fogweaver0

[fogweaver0]

Epic discord server 👀

This is a roleplay server where we chat and events are hosted such as watch parties and drawing events through gartic phone were looking for new members and potentially some moderators to help us the server is SFW though 18+ spaces are available we hope to see you there

https://discord.gg/VuEJdJ5Ryn

[fogweaver0]

two of my figurez arrived!! ^_^ i am so happy :33 um..don't mind altaïr's missing hand..i wanted to switch his hand but ended up snapping his original hand off..whoops.. I'll go glue it back later... ^~^"

now they can watch me get ready for school everyday!! Yay!! OwO hehehehehe i love altaïr smsmdnfhsjfjsjd (yes i am keeping the boxes)

[fogweaver0]

Updated cyrus alot. Have a short story

The Day Before the Gala

The air in Whitechapel buzzed with the clatter of carts and the shouts of hawkers as Cyrus hunched over his tailoring bench, threading a needle through the charcoal wool of James’ new suit jacket. The shop a narrow, cozy space stuffed with bolts of fabric and the hum of a sewing machine was his sanctuary, and today it thrummed with life. James, tall and broad-shouldered, leaned against the counter, bantering with a grizzled costermonger who’d come in for a patched coat. “This’ll hold you through the winter, mate,” James said, tossing the mended garment over with a grin. The man tipped his cap and shuffled out, leaving the couple alone.

Cyrus glanced up, catching James’ eye. “You’re too good with them, you know. They’ll expect you here every day.” His voice was warm, teasing.

James sauntered over, resting a hand on Cyrus’ shoulder. “And miss watching you work your magic? Never.” He brushed a stray thread from Cyrus’ cheek, a gesture so tender it made the tailor’s heart stutter. They’d sworn themselves to each other years ago under a gaslit bridge by the Thames no rings, no priest, just vows whispered in the dark. The law wouldn’t recognize it, but to Cyrus, James was his husband in every way that mattered.

The day unfolded in a gentle rhythm: a meal at a smoky tavern roast beef and ale followed by a stroll along the river, their boots crunching on gravel. Back at the shop, Cyrus fitted the suit to James’ frame, pinning the hems as James stood patiently, cracking jokes about looking like a toff. “Think they’ll let me in tomorrow night?” he asked, adjusting the lapels.

“You’ll outshine them all,” Cyrus replied, stepping back to admire his work. The gala was a rare invitation, a glimpse into London’s glittering upper crust, and they’d both been giddy at the prospect. As dusk fell, they locked the shop, the sign creaking in the wind, and headed home to their cramped flat above a baker’s, eager for the night ahead.

The Gala Night

The carriage rattled over Westminster’s polished streets, delivering them to a sprawling estate aglow with chandeliers and the clink of crystal. Cyrus smoothed his waistcoat, nervous excitement buzzing in his chest, while James squeezed his hand, steady as ever. They stepped into the grand hall, a sea of silk gowns and tailcoats swirling around them, the air thick with perfume and cigar smoke.

A figure approached through the crowd Crawford Starrick, impeccably dressed, his mustache curling over a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “Good evening, gentlemen,” he said, voice smooth as oil. “A pleasure to see new faces.” His gaze locked onto James, sharp and probing, and Cyrus felt his husband tense beside him, a coiled spring ready to snap.

“Thank you, sir,” James replied, his tone clipped, forcing a polite nod. Cyrus frowned, sensing the shift, but before he could ask, James steered him toward the dance floor. “Come on, let’s not waste the night,” he murmured, flashing a strained smile.

The unease faded as the evening wore on. They danced James leading with a grace that surprised Cyrus, spinning him through waltzes and reels until they were breathless and laughing. Between sets, they raided the banquet table, sneaking pastries and downing flutes of champagne. “To us,” James toasted, clinking their glasses, and Cyrus beamed, the warmth of the drink and James’ presence chasing away the chill of Starrick’s stare.

