as strong as we'd like," Phillip continued, his tone resolute. "Ah Tabai can help us change that. I need you to assist him in the search for this Sage and to continue your training under his guidance."

Duncan's gaze remained steely, his frustration palpable. He stared at Randall, his eyes cold and unyielding. His jaw tightened as he leaned in, his expression hardening into a scowl.

Sensing Duncan's frustration, Randall's eyes narrowed, his demeanor growing cold and stern. Without a word, he stepped closer, his presence imposing and unyielding. Duncan felt the weight of Randall's gaze, an unspoken authority that commanded respect and obedience.

"You will take the missions you are given," Randall said, his voice cutting through the air with icy precision. "And you will give them your best. Doubts and frustrations are irrelevant. If the Templars find this Sage before we do, they will gain a formidable weapon against us and all of humanity. Ah Tabai has knowledge that could benefit us all, and he might also provide you with the clarity you seek. Your personal struggles are secondary to our mission."

The term "Sage" referred to an individual with powerful ancestral connections to the Precursors, the creators of artifacts like the Apples of Eden, which could bestow great power upon their wielders.

Randall was right. This mission was crucial.

"The East India Company values me," Walpole said, his tone edged with frustration. "They won't take kindly to my sudden disappearance."

"That's precisely why you're being sent," Randall replied. "We believe you've drawn unwanted attention, and both you and we may be at risk. Submit your resignation, claiming a desire for more adventure and independence. They'll accept it without question."

That caught Walpole's attention. The East India Company, with its stranglehold on the trade of spices, silks, textiles, and tea—wealth drawn from lands stolen through conquest and bloodshed—was a prime target for Templar infiltration. Its wealth and influence, built on the suffering of the occupied territories, made it an ideal tool for the Order's ambitions.

For years, Duncan had been keeping a close eye on the Company's employees, looking for signs of Templar allegiance among those profiting from the exploitation of foreign lands. He had narrowed down the list to a few suspects, but Randall had recently confirmed his suspicions: Henry Spencer, Esquire—one of the newest members of the East India Company's powerful Court of Directors—was indeed a member of the hated Order. The Templars had embedded themselves at the heart of the Company, turning its ruthless trade network into a weapon for their control.

Despite Randall's valid points, they highlighted a harsh reality that gnawed at Duncan. The Assassins, with all their ideals of freedom and justice, were merely treating the symptoms of a diseased world. They struck from the shadows, removing corrupt officials or toppling plots, but they never dared to challenge the rotten empires at their root. The East India Company continued its violent expansion, and the Templars manipulated the flow of wealth and power unchecked. Yet the Brotherhood only danced around the edges, unwilling to take decisive action that could truly cripple the forces of oppression.

Walpole understood the weight of Randall's words, but they only deepened his frustration. Training with the Mayan mentor, Ah Tabai, might make him a more efficient assassin, but it wouldn't change the fundamental issue. The Assassins' tenets kept them from making the bold moves needed to strike at the heart of the power structures the Templars thrived on. Randall's offer seemed like a subtle rebuke, an insinuation that Duncan's current performance wasn't enough—that he lacked conviction.

On many levels, this was a rebuke.

"I need time to think about this," Duncan said firmly, though his frustration was palpable.

Randall's response was unexpectedly calm. "Of course, Duncan. You're frustrated and feeling slighted. We've been through this before. But you're a man of principles, and I believe you still value the Brotherhood's goals and philosophy." His lips curled into a rare, faint smile. "You'll come around. You always do."

"If we weren't in a public place," Duncan hissed, "you'd be in a much different position right now."

Randall nodded, a touch of wryness in his gaze. "Indeed, this location was chosen deliberately. You don't become a Mentor without a certain amount of foresight. Take the time you need to consider it. We can discuss this again once you've had a chance to reflect. This opportunity could be significant if you can see past your current frustrations."

Duncan shot him a dark look before turning on his heel and striding away, his mind churning with anger and wounded pride.


He spent the day sulking above the rooftops, looking down below at the India House, where, as luck would have it, the weekly meeting of the Court of Directors was occurring. The air was thick with the stench of the Thames mixed with the acrid smoke from chimneys below. Duncan scowled, the gargoyle he perched on feeling colder than usual despite the afternoon sun.

Without warning, a presence stirred beside him. He felt it before he saw her—an energy, chaotic and distinct, that he hadn't sensed in years. When he turned his head, there she stood: Hecatia Lapislazuli, the goddess of Hell. But instead of her usual modern look, she was dressed in an outfit that seemed straight out of the 18th century, albeit with her own unique twist.

