Dawn crept through the shutters, its golden threads brushing Aliya awake. She stirred on a woven mat, her silver eyes flaring as they met a shadow cloaked in midnight—the Black Reaper, a storm carved in stillness beside her. Her breath snagged like a fawn in a hunter's snare, but she masked her tremor with fragile calm. 'I felt a whisper of warmth amid this cold,' she thought, 'yet they've flung me into a shadowed abyss.'
The door groaned, and an old woman shuffled in, her silver braid swaying like a river of years. She froze, dark eyes widening at the silver-haired girl, a moonbeam caught in flesh. "Well, now," she rasped, voice rough as desert stone, "has the young man finally decided to bind his restless soul to a wife?"
Aliya's cheeks blazed like dawn over dunes, her lips twisting into a shy frown. "You know that's a dream lost to this hell," the Black Reaper countered, his words a blade dulled by frost. The old woman's gaze twinkled like stars in a barren night. "Then who's this young lady?"
"Princess Aliya," he said, voice flat as a gravestone. Her brows arched like crescent moons. "Lucien's girl?"
"Aye." His hazel eyes pinned Aliya, a weight she couldn't shed. "I took her from Masyaf. She's yours to tend, old one. I've shadows to chase." To Aliya, "Need anything, ask her." He melted into the gloom, a wraith swallowed by its shroud.
In Masyaf's solemn hall, the air thrummed like a taut bowstring. Hina stood before the Mentor, her crimson scarf a banner of spilled valor. "The Black Reaper's taken Aliya," she said, steady as an oak in a storm. The Mentor's silver-streaked head jerked up, golden robes quivering as he struck the throne's arm. "That rogue defies me still?" His roar was a thunderclap, his arrogance a brewing squall.
He turned to his second-in-commands. "Hina, Abu Bakr—hunt him down. Fetch her." Abu Bakr, broad as a bear, nodded, his gray eyes piercing like starlight through fog. "Alex—scour for the vault," the Mentor snapped at the hulking second, whose scarred jaw tightened. "Deson—watch the Templars." Deson, lean as a whisper, dipped his head, shadowed eyes veiled.
In Acre, a church loomed, its spires clawing at a sky bruised with dusk. Hina stood within, her crimson gaze fixed on the shadows—she'd come knowing the Black Reaper would seek her here, a bond unspoken yet unbreakable. A figure bloomed, cloaking a murmur against stone. She surged forward, arms enveloping him in a fierce tide, a decade's longing unleashed. "Ten years," she choked, tears carving rivers down her cheeks, "and now you face your big sister?"
He stood mute, a pillar of ice beneath his fire. "Say something, you stubborn idiot," she pressed, voice breaking. "Where've you been? Why'd you vanish?"
"Don't know where to start," he murmured, voice a hollow wind. "The dark took me away."
She gripped his cloak tighter, knuckles white. "You left me—left us all. I thought you'd died."
"Part of me died with him," he said, eyes empty as a starless night. "What's left, hunts."
Hina's sob caught in her throat. "Why did you take her?"
"Something pulled me," he said, a flicker in his frost. "A voice I can't name."
Her eyes softened like twilight's veil, she cried a lot. "The vault—Lucien hunts it. She's the key, and he holds the map. Be wary, little brother." She lingered a moment before slipping away, leaving the church in silence.
Moments bled into silence. "You, Ghost," he growled, "why bid me guard her? Who are you in the first place?"
A figure shimmered forth—an elder in white, beard a cascade of frost over a hawkish face, eyes sharp as a falcon's cry over endless sands. His laughter rolled like thunder across forgotten dunes. "I am the shadow of a blade long sheathed, a whisper from sands of yore—Altaïr Ibn-La'Ahad, as I've sworn. She is a star unmarred, destined to kindle your darkened flame into light."
The Black Reaper's lip curled. "A fine tale from a dead man's dust."
Altaïr's gaze gleamed like steel kissed by dawn. "That ring you bear—my will forged in iron and blood. I entrusted it to Zaynab, my truest echo. Her gift to you crowns you worthy of more than shadow."
"She spoke of you as if you hung the heavens," the Black Reaper admitted, frost thawing to a whisper.
"Then heed this final breath from the void," Altaïr said, fading like mist before sun. "Shield the princess—her light will unveil your path." The church swallowed his echo.
In a Templar lair, torchlight licked damp stone. Lucien loomed over his second-in-commands, white mane a tyrant's diadem. "We're bleeding time. She must be found."
Reinhardt stormed in, armor rattling like a war drum. "Grandmaster, my spies, says the Black Reaper took her." Fear rippled through, a tide against jagged cliffs. Lucien's voice hardened to iron. "This is bad."
In the hidden village, Aliya rested on a cot, silver hair a river of light across the pillow. The old woman sat near, stitching a cloak with hands gnarled as ancient roots. "Your name? Where am I?" Aliya asked, voice soft as a zephyr.
"Zaynab Al Masyafi," she replied, eyes warm as a hearth. "This village—a sanctuary carved sixteen years past, in 1271. That little brat and his friend wrested it from the mountains' grip, gathering souls sick of the Templar-Assassin tempest."