Hours later, the gala wound down, and they stumbled into the night, arms slung around each other. The fog swallowed the estate as they navigated the streets, giggling as they tripped over curbs and dodged a snarling stray dog that lunged from an alley. “Oi, back off!” James shouted, waving it away with a laugh, pulling Cyrus close. They made it home, collapsing onto their creaky bed in a tangle of limbs. Cyrus nestled against James’ chest, listening to his heartbeat, and whispered, “Best night of my life.” James kissed his forehead, mumbling something incoherent as sleep took them both.

The Morning After

Dawn crept through the grimy window, painting the room in muted gray. Cyrus stirred, blinking at the stillness. James lay beside him, dark lashes fanned against pale cheeks, his chest unmoving. Usually, James was up first, stoking the fire or brewing tea, but today he slept on. Cyrus smiled faintly, assuming the champagne had hit him harder, and pressed a kiss to his cool forehead. “Sleep it off, love,” he murmured, slipping out of bed.

He washed up in the chipped basin, the cold water jolting him awake, then dressed in his workaday trousers and shirt. The shop needed a sign closed for the day, a rare indulgence and he trudged downstairs, scribbling the note before walking to the shop and pinning it to the door. The streets were waking up, hawkers crying their wares, and Cyrus bartered with a fishmonger for cod, then grabbed bread and eggs from a bakery. He imagined James waking to the smell of frying fish, teasing him about being spoiled.

Back home, the flat was silent no clatter of boots, no whistle from the kettle. “James?” Cyrus called, setting the food on the table. No answer. A prickle of worry crept up his spine as he climbed the stairs, a steaming mug of tea in hand. James hadn’t shifted still on his side, one arm flung out, lips slightly parted. Too still. Too pale.

“James, love, wake up,” Cyrus said, setting the tea on the nightstand. He touched James’ shoulder, then his hand ice-cold, heavy as lead. His breath caught, and he shook him gently. “Come on, don’t scare me.” Nothing. Panic clawed at his throat as he pressed two fingers to James’ neck, searching for a pulse. The silence roared in his ears. No beat, no life. “No,” he gasped, shaking his head. “No, you can’t...”

He grabbed James’ hand again, squeezing it, willing warmth back into the fingers that had held him so fiercely last night. They stayed limp. Stumbling back, Cyrus stared at the body his husband, his world—lying peaceful yet unreachable. A sob tore from him, and he staggered forward, climbing into bed. He pulled James close, wrapping his arms around the lifeless form, pressing his face into the crook of James’ neck. “Please,” he begged, voice cracking. “Don’t leave me. Not like this.”

Tears streamed down his cheeks, soaking James’ shirt as he rocked them both, clinging to the fading scent of him sweat, tobacco, home. The world blurred, and exhaustion dragged him under, his grip tightening even as he slipped into unconsciousness.

The Aftermath

He woke hours later, the room dim, the tea cold. James’ body was stiff against him, the reality sinking in like a blade. Cyrus forced himself to rise, legs trembling, and stumbled downstairs to summon the undertaker. The words stuck in his throat “My husband’s gone” but he choked them out, watching numbly as two men in black coats carried James away, the blanket slipping to reveal his pale hand dangling over the stretcher’s edge.

Days bled into one another, a fog of grief. The funeral came too soon, a small plot in a Lambeth cemetery surrounded by James’ family his stern older brother, a sister who wept quietly, cousins Cyrus barely recognized. The priest droned on, but Cyrus heard nothing, his eyes fixed on the pine coffin sinking into the earth. Shovels scraped as the grave was filled, each thud of dirt a hammer to his chest. The family drifted away, murmuring condolences he couldn’t process, until he stood alone.

He sank to his knees, then lay atop the fresh mound, the damp soil seeping through his coat. “I can’t do this without you,” he whispered, fingers digging into the earth. “You were supposed to stay.” Night fell, the cemetery silent save for the rustle of leaves, and Cyrus stayed, curling into the grave as if he could reach James through the dirt. Sleep took him there, a fitful escape from the ache.