She wore a dark, high-collared waistcoat over a crimson blouse, the rich velvet fabric shimmering faintly in the dim light. Her black, flowing skirt reached just above her ankles, layered and trimmed with red and gold accents, giving it an air of elegance despite its ragged edges. She had forgone the typical powdered wig of the era, letting her hair flow freely in waves, the color shifting subtly between deep reds, blues, and golds. A tri-cornered hat, adorned with three gleaming orbs—representing Earth, the Moon, and the Otherworld—sat atop her head, casting faint, otherworldly glows.

Chains, sleek and silver, draped over her shoulders and around her waist like loose jewelry, their ends attached to the three celestial orbs that hovered around her. Her boots, sleek and heeled, were laced up to her calves, giving her an almost aristocratic air, but with a wild, rebellious edge that was unmistakable.

Her fiery red eyes locked onto Duncan's, glinting with amusement.

"Well, if it isn't Duncan Walpole," she said, her voice casual yet sharp. She stood on the rooftop with the same easy grace as someone simply passing by, though Duncan knew better. He had tangled with powers like hers before—rare, unpredictable, and never without an agenda.

Duncan's scowl deepened as he took in Hecatia's appearance. Though her attire had changed, there was no mistaking the aura of power that clung to her, like a second skin. He shifted slightly, keeping his guard up. He knew enough about her to understand that wherever she went, chaos followed.

Hecatia smiled, sensing his unease. "You always seem to find yourself at a crossroads, Duncan. Fitting, isn't it? Considering my nature." She turned her gaze to the sprawling city below, her expression almost wistful as she continued. "I'm associated with many things: crossroads, night, the light that cuts through the darkness, magic that shields and corrupts, and even protection from witchcraft. The Moon, graves, ghosts… they all fall within my domain."

Duncan raised an eyebrow, unimpressed. "I know who you are, Hecatia. I don't need the lecture."

She chuckled, crossing her arms and leaning slightly toward him, her voice lowering to a more serious tone. "Oh, but do you? You stand here, brooding, caught between two paths, unsure whether to cling to your old ways or embrace something… darker. You're at a crossroads, Duncan—my crossroads." Her red eyes bore into his. "You can feel it, can't you? The weight of the decision pressing down on you. Which way do you turn? Back to the Brotherhood? Or down a path you can never return from?"

Duncan's jaw tightened. Her words struck deeper than he would have liked to admit. She wasn't wrong. Ever since he'd started doubting the Assassins, questioning their promises of freedom, he had felt like he was standing at the edge of something. Something dangerous.

Hecatia continued, her voice softening. "Crossroads are funny things. They force you to choose, but they also offer something most people don't see." She smiled, a hint of mischief creeping back into her tone. "Opportunity. Power. The chance to walk a path that no one else dares to tread."

Duncan sneered, turning his gaze back to the city. "What do you care, Hecatia? You're a goddess of Hell. What does my choice matter to you?"

She laughed, a wild, echoing sound that sent a chill down his spine. "Because I love watching humans squirm when they're stuck between choices they can't fully understand. It's fascinating, really. And as for Hell? Don't limit me to that. I walk in many worlds, Duncan. Earth, the Moon, the Otherworlds. All of them are mine to cross and connect."

She paused, her eyes narrowing slightly. "And you… you're interesting to me. You've already lost faith in the Brotherhood's ideals, and you're teetering on the edge of something new. I want to see what you'll become, should you let go of your past. Will you embrace the darkness? Or will you cling to your broken ideals?"

Duncan clenched his fists. He hated the way she seemed to see through him, to the core of his internal conflict. Yet there was something about her presence—her chaotic, rebellious nature—that resonated with him. He had always been drawn to power, and Hecatia, in all her strangeness, exuded it.

Duncan let her words sink in, unsure whether she was goading him or genuinely intrigued by his situation. Either way, the weight of his decision felt heavier now. He could keep walking the familiar path, clinging to the shreds of what the Brotherhood represented. Or… he could embrace something darker, something more aligned with the realities he had come to accept. That the powerful would always manipulate the masses, and true freedom—if it existed—was reserved for those willing to take it by any means necessary.

Hecatia's voice broke through his thoughts again. "Well, Duncan? What's it going to be? Will you keep fighting for ideals you no longer believe in? Or will you finally take control of your own destiny?"

The silence between them stretched on, broken only by the distant sounds of the city below. Finally, Duncan spoke, his voice quiet but firm. "The Mentor of the Caribbean Brotherhood has heard rumors of a Sage..." He trailed off, his gaze flicking toward Hecatia, searching for any hint of recognition.

Hecatia's expression remained unchanged, though her eyes gleamed with interest. "Ah, yes, the Sages," she said, almost lazily. "Men with the blood of an ancient power. Their existence is rather unique, and they have a way of attracting… attention." She tilted her head slightly, as if studying him more closely. "Why does this concern you, Duncan? Or should I say, what does the Brotherhood hope to gain from finding one?"

