“Aye,” Shay said, gripping the railing. “But now she knows something more important: that I’m not a monster. I’m a man who learned the hard way that the Brotherhood’s freedom is just another word for chaos.”
“What is this?” she asked.
The blizzard swallowed the wreck. Behind him, Gist called out, “Leaving her alive, captain? The lass knows our course.” Assassin--39-s Creed Rogue
He stood on the frozen deck of the Morrigan , watching a blizzard erase the world. His new Templar companions, Gist and Monro, trusted him. But trust was a luxury Shay could no longer afford. He had once trusted Achilles Davenport, and that man’s arrogance had killed thousands. “Aye,” Shay said, gripping the railing
“A chance. That compass will lead you to a small temple off the coast of Anticosti. Inside, you’ll find a carving of a man holding a sphere. Touch it. Feel what I felt.” The blizzard swallowed the wreck
He ordered the Morrigan closer. The wreck was a schooner, its mast snapped like a chicken bone, its hull bleeding splinters into the black water. On the forecastle, slumped against a barrel of salted fish, was a young woman in a tattered white hood. She couldn’t have been older than twenty. Her left arm was twisted at a wrong angle, and frost clung to her eyelashes.
Hope’s lip trembled—not from cold, but from the crack in her conviction. “He said the ends justify the means.”