High above, a figure perched on a crypt’s roof an Assassin, James had been one of them, a blade in the shadows, hunting Templars like Starrick. That night at the gala, Starrick’s smile had been a death sentence poison slipped into James’ drink, a silent strike from a man who’d known exactly who he was. The Assassins had lost a brother, but Cyrus had lost everything. He’d never know the war James fought, only the rumours, the blade hidden beneath their bed a trademark of the Brotherhood, the blood on hands that had cradled him and loved him. He’d mourn his lover, not a warrior.

The Day After the Funeral

The streets of Whitechapel were cloaked in a damp, gray haze as Cyrus staggered home his boots leaving faint smears of mud on the cobblestones. His clothes were caked with dirt from the night spent sprawled atop James’ grave, the soil clinging to his trousers and coat like a second skin. His hands were streaked with it, his face smudged where tears had carved paths through the grime. He’d lain there until dawn, curled against the fresh earth, as if he could pull James back through sheer will. Now, exhaustion dragged at his bones, but the flat their flat drew him like a moth to a flame. He climbed the narrow stairs, each step creaking under his weight, and fumbled with the key. The lock resisted, as it always did, until it gave with a reluctant click.

The door swung open, and the silence rushed out to meet him. No clatter of James’ boots on the floorboards, no off-key whistle from the kitchen just the faint tick of the clock on the mantel and the stale scent of a home left to mourn. Cyrus stood frozen in the threshold, his shadow stretching across the room. The flat was a museum of their life together: a chipped chair James had promised to fix, a stack of yellowed newspapers by the hearth, a half-empty bottle of gin on the table from the night before the gala. His chest tightened, and he let his filthy coat slip to the floor, the dirt crumbling off in clumps. He didn’t care. He’d come back to feel James, to sift through the wreckage of what they’d had.

His gaze drifted to the bedroom, and a dull ache bloomed behind his ribs. The bed sat unmade, sheets twisted from their last drunken tumble after the gala, the indent of James’ body still faintly visible. Cyrus crossed the room, his boots scuffing the floor, and sank onto the mattress. He ran a trembling hand over James’ pillow, the fabric cool and lifeless, then turned to the wardrobe in the corner. It was a battered oak thing, its surface scarred from years of use, where James kept his meager belongings. Cyrus rose, dirt flaking off him, and pulled the doors open with a groan of hinges.

He began pulling out James’ things, one by one, as if touching them could summon him back. A gray wool coat, heavy with the scent of tobacco and damp London air. A pair of leather gloves, the fingertips worn from use Cyrus had never questioned. A knitted scarf, lopsided from his own clumsy hands, that James had worn every winter with a grin. Each item tore at him, and he pressed the coat to his face, inhaling deeply, chasing the ghost of his husband. His knees buckled, and he slumped to the floor, surrounded by the pile, when his hand brushed something hard beneath the wardrobe’s false bottom a loose panel he’d never noticed.

Curiosity cut through the fog of grief. He pried at the wood with dirt-crusted fingers, the panel popping free with a soft crack. Inside was a shallow compartment, and his breath caught as he pulled out a strange device, a leather bracer, worn and weathered, with a gleaming metal mechanism strapped to it. A blade, retracted but menacing, glinted in the dim light, and etched into the steel was a symbol an angular, hooded crest he didn’t recognize. His hands shook as he turned it over, and his thumb grazed a hidden catch. With a sharp snick, the blade sprang free, slicing through the air inches from his face. Cyrus yelped, startled, and dropped it, the weapon clattering to the floorboards.

