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Summary
Altaïr refused to let go. His fingers held on with the ferocity of a feral dog’s teeth, clamping down upon the orb with the determination to break bone before he'd give up.
Unable to see through the stinging pain of his eyes, as tears of agitation welled up with the interference of the dust, he attempted to parse out the vague shadows and pale silhouette of white clad bodies. Shifting to eagle vision to tell friend from foe apart, he tugged back on the orb with a cry of defiance.
“You shall not triumph this day, Templar!”
Robert hissed stubbornly in return. “Give up already, Assassin. This struggle is futile!”
“I'm not the one that is outnumbered here.” The assassin remarked with a haughty note to his voice. The shifting blue figures of his comrades closed in after finishing the remaining red body set before them. All that remained was the golden silhouette of their target to take care of.
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The events of Solomon's Temple pan out differently than expected, altering the course of fate and the intricately woven lives subjected to its whims, with Altaïr directly at its center.