Duncan shifted, unsure how much he should reveal. But something about Hecatia's presence made him feel as if she already knew more than she let on. "The Mentor believes the Sage is the key to something larger. Something tied to an artifact that the Templars seek. The Observatory. A weapon that could tilt the balance of power."

Hecatia's smile widened, though it didn't reach her eyes. "Ah, yes. The eternal dance of Assassins and Templars, each grasping for control over secrets they can barely comprehend." She chuckled softly, the sound unsettling. "And yet, you don't seem so interested in preserving the Brotherhood's 'balance,' do you?"

Duncan's jaw clenched. She was right—he had long since lost faith in the Brotherhood's lofty ideals. What had they ever truly accomplished, beyond endless conflict? The Templars, for all their ambition, understood that control was the only path to stability.

"And what if I'm not?" Duncan said, his voice hardening. "What if I'm tired of fighting for ideals that only lead to more death? Maybe the Templars have the right idea. Maybe control is the only real freedom anyone can have."

Hecatia's gaze sharpened, her playful demeanor fading. "So, you'd consider joining them, then? Becoming the very thing you've spent your life fighting against?" She stepped closer, her presence suddenly far more intense. "Or is it something else you're after, Duncan? Power? Control? What is it you really want?"

Duncan hesitated, her words striking at the heart of the question he had been avoiding. What did he want? For so long, his actions had been driven by loyalty—to the Brotherhood, to the fight against the Templars. But now, standing at this crossroads, he realized that those loyalties had been eroded by doubt and frustration. What remained was a desire for something more tangible. More lasting.

"I want to be free," Duncan finally said, the words bitter on his tongue. "Free from the lies, the empty promises. I want control over my own fate, not to be a pawn in someone else's game."

Hecatia's smile returned, slow and knowing. "Now that is something I can understand," she said, her voice a low purr. "You seek the power to forge your own path, to escape the chains that bind you to a cause you no longer believe in. I've seen countless men and women stand where you are now, Duncan. Most of them turned back, afraid of what they'd find if they took the next step. But you…" She paused, her eyes glinting with dark amusement. "You're different. You're ready to walk a new path, aren't you?"

Duncan remained silent, but he didn't deny it.

Hecatia's gaze softened, her voice almost gentle. "I can help you, you know. Guide you through the crossroads. But the path you choose must be yours alone."

Duncan exhaled slowly, his mind racing. He was standing on the edge of something monumental, and he knew that once he made his choice, there would be no turning back. The Brotherhood, the Templars… they no longer mattered. All that remained was his desire for freedom, for power. And Hecatia, in all her strange, chaotic wisdom, seemed to offer a way forward.

He met her gaze, his decision finally clear. "What must I do?"

Hecatia's smile widened, and for the briefest moment, Duncan could feel the weight of her influence pressing down on him, the many worlds she touched swirling just beyond his perception. "Simply take the next step," she whispered. "And leave the past behind."

Duncan nodded, feeling the crossroads beneath him shift. The weight of his old life—his old loyalties—fell away, leaving only the path ahead.

"Welcome to the real game, Duncan," Hecatia said softly, stepping back as she disappeared into the shadows. "Let's see what you'll make of it."


Duncan glanced up at the sign of the coffeehouse: a golden pot of steaming coffee against a deep red background, flanked by two long-stemmed clay pipes crossing beneath it. He looked down the street, where the Tower of London loomed in the distance, casting its shadow over the cobbled road named in its honor.

Peering through the wavy glass of Lloyd's Coffee House, he spotted Randall inside. As usual, the man was engrossed in conversations with shipping executives, sailors, and merchants exchanging the latest news and trade gossip.

Duncan hesitated for a moment outside the door. His head throbbed, and he knew that a cup of coffee would offer some relief. But more than that, it was time to finish what he'd started the night before—a different kind of hidden blade aimed at the Mentor's heart, one that, if played right, Randall wouldn't sense until it was too late.

As Duncan entered, Randall looked up with a raised eyebrow, mildly surprised. "Good morrow, Duncan," he greeted. "You look surprisingly sober."

"I am," Duncan replied, "but I'm in need of coffee. I've reflected on your words, and you're right. Settling for 'good enough' isn't an option. I need to strive to be the best. If learning from Ah Tabai can help me contribute more to the Brotherhood, then that's what I intend to do."

A genuine flicker of affection crossed Phillip Randall's aquiline features. "I understand how hard it is to set aside your pride, Duncan," he said, his tone almost kind. He signaled a server, who quickly brought an extra cup and filled it with steaming, thick black coffee.

Taking the cup, the traitor to the Creed smiled at his Mentor and said, "It seems the truth goes down easier with coffee."