Heart pounding, he stared at it, the dirt on his hands smearing the leather as he hesitated to pick it up again. What was this? James had never mentioned... His thoughts snagged on the compartment, and he reached back in, fingers closing around a small, leather-bound journal tied with a cord. The cover was scuffed, the pages yellowed, and as he untied it, James’ tight, slanting handwriting spilled across the lines. Cyrus sank back against the bed, the bracer forgotten, and began to read picking out a couple enteries the first and the last

“ The Brotherhood’s eyes are on Starrick. He’s the Templar linchpin in London, second only to the Grand Master. The plan’s mine: infiltrate his ranks, earn his trust, become his shadow. Then, when he least expects it, I’ll bury my blade in his heart. It’s slow work meetings in back rooms, false smiles at his factories but I’m close. Closer than anyone’s been.”

“ Cyrus doesn’t suspect a thing. I hate lying to him, but he’s safer this way. Last night, he stitched a tear in my coat while I cleaned blood off my gloves. He thought it was mud. I’ll tell him one day, when Starrick’s gone and the city’s free. Until then, I fight in the dark so he can live in the light.”

The entries stopped there, the last dated two days before James’ death. Cyrus’ hands trembled, the journal slipping to his lap. Assassins. Templars. Starrick. Words he’d never heard James utter, a world he’d never known, now laid bare.

He reached for the bracer, lifting it from the floor with unsteady hands. The blade had retracted, but he could still feel its weight, its purpose. He slid it onto his wrist, the leather cool against his skin, and tightened the straps, mimicking what he’d seen James do with a belt a hundred times. It fit oddly, but it felt right like an extension of James himself. Standing, he crossed to the window, pushing it open to let the sounds of Whitechapel flood in the clatter of carts, the shouts of hawkers, the distant chime of a church bell. The city stretched out before him, gaslights flickering through the fog, a battlefield he’d never noticed.

[fogweaver0]

I'll get to writing up soon I've started it but I'm sick and my writing skills have just vanished.. for now have this

[fogweaver0]

So I got him after 8 hours.

Got on the ship to go to lesbos to get the last artifact and after THE WHOLE EVENTS OF THE GAME SAILING N SHIT alexios gets fucking seasick and makes a joke about it 😭

Sobbing so hard this high level cultist in odyssey I decided to try and fight sneaking up on him the bastard was pissing and I one-shot the poor sod. Fucking fabulous. Also I'm stuck on killing that damn minotaur to get the artifact I SWEAR I'll not rest til I get the fucker

[fogweaver0]

Sobbing so hard this high level cultist in odyssey I decided to try and fight sneaking up on him the bastard was pissing and I one-shot the poor sod. Fucking fabulous. Also I'm stuck on killing that damn minotaur to get the artifact I SWEAR I'll not rest til I get the fucker

[fogweaver0]

I'm looking for writing prompts for haytham, jacob or my oc anything. I really want to write and I have no ideas in my ½ a braincell

[fogweaver0]

ziio projecting her period cramps onto haytham

[fogweaver0]

May i have a blurb of Haytham Kenway… a taste… pretty please…

( all credits to @giffedit for this incredible gifset! )

✠ | insufferable ; haytham kenway

summ. Bickerings oft lead to equally heated conclusions. a/n.  A TASTE you say? Here’s 1k of an angry, enemies-to-questionable-allies makeout. No actual smut, but NSFW themes, ofc.

YOU CAN’T RECALL how you got here.

Here, by way of meaning: 

Pinned against Templar Grandmaster Haytham Kenway’s paper-strewn work desk, inkpot spilled over and staining the cuffs of your sleeves, with his hands roving down your sides and your hips pressed hard against his.

“You,” he rasps, bordering a growl. “Are an insufferable woman.”

The proximity, the heat of your panting mingling with his— it’s blistering. Feverish. You want to kiss him. You want to punch him. 

You tighten the bracket of your thighs around his waist, tip the tricorn hat off his head with a defiant scowl. “You should’ve never inducted me into your Order, then, Master Kenway.”

Right. Yes. You vaguely remember now. It’d been yet another typical heated argument; another disagreement and row borne from dredging up old wounds of your ex-Assassin history, of Haytham’s present and obvious distaste of it, despite the fact you’ve proven yourself worthy to the Templars more than once alongside Shay.