"What's he to you?" Aliya's curiosity flickered like a candle's flame.
"My sweet lad," Zaynab said, smiling at a crevice of memory. "Twenty-two years, since he was a spring of four."
"Who is the Black Reaper?"
Zaynab's chuckle was a pebble skipping water. "He used to be part of the brotherhood, who kidnapped you—strongest under heaven, barring artifacts."
"Former?" Aliya's brow furrowed. "Why'd he leave?"
A shadow loomed. "Enough, old one," the Black Reaper cut in, voice sharp as a scythe's kiss. "She doesn't need my scars laid bare."
Zaynab cackled. "Hopeless as ever, eh, young man? Take her out—show her the village's soul."
Aliya wavered. "I'm fine here—"
"Don't need to be humble, young lady," Zaynab yanked her up, shoving her toward him. "Go!"
The village unfurled like a poet's vision—stone huts nestled in a valley cradled by mountains, their peaks jagged sentinels piercing a sky ablaze with amber and lavender. Olive groves shimmered, silver leaves whispering secrets in a breeze laced with wild thyme and pine. A stream wove through, sapphire waters glinting like a vein of life, reflecting a sun sinking into a molten embrace with the horizon.
They walked, a quiet pair tracing a path of dust and stone. Villagers hailed him—"Assalamu Alaikum" met with his low "Wa Alaikum Assalam", or "Good day, sir" answered with a curt nod. Aliya's silver eyes darted to him, curiosity a moth to his flame. "What's your name?"
He shrugged, a wall of ice. "Where to, princess?"
Her pout was a rosebud defying frost. "Call me Aliya."
"Alright, Aliya," he conceded, a crack in his chill. "Where first?"
"A playground for the little ones?"
He led her to a clearing where swings swayed like metronomes of joy, and children romped across grass kissed by dew. At his sight, they surged like a tide, crying a symphony. "Big brother's here!" they sang, tugging his cloak. Aliya's jaw dropped—he was their dawn.
She played with children. Her laughter mingled with theirs, a melody threading her closer to his frost. A tiny girl with curls climbed his leg, her small hand grazing his cheek as he lifted her. Another tugged his sleeve, and their warmth drew a shadow of a smile—gone swift as it came. Aliya caught it, her heart a bird taking wing. 'He's a fortress breached by their light,' she thought, a flush dusting her cheeks.
Dusk painted the sky, and they strolled back, hands entwined with the children's. A kitten darted across—fluffy as a dandelion's wish, emerald eyes glinting like stars. Aliya scooped it up, delighted by a burst of dawn. "Can we keep her?" she pleaded, cradling it like a treasure.
"No," he said, stone-cold.
Her eyes shimmered, a doe's plea. "But she's cute!"
"No!"
The kids groaned. "Big brother's a mountain, sister. He won't bend."
"I don't care!" She hugged the cat tighter. "I want her!" Still persistent.
"No."
"Please!"
"A no means no!"
Zaynab emerged, smirking like a fox. "Keep her, young lady." To him, "Your room's set, little brat."
Aliya blinked. "Does he not have a home?"
Zaynab looked at her and said, "I haven't told ya, you'll be living in his house." Aliya confused, "Then he could live with me."
"We are not allowed. We're Muslims," Zaynab said, voice a warm ember. "Then I can live with you," said Aliya. "My house is not spacious for two people," replied Zaynab. Aliya said, "In that case I can live with someone of my religion." Zaynab smiled and thought, 'What a nice girl, she doesn't want to cause him any trouble.' She said, "You see, we don't have people of other religions." Aliya was confused and said, "But I saw a small church here."
Zaynab said, "Born or turned—some by his kindness, others by his wisdom when they dared him."
Aliya's chin lifted. "I won't abandon my faith."
"Many challenged him," Zaynab grinned. "None stood against his truth."
Aliya looked at him. "Then I challenge your beliefs, as is my right!" Aliya's voice rang, a bell of defiance. "If you fail, then you must accept my faith—do you accept these terms or not?"
Zaynab's laughter was a river's dance. "Very Well young lady. From February 2nd to, until any of you surrender. Well now go to his house, it's fine." Aliya said, "What about those women who live alone?" Zaynab said, "Most houses are not spacious enough to hold two people. Only those are where couples live." Aliya asked curiously, "Then, Why is his house so spacious?" Zaynab said, "It's not the right time to know, I'll tell you some other day." They all went to their places.
Days blurred—Aliya pored over her heart to learn everything about Islam. February 3rd, 1287, the village held its breath. Zaynab's voice rose: "Repeat, young lady."
She intoned the Shahada, clear as a desert spring: "Ash-hadu an la ilaha illa Allah, wa ash-hadu anna Muhammadan rasul Allah."—"I bear witness that there is no god but Allah, and I bear witness that Muhammad is His Messenger."
Aliya echoed, each word a root sinking deep. Zaynab's eyes gleamed. "You've walked the path. Welcome to Islam." Aliya looked very happy, 'All these days I have struggled but in the end he proved me everything. He is a genius. I thought he would be a muscle head. I am happy I challenged him. At Least now I won't die as a non-believer. Good thing I studied Islam well and he cleared many of my misunderstandings during the challenge,' she thought.