Earlier, you’d barely finished your tirade (“You and your dastardly cloak make me so—!”), hands thrown in the air when the ironclad grip of Haytham abruptly circled your wrist.

The others had known better than to interfere when you’d practically been yanked into the Grandmaster’s study for an upbraiding. 

Or, well, what they thought would be an upbraiding.

“Then let us be free of this months-long tension,” Haytham had hissed, instead. “More productively.”

So here you are. Rough-housed and man-handled. You hitch at the bumps and the scolding nips he makes, try to return the same wanton fervor to his jaw and his Adam’s apple, but to no avail. Haytham is a looming shadow, greater than you not just by rank and experience but by sheer, dizzying strength— 

The vicious kisses he bullies against the bitten-red of your lips are charged and ardent. Meant to force you into some semblance of submission; to be docile. Has you gasping for air and resisting him the satisfaction of a moan when he gropes at the flesh of your thighs. 

“Master Kenway,” you choke, nuzzling into the slope of his neck, unable to stop yourself from indulging the heady, masculine, salt of it with an eager tongue.

He groans at the high and tight way you address, call, plead for him, sounding like prey at the mercy of an untamed, starved beast. 

It makes you grin when you realise. Coy as a fox and full of guile. Haytham can feel it curl across his cheek, in your slow languorous tease as you snark, “And here I thought you hated me.”

“Hate is an inadequate term,” he censures, mouthing hot and humid against your skin. “There are no words in any bloody language that can encompass just how— you make me feel.”

It’s a raw confession, as mean and as bitten out as it is. A honeyed, double-edged sword. You make a mental note of it anyway, and try not to contemplate the fact that you have this much power over the Grandmaster Templar, nor let it get to your head— whatever he means by his words. 

“And what, exactly, do you feel?” Your hand expertly wanders past his belt. The innocent petal-touch strikes a lightning bolt of want surging through him. Makes him twitch. “This?”

Haytham doesn’t deign to give you an answer, unsurprisingly. He hates not being in control, after all, and so he makes quick work to put you back in your place: below rank, through yet another savage kiss, a guttural warning nosed on the scant space just below your ear that leaves you subconsciously keening closer.

It does poorly to satiate him. The dangerous yen for something more brutal still burns molten in his stomach; something that tastes warmer. There’s still the bitter anger and bruised pride he holds from the arguments before, and for the ones that’ll surely come after. The blatant disrespect you show whenever you bare your teeth at him, as if he isn’t your superior. 

He wants— no, needs— to sink into you, to see you shut up and aching to be ruined with the thick of him—

“I’ll make you wear nothing but this ‘dastardly’ cloak of mine one day,” Haytham grinds out, voice rough-hewn from his wet and growing appetite. “And then spread you out and take my time with you.”

He greedily licks a stripe up your throat as he says it, carves the whine that escapes you into his memory.

“One day?” Your scoff is breathless and stilted. The feel of his teeth grazing your jugular is intoxicating. “I reckon you’ll— hah— hardly deliver now, Master Kenway, to— warrant another chance after this.”

(Regardless, you entertain the idea. Have entertained, to be more specific. You’ve imagined what it’s like on lonelier nights.

To have him hike your legs up his broad shoulders, tangle your fingers through his perfectly kempt hair. Catch the flash of his wry, canine-sharp smile, rare as they are; face soaked and telling over his nose and down his lips from where you’d have shut him up by forcefully burying him between your thighs and cushioning into your—)

You expect the usual blaze of anger. A challenging snarl. Instead:

“Oh?” Haytham laughs.

Laughs.

And Christ alive— that dark, daring and depraved rumble huffed at your sweat-slicked nape shouldn’t have made you more pliant; more eager for him, but it does. It feels like the damning prelude of an already losing war, now, the way he’s forced your full weight down with such frightening ease onto the desk to look up at him. 

There’s an ominous calm before a storm, brewing frostily in his dilated eyes. He’s conceding, you realise.

And then—

“Tell me to stop,” Haytham breathes. 

It’s the least insulting tone he’d taken with you yet since you’d first begun arguing. A fragile moment of clarity. 

In uncharacteristic tenderness, you feel him thumb gently at your cheek. “Tell me to stop, and I will,” he says, “You have my word.”

Something soft unfurls deep in your ribcage. Takes flight.

“Don’t,” you whisper, trying not to shudder at the English gentlemanly-ness he so likes to wholly fashion himself with to hide his wild, beastly nature— that you’ve so liked to repeatedly claim you found irksome. You tighten your grip reflexively.

(Darling, dearest, dove. You never admit it, but the classy posturing has always been an attractive feat of his. Something about wolves in sheep’s clothing, you think. Something about being rabidly taken for his own animalistic pleasure—) 

“Don’t you dare, Kenway.”

And so the delicate moment passes. Haytham surges his head forward to steal a kiss from you again, inhales a lungful of your cloying scent that’s mixed with the sea-winds from the weeks of sailing aboard the Morrigan.

“Mh,” he hums in assent, nosing his way from your hairline down to the juncture of your neck; letting his calloused hand mould wide around the thin, bare skin of it to feel your bated breath and rapid pulse. He could snuff you out like a light in an instant. (And he supposes you like the thrill of that as much as he does.)

“Then I believe I ought to teach you a lesson or two about respect, dear.” 

Haytham pulls away and cocks his head. As if thinking. As if he hadn’t imagined this a hundred times over since he’d met you, in the darkest hour of every restless night when he’s alone with nothing but his fist jerking between his legs.

“How about we put that smart mouth of yours to good use first?”

[fogweaver0]

more ghost hunting au shenanigans lmao

[fogweaver0]

While reading up on the Kanien’kehá:ka for this AC3 wip I’m working on— I discovered that in their language the adjectives are suffixed to the tail-end of the verb/noun stem.

So Connor's mother's name Kaniehtí:io, "Beautiful Snow", can roughly be broken down into:

Ka (pronoun prefix) Óniehte "Snow" (noun) -i:io "beautiful" (adjective suffix, derived from Ioiánere, "Good")

Hence, Kaniehtí:io.

Now, I'm neither Mohawk nor a fluent speaker whatsoever, so take this with a pound of salt:

When Haytham struggled with pronouncing her name fully and was given the tail-end “Ziio” as an alternative/nickname, he was essentially running around calling her “Beautiful” the entire time.

[fogweaver0]

Assassins creed oc

Cyrus miller Born 6th Jan 1726

An entry from his own journal based on recent events:

For months, I had not received so much as a whisper from him. No letters, no rumors, nothing but silence. Then, as if conjured from the very shadows, haytham appeared once more, offering no explanation beyond the stark command, "We must leave for Florence." Was I in peril here? Surely not, for I had lived unscathed through the months he had abandoned me.

The journey by sea was a torment unlike any I have known. Confined to the belly of a ship, I spent my days lying prostrate, battling the heaves that threatened to expel my very soul. When I questioned him about his absence, his response was curt, almost dismissive: "I moved. I have a family." No further reasons were given for my sudden uprooting. Perhaps he longed for the concoctions I once crafted for him.

Upon our arrival on solid ground, he delivered me to the cobblestones of Florence and departed without a word. Left to my own devices, I wandered the city until his return, each step echoing my confusion about his altered demeanor. He was not the man I once knew; change had woven itself deeply into his essence.

Now, as I pen these thoughts, I find myself in a new abode, beginning anew. My workshop lies in disarray, but I am resolved to resurrect it, to once again earn my keep through craft and cunning. The Florentines are amicable enough, though the barrier of language looms large. My grasp of Italian is feeble at best, yet I must endeavor to learn if I am to thrive here. I was never adept with tongues, but there is merit in trying, is there not?