The village erupted—drums pulsed, voices soared, lanterns bobbed like fireflies. Aliya turned to Zaynab. "Name me anew."
"Your name is fair, young lady," Zaynab said,her voice soft as dusk.
"No," Aliya pressed, silver eyes resolute. "I want a name from your heart."
Zaynab paused, a shadow crossing her weathered face. "I had a daughter, Sadia, taken by Templars in the Blood War of 1270."
Aliya's gaze softened. "What was she like?"
"Fierce as a storm, gentle as a breeze," Zaynab murmured, eyes distant. "She'd be full of fire and grace."
"Then let me carry her name," Aliya said, voice trembling with resolve. "I'll be Sadia—for you."
Zaynab's hand found hers, a quiet clasp. "You honor her, young lady. Sadia you'll be." Their embrace was a balm, a promise sealed in shared loss.
The feast unfurled—spiced lamb, honeyed dates, children twirling under a sky of stars. As night deepened, Sadia sought the Black Reaper, alone on a ridge, the setting sun a molten crown bleeding into violet peaks. She paused, silver hair catching the last light, and his gaze lingered—a crack in his frost she didn't see.
"Thank you," she said, voice a thread of silk, "For all you've done."
His chest tightened, an ember flaring in ash. 'I'm a husk scoured by grief's wind—why does her voice stir a tide I buried? I've forsaken light, yet she's a flame I can't outrun. Who is she, this star Altaïr bids me guard? Why does my soul quake, yearning to be known by her?'
Her silver eyes met his, unguarded. 'I swore my heart to Reinhardt's steel, yet this shadowed man shelters me like a cloak against night. Why does his silence sing louder than oaths? Why do I yearn to mend the void in his gaze, to walk his dusk forever? He's a thread weaving into my soul—Ohhh… I see, I'm in love with him.'
She stepped closer, hand brushing his cloak's edge, a hesitant bridge. "I… need to ask something," she murmured, blushing a twilight bloom.
"If it's not a thorn, I'll answer," he said, cold as stone.
Her voice trembled, a leaf in the wind. "Will you marry me?"
Shock splintered his ice, a fortress breached. 'Me—a dead soul—to wed her light? Why does joy bloom where ash should reign? She's a river carving my stone, threatening to flood what I've entombed. I must retreat.' "No," he said, blunt as a blade's edge.
Her eyes widened, dawn eclipsed by rain. "I love you."
"It won't shift the sands."
"Why?" Tears welled, diamonds on silver, voice a breaking wave.
Silence, heavy as mountains.
"Why?!" she cried, a plea echoing through dusk…
Children swarmed the ridge, their chatter halting as they saw her weeping. "Big brother, why's she crying?" a boy demanded, fists balled, stepping between them like a shield.
"You hurt her!" a girl with braids accused, stomping forward, her small frame trembling with fury.
"She's our sister now!" another shouted, tugging his cloak with fierce hands. They encircled him, a tempest of small warriors, voices rising like a righteous gale. "Fix it!"
Sadia sank to her knees, tears spilling like stars fallen to earth, silver hair veiling her face in a shimmering curtain. "Tell me why," she whispered, raw as a wound laid bare. The kitten nudged her, purring—a small solace in her storm.
The children pressed in, a siege of loyalty. "You're cruel!" a lad yelled, shoving his leg with all his might. "She's good—don't break her!"
"She gave us her heart!" a girl sobbed, clutching Sadia's hand, her own tears falling. "You can't throw it away like dust!"
Their cries swelled, shaking the ridge, a chorus of defiance and love. "Big brother, she's ours—make it right!" a boy roared, eyes blazing like embers. Another tugged Sadia, wiping her cheeks with grubby fingers. "Don't cry, sister—we'll fight him for you!"
Sadia's voice broke through, soft but steel-edged. "Just tell me—why won't you?" Her silver eyes locked on his, pleading, a lighthouse in fog.
A girl with curls climbed his leg, pounding his chest. "Say something, you big oaf! She's prettier than the moon—you can't let her go!"
'They're a flood I can't stem,' he thought, 'and her tears carve deeper than Yahyah's fall. Why does her pain unmoor me, dragging me from the dark I claimed? She's too alive—too close—a light I can't snuff out.' "Fine," he relented, voice a reluctant thaw, rough as gravel yielding to rain. "I'll marry you—if you can pierce my shadow's heart." 'She'll never read this void—no one can.'
Her face crumpled, a flower bruised by frost, then flared with steel. "I'll prove it," she said, rising, tears glistening like dew on a blade. She stepped closer, voice dropping to a fierce whisper. "But you'll keep your word, or these little ones will be your reckoning—I'll make sure of it."
The children cheered, a victorious tide, their small hands tugging her toward the feast. "We've got you, sister!" they sang, leaving him alone with a dying sun, the wind whispering her name through the olive trees, and a soul teetering on the edge of a light he couldn't deny.