(Not my best work this writing. I'm sick. I'm so exhausted, but I wanted to write)

[fogweaver0]

imagine watching your mother die in an attack on your village, fighting against foreigners who seek to steal your land, and being betrayed by those you helped

all for gamer bros to call you an unlikeable character. with all the shit he’s been through ofc he’s not gonna be “charming” or “fun” like ezio or haytham

an ac protagonist doesnt even need to have any of those characteristics to be considered an interesting character. they could be stoic or quiet and that could be a charming trait in and of itself!

(img source is from ratonhnhaké:ton’s wikipedia page)

[fogweaver0]

Assassins creed oc 👀

His name is Cyrus he's mainly based in ac3 he's haythams tailor he's around the same age as him. Cyrus offers his work for free in turn for protection. Over the years, the two have become good friends despite offering his services for free haytham pays for it anyway.

There's more on him, but I have yet to fully compose his story. Okay quick edit I just noticed he looks alot like abberline face wise.

[fogweaver0]

Ask box is open for questions or suggestions all will be answered in character as haytham

I am bored and wish to write this man

/ᐠ˵- ⩊ -˵マ

[fogweaver0]

The wounds of the night that forever changed the young boy for the worst.

The night was not like any other; this one bore the scars of a history that Haytham could neither escape nor forget. It was the anniversary of his father's death, a night that had forever altered the course of his life, turning a boy into a man burdened by the weight of vengeance and loss. He hadn't realized the date's significance until he sat down to write in his journal, pen poised over the paper, only to see the date glaring back at him. His hand froze, the ink barely touching the page, as the reality of the moment sunk in, heavy as lead.

He stared at the blank expanse before him, the void speaking louder than any words could. It was as if the paper itself bore the weight of his sorrow, a silent scream of all that had been lost. His father, a man of honor and strength, had been taken from him in a blaze of treachery, the very night his childhood ended. Haytham could feel the heaviness in his limbs as he closed the journal, each motion a struggle against the gravitational pull of his grief.

He pushed back from his desk, the chair's screech a harsh note in the still room. His sigh was a whisper of defeat as he looked back at the desk, then turned towards the solitude of his bed. Curling up beneath the covers, he sought refuge in sleep, but rest was a distant hope. The wound of his father's death was not merely a scar; it was a chasm in his soul, as fresh as the day it was inflicted.

In his mind, he was back there, amidst the chaos. The smell of smoke was suffocating, the heat of the flames a mockery of the warmth his father's embrace once provided. The clash of swords rang in his ears, a symphony of death. His father's scream, a sound that would haunt him until his last breath, and the terror in his sister's voice as the world turned to ash around them. His hands, so young and untested, had become instruments of death, stained with the blood of those who sought to end his lineage. The memory of that night was a vivid tapestry of horror, each thread woven with rage and terror.

Awakening with a start, Haytham sat upright, his heart pounding against his ribcage, his breath ragged. The darkness of the room was oppressive, each shadow a ghost of his past. Anxiety clawed at him, the room shrinking, the air thickening with the ghosts of his memories. He needed to escape this mausoleum of his mind. Shaking, he stumbled from his bed, his feet finding the path to the door amidst the darkness.

Outside, the snow was relentless, each flake a soft, cold reminder of his isolation. He fell to his knees, the ground icy beneath him, the only light from the street lamps casting long, lonely shadows. The cold bit into his skin, but it was nothing compared to the chill of his tears, which he only noticed as they froze on his cheeks. He rolled onto his back, the snow a stark white canvas above him, and he tried to calm the storm within. But there was no one left to guide him, to share this burden; Holden was gone, and with him, the last vestige of a world where Haytham felt he belonged.

He was alone, left with nothing but the echo of his father's voice, urging him to fight, to seek justice or revenge, he could no longer tell the difference. In this moment, under the silent watch of the falling snow, Haytham was nothing more than a shadow of the man he was meant to be, haunted by the legacy of a father he could neither save nor truly avenge. Each anniversary was not just a remembrance but a reliving, a fresh cut on an old wound that would never truly heal.